Ships Passing

Dark shadows and golden lamplight crept long into the dusty hall of the school. Isídora’s eyes never wandered from the list of numbers tucked inside her bible. She reran her calculations, over and over until she could barely even remember what the original problems had been.

The Beadle passed by a few times on his nightly scope. All the while, Isídora was there, tucked away under the cover of darkness. Her breathing went quiet as he did, though she barely noticed it. She would close her eyes as she heard him approaching, heavy footsteps on stone. And though he would most certainly be looking for someone like her, crouching in the shadows, awaiting forbidden knowledge, he never saw her. Not once.

Finally, immediately following the Beadle’s third and presumably final lap, the door at the end of the hallway opened and sighed as a scholarly hand closed it gently. A man in a long black robe appeared out of the shadows and greeted her with a silent wave.

Isídora smiled and stood. She bowed her head slightly and he returned her smile. He opened the door behind her and gestured for her to lead the way. She strode down the hallway and it was all she could do to stop herself from running down the silent midnight halls.

She stopped in front of an empty classroom as he reached for his key. Isídora tapped her hands at her side and picked at her thumb. She threw the door open the second she could hear the quiet click and poured herself into the classroom. There, she hopped with glee as she watched him examine the hallway and lock it behind them.

“Good evening Padre,” she practically exploded once it was closed.

“Good evening my dear,” he sighed with an indulging smile. “I take it you’re pleased with your answers?”

She took the yellow rag paper from its place in her bible and handed it to him. Isídora took a seat at the desk in the front row, leaving the rest of the desks empty behind her.

Padre Ignacio Echeverria picked his lenses from the desk and held them above his face as he read. Isídora stood and sped over to the barren shelves that lined the classroom. The Jesuit was used to her anxious scurrying by now, and kept his eyes on the answers she’d written in her neatest handwriting.

She collected three candles and a box of matches, lighting each candle and casting a few of the shadows from the dark room with the gentle flicker of firelight. She placed one candle at her desk and the other two on his.

Isídora sat back down so heavily that her candle nearly went out.

The Jesuit set his lenses back on the desk and peered over her as though she were a small insect. He had quite a flair for dramatics for a man of his reverence, so no one ever quite knew what he was thinking. She smiled again, and it coaxed a little break in his otherwise serious demeanor. A slight upward slope at the edge of his lips was enough to relax her entirely. Her shoulders fell and she leaned back into her seat.

“This is excellent,” he grinned at her. “Truly, it is,” but there was an air of consideration as he spoke. “God has clearly gifted you with arithmetic, mi niña.”

Isídora smiled. But she knew it was not God who had given her this gift. It was her mother, who had whispered the secrets of numbers and stars into her ear when she was little. She choked at the thought of her mother and pushed her memory a little further into the foggy recesses of her mind.

“Thank you Padre.”

But his face was sad and contemplative.

She tried to catch his eye but he did not look.

“What is wrong, Padre?” she asked.

He sighed and looked up. And what he did not tell Isídora then, but what he knew she would understand one day, is that the more her knowledge grew, the less of it she could share. Padre Ignacio Echeverria did not know how to tell his youngest and brightest student that for everything he gave her and claimed it to be a gift, he stole a little of her future and her safety.

The Jesuit put his hands together and whispered a prayer before he stood and took a piece of chalk to the board.

***

Blue waves swayed drunkenly and forced massive red ships into their gentle rhythm. A seagull picked at its wing and eyed the boy’s shiny red ring. But Álvaro’s eyes were not on the bird, and his mind was not on the sea. He sat perched on a rotting wooden dock, thinking of the monsters in the sea and watching as men in dusty blue clothes loaded and unloaded unlabeled containers of treasures from around the world. Occasionally, the warm summer breeze would bring him the smell of exotic spices or tarnished metal. But for the most part, Álvaro hoped it was gold they were carrying.

A man dressed in a red wine coat came into view at the top of the ship. Álvaro’s hand flew to the ring on his finger as if he feared the man could see it. He pictured the man marching up to him and demanding to see it, as if he might deem the boy unfit to wear the ring of a Captain.

Álvaro swallowed hard and his dark eyes ran back to the sea.

But it was too late. His mind was already running. The red coat, the captain’s hat, and the ring. He remembered the smell of the sea and spices on his father as he stepped through the door. Álvaro tried to steady his mind on that memory, but it ran too quickly. And staring at the nauseating sea only made it worse. Tears welled in his eyes and the sea grew blurry.

