by Aiken, Joan
"Oh, Father, if only you can budge it, I will plow your land every day for a month."
"Easy, friend, easy! You had better not make any rash promises. Besides," added the priest, smiling, "the last corner of my little bit of land would only take that great beast of yours half a day. But now, let us study the situation. Are there other passages in this cave? Is it possible to get round to the front of the ox?"
Unfortunately there were no other passages. The cave consisted of a single tunnel, threading deep into the hillside. And the ox was plugged well along it, like a cork in the neck of a bottle.
Father Ignacio made his way to the ox's hindquarters—the villagers politely standing aside for him. The passage, quite wide at the mouth, became narrower and narrower, to the point where the ox had become fixed.
"Humph," said Father Ignacio, turning to me (I had followed behind him, carrying his equipment), "this is not going to be so simple."
"What is the plan, Father?" asked Don Manuel, who must have arrived while I was fetching the priest.
"I want to give the ox a fright from the other side, so as to startle it into going backward," explained Father Ignacio, and he said to me, "Do you think you could climb through underneath the ox, my boy? I believe you are the only person here who is small enough to do so. It will not be very pleasant," he added calmly.
I was of the same opinion. There might just be room to squeeze past the animal's legs, but there was considerable risk of being trampled. Also the floor of the passage was slimy and disgusting where the ox had stamped and struggled and slipped all day long and voided its dung in terror and exhaustion.
However, I was not going to show myself a coward in front of these strangers, or Sam, so I said, "I will try, Father."
After all, it was I who had had the idea in the first place, so I supposed it was up to me to carry it out.
"Don Pepe," said Father Ignacio, "have you any means of soothing your beast while the boy crawls under his legs? Can you talk to him? Calm him down? We do not wish the boy to be trampled to death."
"Anything Pepe says to the animal is more likely to put it in fear of its life!" somebody shouted teasingly.
But others called out, "Sing to the ox, Pepe! Sing the song you sing while you plow! Perhaps the ox will go to sleep!"
They all began to sing a slow, rhythmic chant which, it seems, the men of those parts use when they are plowing:
"Walk, buey, walk
Bite, plow, bite,
Carve up my field; turn it into bread!
Walk, buey, walk.
As the knife cuts the loaf,
Carve my red earth into white bread."
Among all the voices I could hear that of Sammy, cheerfully upraised, and then he began to invent new twirls and flourishes to vary the tune—and perhaps to let me know that he hoped I was managing my part of the business without too much fear or difficulty.
Crawling between the legs of that ox was certainly one of the strangest and most disagreeable tasks I have ever undertaken. I would sooner spend twenty hours learning Latin or reading about the martyrdoms of the saints with Father Tomás than go through that again. Although the calm regular sound of the men singing did seem to soothe the ox in some degree, I could tell that it was still very nervous and ready to panic at any new occurrence. I had to creep and squirm, thrusting my way past its bony hocks, expecting every minute that it would pick up a huge cloven hoof and plant it on some part, of my body.
Having wriggled my way past the hind legs, I crouched underneath it and found that the worst part of the task still lay ahead of me, for the front legs were much thicker, and seemed immovably planted in the narrow passageway. When I tried to push and squeeze between them the ox became frightened and bellowed; the sound, coming from directly above me, was like a tremendous clap of thunder.
"Are you making good progress, my son?" called Father Ignacio calmly. He was holding a torch, but its light did not penetrate past the bulk of the ox.
"I am having a little trouble with the front legs, Father," I called back I had one elbow in a patch of mud, and was trying to lever myself past a massive, hairy leg with the other elbow, pulling myself sideways over the rocky, slimy ground like a crippled lizard, and expecting at every moment that the ox, with some hasty fretful movement, would crush me like a slug against the cave wall.
At last, after what seemed hours of pushing and squeezing, but was, in reality, I suppose, about ten minutes, I managed to struggle past its knees, and took a few moments to get back my breath. Beyond the ox, the passage was about four feet wide; it felt like a huge hall, and I stood up, enjoying the sensation of being able to straighten my shoulders and stretch my arms. Then I found the muzzle of the ox in the dark, and gave it a pat, to show that I bore no sense of grievance for all the trouble it had given me.
