The Devil on Her Tongue (23 page)

T
he sun went behind clouds and then burst forth, and eventually hid itself again as we made our way towards Madeira. Distant misty mountains peeped through the cloud caps, and as we sailed through the vapour, the phantom greyness became living colour. As my island had been barren and golden, this one was lush and green. I could make out the tiny dots of villages nestling in the valleys scoring the mountainsides.

Flying fish leapt alongside us, and shearwaters skimmed the surface of the water as the ship slowed and came into Funchal Bay. I hung on to the side as our packet tossed in the choppy water of the wide bay with its many anchored ships. I wasn’t prepared for the size of Funchal Town, the glimmering whiteness of it as it lay at the bottom of verdant hills.

“It’s like a giant amphitheatre,” Bonifacio said, speaking loudly to be heard over the rough waves beating against our boat. I looked over my shoulder at him. “You see how the slopes rise up all around the town, framing it? There’s no flat land on Madeira, and so all the planting is done on the
poios
,” he said, pointing to the cultivated terraces I could see to the west. “The slopes are reminiscent of viewing galleries, and the town below a stage.”

I had never heard of an amphitheatre, or seen a stage. I was determined, in that moment, never to indicate all that I didn’t know. I would remain silent, and watch and listen.

“And there is Fortaleza do Pico, the fort, high, up there.” He pointed over my head at a huge grey building that looked like the image of a castle I had read about in one of my books.

There was a maze of streets with white-walled houses leading straight uphill. “Where’s the wharf?” I asked, seeing only a beach covered with large stones, the hard surf crashing upon it. I could make out women bending to beat bright splashes of cloth against the stones, but we were too far from shore to hear anything other than the waves.

“There isn’t one. Too many rocks lie under the surface close to shore. We’ll anchor here in the bay, and be transported to land by a smaller boat.” Two skiffs bobbed a safe distance from us, and almost as soon as he had spoken, there was a great grinding as the anchor was lowered.

The cargo and the protesting, struggling goats were lowered over the side into one of the skiffs. After Bonifacio threw his bag and my belongings to the waiting hands of a sailor, we climbed down the rope ladder into the other skiff. As we were rowed closer to shore, the sailor carefully avoiding the stone breakers, the sounds of the town grew overwhelming. Dogs barked and cocks crowed amidst the cries of children and the slapping of the women’s washing, all against the backdrop of the waves hitting the rocky shore.

When it was impossible for the sailor to row any farther, a snaking line of half-dressed, black-skinned men waded into the water and hauled our flat-bottomed skiff to shore with a rope as thick as my arm.

As we started up a rough set of stones leading from the beach to the town, I stumbled more than once in my loose shoes.

Ahead were buildings of white stone taller than I had ever known, their roofs red slate. We passed shouting vendors selling vegetables and fruit, fish and grains. As well as Portuguese, a number of English, both soldiers and well-dressed men and women, strolled the esplanade that ran along the seafront.

An older woman came towards us, her head wrapped in a twisted strip of sweat-stained cloth. On a second coiled strip of cloth sat a basket heaped with jagged pieces of red stone. She walked tall and straight, one hand steadying the basket on her head. Her face had markings—feathered lines interspersed with what looked like tiny spear-heads on her forehead and running down between her eyebrows, and small crosses on her cheekbones.

“That woman, Bonifacio,” I said, pulling on his arm. “Just there, with the basket on her head. What is she?”

“She’s a slave,” he said. “There are many like her on Madeira.”

“Why is her face marked like that?”

“She’s from North Africa. The marks are a pagan practice.”

I wondered what he would think if he knew about the marks on my back.

“Diamantina,” Bonifacio said, his gaze fixed on my head. He took off my coronet and handed it to me. “You must attempt to fit in on Madeira. It’s too late to start the journey home, so we’ll stay the night here. There’s an inn just ahead.” He adjusted my bulging shawl over his shoulder.

“Home? But … don’t you live here, in Funchal Town?”

He looked at me. “I didn’t tell you I lived in Funchal. My home is in Curral das Freiras.”

“I heard Father da Chagos speak that name. But where is it?”

“In the mountains.”

I drew in a quick breath and caught his arm. “How far is it from Funchal?”

“About three leagues.”

“That’s not so far.” I was relieved. Surely we would still be in sight of the ocean and the tall ships in the harbour, some on their way to Brazil.

“No—not so far—but it’s difficult to reach. If we set out tomorrow morning, it will take us until late afternoon—a full day of walking. The valley is isolated, and the trails along the cliffs are narrow and dangerous.”

The fleeting relief fled. A full day of hard walking from Funchal. A valley, surrounded by the mountains. I would not be able to see the water. “I thought you lived in Funchal,” I said, my tone accusatory.

He simply looked at me, turned and walked on.

