Song of the Eight Winds - An Epic Tale of Medieval Spain

by Peter Kerr

  Pedrito couldn’t help chuckling to himself. He hadn’t been scolded like this since he was a child, when his mother – his other mother – would do exactly the same thing; jumping to conclusions about his wrong-doing before bothering to establish the facts. It was a typical motherly thing, he’d concluded back then, and he automatically reacted in the same way now – by telling the truth.

  ‘No, I came by her fair and square,’ he said, hitching the goat to a tree.

  ‘But she’s just given birth,’ Farah came back. ‘I can see that from here, so where’s her kid?’

  Well, that had been the downside and the upside of the situation, Pedrito began. He had noticed some sheep and goats grazing freely on the hillsides by Génova hamlet on their way up here the other day. They were obviously animals that had escaped when the retreating and advancing armies wrecked their enclosures. So, his thinking today had been that it would be worth his while having a snoop around that area, in the hope of finding a stray nanny goat that could do with a good home.

  ‘That would still have been stealing,’ Farah objected.

  ‘Not if I was doing the goat a good turn,’ Pedrito replied.

  Farah looked at him suspiciously. ‘How can anyone do a goat a good turn? You’d have been doing her owner a good turn if you’d left her for him to find.’

  Pedrito stole a glance at Saleema, who was standing behind Farah and doing her best not to giggle.

  ‘But who’s to say her owner is still alive?’ he reasoned. ‘I mean, many of the farmers around that part would have been killed by the Christian soldiers. Either that, or they’d have taken to the mountains until this war blows over. Anyway, it seemed plain to me that this particular goat needed to be taken care of, and that’s what I did.’

  ‘And her kid?’ Farah quizzed. ‘You surely didn’t leave it behind to fend for itself.’

  The young goat, Pedrito explained, had just given birth when he came upon her on the edge of a clearing in the pine woods. Her kid, however, had been still-born. ‘She was licking it and speaking to it and nudging it when I arrived on the scene. In a really desperate state, she was. You know how it is with animals.’

  Pedrito noticed Saleema’s chin quivering, the smile suddenly gone from her face.

  ‘The poor creatures just don’t understand what’s happened,’ Pedrito continued, ‘especially when the young one’s their first.’

  Farah lowered her eyes and murmured, ‘Young mums and their babies. Even Mother Nature can be cruel.’

  ‘All the more reason for us to be good to this little lady,’ said Pedrito, scratching the top of the goat’s head. ‘And she’ll be good to you in return. I mean,’ he laughed, trying to lighten up the atmosphere a bit, ‘just think of all the excellent almond soup you’ll be able to make now!’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Farah sighed, ‘I think we may have more tasty things to make with it than that, if we’re spared.’ She shuffled forward, cupped her hand under the goat’s chin and looked down at its upturned face. ‘You may have sad eyes, habib, but they’re kindly eyes, and we’ll soon have them looking happy again as well, never you fear.’

  Saleema came over and joined in the fuss-making. ‘Yes, we’ll be good to you, little one,’ she told the goat, before ribbing Farah about why she had called it habib. ‘You already call me your darling, so how will I know who you’re speaking to if you give the goat the same name?’

  ‘A good point,’ Farah agreed. She thought for a moment, still looking into the goat’s eyes, then said, ‘We had a goat just like you when I was a child down there by Génova. She was called Annam, which means “Heaven’s Blessing”, and I think it could turn out to be a blessing for you and for us, little lady, that we’ve found each other today. So, your name will be Annam from now on. How does that suit you, eh?’

  The goat replied with what sounded like an approving bleat.

  ‘That’s decided, then,’ Farah laughed. She tickled the goat’s chin, then turned to Saleema. ‘And I think she deserves some of my bread as a welcoming present, don’t you? So, off you go and fetch her a little piece from the cave.’ She watched Saleema go, then said to Pedrito, ‘She’s very young and, at times, it shows. You know, a little bit giggly. On occasions, even a little bit weepy, especially when she thinks of her family. But she’s a wonderful girl, with a good heart and a lovely, giving nature. And a prettier little princess would be hard to find anywhere.’ She looked directly at Pedrito’s face. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  Caught off guard, Pedrito cleared his throat. ‘Well, ehm, yes, I suppose – now you come to mention it…’

  Farah smiled her customary knowing smile. ‘Hmm, and she’ll make a fine wife for some lucky fellow one day … when all these troubles are over.’

