A sapling snapped back against his face, scratching his cheek. He froze, startled, for a moment forgetting where he was and what year it was, and then he knew he was being watched, hunted, that instinctive feeling tightening his muscles in preparation. He bent his head, straining his ears, all his senses taut as he listened to the soft noises of the forest. And then he heard it, the low rustle of something moving. Something big, bigger than a fox or a badger. He span around, staring wildly into the undergrowth, but he could see nothing. A second later there was the sharp retort of a branch being snapped. Now August pushed forward as fast as he could, slashing through with his knife, knowing that it might be dangerous to stay still. Suddenly, something went past his head, missing him by inches. August recognised the sound immediately. A bullet. He was being shot at. By the time he realised it, he heard the sound of a rifle being cocked and he was thrown to the ground by someone leaping out of the bushes. The second bullet thudded into a tree directly in front of where he’d just been standing; whoever it was pinning him down had saved his life. August pushed the man off him and rolled free. To his amazement, he saw Gabirel standing over him. The youth put a finger to his lips.
‘Izarra!’ Gabirel called to the forest behind them. ‘Izarra! Show yourself!’ August wriggled over to him, not game to stand up yet. A moment later Izarra stepped out from behind a tree, her rifle still trained on August. He froze. Gabirel began walking towards her, cursing furiously in Euskara, of which August could understand only a few words. Eventually, she lowered her rifle, the two of them illuminated by a patch of sunlight beating its way through the canopy.
Angry, August got to his feet, brushing off the leaves. ‘What the hell were you trying to do, kill me?’ He stepped over to her, bristling with anger. Gabirel moved protectively in front of Izarra, but August ignored him. ‘When are you going to understand I am a friend?’
‘A friend who tries to get secrets? Who respects nothing, not even sacred land!’ she shouted back, her face red with fury.
‘Who are you, Izarra, who are you really?’ he demanded, all patience gone. Again, Gabirel said something in Euskara to her, his tone now adult, authoritative. They began arguing fiercely. Finally, Gabirel seemed to threaten her with something if she didn’t acquiesce. To August’s surprise, she softened and put her gun away, turning to him.
‘Come, I will help you in your research.’
‘But why?’
‘Because my sister’s spirit will not rest until she is avenged. Come.’
She started beating her way through the foliage; Gabirel stared at August solemnly then with a nod of his head indicated that the American should follow while he walked behind. As August stepped into the path Izarra was making, far swifter and more sure-footed than he’d been able, he couldn’t remember the last time he regretted so much leaving behind his Mauser.
It was situated in a small dip in the land, lipped by the edge of a stone ledge, the result of some ancient avalanche. It was a perfect secret place, completely hidden from the surrounding forest. August looked on amazed. The clearing had opened in front of them almost magically. Apart from the small chink of sunlight that seemed to dance ahead of them as they pushed their way through thick foliage, there had been no indication of its existence. Now August realised why – the ancient ruins of what looked like either a Roman or Moorish villa were almost entirely overgrown by ground vines. It was the distinctive sandstone (not found in the region) that delineated the original plan of the dwelling. Only the high back wall, which ran the length of the site, was still standing – an ancient structure in which the whitish sandstone had been placed with remarkable craftsmanship, each piece cut with extraordinary regularity and fitting snugly against the next.
In front of the ruin, and this was most astonishing, rising up in perfect symmetry, was a small maze. Perhaps only about sixty feet across, it was in the shape of an oblong, and had a curious design contained within it that reminded August of a calligraphy, one vaguely familiar to him. The walls, which appeared to be of hedgerow, stood about seven feet tall, making it obvious that, although the maze was not large, it was still all-encompassing enough to get lost inside. Now the strange tools he’d seen hanging on the barn wall made sense. He thought he’d recognised them as clippers for topiary – his first observation had been correct. So I was right, but the sight of a maze here in such a setting is almost surreal it is so wrong – why here?
Izarra climbed down the ledge into the clearing, her movement breaking his reverie. August followed, immediately noticing the intense scent of rosemary. At the bottom, he saw that Gabirel was hanging back, peering down at them, a terrified look in his eyes.
‘You’re not joining us?’ August asked. Gabirel shook his head.
Izarra touched August’s shoulder. ‘Gabirel hasn’t liked coming here since he was a boy.’
‘It’s an evil place, evil!’ the youth shouted, in Spanish, the last word ringing out across the clearing.
‘That’s enough, Gabirel. Wait there.’
Izarra led August to the ruins. ‘You are the first in a long time to set eyes upon this place,’ she told him, solemnly, and with some reluctance. There was a new tentativeness about her, as if she herself were somehow cowed by the surrounds – nevertheless, he felt strangely honoured she’d allowed him this far. He walked up to the tumbled stones and knelt to examine them. Glancing across, he could make out the walls of the original dwelling. Now he could see that it was not Roman but in fact traditional Andalusian architecture, of the kind he’d seen in southern Spain, around Granada and Seville. He stood, perplexed; as far as he knew the Moors had never got this far north.
