“God knows the secrets of our hearts, my child—you risk eternal damnation if you hide the truth from his servant.”
“I don’t have a child!” The words echoed off the walls. “Give me a Bible—I’ll swear on it!”
She heard him draw in a breath. “That won’t be necessary. But let me put this to you: if it were true—if you did have a daughter, and you were able to tell me where to find her—you could expect merciful treatment from the judge when your case comes to court.”
Lola closed her eyes. She didn’t want him to see the tears she was fighting to contain. Trade Nieve for . . . what? A shorter term in jail? A sentence served in a prison less brutal than Málaga? No. Even if this priest had come to her offering her freedom, she couldn’t, wouldn’t offer up Nieve as a sacrifice.
Swallowing her tears, she opened her eyes and turned them directly on him. “If I had a daughter,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “I would warn her about people like you. Tell me, Father, what do you think Jesus would say if he was sitting here with us, listening to what you’ve just said? Do you think he’d approve of people who call themselves Christians snatching babies and children from their parents?”
The priest said nothing in reply. He stood up, making the sign of the cross in the air. “May God have mercy on your soul,” he murmured.
Chapter 24
Pampaneira, Spain
It was three days before Rose went up the mountain again. Now that she knew the way, she told Zoltan she could make the journey alone, on foot. But he asked if he could come and meet her halfway. There was something he wanted to show her—nothing to do with the war, he said—just something he thought she’d like to see.
The sun was already warm on her back when she waved Nieve goodbye and set off up the track. For the first time, the child had run into school without turning back for a last glimpse of Rose. She was making impressive progress with her reading, and she was excited about taking part in a dance display the children were putting on for the San Juan fiesta.
As Rose climbed higher, she turned to look at the valley below. She could see Órgiva, nestled in a bend of the river, and the orange and olive groves she had passed through on her way to Pampaneira. In the far distance was the Contraviesa mountain range, not as high as the Sierra Nevada, wrinkled waves of red and yellow and lilac spreading out in a carpet to the sea.
She walked on, through meadows studded with poppies, daisies, and purple vetch. The only sounds were the babble of running water and the high, piping call of skylarks. It was hard to resist the temptation to stop and gather bunches of the wildflowers growing in such profusion. In England she spent most weekends in spring and summer traveling to the countryside to harvest dozens of different herbs for her veterinary practice. The airing cupboard of her London apartment was so stuffed with drying vegetation that there was no room for sheets and towels.
As she made her way along the bank of a fast-flowing stream, Rose spotted something she hadn’t noticed when she’d come this way with Zoltan—a ruined mill of ivy-covered stone half-hidden by chestnut trees. The door had long since fallen into the undergrowth. Stepping over the threshold was like entering an ancient fairy-tale world. Wild violets and blue convolvulus had seeded themselves in the crumbling windowsills, and the floor was covered in a carpet of pale-yellow wood sorrel. In what must once have been the fireplace was the skeleton of a sheep, undisturbed by predators, as if a spell had been cast over the old mill, keeping all other creatures out.
She couldn’t help wondering if Nathan had been in this place. Perhaps he and Adelita had had secret rendezvous here, halfway between her village and the bunkers. She could almost see them sitting together on the moss-covered grinding wheel, talking in excited whispers about the baby and planning their escape to France.
“Where are you?”
Her voice sounded very loud. The only answer was the gush of water racing past. She tried to shrug off the sense of hopelessness that enveloped her as she walked away from the ruined building. But it wasn’t easy. She’d had a tantalizing glimpse of Nathan’s life here—but no clue as to what had happened next. Unless Zoltan’s cherry-farming friend had something to tell her, it felt like the end of the road.
Zoltan was waiting for her in the shade of a broom bush whose branches dripped golden blossoms.
“I have to tell you about the mule!” His eyes were alight. “The wound’s healed up already!”
“That’s wonderful.” She smiled. “But don’t stop the treatment yet—he needs to be on that bran mixture for at least a week.”
