“I deserved that too.”
“Please, Alexos, listen to me! If I had been stronger, if I had been wearing heavy boots instead of sandals, and if I had not been stopped, I might have killed you. For a while after I left, because of a misunderstanding, I actually thought I had. And I didn’t know how I could go on living with that on my conscience. Later I found out I was mistaken; it was Pyratos who’d died, not you. But there’s no going back to how I was before, knowing that I am capable of willfully doing murder—”
“Not willfully, Teo; you were wild with grief and rage.”
“But capable of it all the same. So I’m asking you to forgive me. I need you to say it so I can be at peace.”
Alexos slides off the stool; it tumbles over and upsets the basin of water. He is on the ground now, his legs awkwardly bent to the side, and he pulls Teo into his arms, so hard it almost hurts. Teo leans into the embrace, feels his brother’s hand stroking his hair, touching his face.
“I forgive you, wholeheartedly and completely, though you are innocent of any harm. I am the one, Teo. I am the one.”
Alexos releases him then, and with one hand on Teo’s shoulder, he touches his brother’s chest, just over his heart. “I hurt you here,” he says. Then he touches Teo’s forehead, where his mind and spirit are. “And I hurt you here.”
Teo nods, understanding.
“For eight years I believed I had killed you. I walked through my days being the person who sent an innocent child to his death, my sweet little brother who loved and trusted me. So I cannot simply say to you, ‘I’m sorry,’ because it isn’t nearly enough. Nothing could ever be enough.”
“I forgive you anyway. See? Now it’s over.”
There is a long, long silence.
“You are astonishing,” Alexos finally says. “You are the finest creature the gods ever made.”
“You accept my forgiveness?”
It seems impossible to Alexos that this is happening. But he doesn’t question it. He takes it as a blessing, a rare gift, and he thanks Athene for it. “I will accept anything you choose to give me,” he says.
“Alexos?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t it hurt, sitting all twisted up like that?”
Alexos laughs out loud. “Of course it does.”
“Can you get back up on the stool by yourself? Or do you need help?”
“I can do it. But if you would hold the stool while I settle myself, that would be a kindness. There. Thank you.”
“Shall I get some more water? This is all spilled.”
“No. I’d about finished anyway. I’ll put the bandages on now.”
“Can I help?”
“If you want.”
Alexos shows him how. There are bandages for the wounds and thicker wrappings to protect his skin from the pressure of the brace. Alexos is meticulous in the way he puts them on. Teo helps by cutting strips of cloth with a knife and holding the bandages taut while his brother tucks in the loose ends.
“Does Aria know you’re here?” Alexos asks as they work, not meeting Teo’s eyes.
“Yes. She knows everything.”
A head appears between the tent flaps, one of the soldiers come to ask a question. “Go away!” Alexos snaps, and the head disappears.
“Does she approve—of your coming here, I mean?”
“No. She’s angry about it.”
“Of course she is. She loves you and wants to protect you. How could she not hate the person who did you harm?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the rest?”
Teo looks up at his brother, studying his face. “She thought very highly of you. She was quite overcome with admiration, in fact. More than that, even—well, you know how girls are.”
“I don’t, actually.”
“Really? I’d think, being king, you’d know a lot of girls. And oughtn’t you to be married by now? That’s how it is in stories: the ruler must get a wife and produce an heir.”
“No and no. Please continue, Teo.”
“Well, because she was so very fond before, finding out that you were the one . . . well, that made it worse.”
“The handsome prince is revealed to be a warty toad.”
“Sort of like that.”
“Well, I’m honored that she liked me once and I admire her for hating me now. It shows how loyal and loving she is. I’m glad you have her for a sister.”
Teo brings the brace and helps to put it on. Alexos explains the drill—the thigh and ankle straps must be fastened first, then the ones at the knee, followed by the others; not too loose, not too tight. The wrappings have to be checked to make sure they lie smooth, with no wrinkles to press into the skin.
