The rising and falling terrain provided shade as it passed through oak forests along paths that were little more than old walled lanes and woodland tracks. The route provided them with a glimpse of authentic rural Galicia: small churches, wayside crosses, plumes of smoke spiraling up from stone farmhouses, and the ubiquitous Roman bridge at every river crossing.
A couple of hours later, when they stopped for lunch, two overweight pilgrims trudging along the trail jostled Solomon's memory so he asked Vitor about the desire of some pilgrims to extend their pilgrimage.
"They're going to the ocean to find scallop seashells. By possessing a scallop shell, a pilgrim proves he or she has finished the pilgrimage and seen the end of the world at Finnesterre," enthused Vitor. "The shell also serves a practical purpose since it can be used for gathering water to drink or as a makeshift bowl for eating. And, it's become an important metaphor. The grooves in the shell, which come together at a single point, represent the various routes pilgrims travel until they arrive at a single destination."
Solomon shared the gist of the conversation with Arabic-speaking Jalal.
The mercenary's eyes lit up as he offered an animated response.
The investigator felt the information important enough to translate for Vitor. "Jalal says the scallop shell is an important symbol for Islam as well. The pearl inside the shell is Allah's gift to the world, the Quran."
They broke out the food.
After devouring their lunch, they resumed their journey.
They found themselves far from Santiago, in a verdant land of rolling hills, where scattered farmhouses and inconsequential villages marked their progress. Solomon recognized more of the narrow, raised wooden structures perched on pillars raised above foundations of stone or earthen berms. Crosses stood mounted on both ends of the roofs below which small door had been added. He had been struck by their absence in Santiago de Compostela.
"What are those structures, Vitor?" Solomon asked as he pointed one out in the distance. "We thought they might be a way to bury the dead, but we didn't see any in Santiago."
"They're called horreos," Vitor chuckled. "They're used to store grain, to get it up off the ground and protect it from the elements and from vermin. Which explains why you see them in the countryside in close proximity to a farmhouse."
Solomon shared the news with Jalal and the two men enjoyed a good laugh even though it came at their own expense.
A strong wind blew in from the ocean. It carried with it a hint of salt spray and this suggested to Solomon that he was growing closer to the Coast of Death and the Finisterre. Soon they would traveling close to the end of the world.
They stopped outside of the harbor town of Cee in the late afternoon. Solomon sent Vitor into the village to buy supplies and, more importantly, to inquire about the location of the farmhouse. He and Jalal remained behind so as not to draw undue attention to themselves.
The ex-monk made the rounds of a small fishing village that supported itself by the bounty of the sea and staples supplied by a few shops catering to pilgrims' needs. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he found a local butcher who remembered the family. He’d bought pigs from them in the past. He provided the information they required, but only after Vitor convinced him that his intention was to be reunited with the family's youngest daughter. His description of the family allayed the merchant's doubts, evoking a familiarity that made his request seem natural.
Once they knew the whereabouts of the farmhouse, Solomon decided to take advantage of the longer hours of June daylight to join in with pilgrims headed for Cape Finesterre. The end of the earth was less than five miles away and the farmhouse not much further. They were all tired and he reasoned their encounter with the Galician woman could wait until morning.
The investigator still wasn't sure about the extent of Bishop's Sisnand's threat. If the old Warlord wanted the Andalusis to find the Galician woman and return her to Córdoba so that he might turn her into a martyr to rally his troops for a Reconquest of the South, his attack had done the trick. Solomon now believed the attack had been meant to hasten them on their way.
But there was no way he was going to come this far and not see the end of the earth. He shared this sentiment with Jalal, but sensed a stiff resistance. He wondered if Jalal possessed a sustained feeling of compassion for anybody, including himself. He was always on duty. Solomon knew he'd never return to the savage north. Never have another opportunity to see what the end of the earth was all about. How could he pass up this opportunity? Less than half a day could hardly make a difference, he rationalized. Especially since they'd be getting started for the farm so late in the day.
