by Joan Aiken
‘What was the name of the lady who died?’ asked Juan.
‘I cannot call it to mind just at the moment. It began with an L, I believe – Louise, Loraine, something like that. It is all long ago. And indeed I knew nothing against Father Vespasian save that he was a strict disciplinarian. He has certainly achieved some wonderful cures. But my brother, I know, never felt any liking for him, and my brother is a man whose judgment I trust above all other. However, what has this to do with your preferring to sleep in my barn, rather than in a Christian bed with sheets?’
‘Only that there may be inquiries after us, madame, and it may be best if you deny that you ever saw us; which you can scarcely do if it becomes known that we slept in your house.’
She did not seem convinced by this argument, but said that we were headstrong children and she supposed we would do as we liked. She had sons herself, she said, but they were off in the world; one aboard a whaler, and one who had gone to make his fortune, as many did, in the western Americas. She could see that we were good children from our faces – here Juan blushed – any young ones that her brother befriended were certain to have hearts of gold. So she called back the old woman, Marietta, from the kitchen, and explained, first, that neither of them had ever seen us – at which Marietta looked wonderfully blank – and second, that we both seemed half starved and must be lavishly fed. At which point I intervened and said that my friend had recently hurt his throat and could not chew very well, but was obliged to live on slops. Madame Mauleon peered shortsightedly at Juan’s neck, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, mon Dieu, quel horreur! What in the world has been done to you? That must be bathed and poulticed at once! Marietta, fetch hot water and towels; then make some soup and a piperade and anything else that you can think of that this poor boy can eat. How in the name of mercy did it happen?’
Upon which Juan, to my utter astonishment, glibly croaked forth a long and circumstantial tale of how his grandfather owned a mill – he described it in some detail, two huge wooden mallets on a timber frame, clashing alternately in a trough and operated by a waterwheel – how he, though ordered not to, had gone too close, become caught in the machinery and been dragged by a rope round his neck, which nearly killed him, only the good monks of St Just had managed to restore him to life.
Madame Mauleon, bathing and putting hot compresses on his neck meanwhile, listened and shook her head and said that boys were wilful creatures, always running into trouble, but that she, for her part, did not hold with all this modern machinery; two oxen grinding the corn had been good enough for our fathers and would still be good enough if people were not always hasting after something new. Then she wrapped a collar of white linen around Juan’s throat and bade him not take it off for at least two days.
Juan then began to say something about my sore back, but I hushed him with a scowl; I did not want the old ladies to see my injuries, which were, besides, in a fair way to being healed, thanks to Juan’s ministrations.
Now Marietta brought in an enormous meal: the piperade, which was eggs scrambled with tomatoes and green peppers; and a soup of onions and tomatoes, tripe stewed with garlic and red peppers, wine, several different cheeses, and sweet maize cakes. We both ate as much as we could; which, in Juan’s case, was not a great deal, for he had eaten so little in the last few weeks that his stomach had shrunk and he was as thin as a broomstick.
We were very weary from our five league walk, and I said that if the ladies would excuse us, we would now retire, and thanked Madame Mauleon very heartily for her hospitality. She told us that anyone recommended by her dear Antoine received the same, and asked after him wistfully: Was he in good health? Which I was able to tell her he was, and hard at work illuminating a very beautiful text of the Psalms.
Then we went out to a couch of straw in the barn, but our hostess insisted on providing us with several sheepskins, of which we were glad enough, for straw makes a prickly mattress: it works its way inside your shirt and up your sleeves, and you wake feeling as if you had been stung by bees. But with two sheepskins apiece we fared very well.
When we were settled, each in a nest of sheepskin, I asked Juan, ‘What in the world made you tell Madame such a rigmarole of lies about the mill? I was never so taken aback in my life.’
‘Well,’ he said, sounding surprised in his turn, ‘I could hardly tell her about the Gente.’
‘Why not?’
