by Joan Aiken
There would be no sense in my going forward and confronting the men. They would kill me or laugh at me; I did not know which would be worse. I wondered if it might be possible to creep along behind the church and so reach a point up above the group. Pursuing this plan, I turned off to my left, quitting the path and scrambling up through the trees—which were pines here; more light came through the branches, but the ground below them was treacherous as glass because of the needles. I had to crawl on all fours, gripping the ground with my fingers, but this proved lucky, for one of the men, hearing some sound, discharged his gun in my direction and the bullet passed above me.
Then I heard Isidro's voice:
"You fool! Why did you do that?"
"I heard a twig snap—a bear perhaps."
"Dolt! Suppose José heard you?"
"Oh, I daresay he is nowhere near us yet."
Now I had put the church between myself and them and the sound of their voices died away. Thick brushwood had grown up behind the church and I had the devil's own trouble making my way through, and was in fear all the time that one of the men would hear me again. But they were still arguing, I suppose, and at length I made my way through a mass of prickly gorse bushes and found myself on the steep slope above the group, but screened from their view by the bushes.
Here, as chance would have it, I could see a good stretch of the path by which the man from San Antonio must come, and I bethought me that it might be possible to intercept him, and give him warning of what lay in store for him, and persuade him to turn back.
However, this plan did not sit at all comfortably in my mind.
To tell truth, I could not abide the idea that these hatefal wretches should successfully turn back a poor fellow who had made his way thirty miles over a dangerous mountain track for such a piteous purpose. So I squatted among the gorse roots, whittling a piece of pinewood that I had picked up, and cudgeling my wits for some means of preventing their horrid deed and allowing the man to complete his pilgrimage.
Presently I stole upward again, beyond the gorse cover, to survey a longer stretch of the path. And there I saw what put a notion into my head.
Above the belt of gorse bushes the mountainside lay bare and steep as an elbow, save for a number of boulders, amazingly big, scattered over the slope like lumps of salt on pastry. If only, thought I, one of those could be loosed, so as to roll it down...
But if I roll it, they will come looking, to see who set it moving. How can I make them believe that the hand of Providence is against them?
Suddenly a thought came into my head which caused me to chuckle out loud. And I blessed the habit which always inclines me to carry a spare length of cord or two in my breeches pocket.
Crawling like a lizard over the mountainside, I found a boulder which was right for my purpose—big as a mounting-block, but so insecurely poised on a smooth slab of rock that it was a wonder it had not rolled away before now. One stout heave, thought I, should suffice to dislodge it from its base.
Having chosen my boulder, I returned to the shelter of the gorse and whittled away again at my pine stave, cutting a hole through one end of it and a row of notches along die side, and a groove round the other end. This done, I wound my cord tightly round the groove and tied it, leaving eighteen inches dangling free. I also removed the stiff leather lining of my hat, which I pressed and molded into the shape of a cone.
Thus prepared, there was nothing for me to do but wait, hugging my ribs with anticipation. Oh, how I wished that Father Tomás had been among the group of men down by the church. I could hear them, from time to time, talking in low voices.
"He is long enough coming!" said one impatiently. "I wish I had thought to bring a handful of roast chestnuts."
"Be silent, idiot! A good ambush is better than a hot dinner."
Becoming impatient myself, I crawled back to the edge of the gorse and strained my eyes, looking along the side of the mountain, which in the moon's bright light shone like a silvered nutmeg at Twelfth Night. And far off, on that silvered surface, I thought I perceived a moving dot, coming slowly but steadily along the track, dragging something behind it. After staring steadily for a few more moments I was certain, and my heart began to thump so hard that my hands shook.
"Come, Felix! Don't be a cow-hearted chinch," said I to myself, and, returning with all speed to my cover, I took tip the notched piece of wood and commenced whirling it round and round at the end of its cord. It made a wonderfully loud roaring sound, like a furious bull a-bellowing, or a great roll of thunder sounding among the trees, and I heard the men below me cry out with fright.