‘I don’t understand. This shouldn’t be here. Tariq did not conquer this region.’ He spoke in English without realising.
‘There are many things that should not exist but do. It is only historians who squeeze history into boxes.’ Izarra smiled enigmatically at him.
He began to fathom how little he really knew of the woman, how prejudiced he’d been in his projection of her, assuming she’d had no education, had never travelled. He turned to look at Gabirel. The youth was standing near the back wall of the ruins, fidgeting anxiously. Something about his stance disturbed August; it was almost as if he were frightened by the wall yet drawn to it. As August watched, he began pacing backwards and forwards, edgy and restless, like a dog defending its territory. August had the disorientating sensation that by stepping into the clearing they’d left real time behind, as if here no linear time existed; just light, air and scent hanging suspended.
‘Come, let me show you.’ Izarra’s voice seemed to shimmer.
While Gabirel sat on the ruins waiting, Izarra led August into the maze. Now he knew where the aroma of herbs was coming from – the hedgerow was made of towering rosemary bushes. August had never seen such tall bushes; the scent was so strong it was almost hallucinogenic.
‘My family were the custodians of this sacred place, for as long as my father, his grandmother and so on, could remember. At first, as the story goes, we were guardians of Mari the Goddess’s cave, the one I believe Gabirel showed you. All the women in my family were sorgina, in English you would say “priestesses”, of the traditional religion, the one that runs through the heart of the Basque. But also we had this ruin on our land, not as old as the cave, but before the time of Christ coming to these mountains.’
‘The dwelling was built around the time of Tariq, the Ottoman general who conquered the Iberian Peninsula for Caliph Al-Walid,’ said August. ‘That makes it eighth century. It looks like a small dwelling of some sort, perhaps even a temple. But this?’ He indicated the maze. ‘The Ottomans liked gardens, and there was usually a religious and spiritual formality to the way they laid them out, but a maze? As far as I know, mazes didn’t become fashionable until the sixteenth century, and usually as a folly.’
‘I was taught nothing about either the maze or the ruins,’ Izarra said. ‘All my parents ever taught me was to guard the place wit
h my life, that for it to fall into enemy hands or under the gaze of a non-believer would bring disaster to the family and the village.’ She’d lowered her voice reverently as they moved to a small arch through the hedgerow that formed the entrance to the maze.
Through the arch they stood at the maze’s opening, before a circular base that was ringed by high bush. She led him into the base, itself a miniature maze – a series of rings and blind looping walls creating a mini-labyrinth within the circle, at the centre of which they found an empty, round gravelled flowerbed. The walls were like onion skins, the topiary deliberately constructed to confuse. Taking his hand, Izarra walked him out of the base, confidently darting between the hidden openings and false paths, along a curved wall to another circle. There appeared to be four paths branching from the outer ring of the circular base. Izarra led him down the second path, which looked as if it finished in a dead end. It was only when they arrived at the end of the path that August realised it was an illusion – there was a hidden entrance between the thick topiary, behind which was yet another circular base also ringed by high bush and also containing a number of different maze-like rings. Again four gravelled paths (including the one they’d just arrived from) branched out from this base and, like the first base they’d entered, at the centre of it was a simple gravelled circular bed.
‘There aren’t many reasons why someone would build such an elaborate dwelling in such a secret place,’ he said, trying to fathom the symbolism of the construct. ‘They either did it for religious or ritual purposes, or as a sanctuary or hiding place.’
‘We were taught never to ask such questions, just to accept this was our heritage and it was our duty to maintain the maze and protect it.’ Izarra was curt, as if trying to discourage him from applying his intellect, from analysing.
They arrived at another base, again with a confusing number of circular paths around it, and when they arrived at the centre, August now noticed that the flowerbed in the middle was also gravel, carefully raked and tended, exactly like that of the other bases they’d seen. Somehow it now seemed significant – as if it had been kept deliberately bare. The outer ring had eight different paths radiating from it. This time August sensed that he was in the centre of the maze. He turned around, disorientated, and chose an arbitrary path and began walking.
‘We’ve just come from that path. Here, follow me,’ Izarra called out, behind him. He swung around and stared down the gravel path with the towering green walls on either side, Izarra nowhere in sight, feeling dizzy from the scent of rosemary. He rested, hands on his knees. Then another figure seemed to run across the path, a figure in khaki and mud-stained boots, a figure he recognised instantly.
Charlie.
Startled, he stumbled, and the memory of that last night loomed up from the ground. The face of the Spanish Republican commander issuing him the order, the sickening feeling of inevitability, August arguing back but the commander’s insistent voice echoing through him.
‘It has to be you, as an example to the men. The price for desertion is death, especially for an officer. It has to be you, you know him.’ Again, there was Charlie smiling at him around the corner of a hedgerow then his friend was gone.
‘Come and find me!’ Izarra’s teasing voice rang out, sucking him back. She sounded frustratingly close. Shaking himself, August stood up fully. Then he caught a flash of ankle at an opening at the far end. He ran and swung into the right turn, cornering her.
