The Sheep Walker's Daughter

by Sydney Avey

  “There was no time for him to talk Leora into leaving with him, hardly time to even explain what had happened. Dolores and I had just had our first birthdays; we were still babies. Leora panicked. She told him she could not possibly provide for two of us by herself. He told her that Iban would help her care for us if she stayed in Bakersfield until she could make arrangements to travel to Spain, but she wouldn’t agree to stay. They decided to split us up. Alonso would take me back to Spain, where he had family to help, and Leora said she would take Dolores to her aunt in Los Angeles. Only she didn’t. She went to San Francisco and got a job where she traveled. It was years before Iban discovered where she’d taken my sister.”

  “How could she do that?” The grandmother I loved so much could not be so selfish and cruel.

  “They were very young, Valerie. They didn’t know each other very well. My father told me that Leora felt she’d made a mistake in tying herself to a man who’d only ever walked sheep on a trail and had no real prospects. He had promised her he would work a different job and save money and they would leave the desert.”

  I walk around the desk, pull out Esteve’s big leather chair and fall into it. “What has your life been like?”

  “My life has been good. My father was always grateful that your grandmother let him take me back with him. He loved me very much. My grandparents helped him raise me. I stayed with them during the months that he walked the sheep. Before he died, he made good on his promise to Leora, that I would not be a shepherd’s daughter.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He purchased his own herd of Latxa sheep and a small farmhouse. We made Roncal cheese and sold it to the neighbors. After the war, my cousins sold the cheese to small grocery stores and restaurants, even to some restaurants in San Sebastián and Barcelona.” She laughed. “We became quite famous for our cheese.”

  “But you’re an artist.”

  “Yes, there was enough money for me to go to art school. I did sketches for our cheese labels long before we were in production. My father encouraged me to use my talent.”

  “My mother went to art school too.”

  “I know. And speaking of that, I will admit that I came here today to meet my niece, but we do have work to do.”

  “But there is so much more I want to know! How do you know so much about us, and we know nothing about you?”

  “Patience, Valerie. Let’s choose the art for your book cover. We will have plenty of time to talk later.”

  We move to the wide window ledge and turn our attention to her sketches. She has represented my theme well. I choose a drawing of two horses separated from their herd. Alaya has sketched the horses in bas-relief to the landscape behind them and placed them in the lower right corner of the scene. The older horse appears to be attentive to a changing season. A wind catches his mane. He stands guard over a smaller horse reclining in the grass.

  “Tell me about these horses.”

  “In our Basque language, we call them Pottoks. They are an ancient breed of pony with small, stocky bodies and large heads, very shy and apt to travel in small herds. The interesting thing about them is that they can predict the weather. When they feel bad weather coming, they break into small groups and move into the valleys. They reunite with the larger herd in the spring. In that way, they adapt to the changes in our climate. We believe they have lived in this region for centuries.”

  “I’ve seen this picture somewhere before.”

  “I’m not surprised. I sketched it from a postcard. It’s a famous image that I’ve played with a bit. Perfect for your story, don’t you think?”

  As my story is all about shifting winds and separation, these horses are perfect.

  Esteve has stayed out of his office to allow us time to talk, but now he must get some work done before it’s time to join his family for dinner around ten PM. I’m still not used to long breaks during the day and the late-night meals. Alaya is conferring with Esteve about our choice. Her other sketches are also quite good. There is one of a flock of Latxa sheep walking a trail to the high country, with one ram looking back. Soulful brown eyes peer intensely out of a dark face framed by curling horns set off by white wool. He is staring into a horizon that is behind the viewer. But it’s the drawing of the horses weathering separation with the hope of return that best captures my theme.

  Alaya turns to me. “Would you like to come out to the farmhouse later this week? I’d like to introduce you to my husband and my children.”

  Knowing that Gibert has rounds, Esteve offers me the use of his car. My heart soars even as my stomach flip- flops. My work here is almost finished and I have decisions to make. What will I say to my mother? I don’t want to be the one to tell her she has a twin sister who is alive and well. How will she feel about me if she finds out that I guessed she had not been an only child and then made up a story about it that turned out to be nearly true? Now I have to ask myself, how do I feel about having done that? Guilt eats at me as if I were a child who has spun elaborate stories to entertain her friends and then been caught by the truth.

  What about Alaya? Apparently she’s always known about having a twin, but she’s never done anything about it. That’s got to be as bad as what I’ve done. I’ve always hated secrets and here I am, caught in the mother of all secrets. Of course, this is not my only deception. Gibert doesn’t know about Peter and Peter doesn’t know about Gibert, so that’s another decision I have to make. Do people keep secrets because they can’t make decisions?

