by Mike Ripley
There was little enough to share out. I left him the brandy, the scrapings in the last jar of confit, the butt-end of a salami and half the sourdough biscuits. When Astrid was fetching more water from the lake, I pulled the pistol half out of my pocket and showed it to him.
He shook his head vigorously. ‘No, thank you. I may be tempted to use it. Now please leave me alone with my wife for a few minutes.’
I did as I was bidden. After no more than five minutes, Astrid emerged, buttoning her coat over a mismatched but practical ensemble of sweater and ski pants.
‘I wish I had better shoes,’ she said, as if she did not have a care in the world.
‘So do I,’ I said, determined to keep things light, ‘but at least your ski pants are fashionable, aren’t they?’
‘They should be, the amount they cost. They’re by Lucien Lelong the designer.’
‘Do you ski?’
‘No, but I am interested in couture.’ She hitched her bag over her shoulder. ‘Shall we make a start?’
And so we did: two unsuitably dressed pilgrims putting their best badly-shod feet forward on the Way of St James, looking for what all pilgrims seek: hope.
For the first two hours, Astrid was absolutely superb. Uncomplaining, she set a cracking pace, even when the trail took us higher and every intake of breath burned the lungs.
The boulder-strewn terrain made for harder and slower progress, and at times the trail had us squeezing between giant stones which had only a narrow gap between them. When Astrid stumbled and fell three times within fifty metres, I insisted that she rested and drink from a small rivulet of water trickling over the rocks, then pressed her to eat one of the ration of biscuits I was carrying in my jacket pocket.
‘Not far now,’ I said, trying not to look at the next section of the trail, which seemed to be almost vertical.
‘You should eat something also,’ she said. ‘I insist. We are not moving until you do.’
‘You will make a very good mother, madame,’ I said, nibbling on a biscuit.
We pressed on. The sun, now high in the sky, provided little warmth, and yet I was sweating profusely. I offered to carry Astrid’s bag but she refused to relinquish it, although she did take my arm and allow me to pull, sometimes drag her up the steepest parts of the path.
I began to stumble and fall myself; on one occasion putting a four-inch tear in my trousers. My lungs were on fire, my calves ached and my hands were pitted with cuts where I had steadied myself against sharp rocks. Our progress had become painfully slow and was getting slower. On the early part of the climb it had been possible to look back and see the lake, the saucer-shaped plateau and the refuge diminishing beneath us, but the trail had twisted in among larger rocks following the line of an old stream bed, and our view was obscured. In many ways it was a blessing as I had enough to worry about on the climb ahead, without thinking of a return journey to collect Nathan. I resisted looking at my watch, preferring to use the sun as my clock and convincing myself that if there was daylight, there was a chance.
At my insistence our rest stops became more frequent, as I became more and more concerned about Astrid. Her complexion was deathly pale and her arms were locked around the bulge of her midriff, as though she was trying to carry the weight of her pregnancy in her clasped hands. On certain sections of the trail, I extended my arm for her to pull on, using it as a sort of guide rope. On the very steep slopes she allowed the indignity of me pushing her from behind.
At some point after noon I sat her down to rest on a square metre of stone-free ground. It was the only flat surface I could see, as the next stretch of the trail was not only steep but strewn with large boulders, some the size of London buses. Without the comforting sight of a marker cairn, no pilgrim, however devout, would have attempted to cross that stone minefield.
I warned Astrid as she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet to be careful. The last thing I wanted to happen was an ankle injury, although in that rocky moonscape, the odds of sustaining one were high.
With our arms linked like an old married couple, we picked our way carefully through the maze of rocks, and it became more of a maze as we progressed, the boulders so large that we could not see round or over them, and edging between them was like squeezing into a series of narrow canyons.
That steep and difficult section of the trail, which I would always think of as ‘The Maze’, was the point when I began to despair. The climb was exhausting, with Astrid seeming heavier with each step, and the disorientation of being able to see nothing but the next rock looming in front or the one just passed behind adding to my general light-headedness.
