Only Sofia-Elisabete

by Robin Kobayashi

  “I ain’t a-going to that shabby-looking place.”

  “There’s grass. You can graze with those goats.”

  “Ya, ya, ya—third-rate grass.” He grumbled because grazing no doubt was his second favorite sport.

  The isolated hamlet seemed to be populated solely by women and children. No men-folk were in sight. Three thick-set girls near my age gathered round the crumbling well, where they dipped melons in the water to cool them.

  “I’m determined to save those girls,” I told Raya.

  “Save them from what? We just need water.”

  But I ignored his panic-stricken bray.

  The girls looked askance at me, the stranger who wore a black hat adorned with rosemary sprigs. One crossed herself five times over; the others raised their hands to avert my evil eye. Calmly, and in a friendly manner, I advised them of my mission, to deliver up the donkey to the padre in Biescas. They had never heard of Biescas. They had never left their hamlet.

  One girl, who shuddered violently, asked if I was a prophetess, because a rambling prophet who visited them years ago predicted an earthquake and the end of mankind and, soon thereafter, the earth shook and everyone got break-bone fever. I assured her that I was a good prophetess, seeing how I was on a mission for a padre. Nodding to each other, the girls offered up their water and melons. Immediately I drank down a goodly amount of water, and Raya got watered. Then we ate some melons, Raya getting his share.

  Using two small sticks, I beat a tap-too on a melon. When I had done showing off, the girls sat before me, agog to hear my predictions. “Shall I marry soon?” asked one. “How many children shall I have?” asked another. The boldest of them wondered, “Will my novio be handsome? Pray let it be so.” They burst into giggles. Prophet-like, I raised my hands to the heavens to quiet them.

  “Freedom! Education! Equality!” My emotional cries startled them. “These are the fortunate things that will come to pass for women. Think on it, my sisters. No more oppression. No more forced marriages. No more beatings.”

  The girls exchanged confused glances with one another, wondering at my tears.

  “No hay peor ciego que el que no quiere ver, says the proverb.” I explained that there is no one more blind than he who will not see. But these girls refused to contemplate what ought to be our natural rights.

  “I want to marry and have children,” said a pouty girl. “Why do I need to read and write?”

  Her friends murmured their agreement.

  The bold one declared, “Women must obey men. Eve was made from Adam’s rib. That’s everything we need to know.”

  I groaned inwardly. Women have always been told that this was their lot, to be man’s beast of burden, and so, they believed it and never questioned it. They were told that they were simple creatures and that the less they knew of the world the better. How could I reason with these girls who already embraced such nonsense? I must save them! And once I saved them, they could save others. A knight-errant I would be.

  “Just because a great number of people say that women are inferior creatures deserving of their lowly station doesn’t make it true,” I told them. And then I remembered some words I had read and had made my own. “Eve was made at Adam’s side—his rib—and not at his feet or his head. They were equals. So, let us join our voices, my sisters, and remove our silken fetters.”

  They hooted me and my rebel ideas. Women doing men’s tasks? Why, that meant the end of the world for them. They asked, who would do the cooking, cleaning and sewing? Who would care for the children? Besides, men were physically stronger than women. “Anyone with half a brain could see that,” the boldest of the girls mocked me. Not ready to give up, I tried again to make them understand.

  “One hundred years ago, Fray Benito Feijóo—”

  The boldface girl gave me the laugh. “That old goat must stink like his own cheese if he’s over a hundred,” said she, and her friends guffawed at her feeble joke.

  “Know this!” I snapped at them. “In his essay, Feijóo argued that women are not the cause of all evil—Eve did not ruin the world. We women are intelligent. We have an equal strength of mind. We have a talent for greater things than just household tasks.”

  The girls looked round at the bleakness and poverty of their lives. One of them, the pouty girl, began to whimper. Hot angry tears spilled forth.

  “If we don’t marry and have children, what else is there to do here?”

  Her sole reason to exist in this wretched place, and thus, her sole source of happiness, had been assailed in her mind. To her, I was a malefic prophetess with a wicked message sure to destroy their lives—a life they could not and would not quit. Her friends, who sought to protect one of their own from an outsider, sprang to their feet, ready to avenge her, their hearts stuck somewhere between fear and hate. And they chose to hate, because what better way to overcome their fear?