The poor ox started and snorted at my touch. I passed my hand up its great horns and found that one of the tips appeared to be caught in a narrowing crack.
"You will have to go backward, brother," J told it. "And I'm afraid you don't seem to have the sense to do that."
"Do you have the rope?" called Father Ignacio.
"Yes; it is still tied round my leg," I called back.
"Pull, then!"
I pulled, and presently, with some trouble, managed to drag a leather sack through between the legs of the ox. From this I drew out Father Ignacio's steel and yesca, and was able to light a torch.
"Very good—well done!" called the priest, seeing my light. "Now; go a good way back if you can—we. do not want to hurt the ox! Is the passage quite high?"
"Yes. It is very high," I called, holding the light above my head and looking upward. The roof was almost out of sight. Above me on the sloping walls I was surprised to notice many great pictures of animals—deer and oxen and dogs, and some men carrying bows and arrows—but I was too much occupied with the task in hand to pay any heed to these. I walked back thirty paces or so along the tunnel and then turned to look at the ox—it was now a black bulk at the end of the gallery but I could catch the flash of its great wild eyes in the torchlight.
Jamming the torch into a cranny, I pulled some of Father Ignacio's rockets from the leather bag and lit their fuses. Then I retreated a few more paces and covered my head with my arms. It was as well I did so, for the rockets flew screeching up to the rocky vault above (sounding like demons of the cave) and there burst with the most earsplitting series of bangs that it is possible to imagine—echoes crashed and rattled from end to end of the gallery. Fragments of rock came thundering down, and I was peppered all over with dust and splinters and some larger-sized pieces of stone, and began to wonder if the whole cave would collapse on me.
Amid all this thunderous noise I could hear the ox bellowing, also, but could see nothing, for my candle had been extinguished by dust, and my eyes were full of dust also.
After a few moments I heard the priest call, "Well done, my boy! Are you there? Are you unharmed?"
"Yes, thank you, Father, I am here!" I called back, fumbling to find the sack and the torch. I struck a light and discovered with great satisfaction that the ox was gone from where it had been fixed; our plan had worked exactly as we had hoped.
Making my way gingerly through the fallen fragments, I returned to the mouth of the cave. There, just outside, I saw the whole group of men surrounding the ox—they were patting it and inspecting it, looking for wounds or damage.
At my arrival they fell on me, as they had on the animal, patted me and praised me and asked if it had been very disagreeable crawling under the ox's belly.
"Oh, pooh!" said I. "It was nothing! I could do it three times a day! But still, I should be glad of a bath."
Indeed I was covered with mud and filth, and stank most disgustingly.
So we all returned to the village in a triumphant procession, the men congratulating Pepe, not without a certain amount of mockery.
"Well, Pepe, if your ox should ever chance to wander in there again, you kno
w what to do—just send for Father Ignacio and his rockets."
But Pepe did not even answer; he had his arm over the ox's neck, as if it were a child he had thought lost forever.
Back at the posada I was led into a downstairs room where they washed the linen, and there I stripped off my clothes and climbed into a great earthenware tub full of hot water sweetened with bunches of rosemary. How I reveled in that bath! There had been several moments, under the belly of the ox, when I thought I would never be able to get out of the cave with all my arms and legs still attached to my body, so it was a great pleasure to rinse and soak them in the hot and fragrant water. Two of the maidservants took away my soiled clothes to wash them, and while they were drying I was supplied with a velveteen jerkin and a pair of leather breeches belonging to one of Don Manuel's sons, which were so large that I had to tie the breeches on with a cord.
Then Sam and I were treated to a handsome dinner (for which nobody would allow us to pay a single peseta): meat cooked with tomatoes, and chicory salad, bread sprinkled with salt, and a tart of apples, which grow very plentifully in this region.
All the men of the village appeared to be in the posada, drinking the health of Pepe's ox, and teasing him that he was now bound by his promise to plow Father Ignacio's land every day for a month, whether or not it needed plowing. Don Manuel and his little hunchbacked assistant were kept busy pouring wine for all the customers, and there was a great deal of gaiety.