I followed, blisters growing on my heels as I struggled on the streets of slippery cobbles. Clutching my crown to my chest, I tried to push down the overwhelming dismay at learning that I would not be living here, close to the ocean.

The inn was small and clean. Bonifacio led me to a tiny room under the eaves, the window looking down into the street three levels below. Although I had climbed the hills and cliffs of Porto Santo all my life, I had never climbed steps before. I took off the shoes I had grown to hate as I followed him up the tight stairway, adjusting each of my steps to the even height of the stairs. In the room was a single narrow bed, a candle and flint on the windowsill, a small table with a jug of water and a basin, and a ceramic pot behind a low screen.

“I trust you will be comfortable here,” he said. “I’ll be in the next room, through there.” He pointed to a door that connected the two rooms. “I have business to attend to. I’ll come back to the inn later,” he said, standing in the doorway. “Stay here, please. You’re not ready to go out on the streets.” I didn’t know whether he was referring to my newness to Funchal or my appearance.

Once he left, I went to the window and leaned out, gripping the sill, delighting in the dizziness I felt as I watched the busy street below. In the window across from me was an old woman with a dark moustache and heavy brows that met over the bridge of her nose. She stared at me with open suspicion. I stared back until she closed her shutters with a slam.

I stayed there a bit longer, looking down at the tops of the heads of the people and the backs of the animals on the street below. The loudness of the city was astounding.

I didn’t want to stay in my room, even though Bonifacio had told me I must. I would just walk up and down the street right outside the inn. I went to the door and turned the handle. It was locked. I rattled it. Then I went to the connecting door and tried that. It was locked as well.

I had never been locked inside a room before, and it filled me with some unknown dread. I ran to the window and leaned out,
breathing deeply. My head hurt, and the room rocked as if I were still at sea. I needed to get outside. I fruitlessly tried the doors again, then sat on the bed and covered my ears with my hands, closing my eyes and humming, trying to find calm within myself.

I didn’t hear Bonifacio unlocking the door, and jumped when he said my name.

I stood, relieved that the floor was now steady under my feet. “Why did you lock me in?”

“I’ve brought you some dinner,” he said, setting a covered plate on the table. “And then you should sleep. We start early tomorrow.”

“Why did you lock me in?” I repeated. “There was no need for that.”

“You will have new boots tomorrow.”

I looked at the old shoes, on their sides near the bed. “Will we come regularly to Funchal?”

“I’ve seen the difficulty you have walking. I’ll buy you the boots women of the mountains need. I’ll knock on the door in the morning, and when you’re ready, we’ll leave Funchal. Good night.” It seemed he wouldn’t answer any of my questions.

As he started to shut the door, I said, my voice too loud across the small room, “Don’t lock it.”

He looked back at me. “It’s for your own safety.” He shut the door firmly, and I heard the click of the key in the lock.

I ate the food. The bread was far from as light and flavourful as Sister Amélia’s, and the tepid, overcooked slab of white fish full of bones. There was a pile of green, bitter vegetables I didn’t recognize and didn’t particularly like, but ate anyway. When I had finished, the light in the room was fading, and the sounds on the street below lessening. Men were lighting torches attached to the walls of buildings. I walked around the room four times, stopping each time I passed the window.

I looked at the connecting door, and then put my ear to it. I could make out a stealthy, rhythmic slapping, accompanied by whispers.
I pressed my ear closer, remembering Bonifacio pounding his own forehead in church. But this sound was different. It was a strap against bare skin.

“Please, Heavenly Father, let vice and concupiscence die out within my flesh,” he now murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. “I strive to be holy and chaste. Please, Heavenly Father, wash away my sinful thoughts.”

The slapping came faster, and I stood as if frozen, listening until it finally stopped. Then came the more mundane noises of pouring water and the closing of shutters. I went to the window once more, looking at the street lit by flaming torches.

After a time, I sat on the bed, longing for the familiar comfort of my own pallet in the hut that no longer existed.

I
was standing at the window when Bonifacio knocked the next morning.

“I’m ready,” I called, and he unlocked the connecting door.

He wore a set of wide linen breeches, a rough baize shirt and boots of cowhide. He looked more a simple man of the land than the dignified gentleman I had married in Vila Baleira.

All traces of yesterday’s colour were washed from my eyelids, and my scent was no longer rosemary, but that of the lye soap sitting beside the wash bowl. My crown of shells and my mother’s necklaces were packed away.

“Cover your hair,” he said, and I waited, for perhaps an instant too long, before I pulled my shawl up from my shoulders to drape over my head. I was barefoot. I had left the dreadful shoes under the bed.

He nodded, and I knew that apart from the colour of my eyes and my gutting knife hidden in my waistband, I would pass as an obedient and pious Portuguese country wife.