Two islands

Guilherme Semionato

TWO ISLANDS Illustrations Zansky

TWO ISLANDS Translated into English by Guilherme Semionato

Guilherme Semionato

TWO ISLANDS illustrations Zansky

Copyright © Guilherme Semionato, 2023 Copyright © Zansky, 2023 All rights reserved to EDITORA FTD Rui Barbosa, 156 — Bela Vista — São Paulo — SP Zip Code 01326-010 — Phone (0-55-11) 3598-6000 www.ftd.com.br CONTACTS director Ricardo Tavares de Oliveira publishing manager Isabel Lopes Coelho foreign rights Tassia Oliveira foreignrights@ftd.com.br

GUILHERME SEMIONATO was born in Rio de Janeiro in 1986.

He received a B.A. in Social Communication from UFRJ and a Specialist Degree in Literature for Children and Young Adults from UFF. He has published books for children in Brazil and abroad, and he also works as a translator and consultant for publishers.

ZANSKY was born and lives in São Paulo. He graduated in Graphic Design at Etec Carlos de Campos and received a B.A. in Arts from Unesp. He illustrates books, magazines and other contents. He also self-publishes his own work at Edições de Zaster.

To Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Jacques Cousteau and all the artists who have brought and will bring sea and sky, magic and mystery into our lives.

Guilherme Semionato

part I

GREEN ISLAND

I

t’s difficult for people to know that they live on an island.

It’s only possible to know it if we can spot the island

from above, seeing water all around. If we are in the center

of the island, we may think that we are surrounded by land because our eyes don’t reach the sea. If we are sitting on the sand

looking at the sea, we may think there is only water in front of us and endless land behind us.

An airplane — or a seagull or any other bird — guards the secrets of the islands and the secrets of the seas; it knows where the islands end and the seas begin. A plane flying over Green Island would also keep the secrets of a ten-year-old boy named João. It’s not that João has many secrets. I can tell you right away the biggest one: his best friend is a volcano, the Green Volcano.

João has always lived on Green Island, except for the first two days of his life. He was born on the mainland, in a village so surrounded by the sea that it could pass as an island. The maternity hospital was on a beachfront street, and João was born with sea air in his eyes and swirls in his wavy hair, as if it were a shelter for coral reefs.

Sophia, João’s mother, is a biologist. Fernando, his father, is an aviator. They call him Little Bird. Sometimes things have a curious way of happening. Twelve years ago, Sophia looked up at the sky, and Fernando looked down at the land. Falling in love is like recognizing a member of your family you’ve never met, and that was enough for João to come into existence a short time later.

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O

nce, Fernando explained to João that the Earth was like a bonbon filled with cherry liqueur. “A very, very hot liquor,” warned his father.

The bottom of the sea is full of hot spots; in these places, mag-

ma from the Earth’s interior presses against the surface, forming volcanoes. These volcanoes, on the seafloor, erupt and spew out lava. Over millions of years, the lava builds up, cools, and solidifies until it forms an island, an earthen floor.

The Green Island is volcanic, and the Green Volcano is its heart. It’s right in the center of the island; it’s its founder. So much so that, on the anniversary of the discovery of the island, the Aerial Demonstration Squadron, of which João’s father is a member, erupts into the sky, drawing triangles of white smoke to pay homage to the volcano.

The Green Volcano gave the residents a very fertile soil. Many made their living from agriculture, planting coffee, cotton, and sugar cane. Others kept vegetable gardens in their backyards, where they grew simpler things like basil, thyme, and blueberries.

Around the volcano was a huge botanical garden overflowing with trees and flowers. The oldest resident of Green Island, Mr. Alberto, now ninety years of age, was the one who cultivated that plant watercolor. They were species he brought from Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town, cities where Mr. Alberto had lived in his days as a sailor.

(In fact, he lived more in the Atlantic Ocean, on a giant freighter carrying grain, iron, and steel between Brazil and South Africa.)

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In the botanical garden, there were hot springs, natural pools where lily pads bloomed, and even a small waterfall. It had royal palm trees, bromeliads, fynbos vegetation, and mango trees. There was a grove of mahogany adorned with orchids and beehives; ferns guarded nests of thrushes, and agoutis coexisted with guinea pigs.

There was a garden of spices, another of herbs for infusion, and a tea plantation, and it was common to see the islanders helping themselves to all of it. There were also many wooden tables for picnics and a lot of benches to sit and rest the legs on. Mr. Alberto had created a walking trail lined with Handroanthus trees, which dyed the ground yellow, white, and pink. This path led tourists and residents of Green Island to the mouth of the volcano. And there were so many birds circling around that they even formed clouds!

The Green Volcano loved the island. It didn’t release ash. It didn’t expel lava. It had been asleep for a very long time. In all his years, Mr. Alberto never saw a single puff of smoke coming out of it. “This volcano doesn’t even look like a volcano!” he always said.