by Cheri Lasota
“Did Tristan’s story intrigue you?”
She wanted to tell him no, that it had filled her heart with fear, but it wasn’t true. She had sat enraptured through the tale just as Tristan had.
When Arethusa did not answer, he smiled. “Communicating will be difficult for us at first, but I want you to know you can write to me about anything.”
She gave him a half-smile, still wary of his intentions and cautious of revealing too much.
“I know you must be grieving still for your mother and father. It is good to grieve for the lost.” He paused, and she tried not to go back there, to the memories that she wished she could forget.
“What was your mother like, if I may ask?” the conde said.
His tone was one of respectful curiosity, but she didn’t know what to write. She had sworn an oath to keep her mother’s secrets, and she would. Then her memories went further back, and taking up the pencil and paper around her neck, her fingers were soon flying at the speed of her thoughts.
My mother was beautiful. She had sapphire-colored eyes and night-black hair, and she glowed like the sun. Mãe would tell me stories, such stories you wouldn’t believe. I keep them close, and when I think of her, I think of her stories. I would give anything to have her back.
When the conde finished reading her note, Arethusa was astonished to see laughter in his eyes. “Ah. You loved her well. That is good. And she loved you?”
Arethusa nodded and the conde did not go on. He looked out the window, and she did the same. The sea was the color of deep sky, clear and shining brilliant in the midday sun. It was strange to write of her mother after so many weeks of silence.
“Go now, and find Tristan,” the conde said, as he dabbed at his mouth with the handkerchief. The dark sorrow crept back into his face again. “I am sure he waits for you in earnest.” When she rose to leave, he added, “Shut the door.”
Soon, Arethusa stood before Tristan’s closed door with her hand raised to knock. But she did not. Her mind was too full. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to see his joy.
She escaped to her own room instead, watching at the window as the sun passed its zenith in the sky, casting ribbons of light over the sea. Arethusa knew where she wanted to be, and she would not be missed if she were quick. The window’s latch was easily opened. The light shawl covering her hair was a simple disguise. She jumped below the rock wall of the garden, skirted the grazing cows in the fields, and made her way down to the sea.
Standing there, at the edge of the world it seemed to her, Arethusa felt free. She thought of her mother out there in that vast ocean, moving through those waters. And she did remember her mother’s tales of Terceira. They had been poured into her ears like honey: tales of its mysteries, its mythologies, its magic. And gazing over that cobalt blue expanse, she believed, then, in the magic. Believed herself Arethusa the nymph, meant for an Alpheus who had yet to come. Not meant for a boy who was now to be her brother, one she thought she had loved once and whom she thought had loved her.
A gust of wind whipped the shawl from her head, and instinctively she reached out for it as it flew off beyond the cliff. A footstep thudded behind her, and a clump of earth fell from the edge. She lost her balance and fell backward into arms that shouldn’t have been there.
“Arethusa.” His anxious whisper was sharp in her ear.
She didn’t move for a moment. And he didn’t let go. But so much was between them now. So much that could not be undone. So much that could never be again.
“Arethusa.” She heard a sweet tinge in his voice, and she turned to look at him. Yet even still, he did not let go, kept her face close to his, close enough for her to see the pale flecks of gold that the sun had reflected through his eyes. Arethusa held her breath, tried to think.
“I am Tristan now. Don’t you see what that means? You and I—we could make this legend true. Isolde—”
Her eyes fell away from him. She looked at the mouth she wanted on hers. She felt his hand touch her hair and glanced up, afraid to give him hope but more afraid of letting herself harbor that same hope.
“It could be,” he said. “Someday?”
Arethusa opened her mouth a little, drew nearer to him. It might be so easy for her to do what he wanted, what she wanted. But she knew better than to anger the Goddess again. And he was to be her brother now.
Her fingers risked the touch of his cheek, and then she mouthed, “No.”
The tilt of his head remained the same. His eyes did not shift. Not a muscle in his body moved. But she felt and saw and heard the change in him. It was as if his light had gone out. But what could they do now that they were living in the same house? And did she even love him enough to forgive what he had done to her? And beyond everything, their separate vows lay like an impassable ocean between them.
