Bridle the Wind

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Let us hope he sleeps sound,’ I said, crossing myself. They all did likewise.

  An hour later they gave me what food they had and departed, melting away into the forest, while I sat on beside the sleeping Juan. Before they went, they told me where to find Juan’s uncle, Senor León de Echepara. He had a holding, they said, very close to the French border: a farmhouse, an acre or so of land, a few goats, a hive of bees, in a sheltered, hidden valley.

  ‘What do you know of him? Is he a good person? Reliable?’

  It seemed strange to be canvassing the opinions of this group of rogues, but after what had passed between us, I felt sure that they would give an honest judgment.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ they assured me. ‘In the town of Pamplona Senor de Echepara had a very high reputation. He was well liked. “Notoriamente hidalgo” A fine gentleman. He always kept his word and was of liberal principles. That is why he was obliged to flee.’

  And then they left me.

  8

  Juan’s request to me; his Uncle León; I go to Vitoria, and encounter two English ladies; I return to Villaverde; I hear news from my grandfather; and form a new resolve

  Toward sunset Juan woke up. At first he looked round him in terror and confusion. His right hand, I had noticed, was quite badly burned. A white scar crossed the insides of the fingers. While he was still drowsy I bandaged it as carefully as I could.

  After a while he muttered, ‘I thought we found all those wicked men here. The light… the shadows …’

  I made haste to reassure him.

  ‘Set your mind at rest. They are all gone.’

  ‘The bad spirit, too?’

  ‘Can you not remember? You rang your bell, and spoke those words, and sent him away.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. So we did,’ he said slowly. ‘And then Plumet came back. And then Plumet died.’ He shivered – a deep, long shiver – and presently said, ‘Do not let us talk about it any more.’

  ‘No. It is done with. They won’t trouble us, ever again.’

  I wondered whether to tell him that, before leaving France, the Gente had killed his brother and the old nurse; decided not to. He would learn that soon enough from some other source. I did tell him, though, that I now knew his uncle’s farm was no farther away than over a couple of ridges, in a secret valley.

  Juan said, ‘Very good. I am glad to hear that we can find Uncle León without too much trouble. But’ – he suddenly sounded wistful, pleading – ‘Let us not do so tonight, Felix. Let us have one more night in the forest.’

  ‘With all my heart,’ I said.

  I had kindled a fire while he was still sleeping, and caught fish in a brook that ran nearby. So, with the bread the Gente had left us, we had not too bad a supper. And afterwards, as so often on our journey, Juan tried to teach me some of the Basque grammar, and I taught him various verses of English poetry. ‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I,’ he learned, and then broke off to ask me in a doubtful, troubled manner, ‘Shall I like living with my uncle, do you think, in the forest?’

  ‘Of course you will!’ I assured him. ‘Think of all the things to see – eagles, deer, the wildflowers that you love. You and your uncle can climb the Lost Mountain, you can hunt izard and wild boar –’

  But I had made a – a kind of promise to God, concerning my life – ‘

  ‘Oh, well,’ I said, not quite understanding him. ‘If you had made a promise, then of course you must keep it. I am sure your uncle would not stand in your way. “Notoriamente hidalgo” But if, by any chance, the life does not suit you – or if your uncle should be obliged to move once more – why, then, write to me, and you can come and live at Villaverde. Here, I will give you the direction’ – and I wrote it on a scrap of paper. For – after all – we have been good comrades, have we not? After I had stopped being arrogant, and you had stopped being wilful!’

  He did not smile. He said, ‘But a journey like this can never be repeated. Never, ever again. Once we are parted, Felix – even if by some chance we should meet again in the future – it could not possibly be the same.’ And he repeated, ‘Never, ever again.’

  His words tolled in my heart like a bell. But I said stoutly, ‘Perhaps not. But things may be different. They may be better, even. It is no use to refuse the future, which is bound to come. And it may bring even greater good than what we have now.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Juan.

  ‘I shall hope to see you again, Juan.’

  ‘Do not depend on it,’ said he. ‘For I do not think you will.’

