by Joan Aiken
When Father Tomás had done, he pushed me back to my bedroom and this time bolted me in, shouting through the keyhole, "There you stay, until your grandfather decides you can come out!"
"I prefer to stay in! I don't want to see any of you, ever again!" I shouted back, and then I went and lay on the bed, on my stomach. I wondered if the whole world was as hateful and wretched as this house. I could not call to mind one single thing that seemed pleasant or cheering—so, in the end, I went to sleep for a couple of hours. When I woke, feeling very hungry and stiff, I went back to poring over the papers Bob had left me, for something to pass the time. By daylight it was easier to see the shaky scratches, but no easier to guess at their meaning: I worked all the way through, line by line, wondering if the words were English at all—maybe, they were in French—or some strange script, Arabic or Moorish? But then, on the last page, after a lot of thought, I decided that I recognized some English words. One was "the," another was "and." Hurray! thought I. With two words, I am on my way. The sentence in which they occurred was printed out more carefully than the rest, in large wavering spidery lines. Probably, I thought, the person who wrote these pages—my father?—wanted to make sure that whoever read them would understand this at least.
I stared and stared, and at last, after perhaps another sixty minutes of utter concentration, decided that those particular words were "The Rose and Ring-Dove." But, given that was so, the words made no sense to me, nor did they help me in deciphering the rest of the message, which remained wholly cryptic.
The Rose and Ring-Dove. What could that mean? Was it the name of a ship? A book, a play, a poem?
I had gone as far as this when there came a tap on the door, and the outer bolt was cautiously pulled back.
"Who is it?" I growled. Yesterday it would have been Bernardina. Today, there was nobody I wanted to see.
"It's me, Pedro."
"What, again? Haven't you got me into enough trouble?"
"I am very sorry," he said, coming in. He carried a handful of fritters, a bag of nuts, and some slices of ham, which he put down on the stone windowseat. He said, "It was I who put the fish in Father Agustín's bed."
"Do you think I didn't guess?"
"It was good of you not to tell."
"What would be the use? They would have beaten me anyway. Thanks for the food. Now, get out!"
"I don't blame you for being angry," he said dejectedly.
I threw a shoe after him as he left, but my aim was half-hearted. It missed, as he slammed the door hurriedly. I had an idea that he had forgotten to shoot the bolt—or perhaps he had left it undone on purpose.
My first act was to eat the ham and fritters. Then I put on my riding jacket, found my hat, took a little money which I had saved up in a box, and the nuts, and the bundle of my father's things, and a book, and put all these things in a canvas bag. Then I tried the door. As I thought, it was unbolted. I walked out, and bolted it, just to puzzle them.
Then I went down to the stable. No one was likely to be about at this time of day; it was midafternoon, siesta time.
On my way to the horse and mule stalls, I passed the little harness room where Bob had always slept. As I invariably did, I opened the door and put in my head. The room was just as Bob had left it—blanket folded, a few clothes hanging on a hook. Bob had died in the stable one night, doctoring a colicky mare. His body had been found next day.
"Bob?" I said softly into the empty room. I did not expect an answer. I don't know what I expected. Only, the room still held such a memory of him that it comforted me to say his name there.
"Bob, I'm going. I'm going to try and find my father's family."
There was no reply from inside the room. Only a mew, from the stable yard behind me.
I closed the door again and walked over the cobbles to the horse boxes. Old Gato was waiting for me, as he always did when I came to the stable. He was the stable cat, really, but I pretended to myself that he was mine, because he seemed to like me best. He was a stripy ocher color, with big yellow eyes. Old, and rather lame, but a clever mouser.
"A tiger, just like you, hijo," Bernie said once, laughing. "No wonder you are so fond of each other."
I picked him up and pushed my face into his sweet, hay-smelling fur. That nearly did for me—I could hear his rumbling purr, so loud.
But you can't stay in a place just because of a cat.
"Good-bye, old Gato," I said. "Be a good cat. Catch plenty of mice."
I set him down, and clicked my fingers over his head. Immediately he did his trick for me, rising up on his hind legs in a beautiful flowing movement, like a Mameluke-trained horse, to rub his jaw along the side of my hand.