Lighten up, soldier.
Let's have a little fun for God's sake.
Was this another manifestation, like the extra time spent in Mérida, of his rebellious nature? Was there a part of him that secretly desired not to find the Galician woman? Or, maybe he was just born with a curious mind. He didn't know the answer , but he harbored no doubts about what he wanted.
"We're going to the Finnisterre."
It sounded like an order.
It was meant it to.
Three men stood along the top of a promontory looking out towards a mighty spur of adjoining granite jutting out from the Galician mainland into the sea. This natural headland led their vision out into the vastness of a timeless ocean in the extreme northwesterly quarter of the Iberian Peninsula. A cold mist, brought in from the sea by the western winds, refreshed them as they stared out at the vast body of water.
They remained spellbound, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below.
They were a long way from anywhere, close to the wild heart of nature, standing in a place where the world seemed to stop and the earth and heaven and the sky and sea met in an almost mystical embrace, suggesting an ageless melding of biological elements.
"I suppose we have to go out to the end of the cape, to the actual end of the earth, to satisfy you?" Jalal asked with a certain bitterness in his voice.
"No." Solomon answered. "This will be fine. The end of the earth is beyond the horizon, beyond what we now see with our eyes."
"What do they call this ocean?" Jalal wanted to know.
"They call it Mare Tenebrosu, and that translates to the dark sea," Solomon replied. He translated the Arabic response into Latin and Vitor agreed with his interpretation.
The investigator wondered what might exist beyond that dark, unfathomable sea.
They had arrived at this place of contemplation by following pilgrims along yet another Roman road, a trail hugging the cliffs and coves of the coast until it took them up a steep and sinuous stone path where they guided the horses and sure-footed mule past slippery moss covered boulders.
Vitor had joined Jalal in complaining about Solomon's decision to embark upon the arduous climb to the top of the mountain, but a change overcame him when they reached the summit with its breathtaking view of the sea and with offshore islands so close he imagined he could reach out and touch them. They were witnessing nature at her most sublime, an experience difficult to duplicate during the course of normal daily life.
The world of man was represented on the mountaintop as well so they returned from their reveries and followed a trio of pilgrims to a spot where a dozen low stone walls lay in ruins, circular and oblong configurations with narrow entrance thresholds. These weren't vestiges from the Romans, but the foundations of ancient huts, constructed of wood or mud and long since consumed by the elements.
Vitor assumed the role of guide:
"The Romans arrived here about a thousand years ago, but the people who built these structures lived here a thousand years earlier."
"The original Galicians," Solomon responded.
"Exactly. We call them the cultura castrexa," the ex-cleric continued, "and their dwellings are known locally as castros, from the Latin castrum, which means castle. It is said these people worshipped the sun. It's also been said there are myst
erious beings hoarding treasure under these abandoned hill-forts. They are called Mouros."
"Do you believe it?"
"Galicians are more superstitious than religious."
"But, you were a clergyman."
"I am a Galician."
They led the animals across an entryway into one of the abandoned castros.
Small groups of pilgrims had taken shelter in nearby dwellings--little more than stone walled enclosures--and had started small fires. Despite an abundance of twigs and branches on the mountain top, some of the pilgrims were taking articles of clothing and tossing them into the flames."
"I don't understand why they're doing something so irrational," Solomon confessed. "It's cold up here and there's plenty of wood nearby."
"There's a tradition," Vitor explained, "When you reach the end of the world you must burn your past. The pilgrim's quest is to be reborn in spirit. A second tradition is to witness the setting sun here at the end of the earth. "
The investigator wanted to learn more about these pilgrims and their longings.
"What motivates the men and women to undertake this journey, Vitor?"
"Having never embarked upon a pilgrimage myself, I can only offer my personal thoughts on the matter. I believe the arduous travel replicates the trials and tribulations of an apostle or saint's life. The pilgrimage brings the traveler a deeper understanding of the spiritual strengths of the individual they venerate, thus helping them find these same virtues and resources within themselves."
