‘God’s ways are mysterious,’ he said. ‘I daresay if the people of Cobenna had learned this morning that it was you who threw the stones, and not San Antonio himself, they would have changed their minds about the miracle and torn us to pieces, all three; yet I see it as God’s will which brought you to that place at that time.’
Looking at the matter in this light, I thought he was probably right, and I felt very friendly disposed towards God, Who had put this notion of scaring off the murderers into my head, and Who must have enjoyed the joke as much as I had. It now struck me that Father Tomas, who told me so often that God hated my wicked ways, very likely had a wrong notion of God altogether; and I wondered this had not occurred to me before, since Father Tomas had been wrong on many other points. And it struck me, too, how often a dark, dismal, and frightening idea is believed above a cheerful and hopeful one. Why this should be, I cannot say.
However, Don Jose, having achieved the cure of his daughter, was now as cheerful and hopeful as a man could be, and enlivened the way by telling me about the work of his mill and the people of his village. I asked how it had come about that the two villages of Cobenna and San Antonio were at such deadly feud; he said the original cause was now lost in the mists of the past, but he himself thought it might be because the natives of the two towns were descended from different races: he believed the men of Cobenna had as forefathers the Moors, who had once overrun the whole land of Spain; whereas the people of San Antonio were descended from the Goths.
‘You saw how dark and scowling the folk were in Cobenna; but in San Antonio they are fair and grey-eyed, and much taller.’
Don Jose asked me about myself, why I travelled alone at my age, and where I was bound. Having taken such a liking to him, I was loth to tell him a lie, and so said frankly,
‘Senor, I have left my home, which was not a happy one; my parents are dead, and my grandfather disliked me; so I am on my way to England to seek my father’s kin there, for he was English. But I will not tell you my grandfather’s name, or mine, in case he sends out men searching for me. Then, if they should come your way, you will be able to say that you know nothing about me.’
‘But,’ said Nieves, lifting up her head from the cart, where she had lain sleeping for the first part of our journey, ‘if we do not know your name, what shall we call you?’
I thought a moment and said, ‘A friend at my home used to call me Little Tiger.’
‘Bueno; we will call you that. And it suits you well,’ said Don Jose, ‘for your hair is just the colour of a tiger’s belly-fur.’
‘And his face is round, just like a tiger’s,’ said Nieves, laughing.
By daylight I could see that she was not a bad-looking girl, although her skin was so pale, through having lain indoors on a bed for the last three years, that she was well-suited to her name of Snows (from Our Lady of the Snows); but her hair was a beautiful glossy brown, and her eyes, now that she was awakened, sparkled with interest at all she saw. I was curious about the long silence through which she had lived, while she had been dumb, and asked her if she could remember nothing of that time.
‘No, friend Tiger; or not in a way that I could make plain in words. I can remember colours – which were like sounds; and scents and tastes that I seemed to see; and music that touched me like a wind; it was a long, strange, dreamlike time.’
‘Thank God you are awakened from it,’ said her father.
Now she wanted permission to walk, saying we should not have to pull her, since she was cured; but this he forbade, because the way was so dangerous, and she so newly recovered, her legs still weak and thin; so she remained on the cart. Indeed, at times we were obliged to fasten her to it with a leather thong, along the worst parts of the way, for fear she should be thrown off; and Jose pulled her then, saying that he was more accustomed to the mountains than I; it was true that sometimes I was obliged to turn my gaze from the giddy edge lest my head should begin to swim and I topple headlong over. Jose made me ride the mule who, like all her kind, cared nothing for the heights by which we passed, ambling on her way without the least objection, often treading so close to the brink that, if I had dared look past my foot in its stirrup, I should have seen nothing below it for thousands of feet.
Nieves, like the mule, seemed unaffected by the precipices; she felt sure, she told me, that she had not been woken from her silence only to fall down a cliff. She had a simple, plain way of speaking – like that of a much younger child – which pleased me greatly. Yet she could be thoughtful too.
