by Luz Gabás
And it was such a terrible lesson. Brianda had always been an intensely rational person, an engineer, interested in the laws of movement, the behavior of fluids, the transformation of energy, and other phenomena of the physical world. She’d never had time for anything that wasn’t of the tangible, structured, controlled, and controllable world. Now, however, she felt an inexplicable attraction to a mysterious man who lived on the far side of a haunted forest.
She entered the house, convinced that seeing Esteban would free her of this crazy obsession with Corso and that he would ease her crippling anxiety.
Esteban was waiting for her in the hall, and he looked extremely well. He’d gotten his hair cut in unruly layers and had let his stubble grow a little, which made him look younger. He wore a thick light-brown sweater and a pair of worn jeans.
When he saw her, he took her in his arms and kissed her on the lips.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
Brianda smiled and moved closer to him.
“I missed you too.”
“Isolina told me that you were down in Aiscle picking up the car from a mechanic.”
“It broke down on me last Saturday,” Brianda explained without mentioning her nocturnal adventure. She had told her aunt and uncle that she had walked back from the bar. “No big deal.”
Isolina let them know that lunch was on the table. They went into the dining room and saw Colau trying to open a bottle of wine. The corkscrew looked tiny in his big hands. Esteban offered to help, but Colau refused. Then came a crack of the glass breaking, and a cry of pain followed by a loud string of expletives.
As the blood spurting from Colau’s hand rained onto the immaculate tablecloth, Isolina sprang into action. Without hesitation or disgust, she grabbed the napkins, went to her husband, pulled a large shard of glass from his palm, wrapped his hand gingerly, and led him to the bathroom to check for more glass and decide whether they needed to go see a doctor.
Brianda couldn’t take her eyes off the red stain spreading across the tablecloth. A curtain of black dots clouded her eyes. She wobbled and had to support herself on the back of a chair. Esteban came over, worried, and helped her sit down. Brianda closed her eyes, and the curtain of dots parted like in an old theater to display dizzying and disjointed images. She saw fragments of bodies and open wounds, tense faces silently shouting and grotesque grimaces … and it all caused a painful stabbing sensation in her chest.
“I’ll be right back,” she managed to babble.
She darted upstairs to the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet, and vomited. Even when her stomach was empty, the retching continued, as if her body were trying to expel some unwanted presence. When the heaves finally subsided, she took slow, deep breaths like her aunt had taught her.
“Brianda?” Esteban called through the door. “Are you all right?”
She did not want him to see her like that. She mustered her strength, got up, flushed the toilet, turned on the faucet, and called, “I’ll be out in just a minute!”
Esteban opened the door halfway.
“Was it the blood?” he asked. “I didn’t know you were so squeamish.”
“I’m usually not. It’s just that there was so much.”
“Yes, it was pretty gruesome.” He observed her puffy-eyed reflection in the mirror. “Want me to stay here?”
“There’s no need. I’ll just change my shirt and be right down.”
She went into her bedroom, sat on the bed, and cried as quietly as she could. She needed the tears to wash away those intense glimmers of evil. They had shown her misery and suffering. She wanted to believe it was just her imagination, but she felt the pain in those visions as her own.
After lunch, Esteban suggested they take a walk, just the two of them. Wanting to steer clear of Lubich, Brianda guided him toward the gullies that bordered the neighboring town of Besalduch, to the east. For the first time, Luzer followed her. When they shouted at him to go home, the baleful chaperone disobeyed, although he did hang back.
The late-afternoon sun was too weak to warm their backs, but it spread a golden aura over the unplowed fields to the left of the path and the pastures encircled by rows of poplars to the right.
“Tiles is duller than I imagined,” said Esteban. “Seems like a good place to rest, but is there even anything to do here besides sleep and eat? You must be looking forward to coming back to Madrid.”
Brianda hesitated. She didn’t know which was worse, the frenzy of Madrid or the boredom of Tiles. For the moment, though, she wanted to appear cheerful.
“Yes, with you. And I’m sure going back to the office will do me good.”
Esteban didn’t reply.
“What’s wrong?” Brianda asked.
He took a letter out of his back pocket.
“This arrived the day before yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I hope you don’t mind, but I opened it.”
Brianda recognized her company letterhead and knew immediately. A letter of dismissal. Her eyes filled with tears. She’d just been convincing herself that it was time to go back to Madrid, to her work, her routines, her responsibilities, and suddenly, that was no longer possible. The letter hurt more than she would have thought possible. They regretted to inform her that they were restructuring the workforce. They assured her it had nothing to do with her worth. They explained that orders had decreased, that it was not a good time for new technology projects, that potential clients were not taking risks. They bade her farewell repeating their regret and wishing her well. Wishing her well … On top of everything that was happening to her—her anxiety, her apathy, her fear—now she had to try and find a new job?
“Don’t worry,” said Esteban cheerfully. “We’ll get through this. I thought that maybe now we could …” He coughed. “What I mean is, wouldn’t you like to have a baby?”
Brianda closed her eyes and fought back laughter. She could barely manage her own life, never mind creating another. She remembered what Silvia had said about the danger of financial dependence. That had been just before the fortune-teller proclaimed that she was going through a period of emotional confusion, that her family and social world were weakening her, that she would undertake a journey of radical transformation.
