by Joan Aiken
‘He wants that black shadow, for his nourishment, for his sustenance.’
‘But how can he take one thing without the other?’
‘We must pray that he will not be able to,’ said Brother Bertrand, and he stood up, laid a gentle hand on each of our heads in turn, and added, ‘Come; let us do so now,’ walking to the shrine, where he knelt in prayer. We were glad to follow his example.
His prayers must have continued all night. Next morning when I awoke he was still there. But at some point Juan and I must have fallen asleep, for when daylight roused us we found ourselves sprawled on a heap of dead leaves and pine needles at the side of the barn.
After we had washed in the brook, and groomed the ponies, and breakfasted frugally, Brother Bertrand showed us a strange little garden that he had planted in a patch of mountain meadow sheltered by the larch grove where we had first set eyes on him.
His garden contained many different flowers: rockroses, gentians, wild pea, and hundreds of others that I did not know, all set out neatly in rows, with space to walk between. Very different from Pere Mathieu’s garden at the Abbey! But the strangest thing of all was that beside each plant was set a little cross, made from two slips of wood pegged together and painted white. And on many of the crosses names were written. It was like a miniature graveyard – the plants, with their crosses, stretched a considerable distance across the meadow.
‘What are all these, my father?’ I inquired.
‘Why, they are all the people in France, my son; or at least, all the ones I know about. And the people in Spain, too. See, here is King Louis XVIII; here is le roi Ferdinand of Spain; here is le duc d’Angoulême . . .’ and so he went on, naming many famous persons, and many more of whom I had never heard. ‘Here is my brother Laurent; here is old Mere Marmottan, who kept the auberge in our village, and the blacksmith, whose name for the moment escapes me. Here is another man, who also loved my beloved Laura. But,’ he remarked, eyeing the brown and wizened plant that drooped beside the little cross, ‘I think Victor must have died; I must remember to say a prayer for his fierce, tormented soul.’ Casually he pulled up the dead plant, throwing it to one side. ‘Now, my young friends, I shall put in a plant for each of you. I think, my child, for you,’ he said, eyeing Juan, ‘an orange rockrose; and for you, my son’ – to me – ‘a yellow lily of the woods, a tiger lily.’
How strange, I thought. For in Spain my nickname had always been ‘Little Tiger.’
‘But – my father–’
‘Yes, child?’
‘These people are still alive. They are not dead? King Louis is on his throne, and King Ferdinand?’
‘Certainly they are; it is when they die that I pull out the plant and burn the cross. And I shall know when that moment comes, never fear! See my poor brother’s plant –’ It was a clump of violets, which had evidently at one time been large and flourishing, but now drooped, with yellow leaves, plainly near its end. ‘When he dies,’ Brother Bertrand said, ‘I shall know, and then I shall take up his plant and replace it with another. These shall be your places’ – and he took two small crosses from a pile and set them in the ground. ‘After you have gone I shall walk up the hillside and find a plant for each of you. And they will remind me of your visit, which has done me good.’
Before we departed, Brother Bertrand inspected the Harlequin’s sore shoulder and gave us excellent advice about how to foment it before putting on the caustic. He also pointed out a small wound on the fetlock of el Demonio, where he had cut himself with the heel of his off-shoe. To remedy this we made a kind of wet bandage, or gaiter, with some bits of cloth that the hermit provided, lashing it in place with cords. I began to see that we were insufficiently provided with such articles as cloth, string, and sewing materials, and that we must once again visit a town; also Brother Bertrand recommended that we find a blacksmith and have him file down the shoe that was doing the damage. We thanked the hermit for his good counsel, and he told us that he and his brother had been wealthy, and had bred many horses and cattle when they lived at Bidarray. He asked where we came from, and I said Spain; I noticed that Juan did not reply, but busied himself adjusting the Harlequin’s girth strap.
Then, rather timidly, I inquired whether Brother Bertrand had given any more thought to our singular and frightening tie with Father Vespasian, or the Something that had taken possession, first of him and then of Plumet. How could we escape him? Or how could we combat him? (Though even to suggest such a notion filled me with an icy horror all up and down my spine.)