"All right, that's enough, now!"
I saddled and led out a mule, one I sometimes rode. She was a lean, haggard animal, rather savage and morose in her nature, but with an amazingly fast trot, which she could keep up for hours on end. I thought she would be able to carry me, not as far as I meant to go, but at least a fair part of the way. Mules are not so nervous as horses, they are nimbler in mountain country, braver if attacked by wolves, and better able to bear the fatigue of traveling on day after day. I led my mule softly out of the stable yard and was about to mount her at the block when a voice behind me said, "Where are you going?"
I spun round, thinking: All's up!
But it was only Pedro.
"Never mind where I'm going," I said. "You had better forget that you saw me."
"Can't I come, too?"
"No, you cannot."
He turned away discontentedly, kicking a stone; but then picked a sprig of rosemary from a bush that grew out of the wall, and gave it to me.
"Here, put this in your hatband. It will protect you from witches and dangers."
"Very well. Thank you, Pedro."
As the mules hoofs clopped under the big arched gate through the town wall, I turned round. Pedro was still standing in the empty cobbled street outside my grandfathers house, watching me.
I called, "You might give a dish of milk to old Gato now and then," and he nodded.
Then I rode off into the mist.
2. In which I encounter dangers from swamp, fire, and wolves; & am enabled by God's help to foil some Assassins
I kicked the bad-tempered mule into her fast trot, and she let out a series of grumbling snorts, throwing up her head and shaking it from side to side. After five minutes of this, however, she settled down and went swinging along very well, of which I was glad, for I wished to put as much distance as possible between myself and Villaverde before the mist lifted.
Next to the town wall there was a strip of cultivated land, about a mile wide, but beyond that, wild, bleak downs stretched for twenty or thirty miles in every direction, to the jagged points of the encircling mountains; the road ran over sandy flat ground and, apart from a scrubby kind of thornbush, no higher than my knee, and a great many rocks, varying in size from a cobble to a cottage, there was no cover along the road. If the mist should chance to lift, I could be seen for miles from the walls of the town—which was why I had chosen to leave in such a hasty and precipitate manner, while the road lay hidden. Turning to make certain of this after half a mile, I saw with much relief that the little town on its lopsided hilltop had quite vanished from sight; nothing could be seen of the small stone red-roofed houses or my grandfather's great mansion, all girdled by the encircling wall.
Good-bye to every last one of you, thought I, with fierce satisfaction; you won't be seeing the little tiger again. Never! They would have to drag me back by my tongue to get me inside the town wall. But no one will miss me—except old Gato—Grandfather will probably rejoice to be rid of such a disagreeable burden. He will be angry about the mule, though.
However, I was obliged to acknowledge to myself that in my hurry to escape, I had come away very ill-provided with necessities for the journey. My clothes were tolerably warm, to be sure, but my black jacket and breeches were too conspicuous; wearing them, I would
hardly be taken for some country boy on his way to the next village. Also it was a great regret to me that I had been unable to supply myself with any kind of weapon; I had a small knife, true, but what I needed was a pistol or musket, for besides wolves, wild boars, and wild dogs, I might very possibly encounter brigands or rateros. I had not dared go to the armory, though, for fear of encountering the steward or one of the servants. Likewise I lacked a proper carrying pouch—I had hoped to find saddlebags in the stable or in Bob's room, but had seen nothing suitable. I must therefore contrive to remedy these deficiencies in my equipment as soon as possible, but how? My stock of money was very low, and it would be needful to keep as much as possible for the latter part of the journey; furthermore, if I attempted to buy clothes or weapons at any village within twenty miles of Villaverde, a report of this would surely find its way back to my grandfather, and he would know in which direction to send a pursuit.
Exercising my mind, fruitlessly enough, over these problems, I rode on for several hours. In spite of which, I was happy to be away, and free. I sang sometimes, whistled, and even laughed aloud at the thought of their faces when they discovered my absence.
