Eventually, it was the distant barking of Léon that penetrated his panic. Then the dogs came into sight, flying along the riverbank towards them.
It was too much.
Overcome with relief, he crashed to the ground, his arms gathering the two children to him, his face buried in the dogs’ fur.
‘What’s happened?’
Hearing Maestro’s call out, he sniffed and knuckled his tears away. He watched him hobble down the slope towards them, his sticks flashing in the sunlight like semaphore.
‘Has there been an accident?’ the dwarf panted out. ‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘No, TaTa’s sick.’
Maestro stopped a little way off to gather his breath, his piercing gaze examining the trio of figures crouched on the ground. ‘Are you sick, my little lady?’
She regarded him gravely, as if debating his trust-worthiness. ‘No,’ she announced with an emphatic shake of her head.
He chuckled. ‘I thought not. Now let’s see if I can guess. Probably, when you reached the church, you discovered the man that wants you dead in possession of it.’
Yöst gasped.
‘Not kill Yöst,’ Tatania wagged her finger at him.
‘I promise, I will never hurt Yöst.’
Reassured, she walked over to him and took his hand. Bending down, he gently stroked her cheek. ‘And because it’s you, I won’t let anyone else either.’ He beckoned. ‘Come along, lad. If you will be good enough to accommodate my slow pace and accompany me to the top of the rise, I will sit down while you explain. But not here,’ he waved one of his crutches. ‘If I fall down on this soft grass, I doubt I will ever be able to get up again.’
Still feeling sick and shaky, Yöst staggered upright, bothered as always by the musician’s acuity and dreading the conversation to come. Leaving Zande and Tatania to run up the slope, he fitted his steps with Maestro who, leaning heavily on his crutches, inched his way to the top. Screwing his eyes up against the bright light, he collapsed into the deckchair Rico had brought outside for him to use. ‘A few more days of this sun and I will be racing.’
‘How did you know?’
Maestro chuckled. ‘No need to look at me like that, Yöst, I’m not the pale rider of death. Knowing what you are and where you come from, it was an easy guess. To be honest, I’ve been expecting something untoward to happen, ever since Pascual said about the Communion service.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘What’s the fun in doing that? With a life as boring as my own, you are pleased for anything to spice it up.’
Yöst flinched, as always shocked by Maestro’s warped sense of humour. ‘How did you know?’
Maestro shrugged his shoulder. It was one of the first things Yöst had noticed, this lack of mobility in his right shoulder and how careful he was not to make extravagant gestures, wincing at the slightest jolt. Only when he was playing did it appear not to trouble him.
‘I told you; whenever I go to town, I drink my brandy and listen to the gossip, hoping to store up enough tittle-tattle to last until my next visit. Besides, they always send a senior priest from town to initiate the young communicants – it’s traditional. It was an easy guess,’ he added.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing!’
‘But we’re in danger,’ Yöst gasped out. ‘What if Pascual invites people back here, the priest among them?’
To his astonishment, Maestro giggled. ‘My dear boy, that is as improbable as my ever running down the slope. Ramon is more likely to set the dogs on him. People from my country will never forgive the church for standing by and doing nothing, when so many thousands of their people were murdered. When Pascual begged him to attend church for the sake of the children, Ramon agreed to attend their first Communion and their marriage, nothing else. Not even his own burial. Who can blame him? As for what you tell the family? I advise you to say nothing apart from TaTa feeling sick.’ His beady eyes flashed towards Yöst, his tone malicious, ‘And no unburdening yourself to Rico.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because if Rico and you ever fall out, which is highly likely, especially if Rico fails to get his way in life, he might easily betray your little secret.’ Maestro sneered. ‘And that would be fatal. In his way, Ramon is no different from the men that killed his friends. He can only ever see life in black and white.’
