Chapter 30
30
Rain pierced the snow, and the drifts, which had been softening, melted into rivulets. All around us, these new streams were rushing. I watched the deluge soak our kindling, and I didn’t care.
After three days, the hard rain stopped, and the isle shone brilliantly. I saw the sun and felt its warmth, but spring tormented me. Bitterly I watched the grass grow soft and green.
In silence, I watched Damienne clean our cave, sweeping out the dirt with her dried branch. She shook and spread our featherbed to air it. Why? What did it matter? I walked out to the rocks to see waves surge where winter ice was breaking.
At night when we sat together by the fire, Damienne offered me some fish and broth, but I ate none of it.
She said, “You will starve.”
And I said nothing.
She said, “Remember Dido.” By this, she meant it is a sin to destroy yourself for love.
I turned away.
She said, “If you will not speak, will you then read?” From the dark recesses of our cave, she drew Auguste’s New Testament. “Will you read this?”
And now I broke my silence in a fury. “I cannot read of God, who has abandoned me.”
My old nurse answered, “He has not abandoned you. He sees you, and he knows everything.”
I retorted, “If he sees me, why does he stand by? Why didn’t he cure Auguste and save my child? I know that Christ has done such things before.”
She said, “Have I taught you nothing?”
“You taught me how to sit,” I told her. “You taught me to listen and wear pearls in my hair.”
“You know more than that,” she said, “and you might read holy words.”
In this way, she coaxed, but I refused her. All that night and the next day, I banked my anger like a fire.
And my nurse saw that her words hardened my heart, so she gave up speaking. She carried her sadness as she had so many other burdens. Only in the night, I heard her weeping.
Turning toward her, I felt tears on her face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you crying then?”
She did not answer, but I would not accept her silence. “Tell me.”
“It is that I cannot read myself,” she said.
Her grief shook me. I who had thought only of my own. If I had been wounded, why did I wound her? If scripture would not comfort me, did it follow that it could not comfort her? How cruel I had been to deny Damienne. What had she ever done but love me? “Forgive me,” I said. “We will read together.”
At first light, I unwrapped Auguste’s book and opened it.
“Wait,” Damienne told me. “You must be presentable.” And she combed my hair, working out the knots. She took fresh water and washed my hands and dried them so that I would not soil the pages. I let her do these things as though we were preparing for a service, and I saw she was relieved and pleased to make me clean. We sat at our cave’s entrance for the light and she said, “Read me of the prodigal.”
Wearily, I asked, “Is this to be my lesson?”
But she answered, “Is it not a lesson for everyone?”
And so, I read of the man with two sons, one who worked diligently and the other who ran off and spent his fortune. When this prodigal had nothing left, he tended pigs and envied them their husks. But while he was starving, he thought he might return and ask forgiveness. He traveled on the road, and while he was a long way off, his father saw him and ran to him, kissed him, and embraced him. The son said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you, and I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” But the father told his servants, “Bring the best robe and put it on him and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet. Kill the fatted calf and let us eat and be merry. For my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and now is found.”
“Ah, yes,” said Damienne as I looked up from the book. “The dead shall live again.”
“And what of the other son?” I asked. “The deserving one enraged to see his father celebrate the prodigal?”
“He should not have been so angry,” Damienne said.
“Here is the lesson,” I said. “That the undeserving will receive rewards.”
“Only if they repent!” she told me. “If they ask forgiveness. Only then!”
And I did not argue because I would not hurt her. I was careful with her and glad to comfort her by reading. But I did not repent my anger or my lack of faith. I had witnessed God’s indifference and could not pray to him, not truly. As for the Virgin, she was mute as her own picture. If she watched over us—even if she pitied us—she did not intercede.
—
The warm days came too late, as did the birds. The isle was now crowded with their wings, and when they settled in their cove, they were once again a city all their own. The trees and brambles were now greening. The sun was hot upon my shoulders, but I did not take this as a sign of mercy, nor did I thank God that I had lived to see these brilliant days. Damienne and I had survived the winter, but two of us had not.
Summer vexed me because it was too beautiful, too rich, and because I understood what I had not before—that it was so brief. I knew it was time to hunt and collect wood if we were to live another year—but I had not the heart. Such effort required hope, and I had none. I read to Damienne and fished at the shore for our immediate need.
