Kate hadn’t been quite sure before, but now she knew she was on the pilgrim trail some used in search of the kindness of Germaine. She asked again, “Do you know of the shrine? Where it is?”
The little Spanish girl roughly stroked at the dog’s head and thought long before she answered. “I do, but I will not tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Not supposed to. You must find it for yourself, or you will not find salvation. That’s what Nana says. If you are worthy, Germaine will help you, otherwise, you must help yourself. You can’t even ask her with prayer, for she isn’t a saint though Nana calls her much the same as any other.”
Am I worthy? Probably not, but Louis might have been. Kate thought then: Another Catholic. The little girl probably couldn’t be bribed with brandy or rum. She had no cocoa either.
So close, yet so far—Kate huffed in frustration with her hands on her hips.
“You are lost,” the girl said. It wasn’t a question.
“No, not exactly. Well, in some ways, perhaps.”
“I live over there. My name is Yolanda Maria Jacinte Louise. If you are lost, you must come stay with me.”
“I’m sure your parents would have some objection to that, Yolanda Maria Jacinte Louise. What may I call you then, little senorita?”
“There is only my grandmother and me. And Hector, he makes three. The priest calls me Yolanda Maria, by my Nana calls me Yollie.”
“Grandmother and me, and Hector make three. That rhymes, Yollie. You are a clever girl, more than me. Perhaps you could help me with some of my medicinal rhymes. I mean for recipes and uses of herbs, that sort of thing.”
“I love rhymes, I sing them. Do you want to hear?”
“Yes, I would, but I would also like a drink of fresh water. Is there a well in your village?”
“There is a spring well, it is better than just a hole in the ground. It is a magic spring, it brings flowers that smell sweeter and our lemons grow much bigger.”
Then she quickly put her fingers up to cover her mouth. She had said it all with such pride that Kate had to smile.
“You aren’t supposed to believe in magic, are you?”
The girl shook her head.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell. What is the name of your village?”
“Albe San Marie.”
Kate felt her heart start beating hard and fast, like a hummingbird thumping inside her chest, trying to get out. The shrine of Germaine at Albe San Marie—maybe I won’t let Louis down after all, she thought.
Kate felt such a sense of joy wash over her that it made no sense at all. But it gave her hope, and it gave her strength. For the first time in days, she walked with no effort and a smile on her face.
Just then, Hector got up and trotted toward Friendly Jose, who was still straining at his tether. She tried to stop the dog, but it was too late, he had already slipped past. He walked up to Jose and sat by the mule’s head, putting his nose up to sniff.
Jose swung his big fuzzy nose over to do the same. It seems a truce had been drawn, for Hector then put up a paw in greeting.
“He is a gentleman,” Yollie said, “just like my real papa.”
“Your real papa?”
“The priest said my father is the Holy Father in Heaven, but Nana says my mother and father loved each other very much, though the church forbid their union. Mama died soon after I was born. Nana said it was not because of me, but because of a broken heart.”
Forbidden union. Not entirely, it seems, for they had made a beautiful little girl. Kate suspected some relationship that the church did not condone, but for what purpose was not entirely clear. She did not know much about religion in practice, only the things that her mother had written.
Kate said, “Your mother was very beautiful, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Mine too. I loved her very much. She died when I was younger than you are now, but only by a bit.”
The little girl only nodded, quite sagely too. They understood one another’s pain.
Kate said, “And your father, where is he?”
Immediately, she regretted asking, but the little girl only shrugged. “Nana won’t tell me, but says he is where he ought to be.” She leaned closer to Kate and said quite low, “Nana thinks Papa is a coward, I suppose, but who knows?”
Kate wondered how the little girl had gotten so wise from so few years. Then Yollie whistled for the dog. Hector jumped up and trotted back to his mistress, panting all the way.
Friendly Jose brayed, and Kate released his tether. “Time we were on our way, Jose,” she said.
They followed the little girl into a sleepy village nestled tightly into the sunny side of a craggy mountain peak. Morning would be long coming here, but once the sun found them, it would stay with the village the rest of the day.
There were gardens near most of the houses, and almost every one of those also had flowers. There were not many signs of life about now, but Kate heard singing from the church.
“Is it Sunday already?”
The little girl shook her head. “That is the choir, they practice almost every day. It is a joyful noise, Nana says. The new priest does not approve, but they sing anyway. Nana says they have been singing for hundreds of years. The choir, she means, not the same people, of course.”
Kate laughed. “Of course.” They were very good, and Kate made a mental note to steer clear of their Padre. He didn’t sound like he would care for her sort at all. “Who is your priest here? I take it he is not Irish.”
Yollie gave her a perplexed look, but said anyway, “Padre has gone away. I do not miss him. I will say my Hail Mary again and again, and still it will not make me wish he were here. He does not smile so much as he frowns, and he does not like my Nana.”
“Gone, you mean to heaven?”
She laughed. “Padre Juan has gone to heaven. He is the one who blessed me when I was born. He was kind and often read to Nana for our lemons, which are the very best in the whole village. This is a different Padre, and Nana says he meets now with the Red Robe in a city far away. She says they meet to speak of war.”
