The Horse Healer (4 page)

“That's better for your son's business.”

In a flash, Diego had an idea that gave him hope.

“Where can someone buy those clay pots?” The job seemed simple and Sabba was far stronger than any donkey.

The woman leaned into his back so that he felt her breath on the nape of his neck. She was checking to see how much of his meal he had left. Her presence annoyed him, but Diego's hunger took priority over any discomfort, and he concentrated again on his stew, sopping up the very last drops with his bread.

“No one can sell water without permits, and it's been years since they've issued any. There's no room for any more commerce here!” With obvious rage, she spit into the fire.

Diego understood the woman's motives and decided to find out about purchasing pots elsewhere. He showed her his empty bowl in case she might fill it up again.

“You pay me with some filthy old leather and to top it off, you come back for seconds.” She gave an exaggerated laugh. “Go on, get out, or you really will make me angry.”

She cleared off the table, taking the empty bowl, and looked at him shamelessly, waiting for him to stand. Diego got up and left the house. He untied Sabba, secreting away a leather cord with which he could rig up another bridle.

When he was about to leave, with the aftertaste of the food still in his mouth, he turned back to her.

“One last question.” The woman looked at him displeased. “Was that a rabbit stew?”

She smiled maliciously.

“Good lord, no. … It was cat.” She drew her eyes together in a feline manner. “Tender, savory, homemade cat.” She laughed immoderately.

Diego felt a jab of nausea. He pressed his knees into Sabba's ribs and they trotted away from that hellhole. He felt so ill that before they'd even covered half a league, he was overcome by the need to stop and vomit. He did it three times in total.

In the course of the next few hours, he wandered through the outskirts of the city, not knowing where to go. He felt a stirring in his entrails, almost a revolt, and every few minutes there came a sharp pain in his abdomen that hardly let him breathe.

When night fell, he approached the riverbanks in the Huerta del Rey. Many of the refugees had gathered there.

He chose a tree-lined bend, isolated from the meadow where hundreds of people had set fires and were sharing their misfortune.

There he stretched out at the feet of an old holly oak and drank fresh water. Sabba found abundant grass nearby and set to feeding tranquilly.

At midnight, Diego began to feel hot and to shake terribly. Worried and in pain, he crouched under the tree and his thoughts began to fly, like a fleeting mirage, to happier moments in his life.

The following hours were passed between dreams and convulsions. Once in a while, he would wake up in distress and when he opened his eyes, he would notice they were hot and swollen. It took a long time, but at last he fell into a deep sleep.

“How bad he smells! How disgusting!”

The shouts of children awakened him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the face of a woman and two children who could not keep quiet. It was already day. The sun heated up his face. He asked himself how long he had been sleeping.

“Who are you? What's happened to me?” An acid odor filled his nostrils in a gust. He touched his tunic and notices it was wet and sticky.

“You've been throwing up all night. You were lucky my children found you. You were very sick …” The woman brought over a sage tea to help him recover. “Drink this; it will help with the nausea. It tastes bad, but it will do your body good.”

That concoction was as bitter as it was sickening, but it worked its powers and soon he began to feel better. He looked for Sabba, but he didn't see her. He whistled twice to call her, but he heard nothing, neither footfalls nor a single neigh.

“Has someone seen my horse?” A black thought clouded his gaze.

The woman shook her head.

One of the boys remembered something.

“Last night we saw some men grappling with one; they dragged it away by force. It was cinnamon colored, with white spots on its head and breast. … It was a little before we found you.”

Diego shivered with fear, because they had just described Sabba. She'd been stolen.

Queasy, with burning lips, he sat up and turned his back to them.

“I need to be alone, I beg you. …”

The woman took her children and looked at him with pity just before she left. He shook uncontrollably and seemed wounded and fragile. She felt miserable for him.

Hours later, he could be heard by many of the people camped out in the Huerta del Rey. A rending cry crossed the river and the treetops. It also pierced many of the people's hearts.

“Sabba!”

