AGE OF REPTILES
Old: almost old as Time itself, we reach back to distant eons, before birds filled the skies, or flowers and grasses carpeted the land, before Man ever looked out across the seas. Our lives are slower than yours, geared to the grinding of the Great Geologic Clock. Your lifetimes flicker before us, comparative blinks of an eye: your countries, your empires rise and fall, unheeded.
You deign to call yourselves sentient, yet for centuries you failed to understand what we represent - you called us monsters and conjured folk tales to explain our presence, eventually believing your own myths as proven fact. Only recently did you dig ancient bones from rocks, hinting at our past glories. And just decades ago – to us a fleeting nanosecond – did one among you walk upon our lands, watching us even as we watched him, and begin to divine the true story encoded in the shapes and patterns of our shells. Some among you still call this man liar, but you should heed his words; for though we are old we are not immortal – after countless millennia, it seems at last that our time is running out…
Galapagos Islands, 1875
Carlos Gallo stepped onto the island of Fernadina - once known to the Anglos, with typical parochialism, as Narborough - looking every inch a man of wealth and influence: as indeed he was, most of the time. Behind him his 20-year-old daughter Valentina sullenly trailed, pouting. She was exceptionally good at pouting – certainly she had the lips for it. Lips of sweltering carmine: voluptuous as ripe berries and tender as budding carnations, puckering sinuously from a sepia face that was perhaps a tad too broad to be classically beautiful. Like her lips, her deep brown eyes were huge: direct and sensual, fringed by the long black lashes and thickly exotic brows of the definitive latina. Perhaps the only subtle aspect of her face was her delicately concave nose, but even this flared suggestively where it neared those all-consuming lips. Surrounded by a shoulder-length cascade of flaring ebon curls like black fire, it was a face of unremitting sensuality. Valentina recognised this: unfortunately, so did everybody else.
Moreno was dead, that was the kicker: a simple foreigner with a knife and a grudge succeeding where Alfaro and his Liberals had failed for years. The Iron Rule was over, but for Senor Gallo it was just one more obstacle in his quest for a peaceful existence. True, he was no Moreno fan, though he had done as well out of Ecuador’s “economic miracle” as any; and frankly, though he admired the Church, he’d found its creeping intrusion into every aspect of life a touch vexing. But what Gallo detested above all else was instability, be it nationally or in his own life - right now, he was saddled with both.
“I can’t believe you’ve dragged me all the way out here,” Valentina moped, her pout assuming superhuman proportions. “If I have to be exiled in these godforsaken islands, couldn’t it at least be to Puerto Villamil - somewhere half-civilised?”
“You’re not being exiled,” replied her father tersely. “This is about penance, learning your lesson and above all keeping away from men, all of which will be much easier here. Now quit whining - try to be dignified for once.”
There had been no real need to accompany his daughter on this trip, Gallo reflected – Valentina was frequently wayward, but she would never defy him to the extent of actually running away. But in the immediate aftermath of the assassination it struck him that getting away from Quito himself might be beneficial – he was, after all, not only a prominent businessman but also a known Liberal supporter. It was true he’d heard no word yet of blood on the streets, but one couldn’t be too careful: if the vacuum was to be violently filled, best to be out of the way for a while.
There was no welcoming committee, save for one: their host, Padre Piosa. A big man in his black robes, he put Valentina in mind of some great grieving turkey. She backed warily into her father’s shadow as introductions were made.
“Senor Gallo,” said the Padre. “An honour to welcome you to our humble island: I only wish circumstances were not so unfortunate.”
“Well,” Gallo coughed, “it’s really not that bad – just a young girl losing her head over a man. Happens all the time.”
Piosa’s eyes narrowed. “Senor,” he muttered gravely, “I was referring to the loss of our blessed leader, Moreno.”
Valentina took a moment to enjoy the spectacle of her father bug-eyed and red-cheeked with embarrassment, before stepping forward to save him.
“Padre,” he said, with audible exhalation, “my daughter, Valentina.”
“Delighted, Senorita – may you find God’s grace in our humble community.”
