(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale

by Joan Aiken

  "Oh, that is just like you," exploded Juana, "to decide that you should be the one to call a stop—"

  All the while we were wrangling, some humble, scullion portion of my mind had been appealing to me, fidgeting, trying urgently to attract my attention. There had been a sound in the night that was alien, different from the other sounds of forest and river—now hushed to a murmur; what was it that I had heard? A creak and then another creak, and then a thud; and now, suddenly, a branch snapped.

  I sprang up, calling out sharply, "Quien es?" and took several paces into the darkness, cocking my pistol.

  "Don't shoot, don't shoot, my friend, it is only I," said a quiet voice, which I recognized as that of Jose de Larra. And he stepped forward into the faint glow from the fire.

  "Don Jose—pardon me! I—I did not expect you—" Horribly embarrassed at having been caught in the midst of a childish wrangle, I awkwardly and stumblingly introduced him to Juana, who acknowledged the introduction with haughty composure.

  He explained his arrival.

  "I have been much delayed. The monks at Siresa would not help me—ill-natured bigots!—they said that Manuel was a heretic and that I myself would be in danger of hellfire if I tried to prevent his recapture. They would not give me so much as a candle."

  "You seem to have managed to persuade them somehow," I suggested, for he carried a large leather sack over his shoulder, which seemed well filled.

  "Oh, this? No, that was sheer good fortune. I had started back in the direction of San Quilez when I met a train of esquiladores traveling across the mountains from Anso to Jaca and Zaragoza."

  I nodded. The esquiladores are a tribe of gypsy craftsmen who travel about the country, migrating south at this time of year; their trade is to shear horses, sheep, and cattle; in their leather pouches they carry shears, clippers, and scissors of every shape and for every possible purpose. They seem to make a good living from their labors and are in general handsomely dressed and well supplied.

  This band, de Larra told us, had been able to furnish him with all he asked: provisions, clothes for Don Manuel, and a piece of rope. The latter, I told him, was no longer necessary; and I gave him the story of my own entry into the castillo. He listened intently, scowling at my account of Don Amador and his part in the business.

  "I do not know whether to put that one down as more knave or fool; without doubt he is the besotted slave of Conchita Escaroz. It is a frightful inconvenience that she is encamped just across the river; because of her and those hired assassins lounging about all day taking shots at all that moved, I have been obliged to wait until now to get back across the bridge. One or the other of them was always by it. Why in the world did you allow her to come so close?"

  "How could I stop her coming?" I objected, but he went on without listening.

  "A couple of the esquiladores have promised help; they are brave fellows, free-living as eagles, who care nothing for priests or friars or the Madrid government. If I can persuade Manuel to leave the castillo by the underground passage, they will meet him in the Sobordan valley and escort him by a secret way into France. I found a mule." Don Jose began to laugh. "The gypsies are taking care of it now. Manuel may as well have the use of it."

  "Don Amador's missing mount." I laughed too.

  "But the question is, will Manuel—can he be persuaded to leave his children behind?"

  Involuntarily my eyes turned to Juana, who still sat motionless, looking down at her plaited fingers. "I am on my way there now to talk to him," de Larra said. "I must not delay any longer. What do you think he will say?"

  "I'll walk with you as far as the bottom of the cliff," I said.

  Juana looked up and said slowly, "Señor de Larra: Will you please tell Don Manuel that I am thinking deeply about his request. It is not one to be answered in haste. He has asked me to take care of his children. But that would mean that I must give up my life as a holy sister."

  "Not an easy decision," de Larra said. But he spoke rather drily; he sounded as if he thought she was making a selfish commotion over a trifle. Suddenly I felt a great sympathy for Juana. After all, I thought, nobody is requiring Don Jose to give up his life as a political writer to look after three young children.

  "You see," said Juana, addressing de Larra still, "Doña Conchita is their mother, after all. How can we have the right to decide their future or take them from her? How, indeed, could it possibly be arranged? Why would she ever agree?"