‘She would have been frightened. Besides, she is a stranger. I do not tell my whole history to strangers,’ he added haughtily.
With some irony I remarked, ‘I suppose I should feel myself greatly honoured that you told the truth to me! And after all, at the time you told me, I was a stranger, too.’
And still am, in most ways, I thought. This boy is the most singular character I have ever encountered. There is hardly one thing about him that I understand.
Juan said, ‘You had rescued me, after all. You had earned the truth.’
‘And Madame had not, with her bandage and her piperade?’
‘Oh, I told her what I thought she would like to hear.’
And he had done it so expertly that I was quite amazed. How many of the things he told me, I wondered (despite his assurance) were the truth, and how many were inventions? If I had not known that it was false, I myself would have believed his tale about the mill.
‘Where did you see such a mill?’
‘Oh,’ he answered carelessly, ‘somewhere on the way, when the Gente were taking me to their cave in the mountains.’
I had forgotten that they carried Juan off to the mountains first. ‘Where was the cave?’ I asked.
‘How should I know? When we reached the mountains I was blindfolded; they wound bandages over my head, like Plumet pretending to be a leper. And my hands were tied behind. It was five or six hours’ ride. The man Bazin rode behind me with a knife pricking my ribs; he threatened to drive it into my heart if I ever cried out.’
True or false? True, perhaps, I thought.
‘Then why do you think they brought you all the way back to the seashore to hang you?’
‘I have been wondering about that,’ he said. ‘I believe it was so that, if my body was found, blame would not be laid at their door, for they are a mountain band. I suppose it might have been assumed that my half-brother Esteban had done the deed.’
This seemed a reasonable guess. But then I began to wonder about Juan’s half-brother. Could the story about him have been true? Could he really be such a monster as to plan the murder of his young half-brother? The tale about the mill had greatly shaken my faith in Juan’s reliability. Still, such wickedness in families did exist, as I knew; my own great-aunt Isadora had planned my abduction, or death, so that her grandson, my cousin Manuel, might inherit the estate at Villaverde; yes, Esteban might perhaps be the villain that Juan thought him. Uncle Leon in Spain would doubtless have views on the matter. And I thought with what relief I would deliver Juan to his uncle, and rid myself of this perplexing responsibility.
Juan muttered something.
‘What did you say, Juan?’
‘It was in Euskara. I said, gab-boon.’
Euskara is what the Basques call their own language. Gab-boon I knew meant good night.
‘Good night, sir,’ I said in English, and Juan laughed.
‘We will make a bargain,’ he said. ‘You teach me English, I teach you Euskara. And the most successful pupil gives a present to his teacher.’
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘We will commence tomorrow.’
‘I shall certainly have to give you a present,’ he said, ‘for however hard English may be, Euskara is sure to be harder. It is the most difficult language in the world. They say the devil himself failed to learn it.…’
His voice trailed away in sleep. But I lay awake. His idle mention of the devil had brought Father Vespasian’s eyes once more before me; they burned into the darkness like hot coals.
And I wondered where in the mountains the Mala Gente had their hiding p
lace. A spot that was five or six hours’ ride from St Just need not be too far away from where we were now.
Next day Madame Mauleon, in the kindest possible manner, invited us to remain with her for several nights, or as long as we chose. A longer stay, so as to rest Juan, had, at first, been my intention, but various reasons caused me to feel that it would be better for us to continue on our journey. Madame, deploring our wilfulness, then insisted on furnishing us with food, ointment for Juan’s neck, and much useful advice concerning our route. We said a most grateful good-bye, kissing her hand; but she embraced us, and she and old Marietta stood watching us until we had turned the corner out of sight.
There was a street market in Hasparren where we were able to buy various things that we needed, flint and steel, a canvas bag, and new clothes, which we acquired so as to alter our appearance. I had a battle about this at first with Juan; he greatly disliked being obliged to depend on me for money. Indeed, at first he fell into a sulk and flatly refused to allow me to pay for his wardrobe. In the end I felt it necessary to give him a great scold, and tell him that his pride was standing in the way of our safety, that it was both selfish and thoughtless of him to raise such trifling objections.
