by Allen, Jewel
“If only kindness were enough to advance someone in the army,” he murmured.
“We need more kindness in this world,” she said. “I would want my soldier to be a gentleman instead of a marauder. Wouldn’t you just as soon be known as kind, than as Raúl the Terrible?”
He smiled. “The terrible nickname might be more effective on the battlefield.”
“Well, let me tell you, I wouldn’t let someone with that nickname kiss me.”
Her words hung between them like a promise.
He spoke softly. “I would hope not.”
The slight breeze stirred her hair and the collar of her gown. The scent of perfume and candy reached his nostrils. His mouth watered, and not for more bonbons. He reached out to touch her face, as though to imprint it in his senses. Her smooth skin, her cheekbone, her jaw.
“Your poor hands,” she said.
Reflexively, he pulled back, not wanting to scratch her tender skin, but she held on to his hand, and kissed his palm gently.
“You are sweet,” she said. “Stay that way.”
She leaned back. “You’ll always be my friend.“
He blinked, confused.
“I’m leaving, Raúl.” Her eyes filled with regret. “It was fun seeing you. But I don’t want to make you expect...make you think that I like you more than a brother.”
“Ah,” Raúl said, casting his glance down, feeling like a bottomless well of disappointment. “I think I understand.”
“Do you?”
“There you are!” Mario’s voice floated up the hill.
Ay, not Mario. Raúl just wanted to go away, somewhere by himself.
“Want to wander ‘round the festival with me, Raúl?” Mario asked.
“Not really,” Raúl said, thinking all the lights below dull.
“You look ill.” Mario peered into his face. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” Raúl stood up, unsteady on his feet, and looked at Conchita. “I wish you well, Conchita.”
“Thank you. You, too, Raúl. Remember what I said.”
He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About believing in yourself.”
“Yes, of course. I will.” With the bitter taste of her rejection, he turned and followed Mario down the hill.
12
A clock ticked slowly in the corner to the tune of Papa reciting numbers. Raúl’s job was to check them off on the ledger in front of him. The lines on the pages looked like rows of infantry advancing towards enemy lines.
“Seventy,” Papa said. “Twenty-three.”
Raúl suppressed a sigh, just as a bugle sounded. He raised his head.
There was a bugle sound once again.
He looked out the window and jumped so fast, he knocked his chair back to the floor. An army in uniform!
“Pay attention now,” Papa said, tapping on the ledger. “As I was saying. . .”
“Papa,” Raúl interrupted. “There are soldiers at the plaza! It looks like a whole regiment.”
“So there are. Now if you add this column to this --”
Raúl stood and rushed to the door. Of late, with the farm chores and Don Busco’s training, he felt stronger, faster. His limp was less pronounced.
“Raúl!” Papa’s voice thundered.
Raúl turned slowly. Papa looked red in the face. Angry.
“They might be recruiting soldiers, Papa,” Raúl said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Papa grabbed the chair where Raúl had been just moments before. “Sit down. We’re not finished.”
Raúl stayed rooted where he stood.
“These accounts need to be taken care of,” Papa insisted. “There’s not much left.”
Raúl wanted to argue. Instead, he looked from the chair, to the window, and back, then nodded. “Fine.”
Raúl sat back down, ignoring the bugle sound and resisting the urge to turn his head. His eyes strayed from the ledger, where the numbers swam in his eyes, to the clock standing in the corner.
Papa’s voice seemed slower than normal, sluggish, like a sleepy sloth.
Hurry! Hurry!
The hour hand of the clock moved half a circle, then another. The air felt sluggish, like Raúl was in a tunnel and couldn’t get out. Only the echo of the clock’s hand sounded.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“There,” Raúl said, checking off the last amount with flourish. “Can I go now?” He didn’t even wait for an answer and was already out the door in a dead run.
The sun dipped low in the horizon. He could no longer hear the sound of the bugle. His stomach plummeted. He’d been in Papa’s library too long.
