“A minor?” Matthew regarded their son. “He’s on his way to becoming a man. He did well, the lad did, and it’s a lesson he must learn. You don’t disobey a given order – ever.” He went back to his perusal of the documents they’d taken off Ángel, and handed them to Alex. In Spanish, he sighed, and from what he could make out nothing but a letter and a wee prayer book.
“Give it back!” Ángel yelled. “It’s my breviary, and I won’t have it sullied by your heretic hands!”
Alex just looked at him. “A breviary? You?”
“Mine, not yours! Give it here! Don’t touch it!”
In response, Alex gripped the book and held it aloft. Ángel cursed and yelled, straining at his ropes. She turned her back on him and concentrated on the book. It was old – much older than Ángel – with faded dark red covers and thick paper that crackled at her touch. An initial glance would have her believing it was a breviary, the first few pages containing prayers and readings from the Bible, here and there a brief instruction as to the adequate services for the newborn in peril of dying, for a bereaved mother, or for the daily communion with God.
It took her some time to notice that new pages had been carefully stitched into place between the old ones, pages where the paper was whiter and thinner. These pages were covered in precise handwriting, the ink still standing stark and black. A journal? Alex gave Ángel a long look and went back to reading poetic descriptions of bays and shorelines, of winds and reefs and landmarks that had caught the author’s eyes – and a lot of stuff about birds, perched in the oddest formations. Here and there, the odd letter was highlighted and decorated, and at the bottom of each new page was a band of beautifully executed geometric designs, miniature squares and circles, triangles and lines.
“Six gulls?” she read out loud. “Who would bother to count them?” She looked over to where the prisoner sat slumped in his ropes. “I don’t think this is quite as innocent as it seems.” She studied their captive who scowled back. “He doesn’t strike me as an ornithologist – or a devout person.”
“Ornithologist?”
“A person who studies birds, you know, what they eat, how they migrate…”
“Whatever for?” Matthew wondered.
“No idea,” she admitted and handed him the book. “I like these, though,” she said, tapping at the geometric decoration on one page.
“Aye,” Matthew nodded, “most pleasing.”
Now why did that comment make Ángel smile?
“How do you know my name?” Ángel Muñoz demanded when Alex walked by the mast.
“I just do.” She held her skirts so as not to brush them against him. It obviously disturbed him, and she could actually see him dredging through his mind to see if they had ever met before. “No, we haven’t met. But once I knew your uncle, a man I very much liked, and I’ve met the real Carlos Muñoz.”
“You knew my uncle? The corrupted priest?”
“A good man!”
“A weak man, a man that made our name a laughing stock, leaving my father lumbered with his bastard, living proof of our shame. But as you seem to know, he is, adequately enough, a priest as well. Last we heard, he was off to spread the word of God among the Indians – probably dead by now.” Ángel waited for her to share the more current information she might have about his cousin, but Alex had no intention of telling him anything, disliking this slim, fine-boned man intensely.
Ángel squinted up at her. “You look familiar to me,” he muttered. He looked away, shifting on his buttocks. “Yes…” He nodded, looking at her again. “I’ve dreamt of you, I think.”
“Of me?” Alex laughed. “I find that most unbelievable.”
“But I have.” The Spaniard grinned. “The tables were turned, as I recall. You were the captive, I was the jailer.”
Alex paled, clasping her hands hard to stop herself from trembling. Her mind was inundated with images of the future Ángel, his eyes inches from her face as he screamed and threatened her. The crushed knuckle in her little finger began to throb, a physical reminder of her ordeal that rarely bothered her these days, but now it hurt like hell, almost as much as it had done when that damned Ángel had brought the hammer down on it.
The Spaniard chuckled and lifted his tied hands aloft, wiggling his little finger. “I dreamed it,” he jeered. “And some dreams come true, they say.”
Chapter 20
The coming few days, Alex stayed well away from Ángel. His presence disconcerted her, the way his gaze followed her around sent shivers through her. Whenever he saw her, he’d scream at her, cursing her for bringing him aboard this ship of accursed pirates, for stealing his belongings. The book was clearly of some importance to him, and the only time he went silent was when she sat within sight of him with the old book in her hands.
