His eyes swept the tranquility of the plain where his clan was settled. The grazing land was moist from the tears of the night, the sun barely a shy gesture on the horizon. From atop a titanic boulder he watched nature unfold, breathing every cell of Mother…
A voice brought him out of his trance. A lanky boy with brown skin and dark eyes and hair was talking to him.
“How much are these shepherd’s crooks?” Manchego asked, rather unsurely. It seemed that this vendor was sick in the head, with those unfocussed eyes and confused expression.
The boy had gone to his shop, The Shepherd of Shepherds, because of its fame. It was said that it had the best and most varied goods, like shepherd’s crooks, jackets, robes, boots, or shearing-knives. But the vendor did not seem ready to attend to his customers. The lad studied the stranger’s face with its golden skin and sky-blue eyes, the typical features of a Wild Man. Nothing disturbed him. It was as if half his body were in another dimension.
The wildborn appeared to be in his fifth decade. He might have been younger, but the marks of pain on his brow added winters to his age. His skin was wrinkled, perhaps because of the weather’s rage, perhaps for some other reason. Something in his look screamed for help. His gaze was of a sadness in search of redemption. The man had long gray hair hanging over his muscular shoulders. His hair was ill-kept and oily.
The vendor shook his head a couple of times. His eyes opened wildly but then he seemed to restrain himself. What was candid surprise became suspicion.
“Who gave you that vest?” asked the Wild Man with a leering gaze.
Manchego was puzzled and immediately became nervous. Nobody had ever asked him that. Behind the wrinkles, the fatigued expression, was a man who reacted nimbly.
“Um… my grandmother gave it to me. She says it belonged to my grandfather, but she cut it down to my size. It looks as though I’m a lot skinnier than he was.” The boy shrugged. “I wear it every day. It’s the only souvenir I have of my grandfather.” The boy bent his head, embarrassed by the vendor’s deep blue-eyed gaze, which seemed capable of cracking rocks. The man did not take his eyes off the vest, as if he were analyzing each one of its fibers with his fingertips.
The boy became irritated and took a step back. He did not understand the reason for so much interest.
“It’s llama fur, ruminants that live in the wild Devnóngaron,” said the Wild Man. “It’s very well-preserved.”
“It’s thanks to my grandmother… Well, I take good care of it too. It’s in memory of my grandfather, and I respect him, even though I never knew him.”
“Memories…” the man seemed to savor the word, scratching his square jaw. His dark hair was thinly streaked with white. He wore a simple tunic which revealed much of his tall, muscular body. His forearms looked like pincers; his calloused hands were a testament to dangerous moments. He seemed proud of his skin and marks.
“Memories can be painful and hurt when one least expects it,” the man said. “But they also fill us with joy… or sadness. That vest,” he said, pointing at it, “has witnessed unique experiences.”
Manchego put his arms around his vest, as if he feared to lose it.
“What’s your name, shepherd?” the vendor asked with a serene look on his face. He sat down on a sun-worn bench. His deep sky-blue eyes were now on the same level as Manchego’s.
The boy could not shake off the discomfort the man’s scrutiny stirred in him. “How do you know I’m a shepherd?” he asked in alarm.
“That vest, shepherd, is a vest for shepherds. It’s designed for lovers of life. And here you are, asking about a crook’s price. Your grandfather must have been a great character. Do you know any other boy like you with a vest like that? I don’t think so. What’s your name?”
“Manchego,” the boy said shyly.
“Manchego, the shepherd,” murmured the vendor. “That name doesn’t belong to you. Have they told you? Whoever called you that for the first time surely wasn’t your mother.”
Manchego felt assaulted by those eyes, which seemed to penetrate his deepest memories. He had always been teased at school. The other schoolboys told him he had the name of a sheep’s cheese, an idea he had never liked. They also called him Sunshine, making fun of how his grandmother nicknamed him. “My grandmother gave me that name,” he replied almost breathlessly. “My real mother abandoned me… I never knew her.” Talking about his origins at his thirteen years of age put him in a bad mood.
