The Map

by T. S. Learner

  ‘Bon. One last thing – no speaking along the way, understand?’

  August nodded. Joseba kissed his own hand then touched the Citroën for good luck. He began to step stealthily towards a small break in the trees ahead of them. August followed, careful to stick to the Basque’s exact route. Somewhere overhead he heard an owl hoot.

  §

  It was early and an owl returning from a night’s hunting glided silently overhead – its wings lazily arching against the lightening sky. The rustle of the bird had made Shimon look up, had made him yearn for the creature’s unthinking freedom, an emotion he hadn’t felt for years. Then, resigned, the alchemist continued walking, ignoring the dull throbbing of his feet, the gnawing in his stomach he couldn’t tell was hunger or fear. It seemed like days not hours ago they’d packed all the possessions they couldn’t bear to leave behind in the leather pouches either side of the mule. Now the animal plodded behind him, its ears bent down in surrender, along the narrow road that wound through the forest. They had left during the night, only hours after the parade of those condemned by the Inquisition had passed the cottage, Uxue insisting that they could not afford to risk being betrayed themselves – by some terrified enemy or even neighbour. Shimon, dressed in the black robes of a friar, had the leper’s bell around his neck, the bronze tongue of which tinkled every time he had to jump a pothole. He marched in front, while Uxue, disguised as a leper, followed at a distance behind, walking silently beside the animal, her body wrapped in a stained white muslin shroud, her face concealed by a filthy veil.

  It had been hard to leave the comparative safety of the cottage – itself the place of so many happy memories, the first such he’d experienced since his childhood. He glanced back at the pouches hanging off the mule. Elazar ibn Yehuda’s map was hidden in one of them, wrapped up in a piece of old leather. The thought of it was reassuring, the only touchstone to the lineage he had been forced to both conceal and abandon.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ Uxue stopped beside the path. ‘And my feet ache. Let’s rest, just for a moment, please?’

  Shimon glanced up ahead. He could hear the sound of a rushing brook. It had run alongside the path for some miles now and he was convinced that around the next bend there would be a small bridge crossing it. They’d been walking for about three hours and already the sun was quite high in the sky. The last person they’d passed had been a pig farmer herding a sow to market back towards Logroño. Upon hearing Shimon ringing the leper’s bell, the farmer had fallen back, cowering against the trees. Covering his face with one hand, the terrified man had held back his squealing animal to allow the supposed priest and leper past. Shimon had blessed him as he’d passed, secretly thrilled that the disguise worked so well. But they could afford to take no risks. At the village all would notice their absence, and their sudden departure would be viewed with suspicion. Then his own stomach rumbled and he realised he too was ravenous.

  ‘We will stop, but only for a short time.’ He saw a small natural clearing between the path and the rushing brook. Sunlight filtered down, illuminating a plateau where they could sit and grass for the donkey. Shimon pointed. ‘Over there. I’ll tether the donkey.’

  Guiding the donkey over some rocks, they reached the clearing. While he tied the reins to a tree branch, Uxue opened one of the satchels and pulled out some cornbread, sheep’s cheese and apples. They ate in silence, sitting in the small pool of sunlight, the fear they felt battling the sheer exhaustion of their limbs, the constant terror of discovery hanging about them like a shadow.

  Shimon looked over at Uxue. She had smeared her face with a paste she’d made of gruel and crushed herbs, and it had congealed into the kind of sores one would find in the early stages of leprosy. Again, he was astounded at the resourcefulness of his wife.

  ‘You have never looked so beautiful,’ he told her, smiling. She grinned back, the grimace cracking the stiff paste on her face.

  ‘And you so pious.’ Now they both laughed and his heart clenched in a hopeless love. He had never told her of his true identity. He had never been brave enough, fearing rejection, and yet he knew now more than ever it was this that placed them in great danger.

  ‘There is much I haven’t told you, Uxue, my wife.’

  She dropped her eyes, fingering a small daisy that grew by her side. ‘I know more than you imagine. I did not marry you with shuttered eyes. Tell me nothing, it is safer that way.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘Are we doing the right thing?’

