The dog looked at him and he knew from past experience that she would do as she was told. He placed the rope around his shoulders and stuck the candles under his tunic, wrapped his cloak around him and left the shelter. Dusk was beginning to fall and soon it would be dark. Dragging the pine he had cut, he made his way to the edge of the wood. There he waited until darkness fell. Across the clearing stood the monastery. The light from oil lamps could be seen flickering in some of the windows. These monks must be rich to afford to burn so much oil, Inaki thought to himself. As he waited long into the night, he thought of his dead friend. He was one of the wisest men he had ever known.
“Put an idea into a man’s head and you will change him forever.” He remembered the words so clearly. They had been some of the final words that he had spoken. Well, he had given his life for them. Now he would help those words a little more. He remembered something else Zumalacarrequi had said. “Always have a second plan.” Inaki panicked. What was his second plan?
He decided that unless another idea came to him an incantation would do. He began to chant.
Oh, Great Moon Goddess and Mother of my people.
Hear my voice and avenge my people.
Let those that would harm us wither and perish.
Protect those who honour, worship and cherish you.
He repeated the words over and over. Finally, he judged the time had come. He had watched the monastery for several days and he knew that the monks rested from around midnight until just before dawn. He began to move down towards the monastery, dragging the tree trunk behind him. The moon was full and lit his way to the bottom of the nearest monastery wall. He reached it sweating from the exertion of dragging the tree trunk. He dropped it and looked up. The wall was higher than he had thought and his tree trunk would not reach the openings near the top. His heart sank. He examined the wall. It was of roughly cut stone and the cement that had been used by the Romans was beginning to crumble away, leaving spaces between the stones. He could get his fingers in between some of these spaces. Now, if the wall was the same higher up, he stood a chance of reaching the openings. He gathered up his courage. There was only one way of finding out. He stood back and examined the wall as far as he could see. He placed the tree trunk against the wall directly under an opening, took off his cloak and folded it, leaving it at the foot of the wall. He put the iron axe and knife at the back of his belt and the rope over his shoulders. Grabbing the tree trunk firmly in his hands, he reached up with his foot to the first branch stalk. These were spaced a little unevenly along the trunk, but at least they provided supports along the trunk. As he reached the top of the trunk he looked up. As he feared he was about a grown man’s length below the opening. He looked at the wall on both sides.
He had more spaces between stones to his right than to his left and decided to attempt the final ascent on this side. He reached behind him and took the axe. Close to him was a large space between two stones. He forced the axe head into the space. He tested that the axe was firmly in place with his foot. He took his knife and looked for a gap above the axe. Choosing a gap he reached up, placing one foot on the axe and rammed the knife in. To his horror he felt the tree trunk sliding and moving away from him. Filled with terror, he stepped off the tree trunk and placed his full weight onto the axe, holding onto the wedged knife with one hand. He reached out with his free hand and found another gap and there he stayed for several moments, breathing heavily and wondering if he was about to plunge to his death. It was another of those moments in his life when he cursed himself. What on earth had possessed him to undertake this climb?
He quickly realised that he could not remain holding on. His strength would ebb away and then death was certain. He had to climb. The axe was holding and this would allow him to look for the best way up. He shifted his weight on the axe and looked for the best hand and foot holds. Fear gradually lessened, as he took in the wall above him.
He would have to use the knife to make some of the gaps wider for his feet but it looked possible. He found a gap into which he could wedge his hand and took out the knife from the gap it was in. Slowly and painfully, he began to move upwards. Finally, he could reach up and grab the ledge of the opening. He pulled himself up, his arms quivering with the exertion of the climb. His body was covered in sweat.
Sitting on the ledge, he looked down and shook. A cold trickle of sweat ran down his back. He looked away. The ledge he was sitting on was quite wide and the opening had a wooden cover. He gently pushed it. If it was fastened then his life was at an end. The monks would take him for an intruder or an assassin and would kill him. The cover did not move. He had nothing to lose and decided to push again but much harder. He felt it move inwards. He slipped in through the gap and sat panting on the wooden floor inside. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the dark. He was in a long corridor. At each end were arches leading into the two corner towers. There were doors in the opposite wall. Two oil lamps were set in the wall at either end of the corridor. He looked up and he could make out the roof and the beams that supported it. He took his rope and threw it over the nearest beam. He tied it and opened the wooden cover letting the rope dangle down on the outside of the wall. He looked down. At least the rope reached the ground. His escape was set.
