Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  She took him by the shoulders but he shrugged her off. Frowning in frustration, she glanced over to the tack room and marched over there herself. She rummaged around in the dark looking for Tesouro’s reins, but João was there at her arm.

  “What’s happened?”

  She made the gesture for Tristan’s name.

  “His sickness is worse?”

  She shook the reins in his face, wanting to scream at him to make him understand.

  “He’s dying,” she mouthed, and when he saw the sadness and anger in her eyes, he did understand at last. João snatched the reins from her hands and moved without a word toward Tesouro.

  Once João had saddled the disgruntled horse, she put her finger to her lips to beg his silence. With a sulky half-smile, he finally nodded and helped her mount the horse.

  She gathered the large hood of her capote e capelo around her face, hoping it would hide her identity from curious villagers.

  “Deus salva-o,” he whispered.

  “Obrigado,” she mouthed, taking off at a hard gallop through the chill wind. For many dark kilometers, Arethusa had one prayer on her lips: that she would see a ship in the bay. She cut cross-country as much as she could, and it was still far from dawn when she reached the outskirts of Angra do Heroísmo. Tesouro was pouring sweat, and his breath came out in swirls of mist. She slowed him to a walk, her own exhaustion catching up with her.

  As Arethusa topped a windy hill above the town, the gibbous moon illuminated the shadowy depths of Angra Bay. She perceived the silhouette of not one, but two ships at anchor.

  I’m saved. She urged Tesouro down the grassy slope and through the gate of a dilapidated stone wall. Another question plagued her mind. Where could she find a ship’s captain in the middle of the night?

  At a fast trot, she and Tesouro stole into Angra do Heroísmo using silent side roads as their accomplices. She guided the horse through the cobblestone streets by solemn whitewashed houses with lace curtains and around little shops, whose shopkeepers with the coming of dawn would sell fabrics and shoes, clothing and foodstuffs. Few people were in the streets at this hour. Much of the town lay in the darkness of sleep, and only the padarias and cervejarias had lanterns glowing in their windows.

  Arethusa turned the corner to the anterior of a church and discovered the road leading to the docks. The bay waters lay beyond, providing a closer view of the ships. The smaller of the two appeared to be some kind of yacht, but the other was similar to the Grace of the Seas and the Sea Nymph in size and appointments. It had three masts, but its decking was more uniform than the other two ships. It looked like it could take on passengers.

  She searched up and down the street, trying to find someone to ask.

  Two men burst from a doorway and broke into a slurred drinking song. With four bottles between them, they staggered down the road in her direction. She nudged Tesouro with her heel and made her way over the cobblestones toward them. The man with the stocky build wore a long mustache, his clothes were faded and torn, and he had the look of a fisherman or cook. The other was a bit taller but not as big-boned. He might prove to be a sailor. The shorter man noticed her first. His face broke out into a toothy grin. Against her better judgment, she continued to walk Tesouro over to them.

  “Look, Pedro. It’s a nun on a horse in the middle of the night!” the shorter man said.

  “She looks like a witch to me,” Pedro said, crossing himself and squinting to catch a better glimpse of her face behind the large hood. Arethusa had no idea if they would know where a ship captain might be, but she lowered the oversized hood, so they could see her more clearly.

  “Muito linda. Boa-noite, Senhorita,” the shorter man said, surprise glittering in his eyes.

  “Have you come for a drink, Irmã?” asked Pedro. Then he leaned into his friend and said in mock confidence, “Or perhaps she comes for me, Nuno!” They laughed and clinked their bottles together.

  Nuno looked almost fearful of her, which gave her confidence. At first pondering whether she should go on and search the pub herself, she attempted a shorthand mime of a sea captain for him. Then she raised her hands as if to say, “Do you know where?”

  He didn’t appear to understand. He glanced at Pedro, who was just as confounded.

  “What is she doing?” Nuno asked Pedro.

  “Tell us what you want,” Pedro said.

  Arethusa gripped the reins, trying to stay calm. Time was pressing. One more try. She covered her mouth and throat and shook her head.

