The child stood in the doorway waiting for her mother to respond. She'd heard the market-day sounds many times: In the predawn light, her mother's worn hands worked with cloth and thread, the calloused fingertips mending and folding. When her words were met with silence, she repeated them.
"What?"
"I've been at the water. The boy under the laurels needs a drink." Her cold toes squirmed on the dirt floor, she pushed away her black hair from a wet spot on her face, and she smoothed her dress. If her mother looked at her, she would make her wash.
"Okay."
She saw the work her mother did. Her mouth opened to ask a question, but she changed her mind. The rooster crowed, and she knew she would have to avoid him, maybe chase him with a stick before she fetched the water. She hurried.
"Maria?"
Maria paused, her arms wrapped around a clay pitcher. A breeze filled with sea-scent raised the curtain that covered their back door. It carried with it the distinct smell of the laurel tree. She thought of the boy's blackened feet and said a prayer that her mother's mind would be filled with the market.
"Maria, close the gate."
"Yes, Momma." Outside, she took her place at the pump, the pitcher at her feet and a long switch in her hand. With her other hand, she raised the metal arm and pulled it down. Sunlight teased the yard from the opposite side of the hut, but she was hidden in the shadows. The water ran and spilled over the pitcher's lip before she quit pumping. Her eyes looked for the bird.
Maria ran for the gate and heard claws scratch the hard ground as the rooster scrambled to catch her. She kicked the gate open, turned and swung her stick once, leaped through the opening, and let it slam in place. Her mouth spat at the colorful feathers struggling in the dust. The clang of the gate's latch sounded her victory.
But the sea reminded her yet again of the small one coughing on the shoreline. He will drink and wake, she thought. With care she walked the path toward the water, trying to hurry without spilling.
A song floated to her on the same sea breeze that brought the smell of laurel leaves. Market day busied the small town, and for some there were too many things to do. For a moment she thought of her mother and how she would come home well after sunset, weary from the day's activity. The song came to her again, and she looked over a garden wall. "Good morning, Diana."
Diana smiled at Maria. The child's face beamed at the singing girl, many years her senior. "What brings you here so early, Maria?"
"There's a boy under the laurels."
Diana walked over to the garden wall and placed her arms on it. She brought her face down by Maria's before she said, "A boy?"
"Yes. And I'm bringing him a drink." The pitcher sloshed, sending a drop or two onto Maria's legs. A chill ran its course over her knees.
Diana began to hum. She looked over Maria's head. "I'm running today."
"Yes, Diana."
"You will be there, too?"
Maria looked at her feet. She wanted to see Diana run; she was so swift and deerlike the other runners didn't seem to mind losing to her. Together they would crown her with a laurel wreath, smiles adorning their faces. Maria wanted to spin and leap with the crowd of boys and girls who would carry Diana on their shoulders through the market, and she wanted, most of all, to catch a flower meant for the champion and thread it through her own flowing hair. Perhaps, in the quiet of the evening, she would bring it to Diana and give it to her. Perhaps Diana would smile and let her keep it.
But Diana was singing and trailing her hand along the garden wall. Maria was relieved she didn't have to tell her she would not be there. She slipped away without another word.
Her heart beat in her chest like a child's drum. The race came but once a season. Yet, with regret growing within, Maria looked into her pitcher and saw the small waves that rushed back and forth. She walked slowly now, but it was enough to move the water from one side to the other. A droplet reached up and kissed her nose.
The race faded from her mind, and the boy took its place. "This is his drink."
One grassy hill stood between Maria and the thick stand of laurel trees that lined the beach. Just this morning, before any save the birds call it morning, she'd sat at the crest of this hill not seeing but feeling the scene around her. The flowers, just opening, gossiped about the sun and its delay; the tide pulled at her even as it weakened; the laurels murmured to one another about their guest.
And before she saw the boy, she knew he was there.
Now Maria stood at the top of the hill, the pitcher in her steady hands. Sunlight looked over her shoulder toward the ocean, and the tips of the laurels' oval leaves glowed. She walked the rest of the way, thinking only of the boy's dry lips and dry cough, and she heard him before she bowed her head under the hanging branches.