The air became colder and colder. A fierce nipping blast swept down from the mountains, causing the mule to put back her ears and me to button my, jacket up to the neck. By degrees, now, the mist began to lift, but by this time, fortunately, my road had commenced a descent from the wild and desolate upland regions where Villaverde lay perched, and plunged between cliffs which, in some degree, protected me and my mount from the wind, and, more to the purpose, from the view of any person in our rear. I lost sight of the mountains, in their horrid rocky nakedness; luckily the highest lay behind me; but I knew that five more ranges at least rose between me and the coast. I hoped, however, that since these ranges ran in a northeasterly direction, it would be possible for me to follow the valley of one of the rivers between them, the Eo or the Navia or the Narcea, which would lead me northward to the sea, the Mar Cantábrico. And then, surely, it would be no difficult matter to find a ship bound for England, which lay on the far side of that same sea.
Such was my plan.
I had a fair notion of England, from the tales that Bob had told me, and from a book belonging to my father which he had managed to preserve, somehow, on his journey from the battlefield, and which I had always kept, and carried with me now. From diligent reading in it, as from my talks with Bob, I had achieved a certain proficiency in the language, though my speaking of it had become somewhat rusty since Bob was gone.
The book, Susan, was an odd tale, in two volumes, about a young lady and her quest for a husband; to tell truth, I wondered what my father had seen in it that he had even carried it with him into battle; I found it rather dull, but since it had been my fathers I kept it carefully (his bloodstains were on the cover); storybooks were few at Villaverde, most of the volumes in the library being treatises on religion or the management of crops, while such tales as were there I was generally forbidden to read. In such a case, any book is better than none, and as I rode along I was glad that I had thought to bring mine with me, to while away the time in the evenings of my journey. I did not know how long it might take me to reach the coast but feared it would be upward of two weeks—perhaps three—I had never been farther than three or four leágues in this direction, and had no very exact notion of the distance to the sea.
My longest journey from Villaverde had been when I was four and a half years old, a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, which had taken two weeks. Grandfather, Grandmother, and two of my aunts traveled there in September of the year 1813 to pray for the preservation of my uncles Juan and Esteban, who were alive at that time, fighting in O'Donnel's company. (Alas! to no avail. Our prayers were unanswered, for both my uncles were killed three months later.) This journey was the most remarkable thing that had yet happened to me and, although so young at the time, I had remembered many details of it most clearly: the rolling hilly country with golden gorse and purple heather and berries on the briars, which I was allowed to pick while we rested the horses. In those days Grandfather had been much more active and less severe; his infirmity had not come upon him and he still sometimes played with me and would talk to me kindly. I was in the care of Bernardina's niece Angustias (who had since left to get married) and enjoyed myself mightily. I remembered Compostela—the vast main square, all paved with stone, the mysterious face of St. James's statue in his silver hat and breastplate, the glare of what seemed like a thousand candles, the steep stair we had to climb to place our own hats on his head; and the pillar at the front of the great, dark church, where Angustias banged my head quite hard against the smiling face of a small gnome-like stone figure carved on a pillar, saying, "There, little tiger! That's Master Mateo, who built this church—lets hope that a portion of his good sense will find its way into your obstinate skull!" and Grandfather had laughed, and agreed. How different he had become after the deaths of my uncles Juan and Esteban—there was no pleasing him; sometimes it seemed as if he could hardly bear the sight of me.
However, the memories of that journey, with two coaches for the family and servants, and another for the baggage, with coachmen, outriders, and provisions, over easy rolling country to the west, would in no way help me now on my solitary course northward through the mountains.
The mule and I had now come out of a steep narrow pass, where high slaty cliffs rosé on either hand, while the stony track was continually soaked with rills of water, which made it smooth, slippery, and dangerous. Ahead of us I could see the road winding and looping downward into a lonely valley with no habitations in it. There were some cultivated fields, though, and a haystack, so I thought there must be a village not too far away.
Observing that the track encircled a brilliant green meadow, I turned the mule to cross it, rather than waste time taking the long way round. To my astonishment she refused to budge, and stood with head down, ears back, eyes rolling, forelegs firmly planted, snorting in the most obstinate manner possible.