The vendor winked at him. “In our land, we believe the name comes with the wind that condensed and gave you birth. The name isn’t something imposed on you. You earn your name through honor and glory, finding it as you tread your path in this world. If you don’t live up to the qualities of your wind-given name, you betray yourself. You, young shepherd, have to find your true name. That rubbishy little name doesn’t fit you. In your eyes there’s more than that silliness of a goat’s cheese. In you there’s fire, light, a force which is… strange. You’re unique, shepherd. Don’t betray yourself. Never betray yourself.”
The vendor’s gaze lost itself in the sea of his soul, a castaway of his own existence.
“And you, what’s your name?”
The vendor reacted in a strange way. He seemed to want to run away. “My name is Balthazar,” he said with difficulty. “My true name died when I…” Once again he sank back into a world which he alone might enter. Something from his past was pursuing him. Manchego had the feeling that he had caused the vendor an immeasurable pain. He decided to turn his attention back to the crooks.
“They’re priceless,” the vendor burst out suddenly. “Nothing I make can be bought with metal coins. You’ll only be able to get hold of any of these objects if you live with the intensity of your true name. If you manage to find your true name, I might be prepared to give you one of these,” he said, holding a crook. “Well, Manchego, it’s time for you to leave. There’s something inside you that hasn’t found how to mature. I know you’re looking for something, that the past pursues you. You’re like me: a soul lost in a sea of its own solitude. You’ll come back, and that day you’ll ask for my help in finding your way. I know.”
Manchego was left speechless. “Thank you!” was the only thing he could manage, and he ran off to Ramancia’s shop to get the potion for the hen.
Balthazar’s eyes followed the boy until he was lost among the crowd.
Chapter V – Shadows and Souls
He went into the neighborhood of the Sixth Avenue, where the houses greeted him dispiritedly on a leaden day. Unfortunately, he knew the place; the two-story building that housed the school was there. “It looks different,” the boy thought. “Or perhaps it’s me who’s different?” A few months had gone by, but he had the impression that he was another person. “I’ll only live this life, only this one…” he thought disconsolately. Even his mother had abandoned him. How was he supposed to know his real name if the wind never spoke? Or did it? So how were Wild Men called until they found their name? They had to be called something. Right?
He heard the noon bell ring, announcing that classes had ended. His heart quaked at the realization that he would meet his friends… and enemies. A horde of children spilled out onto the streets amid shrieks of joy. Some came out carrying a leather ball to have a game of football; the fact that the street was wet was no problem for them. They probably played tournaments and bet small amounts of money. There would certainly be brawls, as usual. A tooth would be knocked out, and an eye would end up blackened. Manchego remembered these games well, although he had never been particularly good at them. He was no sporting ace, nor would he gain applause like others who had been born to be soldiers, knights, or simply popular.
A group of girls started skipping rope. Others played football too on their own. Manchego had never spoken to them, had not even been interested in being friends with them. He regretted it, but he knew it was best to go on with his grandmother’s errand.
A pinch. Burning. He was getting d
izzy and lost his balance. Blood.
A few seconds later he realized he was on the ground and that there was blood on his ear. Violence had found him without his being able to say how or when, although a hypothesis was already passing through his mind. With difficulty he got to his feet, almost fainting in the process. Instinctively he put his fists in front of his face, ready to fight, just as Grandma had taught him.
“Manchego! The boy with the name of a cheese! Hello, Sunshine! How long has it been since I last saw you? You don’t even deign to say hello, you little bastard. Haven’t you realized we’re your only friends, you bloody scarecrow? Wretch. Pauper. Son of a bitch. We’ll have to do something about your manners. Maybe we should give you a lesson in how to treat your elders, you little raven. D’you understand, Halfblood?”
It was Mowriz, alias Malabrad, the one who had tormented him with insults and aggressions for years. The young man, of middle height and with hair black as night, emanated a malice which Manchego would never understand.