Solomon contemplated the ex-priest's response.
"Thank you for your insight."
"Wait, there's more to it than that," insisted Vitor. "The pilgrimage also serves as a kind of penance. A successful visit to the shrine absolves the pilgrim of past transgressions and sins. They're staking a claim for a brighter future and it begins with the completion of the journey."
They joined with pilgrims hours later at the edge of the mountain as the sky transformed itself into a blazing fire and the Galician sun sank down into the dark and endless sea.
"The Romans believed the world ended here," Victor began. "This is where they came to watch the sun being swallowed up by the sea at night. This is where the sun died at dusk. Before that, a sanctuary existed on this site where Galicians worshipped the deity Berobreus, lord of the Otherworld and beyond."
Solomon watched the last traces of sunlight fade from the day. He left his companions knowing he'd created an enduring memory, returning alone down the path towards their enclosure guided by the light of a dozen campfires. They had trusted the pilgrims would respect their property and not disturb the animals and their confidence had been rewarded. As he passed by a nearby pilgrim's camp, its small fire flaming brightly and casting shadows into a twilight world, Solomon surprised himself by committing an act both spontaneous and uncharacteristic.
Feeling compelled, he walked into the pilgrim's castro where he removed his sealskin rain-coat and held it over the fire. The onlookers became entranced as they watched him drop the valuable jacket down into the flames. Smoke emerged from under the sides of the garment and then it erupted into a blaze of light. The fire crackled and sparks flew out in all directions, but the brief pyrotechnics unnerved the pilgrims less than the unforeseen act they'd witnessed.
Solomon wondered if he was dreaming; the uncharacteristic act. The unexpected feeling of elation.
"Guess I won't be needing it," he told the amazed pilgrims.
He turned to leave and found Jalal and Vitor standing outside the enclosure staring at him in disbelief. He wasn't sure what to tell them so he grinned and rejoined his uncomprehending friends as they returned to their temporary shelter and settled down with the animals for the long night ahead.
That night, a heavy mist rolled in from the sea.
It bought a wet, cold drizzle that chilled them to the bone.
Chapter 26
Less than half a day's ride and blessed sunshine. The farmhouse lay in a sheltered crease between verdant hills. It was set back into the hillside, a two-storied stone structure with a slate roof. Its doors stood almost next to each other, framed by granite rocks with wooden lintels. One of the two doors was a pair of doubles.
There was a large window to one side of the single door and a smaller, higher opening to the left side of the other. This was simplicity exemplified. Not a single window on the second story. A stone fireplace. The ever present grey spiraling smoke of rural Galicia so familiar to the investigator. He'd already seen it many times before.
Solomon found himself standing at the edge of a woods studying a clearing below, perhaps a tenth of a mile in the distance. No hint of anything unusual about the farmhouse. Nothing to reveal it might be the abode of a murderess. He wasn't even sure if Vitor had led them to the correct farmhouse or if the ex-priest had really intended to guide them to his girlfriend's sister's home.
This is complicated, he thought.
And, then he saw her.
She sat upon a milking stool looking earthy and sensuous as morning sunlight dappled down through the trees surrounding the farm. She gently squeezed swollen pink teats on a dairy cow's bloated udder. White liquid splashed down into a round wooden bucket.
She fit the description Sara had given him.
Her vivid red mane, pulled back from her forehead, framed an oval jawline.
Her smile suggested contentment.
Solomon could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest; time to make his move. He hurried down towards the farm leaving Jalal and Vitor behind with the animals. As he drew closer, the woman heard his approach and it startled her. She looked up apprehensively and turned to find him marching towards her.
Determination, written all over his face, translated itself to her emotional core with the force and swiftness of a lightning bolt. She rose, quite deliberately, and then she sprinted for the farmhouse door.