She would live and be reborn, the woman had told her. The transformation would not be denied. Spirit would dominate matter.
She realized that she wanted all that, wanted transformation and rebirth! But right now, she just felt further away from the day when this terrible anxiety would leave her.
A sarcastic thought rose in her mind: what a shame Neli wasn’t the kind of witch who read tarot cards. Brianda could have confirmed the predictions with her.
“I can see you don’t think it’s a good idea,” she heard Esteban say sadly.
“It’s not that.” Tears slid down her cheek. “But before I can think about something like that, I need to get better.”
Esteban rubbed her back.
“I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening. I know how important your work is to you. But I’m with you, no matter what.” He drew her toward him.
Brianda nodded weakly. She wiped her tears and hid in Esteban’s embrace.
Then the sound of galloping hooves set all her senses on high alert.
Luzer began to bark threateningly and shot off like a bullet.
Moments later, the enormous Friesian towered over them. The horse kept its ears pinned back and its eyes wide, unnerved by the persistent growls coming from Luzer, who prowled at its feet, teeth bared.
“Is that your dog?” demanded Corso. “I don’t think it likes me.”
Brianda adjusted the collar of her thick jacket to mask the full-body shiver set off by Corso’s gaze, and at the same time to distract from the heat that burned her cheeks. Esteban took her hand.
“Actually, no, he’s my uncle’s.”
Corso looked at their intertwined hands, and Brianda noticed a hint of irritation on his face.
<
br /> “What a magnificent horse,” said Esteban.
Corso gave a slight nod. He fired a final glance at Brianda, kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, and took off at a gallop, raising a cloud of dust as he left, pursued by Luzer.
“Who was that charmer?” Esteban asked. “I never saw such a horrible scar.”
Brianda remained silent. The meeting could not have been stranger. Corso had seemed annoyed about having to stop and talk to them, like he had someplace important to be. He’d been nervous, impatient—more than that, even.
Corso had been hostile.
“So. In this rural Eden, the guy on the black horse is the devil,” joked Esteban.
“Corso? Not at all!” Brianda blushed again, realizing she’d answered too fervently.
“Corso? What a name! Strange, dark. It suits him.” Esteban paused before asking in a neutral tone, “You know him, then?”
Brianda shrugged. “Not really. I’ve seen him a couple of times.”
“But you must have met, if you know his name.”
“My aunt probably told me. We’ve just exchanged a few pleasantries,” she lied. “As you saw, he’s very awkward.”
Brianda wasn’t happy with the way this conversation was going. For the first time since she’d met Esteban, they weren’t being open with each other, and they both knew it.
The advancing night enshrouded the fields and blurred the trees, bushes, and scrubland into evocative shadows. A few lights shone here and there from the houses, announcing the phantasmagoria the valley would soon become.
Brianda felt another shiver and rubbed her forearms.
Esteban, ever attentive, put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Brianda showed her thanks with a half smile that he did not return. She didn’t know whether he was tired from the long journey, disappointed, annoyed, or a combination of all three. Maybe it was her fault, she thought. She had been cool and withdrawn with him, and yet, that fleeting moment with Corso had been enough to ignite a little flame of controlled euphoria inside her.
She prayed that Esteban hadn’t noticed how her eyes and her heart had lit up when she saw the other man.
9.
Several times that evening, Brianda caught herself thinking about Corso. While she and Esteban were drying the dishes, in her imagination she was riding with the foreigner toward Lubich, which she pictured as the mansion in some etching where a few impromptu broken lines evoked, with their contrasts of light and shadow, a stormy sky, trees vanquished by the wind, a mossy spring, and walls hidden behind thick, undefined foliage.
Esteban wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck with his nose.
“I’m looking forward to having you in my arms tonight,” he whispered to her.
Brianda freed herself from his embrace.
“You’re tickling me.”
“You love my tickles.”
He seized her again and again she moved away. She knew that roguish gleam in Esteban’s half-closed eyes. Before her illness, or whatever this was, any time used to be a good time to enjoy Esteban’s caresses. Now, even thinking about sex increased her apathy.
A loud noise made her jump. Someone was insistently banging the knocker of the main door.
“I’ll get it!” Brianda quickly shouted to her aunt and uncle, so they would hear her from the sitting room. Whoever was at the door had saved Brianda from another uncomfortable situation with Esteban.
She went out to the hall and opened the main door a few inches to peek and see who was there. Neli’s haggard face appeared in front of her, outlined by the black background of the night.
“Can I come in?”
A gust of wind hit the door, slamming it into Brianda’s shoulder. Neli looked like she’d thrown on her coat and scarf in a terrible rush. Small bits of dried leaves adorned her long, messy hair.
“Something happened to me.” Neli looked around. “Could I speak with Colau?”
“What a surprise!” Isolina appeared in the hallway. “Is something wrong, Neli?”
“She wants to talk to Colau.”
Isolina raised an eyebrow. “Now? He just told me he wanted to go to bed.”
