by Aiken, Joan
After more hours of travel, descending the northern slopes of the mountains, we came to the village of Los Nogales, where the escort was again exchanged for another set of soldiers. Nogales was a pleasant little place, half buried in chestnut woods, with a brawling river—but little of it could be seen, for the hour was now very late, and all the houses were dark, excepting the posada, where the new guard awaited us. Pedro was for spending the rest of the night here, but I said, "Come! Surely we can make shift to keep awake until daybreak. By now we must be little more than seven leagues from Villaverde; let us press on."
"Ay," said Pedro doubtfully, "but the road from Becerrea is little more than a track—"
"Well, let us make a try, at all events." Now that we were so close to home, I was wild with impatience to finish the journey.
So at Becerrea we left our companions, who all shouted a friendly farewell, and turned northeast off the main carretera.
Happily for us, the mist had thinned as we descended the mountain, and there was moonlight to guide us on our way down a narrow valley beside yet another foaming torrent. We must follow this valley to where it was joined by a second, then turn southeast up that one; the cart tracks in this region follow the valleys; only sheep tracks cross the mountain ridges.
At a little village called Navia we had to make the turn, but here Pedro said apologetically, "I must rest awhile, Señor Felix. My eyes keep closing. And my poor beast keeps stumbling. An hour's sleep will see me fit to finish the journey."
"Vaya. Sleep then. My mule can do with a rest, too. I'll keep watch—I'm too restless for sleep."
Navia was too small to boast even the meanest albergue. But there was a farmyard with an open shed where, amid a thin litter of last year's hay, two scrawny cows were stabled. In half a minute Pedro had fed some of the hay to the mules and scraped himself a pile of it on which to cast himself down.
Far from sleep myself, I sat down upon another truss, elbows on knees, and listened to the peaceful sound of our tethered mules munching the stale fodder. Poor things, they had traveled more than twenty leagues at a spanking pace; they deserved a better meal. If the farmer showed himself early enough, we could ask if he had barley or oats.
The great stars paled and sparkled overhead, the mountain ridges on either side of the valley showed blacker as the eastern sky began to lighten. But down here, in the valley bottom, it was still pitch dark when I began to hear the shod hooves of two horses come rapping along the road from Becerrea.
My mind had been rambling vaguely over many subjects—Juana, shut away in her French convent; my grandfather and his friendship with Rafael Riego, the Liberal leader; the story of King Oedipus that I had been reading; the gold treasure lost during General Moore's retreat; the brigands who infest these mountains, and indeed all of Spain; my tutor saying in a resigned tone, when I asked him what could help Spain, "Time alone is the cure. Maybe in a hundred years..." A hundred years is a long time, a very long time ... I thought, beginning to nod off, but the sound of the hooves brought me full awake, all in a minute.
I could just see the two mounts, with their riders, pass the entrance to our yard; they were little more than shadows, but I caught the gleam of a stirrup and heard the clink of a bit. They did not pause, but rode quietly on their way.
I touched Pedro's arm, and he was awake in a moment.
"Psst! Two riders have just gone past!"
"Maladetta! Did you see their faces?"
"No, it was too dark. But, more important, they did not see us."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"How can we make use of that?" Pedro fell silent, gnawing his lip in thought.
The farmers pair of heifers had been lowing for some time, clamoring to be milked, and the man himself now made his appearance, yawning and surly—but was appeased when we gave him a cuarto for the use of his fodder, and told him that we were on our way to Villaverde. Everybody for miles around knew of my grandfather and respected his name. Pedro asked the man if he had any idea who the two travelers could be that had passed so secretly in the dead of night. Did people often pass through Navia at such an hour?
"No: It was probably friars," he said, scowling. "Friars are the cause of all the miseries in this wretched land. Until a few years back they had a monastery, up there on the mountain. It is empty now, but they still come around to claim rents and rob us poor farmers of half our income. They travel at all hours and mind everyone's business but their own." He would have gone on much longer, grumbling about the friars, but we cut him short by asking if there was another way that would take us to Villaverde, besides the road along which the horsemen had gone.
There did exist a track, he told us, up over the shoulder of the mountain; but we would have to walk the first part of the way, leading our mules, "It is far too dangerous to be ridden—you or your beasts would be certain to fall down the mountain."
After reflecting a moment, he added, "For another cuarto I will put you on your path, if you don't mind waiting till I have milked my cattle. I wouldn't mind a chance to see those night travelers for myself. The track is a shortcut although so steep, and will take us over a height from which we can look down and see them winding their way along the valley road."
This offer was agreeable to us, so we waited, and he gave us a drink of warm milk. Then, the milking finished, he led us along a steep zigzag path which climbed straight up from the valley and over a wooded shoulder of the mountain. We would never have been able to find it for ourselves, even in the dawn light which was now creeping over the hilltop, for it was hardly more than a rabbit track, scarcely visible, save to one who knew it well.