Pepe, however, once he was assured that his ox was well and had suffered no hurt, soon returned to his original complaint, that the ox would never have been imprisoned in the first place had it not been for Father Ignacio's inconvenient request, and that the whole affair was the priest's fault.
"What an ungrateful scoundrel!" I whispered to Sam.
He shrugged. "Ye can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, lad!"
Father Ignacio had returned to his own house, after inviting Sam and me to breakfast again the following morning before we departed. (We could not go on to Santander that night, for my clothes were still wet.) The temper of the village was now on the priest's side, rather than on that of Pepe, who presently took himself off, grumbling that nobody sympathized with his troubles.
The rest of the men remained in the posada until nearly sunrise, laughing and drinking. Sam and I sang some of our songs, to a most welcoming reception, and then retired, I to dream that I was suffocating inside a jar made of rock and filled with mud.
7. I hear startling news at the convent in Santander; I am angry with Sam; and find a ship
On the following morning, my clothes being dried and returned to me (cleaner, indeed, than they had been since I was given them), we made ready to depart and asked Don Manuel what was to pay. He said, nothing at all, and when we protested, told us that we had brought more custom to his inn last night than he could normally expect in four or five days. Besides, we were friends of his cousin Enrique.
"Come again whenever you wish!" he invited us. Sam therefore agreed to spend a night there on his way back to Llanes from Santander.
This talk of Sam's return made my heart heavy, for it reminded me that our parting was now not far distant. However, there was no profit in dwelling on this sad thought, and so we walked along to the church, where, we were entertained to observe, what must have been every soul in the village had now assembled to watch Father Ignacio setting off his morning rockets for mass.
"Pepe's ox has won me a larger congregation than any of my preachings," he said to us cheerfully, after mass had been celebrated. "But all is corn that comes to God's mill! I hope you are none the worse for your adventure, my boy?"
I said that I was a little stiff, but the ride to Santander would soon put that right.
At breakfast, Father Ignacio asked where we would lodge in Santander, supposing that I could not immediately find a ship that was about to embark for England. This thought cheered me. Perhaps I might have to wait some days, even a week!
We said we had given the matter of accommodation no thought, but would probably find some sailors' lodging house; Sam knew of several. Father Ignacio suggested instead that we stay at a monastery on the outskirts of the town, and he wrote us a note of recommendation to the prior. This reminded me of my promise to the duelist on the mountains above Oviedo. I still had the note he had given me for his stepdaughter in the Convent of the Esclavitud, and I asked Father Ignacio if he knew of its whereabouts.
"To be sure I do, my son; it is not a stone's throw from the monastery."
Having given us instructions how to find them both, he bade us a cordial farewell, saying to Sam, "I shall hope to see you again very soon," and to me, "God watch over you during all your adventures, my son, and give you always as stout a spirit as you showed yesterday."
With which blessing we departed.
Santillana is no great distance from Santander—six leagues at the outside—and we reached the port before noon. What a different scene we found here from the small places we had hitherto visited! Santander seemed greater by far even than Santiago de Compostela, which was the largest town I had seen up to now, and indeed Sam told me that he believed thirty or forty thousand persons dwelt there. The town lies on the edge of the Basque provinces, and the Spanish they speak there is often hard to comprehend, but indeed there is such a mixture of races in the place that you may hear a different language spoken every minute of the day—French, Dutch, Italian, Greek, English, Portuguese, or German. Ships tie up at this port from all over the world, and the buildings along the quayside were more splendid than any I had ever seen. The bay, between hilly headlands, was full of shipping, and I thought that among such a tangle of masts and rigging there must lie a barque that would take me to England. Although sorrowful at the prospect of parting from Sam, I could not help but tingle with excitement at the thought of crossing the sea.
Sam pointed out to me various naval vessels, some large merchant ships, doubtless on their way to the Indies, fishing boats, and small coastal craft, and many more kinds of ship than I could count or name; Sam was easily able to distinguish one from another.