  ‘We are doing what we have to, to survive. But, husband, all these past years I have seen you read that map of yours with a longing that is greater than our love, this marriage, even the love of God. And now the Inquisition has given us reason to follow your true path. One bequeathed by your father.’

  Amazed, he looked up at her. Her eyes twinkled – she did know more than he realised.

  ‘For a woman you have much wisdom.’

  ‘It is because I am a woman.’

  They were interrupted by the sound of voices and the distinctive clatter of hooves. Both of them sprung to their feet. Uxue, after retreating to the side of the tethered mule, threw the veil over her face while Shimon, stepping forward, began to ring the leper’s bell vigorously.

  Just over the hill a small group of soldiers on horseback appeared, five of them in the short cloaks and berets of the local constabulary. They halted and the leader – the sheriff – rode forward. He stared down at the two, glancing over at Shimon, then at Uxue, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He indicated his men to stop and the horses pulled up snorting and pawing the dusty ground. With a heavy clank, he dismounted and stepped forward cautiously.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he demanded.

  Shimon, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, stopped ringing the bell.

  ‘A humble priest and his unfortunate ward on their way to Errenteria, the lepers’ hospital. My ward is afflicted with Saint Lazarus disease.’

  The sheriff walked a few steps forward, suspicion travelling across his features.

  ‘You have far to travel. From where do you herald?’

  ‘From Gazteiz, from Vitoria, my ward is the daughter of a wealthy merchant. He was much loathed to part with his daughter, he hath bequeathed me the task of taking her to the colony. But please, good sir, do not venture any nearer, for fear of infection.’

  ‘We come from Vitoria ourselves. I heard nothing of such matters.’ The sheriff stepped closer, staring over at Uxue and the mule who had continued grazing, indifferent to the confrontation taking place around him. Shimon’s mind spun as he struggled to counteract the sheriff’s suspicions.

  ‘The good merchant had concealed his daughter for the past year for fear of his neighbours’ hatred and loss of commerce. An understandable sentiment, may God forgive him. I collected her in great secrecy and we left in darkness. There are few who even know of her existence, and I fear,’ here, Shimon cast a dramatically sympathetic glance towards Uxue, then crossed himself, ‘will never.’

  Now the sheriff stood only a few feet from both of them, the insignia of the Inquisition visible on the breast of his jacket. Again Shimon struggled to retain his composure, terror fixing his feet to the ground.

  ‘Interesting. For a physic and his wife also fled in the night, only ten miles from here. You wouldn’t have seen them along the way?’ The sheriff stepped closer, glancing up and down Shimon’s habit suspiciously.

  ‘We have seen nothing but a pig farmer and his herd, good sir, but please, I fear you will catch the contagion if you come any closer.’

  The sheriff, ignoring him, peered at Shimon’s face.

  ‘You are unusually swarthy for a priest.’

  ‘I am from the South.’

  ‘A long way from home, then.’

  ‘I go where the good lord leads me, sir,’ Shimon replied, trying to stop the trembling in his voice.

  ‘And your ward, she has rough hands for a noblewoman.’ He mo
ved towards Uxue, and Shimon, flooded with the desire to protect his wife, held his shaking arms tightly to his sides. Uxue seemingly cowered, crouched down against the grass, staring up at the official with startled, terrified eyes. Shimon couldn’t tell whether she was acting or was really terrified.

  Shimon, hoping to distract the man, grabbed at his clothes.

  ‘She is much neglected and weak of heart, please do not frighten the poor creature further. I have pledged to get her to the colony alive.’

  The sheriff pushed Shimon and moved at Uxue, who crouched down against the ground, whimpering. He bent over her, then reeled back, hand to his nose.

  ‘Good Lord! What is that smell?’ He leaned against a tree trunk, dryretching. Amazed, Shimon looked over at Uxue, then realised her deceit.

  ‘Rotting flesh, my lord,’ he announced, quickly, pointing to one of Uxue’s arms that was concealed by the stained muslin. ‘It is the leprosy. The flesh has started to drop from her bones.’

