by Davis Bunn
The man hefted a rifle from the doorjamb, slung it naturally over one shoulder, and came down to meet them. He easily weighed more than the three of them combined. Inyakie bounded from the van before it halted and exchanged a twohanded clasp so fierce his beret spun from his head. He scooped up his hat and scolded the sun-blasted farmer. The giant merely laughed and walked over to peer into the van. He caught sight of Taylor and boomed at him as well. Inyakie answered curtly.
The man pointed to the boards behind Taylor and switched to severely fractured English. “What you doing, hey? You think maybe we hide ocean up here? You like to surf on my lake?”
“I’m just following orders,” Taylor replied.
The man gave off a pungent odor of unwashed clothes, hard work, and cattle. “Big mistake, mister. These boys, they dumb as my cows.” He pointed north. “The sea, she is that way.”
Inyakie was not pleased by the herdsman’s sociability toward Taylor. He spoke at length, but the giant merely grinned harder. He unslung his rifle and shook it in front of the windshield. In his grip the weapon looked like a matchstick. “Sure, we’re friendly peoples. The bad mens come; we give big welcome; they stay long time.”
Taylor leaned forward so as to speak directly through the window to Inyakie. “You’re expecting somebody?”
Inyakie shook the giant’s hand, then reentered the car. The giant backed off and bellowed a farewell. Even his voice was oversized, scarcely contained by the valley. The driver honked his way through the lowing cattle and rejoined the track.
Taylor waited until they started their descent to try one more time. “Do you think we’re being followed?”
This time Inyakie responded. “Somebody is watching my family’s house.”
“Who?”
“A professional.” He turned far enough around to glare darkly. “You have brought danger upon my family.”
Taylor felt remorse as deep as pain. “Should we have left your mother there in the house alone?”
At this the driver snorted, the first sign that he even understood English. Inyakie replied to the windshield, “My mother is Basque. She lives in the village where her mother’s mother’s mother was born. She is never alone.”
THE VILLAGE OF MUNDAKA WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL place Taylor had ever seen.
North of the French border lay four Basque counties, two of mountains and two of the sea. Spain possessed four times that number. The interior country was filled with hardscrabble villages of rock and closed-faced folk. Clouds locked steepsided Pyrenees valleys in permanent gloom. Even the thickest woodlands were monochrome. As they approached the ocean, the cities became larger and the landscape grew scarred. Towering smokestacks added inhuman shades to the gloaming overhead. Apartment buildings conquered the hills and traffic clogged the highways. There was neither logic nor beauty to the sprawl.
They turned off the highway and passed through Guernica, the city Franco had bombed to rubble in his futile attempt to vanquish the Basque spirit. Past the city, the sun finally reemerged. They took an elm-shaded lane over a series of descending hills. They finally entered a narrow defile of grass and bleating sheep and a meandering river.
The river broadened into a slow-moving basin. Trees swayed a lazy summer welcome. The gorge expanded into a pair of emerald arms. Where the river joined the sea, two narrow islands rose like forested jewels. An ancient village perched on the last fragment of flatland between the cliffs and the sea. In the stone-lined harbor, fishing boats sparkled. Time was not welcome here, nor the world’s great woes.
Even from this distance, Taylor could see the waves. They glistened in the sunlight like streaming crystal pipes.
As they followed the road paralleling the river, Inyakie placed a call on his cell phone. Whatever he heard caused him to point the driver into the village’s heart. They parked in the square behind the church. Two other Basque men were there to greet them. They were dressed in identical garb and stood by a pile of surf gear. Taylor watched as Inyakie and the driver rose to greet them. Through his open window, he heard the sound of liquid thunder.
The Basque stared in his direction. Taylor could not help but wonder at his own response. He was by nature not a passive man. His standard answer to any foe was battle. Yet here he sat, willing to simply accept and move on. He could not say why. He had traveled half the world around, met the man in love with the woman who had held his heart captive for so long, and felt nothing. Not anger, not jealousy, not humiliation. A trace of sorrow, a vague hope that Kirra would not feel the same about Inyakie. But not even much of this. None of it made any sense. Yet for the first time since the wounds had been reopened, he felt able to live with himself.
