Cristóbal and I stare at each other. My limbs shake as I gather the courage to ask, “Don Oviedo, would you tell us why you keep going back to the outer islands?”
Oviedo grabs a piece of driftwood and pokes at the sand.
“Like you, I am searching for someone. My daughter-in-law, Javiera. My sons Tomás and Moisés were killed when they were traveling inland to sell fish in the first days of the military coup. There was no reason for their deaths except that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“We’re so sorry, Don Oviedo,” Cristóbal speaks up as I shake even more. I sit on my hands—hoping the fisherman won’t notice that I’m shivering with dread.
“Soon after, they took my oldest son, Ramón, from Quinchamalí. He was a fisherman like all the other men in our family. He was born into this life. But he also was a painter. I regret I didn’t encourage his talent, because I knew he had it, but I didn’t want to lose him. I reminded him constantly of his responsibilities to the family.”
The old fisherman covers his eyes with his thick ruddy hands. “I realize now what a fool I was. My own father feared losing me too young to the sea, but I feared losing Ramón to a way of life I don’t understand. During Alarcón’s presidency Ramón began painting murals on the walls of Quinchamalí. Pictures of children, families eating in community kitchens, and people reading books. Words in rainbow colors that said things like: ‘Equality for all means liberty for Chile.’ ”
He presses his palms to his forehead before continuing. “I don’t read, but when the soldiers came for Ramón, they told me what he had written. They said his art was poisoning the minds of the villagers. They said his words were dangerous and subversive. The villagers told me that Ramón didn’t resist. He just looked at the soldiers defiantly, and they dragged him away. That’s exactly how my son was. His belief in himself was always stronger than his fear.”
“Have you had any word about Ramón?” Cristóbal asks. “Have you seen any signs?”
Oviedo looks up at the sky. The clouds are darkening to a deep shade of violet, and the gulls turn in circles overhead, looking for their evening meal. “Thank God his dear mother wasn’t alive to bear his loss. You see, youngsters, I felt in my heart soon after that Ramón was dead. The waves on the shore were an empty sound in my ears. But when the soldiers took Ramón’s young wife some months later, it was different. Javiera was carrying my grandchild, and I heard two heartbeats in the waves. I still do. Listen.”
Cristóbal closes his eyes to hear better, and I do too. I let my body open to the drumming of the tides. The beat is doubled, like the rhythm when two people dance cueca.
“It’s true!” I exclaim, grabbing my friend’s arm excitedly.
Cristóbal is wiping his eyes. “You are right, Don Oviedo,” he says. “First I heard the crash of the waves on the bigger rocks and then a sort of echo on the stones.”
Oviedo gets up from the sand and picks up the seaweed we gathered. “That echo is my grandchild.” His voice is swallowed by the salty wind.
Fergus Bacon
Cristóbal and I follow Oviedo to his house. As we walk, he tells us, “Today I bumped into one of Queltrahu’s newest and strangest figures. He only appears in the village every month or so. He has a funny-sounding foreign name, Fergus. He is a sailor and doesn’t speak any Spanish save a few words he uses to barter and trade. But he knows the inlets and coves like nobody else.”
“Do you think this sailor could help us locate Celeste’s father?” Cristóbal asks.
“I do.” Oviedo nods. “In fact, I took the liberty to speak to him of your plight, Señorita Celeste.”
“¡Gracias, Don Oviedo!” My heart begins pounding with a strange mix of hope and fear.
“De nada, child. Those islands are impenetrable prisons, caged in by fog and angry seas. They don’t even need bars! But Fergus is a strange old sailor. He only comes to shore when the fog is thickest. He says he was taught the ways of the sea by a blind uncle, and so he learned to navigate with his eyes closed, relying on his other senses. I don’t know if he has great instinct or a touch of madness, really. I would almost be afraid of him if I hadn’t already lived so many years and seen so much.”
Oviedo begins to boil eggs on the stove. “To feed the sailor,” he explains. “I invited him for dinner so you could meet him. He told me to boil as many eggs as I could so that he could take them back with him.”
