Fergus puts his finger to his lips and then peers out at the fog. I feel we’re surrounded by thick gray curtains. But I watch in amazement as slowly, instinctively, Fergus pulls on the tiller and turns the dinghy into a swell. “We need to sail around the prison islands,” he whispers. “Far enough away to not be spotted, but close enough that we don’t drift off course.”
We sail on in silence for a while. Then, still whispering, I say, “Sir Fergus, please tell me more about the man you found.”
“He had escaped from the prison, some time ago now. I had him stay on with me because he was a help taking care of the other wretches that washed up in my path.”
I suck in some salty air, excited. “Why? Why was he such a help?!”
“Oh, he’s a doctor. At least that’s what he told me. And from what I’ve seen, it seems he ain’t lying.”
I clap my hands together, and would stand up to dance for joy if the water weren’t so choppy. “Sir Fergus, this man is my father for sure!”
Fergus’s voice is brusque. “I hope so, missy. For both your sakes.”
The dinghy rides up and down the high, foamy waves. I hold my stomach and keep my eyes on the sky. The curtain of fog is thicker than ever. But Sir Fergus doesn’t need to see far. He lifts his hand and moves it this way and that. “Feeling for the right wind, missy.” He must have found it, because suddenly Fergus pulls on the lines, and the sail harnesses the wind. Whoooosh!
We skim along the water, and I hold on tight. “There. There she is!” Fergus points to a patch of fog in the distance. “Wait for her, missy. She’ll reveal herself.” And like he promised, a sheet of clouds moves aside, and dim sunshine fills my eyes. As they adjust to the light, they focus on a massive black ship.
“There she is—the Pirate Queen ! No woman was ever better to old Fergus.” Fergus pulls me to my feet. My eyes are fixed on the Pirate Queen, then dart about to take in the tiny island where it is moored. “Welcome to my home, the ship the ghosts have lent me.”
Fergus pulls the dinghy to the side of the old whaling boat, right next to a long rope ladder. “Go ahead, missy, climb aboard! I am just going to tie on to the side here. I’ll be right behind you.” I gulp and look up at the long climb and the churning seas below. I begin to pull myself up with my arms. The ladder sways in the winds, and some of the rungs are coming loose. I close my eyes and climb with all my might.
I tumble, exhausted, onto the deck. At first I cannot see a thing. The fog has descended again and completely engulfs the ship. I walk blindly, one foot in front of the other. The musty smell of rum and rotting wood fills my nostrils. I am trembling with fear, but I force my lips to form a word, any word, the only word.
“Papá! Papá! It’s Celeste! Papá!”
I shout until hot tears roll down my cheeks.
“Papá! ¿Dónde estás? Where are you? Papá!”
A small, hunched figure emerges from the shadows. Slowly—almost sorrowfully—he stretches out his arms. Is it really him? Could it be? After all this time?
“Papá?” My voice breaks as I call to the dark figure just a few feet in front of me. The fog blurs his face.
“Celeste, hija mía.” When he answers me, his voice also breaks. But it’s his voice! I’d know it anywhere! It’s him!
“Papá!” I shout without any hesitation, running headlong into his embrace. And we stay there holding each other until every last trace of fog has lifted.
Our Country Is Blue
Fergus takes us back to Chiloé in the early-morning hours.
I hardly believe I am sitting next to my father. I keep pressing his thin arms to see if he is real. “You’re so thin!” I tell him. My father nods with tears in his eyes and wraps me in his arms, and his head with its long tangled hair and dark fuzzy beard rests heavily atop mine.
Some of his hair hangs limply in front of my eyes. Much of it has gone gray. It makes me sad . . . but . . . I am also angry. Here he is! Papá! Alive! Living, it seems, for a while with Fergus on his boat. Didn’t he know the General was dead? Why didn’t he go home to Butterfly Hill? Why didn’t he look for Mamá? Did he wonder at all about us?
I feel so frustrated and confused. My head spins, and my heart goes from dark to light to dark again. Just like the early-morning sky with its fog and windswept clouds.
