Bridle the Wind (14 page)

‘You have done far more than you ought,' I said in deep concern, knowing how horrified Father
Pierre would be to see his patient in such a state. ‘Remain there under the blanket and continue to rest. Besides, it is better you do not go into the village. You might be recognised.'

‘Nobody knows me there, except Pierre,' he protested. ‘Why would it matter?'

‘Because the Gente might have thought of Pierre. They might expect you to go asking for his help. They might be on the lookout for you.'

‘Oh,' he muttered. ‘I had not thought of that! Well, in that case, I had best give you a token, to show you came from me, or Pierre will very likely refuse to speak to you. He is a surly old man, but he has a true heart. Here.' To my surprise Juan undid from round his neck a thing I had not noticed before: a medallion on a long plaited silver chain. It was a silver-and-amber locket, which opened to reveal a saint's head inside.

‘It is Ste. Engrace,' he whispered, opening it to display the interior. ‘It was my mother's. Take great care of it! And do not be gone longer than you can help, for I shall grow anxious.'

‘And do not you stir outside,' said I. ‘Cover yourself with the hay – so. Before I enter I will knock three times on the door – thus; if anybody else comes, keep quite still, and they will never know that you are there.'

After which I went out and made my way eastward through the woods, eventually striking a path which led me down into the churchyard of a tiny village hanging on the edge of a steep slope. Once out of the churchyard I was in the square, which
had a pelota
fronton
and Basque houses round about; that is to say, they were heavily timbered, the timbers painted in red or brown, with great eaves projecting overhead like the brim of a sombrero. One of them was an inn, where a handsome high-featured landlady asked me what I wished. At that time, early in the day, I was the only customer. I knew a little Basque, for Bernardina, my grandfather's old cook, had come from the Basque region (as many cooks do); I knew
Egg-en-noon,
for good day,
khatten,
to eat,
err-ratten,
to drink, so I was able to buy from her a couple of long red sausages (festoons of them were hanging from the rafters to dry) a cold omelette, and a long loaf of bread. I also persuaded her to sell me a
chahokoha,
or goat-skin wine bottle. She offered to fill it with wine, but to her surprise I declined. Then I asked her where I could find old Pierre Unarre.

‘The little house by the church,' said she, and I departed with the bread under my arm, the omelette wrapped in a cabbage leaf, and the flask slung round my neck.

Old Pierre was working in his garden; indeed I had observed him as I passed before, and observed, also, that as I walked by he had given me a long, sly, squinting scrutiny. He was a villainous-looking old man, with little red rheumy eyes and a crust of unshaven stubble all over his face. He paused from digging his cabbage patch and leaned on his spade as I approached him. I, without words, drew out the little medallion and extended it on the palm of my hand.

Then I said, ‘Your young master
(etcheko jaun)
wishes to travel into Spain, to his uncle. I am told that you know of a cave with one entrance in France, and the other in Spain. If you can show us this way, I will give you gold.'

‘How much?' His little eyes glowed like rats' eyes.

‘One gold piece this side; one when you have led us through.'

‘Give it to me now!'

‘No,' I said coldly.‘Iam not such a fool.'

‘Where is Etcheko?' He used the term
etcheko premu,
meaning the heir, or first son.

‘That I will not say. Tell me where to come, and when.'

After a long, scowling pause, he gave me directions, drawing with a twig in the loamy earth of his cabbage patch. It was not easy to follow what he said, because of his Basque dialect, and because he had not a tooth in his head and mumbled so, eyeing me sideways; also, his breath smelled most vilely of sour cider and garlic; but at last I thought I had the way clear in my head.

‘How long will it take to get there from here?'

‘Two hours. Perhaps three. I will meet you at the grotto entrance this evening, at the hour when one can no longer tell a black thread from a white.'

‘Very well.'

