The Invisible Guardian

by Redondo, Dolores

  Her hands moved clumsily but her mind was clear and concentrated on the questions she would silently ask, so absorbed in the silky feeling of the cards and the smell of musk they gave off that she didn’t even notice the presence of Engrasi, who watched her in amazement from the doorway into the kitchen. The little girl laid the cards out on the table using both hands, she chose one which she positioned in front of her and continued choosing them one at a time until they formed a circle like the face of a clock. She looked at them for a long time, her eyes jumping from one to another, calculating, divining the significance of that unique combination which held the answer to her question.

  Afraid of breaking the mystic concentration she was witnessing, Engrasi went over very slowly and asked softly, ‘What do they say?’

  ‘What I want to know,’ replied Amaia without looking at her, as if she were hearing her voice through headphones.

  ‘And what do you want to know, sweetheart?’

  ‘If it will stop one day.’

  Amaia pointed to the card that took the place of the number twelve on the clock. It was the wheel of fortune.

  ‘A big change is coming, I’ll have better luck,’ she said.

  Engrasi took a deep breath but remained silent.

  Amaia drew a new card, which she placed in the middle of the circle, and smiled.

  ‘You see,’ she said, pointing at it, ‘one day I’ll leave this place and never come back.’

  ‘Amaia, you know you shouldn’t read your own cards, I’m very surprised at you. When did you learn to do it?’

  The little girl didn’t answer; she took another card and laid it across the other one. It was death.

  ‘It’s my death, Aunt, perhaps it means that I will only come back here when I’m dead so they can bury me here, with Amatxi Juanita.’

  ‘No, it’s not your death, Amaia, but it is death that will make you come back.’

  ‘I don’t understand, who’s going to die? What could happen to make me come back?’

  ‘Pick another card and put it next to that one,’ ordered her aunt. ‘The Devil.’

  ‘Death and evil,’ whispered the little girl.

  ‘That’s a long way off, Amaia. Things become clearer little by little, it’s still too early to be able to see that and it’s not for you to divine your own future. Leave it alone.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I, Aunt Engrasi? Because I think the future has already arrived,’ she said, uncovering her head in front of Engrasi’s horrified gaze. It took her aunt a long time to console her, to get her to drink a little milk and eat some biscuits. However, she fell asleep as soon as she sat down in front of the fire that was burning in Engrasi’s hearth, despite the fact it was May. Perhaps the fire has been lit to combat the glacial winter that hung over them both like a harbinger of death.

  The cards remained on the table, proclaiming the horrors destined to befall that little girl whom Engrasi loved more than anybody in the world and who had a natural gift for sensing evil. She only hoped that the loving God had also blessed her with the strength to stand up to it. She started to gather the cards and saw the wheel of fortune that represented Amaia’s future, a waterwheel governed by two monkeys with neither judgement nor wisdom who turned the wheel as they saw fit and could send you tumbling head over heels with any one of those irrational turns. Amaia’s birthday was barely a month away, the moment when her ruling planet would enter her sign, the moment when everything that had to happen would happen.

  She sat down, suddenly tired, without taking her eyes off the little girl who was sleeping by the fire and her pale scalp, which was visible through the clumsy haircut.

  16

  Engrasi unwrapped the little bundle and handed the deck to Rosaura to shuffle.

  ‘Do you want us to leave?’ asked Amaia.

  ‘No, no, stay, we’ll only be about ten minutes and we’ll eat straight afterwards. It’ll only be a short consultation.’

  ‘OK, I meant that you might need to say something of a personal nature, something that we shouldn’t hear … you know, perhaps you might need some privacy.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Rosaura reads the cards as well as I do, soon she’ll be able to do it by herself. The truth is that she doesn’t need me to interpret them, but, as you know, you shouldn’t read the cards for yourself.’