He nodded, leading her away from the track, through a thicket of chestnut and maple trees. “How are things at the mill?”
“Just about bearable,” Rose replied. “I think she stole something from my room yesterday. It was only a tin of coffee—not worth much in monetary terms—but the tin was one I brought from home. It belonged to my mother. I’ve no proof that Señora Carmona took it—but I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Have you asked her about it?”
Rose shook her head. “I’m afraid she’d do something worse if I did. She’s always killing things—she’d probably put rat poison in our water jug.”
“What a horrible woman. Couldn’t you move to one of the other villages?”
“I probably could. But Nieve’s settled into the school in Pampaneira. She seems very happy there. I wouldn’t want to make her start again somewhere else.”
Zoltan nodded. “We’re nearly there, by the way. The thing I wanted to show you is just beyond those trees.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” He smiled. “Better keep a tight hold of Gunesh—he might get a bit spooked.”
When they reached the edge of the woodland, he put his fingers to his lips and dropped down to the ground, signaling Rose to do the same. “Can you see? Over there?”
At first, Rose couldn’t work out what she was looking at. They were in a clearing, the ground in front of them dry and dusty where the sun had penetrated the trees. Suddenly she saw a flicker of movement—something thin and whiplike flicking out of the parched soil. Then, a foot or so to the left, she caught a glimpse of a brown zigzag pattern arching sideways.
“Snakes!” she whispered. She felt Gunesh straining at the lead and put her hand out to pat him on the shoulder. “What are they doing?”
“It’s a sort of love dance,” Zoltan whispered back. “Watch!”
Rose gazed, transfixed, as the two creatures reared up, advancing toward each other until they collided, then twining and twisting their slim, supple bodies in a swaying rhythm. She could see the thin tongues extended as the snakes shifted this way and that, their courtship dance stirring ghostly waves of dust up from the ground. The way they moved was as graceful and symmetrical as ripples across a pool when a pebble is thrown in.
“Wow,” she breathed. “That must be one of the strangest sights on earth!”
“They’re Iberian adders,” he said. “This is their favorite spot.”
“How did you know where to find them?”
“I come down here for honey—there are beehives on the other side of those trees. I first saw the snakes a couple of weeks ago. It must be the time of year for mating.”
As they left the clearing and made their way back to the track, a bird piped up from a branch overhead. Rose recognized the call. It was a haunting sound, a fast succession of rich notes, high and low. She’d heard the same song in the Sussex marshes the night she’d said goodbye to Nathan.
“What do you call that in English?” Zoltan glanced upward.
“A nightingale.”
“The Spanish call them ruiseñores. They say the birds have pearls and corals in their throats.”
“That’s a lovely way to describe it,” Rose said. “I’ve never heard them sing in the daytime before.”
“It’s quite common here—I don’t know why. There are a lot of them up at Maria’s place. They seem to like mulberry bushes
—and she has dozens of them.”
Rose remembered the silk-weaving shed she had passed in Pampaneira. She asked Zoltan if his friend farmed silkworms as well as cherries.
He nodded. “She weaves the silk herself. She has goats as well. It’s quite a big place. She runs it all on her own—won’t accept any help. She makes cheese, and she pretty much lives on that and the fruit and vegetables she grows. Once a week I bring her a couple of loaves of maize bread from the market and some salted cod.” He made a face. “Have you tried that?”
“Not yet. I’ve seen it on sale in the village—it looks like starched underwear.”
“It does.” He chuckled. “And it doesn’t taste much better. I’ve offered her trout I’ve caught in the river, but she doesn’t seem interested in fresh fish. By the way, don’t be alarmed when you see her—she’s very old and . . . kind of unusual looking. People say she’s a hechicera.”
“What’s that?”