  Pedrito was stuck for words.

  Farah, however, had plenty more to say. ‘And you know, Pedrito, she talks about you all the time.’

  Pedrito cleared his throat again.

  Farah patted his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. I see how you look at each other, and I think it’s safe to say you think about her as much as she talks about you, eh?’

  Pedrito tried, unsuccessfully, to stem the rush of blood to his cheeks.

  Farah laughed. ‘I’m a wicked woman for teasing you like that. But I just want you to know that what I see in you both makes me very, very happy. Yes, I think finding the little goat today wasn’t the only blessing that heaven has sent me of late.’

  Pedrito felt a lump rise in his throat.

  ‘Now, come on,’ said Farah, linking an arm with his, ‘– help me over to the cave. I have a meal to prepare for us. Oh, and incidentally, I can promise you it won’t be almond soup!’

  *

  The culinary dividend paid by the years Farah had spent making the most of next-to-nothing in her humble kasbah shack was evident the moment Saleema laid the steaming dish on her improvised stone table. Pedrito hadn’t paid too much attention to the random mix of grains, vegetables, bones and meat off-cuts that one of the cooks had bundled into Tranquilla’s saddle bags back at El Real, but he knew that, whatever they were, they would amount to nothing more sumptuous than the ingredients that went into the dull daily rations dished up to the rank-and-file Christian soldiers. And he didn’t bother to ask Farah what the swiftly garnered supplies had comprised either. The toothsome aroma drifting up from that dish said more than he could put into words, so to ask for details of the constituents from its creator would have been inappropriate – as well as a waste of precious time. Pedrito couldn’t wait to taste this mouthwatering concoction.

  ‘Herbs,’ was what Faraha said on noticing Pedrito lick his lips. ‘Herbs and wild setta mushrooms. They’re free to collect in the woods, and they’re the secret of a good stew.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Some country things learned in your childhood you never forget.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Saleema chirped. ‘I used to gather herbs with my mother too.’ For a fleeting moment her face fell, then she assumed her cheery manner again. ‘That’s why I knew which herbs to pick when Farah and I went looking.’ She gave a nod of appreciation in Farah’s direction. ‘I’ve had to rely on your mother to tell me which mushrooms aren’t poisonous, though. My memory isn’t as good as hers, it seems.’

  ‘Not bad for an old woman who’s been living in the city for most of her life,’ said Farah with a little self-cogratulatory smirk.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Pedrito agreed, while eagerly eyeing the helping of stew that Saleema was spooning into his bowl. ‘Not many herbs growing inside Medîna Mayûrqa, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Farah. ‘And herbs are the least of it. There are gardens and orchards aplenty within the walls of the city, where water abounds and they grow things more exotic than most country folk have ever seen.’ She shook her head pensively. ‘Yes, and to think I had all of those things on a silver plate whenever I wanted them. For a while anyway.’ She shrugged her s
houlders and smiled resignedly. ‘But once I arrived in the kasbah, I had to learn to make what I could of the left-overs I found on the quayside after the markets had closed for the day. And that usually included a bunch of herbs and a few setta mushrooms – wilted, admittedly, but good enough to put a bit of taste into a simple stew.’ She gestured towards Pedrito’s bowl. ‘And the proof is in the eating, as they say.’

  ‘I used to say that the smell of newly-baked bread reminded me of home,’ Pedrito revealed after downing his first mouthful, ‘but I have to confess that the smell of this stew coming out of the cave had me thinking twice. Mmm, and now that I’ve sampled the taste … well, I think I’ll have to change my way of thinking.’

  ‘And you haven’t even tasted my bread yet!’ Farah quipped, motioning towards the loaf Saleema had brought to the table earlier.

  ‘No,’ said Pedrito, ‘but if the look on the goat’s face when she did is anything to go by, I’m in for a treat.’

  Saleema tore a wedge off the loaf and passed it to him.

  ‘Dip that into your gravy,’ Farah urged, ‘and you’ll think you’ve arrived in heaven.’

