by Allen, Jewel
“No, Raúl.” The fencing instructor’s hand snaked out and grabbed his arm.
“I know how to fight with the sword,” Raúl said, but he couldn’t shake off the grip.
“It’s not your fight.”
Raúl pointed towards the soldier. “He struck him!”
“You’re right, but still.” Don Busco let him go and extended his hand. “Give me back my sword.”
Raúl refused to meet his tutor’s gaze. The shepherd still sat on the ground.
“Mira,” Don Busco urged him to look his way. “If you attack that soldier, the others will descend upon you in no time. If you’re lucky you will only be injured. If you die, no one will ask questions or inquire. Except your grieving parents, of course.”
Raúl took a labored breath, then muttered, “You taught me to use this sword. And now you’re telling me not to?”
“The skill of using the sword is only secondary to knowing when to use it.”
The fight slowly left Raúl’s body, and he took two long deep breaths before handing the weapon back. He blinked away tears of frustration and cast a pained glance towards the confrontation. The shepherd got on his feet and the sheep moved away from the road. The soldier who attacked the shepherd rode back alongside the king’s carriage.
As the carriage passed Raúl, a thin-faced man with a bulbous nose and serene smile stuck his head out the window and raised a hand. His face was shockingly brown, like a common farmer’s.
Could that truly be the king? It must be, as Don Busco dismounted and bowed.
If Raúl hadn’t been so upset, he’d have had the presence of mind to immediately get off the horse, too. By the time he got off the horse, it was too late. The king had retreated back into the carriage, and the soldier who struck the shepherd was riding within line of his vision.
Why, the soldier looked young, probably not too much older than Raúl. His dark hair was shorn short and a paltry mustache only served to emphasize his youth. Their glances locked. Raúl, to his shame, looked away first. As Raúl glanced back, the man smirked. For one brief moment, Raúl wished he had wielded the sword, to wipe the soldier’s smug expression off his face.
Don Busco mounted his horse. “Let’s head home, shall we?”
Raúl tried to think of a sarcastic rejoinder, but finding none, remained silent. In his heart, he vowed, someday, I will not be the soldier the citizens are afraid of.
Raúl rode home tight-lipped. By the time they arrived in Cheverra after dark, he had a pulsating headache. It didn’t help that a storm was rolling in and the wind whipped his cloak around his head. Broken tree branches flew past, spooking Raúl’s horse. The air felt wet and cold, warning of impending rain. He couldn’t wait to get inside, away from this foul weather. Letting his horse find the way home, he kept his head lowered.
Don Busco reigned his horse. “Looks like you have visitors.”
Snapping out of his foul mood, Raúl looked up. Dozens of horsemen with torches circled the house.
“Do you think your father’s back?” Don Busco asked.
“I don’t think so,” Raúl said. “It usually takes him a good week to come and go from this merchant fair.”
As they got closer, Raúl saw riders in rags on poorly bred nags. A bad feeling descended upon him. The visitors made him think of a pack of wolves circling the house. One of them swiveled on his horse and bore down on them with a torch. The approaching rider yanked his horse to a stop.
His torch light illuminated his face.
That face looked even dingier than before. Definitely uglier. As he grinned, the rider revealed tobacco-stained teeth. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Samonte the bandit said.
15
The ropes cut into Raúl’s wrist as Gargoyle pulled the knots tight and forced him to the ground with his knee. “Didn’t think you’d see me again, did you?” Gargoyle taunted.
At least half a dozen men surrounded Don Busco. One or another got kicked and punched, but they overpowered him.
Gargoyle yanked Raúl by the hair, then gagged him with a filthy piece of rag. The men dragged the tutor one way across the courtyard, while Gargoyle dragged Raúl another way, towards the house. His body rattled over stepping stones, near horses’ hooves. Bandits kicked him as they carried paintings and other valuables into carts.
Mama! Where was she? And Julio?
He had to get away from Gargoyle. But the ropes held fast and Samonte’s minion just kept dragging him towards the house, over the threshold, across the cold stone floor. Then it was on to the great hall and into the kitchen.