He passed the village proper, where a shepherd and his flock traversed down the road. He passed the original fortress where his ancestor repelled the Moors. By the time he reached the plaza, the soldiers were gone.
At the nearby church, a priest climbed the steps.
“Father Zamora!” Raúl called out, grateful to see his friend. “Did they leave already?”
Father Zamora blinked. “Did who leave already?”
“The soldiers.”
The priest’s forehead creased. “Why, yes.”
“How long ago?”
Father Zamora t thought for a moment. “I don’t know. A half hour, maybe?”
Raúl raked his fingers through his hair, feeling desperate. “Where did they go?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“That’s all right. Thank you for your help anyway.” He stood on the cobblestones, massaging the back of his neck. Maybe they hadn’t been recruiting. Maybe they were just passing through. And then again maybe he’d missed a golden chance.
“You look extremely distressed,” Father Zamora said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“No, I’ll be all right. But thank you.”
Father Zamora nodded, glanced over one more time, then went inside the church.
“Well, well, look who wants to play soldier,” Leandro said, arriving at the plaza with his cronies.
Raúl hated to even ask Leandro, but he did anyway. “You saw the army?”
“I did.” Leandro’s eyes narrowed. “They were taking conscriptions and they picked me. You’re not actually thinking of...oh my, are you really...” His words trailed off into a belly laugh.
Raúl clenched his jaw. “If you mean join the army, I am, actually.”
Leandro ribbed his friends. “What a surprise. Unfortunately, I don’t think they have a crippled division.”
Leandro’s friends snickered.
Raúl replied, “Why don’t you just shut your mouth?”
Leandro marched up to Raúl and shoved him. Raúl lost his balance and hit his back on the cobblestones. Leandro set out a boot as though to stomp on his chest, but Raúl rolled out of the way.
“Why, you’re not so crippled after all,” Leandro said, his eyes gleaming. “Shall we put your reflexes to the test? Meet me at sundown at the old sawmill. And bring a sword.”
This was the moment Raúl was waiting for -- a chance to show off his skills. But he felt his tongue all tied in his mouth. Soon the sun would set. The old sawmill was crumbling and dangerous. A misstep could mean sure death.
“What?” Leandro poked his shoulder. “Chicken, are you?”
“I’ll do it,” Raúl said, jerking his arm away. “Sundown at the sawmill.”
Leandro turned to his friends and smiled. “You heard that, boys? You think he’ll have the guts to show up?”
“I said I’ll be there,” Raúl said.
They laughed, making Raúl feel worse. He really shouldn’t let Leandro get under his skin.
On his way back to his house, Raúl stopped by Mario’s cottage. He found him in the side yard, feeding the pigs.
“I need a witness,” Raúl said, “in case Leandro decides to do something stupid. Will you come?”
“A witness for what?”
“A swordfight.”
“Why don�
��t you ask Don Busco to just take your place?” Mario suggested. “With a handkerchief around his face, no one will know it’s not you. Just think what it’ll do for your reputation.”
“That’s not the point. I have to do this.”
Mario dumped slop into a container, which three gigantic sows converged upon. “I have to feed the pigs. I have to eat three times a day. And more. But nowhere in our hamlet rules does it say that you have to fight Leandro.”
Raúl stuffed his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t want to come, just say so.”
Mario set his bucket down, releasing a sour smell. “Fine, I’ll go. Just give me a minute.”
When, finally, Mario finished his chore, Raúl kept up a punishing pace through town, past the old fort and the church, past village proper, up to the entrance of a bridge which lay in the shadow of the abandoned saw mill.
13
In the deepening twilight, the shadows of the sawmill and its outcroppings lengthened like spindly spider legs. Windows gaped dark like hollowed skull eyes. A black rook convulsed like he was at death’s doorstep before scattering the remains of his dinner on the barren soil.
“Leandro!” Raúl shouted.
“Hush,” Mario said. “He might hear you.”
“Mario,” Raúl warned.
“Sorry. I was just hoping maybe he had changed his mind, so we could go home earlier. Supper, you know?”