I was sure I was hallucinating when I convinced myself I could smell smoke. Not wood smoke or the reek of a smoking volcano – there were neither trees for wood nor active volcanoes in the vicinity, as far as I knew – but cigarette smoke and particularly the bitter scent of black, Continental tobacco.
I stopped and put my back against a cold piece of granite, pulling Astrid into my side and gesturing, with a finger to my lips, for her to be silent. So as not to frighten her further, I slipped the pistol out of my pocket and held it down the side of my leg.
I strained my ears, but the silence of the mountains was absolute now we had ceased crunching and stumbling up the pilgrims’ path. Then I thought I heard something – a trickle of small stones dislodged by a boot, perhaps, from somewhere close ahead of us, but all I could see was yet another large chunk of granite blocking our way.
I tensed and leaned out from the rock in order that my body covered more of Astrid’s and faced whatever was coming.
The boulder in front of us didn’t move, but it seemed to sprout an arm – an arm in the shape of the barrel of a rifle.
‘Hola!’ said the muzzle of the carbine. ‘Llegas tarde!’
‘Astrid, meet Ruben Vidal,’ I said, slipping the pistol back into my pocket as a leathery face appeared around the granite. ‘He’s our guide and he’s rather cross because we’re late.’
Reuben Vidal was a small man with a big heart. If he was surprised to find me with a pregnant woman in tow, he did not show it. He gave a ‘better-get-on-with-it’ grunt, thrust his rifle at me and began to guide, almost carry, Astrid over the rocks and up the slope.
We had been closer to the summit than I had imagined. Not the summit of the mountain – that still towered over us – but at least that stony ridge. From there the trail went into a gentle descent and curved around the edge of a stand of trees about five hundred feet below.
Going downhill was a pure treat for my legs, and Astrid felt confident enough to release Reuben’s arm and stride out under her own steam, although she stayed close to him as he maintained a constant patter of soft Spanish which I could barely follow, other than that he was saying something about not having far to go.
He spoke only the truth as he had set up a camp just inside the copse of trees, a camp which I did not spot until I fell into it.
‘This is cosy,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘I have been waiting for three days.’
Reuben had made himself at home, his temporary shelter consisting of an army pup tent camouflaged by pine branches, with a groundsheet, a sleeping bag and a Primus stove. Astrid and I sank down by the stove as if it was lit and we were expecting to warm our hands over its kerosene flames, although in truth I was enjoying a personal fantasy, imagining the nice hot cup of tea I had been missing since I left London.
Our swarthy mountain man, however, had far more practical ideas, and began to unpack the rucksack he had pulled from the tent.
‘I have soup to warm,’ he said in mangled French, brandishing a metal flask, ‘and chicken, sausage and cheese if you are hungry, and’ – he pulled a bottle from the pack like a magician – ‘wine, too. Otherwise rest here before we go on.’
‘You have truly provided a feast for hungry pilgrims,’ I said, ‘so let us eat. Tell me, are we in Spain?’
‘Not quite,’ answered Reuben, lightin
g the stove and laying out the food on the brown paper it had been wrapped in. ‘Another two kilometres perhaps, down the valley. The going is easy and there is a house, where a shepherd who brings my supplies lives. We can sleep there and, in the morning, go down to the village of Baños de Panticosa. I have a car there and the road takes us to Zaragoza and from there, Madrid.’
Astrid’s eyes were fixed on the roast chicken Reuben had produced and I realized the woman must be starving, so I pulled off a leg and gave it to her, ripping a chunk of breast meat for myself.
‘We will eat and thank you for your hospitality,’ I told him, ‘but you must take Astrid on alone. I have to go back.’
‘Back? Into Vichy?’
‘Only as far as the refuge down towards Pont d’Espagne. We left her husband there with a broken ankle and he needs my help. I promised him I would return for him.’
‘There is no need,’ said Astrid, wiping chicken juice from her lips with the back of a grubby hand.