  “Bruja!” They called me a witch and gave me double higas—fists with their thumbs thrust between the first and second fingers—to ward off evil. The bold girl, assuming a warrior stance, dealt me a stinging backhanded blow.

  “How dare you!” and I shoved her violently in response, my own lesser nature on full display. This, my error, excited their baser instincts.

  A chorus of “Bruja-a-a!” raised the alarm amongst the superstitious. The women-folk came running, their twig brooms and kitchen knives held high. My father’s voice boomed in my head—“Retreat!”—which I did, taking to my heels in a shower of stones.

  “Raya-a-a!” In my panic, I stumbled and found myself face to the ground.

  The donkey, who had fled to save himself, circled back.

  “Make haste, girl!”

  “Oh, Raya, I feel horridizzily ill.”

  “Hurry! One of the ugly crones has a pitchfork. They’ll skewer you and burn you at the stake,” cried he, wild with fear of the rushing mob, now armed with rustic weapons—sickles and pickaxes and torches.

  It took me two tries to mount the beast in my dizzy bloody state. Sitting astride now, I nearly lost my seat. But I held on with my might. Even a hopeful fatalist like me didn’t want to die until it was absolutely inevitable.

  Raya must’ve felt the same way. Self-preservation, even if it meant a cowardly flight, was his creed, unlike other donkeys. “Bravery is overrated,” he brayed out, completely terrified. He flew at a full gallop for a half mile of arduous ups and downs. Once he determined we were safe, given that those women never left their hamlet, he slowed to a walk, panting, sweating, uttering donkey oaths in low growls and grunts. His head and long ears drooped from fatigue. When finally he got his breath, he lashed out at me.

  “Deluded idealist! Don’t you know—an ignoramus is a most dangerous person? You won’t see me, an enlightened donkey, trying to reason with a hopeless ignoramus, even for every melon in the Kingdom of Aragón.”

  In my disenchanted state, I grumbled out, “My failure is complete; I cannot save them.”

  “A downright failure!”

  His words stung me to the quick, and I choked on a sob.

  “Raya, those girls have no desire to change.”

  “To them, a woman is man’s beast of burden.”

  “Such trumpery that is.”

  He sniffed. “They prefer a life of ignorance and superstition.”

  “I had hoped they would join us ilustrados.”

  “You? An enlightened one? Haw! You’d rather dip into your imagination instead of reason. And your secret self can be superstitious at times.”

  The contradiction of it didn’t bother me.

  “Freedom, education, equality for women—I’m still an ilustrada no matter what you say.”

  He snorted with indignance. “Tonta! Your liberal female notions almost got us killed by the populacho, that pig-headed ignorant rabble.”

  “Populacho-o-o,” I ululated like an abandoned miserable dog.

  “You are definitely mad, thinks I,” and he shook his long ears.

 
A dispirited drum thumped mournfully in my head. “Free-dom da-dom da-dom.”

  “A wise young lady is neither deficient in her knowledge of the world nor that of mankind,” said Raya in my father’s distinct tone.

  The advice came too late. Somewhere in Aragón, in a place without a name, without any hope, I lost my wits, and the unbelievable ceased to exist.

  Steely-blue wings soared high over the plateaued hills. The lone swallow darted westward to search the plains near Leciñena. Somehow, he spoke to me across the miles that he would find me before the light disappeared. He had been thrown off course, deep into the desert as far as Alcubierre, while attempting to elude a hobby, a kind of slim falcon, who enjoyed the chase.

  Had this hobby been hired to capture you? he wondered. I think, yes.

  Why would he want me?

  Night arrived, its thick darkness of ignorance and fear tyrannizing the land. The poor swallow nearly despaired of finding me. Where are you? he asked, very anxious now. Coming to our aid, a heroic moon presented full, two days early, and the man on the moon blew away the clouds, so that the bright moonbeams could reach the earth.

  Somewhere, lost on the steppe, I lay wounded, silently awaiting my fate. The swallow vowed that he would save me. He had seen, from on high, some women-folk cursing the prophetess who proclaimed the equality of the sexes. It was pure heresy, and the end of an orderly world, they raged as they rioted, and they boasted of how they would have burned this bruja at the stake, but alas, she had fled on a donkey who called himself Raya.