‘I have been thinking deeply all night about your situation,’ said the hermit. ‘I laid the matter before God. And He told me that you must seek out my brother, who is wiser than I. Laurent will give you better advice than I can; or perhaps he will be able to defend you from your assailant. You must certainly visit him, and that without delay, for the invisible tendril that joins us is tightening daily, and this warns me that his end is now very close.’
On hearing this reply I gazed with a certain blankness at Brother Bertrand, wondering if God had really told him to advise our visiting his brother, or did the suggestion merely come from his own wish to be reconciled before it was too late? And how in the world would we be able to discover a ruined chapel somewhere on the slopes of the Pic d’Orhy, a large mountain covering many leagues of country? And supposing the brother had died already by the time we got there?
‘I can see that the Demiurge is putting other thoughts into your mind,’ said Brother Bertrand calmly. At which I blushed. ‘But I hope, and not only for my own sake, that you will do as I recommend.’
Then he went back into his barn and came out again with a tiny silver bell, about the size of a crab apple.
‘Unclean spirits hate the sound of a bell,’ he said, smiling, handing the little bright object to Juan, who exclaimed, ‘Why, of course! Of course they do! Why did I not think of that? I used to help the old benedicta in – ‘he stopped short, then added, ‘She said the power of bells would keep away any number of devils. Thank you, my father! But what will you do without it, here in this lonely place?’
‘I must rely on the power of prayer, my child, which has never failed me yet.’
So, leaving him our supply of milk and bread (he would not take cheese or ham) we rode off and left him looking after us somewhat wistfully, his hand upraised in blessing for as long as he could see us, before the track turned round an angle of the valley.
After that we rode for many leagues in silence.
I was feeling not a little sad, and heavy; Brother Bertrand’s talk, his account of having been, as it were, in conversation with God all through the night, had reminded me of my own trouble, which was that for the past few days, ever since we had left the Abbey, God had remained silent and had not spoken to me, either to communicate His wishes, or to scold me, or to let me know if I was following the right course. Each night I had duly said my prayer, and sometimes during the day as well, when danger threatened; but I had no intimation that my petition was acknowledged, or even heard. I was reminded of how one drops leaves and twigs into a brook: they are swept away to an unknown destination. Nothing ever comes back. I had never felt myself so disjoined from my Adviser before, even at times of dire danger; and I could not help wondering miserably if, somehow, I had gone astray from the direction that I was meant to follow, and thereby cut myself off from God’s discourse. Or was He testing me, to see how well I could manage when left unguided? The only thing that cheered me at all (and that not greatly) was to believe this; I had to battle, at times, against a most forlorn sense of dragging discouragement, loneliness, and abandonment. Yet, Felix! I said to myself, you should be accustomed to that. You managed without help from earthly parents; you cannot expect your Heavenly one to be keeping an eye on you every minute of the day; fie, for shame! And you have Juan to care for now; so show a brighter face and come out of the dismals.
Juan, also, seemed unusually silent and preoccupied as he rode along, despite the
cheerful tinkle of Brother Bertrand’s bell, which he had fastened to the Harlequin’s browband. Sometimes he sent a frowning, pondering glance in my direction; sometimes he rode deep in thought, with his chin sunk forward and his eyes on his pony’s shoulders.
After perhaps a couple of hours he suddenly exclaimed, ‘Felix?’
‘Well?’
‘Was that true? That tale you told the hermit? That you had been astray in your wits – out of your senses – unconscious for so many weeks, before you and Father Antoine found me in the thicket?’
‘Yes, it was true,’ I answered him rather drily. T do not tell untrue tales.’
He flushed up, but went on: ‘Do you not think that is exceedingly strange? It seems almost as if you were waiting for me in that Abbey; as if you had been sent there to await my arrival.’ He ended in rather a diffident tone, but I answered,
‘Yes, that is how I felt about it.’
‘That we were meant to travel together? But why? What is the purpose behind it, do you think?’
‘How can I tell?’ I began to say, rather impatiently, but then added, the notion suddenly coming into my head, ‘Perhaps it is because of -of Father Vespasian. Singly we would not be a match for him. But together – with the help of God –’
‘Ah, yes!’ he agreed, his face lighting up. ‘Perhaps that might be the reason.’ But then he shivered. ‘I wish, though, that it were not so.’
