Chapter 11
The world had gone silent.
Standing on the shore of a lonely beach in the midst of a cold and stormy Washington summer, Bella stared, eyes fixed on the distant, turbulent horizon. The ground beneath her was cold and wet, and water— salty, icy seawater— seeped through her skirt as the waves lapped the shore. The chill on her back was piercing, driving through her like a knife, yet it was a welcome sting, despite the ache it left in her bones. That pain spoke of home, and of countless days spent just like this, among the rocks and driftwood while she watched the waves, and the surf, and the ebbing and flowing tides. It spoke of rain, pelting down in sheets as if the skies themselves had opened up in grief, and of storms, with lightning as bright as sunshine and thunder as loud as a thousand sprinting horses. It spoke of family— of that luscious, impending warmth that always met her at the back door of her uncle's house— and of love, which burned hotter and fiercer than any hearth ever could.
Bella fisted her hands in the sand, though she knew it to be nothing but the ghost of a memory, and clenched her eyes shut, wishing that she could be, by sheer force of will, back on First Beach, with her family, and her friends, and her home.
But she knew, even as she squirmed uncomfortably beneath the blankets and furs piled at her feet, that such things were not possible.
She was not home. She was not cold. She was not with her uncle, or her friends, or her family, but rather here, in this strange land, where no one spoke her language, and where she was so, so weak.
The cold Pacific sand disappeared the moment she opened her eyes and she blinked, wakeful and restless, against the burgeoning light of the early morning sun. She could see the first orange rays peeking through the thin line of clouds above the distant trees outside the windows, and as she watched, torn between wonder and despair, the shadows stretched and grew, and light crept across the floor.
She laid there, still and silent, until the sun hit her face, and she was forced, eyes streaming, to turn away.
The room was empty. Sitting up carefully in the bed— the strange doctor had allowed her that much freedom— Bella peeled the cotton sheet away from her legs and squirmed, stiff and sore, until her back rested against the ornate headboard at the head of the bed. Thick and squishy pillows cushioned her back against the sharp edges of the carved wood. Her hair, tousled from sleep, hung in her face like a scraggly curtain and she used her good hand to tuck it clumsily behind her ears. The motion was awkward and laborious, and it spoke volumes of her fierce and persistent frailty.
Bella hated that she felt so winded.
Relishing these last few moments to herself, Bella sighed, closing her eyes as the sun rose even higher, crossing first her lips, and then her nose and cheeks. She knew that she did not have long— once the wall of sunshine reached the top of the headboard, the child would return, and Bella would be subjected to all manner of fussing and prodding. If she was particularly unlucky, the medicine man would show up with tinctures and salves for her to drink and slather on her injured and useless body. Sometimes, the child stayed for hours, chattering uselessly at her with such bright and hopeful eyes, as if she half-expected Bella to burst into delighted response in that same, strange tongue. Sometimes she brought a woman with her— a woman Bella had come to recognize as the healer's wife, who doted on Bella as if she were her own little child. This woman petted her, and sang to her, and tucked her into bed as if she were a toddler, rather than a woman, and Bella, confused though she was, tolerated it with grudging acceptance. She supposed it was good of the woman to show such care and though Bella did not know why she did, she was grateful, as she knew that there was very little she could do on her own.
The boy had not returned.
Four days since her collapse on the bedroom floor, and Bella had yet to see so much as a hair from the boy, whose eyes had brought back such horrid, terrifying memories. The very thought of them made her tremble. Her memory of the plane— for she was sure, now, that that's what it was— was branded on her brain in fire and smoke, and when she closed her eyes, she could still see it. The bruise around her middle from the lap belt, still brown and tender, told her just how hard the impact had been. The constant ache in her head, which the healer could not ease, reminded her of that final, punishing blow— though what had caused it, Bella could not recall. It had stopped bleeding some time ago, but even now, when Bella brought a hand to her head, she felt its sting. Her arm, still wrapped in its splint, was far less colourful than it had been the day she'd woken, but it still smarted and pulled when she tried to flex her fingers beneath the bandages. Most of these injuries had been inventoried over and over by both Bella and the healer, and though Bella had tried to ask him questions, the language barrier had proven a fierce and able adversary.
