The morning broke cold and wrapped in mist. A mischievous breeze and a nagging drizzle—so typical of the Holy Spirit Festivals—had risen during the night, washing the roads already littered with prayer cards and candy wrappers, small treasures that brought such delight to the village children. Here and there, puddles concealed sweets tossed by the steward among the ditches, where boys scrambled and dug through the mud as eagerly as if they were hunting escudo coins.

The steward was usually a Portuguese-American sailor, a respected man in the tuna fleets and canneries of San Diego. This year’s steward had left for California, like so many others, in search of abundance and prosperity. Having learned the tuna trade aboard Mestre João’s fishing boats, he had once presented himself to the captain of an American tuna vessel—himself a native of Pico—as a seasoned seaman, well versed in the secrets of the ocean and the habits of the schools of fish.

Tony Sylvia—António Silveira by his baptismal name—had emigrated in his early twenties. Unmarried at the time, he left behind no promises of love save those he made to his parents. They remained alone, already advanced in age, after watching all their children depart for America in search of the fortune and better life the island had denied them.

Thirty years later, Tony, the youngest of the siblings, returned home to serve as steward of the Holy Spirit Monday Empire. It was an ancient celebration, renowned throughout the island. The Brotherhood possessed its own modest building in the center of a parish on the southern coast, a place rich in history dating back to the first settlement of the island.

Tradition dictated that the festival banquet be shared with a handful of invited guests, but above all with twelve poor people and the steward’s closest family, in thanksgiving to the Divine Holy Spirit for blessings received.

While still in America, Tony often spoke to his wife—descended from old Madeiran families who had emigrated to the land of gold—about memories of the festival he had never forgotten.

“I don’t want anything missing, Chris. Everything has to be just as it was in my day. Here in San Diego, we’ll buy dresses for the maids of honor and for the Queen who rides in the main tableau. Just like we do here. You must get beautiful clothes for the festival day. Folks back home notice everything. We’re no longer the poor children of José from Canada do Moinho.”

In the days before departure, Tony lived in a state of joyful anticipation. After years of hard work and long fishing voyages across the South Pacific near Samoa, he had managed to save a respectable nest egg.

“I left Pico with nothing,” he would tell his wife as they planned the journey. “Now I’m going back to fulfill the promise I made in São Miguel after the American consul stamped my visa and allowed me to board the Saturnia bound for that blessed land.”

The coronation festival never left his thoughts. Little by little, a conviction settled in his heart:

“The Holy Spirit will help me, and this son of José from Canada do Moinho will show them that America is truly a land of plenty for those willing to work.”

With this purpose in mind, Tony and Chris carefully planned what they would bring: a white shirt and cufflinks for the parish priest; fine woolen sweaters for Mestre João; pocketknives and folding knives for the older fishermen; a black dress and hat for Cousin Maria; lanterns for the children in the coronation procession; and elegant dresses for the maids of honor and the Queen—the most beautiful girl in the parish.

“Two suitcases stuffed full,” Tony thought on the eve of departure, “with clothes, shoes, sweets, and delicacies found only in America and treasured back on Pico.”

The journey unfolded exactly as planned.

Tony had arrived only days earlier, yet everything was already prepared for the Coronation, just as he remembered from his youth. Chris, meanwhile, observed everything with fascination. She marveled at the organization of the celebration and devoted special attention to fitting the dresses for the Queen and her attendants.

As he walked through the parish, Tony noticed that everyone had prepared carefully for the festivities. Houses gleamed beneath fresh coats of whitewash. Dirt roads had been swept clean. Flagpoles stood proudly along the streets, while strings of brightly colored paper pennants stretched from one side of the road to the other. The Chapel of the Holy Spirit and the parish church overflowed with flowers.

Everything was ready for the Empire’s feast.

At the conclusion of the banquet, the procession for collecting the baskets formed, led by the Queen and her attendants, with the steward following immediately behind.

Tony, dressed in a polished blue suit, patent leather shoes, and a crimson sash, carried the silver Crown with an expression of happiness and gratitude for the blessings bestowed upon him.

Chris wore a dark dress patterned with red roses and an elegant hat trimmed with sequins. Around her neck rested a magnificent string of pearls whose richness only emphasized the simplicity of her heart.

As the procession passed, rose petals and wildflowers drifted from open windows. Tony answered by tossing candies from a blue Pan Am bag—the same airline on which he and Chris had flown from Los Angeles to Santa Maria.

The procession’s journey from the House of the Holy Spirit on Monday to the chapel took far longer than the short distance warranted. It was delayed by the sheer number of baskets joining the parade.

More than one hundred.

Tony alone had contributed five contas worth of offerings, ensuring there would be no shortage of rosquilhas, the festival’s traditional sweet rings, distinct from those of other empires and from the special cakes baked on the eve of celebrations in the northern villages of the island.

The parish filled with visitors from Ponta and Madalena. Those from nearby villages arrived in horse-drawn carts adorned with festive decorations. Those from farther away traveled aboard the route buses that had been shuttling people back and forth since dawn.

To the lively music of the town band, visitors strolled through the village, waiting for the distribution of the rosquilhas before beginning their journeys home while daylight still lingered.

Tony and Chris became exactly what they had imagined they would be: the stars of the festival.

They reunited with old friends, exchanged embraces and kisses, and relived memories of years gone by.

Their promise to the Holy Spirit faithfully fulfilled, Tony and Chris returned to California a week later with hearts overflowing with longing, already promising themselves that one day they would return once more to embrace their island.

Short story by José Gabriel Àvila. Translated by Diniz Borges.