Bridle the Wind (31 page)

Who knows at what repetition – whether we were in our thousands, or tens of thousands, I had lost track of time entirely – the gaping mouth suddenly opened wide, crazily, unnaturally wide, like that of a serpent which can stretch back almost into a straight line; and a high, monstrous voice shrieked,

‘Our name is Legion!'

‘By the power of Light, I charge you to leave this man and begone.'

Juan raised his hand, as if calling down the rays of the moon to assist him.

‘Command us not to go out into the deep!'
wailed the voice.

‘I have no right to govern your direction,' said Juan hoarsely. ‘But you are forbidden to reenter any human body. That is all. Go where you will.'

An even wilder gibbering wail issued from the corpse mouth, rising shriller and shriller until it reached an unendurable crescendo of height and agony; then the body crumpled sideways and slid to the ground, while something – some slight, evanescent something – slipped swiftly away between the stones of the circle. Next moment, not far away, a monumental beech tree, one of the highest in the forest, slowly keeled over and fell with a thundering crash into the darkness.

The body by the rock writhed and whimpered. Juan wiped his forehead with his left hand, gently removing it from mine to do so. Then he knelt by the shuddering body, turning it so that the face became visible in the moonlight. And it was once more the face of Plumet, though aged and white-haired.

I, too, knelt beside him.

After a moment the eyes opened. They looked up at Juan and recognised him. Behind me I heard Cocher whisper,
‘Ah, mon Dieu …'

‘I tried to hang you,' whispered Plumet. ‘I intended to kill you.'

‘It is forgotten. I forgive you. Go in peace now.'

‘Thanks, child,' gasped Plumet, and his eyes closed, and he died, faster than the wind can flick away a speck of ash.

Juan turned and tumbled into my arms. At first, with terror, I thought that he was dead, or fainting. Then I realised that he was merely asleep, sound asleep.

‘Fetch a blanket,' I mumbled to Cocher. Somebody produced our blanket from the saddlebag, and I laid it over Juan, wrapping it round. Next minute I myself was asleep also, huddled beside him.

When I woke, it was late morning in the forest. The remaining Gente, pale and silent, were squatting at a little distance, crumbling bread and sipping goats' milk. The body of Plumet had been removed. I hoped they had buried it.

Juan still slept, deeply, under the blanket. I would not disturb him.

I went over to talk to the Gente.

‘You will leave us in peace now?'

‘Jesu Maria, yes,' they answered, crossing themselves. ‘We would not have followed you so far, only – only that terrible Thing which had taken hold of Plumet obliged us to go on.'

‘Why did you not refuse?'

‘Nombre de
Dios, it made us follow! Do you know what it did to poor little Gueule, on the beach? Tore him apart as if he were paper. And the same with the others, in the gorge –'

‘Don't tell me, I don't wish to hear,' I said hastily. ‘But in the first place it was
you
who abducted Juan, before the devil took hold of Plumet –'

‘Oh, well, yes, at that time. It is true, the brother
hired us to. He said the rich Spanish uncle would pay us ransom. But now the uncle is proscribed -exiled – has no money at all. We were angry when we discovered that. We went back with Plumet -that was after he was devil-ridden – and strung up Esteban and the old woman from his own apple trees. They will never eat soup again.'

I shivered at the callousness of these men, who lived so close to death that it meant nothing to them.

‘Why do that?'

‘To teach men that the Gente are not to be played with.'

‘But if you knew the uncle had no money – why follow us in the first place?'

‘At first we believed that you would lead us to the treasure.'

‘What treasure?' I said, bewildered. ‘I have no treasure!'

‘But you had known a man in Spain who told you about the treasure. The pay that the king of France sent from Paris for the French army – chests of gold coins, and chalices, and silks and jewels and brocades and statues, all the treasure that was in King Joseph's train, and lost when the French army fled home over the mountains. We heard that you knew where it was lost.'

‘You fools! That man never told me anything at all! I never had any knowledge of such a treasure. Do you not believe me? You had better, for it is the truth!'

They looked at each other glumly. They were
a wretched, ragged crew, bloodshot-eyed, skinny, bruised, and trembling; in far worse case than Juan and myself. I felt sorry for them, wicked though they undoubtedly were.

‘Yes, my young senor, we do believe you,' said the one-eyed man called Cocher. ‘No one who – who did what you were doing last night – would tell us a lie. I am certain of that. But, to tell truth, by the end, we had given up hope of the treasure, we had given up all hope. We were just driven on, from rock to hill to tree, by that one.' He nodded towards a distant pile of earth. Beyond it lay a huge fallen beech tree.

‘Let us hope he sleeps sound,' I said, crossing myself. They all did likewise.

An hour later they gave me what food they had and departed, melting away into the forest, while I sat on beside the sleeping Juan. Before they went, they told me where to find Juan's uncle, Senor León de Echepara. He had a holding, they said, very close to the French border: a farmhouse, an acre or so of land, a few goats, a hive of bees, in a sheltered, hidden valley.

‘What do you know of him? Is he a good person? Reliable?'

It seemed strange to be canvassing the opinions of this group of rogues, but after what had passed between us, I felt sure that they would give an honest judgment.

‘Oh, yes,' they assured me. ‘In the town of Pamplona Senor de Echepara had a very high reputation. He was well liked.
“Notoriamente hidalgo”
A fine gentleman. He always kept his word and was of liberal principles. That is why he was obliged to flee.'

And then they left me.

