Free The Devil on Her Tongue by Linda Holeman Page A

winter rains the cracks usually closed and the clay absorbed the water, keeping us warm and dry. But our hut roofs, unlike those of terracotta tiles that graced the houses in town, only lasted a few seasons. I had helped my father mix new clay and slather it on the cracks the year before he left. Now I would have to do it on my own.
    Waking into the sodden, stinking wetness of our home, my mother cleared her throat; a cough and sore throat had been plaguing her. “We could move up into the cliffs and stay in a cave until this rainy time has passed,” she said.
    “A cave?” I said as I dressed for work. “Like animals?”
    “The caves are dry,” she answered, coughing. We both knew a tea of sweet violet would help her, but without a fire I couldn’t boil water. “You were born in one.”
    “You never told me that.”
    “Even though I helped the women of the beach, when it was my time all of them were frightened to come to me, frightened that theymight help to birth another witch and be forever cursed. It was a night when the ocean turned into a dangerous beast, gnashing its teeth and roaring. The storm brought lightning and thunder such as I’ve never experienced. I had a premonition that the beast would wash over the beach and our hut would be swept away. I had to protect you, waiting so patiently to come to me. And so your father took me up the cliffs, with the wind howling and the trees bent to the ground. He knelt at my side as you came into the world.”
    I watched her. Her face had a faraway look.
    “And with your birth the world grew calm again. The beast retreated. The next morning I carried you back to the hut, which was still standing firm and strong. My premonition had been wrong. The beast hadn’t been looking for you after all. You were safe from it, Diamantina, and always will be.” The dark green of her eyes glistened with either tears or the pain of speaking with her sore throat.
    I smiled at her, grateful for this memory of my birth. “I’ll ask Sister Amélia to let me bring home a flagon of hot water and I’ll mix you up a soothing drink,” I said. “But I won’t live in a cave. I’ll fix the roof.”
    I wrapped a shawl over my head and ducked out the door. Water dripped from the edge of the roof as I went behind the hut and pulled out the ladder my father had made. The middle three rungs were rotted through. I would have to borrow one to climb onto the roof.
    I walked up the beach in the still, grey air, looking at the fishing boats bobbing on the water. And then there he was: Abílio, coming up from the sea.
    I tried to keep my breathing even, my face calm, although I wanted to run towards him. I wanted to demand,
Where have you been, and why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?
But he owed me nothing.
    He was carrying a long, stout fishing pole with a dangerous hook on the end. He’d harpooned a good-sized tuna. He smiled his warm smile. “You’re looking very pretty today, Diamantina,” he said. I studied the rise and fall of the sea over his shoulder, remembering the last time he had called me pretty. “Your eyes are the colour of the silvery porpoise that swim alongside the ships.”
    My cheeks were hot, and I didn’t take my gaze from the sea. “You were in Madeira?”
    He nodded. “In Funchal Town, working for my uncle.”
    I finally looked at him. “What’s it like?”
    “It’s Madeira’s jewel, very fine, with wide streets and busy squares and tall buildings. All of Madeira is green and beautiful.”
    I thought of the island’s misty outlines, which I could see from the point on a clear day.
    “It’s not like this little island, Diamantina. In Funchal one sees people of many races. And so many there are learned and worldly.”
    “I’ll go there someday soon. On my way to Brazil to join my father.”
    He shifted the pole.
    “Can I borrow your ladder?” I asked. “I have to fix our roof.”
    He glanced at the sky. “It looks like we might have a brighter