"Why, what is the matter with you, thick-head?" cried I. "You are not generally so particular about riding over cultivated land. Vaya, estúpida!"
But move she would not, and at last I was fain to dismount, and try to drag her by the bridle; I wished very much to show who was master, right from the start of our journey, otherwise I feared we might have continual battles.
"Come along, imbecile! There are no wolves or serpents here, or anything to frighten you," I urged her, taking a step forward onto the bright grass.
But what was my fright and amazement to find myself sunk immediately up to my knees in soft mud, and all the time sinking deeper. I yelled aloud in my terror, and, the mule bawling at the same time, we made enough noise between us to summon all the inhabitants of the valley, if any had been there. But nobody came.
By the great mercy of Providence I had retained my hold of the mule's bridle rein. She, affrighted, was already rearing backward, trying to keep away from the brink of the morass into which I had plunged.
"Pull, daughter of an ass!" I shouted. "Pull, pull!" and, thanks to her pulling with all her strength, I was presently hoisted, black to the waist and dripping with stinking swamp water, from the bog which I now knew it to be. I had heard about such quagmires, but never before encountered one, the soil being all hard and dry in our upland.
Vastly relieved at my rescue from such a frightening pass, I gave the mule a hug, and told her that she was a fine beast.
"I am sorry that I called you estúpida, and will do so no more! You have saved my life and I am truly obliged to you. Another time I will pay greater heed to your opinion. But come! Dusk is felling, and we had better quickly find somewhere to sleep."
I remounted and we continued on down the winding road. This adventure shook me deeply, for it showed me, in some measure, how ill prepared I was for the perils of such a journey as mine and how little I might rely on my own judgment; but for the good sense of the mule, indeed, I must have
perished in a most foolish and useless way before the trip was barely begun; it behooved me to be much more heedful and vigilant in the future, and to keep my wits about me.
I remembered Bob saying, many and many a time:
"Don't be in such a pucker, Master Felix! Take things steady, steady and slow; that's how Old Douro wins his battles."
How often I was to remember that before the end of the journey.
Arrived at the bottom of the valley, I observed that the road forked; the wider and better-used track continued on downward, while what seemed like a small footpath led away round a fold of hillside. I thought this looked like a path used by farmers or shepherds, and that it must lead to the haystack I had sighted from above; so, not wishful to pass the night in a village so close to home, I resolved to sleep in the shelter of the stack. There would be forage for the mule and bedding for me.
Sure enough, to my great satisfaction, after two or three twists of the valley, the path led us to the stack, which was situated, conveniently, at the top of a sloping meadow and close beside a steep cliff face; by pulling out some of the hay I could make myself a snug and sheltered nest between stack and cliff.
I allowed the mule to refresh herself by rolling, as mules are accustomed to do, gave her a truss of hay for herself, and watered her at a little brook which came dashing in a cascade out of the cliff face and then ran down to join a larger stream in the middle of the valley. How to tether the mule had me in a puzzle at first, but the haystack was secured by stakes, a large one at the core, and smaller ones all round. I borrowed one of the latter and, hammering it into the turf with a stone, tied her bridle rein to it so that she, too, would be in the lee of the stack. She was weary enough—for we must have covered some twenty miles—so that she showed little disposition to stray.
I was weary, too. Nevertheless, I found it hard to compose myself to sleep. Uncertainty, excitement, and all manner of fears and imaginings about the unknown regions that lay ahead went whirling through my mind and kept my thoughts in a buzz. Also, now that I came to lay me down in this high, strange, lonely, silent valley, I could not help, in some measure, regretting the comforts of Villaverde; thinking of my thick flock mattress and coverlid, the cup of hot chocolate that Bernardina often prepared for me at bedtime, and my old Gato looking for me in the stable. Was God angry with me for leaving my grandfather's house? I wondered; was that why He had led me into the bog? But then I reflected that He could quite easily have left me there, instead of directing the mule to pull me out; in any case, it was too late to turn back now, I told myself; besides, everybody must leave home sooner or later, and go out into the world. So, feeling more cheerful about my situation, I recited the rhyme that Angustias always used to sing over me when she put me to bed: