(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale

by Joan Aiken

  Juana was crouching as if her legs, like mine, would hardly hold her up; she steadied herself by holding on to a sapling tree. The two outriders had returned, shambling and sheepish, from wherever they had fled to, and tiptoed to peer over the edge of the cliff and see what had become of the bear. Its body was visible to me, lodged in a tree fork about thirty feet down; I was not sure whether they could see it.

  "It is dead!" I yelled angrily across the gorge. "Small thanks to you!"

  Then I turned to Pedro and embraced him.

  "Pedro, I am in debt to you for the rest of my life. That was a superb shot."

  "Ay, vaya, vaya" he said, embarrassed. "It was nothing. Yours would have been just as good, if you had been able to shoot. But I am very sorry for the poor old mother bear. Why should she lose her cub, and her life? As for that bruja, that female crocodile, that she-devil—" he went on for some minutes, using the most wicked language.

  "Pedro, Pedro! It is a good thing she can't hear you!"

  "It is a good thing she is not here, close enough for me to get my hands on her throat. Saving herself! Leaving the lady Juana in such danger—"

  I saw, over his shoulder, that Esteban was tapping on the hut door, obviously informing Conchita that the danger was now past. She put her head out, he said something, and she emerged, looked about her carefully, walked to the cliff edge, and waved a hand.

  "It is quite safe," she called. "Esteban has shot the bear. You can go on your way."

  "Oh—!"exploded Pedro.

  Laughing—all of a sudden I felt wonderfully light-hearted—I took his arm and said, "Come along, come along, amigo. She is right. We had better proceed with dispatch. After all, the day is more than half done. And I think there is a storm gathering."

  As we walked away from the bridge, I thought, Grandfather was right. I suppose he is always right, the old wretch. What in the world should I have done on this excursion without Pedro?

  The rope bridge crossed the Aragon river just beyond the point where another, smaller tributary river joined it from the east, deep in its own narrow gorge. We now stood on the triangle of land where the two streams met; ahead of us, a great corner of mountain, all shrouded in trees, came down to the confluence.

  "Which way now?" I asked Pedro.

  "Along here." He led the way on a barely discernible track, still following the course of the Aragon; then he stopped to examine some broken twigs. "Hey, hey, somebody else has been this way."

  "Well, it was probably de Larra, coming with fresh supplies. Or it could have been Don Amador. I noticed fresh horse droppings behind the foresters' hut. Amador is not very careful about concealing his tracks."

  "I wonder where he put the horse itself?"

  "Hobbled it in the forest, perhaps."

  "Let us hope the bear ate it," said Pedro.

  We rounded a corner of cliff, and, suddenly, there was the Castillo de Acher, in full view, high above the forest.

  I have seen many castles, some ruined, some still inhabited, during my journeyings across Spain, but none so large or so dramatically situated as this one.

  For a start, it was perched right over our heads on top of a 200-foot crag. To the rear of the castle, where the slope was not so steep, an encircling wall ran down to a fortified gatehouse; but it could be seen that there was no possibility of approaching on that route, for the road to the gatehouse, which cut to and fro in zigzags across the hillside, had been blown out in two places.

  Although many centuries old, the castle looked amazingly new, for it was squarely built of pale-brown stone, all the towers and turrets and angles sharp and clear as if each stone had only just been laid in position by the mason.

  "What a place!" I breathed. "You would think Don Ignacio would prefer living there to the house in Berdun."

  "Too steep a climb every time you want to go fishing," said Pedro.

  "So where was the rope that Don Manuel let down?"

  "Over this way."

  Pedro led the way to a point at the very foot of the cliff, which was not quite sheer, but ran down into a wild meadow, sloping like the side of a steeple—seamed, scarred gray rock, with here and there a gnarled tree growing out of it. At a point near the top there was an overhang, and above this a wooden arm had been built into a block of masonry. There was a wheel and a pulley, but no rope.

