The Teeth of the Gale

by Joan Aiken

  And I left them.

  When I returned to the cave I found that Juana had built and banked up the fire with peat and beechmast so that it had a good heart and would last through the night. Pedro slept, and she still sat with her arms wrapped round her knees. She was not asleep; I could see the gleam of her eye reflecting the faint red glow of the fire.

  ‘Are you not tired?’ I said. ‘Shall I help you to go back over the rope bridge?’

  ‘Help me? How could you do that?’ she answered rather snappishly. ‘If that were possible, poor Pedro could have been helped across. No, I will pass the night here. To tell truth, I would prefer it. The sight of Conchita with Don Amador makes me sick.’

  I felt the same, but said doubtfully, ‘If you stay here with us, though, Conchita will think – she will say –’

  ‘Why should I trouble my head about what Conchita thinks, or what she says?’ Juana retorted.

  I could see that she was in a very prickly mood. During our former acquaintance these bursts of ill-temper had been frequent enough on her part. Since we had met again, though, I had seen less of them; she appeared to have grown more serene. Perhaps becoming a nun had done that to her. But now all the former danger signs were present and I regarded her with caution. Leaving her to herself to simmer down was the only recourse during such states of irritation, I knew; she could not be cajoled or joked out of them.

  So I replied, peaceably, ‘Indeed, there is no reason why you should trouble about Conchita,’ and scraped myself a kind of cushion of wet leaves to sit on. Pedro occupied the rear corner of the cleft, and in front of him the fire glimmered; on either side of the fire Juana and I sat, half in, half out of shelter. Luckily the storm had died away; the wet trees dripped but the rain no longer poured down. The air had turned a great deal colder and the warmth of the fire was a decided comfort.

  ‘Those poor children up there – ’ I muttered.

  ‘Have they bedding? Covers?’

  ‘None that I saw.’

  ‘But their father behaves lovingly towards them?’

  ‘Yes, very much so. But that cannot remedy these other wants. They cannot be allowed to stay there for long.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ she said in a combative tone.

  ‘I can see that. It is terrible that a good, sincere man, who wants to do his best for his country, should be hunted like a criminal.’

  ‘I know nothing about politics and care less,’ said Juana crossly.

  I remained silent.

  ‘Well?’ she attacked me. ‘Well? I suppose you think I should offer to take on the care of those children?’

  ‘Oh, Juana. How can I possibly tell you what to do?’

  ‘I suppose you think,’ she went on stormily, ‘that I should make any offer – no matter whether I intend to keep it or not – so as to make Don Manuel give them up?’

  ‘I think nothing of the kind! Why should you expect me to be so dishonest?’

  ‘You don’t seem to have been afflicted by many scruples in your dealings with Conchita!’

  ‘My dear girl, I had a task to perform, and was only trying to do it as best I could – I had to be civil to her –’

  And it was because of you that I was selected for this mission, I could have said, but wisdom kept my mouth closed.

  It made no difference. All of a sudden we were quarrelling, as if we were eight years old instead of eighteen, hotly and unreasonably.

  ‘I had a vocation from God to become a holy sister – you expect me to throw all that aside, to change my whole life – no one would expect a man to do such a thing –’

  ‘Well? I was expected to give up my studies, or whatever I happened to be doing, and travel half across Spain, simply in order to –’

  ‘Just because you are the grandson of an English duke you think you –’

  ‘How dare you be so unreasonable? As if I ever – ever –’

  I am far, far prouder of my dear grandfather the Conde than of any English duke, I thought. But Juana was storming on:

  ‘It means nothing to you that I gave up everything I had in the world to join – the house where I was born, the . . . You never considered that. And now –’

  ‘For that matter, you haven’t displayed any particular interest in what I – ’ Then I took a deep, shaky breath and said, ‘Stop! Let us stop! We are both being horribly childish. It’s a lucky thing nobody can hear us.’ Except God, of course. ‘For heaven’s sake, let us leave it all till morning. Here, why don’t you lie on my jacket –’

  ‘Oh, that is just like you,’ exploded Juana, ‘To decide that you should be the one to call a stop –’

  All the while we were wrangling, some humble, scullion portion of my mind had been appealing to me, fidgeting, trying urgently to attract my attention. There had been a sound in the night that was alien, different from the other sounds of forest and river – now hushed to a murmur; what was it that I had heard? A creak and then another creak, and then a thud; and now, suddenly, a branch snapped.