His eyes followed the medallion yearningly as I put it away, and he stared after me very hard as I left him; for which reason I took a roundabout route, leaving the village by a road that went east
ward still, striking over the shoulder of the mountain, then slowly working my way round and back toward the hut. On my way I fell in with a blue-smocked shepherd in a floppy hat, who, for a few small coins, filled my flask with milk from one of his goats. He also sold me his
makhila,
a spearheaded staff with a copper band round the base. Bernardina had told me about these
makh-ilas:
they are made of medlar wood, take two years to season, and can save a man from a charging wild boar, or a mountain bear. I was not afraid of boars or bears, but thought we might have other enemies closer at hand.

All was silent at the hut when I returned to it. I tapped on the door, waited a moment, then opened it. For a moment of dismay I thought that Juan was not there, then his dark head, garlanded with hay, poked up out of the heap. He was smiling and looked the better for his rest, with a touch of colour in his pale cheeks.

‘Did you find old Pierre?' he whispered urgently.

‘Hush! Yes. Wait while I do this.'

I crumbled some of the bread into his cup, and poured on milk to soften it.

‘Now! Try a little of that, eating it slowly. Not too much. Just a mouthful or so, and suck well before you swallow. Then take a drink of milk.'

He ate all the bread and milk with great eagerness, and a little of the cold omelette. I had some, too, and some bread and sausage, which tasted like food of the gods after our night of exertion,
and the monastic diet of pulse and beans and salt stockfish.

The rest of the food was put by for later in the day, since the hour was still before noon, and there were five hours or so before we need start for the grotto.

I lay down on the heap of hay and went back to sleep. Juan, too, did so for a while, but I awoke presently to see him sitting cross-legged, poring over his poetry book.

‘Are you feeling rested?' I whispered, and he nodded. I gave his neck a rub with some of the goose grease, which I had brought with me in a little pot, and also rubbed his feet, which were blistered and cut from the long walk. I had hoped to buy him some alpargatas, or rope-soled sandals, in the village, but the place was too small to have a market; shoes would have to wait awhile. Meantime I rewrapped his feet more securely in the strips of blanket, binding them with shreds of cord I found among the hay. He, during this operation, was whispering out poetry from his little book.

I have always been fond of reading stories myself, and on my journey from Spain to England took much pleasure in a volume which had belonged to my father, a tale of a young lady's adventures in England. But what could be the use of poetry? That I had never wholly comprehended, and said as much to Juan.

‘A tale teaches you something, or is exciting to hear, or is about people you know; but what is the purpose of poetry? Half the time it seems to have
no meaning at all. It is about the moon, or love; things that have been repeated hundreds of times before in the same language. Why do poets do it? What is it for?'

Juan became quite red in the face with outrage at my stupidity.

‘Oh!' he burst out in a passionate whisper, which almost made me laugh: the soft tone contrasted so oddly with his indignant expression and eyes in which copper-coloured sparks were burning. ‘How can you be such a numbskull? Listen to this' – and he read out a poem about a lover who asks his dead lady when he may see her again. ‘When the autumn leaves that fall become green and spring once more,' she answers him.

‘Well, so does she mean that they will never meet again, because the fallen leaves will never be green again? Or does she mean that she will see him in the spring because he will die then?'

‘You have to decide that for yourself,' said Juan. ‘Each reader must find his own meaning in a poem.'

I said I thought that very wasteful. ‘Why can they not have one meaning, and make it plain for all?'

‘Oh, I have no patience with you!' muttered Juan, and closed his book.

I thought it lucky that we would soon be in Spain and he restored to his uncle. For plainly a great many of the things I did and said jarred him and made him impatient; while I, for my part, found his fretfulness and peevishness hard to bear.
I knew this was unfair; he was still far from well, and half starved, and his neck swollen and painful; but one has little control over one's feelings, and mine said to me loud and clear that this boy and I were not destined to make good companions for one another.

Except, of course, by God.

We were both glad to leave the stuffy hut. By midday the sun shone upon the roof and made it very hot inside, and the pile of hay smelled disagreeably of mould. I thought it would be wise to start in good time in case we encountered any difficulties along the way; also, mistrusting old Pierre, I wished to arrive at the rendezvous well before him.

