A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  Maybe I would see the littles again!

  After they left me, I hastened to Don Rodrigo to confirm that I could leave and to thank him for making my stay no worse than it had to be. In parting, I gave him my garnet ring. I might need him again—I hadn’t left the city yet!

  In fact, I needed him immediately. Thinking more clearly than I was, he assigned a constable to accompany me home.

  But I had an errand first. The constable hurried to keep up with me as my feet flew to Hamdun’s livery stable, where I found Hamdun gentling an elderly man onto a horse. I smiled, watching his care.

  When the old man had set off, he rushed to me. “They let you go?” He didn’t ask the next question though I saw it on his face.

  “I’m still a Jew.” I gave him his backgammon set. “There will be an escort tomorrow morning to take me to Valencia. Can you see me off?”

  “I will.”

  Papá had sold our house to a converso family, friends who hadn’t turned against us and had paid almost its worth. When they knew that my presence wouldn’t endanger them, they were happy to let me spend the night in my old room and share the bed—after I’d bathed—with their four-year-old daughter. The child’s mother, who was more or less my size, gave me a clean gown and shift.

  Because of the daughter, I slept more deeply than I had in weeks.

  In the morning, Hamdun and I embraced at the judería gate, which hadn’t been closed overnight, which I assumed would never be closed again. We both wept. I told him that when I thought of the blessings God had given me, he’d be among the highest.

  He said he’d remember me and our adventure forever. “I’m filling my eyes with you to hold in my heart.”

  Don Rodrigo, who’d decided to come with us, coughed.

  We set off at a trot, Don Rodrigo, seven constables, me, and—ominously—a priest. But I turned my thoughts to joy and imagined my reunion with the littles.

  We made better time than I thought possible, trotting through most of every day despite the relentless sun. The uniform of the Santa Hermandad warned off bandits. Though the priest rode next to me and regaled me with parables of Christ, he never hectored me.

  In towns or villages, we slept in the local monastery or church, with the priest smoothing the way for my presence. In the mornings, we changed horses, so our mounts always started out fresh.

  Almighty, please don’t bring me all this way just to discover that every ship bearing Jews has sailed.

  As the sun set behind us on July 30, ahead, across the plain, Valencia’s spires pricked the sky. A pulse hammered in my throat.

  We reached the wide Turia River, spanned by a wooden bridge, but we didn’t cross. Instead, we galloped on a sandy road along the river. Reeds waved in a marsh to our left. A seagull soared overhead. I smelled salt.

  Warehouses rose ahead, their coral-colored bricks deepening in the dusk. The buildings blocked the port, but a ship peeked out at the end of the line of them.

  We reached the bay. Five tall ships and a swarm of fishing boats clogged the harbor. On the wharf, the scene was as busy as it had been in Málaga—seafaring folk running errands, climbing sails; laborers bearing chests, cabinets, and bedsteads.

  Clusters of people stood, facing the sea, surrounded by sacks of belongings. A baby cried. A child ran circles around a woman.

  I dismounted and gave my reins to a constable. Crying “Jento, Todros, Beatriz”—naming all the littles—I ran.

  A voice I didn’t recognize called, “Don Asher! Your daughter!”

  Papá emerged from the farthest group, followed by the rest of my family.

  Beatriz reached me first and hugged me. In a month, she’d grown taller than I was. “I told God I wasn’t going if you didn’t come.”

  I kissed her cheek. “Here I am.”

  “I didn’t tell Mamá, though.”

  Todros, usually too old for hugs, hugged me. “Beatriz and I were going to stay together. We had a plan.”

  Everyone else—my sisters and brothers, but also aunts, uncles, cousins—engulfed me. I was passed from person to person for hugs and kisses.

  Even Mamá embraced me. “I had resigned myself to the loss of you, too.”

  Too?

  Vellida squeezed me. “I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t come.”

  Papá held me longest. “Thank God we have you back. We’ve suffered enough.”

  Finally, they let me go, and we all looked at each other, smiling.

  I remembered Don Rodrigo. “Papá, we have the chief constable to thank for getting me here in time.”

