I felt that he was right. God had seen fit to remove one of our enemies, and mysteriously strike down another. It would be no more than obedience to Him to take advantage of the occasion.
‘Come, then,’ I said to Juan, and, breathing a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks, snatched a stout stake and hurried on up the causeway, which mounted the headland and then swung leftward, or north, following the line of the shore. This was, I knew, heading in the wrong direction for us – we must go south – but it would be necessary to make a detour around the marshes first; any attempt to cut across them would be the purest folly.
Juan followed close behind me.
The tide was still rising; another four hours at least must pass before anybody could follow us from the Abbey. And I thought it most unlikely that anyone would. Father Anselm and Father Domitian might grieve at our loss: two possible members of the Community departed; but Father Pierre and Father Antoine would, I knew, be glad for us. I only wished it might be possible, somehow, to send back a message to those two who had been so kind and helped us as much as they dared. Then, with joy I recalled that Father Antoine had mentioned his sister. We could go through the village where she lived, perhaps, and leave word with her. Very likely she came to see her brother now and then, on Abbey visiting days.
We had reached the summit of the headland now, and the track levelled out. Looking back it was possible to see the Abbey perched on its rock against the silvery ocean, with white clouds of foam bursting up at the foot of the zigzag path.
‘Did you see Father Vespasian’s end?’ I asked Juan, who had been silent since we left the shore, partly because of the steep climb, but more, I thought, from horror at what had passed.
To be made to speak of it, I thought, would be better for him. Also, for myself, I must confess I would be glad to know that the Abbot had really perished in the rising waters, and not flown away in the darkness like some great bird of ill-omen.
‘Yes … at least I think so,’ whispered Juan. ‘One moment he was there, coming after us, with his arms spread wide, and that dreadful glare in his eyes; then a huge wave towered directly over him and I was obliged to look away; I could not bear to see. When I looked again, he was gone.’
‘Ah!’
‘But Felix – my heart misgives me.’
‘Well?’
‘Did you ever think,’ he whispered, crossing himself, ‘that Father Vespasian – seemed different, at times – as if some other power were – were in command of him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do think that. Some of his acts -the way he looked and spoke at times – seemed governed by a force that was not human.’
‘That was what I felt, too. Oh, he was a terribly frightening man! When he first came into my sick chamber – he began to laugh. To laugh! The strangest laugh I ever heard. And he said a strange thing: ‘The scent of the yellow flowers still hangs about her – about him.’ What can he have meant by that?’
‘In the grove where we found you hanging,’ I said, transported back to that moment, ‘there were yellow flowers, very sweet-scented. But how could he have known that?’
The Abbot, I remembered, had questioned me most intently about the period when I was unconscious. What did he hope to learn from those who had recovered from death, or a state near death? Yet death – itself – was dreadful to him.
I asked Juan: ‘Did he question you about your hanging?’
‘Oh, yes. Over and over. What did I remember? What had I felt? Had I lost consciousness, and for how long? What had happened to my soul when it left my body? How could I tell him that? I did not know myself.’ Juan gave an uncontrollable shiver. ‘He was an evil, evil man. I am glad that he is gone.’
He looked forward along the path and set down his bare feet more sturdily, as if determined to shake off the horror. And I, wishing to spare him, did not utter the fear – wild, superstitious, and intense – which still held me, that somehow, one way or another, we might not yet have seen the last of Father Vespasian.
Ahead of us, presently, we perceived Zugarra, the village from which the boy Tomas had come, and we turned aside from it, going softly through damp reedy fields, so as to avoid being barked at by watchdogs or hissed at by geese; though all seemed silent, plunged in slumber, at this dead hour of night. Then we rejoined the track, which now wound southerly again, skirting inland behind the marshes. Juan was beginning to limp; I sliced strips off the blanket with a knife which I had taken from the surgery (leaving a crown in payment for knife and blanket; too much, but I had no smaller coin) and bound them round his feet.
‘Thank you, Felix,’ he said faintly.
‘Are you very tired? I think that we should put as much distance as we can between us and the coast before dawn breaks; then find somewhere to hide and sleep.’
