“They’re beautiful,” Aria agrees, “in a terrible sort of way. But why is the storm only in one place? See, all around it on every side, the water is calm and bright. Is that how tempests usually are?”
“No.”
“Papa,” Teo says, “are those ships? See, there: in the very darkest part of the clouds, a little to the edge on the left.”
Claudio squints still harder. His eyes aren’t what they used to be. “Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, you’re right.”
The children have never seen a ship before either, at least not that they can remember. They’ve read about them, though, and they understand that wherever there are ships there will also be people. Other people—something else they’ve never seen before. Or at least not that they can remember.
“Isn’t it dangerous, being on a ship in a storm like that?”
“Very dangerous.”
“But wait!” Teo cries. “See—they’re sailing out of it now. The people will be all right!”
And Teo is mostly correct. At the far side of the cloud cluster a favorable wind is driving the little fleet away from the storm and out into the calm seas. But one ship remains in the tempest’s powerful grip, tossing wildly in the heavy swells. It looks as if, any moment now, it will pitch over and sink.
And yet it doesn’t; it continues to move forward. Caught by an altogether different wind than the one that propels its fellows, it is heading directly south toward the island’s rocky shore.
“May the gods protect them,” Claudio whispers. “Hurry, we must go down there. Maybe we can be of some help.”
They are up and running in an instant, down the winding path that hugs the cliff and leads to the beach far below. In places along the way, their view is obscured by bushes and trees. Here they run even faster, anxious to reach the next open spot to see how the orphaned ship is faring. It’s flying in now at tremendous speed, just skimming the tops of the waves as seabirds do, still pursued by those ominous clouds.
“Is that normal?” Aria asks.
“Not in the least,” Claudio says. “Go!”
They continue down the slope, one sharp turn followed by another. After a long wooded section where they can see nothing at all, they come again to an open place. Here they stop and stare, openmouthed, as the ship comes racing toward them: past the ring of jagged rocks, into the harbor and onto the beach, the bow carving a deep cleft in the sand. And there it comes to a shuddering stop.
Teo and Aria are off again, sprinting down the path, breathless with excitement. But Claudio doesn’t move. He’s staring, dumbfounded, at the pennant the ship flies. He blinks, then blinks again.
“Wait! Stop!” he calls in an urgent whisper, just loud enough for them to hear. “Turn around. Come back. Hurry!”
“But, Papa—” Teo pleads.
“Now!”
“But why?”
Neither he nor Aria moves an inch.
“There’s a man on that ship who is a danger to us. I want you to come back right now!”
Reluctantly, they return.
“What man?” Aria asks. “And how can you know he’s dangerous? You’ve never even seen—”
“Yes I have, daughter. I have seen that man. I know all about him. And for now I want you to trust me and go back up the trail as quickly and quietly as you can. Stoop low as you pass the open spaces. They must not know we are here.”
24
AS THEY RUN, THE island follows closely in their wake, erasing every trace of their existence. Eager vines creep out to cover the path; grasses sprout from hard-packed earth; stones rise up, aged and speckled with lichen, as if they’d been there a thousand years. When they reach the top, they find their garden choked with weeds and woody brush, shoulder high in places. And by the time they have gathered up their few belongings and carried them away to the temple of Athene, the entrance to their cave home has been buried under a mass of thorny vines.
The island is hiding them from the enemy, Claudio says. Or maybe Athene is doing it. Or perhaps, in some unfathomable way, they are one and the same.
Only the temple remains. It’s a humble place with no columns, no portico, and no altar, just a shallow cave at the base of a cliff enclosed by a stone facade. Inside, the walls, floor, and ceiling are the natural black rock of the cliff itself, arching overhead, smooth to the touch. And standing against the far wall, as pale as the little room is dark, is an image of Athene about the height of a full-grown man, which Claudio carved himself.
A small votive lamp at the feet of the goddess fills the temple with soft, flickering light. It has done so without ceasing for seventeen years, a miracle of sorts, due entirely to the sweet-smelling, long-burning oil made from the cluster-nut, which grows nowhere else in the world but here.
This small, shadowy room, formerly so bare and austere, looks almost cheerful now. The family has piled their belongings against the front wall and spread out their pallets on the floor. Claudio has lit a second, brighter lamp.
“Now,” Teo says when they are all seated. “Tell us.”
“I will,” Claudio replies. “But understand: this is not easy for me. Just as the island is protecting us by covering our traces with brambles and weeds, so I have tried to protect you with my silence all these years. I see I must break that silence now, because unless you know my history, you cannot fully appreciate the danger we face. And since telling that story forces me to tell another, I’ll have to give you both—but out of order, for I believe that is the kindest way to do it.”
Claudio reaches over and takes Teo’s hand. Teo looks up at him, puzzled, wondering why he’s been singled out for this solemn attention.
“One night, eight years ago, I woke from a dream in which I heard a child calling for help. That dream was sent by Athene; and having gotten my attention, she then guided me down the path to the beach, the same one we walked today.”
“Oh,” Aria says. She knows which story this will be.