“Alexos?” Teo says when they have finished. He’s been waiting to ask this, waiting till he has his brother’s full attention.
“Yes, Teo?”
“Everyone seems to think we’ll leave the island soon, that a rescue ship will come.”
“Yes, I expect that is so.”
“Then what happens? Papa is king of Ferra, and you are king of Arcos, and they are at war with each other.”
“Ah,” Alexos says. “I understand. Well, I think things may be different now.”
“Do you really? That’s what Papa said—that this is the great moment everyone’s been waiting for, and soon everything will change.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Teo hesitates. “He said you were chosen to be the champion of Athene.”
“That is true.”
“But Aria was chosen, too. And then I was. There are three of us.”
Alexos stares at his brother, astonished. “Oh,” he says, thinking hard. “That changes everything. It makes sense to me now: this is all about forgiveness. We cannot ask from Zeus what we are unwilling to give to each other. Shall I tell you what I think Athene has done?”
“Yes!”
“She chose you and Aria because, even on the day of your birth, she could see the goodness of your souls. Then she put you both in great peril. But it had to be a particular kind of danger—I mean, you can’t forgive an avalanche, an earthquake, or a flood. It had to be a person, someone very close to you, who did the harm.
“But the goddess never meant for you to die; she wanted you to grow up and, in the fullness of time, forgive those who committed unpardonable crimes against you. So she brought you here, gave you a wise and virtuous father to guide you, and made you a family: one child from Arcos, one child from Ferra. Even that is a kind of symbolic forgiveness—don’t you see?”
Teo nods eagerly. He does.
“Then, when the moment had arrived, she brought the transgressors here—again, one from Arcos and one from Ferra—so we could be forgiven. Things didn’t go exactly as planned: Claudio forgave Pyratos, not Aria. But since Claudio suffered far more at the hands of Pyratos than Aria did, I expect Zeus will forgive the substitution. As for you, Teo—you played your part with such courage and generosity, it would surely melt the hardest of hearts.
“Now it is done. Athene can say to her father, Zeus: Behold King Claudio of Ferra! Behold Prince Matteo of Arcos! See how dreadfully they were wronged; yet see how merciful they are! Will you not do likewise and forgive the people for their ancient crime?”
“That is very good,” Teo says. “I think it’s mostly right.”
“Mostly?”
Teo gets up and paces, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. “But there’s a flaw.”
“Show me where it is.”
“You are the flaw, Alexos. You are a champion, too, the first to be chosen. What was your part?”
“Oh, Teo! How can you ask? I was the transgressor! I sent you—”
“No, wait. It’s not that simple. Yes, you did what you did; but you and Pyratos are not the same.”
“We are the same in every way that matters.”
“No, Alexos, that’s not true. Let me tell you why. Pyratos wasn’t chosen by Athene,
was he?”
“No. He was, by all reports, very soundly rejected.”
“As I thought. So that’s the first thing. Here’s another. Pyratos was given everything—beauty, intelligence, wealth, rank. He had Claudio by his side as he grew into manhood. Yet he still became a wicked man. Athene must have seen that in Pyratos, the darkness of his spirit.
“But you were altogether different. She chose you to be her champion. Then she tested you over and over, threw one obstacle after another in your way.”
“You heard that from Suliman.”
“And I also observed it. I’m not a little child anymore, Alexos. I can think for myself.”
“I apologize. Please go on.”
“All right. So Pyratos had an easy life and should have been a better man. Whereas you had a life of suffering and loss, yet still became a good one. Stop, Alexos! I know what you’re going to say. You are a good man—not perfect, but remarkably good. Now let me finish.
“Like Aria and me, Athene chose you as her champion, so you were also given a wise father to—”
“What, Ektor?”
“No! Suliman.”
Alexos laughs and shakes his head. “Of course.”