“A witch,” he replied. “A white witch—that’s what it means. They have another word—bruja—for the bad kind. I think you’ll like her—she’s an expert on herbs. She uses them to dye the silk and to make medicine. I’ve heard people say she’s better than the local doctor at curing people.” He paused to swipe away a cloud of flies hovering over his head. “That’s why she wasn’t punished for collaborating with the partisans—she cured the wife of the comandante of the Guardia Civil.”
“What was the matter with her?” Rose asked.
“She suffered great pain in her legs. She could hardly walk and hadn’t slept properly for weeks. Maria says she turned up at the door of the farmhouse one night begging for help. She hadn’t dared tell her husband where she was going, because he was a churchy man.” He turned to Rose with a shrug. “During the Civil War the Guardia Civil were hand-in-glove with the Catholic church—still are, actually. Anyway, Maria treated her for a week—with some sort of poultice made from leaves—and by the end of that time, she was completely better: not a trace of pain. From then on she never had any trouble from the police.” Zoltan took another swipe at the flies with his hat. “That’s Maria’s place—down there.”
The stone farmhouse was half-hidden by the orchard that surrounded it. As they made their way toward it, Rose spotted quinces, plums, and apricots growing among the cherry trees. Then they passed through a patch of mulberry bushes, which gave way to rows of potatoes, peas, and beans. The land that lay directly in front of the house was given over to a profusion of herbs. Rose could smell rosemary, thyme, and lavender, and she could see marigolds, mallows, comfrey, and southernwood. These were the staples of her own herbal medicine practice. She brightened at the thought of meeting a kindred spirit.
There was a big iron bell hanging outside the door of the farmhouse. Zoltan rang it vigorously, making a terrific din. “She’s a bit deaf,” he said. “I hope she’s not asleep.”
He rang again. This time Gunesh joined in, barking loudly and pawing the peeling blue paint on the wooden door.
“Shush!” Rose pulled him away just as the door opened. Standing on the threshold was a woman who looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of a book by the Brothers Grimm. Her skin was a bloodless gray yellow, and her hair clung to her scalp like wisps of spider thread. When she opened her mouth to greet them, Rose saw that her teeth were black and chipped. But she had fanglike canines that looked strong enough to bite through the shells of almonds. Like all the local women, she was dressed entirely in black.
“Buenos días, Maria.” Zoltan stepped forward and kissed her on both cheeks. “This is my friend Rose—the one who cured my mule.”
“Buenos días.” Rose held out her hand. The woman’s skin felt surprisingly soft and warm.
“Ella es muy joven para ser una hechicera.” She’s very young for a witch. Maria arched bushy gray eyebrows at Zoltan.
“I told you—she’s not a witch: she’s an animal doctor. She went to university in England.”
Maria ran her eyes over Rose, from head to toe. “Well, she looks like a Gypsy to me.”
“I’ve lived among Gypsies,” Rose said. “They taught me everything I know about curing animals with herbal medicine.”
The old woman stared at her for a moment, her head on one side. “How did you cure the mule?”
“The wound was bathed with an infusion of potato peelings and garlic,” Rose replied. “Then he was fed on bran mixed with more garlic and watercress.”
Maria nodded. “Sit down over there.” She pointed to a wooden bench under a canopy of trailing vines. “I’ll bring you something to eat and drink.”
She disappeared inside, shutting the door behind her.
“You’ve passed the test.” Zoltan smiled.
“But she didn’t invite us in,” Rose said.
“She never allows anyone into the house—she likes to maintain the air of mystery.” He smiled as he sat down beside Rose on the bench. “The local people say the hechicera fly down the mountain at full moon and perch like owls in the poplar trees. I think she likes to play up to that image. She says it makes her laugh if she spots people crossing themselves when they see her.”
“How old is she?”
“I’ve no idea. She could be sixty-five or eighty-five. The women in this part of Spain tend to look old before their time. I think it’s a combination of the sun and the way they dress.”
Maria emerged from the house with a basket in one hand and a metal bowl in the other. She sat on the bench next to Zoltan and pulled a small ladle from the pocket of her skirt. For each of her guests, including Gunesh, she produced a large chestnut leaf from the basket, onto which she ladled dollops of goat curds. She served the dog first, then garnished the remaining portions with a handful of cherries before handing them out.