  "My dear," said de Larra more kindly, "Doña Conchita has not spent one week under the same roof as those children in the last three years. They have been handed about here and there—to Don Manuel's parents when they were alive, to her. own parents in Bilbao. It is my personal opinion that Conchita has about as much mother love in her as this rock—" He thumped the side of the cave.

  "But," said Juana, troubled, "the children love her. Or they did. When they were staying at my house they seemed to think her perfect. I"—her voice shook a little—"I lost my own mother when I was twelve—I would not wish to inflict that sorrow on a child."

  "Your feelings do you credit, Doña Juana. But three years have passed since you saw the children; they may feel differently now. And your own mother, I daresay, was not such a one as Doña Conchita." De Larra spoke patiently. But under his words I could sense an urgency to have the matter decided, which he could only just keep in check.

  "Well," said Juana with a sigh, "tell Don Manuel that I will bring him my decision by dawn. I promise to delay no longer than that."

  "Good, señora. I will tell him." De Larra bowed and kissed her hands, which surprised me—I had thought he was rather annoyed with her for not deciding on the spot.

  Walking to the castle cliff I told de Larra about the troop of militia that were coming to bombard the castle.

  "That is what I expected," he said gloomily. "They can sit across on the other side of the river and knock holes in the only habitable portion. And anybody going up or down the rope will be directly in their range."

  I remembered the tunnel, and told him that Don Manuel had said it was mined. "It is as well that you did not enter by it, señor."

  "I don't remember where it comes out, or I would have. I daresay it is safe enough unless Manuel lights the fuse. The entrance is nowhere near here, though; I know that it is on the other side of the ridge. The passage runs northward into the Sobordan valley."

  That, I thought, accounts for the fact that Don Amador was unable to find it. A lucky circumstance.

  My rope was still in position when we reached the foot of the castle crag.

  De Larra pulled out his pistol and fired two shots.

  After a longish lapse of time a hoarse voice above called, "Quien es?"

  "It is Mariano," called de Larra, and added, "Vuelva usted manana," which appeared to be a kind of password, for Don Manuel called "Bienvenido," and I heard the ratchet begin to turn. Presently de Larra was hauled up the rock face and I turned to walk thoughtfully back to the cave.

  9. Juana's decision; return to the castillo; terrible news; Don Manuel and his wife; Conchita's downfall; departure of Manuel and Figaro

  Returning to the cave, I found Pedro still sleeping and Juana still wide awake.

  The stars had come out now, and blazed with great brilliancy above our heads, between the shoulders of the mountains. I could see her eyes shine, in their light.

  "I have been thinking, Felix," she began.

  "And I have too. After all, Nico is nine—in ten years he will be a man, and able to look after his sisters. You could return to the convent then. It is not as if you are being asked to sacrifice your whole life—"

  "Oh, Felix!" she burst out in a tone of utter exasperation. "How old are you—nineteen? Eighteen? Do you consider yourself a man? Capable of looking after three children? Sometimes you seem to me more childish than when we were last together."

  Hurt and baffled, I was silent for a moment, swallowing the rebuff. I had only intended to help, after all.
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  "What were you going to say?" I asked then.

  "I was wondering if the children could go to school in Bayonne—then I could see them regularly, they could visit me in my convent—"

  That sounded a bleak outlook for the poor things, I thought.

  "Why remove them from their own country? They could go to school in Bilbao, for that matter, and you remain in the convent there."

  "Perhaps," she said slowly. "I suppose so," but she did not sound overjoyed at the suggestion.

  How I longed to be able to say, "Let the children come to Villaverde. There they can run wild and ride my grandfathers horses, and Prudencia will dote on them and feed them fritters and chocolate, as her mother Bernadina used to with me—"

  But how could I make such an offer? What shadow of right had I to do so? I had no connection with these children.

  Cautiously, expecting another rebuff, I inquired. "What does God tell you to do?"

  In a harassed voice, as if she had run out of patience, both with God and myself, she replied, "If I knew that, don't you think I would have set about doing it?"