  Amaia shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew how to read the cards, Ros.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing it for long; recently it’s seemed like everything in my life is new, I haven’t been doing anything for long …’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised, all my nieces have the gift of reading the cards, even Flora could read them well, but you most of all … I’ve always told you, you’d be an extremely good tarot reader.’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked James, interested.

  ‘No, it’s not true,’ said Amaia.

  ‘Of course it is, sweetheart, your wife is a natural receptor, the same as her sisters; they’re all very perceptive, they only have to find a suitable vehicle to release their clairvoyance, and Amaia is the one in whom it’s most developed … Just look at the job she’s chosen, one where, in addition to method, tests and data, intuition, the ability to see what’s hidden, plays an extremely important role.’

  ‘I’d call it common sense and a science known as criminology.’

  ‘Yes, and a sixth sense that comes into play when you’re a good receptor. To have someone sitting in front of you and to say that they’re suffering, they’re lying, they’re hiding something, they feel guilty, tormented, dirty, superior to other people, is as common for me in my consultations as it is for you in your interrogations, the difference is that they come willingly to me but not to you.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ commented James. ‘Perhaps you ended up becoming a police officer because you’re a natural receptor like your aunt says.’

  ‘It’s just as I say,’ declared Engrasi.

  Ros handed the well-shuffled deck to her aunt, who began to draw cards from the upper part of the deck, arranging them in a circle forming the classic twelve-card spread known as the world, in which the card that takes the place of the twelve on a clock represents the person for whom they are dealt … Engrasi didn’t say a single word, but kept her gaze fixed on Ros, who was absorbed in looking at the cards.

  ‘We could explore this one further,’ she said, touching one of them.

  Her aunt, who had been waiting, smiled in satisfaction. ‘Of course,’ she said, gathering the cards and returning them to the rest of the deck. She gave them to Ros again, who shuffled them rapidly and put them on the table. Engrasi laid them out in a cross shape, the typical quick spread of six cards she used when she wanted answers to more concrete questions. When she had turned them all face up she gave a half-smile, somewhere between confirmation and weariness, and, pointing with one of her fingers, declared, ‘There it is.’

  ‘Fuck,’ whispered Rosaura.

  ‘Fuck indeed, little one, it’s clearer than water.’

  James had been watching them with an enjoyment tinged with tension, like a little boy in the house of horrors at a travelling fair. While they had been laying out the cards he had leaned over to Amaia to ask her in a low voice, ‘Why shouldn’t you read the cards for yourself?’

  ‘It’s logical that you’re not as objective when you’re trying to understand things about yourself. Fears, desires and prejudices can cloud your good judgement. They also say that it’s unlucky and attracts evil.’

  ‘Well that’s also common in police investigations, which is why a detective should never investigate a case to which they are directly connected.’

  Amaia didn’t reply; it wasn’t worth arguing with James, she knew the fact that her aunt used tarot cards fascinated him. He had accepted it right from the start, classifying it as ‘something strange’, a kind of family claim to fame, as if instead of reading the cards she had been a well-known folk singer or an old retired actress. O
n seeing them dealing out the cards in silence, she herself had had the feeling of being left out of something important that only they shared, and in a moment she felt as excluded as if they had made her leave the room. The frequent expressions of comprehension, a knowledge that was theirs alone and which was forbidden to her. Although it hadn’t always been that way.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Rosaura.

  Engrasi gathered up the deck, placed it in the middle of the silk handkerchief, wrapped it carefully, knotting the ends to form a tight little parcel, and put it back in its place behind the glass door.

  ‘Now we’ll eat,’ she announced.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said James cheerfully.

  ‘You’re always starving,’ smiled Amaia. ‘God only knows where you put it all.’

  He busied himself laying the table and, when Amaia walked past carrying some plates, he leaned over to her and said, ‘Later, when we’re alone, I’ll tell you exactly where I put everything I eat.’

  ‘Shhh,’ she warned him putting a finger to her lips and glancing towards the kitchen.

