by Babs Horton
He could not bear being alone in the room a moment longer. He moved the chair, opened the door and came face to face with a grinning Brother Anselm.
The Old Pilgrim, sleeping soundly on the floor of a shepherd’s hut, was woken by the sound of a gunshot. He sat bolt upright, the noise reverberating inside the hut, struggled to his feet, opened the door and peered outside. The night was dark, heavy clouds were drifting across the moon. Ahead of him the monastery of Santa Eulalia was a black silhouette against a star-blown sky, wisps of mist drifting up above the turrets.
He put on his hat, pulled his cloak tightly about his body and set off across the mountainside.
The monastery was in darkness except for one window where a light burned brightly. The Old Pilgrim stood still and contemplated the sight before him in wonder. A figure came into view in the lighted window. He drew in his breath, watched as a larger figure approached the smaller one…
Then there was just blackness where the arc of light had been.
A second gunshot reverberated round the mountainside.
Hunters, no doubt out on the prowl under cover of darkness. The Old Pilgrim made his way back to the shepherd’s hut, found his wine sack, took a long draught and sat for some time deep in thought.
This was the first time that he’d been up to these parts and seen the monastery of Santa Eulalia and yet he’d seen almost the same view of the monastery somewhere before. It was an uncanny feeling which sent his mind scurrying back over the past to more than twenty years ago.
He smiled now as he remembered the early light reflecting off the River Seine, the sound of the Parisian boatmen calling out to each other, the smell of oil paint and turpentine and French cigarette smoke strong on the morning air. On an ancient stove milk bubbled in a saucepan and the aroma of freshly made coffee escaped from the spout of a red enamel pot. The crumbs of croissants and bread were scattered on the table, a smear of jam on a white plate. A child singing enthusiastically as he pretended to wash up on the deck.
After he had landed in Spain all those years ago he had holed himself up in Camiga as he had contemplated the enormity of what had happened to him. Then he had been overcome with the urge to move, to keep on moving and never stop. Thus he had made his way slowly up through the Pyrenees and on through France.
He’d spent a while in Paris that first winter, working in the anonymity of noisy kitchens in large hotels or waiting tables in back street inns. Then a stroke of luck had come his way. He’d heard that an artist who lived on a barge moored on the Seine was looking for a general dogsbody to do some cooking and child-minding.
For six months he’d enjoyed a blissful existence living on the barge called the Sequana. Everything had been a new experience for him. He’d shopped for the first time in his life, going each morning to the busy markets to buy meat and vegetables. He’d bought second-hand recipe books and a French dictionary, struck up conversations with housewives in street cafes, learned their language and culinary secrets. Then in the evening he’d cooked in the galley kitchen and the three of them had eaten together.
At other times he’d explored Paris with the irrepressible grandson of his employer, the ten-year-old Raffy. And, somehow, being with Raffy had softened the grief he had felt at the loss of that other child. Raffy was a sweet-natured but impulsive little chap, swift to get into mischief but quick to say sorry.
His employer, Federico, had risen early each day and painted in the mornings when the light was right and the weather clement. He was secretive with his work, never allowing anyone even a glimpse until he was finished.
Each afternoon he moved his canvas and easel back into a small cabin at the back of the boat where the Old Pilgrim and Raffy were forbidden to look.
Then one afternoon as he and Raffy had sat up on deck, a string of expletives in several languages rent the air. Raffy had jumped up with fright guilt stamped indelibly across his small face.
Federico came roaring on to the deck, his face suffused with anger. He’d lunged at Raffy, scooped him up and dangled him headfirst over the side of the barge…
Later he had taken the Old Pilgrim down below and shown him his grandson’s handiwork.
That was the first glimpse before tonight that he had had of the monastery of Santa Eulalia. Just like tonight he’d seen the monastery silhouetted against the sky, one window illuminated.
