The Click of a Pebble

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Is it always this hot at the end of October?’ he blurted out desperate for words, any words, to anaesthetise his thoughts. Only Monsieur Meijer might be able to unscramble them and he was long gone.

  ‘No.’ Leaning down Maestro picked up a thick wedge of paper, one side roughened with sand, and began smoothing the cut edges of the wood. ‘By rights, it should be raining. If you speak with Adelita, she’ll convince you it’s a weather-breeder and threatens a wet winter.’ Maestro grinned malevolently. ‘She’ll tell your fortune too, if offered half a chance. That rarely comes true either.’

  ‘Yöst! Yöst! I really missed you.’ Zande stumbled out of the lean-to in his bare feet, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

  Reclaiming the wooden carving from Yöst, Tatania held it out to him, ‘Dander take.’

  Nursing the animal figure, Zande leant back against Yöst’s shoulder, an arm around his neck. ‘I wanted to work like you and Rico, only Pascual said I wasn’t big enough. Will I be big enough soon?’

  Maestro sniggered. ‘You will soon be bigger than me.’

  Yöst’s gaze flashed up, hot tears of embarrassment hovering at the corner of his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You can’t help what you’ve been taught,’ the man replied, his tone as sharp as the edge on the knife he was using. Then as if regretting his harshness, ‘It doesn’t bother me, not now. When I was your age and had to sit out a game of football … then it did. I’d weep and wish I was dead. For my tenth birthday, my father bought me a guitar. It wasn’t new. He said he’d won it at Escopa.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘It’s a card game. The word means broom because one player usually sweeps away all the cards … and the money. Ask Rico, he’ll teach you. He regularly lightens the pockets of both Adelita and Pepe. I’m sure he will oblige and lighten yours.’ He held the carving up in the air, twisting it round and round. Picking up his knife again, he began paring away the wood on one side. ‘For me, the guitar was a revelation. I poured all my hurt feelings into creating sounds. As long as I have that …’ Twisting awkwardly, he picked up the guitar leaning against the side of his chair. ‘Nothing can hurt me.’

  ‘I didn’t …’ Yöst began.

  ‘If you think about it,’ Maestro continued, ignoring the boy’s interruption, ‘you’re not so very different from me.’

  ‘How … why would you …?’

  ‘You also suffer from a deformity.’

  ‘It’s not a deformity,’ Yöst burst out fiercely, repudiating Maestro’s words. Gripping both children to him, he wrapped his arms around them, shielding their small frames. ‘It’s a gift, the greatest blessing on this earth,’ he ranted, heedless of the consequences. Hastily, he gulped back his anger. What had he done?

  ‘Yet you still see me as being deformed, rather than the recipient of a great gift – to me, the greatest blessing on earth.’ With a sly grin, Maestro repeated Yöst’s words. ‘Yet this gift we both possess, it’s not seen as such, is it? People fear you, isn’t that right?’

  Yöst’s memory raced back to the island. To the sound of the men’s voices, filled with hatred and lust as they beat the life out of his friends. Pleasure and satisfaction had followed their duel with death; the fishermen obviously considering it a righteous deed enacted against vermin, infected with plague and disease. Was that belief a product of fear? ‘I don’t know,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Children of Zeus.’

  Zande’s head shot up, his mouth open, questions bubbling on his lips. Yöst hastily shushed him. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘I met someone like you, some years back, before I came here. Once seen and known, you’re easily recognizable; taller, handsomer … and your eyes! They will always give you away. Still, that bit’s not important.’ Maestro waved his hand in the air dismissively. ‘The inns that fishermen frequent are hotbeds for gossip and sometimes, for a change of scene, I drive in with Pepe and spend the day listening to scurrilous lies being bandied about. Mind you, they’re a tight-lipped community, the same as your own,’ he giggled. ‘And they’re not saying much, so I’m guessing you came from the island, where that ruckus took place.’

  ‘What did Ramon tell you about us?’

  ‘Ramon?’ Maestro laughed scornfully. ‘Nothing. I had to ask. He said your parents were overseas and you needed somewhere to stay until they returned, which might be any time or no time. I asked Pascual how old you were. She told me twelve. You seem older. What happened to make you that way?’