  Engrasi came in carrying a bottle of wine and they sat down to eat.

  ‘This roast is really delicious, Aunt Engrasi,’ said Rosaura.

  ‘I almost had to push Jonan out the door, he came to bring me a report and he could barely tear his eyes away from the food while we were talking … He even made a comment about people not eating like this anymore,’ added Amaia, pouring herself a glass of wine.

  ‘The poor thing,’ said Engrasi. ‘Why didn’t you invite him to stay? We’ve got roast to spare and I like the look of that boy. He’s a historian, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s an archaeologist and anthropologist,’ commented James.

  ‘And a police officer,’ added Rosaura.

  ‘Yes, and a very good one. He’s still lacking experience and his perspective is always coloured by his studies, but working with him is proving to be very interesting. Furthermore, his conduct is impeccable.’

  ‘Quite unlike Fermín Montes,’ said Aunt Engrasi casually.

  ‘Fermín …’ Amaia emptied all the air from her lungs in a great sigh.

  ‘Is he causing you problems?’

  ‘Well, he seems to be causing them at any rate … Everyone seems to be acting strangely recently, as if a solar storm had short-circuited their common sense, or something. I don’t know if it’s the winter starting to drag on too long, or this case … Everything’s so …’

  ‘It’s complicated, huh?’ said her aunt, looking at her with a worried expression.

  ‘Well, everything’s happened very quickly, two murders in not much more than two days … Well, you all know I can’t reveal any information, but the results from the analyses are very confusing; there’s even a theory that suggests there might be a bear in the valley.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what the paper said,’ Rosaura agreed.

  ‘I’ve got some experts checking it out, but the forest rangers don’t think it’s a bear.’

  ‘I don’t believe that either,’ said Engrasi. ‘There haven’t been bears in the valley for centuries.’

  ‘Hmm, but they do think there is something … something big.’

  ‘An animal?’ asked Ros.

  ‘A basajaun. One of them even said he’d seen one a few years ago. What do you say to that?’

  Rosaura smiled.

  ‘Well, there are other people who claim to have seen them.’

  ‘Yes, back in the eighteenth century, but in 2012?’ Amaia was doubtful.

  ‘A basajaun … What’s that? Some kind of forest spirit?’ asked James, his interest piqued.

  ‘No, no, a basajaun is a real creature, a hominid about two and a half metres tall, with broad shoulders, long hair on its head and thick hair all over its body. It lives in the woods, and is an intrinsic part of them, acting as their protector. According to the legends, they make sure the harmony of the forest remains intact. And although they’re not often seen, they used to be friendly with humans. At night the basajaun would watch over the sheep from a distance while the shepherds were asleep, and if a wolf came near he would wake the shepherds with loud whistles which had specific meanings and were audible several kilometres away. They also used to let the shepherds know from up on the highest mountains when a storm was coming, so that they would have time to take the flock to safety in the nearby caves. And the shepherds would thank them by leaving some bread, cheese, nuts or milk from the sheep themselves on a rock or at the entrance to the cave, since basajauns don’t eat meat,’ Ros explained.

  ‘This is fascinating,’ said James, ‘tell me more.’

  ‘There’s also a kind of genie, like the ones in the stories of One Thousand and One Nights, powerful, capricious and terrible, who is female and called Mari. She lives in the caves and the cliffs, always at the top of the mountains. Mari appears much earlier than Christianity, she symbolises Mother Nature and the power of the earth. She’s the one who watches over the harvests and livestock in labour, and who grants fertility not just to the soil and the animals, but also to families. She can take on any natural form, a rock, a branch, a tree. These are always slightly reminiscent of her favourite form, a woman: a beautiful and finely dressed woman, like a queen. That’s how she appears, and you never know it’s her until she’s gone.’

  James was smiling, enchanted, and Ros continued.

