Indeed it was from up there that the disturbing noise made by the dogs first came, echoing down the steep hill to where he was. The initial soul-chilling howl could now scarcely be heard, as though it had been dispelled in the immensity of the night… but as that pained yawl faded, the yelping of the other dogs was redoubled, in a racket that resounded ever more loudly, as if quickly coming nearer and nearer. The first dogs to join in the barking seemed to be the ones at the sanctuary; those at Can Coll joined in next; then the ones at Rovira; by the end, even the dogs down the hill at Uià played their part in amplifying the din.
At this point Father Llàtzer looked up with eyes which seemed illuminated with some vague brilliance, as though a scintilla of hope had shot through his being. What all that clamour clearly meant was that somebody from up on the ridge was coming down towards the church. And, as if in his heart some slumbering hopes were suddenly being raised, without his clearly understanding how or why, he began to think that the person approaching was some helpless parishioner coming in search of succour from his priest, coming to implore divine forgiveness, to solder anew the chain of love which had been broken through sinfulness.
The noise made by the dogs sounded closer and closer. The barking of the ones at Rovira was coming now from the pond below that farmstead, so it seemed they had accompanied the traveller as far as the slope down to the osier beds.
‘He cannot be far away now…’ Father Llàtzer muttered to himself, looking out of the window.
It was not long until a rustling was heard coming from the direction of his vegetable garden, a rhythmical sound of footsteps that rang out in the stillness.
‘Here he comes…’ murmured the priest, bringing his head up close to the window panes. ‘Here he is…’
A moment later, the figure passed through a patch of light and could momentarily be picked out clearly, so that the priest could see the person who was making his way hurriedly towards his house: one-two, one-two… Whoever it was looked to be a young man, determined and fearless. He knew where he was going and he made his way without hesitation, like somebody quite familiar with the route and able to follow it in the dark. Once he had passed by the vegetable garden, he crossed to the other side of the path, cut through the row of cypresses, went into the cemetery, passed in front of the church and then made a sharp turn to approach the house. There was silence for a moment… The person must have been groping to find the door knocker. Then it was in his hand: Bang, bang…
XVII
The Road to Calvary
When old Josep heard the knocking on the door, at that late hour of the night, he rose from his bed as quickly as he was able, despite all his infirmities. And, putting on some clothes as he limped along, he made his way towards the entrance. There was a mixture of suspicion and fear in his mind because he was constantly aware of the woodlanders’ dark schemes. But in fact, he was much relieved when he heard, coming from the other side of the door, civil words spoken by the man who had come to disturb his slumber.
‘Who is there?’ asked the old man.
‘Somebody who comes in peace,’ the stranger replied.
‘Say who you are…’
‘I’m the shepherd from Lledonell, up at Puiggraciós.’
‘And what were you wanting?’
‘I’ve been sent because the old lady at the house is at death’s door and is asking for the last rites before she passes away.’
‘Then I’ll go and tell his reverence…’
‘Please do, and God bless… and meanwhile I shall go quickly to Figueró to ask the doctor to come at once… although I fear it might be too late…’
And with these words on his lips, the man set off down the hillside, very soon becoming lost from sight among the shadows of the night.
Old Josep meanwhile was going up to Father Llàtzer’s bedroom to give him the news, but he encountered him already at the head of the stairs. The priest’s face was brightened with a kind of celestial smile and he said:
‘I heard everything. We must go up there… Come on. Saddle the mare at once… If you cannot do it alone, get Mariagna to help you, or if not I’ll come myself…’
The old man, with all his usual patience and humility, went off to do as he was bidden, without fully understanding that look of fervent gladness which lit up the priest’s face.
‘Ah, perhaps tonight I shall be able to make peace with my parishioners!’ Father Llàtzer said quietly to himself as he opened his house door to go out to the church.
‘Up there, at Lledonell…’ he was thinking, ‘I shall find the people from round about all gathered at the sick woman’s bedside… I shall speak such words that will move them, that will touch their hearts, if God aids me with his grace…’
As he was about to go through the cemetery, a sudden gust of freezing wind made him shudder. It was a bitterly cold night, overcast… the air was damp… the sky in mourning clothes of pitch darkness, without a single star. The clouds, which a moment ago had been flying like crows across the face of the moon, had now covered it completely with their wings of blackness…
The priest opened the church door and went inside, heading for the presbytery. There he crossed himself and knelt; then he stepped up to the altar, where he first gave a bow, and then immediately another one, lower still. This done, he moved to one side the main tablet inscribed with the words of the office, being able thus to open the tabernacle and reveal the sacraments… Then he made a genuflection that was lower even than his previous ones, and as he raised himself up with his hands on the edge of the altar, he was thinking of the words of divine love he would speak to the dying woman at Lledonell, promising her the glory of God, offering her an eternity in paradise… and all of this would be performed to be heard by the neighbours who would be attending the Communion, so that they, reawakened, should experience a new revelation of the divine promises… Then he took out the sacramental bread and placed it with great unction in the pyx, his lips moving gently all the time in fervent prayer. Finally he hung the cord of the small casket round his neck, and he walked back down the church, back the way he had approached the altar, but now majestically, filled with ecstasy, as though transfigured by the glory of being the bearer of the consecrated Body of Christ himself.