‘You are behaving like a child!’ I hissed, standing in the dust at the side of the wide road under a plane tree while the marketing crowds thronged and jostled past us. ‘When we find your uncle, if it is so important to you, he can supply you with the money to pay me back. In the meantime it is only common sense that we should alter our appearance from that of the two boys who left the Abbey, so that if any descriptions of us are issued, people will not be able to recognise us. For all we know, Father Vespasian’s death may be laid at our door, we may be accused of murder.’
At that Juan turned pale, staring at me with that strange copper spark in his dark eyes. Two tears for a moment glimmered on his lashes. At last he swallowed, visibly took a grip on his pride, and said, ‘Very well. I suppose there is reason in what you say,’ and allowed me to pay for his things.
For myself I bought a wide-brimmed black hat, to hide my conspicuous yellow hair, a zamorra, or black sheepskin vest, tight-fitting leather breeches, and a canvas shirt; for Juan we purchased a dark-blue beretta, a woollen knitted vest of dark brown with a fret of crimson, a wool jacket, sheepskin breeches, and gaiters; and we each had a pair of rope-soled shoes. I was sorry to part from my good English buckled shoes, but no other in these parts wore such footgear, and they made me too noticeable. I had wanted to buy Juan a blue knitted vest with an embroidered border, and a crimson faja, or sash, such as many boys seemed to wear in this region; but he protested that would make him look like a girl, it was too gaudy, and he himself selected less brightly-coloured garments – in which I was bound to admit he showed prudence and discretion.
While we were choosing alpargatas he gave a sudden start, looking sharply across the wide street.
‘What is it, Juan?’
‘I thought I saw – but I may have been mistaken.’
‘Whom did you see?’
‘It looked like the one they called Jorobado – the hunchback; he went behind that group of farm wives.’
By the time the women, with their trays of eggs, chickens, and cabbages, had moved on, the man was not to be seen, and Juan was not certain that it was the same man – after all, there are many hunchbacks – or, even if it had been a member of the band, that he had set eyes on Juan or recognised him. But still it seemed unwise to linger in Hasparren. Madame Mauleon had told us that in the town of St Jean Pied de Port, south and eastward of us by some five leagues, there would be a horse fair all this week, at which we should be able to purchase ponies or mules to take us through the mountains. So we set off at a round pace.
In the first oak wood we changed into our new garments, Juan retiring behind a massive tree for the purpose. In ten minutes he reappeared, his expression rather shy, as if he expected me to laugh at him. But I clapped him on the shoulder and told him that he looked a fine caballero, no one would recognise him as the waif that Father Antoine and I had fetched out of the thicket.
We rolled our discarded garments into a bundle, and I was about to thrust them into a bramble thicket when Juan said, ‘No, wait. I have a better plan; for someone might find them there, and that would be a clue to start them on our trail.’ And he drew out Father Vespasian’s brass spyglass, unscrewed the lens-piece, and, using it as a burning glass, focused the rays of the sun on my striped jacket and soon had it, first smouldering, then aflame. He piled the other things on top, and in a short time they all, including the shoes, had burned down to a heap of ash, which we quenched with water from a brook and trod down, to make it appear old and much rained-on.
‘That was very well thought of, Juan,’ I said, as we recommenced our journey.
I suppose I must inadvertently have employed a somewhat patronizing tone – or he chose to think so at all events – for he answered angrily, ‘You think that nobody but you ever uses their wits. Felix the great! As for me, it is perfectly plain that you consider me nothing but a thieving, lying, storytelling baby!’