As they had done with Zande the previous week, the two dogs lay sprawled on the grass by the children’s side, Yöst anxiously waiting to hear the rattle of cart wheels that would announce the family’s return from church. Despite’s Maestro reassurance, Yöst was grateful for the animals’ presence. They obviously saw and understood everything, although it was pure instinct that drove their reaction. No different from TaTa; too young to understand the nuances of language, she also judged people good or bad based on their actions. Nevertheless, it didn’t lessen his concerns, rather it added to them, aware Ramon might pick up on it, and resent the animals’ obvious empathy with the little girl. They were his dogs. Logic dictated he should matter most, not some stray child who rarely spoke at all.
Zande still hadn’t spoken and, despite displaying no outward symptoms of alarm, Yöst wasn’t surprised to see him run into the house. A moment later, he reappeared clutching his sketchpad and pencil, making his way down to the river bank.
Joining him, he read to Tatania, leaving Zande to draw out his fears with a portrait of a crane fly, its lacy wings so lifelike, Yöst wouldn’t have been surprised to see the long- tailed insect lift off from the page and fly away. With a final stroke of his pencil, Zande looked up, staring out across the river as if he too was intent on flight. Then a fat bumble bee asleep on a clover leaf drew his attention and he began drawing again.
A moment more and his head shot up – Yöst’s also. From far off, both boys recognised the rattle of a cart wheel and then, a few minutes later, the sound of Rico’s feet racing through the yard and into the meadow.
‘I was scared you’d be gone when I got back,’ he called out, hastening down the slope. He stood awkwardly, his hands bunched into fists hanging at his side. ‘How did TaTa know? When I walked into the church and there he was … how did she know?’ he repeated.
‘Know what?’ Remembering Maestro’s words, Yöst kept his voice steady, hopeful his bluff would work.
‘That the priest was in church, taking the Communion Service.’
‘The priest! Pascual said it was only going to be villagers …’ he schooled his face into one of surprise. ‘Lucky TaTa felt sick, we would have been with you, otherwise.’
‘Don’t give me that!’
Tatania jumped at the sharp sound and cuddled closer to Yöst.
‘Sorry, TaTa. I didn’t mean to shout.’ Rico glanced over his shoulder; a whinny from Barone announcing the second cart’s arrival in the yard. ‘You knew, alright,’ he accused, lowering his voice. ‘So did TaTa. I’m not that stupid. Never seen you so scared; not since that day in the market. You were so desperate to leave that place, you were almost peeing your pants. You knew all right.’ His voice softened and he patted Tatania on the hand. ‘And so did you, didn’t you?’
She nodded, straightaway turning back to the story Yöst was reading.
He bent down. ‘Can you tell me how you knew?’ Determinedly, she hid her face, slotting her hand into Yöst’s. ‘Then you have to,’ he glared. ‘If you don’t, I’ll know for sure you aren’t my friend and never have been.’
Yöst swallowed painfully, Maestro’s warning a great lump in his throat. He had to say something, but what and how much? How little of the truth might he risk? ‘Where we lived before, it was the priest who had our people killed.’
‘You mean on the island? That’s not news,’ Rico dismissed his words. ‘I’ve always known it.’
‘You did?’ Yöst felt the lump ease. ‘How?’
‘That kid, my classmate … it was defending your honour that got me my black eye.’ Rico’s boastful grin faded, rep
laced by anger. ‘I remembered the burns on your arm, and guessed you got them on the island. They said some real nasty stuff too, about you worshipping weird gods. Still, I don’t bother with that sort of stuff. They never said about the priest. Why would he want to kill you?’
‘He doesn’t want to kill Yöst, only me, because one day, I will be the leader of our people.’
Shocked, Yöst responded sharply. ‘Zande! We promised Monsieur Meijer to keep that a secret. Remember what Maestro said …’
‘Yöst, sometimes you’re ever so silly.’
Zande’s voice had not altered, the same calm, matter of fact tone he used for almost everything. Stunned to silence, Yöst gazed down at the drawing pad; the intense detail of the bumble bee’s wings, the single recipient of Zande’s insecurities. Provided he could draw out his fears, little would touch him. ‘I am?’ he said, after a long pause.
‘Rico’s never said anything about us and he never will. Ask TaTa, she knows.’
