Thunder on the Right

by Mary Stewart

  The gleam persisted. ‘All right, Snow Queen … all right. Perhaps you’ll neither of you get such a … bad bargain, after all …’

  She was not listening. She sat back on her heels, glancing swiftly round the primitive kitchen for something with which to make a thick pad. A clean handkerchief in her pocket; good, that would go against the wound. But what else? Her eye fell on the cloth spread over one end of the table; it had looked fresh, she remembered. She grabbed a corner of it, and, without a second’s hesitation, yanked ruthlessly at it, so that cups, bread, spoons, fragments of meat, all slid together in a clattering confusion. She ripped the cloth from under them, sending the whole gallimaufry down in a crash of crockery, Bussac, with a surprisingly quick movement, whipping the brandy-bottle out of the tumbling chaos even as it fell.

  With swift fingers she folded the cloth, wrapped the handkerchief round it, then pressed the pad as tightly as she dared against the wound. She felt the man’s strong body flinch, but all he said was ‘Hurry’, as he tilted the bottle greedily to his mouth.

  ‘A scarf,’ said Jennifer. ‘Is there a scarf to tie it with?’

  He jerked his head. ‘On the door.’

  She flew across the room, groping in the dark corner among the clothing hanging there. She found the scarf. A few seconds later she was dragging the knots tight, and he was pulling his coat close and heaving himself to his feet. His face was livid in the firelight, but it was grim with purpose, and he moved, if not with more ease, at any rate with a kind of dogged strength that could out-face pain.

  As she got to her feet his arm came round her shoulders, urging her towards the door.

  ‘Viens donc.’

  Then they were outside in the stormy dark, with the deeper darkness of the mountains looming ahead of them.

  Bussac led the way round the corner of the cottage, where the track turned up past the byre towards the steep pasture behind. The worst of the storm appeared to be over, but the wind still blew strongly, in gusts, from the north, and a sparse, big rain was whirling along in its grip. It was no longer pitch-dark, for the higher clouds were breaking up, and now and again a racing rack laid bare a patch of stars. But the track was rough, and without the aid of Bussac’s torch Jennifer’s progress would have been painfully slow.

  As they passed the buildings, two shadows detached themselves from the black gap of a door; the dogs, slinking out to investigate. Jennifer shrank, but Bussac stopped them with a curse that sent them flying back.

  ‘Does she’ – Jennifer was already gasping with exertion – ‘know the way, the secret way?’

  ‘She does. I was sick once … years back, and she nursed me … she and an old lay-sister that’s since dead. That’s when the trouble started … I let out more than I should when I had the fever … and she, damn her soul, she listened and remembered … and looked around the place for proof …’

  ‘The letter?’

  ‘Yes. Now … save your breath, girl. We’re … not going to … catch her …’

  He was making up the dark and sodden pasture at a great rate, showing no sign of his wound except in the pain of his roughened breathing, and the movement of the hand which ever and again sought his side. Jennifer clambered and slithered beside him, her eyes fixed on the circle of torch-light that danced ahead of them. The track was plain enough to see, but muddy, and treacherous with smooth wet rock, and the impetuous buffeting of the wind on their backs made the going still more uncertain. Once, Bussac slipped. He recovered himself immediately, but he must have jarred his injured side, for she heard him bite off a curse, and in the meagre diffusion of the torch’s light his face looked ghastly. But even as she checked in her stride and half-turned towards him with a query on her lips, he said, hoarsely: ‘No. Hurry …’

  Hurry … and here was the end of the pasture land and the beginning of the rock. At once the mountains were all about them, black buttresses blocking out the stars and breaking the force of the wind, devil’s gullies that whistled with their own demoniac storms, great walls of cruel rock that echoed to the slam of the gale and the crackle of the big rain. And everywhere, it seemed, the roar of water … below, before, in every crevice and cleft of rock water hissed and clamoured, hurling its twisting white ropes in ghostly knots from every crag.