  "Humph," I said. "It looks as if de Larra's not back yet with his new rope and stock of provisions. What do we do now? I doubt there'd be any purpose in our firing off two shots—"

  "De Larra did speak of another way into the castle," Pedro said doubtfully. "A tunnel running up through the rock. But if he knew where it was, he kept that knowledge to himself."

  "He didn't wholly trust us, and who's to blame him?"

  "I'd give a month's pay to know where that fat fellow has got to—" Pedro was beginning, when a slight noise above made me glance up.

  "Look out!" I threw Pedro to one side and ducked myself, but had moved just too late; a cascade of stones and larger lumps of rock came splattering and bouncing down the cliff, and a great block about the size of a leg of mutton caught Pedro a blow on the side of the head and knocked him to the ground.

  I flung myself on my knees by him and reached for his pulse; thank heaven it beat strongly; he was only half stunned, and indeed in a moment or two he murmured, "Ay, diablo! What was that? Here, let me get up—"

  "No, no, lie still; you had a sharp knock there." Carefully, I felt his skull; thank God, it seemed undamaged, due in part to the stout leather hat that he wore. I dragged him away from the foot of the cliff and laid him under a thick pine tree with drooping branches that ought to protect him from any more such hazards. "Stay there quietly, Pedro—I'll be back soon."

  Then, scanning the face of the cliff above me again, I found what I was seeking.

  A small voice called, "You must come and help me! I can't get any farther."

  "Come down then!" I snapped.

  "I don't wish to!"

  "Then stay where you are."

  I took off my jacket and wrapped it around Pedro.

  "I do not wish to do that. I wish to go on!"

  I almost laughed. Even stuck halfway up a cliff, little Pilar was unchangeably herself.

  If she inherited no other virtues from her knavish parents, she did possess tenacity of purpose. And courage too, I thought, starting up the heeding cliff after her.

  Among the things we had purchased in Pamplona were a number of climbing irons for just such an operation as this. From the beginning it had been in my mind that Don Manuel might have chosen some such aerie by way of a refuge; fortunately I had carried a bag of these irons with me. By jamming them into cracks I was able to swarm up the rock face at a fair speed, making use of all the notches, ledges, lumps, and tree roots that came within reach. In due course I found little Pilar, somewhat hazardously perched on a fairly wide ledge that underran an overhang, about two thirds of the way up.

  "Why didn't you come faster?" she complained.

  "You little wretch! You should be thankful that I came at all. Where in the world is your papa? How could he permit you to do such a crazy thing?"

  "Oh," she said discontentedly, "he went off to search for a tunnel. And he took so long about it that I thought I had better go up this way. I like to climb. I am a good climber."

  "So I have observed."

  "But now I can't see which way to go." She squinted up disapprovingly at the overhang. "That big bulge is a nuisance."

  I smiled to myself; her intonations were so like those of Conchita.

  "Now," I suggested, "you just have to come down again."

  "No—no—no!"

  I thought she was going to have a tantrum, like the one in the saddler's shop. "I will not, will not go down again. I am going up, up, up, to see Nico and Weeza, and my other papa, whom I love a great deal better than fat old Dor-Dor."

  "Oh indeed?"

  "And you must help me."

  On consideration, tha
t did not seem such a bad notion. After all, we were more than halfway up already. I had my letter from Juana as a passport, and possibly this little imp of Satan would not cause any harm to my mission.

  Is this Your plan for me? I asked God, and, receiving no sign of dissent, I told little Pilar, "You stay there a moment while I work my way past you and see what lies at the far end of this ledge."

  Accommodatingly, she packed herself into a kind of chimney corner while I wriggled past. To my great relief, at the narrow end of the shelf I discovered a useful crack in the rock, leading upward. And above that was an outcrop with several good handholds, and above that...

  "Come along," I said, returning to Pilar. "I have managed to stick some irons into the rock, which will make it easier to climb; you can go on ahead and I will give you a lift upward when it is needful."

  "Don't you dare touch me unless I ask for it," she ordered sharply. "I can manage very well by myself."

  Indeed she could. Sure-footed as a monkey she clambered upward; I could well understand how she had managed to negotiate the conical chimney in Don Ignacio's house.