  I sprang up, calling out sharply, ‘Quien es?’ and took several paces into the darkness, cocking my pistol.

  ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, my friend, it is only I,’ said a quiet voice, which I recognised as that of Jose de Larra. And he stepped forward into the faint glow from the fire.

  ‘Don Jose – pardon me! I – I did not expect you – ’ Horribly embarrassed at having been caught in the midst of a childish wrangle, I awkwardly and stumblingly introduced him to Juana, who acknowledged the introduction with haughty composure.

  He explained his arrival.

  ‘I have been much delayed. The monks at Siresa would not help me – ill-natured bigots! – they said that Manuel was a heretic and that I myself would be in danger of hellfire if I tried to prevent his recapture. They would not give me so much as a candle.’

  ‘You seem to have managed to persuade them somehow,’ I suggested, for he carried a large leather sack over his shoulder, which seemed well-filled.

  ‘Oh, this? No, that was sheer good fortune. I had started back in the direction of San Quilez when I met a train of esquiladores travelling across the mountains from Anso to Jaca and Zaragoza.’

  I nodded. The esquiladores are a tribe of gipsy craftsmen who travel about the country, migrating south at this time of year; their trade is to shear horses, sheep, and cattle; in their leather pouches they carry shears, clippers and scissors of every shape and for every possible purpose. They seem to make a good living from their labours and are in general handsomely dressed and well supplied.

  This band, de Larra told us, had been able to furnish him with all he asked: provisions, clothes for Don Manuel, and a piece of rope. The latter, I told him, was no longer necessary; and I gave him the story of my own entry into the castillo. He listened intently, scowling at my account of Don Amador and his part in the business.

  ‘I do not know whether to put that one down as more knave or fool; without doubt he is the besotted slave of Conchita Escaroz. It is a frightful inconvenience that she is encamped just across the river; because of her and those hired assassins lounging about all day taking shots at all that moved, I have been obliged to wait until now to get back across the bridge. One or the other of them was always by it. Why in the world did you allow her to come so close?’

  ‘How could I stop her coming?’ I objected, but he went on without listening.

  ‘A couple of the esquiladores have promised help; they are brave fellows, free-living as eagles, who care nothing for priests or friars or the Madrid government. If I can persuade Manuel to leave the castillo by the underground passage, they will meet him in the Sobordan valley and escort him by a secret way into France. I found a mule.’ Don Jose began to laugh. ‘The gipsies are taking care of it now. Manuel may as well have the use of it.’

  ‘Don Amador’s missing mount.’ I laughed too.

  ‘But the question is, will Manuel – can he be persuaded to leave his children behind?’

  Involunta
rily my eyes turned to Juana, who still sat motionless, looking down at her plaited fingers. ‘I am on my way there now to talk to him,’ de Larra said. ‘I must not delay any longer. What do you think he will say?’

  ‘I’ll walk with you as far as the bottom of the cliff,’ I said.

  Juana looked up and said slowly, ‘Senor de Larra: will you please tell Don Manuel that I am thinking deeply about his request. It is not one to be answered in haste. He has asked me to take care of his children. But that would mean that I must give up my life as a holy sister.’

  ‘Not an easy decision,’ de Larra said. But he spoke rather drily; he sounded as if he thought she was making a selfish commotion over a trifle. Suddenly I felt a great sympathy for Juana. After all, I thought, nobody is requiring Don Jose to give up his life as a political writer to look after three young children.

  ‘You see,’ said Juana, addressing de Larra still, ‘Dona Conchita is their mother, after all. How can we have the right to decide their future or take them from her? How, indeed, could it possibly be arranged? Why would she ever agree?’