  Not here, Yöst mouthed indicating Zande.

  Ignoring his distress, Maestro hastened on. ‘Rest easy, Ramon’s not guessed the truth,’ he continued without interruption. ‘I can promise, you wouldn’t be standing here now if he had.’ He shrugged. ‘As for the population as a whole, all it’s ever been is a myth, a fable borrowed from the lives of insects, little different from the one about a princess who kissed a frog. And as I said, fishermen don’t gossip, except sometimes when they’re in their cups.’

  He pulled himself upright, sighing painfully. ‘I ache from sitting and you, from stooping down to pick grapes.’ For a moment he was silent, his glance lingering on his guitar. ‘Only one problem for you, when Ramon says you might be with us a while, he was talking in terms of years. He’s not bothered how long it is, provided you work off your debt.

  ‘You can’t do that, can you?’ Maestro continued, his tone firm yet not unsympathetic. ‘There’s a time limit on how long you can stay. Because you will change and when you do, you will need to be among your own people.’ He shrugged his one shoulder, the hump on his back restricting his movement in the other. ‘You saw me watching you. That is why. I was wondering how long you’d got and what you would do when—’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Rico stood at the top of the pathway, a full box of grapes tucked under one arm. ‘When I said have a rest, I didn’t mean the whole afternoon,’ he added pettishly.

  ‘I was telling Yöst that I would play again tomorrow night when the grape harvest is over,’ Maestro intervened smoothly. He held up his hand. ‘Come here, TaTa, and see what I have carved.’ She immediately jumped off Yöst’s lap, her hand outstretched to the stick figure. ‘It’s Yöst. See his funny eyebrows.’

  Grabbing it, she kissed it passionately. Spinning round, she beckoned imperiously, ‘Dander come. Play with Yöt.’

  ‘I wasn’t shirking, honest.’ Yöst offered the words hesitantly, as they walked back to the farm at the end of the day, the hillside, except for one small section, cleared of its crop. Conversation was desultory, anything apart from casual speech demanding too much energy. Once again, only Pepe gave the impression of being unaffected by their ordeal, pushing the cart, the two littlest screaming with pleasure whenever he broke into a trot.

  ‘It’s a good job Pa didn’t see you,’ Rico retorted grumpily. ‘Anyhow, what’s so interesting about Maestro and Adelita that you have to spend all day talking to them?’ Moodily, he glowered at Adelita who, walking alongside the cart, was humming the melody Maestro was strumming on his guitar, her voice low-pitched and husky.

  ‘Do you want us to leave?’

  ‘No!’

  The word sliced through the silent air and Adelita swung round. ‘Lovers’ tiff, Rico?’

  Maestro giggled and pounded the strings of his guitar as if applauding, creating a discordant throbbing.

  ‘Not jealous, are we?’ Adelita tapped the giant on his shoulder. ‘Pepe, hurry up, the boy is snapping like a hungry turtle.’

  Rico flushed red. ‘Course I don’t want you to leave,’ he lowered his voice. ‘I just want you to be my friend. No one else’s,’ he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Yöst didn’t respond, scarcely knowing how to reply. He caught an echo of Willem’s voice, mingled with the laughter that had always been present, even if the subject was a serious one. ‘People can never be happy unless you belong to them.’ Yöst recalled the conversation. He’d been asking Willem why children at school
were always demanding that you be their special friend. The phrase, will you be my best friend, almost a daily ritual.

  ‘They consider you a possession, no different from a necklace they can wear round their neck every day, or a bracelet. Listen to the women, wailing and moaning whenever the autumn migration is upon us. They can’t accept that as carinatae we belong to no one apart from Zeus, and that we are as glad to leave as we are to return. Our desire for freedom is too great to become someone’s possession.’

  ‘Don’t we belong together?’

  Willem had grabbed him in an arm-lock ruffling his hair. ‘Only while you’re such a baby. Once you fledge, it will be the flock that dictates your life and your allegiance, not me. As for humans, tell them what they want to hear,’ he paused, ‘unless you really want to belong?’ Yöst didn’t respond to the statement or to Willem’s encouraging smile, reluctant to admit he had dreamed of their being together always.