“Let me help you, Don Oviedo!” I look at the jars of dried seaweed, sea salt, and oregano on the shelf above his stove. “Do you have any parsley? That’s what my Nana Delfina sprinkles on top of everything to make it delicious . . . except café con leche . . . but she even puts parsley on eggs!” I laugh.
He squints at me, and I realize that his eyes are not good.
“My father is a doctor,” I tell him. “He will examine you when we find him, and we can send you glasses from Valparaíso.”
“I hear much pride in your voice, young Celeste.” Oviedo nods approvingly. “Respect for your elders. That is good, that is very good.”
Just then a booming voice rises up to us from the sands below. “Oviedo! Oviedo! I’ve arrived as promised! Come down and greet Sir Fergus Bacon!”
“He’s speaking English!” I exclaim.
“Can you speak English, Celeste?” Oviedo looks at me in disbelief.
“Yes, I can—I was an exile in the North.”
“Well, I’ll be, señorita. You sure aren’t a typical young girl, are you?”
“No, señor.” I smile. “I guess I’m not.”
The voice booms up again. It nearly drowns out the roaring of the waves. “Come greet Sir Fergus! And bring the little miss down with you! I am curious to meet her.”
I look at Oviedo and Cristóbal hesitantly. “Come on, Celeste.” Cristóbal takes my hand. “Go talk to him. This may be your chance to find your father!”
As we descend the stairs, my throat goes dry and my tongue twists in knots, just like every time I speak English to a stranger.
The man belonging to the crashing voice reminds me of pictures of Viking warriors that Señorita Alvarado showed us in history class. He has long red hair and a fiery beard as thick and unkempt as the autumn forest on Juliette Cove. He wears tall black boots, and his yellowing shirt is ripped in several places, revealing even more thick hair and sun-blistered skin. Around his waist he wears a belt, from which hang a knife and a coil of rope.
I swallow my fear as the man approaches me. He seems like a giant, like two Cristóbals stacked atop each other. “Come closer, missy,” he commands with his strange accent. I step forward.
“Hello . . . sir?” I stumble over my words.
“Ah, so you speak a bit of English, do ya?”
“Yes—sir—nice—to meet you,” I stammer on, breathless.
“Sir Fergus,” he tells me with a smile. His teeth look as big as boulders. “Fergus Bacon, descendent of the pirate Sir Hamish Bacon, and of the noble MacGregor clan of the Scottish Highlands, a castaway from the strange and fearsome land of my birth, Australia.”
“Oh.” That’s all I can say, dumbfounded. Cristóbal nudges me to say more, but Fergus kneels down in the sand to look in my eyes. “Your color is different, but you have the look of him, missy! It’s that melancholy brow. Unmistakable.”
“Who? Who do I look like, Sir Fergus? Are you talking about my father? Have you seen him?”
Fergus puts his thick red fingers to his thick red beard. “You can’t be a sailor if you don’t have patience.”
Fergus turns to Oviedo. “Well now, do you have my eggs? I regret to say I shan’t be stayin’ for supper. The fog is thick, but there is an east wind that threatens to blow it away. Missy and I need to be off now. I need the fog to sense where I’m goin’.”
“What did he say, Celeste?” Cristóbal sounds tense.
My legs start to shake. “That he wants to take me in his boat. Now.”
Oviedo runs into the house and emerges with a
burlap bag full of eggs. “God bless you, Celeste,” he tells me as he puts the bag in my arms.
Fergus begins to walk toward the shoreline. A wooden dinghy bobs in the water, the top of its slender mast swallowed by fog. “Here we are! Just wade over and hop in, missy! No time to waste!” He chuckles. “Hope you weren’t expecting to stay dry!”
“Yes, sir, I’m ready.” My voice shakes, but I take Cristóbal’s hand, ready to sail out to find Papá. But Fergus shakes his head at Cristóbal. “You stay here with old Oviedo, boy. We’ll be back soon enough.” He turns and lumbers to the shoreline. He quickly reaches the dinghy and starts to pull it from the beach into the water.
I stand frozen in the sand, shaking my head. What did this crazy man just say? I’m to go with him alone?! I can’t leave—can’t do this—without Cristóbal!
“Sir Fergus,” I protest. “Please, Cristóbal and I need to stay together.”
