Under A Million Stars by Mindy Haig
A giddy child.
One who has been promised a special treat.
The boots felt like they belonged on my feet. I knew this was the right course for me but my future was taking a strange journey through the past I smothered and hid away and now the small joys, like wearing comfortable boots instead of shiny leather dress shoes, and work clothes that were a far cry from the suit and tie that I never quite adjusted to, were redefining Sebastien Parodi.
~ ~
I couldn’t sleep.
I guess I felt some guilt about leaving Brignoles without telling my uncle that I was about to quit my comfortable job for a lifetime of manual labor restoring boats. I didn’t know the first thing about restoring boats. I wasn’t even completely sure I remembered how to sail a boat, but I was hoping it would be one of those things, like riding a bicycle, that one never forgets. And a master offered to teach me his trade. The opportunity was too great to refuse, especially since I didn’t want to refuse. Just standing on that boat I was happy. Hell, just standing on the dock looking at the boats I was happy. If the sea was willing to take me back, I was willing to go.
But there was something else.
Adrienne said the mermaids saved me.
I never thought about that night. Never. But my father and I set sail from Bastia. Given the wind from the storm coming in behind us, we had perhaps a twenty hour journey. We only made it maybe a quarter of the way. I was thrown into the sea. I had no recollection of being in the water at all, so I could not have been conscious. And yet, I was found on the beach not far from a resort in Levanto which was not anywhere near where the boat might have been when the lightening struck. I was lying on the beach, I was not at a port, or a place where other boats might injure me, but a place where people were bound to notice a teenage boy washed up onto the shore. A teenage boy with a large knot on his head, and no idea how he got there. A teenage boy who spoke French, not Italian.
And the sea asked me to forgive her.
I know it wasn’t the sea that spoke to me, but one of the Daughters of the Eternal Water that Armon spoke of, the Nymphs that my father sang to, the Mermaids who saved my life.
Her voice was like a song and that song was still inside me, but I didn’t forgive her that day because I didn’t know what happened to me. I didn’t know what she was asking of me. I desperately wanted to hear her voice again. I wanted to see more than just the glimpse of her eyes and I wondered if my inability to grant her forgiveness drove her away.
And thinking that made my heart ache more than any other loss I’d suffered.
I lay in my bed flipping the ancient coin between my fingers and I whispered to the night, “please come back. What ever it is that you wanted me to forgive, I forgive. I’m coming home to the sea. Please come back to me. Give me another chance.”
Then I remembered the package.
I slid it gently from my satchel. The lotus leaf was soft, sort of leathery, not at all fragile as I would have expected, and though it was wrapped and tied around what rested inside, it was not creased or bent. I carefully untied the twine and the leaf unwrapped itself. What lay inside was an instrument, a musical instrument, some sort of antique flute. There were six carved tubes of varying lengths, bound together with strips of embossed leather.
I’d never played any sort of instrument.
I didn’t have the slightest idea how to make music.
But I blew gently across the tops of the pipes and the sound of the wind in the sails filled the room. Each pipe had its own distinct voice, they were foreign and familiar all at once. But when I blew into the second longest of them, the note seemed to hang in the air around me for a long time as though it was giving me a push, saying: ‘you know me, remember me.’
And it clicked in my mind, it was the first note of the song my father always whistled, the first note of the song Oren Gale sang to the sea, the first note of the song that was calling me back to the life I missed.
I took the disc that Adrienne gave me from my bag and studied it. The beautiful fountain on the front had to have been important, because nothing about these items all falling into my hands at once seemed random to me. I opened the case and slid the booklet from the front. The lyrics to all the songs were inside. Mare da Sogno was the second to last song on the recording. It was near the end of the booklet. It was written in Italian and I read the words, I studied every word, but I still couldn’t make sense of them, though just saying them aloud made my voice sound like I remember my father sounding. And at the very end of the last page, there was a clue. The fountain was at Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastavere, Italy. The page said: ‘the fountain sprung from and underground spring and is known to be the oldest fountain in Rome. It is said that if you toss a coin in a fountain in Rome that you are guaranteed a return trip, but if you have a wish that is sacred in your heart and you make that wish upon your coin at the gate of the new day, the water will answer.’
I wanted to see the one who saved me, the one with eyes like the sea. That was the sacred wish in my heart.
I had to go to that fountain.
I also had to meet Oren Gale.
I had to.
I packed my backpack with a few extra articles of clothing, warm socks, and a thermos. I wondered what I could offer the sea in return for one of her eternal daughters. I hadn’t even known that she was the wish of my heart until that very moment. I’d never even seen her face, but my heart has loved no other.