‘Tell me about England!’ she said.
I was obliged to admit that I had never been there; yet related all that I could remember from Bob’s tales.
‘They eat their meat half-raw; beer and cider are drunk mostly, for wine is very dear; the bread is abominably bitter; the hedges are mean and insignificant, being full of nettles, thistles, and thorns instead of our oak and vine; they burn a black, shining stone everywhere instead of wood; their candles are made of tallow, very coarse and stinking, for wax is too dear; their clothes are not gay or colourful, as in Spain, but mainly grey or brown; there are no goats in England; they have no aqueducts or wayside fountains; their streets are wide, for the sun never shines, and they need no shade; their night-watchmen cry out every half-hour all through the night, telling the state of the weather – a needless service, for it is always raining …’
‘Stop, stop!’ cried Nieves. ‘You are mad to go to such a place! Why should you wish to do so? Why not remain here, in beautiful Spain?’
‘I wish to find my family. Besides, I have a curiosity to see other lands.’
‘And how do you plan to get there?’ inquired Don Jose.
‘I shall go to the coast; I have heard that from the port of Villa Viciosa many ships sail to England at this season carrying cargoes of filberts; my intention is to take a passage on one of these ships.’
‘But how will you pay for your passage?’
‘I have a little money saved; and shall hope to earn more. I can sing quite well; I shall sing in the streets; or work, and run errands for people.’
Don Jose looked thoughtful at this, and said that since the French wars people were not very free with their cash.
‘Oh, well, I can make wooden tops, and toys, and pipes for children to play on.’
I had learned these arts from the shepherd who taught me to fish; it was he who had shown me how to make the bull-roarer that had scared off the assassins.
‘Can you make pipes?’ cried Nieves, delighted. ‘Oh, make me one, if you please! I should like to play on a pipe that you had made.’
I promised that I would do so when we reached the mill. Meanwhile, discovering that she dearly loved any kind of song or music, I cudgelled my brain to remember all Bernie’s songs:
‘Este pobre nino, no tiene cuna, su papa es carpiulero, he hara una …’ and others of the kind. She joined in, Jose did likewise, and between us we made so much noise that ravens and wild hawks flew shrieking from their rocky perches, and at length Jose said we had better desist, or we might start an avalanche rolling down the mountain. This was indeed a most dismal and craggy region through which we were passing, with black rock, steep as the side of a church, on every side, and scarcely a tuft of green to be seen.
How Don Jose managed to travel that fearsome path at night, on his own, pulling the hand-cart behind him, with Nieves on it, inert as a corpse, I shall never comprehend. That was the real miracle! But he said that, when he was a young man, he had lived much in the mountains, before taking to the mill-business.
At last we came to a gentler country, of wide grassy mountain valleys, with many waterfalls like white plumes above us on the hillsides; then, always descending, we made our way through a great pine forest, and at last came out of the trees into a wide, gracious vale, where the grass was of the brightest possible green, the fields still had maize growing in them, the trees were palms, or apple-trees still laden with fruit, and beautiful blue flowers gr
ew by the sides of the road, or climbed to the eaves of the houses. These were thatched; and often stood on stone legs, entered by ladders; I wondered if this was for defence against wolves, but Don Jose said no, more from the damp. Now we were within ten or twelve leagues of the Western Ocean, where the air, blowing inland, is so heavy with moisture that the ground becomes like a sponge. Much rain falls; and even the oxen here wear great caps of fur, gaily decorated.
Dusk was falling by the time we reached a small village at the foot of a ravine which entered the valley halfway down its length.
‘Now I wish to get down and walk!’ exclaimed Nieves. ‘I would like everybody to see that your journey was worthwhile, dear father!’ and she was so insistent that at last he agreed to let her walk slowly up the village street, while he took one of her arms, I took the other, and the cart rode on the mule’s back.
It was a mild, misty evening, with a great moon rising, and several people were out strolling up and down the village street. News of our coming spread like a stubble fire:
‘Look, look! As I’m a living woman, it’s the miller’s Nieves, walking on her own two legs!’