“Aria woke and followed me. So we were both there to see a little skiff come floating out of the fog and into the harbor. We saw the waters grow still and the sand rise up so the child in the boat could step safely out onto dry land. It was a little boy, about four years old. And at first he was so frightened that he wouldn’t speak. He only managed a single word. I asked him his name, and he said, ‘Teo.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were that little boy, son. This is the story of how you came to be here.”
“But I thought—”
“I know. Listen now; there’s more.
“We never knew how you came to be alone in that little boat, adrift on the dangerous sea. But whatever happened, I felt sure it would be painful for you to remember. Also the life you left behind: your home, your parents and friends, and everything familiar, now lost. And since you were so very young, we—Aria and I—hoped that with time you would forget it entirely and come to believe you’d always been here with us. You might say we conspired to make that happen. I don’t think we ever actually lied. We just left things unsaid. I know it must be disturbing for you to hear it now.”
Teo is blinking back tears. “You’re not my father, then?” he says. “Aria’s not my sister?” Claudio grips Teo’s hand a little tighter.
“Not blood-born, but in every way that matters. I love you as my son; Aria loves you as her brother.” Aria scoots over and wraps an arm around Teo’s waist and leans her head on his shoulder.
“Teo, I must also tell you that your miraculous salvation was neither good fortune nor an act of nature. The goddess brought you here so you would be safe—and so you could be with us. There was purpose in it.”
Teo nods.
Claudio takes his daughter’s hand. They are linked now, all three.
“This next story happened earlier, seventeen years ago. As you will see, Teo is absent from it. That’s why I had to explain first how he came to us.”
He pauses, gathering his thoughts.
“The m
an I saw on the deck of that ship, the man who frightened me, is my nephew, Pyratos, king of Ferra. He’s my late brother’s only son.”
“Your brother was a king?” Aria’s eyes are bright with astonishment.
“Yes. And when he died, his son was just fourteen, too young to rule on his own. So my brother asked me—as a favor, on his deathbed—to safeguard the kingdom and guide young Pyratos until he came of age. Of course I was glad to do it.”
“You ruled a kingdom?”
“Yes, Aria, and I did my best. I gave the boy the respect he was due. He was king after all, however young he might be. I was careful to include him in all the decisions I made, teaching him as we went along. But we were ill matched. He thought I was overly cautious, ploddingly slow, worse than the world’s dullest schoolmaster. And I thought him headstrong, reckless, and impulsive. I was the wrong man for the task, I’m afraid; that’s the heart of it. Pyratos needed a heavy hand, not reason and kindness.”
“I’ll bet he wouldn’t have liked a heavy hand either,” Teo says.
“No, but he wouldn’t have been so bold if he’d been afraid of me.”
Claudio sighs and gazes up at the ceiling, the slick stone shimmering with the light of both lamps. He seems reluctant to go on. But he does.
“By the time Pyratos was seventeen, he was well versed in general statecraft and all things military, thanks to my careful training. But he’d also formed some very definite notions of his own on the direction that Ferra should take. I felt his ideas were dangerous, radical even. If he followed that path he was sure to further stir the anger of the gods. I tried many times to warn him.
“One day when we were alone in the council chamber, we argued about it. He lost his temper and struck me hard with the back of his hand. I fell off my stool and onto the floor. Then he stood over me and shouted curses.
“After that, of course, there was no going back—for me or for him. I sent Pyratos a respectful message offering to resign my position so he could choose someone more to his liking to advise him. He wrote back accepting my resignation, then put me under house arrest, seized all my lands and worldly goods, and refused to take any more advice from anyone.
“Guards were posted outside my door. Except for the servants who did the marketing, no one was permitted to leave or enter the house. Lydia, my wife, was ill at the time, yet neither a physician nor an apothecary was allowed inside the walls. I’m sorry, Aria; that’s how it was your mother died.”
Aria looks down at her hands, her cheeks flushed. All of this has been upsetting, but it seems especially cruel that, not only had her mother died so young, but Aria had never known her at all, had never even wondered who her mother was. Everything she knew about mothers came from books. She looks up at her father, blinking back tears.
“I’m not finished yet; I’m sorry. Do you think you can bear it?”
“I must. I need to know.”
“All right. So Pyratos, having already taken my beloved wife, my freedom, and my fortune, he now determined to have my life as well.
“Late one night he came to my house with a troop of armed men. He sent a servant upstairs to wake me. When I came down, he was surprisingly polite. He said he wished to discuss some urgent business in private. So we withdrew into my study and shut the door. I thought he’d had a change of heart, and I was glad. But his courtesy was only for show.
“‘Uncle,’ he said, when there was no one around to hear, ‘you have become an impediment to me, so I am sending you away. Out of respect for the memory of my late father, I’ll spare your reputation. I’ll come up with some sort of story to explain your disappearance. No one needs to know that you’ve been banished. Now you’d better get packing. You sail at first light.’
“And that was it. I never saw him again until today.”
“Yet you knew him by sight?”
“He hasn’t changed that much. He looks, I’m sorry to say, very like my brother.
