The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Miguel Clemente deserved that slap that you gave him.”

  When Isabel did not respond, I presumed that my words had drowned in the wind. I repeated myself.

  She was looking straight ahead toward the mountains.

  “Yes,” she said. “I heard you the first time.”

  We were left in silence once again—the grunts of our horses, the snow grinding underneath their hooves.

  When a person is learning to shoot, it is critical to acquire the proper form immediately. Bad habits are difficult to reverse, sometimes impossible. For this instruction, manual contact is often necessary—so it was when Sergio taught me and when my father taught him.

  Isabel and I focused much of the first week on proper stance and the timing of her release. To correct the contortion in her posture, I would stand facing her, using my hands to adjust her hip placement. To redress her tendency to release prematurely, I would stand behind her, my chest pressed to her back, my hands placed on her hands to guide them. In this position, my cheek brushed against hers. I could hear her short breaths as she aimed her bow. Sometimes I would breathe the same air that she had just exhaled.

  Over the course of a few weeks, Isabel’s marksmanship improved dramatically. I taught her to shoot riding horseback, first trotting and then at a gallop. I lectured her on the intricacies of hunting—the identity of different footprints in the snow, the necessity of remaining still to discern the movement of game, the importance of the first shot. She always listened patiently, but I suspected that she knew more than she let on. I say this because I never had to repeat myself. Isabel seemed to acquire proper technique immediately following my corrections. She was almost too polite, as if she did not want to hurt my feelings by revealing the true extent of her knowledge, and, conversely, the pointless nature of my lectures.

  Two weeks after our first lesson, Baron Correa permitted Isabel to carry a bow on the hunt. During the ride to the mountains, Baron Correa questioned me extensively on Isabel’s marksmanship.

  “Be patient, Uncle,” I told him. “Your daughter’s abilities will be manifest soon enough.”

  Isabel lagged behind, seemingly indifferent. I knew that she was anxious to prove herself, though, if only to annoy her brother, who rode morosely by my side.

  When we reached the woods, the party dismounted. Baron Correa pointed out various objects for Isabel—trees, branches, bushes. Isabel loosed an arrow at each target. Observing his daughter’s ability, Baron Correa increased the difficulty. Isabel responded gallantly to the challenge. She missed a few targets, but on the whole, her performance was quite satisfactory.

  When Baron Correa was done testing his daughter, he put his hand on my shoulder and pronounced his judgment: “Nice, Francisco. Very nice work.”

  Andrés was skipping rocks across the snowfield, pretending to ignore his sister’s display.

  We mounted our horses and rode forward. Baron Correa spoke of the seasonable weather, but no one seemed to pay much attention. I managed a few curt responses, but I was focused on the landscape, watching for any movement. It was not long before we came upon several deer grazing in a valley. They noticed our presence as well and made for the nearby woods. We all looked to Isabel, but she needed no prodding. She was off at a gallop. She drew her arrow back as she came upon the straggler. Then she released the hemp string. The deer tumbled in the snow and came to a crashing halt.

  The blade had pierced the shoulder, but the deer was only wounded, lying on its side, voicing a pitiful, rasping cry. Andrés galloped toward the animal, dismounting with dagger in hand. He pulled its floppy ears back and cut clean across the throat. The deer fell silent; its head dropped in the soft snow. Andrés walked back to his horse, glancing at his sister, slowly wiping each side of his bloodied dagger on the sleeve of his cloak. Isabel did not notice her brother, though. She seemed entranced by the scarlet puddle of blood that soaked the white snow. Her hands cupped firmly over her mouth. Baron Correa finally pulled her away.

  EVERY MORNING, ISABEL collected the leftover food from the evening meal in a large leather sack. When we returned from our archery lessons, she rode to different parts of the estate, distributing food to families of serfs who were unable to work because of sickness or injury.

  Baron Correa had ambivalent feelings concerning his daughter’s charitable activities.

  “Isabel,” he said, at dinner one night, “I am pleased with your visits across the estate. The family should demonstrate its benevolence to our charges.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. “I have made many friends.”