I dug out the box that was all that remained of my family memories. I looked at the photos and remembered what it was like to be loved. I opened the old compass that my father said had been in his family for six generations. It seemed fitting that something with so much history should make this journey with me. There was also a knife with a handle carved from ivory and jewel that hung from a silver chain that seemed to glow with a fire from within and made me think of what was in my heart. I put the chain around my neck and felt the weight of the stone upon my chest. It was comforting.
I packed the compass and the knife along with the flute, the disc and the lotus leaf into my satchel.
I went back to my bed, but my sleep was riddled with dreams of sights and sounds far away in the past.
And in the morning I put the strange coin in my pocket, locked my door, walked out to the street and said to no one in particular, ‘I am coming for you, Sea of Dreams.’
SIX:
I was at the dock when the sun came up.
To say I was eager would be an understatement, and I did not want to take even the slightest risk of missing Armon. I didn’t really think he would leave without me, but the whole week might have been a dream and I needed to see the boat again.
I sat drinking coffee that was cooling quickly in the morning chill as I watched the glorious ball of flame broach the horizon. The sky was dotted with clouds and the light of the orange sun colored them beautifully, but it was not the sky that held my attention it was the sea. Each ripple shimmered. I was tempted to strip down and dive into the water just to feel it engulf me, but it was a chilly December morning and I didn’t want to prove myself insane before the journey even began.
It was less than an hour later that Armon started down the dock, awakening me from my daydreams.
“Well, well, someone is eager,” he grinned as he reached out and shook my hand. He had a bag and a foam cooler with him.
“I am eager. When my father was alive and willing to teach me, I was a stubborn boy and I didn’t appreciate what he was offering. But if your offer still stands, I will learn all you are willing to teach. I will be diligent. I will make both you and my father proud.”
“I think he is already proud, Sebastien. But do not do this because you feel a need to redeem yourself, do this for the love of the work, the love of the vessel, the love of the sea. I have a new contract, a Greek boat. Seaworthy, but I am told she has changed hands a number of times and the new owner wants her
“I’ll be there.”
Armon nodded. “Come now. Let’s prepare her for the trip.”
It is said that a boat is more than just sails and planks, more than just a mode of transportation, a boat is the ultimate freedom.
I was breaking free of this life I built to hide my loss. But more than that even, this boat, this trip was the beginning of my future.
There was no feeling in the world that compared to the moment the land fell away and all that remained was the water. I imagined it might be the same for an astronaut as he watched the Earth diminish and the blackness of space take him.
And I found that I did remember the things my father taught me, even if doing them was harder for the lack of practice. The feel of the ropes as they slid through my hands was uncomfortable. The burn made hands that had grown soft with years of schooling and sitting behind a desk, raw. But I welcomed that feeling just as I welcomed the smart snap of the sails as they grabbed the wind and the roll of the deck as we began our journey east.
Armon was as skilled in his sailing as he was in his handcrafting. His directions for me were clear and he seemed pleased with me. Honestly, I was pleased with myself. Perhaps I had not been as stubborn as I thought I was with my father or maybe he was just a better teacher than I gave him credit for. This boat was not like any other that I’d ever sailed upon, but she moved well, her riggings were artfully simple and she was beautiful.
I was happy.
But though I understood Armon’s fear of sailing this boat alone, each passing hour made me wish we were not sailing her to a new owner. Not that there was much time to think, without modern navigational equipment or an onboard motor, every ounce of progress was made by force of will and brute strength.
And as I worked, I whistled the song that simply needed to make the trip with me. The day passed quickly. We might have sailed on though the night, navigating by the stars but Armon dropped anchor. We ate a meal and Armon asked me what happened to my father. I told him my tale.
I told him where I was found.
And I told him what I saw when I awoke and that in my heart I was seeking her.
But it seemed to me that he already knew those things, and we settled in to rest.
I stretched out on the deck with my hands tucked behind my head and the water rocking me into relaxation.
“There are state rooms below. You can sleep in a bed, Sebastien,” Armon started as he stretched and then rubbed his back.
“Thanks, but I’ve been sleeping in a bed beneath a roof for a long time. I just want to feel the swaying and watch the stars for a while.”
“Suit yourself,” he laughed. “I am an old man, I need a good mattress and pillows these days. Be sure to rest. You worked hard today, I think you might be sore in the morning.”
“Yes, that is likely,” I laughed, but as he walked away I called after him, “Armon, is this crazy? Am I just trying to make peace with what happened or is there really fate out there? Is she really out there?”
“She’s out there, Son. Hold fast to that in your heart, because if your heart fails, you will fail.”
I knew he was right. And I knew that I could not handle another loss, another failure.
I lay on the deck watching the night sky for a long time. Part of me just needed to watch the sky, the clear sky, and know that there was no storm coming. I didn’t realize that I was still whistling the song as I drifted into sleep.
But in my dreams I heard them.
I heard the Nymphs whispering.
