Chapter 35
35
The sky was bright, the weather warm. In truth, because we had no shelter, my greatest problem was the sun. My face began to blister, and I suffered in the heat because I could not strip off my clothes to cool myself as the men did. Often, holding ropes, they jumped into the sea. Mikel plunged into the water, along with Julen and their young comrade Benat. Men on the other boat would jump as well—especially Ion, who did not need a rope to tether him. He could dive, and he could swim, not only on the surface of the water but beneath. He was so sleek and strong that, like an eel, he disappeared and surprised the others when he emerged again. I envied these games but scarcely dared to watch. Clambering aboard, the men shook themselves like dogs, and I averted my eyes because I would not cause them trouble or embarrassment.
Always, I attempted to live modestly. Sitting or standing, the men relieved themselves in the sea, but I took a small bucket for a chamber pot and hid behind our crates of salted fish. With ragged clothes, I covered myself, but with my hands, I hoped I could win favor. When the crew caught fish, I helped to clean and roast them. When our nets tore, I retied broken strands. And I unwrapped the Virgin and prayed to her for safety.
Rough as they were, the fishermen shared their food as I had done upon my island. Mikel, my interpreter, offered fish and wine and biscuit, and, in the first days when I was seasick, he never mocked as others did but made a place for me in the ship’s bow. Here I sat, even when I was recovered, and at night I lay there as the boat rocked upon the waves. I had nothing but my cloak for bedclothes, but I slept soundly, knowing I did not need to hunt or gather firewood. On this journey, I could only trust the fishermen, and so I rested in God’s palm.
The two boats sailed for a month on gentle swells as Aznar navigated by the stars, and while I was often wet I was not cold. I slept with my knife close at hand but feared no molestation. This was because these seafarers did not treat me as a woman but as one consecrated to the Lord, and they believed that I brought luck and this bright weather.
Alas, I was not blessed as they imagined. In the fifth week of our voyage, the skies darkened. Waves rose so that our boat and our sister vessel rolled. The sun paled and Mikel looked anxiously upon the sea.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Not good,” he said.
A steady rain began, and the men began to tie down crates of fish.
My stomach lurched as the boat began to rise and fall on ocean swells, each bigger than the one before. Wind drove the rain, lashing our faces, and now we rode so high that when we fell again, our boat began to tip. We listed and our feet slipped out from under us. In an instant, all aboard might have spilled into the water—but the next moment, our boat righted herself.
“Hold this!” Mikel handed me a rope tied to the mast. “Hold and don’t let go!”
I held tight as the wind rose stronger. My hair came loose. Rain streamed down my face and soaked my ragged gown. Around me, men tried to keep their footing. All held fast to rope or rail, but even then, we could not stand. The next wave knocked me off my feet and would have swept me overboard, except I clutched the rope. My hands cramped and my arms ached, but I knew I would be lost if I let go.
Into the wind I shouted, “Please do not destroy us.” I prayed, “Save these men who have saved me. Are they not your Samaritans? Do not let us drown.” But even as I cried out, I felt the boat surging again. We rode upon a wave, high as a mountain, and I glimpsed our sister boat as she began to tip. Her crew cried out in terror.
For an instant, I saw Ion with his mouth opening. “God save us!” Then both boats plunged into the valley between waves.
We fell, but once again, we rose, and now our sister veered so close I thought she might crash into us. The vessels would collide or capsize, for we could not control them. Our boats jounced like kernels in a mill. Our decks awash, our crates lurching, we rose yet higher. Everything we had not tied down went flying.
Salt water stung my eyes, and yet I saw the wind drive off our sister boat. Borne up by a new wave, she rose and tilted until I feared she would be lost. She leaned and almost fell. She leaned again—and then she flipped, capsizing into the roiling sea.
We cried into the wind, but there was nothing we could do to save our fellows, for we rode a wild wave of our own.
I had not breath to pray. I could only hold my rope as wind flung me to the deck. The trough below was deeper than any I had seen. How could we survive the fall? Surely we would splinter on the sea. But our boat did not break, nor did she capsize. I do not know how or why—but we fell upright instead.
The wind did not relent, and once again, we rose upon the waves. I could not stand but knelt, holding my rope, while all around me, fishermen held ropes as well. I could see their eyes white in the dark, and in our separate languages, we cried out together. We begged for mercy and made confession to the wind. And still, we rose, and still, we fell. God blasted and rebuked us; he laid bare the foundations of the earth, just as the Psalmist said.
I do not know how long we endured. I could not tell in that dark storm if it was night or day—but gradually, the great swells eased. The wind relented so that we rose and fell on hills instead of mountains. The restless sea subsided, and the rain lightened.
Where did the storm’s power go? How did the wind blow itself out? Shivering wet, we scanned the sea for wreckage but saw no fragment of mast or hull. Not a scrap of our sister boat or anyone on board. No hat, no shirt. The storm had swallowed all our fellows, even Ion, who could swim.
In sorrow, I gazed upon the empty water, but now, alarmed, I saw that Aznar would speak to me.
I feared he would rebuke me because I was a woman and my prayers were weak. I imagined he would punish me or even cast me into the sea for bringing him bad luck, but in this case, superstition ran the other way. Mikel translated Aznar’s words. “Your prayers saved us from a certain death.”
And I did not know what to say to this. I had no such power—but I could not contradict the captain. The best course, I thought, was silence, and so, without a word, I helped to set the boat to rights and joined the men in bailing water.
