Hours later, Manchego woke up with a prolonged yawn. Outside the window everything was dark; there was still at least an hour left till dawn. He stayed in bed, with his hands beneath the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, thinking. After fifteen minutes he got up, dressed and went out toward the Observatory, where he knew someone was calling him. Rufus followed him.
Balthazar was sitting against the Great Pine, contemplating the horizon. It was not often that he had seen his master smile so freely.
“You’re early, pupil.”
“I know. I had a really strange dream. You were in it… you were telling me about the importance of sharing with our own essence…” The boy scratched his head.
“Art is the highest expression of the soul. The knot of life is more complex than you think, and it’s easier than you’d be prepared to bet. Let your soul unravel.”
Manchego wondered whether Balthazar was playing with him or teasing him. He said nothing and considered that the universe was both more complex and simpler than it seemed. He concentrated on the horizon.
One, two, three beams of light appeared between the mountains. Manchego smiled and let himself be borne by that radiance. He closed his eyes. A pleasant thought invaded his mind: The meaning of being is to be. How can one be without being oneself? You must fight to integrate yourself with your essence. You must manifest it in each heartbeat, in each breath, in each word, in each glance.
“Who are you?” Manchego asked that presence which was growing within him.
I am that which nestles in your heart and will guide you to the eternal.
“Who are you?” he insisted.
I am. You are. We are.
“Who are you?”
I am Manchego.
***
One afternoon Manchego and Luchy were sitting at the Observatory. The boy was absently playing with the Teitú nut. He threw it in the air and caught it, over and over again. The object had become a part of himself, just like Balthazar. He would not let another night pass without telling his grandmother about the agreement they had reached a few months back. Luchy had promised to go with him to give him support. She was hugging her friend, leaning against his body, her head on his shoulder.
“I’ve missed you,” Luchy murmured, so low that Manchego almost failed to hear her.
“Me too… I’ve been so busy…”
“You needn’t explain, I know.”
The bell rang, Lulita’s voice followed the peal; dinner was ready. The two friends set off back, Manchego with the firm idea of coming clean to his grandmother. “That’s why I’ve advanced so much,” he explained when he had finished telling everything to Lula, except the story of how they had met.
“And do you think I didn’t know?” the grandmother asked.
“What? Do you mean…?” the boy said, eyes wide.
“Oh, sunshine. I’m a Wild Woman, I have the perception of a cat. Besides, Balthazar himself asked my permission to teach you, and he owes a lot to this family. It looks like a healthy exchange to me,” the woman said as she picked up the dishes. “Finally the coward had the guts to come back,” she muttered to herself. Luchy and Manchego turned to look. Lulita was different, so it was not strange that she should know about everything.
“Now the harvest will be plentiful. I’ve prayed ceaselessly to the god of earth, and also to the goddess of water that she may water the fields with rain. Everything will come out well… let’s hope …”
Chapter IX – Prodrome
Many avoided the shadow. Inside lived something shapeless and ruthless, not a person, nor a body either ̶ if only it had been, because then it might be defeated ̶ no. It was a black, filthy mass, perhaps of a gelatinous consistency, with enormous mouth ready to devour. It might have been a spirit doomed for eternity, stalking pure souls.
Mothers walked fast, holding their children tight, heads bent under their scarves. The traders spoke little and in low voices. The shops of the Central Market closed early. All fled from the darkness. At the same time, life went on in accordance with Mayor Feliel’s campaign and his much-trumpeted Social Reform. Working for your future, the bulletins read. The alderman’s image was impeccable, although in his face there were hints of something devious.
Rumors spread, the bars grew heated with talk about the dishonor which ruled everything. Strange things happened, such as mysterious murders which were not investigated; it was said that human sacrifices were practiced in seedy, down-on-their-luck taverns.
The desolate scream of a victim was never lacking during the night. One evening a messenger was carrying a leather portfolio of business documents. The poor man had ventured out about six in the evening, when the sun was beginning to retreat before the dark. The messenger heard the fateful march of a six-soldier patrol, in lines of two by three, equipped with shields and long sharp spears; they were called the Death Squadron.
Everybody slipped away at the sound of the soldiers’ tread on the cobbles, fearful of arousing their rage and of interrupting their “funeral march”. The messenger did no less. He flattened himself against the wall and, trembling with panic, started to pray to the god of light. But the god was dead.
He glanced in the direction the patrol had taken. Five of the soldiers were surrounding a grocer, picking carrots and tomatoes and then throwing them on the ground and at the vendor’s face, amid great guffaws of laughter.
“Halt! In the name of Mayor Feliel!”
The messenger was paralyzed. The sixth guard was pressing the tip of his spear into his side. “What’s that portfolio…?”
“It’s a business letter, nothing more than that, sir, I promise you!” the messenger said, confusedly, and wet himself.
His fear seemed to feed the rage of the soldier, who started to breathe heavily and whose eyes had become those of a rabid dog. “The sending of letters is suspect of espionage against the government of His Excellency Feliel!”
The messenger sank to his knees. “I swear it, sir, it’s a business letter, and it’s private! It’s nothing important.”
