Isola

Chapter 23

23

When I woke, my clothes were damp. I sat up in a cloud. Where was I? Dreaming? Sailing? I imagined myself aboard ship again, but I stepped on solid ground.

Auguste lit our fire, and there we tried to warm ourselves. The sky was white, and so was the sea, until the sun began to burn the mist away. Then the day was hot, the weather brilliant, and we set our shoes and stockings on the rocks to dry.

The sea was green and envious, lapping the shore, while farther off, gray waves filled our view. We could not help glancing at the horizon. There might never be a ship to save us, but we could not admit it to ourselves and so we kept looking. By the same token, we kept searching for a stream or a freshwater spring, although we found none. The island had no source of water except the rain we found in basins of the rocks. We collected this as best we could in cups and in our empty wine bottles, and we filled our iron kettle to soak our salted fish before we ate it. This dried fish was our breakfast and noon meal, but in the afternoon, Auguste said, “I will hunt again.”

I watched him clean his gun and measure out his powder. More precious than gold, this powder was, and we kept its box in our trunk to save it from the damp.

“Take this.” Damienne turned out the contents of her sewing basket and gave it to him.

“What will I need that for?” said Auguste, who was already loaded down with gun and knife, and ammunition.

“To bring us eggs,” said Damienne.

He had not thought of that, and, thanking her, he took the woven basket with him.

Then Damienne and I sat unprotected. Three arquebuses remained, but we did not know how to use them.

“God is with us,” Damienne said as though to convince herself.

“You are always faithful,” I said. “You came with me to La Rochelle and then aboard the ship, and now—”

“We are in wilderness.”

“Can you forgive me?”

She frowned as though the question were improper. “I do. I have.”

“But I do not deserve it.”

“It is not a question of—”

Thunder. In the clear air, we heard the roar of Auguste’s gun—the boom and frantic flapping and the screaming of the birds.

“He’s done it,” Damienne said.

When we saw Auguste making his way over the rocks, I rushed to take the sewing basket full of eggs. He had brought as many as he could snatch, and he showed me that he’d killed two birds. He had shot one cleanly and wounded another, and he had taken this bird struggling in his hands to slaughter with his knife.

Now we puzzled, because, for the first time, we had more food than we could eat, but Damienne was pleased. She roasted both and cut up the second bird to save. For this purpose, she cleaned out our box of ruined biscuit. After this, she scraped salt from our dried fish and used it to pack our meat. The first bird we ate while it was fresh, and we roasted eggs in the ashes of the fire.

Fortified by this good meal, we began to organize our settlement. Damienne gathered firewood, Auguste collected water, and I stacked our smaller boxes.

“I’ll do it,” Damienne said.

“No, let me help,” I told her.

She looked troubled, but said, “Keep the tools together so we know where to find them.”

Upland, Auguste found a larger basin of rainwater, and while it was scarcely bigger than a fountain, we called this place our pond. Here Damienne took our soap to launder clothes. She scrubbed my shift with stones, and rinsing it she said, “Now it is white again.”

“It will be impossible to keep it so,” I said. “If we are sleeping on the ground.”

Nevertheless, Damienne spread linens to dry upon bushes and brambles. Our clothes were stiff when we took them down but clean and fresh from the sun. “We won’t be filthy,” she said, “even if our clothes are worn.”

And she contrived a little broom from a bough she found on one of the dwarf trees, and she used the whisk to sweep our hearth and granite floor. In this way, she kept house, and she named each place so that our granite ledge became our kitchen, our driftwood shelter was our chamber, and at some distance in a crevice, we maintained our privy. Damienne deemed all this necessary because, she said, “We must remember who we are.”

Busily she worked, tending the fire and sweeping the hearth. Sometimes she glanced upon the sea, but my nurse was first to give up watching, just as she was first to kneel and pray upon the shore.

“Don’t look for ships,” she advised as she combed my hair. “Bend your head.”

I looked up from my seat upon a rock. “But if a vessel appears and we don’t see it?”

“That is in God’s hands,” she answered.

“You would rather live upon an island,” I teased gently, “than endure another voyage.”

“I would rather live at home,” she said decidedly.

Although she found herself so far from her own country, Damienne was sure-footed on land. After Auguste hunted, my nurse prepared our meat. Each morning he collected wood and water while she tended the fire and swept the hearth. Ingeniously, she boiled seagrass in our iron kettle to brew a briny soup which we sipped from our cups. And she contrived to store our wine by digging into the dry peat and burying the bottles to keep them cool.