‘Of course,’ he muttered in a sulky tone, as if he did not relish being told what we should do. ‘And, no, I am not too tired to walk. I can go on for many leagues yet, I daresay.’ And he strode on doggedly.
‘This old gardener of yours – Pierre – where does he live?’ I asked.
‘At Biriatou.’
‘How far is that from here, should you say?’
‘Eight or nine kilometers, perhaps.’ Now that I had indicated a willingness to follow his plan, he sounded more cheerful. He added, ‘We must go on in this direction until we reach the Bidassoa River, then turn inland. The river is the boundary between France and Spain.’
‘Ah! Is Spain so near?’ My heart lifted at the thought. I said, ‘How far is it to Pamplona, where your uncle lives?’
‘Oh, that is a great deal farther away, seventeen leagues perhaps. I hope my uncle is not dead,’ he whispered, half to himself.
‘Dead?’ I was startled. ‘Why in the world should you think that? Is he an old man? Or in poor health?’
‘Oh, no; not old. But he was in agreement with the Liberals, the Constitution Party led by Colonel Riego. And we heard that the Spanish king was angry with them. I hope some harm has not overtaken him, and that is why he never answered Esteban’s appeal for money.’
‘Well, that we cannot discover until we get to Pamplona. There’s no use fretting ahead of time,’ I said, wondering what I could do with Juan should it turn out that his uncle had been thrown into jail by order of King Ferdinand. Take him on with me to Villaverde, another seventy or eighty leagues? What would my grandfather say to that?
‘How old are you, Juan?’ I asked, and was surprised when he told me thirteen years.
‘You are small, then! I had thought you were younger.’
‘Oh, we Eskualdunak are always of small stature,’ he said rather peevishly. ‘But we have the hearts of lions. You are not such a giant yourself! How old are you, Felix?’
The same age as himself, I told him, and we went on for some time in silence.
I was reflecting how ill-prepared we were for such a journey as ours. Our first care, after we had slept and visited this old Pierre, must be to provide ourselves with food, a knapsack, shoes for Juan, flint and steel, and mules or ponies; for a walk of seventeen leagues over the mountains on our own feet would take ten days, if not longer, and I did not think Juan had the strength for such a march. Moreover I had heard that the Pyrenees were very steep, with high cliffs and terrible ravines, hundreds of feet deep.
By now day was beginning to break dimly; it could be seen that we were in a country of flat damp fields here and there intersected by tidal creeks, which we must cross as best we could, by wading through the mud, or by small plank bridges. But as we moved away from the shore, the land began to undulate, with green hills rising between valleys made up of small hedged fields, vineyards, maize plots, and spinneys of oak and beech trees coming into young green leaf. There were dun-coloured cattle and goats in the meadows, and small hamlets here and there, but those we avoided.
‘I am very hungry,’ Juan whispered forlornly when we had been walking for several hours. I looked around without much hope. It was the wrong time o
f year for nuts or berries. There were primroses and violets in plenty below the hedges, but nothing to eat.
‘I could milk a goat, if only we had a cup.’ Long ago I had learned to milk from my grandfather’s shepherds.
‘I have a cup!’ said Juan proudly, and, to my great surprise, untied from his belt a small canvas bag from which he produced several articles – a horn cup, a brass spyglass, a spoon, and a little book.
‘Whence had you those?’ I demanded in astonishment.
‘I prigged them,’ he answered carelessly, using a word from the thieves’ argot. ‘While you were putting on your clothes in the surgery I looked about and took what I thought would be most useful. And the spyglass belonged to Father Vespasian. He had it hanging in a pouch from his belt. I prigged it the other afternoon, while he was asking me all those questions.’
Juan chuckled a little, in a self-congratulatory manner. But I was thunderstruck.
‘You did what?’
‘Prigged them. I just told you! The Gente were trying to make me be a robber; of course I would not learn, but I could not help watching when they showed me. It was so easy!’ He chuckled again.
‘But that is stealing!’ I found myself truly shocked.
‘Bah! What is wrong with stealing from somebody wicked – like the Abbot?’
‘But the other things! Where did you get the book?’