  I knew this sibyl was you.

  Me? I caused a riot?

  A volley of plaintive brays broke into our shared thoughts. Instantly the swallow dipped on the next wing-beat. Skimming the parched plain, he espied a distraught donkey guarding his fallen rider—a maiden who was half-goose. The intrepid bird flashed forth in a brilliant burst of speed.

  Have mercy on my friend! cried the awestruck beast.

  There, sprawled on the chalky moonlit road, atop a black cloak, was the object of the swallow’s search, the reason for his frantic flight. Touching down on earth, he became strangely part human, wearing a crown threaded with sprigs of rosemary and wild thyme.

  No-o-o, no-o-o, were his anguished warbles. He gathered me up, folding his protective wings round my lifeless form. He pressed his nose against my cold cheek, and he kissed me. Slowly, my eyes fluttered open.

  Am I … dead?

  With joy, with relief, he rewarded me with another kiss.

  Weakly, I licked my lips to savor it. Why did he taste so good?

  You are hurt, said he.

  A horse-sorcerer he became. A click of his tongue magically summoned a white-starred mule named Rombo to his side. Another click of his tongue brought forth Raya, bearing a lit lanthorn, the looped handle of which the donkey clenched between his teeth.

  A healer he then became. Potions, salt and bandages he retrieved from a saddle-bag. Aqua-vitae he used to clean my wounds. Then, plucking the rosemary and thyme leaves from his crown, he mixed them with a bit of salt and he chewed the leaves into a mass with which to mend me.

  He made me sit up, to drink down cordial water with the essence of Spanish dark honey and rosemary. This wondrous thing, which revived me, explained the mystery of his own sweet and sharp scent.

  You’re a handsome swallow, I told him, smitten with his blue-grey eyes.

  A swallow? He cocked his head.

  I say, swallow, shall we migrate together?

  I’ll be your cicerone.

  You’ll cicerone me.

  You’ve lost your sense of direction. What are you doing in the desert?

  I don’t know, my ci-ci, which I pronounced thee-thee, my lisping tongue wavering between English and Castilian.

  He paused to stare at me. Do you know my name?

  Oh yes, you’re Ci-ci the Swallow Prince.

  His eyes widened. What is your name?

  Cenerentola. I softly sang my aria. Non più mesta, no longer sad and miserable, now that you’re here.

  Oh, dear, he muttered in reply.

  Quickly now, we needed to find shelter for the night. The donkey Raya led us to a lonely venta three miles distant. Inside the ruins of this barn, an old man, with a goat tethered to him, slept on the ground. There being no beds at a venta, Ci-ci and I settled ourselves in the loft amongst trusses of straw. We laid on a manta—my side at his side, his cheek at my cheek, equals in repose. He whispered to me in the darkness.

  Fausto demands your return.

  Who is Fausto?

  He didn’t respond.

  Ci-ci, you are courageous and the noblest of swallows.

  Nothing of the sort. I am moved only by my love for you.

  His cheek became moist.

  Ci-ci? I do believe you’re crying.

  Without a word, he covered us with a large smooth wing. The warm sensation of it, of lying underneath this feathery blanket, promised us a shared dream, one where we could do the impossible and no one and nothing could stop us. Our syncopated breaths slowed and then sleep took us.

  Day broke gradually over the desert plains. While the drowsy sun yawned and stretched out its warm rays, we shape-shifted and took flight into the pale morning haze—he, a swallow, I, a greylag goose. Side by side, wing-beat for wing-beat, we must’ve seemed an odd pair at first to the inexperienced eye, but so it is when two birds of a different feather fall in love.

  Come on, follow me! he sang out. We darted through pinkish-orange clouds, glided upside-down, spun round in mid-air, made aerial figure-eight loops. Below us the bleary landscape swirled in dusty-ochres, chalky-whites and juniper-greens.

  A serpentine of blue shimmered on the plain. With tilted wings, we dipped down to bathe in the sedate waters, this river Gállego. Coyly, Ci-ci glanced at me, the greylag goose with her bright pink feet and plump soft breast. Coyly, I glanced at him, the swallow with his attractive long tail that he shook at the water’s surface. Our morning splash completed, we waddled onto the bank. And when that happened, we became half-human again—our human bodies sporting wings and strange feet—my toes webbed for paddling, his toes twiggy for perching.

