“Show me how to turn the ship,” she said again, in a softer voice. Gwennec studied her for a moment. His gaze made her uneasy: it was frank, direct, without any of the cool hesitation of the men of the Alhambra, to whom she had been both an object of desire and a source of uneasiness.
“Where is it you mean to go?” asked Gwennec. Fatima leaned over and coaxed Hassan’s satchel from behind his back. Unbuckling it, she withdrew the map, curling now from the damp and the heat of Hassan’s body. She held it out toward Gwennec, only to be stricken with fear as he took it from her, worried for a moment that he would tear it up, or worse, that he would laugh.
Gwennec did neither. He adjusted himself so that the slender moon was at his back and frowned hard, attempting to read Hassan’s complex web of intersecting rhumb lines in the weak light.
“This is a portolan chart,” he said with some astonishment. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it?”
“I made it,” said Hassan indignantly. “I’m a cartographer by trade.”
“But you’ve used a thirty-two-point compass,” pressed Gwennec. He put his thumb over one of the spindly roses that marked various points on the empty seascape, radiating lines across the page at measured intervals. “Only a master navigator would know how to use one of those. Yet you can’t even point this little cog where you want it to go.”
“I used no compass,” said Hassan. “Only the skill of my fingers.”
Gwennec considered this for a moment.
“You’re a liar,” he said finally. “Or you really are a sorcerer.”
“I’m neither. I have one talent. This is it.” The wine had softened Hassan: he gazed steadily back at Gwennec with the calm of a saint. Gwennec looked as though he wanted to argue, but thought better of it, and frowned at the map again. “Here’s the Strait of Gibraltar,” he murmured. “The Dark Sea. And this—” He brushed the oblong perimeter of the island with one flushed finger. “This is Antillia.” He looked at Hassan and then at Fatima, visibly perplexed. “The Isle of Seven Cities. You’re going to Antillia.”
Fatima leaned forward and took Gwennec’s musty woolen sleeve, as if to tether his words to her.
“You know this place?” she asked. “Have you been there? How far is it? How many days?”
Gwennec threw back his head and laughed.
“Every Breizhiz sailor knows it,” he crowed. “And nobody’s ever been there. It’s a myth. No one’s set foot in Antillia for six hundred years, if anyone ever set foot there at all.”
Chapter 13
The sounds of the water and the quiet groaning of the ship went dull in Fatima’s ears. She leaned against the rail and shut her eyes against the stars, lapsing into darkness. Gwennec’s voice came from somewhere else: another ship, another sea.
“It’s an old legend,” he said. “I’m no poet, but I’ll tell it as best I can. Long ago, when the Moors conquered Iberia, seven sainted bishops on seven ships fled into the Dark Sea with their flocks. They were from the old tribes—the Visigoths, the Vandals. Ancient folk whose tongues are all lost now. They sailed for many days and nights without sight of land. Then, when their supplies were almost gone and death seemed certain—”
“Ah,” came Hassan’s voice from the darkness. “Death always seems certain at this point in the story.”
“When death seemed certain,” continued Gwennec, “a child sighted land on the western horizon. They had discovered an island, rich with every conceivable kind of country—dense forests, watery plains, deserts as white as bone, hills under eternal snow. At the center was a lake, perfectly round and so clear you could see every fish that swam in it. They named the island Antillia, thanked God for His bounty, and determined to settle there, burning their ships to remove the temptation of return. Each bishop founded his own city—Aira, Antuab, Ansalli, Ansessali, Ansodi, Ansolli, and the largest, called Con. There they lived in prosperity, and there they remain, for all I know, since no one else has ever reached Antillia to tell of it.”
The moon flickered behind Fatima’s eyelids. It took the form of a bird, a gull, beating its crescent wings against the vastness of the sea.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How can there be two such different stories about the same island?”
“Two stories?”
“Ours is about the king of the birds.” She opened her eyes to make the moon stand still again. “Long ago, all the birds of the world began to forget their history and their language because they had been leaderless for so long. So a brave few sought out the king of the birds, a king in hiding—the wisest and greatest of all kings, living on the island of Qaf in the Dark Sea beneath the shadow of a great mountain. Waiting for those with the courage to seek him.”
“Are these Muslim birds we’re talking about?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, there’s your answer then.” She heard Gwennec shift his weight and drum his fingers against the wooden steps. “These are stories about two different kinds of defeat. Mine is about an empire that was conquered by force. Yours is about an empire that faded away. That’s why yours is sadder. There’s no real ending.”
“But which one is true? Either the island is the realm of the Bird King, or it’s the colony of your seven bishops. One or the other must be false.”
“I don’t particularly want to hand myself over to a bunch of bishops, or to their descendants,” Hassan chimed in, waving his cup. “That’s exactly the fate we were hoping to avoid when we embarked on this little misadventure.”
Gwennec shook his head at them.
“Neither story is true,” he said. “They’re both made up. Made up! It’s a pretty map, though. Thirty-two-point compass.” He chuckled and squinted at it again. “True north and each and every rhumb line as fine as you like. A beautiful map.”
“If I drew it, it’s real,” said Hassan. There was no malice or defensiveness in his voice, only soporific certainty. Gwennec laughed at him, his eyes disappearing into the thick slope of his brow.
“You’ve got a high opinion of yourself, blev’ruz,” he said. “As I’ve told you, no one living has ever set foot on that island. It’s a story they tell in church to seagoing people who need to believe there’s something left once they’ve lost sight of land.”
“No one has ever set foot in the Kingdom of Heaven and returned to tell of it either,” said Hassan, setting his jaw. “Yet I’m certain you believe heaven is a real place, Brother Gwennec.”
“That’s different,” said Gwennec curtly.
“How? How is it different?”
“Because heaven isn’t some little sandspit off the coast of Spain,” the monk snapped. “It’s another realm entirely, one only those beloved by God will ever see.”
“Yes.” Hassan leaned forward to look into Gwennec’s eyes, his cheeks mottled with high color. “That’s it exactly. What if this island is just such a place? What if we are thus beloved by God?” In spite of the liquor, his posture was straight and purposeful; his face, though wine-flushed, was lucid.
“We?” Gwennec’s mouth twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to smile. “Christ Jesus. A redheaded Moor who likes it with men, and a fisherman who’s only recently learned his letters, and—” He looked sideways at Fatima and a mild flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. “Forgive me, madam, but I can’t tell at all who you might be or where you might come from. There’s no one like you in my land.”
Fatima looked up: the stars overhead formed a thick band, like a thread-of-gold sash holding up the garment of the sky. She didn’t care to summarize herself. She was no longer a concubine to a king or a companion to queens and princes, yet there was no word for what she had become instead. Hassan, at least, had a skill and a title that persisted beyond the palace walls; Fatima had been taught to describe herself only in relation to the palace itself.
“I was born in Granada,” she said finally. “And rose as high as a girl without rank could rise.”
“And your people?”
“My mother was sold as a captive.”
“Like this one’s grandmother?” Gwennec’s expression altered a little. “Then you’re not a Moor. We’re not enemies after all.”