Pointing to the window, Federico began to see the funny side of things. He began to laugh. And, oh, such a laugh he had. A swell of laughter in the belly, a wave bursting through his chest, breaking out through his mouth, stopping passers-by in their tracks, sending the cat scuttling for cover…
“Look what he has done!” Federico guffawed.
The Old Pilgrim had looked nervously at the painting. Raffy had taken a brush and painted in a small boy in the lighted window, a small boy looking up at the stars.
“I say to him, Raffy, you have ruined my work, and he looks at me so perplexed. But, Grandpapa, he says, this is such a beautiful place, wouldn’t you want me to go there too? And he’s right, he shall go there.”
“Where is this place?” he’d asked Federico.
“Ah, this is my secret place, the place of my dreams. You must go there one day, savour its peace.”
And then, before Federico could reveal the name of the place, all peace had been shattered as two gendarmes boarded the boat to break the news that Raffy’s parents had been killed in an avalanche.
Soon afterwards Federico had shut up the barge and he and Raffy had moved on together, wrapped up in their grief. The Old Pilgrim had lost contact with them after a few years. He had always remembered them fondly, though, they were a part of his good times, a part of his healing.
He knew that Federico had died about fifteen years ago, because he’d read a report about it in a French newspaper. He was quite a celebrity by then and was making enormous amounts of money. Good luck to him too, he’d richly deserved his success. He’d never heard any news of little Raffy, though. He’d be about thirty by now; he hoped that life had treated him well.
The Old Pilgrim dragged himself reluctantly back to the present and knowing now that sleep would not come easily he packed away his few belongings in his knapsack and left the hut.
He made his way laboriously across the mountain, the dew seeping swiftly up through his broken boots. Eventually he came to a track that led up the mountain towards the monastery. When he reached the top he turned and looked back down the valley. It was a fantastically beautiful place, almost surreal in its lofty splendour.
He walked quietly into a cobbled courtyard where an unseen dog announced his arrival enthusiastically. He was sorely tempted to ring the bell because for once the thought of a comfortable bed and a monastery breakfast were very appealing, but he didn’t yet feel ready for company, so he stepped up his pace, left the courtyard and set off on a track that led over the mountain.
He walked for some time but clouds were banking and soon the moon was hidden and it became unsafe to continue. He sat down on a mound to wait for the moon’s reappearance before he went on his way.
When the moon eventually reappeared, he looked about him and smiled. He had wandered off the track and now found himself in a small graveyard. All round him were wooden crosses, stark and strangely beautiful in the moonlight. He cast his eyes over the ones nearest to him.
BROTHER ALOYSIUS 1889-1943
BROTHER PEDRO 1910-1939
There in the midst of the wooden crosses was a stone headstone that looked most incongruous and foreign among the simple hand-carved crosses. He approached it with trepidation, stooping as he got closer so that he could read the short inscription.
He read the words slowly, disbelief growing by the second.
Good God! It was most extraordinary. He must be hallucinating, have wandered maybe into a madman’s dream. Slowly he traced the indented letters of the name before him with his finger. Then he threw back his head and his wild laughter rang out across the mountains
.
Father Daley, Brother Bernardo and Brother Francisco had reached the spot on the mule track just below the hamlet when the first shot rang out. The three men stood together in petrified silence trying to work out where the noise had come from when they had heard a muffled shout further up the track.
“This way!” Brother Bernardo yelled and set off with Father Daley and Brother Francisco on his heels.
As they reached the Blue Madonna they saw Nancy Carmichael lying on the ground at the feet of the statue. Her eyes were closed, her face an unearthly shade of white in the darkness. They looked in horror at a dark-red stain growing wider by the second across the bodice of her starched white blouse. A man was stooped over her and as they approached he looked up at them in alarm.
“Hell’s teeth! Jesus and all the saints! What the fuck have you done to her?” shouted Father Daley, and he lunged at the man.
In the confusion that followed, Father Daley threw several fierce but badly timed punches. The man punched Father Daley only the once but rendered him unconscious and changed the shape of his nose for ever.