Inyakie waved him over. Taylor rose from the car and joined them. The locals gave him a flat gaze and a murmured greeting. Inyakie said something to them in Basque. One of the men motioned for Taylor and Inyakie to follow him. They took a cobblestone lane away from the church, passed through a village market, and halted at the border of a larger parking area.
Taylor spotted the vehicle immediately. “That’s it.”
Inyakie asked, “You are certain?”
“I lived in that van for a week. That is Kenny’s van.”
Inyakie said something in Basque, then, “We go.”
“Where?”
“Come.”
There was nothing to be gained from arguing. Taylor followed him back to the car. To his surprise, Inyakie and the driver began pulling their gear from the back. “We’re going for a surf?”
“We are going for answers.” Inyakie tossed him a wet suit. “How do you feel?”
“A little sore, but okay.”
He handed Taylor a battered thermos. “Two cups. And remember. This eases the pain. But your body is still not healed.”
“I’ll be careful.”
They suited up, grabbed the boards, and headed toward the thunder. Two blocks over they entered the harbor area. A crowd gathered on the far sea wall. Two ice-cream salesmen were surrounded by children. People strolled and clustered and pointed out to sea, enjoying the waterborne theater.
Taylor followed the others down a series of seaweed-covered stairs. He launched himself into the water between two moored trawlers. The air was thick with the scent of exposed shellfish and of nets drying overhead. His entire body tingled with the second dose of elixir.
They paddled to the harbor entrance and halted. A new set was crashing against the islands, blowing spume high into the air. The sound was of a single constant explosion. A dozen or so surfers jockeyed for the outside position. The crowd shouted and pointed in anticipation. The waves re-formed, reduced by the islands from suicidal proportions to barely manageable heights. The first wave arrived, a surfer took off, and flew, and flew, and flew. The waves were not as large as Guethary, but they held to the most perfect shape Taylor had ever seen. The surrounding cliffs blocked all wind. The sea was mirror-flat until the next wave rose like a giant clothed in streaming blue. Call them twenty-foot faces. The lip pushed out very far, forming a tunnel large enough for a bus to drive through.
The set’s final wave blasted into froth and din. Taylor was ready when the others started paddling out. The water still rocked slightly from the undercurrents stirred up by the waves. Otherwise there was no disturbance. They covered the two hundred feet easily. When he reached the lineup, he understood why there were not more surfers in the water. These were, after all, perfect waves. But from this angle the sea wall rose almost close enough to touch. A wipeout meant being mashed against the rock. The exposed barnacles glistened like fist-sized black teeth. A surfer would have to be utterly confident of his or her ability to make the wave. Fear, uncertainty, the slightest instability was a death sentence.
Then he spotted Kenny. “There!”
Red was the first to see him coming. His face clenched taut and he said something to his companion. Kenny turned and gasped aloud.
It was all the confirmation Taylor required.
Th
e Brit tried to greet him with an amiable grin. “Taylor, mate, how’re things?”
“Save it.” He paddled around to the outside, so that Kenny had to put his back toward the other surfers. “I want to know what happened.”
“Hey, it’s a magical day. Did you see my last—”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me.” He shifted over close enough to grip the nose of Kenny’s board. “Tell me how we hooked up in Scotland.”
Kenny watched with mounting alarm as the four Basque surfers clustered in tight. “Are these mates of yours?”
Taylor saw Red trying to ease away. “That’s the other one. Don’t let him go.”
Kenny’s eyes widened as Inyakie barked a command, and instantly one of the others gripped Red’s leash and pulled him back. “What’s going on here?”
“Take a good look at the sea wall,” Taylor said. “Ask yourself how well you want to get to know it.”