Upturned chairs and tables, food scraps, flour, sugar, smashed bottles, dust and clumps of mud covered the floor. Raúl glimpsed Cook’s work boots, relief washing over him. Cook shuffled his feet, then stopped at Gargoyle’s threat: “Get out of this room, now. Or I’ll shoot you.”
Cook choked back a sob, then fled.
Gargoyle heaved open something nearby. The cellar door. Raúl’s heart thudded wildly. Against his gag, he made noises from his throat. Gargoyle eyed him with distaste but loosened the rag.
“Where are you taking me?” Raúl asked.
“You’re too much trouble,” Gargoyle said, spitting tobacco juice on the floor. “Samonte told me to stuff you somewhere where you wouldn’t get in our way.”
How Raúl wished Don Busco was with him. They could fight these men together.
“Take me back to my family,” Raúl said.
“What, so you can escape? I’d just as soon shoot you now.”
A man’s voice came from the doorway. “The boy is right. He should be with his family.”
Gargoyle frowned. “Who are you?”
“Father Zamora,” Raúl murmured, feeling light with relief.
“I am the family confessor,” the priest said, walking over to Raúl. “I came as I usually do, at Angelus time. I saw you drag this boy, then met a hysterical cook in the hall.” He glanced at the open cellar door. “It looks like I got here in time.”
Gargoyle scowled. “Well, ain’t it great. You’re right. Got here just in time.” He grabbed the priest who did not put up a fight and tied his wrists and ankles together. Down the gaping dark mouth of the cellar hole, Gargoyle shoved the priest, then Raúl.
16
“That was awfully nice of you, Father Zamora,” Raúl said, “to keep me company.”
They sat next to each other on top of a pile of potatoes in the dank cellar. As Raúl’s eyes adjusted, he could make out a faint sliver of light above, presumably the door outline. It was a long ways from where the pair sat.
“I can’t tell if you’re serious or not,” Father Zamora said.
“Partially serious.” Raúl managed to smile. “No, really. Thank you for trying to come to help me.”
“How could I abandon you? That man was up to no good.”
Despite their dire situation, Raúl felt his spirits lift. The dank cold permeated his thin shirt, but he felt warm inside. Hopeful. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble, too, Father.”
“Not a problem at all.”
“We’ll get out of here, Father Zamora, so you can give our family your blessing.”
“I can do that right now, if you want.”
Raúl hesitated. A blessing? Why not? Normally, Raúl only prayed with Mama, when she gathered everyone for Angelus or to say the rosary. Any help, especially of the divine kind, would be welcome right now. “Go ahead, Father.”
“Padre Nuestro,” Father Zamora began, in his low baritone voice. “Hear our prayer. We have a house full of bad men who would do bad things to this good family. Please soften their hearts and deliver us from evil. Amen.”
“That was a short prayer,” Raúl said, surprised.
“God would want us to go ahead and act.”
“A wise God. I wish it wasn’t so dark in here.”
Raúl tried to wiggle out of his bindings. No such luck. “This darkness reminds me of sunset in the Philippines. As soon as the sun goes down the
horizon, you cannot see anything.”
“It sounds like an interesting place. Why did you leave?”
The priest was quiet for a long moment. “I was accused of murdering a man.”
Murder!
“You, of all people, Father Zamora?” Raúl said. “I cannot believe that.”
“Ah, I’m glad you have such faith in me. I didn’t really want to leave, but some people made my life...difficult. I was sad to leave. The Philippines is a beautiful place with beautiful people. They have good hearts. Just as I am sad to leave Cheverra for Madrid.”
“You are leaving Cheverra?”
“I have been assigned a transfer to Madrid. God willing.”
“Instead you’re stuck in this cellar with me.” Raúl squared his shoulders. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He worried about Mama and Julio. Let’s see. We don’t have a light, but if I remember correctly, there are potatoes in the middle. Onions in the corner. At the opposite end, there are empty barrels of olive oil.” His voice rose. “Barrels. That’s it. We can stack them so we can reach the cellar door.”