Wind and sea had taken all cargo we had not secured. Half the catch was gone, along with weapons and nets. I glanced at my hand, and I still wore Claire’s gold ring. I felt in my pocket and touched coins, pearls, necklace, and claw—but the storm had swept away the Virgin’s picture, and the rosary, New Testament, and Psalms .
Where were my books drifting? I imagined pages opening, fanning out under the sea. Where was the Virgin floating? Did she lie upon her back? Did she turn her eyes up to the sun? Her colors would fade. Seawater would wash her face away. I thought of this, but I did not feel the loss. Not after six men had drowned.
I tried to find some purpose in the storm, but I found none. Nor could I fathom the bright day afterward. The sky was clear, the water calm. It was as if the tempest had never happened, and our second boat had never sailed—yet we had lost her with all hands.
When night came, Aznar spoke to his companions. Mikel did not interpret, but I understood by the captain’s face and hands that the storm had driven us off course so that we must find our way again.
Weary, battered, sorrowful, Aznar and his five remaining men debated what to do. They argued and rebuked each other. Their voices rose, and they began to shout. Benat stood, Julen sprang up, opposing him, and suddenly they were at each other’s throats. Aznar tried to separate them, but they shook him off, and now Mikel joined in the melee.
“Stop!” I cried, and then I warned, although only Mikel understood, “You will fall overboard and drown.”
They did not stop but brawled until Aznar pulled them apart. Brandishing his knife, he chastised the combatants—and while they might have turned against the captain, they did not. Instead, they backed off, glaring, ready once again to pounce.
Now we floated in the calm and each man stood or sat alone. The fishermen did not look at each other. They did not look at anything.
Mistrusting this quiet, I feared the men would fight again. Each was necessary. I wanted to say this. If you destroy each other, we will lose our way and starve and drown. But what would such a speech achieve? They would only scorn me. Instead, I tried to be the anchoress they thought they had discovered. I stood and said, “We should pray for those now gone.”
Mikel translated, and Aznar gave his assent.
Then I knelt with the men and said the prayer for the dead. Some were silent, but some recited with me in our common language. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them… Gradually these words calmed the fishermen. Solemnly, they took up their work, and by morning, when the wind was brisk, we sailed toward the rising sun.
—
We skimmed the water faster than we had before. The wind, which had destroyed our sister ship, now blessed us with uncanny speed, and all that day, strange creatures accompanied us. Julen saw them first. Sleek gray fish jumping in the waves. Their noses were long, their tails curved. Each had a fin upon his back and two smaller ones like little wings. These were what the men called porpoises. They leapt from the sea and dove to leap again. Ten or more surrounded us, but they were not a danger. On the contrary, the men said they were a sign of favor. Some suggested we kill one to eat, but Aznar said no. That would be bad luck. This was his decree, and the men listened.
Freely, then, the gray fish accompanied us, and I marveled at their speed and joy. As long as the wind held, these porpoises were our jesters and dancers, our honor guard and livery. They lightened our hearts because they jumped for no reason but to play. The porpoises delighted in us when we skimmed the water at full sail, but the winds were fickle, and as our progress slowed, these fish left us behind.
—
For two long weeks, we sailed alone. The men no longer jumped into the waves or laughed or shouted merrily. Their comrades had drowned, and half their catch was lost; they knew this expedition would not profit them, so they worked quietly. Our days were hot, and our nights lit with brilliant stars. I looked up at them from my place in the bow, and thought of Auguste and our whispered conversations, how he said, I believe in symmetry.
One morning we saw black specks in the sky. We knew that these were birds, and eagerly we watched the horizon, but we saw no sign of land.
We sailed on, and each man hoped to be the first to see the shore, but after five days, no land appeared. I began to doubt we had ever seen dark wings above when we heard Aznar cry out. We rushed to look—and he was pointing to another ship, a vessel much larger than our own. We sailed closer, and when we reached her, we discovered she was Basque as well. Her men hallooed and rowed their captain over in a boat.
This captain was small and weathered as the trees upon my island, but he was nimble as he boarded us. His name was Barthold, and he explained that he and his men had been out whaling. Mikel told me this. With their ship’s boat, Barthold’s men had hunted three great whales and slain one, piercing its thick flesh and staining the sea red.
I remembered the black whale, long as my guardian’s ship. Our terror at the tail spreading wide as a house. Strange to think of this old captain and his men slaying such a monster. And yet Mikel told me the whalers had extracted oil, teeth, and ambergris from their great prey to bring to France.
Now Aznar spoke and gestured to the skies. He told of our storm and pointed to me. Hearing Aznar’s tale, Barthold touched our boat as a relic and looked at me with curiosity.
“Are you indeed religious?” he asked in perfect French.
Startled, I nodded my assent.
“And did you really live upon an island?”
Again, I nodded.
He smiled. “And there you took a vow of silence?”
“No,” I whispered, but, in truth, I felt exposed, conversing with one who understood me fully.
“How did you come to such a place?” the whaling captain asked.
“I was left—but it pleased the Lord to let me live—and after two years, he sent these men to rescue me.”
“And now you bring them luck.”
“Not at all,” I told him truly.
“You do,” Barthold said. “Because you have brought them all the way across the sea.” And, turning to our men, he spoke to them in their own language, and they began to cheer and stamp.
“What did he say?” I asked Mikel.
Jubilant, Mikel answered, “We may follow them to La Rochelle. He reckons we are just three days from land.”