* * *
Cristóbal is waiting for us on the shore, waving a lantern back and forth. Oviedo is there too, yelling at the top of his lungs. Fergus lifts me from the boat and holds me up to his height for a moment. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, missy. Don’t think I will ever forget you.”
“I know I will never forget you, Fergus. Thank you for everything. Thank you for saving my father.”
Then Fergus turns and embraces my father. They say nothing, but hold each other tight for a long while. Then my father climbs from the boat, and Fergus lifts his cap to us and starts rowing back home to his ghost ship, the Pirate Queen . We watch until he is swallowed up by the blackness between the sea and dark sky.
As tired and worn as he is, Papá carefully examines Señor Oviedo’s eyes and promises that all he needs is Nana Delfina’s herbal eyedrops to clear the sand and salt away. “We will send them first thing, and anything else you may need,” my father tells him as he shakes his hand. “I am forever indebted to you.”
I hug Oviedo tight. “I don’t know how to thank you, Don Oviedo. But I promise I will write to you from Valparaíso!”
“Ay, Celeste Marconi. I am so glad your story is turning out a happy one. What you can do for me is live a long, happy life, young lady. And if you pray, please pray for my daughter-in-law Javiera, and for an abundance of fish for all the fishermen on the island of Chiloé.”
* * *
“Papá, our country is blue.” I lean against my father while we gaze out the window at sapphire stretches of sea and mountain and sky as the bus taking us home makes its way north. As the sun rises higher in the sky, it melts the impatience I was feeling toward my father . . . at least for the moment.
“Mmm-hmm . . .” My father kisses my forehead. It’s as if he is too tired to speak. At times he looks distant and lost. In the early light of dawn I glance at my father’s eyes. Once dark and brightly dancing like the night sky with stars, Papá’s eyes are now dull amber, almost yellow, like a tired sun burning out so it can rest. My mother always joked that she fell in love with Papá when she saw the map of the stars in his eyes. But I see that sadness can alter even the colors we were born with. Maybe he cried so much that all the brown faded, like a poem written in ink runs on paper in the rain? Maybe the sparkling lights sunk somewhere to the bottom of my father, to a place deep inside where he hides his pain, deeper even than his heart?
Papá barely speaks for the entire fourteen-hour trip. He just gazes out the window and runs his hand down my unkempt braid. Oh, Papá! Something so awful must have happened to you, I think. And I know that once you arrive at Butterfly Hill, you will come back to life.
I have so much to ask him, so much to tell him, but I summon my new skill—patience. But at one point I can’t help laughing and asking my father, “Papá, did one of the rats aboard the Pirate Queen bite off your tongue?”
My father was intently watching the busy streets of Santiago flash by, almost as if he were looking for someone. Looking for my mother. But he turns his face from the window. “Celeste, brave heroine and daughter of mine, soon I will tell you all you want to know. But now let your father rest and get used to the fact that I have to only reach out my hand to touch you.”
Of Ships and Secrets
“Celeste, Celeste.” I roll over onto my stomach and force one eye half-open. I see my nana’s gap-toothed smile.
“Papá? He is here? It wasn’t a dream?”
“No, Delfina’s brave girl. You have been asleep nearly two days! Your father said to let you regain your strength. He is downstairs eating sopaipillas with your Abuela Frida.”
“It wasn’t a dream! My father is home!�
� A happiness runs all through my veins.
“Señor Andrés has already told Delfina and Abuela Frida all about the Pirate Queen . We are all so proud of our girl.”
All day my father sits in his study, listening to the sounds of people going about their ways. He smiles ruefully at me. “I am not used to so much noise.” At night I bring him a cup of peppermint tea and sit next to him. I want to know how he managed to survive.
“Celeste, during those weeks, months, perhaps years, I lost track of time. I was in a jail cell so small, your dolls’ garden would not even fit there.” Then he clears his throat and says, “It was all inexplicable, so much cruelty and so much goodness. Sometimes the guards beat us up and then, an hour later, would give us cigarettes. It was hard to remember the life we had, Celeste, and if I thought of you, I would have cried so much that the tears would have created a flood. And yet if I did not think of you, my heart would have become a desert. There was no choice but to remember you and Esmeralda, your grandmother Frida, Nana Delfina.” He sips at the tea, which is now almost cold.
