(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (6 page)

"I do not know, señora. Tonight—that was all they said. They are going to wait above the church. But why does he come, if there is such danger? Why does he bring a sick child? Is there a doctor in this village?"

"No—yes, there is," the woman said distractedly, still twisting her apron. "But it is not that." Her eyes kept flying about, she turned her head as if listening for some terrible sound. "No, you see it is the Saints' Walk. My brother must have hoped that as nothing else helped poor little Nieves—
Hark,
what was that?"

"It was only a dog barking. What is the Saints' Walk?"

"It is a walk taken to heal illness," she said rapidly. "There is a relic of San Antonio here, and one of Santa Teresa over yonder—" She crossed herself. "It is a pen she wrote with, kept in a box. And they say that if you walk from one church to the other, over the mountain,
fasting, and without speaking to anybody, in one night—it is like bearing a message from one saint to the other—it makes them glad, and their virtue will pass through you and heal you of your trouble."

I thought of Bernie, and wished I had known about the Saints' Walk.

"How far is it between one church and the other?"

The woman said, "It is thirty miles, along a very steep Mountain path. Few have done it in one night. And some have fallen over the cliff, trying to find their way in the dark.
Ay,
my poor little niece!"

No, Bernie could never have done it.

I said, "We had better go up to the church. Perhaps we shall think of some way to stop them."

She stared at me. "What could
you
do? You are only a boy."

"We can't just stay here," said I.

"But they will kill you, too,"

I had considered that also, but still—seven against one! And a sick child! I knew what Bernie—or Bob—would say about such dealing.

"Never mind, señora," I said. "You stay here. Just show me the way to the church."

"The path is very s-steep." Her teeth were chattering with terror. But she came with me.

It was steep indeed. A narrow alley ran between two houses, and almost straight up the precipitous hill behind, climbing in steps, turning a little one way, a little the other way, then up, up. The trade, slippery
from rain, threaded between trees whose roots were useful for foot- and handholds.

Presently the trees grew fewer. Ahead in the moonlight we could see the little church, nestled on a kind of shelf which just held it. In front grew a great chestnut tree and by its trunk I thought I saw a moving clump of darkness, blacker than the shade round about.

"It is they!" breathed the woman. "There! I saw a spark as one struck his
yesca.
" She halted and said, "I cannot go on. My heart is dying within me."

"What of your brother? Your niece? You will let them be killed?"

"I will go back and pray. That is the only thing I can do. If my husband found me here—He is with them!"

"You are afraid for yourself," said I, thinking poorly of her.

"Yes! No! It is what he would do to the children!"

"Oh, very well, go, go!" I heard her give a whimper, and then she slipped away down the hill among the trees.

By now I could distinguish the group of men clearly enough; they were standing, squatting, and lounging in the shelter of the tree, certain that their quarry must come that way. I could see that the path led on round an overhang on the mountainside, with a steep drop down below. It was only just wide enough to walk along, where it approached the shelf on which the church was built.

I felt sorry for the man from San Antonio, carrying his sick child.

There would be no sense in my going forward and confronting the men. They would kill me or laugh at me; I did not know which would be worse. I wondered if it might be possible to creep along behind the church and so reach a point up above the group. Pursuing this plan, I turned off to my left, quitting the path and scrambling up through the trees—which were pines here; more light came through the branches, but the ground below them was treacherous as glass because of the needles. I had to crawl on all fours, gripping the ground with my fingers, but this proved lucky, for one of the men, hearing some sound, discharged his gun in my direction and the bullet passed above me.

Then I heard Isidro's voice:

"You fool! Why did you do that?"

"I heard a twig snap—a bear perhaps."

"Dolt! Suppose José heard you?"

"Oh, I daresay he is nowhere near us yet."

Now I had put the church between myself and them and the sound of their voices died away. Thick brushwood had grown up behind the church and I had the devil's own trouble making my way through, and was in fear all the time that one of the men would hear me again. But they were still arguing, I suppose, and at length I made my way through a mass of prickly gorse bushes and found myself on the steep
slope above the group, but screened from their view by the bushes.

Here, as chance would have it, I could see a good stretch of the path by which the man from San Antonio must come, and I bethought me that it might be possible to intercept him, and give him warning of what lay in store for him, and persuade him to turn back.

However, this plan did not sit at all comfortably in my mind.

To tell truth, I could not abide the idea that these hatefal wretches should successfully turn back a poor fellow who had made his way thirty miles over a dangerous mountain track for such a piteous purpose. So I squatted among the gorse roots, whittling a piece of pinewood that I had picked up, and cudgeling my wits for some means of preventing their horrid deed and allowing the man to complete his pilgrimage.

Presently I stole upward again, beyond the gorse cover, to survey a longer stretch of the path. And there I saw what put a notion into my head.