Arethusa took the writing pad around her neck, sat cross-legged in the grass, and wrote: I am not meant for you, Tristan, whether I wish it or no.
He sat, too, and read the note. He said nothing for a moment but turned his face away to watch the waves. At last, he said, “And do you wish it?”
And if she told him yes?
She shook her head, trying to hide the lie behind a mask of indifference. He breathed out slowly, studied his hand as it clenched and unclenched. Then he moved to rise. But she grabbed his arm to make him stay.
He was frustrated, anxious to leave, yet she could see his curiosity getting the better of him. “What is it?”
This new name—it could be dangerous. I know something of vows. Their magic is more powerful than you can know.
“What do you know? When Pai said you were named after the nymph Arethusa... is that what you mean?”
Yes, I am meant for that path.
“You made a vow?”
She nodded.
“Tell me.”
Arethusa shook her head.
“Won’t you trust me? I—”
Arethusa took hold of his arms and locked her eyes with his, willing him to feel what it was like standing there in that orphanage courtyard, the pain radiating through her skin down to her deepest bones, those frightful faces swirling around her, and his beautiful eyes hovering above them all, turning ugly with suspicion and hate. She formed the word with her lips, and she did not need a voice for him to understand.
“Trust?”
She watched as the memory moved through his body. She felt him squirm under her hands, saw his jaw tighten. His eyes were a perfect mirror of her vision. How could she ever have known her own pain was the cause of the sorrow in those vision-eyes?
And yet he could not be Alpheus. As Tristan, he was vowed to this Isolde now, whoever she would come to be. Even if Arethusa could forgive, it was too late. Tristan was lost to her now.
“I won’t say the words again. They have no meaning anymore.” Tristan pulled away, looking everywhere but at her. “I won’t ask you to forgive. But I will try. Try to pay my penance for this.” He pressed his hand hard against his temple. “I won’t promise you this time, because I’ve broken every promise I ever made to you.
“But I will try.” He squeezed her hand until it caused her pain. “I will.”
A quarter of an hour after he left her there, she moved to put a hand to her own temple and caught the trace of bergamot still lingering on her skin.
1898
AND HERE IT WAS. THE SHIP, SAILS alight with moonfire. The heaviness pressed Arethusa to the deck before she even had her bearings. When the night shadows deepened, she raised her eyes to Artemis. A cloud had captured the Goddess’s light. Darkness pervaded all corners of the ship, though she heard the slumberous groans of the timbers and the rattle of lines, felt the wind on her face. But Artemis would not be caged. Arethusa watched her race away from her black jailer into the night.
Below, the ship’s true form took shape. Its timbers were broken and its masts hung in tatters, yet the clipper sailed on through the warm winds, a phantasm of the night. Seaweed and barnacles
grew between broken planks and old bearded sailors labored in eerie silence.
A realization washed over her. The name of the ship. She had not seen the name on the stern. She walked to the taffrail and leaned over to see. There, in gold-leaf lettering: Alpheus.
A cold vice gripped Arethusa’s body. The wind’s direction changed and blew in bitter from the North.
“Alpheus.” Her breath came in clouds as she whispered the name.
Out of the bone-cold mist, she heard the ship’s bell.
Arethusa.
She turned.
Arethusa... her name echoed through the air. Toward the prow, she sensed movement and sound, but the shifting shadows had not yet taken shape.
“Mãe?” Arethusa caught a glimpse of her mother’s form. “Mãe,” she called above the wind, running across the weather deck, desperate to see her mother after so long.
But she was jerked back. Gnarled, grimy hands seized her, pulling her away.
“Stop. Let go of me!”
Three sailors held her fast, shoving her up the forward deck stairway. As she ascended, she quailed at the pitiful image of her mother swabbing the decks in rags, her neck coiled with a chain. Mãe would not look at her but continued scrubbing with renewed vigor when Diogo pulled the chain taut. Arethusa brought her hands to her throat as Alpheus came into her line of vision. He lounged like a mountain cat against the massive forward mast, but his face—she could not define it. His eyes shifted shapes and shades of grey, his body moved and yet did not.
