(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale

by Joan Aiken

  That changed Pilars views at once, and I began to see that the control of this wayward little creature was an art that had to be learned.

  As I worked on, Pilar, just a little cheered by the prospect of descending the cliff, said "Uncle Dor-Dor?"

  "Well?"

  "Why did you bring Mama the paste for painting the book's pages? If it was going to make Luisa mad?"

  "Indeed you are quite mistaken, child," he said hastily. "I did no such thing!"

  "But you brought her a little pot."

  "It held ointment for her lips. Salve. Nothing at all to do with that accursed book. And perhaps it was not the book at all that killed Luisa. Maybe it was a sickness caused by hunger and cold."

  Pilar looked wholly unconvinced, but he took himself off to the far end of the room and stood there with a look of great uneasiness, alternately balancing on toes and heels, until I had finished my work on the net. Then I proposed that he come with me and observe the workings of the ratchet, to which he agreed with a show of alacrity. The storm had passed over by now, and the world outside was wet and sparkling.

  "I trust you do not think that I had any connection with that hideous trick of the book," he said virtuously as soon as we were out of doors. "Indeed I had not the least knowledge of it in the world. I did not know the brat was carrying it, even. For sure, that was why Conchita sent me to hunt for the tunnel in the wrong place—just to give that little demon a chance to make her way up the cliff—"

  "I have had no thoughts about the matter, señor," I replied politely.

  Don Amador was a weak, variable man, I thought. Harmless enough, perhaps, if left to himself, but, subject to another influence such as that of Conchita, he would be, I believed, capable of crime. His manner of speech suggested this variability. Sometimes it seemed quite sincere, as when he talked about the children last night; but at other times what he said had an airy falsity that would not deceive even an half-wit. Now he looked at me sidelong, as if wondering whether I believed him.

  "She was after his money, of course," he went on.

  "But I thought that Doña Conchita's family were so rich."

  "Indeed they were, the old Escaroz. But they have paid out thousands and thousands of reales, assisting the cause of the Carlists."

  The Carlists, I knew, were the political party most savagely opposed to Liberals such as Don Manuel and my grandfather. The Liberals wished Spain to be governed by a written constitution, for all men to be taxed equally, for all to have a vote and equal rights. King Ferdinand had promised these reforms but, once he was supported by armies from overseas, forswore all his promises and restored the old tyrannical ways. But there was yet a third party, who thought the king was not severe enough; and at their head was the king's brother, Don Carlos, a most bigoted zealot, who wished to carry oppression even further, and for no changes of any kind to be made in the laws, ever. (He also wanted the throne for himself; King Ferdinand's children were both girls, and Don Carlos claimed that, by the Salic law, they were not eligible to inherit the throne.)

  A large number of the Carlists lived in the Basque territories or in Catalonia; it did not at all surprise me to hear that Conchita's parents were of this faction. In old times the Basques had been exempt from a great many taxes; they had what were known as fueros, statute laws freeing them from military service and from other ordinances laid down by the central government in Madrid. The Basques claimed they had the rights of an ancient, independent kingdom, and should be treated differently from folk living in other Spanish provinces.

  Whether they are right or wrong I cannot pretend to say. But old customs, I believe, should not be lightly cast off.

  "Don Manuel, you see, had not come to trial at the time he escaped from jail," Don Amador was going on. "So his estates were not yet forfeit, as those of a condemned felon would be."

  "I see ... so Conchita would have inherited if he had died."

  "And now Nico will—if the poor boy survives, which seems unlikely," Don Amador said carelessly.

  I felt a fierce resolve that Nico should survive, if I could help it, but said merely, "Don Manuel has not died, however, so this is idle talk. Now, here is how the ratchet works—"

  "We must go down there?" Don Amador gazed at the fearsome drop with starting eyes. His fat cheeks paled visibly.

  "That was the way we came up, señor."

  "Ay, Madre de Dios!"

  Just at that moment I heard two shots from below. My heart lightened, wonderfully. Holding on to the crane arm and peering over, I called, "Pedro, is that you?