“But first, we need to get out of our ropes,” Father Zamora said. “Soon, may I add? Smell that?”
Raúl caught a whiff of smoke. The house was on fire!
17
Father Zamora broke into a coughing fit. The sound reverberated in the tiny space. The priest sounded terrible.
“Are you all right, Father?” Raúl asked.
“Yes.” More coughing. “I’m fine.”
They had to get out. With the smoke, Raúl couldn’t tell where the door crack was. Taking a deep breath, he rolled onto his knees. He bent his legs and got himself into a kneeling position.
Time to stand up.
But he couldn’t do it. Not with his ankles tied together. He shifted his knees and grimaced as he squashed a rancid potato, releasing a moldy smell.
He considered this new development. The potato pulp was soft, wet, slippery. He twisted his body and threw himself against the potatoes. Pain shot through his shoulder, leaving him gasping.
More smoke filled his lungs. He and Father Zamora now coughed like braying donkeys.
Where was the rotten potato?
Raúl moved around, trying to block out the pain in his shoulder, and felt the pile of slime against his arm. Raising his body, he rubbed his wrists back and forth against the pulp.
Please work.
Raúl paused, winded. His shoulder burned. He rolled to his side and strained against the rope, which was now soaked with rotten potato.
The knots were still tight as ever.
He tried it again. No change. And again.
The smoke thickened. Raúl kept his face down, hoping that would help and it did, just a little. Father Zamora breathed laboriously. God, Raúl prayed, please don’t let the priest die.
To his amazement, the rope around his wrists slackened. With renewed energy and a few twists, Raúl wriggled one hand out of the rope, then freed the other. Getting down into a sitting position, he undid the rope around his ankles. Then he worked on Father Zamora’s ropes.
“Thank you,” the priest rasped out.
“You can thank me when we get out of here, Father.”
Another cloud of smoke engulfed Raúl’s face, burning his airways. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He got on his feet, lifted his arm and tried to reach the cellar door. No such luck. He jumped, but his fingers only felt air. Too high. Once again, he launched himself upwards, grazing wood. As he landed on the potato-littered floor, his ankle buckled under.
Cáspita, not his ankle, too. “Stupid cellar,” he muttered, throwing a potato with all his might against the door. It made a dull, thudding noise, indicating that the door was not too far.
“Father Zamora,” he said, ”if I hoist you up, will you push on the door?”
“I...cough...I can try.”
Raúl lifted the priest on his shoulders. Father Zamora felt frail and unsteady as he coughed and balanced on Raúl. “Something must be blocking the door,” he said. “It won’t budge.”
As he set the priest back down, Raúl’s hopes plummeted. Desperate thoughts went through his mind.
How were Mama and Julio faring above?
He stepped back, rolled his ankle on potatoes, and came crashing down onto something made of wood.
The barrels.
He reached out and felt around. He found six barrels and hefted them into a stack of steps. As he set his weight on one, then the next, the barrels shook.
“Father Zamora,” he said, “can you please hold on to these?”
“Steady, young man,” Father Zamora said. “I’ve got you.”
Reaching up, Raúl heaved his arms back and pounded the cellar door with all his might, nearly losing his balance. The door budged, just a little, but not enough. He pounded again. The crack widened by an inch. Smoke poured in and choked Raúl, making his eyes water and throat constrict. He lunged up once again, throwing all his weight against the door.
The door slid open wider. The smoke got thicker. Gasping gave his lungs no reprieve. They burned. He warded off the smoke with his arm, ineffectually, then squirmed up the opening.
Just a little longer, then go outside.
He slid the door open further, then bent down to reach for Father Zamora. “Come on, Father Zamora,” he said.
“I can’t,” came the feeble reply. “Just...just leave me.”
“Don’t give up now! I’ll pull you up.”
No response.
“Father Zamora!”