  Hurry … now the torch, never strong, was perceptibly dimmer. She was gasping for breath, a stitch stabbed red-hot in her side, sweat ran warm on her body and tasted salt on her bitten lips. But the break-heart pace never slackened. There had been no time for doubt or hesitation; it had never occurred to her to wonder what the outcome of the chase would be. Everything – Doña Francisca, Gillian, the potential dangerousness of the man at her side – everything was blotted out by the immediate necessity for haste.

  Some time ago they had left the track. Bussac had turned aside from it, and without hesitation plunged through what had appeared to Jennifer to be a wilderness of narrow, boulder-blocked gullies. Once a fallen tree lay clear across the way, and once they plunged up to the knee through an icy rush of water, but where the mule must have gone they could go too, and Bussac never faltered, leading the way steadily through the maze of windy shadows.

  But as the way grew steeper and the going more difficult Jennifer realized that her companion was at last failing. It must only have been, indeed, by a miracle of endurance that he had got so far, and at such a speed. When they paused to negotiate a steep step of rock, she could see how the torch shook in his hand, and heard his breathing, now desperately hoarse and short, beside her. His free hand was pressed hard to his side, and his big body was no longer upright. But he thrust himself, somehow, after her, up and over the steep-pitched rock, and the dreadful driven scramble went on.

  The path – such as it was – was leading them now through a steep gully. On their right a towering cliff pressed close, crowding them off the narrow path which clung along its face, a high track trodden between the living rock and a wall of fallen boulders which offered a welcome protection from the depths on the left whence came the steady roar of some considerable torrent. In the gully the cliffs gave protection; only as the travellers rounded a sudden corner, or struggled past a gap in the wall, a sharp buffet of wind would catch the breath and confound the feet.

  But if the depths of the gully were sheltered, the upper air was still alive; the roar of the storm had risen to a high tearing scream among the peaks; it was as if the gusts of wind leaped, long-railed with rain, clear across the gully’s top, steeple-chasing from crest to crest, with the whole devil’s pack of the elements unkennelled and a-yelp behind them. The electric storm had long since dissolved, but now the torrent below made its own thunder, and when the wind whipped bare a patch of the racing sky, the stars that swarmed there seemed to blaze with a fire as baleful as any lightning. Fire, air, water … the three elements combining in all their fury to bewilder and benumb the trespasser … Jennifer found herself clinging to the cliff-face as to an anchor as she drove herself along the dizzy track. Only the earth, the solid earth, was safe … Or was it?

  The first warning she had was when the torch jerked in Bussac’s hand, and he stopped dead. She heard him say, on a tearing sob: ‘Sainte Vierge …’

  She turned quickly: ‘What is it? Can’t you go on?’

  She saw his hand move in the starlight, lifting in a queerly final gesture towards the dark upper reaches of the gully.

  And then she heard it, too.

  Under the roar of the torrent, over the intermittent shrieking of the wind, she heard it – or rather, felt it, the terrible sound that was not a sound, but only a vibration filling the air, and shivering the very roots of the mountains as the sixty-four foot diapason shakes a cathedral. The last element had joined the barrage, with the very voice of chaos.

  The mountain itself was moving.

  For the second time that night Jennifer was pressed close in Bussac’s arms, but this time she clung to him of her own volition, trembling, her head hidden in his shoulder. He was tr
embling too; his arms gripped her as if for his own reassurance, and his heart slammed like a piston under her cheek.

  They stood, locked together, listening, while ahead of them the noise of the avalanche grew and loudened to its irresistible climax … and then slid away in a chain of ghostly echoes, while over it the voice of the torrent roared on, triumphantly repossessing the night.

  As the sound died away to its terrible end, he said, in a voice that was unrecognizable: ‘Ahead of us … Marie …’

  ‘Listen!’ Jenny lifted her head, and felt him stiffen. His heart was shaking his whole body.

  ‘What was it?’

  She pulled away from him. ‘I heard a cry, and – there! What’s that?’

  Faint but unmistakable, above the deeper noises of the night, came the rattle of hoof-beats.

  ‘The mule!’ said Bussac hoarsely. His hand gripped her wrist. ‘Marie! You’re sure there was a cry?’

  ‘Yes. I heard someone cry out.’

