The Map

by T. S. Learner

  August kneeled down by Tyson’s side to hear what he was saying.

  ‘Historical mistakes?’ August queried. Tyson reached out and clutched at August’s jacket, pulling him closer.

  ‘Shimon Ruiz de Luna foresaw the Thirty Years’ War; he went to England thinking he could prevent it, but was burned as a spy instead. I had other plans. I was going to liberate the natural world from humanity itself. I would have created an elite of soothsayers …’ His eyes had begun to cloud over, his voice faltering. ‘To guide us into the abyss and beyon …’ The last word hung incomplete as his head rolled to one side and he died, his gaze staring out over the very thing he’d spent his life searching for.

  August closed the dead man’s eyes and stood; tearing a strip of cloth from his own shirt, he created a tourniquet and wrapped it around his injured arm.

  ‘Izarra is —’

  Before he finished his sentence, Gabirel had taken his hand. ‘I know,’ the boy replied, in English, his voice breaking in grief. With the fury of a madman, he began to pull and trample the plants around him, his arms whirling uncontrollably. August tried to stop him.

  ‘Gabirel, you can’t!’ They struggled until finally August, his arms wrapped around the shaking youth, managed to contain him.

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to destroy it, otherwise it will be abused. I know it, I know it!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That day in 1945, the day my mother was killed, I was running towards the massacre because I had a prediction of it but I just didn’t know exactly when, that’s why I arrived too late. The gift is useless. The herb gives you the gift of seeing events but there’s no way of telling when they will happen. It is not a gift but a curse.’

  He was shaking with rage.

  August thought about his own life, how if he had known how it would have unravelled, whether he would have had the courage even to have gone to Spain, to have loved and failed, to have fought and lost. He let the youth go.

  ‘I understand.’

  Gabirel looked at him disbelievingly, his face streaked in angry tears.

  ‘Do you?’

  August picked up the bloodstained scythe and began slicing down the plants around him.

  §

  Shimon was waiting. Waiting for the sound of the squealing cartwheels outside, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the shouting orders and the banging on the door below. A great grief and the certainty of separation had him pinned to the stool in front of the tiny fire that spat out into the dim low-ceilinged room. It was cold, a new chilling damp that was foreign to him that stank of mead, of pipe tobacco and a harsh mercenary expediency that had become their London. For a fleeting second he found himself amused by such a concept, but Uxue’s weeping pulled him unwillingly back into the room, the weight of his chronicle, wrapped in silk, pressed against his chest, his arms numb from holding it for so many hours.

  ‘Please, husband, I am begging you to leave, to save yourself, for my sake and our unborn child, please Shimon … while there’s time.’

  She was on the floor, her face pressed against his knees. He was only dimly aware of how long she’d been sitting there, her tears already soaking through the cloth of his stockings.

  ‘Uxue, you know it is my fate to be martyred.’

  ‘But why?’

  He hated seeing her so undone, his strong woman, she who had always proved to have more courage than him, until now.

  ‘Because I have seen my own death. I now have the eyes of God. I have taken Elazar ibn Yehuda’s plant.’ Outside, there was the commotion of horsemen turning into the small lane on which the lodging-house was located. Shimon stood and helped Uxue to her feet.

  He pressed the chronicle into her hands.

  ‘You must guard this with your life and all the lives that will stretch out into the future we have spawned,’ he concluded, smiling, his hand on her womb. She gazed into his eyes, knowing she had lost him. It was too late for anger, too late for more pleading. She knew her man.

  ‘Husband, I promise by the name of Ruiz de Luna, I and my descendants will guard the chronicle.’

  Already there was the banging on the door downstairs, the hurried panic of footsteps as the innkeeper went to answer.

  ‘You must go now and hurry – there’s a horseman waiting at the back entrance.’

  ‘May God guard your soul,’ she whispered, in Euskara, as they embraced for the last time.

  Epilogue

  The thin piping sound of the txistu, the Basque flute, rang out defiantly across the square, accompanied by the soft patter of rain. A small crowd of mourners was gathered around the fountain.

  It was a small stone plaque, a simple design with nine names carved into granite. The phrase ‘They died for what they believed in’ was etched above, in Euskara. The list began with ‘La Leona’ Andere Miren Merikaetxebarria, then came the names of the eight men who died with her. The new mayor had just finished a short speech in Spanish – an innocuous soliloquy of the heroism of all those who had died in the Civil War. The mayor’s avoidance of mentioning any political specifics was understandable, August observed, glancing over at the motorcycle and its sidecar parked prominently on the other side of the square, two Guardias Civiles, dressed in the black jodhpurs and jacket of the Falangists, leaning up against the motorcycle, watched the proceedings with a threatening air.