“Look who dropped in, dearest,” he mocked, pulling the chain to force her mother’s attention.
Mãe glanced up from her work but did not acknowledge Arethusa.
“Why, it’s your beautiful daughter.” He rose, lifting into the air, gliding toward Arethusa. “Missed me, did you?”
She recoiled as he drew near, his changing features grotesque and unnatural, but the sailors pushed her forward until her body touched his.
“Is that any way to look upon your fate?” Alpheus said. “Perhaps you should see me through your mother’s eyes.” His gaze raked over her mother. “Then you will come to me willingly.”
In a sudden rage, he pulled her from the grasp of the sailors and flung her at her mother. Arethusa tumbled through the air, blinded by a rupture of wind bursting around her, pulling her apart with a rush of gravity. Colors mixed, sounds mingled, and then all grew still.
“Maria, love...” She felt gentle hands about her arms, and when she looked up she saw an image of such beauty that it astounded her. Alpheus knelt before her, a halo of light surrounding him, but he was no shape-shifter now. His eyes were clear and glowed with such a love as she had never seen. His mouth was soft and parted. She looked away, searching for her mother, but she was no longer there.
“I won’t ever leave you,” he said.
Against her will, she felt her heart leaning toward him, wanting to feel the flame of his soul forever.
“Why do you hurt me?” Arethusa said, kneeling before him, feeling vulnerable, feeling lost but reveling in the heat of his body.
“I cannot control what I feel for you. It’s like a fire. Don’t you see?”
“I don’t know how to trust you, how to feel safe with you.”
She saw two great wheels of liquid fire spinning in his eyes, burning gold in a sea of black. “Give yourself to me, love. Give to me what you must and become who you were fated to be.”
She gazed at him, frightened of her own response to his words but yearning to meld closer to him still. “What do you want of me?”
“You must know what it is I ask of you.”
“No, no. I don’t—” She looked away, but he lifted her chin, kissing her until he seemed to swallow her whole, until she gave herself up to the racing of her heart.
The air shifted again, and she sensed the presence of another. Gazing beyond Alpheus, she gasped at the sight of Tristan behind him, his head bent low. He was not the Tristan she knew but rather the past and future Tristan, the knight from the legend, for he wore the symbol of kingship, the crown of Cornwall.
Even in the night shadows, she perceived the blue glow of his gaze as he watched her.
Betrayal, his eyes whispered.
She broke away from Alpheus, feeling a ripping at her seams. An explosion of pressure lifted her into the air and rolled her across the deck planks. She searched for Tristan, but he had vanished. Alpheus still lounged against the masthead, holding the chain that imprisoned her mother, as if he had never moved.
Arethusa lunged at him, hands flailing. “What have you done with him?”
“You speak of nothing and no one. He does not exist here.”
“Bring Tristan back. I need—”
Alpheus rose to his full height, dwarfing her. “Do not ever say his name.” He grabbed her and shoved her to the deck next to her mother.
Arethusa shook Mãe’s shoulders. “You must break free of him. You must help me.”
But her mother’s face was calm with no sense of urgency or fear. She did not struggle against the heavy chain, even though it cut into her neck, piercing her skin so as to draw blood.
“Give yourself to him, and it will go easier,” her mother said with a cold and frightful finality.
“No, Mãe, he isn’t real—only a dream... he’s only a dream.”
“You cannot stop the tide now, Arethusa,” her mother said. “Do not doubt it. He is coming for you, and soon.”
“You have no power over me in dreams,” she said to Alpheus, reveling in the strength of her voice, gaining courage in the sound. “I won’t let you haunt me anymore. I—”
Alpheus laughed. “Soon your dreams will end and mine will begin.” He opened his palms to the sky. “I am the one who controls this realm. Not you. Would you like to see what I can do here in this place, Arethusa?”
