The Horse Healer (40 page)

Sancha seemed to be more satisfied with this remedy. She still wasn't sure what she was doing there or if it would work, but she could see that the man had something that floated around him, a power she had never seen in anyone. She would try it; she had nothing to lose, however absurd it might seem.

“What tree is this?”

“Relax, you won't have to look for it or wait for next spring to get one of its flowers. Every year I pluck a number of them and dry them out.”

He got up from his chair and looked in a clay jar. He took out a handful and showed them to her. Sancha saw that he kept them in branches of six.

“Heat up a tea with two dozen of these and give it to him to drink. It will take effect immediately, and from that moment you will be free of him forever.”

Efraím wrapped the flowers in a cloth of white cotton and passed it to Sancha.

“That will be ten
sueldos
.”

“Ten?”

“No one said magic was free. You get what you want and I pay my debts.”

Sancha took the ten coins from a sack and shook his hand.

“Tell Diego I will look for him in three days, at sundown, at Arroyo Grande.”

“Should I tell him anything else?”

“Yes, let him know I will open the doors to other worlds for him.”

V.

M
encía felt something moving in her stomach.

Her son went on growing inside her without knowing that his mother would never consider him the fruit of love, only of deception.

Full of bitterness and sorrow, Mencía was looking from the window of her bedroom in the castle of Ayerbe, the property of her husband.

This was her second pregnancy. She had lost her first child months before the date of birth arrived. No one knew what the cause of death had been, but she did: that baby had been engendered against her will, against her heart, and her body itself had rejected it from the beginning.

Now, in her sixth month of pregnancy, she had the sense that the same thing was going to pass.

She listened to a loud thunder peal penetrate the castle walls and saw how the water beat against the stone. The storm took her back to another one, that night in the abandoned chapel. She crossed her hands over her breast with an expression of pain and deep grief. Diego had been her only love, a love broken by her mother's ambition, someone erased from her life for the sole reason of maintaining her noble name.

She thought of him every day, remembered his expressions, his words, the sweetness of his kisses. There was not a single night when she went to sleep without saying good night to her beloved Diego. Even when her husband took her, she pretended it was her true love.

Her pain was intimate, fatal, inconfessable.

It was already getting dark when a great bolt of lightning suddenly lit up her bedroom with a cold blue light.

“My lady …” Mencía turned away from the window to speak with her lady-in-waiting. “Your messenger has just arrived.”

“Let him in, quickly, before my husband comes.”

Mencía rubbed her hands together nervously, waiting to see if the news she expected would come.

As soon as he entered, she ran to him anxiously.

“Tell me, what have you found out? And how is he? Have you spoken with him?”

The boy pulled his rain cover from his belt and made ready to answer a series of questions. His throat felt very dry.

“Before I explain, do you have a little water?”

“Blanca, bring him a pitcher, hurry!”

He drank two whole glasses, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

“He's no longer in Albarracín.”

“Then you couldn't give him my message?” Mencía clenched her hands in fury.

“No, I didn't manage to. But I found out where he is presently staying …”

“Where is he, where?” Mencía's eyes bulged out. “For God's sake, answer me! I'm dying to know everything.”

“In the town of Cuéllar, in Castile,” he answered, satisfied.

“I don't know that place.” Mencía felt a kick in her belly and stretched out in her chair to find a more comfortable posture.

“Between Segovia and Valladolid, halfway. Apparently it's a town rich in pine forests and sheep. I was told this by a trader who had met someone named Marcos. …”

“Of course, Marcos is his friend; he's been with him for years,” she confirmed.

“Well, his friend chose that area for its excellent commercial possibilities.”

“Cuéllar, in Castile …” Mencía savored that name aloud, but at just that moment, her husband, Fabián Pardo, entered.

“What's happening in Cuéllar?” He greeted her with a kiss on her lips and stoked her round belly. “My love, has it been a tough day for you?”

“You can go now, young man.” Mencía touched her face and felt it burning.

The messenger bowed respectfully and sprinted from the room, faced with the questioning stare of Mencía's husband. She tried to think of an explanation for his question about Cuéllar.

“May I know who that boy you were speaking to was?” Fabián waited until he'd shut the door. “I don't recognize him at all.”

“Well … I don't think so. In reality, he's …” She coughed three times. “I mean he's …”

“Leave it, don't continue. You aren't trying to tell me that actually he's your secret lover. Confess it!” He smiled before kissing her on the lips again, with renewed passion. “My God, but how can someone love a woman so much? All day, the only thing I long for is to be by your side.”

“Blanca, you can leave. I don't need anything else.”

Mencía stood up with difficulty from the chair and walked to the window. It was still raining. Fabián's arms wrapped around her back and met at her breast. He began to kiss her neck and cheeks.