  A small group had gathered for the unveiling of the monument, in front of the town hall. Gabirel, who was struggling not to weep, stood next to August. On his other side, standing erect and proud, was Mateo. Apart from the mayor, there were the priest, the town clerk, the schoolteacher and several widows and younger women August recognised. At the edge of the forty-odd people stood a small group of women he’d never seen before, dressed in brighter-coloured shawls, who looked as if they had come from outside the village. He glanced over to Mateo, the café owner, who told him, in an undertone, that these were the widows and children of the soldiers who’d died with La Leona, most of whom had come from beyond Bilbao. They were interrupted by the priest stepping forward, a silver aspergillum in his hand, ready to sprinkle holy water over the stone. Murmuring in Latin, he consecrated the stone, much to the visible disgust of the watching policemen, one of whom made a dramatic gesture of spitting in the gutter. Next to him, August could feel Gabirel stiffen in outrage. Reaching over, he placed a warning hand on the youth’s arm, and the boy began sobbing silently. August pulled him into an embrace and held him like a child until the heaving stopped.

  The priest finished the blessing and the crowd began to slip away into the anonymity of the gathering afternoon shadows. Mateo turned to August.

  ‘Come to the café, there will be talk, drink, reminiscences. For once this afternoon we are determined to talk freely.’

  August glanced questioningly over at Gabirel, who, after wiping his face with his sleeve, had composed himself.

  ‘You go. I’m going back to the house,’ he told August. ‘I just want to be alone for a while.’ After his aunt’s death, Gabirel seemed to have matured overnight. The stuttering had ceased and there was a new determination and defiance in his movement – the hesitancy of youth having vanished forever. But August worried about him – he knew the men of the village would take the youth under their guidance, but the thought of leaving Gabirel alone in the farmhouse and, more disturbingly, in a regime with few prospects, disturbed him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ August tried to read the genuine emotion behind the smile. Gabirel put his arm over August’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sure, but, August, you must go, these people are now your friends. I will come back, maybe in an hour or so.’ Then he left them, strolling quickly towards the house and mountain slopes beyond.

  Gabirel stumbled through the forest oblivious of everything around him except for a great need that drew him towards the maze. He felt a burning thirst, almost erotic in its intensity, and his whole body ached for something he couldn’t intellectually define. It was lik
e a blind knowledge, something that had been forming in him since birth, and now, like a bursting chrysalis, it had broken free and was propelling him forward to a destiny, to a physical place. He couldn’t explain it, he couldn’t rationalise it and he couldn’t fight it. All he knew was that he had to be there. He broke free of the trees and ran, leaping down into the small clearing. Then he was inside, the thirst growing stronger as he moved up the central line of sephiroth, winding his way along the gravel paths sure-footed. Through the circle of Malkuth with its lily and vervain, up through the stone circle of Yesod, up to the centre of the Tree of Life to Tiphareth – the sephirot symbolising Beauty. Here he paused, the sensation was now like a light pulsating within him, overwhelming all thought. He spun around, trying to sense from where he was being called. Finally, he began to walk up the path to the crown – Kether. Halfway along, he paused; on the path before him new grass had sprung up into the shape of a new circle, a sephirot he’d never seen before. He stopped, his whole body feeling as if it were vibrating with a strange profound happiness. He slipped his shoes off, then, stepping into the centre of the circle, lifted up his arms and turned his face to the sky. At last they had come for him.

  By the time August realised Gabirel hadn’t returned it was near sunset. After thanking Mateo and his friends and apologising for having to leave before a late supper, he made his way up the slope to the farmhouse.

  It was just before he reached the door that a great sense of dread filled him.

  ‘Gabirel! Gabirel!’ He swung open the oak door, but already he knew the house would be empty. He rushed through the rooms, calling the boy’s name, only to have the silence echo back mockingly. Filled with foreboding, he descended into the barn and pulled open the trapdoor leading to the hiding place that had been used in so many wars by Gabirel’s ancestors.

  The hollowed out stone recess was empty.

  Outside, the sun had almost set over the mountains. August pounded his way through the small forest and arrived at the clearing, lungs heaving and covered in sweat. He glanced over the clearing towards the maze. The last rays of sunlight had fallen across the green walls, coming directly down the centre, giving the illusion of a glow arising from the top, near the crowning sephirot. August began running towards it.

  Beating his way through the narrow passages of the maze, rosemary scratching at his bare arms, he reached Tiphareth, the central sephirot. Even from here he could see the glimmer of something along the path leading to the crown, to Kether, a great anticipation squeezing at his lungs and heart. He started walking towards it.

  A new ring of grass had sprung up in a perfect circle.

  Da’ath, higher knowledge, but how?

  In the centre he saw a set of footprints – the outline of a boy who had stood there in bare feet. By the side of the circle was a pair of shoes.

  August recognised them immediately.