‘Hey! Here comes Don Jose with his daughter – walking just like any girl! And a strange boy!’
‘The miller has come back with his girl and she’s cured! And they have a boy with them whose hair is yellow as barley-straw! He can’t be from Cobenna!’
People came running and exclaiming and clapping their hands, embracing both Don Jose and his daughter (even I came in for a few hugs) – and we had much ado to keep Nieves on her feet as they pushed around us. By the time we reached the mill, which was at the upper end of the village, we had a whole procession on our heels.
Don Jose rapped on the door of the mill and a shrill voice from within called, ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s I, Mario – your father!’
‘Papa – at last!’ The door was instantly pulled back, and I saw a brown-haired boy, rather taller than myself, still clutching an enormous blunderbuss which must have held bullets weighing a half-pound at the very least, while his small sister, who. had unbolted the door, cried,
‘Oh, how long you were away. We thought you were never coming back!’
Then he saw Nieves and let out a squeal that you could have heard across the valley.
‘Nieves!’
Both the boy and girl hurled themselves at their sister, he dropping the blunderbuss – which exploded, burying its bullet, fortunately, in a heap of flour-sacks that lay against the courtyard wall. I noticed this with one part of me, while, like all the inhabitants of San Antonio, I was laughing and crying, and repeating over and over again,
‘She is cured! Thanks be to God!’
When the family had embraced each other enough, we, and all the rest of the village, went along to the church to say a prayer. And then Don Jose said,
‘Neighbours … I thank you for your wonderful welcome – ’ His voice was breaking with happiness, it sounded like a stream full of pebbles; he went on, ‘And I have much to tell you about my visit to our enemies in Cobenna – but tonight my daughter Nieves needs rest, for she has had a long journey and is weary; so is my young friend here who has been of sterling help on our journey,’ (which was kind, but hardly true, for it was he who had helped me); ‘let us all meet again in the morning. For now, I will bid you goodnight.’
So the village people drew off to the posada, to celebrate the recovery of Nieves, while Don Jose invited me into the mill.
‘But, senor, you will wish to be alone with your children – ’ I said.
He pushed me inside, saying, ‘You must be there too! I am sure you are hungry. And I can smell that Anita has made something savoury for our supper.’
‘No, it was I, father,’ said the boy, Mario. ‘I have made a stew of meat and tomatoes.’
‘But I made the macaroons!’ cried Anita, who looked a well-grown nine – she was almost as big as her sister.
‘Come in, friend Tiger!’ said Nieves softly.
So I went in and shared their supper in the big mill kitchen, where a fire blazed on the hearth, and strings of onions dangled from the rafters.
I was even given a bedroom to myself, and slept for nine hours without stirring, on a flock mattress as wide as a carriage-way.
I spent three days with the family of Jose Lopez. Indeed, they all begged me to stay longer, and I would have been glad to do so, but feared if I did not then go on, I should never be able to tear myself away at all. That mill was a pleasant place! The family were so frank and friendly with each other! And so fond of one another. The children heeded what their father told them, and ran to obey his wishes, but they did so from love, and because they saw the sense in what he asked – not just because he said I order you. He showed me that a man need not bawl in a loud voice, nor utter threats, to make himself respected. Thin, quiet, grey, dusty with flour, Don Jose Lopez had far more authority than Father Tomas – or my grandfather’s steward, who was always shouting and banging his gold-knobbed stick on the floor.
Besides respect, there was laughter and fun. They made jokes, they teased one another, they laughed and sang, they were endlessly happy to have Nieves restored to health and speech. If ever I have a family or children of my own, I vowed, our life shall be like this. And I wondered if most families acted thus – whether it was only in the great house at Villaverde that life was so silent, grim and wretched.
This is a thing you discover when you set out into the world: looking at other lives, you begin to see your own in a new light.
On the fourth day I said I must go.