He had not moved. Maria shooed flies that gathered just above his face. "Shh," she said to his wrinkled brow, "you only dream, Boy." And she tried to comfort him with words she didn't know she knew, words she'd heard between dreams and wakefulness since infancy.
Soon afterward, Maria lifted his head off the twisted roots and placed it on her lap. She dipped her fingers into the pitcher and wet his lips time and again. "You must drink." He stirred once or twice, but still he slept.
Maria thought about running back for her mother, or for Diana, and she knew she should have told them to come help her. "But I thought you would wake when I gave you this drink." Now she dared not leave him, for she wanted to ward off dreams with her songs and flies with her hands. "Soon," she told him, "soon someone will come by, you don't worry."
Wave upon wave checked upon the children, and as the morning progressed and the beach warmed, the water spoke sizzling words over the sand and seemed to know what was to come. The same light that heated the beach also chased the horizon's low stars, and the sky exchanged its purple robes of night for morning's blue.
Maria sang until her eyes became heavy, her head resting on the wide trunk she sat against. Diana's song came easily and it soothed her as she dozed. A cheer from the market woke her. The race. A weak smile crossed Maria's mouth.
"Boy, were we there, we would see Diana the Swift; her legs carry her like a deer. Her eyes are dark and wide, like a doe." And Maria thought of the coming parade: the cheering crowd of her friends waving flowers for Diana to take. "They will take her to the market square. Around and around." Maria ran her fingers through the boy's hair and let herself cry. Her eyes closed and sleep came.
His cough startled Maria awake. For a moment she forgot where she was and said, "Momma, but she races today -- " Then she saw the boy and the afternoon sun, and she heard the ocean, its constant waves faithful to the shore. "Here," she spoke to the boy and lifted his head so she could stand. Her legs trembled. "This will feel better." Now she used the hem of her dress, first soaking it in her pitcher, and then wiping his heels.
The sun snuck around the shelter of the laurel trees and prepared to extinguish itself in the sea. In late afternoon light, Maria finished washing the boy's feet and settled back under his head. "They are quiet now in the market because they will go home soon." She whispered these words; more like thoughts meant for herself, she continued. "And Momma will come. She might be mad. But don't worry, she'll see what happened."
Again, as little birds began to congregate in the branches overhead, sleep came with her song. She dreamed of the morning's conversation with Diana, and she saw her flowing dress billowing into cloudlike shapes that then stretched and formed a sky full of clouds. The sun was a golden medallion behind the white mass. She reached out to touch it but fell into the sea. She now swam in the warm water, the sun still so close she thought she could reach it.
High, high above Maria and her boy, a gull sighted a ship and cried out. Many boats were lowered from its sides, and soon they spread out along the coast. The men shouted to one another, and the oarsmen pulled against the breakers; they raced so as to beat the night.
Maria's sleep was interrupted by the scrape of a boat's hull on the sand. Men splashed ashore, and yet her eyes fought to close again. "Momma. I know the sound of the laurels, Momma." And she babbled in a half-sleep as a man from the boat made an arrow ready to signal the ship. Sparks lept from flint struck together, and soon the arrow sped into the darkening sky alight with good news.
A second and then a third boat landed on Maria's beach, one of which carried a well dressed man with worried eyes. He leaped from his seat into the shallow water and splashed toward the children. His men watched relief flood his face and ease his shoulders, and they were quiet as he lifted the boy and called for a fire.
Maria, too, was brought to the fireside, and she woke to the sound of crackling driftwood. For some time she thought she still dreamed, for the boy had finally awakened and in the light of the fire and the light of the dying evening she watched father and son reunited. It was not long, however, before the boy's father came to her with food and drink, robed in thankfulness.
"He is alive. And you." He cleared his throat and looked at her.
Maria squirmed. "I'm sorry. Momma should have come."
The man laughed. "No! My little Maria," for he had learned her name. "You helped save him!" Again his words were choked away, but he stood and gathered his men, speaking his further wishes.
They smiled at her small form beside the fire; two of them began to cut branchlets from the laurel trees, and the others hurried into one of the boats. Soon, their strong arms rowed to the ship, which had anchored nearby. Maria could see the large white sails, and all of a sudden she thought of Diana, yet with this difference, that the wonders before her, here on the beach, were still filling her past the brim -- and she wished she could share them with her.