  But then he shook himself and seemed to throw off this foreboding mood, and we passed the rest of the evening cheerfully enough. I sang him a ballad that used to be a favourite of my shipmate Sam: ‘Sweet Polly Oliver,’ about a young girl who, to follow her sweetheart, dressed up in her dead brother’s uniform and went for a soldier.

  ‘But all she did, after all, was to nurse him when he was sick,’ remarked Juan, when the ballad was finished. ‘Suppose there had been a real battle, how would she have done?’

  ‘I have sometimes wondered that, too. But still, women can be as brave as men, they say. And they have fought in battles. Think of the Amazons. Or Jeanne d’Arc’

  ‘Yes, that is true,’ agreed Juan.

  Then I made him say again his little verse about the sailor’s pie, and I learned it by heart, for it had greatly taken my fancy. ‘“First you must take a teacupful of sky.” What do you mean by that, Juan?’

  ‘Oh, you must never ask the meaning of poems,’ he said, laughing. ‘That is like asking for the meaning of a rose, or a fish. The poem is itself, or should be; that is all.’ So I carefully wrote it down.

  At length we fell asleep, under a huge, seamed, craggy, knotty yew tree that brooded over our heads like a great-grandfather. I was inexpressibly weary, for my sleep the night before had been but scanty, and much broken by lurid dreams. I fell into slumber as into a well, and slept, I believe, for twelve hours, or thereabouts.

  When I woke, all was silent. I raised myself up, yawning, and looked about me. Juan was not to be seen, so I thought he was probably performing his ablutions in the brook, as was his habit.

  ‘Oh, Juan! I am going to broil the fish!’ I called quietly; the forest made one wish to lower one’s voice at all times. ‘So don’t take too long with your washing.’

  I discovered that the fire was already lit, and smouldering redly; Juan must have been awake for some time. And near the fish, pinned in a split prong of yew, lay a folded paper, a sheet left from the packet I had bought to write letters to Grandfather and Father Antoine.

  Before I had so much as seen the writing, I think I had guessed the contents. My heart stopped still.

  My dear Felix, [Juan had written]

  I have risen early to write this while you are asleep. I am going to ask you to do me a great kindness. The last of many! At the very first, you saved me from hanging. Do not think that I forget that. And you saved me again after that, more times than I can count – on the causeway, and on the cliff above the grotto, and at the masquerade; and if you had not been at my side when facing that terror, I should certainly have given in to it, and that would have been the end of me. And you bought me my clothes, and my dear Harlequin horse. There is no doubt that God meant you to be my companion into Spain, and help me find my Uncle León. And I shall never, never forget you, or how patiently you dealt with my follies and cowardice. Nor shall I ever forget the happy times we had together. I do not think I shall ever have such a companion again. It has been different from anything that happened to me before, or ever will, and I shall remember you every night in my prayers, to the very end of my life. And I hope that your life will be a long and happy one.

  Now, Felix, the kindness I ask of you is this. Do not follow me to my uncle’s house, Do not come to see me there. Before I began to write this, I walked through the forest and saw him working in his garden patch. So I know he is there, and will take me in. He is a kind, sincere man. So do not be anxious fo
r me, Felix. You have put forth enough time and trouble for me already – you were beaten by the monks, and bitten by the snake, and fatigued and frightened on my behalf. So no more now. Don’t think me ungracious. Let our dealings end here. But, if you do think of me, let it be with kindness.

  Your friend, Juan.

  And under that he had written, ‘I have left you a gift, as I won our bet and learned more English than you did Euskara!’

  Wrapped in the paper he had left the snuffbox with the four little stones and the leaf that said TOI.

  After I had finished reading this letter I sat, for perhaps an hour, motionless, staring at the red roots of the yew tree. I can summon their shapes still, if I shut my eyes.

  I felt as if, by some violent blow, my vital organs had been dragged from me, and I left just a shell – numb, hollow, and stunned. Then at length I began to feel pain, and the pain was so strange, so unaccustomed, so severe, that, despite what Juan had asked, and my own sense of honour, I packed up my things, stamped out the fire, leaving the fish uneaten, and led el Demonio through the forest, over two ridges, until I came to the head of a little valley, where the trees parted to reveal a brook running through a tiny meadow. There, far below, I saw a small stone farmhouse, a tethered goat, and a few beds of vegetables. A wisp of blue smoke wavered from the chimney. As I watched, hidden in the trees, from half a mile away up the valley, I saw a figure, an elderly whitehaired man, come limping from the house to sit on a bench under what looked like a walnut tree. Presently a smaller figure followed, carrying a basket, and curled up on the grass beside the other.