  “Yes, Isabel.” Baron Correa raised his index finger. “I wanted to speak with you about this very issue. I have received reports of your contacts with our serfs. My darling, friendship exists between people of similar classes. For example, your brother and Francisco are friends. Their friendship is based not only on mutual affinity, but also on the similarity of their circumstances, their opportunities, their acquaintances. If two people shared an affinity but lived in different worlds, friendship would not be possible. It would be unnatural. Sympathy, yes. Alms-giving, yes. But not friendship. Because of your youth and gender, these complexities may be difficult to grasp. Look to your brother’s and my example when you become confused. Do you understand your father, Isabel?”

  “I believe I understand you, Father,” Isabel said. “Andrés then could be friends with Miguel Clemente, but he could not be friends with our stable hand Ernesto, because Ernesto occupies a station below him.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” Baron Correa stated triumphantly.

  “Andrés,” Isabel said, “could I ask for your guidance on these issues from time to time?”

  Andrés had been focusing his attention on the food on his plate and was taken off-guard by his sister’s question. He hesitated for a second, then said, “Certainly.” Baron Correa was smiling broadly, well satisfied.

  “Brother,” Isabel said, “perhaps I could bother you with a quick question?”

  “Yes, Isabel.” Andrés did not look up from his food. “What is it?”

  “Would you prefer the friendship of Ernesto or Miguel Clemente?”

  “Andrés,” Baron Correa stated, “has been concentrating on his meal, my dear. Perhaps we should explain the context. The issues are quite complex.”

  “No, Father,” Isabel said. “I believe my brother, as a man of nineteen years, will understand intuitively these matters.”

  There was only a brief moment of indecision before Andrés answered. He scrutinized Baron Correa’s face, as if the answer could be found in his father’s guarded smile, then he made up his mind.

  “Ernesto, of course,” Andrés stated. “Miguel Clemente is a scoundrel.”

  With those words, Andrés resumed eating, angling a suspicious glance in the direction of his sister.

  “Yes, Father,” Isabel said, “these issues are decidedly complex.”

  Baron Correa did not again raise the issue of friendship between Isabel and the serfs during my stay in Girona. He was concerned for the safety of his daughter during her trips to different villages, though, and he instructed Andrés to escort her. I accompanied my friend and his sister on these tours of the estate. When Isabel realized that she had two escorts, she began to collect other materials—cloth, tools, candles, shoes—which Andrés and I, like wandering merchants, would carry in her trail.

  Isabel was well known among the Correa serfs, and her visits were always welcome. She seemed to know all of them by name. She would walk arm in arm with the peasant girls and their mothers, engaged in animated conversation concerning a sick child, a dying crop, a quarrel between siblings, even the potential matches for a young member of the household. As I had never really known a peasant, I was fascinated by her discussions and would often try to eavesdrop.

  Isabel and her companions would stroll down the main thoroughfare, weaving through horse-drawn carts, a flock of hissing geese, peasants returning from the open fields. On both side
s of the path, black smoke poured from the roofs of the thatched huts, doors open for the traffic of children and animals—pigs, hens, cats—who lived in the shelter of their owners’ homes. Piles of dung lay next to the larger huts, and the smell of manure permeated the street. The ring of the smith’s hammer mingled with the barking of dogs and the crying of babies. It was a turbulent scene, but Isabel seemed quite at home.

  The accident occurred on a Monday, three weeks after our first archery lesson. While Isabel made her rounds with the villagers, Andrés and I remained just outside the hamlet, practicing switching horses in midstride. This difficult exercise attracted a sizable audience from the village, particularly among the children. Andrés and I tried our best to entertain them. We would bring our horses to a gallop side by side. When we were exactly even, Andrés would stand in his stirrups, grab Pancho’s saddle, and pull himself behind me. I would then reach for the grainy mane of his horse and leap into the saddle. Done well, the maneuver was exhilarating. The villagers would clap and yell their approval. Even the horses seemed to enjoy the challenge. Pancho would shake her head and whinny after our successful exchanges.