V.

T
hey all wanted to be with the redheads.

Blanca and Estela were huddled in one of the five tents their captors had raised to shelter themselves from the terrible storm. It was night, and it wouldn't stop raining. They had been with those men for several days and they still didn't know what would happen to them. Estela, the youngest, was sure that they'd only been captured to intimidate the Christians and that sooner or later they'd be set free. Blanca, seeing what they'd done to Belinda and how they treated the other women who had been with them a long time, did not wish to make any prediction about their future and just stayed quiet and observed.

Suddenly, the sisters heard various voices on the other side of the canvas, a great uproar, as though they were arguing.

“What are they saying, Blanca? I can't see them, I don't understand.” Estela started shaking and took shelter in her sister's arms.

“You have to be strong, Estela. … Don't think about them; remember the inn and think of something that used to make you happy there and try to go back to it now.”

Blanca tried to comfort her sister, to soften the situation that they were living through, but even if she tried to show calm, in her face you could see a grimace of terror.

“What's going to happen to us, Blanca? What's going to happen to us?”

Blanca caressed Estela's hair and saw a deep worry in her eyes.

“I'll always stay by your side. I'll protect you.”

Soon one of the warriors lifted the canvas and stumbled in. Another did the same behind him, slapped the nape of his neck, and took a number of playing cards from his hand. He made a half turn and pointed at them, smiling, before he left. In horror, Blanca deduced what they were playing for, and that the first man had won. She quickly jumped in front of Estela to hide her with her body.

The man came close to her, whispering in that language she didn't know. Blanca could understand nothing, and that made everything worse.

The soldier came right up to her face. She held his gaze coldly; she wanted to attract his eyes so that this animal would not even for a moment notice her sister, who was hidden behind her. Blanca could feel his respiration, his nauseating breath, his incomprehensible whispers … And then, she felt how a hand pulled her shirt open and stroked one of her breasts. Blanca shook, but she didn't say anything; she didn't even try to move, because she didn't want Estela to have any idea of what was happening. She raised her head, stiffened her body, and pushed out her breasts so he would choose her.

And he did. He chose Blanca. The girl felt enormous disgust when he kissed her on the lips. He smelled worse than an animal.

The soldier took off his sweat-soaked vest and undid Blanca's shirt with the intention of indulging his lascivious intentions. But to her misfortune, Estela let a hiccup escape her, and that was enough to attract his attention. He pushed Blanca aside in one go and found Estela hunched over, her face hidden between her knees.

Suddenly Blanca leapt on him like a madwoman, biting his back, clawing him all over. The man turned in self-defense and managed to get hold of her neck. He squeezed until she was choking and screamed at her. Blanca stopped kicking when she could no longer breathe and she felt herself dying. She remained still and looked at him pleadingly, making him see that she was on the verge of death and that she'd given up. An then he let her go, gasping from tension, her cheeks red with rage.

Blanca remained still, filled her lungs with air, and let herself be taken. Inflamed with passion, the man stripped her bare quickly and took possession of her body with great violence.

Meanwhile, Estela, frightened, moaned in a corner. In whispers, she began to pray, asking for God's assistance. She was trembling with panic. She remembered Belinda's horrifying murder. And she cried for her father, imagining an identical destiny for him. And she thought of Diego: What could have happened to him?

“Out of the tent!” That harsh voice drew everyone's attention. He spoke first in Romanic and then in Arabic. It was the man with the scar.

The warrior pulled away from Blanca and left the tent running; there was no need for him to hear a second time.

Blanca ran to her sister and covered her as much as she could. They looked at the man. He was tall and strong.

“My name is Pedro de Mora, and I'm Castilian, like all of you. …”

“I beg you then, don't let this go on.” Blanca spoke to him as if she might be able to win him to her side.

“I'll try to make it so. … Don't worry.”