“Look, mate, I was the one who saved your life, remember?”
“That’s the only reason we’re not asking harder.”
The Brit’s semipermanent tan could not hide his blanched fear. “I didn’t sign up for any assassination. Straight up.”
“Let me help. You were approached by some guys in Scotland. All they wanted was a little information. Find the American surfer staying at Iona, try to discover where he’s headed.” He took Kenny’s silence for affirmation. “When I came back and asked you for a ride south, it must have seemed like a gold mine had just opened up at your feet. They’d given you a contact number. You called; you said you’d do it for cash. How much did they pay you, Kenny?”
“You’ve thought this one through,” Kenny grudgingly acknowledged.
“How much?”
“A thousand pounds. You know how hard I’ve worked for a thousand quid?”
“So you played me like a fool.”
“Hey, all I knew was, you were on the run. Not even the monks on Iona wanted you hanging about, right?”
Kenny’s eyes flickered seaward. Behind Taylor came the booming rush of the next set striking the islands. Kenny’s speech accelerated. “When you took that last wave at Guethary, I spotted the shooter up on the cliff. And I knew it was a lot more serious than you running from the law. I couldn’t have that, mate. I don’t care what you did. Nobody deserves to go out like that. So I did what I could. I got you to shore. I went running up the path, screaming like a banshee, armed with nothing but a board with a dent in the rail. A couple of locals were shouting over from that little park; they saw me and headed over as well. The shooter started to aim my way. I tell you, I thought I was a goner. Then he took off. I guess he decided there were too many of us by that point to take us all down. I hung around until the police showed up with the ambulance. Then I scarpered. The last thing I needed was a run-in with the Frog coppers.”
The set’s first wave lifted them up a swooping ledge of danger. “So how did you get your money?”
“Look, mate, I’ve told you all—”
“You met up with them once we got down here. You had to.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Inyakie swooped in from Kenny’s other side. “Maybe we just push you over the ledge, see if your friend is any more helpful when he sees you screaming and bleeding on the wall.”
Red’s shriek was almost feminine. “I don’t know anything!”
Taylor accused him, “You were there.”
“I wasn’t!”
“Shut up, Red.”
“Not when it mattered! He wouldn’t let me come. I got two hundred pounds and sat in the van. He went to the meet by himself!”
“But you took the money.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Enough!” Inyakie motioned to his mates. “You took a portion of this blood money. You helped place my family in danger.”
“Inyakie, no.”
“Let this coward see what the Basque call justice.”
“Don’t!” Taylor gripped the arm of Kenny’s wet suit and shouted to be heard over the roar of the breaking waves. “Talk while you still can!”
“I figured the house and that old woman was what they were after.” Kenny’s cry was almost as high-pitched as Red’s. “So I wouldn’t tell them until they delivered.”
“Tell me what they looked like.”
“Two men! One was a Yank, tall, gray haired, didn’t talk much. The other was a Brit. Ex-cop.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen my share of coppers, okay? I had a run-in for bringing in some weed, did six months. This guy knew it and knew how to use it.” He was pleading now, shooting glances at Taylor, at Inyakie, at waves that had suddenly become menacing. “He was going to have his mates on the force find me carrying and send me up. Do you hear what I’m saying? I had no choice!”
“Enough.” Inyakie motioned to his mates. “Say your farewells.”
“No!” Taylor paddled so that he was now between the Basque and the pair. “Don’t do this!”
“He has threatened my family! He must pay!”
“Is this the way you want to start with Kirra?”
That halted the Basque. “What?”
“I know all about tainting a relationship. You do this, you will regret it for the rest of your life!” When Inyakie tried to move around him, Taylor shoved him back. “Listen to me! It doesn’t matter whether you’re right. Do you hear what I’m saying? It doesn’t matter!”
The set’s final wave crashed and pummeled the wall, then subsided into a frothy hiss. Then silence. The sea was utterly calm. Inyakie sat upon his board, so close Taylor could see the sea salt upon his lashes. “What do you say?”