Alex spent hours poring over the recent entries, trying to figure out just what the hidden message might be. She had no idea what coasts he was describing, where the islets and sandbanks he so carefully noted were to be found, but the more she read, the more she suspected he had been doing some general scouting in the area. And as to the birds…always gulls, always carefully numbered. Was he counting ships in a harbour? Alex had no idea.
Matthew was of no help in trying to decipher this little mystery, neither was Captain Jan who admitted he did not read Spanish. Alex sighed and read, over and over again. And whenever she banged the book closed after yet another day of futile scrutiny, Ángel Muñoz smirked. It irked her and made her even more determined to find out what it was he might be hiding.
One day, as she turned the book this way and that, she noticed that the back cover was much thicker than the front cover. She ran her fingers over the soft leather, and she was sure there was something there, sown into the cover. It made her grin.
“Lend me your dirk,” she said to Matthew.
By the mast, Ángel sat up in his bindings. “What now?” he demanded.
“I’ve found it,” she told him.
“Found what?” He strained forward as far as his ropes would let him.
“Your secret.” Alex slashed the cover open.
“My secret? I have no idea what you’re talking about. And how dare you desecrate my breviary? It’s God’s words you are slicing in two!”
“As if you care,” Alex snorted. “You don’t exactly strike me as the most pious of men.” She inserted a finger and pulled out some folded papers.
“What is it?” Ángel asked. “That’s my book. I demand to know what it is you’ve found!”
“Oh, and you wouldn’t know?” But even as she said that, Alex realised that the sheets of paper in her hand were very, very old. She took her time unfolding them, aware of just how fragile the paper was, the edges disintegrating when she flattened them out.
“That breviary has been in my family for generations. Whatever you’ve found is mine to read, you hear? Mine!” Ángel struggled and for an instant he succeeded in freeing an arm. Captain Jan clapped him over the head, wrenched Ángel’s arm back, and retied the ropes.
Alex stared down at the writing: a faded sepia, it covered the page in a bold, familiar hand – in English. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Impossible. Yet another deep breath before opening her eyes.
“Alex?” Matthew knelt beside her. “What is the matter, lass?”
“I…” She bit her lip, swallowed and tried again. “My mother,” she whispered. “That’s Mercedes’ handwriting.”
“It can’t be!” Matthew reared back.
“But it is.” Alex gave him a wobbly smile. “She’s the witch, remember?”
“Dearest Lord,” Matthew groaned. “Protect me and mine from evil.” He threw her a look. “Don’t read it. Burn it. Drop it into the sea!”
“I can’t.” Alex’s hand caressed the papers. “I have to.”
“What are you whispering about?” Ángel yelled.
“None of your bloody business!” Alex retorted.
“Of course, it’s my business!
That breviary belonged to my great-grandmother, Juana Sánchez. Cursed be the day she married my ancestor. Cursed may she be for bringing the taint of Jewish blood into my family.” He spat to the side. “Marrano blood, I tell you. The stigma never fades away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry for you,” Alex said sarcastically. “But I’m even sorrier for this Juana Sánchez – I bet marrying into the Muñoz family wasn’t her idea. Why did your ancestor marry her, given her dubious bloodline?”
Ángel just looked at her. “For money, of course. Juana Sánchez was a very rich girl. Very rich. And she brought us the house. Too little, in view of all shameful notoriety she brought with her.”
“Shameful notoriety?” Alex asked.
Àngel pressed his lips together and refused to say another word.
Alex glanced down at the papers in her hand. A sudden gust of wind caressed her head, and vaguely she heard someone whisper ‘Alejandra’. Mercedes had rarely called her Alex, had always preferred to call her by her full given name – in Spanish. Fancies, she thought, and in response she heard her mother’s mocking laughter. Shit. It was more than thirty years since Alex had seen her mother last, years in which she had mostly tried to forget Mercedes – or at least avoid thinking of her. Not that it had worked all that well, and now here she was, sitting on a sloop in the middle of the sea, holding several sheets covered with Mercedes’ writing. She raised the papers to her nose and inhaled, registering the muted scents of rosemary and cardamom, of saffron and sandalwood.