  He swung away from her with an oath that sounded like a prayer, and flung off up the track as if he were just setting out and were uninjured. Then he seemed to falter. He stumbled, swayed, and put out a hand to the wall of rock beside him. She ran forward. He was leaning heavily against the rock; in the uncertain starlight his face was a grim effigy of pain, with a black gape of a mouth through which the breath whistled horribly. He was staring down at the hand which had been pressed to his side. It showed black.

  There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Jennifer thrust a shoulder under his sound armpit, trying to hold him up. But he shook his head.

  ‘I’m – done.’ It was a ragged whisper, no more. His weight seemed to slump, and he coughed, turning his head away against the wet rock.

  She strove desperately to hold him up, ruthless with terror.

  ‘You’ve got to help me! You can’t stop! Monsieur Bussac—’

  Hoofs slithered and clattered on the track above. She glanced up over her shoulder, to see a shape blocking the starlight.

  ‘The mule!’ She loosed him, careless of how he swayed and slumped down against the rock. She jumped into the middle of the track, and spread her arms wide.

  The mule came down the rock-strewn path at a slithering run. Its head was up, and it looked scared, with gleaming eyeballs and flattened ears. A shod hoof struck fire. It was coming fast down the slope, filling the track, lunging heavily towards her in a rattle of broken stones.

  ‘Stop!’ said Jennifer, stupidly, in English, and stood her ground.

  It was coming faster. It was almost on her. It saw her, and she heard its nostrils crack as it snorted in sudden fright. Its forefeet shot out stiffly, ripping fire from the rock, and it came to a slithering, rasping halt, with its haunches gathered under it, and its breast almost touching her shoulder.

  As it began to back, veering and snorting, her hand shot out to grasp the reins. She seized them, pulled the mule’s head down, and dragged it to where Bussac was. And because she had no time to be afraid of the beast, it obeyed her, and came quietly.

  Bussac was as she had left him, huddled together at the foot of the cliff, his head turned to one side, his cheek against the wet rock. Jennifer knelt beside him, the mule’s rein looped over one arm, and grasped at the front of his coat.

  ‘Monsieur Bussac! Get up! Here’s the mule! Can you get on, d’you think? Monsieur Bussac! Oh, God, make him get up!’ she cried frantically.

  A shiver seemed to run through the man’s huddled frame. He raised his head, and a hand went up to it. He seemed to be dazed. His breathing was shallow now, and quick. He looked, it seemed vaguely, at Jennifer and then his dark gaze moved beyond her to the mule. He stared at it for a moment, then his tongue came out to wet his lips, and he said, in that same painful whisper: ‘The saddle …’

  Jenny glanced up at it. ‘What d’you mean? What about the saddle?’

  He fetched a long rasping breath. ‘The girth’s slack. She’s put the … stirrups up … and tied the rein on … its neck.’

  ‘Yes? What of it? Monsieur Bussac—’

  ‘Don’t you see? She’s … got there. She’s sent it … back. Corentin’s mule … borrowed …’ His voice was shaken away from him in a muttered curse as he coughed again.

  ‘Yes, but—’ Jennifer drew in her breath. ‘I see! You mean that Gillian – Marie – must have already reached the place? Beyond the landslide?’

  He nodded, fighting for breath.

  ‘And the mule was already on its way back when the avalanche came down …’ She turned her head up the valley. ‘The cry I heard – the cry I heard. Monsieur Bussac … it was this side of the avalanche, I’m certain of it … a cry and a clatter of hoofs, both at once.’

  He said thickly, ‘Doña Francisca. Landslide may have got her. Or else the mule … starting to bolt when the fall came … met her. Frightened her …’

  Jenny said, on a long breath: ‘This side of the avalanche.’

  He moved a little, so that his shoulders were against the rock. ‘Listen.’ His hand came out, and gripped her arm with surprising strength. ‘It’s a chance. You’ll have to go on. I can’t. That damned – hellcat. I’m done.’ His grip tightened convulsively, as if pain had wrenched at him, and his voice came jerkily, but hard and clear: ‘I think I know where the landslide’ll be. There was a place – never mind. It’s between here and the cascade, and it’ll have blocked the way. Marie’s already through. She was to wait by the cascade, and turn the mule back.’

