Isola

Chapter 22

22

Damienne leaned against me, and Auguste clasped my hand. Eight oarsmen labored hard. Our boat was freighted so that we rode low, and whitecaps that scarcely jostled our tall ship now tossed and slapped our little craft. In the vast gulf, shore seemed days away, and islands small as rocks.

The men were rowing to a barren isle, granite, black. Auguste’s grip tightened, although he did not speak.

It was the navigator who saved us. “No,” he told the oarsmen.

The sailors labored on, and now a second isle appeared, much smaller than the first, and this place was also granite without a hint of green.

“Go on,” Jean Alfonse ordered.

Salt spray wet our faces. Seawater soaked my shoes, and my toes cramped with cold. Glancing down, I saw that Damienne’s shoes were wet as well, but she stared straight ahead as though she couldn’t feel anything. Was she angry? She had every right. Did she grieve? In the shock of that cruel morning, she had packed quietly. She did not berate me, nor did she listen to apologies. “God’s will,” was all she said.

We approached another rocky island and another, and each time the navigator said, “Not here.” The men looked up in protest, but Jean Alfonse urged them on until we saw a bigger isle, stony on the shore but green with wild grass.

This time, our navigator said, “Row in. Close as you can.”

The oarsmen maneuvered closer, and when they found an inlet, they set anchor. Then Jean Alfonse stood and directed four men to take our trunks and cases to the beach pebbled black and gray. The men carried our belongings, and after that, they lifted Damienne ashore.

The men staggered, nearly dropping her, for she was deadweight, almost paralyzed with fear. Damienne’s gown dragged in the water, and when they set her down, she cried out piteously, but after the sailors, she was first to stand in this new place.

Now Auguste helped me to my feet as oarsmen steadied the small vessel. Uncertainly we held each other as we prepared to leave the men, the boat, and all society.

The navigator bowed to me and clapped his hand on Auguste’s shoulder.

Auguste said, “My deepest thanks.”

Gratitude seemed strange at such a time, and yet the navigator had helped us, searching for a fertile island. Even now, he tried to encourage us, declaring, “While the weather holds, some other vessel might discover you.” He said this although we knew none but Cartier had sailed here. “There is a chance. With God’s help, we may be reunited, and I will welcome you at home in La Rochelle.”

“My thanks again,” said Auguste as he stepped into the shallows.

Then he lifted me, as he might carry his bride over the threshold—except we had no door or house—and, at water’s edge, he set me down.

Jean Alfonse raised his hand and called, “God keep you!”

We scarcely had the breath to answer. The world about us seemed so strange. And now we saw the men lift anchor and begin to row away.

Their craft was small and smaller still.

A plaything in the distance.

A mote on the horizon.

The boat was gone, and we were left together, facing sea and sky.

For a moment, we did not know what to do. Such was our terror and disbelief. Then Damienne knelt upon the rocks, and we knelt with her. She took my hand. “Our Father,” she began, and we prayed with her. “Hail Mary,” she recited.

It was some comfort to say these words— pray for us, sinners that we are —but even as we bowed our heads, I saw the ocean creeping in. “The tide!”

Auguste sprang to his feet. We followed, and stumbling in our haste, clumsy after so many weeks aboard the swaying ship, we tried to save our things. Damienne and I lifted parcels from the flood as Auguste hauled weapons, trunks, and cases up the shore. In this way, the three of us salvaged nearly all we had brought.

When we were done, we walked up the embankment. There Damienne sat on one trunk while Auguste and I shared another.

Sand crusted our hems and our wet shoes; wind whipped our hair—but wet and windblown as we were, the sun was warm upon our backs. Auguste opened a box of biscuit and poured a bottle of wine into two cups to share our drink. The ocean surged below but could not touch us. Safe just for the moment, we ate together.

We did not speak, nor did Damienne pray again. We listened to the waves and watched the wind snake through the long wild grass. Emptiness and fear. Confusion. A sudden freedom from the ship’s walls and crowded decks. We felt all this as biscuit and wine began to strengthen us. Then we looked to ourselves and took stock of our belongings.

We had three good trunks.