By and by we were out in the open, on bald scrubby hillside, and paused a moment to get our breath. The farmer would not permit us to wait longer. "We must make haste," said he, "or those fellows will have turned the corner of the road and we shan't be able to see them," leading us onward along the threadlike track at such a pace that both we and the mules were hard put to it to keep up with him. The path, as he had warned, was horribly unsafe, since it crossed a bare steep shoulder of mountain which was formed of loose shale that crumbled and slid away under our feet and our mules' hooves. We had to move with infinite care, studying every foothold. After some half hour of this perilous and unpleasant progress, the farmer let out a triumphant cry.
"There are the pigs, down below. I see them! Ay, they are most certainly friars—just look at their black cloaks."
With extreme caution, I lifted my eyes from the pathway and looked down the hillside where he pointed. As he had promised, up here we commanded a view of the cart road, which, a hundred feet below, wound its way along beside the river in the bottom of the valley. And there, sure enough, were two riders who looked, from so far above, like mete beetles creeping along the road.
"Bueno!" said the farmer. "God certainly sent you two gentlemen to tell me about those wretches. They shall do no more harm in this world." And, with care fill deliberation, he pulled a largish rock, about the size of a melon, from a spot below the path and, before we realized what he intended, tossed it downward onto the hillside above the two unwitting travelers.
What followed was terrifying, almost unbelievable to behold. The rock, thrown down onto that slope of unstable scree, started a spurt of small stones cascading down, which in a matter of seconds increased to a huge pouring cataract of rubble, deadly and unstoppable. Alerted by its roaring sound, the two travelers looked up and, terrified, spurred their horses—but they were far too late. There was no escape for them. In moments both they and their beasts were completely engulfed in a smoking torrent of earth and rock that covered the road entirely and poured on into the river below.
"Merciful God, man—what have you done?" I cried. "You have murdered those two men—who, for all we know to the contrary, may have been two perfectly harmless, innocent wayfarers!"
"Not they!" he said with satisfaction. "Did you not see their black cloaks? They were friars for sure."
"But others besides friars wear black cloaks!"
"If they were not friars, what were they doing, sneaking about in the middle of the night like brigands?"
"Well, but we were traveling at night, and we are not brigands."
"I know you are honest folk," he said, "for you are going to the house of the Conde de Cabezada at Villaverde; everybody knows that the Conde is a good and just administrator. My niece works in his dairy and says the old ladies are holy angels. Here I will bid you good-bye, señores; you cannot go wrong now the sun has risen. Keep southeast, with the sun on your left, cross two ridges, and you will see Villaverde straight ahead."
So, picking his way carefully past us, he took himself off homeward.
We too continued, tiptoeing along the track as if we were walking on razor blades. Our beasts snorted and shivered, no happier than ourselves. However, another half-hour's inching, cautious advance brought us to the end of this frightfully dangerous portion of the path, and we were able to stop, wipe our sweat-soaked brows, and fondle our mules, likewise sweat-soaked and trembling.
"Well," said Pedro in a devil-may-care voice—though I could see from his pallor that he was as shaken as myself—"I daresay we shall never know who those two men were. But—as the farmer said—they were probably up to no good. And they may very well have been on our trail. If they had found out that we traveled with the grand post, they must have guessed that we'd take the road from Becerrea."
"I suppose so."
I could say no more. Already, in my short life, I had witnessed a number of deaths—these were wild and heartless times—but the calm, callous way in which the farmer had tossed that rock and dispatched those two into the next world, neither knowing nor caring if they deserved such an end, had left me shaken to the marrow.
For a long way we rode in silence. Now the risen sun warmed us and dried' the shaggy coats of our beasts; birds began to sing, mountain larks, and I smelled a hint of smoke from a homestead in the valley below. A great eagle floated past us, on nine-foot wings.
Another two ridges crossed and, as the man had promised, we could see, ahead on the farthest height, the town wall of Villaverde, like a scroll of rock, gilded with morning light, encircling the houses within.
Pedro gave a great yawn.
"Your grandpa will have been up for hours," said he. "Looking for us all over the landscape with his spyglass. And I can eat every crumb of the breakfast my aunt Prudencia will have prepared."
2. I return home and hear heartwarming news from a convent in Bilbao; Pedro and I prepare for another journey; strange tidings of Sancho the Spy
It was a great joy to be with my grandfather again. Every time I left him, I had a secret dread that it might be for the last time, that I might never see him again, for he was very frail these days, thin, wrinkled, and veined as a withered leaf, and his hair, which during my childhood had been iron gray, thick and burnished, had since turned to frosty white and was growing very scanty. At each of our partings I put up a silent prayer to God that we would be permitted to meet again; and so far God had been indulgent to me. But, this morning, I noticed with grief the thinness and pallor of the Conde's face, seamed now with many new wrinkles, and the tremor in his hands as he held them up to embrace me.
His dark eyes were fiery as ever, though, and his voice had its accustomed dryness.
"Good heavens, my dear grandson! Here have I been praying for the last three years that you might be returned to me safe, and the Almighty has listened so favorably to my petitions that He has granted them twice over. You have doubled in size!"
"Why, yes, Grandfather—I—I suppose I have grown. I never gave it any thought."
"The air of Salamanca must be healthy," he said as I stooped to kiss his brow.