  Pedrito smacked his lips, then, looking at Farah and Saleema in turn, said, ‘Well, I think I’ve certainly arrived home, and if heaven turns out to be any better than this, then we’re all in for a treat.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, although it’s the first time I’ve been compared to a bowl of stew!’ Saleema laughed.

  Farah, conversely, had covered her lips with her hand, tears welling in her eyes at Pedrito’s mention of having come home. He let her know with a little nod and a smile that he understood how this had touched her.

  And so the meal continued amid increasingly convivial conversation, the three participants becoming more relaxed in each other’s company as time went by; bonds, although markedly different in substance, being fostered gradually between Pedrito and the two women.

  The makeshift table round which they were sitting was bathed in the warm glow of sunshine reflected by the adjacent cliff face, the foliage of the broken rows of olive and almond trees casting porous shadows over the ochre soil beyond. Indeed, Pedrito thought, there could be many more unpleasant places than this to have referred to as home. For, despite its remoteness and dearth of recognisable comforts, it was an eyrie of peace perched only a few miles away from a city being ravaged by the violence of war.

  Another paradox that had struck Pedrito on arriving here today was how clean and tidy Farah and Saleema had managed to keep themselves while living as rough as they’d been obliged to of late. Cleanliness was, of course, a trait of Muslim people in general, and its evidence had been a feature of Farah’s humble dwelling back inside the city. Although even Saleema’s fine silk robe was now showing some signs of the harsh treatment it had been subjected to since her escape from the Almudaina Palace, it was just as spotless, though no more so than Farah’s mantle of rags. Pedrito felt like a tramp in comparison – a fact that he knew wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by his two pristine companions.

  The ever-candid Farah confirmed this after they had finished their meal. ‘Does your Christian king approve of the members of his household being so grubby?’ she said, tugging at the front of Pedrito’s shirt. ‘You look as if you’ve been rolling around in a ditch.’

  Pedrito realised instantly that he would have been taken aback, if not highly affronted, by such frankness coming from anyone other than his… He paused to reassess his thoughts. But yes, his initial reaction had been right; the only person who would have said this to him without fear of his taking umbrage was his mother. As she’d done on a few earlier occasions, Farah was indeed treating him in the way any mother would. And her gibe about rolling around in a ditch was just for starters!

  ‘What’s more, my lad, the old horse that brought you here smells better than you do!’

  Pedrito let out a silly laugh, then cast Saleema an apologetic look. What could he say? After all, Farah was only telling the truth.

  ‘Ehm, well, I – I was actually in a ditch,’ he stammered. ‘But not rolling around. I was – well, I was actually helping to build a she cat.’ Another involuntary little laugh escaped his mouth as he became aware of just how feeble (and nonsensical) that excuse must have sounded.

  ‘Spare us the details,’ Farah retorted. She pulled at his shirt front again. ‘Now, get those filthy clothes off right away!’

  ‘Off?’ Pedrito glanced at Saleema again, this time his expression a curious blend of embarrassment and entreaty. ‘But I can’t. I mean, I haven’t got anything else to –’

  ‘You can wrap one of the horse blankets around you,’ Farah cut in. ‘You should feel at home in that. Now, go and strip off inside the cave. Then give me your clothes to wash. They’ll soon dry in the sun if we lay them out against the cliff here.’

  By this time, Saleema was in a fit of giggles, which, for some inexplicable reason, prompted Pedrito to start sniggering himself.

  ‘You’re worse than a pair of infants,’ Farah chided, though not without allowing herself a discreet smile. ‘And once you’ve taken your clothes off,’ she said to Pedrito, ‘you can fill Lucky the donkey’s bucket with some clean water and give yourself a good scrub too.’

  Ten minutes later, Pedrito emerged from the cave wearing a blanket toga-style. His teeth were chattering. ‘I don’t know about that water in there being the sweetest ever, but it’s certainly the coldest.’ He pointed to his arms. ‘Look at my skin. I’m like a plucked goose!’

  ‘Better a plucked one than a dirty one,’ said Farah, who was still seated at the stone table. ‘And you’ll soon warm up if you sit for a while in the sunshine here.’

  Pedrito was carrying his grubby clothes in a bundle under his arm. ‘And it’s all right,’ he said to Farah, ‘I’ll, uh – I’ll wash these myself once I’ve thawed out.’