‘Do you wish that we were not travelling together?’
‘Why, no,’ he said slowly. ‘I – I am growing accustomed to you, Felix. You are teaching me a great deal that I did not know before.’
This in some degree warmed my troubled heart, and I said, more cheerfully, ‘Well, let me continue to teach you English, for I begin to fear that there is no hope of my ever mastering Euskara. You are right, it is a language of the devil! Have you made a translation of your poem yet?’
‘Yes, I have done so,’ he replied. ‘I did it last night while you and Brother Bertrand were at your prayers.’
‘You did not pray?’ I was a little shocked.
But Juan said, ‘Oh, I can only pray to God in one sentence. He understands that. I greet Him, then it is done. I hope to live some day entirely in His honour, but I am sure He does not want me to be continually dinning my petitions into His ears, or repeating meaningless words by rote. Besides,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I believe that poetry is a form of prayer. Whom should it be addressed to, if not to God?’
This made me look on poetry in a new light, and while I was thinking about it, Juan recited his little verse, first in Euskara, then in English:
‘Bortian artzana eta
Ez jeisten ardirie;
Ontza jan edan eta
Equin lo zabalie
Enune desiratzen
Bizitze hoberic
Mundian ez ahalda
Ni bezan iruric!
Shepherd on the green hill
Guarding my sheep
I eat and drink at will,
Peacefully sleep;
Why should I ask
More than my share?
Who could be happier
Anywhere?’
After he had spoken the words I, in my turn, was silent for a considerable time. Then I asked him, ‘You think that poetry is a kind of thanks? For the things we see, the things we have?’
‘Why not?’ said Juan. ‘If a friend gives you a gift – as you gave me the Harlequin, as the hermit gave us his silver bell – you say, do you not, “I thank you, friend, for this beautiful black-and-white pottoka, for this bell which cheers me with its sound and keeps away unclean spirits.” You say, “My heart is filled with thankfulness at sight of the wooded hills and the rivers pouncing down like white arrows.” What is that but a poem?’
‘Yes. I think I begin to understand a little of what it is all about.’
‘Very good!’ said Juan, laughing. ‘For indeed, I was beginning to fear that you never would!’
And so we rode on feeling comfortable with one another.
Yet, that very evening, we were quarrelling again.
We had agreed that, since Brother Bertrand advised finding a blacksmith to file el Demonio’s shoe, that had best be done without delay, and we therefore made our way to the banks of the Gave de Mauleon, which, according to our map, farther up its course passed by a little village named Licq-Athérey. By late afternoon we had reached this place, which contained several houses and two large inns; for, as we learned, the waters that spring from the ground hereabouts possess a healing virtue, and sick people come from both France and Spain to be purged from stiffness of the joints or afflictions of the kidney and stomach. The village is not large, but thriving, and there were a number of wealthy-looking people strolling about. We found a forge without difficulty, but the smith was busy replacing a metal hoop on the wheel of a lady’s coach, and we were obliged to wait our turn. I suggested to Juan that I should remain with the ponies outside the smithy, in case some other customer should push in ahead of us; for I wanted to be away from there as soon as might be. The atmosphere of the village made me uneasy, though, to be sure, it seemed a clean, pleasant enough little place.
Juan therefore volunteered to go and buy provisions, cloth for more bandages, tape, and thread. I gave him a couple of francs from my store and urged him not to let himself be cheated by crafty stallkeepers. It had struck me several times that Juan must have led a vastly protected life; he seemed quite unaccustomed to such practical matters as buying, selling, and bargaining. Perhaps, I thought, his father had been an extremely rich merchant and Juan had been reared like a young prince, secluded from the common people. He seldom said more than a couple of words about his homelife.
At my admonitions he flushed a little pink, but grinned and said that he would do his best.