Yöst swallowed, recognising something he should have seen right from the start; Rico would never betray a friend … especially not to Ramon. Rico had even spelled it out for him, and he had ignored it, treating his words as spoken in jest or in the heat of the moment: he don’t tell me nothin’ and I tell him even less.
‘How did TaTa know it was the priest from town?’
Yöst reached out, touching the little girl on the cheek. ‘You remember hiding, don’t you, TaTa?’ She gazed back at him, wide eyed. ‘We hid in a graveyard, Rico, under my grandmother’s tombstone. That’s how we escaped. I never thought; she must have remembered.’
‘But that happened …’
Yöst shrugged. ‘More than six months ago, I know. Except she wasn’t saying bad, she was saying bat. The priest in his cloak, that’s what he resembled – a giant bat.’
‘That still doesn’t explain how she knew he was in the church?’ Rico persisted. ‘And you? You knew all right,’ he repeated, ‘so don’t you dare lie to me.’
‘I felt it,’ he admitted. ‘Sometimes that happens to me.’
‘You mean like Adelita reading the weather?’
‘No,’ Yöst admitted, ‘not a bit like Adelita.’ They exchanged smiles.
All of a sudden, he felt absurdly light-hearted, the great weight of lies he carried of no consequence compared with Rico’s friendship.
‘Remember how I used to have nightmares; they were about that night. The fear obviously stayed with me … you know, like those weeds that have those long roots you can never get rid of.’
‘Bindweed,’ Rico replied automatically. ‘And TaTa?’
Yöst shrugged. ‘Maybe her fear just got stuck; mine did.’
He edged another smile, thankful Rico was more concerned with the little girl’s well-being, than ferreting out the exact truth.
‘Why the smile?’ Rico said suspiciously.
‘Relief, I guess, that I don’t need to keep this a secret any longer.’
It was a fib and less that a second ago, he’d said no more, not ever, unwilling to admit, even to himself, that Tatania might well grow-up to be carinatae.
He sat silently, his expression carefully under control, the nonchalance of a moment before missing. Why on earth should the question of Tatania’s destiny upset him? Becoming carinatae was a reason to celebrate, even more so if it happened to a girl because it was so rare. He’d only ever heard of one, and that was Nuria, Zande’s mother.
An idea began to generate, staring at him from a great distance … that perhaps the little girl knew something beyond terrible was waiting for them down the road.
22
A blazing fire burned in the grate and although daylight still dominated the skies, the sun that day had proved too sickly to provide more than an illusion of warmth. Indoors, with the sitting room curtains tightly drawn, Van Vliet paced silently. He ducked his head to avoid hitting it on the light, its filaments vibrating with the intensity of his movements. ‘All of them?’ he echoed, ‘even Nuria?’
‘You saw for yourself,’ Albert admonished, ‘the island is empty. Three children survived, your son among them. Also, your nephew. Is his father with you? Surely he will be anxious to check on him?’
‘He no longer flies with us,’ he threw out the words casually. ‘He has settled down with the woman he met a few years back and they have a child.’
Mme Meijer dropped her sewing. ‘You mean Yöst has no one?’
‘He has the clan.’ Van Vliet retorted, his fair skin flushed with exasperation. ‘What else does he need? How old is he?’
‘We are not sure, thirteen or fourteen. We were hoping his father would know and have it recorded somewhere. Isn’t that customary?’ she appealed to her husband, who nodded. ‘And what about Zande?’
‘Zande?’ he echoed.
‘Your son. Aren’t you in the least bothered about what he has experienced? Losing his mother in that way? Doesn’t any of it matter?’ She took in a deep breath, her chest swelling with indignation like a pouter pigeon.
‘Marie,’ her husband chided anxiously. ‘Now is not the time.’
‘You have already told me he is being well cared for. Surely that is sufficient.’ Van Vliet’s voice dripped frost. ‘I have an entire community to bother about. What is one child among so many?’
‘Do you at least know how old he is?’ she persisted. ‘When I left that autumn, it was the day after his birthday. Nuria had insisted I delay the flock’s departure for that.’ The tall man smiled at the memory, its brilliance reducing Mme Meijer’s intended rebuke to silence, leaving her breath fluttering in her throat. ‘She was different, always wanting to celebrate something. He was what … four?’