  Papá took the hint, untied his purse strings, and hurried to Don Rodrigo. Whatever he gave the chief constable must have satisfied him, because he bowed from his saddle and turned his horse. The others followed, their hooves swishing in the sand.

  The hermandad was a part of Spain I’d never see again.

  I turned back. “Where’s Clara? Where are you, my love?”

  42

  Clara, the shyest child, the one least expecting attention, wouldn’t come forward with everyone else. I expected her soft Here I am.

  Vellida started weeping. Her husband held her.

  The littles surrounded me. Papá, Ledicia, and Samuel took turns telling me about the disaster, while tears streamed down my face. The aljama had spent two days outside the town of Motilla del Palancar, because Yose Serrano’s wife had begun to give birth—slowly, and the community had agreed to stay together—so everyone waited.

  Tragically, both she and the baby had died. Another day was lost holding the funeral and burying her.

  Meanwhile, on the day of the burial, Clara, the animal lover, seemed to have made friends with a shepherd and his flock of sheep and goats. Vellida had been occupied with the twins, and her husband had been sitting with Yose, so neither had paid much attention. It wasn’t until dusk that my sister looked for Clara and failed to find her. The shepherd and his flock were gone, too.

  They’d spent the next two days searching and had finally found her body, stripped of her silk gown, silver rings, gold necklace, and the amulet I’d given her.

  Vellida sobbed. “God forgive me! I didn’t watch my child!”

  I rubbed her back while my tears continued to flow. If I’d been with them, this wouldn’t have happened, because I wouldn’t have had children of my own to look after.

  Gentle Clara. Had she cried out when the shepherd hurt her? Had he been quick?

  After my tears lessened, I thought of Yose Serrano—shame on me. He’d remarry. Maybe he’d remarry me.

  Night fell while my family and I were sad together. The wharf activity dropped off, though some sailors continued to work by the light of a full moon.

  I asked when they’d reached Valencia, and the answer was three days before today. Papá had paid our departure duties and had organized the purchase of provisions, because we would bring everything with us, including water. An impressive accumulation of sacks, barrels, and jugs stood to the side of all of us, to be carried on board in the morning. We had water; vinegar; wine; hard cheese; honey; dried raisins, figs, and dates; almonds; matzo, because leavened bread would spoil; salted sardines and cod; and beef sausages. There seemed enough to take us to distant Constantinople—or the moon!—if God willed it.

  We also had fresh fruit, bread, soft cheese, boiled eggs, cucumbers, onions—to be eaten before they rotted.

  “We’re spending tonight on the wharf so the ships don’t sail off with our belongings, Tía Loma,” Beatriz said.

  Silly. If the masters decided to leave, none of us could stop them.

  “Which is our ship?”

  “That one!” Todros pointed. “Isn’t she pretty? Ships are girls.”

  I smiled. We’d have to keep him from climbing the sail ropes.

  “Her name is the Santa Flora,” Jento said. “Papá knows the master.”

  The Santa Flora was bigger than the ship that had taken Belo.

  “Will we all go on it
?” I said. “The whole aljama?”

  “No. We have two ships.” Todros pointed to another ship, smaller than ours.

  Beatriz said, “Our whole family will go on the Santa Flora, and some others will, too. There will be two hundred and eighty-five people on our ship, counting you.”

  It should have been 286, with Clara.

  How would we all fit inside? “We’ll be so close, we’ll tickle each other.”

  Hasdai’s humming preceded him. He bowed, and I curtsied.

  “I’m very glad the Inquisition didn’t get you. I’ve eaten a lot. I eat all the time.”

  He could have been one of the littles, telling me this triumph.

  “I’m happy to hear it.” God forgive me, I hoped he wasn’t going to be on the same ship with us.

  “We’re going to be on the same ship. Will you—”

  Don’t say it!

  “—play backgammon with me?”

  I smiled. “With pleasure.” If the backgammon sets weren’t packed away.

  “And will you marry me again when we reach Naples?”

  He’d said it.

  “Let’s get there first, God willing, before our parents decide anything.”