  ‘My dear,’ said de Larra more kindly, ‘Dona Conchita has not spent one week under the same roof as those children in the last three years. They have been handed about here and there – to Don Manuel’s parents when they were alive, to her own parents in Bilbao. It is my personal opinion that Conchita has about as much mother-love in her as this rock – ’ He thumped the side of the cave.

  ‘But,’ said Juana, troubled, ‘the children love her. Or they did. When they were staying at my house they seemed to think her perfect. I – ’ her voice shook a little, ‘I lost my own mother when I was twelve – I would not wish to inflict that sorrow on a child.’

  ‘Your feelings do you credit, Dona Juana. But three years have passed since you saw the children; they may feel differently now. And your own mother, I daresay, was not such a one as Dona Conchita.’ De Larra spoke patiently. But under his words I could sense an urgency to have the matter decided, which he could only just keep in check.

  ‘Well,’ said Juana with a sigh, ‘tell Don Manuel that I will bring him my decision by dawn. I promise to delay no longer than that.’

  ‘Good, senora. I will tell him.’ De Larra bowed and kissed her hand, which surprised me – I had thought he was rather annoyed with her for not deciding on the spot.

  Walking to the castle cliff I told de Larra about the troop of militia that were coming to bombard the castle.

  ‘That is what I expected,’ he said gloomily. ‘They can sit across on the other side of the river and knock holes in the only habitable portion. And anybody going up or down the rope will be directly in their range.’

  I remembered the tunnel, and told him that Don Manuel had said it was mined. ‘It is as well that you did not enter by it, senor.’

  ‘I don’t remember where it comes out, or I would have. I daresay it is safe enough unless Manuel lights the fuse. The entrance is nowhere near here, though; I know that it is on the other side of the ridge. The passage runs northward into the Sobordan valley.’

  That, I thought, accounts for the fact that Don Amador was unable to find it. A lucky circumstance.

  My rope was still in position when we reached the foot of the castle crag.

  De Larra pulled out his pistol and fired two shots.

  After a longish lapse of time a hoarse voice above called ‘Quien es?’

  ‘It is Mariano,’ called de Larra, and added, ‘vuelva usted manana,’ which appeared to be a kind of password, for Don Manuel called ‘Bienvenido,’ and I heard the ratchet begin to turn. Presently de Larra was hauled up the rock-face and I turned to walk thoughtfully back to the cave.

  9

  Juana’s decision; return to the castillo; terrible news; Don Manuel and his wife; Conchita’s downfall; departure of Manuel and Figaro

  Returning to the cave, I found Pedro still sleeping and Juana still wide awake.

  The stars had come out now, and blazed with great brilliancy above our heads, between the shoulders of the mountains. I could see her eyes shine, in their light.

  ‘I have been thinking, Felix,’ she began.

  ‘And I have too. After all, Nico is nine – in ten years he will be a man, and able to look after his sisters. You could return to the convent then. It is not as if you are being asked to sacrifice your whole life –’

  ‘Oh, Felix!’ she burst out in a tone of utter exasperation. ‘How old are you – nineteen? Eighteen? Do you consider yourself a man? Capable of looking after three children? Sometimes you seem to me more childish than when we were last together.’

  Hurt and baffled, I was silent for a moment, swallowing the rebuff. I had only intended to help, after all.

  ‘What were you going to say?’ I asked then.

  ‘I was wondering if the children could go to school in Bayonne – then I could see them regularly, they could visit me in my convent –’

  That sounded a bleak outlook for the poor things, I thought.

  ‘Why remove them from their own country? They could go to school in Bilbao, for that matter, and you remain in the convent there.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose so,’ but she did not sound overjoyed at the suggestion.

  How I longed to be able to say, ‘Let the children come to Villaverde. There they can run wild and ride my grandfather’s horses, and Prudencia will dote on them and feed them fritters and chocolate, as her mother Bernardina used to with me –’

  But how could I make such an offer? What shadow of right had I to do so? I had no connection with these children.