The two boys beside Mowriz seconded his teasing. “It’s been six months since the last beating!” cried Hogue, a red-haired, stocky boy with a rash of freckles on his face and fleshy lips. The red-headed boy was completely lacking in intelligence but compensated for this lack with powerful fists.
“The bastard keeps Luchy all to himself! I think it’s time he learned to share!” added Findus, a tall blond youth, tremendously fast, the typical athlete who always set the records. Besides, half the school had fallen in love with his delicate features.
“This time you won’t get away,” Mowriz warned, raising his fists.
Manchego felt terror. He took a step back and tripped.
“You’re an imbecile, Manchego. Sometimes I feel you oughtn’t to go on existing,” Mowriz said viciously.
Manchego was no more than two blocks away from his destination, but even that was too far given the situation he was in. He needed Findus to be distracted for a few seconds so as to gain advantage.
“Hey, Findus, Luchy says she likes you, that she loves your blond hair, so long and straight. And… and… and she says you’re very intelligent.”
The Adonis puffed himself up like a peacock. “Is that true? She’s the prettiest girl in school…”
In a fit of rage Mowriz pushed the blond boy, who fell on his back, winded. It was the moment to escape. Manchego ran like prey chased by a predator, with the spurt of fear flowing through his veins. He turned a corner, past the crossroads where Ramancia’s shop stood. The cobbled ground almost tripped him. He went on running, with the aim of getting into the shop through the back door… If there was one. He was on tenterhooks as he heard his pursuers’ footsteps coming closer and closer. Next would come the punches in his face and the kicks to his chest.
Just as he had feared, there was no back door. He had no time left to think. Then he saw that in the wooden wall there was a board with a hole big enough to let him through. A sign in red letters warned of the presence of a guard dog. Manchego decided he would rather face the fierce dog than his enemies from school.
His skinny body slipped like a snake through the hole. Some splinters caught in his clothes and scratched his skin. He moved vigorously, kicked, until he managed to slip through completely. Inside, the blackness was complete. Trembling from the scare, he waited for the guard dog’s bite, or at least his growl of welcome, but there was only silence. Outside, the footsteps stopped at the hole. Manchego clenched his fists; he was ready to defend himself to the death.
“Where did he go! I swear I had him!” Findus sounded frustrated.
Mowriz did not look happy either. “He’s over there! Let’s go!”
They left at a run. Hogue went by seconds after, complaining. “Don’t go so fast! I can’t breathe! Wait for me!”
“Will it turn out to be a trick? Where am I?” the poor boy wondered. His ear was still bleeding. He could see nothing around him, but he could sense sadness, as if the place were crying.
He let a few anxious minutes go by, motionless, as his racing heart calmed down. He had never imagined that being alone and in complete darkness, he could feel so much at peace… so much at home. Solitude and darkness were the best companions he could have at that moment. He held his breath so as to feel the silence enveloping him in its expansive embrace. With each heartbeat the beauty of the silence gathered closer to him. Wait a moment… there it was, shy as a flower. It was a presence within him, like a silent flame… a fragile breath… Hello.
There was a divine presence he could not explain. What was it? He’d noticed how inside him something like a cloud was constantly changing. Sometimes it was somber, at others it was a figure made up of feelings. Sometimes it was nothing but an echo of an eternal swaying to and fro. He wondered at that essence, pleasing and wild at the same time.
“Is this where my true name is hidden?” he thought, intrigued by the conversation with the man at the shepherds’ shop, but then he remembered Tomasa and the fact that she had asked him to get back right away. The memory of her reminded him that he needed to get back to the Park at once. He resented the fact that he had to leave such magnificence, since he did not know whether he would be able to find it again.