Our way now led through steep sunlit forest, sometimes thick with undergrowth, sometimes among gigantic rocks, sometimes past tall, handsome beech trees, or birch, or juniper. We saw no wolves or bears, but once or twice disturbed grazing deer; izard, Juan told me they were called. He had recovered his good humour and gave me, in a whisper, much information about the witches who used, two hundred years ago, to frequent this mountain, which was called Choldocogagna; and its neighbour La Rhune, for which we were making.

‘My ancestress, Marie Dindart, could rub herself with ointment. Then she would say,
“Here and there
” ' – Juan used the Basque words – ‘and immediately her body would become as thin as a
hazel wand, so that she could fly up the chimney and through the air wherever she wished.'

‘Well, I wish we had her with us now,' said I. ‘For then she could carry us into Spain without the need of consulting old Pierre.'

‘She had a herd of toads, all dressed in velvet.'

‘Why did she need toads?'

‘I am not perfectly sure,' confessed Juan seriously. ‘Perhaps she milked them. And she often used to steal children away from their homes to make them her servants; they tended the toads.'

‘Who told you all this?'

‘Old Anniq, my nurse; she used it to frighten me and say that if I was not a – if I did not behave myself, Marie Dindart would come down the chimney for me. I did not wholly believe her. But still I was proud to have such a great-grandmother.'

‘How old were you when your mother died?'

‘It happened six months ago,' he said. ‘I still miss her sadly.'

I looked ahead along the track, pretending not to notice the tears in his eyes, and reflected on the singularity of his character; at one minute sharp and shrewd, asserting his independence, dealing with Father Vespasian by a clever trick, frightening the Gente by pretending to have magical powers; and then, next minute, weak, petulant, and pitiful.

‘What about you, Felix?' he presently asked. ‘Do you have a mother and father?'

I told him no, that my mother had died at my birth, and he exclaimed in sorrowful sympathy.

I was brought up by my grandfather, grandmother, and great-aunts – of which there were far too many.'

‘And your father?'

I hesitated whether to tell Juan the story, but in the end did so, thinking it might take his mind off his own misfortunes.

‘My father was an officer in the English army in Spain. My mother's Spanish family were angry at the marriage – they did not think him good enough for her. After her death he was terribly wounded in battle. And he crawled over the mountains to my grandfather's house, taking several years on the way, being nursed by peasants in their huts. When he came to Villaverde, nobody knew him. He had only one leg and a crippled hand. And his face was much scarred. I, of course, had never seen him.'

‘How old were you then?'

‘Oh, three or four. He became a stablehand in my grandfather's establishment. He was called Bob.'

‘A
stablehand?
But – he was of good birth. A hidalgo!' Juan sounded horrified. After a moment or two he added,
‘Why
did your father do that? What a strange thing to do!'

‘I suppose he thought that it was the only thing left that he was fit for. He loved horses. And that way he could watch over me.'

‘Did you not know that he was your father?'

‘No, I never knew. Not until afterwards. He never told me. But I loved him just as much as if I had known … In the end he died. I think he
knew that he could not live for very long. And after that I decided to go and find his family in England.'

‘And found them?'

‘Yes; my English grandfather is a duke, and very rich. But he has gone mad. And by the time I had found him, the most disagreeable of my great-aunts in Spain had died, and my Spanish grandfather wrote very kindly, asking me to return.'

‘You were on your way back when your ship was wrecked at St Just de Seignanx? When was the wreck?' said Juan. ‘How long ago?'

‘Hush!' I whispered.

I still had not decided whether to tell Juan about my strange three-month leave-taking from my wits; and I did not intend to just at this moment. Firstly, I thought it might fill him with doubts as to my ability to help or protect him while we were together; and secondly, I did not, as yet, like him well enough to reveal this odd link between us. The knowledge was for me, not for him. So I cautioned him to silence, for we were now approaching the place that old Pierre had described to me, a cave entrance in a rock face on the side of the mountain. There was a grey cliff, all hung and fringed with ivy, and a stream gliding down over the rock face in a perpetual trickle, which ran into a shallow pool. Oak and thorn trees grew round about the pool, on the flat apron of land at the foot of the cliff.