The full face of the sun— white hot and blazing— glowed through the eastern window and Bella, her face turned away, heard a soft shuffling outside the door.
Words, low and soft, were exchanged between the mysterious, armed watchman who held vigil outside her rooms and a visitor— no doubt the healer, or the girl, or the woman. Bella blushed when she thought of the man outside— the strong, silent sentry who stood guard outside her door— embarrassed by the way she had nearly wet herself with fright at the very sight of him. Bella was still not comfortable with the sword at his waist— she had seen it a number of times, glinting and shining in the light from the small window on the landing outside the antechamber— but she had come to understand that he meant her no harm. In fact, though he said nothing at all to her, he seemed kind. He checked on her each morning and afternoon, crossing through the antechamber to peek his head inside the bedroom and give her an affirming nod, which he would wait for her to return before he slipped back to his post outside the door. Each time he left her, he gave her a low, deep bow— something with which Bella was not entirely comfortable, but which she did not have the energy or power to protest.
If truth be told, Bella had begun to suspect that he was there for her safety, rather than her confinement. She had no idea why he stood there, day after day, nor who had set him such a tedious task, but when she sat alone in the bedroom, staring into the empty silence, she was glad to know that he was there, even if he could not speak to her.
The voices outside grew louder and Bella, heaving a great sigh, swung her legs laboriously over the edge of the bed. She did not bother to right the blankets— she was decent, covered as she was by the long, brown dress, and she was so far beyond caring about her unkempt hair in the presence of any of her visitors. The first time the healer had examined her in full, waking consciousness, Bella had been mortified. She had not showered or brushed her teeth in ages, and even though she had done nothing but lay, useless and weak, in her bed, she felt so grimy that her face had glowed red when the man had put his hands on her.
But her hygiene— or lack thereof— did not seem to bother him and he focused, serious and concentrated, on her laundry list of complaints. She could not voice them to him— not in any way he might understand— but he seemed to know them nonetheless, always checking her head, her ribs, and her arm before he moved on to smaller, less troublesome injuries.
Careful, and always mindful of the low rumble from the antechamber, Bella rose on shaky legs to stand, stretching as best she could in the fresh air by the window. As much as it frightened her, she was not impervious to the beauty of this strange place, and she took a moment to admire the dawning jungle in the distance before she turned, her hand poised on the table for balance, and lowered herself onto a high-seated wooden chair. The doctor would not be pleased to see her out of bed alone— both he and the woman grew agitated whenever they caught her at it— but Bella was determined. She could not stay abed for the rest of her life, and the longer she lingered, weak and useless, the longer it would be before she could leave this room and find her way home.
For she knew— as surely as she knew her own name— that she had to find her way home. All she had to do was get back on her feet, and then she could find the water, and maybe a boat, or a phone…
The breeze was still cool and it washed over her face like a gentle, constant wave until there was a knock at the door, and Bella turned around to face it. She smoothed her skirt and ran a careful hand down her hair, but before she could so much as utter an invitation, the latch was pulled, and the great, golden hinges swung inwards. The door fell open with the lightest squeak to reveal a figure on the threshold, and to Bella's astonishment, she saw neither the girl, nor the boy, nor the woman, nor the healer.
This time, it was a man.
A strange, young, and handsome man.
