Cathedral of the Sea

“No,” said his father, laughing and putting an arm round his shoulder. “But we’re still the best sailors! We’re the lords of the Mediterranean! And we do have the beach. Here is where we ground our boats when they are not on a voyage, and it’s here that we repair and build them. Can you see the shipyards? There at the far end of the beach, where those arches are.”

“Can we go onto the boats?” Guiamon asked.

“No,” said his father, suddenly serious again. “Boats are sacred, my boy.”

Arnau never went out with Grau and his children, still less with Guiamona. He was always left at home with Habiba, but later on, his cousins would tell him all they had seen and heard. They had explained everything about the beach and the boats.

And there the boats were that Christmas night. All of them! The small ones: cockboats, skiffs, and gondolas. The medium-sized vessels: cogs, dromonds, gallivats, pinks, brigantines, galliots, and barques. And even some larger ships: naos, carracks, caravels, and galleys, which despite their size were forced by royal decree not to sail between October and April.

“Look at them all!” Guiamon exclaimed.

On the shore at Regomir they could see some fires burning, with watchmen sitting round them. Scattered along the beach from Regomir to Framenors rose the silent boats, lit only by the moon.

“Follow me, sailors!” commanded Margarida, raising her right arm.

Captain Margarida led her men through storms; they fought pirates, boarded ships, won battles. They leapt from one ship to the next, defeating Genoese and Moors, whooping in triumph as they regained Sardinia for King Alfonso.

“Who goes there?”

The three of them stood paralyzed with fright in the bottom of a skiff.

“Who goes there?”

Margarida poked her head over the side. Three torches were coming toward them.

“Let’s get away from here,” Guiamon whispered, tugging at his sister’s dress.

“We can’t,” she said. “They’re right in front of us.”

“What about over toward the shipyards?” asked Arnau.

Margarida looked over toward Regomir. Another two lighted torches were heading toward them from that direction.

“It’s not safe that way either.”

“The boats are sacred!” Grau’s words echoed in all their minds. Guiamon began to sob, but Margarida silenced him. A cloud covered the moon.

“Into the sea!” ordered the captain.

The three of them jumped overboard into the shallow water. Margarida and Arnau crouched down; Guiamon stretched out at full length. As the torches approached the skiff, the children moved out farther into the sea. Margarida looked up at the moon, praying silently that the clouds would keep it hidden.

The search seemed to go on forever, but none of the men looked out to sea, and if one of them did ... well, it was Christmas, and they were only three frightened children—frightened, and soaked to the skin by now. It was very cold.

By the time they reached home, Guiamon could hardly stand. His teeth were chattering, his knees trembled, and he was shaking uncontrollably. Margarida and Arnau had to lift him under the arms and carry him the last part of the way.

When they arrived, all the guests had already left. Alerted to the children’s disappearance, Grau and the slaves were on the point of setting out to look for them.

“It was Arnau,” Margarida said accusingly, while Guiamona and the Moorish slave girl plunged the little boy into a bath of hot water. “He talked us into going down to the beach. I didn’t want to ...” The little girl made sure she accompanied her lies with the tears that always worked so well with her father.

The hot bath, blankets, and scalding broth were not enough to revive Guiamon. The fever took hold. Grau sent for the doctor, but his efforts were in vain. The fever grew worse: Guiamon began to cough, and his breathing became shallow and wheezing.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” Dr. Sebastia Font said resignedly on the third night he came to visit.

Pale and drawn, Guiamona raised her hands to her head and burst into tears.

“But that’s impossible!” shouted Grau. “There must be some remedy!”

“There may be, but ...” The doctor was well aware of Grau and his dislikes. But the situation called for desperate measures. “You will have to call on Jafuda Bonsenyor.”

Grau said nothing.

“Call for him!” Guiamona said, between sobs.

“A Jew!” thought Grau. If you deal with a Jew, you deal with the Devil, he had been taught as a child. And as a child, Grau had joined the other apprentices to run after Jewish women and smash their water jars when they came to fill them at the public fountains. He went on doing so until the king bowed to a petition from the Jewry of Barcelona and prohibited all such attacks. Grau hated Jews. All his life he had harassed or spat at anyone wearing a badge. They were heretics; they were the ones who had killed Jesus Christ... how could he allow one of them to cross his threshold?

“Call him!” shouted Guiamona.