As Father Daley lay prostrate, a benign smile spreading across his face, the man turned to Brother Bernardo and spoke.
“Brother Bernardo, we must get help quickly. We must carry her to my house, fetch Brother Tomas to look at her. Maybe even send for the doctor from Los Olivares.”
“What happened, Rosendo?”
“I don’t know, one minute we were walking together and the next, BANG!”
Brother Anselm stood in the doorway looking across the room at Padraig. Padraig looked steadfastly back, trying not to seem afraid; but he knew from the way his eyes were stretching and his chin was wobbling that he wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
There was a quivering dewdrop on the end of Brother Anselm’s hooked nose. He was dribbling profusely like a baby cutting new teeth. His rotten teeth were bared in a terrifying grimace. In his gnarled hands a shotgun wobbled dangerously.
Brother Anselm took a step closer to Padraig and the boy backed away. He knew that there was no escape except out through the arched window behind him. If he leaped out of the window he would fall to his death, tumbling over and over and smashing himself to bits on the rocky track below.
The old monk began to mutter, and frothy spit filled up the corners of his mouth like a rabid dog. His red-rimmed eyes bored into Padraig.
Brother Anselm took another step forward.
“I am very clever man. See, I make them think I have run off with gun. I shoot at the woman. Really, though, it’s you that I want to shoot.”
“What woman?” Padraig said in a voice that was little more than the croak of a dying frog.
“Don’t play the games with me. I know why you come. You and that mother of yours.”
Jesus, he’d gone and shot Nancy. He was a lunatic. Nancy hadn’t done anything to hurt him.
“I haven’t come to play games, honest to God, and I don’t have a mother.”
“You come to take back my treasures. Looking everywhere, sniffing about…”
“I don’t want the statue, if that’s what you mean. I was just interested to know where it is, that’s all, you can keep it.”
Brother Anselm shuffled closer.
Padraig stepped backwards knowing that soon nothing would separate the two of them except the gun.
A moth fluttered gaily in through the window and flew straight towards the wavering candle flame. Padraig bit his lip. There was a hiss, hot wax dripped down the candle and on to the holder. The moth flapped away into a corner, wings flailing helplessly.
Brother Anselm’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he pointed the gun directly at Padraig.
Padraig knew that he was at the mercy of a lunatic and he didn’t know what the feck to say to calm him.
Suddenly his gaze was drawn to a movement out in the corridor. He swallowed hard. Please God, he thought, I must be dreaming. Let me wake up…
Standing out there in the corridor was the shrivelled-up old man from the fresco, except that he wasn’t naked but dressed, or rather wrapped, in a multitude of threadbare rags and there was no fork of lightning above his head. He was standing very still just beyond the doorway, his finger pressed tightly to his lips.
Padraig looked back at Brother Anselm. He was so close now that Padraig could feel his hot fetid breath on his own face, could hear the rattle of his groaning chest He smelled stale piss and papery old skin.
Padraig pressed his back up against the window and felt the night air cool on the back of his neck riffling his newly grown hair.
Someone had told him once that hair kept on growing after a body was dead. And sometimes dead people farted and the force of the fart made them sit up on the mortuary slab with a satisfied grin on their chalky white faces. And that sent mortuary attendants skittering away jibbering with fright.
Oh, Jesus, he was afraid; he wanted his mammy, he wanted Sister Immaculata to hold him tight, Nancy Carmichael to stroke his head…
Brother Anselm pushed the barrel of the gun into the space between Padraig’s nipples. Nipple was a rude word. Like fanny and tits. Oh God, even in his last moments he was thinking filthy thoughts. He’d go straight to hell…
Then suddenly the rag man stamped his foot and let out a terrible shriek and Brother Anselm turned round in alarm.
There was a sharp exchange of agitated Spanish. Padraig closed his eyes, felt a stream of hot itchy piss shoot down his left leg. The gunshot exploded, plaster flew from the walls and the candle went out.