  Now covering his face with a corner of his cloak, the sheriff stumbled back to his horse, mounting it as fast as he could, while the rest of his entourage, still on horseback, backed away nervously.

  ‘Be off with you!’ he shouted back at the couple, before spurring his horse on.

  As the other soldiers began to follow, Shimon ran up to the path beside them.

  ‘Det deus felice iter vobis,’ he chanted, blessing them in Latin as they rode past, triumph soaring through his blood. What irony, what sweet revenge.

  He waited until he could no longer hear the clatter of their hooves, then turned to Uxue. She was grinning. She pulled the rotten carcass of a rabbit from under her robes.

  ‘It was lying by the brook, I couldn’t resist.’

  Shimon pulled her into an embrace. ‘You’re a genius, woman, but you stink.’

  §

  They walked in a silence that stretched then contracted with each aching step. August, having fallen into a rhythm, had become adjusted to the velvety darkness of the forest and the surrounding mountain scrubland. Now he could see the silhouettes of the trees against the pewter of the sky, he had learned to discern between the thorny bushes that ran along the narrow stony path they were following and the large rocks that occasionally loomed up in his way. His bruised shins bore testimony, and his throbbing body tricked him into earlier memories of night marches through hostile territory – the sheer alertness of second-guessing the enemy as he breathes across the back of your neck.

  Swallowing back old terror that rose in waves, August held the image of the alchemist’s chronicle at the front of his mind. He imagined Shimon Ruiz de Luna’s own journey, and felt the sense of an ancient commune with something far greater than borders, greater than political differences, the ideals for which he’d once nearly died. He had begun his journey, for better or worse, and now as the stars etched their way across the night, his own mortality seemed irrelevant.

  Moving faster and with the consummate ease of someone who’d taken the path many times before, Joseba walked about ten feet in front of August, hopping over rocks and fallen branches as if he could see in the dark. August had lost all notion of time. He knew they must have only been walking for about three hours but already it felt like days. A sudden scurry in the bushes broke his reverie, a small animal, a fox or a badger, he supposed. In front Joseba drew to a halt and waited until August had caught up with him. The Basque stood at the mouth of a small clearing. Two large rocks marked the place where their path finished and a new one on the other side of the clearing began. Now August noticed the faint dark-blue flush of dawn rising up in the west. It made him feel panicky. Would he have enough time to get across the border while it was still dark?

  ‘We are here,’ Joseba whispered, pointing beyond the trees. ‘The border patrol’s hut is about a mile in that direction.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is now nearly four, I will have to leave you here.’ He pointed to the rock on the far side of the clearing. ‘The path is marked by that rock. It is the dry bed of an old mountain stream. In some parts there is a little water, but not much. It runs between two checkpoints, one you will be able to see but don’t worry they can’t see you. After you cross, my contact will be waiting for you and my delivery. Good luck.’ He took off the leather pouch and hung it over August’s shoulder. It felt much heavier than it had at the beginning of the journey. August adjusted it for comfort.

  ‘Thank you,’ said August, shaking Joseba’s hand. The Basque smiled.

  ‘Don’t thank me now, thank me when you get back out of Franco’s Spain.’ Grinning ironically, he thumped his chest then gave the Republican salute. Without thinking, August saluted back. Then the Basque was gone, melting silently back into the trees.

  Olivia was dreaming, dreaming she was flying over a forest looking for someone running below. She couldn’t remember exactly who she was looking for but she knew that if she didn’t find him, she would die. It was night and the trees below were long green fingers that reached up, their tips brushing her feathered belly. Feathers. I am a bird, she thought, before a noise outside the dream jolted her awake.

  She opened her eyes. Boarding house room, rue de Rivage, Saint Jean de Luc, her sprained ankle. The room was dark, only a thin sliver of streetlight filtering in through a gap in the blinds. Faint sound of waves, a storm out at sea, but underneath breathing – not her own. Instantly, she knew someone else was nearby, she could feel his heat, his presence. She lay pressed against the sheets, contemplating her options – terror was not something Olivia felt – at least not for years, and all she could think was, who or what could have been so stupid as to break into her room and rifle through her luggage? Some impoverished local looking for money or perhaps a passport? Someone who believed he was dealing with a poor befuddled middle-aged Englishwoman. What an idiot, and a dull joy stirred in her loins, the anticipation of the sadist, of the silent predator.

