Stella Maris (The Legendary Rosaries)

by Marita A. Hansen

  “I’m not your girl,” I snapped, “because if I were, I’d be your sister, you inbred freak.”

  The class burst out laughing, even the teacher chuckling. Mr. Glenmore didn’t mind us socialising in class, as long as we finished our work on time.

  Sniggering, Christopher placed his elbows on my desk. “Since you’re not into my cousin, how about you go out with me after school?”

  I refocused on my work. “Not interested,” I said, wondering what had come over me before.

  “I think you are interested,” he replied, “you’re just too proud to admit it.”

  I threw a scowl at him. “God, you really are arrogant.”

  “True, but I still know when a girl likes me, and like the song says, you can’t keep your pretty hazel eyes off me.”

  “The song doesn’t say pretty hazel eyes.”

  “I rewrote it just for you, will put out an EP next month. It’ll sell millions and I’ll become world famous all because of your pretty hazel eyes.”

  “You do know you’re not funny?”

  “I wasn’t joking, I’ve got a great voice. A cross between Jon Bon Jovi and Pavarotti.”

  “How the hell can you get a cross between those two?”

  “Then David Bowie.”

  “He sounds nothing like them.”

  He smirked.

  I scowled at him. “You’re just playing with me, aren’t you?”

  “Sì.”

  “See what?"

  “I said yes in Italian. So, what do you say? Will you go out with me?”

  “No, which is no in Engleeesh.”

  He smirked, for some reason finding my rudeness funny. “Why not?”

  “I don’t like your personality. You’re a dickhead.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I don’t see what my dick having a head has got to do with my personality?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, explain it to me, after all, English isn’t my first language.”

  “You speak it fluently.”

  “It’s still not my first language. My parents only spoke Italiano to me when I was younger. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I started learning English. So, cara, don’t call me a liar, I don’t appreciate it.”

  I frowned. “I didn’t call you a liar.”

  “You may not have said it outright, but it was inferred.”

  “Maybe that’s because you are one. You speak English better than your cousin.”

  “That’s only because he’s dumb.”

  “I am not!” Stephen yelled, obviously eavesdropping. Though, it wasn’t like Christopher was whispering, the whole class was probably listening in. For the first time, I wished that Mr. Glenmore was like other teachers, telling Christopher off for talking and not working.

  Christopher smirked at me. “My cousin’s always in denial, while you’re right.”

  “About what?”

  “I do know what dickhead means.” He smiled wider. “Because I am a liar. I’ve known English all my life.” Laughing, he pushed away from my table and sauntered back to his seat by Stephen. His cousin started talking to him angrily, his tone threatening.

  Christopher leaned his head down, whispering something into Stephen’s ear. Without another word, Stephen returned his attention to his painting as though nothing had happened, his reaction strange.

  Christopher glanced back at me, forcing me to drop my gaze. Hoping he didn’t think I was staring at him again, I refocused on my artwork, willing myself to concentrate on it—not Christopher Laboure.

  For the next ten minutes, I worked in peace, getting a lot done. But the peace didn’t last. A chair scraped across the wooden floor, footsteps once again approaching me. Knowing it was Christopher, I continued to draw, willing myself to stay calm. His hand reached past me, stealing one of my pencils off the table.

  I grabbed his hand, snapping, “Drop it!”

  He smirked. “Looks like you’re not stone-cold after all.”

  I whipped my hand away. “Just give back my pencil.”

  “You’re not very good at sharing.”

  “I don’t have to share when they’re my pencils, paid for with my own money, so give it back.”

  He held out the pencil. “Take it, then.”

  I reached out, grunting as he whipped it back.

  He held it out again. “Go on, take it,” he said, giving me an even bigger smirk.

  I went to, but he did the same thing, making me yell out.

  “Catherine!” Mr. Glenmore snapped from the front of the class. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Chris won’t give my pencil back.”

  Christopher held it out again. “I’m trying to, but she won’t take it,” he said, looking like he was forcing back a smile. “And I’m more than willing to give it to you,” he whispered the last part, his tone suggesting he wanted to give me something entirely different.

  Scowling, I reached for the pencil again, expecting him to whip it away like before, but he didn’t. I snatched it out of his hand and turned my back on him, wondering how I was going to get through the rest of the year with him in my classes. Maybe if I swapped seats, sitting in front of the teacher for future lessons he would stop bugging me. But that would mean I would have to sit near Kylie. Actually, maybe I could convince Kylie to sit next to Christopher, telling her he liked her. The image of Kylie flipping her hair for Christopher popped into my mind, annoying me for some reason.

  Christopher returned to his desk, allowing me to focus on my artwork finally. I put pencil to canvas, almost done. A few guys sniggered. Knowing it was probably about me, I kept my gaze on the canvas, just wanting to finish off the final touches to my drawing.

  Surprisingly, the remainder of the class went by without any more issues. Even when I had to walk past Christopher to get to the paint, which was stored in a cabinet a few feet away from him, he didn’t bother me. Though he had watched me, his gaze making me feel self-conscious.

  At the sound of the bell, I went to get up, freezing as Christopher moved behind me. He reached over my shoulder and dropped a piece of paper on my table. I looked down at it, my eyes widening at the image staring back at me. It was an intricate drawing of me, the portrait almost photographic, just with a hint of stylisation. It looked like Christopher had depicted an ideal version of me, with all of my flaws taken out.

  Totally taken aback, I looked over my shoulder, seeing Christopher disappear out the door. I returned my focus to the picture, his skill impressing me more than I cared to admit.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday the 28th of May, 1989

  I climbed off my bike and leaned it against its stand, leaving it by Sister Cecile’s front door. The nun who’d given me the rosary lived in a small cottage next to my old primary school, a magnificent Spanish-styled terracotta-coloured building, which overlooked the sparkling waters of Kiwoh Beach.

  I went to press the doorbell, but withdrew my hand. I really didn’t want to be here. Although my twin had loved Sister Cecile, I hadn’t liked her... No, correction, I’d hated her. The nun had made it her life’s mission to make primary school a living hell for me. I may not have been an angel, but I still didn’t deserve to be treated like a devil. I’d just been a small, restless kid, with too much energy to be kept holed up in a roomful of rules. Maybe that was why I was here: for her to make amends for how she’d treated me.

  I sighed and pressed the doorbell, just wanting to get this visit over and done with, as well as to return the rosary, because there was no way I could accept something so precious from a woman I didn’t even like. Sounds came from behind the door, causing me to tense up. The old feeling of being sent to her office returned. Even after all these years, she still struck fear in me.

  The door opened. A nun in a dark blue habit looked up at me with a distasteful expression, as though I’d dirtied her view of the lovely landscape behind me. It was a look I was used to getting from older people, my penchant for black eyelin
er and ‘punk’ clothes often receiving disapproval. Though, I wasn’t a punk, heavy metal and rock my thing.

  “Yes?” the old woman said, her habit fluttering in the breeze.

  “Is Sister Cecile home?” I asked, hoping she said no.

  “I’m Cecile.”

  My eyebrows winged up, skyrocketing to the heavens. “Like, no way!” I blurted out. “You can’t be, you’re—” I stopped myself just in time before saying ancient, my brain for once shutting my big mouth down.

  She scowled at me, probably thinking I was going to say old. Well, at least that was better than ancient.

  “I can assure you, that I haven’t forgotten my name,” she said, in that formal way of hers that reminded me of how people spoke in period dramas, like the posh tosh from Upstairs, Downstairs.

  “I’m, ah...” I moved my hands behind my back, feeling like I was eight again, about to get my hand smacked for stealing another kid’s bus money. A onetime thing, Sister Cecile seeing to that. She’d hit my hand so hard that the ruler had broken.

  “Um, sorry, um...” Why was I even apologising? I hated her. But I continued to stumble over my words. “Um, I...”

  “Either say what you have to or leave,” she said, again looking at me with disapproval.

  “Ah, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just you look totally different from the last time I saw you,” I babbled, remembering her at my sister’s funeral. She’d gone from looking like she was forty to eighty within two years.

  She frowned, curiosity now colouring her cloudy blue eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Catherine Lovich. You asked me to come over.”

  Her eyes widened, the nun not the only one to have changed. The last time she’d seen me I’d had dark-brown hair, that had been permed to within an inch of its life, and a curvy figure swathed in a plain black dress for my sister’s funeral.

  She reached out, obviously going to touch my arm. I automatically stepped back. Her hand froze in mid-air, the surprise on her face dropping to one of recognition.

  She squinted. “Yes, now I can see it, though I must say you’ve changed considerably too. You look like a totally different person.” She turned and walked further inside her house. “Come on in, Catherine.”

  I stood there for a moment, feeling like I was about to enter into Hell, because although she served God, I always wondered whether she worked part-time for the Devil.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder at me. “Come on, dear,” she said, softening her voice, not sounding as cranky.

  Even though I didn’t want to, I followed her, again thinking the quicker I got this over and done with, the better.

  I stopped just inside her lounge, feeling awkward and out of place. The cottage had an old people smell, which reminded me of mothballs and death, while the grey and blue interior made the place look bland. Only a cross and a replica of Bruni’s The Virgin and Child saved it from being barren, no fancy trinkets or unnecessary clutter, pretty much reflecting Sister Cecile’s austere personality.

  “Close the door before the wind slams it,” she said.

  I reached back and closed it.

  She waved her hand at me. “Come, come, sit down, child.”

  Begrudgingly, I headed for the blue couch, feeling like that scared eight-year-old yet again. It was amazing how she could do that to me, especially considering how small she was, even more so since her posture was now bent over.

  “Would you like a glass of juice?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, sure.” I winced, wondering whether my glib response sounded impolite, but instead of telling me off, she hobbled through a doorway.

  She returned with a half glass of juice, reminding me of the half full, half empty saying. She placed it on the small wooden coffee table in front of me. I picked it up, remembering to say thanks this time.

