Isola

by Allegra Goodman

But I had come to fear approval as much as anger. Gentle or berating, kind or cruel, in all his moods he exercised his power over me.

Don’t you think him handsome? Alys had asked. And I had answered that I did not think of him at all. Of course, I had not considered him, but that was when I walked upon the ground. I was unmoored now, floating without a home or dowry or prospect of a family. In this place that was no place, I did think about the dark-eyed secretary. I believe in symmetry, he said. He was serious but young enough to look on the world hopefully. He was reserved but had risked speaking to me.

“Now I am refreshed,” said Damienne when we had done. And looking at her, I thought, Praying is refreshment when you toil. Kneeling feels better after long hours on your feet.

Had I once feared the blue-eyed birds? Had I avoided their sharp glances? I had lived a year upon the island, and in that time, I had lost and dared so much that I could face them without flinching.

I began to see the wisdom of Damienne’s busy hands. Working, I had little time to mourn—but in my dreams, I grieved. I dreamed Auguste was captured by birds, who feasted on his flesh. I tried to beat them off, but with their claws, they carried him away into the sky. Then I dreamed he was a bird. He spread his wings and I became a bird to follow him. We flew over the waves to search for our lost child. When I woke, I sat up, blinking. My heart ached, but I dressed in my worn clothes and stumbled out to fetch our water. Then I went to hunt the birds that preyed upon my lover. I went to kill the bird that I had been while sleeping.

I bowed my head because the world was stranger and more terrible than ever I’d imagined. The sea more mysterious—and I more blessed. How could I think otherwise? That I was blessed to witness such a thing. I did not deserve to see such beauty, and yet this wonder spread itself before me. And I felt God’s presence as I had never done in grief and anger; I knew it in my insignificance. I had given up, and yet God came to me in winter and in ice, in the hard world and in the night. I asked myself, How could it be? But I could not doubt what I was witnessing. I thought, Judge by what you hear. Judge by what you see. “Forgive me,” I called out, and I meant forgive my lack of faith, my anger, and my willfulness—but most of all, I begged forgiveness for hiding in my cave. Silently, I pleaded, Raise me. Bring me back. Gather me as the tide gathers shards of ice. This was my prayer. Not for rescue or escape, but for my soul, which had been sick. I gazed at waves rising and shattering, and this was my resolve—to remember myself as God remembered me.

“Those who know their faults are truly wise,” the Queen said. “And those who have endured the worst have most to teach. Do not say, then, that your story does not deserve retelling.