The guard slapped him with his gauntlet, leaving his lip broken and bleeding. “You’re a spy! You’re carrying incriminating information about the Mayor in this portfolio!”
He blew a whistle and the other soldiers came to join him, delighted to start another fight. They started to hit the messenger. “Spy! Rat!”
They held him on the floor, ready to take him away to prison, but they still had not had enough, had not quenched their blood-thirst. The tip of a blade pierced flesh, and soon thick red drops flowed. Their victim’s moans fed the yearnings of these barbarians. Another blade went in and out, the messenger howled, begged for mercy. They did not grant it to him. Six spears riddled that defenseless body on the ground, viscera spread over the cobbles oozing stickiness. What had once been a man was soon merely a sack of burst organs.
One soldier picked up the portfolio and broke it into pieces. The message was not important. The only message that mattered was the one being conveyed to the people: the government of terror.
***
The animal-healer insisted, fearing Lulita would get angry. “The only solution is to leave the hen in peace,” the tall pale man with the broad smile assured her. “She’s very old and going to die soon. I understand you can’t buy a younger hen, but if you go on giving the poor thing any more potions, you’ll soon have a monster and not a hen. It hasn’t happened very often, but I can assure you that sometimes these potions, when they’re administered continuously and without restraint, have very severe secondary effects.”
“Oh, for the gods’ sake. Everything’s going to ruin. But I’m afraid that for the moment there’s not enough cash to buy another hen; another potion will have to do,” the woman said, her eyes on the bird, which only wanted to die in peace.
“Manchego! Manchego! Come here, sunshine, we need a favor!”
In two seconds the boy’s face peered out bet
ween the stable doors. “Yes, Grandma? Did you call me?”
“I need you to do me a favor: go to Ramancia’s and buy another potion for the hen. It needs to be double strength.”
“Very well. May I…?”
“Yes, yes, you may. Tell Luchy to go with you. Off you go. Tell Balthazar you have to go out.”
Luchy and Manchego could not stop laughing as Sureña, the mare, carried them to the village. They felt happy to be together on a day that promised nothing less than an exquisite adventure. But they had no idea of the surprise that awaited them. As soon as they reached the Salient Booth, they realized something had broken the routine.
They should have turned back, but curiosity led them on. There was an exaggerated number of guards watching the entrance to the village. But the guards were not at their posts like obedient soldiers, they were behaving like feral dogs.
They fondled the women, took the traders’ goods for themselves. The guards noticed Sureña, who stood out in the crowd because of her bearing and her whiteness. When they awoke from the enchantment the beauty of the animal had stirred, the guards returned to their slum manners and began to turn grim eyes on them.
Manchego decided to turn back. He pulled on Sureña’s reins, pressed the stirrups against her ribcage, but the mare did not move; she seemed anxious to be present at a confrontation, a fight to the death. Ever since she had been a filly, Lulita had trained her for war.
The Captain of the Death Squadron, showing clear signs of inebriation, raised his voice: “And what does such a remarkable gentleman like you intend to do in these parts, if you’d be so good as to let me know, young master? How did you come by such a fine mount and such a beautiful little whore who must fuck deliciously? She ought to belong to me or to one of these finest of soldiers, not to an underfed guttersnipe like you, my lord, oh my very fine master.”
The group of soldiers burst out laughing scornfully, and passed around a bottle of spirits. But the Captain was not aware of his weak position, nor that he was facing a war mare with a temperament as volatile as the wind over the sea. The animal had already smelt the blood she would shed from the wretch.
The Captain, with arrogant disdain, came closer, crossing the line that would have kept him safe. “My pretty little horse, you might have been a great white whore, and look how well I’d treat you, but you’re just a mare, so we’re going to cut you up to feed the barracks. And as for your rider, we’ll tie him to a post and skin him with a whip. And meanwhile, as for your pretty lady, we’ll give her a good shake, me and my friends, so she can know the true definition of a man and his glorious rod. Come to papa, ’cause papa’s going to give you what’s coming to you.”
Thoughtlessly, he pouted his lips to kiss Luchy, and that was the last drop that broke the dam of violence…
With extreme agility Sureña rose to her hind legs, lifted her forelegs and with a well-aimed kick struck the bull’s-eye: the Captain’s chest. It was like a shot, the cracking of bones was audible, it smelt of fresh blood. Some of the men threw up from the impression. The other soldiers moved back in fear. But Sureña had not finished. Giving them no time to react, the mare bit into a face and tore it off, then stamped on bodies which, under her hooves, broke like eggshells.
Some of the soldiers managed to run and went to fetch spears and swords. Too late: Sureña was already entering the Salient Booth, massive and white, like an avalanche.
In the Poor Sector, the young people found a heart-rending landscape: naked children eating worms, feral dogs rounding on a beggar who would soon become their dinner, women being raped, children being kidnapped, corpses on the benches with the crows pecking at them. Those who were out of reach of the violence went fast, eyes on the ground, fleeing. Manchego and Luchy were not prepared for this.
