Chapter 22
Those who study such things say the youngest babies, when their eyes grow strong and adapt to the light and dark around them, are first able to see the color red.
Mira imagined her first discernible color must have been gold.
Not the brassy metal of dirty coins or shiny trinkets, but gold in its purest form, like the sun poured out liquid into a vessel of light.
Her earliest memory was sitting beneath her mother’s loom, streaks of sun filtering through the windows in the late afternoon.
She remembered the room filling with light as her mother’s fingers worked the loom, its huge rods moving up and down high above where Mira played on the juniper-planked floor.
She wasn’t old enough even to know what a loom was, of course, nor the bobbin that her mother passed back and forth in a rhythm that matched the beautiful song her voice and hands seemed to sing together.
And certainly, this was long before she knew anything about byssus and the threads that knotted one generation to the next.
Mira stared at the dust motes sparkling like fairies in the shafts of sun, rapt with wonder at the glow that reflected back from the cloth beneath her mother’s hands.
She reached up and tried to catch the color as it spun and twisted in the air.
Her mother’s hands stopped their constant motion for a moment, and she laughed.
Perhaps it was that rare and magical sound that cemented the scene so firmly in Mira’s memory, the briefest slice of time, like a photograph capturing the moment a bird rises from a branch in flight, the sense of her mother delighting in her.
Mira knew there was no photograph of that moment—how could there have been?
But she remembered it in sharp focus all the same, as if it had been framed in a gallery exhibit she’d visited many times.
Later, when she was a little older, Zaneta showed Mira a kaleidoscope of gold, subtle variations in the shade that few but Master painters might recognize.
Mira studied the painters, memorized their hues with names like Rubens’s lead-tin yellow, Cézanne’s Naples yellow, and Van Gogh’s sunflower-inspired chrome yellow.
She became familiar with gamboge, the Cambodian substance that produced such a luminous yellow it was almost fluorescent, and the canary-yellow orpiment so special it had been chosen to illuminate the Book of Kells and other medieval texts.
Mira learned, too, the value of such a palette on an apothecary’s shelf, gamboge being a powerful purgative and orpiment containing a deadly measure of arsenic.
Once, when Mira was seven, the whole family took the twelve-hour ferry ride to Roma, a sort of Italian pilgrimage every native-born child must make at some point.
Her brothers loved the Colosseum, the grand piazzas, and the Pantheon, anything larger than life and with plenty of space to run and tussle with each other.
Zaneta had led them, tight-lipped, through the Vatican and twenty or more Roman Catholic churches that began to blur together in an endless display of saints, paintings, tombs, and, of course gold.
So much gold and gilding that Mira became impervious to it, the lire scattered on the marbled floors in tribute to long-dead saints, the candelabras and crucifixes, the tiny crowns adorning statues in rows along the nave of every cathedral.
An odd outing for a coastal Jewish family.
On the return trip, Zaneta quietly quizzed Mira about what they’d seen. “What were the paintings framed with?”
“Gold,” Mira replied.
“And the crucifix in the nave?”
“Gold.”
“The candlesticks and inlay in the marble?”
“Gold.”
“Why do you think this is?” Zaneta asked.
“It’s beautiful?”
“Money,” Johann interjected, kicking his legs beneath the seat. “How many lire is all that worth?”
“Hush. I’m not asking you,” Zaneta admonished him. “Mira?”
“Money, too,” she guessed. “It shows the church is wealthy.”
“Don’t just parrot your brother’s answer, Mira.
Think for yourself.” Johann smirked at her from the ferry’s window seat, and not for the first time, Mira resented her gender.
Her mother only questioned her, peppered her with endless quizzes and history lessons.
Her brothers were free to mostly do as they pleased.
Was it because she was somehow deficient?
Needing more than what was taught at school?
Zaneta examined her hands, her nails rough and short.
“Gold has always been scarce.” Mira watched as the sun set over the sea, the seabirds silhouetted as they dipped and dove.
The water sparkled with the final rays of pink and white, and the glass-like waters darkened from turquoise to violet.
“The gold we saw on display in Roma was mined from the ground. Someone, somewhere, likely slaves or poor laborers, had to pry it from the earth’s clutches.
Because it’s rare—and because it glitters—it’s prized. ”
The rocking of the ferry and drone of its engine made Mira sleepy. “People are like ravens,” Mira mused, stifling a yawn. “Wanting shiny objects.”
“All that glitters is not gold, Mira.” Zaneta hummed to herself.
“The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it; the world and all who live in it.
” Her mother recited the psalm almost like a chant.
“Gold is in the earth for a reason. It’s rare.
It reflects light. It points people to what’s special, divine.
That’s why the churches use so much of it.
“It can also reveal our darker side: greed, envy, theft. I’ve told you the story of King Midas?
When his wish was granted and all he touched turned to gold, it meant he couldn’t eat or touch anyone he loved.
Gold shouldn’t be easy to grasp. It’s a gift we must labor for and one we shouldn’t covet or profit from. ”
“I wouldn’t want all that gold anyway,” Mira sniffed.
“Indeed.” Mira felt her mother’s gaze upon her like an eagle, appraising her. “When we get home,” she said. “We’ll begin your lessons.”
“More history?” Mira sighed, her eyes heavy.
“Much more than that,” Zaneta replied.
Before sunrise, Zaneta shook Mira awake while the rest of the household still slept. She rubbed her eyes in confusion but didn’t protest as she slipped into her dress and shoes, following her mother outside into the cool, still night.
“Where are we going?” she finally asked as she placed her feet in her mother’s footsteps, trying to see by the light of the moon.