He blinked at the sky and the clouds. A bird flew overhead and he tried to watch where it flew. But the bird was gone within an instant and the world was slipping away from him and-

“Niño!” a voice like bile burned straight through his thoughts.

His back straightened, his hands flew to his side. A hot tear lingered on his cheek and he prayed his uncle wouldn’t see it. “Si, tío?”

“Are you deaf?” he asked.

Álvaro’s tired eyes dragged to look at the man. He wore a shirt that was stained and dusty and ripped so everyone in town could see his bulging muscles and big hairy belly. The boy’s eyes lingered in terror on the alcohol rash that ran down his neck. “No,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

The man’s eye twitched. “What was that?”

“No, señor,” Álvaro said with a mind that was blank and a voice that was clear.

“Why were you not at school today?” he asked, and Álvaro nearly convinced himself that his uncle asked out of concern.

He had run from Sor María today because she threatened to tie him to his chair until he focused on the numbers in front of him. Álvaro thought of the screaming nun as she ran after him and wondered how long it would be until his uncle discovered the truth.

Tio Don Romiro’s wide eyes stayed on the boy at the dock until he realized his mind had run off again. “Well all the better,” said the man. “Barman needs to be paid again.”

“Si, señor.”

***

Álvaro stepped through the doorway and onto the cracked terracotta tile. The walls were glossy enough to reflect the light of the lamps and were decorated with maps and paintings of far away places. José Barría, the owner, looked up from behind the bar and gave a friendly wave. He wore mostly orange and had the kind of presence that warmed the whole bar, even on the coldest nights. It was common around town to hear a local boasting about the man to the sailors, who would venture in for a taste of his pisco and a story, but they would stay into the latest hours of the night.

Álvaro smiled softly and slid behind the bar. Señor Barría followed him into the back.

“I’m sorry, it’s a big one today,” he frowned.

Álvaro had already suspected it would be.

“You can start with the glasses, then do the floors, then I will have to have you working in the kitchen until close.”

Señor Barría paused on his way out the door. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then shook his head and left Álvaro to pay for his uncle’s debt. What he might have said, had he been just a little bit closer with the boy, was that everything was going to be okay. And what might seem like a burden now might actually be God’s gift to him.

And while it was true that Álvaro would not have wanted to hear that at that particular moment, it was also true that the rumors of Don Romiro’s stash of wine stolen from a merchant ship were beginning to stack up as though there was some truth to it. So perhaps it was true.

***

Isídora’s eyes were heavy but an entire world spun behind them as she left out the backway of the church school. There was rustling in the bushes behind her, the sound of hastened footsteps, and someone threw their weight into hers.

She was not afraid because he chose the same hiding spot every day. “Hey,” he whispered. Álvaro beamed with excitement for her. “How was it this time?” he whispered, eyes surveying the road suspiciously.

A sense of pride flowed through the tired fog behind Isídora’s eyes. “It was wonderful.”

He laughed and remembered to stifle it about halfway through, glancing around the silent street. “You say that every time, Isa.”

“And it is true every time.”

Álvaro thought for a moment. He knew that whatever gift his little sister had was not one he possessed, though he wished he could love something like she did. The two agreed ages ago that there was no point in Isídora’s attempt at explaining because it left both of them feeling frustrated and stupid.

She wasn’t her mother, after all. No matter how they shared their gift.

Isídora shivered and changed the subject before he had the chance to. “How was your day today?” she asked.

His shoulders tensed. He would not tell her about the bar, and how he worked for hours there. It was an arrangement meant to be kept secret, though just about everyone in town that met their uncle met him a few hours later.

Álvaro thought of what to say, and how to avoid mentioning the dock, and how he ran from his lesson in mathematics. “Hermana Rosa read a story about El Tremarín today. About a merchant ship carrying stolen goods. She said he is God’s great sea guardian and he-”

“Those are only stories,” she said, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest.

“But she said he only attacks in the winter, Isa.”

“The sea has many storms in the winter, there’s no correlation-”

“I think he’s what took Papá.”

And there it was. The air felt thin once he said it. Neither of them said anything for a long time.

“The sea is dangerous, Alvi,” she whispered as a tear ran down her cheek. “It is dangerous enough without you running off and chasing monsters.”

Álvaro hoped his sister wouldn’t notice that he never responded. “I’m back at multiplying again.”

“I thought you were getting it last time.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I do, I get it. The numbers grow and I can see that, but they run away from me and then I don’t know.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You will get it,” she said with resolution.

But his mind, as Álvaro had understood instinctively his entire life, was not meant for letters and numbers like his sister’s was. “Why would a warrior need to know these things anyway?” he muttered to himself.