I was somewhat confounded. I had, I must confess, been in much anxiety, both in the house of Madame Mauleon and in the Hasparren market, lest Juan be tempted to exercise his newly acquired skill in pocket picking. Naturally I could not stomach the idea that our kind hostess might be so used. While we were in the house I had narrowly watched Juan to make sure he did not purloin any of her treasures. And the thought had made me anxious that if he were caught stealing articles from the market stalls, we would both have been flung into jail. Knowing Juan’s prickly nature, I had not liked to issue any warnings, but I now realised that he had correctly read my fears, even though they had not been spoken aloud. His thin pale face was full of resentment.
I replied to him, however, peaceably enough, that if I had misjudged him I begged his pardon, and also that I had no intention to condescend to him.
‘Indeed I think you are a very clever boy; I am sure you know many things that I do not. Come! Do not let us begin the day by dispute! Help me now to study the map and find the path to St Jean that Madame recommended.’
By degrees he allowed himself to be placated, and after we had discovered our path, he kept his promise of attempting to teach me the Basque language. But I could soon see that he was right, and that he would be speaking fluent English long before I had mastered more than the rudiments of Euskara.
‘Aski dakik bizitzen badakik,’ he would say, and I would carefully repeat what I thought he had said, and he would almost fall down on the grass laughing at my accent, which, he said, sounded more like a duck quacking than an Eskualdunak.
‘No doubt! But what does the sentence mean?’
‘To know how to live is to know enough.’
Then he recited some little poems in Euskara, and set me to learn them. ‘Tell me some English poems!’ he demanded. ‘I would greatly wish to hear English poetry. For it is my intention to travel to that land before – to travel to that land when I am older, and read the plays of Esshak-sip-pere, and the poems of Poppe, and Dreeden.’
Now it was my turn to fall about laughing, as I instructed him in the correct pronunciation of those names. But I am bound to relate that he was a gifted scholar. By the end of the day he was able, with a good accent, to recite many stanzas of a poem entitled ‘The Castaway,’ by William Cowper, which I had taken a fancy to and committed to memory when in my English grandfather’s house; while my progress in the Basque language was still not much advanced beyond ya-ya, almost; aita, father; ahizpa, sister; and anaie, brother. So complicated a language I could never have imagined. Latin, French, Spanish, English, which I spoke with tolerable ease, were all child’s play in comparison.
The scenery as we approached St Jean Pied de Port became wilder and more mountainous. A steep road carried us upward, winding between high peaks, and for many leagues there was not a dwelling to be seen. The thick oak copses, the substantial-looking fa
rms and hedged fields, gave way to a land of heath and moor; the hills, becoming ever higher, were no longer green and grassy, but craggy with rock or grey and glittering with slopes of shale. The air grew cooler, and we were glad of our warm and thick new clothing. Juan skipped along delightedly in his rope-soled alpargatas; he said that after so many days barefoot it was like walking on velvet.
St Jean Pied de Port is set on the River Nive, and stands encircled by high green mountains, with a castle-crowned hill behind the town, which is old and handsome. There are high walls, and you enter by a majestic arched gateway beyond the river bridge. The mansions inside the town are surprisingly large, for such a remote mountain spot; but Juan told me that it was once the capital of King Garcia of Navarra, and two hundred years ago belonged to Spain. At one time the town was a stopping place for thousands of pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela.
We found the marketplace without difficulty, but, as dusk had fallen before we reached the town, trading had ceased for the day, and the stall holders were packing up their wares, pushing wooden trestles to one side, and sweeping cabbage stalks and rotten oranges into the gutters. The beasts for sale had been driven away.
‘We shall have to wait till tomorrow to buy our ponies,’ I said. ‘We had best find a place to spend the night.’
Madame Mauleon, kind to the last, had furnished us with the address of a distant cousin who lived on the edge of the city, and had written a few words for him on a scrap of paper.
Discovering by inquiry that the house we sought was on the opposite side of the town, we were making our way along a tree-bordered path on the outskirts when a loud noise of barking and screaming attracted our attention.
