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Father Torres turned out to be the exact opposite of what you would expect from a priest. His sense of humor was sharp, keeping me laughing every day with his stories from the church he’d lived at the past several years. He also appeared to be an excellent food critic, constantly moaning and complaining about the meals prepared in the ship’s galley loud enough for anyone within twenty feet to hear. Despite his feud with the cook, the rest of the crew seemed to like him, never bothering him much, or me, for that matter. Aside from bringing an extra hammock into the room for me to sleep in, they gave us a wide berth, working efficiently together without having to worry about us. Every Sunday, the Father would give a small sermon from the helm of the ship, wrapped in a heavy brown cloak that blended with his robes. I didn’t always understand what he was saying—my Spanish extended to being able to ask where the bathroom was and how to say yes and no—but it was clear that he was a very moving preacher. The sailors would call out phrases and halleluiahs when he spoke, all of them enraptured by what he said. Two of these sermons had passed before we were warned that we were coming close to pirate territory again and to stay on our guard.
Thankfully, because of this, someone saw fit to arm us both with a gun and sword. The gun, called a flintlock, only held one shot, which meant if we were going to fire it, we’d better be sure that we were going to hit what we were aiming at. The sword, a simple cutlass, was easy enough to hold. I had a feeling that using it would be a different story entirely.
In the quiet moments I had to myself, I wondered if the Adelina was in this pirate territory somewhere, Tristan ordering everyone around and moving on with his life like I’d never been a part of it. I knew it was foolish, to keep thinking of someone I would never see again, but I couldn’t help it. It felt like I’d lost part of myself with him, somehow.
The night after Father Torres’s second sermon, he suddenly flipped out, yelling out a stream of Spanish as he stormed from our room, waving his hands in all manner of directions. We’d just been served our dinner, so I imagined he was upset about what he was being fed again. Following him out, I waited to see what the commotion was. After a few minutes, the cook appeared on deck and began yelling back, various rude gestures being exchanged between the two of them. It was all I could do to not laugh as I wondered if Alfonso was any good at fist fighting. Finally, the cook threw his hands up in the air and stated something in the foreign language, taking his leave of the argument.
Turning back to me, Father Torres straightened his robes and beckoned to follow before heading off in the direction of the galley. Making sure my face was mostly hidden by my hat and hair, I quickly obeyed, feeling nervous to be left on my own unless I was in the safety of our room. The crew didn’t seem fazed by the argument they’d just witnessed, most of them turning back to their beds and their food covered plates.
The galley was below the gun deck on this ship, next to the crew’s quarters, which was basically a mass of hammocks hanging around everywhere. Unlike our room, it was open to everything around it and next to the staircase, so the smoke from the fire could rise up into the open air. A few beams that held the upper deck up rested in the galley, making it feel more like a ramada at a park than anything else. It offered a small amount of privacy, just enough that I felt I didn’t have to constantly be watching my own back.
“Feeding us la basura . . .” Father Torres was mumbling to himself as he sorted through the ingredients laid out across the small, square counter space, an unhappy look on his face. The fire was in the middle of the square, a few coals and logs that were always kept closely watched when they were lit. “Look at this, señorita! All this dried fruit, ingredients to make bread! Salted meat! What does he feed us? Porridge! And not good porridge at that!” He continued to mutter phrases in his native tongue that I was pretty sure a priest wasn’t supposed to be saying.
“I’m assuming you won the fight?” I asked, amused. Leaning against a beam, I folded my arms, smiling as I watched him sort everything into groups.
“That bilge-sucking crook of a cook told me if I thought I could do it better, then I should, while he sits on his fat ass and does nothing. In other words, a trade of duties.” His hands worked furiously over the inventory, and I could practically see the lists he was making in his head.
Raising an eyebrow, I cleared my throat, not knowing how to respond. “And your reply?” I finally asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
“I wished him many sores from inactivity,” he answered gruffly, grabbing the bag of flour and a bowl.
Snorting, I glanced over my shoulder at the men, the cook having disappeared somewhere among them. “I bet he liked that,” I chuckled. “So, what now? Are you making a second dinner for everyone?”
“No, no, señorita,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Just for us. Tomorrow, we will feed the crew.” Rolling the sleeves of his robe back, he set to making whatever he wanted us to eat, a content grin on his face.
“Excuse me?” I was caught off guard by the statement, even though I had no problems in helping him. I just didn’t know if I knew that much about preparing food in this century versus my own. How different could it be, really?
“We cook!” Motioning for me to join him, he went back to mixing ingredients, the lump in the bowl starting to somewhat resemble bread dough.
