Isola

Chapter 25

25

Our island’s cliffs were steep and difficult to climb. Because of this, I waited with Damienne while Auguste searched for a safe place. Upland, he hunted for a sanctuary, but the winds were strong. Even now they scoured the rocks.

I did not think we could find or build a shelter where the isle was so exposed, but Auguste kept searching. He pressed on until I could no longer see him, and I called out, “Where are you?”

He did not answer, and I called again. “Where have you gone?”

“Come here,” he answered.

I followed his voice and found him standing before two granite boulders high above the shore. “Here it is,” he said. “A house.”

“What do you mean?”

“A cavern.”

Between the boulders, I saw a jagged space no more than two feet wide. I peered inside, but it was too dark to see.

“Come in,” said Auguste.

“It is too narrow!”

“No.” Auguste took my hand. “Let me show you.”

He led the way, turning sideways in the narrow opening, then stooping down. “This isn’t safe,” I said. The rocks were rough and close about me, even as I bent my head—but Auguste pulled me after him. “I am afraid we will not have air to breathe,” I protested.

“There is air enough. Stand here.” He brought me into a cave with a roof so low that we could stand only in the center. A shaft of sunlight shone through the cave’s scant opening, and gradually, as my eyes adjusted, I saw a dusty chamber six paces long and five across.

“It is enough to rest our heads,” said Auguste.

“But we cannot sleep here.”

“It is dry.”

I touched the cave’s cool walls. “What if these crumble and rocks bury us?”

“The cave is granite,” Auguste said.

I looked toward the jagged opening and thought of the warriors in boats. “They might trap us here like foxes in a den. Surely we can find a better place.”

“We have no timber for a house or a stockade,” said Auguste. “Nor can we defend ourselves except with what we find.”

I knew he was right, but I had not imagined living in the dark, furtive, like an animal. Must we creep out to eat and then scurry back to hide? We stood together, and I said, “I realize now—”

“What?” Auguste said.

“How easy my life has been.”

Regretfully, Auguste said, “You have been rich, comfortable, and safe.”

“No, I was never safe.” My own words startled me, but they were true. If I was in danger here, so I had been at home. If I could not choose my dwelling place, that had been the case before. Following Auguste out, I thought, If we live in a cave, at least it will be ours only. And I had another thought. Small as it was, this cavern was better than a ship’s cabin, for there were no rats upon the island.

Stepping into sunlight, I told Auguste, “We must sweep away the dirt if we are to sleep here.” And he took heart, embracing me.

“Damienne!” I called as we climbed down the rocky slope to find her. “Let me take you up the cliff.”

“Not I,” she answered from below.

“But it is safe there and sheltered from the wind.”

“Look at you!” Damienne exclaimed as soon as she saw me. My skirts, sleeves, and hair were covered with red dust.

“Come.” I offered her my hand, and Auguste assisted on the other side. “We will show you our new fortress.”

But when we climbed to the opening, she shook her head. “No, I cannot squeeze myself inside.”

“I will show you how,” I said.

“But I do not want to go!”

“Try.”

“I cannot.”

“Would you freeze out in the wind?”

“Yes,” she told me. “I would rather die in the fresh air.”

Frustrated, I said, “Wait and see how cold the winter is.”

“We don’t have time for that,” said Auguste.

—

It was now September and an earlier and brighter autumn than we had ever known. At home, our trees changed to russet and yellow, our green hedges darkening to brown. The island’s trees were more beautiful by far, their colors ruby, garnet, topaz. Here, even thorny brambles glowed vermillion. This was the strange magic of the place, that autumn came so brilliantly upon us. Never had we known such days—but they were short.

One by one, Auguste hauled our trunks up to the cave, and because Damienne could not carry while she climbed, I brought our lighter things. The trowel. The cittern, useless as it was.

“Do you miss playing?” I asked Auguste.

“No.” He heaved a trunk over the rocks.

“I don’t believe you.”

Setting down his burden, he said, “What is the point of missing what I cannot have?”

“I miss your music,” I said. “And I wish I could repair your instrument.”

“Oh, if we are wishing,” he said, “then I would ask for more than that.”

“What would you have?”

“Come and rest,” he said, and we sat together on the trunk. There, I leaned against him as he told his wishes. “A good house for you, with windows and doors. A table and chairs with backs. A kitchen and a cook. Stables full of horses and all your lands restored.”