I had made Nieves her wooden flute (and a top for Anita); I had gone fishing up the millstream with Mario and caught six trout; I had helped plough the barley-field and pick the walnuts from the great tree which grew in the courtyard. I had also attended a banquet in the village, held to celebrate the recovery of Nieves and the end of the feud with Cobenna; for an emissary had arrived on the second day to propose peace between the villages. There were several sick people in Cobenna, it seemed, wishing to make a trial of the Saints’ Walk in the other direction, and anxious to be sure of a civil reception when they came to the end of their journey.
‘Must you really go?’ said Nieves, not at all convinced of the need for my journey, as, dressed in some outgrown clothes of Mario’s (a long loose tunic of coarse ticking, over a jerkin and short velveteen breeches, with woollen stockings – I kept my own shoes and hat, for his did not fit me) I prepared to mount the mule.
‘Indeed I must go on,’ said I, ‘though I am very sorry to leave you at all.’
‘Come back!’ they all cried, and I promised that I would, some day, if it lay within my power to do so.
‘Also, write to us from Inglaterra, to tell if you find your family,’ cried Anita. ‘A letter to the Miller at San Antonio will find us.’
‘And if you cannot trace your family, come back and take this one for your own,’ said Don Jose kindly.
I jumped on the mule, for I could see tears in the eyes of Nieves and I feared that if I remained another minute, I, too, would burst out a-crying. So I kicked the mule’s sides vigorously, and we galloped away down the valley; but still I could hear them calling,
‘Remember! Come back! Come back again!’ until I was out of sight.
The mule was fresh from three days’ rest and went at a lively pace. But I had ridden a long way before I was able to persuade myself into a cheerful frame of mind.
At length I said to myself,
‘Come, Felix! Fie, for shame! What would Bob, or Bernie, say to see you so? Why should you ride along grieving, with a heart like a waterfall? You are a thousand times better off than you were two days ago! You have come through some dangers, you have gained a little sense, you are halfway to the Mar Cantabrico, and, best of all, instead of being solitary and miserable, you now have a whole family of friends. Added to which, instead of being horribly ill-equipped for your journey, you are now fitted out as well as
any traveller need wish to be.’
It was true. The Lopez family had loaded me with gifts. Besides Mario’s clothes, I had a pocket pistol, which Don Jose had given me, a bag of raisins from Anita, who had dried them herself, one of walnuts shelled by Mario, and a tinder-box, besides a wonderful old cloak which had belonged to Don Jose’s grandfather. It was made from goats’ felt, and was so thick that it would keep out almost any weather – rain, hail, or snow. It would serve as a blanket for me, or a horsecloth for the mule. I had it packed into one of my saddle-bags, for the day was warm and mild – a red autumn sun was beginning to climb out of the mist – and the other bag had been packed full of bread and olives by the girls.
So at last I shook off the sorrow of parting and looked about me.
Don Jose had drawn me a rough map, for, he said, even though I was now but twelve leagues from the coast, such a complicated network of mountains and valleys still lay between me and my goal (some of the mountains, moreover, being upwards of two thousand feet high) that even now there was every chance of my going astray and wandering miles out of my way. He had therefore written down for me very explicit directions. He told me my best course was to strike eastwards at first, along a track he pointed out to me, which would presently bring me out on the highway that ran south from Oviedo to Leon, and so on towards Madrid; this was one of the main roads from the capital to the coast, and so was well used. I must travel northwards along it, for, to reach my destination of Villa Viciosa, I must first pass through Oviedo, which lay about four leagues inland.
Accordingly, climbing out of the valley of San Antonio, I followed Don Jose’s road eastwards into the red eye of the sun, through a village called, I think, Barzuna, or some such name, and then over a tremendous pass, from where, it seemed, I could see all the kingdoms of Spain, and even the sea itself, far away.
My spirits bounded up, at being so high, and at the immensity of the prospect before me, ranges of snowy peaks following one another into the distance like waves of the sea. Father Agustin had taught me that the world was very big, but up to now I had had no clear notion of its true vastness. And this was only Spain!