  Cautiously, expecting another rebuff, I inquired, ‘What does God tell you to do?’

  In a harassed voice, as if she had run out of patience, both with God and myself, she replied, ‘If I knew that, don’t you think I would have set about doing it?’

  Another long silence fell, at the end of which Juana gave a deep sigh, stretched, and stood up.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I shall have to give Don Manuel the promise he wants.’

  ‘Oh, Juana!’ I jumped up, and grabbed her hands. ‘I am very sure that you are right to do so. I am sure you will not regret it! And I – I promise that I will do my utmost to help and not hinder you.’

  ‘Will you climb up into the castillo and tell him?’

  ‘Yes, but first I must tell Dona Conchita. I promised that I would let her know in the morning –’

  ‘Why must you do that? I don’t see the necessity,’ said Juana crossly. And I thought to myself, making this sacrifice doesn’t mean that you have become perfect all in a moment, my dearest Juana. In fact, now is the time when we must look out for tempests; and I grinned to myself, thinking of little Pilar and her tantrums.

  ‘Well, I have to keep my promise,’ I said temperately, and made my way over the rope bridge.

  What was my astonishment, coming to the hut, to find it empty, nobody inside, the fire out, and the mules gone from the shelter at the rear.

  Rather perturbed, I returned to Juana and told her this.

  ‘Which way did they go? Could you see tracks?’

  ‘No, it was too dark.’

  ‘They must have gone very quietly,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Nor do I. I think we should go to Don Manuel without delay.’

  Accordingly, without further discussion, we hurried along towards the castle cliff, leaving Pedro still asleep. Having arrived at the cliff foot, I fired off my pistol twice. Then we waited for a long time. At last Juana said in a low voice, ‘What shall we do if no one answers?’

  I had been wondering the same thing myself. But at that moment a voice called from above. It was that of Jose de Larra.

  ‘Quien es?’

  ‘It is I – Felix – and Dona Juana. She has come to give her promise to Don Manuel.’

  ‘Ay, Dios! She may well have come too late.’

  ‘Too late? What can you mean?’

  ‘I suppose you had better come up,�
� he called, though not at all in a welcoming manner. There was something very strange about his voice.

  ‘You had better go first,’ I said to Juana, hearing him wind the ratchet. ‘Seat yourself in the loop of rope – and hold tight. Shut your eyes – like when you crossed the bridge. Use your hands to push yourself away from the rock-face.’

  Even by starlight I could see that she was as white as paper. She looked sick with dread.

  ‘I – I don’t think I –’

  ‘My friend – you have got to.’ I tried to sound much more forceful than I felt. What if she won’t? I thought. ‘Don Manuel will never believe my word alone. And think of the children up there –’

  Well I knew her terror of heights. I remembered her anguish on the cliff above Bidassoa.

  ‘You can do it – I promise you,’ I said.

  She managed a faint smile. ‘You are too free with your promises, my friend.’ Then she went aloft.

  It was too dark to follow her progress. But at last I heard de Larra call ‘Muy bien’, and the rope came down again.

  Me he pulled up bruisingly fast; in the course of the ascent I lost enough skin to cover an ostrich’s egg, despite the fact that I kept fending myself away from the cliff-face with my feet and hands. My speed, I discovered on arriving at the top, was because Juana had been helping to wind the ratchet. She and de Larra were both panting by the time I reached the crane arm and swung myself on to the flat platform below it.

  At the sight of de Larra’s face – it was lighter up here – I said, ‘What is it? What has happened?’

  Without reply, he swung away and began walking rapidly up the steps towards the keep. Juana and I followed in silence and fear.

  Once he turned and said to Juana, ‘Are you skilled at nursing? Did they teach you that, in your convent?’

  ‘I – I know a little,’ she stammered. ‘Why – ?’

  But already he was hurrying on again, up the slopes and through the roofless chambers, under arches, past ruined walls, without pausing to see if we were managing to keep pace with him.

  In an undertone I asked Juana, ‘You don’t know what – ? He didn’t say?’