The man, with a neatly trimmed beard and a cold gaze, kept silent as he paced around them, studying them. Blanca began to rub her hands into her face, trying to wipe away the scent or any other memory of that brutal individual. When he passed by Estela, he grabbed a lock of her curly hair and admired its softness. He also smelled it. He stroked her cheek slyly and looked into her eyes.

Blanca, afraid of his intentions, stood up, naked, to attract him.

“She's only thirteen.”

Don Pedro paid her no attention and stretched his hand to Estela. In her language, and in a polite tone, he said: “Please come with me, little girl.”

VI.

T
he first week was very hard for Diego.

He strolled, aimless and desperate, through the outskirts of Toledo and asked everyone he came across about Sabba. He explained to them that he couldn't go looking for his sisters without her and the locals looked at him with compassion; the lands he spoke of had passed into Muslim hands and to go there would take daring. Since it was an obligation, Diego focused on the search for Sabba until finding his mare became an obsession for him.

Diego looked closely at all the horses that came across his path. He would run after any cinnamon-colored mare, and when he reached her, he would look for the same white spots that his had on her breast and forehead.

He lived in great poverty, because he had decided hunger was not one of his most urgent necessities. Finding Sabba was more important.

At night, he slept in a rock grotto under the city walls. It wasn't very deep or comfortable, but it was dry and he could cry there without anyone bothering him. He had found it by chance one morning while he was chasing after a rat. Lacking anything else to eat, he found its meat fairly agreeable, though a little tough.

During those days, the authorities had arranged for a transport north of the multitude of refugees who were pounding on the gates of the city. With the promise of a tract of land, they had managed to convince everyone who was willing to start a new life elsewhere to move to the south of the Duero River, in what were known as the repopulation zones. Once the outskirts were cleared out, the gates of Toledo were reopened and the city's life resumed its accustomed rhythm.

Diego would spend the whole day seated at the gate of Alcántara, the most heavily trafficked one, observing every animal that entered or exited. He was surprised by the immense quantity of people that passed through every day, and how different they all were. Friars in black habits and others in white; Jews with their pointed caps; noblemen and knights with their pages and beautiful consorts; vendors from all the Christian kingdoms, Frenchmen, Germans, and Normans. He never could have imagined so many people talking in so many languages!

The cobblestone trembled when a number of enormous carriages passed by, some pulled by as many as six oxen. They were transporting great blocks of granite or thick logs that would serve as beams in the roofs and walls. Others were bearing pigs, lambs, ducks. Still others carted wool and colored silks.

One morning, almost at dawn, Diego saw a rather old pastor appear with around a hundred sheep. Two dogs and his crook helped him to direct them to the gate that Diego watched over so jealously. But when they arrived, they stopped short, refusing to take even another step. The old man, exasperated, screamed and provoked his dogs. They barked and nipped at the sheep's heels, but the animals simply pressed together and none of them would dare to take the first step.

Diego stood up and raised his voice over the racket of their bleats.

“Can I help you?”

“Grab one by the foot and drag it through the gate. The others will follow,” the man answered.

Diego managed to grab one with his first attempt. His strength overcame its resistance, and, pushing and shoving, he maneuvered it through the archway. Its companions in the flock observed nervously, perhaps afraid, but they bleated happily when it escaped from Diego's hands and trotted happily back to them.

With an irritated gesture, Diego lurched to grab another one. The animals were jittery, moving around him like a whirlpool, pushing him and kicking against him at every opportunity. Amid more bleating and protests he dragged a larger one up to the same point, and without letting her go, he waited until the others took an interest in what was happening. Some made a decision and the others followed in their wake. A wave of wool almost dragged him off, but he smiled happily. He had done it.

“Good job, son,” the pastor said, clapping him on the back.

Diego accepted his praise thankfully.

“It's nothing,” he said, shrugging it off.

“Why are you not at the big market?”

The old man looked aside at his flock, which had, however, come to a halt at a plaza near the gate.

“What market?”

“You don't know the Zocodover? It's the most important in all the Trasierra,
^*
if not in all of Castile. It's happening today, just like every first Friday of every month. That's where I'm taking my sheep. I want to sell them.”