  ‘She has many homes, she flies about from Aia to Amboto, from Txindoki to here. She lives in places that seem like crags, cliffs or caves from the outside, but inside, at the end of a secret passage, are her luxurious and majestic halls, full of treasure. If you want to ask her a favour, you have to go to the entrance to her cave and leave her an offering there. And if what you want is a child, there’s a place with a rock in the shape of a woman which Mari sometimes inhabits to watch over the road. You have to go there and put a pebble you’ve brought with you from your own front door on the rock. After leaving your offering you have to go away without turning round, walking backwards until you can no longer see the rock or the entrance to the cave. It’s a lovely story.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ murmured James dreamily.

  ‘It’s mythology,’ interjected Amaia sceptically.

  ‘Don’t forget that mythology is based on beliefs that have endured for centuries, sister.’

  ‘Only for gullible bumpkins.’

  ‘Amaia, I can’t believe you’re saying such things. Basque-Navarrese mythology is recorded in reputable documents and essays by people like Padre Barandiaran, who, as a trained anthropologist, was not exactly a gullible bumpkin. And some of those ancient customs are still practised today. There’s a church at Ujué, in the south of Navarra, where women who want to become mothers complete a pilgrimage bringing a stone from their homes; there they leave it on a great pile of pebbles and pray to the statue of the Virgin, and the fact of the matter is that there are documents to show that women were already making pilgrimages to that place before the hermitage was built and that back then they used to throw their stones into a natural grotto, a kind of well or very deep mine. The efficacy of the ritual is famous. Tell me, what’s Catholic, or Christian or logical about taking a piece of stone from your house and asking Our Lady to give you a child? It’s highly likely that, faced with the impossibility of putting an end to customs so deeply rooted in the community, the Catholic church decided it was best to put a hermitage there and make a pagan ritual Catholic, like they did with the St John’s Day solstices and Christmas.’

  ‘The fact that Barandiaran collected them only means that they were very widespread, not that they were true,’ objected Amaia.

  ‘But, Amaia, what’s really important? That fact that something is true or that so many people believe in it?’

  ‘They’re folk stories, destined to disappear. Do you really think that anyone is going to give these, admittedly charming, stories any credence in this era of mobile phones and the internet?’

  Engrasi coughed gently.

  ‘I
don’t mean to offend you, Aunt Engrasi,’ said Amaia as if seeking forgiveness.

  ‘Faith grows scarce in these technological times,’ her aunt replied. ‘And tell me what good is any of it for preventing a monster from killing little girls and tossing their bodies onto the river bank. Believe me, Amaia, the world hasn’t changed that much, it’s still a place that can be dark, where malign spirits surround our hearts, where the sea still swallows up whole boats without anybody being able to find a trace of them, and there are still women who pray for the gift of conception. While there’s darkness there will be hope, and these beliefs will continue to have a value and form part of our lives. We trace a cross in the top of a loaf of bread or hang an eguzkilore over the doorway to protect a house from evil; some people hang up horseshoes, German famers paint their barns red and paint stars on them. We ask Saint Anthony to look after our animals and pray to Saint Blaise to rid us of a cold … It may seem stupid now, but at the start of the last century a flu epidemic decimated Europe, and it originated here. And last winter, faced by the alarm caused by the Influenza A outbreak, the governments spent millions on useless vaccinations. We’ve always asked for protection and help when we are most at the mercy of the forces of nature and until not long ago it seemed impossible to live without it, whether it came from Mari or the saints and Virgins that arrived with Christianity. But when dark times come upon us, the old formulas still work. Like when there’s a power cut and you heat the milk in a metal pan over the fire instead of using the microwave. Is it a hassle? Is it complicated? Perhaps, but it works.’

  Amaia remained silent for a moment, as if assimilating what she had just heard.

  ‘I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Aunt Engrasi, but even so, I find it very difficult to believe that someone would walk to a rock or a cave to ask a genie to let them have a child. I think that any woman with half a brain would find herself a good stud.’