The tide was low as I picked my way over the rocks. The sea was calm when I saw a spot upon the waves. At first, I thought it was a trick of light. But there was another spot as well, and then a third.
I strained my eyes to see three vessels. Tall ships, riding high above the water, drawing closer, growing bigger. Was I dreaming? I called to Damienne, who was gathering seagrass. “What do you see?”
She stood amazed. “Three ships.”
And I, who no longer wanted anything—who scarcely cared whether I would live or die—felt something stir in me. It was my own heart and my own breath. I did not consider whose ships these might be, nor did I wonder where they went. I thought only that we might escape the search for fuel and food, the coming darkness. “Light the fire!” I told Damienne, and I raced up to the cave for my weapon and my powder.
While our signal fire’s smoke was rising, I loaded my arquebus, shooting the air. The great boom echoed, and the birds heard. They rose together screaming.
Smoke, thundering shots, a cloud of birds. Sailors must have noticed. The ships edged closer—so near we recognized their pennants—those of France with the cross, and those blue with my family’s gold lilies. These were our own vessels. The Anne, the Lèchefraye, and the Valentine.
I waved my arms, and Damienne did too. I hallooed until my voice was hoarse. Surely Jean Alfonse would see our drifting smoke. He would spy us in his glass and know that we still lived. “Come help us!” I cried. “Save us!” I believed Jean Alfonse would pity us, even if my guardian did not.
I ran and jumped and shouted, but the ships began to drift away. Gradually, the three grew smaller.
I fired again. I called and flailed my arms, but no one heeded. The vessels were receding in the gulf. Like distant stars, they slipped away.
“Did they not hear the gun?” said Damienne.
“They heard it,” I told her. “Bastards. Cowards.”
After one winter, my guardian was sailing home again.
Was he returning with great treasures? Had he found gold, or was he dissatisfied with the New World? It was not for us to know. On his ship and in his power, my guardian chose his course, and he decided what to see and hear. He ignored my shots. He ignored the island altogether and left us to look at empty waves.
Helpless as I was, I clenched my fist. Although Roberval had voyaged in the King’s name, he acted for himself—and this was true always. My guardian took and took and searched for more so that after squandering his fortune, he spent mine. Seizing my property, he was pleased to leave me where I could not be found, casting me off as a thief might throw away a key.
“Drown!” I called, although his ships were no longer visible. “Let the ocean take you!” But my words changed nothing, and my voice died upon the wind.
Then I saw myself as those aboard ship might see me—windblown, desperate, and small. And I glimpsed myself as God might—frantic, insignificant. What a fool I was to scream. If Christ did not listen to my prayers, he would hardly listen to my curses.
I sobbed, “It doesn’t matter. It does not matter.” I sank upon the rocks, and Damienne sat next to me.
“Alas, it is God’s will,” she mourned.
“We will die upon this island,” I said.
And Damienne said, “Yes.”
But I said something more. “I would rather die here than board his ship again.”
“Is that true?”
Bitterly I told her, “We would never have safe passage with my guardian. Better to stay here.”
Damienne considered this and sighed. “In any case, we have no choice.”
Her resignation awed me. Her courage, in the face of disappointment. Strangely, as her life became more difficult, she complained less. She did not rail against injustice, although her fate was unjust. She did not question God’s will. I looked at her and thought, Why do I sit self-pitying? Why don’t I think of her? Damienne was blameless, and I had brought her to the island. This I knew, and for this I must atone.
I remembered Auguste’s words. Work, and hunt, and try to live. “We will live,” I said. “And that will be revenge enough.”
“God help us,” Damienne said. “I hope we will not avenge ourselves on anyone.”
“Come.” I helped my old nurse to her feet. “I will fetch water, and I must gather kindling. Tomorrow, I will hunt.”
“Alone?”
“Do you doubt me?” I asked, as I cleaned my gun.
“I fear it is too much for you.”
“I am not afraid.” With these words, I shouldered my grief and put out our signal fire.
Damienne marveled at the change in me as I began gathering sticks, but I could no longer mourn as though my life were purposeless. Damienne had provided for me when I was a helpless child. Now I must provide for her.