Arms laden with baskets and bags, the figure stood motionless in the doorway. He was tall— Bella was sure that if he stretched, he would be able to grip the upper ledge of the doorframe some eight feet off the ground— and strong. He had a swimmer's build— slim, yet solid, with broad shoulders and long arms. Bella noted the sword at his waist, its blade longer and its handle more ornate than the one belonging to the soldier outside the door, and she forced herself into calmness, lest she make a fool of herself again as she had done the last time. He was clothed strangely, like many of the locals seemed to be, in a plain, old-fashioned tunic made from cream-coloured cotton, with drawstrings at the neck, a loose hem, and tight cuffs at his wrists. His pants were baggy— they hung loosely from his hips, held in place by the same belt upon which the sword was strapped, and he had them folded over at the ankles to fit into the tops of his boots. He watched her with eyes of forest green as she surveyed him, and when Bella realized just how intently she was staring, she felt her pale face flush pink with mortification. Her new complexion earned her a smothered, crooked grin from the stranger, and the slightest hint of breathy laughter. When he turned his head, Bella saw a knot of brown, almost red, hair, tied back with a length of cord that might have been made from brown leather.
He said nothing to her as he took another step inside, shifting awkwardly with his loaded bundles. He watched her for a moment, as if assessing her, and, deciding that there was no reason to stall, he walked up beside her and knelt, unperturbed by her silence, to place the mystery parcels at her feet.
"Por vi," he said. "Donacoj de mia popolo."
"I'm sorry," she said carefully, biting her lip when the man bent down near her. He began to rifle through a burlap sack. "I don't understand."
He gave her a small "hmm", and continued his search.
"I don't know what language you speak," she tried. "I…"
"Mi bedaŭras."
Bella sighed, and his eyes snapped to attention. He watched her with such intensity that Bella felt distinctly awkward, and though he seemed to sense her sudden discomfort, he did not back away.
Instead, as if in offerance, he placed a large, round fruit in her palm, his hands curling around hers in a loose grip when she did not immediately clasp it.
Glancing down, Bella barked a short, humourless laugh.
"A peach?" she asked, bringing the fragrant, orange orb to her nose. It smelled exactly how Bella knew it would— sweet, juicy, and with a hint of earth and soil that was the hallmark of all fruits. The smell made her mouth water— the only food she'd been allowed since waking had been a thin, meager gruel produced from oats and boiled water, prepared by the healer and spoon-fed to her by the girl-child who frequented the room. Bella could not honestly say that she'd had much appetite, but the smell of that peach ignited a deep and grating hunger that announced itself with a snarl in her stomach.
This reaction seemed to delight the man and he smiled— a full, radiant smile— as he reached into the bag for a second time. He pulled out a second fruit, nearly identical to the first, and, producing a knife from his waistband that Bella had not noticed, he made quick work of it. He cut off a piece, his knife slicing through the soft flesh with ease, and offered it to her on the tip of his blade. Bella, flushing red at this new development, took a hesitant, careful bite when he brought it to her lips.
It erupted like a starburst on her tongue. Sweet, and tangy, and oh so juicy, the peach was like manna in her mouth. Never in her life had she tasted anything so sweet, and the minute she'd swallowed it down, the man had another, thicker slice waiting.
Bella ate it, too.
"Thank you," she said, remembering her manners once the second bite had been swallowed. "Do you grow them here?"
The man, staring blankly at her, peered down speculatively at the fruit, before he spoke.
"Persiko," he said.
"Persiko?" The word felt foreign on her tongue. "What's persiko?"
He grinned at her and nodded, tapping the fruit with the dull edge of his blade.
"Persiko," he repeated. He offered her another slice. "Persiko..."
Bella went to take a bite but the man, his eyes alight with sudden mischief, withheld it with a tut.
"Persiko," he repeated.
Bella glanced down at the fruit.
"Is that your word for peach?"
"Persiko."
"Persiko," she repeated again, and at once, he offered her the slice. Laughing at this bizarre game, Bella swallowed it down. The word was a strange one, and not one that was very useful for conversation, but she realized with a start that the man had actually taught her something. He seemed to realize it too, as the moment the last bite passed her lips, he laid the peach aside on the trestle table and dove, elbow-deep, into a different basket, emerging with his hand around a ripe, almost black avocado.