Solomon ran after her, cutting off the only avenue of escape.
"Wait!" he commanded in Arabic.
She ignored him and continued running and then she began screaming for help.
He caught up with her, grabbed her around the waist, and held on tightly. The woman spat in his face as she struggled to escape his grasp. He shifted his grip and grabbed her by the wrists. She screamed again.
Solomon was resolute. He ignored her screams and pushed the left sleeve of her blouse up past her forearm. Blemish free milky white skin, smooth and flawless, with no sign of a purple birthmark. Its absence sent a shock through his mind.
He'd miscalculated.
"Who are you?"
The young woman's green eyes opened wide with fear before she fainted, falling backwards into Solomon's outstretched arms. Her dead weight dropped him to his knees and he felt wet grass soaking through his pant legs.
He heard the door of the farmhouse swing open and looked up.
A giant of a man bounded out into the farmyard.
Searching with his eyes, the man found the woman lying in Solomon's arms. The snarling behemoth became enraged and sprinted madly towards them. The man's fierce eyes bore down upon him as the threat of violence drew closer. Your knife, Solomon, grab your knife he told himself. He heard shouting behind him, but he didn't have time to turn around. Solomon assumed it was his companions. As he reached down for the knife, he knew it was too late.
The farmer raised an enormous fist, but a hard kick delivered right into the man's groin doubled him over putting an abrupt end to his aggression. The man yelled out in pain as he tumbled headlong to the earth. The tip of Jalal's sword rested against the man's jugular vein before either the assailant or the investigator understood what had happened.
The well-trained Slav kept his prisoner at bay, applying light pressure to the man's neck. Vitor stood beside them, bent over with hands gripping knees, gasping for air. Solomon released his grasp on the unconscious woman and scrambled to his feet. He gave the mercenary escort an appreciative glance before something else caught his eye.
&
nbsp; She stood in the open doorway, no longer an apparition, staring out into the farmyard like a dream taking on flesh. She resembled the young woman Solomon had held in his arms only she appeared older and more composed. The investigator began to understand his confusion. The two women were sisters. Even from a distance, the short-sleeve peasant blouse left the birthmark on her arm exposed. A splatter of purple. Isn't this what Sara had told him?
"Are you Lia?" he shouted in Arabic.
A wide-eyed expression revealed her understanding of the language; and, a slight nod of the head confirmed what he already surmised. He watched tears well up in the woman's melancholy eyes and trickle down her cheeks.
Solomon Levy had found the Galician woman.
The animals were sheltered inside the farmhouse. The double doors led into this enclosure, an interior barn with a hard packed earthen floor and a chicken coop in one corner. There were no stalls for the two horses and the mule, but they would be safe from the elements and any marauding predators. The ceiling consisted of a series of wooden planks set across sturdy beams. It served as the floor of the second story.
Through a set of interior doors and also inside the farmhouse, Jalal guarded the two prisoners whose wrists were bound with rope. Lia and a man Solomon had learned was her younger brother, Roi. Vitor had dispelled the investigator's earlier notion that the man traveling with the Galician woman was her lover. The investigator took a long look at Roi, a broad-shouldered man who dressed himself in a woolen shirt and woolen pants tucked into knee high boots. He was probably used to being in command of every situation given his size. Now the tables were turned as Jalal had him reduced to the status of being a prisoner in his own home.
Meanwhile, the ex-cleric spent his time trying to console Lia's sister, speaking with her in their native Galician tongue. He'd already convinced Solomon that it wasn't necessary to bind his inamorata, taking full responsibility for the outcome.
Solomon wanted to be alone with his primary suspect.
Desiring to talk to her without interruptions, he took Lia back outside and led her over to the farm's rustic granary which he now understood was not an above ground burial site. He stopped below the stone foundation and turned to her. She stood face to face with him, gazing at him as she waited for the questioning to begin.
The Galician Woman Page 19