Time drifted slowly by, the blacksmith eventually completed his work on the coach wheel, and then I led in el Demonio, who lived up to his name, snorted, lashed out, whinnied, and behaved as if all his legs were to be chopped off, instead of having his shoes rendered more comfortable. While he was about it, the smith tightened several nails in them, and then performed the same service for the Harlequin, so that we need not risk a cast shoe in the mountains. He inquired whither we were bound, and I replied, to visit my aunt at Lescun on the Pic d’Anie, and then reddened at the lie, thinking how Juan would mock me if he were there. But the blaze of the smith’s fire concealed my blush and he did not observe it.
After that a pair of oxen were brought in for shoeing. This was carried out in a singular manner, which I was interested to watch, for we do it differently in Galicia: the forge contained a stout framework of timber on which each ox in turn was hoisted up by a broad belt passed under his belly, and his legs were lashed together so that the smith could work at leisure without fear of being gored or kicked. The bellowing of those uplifted beasts was amazing to hear; I daresay the poor things thought their last hour had come. I wished that Juan would return, so that he, too, might enjoy the spectacle, but he did not; and then I thought that this was just as well, for it might have reminded him of his own narrow escape from death.
Both oxen having been shod, they were yoked up and led away, and the smith proceeded to quench his fire and shut up his forge for the night. Juan still had not returned, twilight was falling, and I was by now growing decidedly anxious. What in the world could have happened to him? Surely he could not have taken all this long time in the purchase of bread, milk, sausage, tape, and cloth? My fears were heightened because, earlier, while I had been holding el Demonio’s bridle in the smithy, I had beheld a little hunchbacked fellow somewhat closely scrutinizing first me and then the Harlequin in the road outside. I had not set eyes on the member of the Gente called Jorobado, and had no means of knowing whether this could be the same hunchback as Juan had seen in Hasparren, but his curiosity in me and our humble mounts seemed excessive; which was one of the reasons why I had told the smith that lie about our destination.
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��My friend is a long time about buying bread,’ said I to him now as he closed his door. ‘May I tie up our pottoka behind your forge while I go to look for him?’
And welcome, he said – there was a dusty patch of ground under a walnut tree where his fat wife was washing linen in a tub and hanging it over currant bushes to dry; so I thought the belongings in our saddlebags would be safe enough – and I walked off along the village street, looking sharply this way and that, with my mind deeply misgiving me. There were hardly any people about now; I saw neither Juan nor the hunchback.
Arrived in the main square – which was no more than a tree-bordered widening of the street – I realised where the population had got to; they were all here; some kind of performance appeared to be taking place.
A platform had been erected in the centre of the place; it was supported on upended wine barrels, and adorned with swags of white muslin and bunches of flowers. Music had been playing gently on fifes, drums, and bagpipes, but ceased as I arrived in the square. After a moment or two – as if all had been awaiting my arrival – three people climbed up onto the stage: an old man with sheepskin vest, white beard, and crimson beretta; a younger man, dark, thickset, and beak-nosed; and – to my cold horror – Juan, looking quite composed, but a little excited, his eyes very bright. The three of them sat down side by side on stools, while a master of ceremonies introduced them. Their names were fanciful. The old man styled himself something like the Lord of the Hillside. Juan’s name was given as Ongriako Erregek. I forget the other. Then the bertsulari contest (for such I soon guessed it to be) began.
A member of the crowd would shout some phrase, or question, and then each of the three on the platform proceeded, in his own way, to give an answer. The old whitebeard would bawl out some brief, earthy piece of wisdom, which drew gasps, and laughs, and groans of horrified agreement from the audience. The stocky dark fellow was much more long-winded, and declaimed for nine or ten minutes every time, which evidently tried the patience of some of his hearers, who doubtless were eagerly waiting with questions of their own, so that some began to shout ‘Ya-ya-ya-ya!’ though others appeared to like what he said well enough. When it came to Juan’s turn, I could see that he had a degree of difficulty in making himself heard, for his voice was not yet strong and clear. He gave his replies in a kind of rusty croak, and I devoutly hoped that he was not doing the cords of his neck dreadful damage. But whatever it was that he recited (as it was in the Basque tongue, I of course missed a great deal) seemed to charm and amuse the audience greatly, for they listened to him in complete silence while he spoke; and then, almost always, afterwards, there would follow a ripple of affectionate laughter and some handclapping.