  “She can’t talk.” He smiled proudly, as though he had just won a contest.

  She tried her sea-captain mime again, making her hands into waves and then a boat and then touching her hand to her head as though blocking the sunlight from her eyes.

  “A sailor? You want a sailor?” Nuno said. “I’m yours!” They laughed, clanked their bottles, and took a hefty swig.

  She shook her head and mouthed the word, “Captain.”

  “Captain?” asked Nuno.

  She nearly fell out of her saddle trying to nod to him. She lifted her palms in a gesture asking, “Where?”

  “There’s a captain over at the pub,” Nuno said, his voice slurred.

  Pedro cocked his eyebrow at Nuno. “You think she’s looking for ‘the storyteller’?”

  “You want Captain Moreland from the British schooner?” Nuno asked.

  “That’s the big ship out there,” Pedro said, stifling a chortle, motioning toward its shadowy form floating as an apparition in the dark bay waters.

  She nodded.

  “We call him ‘the storyteller,’ because, when he comes to port, he goes straight to the pub for a drink.” Nuno’s voice was loud now, and he hiccupped between his words.

  “And once you get him drinking, he never stops talking,” Pedro said, laughing as he pointed toward the lit doorway. “He was telling some old tales from his home country tonight, but Nuno and me didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “We’re too drunk, Pedro.” Nuno gave his bottle a coy smile before downing another gulp.

  At this, Arethusa nodded her thanks and dug in her heels. Tesouro took off down the cobblestones toward the pub. Halting at a short distance from the door, she slid off Tesouro’s sweaty flank and tied up the reins.

  Pulling the hood up to cover her face, she crept to the door’s edge. Beyond the clicking of bottles, the shifting of chairs, the dull thud of a cup on wood, she heard the loud clear voice of a man.

  “Tristan waited at the window for Isolde, but his condition worsened as his fears grew. He became too ill to sit at the window, and so he bade his wife to watch for him, but jealousy had already nested in her heart. Tristan loved another and now she wrung her white hands in black revenge.”

  He’s telling the story of Tristan and Isolde! Arethusa pressed herself to the wall, her heart thudding. How does he know this myth? Why does he tell this story now, on the night of my greatest need?

  The voice went on in thickly accented Portuguese, and she listened, standing just outside the door.

  “When Isolde at last spotted the white flag waving amid the sails of the approaching ship, she threw up her white hands and said, ‘I see the ship returning, my lord, but the flag that waves is black.’ At the sudden look of grief washing over her husband’s face, jealousy welled up in Isolde’s heart and she fled the room.

  “Hearing his wife’s deceitful words, Tristan lost his will to live. With Isolde of Ireland’s name still on his lips, he lay down his head and gave up his spirit in a moment of utter despair—”

  Arethusa could take no more. She rushed into the dim room and a dozen pairs of eyes locked on her. Several of the men jolted from their chairs and gasped at her sudden appearance. Most of the men were Portuguese, but a few patrons were European sailors with lighter skin and hair. One of these had the proud and handsome build of a man in his prime, but as she approached him, he appeared to be taken off-guard, or perhaps startled. When he turned to her, his eyebrows wer
e raised and his mouth was curved into a round hole, as if he had just been speaking. This man had to be Captain Moreland.

  “The storyteller” was dressed in a pea coat and trousers with a shirt loosened at the laces. She could tell he was quite drunk by his clumsy, lethargic movements, though his voice had betrayed no signs of slurring as he told the story.

  As she drew closer to him, the captain squinted, trying to search out her face. When she stood before him, a wave of relief washed over his face.

  “A girl,” he said, and the other patrons started talking in low whispers, craning their necks to get a better look. Arethusa clutched Captain Moreland’s arm and motioned toward a dark corner.

  “What’s this? What do you want?” he asked.

  She moved to a wobbly, cerveja-stained table and wrote out her message to him.

  I cannot speak. I am in desperate need of passage to São Miguel. Are you or anyone you know sailing there tonight?

  “What are you writing there?” he asked, as he sat across from her.