‘Father Antoine brought it in for me to read. It is poetry. It came from the scriptorium.’
‘But he did not intend you to take it away! And the cup and spoon that you took from Father Pierre’s workroom – they were not yours! You should not have done so!’
‘Peste!’ said Juan indignantly. ‘What a to-do you kick up over a few odds and ends. I was not taking them from any person. I would not steal from a friend. Only from a stranger or from rich people. The Abbey can afford to lose a cup and spoon.’
I did not agree with him, and argued hotly. Part of my annoyance, no doubt, arose from the fact that the blame would fall on us equally – I had taken the knife and the blanket. But at least I had paid for them. The map I felt sure Father Antoine had intended as a gift. I sighed, seeing the situation could not be mended, and said at length, ‘Well, I must request that you do not steal while you are with me. I have no wish to go to prison. And besides, I have sufficient money to pay for our needs. I do not like to be associated with thievery.’
‘I am not a thief!’ whispered Juan angrily. ‘The Basques are a very honourable people. They are always chosen by the king of Spain as his chief equerries. “Basques notoriamente hidalgos” Basques, by common knowledge, are gentlefolk.’
‘That may be,’ I said drily enough, and we went on for some time without speaking to one another.
But seeing, after a while, that he was becoming desperately pale, and could hardly drag himself along, I had pity on him as we came within sight of a large herd of milch goats. The farmer would hardly miss one cupful of milk out of such plenty. So I milked one of them (who was glad enough to have her bag eased), gave a full cupful to Juan, and took a few mouthfuls myself. Then we sat awhile on the eastward side of an oak spinney, warming ourselves in the rays of the rising sun.
‘I am better now,’ whispered Juan presently, and we rose and trudged on, leaving the road, which followed along the crests of the hills. Instead we cut through meadows and valleys, watching out for farmers or shepherds and avoiding them, so that none could give a report of our passing.
At last we reached the Bidassoa, a swift-flowing, muddy river, and struck inland along its bank. To think that Spain was on the other side! I looked across longingly, but the water was wide at this point, and little could be seen of the far bank in the morning mist.
Presently, as we made our way farther from the coast, the banks narrowed to a gorge, with steep sandstone hills on either side. And behind them, walls of rock, thickly grown with oaks and chestnuts; here and there white houses gleamed among the trees.
Soon we were obliged to climb up, among slabs of rock and broken stones. There were shrubs and then larger trees. The footing was very insecure; at times there would be no path at all, where earth had fallen away from the side of the hill. At last we found a narrow gully at the top of which there stood a stone hut, empty and abandoned, but containing a pile of old hay which some farmer had long forgotten, for it was grey and stale.
‘Here we sleep,’ said I, and Juan drew a long, silent breath of relief and dropped on the hay like a shot pigeon. I unslung the blanket, which I had been carrying wrapped round my shoulders and tucked under my belt, hot and troublesome enough on my tender back. Glad to shed it, I spread it carefully over Juan, then lay down gingerly myself, trying not to let the hay prick my sore weals. They had been giving me a good deal of pain as I walked. Juan was already asleep; his regular breathing told me that. But it was some little while before I could follow his example. My shoulders throbbed and stung; also the terrible eyes of Father Vespasian blazed at me like beacons the moment I closed my own. And even when, presently, I slept, they seemed to haunt and pursue me through my dreams.
I suppose we slept for two or three hours, then Juan shook me awake, saying plaintively that he was still very hungry.
‘Very well. I will go out and find some food. Do you think that we are near to Biriatou?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for we have come along the river for several leagues. I think we must be quite close to the village.’
‘Then I will go there. And, if I can, I will seek out your old Pierre.’
‘I had best come with you, then,’ said Juan. But when he tried to rise he sank back with a little moan of weakness. ‘Oh, my neck! And my feet! And my back!’
‘You have done far more than you ought,’ I said in deep concern, knowing how horrified Father Pierre would be to see his patient in such a state. ‘Remain there under the blanket and continue to rest. Besides, it is better you do not go into the village. You might be recognised.’
‘Nobody knows me there, except Pierre,’ he protested. ‘Why would it matter?’