One contained Damienne’s clothes and mine, along with the small treasures I still owned. Pearls, and my gold necklace, kidskin gloves and combs, sewing scissors, needles, and a little looking glass.

The second trunk contained our linens, kneeling cushions, and picture of the Virgin. Here we had two pillows and a featherbed—although there was nowhere to spread it but the rocky ground.

The third trunk, belonging to Auguste, contained his clothes, his linens, and his writing implements. And he had brought a book, which was the New Testament.

We had Auguste’s sword, four arquebuses, flints, and a metal box of powder.

We had Damienne’s sewing basket with her needles, thread, thimble, and pins, and her small scissors, and her buttons.

A case of wine, a case of biscuit, partly spoiled by the tide, a box of salted fish, and Damienne’s rosary, and her unopened pot of jam.

A scrap of sail the captain had given us—and this was soaked through, but we spread it out to dry.

An axe, a little saw, a hoe, a trowel, a hammer, and a bag of nails. Also, one good knife—but no whetstone, as we later discovered.

Three small bags containing oats, barley, and wheat for planting. Also, two pouches of garden seeds, although the tide had spoiled one.

We had between us seven gold pieces and a small pile of silver.

A lump of soap, which proved more valuable than all these coins.

Three fishhooks of different sizes, a roll of twine, a rod, and a large net.

An iron kettle and wooden spoon—but no bowls or plates.

Small knives with which to eat.

Two cups.

Auguste’s cittern wrapped in cloth.

My virginal in a wooden crate.

And my book of psalms.

We had brought all these things, but how would we defend them? We had not even shelter from the sun. The sail might serve as canopy, but we had no poles and no way to fashion them. The island’s trees were stunted—few higher than my waist—and these were twisted, gray, and weathered, as though they had been buffeted by storms.

I guessed, “They cannot grow in so much wind.”

But Damienne said, “It is the soil. It is only peat.”

“Perhaps we will discover better soil in another place,” I ventured.

Damienne glanced upland, and I knew what she was thinking. What else would we find?

The rocks above were bare and forbidding. Our island seemed a desert, but the air was sweet. If, as Jean Alfonse hoped, a ship might sail past and see us, this would be the season.

Auguste rose and cleared a patch of ground. He took our axe and cut branches for fuel, while I stood watching.

I did not know how to light a fire. Nor did I wear clothes to do such work. I waited in my summer gown amongst the brambles, while Auguste stacked wood, and Damienne pulled out our flint so that all was ready for a signal fire. She was about to light it when Auguste said, “No, wait until we see a vessel.”

She drew back, disappointed, but said nothing.

“I would not call attention to ourselves,” said Auguste. “Except if we see French ships.”

Then Damienne nodded, acknowledging the sense in this. We would not draw enemies upon us, nor would we announce ourselves to any who might live upon the island.

We looked with apprehension up the shore. Auguste ventured a little way, and then he climbed the rocky slope which was the height of our north tower at home.

He scaled the peak while Damienne and I watched from the ground. Tilting my head back, I glimpsed him surveying our new country, turning to see it all. As he spun around, the wind blew off his hat—but he caught it in his hand.

“It is a small island,” he said when he returned. “No more than two leagues long and one across.”

“Are there houses?” I asked.

“No, not one.”

“Are there roads? Or paths?”

“I saw none.”

All that day, we clambered over rocks but saw no buildings, ruins, or charred wood, or walls. It was a relief and, at the same time, frightening to be the first and only settlers in this place. To find nothing but stones and little trees, and brambles, and the long lank grass, like ribbon flying in the wind.

“Come here!” Auguste called as he was climbing.

I followed as best I could, although my skirts were difficult to manage and my shoes were clumsy. Indeed, I did not know which were worse for walking—my blocky overshoes or slippery tooled-leather boots. I stumbled and fell, crying out with my gown ballooning around me.

Then Auguste ran back to help me. “Are you hurt?”

Embarrassed, I said, “No, not at all.”

“But you are bleeding,” Auguste said. I’d broken my fall with my hands, and so my palms were torn. “Come, and we can wash away the blood.” He helped me to a great boulder with several depressions filled with water. “This must be rain. Or melted snow.”