“Now, Pyratos and Claudio were so fixed in their character that Athene could depend on them to play their parts to perfection. But you, Alexos: I don’t know what she wanted from you. You are not just a transgressor. For that, the goddess could have found another Pyratos.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. It’s something different, something more complicated. But I’m pretty sure this isn’t over yet. I think there’s more to come.”
“Yes,” Alexos says, “you’re probably right.”
Also, Teo is thinking, but does not say, Aria hasn’t forgiven anyone yet.
33
ARIA KNEELS ON THE smooth stone floor, hugging herself against the chill of her sadness. Never has she felt so alone.
Teo has gone off with Suliman, down to the soldiers’ camp to make amends with Alexos. The very thought had repulsed her, and she’d spoken against it (as much as Papa would allow). But it hadn’t changed Teo’s mind. He’d just given her that hurtful look, full of disappointment and regret. When he left, it had felt like they were parting forever.
Then as soon as Teo and Suliman had gone, Papa had fixed her with one of his fatherly stares and, in that new, firm voice he’d recently adopted, announced that they needed to have a little talk.
It hadn’t gone well. They were both exhausted and overwrought by the events of the past two days. Emotions had become heated and before very long they had arrived at something close to anger.
He had used words like disappointed. He’d said she was rigid in her moral judgment. He may even have said pitiless and hard-hearted, though she couldn’t swear to it now; she was too stung by his disapproval to pay proper attention.
But far worse than the words and his stern disapproval was how completely he had misunderstood her. Aria can’t forgive Alexos or be sorry that Pyratos is dead—not because she’s heartless, but because she feels too deeply! What those men did to her father and brother isn’t just some abstract notion; it’s hauntingly real to her. Worse, they did it for the basest of reasons: Pyratos didn’t want to be meddled with; Alexos wished to be king. How could she brush that away with quick forgiveness? Isn’t justice as important as mercy?
The argument had finally come to an end, burned out like a dying fire. Her father had said, “Well!” and heaved a sigh. Then he’d pulled out a bowl and started washing his face and hands. He’d run his fingers through his hair and beard, dusted off his robes.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Down to the camp. There’s some heavy business I must attend to there.”
“What heavy business?” It seemed to Aria that everything was already resolved.
“Those soldiers are my men now. And they must atone for what they’ve done: not only murder, but oath breaking too, for they were sworn to protect and defend their king. But it’s more complicated than that, as of course you know. Pyratos was an evil man. And had he been properly tried for his crimes, there would have been more than enough to convict him. So somehow I must find a way to balance it all out: get them to admit their wrong, while at the same time healing their spirits and restoring order.”
“Is that what kings do?”
“Among other things. Now listen to me, Aria: I don’t want you to sit here and mope while I’m gone. I know you’re sad, and hurt, and confused, but you have urgent business of your own. Athene has called you, and things out there are changing by the hour. The time is now, and you must do your part. That is why I spoke to you so strongly about forgiveness. If we ask it from the gods, we must first model it ourselves.”
He was right. She was sad, hurt, and confused; she was also tired of being scolded. “Just tell me what to do,” she’d said, her voice flat and cold.
Claudio was standing in the doorway then, looking down at her. He’d drooped a little when she said it, and gave one of his expressive sighs. “You already know,” he said.
So here she is, on her knees before the goddess, praying for enlightenment: O great Athene, she whispers in the silence of her mind, bless me with understanding. Teach me your will. Give me the courage and wisdom to do as you command. She has continued in this way for a long time, but there has been no response of any kind.
And the more she gazes at the stone figure, pale and smooth against the slick, black wall, the less it seems like a goddess. The face is flat and expressionless. Only the eyes have any life at all, because Claudio made them so large, giving her a look of perpetual sorrow. But that’s just an illusion. The statue has no feelings. It isn’t Athene. It’s an ordinary sculpture—not even a very good one.
Aria has been talking to a stone.