8

Juan's request to me; his Uncle León;
I go to Vitoria, and encounter two
English ladies; I return to Villaverde;
I hear news from my grandfather; and
form a new resolve

Toward sunset Juan woke up. At first he looked round him in terror and confusion. His right hand, I had noticed, was quite badly burned. A white scar crossed the insides of the fingers. While he was still drowsy I bandaged it as carefully as I could.

After a while he muttered, ‘I thought we found all those wicked men here. The light… the shadows …'

I made haste to reassure him.

‘Set your mind at rest. They are all gone.'

‘The bad spirit, too?'

‘Can you not remember? You rang your bell, and spoke those words, and sent him away.'

‘Ah. Yes. So we did,' he said slowly. ‘And then Plumet came back. And then Plumet died.' He shivered – a deep, long shiver – and presently said, ‘Do not let us talk about it any more.'

‘No. It is done with. They won't trouble us, ever again.'

I wondered whether to tell him that, before leaving France, the Gente had killed his brother and the old nurse; decided not to. He would learn
that soon enough from some other source. I did tell him, though, that I now knew his uncle's farm was no farther away than over a couple of ridges, in a secret valley.

Juan said, ‘Very good. I am glad to hear that we can find Uncle León without too much trouble. But' – he suddenly sounded wistful, pleading – ‘Let us not do so tonight, Felix. Let us have one more night in the forest.'

‘With all my heart,' I said.

I had kindled a fire while he was still sleeping, and caught fish in a brook that ran nearby. So, with the bread the Gente had left us, we had not too bad a supper. And afterwards, as so often on our journey, Juan tried to teach me some of the Basque grammar, and I taught him various verses of English poetry. ‘
Where the bee sucks, there suck I
,' he learned, and then broke off to ask me in a doubtful, troubled manner, ‘Shall I like living with my uncle, do you think, in the forest?'

‘Of course you will!' I assured him. ‘Think of all the things to see – eagles, deer, the wildflowers that you love. You and your uncle can climb the Lost Mountain, you can hunt izard and wild boar –'

But I had made a – a kind of promise to God, concerning my life – ‘

‘Oh, well,' I said, not quite understanding him. ‘If you had made a promise, then of course you must keep it. I am sure your uncle would not stand in your way.
“Notoriamente hidalgo”
But if, by any chance, the life does not suit you – or if your
uncle should be obliged to move once more – why, then, write to me, and you can come and live at Villaverde. Here, I will give you the direction' – and I wrote it on a scrap of paper. For – after all – we have been good comrades, have we not? After I had stopped being arrogant, and you had stopped being wilful!'

He did not smile. He said, ‘But a journey like this can never be repeated. Never, ever again. Once we are parted, Felix – even if by some chance we
should
meet again in the future – it could not possibly be the same.' And he repeated, ‘Never, ever again.'

His words tolled in my heart like a bell. But I said stoutly, ‘Perhaps not. But things may be different. They may be better, even. It is no use to refuse the future, which is bound to come. And it may bring even greater good than what we have now.'

‘I wonder,' said Juan.

‘I shall hope to see you again, Juan.'

‘Do not depend on it,' said he. ‘For I do not think you will.'

But then he shook himself and seemed to throw off this foreboding mood, and we passed the rest of the evening cheerfully enough. I sang him a ballad that used to be a favourite of my shipmate Sam: ‘Sweet Polly Oliver,' about a young girl who, to follow her sweetheart, dressed up in her dead brother's uniform and went for a soldier.

‘But all she did, after all, was to nurse him when he was sick,' remarked Juan, when the ballad was
finished. ‘Suppose there had been a real battle, how would she have done?'

‘I have sometimes wondered that, too. But still, women can be as brave as men, they say. And they have fought in battles. Think of the Amazons. Or Jeanne d'Arc'

‘Yes, that is true,' agreed Juan.

Then I made him say again his little verse about the sailor's pie, and I learned it by heart, for it had greatly taken my fancy. ‘“First you must take a teacupful of sky.” What do you mean by that, Juan?'

‘Oh, you must never ask the meaning of poems,' he said, laughing. ‘That is like asking for the meaning of a rose, or a fish. The poem is itself, or should be; that is all.' So I carefully wrote it down.

At length we fell asleep, under a huge, seamed, craggy, knotty yew tree that brooded over our heads like a great-grandfather. I was inexpressibly weary, for my sleep the night before had been but scanty, and much broken by lurid dreams. I fell into slumber as into a well, and slept, I believe, for twelve hours, or thereabouts.

When I woke, all was silent. I raised myself up, yawning, and looked about me. Juan was not to be seen, so I thought he was probably performing his ablutions in the brook, as was his habit.

‘Oh, Juan! I am going to broil the fish!' I called quietly; the forest made one wish to lower one's voice at all times. ‘So don't take too long with your washing.'

I discovered that the fire was already lit, and smouldering redly; Juan must have been awake for some time. And near the fish, pinned in a split prong of yew, lay a folded paper, a sheet left from the packet I had bought to write letters to Grandfather and Father Antoine.

Before I had so much as seen the writing, I think I had guessed the contents. My heart stopped still.

And under that he had written, ‘I have left you a gift, as I won our bet and learned more English than you did Euskara!'

Wrapped in the paper he had left the snuffbox with the four little stones and the leaf that said TOI.

 

After I had finished reading this letter I sat, for perhaps an hour, motionless, staring at the red roots of the yew tree. I can summon their shapes still, if I shut my eyes.