“My love, how I want to feel you again, to recover the passion of our encounters,” he said, stroking her belly, “like before …”

Mencía fell quiet. To see him so in love with her made her doubly unhappy. She didn't love him; she never had and she never would. Her heart knew only her love for Diego, and he was so far from her. …

The tears welled in her eyes and she caught them with her fingers.

“What is it, my darling?”

“Nothing. I'm all excited. … It must be for the child.” She lied again, as she had done ever since she'd been with him, because her sorrow had another name: Diego de Malagón. Impossible.

Many miles to the south, Sancha took a dish full of boiling water from the fire. Hot on her fingers, she left it on the table and smiled at him.

Basilio Merino, her husband, looked at her without understanding that strange demonstration of affection.

He had come back to the village to stay. Business had been bad since he left Cuéllar, and his family was here anyway. He thought that, if he tried, he could overcome the tensions with Sancha. For all the time he'd been away, he had missed her cooking, the warmth of his home, her body …

When he came near his house, he took all the caution necessary to be sure he wouldn't come across that man who had threatened him. Since he didn't see him anywhere, he entered the house without fear, and he was surprised indeed when Sancha welcomed him without problems as soon as she saw him. He had imagined her more bitter, full of rancor, and he found a woman changed, as though she had forgotten all that had happened.

“Sancha, I missed you … and the girls, too.” He stroked her thigh while she poured the water into a smaller pitcher. “I'm sorry for what I did back then. I've changed, believe me. I'm here to ask you to forgive me.”

“You've been away more than a year.”

“I didn't dare to come back. I thought you hated me.”

“Your sin was great, and not just toward me. But maybe with time, I don't know, maybe we'll forget all that, it could be …”

Sancha was disgusted when she felt his hand running over her belly, looking for her breasts. She pulled away in time and placed the steaming pitcher between them, telling him to sit down. Basilio did, though unhappily.

“What is this for? You know I hate these herb drinks. I'd rather have a bit of wine.”

Sancha smiled at him but went to a shelf to take down a few clay cups and filled them with hot water. Then she took out a cloth and unfolded it slowly. Basilio watched her, interested.

“What do you have there?” He stretched his neck and saw that they were small white flowers. “I already told you I hate that nonsense. Don't expect me to drink it.”

“Are you disrespecting me?” Sancha faced him, her hands on her hips, with a disappointed expression. “Aren't you trying to repair things with me?”

Resigned, the man accepted what she said.

Sancha counted the flowers before dropping them in the cup. Efraím had recommended she use two dozen, but since they were so little, she wasn't sure how many had gone in. It could have been more. Maybe it was.

She poured a bit more in his cup and stirred them with a spoon until she saw the leaves were well steeped. Soon the water was whitish in color and had a sweet and appetizing aroma.

“Try it, you'll like it.” She brought the cup over to him and sat on his lap, giving him a suggestive look.

Basilio smelled it and took a sip.

“You didn't put anything strange in it?”

She brought the cup to her lips and pretended to drink.

“The only risk is that I might not let you finish it.” She grabbed his chin, kissing him passionately on the lips.

Basilio drank it down in one sip and, hot with lust, grabbed her by the waist. He covered her neck and chest in kisses. Sancha pretended to reject him, waiting for the potion to work. She then let him have her. She deliberately pushed her cup little by little until it fell to the floor and broke in a thousand pieces. That way she wouldn't have to drink it.

Sancha didn't know what effect it would provoke, and so she waited, passive, submissive.

Basilio threw her on the table. Sancha was liking it less and less. He tore at her clothing, and she was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. She had trusted completely in the effects of that remedy, but it didn't seem to be working on her husband. And she couldn't stop his strength. …

“Be still! It's been so long that I've lusted for you. …”

“Leave me be. … I don't want to.” She scratched one of his arms, not excessively, as a warning, but he became angry and violent as he had been before, slapping her without consideration.

Sancha shouted and insulted him. And she shouted again when he struck her in the face, when he began to shove her. He had his head over hers and for that reason, she didn't see her come in. Nor could she stop her hand when she drove that enormous knife into his back, and then another, piercing his ribs and driving it into his heart. It was Rosa.

When she heard her mother's cries, the girl had rushed into the kitchen and seen her mother in the hands of that repugnant being. The blood had rushed to her head and, with it, an infinite hatred that pushed her toward him and made her erase him permanently from their lives.

Basilio couldn't speak; the wound had been mortal. He remained fallen over Sancha until she could get away from him, full of disgust. Then she held her daughter, and together, they cried.

When Sancha turned to look at her, she remembered Efraím. He had told her to choose between partial and definitive separation, and she had chosen the latter.

This was the result, though she had never imagined the potion would act in this way.

When Diego arrived that afternoon and found out what had happened, they decided to keep the secret to protect Rosa. He found them calm, without the least flicker of penitence.