‘Not bad for a novice,’ she said. ‘But it’s surprisingly confusing, don’t you think, for such a small maze? It’s the high walls and the use of herbs planted to confuse the senses, as well as the intricate designs within each circle. You wouldn’t find the centre unless you were with someone who’d been taught to find their way out.’
‘Like yourself?’
‘We were taught that the maze is like a song. That’s how we memorised the way to the centre. My mother showed me how. It was a song that had been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries. But not everyone found the way. There was a story in the family of how my great-great-great-grandmother found the body of a man who must have perished trying to get out. A foreigner, not from these parts. No one knew how he got there or how he discovered the maze. I think he must have wanted to die in the maze.’
‘But why?’
‘To be nearer to heaven.’
It was a curious answer. August studied her expression – her sincerity and blind belief were disturbing.
‘How long have your family been in the valley, do you know, Izarra?’
‘My mother’s father’s family have been here for ever. Then, back in the seventeenth century, around the time of the witch trials, another branch of the family moved here, at least that’s how the story goes. There was much my mother didn’t tell me.’ They reached the end of another passage. Here the rosemary was less clipped and the beginning of a canopy was growing over their heads, reducing the light to a shadowy, scented green.
‘We’re almost at the next base,’ Izarra whispered, as if frightened the very leaves might be listening. The path finished and they arrived at another circular base also ringed by blind curved walls and hidden entrances, and with three paths (including the one they had arrived through) leading away from it. They wound their way into the centre – in the middle the flowerbed, instead of being covered in gravel, had a small bush of vervain growing in it, with lilies sprouting from the middle, as if cultivated.
‘And so you can see, no great reward or treasure,’ Izarra explained. ‘Just the challenge of choosing the right path along which to return.’
But August was now convinced the choice of planted herb was symbolic. He waited until Izarra’s back was turned then swiftly plucked a leaf of the vervain and a lily and stuffed them into his pocket. Izarra saw nothing.
‘My mother always said the maze was a symbol for life – or even ambition,’ she said, swinging back to face him. ‘You spend the first half of your life trying to reach a level of success, always having to work out which is the right decision, the right path, never having time to just focus on the journey itself, always thinking only of the destination. And often when you get there, it’s a disappointment and just when you thought life was going to get easier you’re presented with a whole new set of options or paths you have to choose.’ Now she was leading him back through the maze quickly, as if she knew the path by heart. He had to run to keep up with her, knowing if he lost her he would not find his way. He had the distinct impression the design of the maze itself was perhaps more meaningful than the actual experience of walking it and that Izarra’s allegory was a smokescreen calculated to confuse him. Before long they stepped back out into the clearing. August, wanting to clear his brain from the dizzying effects of the rosemary, took a few deep breaths.
‘They say rosemary helps the memory, but here it is for the opposite, for the forgetting.’ Izarra, watching, smiled.
‘Oh, it made me remember,’ he replied, grimly, the image of Charlie still resonating, the sickly weight of guilt. She read his face.
‘La Guerra?’
He nodded.
She reached across and took his hand.
‘Izarra!’ Gabirel’s anguished voice broke the moment and she dropped her hand.
August glanced up. Gabirel was watching them from the ledge, looking strangely anguished.
‘What is wrong with Gabirel?’ he asked.
Izarra glanced over to the youth. ‘He used to love coming here as a small boy, then after …’ and he knew she was referring to the massacre, ‘after that he stopped accompanying me. I think maybe he thinks it is only a woman’s place, a place for sorgina only, that grown men should not be allowed near.’
‘Then thank you for showing me. I am privileged, doubly so as a man.’
‘We have risked our lives and our history by showing you. You cannot share this knowledge with anyone.’
‘I understand, you can trust me, Izarra.’
She nodded sole
mnly, then returned to Gabirel, and August took the opportunity to scout the outside of the maze. The design was irregular but formal and the familiarity of it teased at a corner of his mind. Glancing around, he saw a tall stout tree growing from the ledge the wall was built on. He moved towards the high wall of the ruin for a better perspective.
‘Stay away from the wall!’ Gabirel shouted.
‘I promise I will, I just have to take a few photographs,’ August tried to reassure the boy as he reached the wall. With his rucksack on his back, he began to climb the tree. Within minutes he was over twenty feet up. Below he could see Gabirel and Izarra exchange a few angry words in Euskara. Balancing on a thick branch, August pulled his Rolleiflex camera out of his rucksack. Ignoring the argument erupting below him, he framed the shot and took several photographs of the maze from as high as he could – it was almost a topographical perspective. Here you could see the deceptively simple layout with its hidden complexity: the miniature mazes within each circular base, designed to confuse whoever was walking it. Then he climbed down to take a photo of the ruins with the wall in the background. By the time he joined the other two, Gabirel was pale, almost rigid with anxiety. Izarra put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Gabirel, we will not be discovered.’
The Map Page 26