Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  There was a short walk to their destination, a hill with two rings of large and weathered granite stones, almost a hundred of them. Maria instructed the group to stand among the stones of the smaller ring, facing east. Harper sank down into her jacket, hands in her pockets, in an attempt to stay warm in the near darkness. Tilda cupped her hands to her mouth and blew into them. Then, beyond the hill, on the horizon, the sun began to rise. It rose quickly on this clear winter morning and began to shine through two of the stones, gleaming brightly for a moment before continuing its ascent into the sky above them.

  Tilda heard Harper draw a deep breath and hold it before letting it go. “Wow,” she said. “Did you see that?”

  “Amazing,” answered Tilda, happy they had made the effort on this early cold morning.

  When were the stones placed in these circles, how long ago, why? These and more questions were raised and answered or partially answered, since, as with so much of the truly remarkable in history, definite answers were elusive or not possible at all. Were these stones, placed over seven thousand years ago, used to aid new farmers in some way after they gave up a more nomadic existence to settle in a rich land with the confluence of three rivers? Were the stones essential for religious ceremonies, for sacrifice? Or did they serve, in conjunction with other nearby monoliths, as early astronomical observatories? We would probably never have definitive answers, said Maria, but these ancients, she told the small, huddled group, were exploring the same constellations of emerging knowledge as the ancients of Stonehenge and all the other early wise ones of antiquity.

  “They were all looking for something celestial, Grandma. That’s what I think,” Harper said softly to her grandmother on the ride back to Évora. “That’s what makes them all the same—these ancient people with rocks or navigators and ships, they all wanted the stars and the sun and the moon to give them answers. That’s what I think,” she said again.

  On their second and last day in Évora, they went to the Roman temple and to excavations in the public offices. There in the middle of the day, with city employees all around them, they walked onto the glass floors and looked down to see the ruins of an old Roman cemetery.

  Outside the public offices, they clustered around Paulo, who told them about their next stop on the day’s itinerary.

  “Before we leave this remarkable city,” said Paulo, “we will visit the Évora Public Library. There they have many relics of the past and tools of the navigators, but it is a rare book that will be the main attraction.”

  When they arrived, the librarian was waiting for them. She led them to the research room and mentioned that of all the fine manuscripts of antiquity housed within the library’s walls, one in particular would be of interest to them, since they were learning about the days of the explorers. She left them for a moment to retrieve one of the library’s rare books. She returned wearing white gloves and holding an original copy of the Perpetual Almanac.

  “That’s the book the man in the museum that day told me about. Remember, Grandma, by Abraham Zacuto?” Harper whispered to Tilda. “I looked him up. It’s celestial navigation.”

  The librarian explained the significance of the worn leather volume in her gloved hands. “Zacuto was the mathematician to the royal court of Portugal. He had calculated the position of the stars on any day of the year. With this book, Zacuto gave to Vasco da Gama what he would need to navigate in the open waters of the Indian Ocean, to make his way to India—for the first time. This was a momentous a gift to the navigator.”

  Harper looked at her grandmother and smiled, as if to say, I told you.

  The librarian offered gloves to those who would like to look at the book. John and Sandra preferred to take another stroll to the church, which should be open now, they said, declining the offer. Mitch and Connie said they would join them, and Louisa looked at the book as the librarian held it, said no, thank you, and walked outside.

  “I want to hold it,” said Harper.

  Tilda looked on as the librarian helped Harper put on the white archival gloves.

  She watched as Harper opened the book and began to carefully turn its pages. She closed it, looked at it front and back. Then she opened it again and began again to turn pages—this time as though she were waiting for it to reveal its secrets.

  “I don’t understand how this worked,” she said, turning to Paulo.

  “I know, Harper. It is hard for us to grasp. First, this copy is a translation into Portuguese, so if you understood the language, you could read it, but to make things even more difficult, Zacuto wrote the original in Hebrew, and no one in the court could understand it, so it had to be translated. But da Gama would know what these charts meant. He would use them together with the astrolabe. Here, come with me, I’ll show you.”

  Harper took off the gloves and gingerly placed the book on the table, reluctant to leave her spot until she saw the librarian, who had left them when Harper began her examination of the pages, returning to collect it.

  The only three of the group still in the library, they walked into the other room, where, under a glass globe and on a pedestal, stood an antique astrolabe, the instrument that together with the Perpetual Almanac had enabled da Gama to read the stars and to chart his course to India.

  Paulo and Tilda stood back against the wall as Harper circled the globe several times, looking up now and then to smile at them.

  Tilda, smiling back, took a mental snapshot of the moment.

  That night in a special room off the main restaurant of their hotel, there was a group dinner and toasts to Paulo. Even Louisa joined in. Although no lasting friendships were to come out of the trip, the group proved to be amiable. Louisa would remain a mystery: Why had she come? Why was she so distracted? The only drawing back of the curtain occurred when Connie said, “She is just getting over a breakup. We thought the trip would do her good, but I’m not sure.” Tilda felt a twinge in her chest, as she did these days when confronted with the sadness of others—usually it was because of death, but recently, any loss could trigger sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said. Connie’s smile did not mitigate the sadness in her eyes.