  Another long silence fell, at the end of which Juana gave a deep sigh, stretched, and stood up.

  "Well," she said. "I shall have to give Don Manuel the promise he wants."

  "Oh, Juana!" I jumped up, and grabbed her hands. "I am very sure that you are right to do so. I am sure you will not regret it! And I—I promise that I will do my utmost to help and not hinder you."

  "Will you climb up into the Castillo and tell him?"

  "Yes, but first I must tell Doña Conchita. I promised that I would let her know in the morning—"

  "Why must you do that? I don't see the necessity," said Juana crossly. And I thought to myself, Making this sacrifice doesn't mean that you have become perfect all in a moment, my dearest Juana. In fact, now is the time when we must look out for tempests; and I grinned to myself, thinking of little Pilar and her tantrums.

  "Well, I have to keep my promise," I said temperately, and made my way over the rope bridge.

  What was my astonishment, coming to the hut, to find it empty, nobody inside, the fire out, and the mules gone from the shelter at the rear.

  Rather perturbed, I returned to Juana and told her this.

  "Which way did they go? Could you see tracks?"

  "No, it was too dark."

  "They must have gone very quietly," she said. "I don't like it."

  "Nor do I. I think we should go to Don Manuel without delay."

  Accordingly, without further discussion, we hurried along toward the castle cliff, leaving Pedro still asleep. Having arrived at the cliff foot, I fired off my pistol twice. Then we waited for a long time. At last Juana said in a low voice, "What shall we do if no one answers?"

  I had been wondering the same thing myself. But at that moment a voice called from above. It was that of Jose de Larra.

  "Quien es?"

  "It is I—Felix—and Doña Juana. She has come to give her promise to Don Manuel."

  "Ay, Dios! She may well have come too late."

  "Too late? What can you mean?"

  "I suppose you had better come up," he called, though not at all in a welcoming manner. There was something very strange about his voice.

  "You had better go first," I said to Juana, hearing him wind the ratchet. "Seat yourself in the loop of rope—and hold tight. Shut your eyes—like when you crossed the bridge. Use your hands to push yourself away from the rock face."

  Even by starlight I could see that she was as white as paper. She looked sick with dread.

  "I—I don't think—"

  "My friend—you have got to." I tried to sound much more forceful than I felt. What if she won't? I thought. "Don Manuel will never believe my word alone. And think of the children up there—"

  Well I knew her terror of heights. I remembered her anguish on the cliff above Bidassoa.

  "You can do it—I promise you," I said.

  She managed a faint smile. "You are too free with your promises, my friend." Then she went aloft.

  It was too dark to follow her progress. But at last I heard de Larra call, " Muy bien," and the rope came down again.

  Me he pulled up bruisingly fast; in the course of the ascent I lost enough skin to cover an ostrich's egg, despite the fact that I kept fending myself away from the cliff face with my feet and hands. My speed, I discovered on arriving at the top, was because Juana had been helping to wind the ratchet. She and de Larra were both panting by the time I reached the crane arm and swung myself onto the flat platform below it.

  At the sight of de Larra's face—it was lighter up here—I said, "What is it? What has happened?"

  Without reply, he swung away and began walking rapidly up the steps toward the keep. Juana and I followed in silence and fear.

  Once he turned and said to Juana, "Are you skilled at nursing? Did they teach you that, in your convent?"

  "I—I know a little," she stammered. "Why—"

  But already he was hurrying on again, up the slopes and through the roofless chambers, under arches, past ruined walls, without pausing to see if we were managing to keep pace with him.

  In an undertone I asked Juana, "You don't know what it is—? He didn't say?"

  She shook her head, stumbling over a lump of masonry concealed among rough shrubs, and I caught her hand to help her. It felt warm and strong.

  Then, in the distance, we heard a quiet, regular sound: clink, and then a thud; another clink, then another thud. A familiar sound, but unexpected here.

  "Somebody digging?" whispered Juana, puzzled.