  Twenty minutes' more scrambling brought us to a grassy dip at the top of the cliff; here we stopped to get our breath and survey our injuries; little Pilars blue cloth dress was in shreds and her hands, elbows, and knees were badly scraped, but she bore these injuries with fortitude; I had various abrasions and a cut on the forehead from a falling rock. Pilar was ready in a moment to continue exploring.

  "Look, there's some steps—" she began.

  "Hush!"

  "Why must I hush?" she demanded.

  "Because Don Manuel—your other papa, if that is what you call him—is not expecting visitors. For all I know, he has a loaded musket pointed in this direction, ready to blow our heads off. So we must tiptoe along very quietly."

  Fortunately this plan appealed to her.

  "Yes! We will creep so quietly that we take them quite by surprise!"

  We ascended the steps, of which there were a great many, and made our way softly about the great labyrinthine place. There were ruined chambers, open to the sky, arches, corridors, an inner tower, a bailey, a keep, a well; there were stables, a chapel with beautifully carved pillars, a banqueting hall, roofless and crumbling; there were galleries, cloisters, and arcades. The place seemed, at various times, in its long history, to have combined the function of both castle and monastery. All empty now, ruined and desolate, with full-sized trees growing in some of its courts and huge holes gaping in its walls. And a great view out over the clouds in all directions. Huge snowcapped peaks hemmed us in to northward.

  Pilar began to look very dejected; her underlip protruded farther and farther as we wandered about finding nobody. And I began to grow anxious. The clouds were turning blacker and blacker; the way down was going to be far more difficult than the ascent had been; and where were Don Manuel and the other children? Had they left the place?

  "I don't see—" Pilar began, when I said, "hush!" again.

  Most of the castle ruins ended not far above ground level; but one portion of the central keep had a second, even a third story. From a window of the second floor I believed I had heard the sound of a voice; most improbably, it seemed, somebody was singing.

  I discovered a wooden door that led into this portion of the castle; but it was closed. Softly I tried it, and found it barred. Pilars underlip stuck out even farther. Scowling, she looked as if she intended to hammer on the door. Laying my forefinger warningly on her lip, I pointed to a tree that had thrust its way up to a considerable height alongside the building. Its branches were thick and tangled; there would be no difficulty in climbing up them.

  Pilar nodded her delighted comprehension, ran at once to the tree, and flung herself confidently into the branches. I followed close behind, and we were soon high enough to be able to see without difficulty into the windows of the second-floor chamber.

  The scene that met our eyes was unexpected, to say the least.

  On an open hearth blazed a fire of pine branches, giving a ruddy illumination to the room, which was not large and contained no furniture at all.

  In the middle of the room, a man was dancing. He held a child in his arms. He danced very slowly, gravely, and correctly. As he danced, he sang an air; and the child—she was a girl—sang softly with him. Nearby a boy, standing, solemnly clapped his hands in time to the beat.

  I found this tableau inexpressibly sad.

  The man's dignity, his absorption in what he was doing, the attentive and fond looks directed at him by both children, the visible trust and love that they felt for him, and he for them, so totally contradicted the picture Conchita had painted of a ruffianly madman and two terrified prisoners that I wondered how I could ever have swallowed her version for so much as a moment.

  But of course I had not known Conchita when I first heard the tale.

  Now everything fell into place.

  Don Manuel had taken his children because he loved them and wished to see them. He had left little Pilar behind because he knew she was none of his.

  And Conchita, afraid that this damaging fact would come to light, had instructed her lover, Don Amador, to keep Pilar out of sight until a rescue could be arranged and the children all presented together, while her unsatisfactory husband was somehow disposed of.

  As these thoughts slipped rapidly through my head, Pilar, characteristically, made her own dispositions.

  Agile as a squirrel, she climbed to a higher bough, which bent under her weight and carried her within a hand's breadth of the stone windowsill; then, with great intrepidity she flung herself across the gap and tumbled into the room, shouting exultantly.