  If I had Father Vespasian’s spyglass, I thought, visited by a sudden mad notion – if I had the spyglass, I could remain here for days, watching them whenever they came out of doors. If I had the spyglass –

  And suddenly grief fell on me like a drenching storm. I could have sat there on the ground and howled like a dog. I could have wept enough tears to wash down the bed of the brook in a torrent, and flood the little pasture, and wash away the house.

  But I did not.

  Instead I turned, and with a heart of lead, walked away upward through the forest, over the shoulder of the Pic d’Occabé, and away from that peaceful place. If I could have done so, I would have mounted the pony and ridden at a gallop. I longed to put as much distance as possible, as speedily as I could, between me and that hidden spot.

  It cannot be more than a quarter of a league yet, I kept thinking; perhaps half by this time. Now, perhaps three. My slow footsteps were like a heavy chain, pulling me back.

  At last, after a long, dreary march, I came to the Lake of Iraty, traversed the marsh, mounted, and so followed the river down as far as Orbaiceta. Every place where I had been with Juan seemed miserable, filled too full with memories. I did not, therefore, waste any time at Orbaiceta, but purchased a little food and struck off across country to Burguete. For this reason, too, I resolved not to return to Pamplona, but continued westward, coming out of mountains into sierra, then back into mountains again, sleeping at night wherever darkness chanced to find me, until I came to the town of Vitoria. This is a large and grand city, larger than Pamplona, set on a green plateau and ringed by green mountain slopes. There are eight streets in circles around a lofty cathedral, and high houses so lined with miradors that they glitter in the sunrise as though all built of glass from roof to street. My poor Demon had fallen lame, so here I planned to sell him and find myself a mule or horse to continue on my way to Galicia.

  I was looking at mules in the marketplace when I heard a voice upraised in a familiar tongue, asking if anybody there spoke English. I discovered two elderly ladies asking for help with their bargaining: they were trying to buy two Seville shawls, at a ruinous price, from a marketwoman. I offered my services, which were gladly accepted, and for a couple of hours I was able to distract my sad mind by helping the pair with their various commissions. The end of it was, that I learned they were making a journey to Santiago de Compostela, and hearing that I was bound in that direction myself, they invited me to accompany them and be their courier.

  At another time I would have said no. What! Travel in a coach with a pair of elderly ladies when I might have rambled along at my own pace, seen what sights I chose, and enjoyed my own adventures? Never in this world! But just at that time I had had enough of adventures. I was heartsore and weary, and wished for nothing so much as to be back at Villaverde. The wealthy English ladies had the best of horses and postilions; they proposed to travel to Burgos, to Valladolid, to León, at a spanking pace. So I accompanied them, having first sold el Demonio, for much less than he was worth, to a kind-faced baker’s wife, who promised to treat him as if he were a member of the family.

  I remember little of that journey. I talked to the ladies, told them many things about Spain, and left them at León with good wishes from me and fervent thanks from them. If I ever came to Norwich, in England, they said, I should be kindly welcome at their house.

  From León I struck off across country once more, riding a mule purchased in the market there, and so, at long last, in late afternoon, came within view of Villaverde, grey walls and golden roofs, perched up on top of a high sweep of hill, like the crest of a breaking wave. How that sight warmed my sad heart!

  When I rode up to the gate, half a dozen dogs came racing out to greet me. I had been away from home for over half a year; however, it seemed they had not forgotten me. And behind them came my friend Pedro, great-nephew of our old cook, who had died.

  ‘Madre de Dios! Is it really you, Felix?’ says he, big-eyed, gasping and yawning at the same time; plainly he had been taking his siesta on some heap of straw in the stackyard.

  ‘Well, it’s not my ghost, at all events,’ said I. ‘Quick! Tell me! How are they all? My grandfather? Is he well?’

