‘What’s the matter, nina? Why do you cry out?’ I called to her, having more respect for her judgment now than formerly.
She snorted again more loudly, and, rousing up, I saw, by the half-light of a moon drifting behind the mountain mist, a cluster of small black dots down in the middle of the valley, and heard a high howl which made my heart go pit-a-pat, for I knew the dots must be wolves or wild dogs.
Now indeed I cursed my lack of a weapon!
Before, I had been reluctant to kindle a fire for fear of advertising my whereabouts, but in this danger I lost no time pulling out steel and yesca, and kindling a small blaze; unfortunately there was no brushwood, for the valley was quite bare of trees, therefore I was obliged to feed my fire with hay, despite feelings of guilt towards the farmer whose fodder I was destroying; but if my life were to be weighed in the balance against his cattle’s winter feed, I had no hesitation as to which I thought the more valuable!
The wolves circled, howling, but kept their distance, while the mule snorted and stamped, and I, from time to time, let out a shout, to show the enemy that I was not of a kind to surrender tamely. Nevertheless they came in as close as they dared, and often I felt a chill of dread at the pit of my stomach: I could see their green eyes shining, their hackles bristling, and their bushy tails uplifted. I flung handfuls of stones among them and they would retreat, but they returned again and again.
At last, however, when dawn was heralded by a faint streak of red in the sky at the valley-foot, they decided that there was no good to be got out of me, and took their departure.
Capital, thought I; let me but take ten minutes’ nap, and then we had best be on our way.
Ay de mi! What did I do but fall into a deep slumber. And when I awoke, to my horrid dismay, I discovered that a spark from my small fire must have sprung across to the haystack, for a great black bite had been burned out of its side and only, I suppose, due to a sharp rain which was now falling, had the whole stack not been consumed, and very possibly the mule and myself as well.
With feelings of guilt and anger at myself I beat out the last embers, gave a truss of hay to the mule, and ate a handful of my nuts. Then we both refreshed ourselves at the brook and started on our way – I, stiff, cold, wet, muddy, and not much the better for my night’s repose. The mule, too, seemed morose and balky; however when we had gone a mile or so, she perked up and proceeded at her usual lively pace, and I, too, by degrees, became warmer and less low-spirited.
Arrived at the point we had reached yesterday where the tracks joined, I chose the wider one, which turned into quite a well-made carretera, or carriage road. After a mile or so I could see small mud-and-slate dwellings ahead.
Not wishing to encounter the villagers, I struck off to the right, and took a wide course around the houses; my way, fortunately, was screened by a wood of chestnuts and oak trees. I was thus able to avoid notice – and also the danger of being marked down as the vagabond who had set light to some farmer’s store of hay. My conscience was tender on this point: I remembered a time, a couple of years ago now, when, my grandfather having refused to allow me to attend a feria which was being held outside the walls of Villaverde, because, he said, I would rub shoulders with a horde of gipsies and canalla, I had been so enraged that I had deliberately set fire to three of his haystacks, and had watched them burn with the greatest satisfaction. At the time I had thought this a great joke and a just reward for his unreasonable tyranny.
At least – I thought now – my grandfather, one of the richest men in the province, could afford the loss of three stacks; but a mountain farmer was a different case. However there was nothing I could do for the farmer except apologise to him in my thoughts, and I made haste to put the village behind me.
There were big lumpish hills, now, all about, half-hidden behind the rainy mist; it was most wretched weather. After a long while, though, the mist began to lift, the rain ceased, and a mild autumn sun beamed out, illuminating a wide and noble scene ahead. A ravine, which I had been descending, gave on to a spacious valley whose sides, though steep, were cultivated. The harvest had been gathered and only stubble was left in the fields. Willow trees marked the course of a stream in the middle of the valley, high blue mountains reared their peaks on either side, and another village with a church could be seen in the far distance.