They left little María in one of the bedrooms so she wouldn't see anything and Diego dragged the body to one of the stables, where the three of them buried it. Rosa was the first to throw a shovel full of earth atop it. Her and her mother's martyrdom was over, the worst horror they had known in their lives. She felt relieved when she saw her father disappear forever beneath the earth.

Once they were done, Diego left them alone to take the horse of that vile character northward. He decided to sell it at the first fair he saw far enough away so nobody would associate the horse with Cuéllar or its former owner. Days later, once he'd returned to Cuéllar, he saw Efraím.

As always, the old man surprised him.

“How is the widow Sancha?”

VI.

T
he soft breeze of the desert shook the heavy curtain of Estela's bedroom.

Hidden behind it, a shadow waited for the first light of day to reach the bed in order to act. Its owner breathed heavily, nervous.

Two guards watched over the doors of that bedroom, and that is why he had gone to the patio. It was the only possibility of reaching her.

For a moment, he hesitated. The risk of being discovered was huge. Anyone could easily know who did it. He scratched his forehead and made the decision to try things differently.

He was about to jump to the neighboring patio when he heard her cough and looked back at her. A crescent of orange light had just reached her face and bled over it, blending in with the color of her hair. Her beauty was enchanting, and his intentions toward her were definitive.

He approached in utter silence and brushed against her sheets. Temptation ran through his hands. He could do it right there, at that moment. He observed the rise and fall of her breast while she breathed, sleeping.

He was so close to what he wanted. …

Without touching her, his eyes trailed over her cheeks and her fingertips, then her lips, and he longed to feel that thin neck between his hands. He would do it at that moment. …

The sudden call for prayer stopped him. When he heard someone coming into the bedroom, he ran and hid. He made it to the curtain in enough time not to be seen, pushed it back, and left Estela's patio, making it to the neighboring one after jumping over a low wall that separated them.

That new bedroom wasn't safe. He immediately thought of a new way to make his plan happen, maybe harder, but he thought he could do it.

He inhaled deeply to recover from the panic he had just felt, and when he walked down the hallway, he found himself faced with one of Estela's servants who was about to enter her room.

He decided to ready everything for after her bath.

Princes Najla sank in the warm waters of the enormous pool inside the private baths of the harem. When she stepped out, she flung her hair back.

“You know that spirits like to live near water? That's why we light candles when we invoke them, so that our presence is pleasing to them.”

Najla chose a flat candle and made sure it would float. She pushed it toward Estela and the girl received it with a smile. When she felt her servant's hands on her back, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. The aroma from the rosemary oil the girl was massaging her with rose to her nostrils.

Najla began to sing the praises of the Prophet.

The hammam, or weekly bath, was the best experience in the harem for Estela. There she forgot her misery while being transported by the fantastic sensations that came with the ritual.

“In water there is poetry, purity, and wisdom, because it quenches the thirst of the soul.” Najla toyed with the rose petals that floated around her and came over to her friend. She looked at her back. It was covered in scars from her cruel punishment in the square.

“Do they hurt?” She ran her finger over one of them.

“It's not there where I feel the most pain.”

Najla felt compassion for her.

“He shouldn't have done it. My brother has been cruel with you.” Najla stirred the water to clear her image from its surface. “I know what it feels like when they make you suffer.”

Estela imagined she was referring to her break with Sancho of Navarre, which Najla had never gotten over. Estela likewise remembered her brother. She had been thinking of him since Tijmud told her about the conversation between Pedro de Mora and the vizier, when the name Diego had come up and the former had promised to avenge himself.

The gladness that she felt on knowing Diego was alive was immense, though there was little information about him. According to Tijmud, Don Pedro had confronted him. He didn't know where or how it had occurred, but it didn't matter, the news had filled her with hope, but also fear.

The two slaves helped them to leave the water and waited for them to lie down on some hammocks before anointing them on the back with lotions of heather and almond. Afterward, they gave the two women long massages.

“I love you, sister.” Najla turned her head to Estela and watched her, bewitched by the beauty of her body. “I don't understand why he makes you suffer. … How can you torture a woman you desire?” She sat there a moment in silence. “Even if you're a slave, I understand you deserve respect. I consider you a sister and I understand your pain. More and more, I feel your pain. You are fragile and he is so powerful.”

Estela thanked her for her words.

“Anyway, if you wished, my brother would give you everything. You could be the greatest, his favorite. … That idea never attracted you?”

“Never, Najla; I only want to be free,” she answered, while the slave wiped the excess oil from her stomach with a cloth.