Raúl silenced him with his glance. He called out again, “Leandro!”
A dark figure came out of the sawmill. “Are you alone?”
“Mario’s here with me.”
“Anyone else?”
“That’s it. Are you alone?”
Leandro’s friends came out of the building like snakes coming out of a hole.
“Come on up then. If you dare,” Leandro said. They laughed.
“I don’t really dare,” Mario said.
“Could you please, please just keep your thoughts to yourself?” Raúl whispered furiously.
Mario held up his hands and nodded. “All right.”
The bridge creaked as Raúl and Mario crossed it and followed Leandro’s group into the building. Just inside the main door, a little stub of a candle cast a yellowish sickly light over a series of pits where the sawmill workers would have cut the lumber. The building was cavernous, but full of obstructions: pillars, pits, a portion of the water wheel which used to convey the lumber onto the saw table. The sharp smell of sawdust still clung to the air. Raúl shed his coat and tossed it to Mario.
“First one to lose their weapon wins,” Leandro said. His eyes gleamed yellow in the candlelight. “No drawing of blood, on purpose anyway.”
Raúl nodded, flexing his sword. For the past week, he’d immersed himself in training with Don Busco and occasionally, Julio. Was he ready? They would see soon enough.
Blade against blade echoed in the chamber as metal clashed and slid apart. With precise slashing movements, Leandro forced Raúl to back up, but Raúl sprang to the edge of a pit frame. He walked lightly across so he was abreast of Leandro. Down came Raúl’s blade, which Leandro intercepted and repelled, causing Raúl to fall backwards into the pit. Out of the corner of his eye, Raúl saw the pit edge, grabbed at it, missed, and landed flat on his back in a cloud of dust.
Raúl lay there stunned for a good long minute before dragging himself to a kneeling position. Leandro had his arm out, as though to ward off the sawdust.
Raúl hoisted himself on a ladder built into the side of the pit. Any minute, he would come upon the hopefully unsuspecting Leandro. Sawdust overpowered him, too, however. His nose itched horribly.
His sneeze echoed loudly in the mill.
Leandro went on the attack again, slicing the air where Raúl had been, had he not jumped out of the way. Leandro sliced; Raúl moved to safety. Raúl glanced over at the water wheel, gauging its distance from where he stood. He ran over, tiptoeing on his shorter leg to balance himself, then waited for Leandro. Sure enough, Leandro came bounding down upon him with his sword.
Raúl got out of the way. The sword hit the mark he was hoping for: one of the fins of the water wheel. He pulled at the wheel so it would start revolving again, Leandro’s sword impaled upon the wood. Leandro hissed and tried to grab it, but it was already well out of his reach. With a quick turn of the wrist, Raúl flicked the sword up further. Leandro staggered back and leaned against the edge of the pit.
With a cold expression in his eyes, Leandro spoke. “You win. This time.” His lip curled. “That was pure luck. Just be glad I am leaving for the army, or I could make life miserable for you in Cheverra. And if you do go into the army...” He glared. “Don’t say you’ve not been warned.”
Raúl sheathed his sword. “There will be no next time.”
“Oh, yes there will be.” To his friends, Leandro snarled, “Let’s go.”
Mario clapped slowly from the corner. “Good riddance to that rat,” he said.
“Yes,” Raúl said. “Good riddance.” He patted his friend on the back. “Thank you for being here.”
“We’ll pretend my presence made a difference.”
“It very well could have. You never know with that snake.”
“You’re right.” Mario made his way to the entrance. “Let’s go home. I’m starved.”
Raúl found Don Busco in the great hall.
“I did it,” Raúl said. “I fenced with Leandro.”
Don Busco raised an eyebrow. “Who is Leandro?”
“The town bully. He’s the son of the Gobernador-Count and thinks he owns the village.”
“How did the match turn out?”
Raúl slowly grinned. “I won.”
The fencing tutor nodded, looking impressed. “Then you deserve a prize. Here.” It was a pin that looked like a small sword. “From a Turkish sultan.”