  ‘I felt bad about Maestro … you know … what I said.’ He spoke awkwardly, his words tripping over themselves, hoping Rico would accept his speech as an apology and not enquire further. Willem always insisted that real friends had no need to watch their speech, and had treated his outbursts with casual indulgence. Silently, he offered up a prayer that Willem’s spirit had found the freedom it had sought.

  ‘And Adelita …’ Yöst dropped his voice to a whisper, aware Adelita was listening, capable of tarnishing even the most innocent of remarks with her spiteful tongue. ‘She’s so scary, I only managed one word.’

  ‘Honest?’ Rico’s face lit from inside, his gait once again brisk and purposeful.

  ‘Yes. As to that best friends’ stuff ...’ Yöst paused, the memory that all his friends, apart from Rico, were dead, urging him on. He brushed his elbow against Rico’s sleeve. ‘That’s okay with me, provided you leave room for Zande and TaTa.’

  15

  The following day, from out of nowhere, a bitter wind arose signalling the end of summer, and sending the two little girls scurrying into the shelter of Maestro’s arms. The grape pickers caught on the open hillside ceased their chatter, the heat of the previous day lapsing into memory as quickly as the wind had arisen. Flying along lines of greenery, they ripped bunches of ripe grapes from their stems, determined to clear the field before the icy blast had time to sour the juice and ruin the vintage. Aching backs were forgotten as they ran the heavy crates up the slope, the ancient tractor lumbering to the rescue like some knight in rust-pitted armour, as anxious to gather up the harvest as the pickers were.

  Eventually leaving the final few rows, they hurried along the track from the winery, Pepe pushing the handcart at a speed that made Delors and Tatania shriek, their delight mingled with fear at the pace he was setting. Following behind, the coloured scarves of the women fluttered in the brutal wind as bright as the banners of an invading army.

  By now every vestige of light had vanished, the air midnight-black, with lowering clouds so heavy with water they brushed the treetops, and by the time they had reached the shelter of the barn, they were wet through.

  A week of rain followed, the children cooped up indoors. Unused to girls and overwhelmed by their noisy chattering, Yöst wandered about the house finding the rain-soaked days wearisome, almost unending. It was a new experience. On the island, rain had made little or no difference. He and his friends had gone about as Zeus intended, frolicking in and out of the ocean, none of them overly bothered by the wet conditions. Only if the beaches were ice-ridden did they don jackets and trousers and perhaps play cards round the fire, gossiping about everything and nothing. Sometimes one of the cobs, too old for the annual migration or desirous of spending more time with a new woman, would entertain the youngsters, telling tales about lands they had visited where tigers and elephants ruled; others describing mountains so tall they were snow-covered all year.

  But here, powerless to speak freely, forced to examine each word before speaking it aloud, that first week of idleness proved so long-drawn-out, it could well have lasted seven years rather than seven days. Witnessing his restless wandering, Pascual set him to teach the younger ones their letters, while the older girls worked at their sewing. Despite her intervention, only their family meal in the evening offered any real respite from the tedium. Even then, Katarina had not donned her gold dress and black shoes again, to conjure up the magic of the dance. Nor had Maestro kept his promise to play his guitar. His good humour had vanished with the sun, replying with a grumbling and spiteful answer to any request, and ignoring his guitar, leaving it untouched in a corner next to his bed.

  ‘What a fool that boy is,’ he sneered, watching Rico struggle with a heavy pail of water for the horses. ‘Leave them in the yard why don’t you, there’s plenty of water out there.’

  ‘He suffers badly in this weather,’ Pascual explained when Yöst asked why Berte was crying. ‘I left his bedding by the stove all day and he still shouted at her, complaining it was damp. I have nothing to ease his pain either, the salve I used on your shoulder is nowhere near strong enough and he refuses to visit a doctor; maintains we can’t spare money for medicine.’

  The days when Rico accompanied his father to the market, they were the worst. Leaving Zande and Tatania to entertain each other, he idled about the kitchen finding solace in watching Pascual cook, wandering restlessly until the sound of cart wheels on the road meant Rico would shortly be back.