  "Felix!" his shout came back. "Ay!—am I glad to hear your voice! How goes it, up there?"

  "You shall hear, by and by. But now we have to come down—and one of the children is sick. Wait there, at the bottom, and we will be with you soon."

  "Come with me," I told Don Amador, "and help me carry Nico."

  I did not want him meddling with the crane mechanism while I was out of the way. So he accompanied me, not very willingly, back to the keep, and we placed Nico in my net, as in a hammock. He was still only half conscious, murmuring the word "thirsty" from time to time.

  We carried him back to the cliff top—he was a light weight, poor child—little Pilar bounding alongside. She had picked up from somewhere her mothers great plumy black fan, which she importantly flourished about. It struck me that both she and Don Amador were recovering quite speedily from Doña Conchita's death. Which told a good deal about the lady.

  I fastened Nico completely into the net, joining the edges together and knotting them. Then I fastened the net to the crane rope.

  "Now," I said to Juana, who had come with us, "can you go down with him, sitting in the loop, so as to fend him off and prevent his striking himself against the rock?"

  "Yes, of course," she said, gulping, and I pressed her hand briefly as I helped her into the loop. The descent was far worse than being pulled up, for the moment of stepping off the cliff top and looking down into the giddy void was so dreadful; but she concealed her fear as well as she could, gave little Pilar a wry smile, and, as we wound her down, kept her attention on the boy. They vanished from view past the overhang, we felt the rope vibrate, then, after what seemed a sickeningly long stretch of time, we heard Pedro's cheerful shout.

  "Muy bien! I have them!"—and the rope, coming free, suddenly lightened as we wound it up.

  "Now you," I said to little Pilar.

  Her lip thrust out angrily.

  "But I want to climb down!"

  "That would take too long. We want to get your brother to a doctor. Also," I whispered in her ear, "you have to show your Uncle Dor-Dor that there is nothing to be afraid of."

  Her expression cleared.

  "Of course I will show him!" And she skipped over to the crane, still clutching the plumy fan.

  Despite her vehement protests, I tied her in, making a kind of harness.

  "Now, don't forget to keep pushing yourself away from the rock with your hands. Otherwise you might get scraped."

  "Of course! I'm not stupid," she said crossly; and down she went, briskly as a fisherman's bait into the water.

  By the time it came to Don Amador's turn, I could see that he was in a jelly of terror.

  "B-but will the rope b-bear me?" he demanded, his teeth chattering. "For I am a man of ample frame—you may have observed—" Now, for the first time he seemed to regret all those good dinners he had been eating all his life.

  "Indeed, señor, it is a strong, brand-new rope which I just purchased myself in Pamplona," I said soothingly, not mentioning that the crane arm which supported it was an old, weathered piece of timber upheld by some crumbling masonry.

  At last he suffered himself to be lowered, but only after countless hesitations and fidgetings, and uttering many shrill cries of fright and discomfort; and he clung on so tightly with both hands to the rope that, in spite of my warning, he was thumped against the cliff face in what must have been a most bruising manner. Well, his fat fram
e can stand a few bruises, I thought; at least he is well padded.

  He had not thought to inquire how I was going to get down, with no one to wind the wheel; and indeed I had purposely not discussed the matter for fear that Juana might raise difficulties. Now, taking the remnant of de Larra's rope, I made a loop at either end, one small, one large, passed the large one over my shoulder, and hooked the small one over the last of the climbing irons that I had fastened into the rock when Pilar and I made our ascent of the cliff.

  Going up had not been bad; going down was liable to be far, far harder.

  So I found it, indeed. Some stretches of the climb I was able to remember; and that helped greatly, for then I knew in which direction to move. But the face of the cliff seemed very different now that I was climbing down, not up; while descending, I could not look down and see what lay below my feet, whereas on the ascent it had been easy to look upward and scan the area above me.