  While everyone was commenting on the trip, Tilda thought of going home, and after her brief conversation with Connie, her thoughts turned to Darren and Amanda. Would one or both of them be facing more heartbreak? She looked at Harper, who was smiling, and this brought her back to the moment, for which she was grateful.

  “And I have an award for Harper,” said Paulo. “It’s a travel diary from Bertrands,” he said as he handed it to her. “I don’t find many fifteen-year-olds on these trips so interested in history. To Harper,” he said, raising his glass.

  The little book in her hand had a ribbon to mark pages and a black elastic band to hold its pages shut, until the owner chose to open them. The front cover had a drawing of the bookstore, with the date, 1732. “The oldest bookstore in the world,” she read. “Thank you, Paulo.”

  Tilda watched her granddaughter as the conversation turned to packing and getting some sleep before the early morning wake-up call. First Harper turned the book over in her hands several times. Then she clutched it to her and looked at Paulo, who smiled.

  Tilda had hoped to talk to Harper that night in their room, but both fell into bed in a stupor after they finished their packing.

  “We have to put the bags outside the door by six,” she said, reaching to turn out the light. Then she added, “Good night, future explorer.”

  “There’s nothing left to explore, unless it’s outer space,” she replied.

  Tilda thought about all there was for her granddaughter yet to explore about her known world—and about herself. And the latter, that was the adventure upon which she had already embarked.

  Early in the morning, a shuttle drove Tilda and Harper back to Lisbon for their morning flight. Paulo, who would be leaving later with the rest of the group, rose early to say goodbye. Harper, Tilda noticed, waved to him and wiped a stray tear from her eye bef
ore turning to face forward for the ride to the airport and then home.

  When Laura and Mark picked them up at international arrivals, the first thing Laura did was grab her daughter and hug her tightly, as though, it seemed to Tilda, Harper hardly had space in her rib cage to take a breath, but at least now Laura could exhale in relief. Her daughter was home safe.

  Turning to Tilda, Laura said, “Well done, Mom. I can only imagine she had a wonderful time, and I can’t wait to hear all about it. Now you get to return to the real world.” Tilda must have made her mother face, the one Laura always said began when she drew her eyebrows together and ended with tightly closed lips, because Laura looked as though she had just said the wrong thing. The real world wasn’t exactly what Tilda was looking forward to rejoining.

  Returning to the real world would be a shock. Harold was still dead. She wondered if her anxiety attacks would return, but, in her favor, she had become so attuned to the warning signals that she could stop them at the first sign. This was a feat to be proud of. When she thought of Harper, she was renewed. The trip had been good, of that she was sure, and while Harper hadn’t talked much on the flight back, Tilda thought she had sensed a change, as though Harper’s own breathing had become more relaxed, her eyes clearer. She was more inclined to stay with you when she spoke, as though she could now endure a steady gaze, not needing to turn away as she so often did.

  This was good, but there were two great burdens Tilda still carried, and they had become intertwined: her grief and her worry. The first she would carry forever, she was sure; the second could only be relieved when she knew Harper had found her true self.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TRUSTING THE HOURS THAT CARRIED US

  In her room Harper sat at her desk and loaded her photos from the trip onto her laptop. As each thumbnail suddenly came into focus, she felt as though she were reliving her time in Portugal. There was the elevator, the hotel, the group, Paulo, the church of the massacre—each with its own special memory. She lingered on the Monument to the Discoveries, where da Gama first set sail, and she thought about how that journey had begun with questioning until, one at a time, the pieces fell into place. And then India.

  Her grandmother had taken the last pictures in Évora, of Harper in white gloves, holding the almanac, and then another of her with Paulo next to the astrolabe. They had the tools they needed. Those had been Grandpa’s words, and now she had been there, had seen the tools that had made celestial navigation possible.

  Suddenly the sky and the stars didn’t seem so big. It was possible to find your place. Harper’s world began to return to the familiar, not more exciting—to be sure—but familiar was good, too, she thought. Her mother had let her miss school on Monday, but late Tuesday afternoon after school, she drove Harper to her therapy session. Harper, still a little jet-lagged, had wanted to skip it, but her mom reminded her of the deal they had made. “We agreed you could go with Grandma on this trip, but your schoolwork and your sessions with Dr. Bernstein couldn’t fall behind. Remember? As it is, you’ve missed a session.” Harper nodded. Yes, she had agreed, and now here she was.

  She knocked on the door, and Dr. Miriam asked her to come in. Before taking her usual spot in the huge and soft upholstered chair, she said, “I have something for you. It’s from Portugal.”

  “Harper, I’m so touched, thank you,” she said, opening the neatly wrapped little package. “I love the paper.”

  “It’s from the museum in Lisbon. I hope you like it.”

  “I love it,” she said, holding up a mosaic tile.

  “It’s a replica of the huge rose compass in Belém.”

  “I’m honored, Harper. Thank you again. And this trip obviously meant a lot to you, seeing Portugal with your grandmother.”