  ‘Can’t I come with you? he begged.

  ‘Pa says not.’

  ‘But …’

  He stopped, aware Ramon wouldn’t change his mind. Rico had warned that was also one of his pa’s rules, the same as not being late for meals and eating all the food on your plate. No one ever argued with their father. ‘Not if you don’t want his belt, you don’t.’

  Katarina, who had been standing nearby, chuckled. ‘Pascual argues all the time and wins, but then she uses quite different methods,’ at which Pascual had thrown a dishcloth at her.

  ‘Better not, Yöst,’ she advised, as Katarina tossed the dishcloth back into the sink splashing Pascual’s arms with soap-suds. ‘Keep your arguments for something worthwhile.’

  He pushed open the top half of the yard door staring out across the yard, scared Maestro in this bitter mood might lash out and betray their secret. The steady downpour had already reduced the parched ground to mud, leaving its surface richly patterned with footprints to and from the outhouse and barn. He peered through the arch into the kitchen where Pascual was working, once again pondering how very like his mother she was, her smile capable of lifting the greyest of days. His mother had had a pretty smile too, which flashed on and off as if life wavered between a joke and a calamity. Exactly the same as the light bulb on the landing at Monsieur Meijer’s house that continuously flickered, until you jiggled the switch into the correct position.

  ‘What?’ Pascual asked as if he had spoken aloud.

  ‘I was thinking how like my mother you are.’

  ‘You mean she spent all day in a sacking apron, cooking?’

  ‘No. Not that. She was always smiling, like you.’ He hesitated, the need to talk about his life overwhelming. ‘What would have happened to us if you hadn’t taken us in?’

  ‘But we did,’ Pascual responded gently. ‘Yöst, don’t waste time worrying about things that might never happen. It’s not worth it.’ She picked up a bag of flour. Measuring it into a basin, she broke a slab of lard into pieces and began mixing the two ingredients. ‘Ramon says, if you do, when bad things actually happen you’ve no energy left to overcome them.’

  Yöst’s intent on watching the rainwater gush out of the drainpipe flinched, and his mouth twisted. ‘I’m a bit like that,’ he admitted ruefully.

  ‘I heard,’ she commented dryly. ‘Maestro told me you’re not sleeping.’

  Yöst winced, wondering if Maestro had betrayed their secret after all. If so, would he and the two little ones be running again? Recalling the baleful fury of the fisherman when he raised his cudgel
to kill, would he see that same horror emblazoned on the faces of the family?

  ‘Yöst, whatever is it? And don’t say nothing because your face gives you away.’

  ‘My face? How?’

  ‘Your eyebrows. They are set to music.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he responded bitterly, ‘we didn’t have music where I lived before.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But you had a fire.’

  ‘What? N-no! How …’

  ‘I saw the scars on your arm.’ With the tips of her fingers Pascual began breaking up the lumps, gradually reducing them to fine crumbs. ‘When you first came here, I told you we all had stories. If you wish to tell me yours, I’m a good listener.’

  ‘They were all killed.’ The words flew from his mouth.

  He felt a sudden easing in his chest, the huge weight he’d been carrying lifted away.

  ‘Who were? Your family?’

  Yöst heard the busy fingers fall silent. He didn’t turn round, concentrating on the falling rain. It was easier to talk about things to someone, especially painful things, so raw they hurt worse than a newly acquired bruise or cut, when you had your back to them. Rain was dispassionate, uncaring. It didn’t bother about the words you used or how you spoke them. That’s why he liked it. In the yard, the drops slanted obliquely, the strong wind driving them as pitiless as the men with cudgels had been. He wanted to tell her. Oh, so badly. A part of him wished Maestro had spoken out, freeing him from his undertaking to Monsieur Meijer. He felt it now, as if a gag was binding his mouth.

  ‘Not my family; no. The people in the village where I was living,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘a long way from here. I don’t have a real family. My mother died a few years back and my grandmother, last year.’ His voice caught. ‘I was glad then.’

  ‘Children, too?’

  ‘No, not children,’ he lied. Ashamed of not trusting her more, he trailed off tasting bile in the back of his throat. ‘Zande’s mother was killed and TaTa’s …’