  She smiled at me, the expression sending ripples through her wrinkles, like someone had skipped a stone across a lake. She didn’t say anything, just stood there staring at me, making me feel even more uncomfortable. I saluted her with the glass and lifted it to my lips, taking a drink more to distract myself than to quench my thirst.

  She seemed to approve of this and hobbled over to a single chair across from me. She placed her hands on the armrests and lowered herself onto the cushions with a sigh, looking relieved to get off her feet. I put the glass down on the coffee table and slipped off my backpack, removing the rosary box. I lifted the lid and pulled out the blue rosary from it, still amazed by how beautiful it was.

  “Why did you give me these?” I asked, dangling the beads between my fingers. “I’m not ungrateful or anything, it’s just... they must be very precious, and I really don’t understand why you gave them to me, especially since, unlike my sister, we didn’t get on.”

  She clasped her withered hands together, looking like she was about to break out in prayer. Or a sermon. “There are two reasons why I want you to have them. Firstly, you’re my great grandniece and secondly, unlike most people, you have an innate emphatic nature—unnaturally so, which would give you the ability to control and use those beads in ways they were made for.”

  I stared at her, not having heard past grandniece. “I don’t think so,” I said. “If we were related, I’m pretty sure my parents would’ve said something. You sure you got the right person?”

  She nodded. “Absolutely, my dear, and your parents wouldn’t have told you, because they didn’t know themselves. After my twin sister and her husband died in a...” she hesitated, “an accident, their daughters were adopted out to different families. One of those girls was your grandmother Elizabeth. I only realised who you were when I saw your mother on your first day at primary school. She looked the spitting image of my sister Talia, her biological grandmother.”

  “But, my mum doesn’t look anything like you.”

  “Talia and I weren’t identical. Paternal twins can look quite different, plus I had an accident when I was younger, which resulted in the loss of my teeth. False teeth can change how someone looks considerably.”

  I went to ask why she hadn’t told my parents, or even my grandmother, her so-called niece, but she cut me off before I could get a word out.

  “When I recognised your mother, I made some enquiries, which verified my thoughts.”

  “Then, why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?” I asked.

  “Because I found out that your grandmother wasn’t told that she was adopted. I didn’t want to cause any rifts in her adoptive family. Plus, more importantly, our family has quite a past. I would’ve put your immediate family in danger if people knew we were related.”

  I frowned. “Why would we be in danger?”

  “It’s a long-winded story, my dear, which I would much prefer to leave for another day. All you need to know right now is that you’re a very special girl, one of only a handful who can unlock the power of the beads.”

  I pulled a face, thinking she was starting to sound crazy, or maybe she was talking metaphorically, spouting off religious mumbo jumbo like Janet had. “What do you mean by unlocking the beads’ power?”

  She pressed her lips together, looking like she was trying to find the right words. “That rosary,” she said, indicating to it, “is a weapon against evil. Each bead on the chain has individual powers. Combined with your energy, they create magic-like occurrences.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “April Fool’s gone, Sister.”

  She scowled at me. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Catherine. I mean every word I’m saying, and I’ll prove it. Since you’ve received the beads, have you had any unusual dreams with a nun, a priest, or even visions of Our Lady?”

  My face dropped, what she’d said... “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Language, Catherine.”

  “No.” I rose to my feet. “How did you know that?”

  She lifted her gaze. “I take it you’ve had such a dream, then?”

  “On the night that I received the rosary,
” I said, freaked out.

  “Tell me about it.”

  I shook my head. “Not until you tell me how you know about it.”

  “Because I’ve had similar dreams. So, please, tell me what happened in yours.”

  I glanced at the door, wishing I hadn’t walked through it, because she’d spooked the hell out of me.

  “Please tell me what it was about,” she persisted, her voice softening.

  I cleared my throat, thinking I must’ve gotten heatstroke, because this conversation wasn’t happening. “I dreamt of a priest hurting a nun. He also tried to burn me alive. He was holding rosary beads.”

  “Red ones with a large jagged ruby?”

  My eyes widened. “How did you know that?!”

  “As I said, I’ve had similar dreams, plus I know the owner of that rosary.” She waved her hand at me to sit down. “Now, continue telling me what happened in your dream.”

  “I, ah, this isn’t happening, you’re playing some sort of trick on me.” My thoughts went to Mum, making me wonder whether she’d heard me talk in my sleep. Maybe she’d bumped into Sister Cecile and had mentioned I’d had a nightmare.

  “Did you speak to my mum?” I asked.

  “No, Catherine.”

  “My dad?”

  She indicated for me to sit down again. “Please, calm down, I’m not asking for the world, just what happened in your dream.”

  I gave the door another glance, just wanting to leave.

  She rose up, her expression concerned. “I’m sorry for scaring you, but I really do need you to tell me about your dream, and what harm can it possibly do?”

  I exhaled loudly, not knowing why I was even considering telling her, this whole thing stepping into the realms of The Twilight Zone. “The priest was forcing himself onto the nun. She looked a lot like my mum.” I grimaced. “The priest burnt her alive.”