“Do they sell horses, too?”

“Of course! The most beautiful specimens you can imagine, especially Arabian ones. You'll see the bidding going as high as two hundred
sueldos
for the best ones.”

It could have been a sign from heaven or just a presentiment, but Diego decided to go to the market immediately.

“Can I come with you?”

Boy and pastor left the former palace of the caliphs and the Frankish quarter behind them. An enormous uproar animated the streets. People complained as they passed. Some scrubbed the caked-on dirt from their clothes onto the filthy animals' woolen coats, others screamed out profanities when they accidentally stepped in the excrement the sheep left behind them.

When they entered the market of Zocodover, Diego was mesmerized. Never before had he heard such a chorus, a mix of men and animals, nor had such aromas ever risen to his nose all at once. An immense cloud of dust engulfed that unique spectacle of fervid activity.

He took leave of the pastor once he found out he could see the horses on the eastern side of the plaza.

To make his way through that crowd he had to have sharp senses and pay extra attention. It was hard for him to stay the course, since the mass moved from one side to the other, deciding his steps for him. He was pushed until he finally ran into the hindquarters of an ox. Beside him, he heard two men arguing in Arabic, haggling over a leather moneybag full of coins. The language produced such displeasure for him that he ran away in dread. He turned back to look at them, full of rancor, about to fall on top of a small woman walking with a bent back and two small nanny goats under her arms. A few steps later, a man screamed at him, so close to his ear that he needed a moment to recover. With pushes, shoves, and more than one elbow, Diego opened a path leading to where the horses were bought and sold.

The animals were kept in a fenced-off area with makeshift pens. People crowded in to make deals, to find out prices, and to look at the beautiful examples on display, of course. The numerous interested people made it difficult for Diego to see more than ten or twelve horses, though there must have been five hundred or more there.

“I don't remember ever seeing as little movement as there is today,” Diego heard an old man say to another in a conversation.

“It's because of the war,” his companion remarked. “This week nothing's come in from Al-Andalus, and what's here isn't the best quality. They say a lot of the animals are from the refugees.”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” Diego said, and the two men turned toward him. One kicked, thinking he was a thief. Diego dodged as well as he could and then asked their pardon again, hoping to win their confidence.

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Then be fast and don't bother us anymore.”

“Do you know if any of these traders have Arabian horses as their specialty?”

Diego looked awful. His hair was dirty and matted. His clothing smelled and if his skin was already olive colored by nature, it was now so filthy it looked nearly black.

“Where are you from?”

“Malagón.”

“We believe you, but if you had said Marrakesh, we might have believed that too.” One of the old men grabbed his arm and saw how thin the boy was. Diego was used to hearing these kinds of comments in the inn.

“If you keep going along the fence, you'll find a guy from Jerez,” the other interrupted. “You'll recognize him by his bald head, his long red goatee, and a gold ring he has in his nose. He's the best vendor of that type of horse, though not the only one. Try and talk to him, but the way you look, I doubt he'll pay you any mind.”

Diego thanked them and followed the direction they had pointed out, not ceasing to observe all the other horses as he passed them. As much as he could, he sifted through the flood of animals and customers, and when at last he found the man, a mix of hope and despair made him hold his breath.

The man from Jerez was brushing a precious stud, black, with a pure Arabian profile. A girl came up to him with a wheelbarrow of oats that she wheeled along unsteadily. She arrived at the horse trader at the same time as the boy.

“I'm Diego,” he said from behind the fence, hoping to get the older man's attention.

“I'm Kabirma. Allah be praised for all time,” the man answered, without even turning his head.

He was Muslim, like the men who had killed Belinda and his father. Diego stayed there silent, staring at him. The girl observed him and said something in a low voice. Diego couldn't manage to hear her. He would need to overcome his impulse to reject this man and ask about his mare.

“Could you help me?”

“Sure. What?” The man still kept his back to Diego.