The Red Robe—a Cardinal? Was the church now taking sides in the war in Europe? England was not Catholic, Spain was, and France . . . who knows. Kate didn’t think it was a good sign in any case.
“Which house is yours?” Kate said. “Do you have a place for Friendly Jose? He will be on best behavior, I will vouch for him.”
“That is a funny name.”
“His name is really Jose, but I call him the other because he reminds me of someone else I used to know. Someone high up and a bit scary too, but still an ally.”
“Ally?” the little girl said doubtfully.
“Friend, helper. Some one on your side.”
“Like the saints and the angels, and Hector.”
“Yes, exactly like that.”
Yollie released the dog. Hector took off in a trot to a house down the way. It was small, but tidy, while the few around it looked a bit . . . dusty. An old woman sat rocking on the porch. She seemed to be sewing, though her eyes were not looking down.
As they got closer, Kate could see the woman was making lace. It was fascinating to watch her old hands as they repeated the knots and loops so regularly. There was already a good deal done and looked like it would be turned into a edging decoration on someone’s fine dress.
The old woman called in a raspy voice, “I hear you, child, you plod like a mule.”
“That is a mule, Nana,” the little girl said, giggling.
The old woman laughed too, and it made her sound much younger.
“Nana is nearly blind,” Yollie said, and pointed to another chair on the porch. She sat on the step at her grandmother’s feet. The old woman touched the little girl’s hair.
“What is this that you bring me, little Yollie?”
“It is a beautiful lady, Nana, and her big ugly mule. They are my allies and Hector likes them too”
“Hello,” Kate said, “and my mule is not so ugly as surly, though sometimes his manners are worse.”
Allies, the woman mouthed the word. She said, “You are English.”
“American.”
The woman smiled, and motioned her near. Kate knelt, and Nana felt her face with gentle, feathery fingers. The touch was so soft, yet so warm that it sent a rush down Kate’s spine. Familiar, loving, warm—it brought tears to her eyes.
The old woman felt that too and wiped the saltiness away. Kate tried to smile, to make light of it all. The tears would not go away.
“You poor baby,” the woman whispered. “You poor little girl.”
Kate swallowed. “I am looking for the shrine.”
“You need solace here first, comfort of another kind. Why not wait?”
“I promised a friend. There is something there I must find.”
“Yollie, dear one, take the mule out behind. Set him to tether among all my weeds along the fence line, but not so close that he eats at the cabbage.”
Yollie made a face, and her grandmother chuckled. “Yollie does not like her cabbage, but it grows well in that spot, and we eat what we grow. A pilgrim from Bavaria brought me the seeds one year. He too was from the mountains, though different from these. He told me how to cure the cabbage in vinegar brine, but that I have never done, for it does not sound tasty to me. We eat what we can and trade what’s left.”
The rest of the afternoon, they chatted about the pilgrims, the village, and the little girl. As evening came, the old woman called for Yollie, and then asked Kate in to supper.
The woman then said, “Where are you staying?”
Yollie answered for her, “The lady is staying here.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 20 - Yollie and Nana
Inside, the house had one large room with a bed in one corner and a sort of kitchen with a fireplace in another. Over part of the room was a loft with a small bed and a little trunk that had been covered on top so it could also be used for sitting.
Up there was also a small stand with a pitcher and large bowl. A hand-mirror was held on the wall above by two tacks set on either side of the handle, and below was a small shelf with a brush and comb that matched.
The little loft bed was covered by a quilt with meticulous stitching that must have been done by younger hands and eyes than the old woman had now. It reminded Kate of her own quilt, made by her own grandmother, and she wondered if it was still where she left it. There was also an old doll and a couple of small lace-covered pillows.
“That is Yollie’s place,” Kate said.
The old woman raised her hand and made a sweeping motion around the room as she said, “Make yourself useful.”
The old woman instructed as Kate made their simple supper of cold corn bread, pinto beans, and some kind of relish with tomato, onions and peppers. It was spicy hot and really quite good. They also had shredded cabbage with thinly sliced apples and dried currants.
There was plenty of fresh, cool water and a bowl of lemons for dessert. Yollie sliced some lemons, and then drizzled them with honey. They ate them from the peel with juice running down their chins. It was wonderful, for the lemons were cool and sweeter than any Kate remembered, and in her life at sea, she’d had plenty of lemons and limes over the years. She said as much.
The old woman was very pleased. “Ripened on our tree last summer then set in a cool cave to keep long. The whole town partakes on special occasions. The lemons last all the year when we have a good season, a true gift from God.”
Kate told them about lemon meringue pie. They were not impressed, but polite. She licked at her fingers as she finished the last of the fruit. After the meal, Yollie cleaned up, and they sat on the porch as the old woman smoked an old pipe with a very long, thin stem. She smoked a strange mix of corn silk, hemp, and tobacco. Kate took a pinch in her hand to study in more detail.
She rolled it between her fingers there in the palm of her hand, and then held it up to sniff. It made her sneeze.