  Raya brayed out a greeting, for he and Rombo had followed us by land. Ci-ci clicked his tongue to bring the donkey to his side. Castile soap, a sea-sponge and a knife magically appeared. He cut shavings from the soap into a calabash filled with river water.

  Your hair is tangled with dirt.

  Oh, I must look a fright.

  Taking the sea-sponge in hand, Ci-ci began to wash my hair, tress by tress, tugging gently, then somewhat roughly, the dual sensations of which made my head tingle. When, in a hesitating manner, Ci-ci told me, How beautiful you are, he suddenly embraced me from behind, his heart-wings beating like mad.

  Do you know my name? he whispered in my ear.

  Of course, I did. Ci-ci.

  He sighed quietly, and he resumed washing my hair.

  I bobbed my head. I’m hungry. Bob. Bob.

  Ci-ci fed me by popping pieces of bread into my mouth.

  Thereafter, we set off on our journey in a desultory fashion, sometimes wandering near the river to catch insects, other times riding at a smart pace. The main road was deeply rutted, and when the tedium of it got unbearable, Ci-ci wished to take flight, to glide in the air, alighting now and then on tree branches whenever it pleased us. He called it sky-hopping. This we did, having shape-shifted into winged creatures, until we reached Huesca, a decaying city that had been ravaged by war. Touching down on earth, we became half-human again.

  The city-folk took no notice of a feathered duo, for strange fantastic beings, half-human, came often to Huesca. As we waddled down the main street, known as el Coso, a sweet aroma lured us to the cobbler’s. We stared eagerly into the open shop-window, our stomachs rioting with hunger, because the only thing we had eaten that day besides a crust of bread were grass and leaves for me, and tiny insects caught on the wing for him.

  Tres cuartos, said t
he cobbler’s wife, who sold arroz con leche made with forest honey, and served up with a well of butter and a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. And that was how we each got a leather bowl of this warm rice pudding, which we scooped up greedily with horn-spoons.

  You must eat some of mine, Ci-ci urged me. You’ve probably lost a half a stone.

  You must eat some of mine, then, I insisted of him, knowing that he favored it, and so, we swapped bowls.

  We had scarce finished our rice pudding, when Raya and his comrade Rombo trotted into the city, eager to be watered. The donkey led us to the venta de la Esperanza, where the señora offered the tastiest mixture of barley and straw to her quadruped guests. While they dined, Ci-ci carried me to the stable loft, because the warm rice pudding had made this here half-goose, half-maiden drowsy. We laid upon sacks filled with rushes, willow shoots and gathered leaves, the pokes and prickles of which caused us to toss in our sleep, but we were too tired to complain.

  Sore though we were, we rose early the next morning, determined to reach Biescas before dusk. Our youthful hearts and adventurous spirits were equal to it. Sometimes riding, sometimes walking, we half-human creatures went a great distance on a stony dirt road into the Pyrenees, three thousand feet high. Dense shrubberies of box covered the mountains. Stray goats grazed alongside the primitive road. Our donkey and mule joined the grazers, and we left them to it.

  Before long, a grainy purple-twilight set in, the time where predators and prey abound. Ci-ci stood poised, his rifle-gun in his hands.

  He cocked his head. There’ll be a flight coming over.

  A sibilant roar of flapping wings came on—the rufous-rumped swallows frantically seeking cover. Their desperate call, twsit-twsit twsit-twsit, warned of a lurking bird of prey. The swallows scattered in different directions when a hobby, gliding with infinite stealth, loomed into view. The deadly predator was known to harass swallows, even in their mud nests. No swallow was safe on land or in the air.

  The hobby dashed headlong, with precise aim, to seize a hapless swallow on the wing, the hobby’s talons snapping the bird’s neck upon impact. On the ground, the hobby pecked apart its catch into gobs of gruesome red death. The swallow had been merely the first course. The ravenous hobby took wing once more to intercept its next victim. This time, the hobby sighted me, and it circled overhead, craving a succulent half-goose, half-maiden. I will pluck you, buho, it mocked me, using a low word for prostitute, because owls—the buhos and the lechuzas—are birds of night.