Devotion(62)

I remained by Thea’s side for the next three days, waiting for her to speak to me again in her sleep. But she did nothing to show she felt me there, and I worried that I had imagined her voice. Anna Maria came every morning and night and wafted burning juniper over her daughter, and each time she studied the corner of the berth as I moved my hands through the smoke, trying to make it curl around my fingers.

‘Anna Maria,’ I whispered. ‘It’s Hanne.’

But she did not speak to me, only waved the juniper in my direction with an uncertain look.

I kept waiting to wake from my exile. I kept waiting for Thea to wake. I resumed life as I had lived it before my sickness, and for the next week I followed the grooves worn down by my earlier self and did as I had always done, ignoring all that was strange because to face it would have been unbearable. I was not ready to ask myself why everything had changed. When the other women in the bow woke and prepared themselves for morning services, I followed them above deck and joined my voice to the prayers. I sat down to breakfast and served myself when no one else served me, and although I could see the gruel at the end of my spoon it was like eating shadow. I tasted nothing. I washed my face and braided my hair and tidied my person. I did not know how else to behave; I did not know how else to be. I prayed all the time; my knees became bruised with supplication.

I distracted myself by watching over Thea. I willed her better. I left Anna Maria to bathe her and dribble liquid in the corners of her mouth, but every night I held her as she slept. I kept her in constant sight, in constant thought, and convinced myself that I was healing her through will and prayer alone. Thea slept the body of each hour, but with each passing day the fever weakened. The strength returned to her limbs. She started to make hoarse requests of her mother.

Water.

Always water.

I listened to Anna Maria tell news of the ship to her sleeping daughter. There were daily quarrels about the food, about too much being prepared, or too little. A wind had blown a fine reddish dust across the ship and it had stained the sails brown. The dust was from the deserts of east Africa. Friedrich had gathered some from a pile that had collected at the base of the hatches. Here – here was a vial full of it.

I watched the Wend turn it in her hands. I was lying next to Thea, sharing her pillow.

‘Show me.’

I turned. Thea’s eyes were open. She was looking at her mother.

Anna Maria startled. ‘Thea?’

‘Can I see it?’

My heart soared. I lifted myself onto my elbow, leaned over her. Please see me, I thought. Please. Please. I know you, of all people, see me.

‘How do you feel?’ Her mother was fighting tears.

Thea attempted a smile. ‘Better. Can I see it?’

Anna Maria closed her eyes, bending her head low until her face was hidden from sight. Her headdress shook.

‘Mama?’

‘Praise God. Praise God.’ Anna Maria’s mouth broke open in a wide smile. ‘Here! Here you are, you curious girl. He knew you would want to see it. Oh Lord, I thank you.’ She helped Thea sit up against her pillow, then, eyes filled with tears, passed her the glass bottle.

I watched Thea turn it over in her hands. ‘I’m here too,’ I whispered. I was afraid to touch her. I was afraid she would not feel me.

‘When was this?’ Thea asked her mother. ‘When did the desert come?’

‘Shortly before we crossed the equator.’

‘The equator?’

Anna Maria wiped her eyes and described how Christian Pasche had complained to the captain when the sailors had conducted their Neptune Ceremony, throwing water on all who had not passed into the Southern Hemisphere before. ‘He was adamant that they were startling the pregnant women,’ Thea’s mother told her, laughing. ‘Never mind that the women in question were having a lovely time up on deck, throwing buckets as well as the sailors and appreciating such a cooldown!’

‘Was Hanne there?’

I was trembling. Sea water rose in my throat.

Anna Maria’s smile faded. ‘Thea, you remember . . . Hanne was sick,’ she said carefully.

No, I thought. No, no.

‘She’s better,’ Thea said, frowning. ‘She was here.’

‘Here?’

‘I saw her. In the night. She was here, lying next to me.’

Anna Maria said nothing. Her brow furrowed.

I felt water soak my braid. It ran in rivulets down my back.

‘Thea . . .’ Anna Maria stood up from where she had been squatting on her heels. Sat down on the bed next to her daughter.

The hem of my dress lifted, as though suspended in water. I felt weightless, gutted with cold.

Thea shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Hanne did not get better.’ Anna Maria’s voice was sombre.

‘No.’

‘She died in Christ.’

The ocean was thundering in my ears. I could not hear Thea. Water was filling the bow, lifting me off the floor. I saw Thea’s face warp in grief, saw the bottle roll off the bed, saw her throw off her mother’s hands, but I could not hear what she was saying. My gullet swamped with brine. I lifted my hands to my face and felt the sailor’s stitch in my nose.

The water rose to the lamp. The flame went out in foam. Darkness roared around me.

I am dead, I thought.