The atmosphere had changed too much since the last time they had been to the village. Some houses were sealed, with wooden boards nailed across windows and doors. Others had been plundered. Others were obviously abandoned. Above a broken lamp-post a black owl with intense yellow eyes uttered a lonely screech which spread among the carrion, the death and the solitude. Without being aware of it, Manchego put his hand in his pants pocket and held the Teitú nut tight with all his might.
Like a flash of lightning, the war mare crossed streets without stopping until, like an arrow, she came to a stop in front of Ramancia’s house.
***
On the door there hung a publicity poster of Feliel’s. They opened it with a bang and went in. Everything was just as it had been months back, except for the thick layer of dust which covered the shelves like a shroud. The cobwebs were thick in the corners of the ceiling; the spiders, large, with red eyes, awaited patiently for a victim to fall into their trap. A dark shadow loomed in the hall, and the noise from outside was dulled. It was as if they had been put inside a bubble of water. The shadow vanished. Luchy scrutinized the place with half-closed eyes.
“Where can Ramancia be?” the girl asked. Manchego was about to answer but stopped, surprised by the sound of voices, barely whispers. A dark, cavernous voice was giving unintelligible orders. This voice was familiar to Manchego, but he could not manage to place it. Another voice, broken and fearful, was answering obediently. There was no doubt that it was the witch. Something was going on, and it was not good.
The voices fell silent and the door behind the counter opened. A human figure became visible. It was a woman far gone in years, doomed to oblivion. The witch, powerful and fearless before, now had eyes swollen from prolonged weeping. A deep sadness emanated from her.
Manchego and Ramancia looked at each other, and in that exchange it was as though they shared their thoughts. The silence broke when a terrible weight tore the ceiling, with a noise as of an underworld. Ramancia began to tremble, and her eyes moved frantically in search of the demon which was threatening them from above. The two young people were breathless, frozen by fear. The witch reacted.
“They’re watching us. There are… things happening that you wouldn’t understand right now, things you might understand when it’s too late,” the witch said.
The cracks in the ceiling were becoming more pronounced. The witch hugged herself, placed a hand on her chest. “I’m very…I can’t say anything, but you must know we’re being watched. There are spies everywhere. Even in places you’d never imagine. They’re coming!... The shadows’ll soon be leaving.”
Suddenly the witch’s whole manner changed. “Tell me, Manchego, how can I help you?” she said with a feigned normality.
Manchego knew she was pretending and followed her lead. “Well… uh… I need another potion for my hen, uh… a little stronger,” the boy managed to say with his voice shaking, unable to hide his nervousness.
Luchy was clinging to his arm, glancing around fearfully.
From the shelf Ramancia took an orange potion in a goose-neck flask. “That’ll be five crowns, little one. Apply this potion the same way as the other one. You’ll soon find everything’s all right.”
But Ramancia’s eyes said that nothing would be all right, and they focused on the pupils of Manchego’s eyes. The boy felt a finger penetrating his mind. He heard Ramancia’s voice in his head, clear and unmistakable, despite the fact that the witch’s lips did not move. It was a riddle:
Those who sow with tears
the seeds which in black fire lie,
through blackened sunset creeping
on the alum, the darkening sky;
a sea with darkness weeping
summons Thórlimás from the land.
From the land of Tutonticám,
lost, lovely, remote Teitú,
there walks firmly over the veil
over ships of white bamboo,
which on a purple sky sail,
a warrior of the Naevas Aedán.
Times spent in Chaos will pass by him
over the war of a sadness
between its mighty supports,
where his dwelling shone in gladness
days passed in a peace of sorts,
a place that remains destroyed.
The old Lyric of the Wind sings that he
who bears the sack of seed with care,
heavy and somber, bent double,
will soon shine with joy so fair,
his night disappear from the rubble
and his discontent never return.
“That’s all, children, Goodbye!” Ramancia said desperately. “And never come back to this house. Never! It’s bedeviled! Flee! For the gods’ sake, flee!”
A dark shadow enveloped Ramancia and devoured her in a single gulp. In the blackness they could hear the witch weeping. Manchego and Luchy did not delay a single second longer. They flew out of Ramancia’s shop, as if the hounds of hell were licking their footsteps.
***
Manchego slammed the door and hugged Luchy. “We’ve got to get back to the Ranch! And tell my grandmother the village is in chaos! Come on!”
Manchego dropped the flask, and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The orange liquid soaked the cobbles. He had not been careless, the flask had not slipped out of his hands because of nervousness, Manchego too fell, with a thread of blood running down his forehead. Luchy bent over him, and in the confusion heard laughter behind her. She turned round, on the brink of tears. There was Mowriz, with his friends, Findus and Hogue.
“Idiots! Why can’t you just leave him in peace? Don’t you see the village is a complete mess? Don’t you even have enough sense to realize there’s enough violence around us already?” Luchy spat out.
The girl stood up, with her fists clenched. She wanted to give them a beating, but she was aware that she did not have the strength, and what was more, she was alone. She felt choked with frustration.
The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1) Page 6