She rationed our provisions, diluting wine with water—and each time we finished a bottle, she washed it as a precious vessel. When she dropped one and it broke, she kept the largest shards to scrape and clean our birds. Always, she worked thriftily, while I stood idle. In all my life, I had never gathered firewood, or plucked a bird, or carried water, or washed clothes. Except at table, I had never used a knife. Indeed, I had never touched a broom.

“May I try sweeping?” I asked Damienne as I watched her whisk the hearth.

Startled, she looked up. “You may not.”

“I should like to help,” I said.

She shook her head. “You mustn’t.”

“But why?”

“You were not brought up for this.”

I said, “None of us was brought up for an island.”

“But you, especially.”

“Even so, I might assist you.”

Damienne scoffed. “You would be a hindrance.”

“But if you teach me.”

She took up her broom again. “I don’t have time.”

She had a certain pride and a belief in what was proper. In this way, she preserved what she called decency, and for this reason, there were items she would not unpack. The featherbed remained folded in our chest, as did our best clothes, our books, our kneeling cushions and picture of the Virgin. These things did not belong out in the wind and rain. As for our instruments, there was no safe place to put them, and they might get scratched. The cittern remained wrapped; the virginal rested in its crate. In truth, we did not think of music. We were distracted, learning how to live in this place.

—

Our isle was both beautiful and strange. In morning light, the waves were liquid silver. Mist clung to us so that we walked in a white cloud. Offshore, seabirds circled and dove into the sea for fish. With perfect faith, the birds plummeted headfirst, dropping from such height, so hard and fast, that water flew up around them. Again and again the seabirds plunged, and we stood upon the rocks, entranced to watch them fall. All around our knees, the wild grass rustled and hissed sibilantly. Everywhere we stepped, we heard that sound.

“As we are first upon this isle,” Auguste said when we held council on our trunks, “so we should claim it for the King.”

But I said, “His Majesty has all of New France. Surely this island is too small.”

“Then it shall be yours,” he said, smiling. “What would you call it?”

“Isle of Little Trees,” I said, and then, “Isle of Birds.” I gazed upon the ocean, and I said, “Isle of Changes,” because the waves broke endlessly and renewed themselves each time.

“Those are not Christian names,” said Damienne. As she prayed daily to the Virgin, she suggested, “Isle of Our Lady.”

These were our conversations. These our debates as we realized the isle was solely ours. No warriors attacked us. No beasts stalked us and we were not afraid to take possession of the place.

Auguste said, “You see why the birds are innocent. It is because none come to molest them. That is why they build nests upon the ground.”

Like the birds, Auguste and I slept in open air. Gratefully we rested without enemies, and looking up at the dark sky, we counted ourselves rich in stars. Cast together, we might sing and laugh and kiss just as we pleased, and we enjoyed the paradox that bound us. Imprisoned, we were also free.

Auguste whispered in my ear, “It is not Isle of Our Lady. It is Isle of My Lady.” But he did not tell Damienne because he would not offend her.

He worked instead to earn her regard, because, he said, “She is a good woman, and we must make her as comfortable as we can.” And he honored her, believing her prayers were vital as the work of her hands. He said, “We must pray with her, if any are to rescue us. A signal fire is only smoke, and one woman’s prayers are not enough.”

For this purpose, Auguste unpacked his writing tools, and he used the top of his sea trunk as a table. Ruling a piece of paper, he turned it to mark out squares. “Now,” he said, “we will make a calendar and keep the Lord’s Day.”

“That is well considered,” Damienne said, and I knew this was her highest praise. Then she asked, “How many days has it been?”

“It was the ninth of June we disembarked,” said Auguste. “And on that day, we built our settlement.”

I added, “On the first and second days, you hunted.”

We were sure of these dates but could not reckon all the others. We could only guess that we had dwelled upon our island for a fortnight, and so we began our calendar on June twenty-third. Every evening, we marked a new square, and on the seventh day, we knelt and prayed on our granite ledge. Without chapel or priest, we closed our eyes, and I heard Damienne’s voice and Auguste’s. With them, I repeated the familiar service, and I thought of Claire. Did she wear my ring? And did she pray for me?

