Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

twinge of regret vanished, and Vasco gave his horse the signal to leave the stables.

Vasco frowned. The baby was heavier than he had imagined. As the horse galloped through the open gate, Paulo began to squirm in his confinement. Soon, his discomfort was voiced in a wail—something Vasco had not planned on, to call attention to himself.

Maranta was still thinking of Paulo as they neared the approach to the fazenda. Soon now, the house would come into view. Her eyes, eagerly searching the landscape, spotted a horse coming toward them.

"Is that Vasco?" Maranta asked.

Ruis looked in the direction that Maranta pointed. He slowed Diabo, and his face took on a displeased frown.

"He is going dangerously fast, is he not?" Maranta commented to the silent man, drawing her mare up beside Ruis.

Over the green hill the angry wail of the child pierced the still air. "Meu Deus," Ruis exploded, "the fool has the baby with him."

In an instant, Ruis had spurred Diabo and was racing toward the other horse. One of the servants riding behind them took off after Ruis, while the other, debating for a second what to do, stayed at Maranta's side as his master had instructed him before leaving the city.

The baby—Vasco was holding Paulo under his arm. Maranta gave a cry and pressed the mare into a gallop. The servant followed.

Vasco, furious at Ruis's untimely return, paused for a second, watching Diabo bearing down upon him. With a shout to his own horse, Vasco headed straight for the Tietê River.

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The mud flew from Diabo's hooves as Ruis sped over the whirring green landscape, still wet from the recent rain. And at the thundering sound of the great horse behind him, Vasco increased his pace.

Did Ruis not know that he could release the baby at any moment he wished—to be trampled underfoot, just as he had been on the pampas? But no. Vasco had survived. Perhaps Paulo would also. And he could not take that chance. Holding the baby tighter to his breast, Vasco rode on toward the sound of the roaring falls. The deed must go as he had planned.

Ruis left the pathway, his jaw set in granite hardness, determined to cut off Vasco's route and turn him in the opposite direction—away from the river. But Vasco, looking to the side, saw what his brother was doing, and he headed for the more dangerous path, closer to the rocks themselves.

Blue sky and the green earth touched and merged, pinned together by shafts of sunlight falling from the sky, rippling through the trees, making an aisle of dazzling gold to blind the riders and their mounts. Vasco's horse stumbled, and the man, strapped to the animal, swayed dangerously before righting himself with a powerful arm.

"Vasco," Ruis shouted. "Stop! In the name of God, stop before it's too late."

"It is already too late, brother," Vasco shouted back. And then the sound of the cataract drowned out their voices.

The child who had wailed so loudly on the wild ride was now quiet—as if his experience had left no further tears. Small and helpless, he dangled from Vasco's arms, while the man urged his horse over the hazardous terrain.

In torrents, foaming and misting, the waters roared over the rocks, their rampant spray touching the sunlight, forming an arch of rainbows to bridge the chasm separating the oneness of the mighty Tietê.

The roar of the falls, the sense of foreboding greeted Maranta as she brought her mare to a stop on the same spot on which she had witnessed the New Year's Eve ceremony of the slaves offering their candles and gifts. Helplessly she watched and waited to see if her ultimate sacrifice—the life of her child—would be offered by Vasco to Iemanjá, the pagan goddess of waters.

Ruis dismounted from his horse and crept on foot toward Vasco. The man with the child in his arms edged his horse slowly over the loose rocks along the bluff—making for the very edge.

As Ruis reached out, a rock moved; the horse stumbled; and the terrified whinny of the animal rose in the wind and floated across the wild earth to combine with the never-ceasing noise of the waters.

Maranta gazed in horror as the side of the bluff gave way. The horse fell, and the white blanket drifted toward the rapidly rushing waters and then was drawn quickly out of sight.

She sank to her knees, great sobs racking her small frame. Her life was over. She had lost little Paulo.

Dazed by her bereavement and the horror of watching Vasco plunge from sight, still strapped to his horse, she was insulated from the happenings around her.

But an insistent voice demanded her attention. Through her tears, she gazed up at Ruis, his face bleeding from a cut across his cheek, his torn clothes muddy and disheveled.

But in his arms—in his arms—

"Your son, amada," he said, holding out the baby to her.

"Paulo," she screamed and grabbed the child to her, hugging him and kissing him. At her onslaught Paulo began to cry.

"I think you have frightened him, pequena," Ruis said, his voice filled with tenderness.

Maranta eased her hold on the child, and sitting on the ground, she rocked him back and forth until he quieted.

While he watched them both, a troubled Ruis heard Vincente's last words. For your sake and the girl's, I hope your brother Vasco remains in good health. And now, Vasco was dead.

Despite the servants' search, the waters had left no trace of Vasco da Monteiro. But his actions and those of Patû lived on in the memories of all those on the fazenda. Patû disappeared that night, and Floresta, too, abandoning her small son, Tefe.

"It is well that she abandoned him," Ruis commented. "Part of the inheritance will be Tefe's, as Vasco's son. And I would not have allowed the child to leave with her."

So it was that Maranta, dressed in widow's black, sat in the chapel with Ruis, Dona Isobel, and Tefe and heard the padre's prayers for Vasco's