"And I am glad to see you looking well, dear Grandfather."
This was not really true, but he sniffed, waved a dismissive hand, and let it pass.
"How extremely fortunate," he said, "that your grandmother and great-aunts are still asleep in their beds. They lie long, these days, the old señoras. We can discuss our affairs before they all come cawing and pecking about you."
"I shall be glad to do so, sir."
"You were a good boy to make such admirable speed. And so was Pedro. Both good boys—"
At this moment Gaspar, the majordomo, brought in a great breakfast for me—we were in my grandfather's library, with the parrot, Assistenta, clambering about the bookshelves as was her habit—so the Conde waited until he had withdrawn.
"Eat, my boy—help yourself to chocolate and churros—you must be half starved if you have been riding all night."
"How about you, sir?"
"Half a cup of chocolate—no more. I eat sparingly these days."
"Now, sir," I said, when he was served. "Do, please, tell me what the matter is, for I am dying of suspense. Is it some trouble? Government business? Does it relate to the Liberal party? To politics?"
The Conde shook his head.
"Not exactly. Yes and no. Trouble there is, yes, but it relates to your friends rather than to mine."
"My friends?"
"Your help has been requested."
I was running my mind through the small tale of my friends, trying to think who could have asked for my help—the millers family in San Antonio, the English sailor, Sam, married to the blacksmith's daughter at Llanes, the priest in Santillana?
Suddenly a notion, burning and improbable, flashed like a comet across my mind.
"Who has asked for my help, sir?"
My grandfather had the most elaborate wheelchair, constructed out of oak, steel, and damask. It was equipped with a hinged writing desk, a side table, a lamp, and a mirror. He now pulled forward the writing desk and searched methodically among the neatly piled papers, each pile tied with a differently colored thread of silk.
"I have had a letter," he said, finding a packet tied with a blue thread and selecting a paper from its contents. He put on a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles and peered through them. "A letter from a con- › vent—
"A convent? In Bayonne?" My heart shot up and lodged in my windpipe.
My grandfather squinted at me over the top of his spectacles.
"Bayonne? No, in Bilbao."
My heart sank down again.
"Bilbao? I—I believe that I know nobody in Bilbao."
"I had better read you the letter," said my grandfather. "It is from the Reverend Mother at El Convento de la Encarnacion, Bilbao." He cleared his throat. "Ahem! 'Esteemed Señor: It is with the most humble apologies and the deepest diffidence that I take the liberty of approaching your gracious self, and I would hardly venture to do so if the matter were not one of life and death.'"
"Life and death!" I gasped.
"Humph." My grandfather again looked at me over his glasses, then resumed reading. "'One of the novices in our sister convent of Notre Dame de Douleur, in Bayonne—'"
"Ah!"
"'—in Bayonne, Sister Felicita, has been appealed to by a female relative of hers who is in extreme distress. The name of this female relative is Doña Conchita de la Trava y Escaroz. You may recall the name of her husband, Don Manuel de Morales de la Trava, who was consigned to prison in Barcelona last year for expressing revolutionary and antiroyalist opinions of the most disgraceful nature.'"
"Did he do so, Grandfather?" I asked, partly to quell the frantic beating of my heart.
"It depends upon your own views as to whether you consider his disgraceful," replied the Conde, pursing his upper lip. "I certainly knew of Manuel de la Trava, and that he had been imprisoned." He continued reading. '"Upon the imprisonment of Don Manuel, Doña Conchita, whose political opinions are of the most exemplary nature, was obliged to sever all connection with her husband. She retired to live with relatives here in Bilbao, accompanied by her three children, who are all under the age of nine. But last month, her renegade and ruffianly husband succeeded in escaping from Montjuich prison in Barcelona, where he had been
incarcerated, and then managed to abduct the three little ones from their mother's care. He has absconded with them to some cave or ruin in the vicinity of Jaca, where his family formerly owned property. He has written a letter to his poor wife declaring that he will never give up the children, but will sooner put an end to his existence, and theirs too.'"
"Good heavens!"
"'Doña de la Trava, who has the deepest and most devoted attachment to her children, is, consequently, in terrible distress. She wrote appealing for help to her cousin, Sister Felicita (in the world formerly known as Señorita Juana Esparza).'"
"I wonder why she did that," I said thoughtfully.
It was true that Juana had been a most resourceful and redoubtable girl—none knew that better than I—but how, from her convent, could she possibly assist in the rescue of those unlucky children from some cave in Aragon?
Grandfather continued reading: "'It appears that, for a portion of her life, Sister Felicita had the care of these young ones, knew them well, and was sincerely attached to them. Mère Madeleine, the Superior of the Convent in Bayonne, therefore gave her permission for Sister Felicita to travel from Bayonne to our House in Bilbao, where she is at present, in order that she might discuss the situation with her cousin, Doña de la Trava, and give advice.'
"Conchita de la Trava," remarked my grandfather, pausing at this point and again looking at me over his glasses, "before her marriage was Conchita Escaroz, daughter of one of the richest mine owners in Bilbao."
Grandfather always knew about families, who had married whom.