  We reached the wooden door to the keep. De Larra let us in through it, waited, and closed it behind us. At the foot of the stairs, where we stood in pitch darkness, he suddenly seized my arm.

  "Were you in on the secret, about that book?" he hissed in my ear. "Did you know about it? For if you did—as God is my witness—I will stick this knife through your gullet."

  I could feel the blade press against my windpipe, cold and deadly sharp. It made me cough.

  "Book?" I spluttered. "What book, señor? I have no idea what you are talking about."

  "The book that child brought, from her mother."

  Then I remembered the tiny volume, the handbook on birds, that Pilar had in her petticoat pocket, that Don Manuel furiously flung out the window. A cold dread ran up my spine to the pit of my throat.

  "Of all the cold, calculated acts of villainy—" de Larra was saying. "Medea herself could not have equaled it. You swear that you knew nothing?"

  "As God is my judge, señor!"

  "Is that the truth?" I could feel his ferocious mind, searching mine in the dark.

  Juana said strongly, "El Señor Brooke is an honorable man, Don Jose. You do wrong to doubt him."

  At that, de Larra gave a great sigh, and the knife blade dropped away from my neck.

  "Very well—very well—forgive me. But we have been nearly mad with helplessness and horror."

  "Why, why?" demanded Juana. "What has happened?"

  Still without answering, he led the way up into the room where I had been before. The fire had gone out, but up here the large, unglazed windows gave light enough to see. We caught a faint sound of sobbing and whimpering, then perceived little Pilar, crouched by the body of another child that lay full length on the floor. Approaching more closely, I discovered this to be the boy, Nico, apparently ill or fainted; he moved and groaned a little, twisting about, and Pilar wailed, "Nico, Nico! Please don't go, like Luisa! Don't!"

  "Where is the other girl?" I asked with dread.

  "Dead," replied de Larra. Pilar sobbed again.

  "Dead? But how?"

  Juana had dropped to her knees beside the boy and was anxiously, carefully feeling his brow and his hands.

  "It was that cursed book their mother sent. That hag! That vulture! Vitriol runs in her veins, not blood—that she could plan and carry out such an act!"

  "The book? I don't understand."


  Then I began to recall how the pages of the little volume were all gummed together and Luisa had eagerly tugged them apart, licking her finger to moisten them.

  "You mean the sticky pages—"

  "Poisoned," he said. "Manuel guessed immediately that there was some wicked trick, and threw it away. But already both the elder children—"

  "Yes, now I remember. And—and the girl—she is dead? Already?"

  "First she went mad," said Don Jose curtly. "She ran, she laughed, she danced, she screamed that angels were dancing with her. Then she said that she was a bird and could fly—before her father could stop her she leaped from that window there—"

  Juana, kneeling by the boy, had one hand pressed over her mouth in horror. The other arm was clasped, around the sobbing Pilar.

  "Her father is out there now, digging her a grave," said de Larra.

  "And Nico—he also—"

  "He had not handled the book as much as his sister, Manuel says. But, you see—"

  "Have you given him anything?" said Juana quickly. "He should have white of egg beaten in milk, or a mustard emetic—"

  De Larra laughed shortly. "You think we have those things up here? We gave him water—as much as he could drink—"

  "But I don't understand," I said slowly. "Even Conchita—even she—can't have meant her children to die?"

  "No, of course not. Don't you see," impatiently interrupted Juana, "it was her husband the book was meant for. It was Don Manuel. And she didn't mean him to die; she meant to send him mad. So that she could claim his estate."

  I remembered Don Ignacio saying, "He must be mad, and die in his madness."

  "But what a fool!" Juana was going on furiously. "I always thought Conchita stupid, but not as stupid as that! A plan that might so easily miscarry—"

  At that moment we heard steps on the stair.

  "Manuel," said de Larra in a quick warning voice. "Do not question him—he has been distressed beyond bearing—"

  Don Manuel came in. He did indeed look beaten and ravaged, ten years older than when I had seen him last. At the sight of us he checked.