There was silence between the three Santoses as they stood before the ruins of their former home and shop. Macario’s fair features were pallid and grim, the beads of sweat along his forehead and cheeks running into dark trickles of ash down his face. His heavy brows were furrowed as he folded his arms, reverent in the face of all they had passed on their way to the ruins of their home. For indeed, there had been blackened skeletons strewn out across roads and under burnt wreckage, their deep, soulless eyes searing terror into those who lingered too long.

Sabela’s hand had not left her daughter’s arm once, her calloused fingers a tight shackle. Like her husband, she was the picture of shock, though she hid it better. She kept her daughter close and tugged at the girl when she lingered too long over the remains of a fallen neighbor, her other hand clasping the length of her blackened skirt. Meanwhile, Catarina stared at everything with wide eyes, watching as even then, little wisps of embers wafted up into the cheerful blue sky. The stench of smoke in the air was thick enough to choke on even with the sea breeze carrying the human-charcoal miasma towards the Sintra Mountains.

Still no words were said, no prayers offered as Macario took the first brave steps towards their former house. The outer walls of clay bricks still stood, but the paint had long blackened and the windows were shattered. The door had burnt into a charred crisp and lay on the floor as the man entered, leaning himself against the doorway to support himself. It was like the house had been cooked from the inside out—even the tiled floor was scarred with burn marks. The clay tiles of the roof had fallen in, tables, chairs, beds, and wardrobes either ash or bare remnants of blackened wood.

What did remain in the face of such ruin were a few metallic items; pots and pans, door handles, and even a few pieces of ceramic dishware had been strewn about the floor. As the family scavenged on, Sabela even found the remains of her jewelry box and a few silver pieces inside, tarnished, but intact. There was only one part of the house each member seemed to avoid, and that was the cellar door connecting to the kitchen. Eventually, they gathered there solemnly, each sharing a nervous glance before Macario ever-so-gently creaked the burnt cellar door open.

They all gave a breath of relief as sunlight streamed into the underground room. The fire had consumed most everything, but this last room had mostly been left intact. A barrel of wine, a wooden box holding the shop’s money cashe, and various goods unable to fit on the shop shelves had been safely stored away. Strings of cured meat, dried vegetables and herbs, and cubes of wrapped cheese of Sabela’s making hung there beautifully. Surely in all of Sintra, there was not a lovelier scent nor more welcome sight than those simple foods spared from the flames.

Macario’s lip trembled as he finally broke down, his filthy sleeve rubbing against his face as he let out a strangled sob. Sabela finally left her daughter’s side to run her hand down his back, gently resting her forehead against his shoulder. They had [i]something[/i] left, and that made a world of difference. They’d have a few food rations to live on before Macario could re-invest his money and use his connections to provide goods to the ruined town. Surely as ever, Sabela and her daughter would be left alone amid the chaos and suffering as he left to do so, but they wouldn’t starve as they’d all feared.

Well, at least as her parents had feared. Catarina’s mind was dancing with the former pirate’s invitation, nonsensical as it was. From the procession she’d broken away from earlier, it seemed all sorts of people were qualified for the “relief effort.” Why not take a trip across the sea, if only to revel in new sights while the papacy tried to fix the broken town up? She’d come back with plenty of money to help rebuild their little shop.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sabela’s rich brown eyes glared Catarina down, already having guessed her thoughts.

Catarina waved a dismissive hand in return. “Why not? There’s nothing to do here, and they’ll even pay me.”

“Don’t be foolish, Catarina.” Macario’s broken voice managed to be firm as he joined in the now-spat. “The papacy never opens its coffers for nothing in return. And to choose people so carelessly! Do they think we are on a crusade?”

“Alright, then,” Catarina allowed, folding her arms with a smirk, “What else could they possibly want with a pirate, some sailors, and our townspeople?”

His reply was a gruff huff. “I don’t know, but I don’t trust it. They already will have their hands full taking care of people here—I would not be surprised if that boat never returns.”

“Macario!” Sabela glared at the man, now righteous fury. “It is no time to criticize the church! You heard what they said of our judgment!”

Catarina laughed bitterly at that, winning over a glare as well. “If that was our judgment, I would say we passed with flying colors. Or perhaps São Pedro meant to save us all, but one of the dragons he was fighting off in the heavens escaped?”

“Ridiculous girl.” And yet, a small smile touched Sabela’s lips. “I would worry for you far too much if you left. You cause enough trouble for a single town, much less an entire sea!”

“[i]A mal desesperado, remédio heróico[/i].” Catarina grinned. “Really, Mama, I will drive you mad if I stay!”

“I do not doubt that.” Sabela sighed, her face softening. “Macario, talk some sense into the girl.”

--

Catarina triumphantly carried her knapsack onto the boat, giving her parents an obnoxiously wide wave as they stood, disapproving, at the dock. She had meant what she said—the town was far too sorrowful a place for her to tarry, and a distraction that provided money was welcome. Even so, Macario had tossed a generous number of [i]reals[/i] into her palm and insisted that she charter the first boat back home should things not turn out as promised when she arrived in Morocco. 

[i]Ah, Morocco[/i]. Catarina turned her face towards the horizon as the sun dipped into the sea. As she did so, she felt tension ripple through her back—her parents were still there, watching her, worrying for her. She glanced back just as the sound of breaking glass echoed off the deck. Her head promptly turned as she witnessed the dark “captain” come a mere foot from breaking the celebrated Ceasar’s already 'fearsome' face. As the crowd cheered, her lips curled down in distaste, and she casually made way for the peeved victim as he disembarked.

Not caring to give herself to the pirate’s enthusiasm or the crowd’s blind pleasures, she went below deck without a fuss. She knew nothing of sailing ships and thus figured she ought to keep out of the way as much as possible. As it turned out, she was put to work laying out cots for the numerous crew and its passengers; she smirked slightly at the squabbling as men’s and women’s chambers were separated. “This is a Christian ship!” this and “There’s not enough space!” that rang through shallow walls—it was a little like home, and that was comforting.

She felt it when the ship actually started moving and felt her body lurch at the sound of water below her. For the first time since deciding to take after the pirate, she realized just how separated she was from land. It caused a jolt of fear to run up her spine, and before she knew it, her skirts were in her hands as she fled up to the deck.

Fresh, cool air hit her face. She turned her head about and saw that the deck was alight with all manner of fires and casual banter. Somewhere past the card players and spectators leaned against the railings there was a smooth, feminine voice singing some bawdy music—perhaps it meant to bed a sailor before the night was through? A minute or two after applause and catcalls rang through the air, Catarina finally saw the source of the singing: a young woman of tanned complexion and dark hair was pressing through the crowd upon the deck, likely on her way to the food laden galley.

In her usual manner, Catarina slid back to make way for the woman, her boots making not a sound upon the deck. Her head turned as she smiled cruelly at the troubadour. “Such lovely singing. Perhaps the entire ship will forget its sorrows as quickly as you have.”