‘I gave him my word.’
‘You made Nathan a promise to get me to safety in return for his ledger. I judge you have accomplished that.’
She pulled her bag closer and from it produced a black, leather-bound notebook, identical to the one Lunel had shown me in the refuge. As she held it out, offering it to me, I noticed that it was not quite identical; the red leather fastening had been replaced with ordinary string.
‘This is Nathan’s ledger?’ I asked, taking it from her.
‘One of them. He kept two. He said it was his double-entry system for extra security. He told me to give it to you once I felt safe. He does not expect you to go back for him.’
I am ashamed to say that I was concentrating on examining the notebook to make sure its contents were genuine to react immediately to what Astrid was telling me. But eventually it sank in.
‘But we cannot leave him in that hut; he may be discovered. Even worse, he may not be discovered before winter sets in.’
‘It was his choice. It was his wish.’
Vidal, who had been following this exchange as if watching a tennis match, took a long swig from his wine bottle then handed it to me.
‘I will come with you,’ he said slowly. ‘We can make a stretcher out of the tent and carry this man if he cannot walk. If he is important.’
‘He has a broken ankle,’ I said, ‘and he is important. But he is not as important as this.’ I waved the notebook in his general direction. ‘Though may the Good Lord forgive me for saying that.’
‘That is what Nathan thinks,’ said Astrid. ‘He trusts you to do what has to be done.’
Nathan Lunel had trusted me; that was the problem. But he had specifically trusted me to get his wife to safety. That, I felt, I had done.
I thrust the notebook at Vidal. ‘You must get this to Señor Benton in Madrid and as quickly as possible. Speed is of the absolute essence.’
‘Why?’
‘It has to do with the American landings in North Africa. This book is a ledger containing the names and numbers of bank accounts there. Tell Benton that when the Americans take over the banks, they must freeze these accounts. Astrid will be able to tell him more.’
Vidal’s face lit up with childish enthusiasm and I realized that, stuck up here in the mountains, he would not be aware of the latest war news.
‘The Americans are coming? Does that mean the Germans will now invade?’
‘I do not know if they will invade Spain, but they are already taking over Vichy.’
‘I hope they do,’ he said. ‘I would like to fight Germans.’
I had not appreciated until then how much younger than I he was.
‘Do not wish for violence. It tends to come unbidden. As a great philosopher once said: do not declare a war until you have already won it.’
Reuben’s brow creased, and I wondered if he had understood, but Astrid certainly had.
‘That is stupid. Which “great philosopher” said that?’
‘Me.’
As an attempt to lighten the mood in our little camp it was not a success, so I returned to the business at hand.
‘Astrid, rest while you can, then go with Reuben and stay with him all the way to Madrid, where another Englishman called Benton will look after you. I will try and get Nathan there somehow. Do not wait for us, do not look back, do not waste a moment. Do you both understand?’
They nodded in unison, like a pair of scolded children promising good behaviour in perpetuity to a particularly strict teacher.
‘Reuben, please give me what food you can spare and throw in that bottle of wine if you are feeling generous.’
I stood up and, out of habit, brushed down the front of my trousers.
Reuben also got to his feet and looked at the sky. ‘If you get back down and find your friend, you will not get him back up here before nightfall.’
‘I might,’ I said, showing a flash of bulldog spirit, or perhaps petulance. ‘I may look weak and feeble’ – I simply could not recall the French for wiry – ‘but I have the heart of a lion and the feet of a mountain goat, though I admit they are carrying a lot of blisters at the moment.’
Reuben shook his head slowly. Either he had misunderstood me or simply thought I was mad. It was difficult to tell.
‘I will leave the tent here for you, but you may need this.’
He offered me his rifle; an elderly bolt-action short carbine which may have been a family heirloom.
‘No, thank you, I need to travel light. In any case, there are few barn doors for me to miss around here.’
His face did not crack at that either. One of us was clearly not convinced by the fluency of my French.