  If you want to find out what happens to August next, go to

  tslearner.com and hit on the link to a free download of an extra

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  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to the following individuals for their invaluable insights and contributions. Firstly, special thanks to Dr Ana Aguirregabiria, whose love of her own culture was my initial inspiration, and a special thank you to another Basque and native of Gernika, Jose Agustin Ozamiz Ibinarriaga, PhD in Sociology, Prof. Deusto University. Thanks also goes to Anton Erkoreka Barrena, Basque Museum of the History of Medicine, MUDr, PhD Dir (UPV/EHU); Juan Manuel Etxebarria Ayesta, PhD in Basque Filology, Prof. Deusto University; Jone Iztiria Murua of the library of San Sebastián (Donostiako Vdala, Ayuntaniento de San Sebastián); Julen and Elisa Calzada; Jose Miguel Aguirre for difficult memories; Juana Aroma and Nicolas Arzubia of Goiuria (Irureta), who were kind enough to let us into their beautiful Basque farmhouse; and the staff and owners of Hotel Ibaigune, Bizkaia, for allowing us to stay there; and the Archives Municipales de Bayonne.

  Other acknowledgements go to my good friend Henning Bochert and all those kind enough to share their post-war Hamburg experiences; the staff of the Gedenkstätte Ernst Thälmann Hamburg; Ulrich Kluge and Lore Bünger, Uwe Eccard, Guenther Claus, Edeltraud Jensen, Peter Petersen and Hans Walther of the Zeitzeugenborse at the Seniorenbüro of Hamburg; and Herr Wolfgang Vacano of des Altonaer Stadtarchivs e.V.

  For kabbalistic enlightenments I was lucky enough to speak to Z’ev ben Shimon Halevi, principal tutor of the International Kabbalah society; Judith Hawkins-Tillirson, for her herbal magick. I thank my father-in-law Gerald Asher for his Parisian insights; my UK publisher and editor Dan Mallory of Sphere, Little, Brown, for his boundless support, belief and his superb eclectic literary taste; Iain Banks for his copy-editing; Anna Valdinger of HarperCollins, Australia; Charlie King of the Sphere marketing department; my UK agent Julian Alexander for his ongoing and unflappable insight and support; and finally my other half Jeremy Asher for his intelligence, love and editorial input.

  Bibliography

  Ardagh, John, Germany and the Germans, After Unification

  Atxaga, Bernardo, The Accordionist’s Son

  Baroja, Julio Caro, The World of the Witches

  Carr, Raymond, Spain: A History

  Carroll, Peter N., The Odyssey of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade

  Darman, Peter, Heroic Voices of the Spanish Civil War

  Fisher, Adrian, and Georg Gerster, The Art of the Maze

  García Lorca, Francisco and Donald M. Allen (eds) The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca

  Gill, Anton, An Honourable Defeat – A History of German Resistance to Hitler

  Hawkins-Tillirson, Judith, The Weiser Concise Guide to Herbal Magick

  Hennessy, Peter, Having it So Good: Britain in the Fifties

  Hoffman, Edward, The Wisdom of Maimonides: The Life and Writings of the Jewish Sage

  Kurlansky, Mark, The Basque History of the World

  Kynaston, David, Family Britain: 1951–57

  Lalanne, Guy, and Jacques Ospital, 1936–1945: Ascain, Ciboure, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, Urrugne Temoignages d’une Époque

  Marks, Leo, Between Silk and Cyanide

  Moynihan, Brian, Looking Back at Britain 1950s: The Road to Recovery

  Pelaez del Rosal, Jesus (ed.) The Jews in Cordoba (X – XII Centuries)

  Pialloux, Georges, Memoire en Images Saint-Jean-de-Luz et Ciboure

  Reed Doob, Penelope, The Idea of the Labyrinth from Classical Antiquity through the Middle Ages

  Regardie, Israel (ed.) 777 and Other Qabalistic Writings of Aleister Crowley

  Wolff, Milton, Another Hill

  Woodworth, Paddy, The Basque Country: A Cultural History

  Wright, Peter, Spycatcher

  Z’ev ben Shimon Halevi, Kabbalah and Astrology

  Z’ev ben Shimon Halevi, Kabbalah: Tradition of Hidden Knowledge

  About the Author

  T.S. Learner was born and raised in England and has lived in both Australia and the USA. She is well known in Australia as a playwright and a writer of short stories — her first collection of short stories, Quiver, was an international bestseller. Her third book — the bestselling The Witch of Cologne — was her first work of historical fiction and was followed by another two short story collections, Tremble and Yearn, and two more novels, Soul and Sphinx. Learner divides her time between London, Sydney and California. Visit her website: tslearner.com

  Other Books by T.S. Learner

  Sphinx

  Also by Tobsha Learner

  NOVELS

  The Witch of Cologne

  Soul

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  Tremble

  Yearn

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Great Britain in 2012

  By Sphere, London

  An imprint of Little, Brown Book Group

  An Hachette UK Company

  Published in Australia in
2012

  This edition published in 2012

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Tobsha Learner 2012

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The right of Tobsha Learner to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights Act) 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Learner, Tobsha

  The map / T. S. Learner.

  978 0 7322 9336 9 (pbk.)

  978-0-7304-9788-2 (epub)

  A823.32

  Cover design by Sean Garrehy – LBBG