  She handed him the paper, hoping that he could read Portuguese. As he read, she studied him. His skin was pale, almost translucent and bluish in tone, despite the room’s low light. His eyes were piercing blue and narrow while his nose was thin and long, giving him a highborn, delicate air.

  “You are mute?”

  She nodded to him. Something flashed in his eyes. Pity?

  “I am sailing there tomorrow morning, but I’m sorry, Senhorita, I carry naught but cargo. We have no accommodations for passengers.”

  Arethusa grabbed at his sleeve. “Please?” she mouthed to him, a mist of anxiety filling her eyes.

  “I have no room, Senhorita.”

  Again, she wrote to him with furious speed, her hope fading. I have a grave need to reach São Miguel tonight. I have money to pay and it is a short voyage. I would not need a berth.

  “Senhorita, we do not sail until dawn. Why must you get to São Miguel tonight?”

  The moment of truth. Should she tell him? Would he think her mad?

  Tell him, and let your fate fall where it may, she told herself fiercely.

  I have no time to explain how this came to pass, but I tell you now I seek a man named Tristan. She ripped the sheet off and handed it to him, and then she continued scribbling.

  He lies dying in a hospital of a head wound. I am not mad but bound to follow in Isolde the Fair’s footsteps. She handed him the paper, not looking up at him for fear of his reaction. She wrote on.

  I don’t know how you know this story, but I believe you’ve been sent to me for a purpose. Even now, there is a girl with him, watching at the window. You know what she will do. Can you help us? Her hands shook as, hesitating, she handed him her last entreaty.

  As he read, his narrow eyes moved back and forth, scanning every line twice. His lips parted when he finished the last line and gazed up at her. Long fingers laced with blue veins came toward her own. His face drew near. She smelled the cerveja on his breath, saw the silver-blue of his mesmerizing eyes, felt the electric nearness of his body. But Tristan’s face came to her, then, and tears blurred her vision.

  Again, she mouthed, “Please?”

  For a long moment, the captain was silent. Without moving, without blinking away the blue, and to her astonishment, he whispered to her in the softest voice, “You have the face of an angel. I can see why any man would die for love of you.”

  His gaze broke away from her, and he peered off into a distant past that only he could see.

  “I loved once as well, but I learned too late her hands were white.” His eyes came back to Arethusa, clear and bright. “This legend is one of the oldest tales in my country. It comforts me while I wait for my own Isolde to come for me.”

  His hand reached out for Arethusa’s, but he only touched the tops of her fingers. She smiled at him, tears stinging her eyes. He understood. How would she have ever guessed she would come face to face with a man who could?

  “I will help you,” the captain said, moving to rise and stuffing her notes deep into his breast coat pocket. In English, he addressed the men at the other end of the room who were still spying over their shoulders at them. “Sailors of the Lady Fair report to the ship immediately and prepare to set sail with the tide.”

  At first, all the sailors sat motionless and slack-jawed, but Captain Moreland’s clear voice rose into an angry shout. “Get to it, men.”

  At that, they rose in a clumsy heap, digging coins out of their pockets as they swigged back the final contents of their mugs. Then stampeding out into the empty street, their laughter and shouts echoed about the cobblestones and into the night.

  Arethusa jerked in her chair when Tesouro’s loud neighing came to her ears.

  “Is that your horse?” the captain asked. Arethusa nodded. An old man sidled up in a seaman’s gait, and the captain gave him a nod. “Jonas, you will come with me to assist with a few last preparations and to see to this lady’s horse. She is coming aboard with us.”

  “Aye captain,” he replied with a salute.

  Arethusa stirred in her chair, but Captain Moreland’s rough, thin fingers were there before her, catching her own.

  His pale face came forward, and he kissed her hand, saying: “My lady Isolde, follow me.”

  *

  Her stomach shaking and her mouth dry, Arethusa sat stiffly in the lighter boat, gripping the moonstone underneath her cloak. The deep hood blocked the chill wind from her face, but it couldn’t hide the dark vision of the towering ship as one of the dockhands rowed the lighter ever closer to the horror that awaited her.