SEPT:
By the time the port at Civitavecchia became visible upon the horizon, it was pretty damned clear to me that I was going to have to start lifting weights or something because hard work was exponentially harder on arms that were used to lifting a pen and a financial portfolio. I refused to let Armon know how sore I was. I worked harder just to prove to myself that I was not going to give up on this.
But the wind was good and we were making good time.
“Sebastien, you want to take the wheel for a while? I need to sit and rest my old legs.”
“Sure,” I answered, probably more enthusiastically than he was expecting and we both began to laugh.
“I will tell you something. I expected this trip to take longer.”
“You did?”
He nodded. “I was counting on you having trouble keeping the sails full. I was thinking I’d be able to relax, to dillydally, as you learned how to sail again. But you managed the sails very well. I had to work hard to keep up and keep her on course. I’m tired.”
“Thank you and I’m sorry.”
“Eh, you should not be sorry! You exceeded my expectations, Son. It will be a pleasure to teach you. And now I will have an extra day in Roma to glut on the good food. Filetti di Baccala and Pasta alla Carbonara I am coming for you my friends!” he laughed. “Where will you go, Sebastien?”
“Trastevere and then I will seek out Mr. Gale in Ostia.”
“Wish him well for me. He is a good man.”
~ ~
The boat slipped into the port as though she knew the way. And it seemed just moments before we left her deck. Well, I left her deck. The man who was about to become her new owner was practically running down the dock to greet us as our feet hit the solid ground.
He was speaking Italian.
Sadly, Armon understood him and I did not.
Armon waved the man aboard, but then he turned and shook my hand. “Go find your fate, Sebastien. I will see you in Marsala in thirteen days. Eat a Canolli when you are there, you will not find better anywhere in the world!”
“Enjoy the rest and the food, Armon. Travel safely, my friend.”
And this was where my journey actually began because from the moment my feet were on Italian soil, everything changed for the second time in just over a week.
The world seemed to want me to be Italian.
I was trying to find myself a future, but I seemed to be moving through some sort of time warp, where embracing the past was the key to moving forward.
I walked slowly along the dock. The slips were filled with cruise ships and ferries. I watched the line of cars very carefully drive aboard. I’d never done that, never driven onto a ferry, so I stood and watched the novelty of it for longer than necessary, until at last it launched and then suddenly it was just like every other big boat and I moved on. There had been a restored Corsair in this port when my father an I used to sail here, and I made my way toward Fort Michelangelo to see if that bit of my past still lingered, but I did not see it. There was a sleek American Naval ship and a few Italian tall boats that gave day tours. They were glorious with their triple masts and elaborate riggings. I would have like to see one coming in under full sail, but it was the middle of the day and the morning tours were already out upon the sea and the dinner tours were not near leaving.
I left the port from behind the fort.
Once when I was small, my father told me that one of the towers was named San Sebastian and that there was a secret tunnel in that tower to get soldiers inside the city wall if the city was attacked. I thought it was cool at the time, but then I learned about Saint Sebastian being shot full of arrows and I sort of lost interest.
I wished that I had listened to his stories more. I wished that I knew more about my father’s past and his history. I wished I felt more connected to him.
My thoughts were heavy and my stomach was empty.
There was a ristorante on Via Aurelia and I stopped in to eat and take a look at my tablet. I needed to figure out how I was going to get to Trastevere. The trip didn’t appear to be too far, maybe a couple hou
And just that suddenly it did.
Almost unnoticed, two men began walking with me. They appeared to be roughly my age and quite obviously brothers, twins even. They were both carrying backpacks, and they were bickering until they noticed that my pace slowed and I was looking at them. They started speaking at me, most likely introduced themselves, but the words were very rapidly spoken in Italian. I didn’t actually understand them, and yet part of my brain did. And they seemed confounded, at least one of the two did.
“Are you sure this is the guy?”
“Of course he’s the guy he just got off the boat.”
“He was supposed to be Italian. But this guy is not Italian. How can he be Italian? He doesn’t speak Italian.”
“Can you say Italian a few more times?”
“Italian, Italian, Italian.”
“Shut up already, idiot! He’s the guy. I’ll prove it, I will ask him,” the less excitable one sighed and shook his head as he turned to me. “So, what is being your name, Friend? Why do you come to Italy?” he asked in broken English.
“My name is Sebastien Parodi and I am looking for someone.”
“By all the Gods! English? You sound terrible speaking English.” The combative one interjected, slugging his brother in the arm.
“I told you he was the guy.”
“He was supposed to be Italian. What is he, French? He sounds French. He talks and I hear Baguette, croissant, espresso, blah blah...”
“Mama mia, lo stupido. Shush! I am trying to talk to Sebastien.”
They were making my head spin.
“Who do you look for Sebastien?”
“A woman.”
“What the French man can’t find himself a woman? I thought they were supposed to speak the language of love!”