“So. I collected a few things in haste and at dawn the following morning, Aria and I—you were hardly six months old at the time—went on board the ship. It was a fat, broad merchantman with a single mast, old and good for nothing but scrap. And no one would tell me where we were bound. I should have been suspicious; I’m embarrassed now to think how trusting I still was.
“We sailed into the deep waters off the southern coast. When we were two days out, a smaller vessel joined us, at which point our entire crew deserted the merchantman, leaving us alone on board. Understand, one man cannot possibly manage such a ship alone; it would take a crew of eight at least. But that was the point, you see; we were meant to die, to drift helplessly with the currents till we were capsized in a storm or perished from hunger and thirst. And—I’m only guessing here—I expect Pyratos claimed the ship was lost at sea: an unfortunate accident, nobody’s fault, such a tragedy!”
“But we didn’t die,” Aria says.
“No. And you will notice a striking similarity between Teo’s story and the one I am about to tell you: for we were saved, just as he was, by the goddess Athene.
“While Aria slept in the cabin below, I went back up on deck. A storm was brewing, black clouds building on the horizon, and already the wind was up and gusting hard.”
“Like the storm we saw today?”
“Very much the same. The ship tossed wildly. Waves crashed over the railing. I was terrified, as you can imagine. But I turned to Athene, who had always favored me and guided me with her great wisdom. I knelt on that rolling deck and raised my arms to the skies and sang out every song of praise I knew.
“As I did so, I saw a great, dense bank of fog rising up out of the sea. But it wasn’t formless, as fog usually is. It had a distinct shape. And the longer I stared, the more the fogbank took the appearance of land. I saw the green of trees, the edge of a single mountain—unquestionably, an island.
“And then the ship turned very neatly, quite of its own accord, and headed directly for the only safe harbor. We ran right up onto the beach, as Pyratos’ ship did today. I carried Aria down a rope ladder to safety. Then I went back to unload the things I’d assembled for the voyage. When I had finished and had found a place of shelter—our cunning little cave house, ready and waiting—I stood where we were today, looking down at the beach. A colossal wave came rolling in and devoured the ship entire.
“Now let me tell you this, my dearest children. Since you have never known—or in Teo’s case, can’t remember—any other home but this, you can’t truly appreciate what a blessed place it is. In the world beyond, I assure you, trees don’t lean down and offer their fruit to you; nor do springs rise up when you are thirsty; the grass is not so lush and green; the wind doesn’t sing pleasant harmonies. Our little place of refuge is perfect because the goddess made it so; and she made it especially for us.”
He pauses and looks first at one and then the other, with such intensity that he seems to expect them to respond in some particular way. It’s as though there’s a piece missing out of his story, an error or contradiction, and he’s waiting for them to find it.
They do not disappoint him.
“So Pyratos thinks you’re dead,” Aria begins, eyes half closed, brows furrowed in deep concentration. “And he probably lied about what happened—well, he would, wouldn’t he? So if he finds out that you’re still alive and right here on the island, he’ll be afraid you’ll tell about the terrible thing he did. Are kings allowed to do murder?”
“No. Ferra has laws.”
“Then since he tried to kill you once, he might try again, if only to keep his secret safe.”
“That’s correct.”
“And the goddess is hiding us so that won’t happen.”
“Wait,” Teo says. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Claudio nods. Teo has found the flaw.
“We saw that ship come in. It was exactly the same as what you just described, except that it hasn’t been washed away. And it’s like my little boat, too. All three were broug
ht here safely, with no lives lost, and in a way that is contrary to nature.”
“And?”
“The goddess brought you and Aria here because she is merciful, because you were innocent and someone had put you in danger; she even created this island for you.”
“And then,” Aria picks up the thread, “when Teo was in danger, she brought him here too, so we could all be safe and happy together. So why would she do the same for Pyratos? He isn’t innocent. He doesn’t deserve her mercy. And in bringing him here, she is working against her original kind intentions, putting us in danger all over again.”
“That is indeed the question. You have stated it perfectly.”
“But what’s the answer?”
“Only the goddess knows. We must trust she has her reasons.”
25
THERE ARE TWO CAMPS, one large and one small.
The main encampment is on the high ground just above the beach. Pyratos has ordered a stand of saplings cut down to make room for his men and all their equipment: tents, trunks, casks, boxes, a table and benches, cooking equipment, and several amphorae of wine. What was once a charming little meadow, surrounded by trees and dotted with tiny bell-shaped flowers, is now a flattened plain of matted grass, littered with a jumble of gear.
Some distance away from the main camp is a natural clearing in a grove of ancient broad-leafed trees. Here Pyratos has placed his prison camp. It’s a simple, uncluttered affair: just six guards with minimal equipment, a man chained to the trunk of a tree, and the man’s three attendants, who stay near him.
The tree to which the prisoner is tethered stands at the edge of the clearing, a great old oak, probably six feet in diameter. Its girth offers a bit of privacy, since he and his men have settled themselves on the side that looks away from the camp and into the forest. But unfortunately, it also robs the prisoner of freedom to roam, because the chain to which the manacles are attached is only so long, and most of that length is taken up in encircling the tree.
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