When Bella said the English word out loud the man stopped and stared at her, his head cocked.
"Avokado?"
Bella chuckled.
"Avocado," she agreed. He scooped her out a mouthful, grinning like a fool.
He made her say it again for a second taste.
By the time Bella was sated, her stomach full to bursting, she had learned five new words for five different fruits. Along with peach and avocado, Bella had learned the words for banana, mango, and cherry. Each one of the fruits had been like heaven— she had not realized how much she had missed real food during her internment in this bed, and the man seemed only too happy to feed her.
It was only when she refused the last half of a mango, which the man had polished off himself, that the stranger sat back on the floor before her, his legs crossed and his fingers tapping the wood.
"Ili pensas vi estas diino," he said quietly, and Bella sighed. "Ili pensas ke vi estas dia."
"I don't know what you're saying," Bella sighed, and the man frowned. "I don't know your words."
The man heaved a sigh and bowed his head.
"Kie estas via hejmo? Kie estas via familio?" he said gently, and at once, the bubble of ease and joy he had so miraculously created, popped.
She recognized only one word— familio.
The sweetness of that peach died on her tongue, fizzling like a lazy, spiralling firework plunging headlong into the water, where it was extinguished with a crackle and a hiss. The laughter that had so pleased the man went with it, and Bella sat, throat thick with sudden emotion, with that one, lonely word ringing through her ears.
"Familio," she repeated, and the man perked up. "I need to go home."
The man gave her a careful, gentle nod, and though some part of her wanted to leap up with excitement, she knew that he did not understand. His easy agreement meant nothing— he could not know what she had said, for he could not speak her language. No matter how many times she repeated herself, or how many ways she tried to make him understand, she knew that there was nothing to be done— she was stranded here, in more ways than one, and never had she felt more alone in all her life as she did when she realized this truth.
Being stuck was one thing, but being stranded, alone and injured, in a place where she could speak, but not be heard, was a different kind of torture altogether.
And Bella knew— as surely as she knew herself— that this stranger, kind though he was, would never understand.
When they came, sneaking up like an angry, summer storm, the man saw her tears and sighed, any remnants of his playful smile vanishing like smoke. Though he did not say anything, he watched her with an unfathomable expression on his face that said more to her than his words ever could. Bella saw sadness there— a deep, aching melancholy that went far beyond her own, humble tears— and pity. Pity for the hungry, skinny, injured girl high up in this tower room, and pity for her heart, which smarted and throbbed like an open, festering wound. The ache for family, which had been pulsing within her ever since she'd awoken, grew exponentially larger as she dabbed uselessly at her face, and though the man rested a large, hot, and gentle hand on her knee in feeble comfort, her tears continued to fall.
"Mi bedaŭras," said the man, downcast and solemn. Those green eyes bore into her and Bella, sniffling quietly, accepted the handkerchief he offered her from the basket at his knee.
"Mi bedaŭras, dolĉulino."
"Please…" She fought to get ahold of herself. "Please."
The man stared avidly at her, his eyes tracing her lips in an effort to make sense of her words. She knew he did not understand when he continued to watch her, gears turning frantically in his head as she continued to speak, but she could not stop herself.
"Please," she said. "Please… I need to go home. Please. Tell me how to get home."
But the man simply stared at her, a furrow between his brows, while Bella sat unanswered, another little piece of her heart falling away at her feet.
Translations
Por vi. Donacoj de mia popolo.
For you. Gifts from my people
Mi bedaŭras.
I'm sorry.
Persiko
Peach
Ili pensas vi estas diino. Ili pensas ke vi estas dia.
They think you are a goddess. They think you are divine.
Kie estas via hejmo? Kie estas via familio?
Where is your home? Where is your family?
Mi bedaŭras, dolĉulino.
I'm sorry, sweetheart.