  If I am not meant to survive this, let my death come swiftly and let Tristan know I love him.

  Captain Moreland and Arethusa were the last two people to board the Lady Fair. She had warned him of her visions, and, out of mercy, he had promised to wait with her until the last possible moment. But now the ship was ready to sail and there was nothing left for her but to board. The lighter bumped into the hull of the schooner at last. The captain tied them together and made his way up the short wooden ladder attached to the side of the ship. He jumped aboard and awaited her slow ascent with quiet patience.

  As she reached the top, she felt the gawking stares of the sailors. She wanted to turn back, to go back home. Would she die today? Would Tristan? She could bear the fear no longer. She gripped the rail hard, squeezed her eyes shut once to banish the false image of a dying Tristan lying in a pool of his own warm blood, his eyes accusing her of weakness.

  No, Alpheus. I will fight. I don’t know how, but I will. This will be the last time you try to take him from me.

  “Get back to work,” Captain Moreland shouted at the sailors around her. She opened her eyes to see the men grudgingly turn away. The captain reached for her hand, his eyes a soft hazy blue and his skin luminous in the ash-silver light of the night mists.

  “Are you ready?”

  Her palm touched his.

  IN AN EXPLOSION OF WIND, ARETHUSA’S HAND slipped from the captain’s grasp. She covered her ears to shut out the screeching howl. Driven to her knees against the bulwarks, she saw vile shadows shifting, taking shape, stalking closer. The vision was back with a vengeance.

  When she lost sight of Captain Moreland among the assembling sailors, she reached for her moonstone, but her neck was bare. Before she even had time to look for it, her mother’s scream split the night. Arethusa elbowed past the sailors, quailing at their cold bodies, their grimy clothes. She couldn’t run, but she trudged past the decaying capstan and deckhouse, her purpose clear. When she reached the forward deck, she caught sight of a familiar struggle out in the bow netting. Alpheus had pinned her mother beneath him, his hands grasping her neck as she clawed at his face.

  “Let her go!” Arethusa shouted, her voice both foreign and familiar. It might only be for a moment more in this hell-bound nightmare, but to have her own voice back again gave her courage she had not felt in a long time.

  Alpheus spun around,
his countenance distorted, his smile grotesque.

  “Arethusa.”

  Her name in his mouth disgusted her but he took no notice of her scowl. He rose silently, impossibly, through the air and landed on the deck before her. When she looked again into his face, his features had receded back into Diogo’s.

  “You’ve come to me at last, little nymph.” Alpheus’s voice rang out in mock civility.

  Arethusa looked to her mother, but Mãe’s head lolled on the netting, her eyes closed.

  “I would never come to you willingly.”

  “That will soon be remedied.”

  “Diogo is dead. You have no power over me.”

  “I don’t need him in this place.”

  She stared at her surroundings—the windswept deck, the angry, dunnish waters, the sailors’ penetrating eyes. “And what is this place?”

  He didn’t answer, but in his smile lay a great secret.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Diogo wasn’t Alpheus. Otherwise you would not be here.”

  “He was just a mind, and a mindless one at that.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I needed his body to take you.”

  She looked up again at Alpheus, finding it difficult to separate this hideous spirit from the man who was Diogo. Even now, he had Diogo’s face and body, and the same cold malice streaked through his eyes.

  “Diogo died because of me?”

  The thought made Arethusa’s chest constrict, tighten, as if she were caving in on herself. She closed her eyes and felt her own part in this madness rising up out of her, threatening to strangle her as Diogo’s hands had almost done so many years ago.

  “Of course. It all began with you.” He folded his hands behind his back and paced the deck. “What say you? Your soul in exchange for the life of Tristan Vazante.”

  He smiled, and she felt the bile rise in her throat.

  “You cannot control his destiny,” she countered.

  “I can.”

  “It’s not possible. You are Alpheus. You know nothing of Tristan and Isolde. I have told you nothing.”

  “And yet I know. How can that be?”

  “I don’t know.” She gripped her head in her hands, trying to make sense of this creature before her.