Annarisse' Journal, part II

Well, things were starting to fall into place on board ship.

The Captain had agreed that his two adopted children should be taught to read, write and cipher, as befitted his heirs. She neglected to mention, of course, that she was using religious books to teach them and was instilling such notions as prayer and thanksgiving for their good fortune at the same time.

If she couldn't get to him through his own issues, she'd get to him through his children. In the end, St. Heloise would approve of the result, if not the means. She muttered a quick prayer for forgiveness for that less-than-pious thought. These pirates were starting to have a negative impact on her.

It was harder to get time for this with Rodrigo, because he had assumed the duties of a cabin boy. Rumour amongst the crew said that if this cabin boy were to end up dead like the last one, the Captain would see to it that the second mate died too - but very, very slowly. The sailors had embellished this rumour with more specific threats to the second mate, but Annarisse was quite sure the initial rumour was true. It sounded like the kind of threat Salvatore would make.

As a result of these "manly" duties, Rodrigo spent very little time with her, learning letters and religion. Malachae, however, was coming along well. It would not be long before she read better than her father. To be sure, that wouldn't be hard; Annarisse had taught him to read during the first leg of the voyage, and he had stopped coming for lessons when he decided he knew enough for his purposes. She was by nature a very pleasant little girl, trying hard to please her rescuers. The idea of gratitude to the Light came easily to her, and she embraced it with a whole heart. Annarisse had already seen at least one troubled look on her face when her father did something impious. Her encouragement of her father would be much more effective than anything Annarisse could do.

Annarisse turned her thoughts to the events of the day. In the middle of the night, a raft had bumped up against the hull of the ship, waking that thaumaturge, who in turn woke everyone else. She considered the remains of the strange creature on it. It had no fur; rather it had brightly coloured pieces on very thick stems, all over its body - though some of the stems were thicker than others. It had wings, like a bat, and a beak like a turtle. Also, it had been dead when they found it; probably a funeral bier of some sort. It had obviously not been consecrated to the Light, but Annarisse found herself loathe to disturb it anyway.

Some of the sailors, the wolves in particular, were more than disturbed by it. Some of them told her of the legend of Moreganne, a creature very like this one. Seeing it was supposed to bring bad luck. Annarisse, of course, did not believe in luck, but trusted the Light to guide its own. Still, the sailors clearly did believe it, and they were afraid. It occured to her that she should make a point of warding them from evil when next they gathered. She would cast her protection spell on the important people of the ship, and generally bless all the others. They wouldn't know the difference between that and the real thing, and it should make them feel better. She had better warn Caraba, the thaumaturge, though - he would know the difference, and she couldn't have him undermining the slight authority she had on ship.

She thought back to the idol in the jungle. Caraba had said that another thaumaturge was using it as his eyes and ears in that spot, looking out through it to observe them. Apparently, though, the spellcaster could be anywhere in the world. Still, the Captain invited the spellcaster to come meet with them on the shore, using formal language and a bow or two to indicate good will. Annarisse attempted a protection spell, but her concentration was not up to par and it failed. She decided to work on that one. In any case, the Captain decided that was a good moment to turn and head back to the beach. She was just as glad; the Captain's weapon of choice was his pistols, and deep in the jungle, they were more likely to shoot a tree than an enemy.

She wondered briefly if the residents of the island were followeres of the Light, and if not, how much time she might have to devote to conversion. It was something to consider.

epochs of motherhood

I just spent fifteen minutes packing up the last six months of my daughter's life.

There were two-piece outfits, new fourteen months ago at her baby shower, which are now washed and worn. There were dresses, some of them worn several times, most only worn once simply because there were so many of them. There were two outfits that never got worn at all - they were still on the original hanger and still had tags. Both were outfits that would have fit in January but were designed for June. I put those into the "potential re-gift" box. There were items I bought, items my family bought, and items that were hand-me-downs from cousins or the mother of one of my students. Every single one evoked a certain moment in her life.

I packed away the little green jumper and blouse that my brother sent her for Christmas from Austria. I packed the pink rosebud dress that she wore at the age of 12 days, to my mother's wedding. I packed the yellow linen dress that was missing a button, so she never wore it at all. I packed the maroon velour dress that she wore to her aunt's wedding last fall, and the turtleneck I bought to go with it. I packed the dress with the hearts on it that a friend of the family made for her, and the yellow knit dress she wore to my best friend's wedding last summer. I packed five different sweaters, three knit by my mother, the other two products of the baby shower, all of them outgrown. These items went into what I'm calling my "treasure box." It is possible, though unlikely, that I will lend out items from the other boxes. These items, however, will never be lent out, except possibly to a close relative for a family occasion. They are my memories.

I set aside one item I would have liked to put in my treasure box, because it doesn't belong with my treasures. Twenty years ago, my grandmother knitted a pretty pink dress with a pineapple pattern on it. It must have taken weeks; the pattern is a very tight knit, and uses a tiny baby-weight yarn. My little sister wore it for her six-month baby pictures, and to Christmas events that first year. My grandmother is gone now - but her great-granddaughter wore that dress for family pictures last fall. I'm going to give it back to my mother; someday, my sister will want to dress her daughter in it.

I know the chances are good that another daughter of mine will wear these clothes. Some of them might even be worn by a son, like the two jean overalls she got for Christmas last year, or her bright yellow turtleneck. This isn't good-bye to these clothes, but in some ways, it's good-bye to my baby. She's grown and changed so much, and I take so much joy in that, every day - but I miss my baby. A part of me will miss each stage of her life as she outgrows it.

Now that I've made everyone else cry, too, I'm going to go put those boxes in the basement. (Note to self: buy some pieces of cedar to put in these boxes, so the bugs don't get at them. . .)