At the door he found the old man waiting for him, bell in hand, standing by the mare fitted with saddle and trappings. Also there was Mariagna who was lighting the lantern that would guide their steps through the darkness.
Clang, clang! Clang, clang! Josep rang the bell excitedly, as though desperate to announce to the world that no less a highness than God himself was deigning to leave his palace in order to visit a dying sinner. The priest meanwhile mounted the mare, and then he intoned quietly the resonant line from the psalms:
‘Have mercy on me, oh God, according to your great compassion!’
Clang, clang! Clang, clang! responded the old man, wielding the bell with all his might to make it ring out loud and clear, while his wife covered his shoulders with a rug to protect him against the damp coldness of the night.
Then the two men set off on their journey. Mariagna, kneeling outside the church, watched as they left her behind by first going through the cemetery to cross the row of cypresses, then turning off the pathway. The old man went in front with something of a limp and taking each step carefully, because, encumbered with the bell and the lantern, he had difficulty in leading the mare by the halter. On his mount the priest came behind, with head bowed and his hands crossed upon his chest, as though embracing the Holy Sacrament he was carrying. Only occasionally did he look up and then begin to chant in a low voice, as though praying, another plaintive versicle:
‘Wash me, wash me thoroughly, Lord, from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin!’
Clang, clang! Clang, clang! was once again the old man’s response, as if the sound of the bell was the right accompaniment to the holy words of the priest.
But both the words from the psalms and the sound of the respons
e merged into one, like a cry of pain, unheard by any living creature, lost in the immense darkness. The night was so cold and so misty it seemed as if the damp chill that seeped into everything was freezing the chant of the priest and the resounding note of Josep’s bell. But this did not make either of them desist: the chanting of the one and the ringing of the other continued amid the silence and the solitude, as though they were the grateful bearers of the most exalted, mysterious message. Onwards, steadily onwards, they followed the edges of the small fields at the bottom of the tight valley. The tracks there run along flat ground and rapid progress can be made. Sometimes limping, sometimes not, the old man got his head down and pressed on, with the lantern and the bell in one hand and holding the mare’s halter in the other. Behind him came the priest and his mount, onwards, steadily onwards…
But just as poor old Josep was on the point of striking up the gentle slope towards the osier beds, he was dismayed to find that his legs suddenly felt weak. With the rivulets that continually ran down the bank from the pond, the ground there was always damp and slippery; but now frozen hard, it was even more treacherous to walk on. The old man stumbled frequently, and the mare had to keep stopping for a while before setting off again on the climb. In the dense darkness all around, and along that track which was now so narrow and steep, the journey up was becoming more and more wearing and dangerous. With just the flickering light from the lantern, the old man did not have enough aid to see where he was putting his feet; and because he was stumbling all the time, he began to feel terrified of falling into the steep gorge which lay to one side of the track uphill. And so he kept on praying, under his breath as he went:
‘God protect us from harm!’
When, after a while, they reached the oak wood on the slope below Rovira, because they were getting closer to places of habitation, the priest sang out the sacred chants in a louder voice:
‘Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive…’ he voiced with sombre feeling.
And as though wishing to harmonise with the rising solemnity of the liturgical chant, the old man prepared himself to ring the bell vigorously, as loud as he was able, and he let go of the halter by which he was leading the mare. This freed his right hand to take hold of the bell, but then he suddenly felt the ground give way beneath his feet… Although the priest quickly reached out a hand to steady his man as he staggered, it was too late, and in vain… Josep, lantern and bell all went tumbling down the hillside, not coming to a stop until they hit the stream bed at the bottom of the gorge…
‘God in heaven… help me!’ cried the old man in a pitiful howl, while Father Llàtzer leapt from his mount in order to rush to his aid.
But everything was enveloped in impenetrable darkness, so that the priest had no idea how to negotiate the precipitous drop.
‘Where are you?’ he called, gripped inside by deep anxiety. ‘Where are you, Josep? Tell me where you are!’
‘Down… down here, your rev… reverence!’ came back the faintest of voices from the depths of the gorge.
Guided by the old man’s cries of distress, the priest made his way down, then he searched and searched until he found him. The priority now was to have some light on the scene, in order to see the extent of Josep’s injuries; and, while Father Llàtzer was striking with his steel to get the lantern lit again, he spoke words of encouragement to the old fellow in that compassionate tone which so befitted his lips:
‘Poor Josep! Brother of mine! Fear not, for God in heaven is with us!’
The old man could only whimper in place of a reply, as though his gasping prevented him from forming words. He was lying stretched out on the ground with his legs wide apart, beneath a knotty cluster of old roots which protruded, twisted and gnarled, from the steep clay bank. That was where he had landed and that was where he lay, as though he had been knocked out. His legs were giving him much pain, one foot was quite dead, his face and hands were covered in blood. Only with much heaving and straining was the priest able to get him upright in order to start going back up the steep side of the gorge.