  He paused. The grip on her arm was slackening, but the man’s eyes held hers, hard and compelling. ‘The señora’ll have to scramble over it – or come back. Either will take time. You’ll have to get there … first. You can, I think. There’s another way.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He gave a little sideways jerk of the head. His fingers dug at her arm. ‘At the next corner … on the left. A path down between two pointed rocks. It runs … below this, almost down to the water. Harder going, but shorter, and all right, if you can see.’

  ‘It’s light enough. It goes to the cascade?’

  ‘Yes. Listen now.’ He dragged himself up a little, his face thrust out of shadow into the starlight like a mask of pain and effort. ‘The way into Spain … a rock bridge across the face of the cascade. Safe enough if you take it … slowly. But you must … hurry. This storm … the river’ll be filling up fast, and at high water the cascade … drowns … the bridge.’

  He drew her closer. His voice was weaker now.

  ‘Get across with her. You’ll be in time. If the water’s rising, the señora may be too late. If not, and if you can’t hide in time … well, it’s a narrow bridge, and it’s easy to … hold.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenny, hoarsely.

  ‘If that murdering bitch does catch you—’

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was a croak.

  ‘Why, you’ll have to … kill her … Snow Queen,’ said Bussac, and his grip went slack and fell from her sleeve.

  He was still breathing, but there was nothing she could do. She let go the mule’s bridle, then she searched Bussac’s pocket for his knife. It was in his left-hand pocket, and her hand came out warm and sticky. Blood … but she hardly noticed: she had the knife.

  She straightened up, gripping it, pushed past the quiescent mule, and almost ran on, up the narrow track, alone in the now strong starlight.

  24

  Bridge Passage

  The way off the track was easy to find. It plunged off to the left, winding down among the fallen scree like a dizzy natural staircase. She went down it at a break-neck speed, with a sure-footedness born of a desperation that had forgotten fear.

  Here and there a sturdy sapling helped her; she would slither boldly down in a miniature avalanche of shale until she fetched up against its solid shaft, then, swinging round as by a newel-post, would plunge unhesitatingly down for the next foothold. Bruises she must have collected by the score, but she never felt them; mercifully she did not fall. She hurtled down the scar
p in a series of short, zig-zag rushes, ricocheting as it were from rock and tree and back to rock again, until at length she landed with a scrambling thump on what was discernibly a track.

  If anything larger and less agile than the chamois ever used the track there was no evidence of the fact. But a way could be picked through the tumble of rocks, and Jennifer, able now to see pretty clearly, managed to propel herself along it at a very fair speed. Propel – because only rarely did she dare make any move without the aid of her hands; the path was shaken, almost, by the roar of the torrent close beside it, and the air was chill and luminous with flung spray. Beyond the raging water rose the gully’s further wall, black and sheer, a giant precipice. She clung closely to the rough overgrown rock on her right as she pulled herself along the almost non-existent path.

  This did, indeed, vanish completely before very long. Jennifer stopped, sobbing for breath, and looked around her in an access of panic.

  Then she realized that the ground she was on was soft and friable, loose stuff in which her shoes sank ankle-deep, and where raw-looking jags of rock stuck up like fangs. She glanced round her. Above and below the same tumble of earth and rock bore witness. She was crossing the track of the landslide. She made her way cautiously across the shifting, sliding stuff, and presently regained the path.

  This now began to climb, mounting the hillside rapidly, in dizzy deer-steps that pushed steeply up towards the ever-loudening thunder of the invisible cascade. She heaved herself, somehow, up the break-neck staircase, once more blind and deaf to everything but the need for haste. It seemed that she had been stumbling for ever, bruised and breathless, in this nightmare of wind and rain and darkness, through the water-haunted depths of the bare mountain.

  Then suddenly, round a jut of steep rock at a bend in the staircase, she came upon the cascade.

  Here the gully took a sharp turn to the west, and, down in its sheer depths, the storm-wind had no way. Nor had it a voice. The only voice was the enormous thunder of water, the only wind the wind of the torrent which, a short way ahead, poured glimmering down from some remote and undiscovered watershed hundreds of feet above.