Rose wasn’t sure whether to hold the leaf up to her mouth and pour the contents in or to scoop up the mixture with her fingers. She glanced at Zoltan, who simply raised the leaf to chin level and bent his head over it.
“Delicious,” he mumbled, looking up with a white mustache.
“I laced it with a love potion.” Maria flashed a wicked smile.
Zoltan rolled his eyes. “She’s joking,” he said.
But Rose saw that his cheeks were tinged pink. “It tastes very fresh,” she said to Maria, trying to make it look as if she hadn’t noticed Zoltan blushing.
“I made it this morning,” Maria replied.
“Zoltan told me that you used to supply food for the partisans during the war.”
“Yes, I did.” Maria spat a cherry stone onto the ground. “What of it?”
“My brother was one of them.” Rose laid down the chestnut leaf and took Nathan’s picture from her pocket. “This is him. I . . .” She trailed off, her voice threatening to break as she handed the photograph over. “I’ve come here to try and find out what happened to him.”
Maria’s face was inscrutable as she studied the image. “Yes, I remember this one.” She glanced up at Rose, the lines on her forehead creasing into deep furrows. “They called him Caballo.”
Rose stared at her, transfixed. Had she heard right? Had she finally found someone who remembered Nathan? The woman’s face melted as tears filmed Rose’s eyes. Her lips felt swollen and clumsy, as if they’d been injected with anesthetic. She wanted to ask Maria if she knew what had happened to him. But her mouth wouldn’t form the words.
“He used to come here when he was going to one of the villages,” Maria went on. “He was a good boy—used to bring me tobacco. He and the others had to stay hidden in the daytime, but at night they would go into Capileira or Pampaneira for news and cigarettes.
“Early on in the war, they would stay the night with a peasant and his family. But then they started shooting the families who sheltered the partisans, so that stopped.”
“I have a friend who lived in Capileira. Her mother and brother were killed for doing that.” Rose heard her own voice, distant, as if in a dream. Why couldn’t she bring herself to steer
the conversation to what she really wanted to talk about?
“It was a terrible time,” Maria replied. “People would denounce their neighbors for all kinds of reasons—not political, just to settle old scores. Is your friend a Gypsy?”
“Yes—how did you know that?”
“The Gypsies got the worst of it. One woman in Pampaneira denounced two young Gypsy girls who, she said, stole the sheets from her washing line. Another Gypsy woman was arrested just for fortune-telling.”
“Rose has been asking around in Pampaneira about her brother,” Zoltan said, “but no one wants to talk. We were wondering if you knew where he might have gone.”
Rose shot him a grateful glance.
Maria dug the ladle into the bowl of curds. “He stopped coming here.”
“When?” Rose couldn’t see her eyes.
“I don’t remember.” Maria scooped a generous portion of curds onto the leaf at Gunesh’s feet. The dog gobbled it up instantly.
“The last letter I had from him was dated March 1938,” Rose said. “Did you see him after that?”
“I don’t keep track of months and years,” the woman replied. “Up here, they don’t matter much.”
“Did you hear anything about him?” Rose persisted. “He was planning to go to France. Did any of the others talk to you about that?”
Maria didn’t answer. Instead she turned to Zoltan. “Can you come and help me with the billy goat?” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s got one of his horns stuck in a fence.” To Rose she said, “You’d better stay here—he’ll get even more worked up if he sees the dog.”
Rose watched them disappear behind the house. She didn’t believe that Maria hadn’t heard her last question. It seemed she’d simply dropped the subject of Nathan as if it were of no more importance than one of her animals.
When Zoltan returned, he was alone. “Maria’s gone to have a rest,” he said. “It took both of us to free the goat, and she’s worn out.” He bent down to stroke Gunesh. “Shall I walk you back down to the village?”
The Snow Gypsy Page 20