Rosendo Angeles whistled as he made his way up the track towards the Blue Madonna. He kneeled down at her feet and bowed his head in prayer.
“Most holy, gracious mother, I give thanks to you for answering my prayers. Please God, grant now that the woman you have sent me makes a full recovery.”
He stood up, made the sign of the cross and carried on up the steep path, stooping to gather flowers as he went.
In the infirmary Brother Tomas looked down on the woman sleeping peacefully in the bed. Thank God the bullet had only grazed her shoulder. It was the shock that had affected her most. He had cleaned the wound and dressed it, given her a sleeping draught. Now a good long sleep and she should awake refreshed, if a bit sore.
Brother Tomas made his way across to the window and looked sadly down the valley. Soon they would have to leave the monastery and five hundred years of history would come to an end. Then he saw Rosendo making his way eagerly up the track carrying a bunch of freshly picked flowers. He smiled. So the Blue Madonna had finally rewarded his patient supplications to her over the years. Why, Brother Tomas had rarely seen such a lovesick chap.
How odd that Rosendo should wait all these years and then suddenly a pilgrim turns up out of the blue and steals his heart. Ah, the world was a strange old place all right.
Alone in the chapel Brother Francisco bowed his head in prayer and gave thanks that the two pilgrims had been spared. It was a miracle that the woman and boy had not been killed. Why the hell had Brother Anselm done it? What had two strangers done to make him so violent?
They hadn’t got much sense out of the boy last night. He’d been a jibbering wreck when they’d found him, almost delirious with terror. Father Daley had translated what the boy had said about Brother Anselm trying to shoot him and how a rag man from the olden times had saved him. There was no doubt that someone had saved him, though, because he was alone when they found him cowering on the floor, but they’d also found a raving Brother Anselm tied securely to the bed in his own room.
Maybe the news that Isabella had not left the monastery to the monks had finally unhinged him. After all, Santa Eulalia had been a large part of his life. And now he was going to end his days locked up in an asylum.
Rosendo Angeles sat at the side of the bed and watched Nancy Carmichael as she slept. He took her hand in his own, stroked it gently and watched the sleepy smile transform her features. God, she was beautiful. He smiled to himself then as he re
membered that first meeting.
He’d gone up to the stable that morning only to find that Dolores the pig had escaped again. She was like bloody Houdini. The trouble was every time she got out Alfredo set off behind her like a faithful minder.
It was a good job he’d had an inkling Dolores had taken a fancy to a boar that lived further down the valley on an isolated farm. He’d only just got to the river in time, to find Alfredo and Dolores standing on the bank watching the woman thrashing hopelessly in the water.
He’d jumped straight in and pulled her to the bank, a trembling half-drowned woman wearing only her underwear…
As Rosendo watched Nancy Carmichael he was unaware that she was only pretending to sleep. She was enjoying the feel of Rosendo’s warm hand on hers, his comforting presence obliterating the pain in her shoulder, the soft touch of his lips on her cheek.
She let her mind drift back over the past few days. The terror of tumbling into the glistening water. Frantically she had thrashed to the surface, sunk again, surfaced, sunk, surfaced again. Then suddenly she was lifted up, up out of the sparkling, beautiful, terrifying water and laid down on the soft riverbank. An anxious handsome face loomed close to hers. He had given her the kiss of life, little knowing that she didn’t need it. Oh, and what a kiss it had been.
Having swallowed Brother Tomas’s sleeping draught, Padraig had been pulled down deep into a dreamless sleep and woken in the morning heavy headed and calm until he remembered with a rush the events of the night before. He sat up and began to panic but was calmed by a nearby voice. He looked up to see Father Daley looking down at him anxiously.
“Padraig, it’s all right. Calm down, little fellow.”
“Where is he, Father? Put the chair back up against the door quick. Don’t let him in!”