“But that would mean we were at home again,” I said. “What would you wish for here?”

“That I could bring your garden back.”

I sighed at that. “I wish we could have lettuces.”

“And beans.”

“And orchards!”

He nodded. “Apple trees.”

“And pears and plums.” I closed my eyes. “I miss fruit more than anything.”

“More than a good fireplace?” Auguste helped me to my feet. “More than safety? More than a proper bed?”

“Yes! Why do you laugh?”

“Because you’re funny.”

I knew that I spoke rashly, and yet I longed for mead and nectar, pears and plums. Walking down the slope with Auguste, I wished for arbors and for vineyards hanging with dark grapes. I wanted strawberry vines and raspberry canes—but we had none. Only one fruit grew upon this isle, and it was a strange berry, round and black. Clustering on bushes, these looked like currants, but they were larger, softer, and more luscious—or so they seemed to me. They flourished in this season, but Damienne forbade me to touch them because she thought them poisonous. I trusted her. She understood plants—and yet I plucked a handful just in passing.

“Don’t touch them,” Auguste reminded me.

“But why?” I said.

“You know why!”

“How can they be dangerous?” I showed him the berries in my hand. “I will ask Damienne again.”

I brought Damienne the berries and told her, “I could try one—just a taste—and spit it out.”

“Absolutely not.”

“They look like grapes.” Darkest, sweetest grapes were what I imagined.

“They look like belladonna,” Damienne said.

“But they feel ripe and good.”

“You can tell by touching them?”

Damienne was prudent—but she could not stop my craving. Would these fruits be firm, like cherries, or soft under the skin? Would they be subtle as gooseberries? Seeded like figs?

All afternoon, we carried our possessions upland to the cave. We began to break a path between steep rocks, but the climb was tiring. When evening came, we decided we would move in the morning.

I fell asleep as soon as I crawled under our tree branches at the shore—but when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of berries. Round, black, sweet, and dark, they burst against my teeth and tongue.

“Shh,” Auguste murmured.

Half-awake, I asked, “What did I say?”

“Only a taste.”

“Alas,” I sighed.

“What is it?”

Sun brightened the edges of our sail as I asked, “How is it already morning?”

“Listen,” Auguste said.

We could hear Damienne sweeping the hearth outside and muttering to herself. “I cannot sleep in caverns.”

She spoke this way, but she could not stay alone upon the shore. She grumbled, but she picked her way over the rocks. Auguste went first, carrying our sail, and I followed with my nurse.

“Wait here,” I told her when we arrived at our new home, and I seated her upon a trunk. “When everything is ready, I will show you.”

Auguste took our broom and swept the cave as clean as he could make it before bringing our provisions in. Even these small cases were difficult to maneuver, but at last he got them through the crevice. I waited inside, and he passed them to me. Then I stacked boxes of salted meat at the back of the cavern where the roof sloped down. I lined up bottles, some empty and some containing water and some few containing wine, and I placed the pot of quince jam there as well, and we called this place our pantry.

Now Auguste said, “I will cut peat to make a mattress, and we can bring in linens for the bed.”

“We might make a pallet under it,” I said. “If you take apart the virginal’s crate.”

“Yes!” Auguste took his axe and broke down the packing case. We brought the pieces in and arranged them on the floor of our new dwelling. On top of this wood platform, we stacked our mattress, sheet, and featherbed.

Kneeling, I smoothed our linen counterpane, and I thought, Surely Damienne can rest here. Hurrying out, I called, “All is ready. You will find it clean and dry.”

Still, she insisted, “I cannot squeeze into such a narrow place.”

But I spoke to her as Auguste had to me. “I will go first. Turn sideways. Duck your head.”

Gently I took her arm and pulled her after me. And I brought her to the cavern’s center where she might stand and look about in the narrow light of the cave’s opening.

“Here is our bed,” I told her.

She gazed upon the featherbed from home and peered into the dark to see our bottles in the pantry.

“And over here,” I knelt to show her, “we might prop our picture of the Virgin.”

“No,” said Damienne. “We cannot place her on the ground.”

“You are right,” said Auguste, and he carried in my virginal. Crouching, he set the ruined instrument against the wall. “This will be our altar.”

I placed the Virgin just above the keyboard. “How do you like that?”

Damienne turned to me, and I saw a glint of tears.

“Do not grieve,” I said.

