He held out his hand to Angel, who bent over it.
“These two boys, Father. They want to see the Virgin.”
The priest’s eyes gleamed as he spoke directly to Arnau. “There she is,” he said, pointing to the altar.
Arnau looked in the direction the priest was indicating, until he made out a small, simple stone statue of a woman with a baby on her right shoulder and a wooden boat at her feet. He narrowed his eyes; he liked the serenity of the woman’s features. His mother!
“What are your names?” asked the priest.
“Arnau Estanyol,” said Arnau.
“Joan, but they call me Joanet,” said Joanet.
“And your family name?”
Joanet’s smile faded. He did not know what his family name was. His mother had told him he could not use Pone the coppersmith’s name, because he would be extremely angry if he found out, but he could not use hers either. This was the first time he had been asked what his name was. Why did the priest want to know? He was still looking at Joanet expectantly.
“The same as his,” he said at length. “Estanyol.”
Surprised, Arnau turned to him, and saw the look of entreaty in his eyes.
“So you’re brothers then.”
“Ye ... yes,” Joanet stuttered. Arnau backed him up, saying nothing.
“Do you know how to pray?”
“Yes,” Arnau said.
“I don’t ... yet,” Joanet admitted.
“Get your older brother to teach you then,” said the priest. “You can pray to the Virgin. Angel, you come with me. I’ve got a message for your master. There are some stones over there ...”
The priest’s voice died away as the two of them walked off, leaving the two boys by the altar.
“Do we have to get on our knees to pray?” Joanet whispered to Arnau.
Arnau looked back at the shadowy figures that Joanet had pointed out to him. As his friend headed for the red silk prayer cushions in front of the altar, he grabbed him by the arm.
“Those people are kneeling on the floor,” he whispered, pointing toward the others, “but they are praying as well.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to pray. I’m talking to my mother. You don’t kneel down when you’re talking to your mother, do you?”
Joanet looked at him. No, of course not...
“But the priest didn’t say we could talk to her. He said we could pray.”
“Don’t say a word to him then. If you do, I’ll tell him you were lying, and that you aren’t really my brother.”
Joanet stood next to Arnau and enjoyed studying all the boats decorating the inside of the church. How he would have liked to have one! He wondered if they could really float. They must be able to: otherwise, why would anyone have carved them? He could put one of them at the water’s edge, and then ...
Arnau was staring at the stone figure. What could he say to her? Had the birds taken her his message? He had told them that he loved her. He had told them that time and again.
“My father said that even though she was a Moorish slave, Habiba is with you, but said I was not to tell anyone that, because people say Moors cannot go to heaven,” he murmured. “She was very good to me. She was not to blame for anything. It was Margarida.”
Arnau continued to stare intently at the Virgin. Dozens of candles were lit all around her, making the air quiver.
“Is Habiba with you? If you see her, tell her I love her too. You’re not angry that I love her, are you? Even if she is a Moor.”
Through the darkness and the air wavering round the candles, he was sure he saw the lips of the small stone figure curve into a smile.
“Joanet!” he shouted to his friend.
“What?”
Arnau pointed to the Virgin, but now her lips were ... Perhaps she did not want anyone else to see her smile? Perhaps it was their secret.
“What?” Joanet insisted.
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Have you prayed already?”
They were surprised to find that the priest and Angel were back.
“Yes,” said Arnau.