Having told the two of them not to look back, it was the first thing I did when I reached the edge of the copse of trees. Astrid was on her feet and Reuben was slinging bags and his rifle over his shoulders. Perhaps Astrid had rested enough, or Reuben was being strict and anxious to get moving; either way, they were on the move, and I was happy to see them walk off through the trees towards safety. For me, that was one part of my mission completed.
The second part now commenced with me navigating the boulder-strewn maze section of the slope, but down rather than up this time. In many ways the descent was more painful on my feet, as the last thing I wanted to do was twist an ankle, and my shoes, which would have looked smart on any boulevard, offered little support or protection against the granite teeth chewing at them.
I stumbled often, and the palms of my hands were pockmarked with pinpricks of blood where I had grabbed at the larger rocks to slow my downward momentum. I was already regretting my claim to having the feet of a mountain goat. If I had, they were the two-toed hooves of a very old, very drunk goat.
When he at last found a few square centimetres of flat ground blessed with a few strands of grass, this drunken old goat collapsed to his knees and began retching and breathing in equal measure. I had no idea what the lifespan of a mountain goat was, but this one was definitely getting too old for larking about on the hillsides.
It was while I was indulging in this moment of self-pity that I noticed, through a gap in the boulders, a glimmer of something way below which did not seem as solid as the bulk of my very solid surroundings. I staggered to my feet and scrambled on top of a lump of granite the size of a car, from which vantage point I could see down the trail and, in the distance, the lake and the small meadow with the refuge where we had left Nathan Lunel.
I could not see the hut itself but I felt that I could almost lean out and touch the surface of the lake as it reflected the weak afternoon sun. To do so, however, would have involved pitching head-first from my rock and tobogganing down the scree on my chest, which seemed a rather drastic course of action, and with that thought came the realization that I was becoming light-headed either due to dehydration or the altitude or both. More than once I thought I heard the sound of an engine echoing off the mountains but, no matter how hard I looked, I saw no sign of a spotter plane and put the sou
nd down to a fevered imagination.
There was nothing I could do about the altitude, but I did find a tiny stream and slaked my thirst before carefully continuing my descent, keeping my feet side-on to the slope despite the agony in my ankles.
Eventually I came to the top of the last scree face leading down to the meadow with the lake and got my first clear sight of the hut, albeit no bigger than something out of a child’s toy farmyard set.
It was just as we had left it early that morning, except it was not and I knew there was something seriously wrong. I halted my crablike gait, took off my glasses and wiped them, and then my eyes, with my grubby handkerchief. There was a thin wisp of smoke coming from the stone chimney, despite the warning I had given about lighting a fire during daylight. I was not sure whether the smoke was substantial enough to be seen from the air by my imagined spotter plane, but if I could see it from that distance, so could others.
And others had come to the refuge, but not by plane.
Parked outside the hut, leaning against the wall near the open door, was a motorbike, almost certainly the source of the engine noise I had heard.
I did not believe that pilgrims on the Way of St James had taken to riding up the trail on motorbikes, no matter how anxious they were for redemption, so I cast caution to the wind and charged downhill.
No one was more surprised than I when I made it to the bottom of the slope without breaking an ankle, or my neck. Finding my balance on the relative flat of the meadow was like finding my sea-legs on a boat that had just left the safety of Dover Harbour and turned into a Force 8 gale in the Channel, but I forced myself into a shambling, staggering run.
I was still at least five hundred metres from the refuge when I heard the shots.
The figure which emerged from the refuge was a black hobgoblin, the sort of demonic figure seen in the corner of a Renaissance painting of purgatory or hell. It took me several breathless moments to realize that the demonic figure was a man wearing black leather from head to foot, who was in the process of pulling on gauntlets, then dropping a pair of goggles from the leather helmet over his eyes. There was no possibility at all that, at that distance and wearing such garb, I could identify the figure who was mounting the motorbike and kicking it into life.