Suddenly his whole body tensed. Behind the nearest door someone had coughed. Again came the cough and then he tensed with fear as he heard the muffled sounds of someone moving. A door latch began to be lifted. Soon the door would open. Without thinking he moved towards the door and flattened himself against the wall behind it. His knife was in his hand, held low and pointing slightly upwards. His heart was pounding. He must have been heard. The door opened half way, but no one came through. Fear gripped his whole body. Moments passed that seemed like an age and then a hooded figure filled the doorway. Without thinking and in a panic he brought the knife around in a half circle and upwards into the monk. The iron bladed long knife entered the frail body of the monk below the rib cage, penetrating upwards and into the lungs. The shock, and the force of the stabbing, caused massive internal injuries. It forced the monk to stagger backwards into his cell. Inaki withdrew the knife, followed and reversing his grip, plunged the knife into the side of the monk’s neck. The monk collapsed dead to the floor. To Inaki’s astonishment, he had died without making a sound.
Inaki moved to the door and listened intently. There was no sound: there was just silence. He breathed heavily in relief. He shut the door and surveyed the small monastery cell that he stood in. It was no more than four paces by two. The cell contained a pallet bed with a stool by it, on which burned a small oil lamp. There was a painted cross above the bed. The bed consisted of a wooden frame with a straw mattress and some rags. He went over to the body and stripped off its cassock and put it on. He then took the body of the monk under the arms and dragged it under the bed. Taking one of the candles from his pouch, he lit it from the oil lamp and placed it on the stool. Next he blew out the oil lamp and emptied its contents over the mattress. He cut a small hole in the mattress and placed the candle in it. He took the stool and put it on the side of the candle. When the candle burnt down to the mattress the whole thing would catch fire, hopefully setting the wooded floor and roof on fire. He left the cell shutting the door silently behind him.
He stood in a corridor, straining his ears. All was quiet. He moved silently along the corridor to the archway leading to the tower. At the oil lamp set in the wall he lit a candle and cupping the flame with his hand he stepped into the tower. He found himself at the top of a wooden staircase. Each flight of stairs ended in a wooden landing from which the next flight started. Four flights found him at ground level, but before he had reached the bottom of the last flight he had extinguished the candle. He peered out of the tower’s entrance into an enormous courtyard. He stood in the darkness of the tower’s entrance and studied the courtyard intently. The rectangular courtyard was bathed in moonlight. At the far end of the courtyard stood the church build
ing. On all sides, there were other buildings, built into the walls. Some were small, others larger. He scrutinised each carefully. There was light coming from only one of the buildings and also the faint but delicious smell of baking bread.
Must be the kitchen, thought Inaki. He looked around again and saw a larger door in front of him and to the left. Let us hope that is the door I seek, thought Inaki. There was no time to lose, if the kitchen was working the monks must be about to rise soon. Putting the hood of the cassock up, he moved swiftly across the courtyard and opened a small gap in the door. He could see a faint light, but it was the smell that filled his heart with joy. His guess had been right. It was as he had hoped: the stables. Stepping through the door, he found himself in a long building with various corrals of different shapes and sizes. There were not only horses in the building, but donkeys, mules and pigs. What wealth, he thought, but quickly brought his mind back to the task he had set himself. There was no time to dwell. In fact there was no time at all. He had to move quickly. The long building had a few oil lamps set in the wall and some of these had been left to burn all night. At the far end he could just make out the large hay store to feed the animals. He moved quickly and took several of the oil lamps with him as he made his way towards the hay which was piled to the rafters. He poured the oil over as much hay as he could. He took another of his candles and cut it in half. He took one of the burning oil lamps and lit the candles which he had place in hollows in the hay. As he had hoped, when he stood back the candles could not be seen. He blew out the oil lamp, sprinkled the oil and left, returning to the tower. He moved silently up the stairs, found his rope and descended to the ground. If his plan worked the stables would soon be alight, but the fire in the cell would go undetected until it was too late. By then the whole of the roof and top floor would be alight.