“Celeste, sometimes memory is dangerous, but on most occasions it can be a salvation. Sometimes remembering means to live a moment in the past again, and in that way survive the present. I will try to share my story with you little by little, as I am able. It is good to get these things out. Something I learned, Celeste, is that words can save you.”
I wring my hands impatiently. “Papá, can you just tell me one more thing for now?”
My father smiles with a solemn look I recognize that means, Patience, Celeste. “That depends on what you want to know, hija.”
I look at his tired face and can’t bring myself to ask about Mamá—not yet. “I want to know how you escaped, and how you met Fergus!”
My father sighs a heavy sigh and reaches his arm out for me. I sit close to him, and he begins to recall his last days on the prison island.
“About six months ago—although I am not completely sure because there was no way but the sun to keep track of time—rumors began making their way into the prison that the Dictator was losing power, that there was dissent among his generals. The thought of losing power made the Dictator crueler than ever, and he ordered prisoners’ rations to be cut in half. I had only a piece of bread and an egg delivered to me every two days. And I was given very little water. I could feel my body growing weaker, my organs failing, and I decided that the way I was living was worse than death. I felt that if I stayed there, I would surely not survive. So, I decided to take a chance and escape.”
I wince, heartsick at the thought of my father so ill and mistreated, all alone with no one to help him. “How, Papá?”
“I didn’t have to do much.” He laughs bitterly. “I just pretended I was dead when the guard came to check on me one morning. I was thrown onto a small boat piled with bodies. The stench was horrible. I kept my eyes closed but could hear a motor running and the breeze blowing for a short while. I guess when they figured we were far enough out so that anyone who was faking would surely drown, the bodies were dumped into the sea. I held my breath and let my body sink. And then when I felt I was deep enough, I swam and swam until finally I had to come up for air. When I came up, thankfully, I could see a small island in the distance. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to swim to shore. I must have collapsed, because when I opened my eyes, Fergus was leaning over me, trying to pour water through my lips. I was half-dead and covered with blisters from lying in the sun for God knows how long.”
He rubs his hand over his now clean-shaven face, as though feeling for those blisters.
“We couldn’t speak much to each other, but there was not much I was able to say to any man at that point, even if he did speak Spanish. Fergus stayed by my side for about a week, fed me potatoes, eggs, and fish. He built a fire in the nighttime so I wouldn’t be cold and covered me with his coat. Finally I had enough strength to walk, and Fergus took me to the other side of the island, where the immense ship was.”
“So, you hid there on board with him, Papá?”
“Yes. I stayed belowdecks most of the time.”
“But . . . but . . . why didn’t you try to come back to Valparaíso?”
“It was still much too dangerous, Querida. Remember, the Dictator had supporters, and the entire military behind him. I can only imagine how angry some became when he died and they lost their power. As painful as it was, I decided to bide my time.”
“Fergus told me you treated other prisoners he found in the water.”
Papá nods. “It’s true. Once in a while Fergus would find someone for me to care for. So I consoled myself by making myself useful—at least there were people who needed my help.”
Papá’s answer frustrates me. What about me? What about Mamá? Didn’t we need him? But I don’t know how to tell him that. He looks so frail—I’m afraid to hurt his feelings. So I look down at my hands.
After an uncomfortable silence he clears his throat and continues: “Fergus made me a hammock out of a fishing net, and I would spend the daylight hours there, resting, or in the galley peeling potatoes. Sometimes, when the thickest fogs rolled in, Fergus would leave for a few days. He would always come back with fish and eggs, and one time he came back with fresh clothes for me. Fergus and I spoke little. But sometimes we played cards. Poker, mostly. We didn’t seem to have to speak each other’s language for that. We gambled with seashells.” My father chuckles. “Boy, did Fergus have a temper! He did not like to lose at cards!”