“You’ll find out.”
Every few steps, her short legs had to trot to keep up with her mother’s brisk stride.
Zaneta didn’t look back to see if she was following or if she’d fallen behind.
Mira wasn’t afraid, even when a stray dog slunk behind them for a few yards, eyeing them for a scrap of food.
The small neighborhood and all the people in it were her home; nothing sinister lurked there, and even at her young age, she’d wandered with her brothers and sometimes alone by the shore and rocky inlets.
They passed a couple of sleepy fishing boats that bobbed and danced, tugging against their anchors like restless horses, their nets folded and traps stacked on their decks.
In the moonlight, their wooden sides and masts appeared gray, the color of dark slate, but Mira knew the sun would reveal the hulls’ bright hues of yellow, green, and blue.
Ropes slapped against the masts with a clank of metal like the clapper of a bell.
The tide whispered against the rocks as the sea crept inland, irresistibly drawn by the moon’s pull.
Mira, trotting to keep up, caught the haunting melody of the song her mother sang, carried on the salty breeze.
Finally, Zaneta slowed and glanced behind her, as if remembering for the first time she’d asked Mira to follow.
Together they rounded the inlet’s curve and came into a small cove, the rocks giving way to coarse sand that made walking more difficult.
When Zaneta removed her shoes, Mira copied her, and they continued on until they reached a natural quay, where Zaneta stopped and waded out into the sea.
The water was calm here, where they were sheltered from the wind.
The current gently tugged at the hem of her mother’s dress.
Was Mira supposed to wade in, too, or wait on the shore?
She chewed her thumbnail as she hesitated.
The light grew less dim. It was almost morning, and Mira would need to get ready for school soon.
She didn’t want to get in trouble with her teacher.
Worry twisted in her stomach. The barest beam of orange yellow haloed the tips of the islets that stood like sentries against the horizon.
Zaneta turned to Mira then and beckoned to her.
“Come out in the water,” she said, extending her hand.
Mira dropped her shoes and waded in. The water was cold at this early hour, and while her mother stood knee-deep, on Mira’s small frame it reached much higher.
She drew in a sharp breath when it slapped against her warm stomach, and she held her arms high, trying to stay dry.
Zaneta put one hand on Mira’s shoulder, and as the colors on the horizon brightened from amber to saffron, Zaneta began to sing.
It was more of a chant, really, and Mira tipped her chin up to look at her mother, strands of her dark hair lifted on the breeze, her eyes closed, and her right hand lifted to the rising sun.
This was so different from her usual brusque and dismissive manner that Mira wondered what had come over her, what magic had transformed her.
“I give my life to
“Being and weaving,” she sang.
“Gifts from the sea,
“Blown by the winds—
“Ponente, Levante, Mistral, and Grecale.
“As an offering to those
“Before and after.”
The first time through, Mira followed the Italian words easily, although the meaning and purpose of the song were unclear.
She recognized the second repetition in Hebrew as well, but the third language, although the melody was unchanged, she’d never heard before.
By the time Zaneta had sung it three times, the sun had risen, and she dropped her hands.
Mira blinked her eyes against the dazzling Mediterranean sun as it shone across the water.
The spell was broken. Mira wasn’t sure if she was supposed to say something, so she kept quiet.
They returned to the shore, where Mira shivered slightly and stole glances at her mother as she wrung seawater from her dress.
“So,” Zaneta spoke. It was a decree. “That’s how we will begin each day. Every day from the time I was seven, this is what I’ve done, and my mother and grandmother before me. And it’s what you will do, too. When the season is good, we’ll swim.”
“I’ve never seen you do . . . this before.”
“Because you were still sleeping, silly. And when you were a baby, your father looked after you until I returned.”
“But . . . but, why?”
“This is who we are, Mira. It’s what we do. It’s what your life will be about. Put your shoes on and I’ll tell you on the way home. I have to get breakfast, and you have school.”
Mira slipped her wet, sandy feet into her shoes, not even minding the way the grit rubbed between her toes. Something about sharing this moment, this task, with her mother made her brush the annoyance aside.
“Do Johann and Isaac know?” she puzzled. “But they’re still asleep.”
“This is only for women, figlia. It’s not a path for your brothers. We are water women.”
Mira brightened. “Like mermaids?”
“Hardly.” Zaneta had come back to herself again. There was the scornful glance Mira was used to. “Mermaids are fairy tales. The water women are as ancient as time. You and I will carry on the secrets of our craft as a sacred duty.”
Mira nodded, trying to sort all this into something that made sense as she picked her way among the rocks. Ancient women? She was a schoolgirl of seven, just mastering addition and making her way through chapter books. What kind of sacred duty could she have?
“You won’t understand it all at once. For now, each day starts this way.
We wake before sunrise, go to the westernmost point, and offer our prayer just as dawn breaks.
We greet the sea as it wakes, promising to protect and guard it and the treasures it offers.
We harvest the gift of its golden thread, and we weave it into beauty to offer back in return. ”
“The work you do on the loom? This is part of being a water woman?”
“Yes. And now you’ll learn as well. It’s more than simple weaving, though that’s hard enough.
You’ll have to work hard, memorize many things, and practice, practice, practice.
Even then, you may not master it. I’ll do what I can to show you, but in the end, it’s up to you.
” Zaneta sighed and brushed off a bit of sand that clung to Mira’s cheek.
Mira’s eyes shone up at her. Was she to be chosen, then, somehow, to carry on some important task?
Was she special after all? “Heaven help us,” Zaneta said. “Given what we have to work with.”