"Ay, Dios, what is that sound?"
Then, still whirling the wood with my right hand, I held the leather cone to my mouth with my left hand, and, through it, bawled at the top of my lungs: "BEWARE, SACRILEGIOUS PROFANERS! Let him beware, who setteth an ambush against his brother! Beware, bloody murderers who hinder the will of the holy saints!"
My voice, through the leather cone, buzzed and boomed like the howl of a ghost—I could hear one man fairly whimpering with terror, and others calling on heaven to protect them and even on the saints.
"CALL NOT ON THE SAINTS, YE PROFANE DOGS!" I bawled. "The saints will not help those who lie in wait against unarmed men—" and then I was obliged to stop, for I was bursting with laughter at the thought of what Father Tomás would say if he could hear me making such use of the language he had poured out on me, day after day.
Quick as a monkey I ran up the hillside, bent double, and dislodged my boulder from its rest. It went bounding and hopping down the hillside, in a zigzag course, with a great roaring, rumbling, and crashing—and, even better than I had expected, it dislodged several others in its course, which all burst through the gorse cover and out among the assassins in front of the church. I could not see what befell them, but I heard their yells of surprise and terror as the first boulder landed. Then, from their running footsteps and fading voices I concluded that ghostly fright had overcome them and they had bolted for home.
I heard the frantic cry of one left behind:
"Miguel! Jorge! Help, help! The rock has broken my leg! Do not leave me here!"
Grumbling, two of them returned and assisted him down the hill, which was just as well, for I did not at all wish my presence discovered.
No great time after their dispersal I began to hear another sound—a slow, dragging footfall, weary and limping; also the rattle of wheels over stony ground.
Stealing close through my covert, I beheld the arrival of the man from San Antonio. If I had not known about him beforehand I might myself have believed him a ghost—so skeleton-thin, dusty, and gaunt did he seem, poor soul, toiling along the last stretch of the path to the church, and pulling behind him a handcart made from plaited osiers, on which lay a small huddled form.
He looked round him in a puzzled and fearful manner as he neared the church—he must have heard some echo of all the creaking, crashing, and shouting that had passed so soon before; but he did not speak, and I, mindful that his pilgrimage must be made in silence, did not reveal my presence.
Halting by the church door, he lifted the sick child off the cart and, carrying her in his arms, passed within.
He remained in the church a long time and I did not disturb him. While he was in there I had ample leisure to unwind the cord from my bull-roarer (which I buried under a heap of pine needles) and replace the leather in my hat. Then I knelt on the pine needles and said a prayer myself, that his weary walk might be rewarded. It could do no harm. And I thanked God for helping me in regard to the boulders, and mentioned that I hoped He had enjoyed the joke as much ■ as I had. He must have, I thought—after all, He put the plan into my head.
When at last the man came out, he was still carrying the limp form of his child, which caused a check in my flow of spirits. He laid her back on the cart with a sigh, and then stood dolefully scratching his head, as if he did not know what in the world to do next. It was plain to me that h
e had not the strength to begin on the return journey, yet did not dare linger where he was.
I had not intended to discover myself to him (curiosity as usual had kept me there) but, seeing him at closer quarters, I felt sorry for his plight and came out from my hiding place.
"Buenas noches, señor," I said.
He started with terror.
"Who are you?" he gasped. "Are you from the village below?"
"No, señor, I am a wayfarer. But I have met your sister down below. And I have a message to you from her. You are to descend to the village, go boldly into the venta, and say that the saints have told you it is their will that the feud should be ended."
He was amazed.
"Did my sister really say that?"
"That is her wish," I said. "Shall I help with your cart down this hill? It is very steep."
He seemed irresolute still, but the child behind him made a soft whimpering, like somebody who awakens from sleep, and that appeared to decide him. He murmured to himself, "If the saints wish it, I must not stand in their way," and so we half dragged, half lifted the cart with the child on it down the zigzag path: a most difficult task, for she was far heavier than I had expected.