Within our first five minutes on the dockside, moreover, he had encountered several acquaintances from his former life at sea, or as a longshoreman, and exchanged greetings with them in English, French, and Spanish. He talked to them, imparting and receiving news of other messmates, while I stood aside, feeling somewhat excluded.
Now I come to a sad part of my tale. I will not attempt to excuse my conduct, but will simply relate what happened, though it is painful to do so.
After we had met nine or ten of Sam's friends or old shipmates, and I was becoming somewhat restless at all the talk in which I had no part, Sam said to me, "Felix, lad, this 'ud be a rare good time for ye to go on yon errand o' yours to the convent. Then I can have a crack here an' yon wi' my old shipmates, and, come suppertime, 'tis a herring to a half-guinea but I'll ha' nosed out some barque that's about to set sail for Old England. I'll come out to the monastery and meet ye there, ye'll ha' done your business, and that way there's no time wasted."
Of course what he said made sound sense. But I, feeling that this might be our last short space of time together, was terribly reluctant to leave him. Also, I am ashamed to confess it, I was jealous of all these friends of his, these other sailors whom he seemed to know so well, who had been known to him before he ever met me or the Colomas family. True, he made me known to them, he said, "This is my friend Felix, with whom I have traveled from Llanes," but just the same I felt that with these others, these old mates of his, he had shared a life to which I would never belong; and this made me dejected and sore at heart.
I felt younger than all of them—ignorant—out of place—and unwanted.
Standing still, clutching the mule's bridle, I said stubbornly, "Why should I? I don't wish to go to the convent just yet. Why can I not stay with you, so as to see the ships? And then later we can both go to the monastery and I can leave my letter at the convent, for did not F
ather Ignacio say they were close together?"
My voice was surly and ungracious. I blush to admit that I was dangerously near breaking down, at the thought of the parting that might be so close.
Sam looked at me gravely. He had been unusually silent on the road from Santillana, wrapped in his own thoughts; to my surprise, and slight hurt, he had not once today referred to the rescue of Pepe's ox, or commended my part in it. I felt this more keenly because in general none could be quicker than he to mark out the smallest merit and commend it.
Now it struck me that he looked very troubled; almost angry. But he said, mildly enough, "Nay, lad, think. There might be a ship ready to sail on this evening's tide—'twould be a shame if ye were obliged to miss it a cos you'd not yet run your errand. I think it best ye go to the convent now."
"There will be enough time! Let us find the ship first— then I will go to the convent. I would rather stay with you, Sammy."
"And I," he said; he paused, then went on calmly, "I had rather ye went, lad."
At that I burst out in anger.
"You don't wish me to remain with you. Why?"
His friendly ugly face broke into its familiar smile, though his eyes were still grave.
"Why—for a start—ye cannot drag the poor mule along a lot o' catwalks an' gangplanks all around Santander harbor while we hunt for a likely vessel. Might as well stable her out at the monastery and give the poor beast a rest."
This, though reasonable in its way, sounded like a mere pretext to me. I said obstinately, "That is not your real reason for wishing to get rid of me, and you know it! Why don't you tell me the truth?"
Sam gave me a thoughtful look. Then he said, "See here, Felix lad. You and I ha' been rare good messmates, ha'n't we?"
"Yes."
"We've had some handsome times together-making music an' talking—times I've felt like a brother to you, and you to me, I daresay?"
"Yes," I said, swallowing.
"Ye've been gently reared, wi' a mort o' book laming I never had—ye've learned me a power o' things I never knew, nor was like to. But just the same, Felix," Sammy said, and his voice suddenly gripped me, like a rope that is drawn tight, "just the same, I am seven years older than ye be, I've that much start of'ee, and there's things I've learned that ye have not, that ye must take on trust. And if I was your older brother, ye'd have to mind what I say. I think it best ye go to the convent how, Felix, and that's all there is to it. Leave your note for the man's stepdaughter, then stable the mule at the monastery, and bide in the guest chamber there till I come. I wish ye to do that, Felix. I'll not be longer than I can help, I promise ye that."