  Now she identified the noise. It was the sound of a drawer being slowly pulled open in the small enclave of the bedroom that served as a dressing room, the room that contained her suitcase. As silently as she could, she slipped out of the bed and, trying to keep her weight off her ankle, moved towards the dressing room, the door of which was ajar. The man’s outline was distinctive, enough for her to know immediately who he was and Olivia froze in horror.

  He was on her in seconds, his large hand clamped over her face and mouth, the other arm around her neck dragging her into the room. She fell, her leg catching the cord of a lamp that crashed after her. The two of them lay like wrestlers or lovers twisted on the ground, the smell of his sweat and maleness acrid in her nostrils, his bulging forearm tight against her throat, squeezing her windpipe.

  ‘Scream, Olivia, and you are one dead witch,’ he whispered, almost lovingly, his mouth low against her ear. And that voice, the treacle-coated vowels devoid of emotion, sent a shock of recognition through her. Ten, fifteen years ago she had thought him dead, so many of the circle had wished it, had willed it upon him. And yet here he was as vivid as the night itself, about to kill her. She bit down into his hand, her teeth sinking into the meaty flesh, his blood salty against her mouth and tongue. He dropped her, then thudded his elbow into the side of her head. For a second her vision exploded into red and black, then she hit the ground, dazed.

  He switched on the fallen lamp, the crazy light it threw jangling normalcy into a tumbled jigsaw. Staring across, she saw that he’d torn through her luggage, had strewn her clothes everywhere in a desperate search for something she guessed he hadn’t found. She rolled her eyes so that she could see him. Pulling himself up, Tyson sucked at the bite in his hand. It had been about ten years but he didn’t look any older – at least not in the face. He still had the even features and broad smile tailored so that he could engender trust from anyone; the pale green eyes no one could remember; the thick, prematurely white hair that had always made him look older, harmless; the cleft in the chin that made people think of certain film stars or some banker their fathe
r might have trusted in the thirties. The only characteristic that betrayed him was his physique. If one looked closer and with a practised eye, one would be able to tell that this was once a military man or at least a fighter, and certainly a killer, judging by the tight control he had over the way he moved – an economy of gesture that, if superseded, threatened to become fatally dangerous.

  ‘What do you want?’ Olivia croaked, her voice scraping from her bruised throat. She couldn’t bear to use his name, as if naming him would give him more power over her.

  He stopped sucking and smiled, the capped perfect teeth smeared in blood.

  ‘What I want to know is, why are you so far away from home, Olivia? A nice homebody like yourself.’ In lieu of answering, she tried to sit up but found one arm was too shattered to put weight on.

  ‘Because you’re on the hunt, aren’t you? You’ve found something new, a map, a clue perhaps?’ He reached across and gripped her injured arm, squeezing tight. Olivia, biting her lip to stop herself from screaming out, almost fainted from the pain. ‘Where is it, Olivia? Where are Las crónicas del alquimista?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. Outside, there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor and voices. He dropped her arm and it fell limp, broken, to her side.

  ‘But you’re following someone who does know, aren’t you?’ He lifted her other arm, the good one, and began stroking her hand. Olivia swallowed, now frightened she might vomit.

  ‘One broken arm is bad, two very bad. He’s mine, Olivia, understand? And if you get there first or find anything I need to know, I expect you to tell me. Is that agreed?’

  She nodded, a tiny gesture of concession but enough for him to let go of her hand. They were interrupted by knocking on the door.

  ‘Madam, are you all right? We heard noises?’ It was the hotel owner.

  Tyson stood and kicked her.

  ‘Answer it.’

  Olivia pulled herself to her feet painfully and hobbled to the door. ‘Everything is all right. I fell over because of my ankle, that’s all,’ she said through the door. When she turned around Tyson was gone and she was alone again: the door to the balcony left ajar. He’d left a calling card on the bedside table with the address of a Swiss post box printed across it.