The old woman chuckled, her voice now raspy from the smoking. “It helps with the pain and the worry. The old Padre we had before told me of this remedy, but the new Padre does not approve of my habits. He says it’s the Devil in me that made my girl very bad. And that losing my sight is a punishment from God that I should learn to accept with good Grace.”
“That is very harsh, but does not surprise me,” Kate said lowly. “Politics and religion confuse me. I have found no true compassion in either. What was her name, your daughter?”
“Maria, same as her mother, which is me.” But the old woman said no more, and they sat in the silence of the night, which wasn’t really quiet at all. There were plenty of noises: creatures scampering under bushes, the wings of night birds and bats, the buzzing of gnats. A moth gently beat itself against the glass of the hot oil lamp. Kate reached over and brushed it away, but it would not go.
The old woman said, “Turn it down.”
Kate twisted the wick; the flame grew smaller, almost went out, but lingered, with very little light now. The moth gave up and flittered away. Still she left it, because the night was very clear. The stars were different here. She recognized them well enough, but somehow at sea, it seemed like the heavens went on forever. There was closeness here, due to the mountains, she knew, that made her nervous.
You could not see long to the horizon. You could not see danger coming. This would be like living in a fog bank all of the time, and she didn’t think she would like it.
Suddenly her head began to ache in that same dull, but intense pain that had started after being beaten in prison. Kate rubbed her arms as she shivered, and tried to think of something else.
She looked up, turning her head this way and that, trying to remember the names of the constellations, and the ancient forms of animals and people and legends in the sky. She wished her mother had written of them in her books, but such things were more of her father’s art. Perhaps she would get the names from Mr. Whayles and start another book of her own.
“You are anxious to go,” the old woman said.
“I promised a friend, my mother’s cousin, that is all. He is gone now, dead. Men of no mercy and less honor killed him. It matters to his friends still, what is left, what is hidden. That makes it matter to me.”
“Yollie, see to the mule. Make sure he has water and is tied tightly and save for the night. Then wash up and go in to bed.”
The little girl ran around the side of the house, and even from there, they could hear her singing. The dog stayed beside the old woman. The two had a rhythm between them. As she rocked, he wagged his tail slowly, so that each time the tail swung over, Hector missed getting it tail caught by the chair. Kate could tell they were very old friends, Hector and this Maria.
“Tell me about Yollie’s parents,” Kate said, steadily watching the tail and chair. Strangely, the motion seemed to calm the pain in her head.
“What more is there? Yollie’s mother died at the birthing, never regretting her love. She did not name the father, but I knew. He ran away to be a soldier, but he should have gone before he seduced my daughter. She was a beautiful girl, innocent, and he was weak, even if beautiful too. He is not worthy of my contempt. He has a wife and children now, but he forgets my little Yollie. It is sad, but the new priest says it is righteous, and that it must be so.”
“I don’t always agree with priests, Nana. You should know that I’m not really Catholic. My mother was, and my father’s mother too. He was one of fourteen children.”
The old woman laughed heartily. “God makes us all, and each day, we chose to do better or worse on this earth. We may say our prayers and go through the motions, but God always knows what is in our hearts, no matter what our hands do or what comes out of our mouths. Only God may judge us, but that is forgotten as one person often judges another.”
Kate thought that quite a nice notion, and that perhaps she should write that down in one of her books. She excused hersel
f and went to get her pack. She brought it back and rummaged through.
The old woman said, “I smell mint. And cloves. And cinnamon. Lord how long since I have had cinnamon. A cake on my wedding day, I think. I remember that better than I remember my old husband of so many years.”
Then she cackled with that smoke-raspy voice until she coughed.
“My bag of goodies,” Kate said, searching for a quill and hoping she hadn’t spilled the ink.
“You have something there?”
“Herbs, salves, potions, and poisons they tell me. My mother was a healer of sorts. I do what I can, though I am not as clever as my mother, nor as gentle, I hear.”
“Can you do something for my foot?” Nana said.
“I am no doctor. What’s wrong with your foot?”
The old woman took off her stocking. The whole foot was swollen, but there was an angry red pustule in the arch.
The old woman said, “I think it’s a thorn gone angry. It hurts quite a bit.”
Kate studied it a moment. “Do you have liquor, something strong? Clean with brandy, clean with gin. Drink sweet wine, it’s better off in.”
The old woman looked around as if someone might hear, not that she could see anyone there if they could. Some how, she knew, and on deciding there was no one, she whispered, “I have whiskey. Some Irishman came through here, stayed with me. Probably a priest by the sound of his Gospels, though he wouldn’t admit to it out loud. He left it as part of his penance, he said, for he had done something that he should not have. I lied to our new Padre when he asked all about it, and now we will all burn in Hell.”
“When was this?” Kate said, warily.
The old woman sucked out the last puff on her pipe, then tapped all the ashes out into a clay bowl. They glowed for a moment, smoldering still. The old woman lifted the bowl up and blew gently until all the ashes had gone out. She spread them around with her fingers to make sure they were cool, and then blew very hard into the bowl until the ashes were all gone too.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 20