He ran across the open ground to the mountainside and into the woods. Throwing the cassock to the ground, he looked back once. Nothing. He quickly found Aize who bounced out from the shelter to greet him. He collected his things and returned to his vantage point above the monastery. Nothing, not a whisper of smoke and it was becoming light.
Matuta, Goddess of the Dawn.
Matuta, Goddess of the Dawn.
Release your spirits,
I beseech you.
Help your humble servant!
Inaki chanted over and over. Nothing! Then, abruptly, he heard the sound of voices shouting in panic. The doors of the monastery were suddenly thrown open. Animals and monks poured out. “They must have put the fire out,” Inaki thought aloud. He felt totally dejected.
He bent his head down onto his knees and sobbed. All the stress of the night was suddenly released and gave way to his anger and grief. He was exhausted both physically and emotionally. Aize licked her master’s face and Inaki instinctively placed an arm around her neck. After a while he raised his face and wiped his eyes. He looked towards the monastery through tear-filled eyes. At first, the sight was incomprehensible. The whole monastery was covered in smoke. He sat there, opened mouth and then suddenly there came to his ears an enormous crack. The whole roof collapsed inwardly and erupted in flames. He was speechless and physically and emotionally drained. He sat silently, watching. The realisation swept through him like a wave. He had done it. His plan had worked. The fatigue that had engulfed him was lifted. He felt strangely elated. Finally, he got up and said: “Come, Aize.”
It was ten days after Christmas Day, the year 801 AD. The old man was dead. He had, by telling his story, averted Charlemagne from entering the north again. But Barcelona would fall. They had only delayed him. They had gained that most precious commodity: time. The legend of Roncesvalles would be told by many and several voices and strike fear. Inaki turned for home by way of the Roncesvalles pass. The snow was too deep and the cold too strong to cross the mountains any other way. He looked down at the dog as they started the journey. He could never repay Aize for what she had given him. The she-wolf dog asked for nothing. Her love and devotion was total and unquestioning. It was unfathomable and divine, a gift from the Gods. In the spring, he thought, he would gather men and march to Navarra. He would avenge his father’s murder and claim his crown. Little did he know that it would be years before he would reach his home again.
The monastery burned for three days and was a total ruin. As Inaki had planned the stables caught fire first. In the panic that followed to get the animals out and fight the fire, the next fire went unnoticed. Here Inaki had a bit of luck. They were unable to put out the fire in the stable. The monks believed that the fire had started by accident. They believed that one of the animals had knocked over a lamp or there had been some act of carelessness. The devastation was such that they never returned. Consequently the village remained safe and unconnected with the fire. The old woman in the village suspected that somehow Inaki was responsible but never voiced her thoughts. However, whenever the fire was talked of, a faint knowing smile would cross her lips and her eyes would twinkle with amusement.
Inaki continued down the Roncevalles pass towards Spain and his homeland. Now and again he would look up and check the sides of the pass, not expecting to see any danger, but out of habit, it was better to be cautious than dead, he thought. He checked ahead to make sure all was clear. The pass was covered in snow and pure white. In the distance a mist was rolling down the pass. His thoughts drifted. His mother was pure, her heart was pure, like the whiteness of the snow, but not he. He remembered so well the words that his mother had spoken when the village boys had bullied and tormented him ceaselessly.
“Life does one of two things to people,” she had said. “Its knocks and blows are felt by all but the most simple minded. Life’s hardships will either embitter you or ennoble you. Don’t ever become bitter. You are far better than that and if you become bitter, the bitterness will destroy you.”
The night’s events had changed him and he recognised this. His heart was now made of stone. His will was made of iron and if anyone looked into those green eyes of his, they would have been met with two green, hard crystals. He had changed forever, but he recognized the wisdom of his mother’s words. Some day his heart would soften. Time was a great healer. But now was not the time. He had more to do and he would need a rock hard heart to do it.
Aize was about twenty paces ahead of him now, ploughing through the snow with that easy gait of hers and making a small path through the snow in which he could walk. They needed to make good time. It was one of the hardest winters in living memory and the world was cold and very, very hungry. He had to reach the other end of the pass as quickly as he could and then reach the village of Agarreta up in the mountains, where hopefully, he would find shelter and buy food. Time was short and any delay could mean death. His supplies were small and did not allow him much time. He had to move fast. As he was thinking, he had been watching the dog. Suddenly, the dog stood still. Its tail became erect and the head low and forward. He recognised the signs immediately. There was something or someone coming down the pass which filled his body and mind with fear. It was a fear that was as mind numbing as the cold air, snow and frozen ground that surrounded him.