As an answer Fergus hops into the dinghy and lifts a big burlap sack of potatoes from the bottom.
“Afraid I can’t, missy. Just came in from Quinchamalí, and the boat’s full of provisions. There’s hardly room for anyone else, and I don’t want any extra weight aboard, especially since it turns stormy here quicker than a seagull can steal a fresh catch! You’re just lucky you’re not much bigger than a sack of spuds!”
Fergus Bacon laughs heartily at himself and starts to unfurl the sail. I still can’t move. I look desperately at Cristóbal, who seems to be struggling to get something—English maybe?— out of his mouth.
Sir Fergus continues, taking the tone of a gallant knight, “Since your case is an urgent one . . . I’m making an exception for you, missy.” His voice turns raucous again. “But I’d rather have just one of your young lives on my conscience!” He laughs even louder until his chuckle becomes a low growl. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?”
I can’t tell if this crazy man is kidding or dead serious. Finally Cristóbal shouts out in English, “No! No! Stop!” and finishes his protest in Spanish, “Señor, por favor, Celeste and I can’t be separated!” But no sooner does he get those words out than he turns to me and says, “Celeste, this might be your chance. Your only chance. You can do this, Celeste!” Cristóbal’s voice is urgent. He puts his hands strongly on my shoulders and rests his forehead against my own. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him. He looks deep into my eyes. “You are the bravest person I know. I promise to stay here on the beach with my pendulum, charting your map in the sand. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”
“Cristóbal, I . . . I . . . ”
“Sorry, laddie! My answer’s still no,” Fergus booms, jolting my limbs back to attention so I can finally lift my feet from the sand. But not before I kiss Cristóbal on the cheek.
“You’ll be back soon,” he tells me. His lower lip is trembling.
Unshakable Faith
Without another moment’s hesitation, I wade knee-deep into the water and pull myself into the dinghy. The winds begin to blow hard, and the wooden vessel springs to life and leaps from the shore. I look at Fergus—pulling on the lines, trimming the sail—expectantly.
“Now, missy, if you want to find what you are looking for, you have to work for it. You have to lead us to your destination.”
“But how can I? If you . . . you are the one who knows where we are going! You do know where we’re headed, right?”
“Of course I do!” Fergus throws back his head and cackles. “But what use would that be to you? Didn’t you tell the old fisherman that you feel your father is close at hand?”
I nod and look at the sailor in disbelief. He is crazy. I look back desperately to Cristóbal on the shore. Oh, what have I gotten myself into?
“Then show me, missy! I need some proof—these are dangerous times . . .”
“But—but—” I stammer in protest. “Didn’t you say I look like him? That’s your proof!”
“Har!” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not enough for old Fergus! Show me . . . or I’ll feed ya to me pet shark!”
My first instinct is to throw myself overboard and swim to shore. But when I rise to my feet, a wave rocks the dinghy and I fall down—hard—on my backside. I want to cry, but I burst into fits of laughter instead. I laugh and laugh until I hiccup. Fergus winks at me. “Now, that’s more like it. Light and easy now, missy. Light and easy. You just tell me a direction to take when you feel it.”
I take a deep breath and make a decision. There’s nothing left to do but trust Sir Fergus. I ask for a sign like Nana Delfina taught me.
The fog is so thick that I can hardly see my own hands, let alone the red-bearded giant sitting next to me. But I hear Fergus loud and clear as he starts to sing: “In south Australia I was born! Heave away! Haul away! South Australia ’round Cape Horn! Bound for south Australia ! That’s a sea shanty for ya, lass!”
Fergus’s booming voice seems to echo off the water. Or are those other sounds I hear?
Squawk! Squawk!
I close my eyes and strain to listen. Squawk! It sounds . . . just like . . . the pelicans! “Celeste, Celeste!” But how is it that I understand—really understand, not like when I was little—what they’re saying? Squawk! Their cries are growing louder and impatient. “This way, Celeste!”
“Fergus, let’s go this way.” I wave toward the darkest point on the horizon.
“Downwind it is, then, missy!” With one swift motion Fergus pushes the tiller and hauls in the sail. “Jibe ho!” Fergus cries out as the wind violently catches the other side of the sail. “Watch your head, missy!” As the boom flies over my head, I duck just in time. The boat lurches to the left, and I steady myself, more thankful than ever that I learned English! Then Fergus sits down next to me and nods approvingly.