But she told me, “They are tears of joy because I missed her face.”

And it was strange, but the picture changed the cave entirely. We could scarcely see her lovely eyes, and yet the Virgin gazed on us.

The trouble was our trunks outside. They were too big to carry in, but they were packed with linens and our tools.

With Damienne, we sat on the trunks to think and to hold council.

“We need a cellar,” I said.

Auguste scanned the rocks. “Perhaps I can find another cave.”

But even as he spoke, I remembered how we had buried wine bottles at our first settlement. I said, “Why not bury these trunks?”

Auguste took the trowel and marked a place where he might dig. This was only ten paces from our cave, and here he excavated earth, roots, and rocks to bury our first trunk. The work became difficult as he dug deeper because the rocks were bigger and more numerous. Still, he scrabbled with his trowel until he hit hard granite.

We could not bury our trunk entirely. The lid and rim rose from the ground, but we heaped sod and pebbles over the top to make a kind of cairn. Clearing these, we could still lift the lid when necessary. In this way, Auguste buried each of our three trunks. We called these our cellars, and the work took two days.

We organized our tools in one trunk and kept clothes and linens in another. In the third trunk, we isolated our metal box of powder, but for safety, we secured the sword and four long guns, along with small plugs of powder, just inside the entrance of the cave.

When this was done, we were relieved. The autumn wind was now so sharp that, cramped and dark as our cave was, we were glad of its stone walls. At night I slept in Auguste’s arms, and Damienne slept beside us so that we rested like three mice together.

In the morning, light shone through the cave’s opening, and this ray touched the Virgin and her crown of gold. Seeing this, Damienne was comforted, and she said, “God has not forgotten us.”

As it was Sunday on the calendar, we knelt outside and prayed. We sat on the three mounds of our trunks and shared a little biscuit and salt fish. Then Auguste took his book and read the miracle of loaves and fishes. And Christ bade them sit by companies upon the grass, and they sat down by hundreds and by fifties. And when he had taken five loaves and two fishes, he looked up to heaven, and he blessed them, and he broke the loaves and gave them to his disciples to set out before them, and he divided the two fishes, and they all did eat, and they were filled.

When he finished reading, Damienne looked gratefully on him and said, “That was well done.” These holy words were food and drink to her, but I was ravenous. Taking up our kettle I said, “I will fetch more water.” This was my task now, and I gathered kindling too, because Damienne had so much to do with butchering. Morning and night I climbed the rocks so that I had grown sure-footed and bold. My arms were strong and my hands capable, but hunger knifed me.

Filling our kettle at the rock pools, I pushed aside scarlet leaves to see the berries clustering. I looked, I touched, and I could not resist. Longing overcame me as I plucked a single fruit, another, and two more. I set down my kettle and rolled these between my fingers, so that their dark flesh stained my hands. I touched them to my lips. Perfect as they were and round, the berries overwhelmed all reason. I bit, and all their juicy ripeness burst upon my tongue.

Oh, but they were bitter! The little fruits were soft as velvet but so tart I spat them out. Gagging, I sank upon the rocks.

When I heard Damienne calling, I did not answer.

“Marguerite!” she cried, but I drew up my knees and hid my face.

“Where are you?” called Auguste, as he came searching.

Finding me at the rock pools, he knelt and took me in his arms because he thought that I had fallen. “Where are you hurt?”

“I am poisoned,” I told him. “And it is my fault.”

He felt my forehead and touched my cheek, and asked if I could stand. He took the kettle and helped me to the entrance of our cave where Damienne was waiting.

She sat me down outside, and Auguste poured me wine, but when I tried to drink, I choked and heaved. “I did not listen,” I confessed. “And I was tempted.”

“By what?” said Damienne.

“The berries,” I whispered. “They are foul; they are not as they appear.”

Auguste said, “We must draw the poison out.”

But Damienne examined me, touching my body and my face. She listened to me breathe and felt my belly and at last she said, “These berries have not poisoned you. It is hunger and fear sickening you.”

“I could not stop myself from trying them,” I said. “I was craving fruit. Forgive me.”

Sorrowfully, she rocked me in her arms. “You will not die,” she said. “You are only sick as you must be.”

“I am punished,” I said.

“Shh. Rest now,” Damienne murmured, and she looked at Auguste so that he understood what I could not bring myself to say. That I was wretched, and I craved strange fruit because I was with child.