‘Because the Gente might have thought of Pierre. They might expect you to go asking for his help. They might be on the lookout for you.’
‘Oh,’ he muttered. ‘I had not thought of that! Well, in that case, I had best give you a token, to show you came from me, or Pierre will very likely refuse to speak to you. He is a surly old man, but he has a true heart. Here.’ To my surprise Juan undid from round his neck a thing I had not noticed before: a medallion on a long plaited silver chain. It was a silver-and-amber locket, which opened to reveal a saint’s head inside.
‘It is Ste. Engrace,’ he whispered, opening it to display the interior. ‘It was my mother’s. Take great care of it! And do not be gone longer than you can help, for I shall grow anxious.’
‘And do not you stir outside,’ said I. ‘Cover yourself with the hay – so. Before I enter I will knock three times on the door – thus; if anybody else comes, keep quite still, and they will never know that you are there.’
After which I went out and made my way eastward through the woods, eventually striking a path which led me down into the churchyard of a tiny village hanging on the edge of a steep slope. Once out of the churchyard I was in the square, which had a pelota fronton and Basque houses round about; that is to say, they were heavily timbered, the timbers painted in red or brown, with great eaves projecting overhead like the brim of a sombrero. One of them was an inn, where a handsome high-featured landlady asked me what I wished. At that time, early in the day, I was the only customer. I knew a little Basque, for Bernardina, my grandfather’s old cook, had come from the Basque region (as many cooks do); I knew Egg-en-noon, for good day, khatten, to eat, err-ratten, to drink, so I was able to buy from her a couple of long red sausages (festoons of them were hanging from the rafters to dry) a cold omelette, and a long loaf of bread. I also persuaded her to sell me a chahokoha, or goat-skin wine bottle. She offered to fill it with wine, but to her surprise I declined. Then I a
sked her where I could find old Pierre Unarre.
‘The little house by the church,’ said she, and I departed with the bread under my arm, the omelette wrapped in a cabbage leaf, and the flask slung round my neck.
Old Pierre was working in his garden; indeed I had observed him as I passed before, and observed, also, that as I walked by he had given me a long, sly, squinting scrutiny. He was a villainous-looking old man, with little red rheumy eyes and a crust of unshaven stubble all over his face. He paused from digging his cabbage patch and leaned on his spade as I approached him. I, without words, drew out the little medallion and extended it on the palm of my hand.
Then I said, ‘Your young master (etcheko jaun) wishes to travel into Spain, to his uncle. I am told that you know of a cave with one entrance in France, and the other in Spain. If you can show us this way, I will give you gold.’
‘How much?’ His little eyes glowed like rats’ eyes.
‘One gold piece this side; one when you have led us through.’
‘Give it to me now!’
‘No,’ I said coldly.‘Iam not such a fool.’
‘Where is Etcheko?’ He used the term etcheko premu, meaning the heir, or first son.
‘That I will not say. Tell me where to come, and when.’
After a long, scowling pause, he gave me directions, drawing with a twig in the loamy earth of his cabbage patch. It was not easy to follow what he said, because of his Basque dialect, and because he had not a tooth in his head and mumbled so, eyeing me sideways; also, his breath smelled most vilely of sour cider and garlic; but at last I thought I had the way clear in my head.
‘How long will it take to get there from here?’
‘Two hours. Perhaps three. I will meet you at the grotto entrance this evening, at the hour when one can no longer tell a black thread from a white.’
‘Very well.’
His eyes followed the medallion yearningly as I put it away, and he stared after me very hard as I left him; for which reason I took a roundabout route, leaving the village by a road that went east ward still, striking over the shoulder of the mountain, then slowly working my way round and back toward the hut. On my way I fell in with a blue-smocked shepherd in a floppy hat, who, for a few small coins, filled my flask with milk from one of his goats. He also sold me his makhila, a spearheaded staff with a copper band round the base. Bernardina had told me about these makh-ilas: they are made of medlar wood, take two years to season, and can save a man from a charging wild boar, or a mountain bear. I was not afraid of boars or bears, but thought we might have other enemies closer at hand.