‘Have courage, Josep! Be brave!’ he kept telling him.
Mustering every bit of energy they could, they struggled together up to the track, close to where the mare had been left. But by this stage the old man had lost all his strength and coordination. At each step that he tried to take, his legs gave way beneath him. He tried to grasp the halter, but still he could not keep his balance. Then Father Llàtzer, as a last resort, attempted to take hold of the old man bodily and heave him up on to the back of the mare. But to his surprise, Josep stiffened in protest at this, refusing to be subjected to the manoeuvre, objecting vigorously with his head and his eyes: no, no!
The priest was taken aback by such unusual disobedience in a man who was always so resigned and so humble. That unexpected stubborn resistance was quite incomprehensible. But a moment later he understood the whole crisis. Josep’s behaviour signified that he would never consent for the body of Christ to travel on foot while he, a poor sinner, rode on horseback. Even though he was moved by his servant’s ardent piety, Father Llàtzer had no alternative but to make felt the full weight of his own will.
‘I am giving you an order. Do you understand? I am ordering you to ride.’
On hearing this, the old man bowed his head, and the priest, putting every bit of his being into a supreme physical effort, heaved Josep up from the ground and managed to get him seated on the back of the mare, securing him as best he could in the packsaddle.
Hunters, c. 1920.
(Courtesy of the Municipal Archive, Figueró-Montmany)
XVIII
Sacrilege
And so the dolorous cavalcade continued on that road to Calvary. In front, the priest with the Holy Sacrament hung about his neck and resting on his chest; lantern in one hand, and halter in the other. Behind him, the poor old man, slumped sideways on the mare, like a wounded soldier.
Onwards and upwards, the priest was striding out confidently, following the winding path that led from the main track to the heights of Puiggraciós. Rather than subdued after the recent harsh setback, his mood was calm and determined, as though he had just prevailed in a confrontation with the spirit of Evil and was now savouring his victory. Onwards and upwards, it seemed that he was being guided by the heaven-sent promise that he could win round the woodlanders, vanquishing insults and treachery though love and charity. So valiant did he feel that he recalled unconsciously the lines of the psalm that proclaim the rewards of forgiveness and mercy: the words came to his lips and he intoned softly:
‘Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.’
He was exalted and emboldened by the psalmist’s vehemence, and in every one of these words he found a mysterious meaning that applied to his own trials and tribulations.
‘Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.’
Onwards and upwards, every so often he looked in the light of the lantern at the face of the old man drowsily slumped in the saddle. Or he resumed his singsong psalmody. And so the climb continued, ever upwards along the route made by the feet of generations past through the centuries-old pine woods… until a cold squall, much colder than the air he had been breathing until now, hit him full in the face…
He had reached the top of the ascent, and leaving now the shelter of the gorge, he was immediately exposed to the chill winds which blew at those heights. Up there, no longer held in by the imprisoning walls of cliffs and ravines, the wind came and went, rushed and swirled freely over the ridges, whisking away the hanging mists that rose up from the valleys. This was a cleaner, a purer space. Even the darkness here seemed to be less dense and less thickly packed than down below. And from here he could make out the shadowy shape of the sanctuary at Puiggraciós, the clay-daubed walls of the tavern and the seemingly whitewashed façade of the little church.
The priest could now breathe easily,
with the satisfaction of the person who begins to see that his travails must soon be over. Just beyond the church were the old houses in a small cluster on the upper part of the ridge, and not far beyond them was the solitary farmstead of Lledonell, some way down the other flank of the hill, as if it had stepped across the watershed and was on the point of descending into the further valley. Father Llàtzer felt, on the one hand, urged on by his desire to redeem, to save souls; on the other hand, his spirit was gripped tight by the fear that he would never be able to make his peace with the woodlanders…
Passing in front of the inn, his heart missed a beat at the mere thought that the people inside might appear and that at any moment, he could be confronted by the Footloose woman and the couple who kept the place. But none of these fears materialised. The stillest silence reigned all around, and not a chink of light was visible anywhere in the building.
Then the priest, as though suddenly moved by remote inspiration, stopped in his tracks and halted the mare. Standing there, square on to the inn, he began chanting another verse from the penitential psalm:
‘Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.’
The manner in which he pronounced these words, with such feeling and such fervour, made them sound like the very voice of contrition itself knocking on the door of the unrepentant sinner. But the only response to the mysterious admonishment was in the silence of the still night. No sound at all came from the tavern, the scenario of rustic debauchery, which stayed as quiet as the grave.
Father Llàtzer pressed on determinedly, thinking that nobody would be coming to meet him until he had reached the dwellings on the ridge. But, as soon as he came to the cluster of old houses, his spirits sank when he saw that there was not a sign or a shadow anywhere of the inhabitants.
‘Perhaps the Lledonell people will be waiting in their yard…’ he now mused, clutching at a straw.
Dark Vales Page 14