  Harper nodded.

  Dr. Miriam waited.

  “It did mean a lot. My grandma and me, it was like we were there together, looking for grandpa. I don’t know. I’m not sure I even know what I mean.”

  “I understand, Harper. It’s not always easy to put our feelings into words.”

  “I was mad in Portugal,” she quickly added. “Not at Grandma. Nothing like that.”

  “Why were you mad?”

  “Horrible things happened there. Probably to my grandpa’s ancestors. I know it was a long time ago, but Grandpa used to talk about it. And I saw and heard about how cruel and awful it was.”

  “Do you mean about the inquisition?”

  “Yes, that and more, about living in fear, about not being able to be who you are. Did you know that the Jews had to convert or die? They had to hide who they truly were.”

  “And knowing that made you mad.”

  “Yes, because it was so unfair.”

  “It was unfair, and cruel, and everything you say.”

  “But that isn’t all about Portugal. I was happy there, and sad, too. I mean, I was happy because it was so cool to see everything from history, to be there. But I was sad because I couldn’t be there with my grandpa, and I know he would’ve loved it. And I know my grandma felt the same way.”

  “So it was good being with your grandma, because she understood.”

  “Oh, yeah, we didn’t even have to say anything. All we had to do was look at each other.”

  “It sounds like an amazing trip, Harper. It really does. What did you like the best?”

  “At the library in Évora, we saw an old book that had charts in it that told the navigators how to get where they wanted to go—that and they had a thing on display called an astrolabe.” Harper paused, remembering the copper disc with the coat of arms embossed on the top.

  “And you thought that was most interesting? Why?”

  Harper looked up, realizing she hadn’t heard the question.

  “Why was it interesting, Harper, the things at the library?”

  “It’s funny because I think, or I used to think, the sky and the stars are kind of scary. But so does everybody, I guess, even going back to the beginning. But what they did was try to figure it out, and then do amazing things, like go out on the ocean and find new countries. I guess that’s what humans do, figure things out.”

  “Does that mean anything to you, personally, Harper?”

  “No, not really,” she answered, not sure what to say. Her mind was blank, but then she said, “Did I tell you that the kids at school always talk about sex?” It was an abrupt change of subject, she knew, but there it was. She was suddenly thinking of her friends and their constant boy talk.

  Dr. M looked at her and smiled. “I think you may have said they talk about boys all the time, but I don’t think you mentioned sex.”

  Harper noted that Dr. M didn’t seem to mind the change in subject at all.

  “Well, okay. But they don’t just talk about it. One girl has already done it.”

  Harper stopped to see Dr. Miriam’s reaction to this news. But she just looked at Harper, waiting for her to go on.

  “And all the other kids, the girls I hang around with, think it’s cool that Sage has had sex already.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I don’t like boys.”

  “I know, Harper, but what do you think about Sage having sex?”

  “I think it’s gross.”

  “Having sex is gross?”

  “At our age? Yeah, I think it’s gross.”

  “What about later, when you’re older and in love?”

  Harper shook her head. “This is what I mean. I don’t have feelings. And I think that’s what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to kiss anyone or fall in love or get married or have kids. I don’t care about it, any of it.”

  “I don’t think that means there’s anything wrong with you. Lots of people don’t do any of those things, and they’re still happy. Do you think you can be happy without any of those things?”

  Harper didn’t respond. She hoped Dr. Miriam might help her out, as she did sometimes, but she didn’t say anything either.

  “I don’t thin
k about it, about being happy, I mean. Mostly, I just try not to be too sad.”

  Dr. Miriam just turned her head a little, as though she were trying to hear words that hadn’t yet been spoken.

  “People die.”

  “Yes, they do, Harper.”

  “And when you love those people, it’s horrible.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the most horrible thing on earth, and I don’t understand why God, if there even is one, put us here to love people so much and then to take them away. It’s an awful thing to do. It’s the most unfair thing I can think of, and I don’t want to do it.”

  “I understand. I feel that way sometimes, too, that’s it the most unfair thing in the world.”

  “Really? But you’re married and you have kids.”

  “Well, yes, but people I love have died, my mother, my father. I still cry when I think about it.”

  “When did they die?”

  Dr. M paused, as though she were thinking of something very important. “Harper,” she began, “I don’t usually talk about myself, but I’m going to make an exception because I think it may help.”

  Harper sat up straight to give Dr. M her full attention.

  “My mother died when I was twelve.”

  “Twelve. Oh, that’s . . . so sad.”

  “Yes, it was. It was a long, long time before I stopped being sad—and scared. Life seemed very scary to me then. Just as you said. It’s the most horrible thing, when someone you love dies.”

  Harper didn’t want to talk anymore. She drew her arms across her chest and scrunched back into the chair.

  “Is that it, Harper? Enough for today? Our time’s not up yet, and I don’t think your mom is here.”

  “But I’m tired. Still on Portugal time, I guess.” She put on her coat and then her backpack. Before she left, she said, “I’m sorry, about your mom. But thank you, Dr. M, for telling me.”