“If you insist on reading it, let’s do it together,” Matthew suggested.
Alex nodded and smoothed out the first sheet.
I burn, it began, I burn and burn, and around me revolve the skies, below me the chasm yawns wide, and I fall like a spinning, burning top. My flesh bursts apart, I contort in agony, and I burn, I burn, I burn… And then it is all black, a seeping darkness that drowns my charred remnants, and I know nothing, nothing at all. Not my name, nor my time, nor that once I have been loved and loved. I am: a presence captured in pitch, like a fly that steps into an enticing glob of resin and there remains forever frozen, trapped in hardening amber. And still I burn, but it no longer matters, for what can I do but bear it?
“Oh God,” Alex muttered, and she wasn’t quite sure if she should continue reading.
Matthew placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Now that you’ve started to read it, you’d best finish it.”
“Yeah,” she replied, regretting not having tossed the sheets away unread. Or not.
I have no concept of how long I lie like this, enclosed in myself, but my dear Juan says it was very many years. And then, one day, I hear the harsh laughter of a magpie outside my window, and I know I am Mercedes. Mercedes? No, first I was Ruth, and then I was Mercedes. For days, I lie pondering my name: Mercedes, the merciful one. But I am not, am I?
Some more days…weeks…months? and I wake one day to the smell of frying fish and am inundated with a sense of loss for him – him, whose name I cannot remember, but whom I can bring forth in my mind. Tall and fair, with eyes like forget-me-nots, and he smiles at me and just like that I recall that he loves me and that his name is Magnus. That is the first word I utter, says Juan. One day, he tells me, one day you sat up and said Magnus Lind. It is appropriate that the first words should be his name. I hope they will be my last ones as well.
At last comes the day when I manage to get out of bed and there, on a small table, lies a bronze looking glass, polished meticulously. I see myself and scream, the door bursts open and there is Juan, but I don’t know who he is, this man so eerily reminiscent of someone, and he leads me back to bed and holds my hand and tells me not to worry. He is Juan Sánchez and he will care for me – he and his young granddaughter, Juana. Why? I ask him, and he smiles and tells me I am his abuela, his grandmother. No wonder I look the way I do, because he is very old, and how old must I not be to be his grandmother?
I insist that he bring me the looking glass and stare in horror at the destruction of what was once me. Charred and desiccated, wrinkled to resemble a giant prune, with hair a startling white. Only in my eyes do I recognise myself, in my eyes and in my right hand. I flex my fingers and know I must paint.
“Paint what?” Juan asks.
“My life,” I reply, and he agrees to bring me paints and oils and canvases.
I don’t truly remember it all. I recall my childhood, our conversion, and the events that befell Dolores and my father. I recall Hector Olivares, and I hiss his name and curse him – everything that happened to my sister and my father is his fault. It was him who accused them, who had the Inquisition drag them away – but Juan opens his eyes wide and says how can I curse him, the poor man lies in agony since decades back, and he has even deeded us this house. This house? It is my father’s house, snug in the Judería, but there are no Jews in Seville anymore, we have been driven out – or have converted to the only True Faith.
Juan tells me how it was that Hector Olivares and I disappeared on the same day, very, very many years ago, and how the Archbishop was convinced this was the work of the perfidious Marranos, but no matter how many were tortured, there was nothing they could say as to our whereabouts. I weep as he tells me this, a silent seeping of tears that moisten the linen of my pillowcase. Poor innocents, tortured to death while Hector and I tumbled through time.