“Now I can tell you, missy. Beyond the island of Chiloé there are the tiny prison islands. You’ve pointed us in that direction. You’ve also pointed us in the direction of an ancient ship. It was a whaling ship once, but I’ve named her the Pirate Queen. She’s my home, moored in the cove of an island so small that it doesn’t have a name, doesn’t appear on any maps. Most people think that the island is a myth, but even still, very few men dare sail there to find out because they are afraid of ghosts. Do you believe in ghosts, missy?”
“I do. But I’m not afraid of them. And I call them spirits.” I think of Delfina burning cinnamon and talking with her ancestors before going to bed.
“Well, I’ll be!” Fergus scratches his head in disbelief. “You are an odd one! Just like him. Not afraid of ghosts? Hmmmph! Well, me neither, missy. But you won’t catch me talking to one neither!” As Fergus speaks, a sudden gust of wind dissolves a small patch of fog, leaving a window for us to peer through.
“Look lively now, missy! Do you see over there?”
“Lights?” I can barely make them out, they’re so dim, and the fog is rolling back in, clouding my sight, just as quickly as it lifted.
“Those are the prison islands,” he says grimly. “Not all of the prisoners have been released. They fear the temporary government in Santiago has forgotten them.”
I shiver. Could Papá be a prisoner there? I tuck Nana Delfina’s shawl close around me and urge Fergus to continue. “Go on, please.”
“I don’t like talking about such things to a young thing like yourself.” He hesitates. “But these be odd times, that’s for sure. What’s wrong is right and what’s right is wrong—your country’s been flipped upside down, like a boat keeling over.”
“It’s okay, Sir Fergus.” I reassure him. “I’m stronger than I look.”
He looks at me with—perhaps—admiration in his eyes?
“I’d say that’s another thing that’s for sure, missy. Well, I don’t know how long you were in the North, missy, or what you’ve heard since coming back, but prisoners . . . well, they were . . . thrown.” Fergus inhales sharply. “Thrown. From planes. To the sea.” The wind picks up with a howl. It’s a sound like sorrow. A sound that should fly out of me when I ope
n my mouth in terror. But no sound comes out. I grip the edge of the dinghy. I’m afraid I’m going to throw up.
But Fergus continues. I hang on for dear life, digging my fingernails into the wood, trying to keep hold of something, anything, that won’t disappear. Is that where they all went? To the bottom of the sea?
I stare down at the ocean below, and grow dizzy. Maybe the real Celeste can spin away from here inside me? But then I hear Fergus say, “. . . Sometimes they were thrown when they were already dead. But other times . . .” Fergus’s voice becomes gruff.
I let go of my grip on the boat and finish for him. “Other times they were alive.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. So cool, so calm. It must be the voice of someone else. Maybe this is all a long nightmare, about a girl searching for her father in an ocean that’s become a burial ground for prisoners. And pretty soon I’ll wake up in my house on Butterfly Hill, and Papá will be downstairs with Mamá, drinking café con leche before heading to the clinic. Because it couldn’t—it just couldn’t —be Celeste Marconi’s Papá out there—a prisoner . . . a body . . . that’s alive . . . or maybe . . . dead. No, this couldn’t be Celeste Marconi’s real life! Because this couldn’t be her Chile!
Fergus hasn’t stopped speaking. “Now and again I would find somebody, and sometimes it was not too late. I’d take them to my ship, feed them, let them rest a few days before they went on their way. Not all of them had been thrown. Some of them foolish souls had escaped, swum for hours, been floating in the sea so long, their skin near peeled down to the bone.”
I summon the courage to ask. “Sir Fergus, this man you are taking me to—did you find him in the water?”
“Ay! That I did, missy. Facedown in a bed of seaweed and only half-alive.”
“Oh, poor Papá!” I gasp, unwilling to imagine it. “But then, Sir Fergus, that means . . . he’s alive! That is, if this man you saved is my father. But he has to be. I just have to keep unshakable faith, like my grandmother says.”
I Lived on Butterfly Hill Page 20