  13 — Valerie, Etxea

  H Valerie I

  13

  Etxea

  T he farmhouse is nothing like I expected. I pictured Alaya living in a house about the size of Lita’s bungalow in Los Altos. Instead, the house is an imposing two-story caserío vasco with an open trellis of oak beams separated by brick and stone that looks out at the barns and sheds that dot the property. The outbuildings are spare of ornamentation save for iron fittings and carved corbels that give the compound the look of something old adapted for modern use. This is a working farm reminiscent of a watercolor I once saw where expansive grazing pastures and an apple orchard washed across a canvas. Where the apples fell, industry sprouted in many different forms.

  Alaya is out the door and down the porch steps almost before I get out of the car. Along with a tour of the grounds, I get a lesson in history, ecology, and economics. Standing in the empty lambing barn, she explains that the sheep are still in the high country. They will come back in the late fall and the lambs will be born in December and brought to tables in the spring. The herd is mostly dairy sheep; she shows me stacks of cheese rounds aging on shelves in another building, and an apple-cider operation in yet another building.

  Inside the house, she introduces me to her husband, Elazar. He sits at a large plank table in the kitchen with papers and record books spread before him. We chat easily in Spanish about the house. He tells me that the farm belongs to Alaya’s family and that the original house, built four hundred years ago, has been renovated many times to accommodate changes in fashion and use. He has just finished the latest renovation, bringing light through new windows into what was once a dark interior.

  We leave Elazar to his paperwork, and Alaya settles me in the living room. She retrieves a large leather album from her desk and sets it in my lap with all the ceremony of a collector presenting an eager bibliophile with a cherished first edition.

  “You know, twins run in families,” she says, as I begin to leaf through the pages of photographs. “So I was not surprised when Domeka and Danel were born. They are ten years younger than you are, Valerie. Elazar and I married late and then we waited to have children. The boys are fifteen now. They’re in school today, but they’ll be home later so you can meet them.”

  Alaya goes to the kitchen while I leaf through the lives of these cousins I never knew I had. When she returns with two glasses of apple cider, I ask her why my grandfather never returned to the United States to look for his wife and
daughter. Alaya gives me a history lesson instead of a satisfying answer.

  “We Basques have a long history of exile and return. You discovered that when you researched your book. The Inquisition, the civil war, the world wars—we’ve always had to balance the preservation of our land and our culture with surviving the times. My father talked often of returning to America, but the decision was taken away from him. The American government came to feel that they had let too many Basque sheepherders into the country, and so they closed the doors to us.”

  Alaya paces. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. “Your book struck such a chord with me—exile and return. My boys were born right after the civil war, when the country was recovering from economic disaster. Some of the children who had been exiled for their safety returned to us. Others never did.”

  She folds her arms across her body in what strikes me as a protective gesture.

  The emerging truth is competing with all the stories chattering in my head—my Lita and her Alonso; Alonso and Iban, the fictional sisters in my novel who I modeled after the real sisters Dolores and Alaya. There is so much I still don’t understand, but the history Alaya offers is as good a place as any to begin sorting it all out. “But you stayed here through all that?”

  “Yes. Even though the divided sympathies in Spain threatened us, we decided to stay on our farm. We survived the war the same way you did, because it wasn’t fought on our land. My father died peacefully in his bed. He died in the land he loved.” Alaya walks to the window and looks out over the vast landscape.

  It’s quite an empire he left her. “Why did your father go to the United States in the first place then?”

  I set the photo album aside.

  Alaya turns to face me. “I think in the United States there was much growth and opportunity.”

  Alaya takes a seat in a straight-back chair across from me and I have a déjà vu moment. An image of my straight-backed mother flashes into my mind, contrasting with my shorter and rounder figure. Slouched comfortably among the sofa pillows, I don’t even try to match Alaya’s posture.

  “That is what attracted Iban and Alonso to your country. Here, we live as we always have, with political unrest that threatens us constantly. But it is a situation we understand. I think that Iban adapted well to his new country. He came to understand it and he profited from it. But Alonso was better suited to the rural life, where people travel ancient paths to desolate places and back again to rejoin the family.”

  This rolls around in my head for a moment. “He couldn’t have done that in California? The Central Valley is pretty rural.”

  “No, Valerie. Here—the home, etxea—is the place we always come back to. Here, when we fight to keep our land, we fight a neighbor we know. In America, you fight people you don’t know to keep your land. New industries destroy old paths before most people have a chance to adapt.

  “In America, sheep herds number in the thousands, but most herders have no stake in the sheep or the land. Some who work for the boss make enough money to return to etxea. Others decide to stay. America is the land of opportunity for many. Here, fewer prosper, but those who do have a wealth in their land and culture that is not easily taken from them.”

  If only I had met Alaya before I finished my book. Will Esteve will allow me one more pass through the manuscript before it’s released to the printer? Alaya is caught up in her story.

  “My father had no love for the high country, but the months he spent up there gave him time to devise new ways of profiting from our land. The cheese and cider operations were his ideas. He turned the herding operation over to our cousins and we all benefited.”

  Something still sits wrong with me. “But how could he have left my mother and my grandmother like he did and never tried to see them again?”