Before long, I was set to work making a stew with a package of beans he’d found. Every thirty seconds it seemed he would make a derogatory statement against the cook, along with what sounded like a few swear words.
“So, Father,” I began after he calmed down some, “Tell me more about life at the abbey.” The bread was baking on a stone in the fire and the stew was starting to boil.
Smiling widely, he turned, resting against the counter as his eyes obtained a faraway look, certainly playing memories I couldn’t see in his mind. “It was beautiful, señorita. Always flowers, always good smells. When the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening, I felt more at peace than I ever have anywhere else. Only the sea has given me a greater view of the sun. I do miss the library, though. So many books! One could get lost studying the words of the Holy Father, or stories from those who came before us.”
“Do you have a favorite story?” I smiled, enjoying his retelling of it all. He’d never told me about the library, and I had a sudden longing for the university library of my own time, the smell of the books, and the perfect feeling of learning and enjoyment around me.
“Oh, sí, señorita!” His eyes lit up at this as he clapped his hands together in excitement. “It is a play by an Englishman name William Shakespeare. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.” I laughed. “I’ve read everything he’s written, in fact. I like him very much.”
“Sí, sí, muy bien! You’ll have read my favorite then, Romeo y Julieta, no?”
“Of course! It’s probably his most famous of all his shows, don’t you think?” Grinning, I stirred the soup briefly, excited to have something I actually knew quite a bit about come up in conversation. The crew was steadily ignoring us, so there was no reason for me to remain quiet and tucked away.
“Such a tragedy,” he sighed, a hand covering his heart. “If only the letter had reached him in time!”
“It’s a bit depressing,” I agreed, “But that doesn’t make it any less good. It’s not my favorite of his works, though.”
“No? What is then?” He seemed totally enraptured with what I was saying, like he was just as happy as I was to have someone to talk with about things like this.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I stated, smiling widely. “There was always something about a man having his head replaced with a donkey’s that I found supremely amusing.”
“Fairies.” He rolled his eyes, crossing himself and making a sign to flick away evil. “It is good the little sprites cannot be on the ship, so far away from their forest home!”
“What about water goblins?” I coul
dn’t help egging him on, laughing at his superstitions and getting a feel for what was good and bad here. At my question, he peered around hastily, muttering in Spanish and flicking his fingers a few more times.
“If you ask me,” he continued, looking around as if he expected a tiny winged creature to suddenly burst out of the woodwork. “The only good thing about fairies is that they’ve brought love to those who need it at times, like in your play. Other than that, they’re evil things that should be destroyed!”
“Why, Father,” I spoke in mock surprise, “I believe you are a romantic at heart!”
“Sí, señorita.” He grinned at me, before turning to check his bread, poking the top with his finger decisively. “Love is everything. For God so loved the world that he gave his Only Begotten Son. Everything we have been given, will give, and will receive is because of love. It is the most powerful tool on the earth and the source of everything The Lord does for us. I would be a fool to dismiss it as easily as others.”
“Have you ever been in love?” I knew I was prying, but I couldn’t help it. He was one of the nicest men I’d met during my entire time here. I imagined he could have easily married, if he weren’t tied to the church.
Pausing for a moment at my question, he smiled sadly. Finally, he cleared his throat and went back to his work, pulling the bread from the fire and dumping it out of its pan. “In love? No. In lust? Sí, señorita. But that is what repentance is for, no? I turned myself to God and begged for His forgiveness of my thoughts. To this day, I pray I never fall in love, for that will be the day I break my vow to our Lord and damn my soul to hell.”
“Surely, God doesn’t want you to suffer because of love?” Shock was strong in my voice as I stared at him with wide eyes. “If He truly loves you as much as you say, He should want you to be happy.”
Laughing, he turned to me, waving a finger in my face. “He does. But it is my job to prove I love Him enough to do what He wishes instead of my own will.”
“I’ve never heard it put like that before.” Smiling, I let his words sink in. Was all this happening to me because of love, because God wanted me to learn something?
Tristan. His name came into my mind unbidden, the memory of his face floating before my eyes. At the same time, burning rejection shot through my veins. I couldn’t love a man I barely knew! Besides, I was never going to see him again. Maybe, if things had been different, if we’d met in the right time, things could have happened. But not here, not like this. Sighing, I shook my head and turned back to the soup, pulling the bowl out of the fire and setting it on the counter. You are never going to see Tristan O’Rourke again, I told myself firmly. Let the past be the past and focus on getting back to your own time.