There the boy ate and said kind things to her; there his father, weatherbeaten and weary, walked freely among men who loved him; there the sun descended in a celebration of color; there a fire warmed her toes.
Then, of course, she worried that Momma would miss her. She rose and walked to the boy's father and tugged on his cloak. "Sir? I need to get home. Momma will be home from the market and she'll worry if I'm gone."
He placed one knee in the sand close to her and looked her in the face. "Turn and see those men, there. You see? I sent them to my ship in order that a gift might be brought for you. It is not enough, but what I have now, I give you."
"Oh," Maria said. "But -- "
"Oh, but I have something that I must give you. And when they come ashore, we will take you home -- with much rejoicing, we will take you home."
Maria's mind was awhirl. She wanted to see what he might give her, she wanted to go home and tell her mother all that had happened, she wanted to rest in his warm arms there on the beach and watch the day burn out in its red and blue dance.
By and by the boat returned, and without fully understanding, Maria watched as the sailors wrapped the gift around her shoulders: a deep purple shawl that smelled of cedar. And then, before she could utter a thank you, a circlet of laurels was placed gently on her head.
"Many thanks to you, Maria. When I could not care for my child, you cared for him. Now, I will show you home myself." His men lit torches and began to sing a low song in deep voices. It gave Maria chills to hear such sounds, but it was only part of the joy that coursed through her -- and how much she missed along the way! Before she knew where they walked, there was Diana's garden, and her beautiful face looking out upon the procession -- "Maria, hello!" She waved and ran after them -- and now, so soon, they were at her own gate; the men paused, their lights still burning, and a small glow inside her house told of her mother's presence.
"Will you show us in?"
She motioned for him to come close so she could whisper in his ear. "We have a rooster, and -- "
But before she could finish he said, "May I?" and when she had nodded, he lifted her to his shoulder and led them all through the yard.
And so it was that Maria's mother heard them enter and the song begin once more. "Maria!" She threw back the curtain to run but stopped short, her hand to her neck: there was her child, the small girl who longed to see beautiful things that day, crowned and wrapped in purple, held high in the midst of a crowd. "Maria!" It was all she could say, and she took her daughter and hugged her close.
"Momma," said Maria. "There was a boy under the laurels this morning."
"What?"
"He needed a drink."
"What?"
"I've been at the water. The boy under the laurels needs a drink." Her cold toes squirmed on the dirt floor, she pushed away her black hair from a wet spot on her face, and she smoothed her dress. If her mother looked at her, she would make her wash.
"Okay."
She saw the work her mother did. Her mouth opened to ask a question, but she changed her mind. The rooster crowed, and she knew she would have to avoid him, maybe chase him with a stick before she fetched the water. She hurried.
"Maria?"
Maria paused, her arms wrapped around a clay pitcher. A breeze filled with sea-scent raised the curtain that covered their back door. It carried with it the distinct smell of the laurel tree. She thought of the boy's blackened feet and said a prayer that her mother's mind would be filled with the market.
"Maria, close the gate."
"Yes, Momma." Outside, she took her place at the pump, the pitcher at her feet and a long switch in her hand. With her other hand, she raised the metal arm and pulled it down. Sunlight teased the yard from the opposite side of the hut, but she was hidden in the shadows. The water ran and spilled over the pitcher's lip before she quit pumping. Her eyes looked for the bird.
Maria ran for the gate and heard claws scratch the hard ground as the rooster scrambled to catch her. She kicked the gate open, turned and swung her stick once, leaped through the opening, and let it slam in place. Her mouth spat at the colorful feathers struggling in the dust. The clang of the gate's latch sounded her victory.
But the sea reminded her yet again of the small one coughing on the shoreline. He will drink and wake, she thought. With care she walked the path toward the water, trying to hurry without spilling.
A song floated to her on the same sea breeze that brought the smell of laurel leaves. Market day busied the small town, and for some there were too many things to do. For a moment she thought of her mother and how she would come home well after sunset, weary from the day's activity. The song came to her again, and she looked over a garden wall. "Good morning, Diana."
Diana smiled at Maria. The child's face beamed at the singing girl, many years her senior. "What brings you here so early, Maria?"
"There's a boy under the laurels."
Diana walked over to the garden wall and placed her arms on it. She brought her face down by Maria's before she said, "A boy?"