  ‘No you won’t!’ Saleema declared. She stepped forward and snatched his shirt and pantalons from him. ‘My mother always said men are no good at washing clothes. It takes a woman’s touch.’

  Looking distinctly ill at ease, Pedrito tried to grab the clothes back. ‘No, no, it’s all right, honestly. I’m used to seeing to my own clothes. Five years as a galley slave and all that.’

  ‘Yes, and they look as if it’s been five years since they were last washed,’ Farah countered. ‘Leave it to Saleema. She’ll heat up some water on the fire and do the job properly.’

  ‘No, really, I’d rather do it myself,’ Pedrito protested, gamely, but in vain.

  Saleema had already skipped past him, laughing delightedly as she headed for the entrance to the cave. ‘And don’t worry,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I used to help my mother wash my father’s clothes, so I’m not easily put off.’

  Farah, with a roguish smile, gave Pedrito a ‘what have you got to say about that?’ kind of look.

  Pedrito knew when he was beaten. ‘There are certain things a fellow likes to keep private,’ he sighed, ‘and the maintenance of his pantalons is one of them.’

  Chuckling to herself, Farah patted the rock she was sitting on. ‘Come and sit beside me and let the sun get rid of those goose pimples of yours.’ But no sooner had Pedrito done as invited than Farah let out a squeal. ‘Look!’ she gasped, her eyes on sticks. ‘There, bounding this way through the trees! Some sort of weird black sheep! Except – except I’ve never seen a sheep with a dead hen in its mouth before!’

  Pedrito burst out laughing. ‘It’s only Nedi – no need to worry.’

  Farah grabbed his wrist. ‘Nedi? What’s a … Nedi?’

  ‘It’s short for Nedador, the Catalan word for “swimmer”. He’s a water dog, you see.’

  ‘A dog! And a black one as well!’ Farah shuddered. ‘As children, we were always told such a creature is the devil incarnate.’

  Pedrito laughed again. He pointed behind his ear. ‘Yes, and this little mark of the cross was supposed to make me the devil’s child, don’t forget.’ He then pointed to the
top of his head. ‘And can you see any horns sprouting here?’ Pedrito tousled Nedi’s mop of hair as he came to a panting halt by his side. ‘And you won’t find any horns hidden in here either.’

  At that, Nedi dropped the dead hen in front of Farah. He gazed up at her, grinning breathlessly, his tongue dangling from one side of his mouth in that endearingly gormless-looking way of his.

  ‘He’s brought you a gift,’ said Pedrito. ‘Surely that deserves at least a pat on the head.’

  Farah did as suggested, though a mite gingerly at first. ‘But whose dog is it, and where did he come from all of a sudden?’

  Pedrito explained that Nedi belonged to the Christian king, but was actually something of a free spirit who tended to do whatever appealed to him at any given time. ‘And this is the second time he’s followed me in this way. Keeps himself out of sight until it suits him, though.’ He tickled Nedi’s ears. ‘Probably got a whiff of that excellent stew while you were busy chasing some poor farmer’s hens, boy, right?’

  Nedi dipped his head, nudged the hen onto Farah’s foot with his nose, then looked up at her again – appealingly this time.

  Farah’s initial apprehension melted. ‘Who could resist a look like that?’ she smiled, giving Nedi’s head a ruffle. ‘A black dog who brings me a gift of food. Hmm, I think you’re probably more of an angel in disguise than a devil, Nedi.’ She looked at Pedrito, a frown of genuine concern creasing her brow. ‘But he’ll be killed if he’s seen on his jaunts by any Muslims who hold strictly to the teachings – especially if they find out he’s a Christian.’

  Pedrito laughed out loud, then hooked his arm round Nedi’s neck and hugged him. ‘Nedi’s not a Christian, are you, boy? Or anything, for that matter. No, you’re a true child of heaven – everybody’s friend, like all dogs, given a chance. Yes, and it’s just a pity us humans are too stupid to learn from you.’

  Nedi gave Pedrito’s face a big slobbering lick.

  Farah’s eyes misted over again as she watched this unbridled show of affection. ‘Not even the finest poets in the land could compose a verse to better that,’ she murmured, then stroked Nedi’s head. ‘Who needs words, little one? Yes, who needs words, eh?’