Stiff from kneeling so long, she rises, puts on her sandals, and steps out of the dimly lit temple into the bright afternoon. Dazzled by the light, she waits for her eyes to adjust. But even when they have, she continues to stand there, squinting and blinking. There must be something wrong with her vision. The sacred grove and the landscape beyond seem to have faded to drab. It’s like the world is dying, all the life and color bleeding out of it.
But no, her eyes are fine. Her hands, her tunic, are exactly as they were—it’s everything else that has changed. The trees are almost entirely bare, their branches bleached bone-white. The fallen leaves lie in heaps on the ground, dark and wet, rotting.
Was her father trying to warn her when he said things were “changing by the hour”? If so, she’d misunderstood, assuming he was referring to events, not changes to the island itself. She should have listened more carefully, or maybe she should have asked, or maybe he should have explained himself better. Then she might have been prepared.
But wait—could this be just another example of Athene’s protection, like the overgrown path and their weed-choked garden? Aria likes this theory, though she knows it isn’t logically sound: her family doesn’t need protecting anymore. Pyratos is dead, Claudio is king, and their presence on the island is hardly a secret. And another thing: these dying trees feel altogether different from the changes to the garden and the path. It isn’t just wild and weedy; the sacred grove feels polluted, sickly. It frightens her just to be there, as if the ruin were contagious and to stay too long would mean her own destruction.
Suddenly she is desperate to get away. Already something inside her is curdling. So she runs.
She will go to the waterfall. It’s where she and Teo always went to bathe, but also to lie in the grass and talk. It’s a healing place, full of warm and happy memories. She will go there now. She’ll stand on the smooth stone platform under the cascade of fresh, cold water and let it wash away the dust and her misery both. She hadn’t realized how troubled she was till she thought of the waterfall. Now it’s like something to drink when you’re thirsty, food when you’re starving: exactly what she needs. And the anticipation of
this small, sweet comfort grows so vivid in her mind that Aria grows almost sick with yearning.
She runs and runs—away from the dying trees, toward hope and beauty and healing—but things don’t get better; they get worse. In the orchard, rotting fruit and nuts lie scattered on the ground, half-covered with a blanket of shriveled leaves.
In her agitation, Aria is not careful where she steps. She slips in the muck and falls hard, landing on a mound of decomposing scarlet perrums. They are gooey and black, turning to mush; they smear her arms and legs with the sticky mess. The smell of decay is in her nostrils, musty and overripe, and her stomach heaves. Tears sting her eyes.
She forces herself to rise and keep on going, but she’s losing hope with every step. Everything everywhere is in decline: fading, moldering, cracking, shriveling, rotting. And though she’s almost there, certainly close enough to hear the roar of a rushing stream, the only break in the silence is the crackle of dry leaves under her feet. The waterfall has run dry.
But this knowledge does not prepare her for what she sees when she gets there, for however dark her expectations, the reality always seems to be worse. The waterfall has not merely dried up; the cliff itself is crumbling away. A dusty pile of rocks spreads out from the base, half filling the pool. And what water remains is dark and cloudy. Noxious scum floats on the surface. The air is thick with a putrid smell, worse even than the rotting fruit.
Aria drops onto the dry and matted grass, utterly defeated. There’s no point in resisting the obvious: her beautiful home is dying. It will be like this wherever she goes. There is nothing left to eat anymore, no fresh water to drink. Athene, who made this island in all its perfection, doesn’t need it anymore. Now she is shrugging it off like an old, worn cloak.
It shocks Aria down to the marrow of her bones.
She wanders randomly from one ruined place to another. She knows there’s nothing new to learn; she fully understands what’s happening. But she feels the need to mourn. That’s what you do when something or somebody dies: you take a last look, you remember the good things, you give yourself permission to be sad.
At some point she becomes aware that her feet are carrying her down the mountain slope toward the great stand of pines that grows at the edge of the sea. Aria has always loved that particular forest. The air is so fresh and briny there, the trees so tall and straight, their trunks like the pillars of an enormous temple. It always felt to her like a holy place.
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