"Yes. And I'm bringing him a drink." The pitcher sloshed, sending a drop or two onto Maria's legs. A chill ran its course over her knees.
Diana began to hum. She looked over Maria's head. "I'm running today."
"Yes, Diana."
"You will be there, too?"
Maria looked at her feet. She wanted to see Diana run; she was so swift and deerlike the other runners didn't seem to mind losing to her. Together they would crown her with a laurel wreath, smiles adorning their faces. Maria wanted to spin and leap with the crowd of boys and girls who would carry Diana on their shoulders through the market, and she wanted, most of all, to catch a flower meant for the champion and thread it through her own flowing hair. Perhaps, in the quiet of the evening, she would bring it to Diana and give it to her. Perhaps Diana would smile and let her keep it.
But Diana was singing and trailing her hand along the garden wall. Maria was relieved she didn't have to tell her she would not be there. She slipped away without another word.
Her heart beat in her chest like a child's drum. The race came but once a season. Yet, with regret growing within, Maria looked into her pitcher and saw the small waves that rushed back and forth. She walked slowly now, but it was enough to move the water from one side to the other. A droplet reached up and kissed her nose.
The race faded from her mind, and the boy took its place. "This is his drink."
One grassy hill stood between Maria and the thick stand of laurel trees that lined the beach. Just this morning, before any save the birds call it morning, she'd sat at the crest of this hill not seeing but feeling the scene around her. The flowers, just opening, gossiped about the sun and its delay; the tide pulled at her even as it weakened; the laurels murmured to one another about their guest.
And before she saw the boy, she knew he was there.
Now Maria stood at the top of the hill, the pitcher in her steady hands. Sunlight looked over her shoulder toward the ocean, and the tips of the laurels' oval leaves glowed. She walked the rest of the way, thinking only of the boy's dry lips and dry cough, and she heard him before she bowed her head under the hanging branches.
He had not moved. Maria shooed flies that gathered just above his face. "Shh," she said to his wrinkled brow, "you only dream, Boy." And she tried to comfort him with words she didn't know she knew, words she'd heard between dreams and wakefulness since infancy.
Soon afterward, Maria lifted his head off the twisted roots and placed it on her lap. She dipped her fingers into the pitcher and wet his lips time and again. "You must drink." He stirred once or twice, but still he slept.
Maria thought about running back for her mother, or for Diana, and she knew she should have told them to come help her. "But I thought you would wake when I gave you this drink." Now she dared not leave him, for she wanted to ward off dreams with her songs and flies with her hands. "Soon," she told him, "soon someone will come by, you don't worry."
Wave upon wave checked upon the children, and as the morning progressed and the beach warmed, the water spoke sizzling words over the sand and seemed to know what was to come. The same light that heated the beach also chased the horizon's low stars, and the sky exchanged its purple robes of night for morning's blue.
Maria sang until her eyes became heavy, her head resting on the wide trunk she sat against. Diana's song came easily and it soothed her as she dozed. A cheer from the market woke her. The race. A weak smile crossed Maria's mouth.
"Boy, were we there, we would see Diana the Swift; her legs carry her like a deer. Her eyes are dark and wide, like a doe." And Maria thought of the coming parade: the cheering crowd of her friends waving flowers for Diana to take. "They will take her to the market square. Around and around." Maria ran her fingers through the boy's hair and let herself cry. Her eyes closed and sleep came.
His cough startled Maria awake. For a moment she forgot where she was and said, "Momma, but she races today -- " Then she saw the boy and the afternoon sun, and she heard the ocean, its constant waves faithful to the shore. "Here," she spoke to the boy and lifted his head so she could stand. Her legs trembled. "This will feel better." Now she used the hem of her dress, first soaking it in her pitcher, and then wiping his heels.
The sun snuck around the shelter of the laurel trees and prepared to extinguish itself in the sea. In late afternoon light, Maria finished washing the boy's feet and settled back under his head. "They are quiet now in the market because they will go home soon." She whispered these words; more like thoughts meant for herself, she continued. "And Momma will come. She might be mad. But don't worry, she'll see what happened."