Gently, Auguste bathed my wounds in this fresh water and kissed my hands, for he was himself, even in this place.

While I rested, he went for a cup. We filled it and when we drank, we found the water cold and good. Then Auguste filled the cup for Damienne and we walked down together with this offering.

“No, no,” she said.

“Aren’t you thirsty?” I asked.

“I will drink wine,” she said, “because it is more cleanly.”

“And when we have none left?” I asked.

She lifted her hand. “Listen.”

“What is it?”

“That sound.”

“It is the waves,” I told her.

“No.”

This was a humming and a whirring different from the ocean tide, a noise like a tremendous hive. When the wind blew hard, we heard it less, but when the air was still, the hum grew louder. With dread and curiosity, we walked toward it, picking our way over rocks along the shore. Armed with an arquebus, Auguste went first, and I followed with Damienne.

Slowly, we made our way, and as we walked, the noise increased.

“I see now,” Auguste called, and we followed where the shore bent.

Here a white cove dazzled us, but the rocks weren’t white. They were black and covered with white birds, thousands upon thousands. These were the creatures humming, whirring, calling.

In wonder, I asked, “What birds are these?”

“I don’t know,” said Auguste.

“I have never seen the like,” said Damienne.

They were waterfowl almost the size of geese but white, with shorter necks. These birds nested together but they skirmished as well, fencing with long, pointed beaks. As they squabbled, Auguste approached slowly. He loaded his musket and lit his fuse, but the birds did not startle. Their noise continued, and their scuffles, as they jockeyed for place. Auguste walked until he stood amongst them, and yet they did not fly away. Such was their innocence. I am sure these creatures had never seen a man or gun.

When Auguste raised his weapon, they scarcely glanced at him, but when he fired, the birds rose screaming. In a whirring cloud, they flew into the sky, leaving one dead upon the ground.

Auguste snatched the body, I took Damienne’s hand, and then we ran.

Did we fear an avenging mob? We hardly knew but raced away, as though we had done an evil thing.

When we returned to our possessions, we were out of breath.

“That was too fast,” Damienne said, mopping her brow, and yet she looked eagerly at the bird Auguste had killed, and when he set it on a rock, she studied it.

“White as a swan,” she murmured, but when she spread the bird’s wings, the tips were black. “Partly a goose, partly a gull.” As for the face, we could not examine it because Auguste had blown off the bird’s head.

“Now I know we will not starve,” said Auguste.

For the first time, Damienne looked approvingly at him, even as she said, “God granted us this meat.”

She plucked the fowl and sliced it open with our knife, removing entrails and a crop of half-digested fish. Meanwhile, Auguste lit the fire and found a bent branch for a spit. Never was a feast prepared so quickly, for we had not tasted fresh meat in weeks.

Ravenous, we sniffed flesh roasting and watched skin crackle in the flames, and when, at last, the bird was ready, we savored breast, wings, back, every bit.

Meat heartened us. Sweet water slaked our thirst. We would not starve—not yet—but we had no defense or place to rest. No dwelling, nor wood to build one. We clambered onto a granite ledge to scan our island’s coast.

Could we build a house of rocks? We had no way to lift them. Climbing down, we walked along the shore, and there we saw the broken shells of crabs and the long slick grass that grew in seawater.

“We might boil these,” said Damienne, touching the wet greens.

“Over here!” called Auguste, and he showed us something half-submerged in shallows. We thought at first it was a pile of driftwood, but in fact, it was a full-grown oak.

“It must have floated from the mainland,” Auguste said. “We might build some shelter with this.”

He took our axe to chop the trunk where it was exposed, but his first blow came glancing off. He tried another place and still another. He hit hard, but his blade barely made a mark. The sea had washed this wood until it was smooth and hard as stone.

He tried our saw, and still the wood resisted. He severed small branches but could not break down the trunk.

At last, he said, “We will use the tree in its own shape.”

We saw two branches curving high enough that we might crawl under them to sleep. “These limbs will make a lowly house,” said Auguste, “but they will shelter us from wind.”

Then he chopped with his axe until he had detached these great branches from the trunk. And yet each branch was the size of a young tree, and we could not use them where the tide crept in.