  Alaya sighs. She is silent, gathering her thoughts. “Valerie, I have asked myself that question. I don’t have an answer. I think the real question you want to ask is why I have lived knowing that I have a twin sister and done nothing about it.”

  “Yes, that’s my question.”

  Alaya remains seated in her beautifully rigid posture, as if she were a ballet dancer waiting for a musical cue to set her in motion. “I made a decision to follow the path that Alonso and Leora set. I could see no good that would come from disrupting your lives. My father was a disruption in your grandmother’s life. She made a new life for your mother and herself. My father returned with me to an old way of life. It was their decision. What right did I have to change things?”

  That sounds logical, but I still don’t like it. “Well then, why did you arrange to meet me? The cat’s out of the bag now.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “You mean you aren’t willing to let my mother know about you, but you are willing to let me tell her?”

  “Valerie, I don’t mean to upset you. I’m not willing anything here. I was assigned to do the cover for your book. I recognized your name. I read your book and I could tell you knew something about our history. Then Esteve told me you were coming to Spain and suggested a meeting. I decided I wanted to meet you.”

  “What do you expect the outcome will be?” “I don’t know.”

  I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. The face reflected in the mirror above the sink is not a happy face. What did I expect the outcome of this weekend would be? I thought it was all about getting answers to my questions. I never thought about what I’d have to do with the answers. I run water in the sink and splash it on my face. The best thing to do might be to stop asking questions. As quick as that thought forms in my head, another question banners across my brain.

  I walk back out to the living room where Alaya is gathering our empty cider glasses. She’s not looking happy either.

  “Aunt Alaya, you haven’t asked about Leora, your mother.”

  She lays the tray down and retakes her seat. Tears well up in her eyes, but just as quickly as they come, she turns them off. She is so like my mother.

  “All I know about my mother is from letters Iban wrote and a few stories my father told. I know that she got a government job. I know that she never remarried, that she traveled a lot and that she raised your mother in many different cities. And I knew about you.” She locks on to my eyes with her deep cocoa-colored eyes so characteristic of Basque people. I get goose bumps.

  “My father always spoke kindly of her. He told me that she was pretty and fun, but that she was determined to get a bigger piece of the pie than most first-generation immigrants have a right to expect. He said that she was very ambitious and that he was wrong to marry her.”

  Alaya looks away. “You tell me about your grandmother.”

  Before I have time to think of what to say, the heavy front door flies open and the room is filled with noise. My teenage cousins roll into the room like half-grown sheepdogs on a tear. They introduce themselves, one speaking in Spanish, the other in English. This seems to be a game they’ve concocted and they are delighted with my ability to keep up with the thrust and parry. Their father appears at the entrance to the living room and gives them some instruction in still another language, Euskara I assume.

  “We don’t mean to be rude.” Danel addresses me while throwing a punch at his brother.

  “We are very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Domeka ignores the assault and delivers a princely bow.

  “We are very happy to have a girl cousin!” Danel grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. The boys lead me outdoors where they demonstrate their prowess at handball against the side of the cider house. It is a welcome diversion.

  Alaya announces dinner. The conversation around the table is about the boys’ school activities and the sports they enjoy. They ask me questions about California. They want to know if I’ve ever met John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, or Elvis Presley. I try to explain how big California is and that the stars live in the southern part of the state while I live in the north.

  After dinner, the boys have chores and homewor
k to do. What it would have been like to grow up with brothers or sisters? I pose this question to Alaya over coffee.

  “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like to have grown up with a sister?”

  “Yes, of course—especially when Papi was away for months. Papi told me about Dolores after I found one of Iban’s letters. He told me that God gave him two girls, identical, like dolls cut from folded paper. He said that God split us apart because He wanted one of us to grow up in the old country and one of us to grow up in the new country. We would meet someday, he said, and find the best of both worlds in each other.

  “I often wondered what it would be like to grow up in a big city like Dolores did. When I went to art school in Barcelona, it was a bit like experiencing two versions of myself. I have always imagined the life Dolores lived compared with my life. I imagined her content in her world, as I have been in mine.”

  “My mother was less content than you imagined.” These words slip out. It is a discussion I don’t want to invite, so I ask her, “You never wanted to meet her?”

  “It didn’t seem possible. She was a shadow of a life I was born to but not destined to live.” Alaya rose from the table and carried our coffee cups to the sink. Over her shoulder, she said in a low voice, “Papi gave your grandmother her choice, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother chose to keep Dolores and send me away.”

  Back in my apartment in Barcelona, the awfulness of what Alaya has told me weighs heavy on my mind. It doesn’t fit my memory of the grandmother who loved me so much. Alaya is so matter-of-fact about what happened, so unconcerned about setting things right. She doesn’t seem bitter, but there is a cold edge to her— except when her sons are present. She does seem pleased at how they respond to me, and I to them. Before I left, they made me promise I would write to them and send them photographs of California.