“You do this and you’ll have lost the chance, and it will be your fault, and you will have to live with this for the rest of your life.” Taylor felt hollowed from an argument that had suddenly become a confession. “Kirra’s more important than revenge. Let them go.”
Inyakie did not speak, nor move.
Taylor said to Kenny, “You and Red get out of here. Paddle through the harbor, get in your van, leave Spain, and never return.”
When Red slipped prone onto his board, one of the other Basque said something. Inyakie did not respond.
“Hurry,” Taylor said.
The next set was bearing down upon the islands by the time Kenny rounded the harbor wall. Only when both surfers disappeared from view did Inyakie speak. “What did you mean by that?”
But Taylor was all done talking. “Figure it out for yourself.”
Before the Basque could respond, Taylor proned and paddled away as hard as his bruised muscles would permit. The first wave had re-formed inside the islands and was bearing down fast. He saw a couple of others going for it but powered determinedly forward. Taylor glanced behind him, ignored Inyakie’s glare, and aimed for the peak. The two others jockeying for position realized Taylor had the inside track and eased off. Taylor did not so much want the wave as he wanted to be away. His body was already complaining from the strain. But his bitter frustration granted him the necessary punch to mount the crest, slide over the lip, rise to his feet, and fly.
All Mundaka waves broke from right to left, flowing down the length of the river mouth and weakening as they went. Because Taylor surfed with his left foot forward, his stance was with his back to a left-breaking wave. The wave jacked up fast and hard, going vertical with shocking speed. He pointed straight down and took a heart-stopping slide along the face of a liquid mountain. At the base he carved a long deep turn, flying at such a tight angle his right shoulder almost touched the water, and threw a fantail out toward the observers along the sea wall.
He drew in tight to the face and mounted back up slightly, crouching as he did so. He twisted slightly and reached forward so as to rest his right hand on the inside railing, and trailed his left hand on the wave face. It was a classic tuberiding stance. Only now the sound of the wave breaking behind him was being reflected by the sea wall. The bellow was deaf
ening and hit at him from all sides. It was impossible to tell how close behind him the wave was breaking. The temptation was to punch down harder on his front foot, accelerating out beyond the wave and the danger and the crushing wall. But Taylor was not after safety.
There was no conscious thought behind his actions. Time elongated upon a wave, and deliberation ceased. The intensity of surfing large waves was fiercely possessive. Taylor’s response was an action drawn from his core. He stomped down on his rear foot, shifting all his weight back toward the fins. He could sense the board slowing. He could hear the heightened roar, feel the rush of wind being blasted from the boiling nucleus. The echo off the sea wall shrieked danger. And he simply did not care.
The curtain descended. The outer wall was so thick the light diminished to blue shadows. The wave bellowed and blasted him with spume. He shook his eyes clear and focused on the tunnel sweeping up and around him, and on the swatch of green and blue up ahead.
The wave spat him out. He was flying so fast he crested the diminishing lip and did a full 360, rotating around his back fin before slipping down the wave again and aiming for the shore. The wave released him in an easy sigh. He fell to the board and began paddling for the beach beyond the village’s border.
Only then did he hear the cheering.
Taylor glanced to his right. The villagers lining the sea wall were applauding and laughing and shouting his way. He sat up on his board, astonished.
People of all ages, most dressed in the Basque homespun, delighted in one man’s fearless moment.
There was only one thing he could do. Taylor grinned and waved in reply.
He paddled to the shore, walked up to dry land, and seated himself facing seaward. Beauty surrounded him on all sides. He felt replete for the first time since the attack at Guethary. He raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. His heart felt not so much wounded by the revelation he had shouted into Inyakie’s face as cleansed. He had no idea why. Nor could he say how he felt both hollowed and sated. But he did. For the moment, the sensation alone was enough. He shook his head to a few simple words carried upon a sea gull’s cry.