“We must draw them up the bank,” said Damienne, “or they will not serve for anything.”

Auguste began dragging the branches over stony ground. Where he could not slide them he cleared stones to make a smoother channel up the shore. And Damienne helped him with our trowel.

I picked up a rock and felt its weight.

“This is not work for you,” Damienne told me.

I heaved the stone off and tried to lift another, but it was too heavy.

“Stand back,” said Damienne, and I obeyed, stepping up the bank.

It was Auguste who cleared the largest rocks, but Damienne was nearly his equal, digging and heaving them away.

I said, “I did not know you were so strong!”

She did not stop working as she answered, “I remember how to dig.”

“When did you learn?” I asked.

“At home.”

“What do you mean?” I said, because there had been no occasion. Then I realized she meant her home before she served my family. And yet I knew she had been a child when she came to us. “Did you work like this when you were little?”

Tugging a branch, Damienne pulled with Auguste, and when at last she stopped to take a breath, she answered, “I did what I could.”

Slowly Auguste and Damienne pulled each branch onto the granite ledge. And now they looked with satisfaction at their accomplishment.

Auguste said, “We will have a little shelter.”

The flat granite made a floor for us. Curved tree limbs became the roof and walls of what we called, in jest, our cottage. Auguste carried our belongings and our kindling there, and after our sail dried, he draped the canvas over our branches and tied the corners down.

In front of this house, we cleared a space for a new fire, and this became our hearth. Around the hearth, we arranged our trunks, and these became our chairs. There we sat to dine on salt fish and biscuit. We shared more wine and filled the empty bottle with fresh water from the little pools that we had found. That evening, we felt giddy. Desperate and at the same time bold.

As the blazing sky began to dim, Auguste cut peat to make a bed within our house. “We might spread sheets on this peat mattress,” he told Damienne.

“I will not,” my nurse declared. “I’ll not unpack the sheets to ruin them.”

“But will you try the bed?” Auguste said.

Without hesitation she crawled under our fallen tree.

“Won’t you take off your cloak?” I asked as she disappeared under the sail.

“No,” she said. “Not here.”

“Are you comfortable?” Auguste asked courteously.

For a moment, we heard no answer, and then she said, “As comfortable as I could be upon an island, and I thank God for sleeping on the ground.”

Exhausted by the day, she slept, but I stood with Auguste in the dark. The wind died, and the birds’ whirring ceased. Only the waves broke in upon the silence, surging and crashing on the shore. In the darkness in that unknown place, we held each other.

“I keep thinking I am dreaming,” I said.

“To be here?”

“To be anywhere together.”

Standing at the shore, I knew how small we were, and helpless. How far we were from home. And yet we had good meat and water. The air was fresh, and we breathed freely. Only the slightest breeze came up from the sea to make me shiver.

“Are you cold?” Auguste said.

“Only a little.”

He wrapped his cloak around me. “Shall I help you inside, to Damienne?”

“Will you sleep there as well?”

“I will keep watch,” he said.

“I will watch with you,” I told him.

And so, we watched together, although we saw nothing but stars. We sat on my trunk and listened to the sea. “If enemies steal upon us,” I said softly, “we would not see them in the night.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” I said, because I thought the worst had happened. “I am done living fearfully.”

And he laughed and kissed me, saying, “If we are castaway, yet we are castaway together.”

I added, “And though we have been punished, we have escaped.”

Such was our joy to find ourselves in our own country, although it was an island. To have each other, not for minutes but for hours and days. In my guardian’s eyes, we had been criminals and sinners, but we were banished now beyond his reach.

“Come here,” said Auguste, and he spread his cloak over the peat he had not needed for the mattress.

“Are you done watching?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“No one will approach?”

“There is no one here.”

And so, we lay together in the dark, and we knew each other as we had not before. Close and closer we became until, at last, we held each other. How warm he was, lean, long-limbed. I had been used to Damienne’s body, but when he held me, I felt the sinewed muscles of his arms, his hips narrow against mine, his sharp collarbone against my cheek.

“Are you asleep?” I said, because it was too dark to see.

“No,” he answered.

“What are you thinking?”

“None can part us,” he told me.