  Once, the iron, which had not been jammed in firmly enough, dropped out of the rock, and I slid my own height down die cliff (luckily not quite sheer at that point) and landed on a narrow rock ledge; it was too narrow to support me but, by half falling, half lurching to my left, I managed to reach a wider section of it. The rope around my shoulders helped to give me confidence, but sometimes it was hard to shake it loose from the iron above—once I nearly shook myself loose in the process; then I would loop it over another iron, farther down, and so scramble on my way.

  Luckily, at the moment when I fell, I was hidden from those below by the overhang, but a scatter of dust and pebbles cascaded past me and I had to shout, "Beware, down there!" and I heard anxious cries from the foot of the cliff.

  When I finally came within view of them the climb was not too difficult, and there were more handholds; now I had reached the point that little Pilar had climbed to when I first saw her.

  She is a courageous little ant, I thought, if terribly undisciplined; perhaps Juana will be able to make something good of her; heaven send that the poor child never comes to realize the full extent of the harm that was done when she carried that book into the castillo....

  At last, with bleeding hands and (I must confess) with weak and shaky knees, I reached the foot of the cliff, and little Pilar ran at once to upbraid me furiously.

  "Why did you not let me climb down too? If you were going to? Instead of making me go down like a baby on the rope?"

  "Oh, come, Pilar," said Juana—she seemed to be trembling too—"the rest of us went down on the rope, Don Amador too. It was not babyish—"

  "How does Nico seem?" I asked quickly. "Did the descent do him any harm?"

  "I do not think that he is any worse," Juana said doubtfully. "But the sooner we can get him into care, the better—I only wish Sister Belen were here—"

  Plainly, while Don Amador and I had been descending the cliff, Juana had given Pedro a fairly full account of what had been happening. His eyes met mine expressively; and he came over and gave me a hug that was half a shake. "If only I could have been up there to help you—" he muttered.

  "There is plenty of help yet needed, Pedro."

  So he and I picked up Nico, still fastened in his net, and carried him along the narrow brambly path to the rope bridge. Pilar darted ahead, dragging Juana by the hand; Don Amador followed, limping and complaining in the rear.

  Across the gorge, two horses could be seen, tethered by the door of the foresters' hut. And as we came closer I observed, without joy, the two outriders Pepe and Esteban come out of the hut and look us over.

  They seemed well disposed enough, however. Don Amador shouted to them that we were coming over with the children, and they made gestures, indicating that they would stand by to give help, if needed.

  "I can go by myself!" clamored little Pilar.

  "Very well—only take care," said Juana.

  Pilar cast her a lofty look, stuck the black fan into her waistband, then went across, hand over hand, as nimbly as a monkey.

  "She belongs in a circus, that one," muttered Pedro.

  Don Amador went next, puffing, groaning, swaying, and making a great to-do. He was a comical sight, I suppose, but none of us felt like laughing. Too many sad and dreadful events had taken place. Pepe and Esteban, on the far bank, however, did seem to have some difficulty in concealing their amusement; I saw Pepe turn away with his shoulders shaking, and Esteban gave him a great cuff on the ear.

  After some discussion it had been decided that Juana and I, as the lightest of the group, should cross together with Nico slung between us. I was mortally anxious about this, for the ropes from which the bridge was constructed, unlike mine from Pamplona, were old and decidedly worn. Would the weight of three together be too much? However, there was really no other way in which the crossing with Nico could be achieved; he was too heavy for one person to carry on that flimsy, swaying spiderweb of cords.

  "And if the bridge bears Don Amador, it should surely support you and me and this poor child," whispered Juana. "I do not believe that the three of us together weigh as much as he does—the fat pig!"

  Pedro helped us by lifting up Nico, in his net, and supporting his weight until we were ready for him, balanced on either side of the ropes, facing one another. I had left loops of rope at each end of the hammock, which were slung around our necks, leaving our hands free to grip the bridge. The strain on our necks was punishing; it seemed amazing that Nico, a small, slight boy, could be such a dead weight. My neck began to feel as if it would never be able to hold my head up straight again—and if mine felt so, what must Juana, small-boned and slender, be enduring? She had turned very white, her lips were pressed tight together, there were deep lines on her face from mouth to nostril.