“If you had a completely unique mare, of an excellent breed, perfect, bursting with desert blood, who would you turn to?”

That seemed to interest the trader, who finally turned around. But when he saw the boy, his attitude changed straightaway.

“Get out of here, you dirty beggar!” He threw a wooden brush at Diego so forcefully it split his brow. He realized he'd been wounded when the blood began to drip down.

“Father! You hurt him. …”

“If he hadn't come around bothering people …” He spit at the ground with pure bitterness and without an ounce of remorse.

The girl's eyes looked at Diego with pity.

“A few days ago they stole my mare …”

“So you're accusing me of dealing in stolen animals?” The bald head and the face of that gigantic man grew red with rage. “If you don't get out of my sight, you'll have more than your eyebrow split open.” Now he threatened him with an iron bar.

“Let him talk, Papa,” the girl interrupted. This Kabirma turned back to the stud horse and brushed his forehead energetically. The animal responded by sniffing at his hand.

“She was a sorrel mare, a perfect example of her breed, four years old, cinnamon colored,” Diego went on. “She has two white spots, one between her ears and one at the base of her breast.”

The man cleared his throat three times in a row, and his daughter did not overlook it. Diego hushed in the vague hope that he had told the man enough.

“I've heard you and I don't have anything to say.”

Diego had the sense he was hiding something.

“You haven't seen her?”

“Get out!” he growled, enraged.

Diego pulled away, afraid of getting hit again, and walked off with a bowed head.

He meandered through the rest of the stalls and asked at every one. The ones who didn't insult him sent him away disrespectfully. He wandered for hours through that madhouse. He looked everywhere but never saw anything. He stumbled between the people, running into them, pushed by one after the other until he fell on the ground a number of times. He looked like a drunk, but it wasn't wine, but rather the enormity of his despair that made him act that way. Almost at dusk, he looked at his feet. Several of his toes were poking out from his shoes and they hurt from so much walking. He had nowhere to go and no reason to live.

“Come with me.” A hand grabbed his shirt and pulled on it. Turning around, he saw the girl's face, the daughter of the man from Jerez.

“Where?” Diego looked disconcerted. His chin and legs shook from pure weakness. His need to eat had grown to ravenous proportions.

“I'm taking you to Galib's house.”

“Galib?”

“He's the most famous albéitar in the city,” the girl explained. “He's the one who bought your horse.”

Diego's face lit up, and his eyes, and his smile.

“Don't think ill of my father. He has a harsh character, but he's a good man. Some men sold him your horse a few days back, and of course he had no idea it was stolen.”

“Does he know what you're doing now?”

“No.”

“Why are you helping me?”

She didn't answer. A chance bump from an old woman helped her to avoid doing so. In fact she didn't have any logical reason to help him. Maybe she felt regret, she wasn't sure, or maybe she was just letting herself go, acting on impulse. Feeling his gaze upon her, she only shrugged her shoulders.

“An albéitar …”
^*
Diego said, thinking out loud. “I thought they only had those in Al-Andalus.”

“The profession of albéitar is an old one in this city. It was practiced when this was still a Muslim realm, before it was conquered by the Christians. I believe that Galib escaped from Seville fleeing from the mad Almohads, and he had to start here from nothing and almost without means. Now it's said there exist no hands better than his when it comes to treating a sick horse. He's so wise that many doctors are envious of his knowledge of science, even if they don't share the same kind of patients.”

“Is he Muslim as well?”

“Like me,” the girl answered while she decided which street to take. “Around here they call us mudéjars, tolerated Muslims.”

Diego again felt a deep rage, having to be faced with more Moors, but above all, he needed to get Sabba back.

The two youngsters headed south, toward the Muslim quarter. Before leaving the market square, the girl stopped at a stand where they were selling a kind of sweet called marzipan. She bought a half dozen and offered them to him, taking pity on him for his extreme gauntness. Diego barely stopped for a breath as he ate them and she explained to him that they were made with a paste of ground almonds, glazed with egg yolk, and then baked.