“Free! Do you think I am? No one is. You should realize that for once. Neither you nor I will ever be. Think about it. Our culture prevents us from aspiring for anything except matrimony. We are born and live for men. We are like their limbs, entirely at their service. That's how it is. Before, I too longed for that sense of liberty, when I studied in Seville. I believed I could reach it if I cultivated my intelligence, absorbing the different arts and the science of philosophy. I imagined then that I could teach poetry and ideas to my women, as others had done with me. And once I had enough preparation, I would flee to Christian lands to begin there, without being anyone, my way, without the impositions I suffer now. … That was my plan, but none of it happened. Even running away took courage, and I didn't have it. I returned to Marrakesh, I met the king of Navarre, and the rest you already know.” She rubbed her hands with rose essence. “Free, you say … An impossible dream.”

When she sat up, she called for Ardah, the slave who painted her skin with henna. She took two towels and dried herself neatly, wiping away the last traces of oil.

Najla walked naked to a narrow window facing north and felt a pleasant breeze on her body.

“Enjoy the wind. The wind is free.”

Estela came over to her, closed her eyes, and was transported to an infinite, relaxed, drunken state by the aromatic traces of oil on her skin, feeling the air caress her body.

“Princess Najla …”

When they heard that voice, they turned and saw Ardah. She was carrying a copper tray with two jars of henna paste and two brushes. One was for Estela. The woman was nervous, afraid of making a mistake.

The paste they were tattooed with once per week was made in a special section of the harem, and two women with expert hands were in charge of it. There they mixed leaves of the plant with water, sugar, and lemon. Afterward they added aromatic oils of acacia, tamarind, and clove. But that day, after they made it, a man showed up, and the women didn't dare to ask any questions. He threatened them with death if they told anyone he had been there. And they said nothing. They let him have one of the jars, because they knew his reputation and didn't doubt the threats he had voiced. He emptied inside a few drops of a brownish, stinking liquid and told them that that jar, only that one, was for the concubine Estela, the Christian with the red hair.

Najla looked at her hands and arms and decided on a new tattoo, less boring than the one she had. Those vegetal forms were always the same. She turned to Ardah and asked her to go for another stencil.

The woman stood up, ready to take the tray and everything she'd brought with her.

“But leave the tray here.”

The slave became nervous, cleared her throat, and hesitated, but she didn't dare to touch it and left it where it was. The jar on the right was the one she had to use with Estela. That man had ordered her to do it that way, after paying her for the favor with a generous bag of money. She didn't want to ask anything because she desperately needed that money for her family.

When she returned to where the two women were, she thought she would choke. Princess Najla had one of the jars of henna in her hand and Estela the other. And, laughing, they had begun to paint each other.

“Allow me …” she screeched, losing control.

“What is with you, Ardah?” Najla looked at her surprised as she passed her the jar and the brush. “Don't worry, we won't take your job. No one does it better than you.”

The woman, trembling, began to draw butterflies on Najla's hand, and then on her back, and on her legs some scorpions, and circular figures on her breasts. She didn't know it, but that paste was the one Pedro de Mora had given her for Estela.

Efraím passed him the book carefully, as though it were the most delicate object in the world.

Diego looked at its outside. The strange drawings and symbols attracted his attention.

“It's
Picatrix
.” The man's voice was grave and transcendent. “The greatest treatise ever written about the noble art of magic. The greatest compilation of ancient knowledge. From ancient Greece to Persia, from Damascus to India, without overlooking the mysterious of Egypt. A one-of-a-kind book. It's written in Arabic, and you will be able to understand it. In it you will find another kind of science. I think it will help you open your eyes. Inside, it explains everything from how to destroy a city with a ray of silence to the most sophisticated techniques for influencing people who are far away. But above all, in your case, it will tell you how the stars influence the apparition of certain diseases, disordering mineral, animal, or vegetal elements.”

“I remember seeing another copy in the monastery in Fitero.”

“How strange. … Christians are prohibited from reading it. What use could it be to friars?”

“Maybe someone wanted to know whether magic came from God or the devil.”

“And what is your opinion?”

“I prefer to think God has given it his blessing.”

They were seated on a log, facing the stream. Efraím threw a large stone in the water and immediately waves circled around it.

“You see them?”

“Are you referring to the rings?”

“Yes. I counted five rings, an uneven number, a good omen.”

“If you try with a bigger stone, you'll get more than five. You'll see. Things don't happen because of mysterious causes; they're the fruit of physical causes. A bigger stone pushes away more water around it.”

Efraím threw another, larger stone, and there were only three rings.

“A magician can change the logic of the elements, as I just did with the water. It responded not to your logic, but to my will. And if you learn to capture a spirit with a star and then guide it toward matter, you will achieve goals that right now seem impossible.”

“Do you think in this way it is possible to cure one of the diseases that albéitars currently consider incurable?”

“Try and see, my friend. Read the
Picatrix
and we will see if it's possible or not.”