“A real sultan?”
“What other sultans are there?” Don Busco teased.
Raúl’s hand closed upon the pin, his chest swelling with pride. “Thank you.”
Papa was less impressed. “Leandro must have cut you some slack.”
Raúl didn’t answer. No matter what Papa said, he would not let his words ruin his sense of accomplishment.
14
Raúl and his fencing tutor rode their horses through trails above Cheverra which led to neighboring villages, passing lovely meadows of wildflowers. They had chosen that route to hopefully intersect the Spanish king’s caravan to Barcelona.
They dismounted their horses atop a plateau on the Sierra de Asuncion, overlooking Cheverra. Thin Moorish minarets towered over the village church and stone dwellings, spaced out on gold and cinnamon checkered farmland. A falcon flew overhead, so close Raúl heard the whooshing of its wings, before it swooped low over the valley, casting a shadow over a flock of sheep. A lone man herded them on a dirt road, burnished a dull orange by the late afternoon sun and flanked by craggy meadows that sloped up to hillsides.
The scent of sage, crushed under horse hooves, filled the air. A gentle breeze played with Raúl’s lapel, not enough to offset the cloying heat. He shed his vest, rolled up his sleeves and opened his goat-skin canteen. He filled it with water from a gurgling ribbon of a spring and guzzled several long, cold mouthfuls. Then he poured the remainder on his bare head, a hint of sweat-salt trickling onto his tongue.
Don Busco knelt alongside him and splashed water on his face. The sight of his slender, elegant fingers against his grotesque nose jarred Raúl. Water droplets hung on the tip of this aberration.
Raúl stared. “Do you mind my asking...?”
“What happened to my nose?” the tutor finished, smiling. When Raúl nodded, Don Busco shook out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face dry.
He stood up and faced the cliff, looking off into the distance. “I was twenty, a student at the university. I had been drinking with some new acquaintances. My so-called friends got drunk. And mean.” The memory clouded his eyes. “They took me prisoner and tortured
me. They held a torch to my nose.”
Raúl grimaced.
Don Busco shrugged. “So now you know.”
“I’m sorry,” Raúl said.
“That you asked?”
“No, that it happened.”
Don Busco nodded. “It is the past. No sense lamenting it. I have a good life now among friends.” He smiled.
Raúl admired him more than ever.
Glancing at the setting sun, the older man said, “Let’s hope the king arrives soon, or we may have to turn back and miss his cavalry.”
They rode their horses gingerly down a steep rock cliff face. A bugle sound gave Raúl pause. Around the bend where the mountain met the valley, a cloud of dust appeared, followed by a huge crowd of people, horses and carriages.
Don Busco smiled. “The king is here.” He spurred on his white horse, slow-picking his way down the mountainside. “Do you see the flag? It’s the royal family’s.”
Raúl’s pulse leaped with excitement. He hurried his chestnut gelding along, confident in his sure footing despite the loose rock. Together, the two men crossed the meadow and waited by the side of the dirt road for the parade to come abreast.
Drummers led the way, followed by three buglers. Behind them marched hundreds of people on foot and in carriages, a lively contingent of bounding hounds and even cages full of birds. Raúl assumed the king’s carriage to be the one in the middle, largest and stateliest of all, with a colorful festoon of flags. Horsemen attended it on both sides. A hound broke rank and loped over to Raúl. A soldier called, and it circled back.
Suddenly, the caravan came to a halt, punctuated by a sour bugle note. The reason for the disruption soon became obvious; the flock of sheep Raúl had seen earlier blocked the road. A soldier on horseback detached himself from the group and rode up to the shepherd. Raúl couldn’t hear their exchange. The shepherd shrugged and gestured towards the sheep, which numbered in the dozens. Like a bolt of lightning, the soldier swung off his saddle and knocked the shepherd to the ground.
Raúl threw down his reins. He hadn’t brought his sword; they hadn’t done any fencing on this trail ride. Reaching over, he grabbed Don Busco’s by the hilt and unsheathed it.