Although by now hollow with hunger I judged it prudent to avoid that village also. This was not so easy, for it lay full in the lap of the valley and whichever side of it I passed, I must be visible among the sloping stubble-fields. However the village lay farther off than I had reckoned, and by the time we drew near it was the hour of siesta; no creature save a couple of stray dogs and a wakeful rooster seemed aware of our presence as the mule and I went quietly through the stubble, she snatching up a barley-ear now and then.
Beyond this point the valley took a turn and became, of a sudden, much steeper. Above us a black, frightful crag hung at an immense height over the road, which here drew close beside the river. This, now large and full, dashed roaring among huge rocks, carrying with it great mats of leaves and branches of trees – probably broken off in some tempest among the higher hills – and knots of yellow foam. There were, however, silent pools to be found now and again, and in one of these I was lucky enough to be able to catch a couple of trout, with my hands, in a manner taught me by Pablo, one of my grandfather’s shepherds. These, cooked over a small fire of willow-twigs, appeased my hunger – and seemed to me, indeed, the best food I had ever eaten.
Greatly heartened by this wayside banquet, I sprang on the back of the mule – who, meanwhile, had feasted too, on the juicy grass at the river’s edge – and we continued on our way at a good pace.
Now we had to thread a long, wild region, rocky and forested, with no dwelling; the only sign of life was a rare, solitary stag, crashing through the underbrush, or a hare, sitting bolt upright in the track ahead. Many times I wished that I had a fowling-piece – or even a bow and arrow – with me. The stags of these parts are too strong and coarse to eat, though their skins are used by the farmers, but the hares are thought a great delicacy and I thought I could make shift to roast one if only I had the means of catching it.
Most of the day had gone before we reached another village, which lay at the foot of a deep glen. The house-roofs, here, were made of huge slates and came down almost to the ground, as a protection from the mountain rains. Up above the houses, on the sides of the mountain, almost like cloths hanging on a line, were the small fields, with cattle grazing; they seemed so steep I wondered that the cattle did not fall down the chimneys. A little church, up above, clung to a crag like a stone-martin perched on a cliffside.
I asked a woman whom I saw carrying a pail of water from the river if the village had an inn (thinking myself now far enough from home to risk notice); she stared at me in surprise, as if quite unused to strangers, and asked if I came from San Antonio? When I, having no idea why she asked the question, answered no, she directed me onward to a small venta at the end of the village street.
I rode along, tethered the mule to a tree outside the building, and entered. The place, inside, was one large room like a stable, with heaps of straw on which a number of rough-looking fellows were seated. Some slept, some drank wine from wooden cups, others were sharing a great bowl of stewed hare. A fire burned on a stone hearth in one corner, where travellers might cook their own food (there was no other provision). Another corner was partitioned off for the owner’s family.
I was told by a dirty, weary-looking woman that I might stable the mule in a cowshed at the rear, and I obtained some grain (not barley, but maize, which, however, the mule consented to eat). There seemed no prospect of purchasing food for myself, but, retracing my way through the village, I was lucky enough to see a woman milking her cow, and obtained a drink of new milk from her. Thus refreshed I returned to the venta and laid myself down on one of the piles of straw, reflecting that my last night’s bed had probably been cleaner, if mor
e exposed to rain, wind, and wolves.
The men eating the hare, travellers like myself, had already gone to sleep, but the wine-drinkers were still drinking and talking; their voices prevented me from falling asleep.
‘It is a great insolence,’ one of them was saying, ‘that he should come to our village! For my part, I think that we should blow his head off – or at least, throw him down from a precipice.’
All in a moment, at these words, I was wide awake, for I thought they were speaking of me, and I trembled in my heap of straw.
‘Yes, but, Isidro, he is bringing his daughter,’ objected another voice. ‘We can hardly throw a girl off the side of the mountain.’
Then I knew they could not be speaking of me.