  After an arduous, slightly tangled exchange, one of our spectators, a young boy, told us that the “señorita” had departed to a nearby village. We rode after Isabel, hoping to intercept her before she reached her next destination. When we were halfway there, we caught sight of her. She was sitting still on her horse in the middle of a frozen lake that, according to Andrés, served as their swimming hole during the summer months.

  “Ah, my impatient sister waits for once,” Andrés said.

  But Isabel was not waiting. As we descended toward the lake, the hazardous nature of her situation became clear. The ice had thinned in the afternoon sun, and the weight of a mounted rider had caused fissures across the surface. Isabel was afraid to move lest the ice give way.

  When we reached the lake, Andrés sprang from his horse and ran toward his sister. I spurred Pancho forward and seized Andrés by the shoulder just before he stepped onto the ice.

  “The ice will not support your weight,” I said. “You will fall through before you reach her. I will go.”

  Andrés hesitated. He covered his face with his clenched fists. Then he stepped back to the shore. I dismounted, maintaining my hold on his shoulder lest he change his mind.

  “Sister,” Andrés yelled, “be still. Francisco comes for you now.”

  I handed Andrés my cloak and then edged out on my hands and knees, crawling toward Isabel. A thin layer of freezing water on the surface of the ice soaked my clothes—my knees, my shins, my gloved hands. I spoke to Isabel as I approached her, telling her that it would be all right, that the ice would hold. When I was ten steps from her, I told her to dismount slowly and lie down on her stomach. She moved both legs to one side of Flacito but was reluctant to release her grip and test the ice.

  “It will hold you,” I assured her, until she slid down the side of her horse and stood uneasily on the ice.

  From the far side of the lake came a horrific sound. It began as an almost imperceptible rumble. The vibrations grew into a low thunder underneath the dark glass. Then the surface fractured. It sounded like the loud creaking door of an old stone church opening painfully after decades of disuse. A large and visible crack made a straight path for Isabel from the far side. Isabel stood immobile, balancing herself on a solid floor that would soon vanish. Her face white with fear, she glanced at me—imploring, as if I could change the course of events.

  The crack gained speed until it was directly beneath Isabel. It paused briefly underneath her, as if it could not decide whether to break, and then continued to the other end of the lake. There was a brief, silent lull.

  Andrés, grasping the transient respite, called from the bank. “We are saved, saved!”

  Then it happened. Isabel disappeared. The ice underneath her gave way. She was gone without a trace, both she and Flacito, swallowed up by the black lake. I moved quickly to the edge. The thin ice held my weight as I scanned the darkness for Isabel and shouted her name—as if she could answer. The cold water lapped against the edge of the ice, spilling onto my hands. Andrés was shouting. I could hear him approaching but his frenetic questions seemed to fade farther away.

  It beckoned me—that frozen blackness. Or was it death itself? I slid over the ice and into that hole. My body was on fire from the freezing water. I could barely breathe. I kicked my legs to keep myself afloat and looked up at the blue sky, the bloodless clouds, aloof, impartial, gliding overhead. I curled my knees into my body, brought my arms together, and dove down into the murky water.

  I opened my eyes underneath, but it was pitch black. I remained underwater for as long as my breath held out, and then returned to the surface. No sign of Isabel. Isabel’s horse surfaced near me. It seemed to be moving in slow motion, slapping its legs against the water’s edge, smashing the ice in the process and expanding the dark region. Andrés had somehow reached the edge of the hole and was shouting wild, incomprehensible words.

  I took a deep breath and dove again. I pulled myself down with long strokes of my arms. The lake was surprisingly deep. It took several seconds to descend. I could see nothing when I reached the bottom. I swam underwater in a circle trying to cover as much space as I could. I reached around me like a blind man but felt only water. Isabel was nowhere.

  I exhaled my last breath slowly. I felt a sharp ache, as if a vise were tightening around my chest, crushing it and my spine. Even amidst this pain, I did not want to ascend. How could I return and face Baron Correa and explain that his daughter was dead? How could I deliver that merciless sorrow to the Correa home?