Annoyed at having to leave that subtlety, he decided to get to his feet and noticed the burning discomfort of the grazes he had received when he had come in through the hole. He heard something calling him in silence. He turned in the darkness, in that inscrutable density. He took one step, then another. He went deeper into the blackness uncertainly, his arms stretched out in front of him. Anxiety and fear gripped him. He needed to know what lay beyond the shadows.
Yes, something was calling him. And what if he was walking the wrong path?
He turned his head towards the direction he had come in by; the hole was still in the same place, under the board, very far away. He could retrace his steps, go out into the real world. But he did not. He went on. He lost count of time and at moments felt he was losing his sense of direction, as if he were turning round in circles, until he saw a wooden door, not with his eyes but with his mind, and it took shape in front of him.
He opened it without hesitation, as if he had done this infinite times. He closed it and went into a house. He found himself in a long passage decorated with a multitude of paintings, at least six on each wall. The walls were made of smooth stone and the floor was covered by an old grayish carpet. The light was something between red and brown. The paintings caught his attention by their brutality.
One of them recreated a horrifying abyss, full of phantasmagorical elements, such as dead beings going to a moat which gave out an infernal green light. At the foot of the abyss a being of sublime beauty and infinite malice held the neck of an angel with drooping wings. Manchego thought he could hear a cry for mercy from the defeated angel. He felt hatred toward the demonic figure.
He went on contemplating the pictures, one by one, in fascination. They were wild, unpleasant, with living corpses, dismembered bodies. The angels were being exterminated under the black sword of a being with equally dark armor. A dragon made of smoke spewed liquid fire over a defeated army. The most perverse painting showed a being both beautiful and evil raping an angel while at the same time breaking its wings. Manchego was dumbstruck.
He heard voices. He came out of his absorption, worried about what he might find. He looked into the distance, searching for the origin of the voices. It was a woman suffering, pleading, before an aggressive man with a cavernous voice who was oppressing her. What was happening?
Curious and wary, the boy reached the end of the passage without realizing he was trembling all over. In a hall, seated on a black bench, the man with the cavernous voice was talking about an immeasurable glory.
By his clothing—the cloak covered most of his face—he appeared to be a priest of the Décamon. Manchego could see his mouth, illuminated by a candle. The woman looked beaten. It was the witch, Ramancia! “It can’t be,” the boy said to himself. “Ramancia is the
most powerful witch, so that means that… the hooded man is more powerful.”
Manchego paid attention to the words, but at that moment something happened. The man’s hand was raised, and a bony finger pointed straight at him. He had been discovered, even though he had hidden behind a corner.
Ramancia looked at him with her eyes full of tears. The man melted into the shadows and disappeared. The witch ran to Manchego with a knife in her hand and a look of intense worry.
Manchego was spellbound, unable to move or think.
“What the devil are you doing here? Come on, follow me. We can’t let them stop you,” the witch said.
Manchego obeyed without hesitation. They went into a hall with stone walls, one of them with runes on it. The witch traced a few apparently systematic movements in the air, and a purple light began to issue from her hands. As if obeying an order, a panel rose and gave way to a long, vast passage lit by the light of several candles, which danced on rustic candelabras. The boy’s eyes strayed to a mirror. His soul yearned to study its reflection in it. The mirror seemed to speak to him. Ramancia stopped him with her long, bony hands, whose nails were black and dangerous.
“Not yet… Your reflection in the mirror of the Black Queen of the Morelia Abyss will tell you truths you mustn’t know…. Truth has a price, little one. The day you know all your truths… will be the day of greatest suffering.”
They walked towards a brilliant white light which lit up the wall like a sun, turning like an endless spiral. Ramancia stopped beside the whirlpool and made sure the boy crossed, to disappear into it, as if he were going into another dimension. Ramancia did not hesitate to follow him.
When he came to, it was like waking from a nightmare. His ears were buzzing, and he could barely understand what the woman in the shop was saying.
“Good afternoon! How can I help you, young man?… Hello? Young man!” The woman was desperate; she was waving her hands in front of his face to call his attention.
Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3) Page 3