With an unexpected flourish, Piosa kissed her on the hand, eyes flickering over her ornate travelling ensemble as he did so – even in time of national mourning, Valentina affected only the finest fashions Quito had to offer. Scooping up some of her voluminous luggage, he led them towards the chapel, squatting amid the tiny port like some whitewashed hen surrounded by its brood. A strangely lopsided building, disfigured by the addition of numerous wings and annexes: no doubt as the Refuge for Young Women (they were, at least, not referred to as “fallen”) had expanded. It was a short walk, but Valentina was not used to any form of exertion – ruefully, she realised humility would not come easily to her. For one thing, it made her sweat.
A figure awaited them on the chapel step: it raised itself and approached, resolving into a young woman whose aspect immediately caught Valentina’s eye. Despite an unflattering black smock seemingly composed of literal sackcloth, and a frankly sanctimonious veil draped across the top of her head, she gave an impression of statuesque elegance. In truth she was no taller than Valentina, but something in her movements suggested long-limbed grace, innate and not a little sensual.
“Senor and Senorita Gallo,” Piosa announced, “allow me to present my other current ward. Her name is Kasta Vasquez.”
For Valentina, it was like suddenly looking upon some fantastically idealised older sister. Her face was deep, a stretched buff softened by sinuously contoured cheekbones. The nose was slight and straight, utterly dignified, a mere hint of tempestuous flare at the nostrils. The mouth, narrow and taut, was a wonder: bottom lip ruby and full as wine overflowing a goblet; upper lip a triumphal arch of glossy scarlet exposing prominent pearl incisors. Her stone-grey eyes were wide yet strangely delicate, subtly lashed beneath brows whose angular arc recalled a seabird’s wings. What hair spilled beneath the veil suggested a distinctly non convent-like, unrestrained crown; dark as smoked wood but glimmering hints of auburn and old gold where it caught the light. Valentina had a keen eye for beauty – primarily her own – and wondered with a searing melange of admiration and envy if there was a body under that sacking to match the face.
“Kasta is only twenty-three, but already she aspires to the sanctity of the Convent,” the Padre beamed. “I pray that under my tutelage she will become a worthy Bride of Christ.”
The girl smiled shyly, a sudden fluorescence of perfect teeth. Valentina tried to suppress the thought that this was one bride Christ definitely wouldn’t turn down – it felt vaguely blasphemous.
“Valentina,” Piosa continued, “Kasta will be your companion throughout your stay. I trust that, through her, you will come to know the ways of piety.”
Valentina flashed a grin towards her new acquaintance: just perhaps, here was something that might make her exile bearable.
*
That belief was very soon jolted by a glimpse of her future accommodation: a tiny, windowless box of a room, with an unyielding plank bed – she found her luggage took up most of the free space. The arrangements for ablutions – shared, of course, were shockingly primitive; but it was not until Valentina visited the comparative splendour of her father’s room that she threw one of her trademark tantrums: Senor Gallo had taken up residence in an apartment created, more in hope than expectation, for visiting Catholic dignitaries.
“It’s not fair,” she fumed. “I’m in a cell, with a mattress I could break my arm on. It’s like being in gaol.”
“Oh, do stop complaining, chiquitilla,” Gallo fussed over his unpacking. “It’s for your own good.”
“My own good? All I did was fall in love – is that a prison offence?”
Her father shrugged irritably. “There’s no point discussing it further – you were stupid, and I suppose that’s a young lady’s prerogative. But I can’t afford scandal, so just take your medicine and stay out of trouble.”
“You’re the one should be keeping out of trouble,” she shot back. “Piosa doesn’t know you’re a Liberal, does he?”
Senor Gallo grunted guiltily. “I try to keep my business and political interests separate.”
“How did you find out about him, anyway? You don’t have any contacts in the Galapagos.”
“He found me. I received a letter from the Padre, very soon after the assassination, in fact: it said he provided a service for young women in trouble. In the circumstances, manna from Heaven.”
Valentina’s eyes narrowed. “But how could he have known? It seems awfully coincidental.”