“Now I am refreshed,” said Damienne when we had done. And looking at her, I thought, Praying is refreshment when you toil. Kneeling feels better after long hours on your feet.

“What can I do?” I asked my nurse. “How can I learn to work?”

“To work?” she said.

“Of course, I could not work at home. But here,” I appealed to Auguste, “I must try.”

“There is no need,” he said. “For we live simply, and we will live well while the weather holds.”

“What then?” I asked.

“With God’s help, we might be rescued.”

“And if not? If we run out of biscuit first? We must cultivate some food.”

“We might.” Auguste scanned the rocky ground.

Remembering our seeds I said, “If we plant wheat, we might grind the kernels into flour. If we plant lettuces, we will have greens.”

“And we might grow beans,” said Auguste, “and then dry them.”

“We should begin a garden,” I declared.

“No,” said Damienne. “You cannot garden here. The soil is too thin.”

I countered, “The wild grass grows, and even little trees. The sun shines every day, and there are no rabbits or moles.”

“We do have seeds and tools,” said Auguste.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” said Damienne.

I turned on her. “We would be fools not to try. The garden will be mine, and I shall tend it.”

“And do you know how to sow?” she asked. “And do you know how to keep tender plants alive?”

I said, “I will know if you would teach me.” And without waiting for an answer, I took up our hoe. The tool was unwieldy, heavier than I expected, but I walked to a flat earthy place and began chipping dry sod to clear a patch of land.

“Let me,” said Auguste, and he took the long-handled tool to do the work himself. He would have cleared the earth alone, but I plucked as many brambles as I could. Then with our trowel, I dug up briars eagerly.

I scratched my wrists and caught my sleeves on thorns but took each mishap as an honor—evidence of my new occupation. Eagerly, I unpacked our seeds to sort those unspoiled by the tide, and, seeing this, my old nurse sighed and showed me how to turn the earth.

Together we sowed oats and barley and half of our wheat kernels, plump and sound. Near these, we planted lettuces and climbing beans. And Damienne did not speak again of a fool’s errand but showed me how to cover seeds with soil and sprinkle them with water.

Then, with my own hands, I filled our kettle from the shallow pools where rain collected. With ribbons I tied back my sleeves, and faithfully I watered the little plot I called my garden.

Each morning, I rushed to see if any shoots had appeared. Then I tended my piece of earth, fetching water and moistening the soil so that by day’s end, my arms and legs were tired, and I lay gratefully on the hard ground. I was sure my labor would be rewarded, and Auguste encouraged me, for he saw how I worked. I never let the soil dry but watered my seeds twice and sometimes three times a day.

“Under the earth,” Auguste said, “the plants are growing toward the sun.”

Early, earlier than we expected, green shoots appeared, breaking through the sod. “You see! You see!” I cried. And Auguste embraced me, lifting me high. I clasped my hands behind his neck, and he spun me round so that my skirts billowed.

But Damienne looked at the seedlings and said nothing.

“With God’s help, they will grow,” I told her.

“With God’s help, anything is possible,” she said.

In those long summer days, green spikes emerged, and they were the first signs of wheat. Leaves unfolded, pale green, small as my thumbnail, and these were lettuces. Crinkling bean leaves opened, searching for the sun, and radish leaves with red stems, delicate as threads. Every hour my plants were growing, drinking all the water I provided.

“Come!” I told Auguste. “The beans opened in one day. It happened since this morning.”

Auguste said, “No garden ever grew so fast.”

My lettuces were flourishing, and I counted every tender leaf. My root vegetables were burrowing, my potatoes and my beets. Every row of plants was beautiful. Beans exulted in the light and heat, sending out their tendrils with such speed that I imagined I would catch them reaching for the sun.

I thought, This is work. This is what it’s like to bring something into the world. And when I knelt to worship with Auguste and Damienne, I prayed in earnest for my garden.

In the evenings, Auguste and I admired my green rows.

“Now I have become a farmer,” I told Damienne.

But she was right. Our island’s soil was too thin. I lavished water on my plants and prayed for them with all my heart, but their stems drooped in the July heat. Only three weeks after sprouting, my young shoots began to wilt.

I sprinkled leaves with fresh cool drops. Constantly I watered—but the sun, which had been generous, now scorched leaves it had kissed.

My own face and arms were burnt, and Damienne said I was losing my complexion, but I cared only for my garden. What could I do? How could I save my offspring?