He sounded like a prideful child, and she was ashamed that he had bewitched her a moment ago with a few soft words and false images.
“No,” she said, but he was already raising his arms, calling out to the sky.
“Fire.”
The mast above them exploded as a lightning bolt touched down, shaking the deck with its power.
“Wind,” Alpheus’s voice rang out, and a cacophony of twisting winds rushed over them, until Arethusa and her mother had to press their bodies to the deck to keep from being blown overboard.
“Stop it!” Arethusa screamed, but the winds blew her words away. Alpheus stood unmoved despite the fire breaking out among the sails.
“Earth,” he shouted, and with a sudden shudder and groan, she felt the clipper run aground. With a deafening roar, the great ship began to rip apart. In the darkness, Arethusa glimpsed the shadow of a cliff ahead.
Alpheus gripped her neck, pulling her up to her feet. He held Arethusa out over the rail, and she dangled out over the waters, the terror in her heart making her forget all but the fire in his eyes.
“Water,” he said, as he glanced down into the churning abyss.
She felt by the listing of the ship that he had bidden the waters to rise up.
“You remember the water don’t you, Arethusa?”
She screamed as the hands that held her dissolved to water. She fell from the prow of the Alpheus, and her namesake plunged down with her, enveloping her body in a waterfall of mist.
The last thing she heard was a voice roiling up through the deeps.
“I am coming.”
*
Arethusa awoke weary to the marrow, her mind moving through a fog of slow memories. Telling herself it was just a dream, she breathed in deep, taking comfort in the feel of the sea breeze through the window as it rustled her hair.
Three years had passed since she last dreamt of the ghost ship and Alpheus. Life had changed so much since then. And yet for the things that mattered most to her, so much of her life was the same. Only this half-life remained behind and before, and the grey sea surrounded all. She stood always on the brink, upon the knife-edge
of grief and joy.
Her room was well lit but not from any candles. Sitting up in her bed, she gazed out her open window and saw that the light came from Artemis, rising heavy from the June sea. Arethusa’s senses inflamed as the moonlight brushed her face. She no longer feared the dream of Alpheus.
She rose as she did every night when the moon was full in its waxing. Without a glance away from the light, she grasped the old capote e capelo Senhorita Jacinta had given her. It was tattered now but still served to hide her from prying eyes. She wrapped it around her shoulders, loving its familiar warmth about her skin. Her nightgown floated noiseless over the windowsill, and then she was out, running through the fields, free of the prison that bound her.
She fled over the rolling farmland, climbing stone fences and hedges, until at last she came upon the edge of the precipice, where the cliffs loomed over the Bay of Zimbral like watchtowers.
Artemis and the Great Sea lay shining before her, and she felt the peace of the waters flow into her as she made her way around the azorina and juniper shrubs and approached the unsteady rope ladder that plunged thirty meters to the rocks below. She felt the flutter of wings move past her as she descended. A pair of cagarro seabirds burst from their nest deep in the cliff-wall and then winged away into the night, their shrill calls like the weeping of a child.
On the last rung, a wave of cool summer water swept over her feet, and she would have laughed had she a voice to laugh. Her smile did not falter when she stepped into a deeper pool, feeling seaweed sway between her toes and ankles. In the west lay darkness, so she turned east where her cave sheltered near the shallower waters. The cave lay well hidden behind boulders and sharp rocks, and she could reach it during high tide as well as low without fear of being caught by the sea. On one of her solitary nights walking the shore, she had found the sanctuary of the little cave by accident as a windstorm swept up the coast.
Retracing steps she had known for three years, Arethusa followed an unmarked path through the rocks. At last, she came upon the opening, and, removing the curtain of seaweed she used to hide its entrance, she climbed into the cave etched out of the side of the cliff. Crouching low, she reached for the key in the pocket of her cloak. With deft fingers accustomed to the darkness, she inserted the key into a small, weathered trunk. Despite the loud roar of the high-tide waves, Arethusa heard the lock click, and from the bowels of the trunk, she withdrew a tinderbox and flint, and a lantern she kept filled with oil.