‘Then he will be six this year,’ M. Meijer broke in, casting a nervous glance in his wife’s direction, silently beseeching her to be prudent and watch her words. ‘He looks older; seven at least.’
‘Of course, he looks older; he’s my son and a Black.’ Van Vliet stopped his pacing. ‘Albert, do you know who was responsible for Nuria’s death?’
‘I’m sorry. At the time Yöst was too distressed to remember much.’
‘Have you asked him?’
‘It happened eighteen months ago, Robert,’ Mme Meijer broke in again. ‘It took him a long time to recover and he’s happy now. Why would we start it all up again? If you had been here sooner … Last year, Zande waited all spring.’
Catching her husband’s warning frown, she curtailed her admonitory speech.
‘Tch!’ The sibilant sound came from the depth of Van Vliet’s throat, a single clue that perhaps he was more than an elegant figure garbed in black. ‘There were communities with fledglings ready for their wings and women to impregnate.’ Mme Meijer, her cheeks flaring at his coarse speech, hastily looked down at her sewing.
‘Why was there no warning? The women who worked in the town; there must have been rumours beforehand. I would not have left for the migration had I believed the clan in any danger.’
When Van Vliet had banged on their front door, it was automatic for M. Meijer to offer his own armchair by the fireside, perching uncomfortably on a wooden kitchen chair. An instinctive gesture, one of a subject – albeit an ex-subject – to his king. Nevertheless, the charm of his greeting, bowing low over Mme Meijer’s hand, would have secured him that seat in any event. It was the charm everyone recalled on parting, rather than the terse pronouncements that brooked no opposition.
‘If you remember, that summer was unusually dry,’ M. Meijer sidestepped the question, aware that the women he had referred to were dead. ‘The sardine harvest on which these people depend never materialised. Remember when seals took possession of the island’s beaches?’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘The same thing happened then. The fishermen drove the seals away and destroyed their young. This time, it was our people who they blamed for their hunger. From what Yöst told us, Nuria had hidden Zande in the swamp, warning him not to move. That’s what saved him.’
‘Albert, will you tel
l Robert about the priest or should I.’ Mme Meijer’s tone was calm again.
‘There was a priest with them?’ Van Vliet rounded on the elderly couple, ‘a man of the cloth? Surely not.’
‘We thought exactly the same at first, Robert. We didn’t believe Yöst when he told us a priest had orchestrated the killings.’
‘I did.’
‘Yes, Marie. Then you believe many things, not because of evidence because your heart tells you to do so,’ M. Meijer gently rebuked his wife.
She replied with a smile. ‘And aren’t you glad I do, Albert? Think what you’d have missed out on all these years.’
‘The priest?’ Van Vliet demanded impatiently. He strode towards the front door as if intending to search out the man. Pausing, he swung round, moving back and forth restlessly.
Mme Meijer gave a long sigh and gazed down at the carpet as if wondering how long before he wore a hole in it. ‘He came here searching for Zande, that’s why we sent the boy away.’
‘And their church preaches forgiveness.’ Van Vliet barked, his voice once again as harsh as the wind that tore across the clifftop in winter, its charm blown away by that same wind. ‘For centuries, the church has persecuted our people. Thousands have been tortured and burned at the stake as devils or heathens. Nuria was a good woman. In the past we have always run. No longer. This time we must take a stand.’
‘Take a stand?’ Mme Meijer burst out. ‘How can you take a stand, when you are never in one place long enough to notice how society is changing, and that the carinatae need to change with it? I understand your ambition to build up the numbers, yet any gathering, such as the one on the island, was bound to attract attention. If you had allowed the cobs to live with their families away from the clan, this massacre might never have happened. And your Nuria would still be alive.’
Taking an astonished step backwards, Van Vliet silently examined the elderly woman, her needle flashing irritably, setting minuscule stitches in the fabric that only she could see.
The Click of a Pebble Page 26