  The pain slowly subsided, as if someone were loosening the vise, and, despite my somber thoughts, I felt a strange feeling of peace. I was so tired. That icy grave seemed a restful end.

  I wondered where Isabel and I would be found when the ice thawed in the spring. Perhaps we would be close to each other—almost touching. I could hear my own heart beat in the silent vacuum of that hole, and I could see myself suspended and floating as the icy water began to lay claim to my body. I wondered whether my brother had felt the same sensations when he descended the ocean. I wondered what the Correas were having for dinner that evening.

  I stretched my arms to their full length and sighed silently as if I were going to sleep. It was a placid surrender. When my right arm was fully stretched upward, my hand brushed against a solid mass. I thought it was a piece of ice floating downward, but when I reached up with the other hand I was holding a delicate ankle. It was Isabel.

  The sun must have been shining directly above the lake, because when I pulled Isabel to me, I could see her face clearly. Her eyes were closed. Her blond hair swirled around her face. Her skin appeared as porcelain, as smooth as the figure of Christ that hung on my wall at the Correa estate. She was beautiful.

  The desperate screams of Andrés penetrated into that silent space and awakened me as if from a dream. I looked up, in the direction of the voice, toward the sunlight. I was still alive. Andrés was calling me back to the world.

  I hooked my arms under Isabel’s shoulders and kicked the water underneath. We headed for the light. Our ascent seemed to last several minutes. Or was it days?

  Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.

  We finally reached the surface, an explosion of ice and fire. Isabel was a stone. I needed all my strength to bring her body to the edge. Andrés was waving at me frantically. I pushed her toward him. He grabbed her arms and dragged her onto the solid surface. I followed her, crawling out from that black burial chamber.

  For several minutes, I lay back on the ice and watched my friend trying to raise the dead—his own sister. Andrés was shaking her savagely and shouting her name. His cries seemed to come from within me, a pain that trespassed the icy numbness and pierced my chest like a barbed arrow. I closed my eyes and wished that I had never brought her body to the surface. I wished that I had rem
ained in Barcelona and never come to the Correa estate.

  She woke abruptly. Her gray eyes opened wide—bewildered, terrified—as if she were seeing the world for the first time in all its sad, wretched beauty. And then she began gasping for air and coughing fiercely, exhaling a gush of water. Andrés was holding his sister’s arms to steady her. The clear water flowed from her mouth as if she had swallowed half the lake. As I looked at her pale, blue face, my chest tightened. I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes, as if tears were building that some internal force refused to relinquish. I stretched my hand forward on the ice and touched the water, expelled and warmed by Isabel’s body.

  Isabel’s coughing gradually subsided, and Andrés let her limp body down onto the ice. He undid the front clasp that held his cloak and draped his sister in that brown robe. He told me to watch Isabel as he went for the rope I kept on Pancho’s saddle. He thought we could tie it around her waist and pull her toward the shore. As Andrés crawled away, Isabel began to shiver. I clutched her close to try to thaw the chill from her body and ease her shuddering—but in vain, as I too was soaking wet and freezing.

  I watched my friend maneuver his massive body to avoid falling through the ice—creeping, rolling, clambering—until he had made it to the shore. On land, Andrés sprinted toward Pancho to retrieve the rope. Before he reached my horse, another crack erupted. I followed this new breach as it traveled almost instantaneously in a zigzag pattern across the lake, blocking our path to the shore. The surface underneath Isabel and me shifted until it was slanting downward toward the intersection of the two fissures. It seemed as if the ice over the entire lake would collapse in a heap.

  When I looked again to the shore, Andrés had gathered the rope and turned back. He raced onto the ice but fell through the surface near the bank in a shallow recess of the lake. He was cursing and slapping the water with his gloved hands.

  “Francisco, I am useless,” he shouted. “The ice will not hold me. Listen, you and Isabel must come to the shore yourselves. You must crawl together. Now! Can you do that?”