Neli, nervous, opened her bag and pulled out a thick wad of papers that rustled in her hand.
“This afternoon, I was restoring the last drawer of an enormous walnut chest in the sacristy and I could tell it had a false bottom. I took it apart and found these. They’re original documents written in old Aragonese, Catalan, and Castilian.”
Now Brianda understood. Neli wanted to share the discovery with someone who could appreciate its historical importance. And history was not Brianda’s strong suit.
“So, does it say anything interesting?” she asked, just to have something to say.
“They’re from the Council of Tiles, something like the town hall of old. There’s a lot of information about the daily goings-on of the council for over half a century, from the middle of the sixteenth century until the beginning of the seventeenth—”
“Let’s go to the sitting room, Neli,” Isolina interrupted, gesturing for her to follow. “I’m sure Colau would like to hear all this.”
Trailing behind them, Brianda yawned. She didn’t understand why Neli was so worked up about some old papers.
“Colau?” Isolina called from the door of the sitting room.
Colau was standing with his bandaged hand resting against the mantelpiece, contemplating the burning logs. He didn’t answer, but Luzer raised his head. When his eyes fixed on Neli, he let out a low growl, jumped up, and raced toward her barking and baring his teeth. Isolina quickly got between them, shouting at Luzer to stop, but he ignored her.
“That’s enough, Luzer,” she shouted again. “As if you didn’t know Neli! Colau! Make him stop this instant!”
Colau whistled loudly and Luzer turned to him with a confused expression.
“Come here!” Colau ordered. The animal returned to his feet and lay back down in front of the fire. Colau patted the dog and murmured, “You don’t like unexpected visitors either.”
While Isolina apologized to Neli and began to explain to her husband the reason for Neli’s visit, Brianda decided to run upstairs for a heavier sweater. A strange cold sweat had taken over her body, making her tremble. On the way to the stairs, she bumped into Esteban.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Luzer went crazy when he saw Neli. It scared the hell out of me. I’ll be glad never to see that beast again.”
“Wait, who’s Neli?”
Brianda briefly explained that she was a neighbor and wanted to show Colau some documents she’d found in the church. Esteban leaned toward her.
“And do we have to be with them or—?”
Brianda ran her gaze over his handsome face and raised a hand to caress his rebellious auburn hair. Another man might have reproached her for hiding out here in the country instead of facing up to her problems, but not him. He respected her independence. What more could she ask for? What was stopping her from leaping into his arms as she always had?
“I think it’d be rude to disappear without saying a word,” she said. “Go on. I’ll be down in a second.”
A few minutes later, Brianda returned. Colau and Neli sat on the wooden benches by the fireplace, so deep in conversation and wrapped in such a dense cloud of cigarette smoke that they appeared to be in their own world. In the darkest corner of the sitting room, sitting in two low armchairs, Isolina and Esteban listened in silence, as if they’d been banished there so they wouldn’t be a nuisance.
Isolina motioned to her to listen, but Brianda couldn’t understand what Neli was saying to Colau, who bent over the yellowed papers. At great speed, she listed dates and events. Several times, Colau took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. On his face, Brianda read more worry than excitement. She understood that Colau and Neli were both passionate about history, but they were acting as if something incredible had happened.
She sat on the
arm of Esteban’s chair and he whispered, “There’s a list of twenty-four executions from fifteen hundred and something.”
“Executions? Were they prisoners of war or something?”
“They were women from right here in the valley, Aiscle to Besalduch,” said Isolina. “Supposing that there were around three hundred inhabitants and thirty-three houses back then, that means one woman from every house—or every second house at the very least.”
“Does it say what happened?” asked Brianda.
Neli turned around, and her gaze was caught for a moment on Esteban, whose arm was wrapped around Brianda’s waist. “Very clearly. The list of houses is short but terrifying. Almost all of them still exist today.” She ran her finger down a page. “Between February 19 and April 2 of 1592, these women were beaten and held prisoner for being witches. They were killed between March 4 and April 29 of that same year.”
Neli shuddered as she spoke. Now it all made sense. If there was anybody who’d be especially moved by a witch hunt, it was Neli.
“Does it list their names?” Brianda asked softly.
“Yes. Some are repeated.” In a respectful tone, Neli began the tragic litany: “Antonia, Maria, Margalida, Gisabel, Juana, Cecilia, Isabel, Aldonsa, Acna, Catalina, Esperenza, Leonor, Barbara …”—she paused before adding—“and Brianda of Anels.”
“What?” Brianda rushed over to see for herself. “There was a Brianda of Anels? Did you know about this, Colau? In your genealogy work, have you found Briandas? I’ve never met any others, but maybe it was a common name here?”
Colau shook his head. “I’ve only made it as far back as the middle of the seventeenth century, and I haven’t found any.”
Brianda frowned. Colau seemed suspiciously preoccupied. And his answer wasn’t very convincing. She turned to Isolina.
“Do you know why my parents named me Brianda?”
“I always figured Laura had read it in a book. Once, jokingly, she told me she’d dreamt it.”
Dreamt it. Brianda was so affected by her recurring dreams that she was shocked to hear her mother might have gone through something similar and never mentioned it.