When we reached the gap between the houses I said, "I will leave you now, señor," for I feared that if I were seen with him, somebody in the village might begin to suspect the truth. Therefore I slipped round the other side of the house and ran like a hare to the cowshed at the back of the venta, from which a door led through into the main room. I passed through this, and so into the street. I found that every soul in the village appeared to have gathered on the flat piece of ground in front of the venta, where they were all talking in low amazed voices and crossing themselves repeatedly.
I noticed the innkeeper's wife in the crowd and made my way to her without attracting attention. When I reached her side I plucked her sleeve and said softly, "Señor, your brother is coming. He has been protected so far by the saints."
Her mouth dropped open when she saw me. She began to say, "Was it you—?"
"Hush, señora! Not a word!"
At that moment a kind of gasp went through the crowd, and a lane opened to show the dusty, skinny figure of José from San Antonio, dragging his little cart across the ground toward the inn building.
There was total silence as he limped along, and for a moment I felt great fear. Suppose the muttering crowd were to fall on him and stone him to death? Burn his daughter as a witch? Oh, what have I done? I thought. It was impossible to judge their mood.
Then somebody shouted, "Why does not the child walk? If she has been healed in the church, why is she still in the cart? Let her walk!"
And they all cried out, "Yes, let her walk! Let the child walk!"
I trembled.
Her father said to her in a low, pleading tone, "Can you walk, Nieves?" But not as if he expected that she would. He halted, however.
And then, in the middle of the silence, she whispered, "I will try."
Slowly she stretched up a hand to him. He took it. And she began, inch by inch, little by little, to drag herself upright, with the slow, unaccustomed movements of somebody who has been lying still for years. I was astounded when I saw how tall she was—no wonder she had seemed so heavy coming down the hill! Why, she must be almost my own age! I had thought her a child of six or seven.
At last she was standing, balanced perilously on her thin legs, holding her father's hand, while he gazed at her, his mouth open, almost petrified with fear and astonishment, it seemed.
I thought she might fall when she swayed and, as no one else seemed ready to help her, I went forward to take her other hand, saying in as matter-of-fact a voice as I could muster, "Come along then, Nieves, you must be hungry! I will help you walk to your aunts house."
Though heavy in the cart, she seemed now, balanced on her stick-like legs, as light as a flower of angelica. Guided by her father and me, she moved along slowly—but she was walking herself, we were only helping her to keep her balance.
A kind of sigh came from the crowd, and grew louder and louder, until by the time we reached the venta they were cheering their heads off, shouting, "Olé, Olé!" throwing their hats in the air, embracing each other, and weeping. Dozens of candles were lit, people ran to their houses and fetched stools and chairs and bottles of wine; there was a feast in the street; you would never have guessed that half an hour before every man in the place had cherished the notion of tossing the father of Nieves over a cliff.
In the venta Nieves was given a bowl of milk. Very soon a dignified white-haired man came busding in. He wore a suit of black and a three-cornered black hat; he, it seemed, was the doctor, much esteemed in the village. He expressed great interest in the recovery of Nieves but said, "She should rest; all this excitement will be bad for her. Let her pass the night at my house. My housekeeper will look after her."
This being agreed to, he asked for three helpers to carry her in a chair to his house, which was at the opposite end of the village. Being close by Nieves at the time, I was chosen for one of the helpers, and we walked with her slowly and carefully. The moon had gone down by now, but people were dancing in the street, which was lit from end to end by candles and rush lights.
I heard the doctor muttering to himself as we walked along:
"Eh, well, the feud is over, and that is a good thing—though no doubt they will find some other excuse for killing each other soon enough."
He sounded like a man who had lived too long to believe that people would easily change their ways.
I thought that the doctor's house was most likely the best in the village, for it was stone-floored, furnished with chairs and tables and bookcases, a great contrast to the earth floor and piles of straw in the venta.
"You may sleep in my shed if you wish, boy," said the doctor, noticing, I suppose, my wistful glance around his room. "You'd get little enough sleep along there; they'll keep on drinking till daybreak, very probably."
