Alma Alexander - The Embers of Heaven

Vien had offered up the child as she had been commanded, and Dan, holding her granddaughter in her arms after first wrapping her up in a scarlet birth-cloth taken from one of the many cedar chests in her house, had inspected the drowsing child’s features closely.

‘Her skin is too fair, and her eyes are too slanted, like a cat’s…Oh well, I suppose that can’t be helped, under the circumstances,’ Dan said critically. She sniffed, giving the impression that she was holding back from saying far worse. ‘Be that as it may. You will bring her to me every day. For an hour or so, while she is still in swaddling clothes. After…we will see.’

‘Whatever for, Mother?’ Vien said, looking startled and not a little trapped. Perhaps her mother-in-law’s words were coming back to echo in her mind.

‘So that I can start teaching her, of course,’ Dan replied, in a tone of voice that indicated Vien was simple-minded not to know this already. ‘She has unfortunate aspects to her lineage but she was born on an auspicious day. That means that her life will matter. She will be given in abundance, but whether joy or sorrow I cannot tell. It may matter how much she knows of her people and her past when the Gods come knocking at her door asking for her.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Elena had snapped when Vien, a little bewildered, returned to her husband’s house with her daughter in her arms. ‘The child is a helpless baby, not a scion of the Gods. What else did she have to say on the matter, your mother?’

‘She named her,’ Vien said. ‘The child’s name is Amais.’

‘That’s a mouthful,’ Elena said trenchantly.

‘It means “nightingale”,’ Vien added helpfully.

‘Ridiculous,’ Elena said.

But Nikos had, somewhat unexpectedly, taken Dan’s side and had overruled his mother.

‘This is all she has left,’ he told Vien in the darkness of their room at night, with the contested child sleeping the sleep of the innocent in the crib he had made for her with his own hands. ‘Let her have that much. Amais is a beautiful name, and it means a beautiful thing. We can give our daughter that gift.’

So Amais was taken dutifully to her maternal grandmother’s house every day. She seemed content to be there, perhaps lulled by her grandmother’s quiet, melodious lullabies, quite happy to kick her baby heels on the piles of cushions that Dan provided for her. Later, when she started to crawl and then to toddle, Dan placed no restrictions on her activities in the house, merely removing small grasping hands gently from draperies when they looked about ready to come down on the child in a heap. Amais grew up to the sound of her grandmother’s voice, first the songs and then the poetry that was read to her while she listened, rapt, not understanding half the words but happy to be in the circle of baya- Dan’s world. For a while she was too young to know how different her two worlds were, the world of twilight and old protocol where she was a sort of princess-heir wrapped in silks and scarlet, and the world of sunlight and sea where she ran gurgling with childish laughter from foam-tipped waves breaking from a sapphire-coloured sea as they lapped at her round heels.

Amais grew into a chubby, moon-faced toddler with round cheeks and what looked like far too much forehead. Dan had been right – Amais’s fair skin was scorched into angry red blotches if she did not protect it from the sun, and her eyes had not been of the degree of roundness required of a princess of the Imperial blood. But the eyes in question had quickly turned from the guileless blue of babyhood into an improbable shade of golden brown flecked with green, and her hair, the despair and secret pride of both grandmothers, was a serendipitous mix of Vien’s hip-length mane that fell thick and straight like a black waterfall and Nikos’s riotous curls, and framed Amais’s face in huge smooth waves.

On this, both grandmothers were in full agreement.

‘She is not pretty…’ Elena would say thoughtfully, looking on as the toddler laughed up at her father when Nikos would come home from a long day’s work and sweep his small daughter up in his arms.

‘…but one day she will be beautiful,’ Dan would say, across the island in her own exotic house, watching the same toddler explore the texture of some ancient brocade, apparently in completion of the same thought.

‘All I want her to be is happy,’ Vien would sigh to both women.

Elena would smile at that, and spill a reassuring fairytale of how it would be for Amais when she grew up and reached out to claim her place in the world. But Dan was both more pragmatic and more frightening in her response.

‘Beware of too much happiness,’ she had murmured, and had turned away for a moment as if the laughter of her daughter’s child had been a knife in her heart.

Vien was eight and a half months pregnant with her second child, heavy and graceless and swollen with a baby that could have been born at any minute, when Nikos’s boat went out one spring morning. The crew waved goodbye to such family as had gathered to see them off, as they had done hundreds of times before, and left together with a flotilla of other boats exactly the same as theirs, sailing off into the sweet newborn sunshine of a spring dawn glinting on the sapphire seas.

Seven-year-old Amais, who had woken early that morning from uneasy dreams, had been fretful and weepy, and Elena, in order to give heavily pregnant Vien some respite, had taken the child out to see her father off on his day’s fishing.

‘I will catch a mermaid for you, korimou, little darling!’ Nikos called to his daughter as the sea widened between them. ‘Now go home and be good for your mother!’

Amais had clung to that unlikely promise all day. When Elena readied herself to go to the wharf to meet the fishing boats at the end of the day, Amais insisted on going with her, wanting to be right there when her father brought the gift of that mermaid ashore for her.

One by one, the boats came back that night. All of them, except one.

Elena and Amais waited there as the other boats came in, exchanging smiles and the occasional word of congratulation or commiseration with the crews and their families as they straggled in and showed off their catch. But the sun rode lower and lower in the sky, and still Nikos’s boat had not come. Elena grew quieter and quieter, standing there carved like a statue, her eyes fixed on the horizon, her lips moving ever so slightly in what might have been prayer. She already wore the black kerchief of the widow, and was no stranger to sea death. Neither were the others, the family members of the rest of the men on the lost boat, who also waited there on the wharf. They all wore the same expression, which was essentially no expression at all – their faces were stony, as though they were already bracing themselves for the grief that was to come. Amais was too young to completely understand, but her grandmother’s hand on hers had turned into a cold and clutching claw made from marble, and the child’s own heart was beating very fast as the beautiful spring day drew to a close.

The sunset was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful that Amais could ever remember having seen. The sky was streaked with unlikely colours – something that resembled the rich red of the wine they made from the grapes grown on the hillside above the harbour, a deep violet-amethyst shade where the sky began to darken into twilight as the sun went down, and traces of dark gold…the exact shade that Amais had imagined of a mermaid’s hair. Someone, without speaking, without asking, lit a lantern and hung it on an iron hook set into the wharf – a makeshift lighthouse, calling them home, the lost ones, the ones that most of the people on that wharf already knew would not return.