“Thank goodness you were only playing for shells!” I exclaim, and reach over to hug him, my frustration calmed for the time being. I’m once again just happy to have him home again.
“And thank goodness you learned to speak English so well on Juliette Cove, my smart girl!” Why doesn’t he tell me about the prisoners he helped? He probably doesn’t want to scare me. As if you could protect me now? My father turns serious once more. “Celeste, never forget this: I was able to survive by having faith in this one old man. I think it was his craziness that made me believe in him. That and the fact that we didn’t know each other’s words. Everyone else had told me too many lies.” He grows quiet, but I have to ask him one more thing.
“And, Papá, what about Mamá? Can we go look for her? I am sure we will find her if we just ask Cristóbal to bring his pendul—”
“Shhhhh. Patience, Celeste Marconi.” Papá kisses my forehead. “I believe that your mother is also alive, and I also believe that to keep her alive, we need to bide our time. It is still very dangerous out there, Celeste. There are soldiers angry that their general’s government has crumbled, and they have our pictures, just waiting to take their shame out on somebody before peace is fully restored. I wish more than anything that I was by your mother’s side right now, that I had been there through it all. But we decided it was best not to stay together . . . because if something happened to one of us . . .” His voice trails off, and he looks away from me.
“I know, Papá,” I say gently. “If one of you didn’t make it, you hoped the other would for my sake.”
Papá turns to meet my gaze. He is crying. “My brave girl,” he whispers, his voice raspy.
“I’m not a baby anymore, Papá. And nobody is after me ! Why can’t I go look for her and bring her home like I did with you?”
My father shakes his head. This time his voice is firm. “No!” He wipes his eyes with hands that look like nothing but bones wrapped up in old wax paper. “No, Celeste. And that’s final. Esmeralda and I couldn’t live with ourselves if . . .” His voice trails off again, and he clears his throat, changing the subject.
“I wrote a letter last night, and Delfina posted it for me this morning. I know that letter will reach your mother somehow.”
“Papá, do you know where she is? Why can’t we—” I cry out, but Papá squeezes my hand.
“I don’t know exactly—this letter will go from friend to friend to friend—someone will know. And I know she will be home soon. Trust me, my gir
l.”
“I do, Papá.”
“Now, my turn to ask a question! I want to know how you gathered enough courage to search for me.”
“I don’t know, Papá. I just had to do something! I waited two years to find you. I couldn’t just not do anything when we were so close once again.”
But doesn’t Papá feel the same way about Mamá . . . and what if it isn’t as dangerous out there as he imagines? As if listening to my thoughts, my father sighs. “Celeste, there is nothing I want more in this world than to have your mother home, and nothing I wouldn’t do for her, or for you for that matter. So, trust. Trust and help me have faith.”
The Alphabet in My Hands
On Sunday night, after a week of sitting in his study, my father climbs out to the roof, where I am sitting with my mother’s big book of maps of the stars. “Delta Crucis. Gamma Crucis.” I am naming the stars in the Southern Cross, my mother’s favorite constellation, saying them aloud, hoping she is looking at the stars too, and that she is comfortable and has enough to eat, and a soft pillow for her head because she is such a light sleeper. I remember how Mamá made my father sleep with a clothespin on his nose so he wouldn’t snore and wake her up. The family joke is that he has been doing this since their honeymoon, and that he was born with a small nose that swoops a bit to the sky like mine, but night after night with the clothespin made his nose grow long and narrow with a bump below the brow, like a condor’s beak.
My father sits next to me and looks up at the sky. “I am sure she is sitting beneath the Southern Cross too, Celeste, and thinking of you.”
I lean against my father’s arm. “Thank you, Papá. Are you feeling bad tonight? You didn’t eat much at dinner.”
“I am well, hija. Don’t worry about me. I am concerned about you, though. I think it is too gloomy for you to be stuck in the house here with us somber old folks. Don’t you think it is time for you to go back to school?”
I Lived on Butterfly Hill Page 21