In revenge for what he did to my family, I painted Hector out of his time, but when he fell, he dragged me along, and so we spent decades in a complicated cat-and-mouse game, both of us wanting nothing more than to return home. Home. To Seville, to days of baking heat, to the scent of orange blossoms and the muddy Guadalquivir. Home – an elusive dream. So I painted and fell, and Hector came after, promising me he would heap every imaginable pain on my head for doing this to him. I fled and he came after, he fell and I was dragged along, and sometimes it took years before he found me, sometimes he didn’t find me at all, but every time I painted a funnel through time to try and find my way back, somehow he was there as well, and his clawing fingers would arrest my journey, leaving me stranded in yet another unknown time.
“What an awful existence,” Alex said. Years spent in a desperate attempt to get back home, with that nasty Hector snapping at your heels.
“Aye.” Matthew sounded tense.
She glanced at him. “You think she deserved it.”
“Aye.”
Alex ran a hand over the brittle pages. “She paid, didn’t she?”
I tampered with time and was punished, repeatedly was I punished when the ground fell away to leave me flailing as I plummeted through the ages. Sometimes, I managed to forget who I was, and for several years I lived in Glasgow, devoted mother to Margaret, my beautiful little daughter, common-law wife to a horrible, manipulative man whose name I’d prefer to forget. But I remember it anyway. James. What he did to me, what he made me do… No, no, forget it, move on. Think instead of Margarita, my little pearl. I stayed for her sake, but James stole her away – my baby, he stole her, my Margarita – and then, one day they came, screaming I was a witch, and witches must die. My Margarita, I wanted my daughter, but she wasn’t there, and there were men in the stairwell, so many men, and in the street they screamed death to the witch, so I fled, diving through yet another time portal. And my little Margarita…¡Dios mío, mi Margarita!
“So she didn’t willingly abandon Margaret.” Alex shivered. A sister, born three hundred years before her, and even worse, a sister who had been married to Matthew. Some sort of circuitous fate, she supposed, bringing the sisters together.
“Nay, she didn’t. Poor woman.” Matthew gripped Alex hard. “Poor wee Margaret, to lose her mother and never know why.”
“Hmm,” Alex said, thinking that Margaret had done relatively well for herself, despite this inauspicious start to life. Given some of her future behaviour, it would seem Margaret had inherited a number of traits from her unknown dastardly father. After all, a woman who betrayed her husband with his brother and then
helped fabricate evidence to have her husband condemned as a traitor… She gulped.
“It was long ago, lass.” Matthew brushed his mouth over her hair. “And I’m still here while Margaret no longer is.” No, Margaret was dead since years back, and Alex felt an unwelcome pang of loss. She’d had a sister, but hadn’t known they were sisters until it was too late.
Alex cleared her throat and went back to her reading.
I painted and painted, I fell and I fell, and one day I was in Seville, a Seville vaguely familiar but threateningly different, and that’s where I met Magnus, and for him I was willing to forsake the dream of seeing my son Juan again, for him I was willing to live out what life I might have in this strange, foreign world, so different from mine. And I had another daughter, Alejandra, and one day he took her, the damned Hector had her stolen away, and I searched everywhere for her and when I found her…¡Dios mío! What had the bastard done to her? May you burn in hell, Ángel Muñoz, for the months of abuse you put my Alex through!
Alex had to stop. She gestured in the direction of their captive. “If his great-grandmother is the same Juana as the one mentioned here, then both he and that future Ángel are Mercedes’ descendants.” Blood relatives. It made her feel sick to the stomach.
“Aye,” Matthew said, eyeing Ángel as if he was considering throwing him overboard.
“Bloody impossible,” Alex muttered.
I paint, and Juan is worried lest someone should see these little pictures. I paint Margaret and Juanito, I paint Alejandra and her son, the Isaac I have never seen and yet know exactly how he will look – like my Juanito.
I paint time, but there is no magic left in me, and the canvases no longer swirl. They lie dead and flat on the table, and that is as it should be, I suppose. One day, I notice that the time funnels work in some ways. I see Alejandra, and she is no longer in her own time, and I wonder what might have happened to her. Happened to her? In her blood flows my blood, and so it may be that she is more susceptible to the tug of time than others – it is in the Holy Book, how the sins of the fathers will revolve on the sons.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 18