Again, as little birds began to congregate in the branches overhead, sleep came with her song. She dreamed of the morning's conversation with Diana, and she saw her flowing dress billowing into cloudlike shapes that then stretched and formed a sky full of clouds. The sun was a golden medallion behind the white mass. She reached out to touch it but fell into the sea. She now swam in the warm water, the sun still so close she thought she could reach it.
High, high above Maria and her boy, a gull sighted a ship and cried out. Many boats were lowered from its sides, and soon they spread out along the coast. The men shouted to one another, and the oarsmen pulled against the breakers; they raced so as to beat the night.
Maria's sleep was interrupted by the scrape of a boat's hull on the sand. Men splashed ashore, and yet her eyes fought to close again. "Momma. I know the sound of the laurels, Momma." And she babbled in a half-sleep as a man from the boat made an arrow ready to signal the ship. Sparks lept from flint struck together, and soon the arrow sped into the darkening sky alight with good news.
A second and then a third boat landed on Maria's beach, one of which carried a well dressed man with worried eyes. He leaped from his seat into the shallow water and splashed toward the children. His men watched relief flood his face and ease his shoulders, and they were quiet as he lifted the boy and called for a fire.
Maria, too, was brought to the fireside, and she woke to the sound of crackling driftwood. For some time she thought she still dreamed, for the boy had finally awakened and in the light of the fire and the light of the dying evening she watched father and son reunited. It was not long, however, before the boy's father came to her with food and drink, robed in thankfulness.
"He is alive. And you." He cleared his throat and looked at her.
Maria squirmed. "I'm sorry. Momma should have come."
The man laughed. "No! My little Maria," for he had learned her name. "You helped save him!" Again his words were choked away, but he stood and gathered his men, speaking his further wishes.
They smiled at her small form beside the fire; two of them began to cut branchlets from the laurel trees, and the others hurried into one of the boats. Soon, their strong arms rowed to the ship, which had anchored nearby. Maria could see the large white sails, and all of a sudden she thought of Diana, yet with this difference, that the wonders before her, here on the beach, were still filling her past the brim -- and she wished she could share them with her.
There the boy ate and said kind things to her; there his father, weatherbeaten and weary, walked freely among men who loved him; there the sun descended in a celebration of color; there a fire warmed her toes.
Then, of course, she worried that Momma would miss her. She rose and walked to the boy's father and tugged on his cloak. "Sir? I need to get home. Momma will be home from the market and she'll worry if I'm gone."
He placed one knee in the sand close to her and looked her in the face. "Turn and see those men, there. You see? I sent them to my ship in order that a gift might be brought for you. It is not enough, but what I have now, I give you."
"Oh," Maria said. "But -- "
"Oh, but I have something that I must give you. And when they come ashore, we will take you home -- with much rejoicing, we will take you home."
Maria's mind was awhirl. She wanted to see what he might give her, she wanted to go home and tell her mother all that had happened, she wanted to rest in his warm arms there on the beach and watch the day burn out in its red and blue dance.
By and by the boat returned, and without fully understanding, Maria watched as the sailors wrapped the gift around her shoulders: a deep purple shawl that smelled of cedar. And then, before she could utter a thank you, a circlet of laurels was placed gently on her head.
"Many thanks to you, Maria. When I could not care for my child, you cared for him. Now, I will show you home myself." His men lit torches and began to sing a low song in deep voices. It gave Maria chills to hear such sounds, but it was only part of the joy that coursed through her -- and how much she missed along the way! Before she knew where they walked, there was Diana's garden, and her beautiful face looking out upon the procession -- "Maria, hello!" She waved and ran after them -- and now, so soon, they were at her own gate; the men paused, their lights still burning, and a small glow inside her house told of her mother's presence.
"Will you show us in?"
She motioned for him to come close so she could whisper in his ear. "We have a rooster, and -- "
But before she could finish he said, "May I?" and when she had nodded, he lifted her to his shoulder and led them all through the yard.
And so it was that Maria's mother heard them enter and the song begin once more. "Maria!" She threw back the curtain to run but stopped short, her hand to her neck: there was her child, the small girl who longed to see beautiful things that day, crowned and wrapped in purple, held high in the midst of a crowd. "Maria!" It was all she could say, and she took her daughter and hugged her close.
"Momma," said Maria. "There was a boy under the laurels this morning."
"What?"
"He needed a drink."
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