  He nodded and left us.

  Bearing a torch, Papá came and took me by the elbow. The littles tried to follow, but he held up his hand. “You’ll have her back soon.”

  I followed him a few yards down the wharf, away from everyone.

  He said, “I think I did everything Belo would have, but he’ll tell me if I made mistakes.”

  He would, if he was alive and in Naples—and if we got there.

  “Please hold the torch, Loma.”

  It wavered in a light wind. “Do you want me to marry Hasdai again?”

  He was untying his purse strings. “What? No. Samuel and I can protect you on the ship. You don’t need a husband now that the journey is over.” He chuckled. “He asked you?”

  “Yes. He isn’t unkind or foolish, but I don’t want to.”

  “He had you once.” Papá kissed my forehead. “He should count himself lucky. Here.” He removed a paper from his purse and held it out. “Give me back the torch.”

  I did and took the paper. “What is it?”

  “A letter from your abuelo.”

  Everything went dark and silent. Then light and noise returned—brighter, more harmonious than before. “He’s alive!”

  Papá said, “The messenger met us on the road two days after we left home. Read it.” He lowered the torch, because moonlight wasn’t bright enough to read by.

  The paper seemed to unfold itself in my trembling hands. The handwriting wasn’t Belo’s.

  Dear Loma,

  Your cousin, Bela’s nephew, is writing this, because my fingers cannot yet form letters that anyone can read. These are my words, however. The All Merciful has returned speech to me though my tongue lacks its old nimbleness.

  You were wrong and cruel to leave me.

  There it was. He hated me.

  No explanation excuses it. If the Almighty had taken me, I’d have died cursing you, but now I forgive you and pray you are safe. I remember the night you shielded me from the rain and kept breath in my body. You gave me your pendant, which, perhaps, kept evil away. I haven’t yet decided whether or not to give it back to you.

  I smiled.

  I hope you are not fearing my wrath so much that you have turned the family away from Naples. We must be reunited, because our Messiah is coming soon. It is to his coming that I attribute my recovery—so that I may proclaim him with a voice as clear as a golden bell.

  King Ferrante has ruled that the Jews of Spain may settle in his kingdom, for a price, of course. The sum isn’t onerous, and I’ll help pay, along with the community here. If you are not married, though I think you must be, I have a husband for you: our sailor from Málaga, who has been studying day and night to become a Jew and has repaid me a thousand times in good deeds for his theft of our belongings.

  That fellow?

  I wished I could tell Hamdun.

  He speaks often of your beauty. I believe he began his conversion for you, and now our law has captured him. He is a lover of travel. We’ll cross the kingdom of Naples together. Hasten to us!

  Devotion to him again, this time with a husband of his choosing. It would have been of his choosing before, but a lot had happened since then. I didn’t know if I wanted the fellow, who still had no name.

  Commend me to your papá and mamá and your sisters and brothers. Tell them to be strong, as I know you will be. Be good as well, and obey your papá.

  Belo

  Papá said, “A convert with no money?” Of course he’d read the letter. “We can do better.” He kissed my forehead again and left me.

  Everyone made bedding out of their satchels. My things had been brought in hopes that I would come, but they were already on the ship. Ledicia spared me two of her family’s bundles, and I established myself near her. The littles circled me.

  Jamila said, “We’ll catch you if you try to get away.”

  I promised not to attempt it.

  Ledicia hummed in her high, sweet voice, and I harmonized from my lower, huskier range. The littles piped in. Then voices rose from everywhere on the wharf, adding words, so hum became hymn. We sang for half an hour, until one voice after another fell off, Ledicia’s and mine dying last.

  Papá woke me at dawn and gave me three chunks of bread and three of cheese, more than I usually ate in the morning. “You may not want to eat once we sail.”

  I said a hurried blessing and wolfed down my last meal in Spain. My sisters and Samuel were busy with their youngest ones, so I fetched bread and cheese from Aljohar and woke Jento and my older nieces and nephews.

  Half an hour later, a man called from the dock, “Come, Jews! Hasten away!”

