lying to monks, though oddly enough I felt guilty for not feeling guilty.
My favorite monk was silent as a tomb, but he didn’t ignore me; he took me along as he plucked sweet potatoes from the ground in the garden or as he painstakingly copied the Bible, letter by Latin letter. I had learned to read by then, but my letters were terrible. Prue had no patience for teaching me and she would bark corrections at my funny shaped words and tell me I was wasting paper. But this monk wrote every bit as slowly as I did! He took all day to copy one beautiful sentence. He would decorate each and every curlicue, every hole and every loop. When he saw my interest, he handed me my very own quill and ink and let me practice and copy what he wrote and drew. It entertained me for hours, working in silence side by side; the only noise the sounds of us both scratching on the parchment. Gradually, Prue got better and the monks tired of Dad’s constant sampling of their wines and we spoke of moving on, finding our own place to live until some fateful night when we would leave Spain altogether. I cried that last time I embraced my monk and he gifted me with the quill I favored. I had it sewn into my nightgown but eventually it broke, snapped in several places, and the feathers on top all but disintegrated into my hem.
I hear a rooster now, from a farmhouse that can’t be too far away. If only I could crow as loudly, maybe someone would hear me and come pounding up the stairs to my rescue. Instead the only pounding is that of my heart because I am still frightened of the laughter I had heard as the door locked last night. The rooster makes me wish for Prue’s rooster stew. I must be very hungry if I am salivating at the thought of that chewy, tough bird. She used to make rooster stew in Portugal. Henrique loved it. I didn’t, but I’d give anything for a big steaming bowl of it now.
“Father says we must be grateful for the way the Lord provides no matter what,” said Molly. The daughter of the missionary was my age, but far nicer and sweeter than I would ever be. She had seen me make grimaces at the stew and watched me pretend to gag and was hoping no doubt, not only to keep me from punishment from her father, but also from everlasting punishment from our heavenly Father. Molly was forever trying to save my soul for me since it was obvious I wasn’t putting in much effort myself.
“Yes, Molly.” I sighed. She was right, as usual. I forced some of the greasy, chewy lumps down my throat. Dad wordlessly passed me some fiery hot powder that was made from ground peppers that transforms the taste of everything; I dumped a liberal helping into my stew and could no longer taste anything as my tongue promptly felt as though it had burst into flames. Coughing and sputtering, I pushed back my chair from the table and reached for the water which was kept in a large basin in the kitchen. It was almost bone dry and so, still hacking and wheezing, my eyes watering, I rushed out the door and down to the river. I knelt down, my long skirts dragging in the mud, my hated corset making it difficult and painful to bend at the waist, and drank mouthful after mouthful of warm river water from my cupped hands. Finally I had to come up for air, pushing the wet, snake-like tendrils of my disheveled hair away from my face, and saw Henrique standing nearby, watching. Henrique was always watching and the thought of being alone with him always sent shivers up my spine. He was most likely harmless, but he was the sort who tortured insects and frogs and pulled apart worms with his teeth and all in all, was not someone I wanted to be left alone with at the side of a river with no witnesses.
“Drink?” I offered. Which was ridiculous because I didn’t have anything with which to give him a drink in besides my own hands, and that was certainly not a possibility.
“No, thank you.” He moved closer. I debated splashing mud in his eye and making a run for it. “You look nice today.”