“Perhaps, but I understand the principle of gift horses – it’s a chance to solve two problems with one move. Once things have settled down on the mainland I can return, and after your little purdah you will join me – everything will be as it was, except hopefully Alfaro will be in power.”
Valentina moped. “Mother would never have let you do this.”
Senor Gallo glared. “You never knew your mother.” His expression softened abruptly. “But you’re probably right – she’d have talked me out of it. However, God rest her soul, she’s not here – so quit stalling, and get along to your quarters. I have to finish unpacking, and then finalise arrangements with the Padre.”
At the door Valentina turned. Her eyes were tearful.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Gallo smiled. “I love you too, Gatito. That’s why I’m doing this.”
*
Back at her ‘cell’, Valentina found Kasta in the wide-eyed act of examining wardrobe.
“Careful,” she snapped in mock annoyance, “those gowns probably cost more than this entire island.”
Kasta started, her eyes lowering in a guilty and, thought Valentina, fetching manner.
“I am sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to pry – they’re just such lovely things…”
“Borrow anything you fancy,” said Valentina, amused she’d been taken seriously. “We look about the same size.”
Kasta dropped her head. “I’d love to, but Padre would forbid it – he despises vanity.”
“Then I’m going to be a trial for him – I have made it my life’s work never to look less than fabulous.” She sat down on her bed, which creaked impressively but was otherwise unyielding. “Was there something in particular you wanted?”
“Just to say ‘hola’. I wonder if you’d be interested in seeing something of the island.”
Valentina sneered. “This wouldn’t involve walking, by any chance? ‘Cause if it does, I’d as soon stay here, thank you very much.”
“Well, it’s your choice,” said Kasta airily. “But if you do, Padre may insist you begin scripture studies – there is a particularly dull Bible passage he makes new girls memorise.”
Valentina pursed her voluptuous lips. Then, with a world-weary shrug, she got slowly to her feet.
“All right, I’ll come, but I need to change first – give me ten minutes. I swear, this place will be the death of me…”
*
Valentina never failed to dress provocatively, but this was the first time she had caused offence by affecting what was, by her standards, plain white. When they met by the chapel door Kasta seemed utterly horrified.
“What in the Blessed Virgin’s name are you thinking?” she hissed.
“What?” Valentina was genuinely puzzled. “I’m just trying to be comfortable.”
“Have you forgotten our beloved Presidente?” Kasta gasped. “This is a time of mourning.”
“Oh, that. Well, there’s only so much grief a city girl like me can deal with – black’s a great colour, but it can get a trifle stale.” She took a few steps into the sunshine, unfurled her matching parasol, turned expectantly. “Well, are we going on this dratted trek or not?”
Kasta rolled her eyes, muttered a fervent prayer for patience, and then fell into step with her strange new companion. What few residents were on the streets glared at Valentina’s luminescence with ill-disguised contempt, but she didn’t seem to care. So long as she was provoking some sort of reaction, Valentina seemed happy.
“So you’re going to be a nun,” was her opening salvo, as they drifted beyond the limits of the tiny port. “Must’ve done something pretty heinous, if that’s your only option in life.”
“We are forbidden to talk about the past,” said Kasta sullenly. “Padre says dwelling on our mistakes can lead to sinful thoughts.”
“You know, I don’t think the Padre and I are going to get along. And frankly, if you insist on doing everything he says, I doubt we’ll get along, either. Are the other girls as boring as you?”
“There are no other girls,” snapped Kasta. “Padre sent them back to their families, straight after the assassination.”
Valentina gave her a sideways glance. “Interesting. And may I ask why you weren’t sent with them? Or is that forbidden, too?”
Kasta hung her head in that appealing, pious manner. “There is nobody would have me.”
“So I was right,” replied Valentina archly. “You did do something heinous. Don’t worry darling, I’ll worm it out of you eventually.”
Kasta stopped walking. Her look was venomous.
“Are all Quito girls so rude and obstreperous?”
“Heavens, no,” laughed Valentina theatrically. “I’m one of a kind – Papa says I always open my mouth before using my brain. You’ll get used to me eventually.”