  As we moved sideways, with extreme difficulty, I asked her, to keep her mind off the horrible and frightening sway of the bridge, "Do you think that the old Escaroz will raise any objections to your taking charge of Conchitas children?"

  "I suppose," she answered after a moment, raising her eyes from the torrent rushing among its boulders a long distance below our feet. "I suppose they well may. If there is money involved. If Don Manuel were to die—then the grandparents would certainly lay claim to his estate on behalf of their grandchildren. But, so long as he lives, they may not—"

  "Oh, I hope so much that he escapes," I said fervently. "He is such a fine man. One of the best in Spain, I am sure."

  "What do you know about it?" she said crossly. "How many of the best men in Spain have you met?" and I grinned a little, inwardly, at my success in distracting her, if only for a moment, from the strain and terror of our position. What I feared most of all was that Nico should move, or twitch, and unbalance us, for then we would all plunge into the gorge together.

  "Felix," Juana went on. "I want to say to you that I am sorry—very, very sorry—that you have been dragged into this bad business. If I had not told Conchita about you, she would never have known, never have had you summoned. It is all my fault—"

  Impetuously, I interrupted her.

  "Listen, Juana. Whatever happens—even if there is more trouble, more danger—I could never regret it. Because, for the last five years, my deepest wish has been to see you again—"

  She suddenly looked up, and I met the full glance of her coppery eyes. I went on, "And, now that I have seen you, my only wish is to help you in any way that I can. If you would—"

  She was beginning to say something in turn, but voices from the edge of the bridge broke in. Pepe and Esteban were standing there with arms extended, ready to relieve us of the weight of Nico. We had not realized that we were so far across.

  "Ay, de mi," sighed Juana in a moment, edging herself gingerly off the rope and onto firm ground, then vigorously rubbing her neck. "I do not think I shall ever be able to stand up straight again—" and she knelt down at once by Nico, to see how he did. "Have you any water?" she asked the men, and one of them went into the hut.

  Having satisfied myself that Pedro, also, was now on his way across th
e bridge, and that it was not too hard for him, I, too, kneeled down by Nico and began to unknot the net that had kept him safe but that must, if he was conscious of it, feel very constricting for the poor boy.

  Behind me I heard Don Amador give some low-voiced order to one of the men. The other was offering a flask to Juana, who opened it, sniffed it warily, and tasted a little of the contents on her finger before venturing to administer it to the boy.

  Pedro by this time was past the middle of the bridge, moving slowly and with care.

  "Now!" I heard Don Amador mutter, and turned around just in time to see Pepe discharge his musket at Pedro, only about fifteen cubits distant now. Pedro spun around and dropped into the gorge like a shot partridge.

  At the same moment a stunning blow on the back of my head reduced me to unconsciousness.

  11. In the tartana; little Pilar makes herself useful; arrival at Berdun; a use for the rubbish chute; we find a doctor; we return to Bilbao, where I receive bad news from home

  My wits returned to me by slow degrees. Violent physical discomfort was the first token that I was still alive.

  Now I know how Nico must have felt, I thought—like a sardine in a net. Ropes were tightly crisscrossed all over my body. My hands were fastened behind me, my ankles were tied, and I seemed to be lying in a lumpy, knotted sling, with various heavyweights piled on top of me. Perhaps I am dreaming? Am I really still crossing the rope bridge? Or creeping down the cliff face, entangled somehow in my own climbing rope? Cords, cables, rope, I was lying in a mesh, like a fly in a web, and something rough and thick was pressed against my face. For a while I wondered if I could be in a boat, for I and everything around me seemed to be swaying about in a horrible manner. It was like a nightmare....

  The dark made it all much worse.

  Then I began to receive the impression that there were other live bodies pressed against mine—shifting, struggling, the other sardines in the net—and, I suppose, I must have let out a stifled groan. A creature—softie small, active body—rubbed close against me, writhing upward toward my face, and after a while I felt a warm tickling breath against my ear, and heard a tiny voice, which whispered, "Señor Felix? Are you alive?"