—

As fast as they sprang up, my seedlings withered. The beans died first, their tendrils shriveling. The greens perished next, drying up so that their leaves curled like parchment. At last, the beets and radishes withered. A brisk wind swept the husks away.

When I saw this, I sank to the ground and wept.

Then Damienne said, “I warned you, but you never listen.”

“And are you glad now?” I sobbed. “Do you feel justified?”

“I am not glad. How can you speak so?” Damienne was near tears herself, but she scolded as she always did when she was miserable. “I was afraid of this.”

Auguste knelt to look at what was left, and quietly he took my hands, but even he could not comfort me. My work, my care and prayers had come to nothing. I said, “I wish I’d never planted seeds.”

Auguste murmured, “We knew we could only try, and there was a small chance.”

I pulled my hands away because his temperate words infuriated me. My garden had just begun to thrive. Why, then, did God take it from me? “I was deceived.”

“And who deceived you?” Damienne demanded.

—

That night we did not speak. We ate our meat and shared our biscuit, and Damienne wrapped herself in her dusty cloak and crawled into bed.

While she slept under the sail, Auguste and I sat on my trunk.

“My heart is black,” I whispered. “And I am dry as those dead seedlings in the earth.”

“No,” he said. “That isn’t true.”

“I am selfish and impatient. Angry.” I paused, and then I made my full confession. “I do not believe that prayers are answered.”

For a moment, Auguste did not speak.

“You see what I am,” I told him.

But he said, “No worse than me.”

Startled, I turned to him. “You told me you believe in providence.”

“Although I do not always understand it.”

“That is my trouble,” I said—and I feared it was my heresy. “I cannot believe what I do not understand.”

I spoke intemperately, but he did not push me away, nor did he rebuke me. He kissed my ear. “Judge by what you hear. Judge then by what you see and feel and taste.” He kissed my mouth.

Half-weeping and half-laughing, I said, “Is that your argument?”

But he was serious. “If we are unlucky, we are also fortunate. Our lives were spared, and now we make our way together.”

“In a barren place.”

“It is not barren—although we could not cultivate a garden.”

We watched the moon rise, and I felt his warmth and quietness. Aboard ship where we had little space or time, we had known each other quickly. Now I could consider him, and he was brave, facing disappointment.

Even so, I mourned, “It will be hard for us.”

“Perhaps.”

The weather was still warm; the air was sweet, but I had lost confidence. “I did not imagine this.”

“Are you regretful?” he asked.

“Not for what we did.”

“But that we must live here.”

“Yes.”

“You are sorry I approached you on the ship,” he said.

“I am sorry for none of it. Only that my guardian found out.”

“He knew before; he was only waiting.”

“But you angered him.”

“I could not have done otherwise,” Auguste answered with some heat.

“He wanted you to show your hand,” I said.

“I don’t care what he wanted.”

“Which is how he outmaneuvered you.”

“It wasn’t a question of maneuvering, but honor.”

“And what use is honor here?” I said.

“Honor has no uses,” Auguste retorted.

“No. Not on an island.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I do not think us fortunate,” I said. “And I will not be grateful when we starve here.”

“You can choose—” he began.

But I broke in, “No, we cannot choose. We must submit, and that’s the problem.”

“And now we are quarreling—just as Roberval intended,” Auguste said.

We caught ourselves and stopped.

“He had us either way,” I said.

“Yes,” said Auguste.

“How clever he has been.”

We were thinking the same thing. That Roberval had punished us with what we wanted most. We longed for time; he gave us eternity. We craved space and privacy; he gave us both.

I said, “He would destroy us by leaving us alone.”

Auguste finished my thought. “So that we might turn against each other.”

Was it strange to talk like this? It was stranger still to live upon the isle. To love freely but live with such uncertainty. Each day presented a new riddle. What is a house without a door? What is a prison without walls? We ate fresh meat but slept outside, as beggars did at home. We had property and yet we were impoverished. On this island, we were rulers and our own subjects too.

“This place is a strange lesson,” I said at last.

“The isle is what we make of it,” said Auguste.

“It is not,” I said. “I could not make a garden.”

“I meant the isle is for us to interpret.”

I answered readily, “As the punishment Roberval contrived for us.”

“But why should we think of him?”

“Because he did this, leaving us in wilderness.”

Auguste said, “It is not wilderness but our own country, and Roberval has nothing more to do with it.”