‘It is of no consequence what happens to the girl,’ said Isidro. ‘We can leave her on the mountain. Someone from San Antonio will doubtless come looking for her. Or if not, let her perish! She is only a sick girl. But I say that no man from that place should be allowed to set foot here! They are all rogues.’
‘That is the truth!’ struck in another voice. ‘We all know how abominably they behaved over the grazing rights. And about Manuel’s ox!’
‘And the wild boar that Juan shot!’
‘And the sheep that fell into the river!’
‘Well, then is it agreed among us?’ demanded Isidro.
‘Yes, agreed!’ came all their voices.
‘Where shall we wait for him?’
There was some argument; then the one called Isidro said, ‘Let us wait at the top of the path where it comes round the crag above the church. We know he must come that way. And there we may toss him into the next world without the need for fire-arms, and so save ourselves money now and trouble later. If carabineers or alguacils should come investigating, what can they find? A broken neck is a broken neck.’
To this they all agreed, and trooped from the building. One of them, passing by me in my corner, said, ‘Who is that?’ and I made believe to be fast asleep.
‘That? Nobody,’ said another voice. ‘A stranger boy. He came from the south. He is not of San Antonio. I know every soul in that accursed village.’
They went out, and left me wondering very much what was afoot.
To be sure, it was none of my business, but I could not help puzzling about it. Why should they be so resolved upon the death of this man from San Antonio – wherever that was? I recalled the woman in the road who had asked me so suspiciously if I came from there. What fault had the natives of San Antonio committed?
Presently the sad-looking woman wrho had shown me the cowshed came in, carrying a great bundle of wood. Discovering that all the men had gone, she looked about anxiously, crossed to one of the sleeping voyagers, shook him awake, and asked in a trembling voice,
‘Senor, where are all the men who were here just now?’
‘May the devil fly away with me if I know,’ he growled, not at all pleased, ‘and may the devil fly away with you, for waking me!’ and he burrowed his head back into the hay.
‘Ay, Maria purissima, where can they be?’ she murmured turning irresolutely towards the door again.
She seemed so distraught that, in spite of some intentions I had had not to meddle in what was no affair of mine, I could not help rising up, and softly following her outside. Bernie always used to say that I was too inquisitive for my own good.
‘Senora! I can tell you where the men went,’ said I, in a low voice, when we were a few yards from the door. ‘I heard them say they would go up the mountain to the church, to meet some person who is coming from San Antonio with his daughter.’
There I stopped. Even in the moonshine I could see her pale face had become even paler, and great drops stood on her wrinkled forehead.
She gripped my wrist with both hands.
‘Oh, Dios mio. Are you telling the truth, boy?’
I said certainly I was.
‘He is my brother! Bringing his afflicted child! I begged him not to – I sent a note … Oh, the monsters, the devils! But what can I, a poor woman, do about it?’ She wound her sackcloth apron between her hands. ‘To think of seven of them setting upon one – and he bringing a poor child who has neither moved nor spoken for three years! How could they be so wicked?’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘why are they doing it?’ For I could see she knew full well what they planned. ‘What did your brother do to them?’
‘He has done nothing! It is just that he comes from San Antonio. Anybody from that town is sure to be killed if he comes here.’
‘But you come from there?’
‘Oh, I am only a woman. And they took me by force.’
‘I do not understand at all.’
‘There is a feud! It all began long ago,’ she said impatiently, as if that were not important. ‘They said we took a holy relic from their church – or we said they took it from ours – nobody remembers any more. But now there are many more grievances – about grazing rights, and somebody’s ox that strayed and trampled somebody’s crop … When did they say they expected Jose?’
‘I do not know, senora. Tonight – that was all they said. They are going to wait above the church. But why does he come, if there is such danger? Why does he bring a sick child? Is there a doctor in this village?’
‘No – yes, there is,’ the woman said distractedly, still twisting her apron. ‘But it is not that.’ Her eyes kept flying about, she turned her head as if listening for some terrible sound. ‘No, you see it is the Saints’ Walk. My brother must have hoped that as nothing else helped poor little Nieves – Hark, what was that?’