A frail hand grasped his. Raúl tightened his grip and pulled. The priest hung on. Raúl got him out and both collapsed. Raúl grabbed the priest and carried him to the kitchen door, then the main entrance.
Fresh air. Glorious fresh air.
And rain. Big drops pelted Raúl’s face. But he was alive, and he didn’t mind. Father Zamora lay on his side, coughing, but he was alive, too.
The drops turned to sheets. Through the rain, Raúl saw the bandits pulling their wagons out of the courtyard.
The sniveling cowards.
He should confront them, but he remembered the house. Smoke billowed out the school room window. He needed to rescue Mama and Julio.
Raúl got up, staggered into the house and barreled into Mama.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” he said, embracing her. “Where’s Julio?”
“Come,” she said, with a mysterious smile, “to the schoolroom.”
She led him through the hallways of the house, up one story, then another, until they reached the turret which housed the school room. Smoke obstructed his vision, then cleared momentarily.
Julio was fanning smoke from a merry fire in a cauldron.
Mama walked over and patted Julio on the back. “Your brother is smart,” she told Raúl. “He gathered some branches, still wet from recent rains, then burned them.”
“Brilliant,” Raúl said. Then he frowned. “Where is Don Busco?”
Mama bit her lip. “They have him still.”
Raúl ran over to the window, in time to catch a glimpse of Don Busco, tied up, in the back of a horse wagon. “I need to save him,” Raúl murmured.
“You can’t be serious, Raúl?” Mama said.
He was already halfway to the door. “I have to try.”
“Don’t, Raúl,” Mama pleaded. “Wait for Papa.”
“I have to, Mama. I have to try to free him. He’s done so much for me, that’s the least I could do for him. Papa will only talk me out of it, and by then it’ll be too late.” Before she could object further, he ran out.
18
Some pointy object kept jabbing at Raúl’s back as he hid in a wagon full of the bandits’ spoils, covered with canvas. The caravan moved, wheels groaning and struggling to traverse the muddy trail.
The rain had stopped, though the air still felt damp and cool. There was no moon and Raúl was glad. The darkness would serve his purpose well. As he lay on his back, he peeked between gaps in th
e canvas at the blackness of the night sky, dusted by stars. He felt like one of those heavenly objects, just a pinprick of light in a vast universe. How could he even hope to fight off these bandits?
He didn’t need to fight them all off. He just needed to find Don Busco and help him escape. On his lapel, he touched the Turkish sword pin his tutor gave him, like a talisman.
The wagon lurched to a stop. Whatever object was underneath him jabbed him again. He raised his head to see where they were at. They stopped at the edge of a clearing with rocks cropping up to form a natural fortress. Men unhooked horses and led them to a tie up.
Everyone seemed preoccupied with horses, feeding and watering them for the night; he needed to take the chance now.
A footfall made him pause.
For a long, breathless moment, Raúl just lay there half-up, half-down, not daring to move. A shadow fell across him, then away. The footsteps retreated. Raúl lay there for what seemed like a long time. Pushing a painting out of his way, he climbed out of the wagon.
Looking both ways and not seeing anyone, Raúl crouched and made his way to the cluster of trees behind some rocks. He caught his breath and leaned against a rock. His leg hurt. He massaged it, lessening the pain by a slight degree. Rising over a rock, he surveyed the camp.
A campfire blazed in a narrow crevice. The location was brilliant, open above but surrounded by rock on all sides, like an amphitheater. If Raúl didn’t know any better, it could have been just shepherds at the end of a long day’s hard work.
A man laughed. Raúl recognized that coarse laugh: Samonte’s.
Raúl didn’t want to raid the camp or something foolish like that. All he cared about was rescuing his fencing tutor.
He peeked again and studied the camp. About a dozen sat around the fire, while others sat in groups in the shadowed edges, faces he had hoped to forget. A man entered Raúl’s line of vision. He walked to the edge of the fire, hands in his pockets, his expression deep in thought. Raúl would recognize that lean, elegant stance and scarred nose anywhere.