He realised that he had to overcome the fear and come to his senses or he would be lost. He tried to reason himself out of it. It was not possible at this time of the year for travellers to use the pass. That was why he had taken the risk of travelling through it. At least, it was highly unlikely. So what could it be? One thing was certain, the dog was never wrong and she was indicating that something was either approaching or lay ahead of them. If it was men then he was in real trouble. There was no way out of the pass and he felt like a cork stuck in a bottle. His only hope, if he had time, was to retrace his steps and take to the mountains. If it was an animal, then what sort of animal could it be? Not a bear. They did not venture out in winter. The thought gave him some relief, since a bear was the animal most feared by him and all travellers.
Then, out of the mist, appeared a deer. His heart le
apt with relief and joy. It didn’t spell danger, but food. It stood there looking at them and not moving. He began to feel uneasy again. It should have turned and fled as soon as it had seen them. It kept turning its head and then looked at them again. It seemed to be frozen to the spot were it stood. Then to his complete surprise it moved a little towards them and stood still again. Suddenly, he fully understood the deer’s behaviour. Out of the mist behind the deer, like ghosts, appeared a group of mounted men. They were dressed all in black with black cloaks covering their shoulders, and covering the hind quarters of their horses. In their hands they had bows with arrows notched into the bow strings. The deer had nowhere to go and neither had he. His heart sank and the fear returned. A cold sweat ran down his back and beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
The mounted men spread out into a line across the pass. They looked like demons on their black horses, with their faces covered by black cloth and black clothes. For some moments, that was what he thought they were, sent by the monks to punish him. They were five in number. If they had been fewer, say three, he and the dog could have killed them. Or at least put up a good fight. But five was too many. They had moved closer. He could now make out the black plumes on their helmets and the iron breastplates. They were getting within arrow range. He had two choices: fight or surrender. In effect he had one choice, since surrender would mean slavery, if they did not kill him out of hand. He slowly removed the two-bladed iron axe from his belt and let the handle slip through his fingers until it lay with the axe head downwards next to his leg under his cloak. If he was going to die he would take at least one or two with him.
For a brief moment everything remained perfectly still. The riders looked at the man, dog and deer. The deer, dog and man looked at the riders. Then, suddenly the stillness was broken. Aize made a lunge towards the deer. It was too much for the animal, which was already tensed up to almost breaking point. It turned and fled towards the mounted men and in a series of leaps and bounds, it slipped between two of them. Then it disappeared into the mist. One of the riders shouted some orders and all but one of the riders, turned and gave chase after the deer. Aize was about to attack him, but Inaki gave a sharp whistle and the dog stood still. Inaki gave a short command and Aize moved sharply towards the flank of the horseman. Inaki revealed his throwing axe and moved forward. Inaki and the dog approached together, quickening their pace as they came on. The horse reared at the approach of the dog and almost dismounted the rider, who as soon as he regained control of his mount, turned and fled. Inaki turned, called Aize, and ran as fast as he could through the snow, back the way he had come. As soon as he reached a point where he could climb up the sides of the pass and into the mountain, he took it and clambered upwards as fast as the snow would allow him. As he climbed, he reached deep into the snow to grasp grass or branch to help pull himself up to the top. Occasionally, in his haste, he grabbed the thorn ivy that grew in such abundance on these mountain slopes. His torn hands soon began to leave a trail of tiny red droplets in the snow. At last he reached a point above the pass where he felt safe and fell into the snow exhausted. In between sharp breaths he took out the thorns from his hands with his teeth. He then rubbed his hands with snow to clean off the blood and numb the pain. When he had rested and with his hands partly frozen, he started to move slowly above the pass towards Spain. The journey now would be twice as long and much more dangerous, but at least he was alive. Once again Aize had saved his life. That and the fact that in these conditions the Moors had made the choice that food was more important than a fight, which could have led to death or injury for some of them. He had been very, very fortunate and he thanked the Gods between sharp cold breaths. It would be a hard journey home, but it would be much harder without Aize.
The Moon Worshippers Page 24