  People hoisted their sacks. The old and the infirm leaned on the healthy. Yose Serrano, carrying his son on his shoulder, stuck out above the rest. Would he be on the same ship as ours?

  I kept the littles with our family, though Jamila tried to tug me toward a girl she’d befriended. We wound up in the middle of everyone with our view blocked. I could see only the tops of the three sails.

  Finally, we neared the ramp to the ship, and I had a view again. On board, people spread across the ship’s deck. Yose Serrano was crossing the ramp to the other ship.

  I insisted on escorting each little across ours. “I won’t have you falling in and being eaten by a fish.”

  As soon as we had all boarded, a thunk came from behind us, the ramp being returned to wherever it went. The sails flew up, and there was the latest drollery: the center of each sail was embroidered with an enormous scarlet cross, like the uniform of the hermandad’s constables.

  The deck dipped and rolled. The sails filled. My stomach lurched. The Santa Flora was underway.

  Without looking back at the shore, I cried, “Farewell, Spain! I won’t regret the loss of you.”

  The tribulations of the Jews of our aljama didn’t end with our departure. Yose Serrano’s ship was taken by pirates. Ours was blown north then becalmed. Our food, which I had thought to be more than we could ever eat, ran low. When the winds picked up again, we made for the nearest port and were denied not only entry but also supplies, a villainy that was repeated as we sailed down the coast.

  The one great blessing was our ship’s master, who was unfailingly kind and made his crew be kind, too. When they had time to fish, the sailors shared their catch with the aljama children. If there had been enough, I don’t doubt they would have shared with the adults, too. Unless the seas were very rough, the captain let us be on the deck, rather than crammed together in the hold.

  Now, eighteen days later, I sat on a tall coil of rope watching the littles in a game of tag. If I hadn’t been exhausted by hunger, I would have joined the chase.

  Beatriz left the game and sat by me. “Tía Loma, I’m cold.”

  The sun was glaring down. A bead of
sweat trembled on the tip of my nose. How could she be cold?

  Her face was flushed. Fever? Merciful One, where is Your mercy?

  The master shouted that we’d dock in Naples in the next hour.

  I scrambled up and pulled her up, too. There would be physicians in Naples.

  The littles ran to the bow, and we followed them. I stood next to Papá, who was next to the master. Mamá arrived at Beatriz’s side and, blessedly, said nothing.

  We rounded a mountainous island, near which seven fishing boats bobbed. Jento and Todros wormed their way to me.

  Beyond the island, the coast was a thick and wavy green line. The ship angled in. My knees felt spongy, either from fear or weakness.

  Jento cried, “Let me see. Can I, Loma?”

  “I have no strength to lift you.”

  Papá managed it and set Jento on his shoulders. Vellida’s husband placed Jamila on his shoulders.

  The coast grew into a succession of green and rocky low hills. Palm trees sprouted near the water. I saw the straight lines of a city far ahead.

  We drew closer, and the shapes sharpened. The city grew and grew. A tiered watchtower made of rose-colored bricks stood in the harbor on a small island.

  The master said, “See the New Castle?” He pointed and chuckled. “Not so new anymore.”

  The castle—cream-colored walls, three towers in the front—was the city’s defense against invaders. A crenelated wall faced the sea.

  Almighty, let the defense not be against us!

  Houses crowded a low hill, their walls creamy, too, their roofs an orangey brown. I saw cathedrals, but there were always cathedrals. The lines of the buildings were less graceful than at home.

  Not home!

  “Loma!” Jento extended his hand down to me.

  I reached up to clasp it.

  A stone pier projected into the bay and made a ninety-degree turn to the left. Steps led down to the water for the convenience of travelers. People stood waiting. In a minute, we’d be able to make them out.

  Sounding hoarse, Beatriz said, “You’re crying, Tía Loma.”

  Was I?

  Oh! There was Belo on the dock, in gray silk, legs spread, standing without assistance, smiling his most benevolent smile. I kept my eyes on only him and didn’t look for the fellow. He was there or he wasn’t. I would marry him or I wouldn’t. But I would be with Belo again, and I would marry someone.