  ‘Ay, ay – the same as ever he was, sharp as an old eagle, with his eye into everything. Who has done this, who has done that, why is the Andalusian mare lame, who has been riding her – suppose el senor Felix came home and wished to ride her? Better a lame mare than that bag of bones, anyway,’ he added, giving my mule a disparaging look.

  ‘And who had been riding the mare? You, I suppose,’ I said, grinning at him as he led my mule off towards the stables. The dogs boiled round me in a sea of fur, and I hugged them and pummelled them and threw them off me in armfuls, making my way toward the arched stone doorway that led to the main house, which is built all around a colonnaded courtyard.

  News of my arrival had already flashed ahead, and there, in the arcade that surrounded the court, was my grandfather coming; not on his feet, alas, but propelling himself in his wheelchair.

  No surprise ever caught my grandfather unprepared. If he had been taking a siesta, he showed no signs of it; not a wrinkle creased his grey satin jacket, not a pin, not a ruffle, was out of place in his snowy cravat. In all respects he looked exactly as I had seen him last – except that his hair, which had been iron-grey then, was now cloud-white. But his eyes were just the same – black, and full of fire.

  ‘Ah! My dear grandson! There you are,’ he said, and held out his hand to me. Then he did a thing that was unprecedented for him: drew me to him and kissed my brow, before making the sign of the cross over me.

  ‘Buenas tardes, Grandfather,’ I said. ‘I am very happy to be home again at Villaverde.’

  And so saying, I found my words to be true. Some of the weight of pain and incomprehension and loneliness that had oppressed me since the sudden parting from Juan had now lifted; I was able to raise my head and look about me and sniff the familiar high upland air of Villaverde – and the smell of the house, lavender and polished wood and beeswax – with sharp recognition and delight.

  ‘You will wish, no doubt, to bathe yourself and put on some more presentable garments,’ said my grandfather, observing with raised eyebrows my tattered dirty sheepskin jacket and disreputable breeches. ‘And then to greet your grandmother and great-aunts, who are waiting with immense impatience to see the r
eturned prodigal.’

  His fine keen mouth twitched, very slightly, as he said this. In the past my great-aunts had always been my chief tormentors – rushing with a cackle like angry old geese to report any misdemeanors of mine, and to exact the utmost degree of punishment for them. In those days I had believed that they and my grandfather were all of one mind. Now I realised that it was wholly otherwise. Deep in the Conde’s eye there was to be detected a spark as he looked at me. Oh! I thought, if only I can have jokes with my grandfather as I do sometimes with God! How very different life will be at Villaverde!

  I said sedately, ‘Well, I will go and wash off the dust at once, senor, and then return to you. I am glad to see you looking so well.’

  ‘And I may say the same to you, my boy. You have even, I think, grown – just a very little!’

  ‘I have no great hopes of more!’ I said, laughing. ‘My English grandfather is no taller than I am. And he is past seventy.’

  ‘Well, we will not entirely give up hope. Perhaps in another fifty-seven years … I shall greatly look forward to hearing about your English grand father. And about everything that has befallen you.’

  ‘Oh, I have so much to tell you, Grandfather!’

  After dinner – which was a tremendous, stately meal, with my grandmother and all my great-aunts in their best mantillas and jet combs, as many neighbours as could be gathered, and all the servants in the background, lurking about the grand dining room with its marble side-tables and mahogany, and massive leather-armed chairs, and gold-framed portraits of ancestors, and Toledo sabres on the walls – after dinner was over, which was not until well past midnight, my grandfather beckoned me to his study.

  ‘You will not be tired yet, Felix; the young need little rest. And the old, such as I, do nothing but rest, and so require little sleep. I have a letter to show you which arrived yesterday, because of which I knew that we must soon have the happiness of seeing you here. It is from Senor León de Echepara.’ He added, as he ruffled among the papers on his beautifully inlaid desk, ‘Of course the name of Senor de Echepara is well known to me. We share identical political beliefs. But he has, at times, been active, as I, alas, am no longer able to be. And now he, I understand owing to those same beliefs, has been obliged to leave his home.’