  "Weeza! Nico! I found you, I found you! I found you!" she clamored, and ran to hug the boy, who looked startled out of his wits, but stooped to embrace her affectionately enough; to my relief I saw (following Pilar with less agility but as quickly as I could) that she was accepted with affection and good nature by her siblings; they did not exclude her as, it seemed, Don Manuel had done.

  Indeed he did not, now, greet her with unkindness, though I could see that he was shocked, astonished, and not at all happy at her arrival.

  "Madre de Diosl Pilar! How in the world did you get here, child?"

  "I climbed! I climbed up all by myself!"

  Then Don Manuel turned and saw me and his face stiffened.

  When he was younger, I thought, he must have resembled a god. Even now, thin, worn, dusty, his clothes in tatters, his hair untrimmed, blind in one eye, a stubble of several days' growth on his chin, he was the most handsome and imposing man I had ever seen, and looked as if he might well be descended from the ancient kings of Aragon. Over the blind eye he wore a black patch, held in place by a black silk ribbon; the other eye was large, deep-set, sparkling, and formidable. His finely chiseled lips were set strongly together; he did not scowl, but regarded me with ferocious intensity as if, should he think it necessary, he would toss me out the window without the least hesitation. And he could probably have done so; he was at least a head taller than I, and seemed built of nothing but bone and muscle.

  "Vaya! We have another guest, it seems. And who may you be, my young señor?"

  "My name is Felix Brooke," I said quickly. "I—I am acquainted with your friend Don Mariano Jose de Larra. I am working with him, indeed. And I have a letter, concerning the children, from Señorita Juana Esparza—or Sister Felicita, as she is now called. May I give it to you?"

  With—I must acknowledge—a slightly shaking hand, I pulled the letter from my pouch and extended it.

  Don Manuel still bent on me that deep, dark, penetrating and mistrustful eye.

  "You do not come from my wife—from Doña Conchita?"

  I hesitated, then said, "Señor, I was called in by her at the start. I admit it. But I am not—I am not of her party. Please read the letter. I am sure Señorita Esparza puts the whole story much more clearly than I can. She is my real friend in this matter."

 
; I said this, I suppose, proudly, and Don Manuel's look became a fraction less hostile and suspicious.

  He said, "Anybody befriended by Doña Juana has a friend indeed. I have met that young lady once or twice and have a high opinion of her goodness and integrity."

  "Is the letter really from Cousin Juana, Papa?" demanded the little girl he had been carrying. He had put the child down to receive the paper. She was, I judged, three or four years older than Pilar, a round-faced child, not pretty, but with a look of great simplicity and sweetness. The boy, aged about nine, was thin, dark, haunted-looking, with a strong resemblance to his father but lacking his beauty. Both children eyed me warily, mirroring their father's mistrust.

  "So it seems, Luisa. Quiet, now, while I read it." He unfolded the paper and gave it his attention. I noticed that his hands were terribly scarred, as if they had been burned with hot irons. Tales of the fearsome fortress of Montjuich, where he had been imprisoned, came back to me, of how prisoners there had put an end to their lives, rather than endure the cruelties practiced by the jailors. Escapes were almost unknown.

  Yet, having got away from that dread place, Don Manuel had not made his way out of Spain and into freedom and safety; he had gone to see his children.

  "Is the letter truly from Cousin Juana?" repeated Luisa when he had read it.

  "Judge for yourself, querida. She has drawn you an owl."

  "Oh yes, yes, that is one of Juana's owls!" exclaimed the boy, looking over his sister's shoulder. "And she has put in a verse of that song we used to sing with her:

  Zankhoua mehe eta

  Buria pelatu;

  Hori duzu senale

  Zirela Zahartu.

  Zahartu izan eta

  Ezorano conzatu

  Oficiotto hori

  Beharduzu kitatu.

  And a line of our secret language."

  "What does it say?" inquired Don Manuel.

  "It says, 'You can trust this friend, he is a good man.'"

  "I am happy to hear it." Don Manuel did not look at all happy, however. He continued to regard me with fixed gravity. "So," he demanded, "what is your proposal, Señor Brooke? Why are you here?"