‘It was only a dog barking. What is the Saints’ Walk?’
‘It is a walk taken to heal illness,’ she said rapidly. ‘There is a relic of San Antonio here, and one of Santa Teresa over yonder – ’ She crossed herself. ‘It is a pen she wrote with, kept in a box. And they say that if you walk from one church to the other, over the mountain, fasting, and without speaking to anybody, in one night – it is like bearing a message from one saint to the other – it makes them glad, and their virtue will pass through you and heal you of your trouble.’
I thought of Bernie, and wished I had known about the Saints’ Walk.
‘How far is it between one church and the other?’
But the woman said, ‘It is thirty miles, along a very steep mountain path. Few have done it in one night. And some have fallen over the cliff trying to find their way in the dark. Ay, my poor little niece!’
No, Bernie could never have done it.
I said, ‘We had better go up to the church. Perhaps we shall think of some way to stop them.’
She stared at me. ‘What could you do? You are only a boy.’
‘We can’t just stay here,’ said I.
‘But they will kill you too.’
I had considered that also, but still – seven against one! And a sick child! I knew what Bernie – or Bob – would say about such dealing.
‘Never mind, senora,’ I said. ‘You stay here. Just show me the way to the church.’
‘The path is very s-steep.’ Her teeth were chattering with terror. But she came with me.
It was steep indeed. A narrow alley ran between two houses, and almost straight up the precipitous hill behind, climbing in steps, turning a little one way, a little the other, then up, up. The track, slippery from rain, threaded between trees whose roots were useful for foot-and hand-holds.
Presently the trees grew fewer. Ahead in the moonlight we could see the little church, nestled on a kind of shelf which just held it. In front grew a great chestnut tree and by its trunk I thought I saw a moving clump of darkness, blacker than the shade round about.
‘It is they!’ breathed the woman. ‘There! I saw a spark as one struck his yesca.’ She halted and said, ‘I cannot go on. My heart is dying within me.’
‘What of your brother? Your niece? You will let them be killed?’
‘I will go back and pray. That is the only thing I can do. If my husband f
ound me here. – He is with them!’
‘You are afraid for yourself,’ said I, thinking poorly of her.
‘Yes! No! It is what he would do to the children!’
‘Oh, very well, go, go!’ I heard her give a whimper, and then she slipped away down the hill among the trees.
By now I could distinguish the group of men clearly enough; they were standing, squatting, and lounging in the shelter of the tree, certain that their quarry must come that way. I could see that the path led on round an overhang on the mountainside, with a steep drop down below. It was only just wide enough to walk along, where it approached the shelf on which the church was built.
I felt sorry for the man from San Antonio, carrying his sick child.
There would be no sense in my going forward and confronting the men. They would kill me or laugh at me; I did not know which would be worse. I wondered if it might be possible to creep along behind the church and so reach a point up above the group. Pursuing this plan, I turned off to my left, quitting the path and scrambling up through the trees – which were pines, here; more light came through the branches, but the ground below them was treacherous as glass because of the needles. I had to crawl on all fours, gripping the ground with my fingers, but this proved lucky, for one of the men, hearing some sound, discharged his gun in my direction, and the shot went over my head.
Then I heard Isidro’s voice:
‘You fool! Why did you do that?’
‘I heard a twig snap – a bear perhaps.’
‘Dolt! Suppose Jose heard you?’
‘Oh I daresay he is nowhere near us yet.’
Now I had put the church between myself and them and the sound of their voices died away. Thick brushwood had grown up behind the church and I had the devil’s own trouble making my way through, and was in fear all the time that one of the men would hear me again. But they were still arguing, I suppose, and at length I made my way through a mass of prickly gorse bushes and found myself on the steep slope above the group, but screened from their view by the bushes.