"Thank you, señor. That is kind of you."
While his housekeeper was heating bricks for the bed and fetching a bowl of whey with warm wine in it for Nieves, the doctor asked a few questions.
"How long is it, my child, since you were able to walk and talk?"
"I don't know, senor," she said. "I feel as if I had been asleep a long, long time."
"I believe it was three years," said I, remembering what the girl's aunt had said, for the father, abashed by the grandeur of the doctors house, had gone back to the venta.
"And what was the last thing you remember?" asked the doctor.
"I saw my mother and my little sister washed away when the river came down in flood. Oh, it was dreadful!—the snow and the black water and the trees toss ing like sticks." Her eyes were huge in her thin white face as she remembered.
"And since then you could neither move nor speak?"
"I—I suppose not, señor."
"Well—well, it is a very interesting case," the doctor muttered to himself. "Hysterical, without a doubt."
Now the housekeeper took Nieves off to a back room and I slipped away to the shed. The doctor was eyeing me too attentively for comfort. I certainly slept better on his hay than I would have at the inn, where, to judge from the sound, every soul in the village drank and sang till daybreak.
Next morning I was up early and went along to feed and tend my mule, for I wished to set forth. Not another soul was abroad; looking through the open door of the venta, I saw it layered with snoring bodies, fowls roosting on the rafters, a baby asleep in a horse trough, even a man lying outside, sunk in slumber, with his goat tied to his leg. Potato sacks, pumpkins, and even pigs were being used for pillows.
But at the back, when I fetched the mule, I found the aunt of Nieves, talking to her brother.
She must have come to some conclusions during the night, for when I offered to pay for the mules stabling, she put her arms round me and nearly squeezed me to death.
"Take money off you? Not if I ha
d eaten my last crust! I would give you some if I had any—I do not know what you did, but I am sure it was you who—"
"Hush, señora!" We both glanced round, but nobody had heard us. I added modestly, "It was nothing—a trifle! But still, if you had an old saddle bag—"
"That you shall have!" And she fetched a pair of alforjas, and placed in them bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of wine.
José, her brother, on learning that I was traveling northward, suggested that we should go together, since that was his direction also. He wished to return to his other children as soon as might be, and I, too, wished to leave without delay. So, having saddled the mule, we returned to the doctors house to pick up Nieves.
The doctor came out in his nightcap to say good-bye, and gave me a very keen look.
"Where are you from, boy?" said he. "By daylight your face seems familiar—though I can't call to mind where exactly—"
"Oh, my grandfather has a farm at Los Nogales," said I very fast—for now it came back to me that he had been called in to cure my great-aunt Barbarita of a quinsy when the doctor at Villaverde was away on a visit. I hoped he would not remember where he had seen me, and made haste to drag away Nieves in her little cart.
Luckily at that moment his housekeeper screeched from indoors that the chocolate was hot and it would spoil if he did not come directly, so he gave us a wave, thrust a couple of coins into José's hand, and left: us.
It had been arranged between us that we should take turns to ride the mule and pull the handcart; so, without more ado, José mounted and we left the village.
3. I witness a duel; and dispose of a horse; am cast into danger thereby; acquire a Feathered Timepiece; and help a Pig Farmer in a flood
I was happy to have the company of José López and his daughter on my journey that day: firstly, because the weather was foggy and the way confusing, all set about with precipices and chasms, so that the mule and I would almost certainly have been dashed to destruction had we traveled without, a guide; but even more because Don José, when the cloud of his fear and trouble was lifted from him, proved to be a very kind, wise man, with whom it was a pleasure to converse. He was a miller, I learned, and had two more children back at home, % boy, Mario, older than Nieves, and a girl, Anita, some years younger. Being a widower, he had felt much distress in his mind as to what might become of Nieves if he should die, and had therefore undertaken this dangerous pilgrimage as a last hope of curing her dumbness and paralysis.