Above the belt of gorse bushes the mountainside lay bare and steep as an elbow, save for a number of boulders, amazingly big, scattered over the slope like lumps of salt on pastry. If only, thought I, one of those could be loosed, so as to roll it down...

But if I roll it, they will come looking, to see who set it moving. How can I make them believe that the hand of Providence is against them?

Suddenly a thought came into my head which caused me to chuckle out loud. And I blessed the habit which always inclines me to carry a spare length of cord or two in my breeches pocket.

Crawling like a lizard over the mountainside, I found a boulder which was right for my purpose—big as a mounting-block, but so insecurely poised on a smooth slab of rock that it was a wonder it had not rolled away before now. One stout heave, thought I, should suffice to dislodge it from its base.

Having chosen my boulder, I returned to the shelter of the gorse and whittled away again at my pine stave, cutting a hole through one end of it and a row of notches along die side, and a groove round the other end. This done, I wound my cord tightly round the groove and tied it, leaving eighteen inches dangling free. I also removed the stiff leather lining of my hat, which I pressed and molded into the shape of a cone.

Thus prepared, there was nothing for me to do but wait, hugging my ribs with anticipation. Oh, how I wished that Father Tomás had been among the group of men down by the church. I could hear them, from time to time, talking in low voices.

"He is long enough coming!" said one impatiently. "I wish I had thought to bring a handful of roast chestnuts."

"Be silent, idiot! A good ambush is better than a hot dinner."

Becoming impatient myself, I crawled back to the edge of the gorse and strained my eyes, looking along
the side of the mountain, which in the moon's bright light shone like a silvered nutmeg at Twelfth Night. And far off, on that silvered surface, I thought I perceived a moving dot, coming slowly but steadily along the track, dragging something behind it. After staring steadily for a few more moments I was certain, and my heart began to thump so hard that my hands shook.

"Come, Felix! Don't be a cow-hearted chinch," said I to myself, and, returning with all speed to my cover, I took tip the notched piece of wood and commenced whirling it round and round at the end of its cord. It made a wonderfully loud roaring sound, like a furious bull a-bellowing, or a great roll of thunder sounding among the trees, and I heard the men below me cry out with fright.

"
Ay, Dios,
what is that sound?"

Then, still whirling the wood with my right hand, I held the leather cone to my mouth with my left hand, and, through it, bawled at the top of my lungs: "BEWARE, SACRILEGIOUS PROFANERS! Let him beware, who setteth an ambush against his brother! Beware, bloody murderers who hinder the will of the holy saints!"

My voice, through the leather cone, buzzed and boomed like the howl of a ghost—I could hear one man fairly whimpering with terror, and others calling on heaven to protect them and even on the saints.

"CALL NOT ON THE SAINTS, YE PROFANE DOGS!" I bawled. "The saints will not help those who lie in wait against unarmed men—" and then I
was obliged to stop, for I was bursting with laughter at the thought of what Father Tomás would say if he could hear me making such use of the language he had poured out on me, day after day.

Quick as a monkey I ran up the hillside, bent double, and dislodged my boulder from its rest. It went bounding and hopping down the hillside, in a zigzag course, with a great roaring, rumbling, and crashing—and, even better than I had expected, it dislodged several others in its course, which all burst through the gorse cover and out among the assassins in front of the church. I could not see what befell them, but I heard their yells of surprise and terror as the first boulder landed. Then, from their running footsteps and fading voices I concluded that ghostly fright had overcome them and they had bolted for home.

I heard the frantic cry of one left behind:

"Miguel! Jorge! Help, help! The rock has broken my leg! Do not leave me here!"

Grumbling, two of them returned and assisted him down the hill, which was just as well, for I did not at all wish my presence discovered.

No great time after their dispersal I began to hear another sound—a slow, dragging footfall, weary and limping; also the rattle of wheels over stony ground.

Stealing close through my covert, I beheld the arrival of the man from San Antonio. If I had not known about him beforehand I might myself have believed him a ghost—so skeleton-thin, dusty, and
gaunt did he seem, poor soul, toiling along the last stretch of the path to the church, and pulling behind him a handcart made from plaited osiers, on which lay a small huddled form.

He looked round him in a puzzled and fearful manner as he neared the church—he must have heard some echo of all the creaking, crashing, and shouting that had passed so soon before; but he did not speak, and I, mindful that his pilgrimage must be made in silence, did not reveal my presence.

Halting by the church door, he lifted the sick child off the cart and, carrying her in his arms, passed within.

He remained in the church a long time and I did not disturb him. While he was in there I had ample leisure to unwind the cord from my bull-roarer (which I buried under a heap of pine needles) and replace the leather in my hat. Then I knelt on the pine needles and said a prayer myself, that his weary walk might be rewarded. It could do no harm. And I thanked God for helping me in regard to the boulders, and mentioned that I hoped He had enjoyed the joke as much ■ as I had. He must have, I thought—after all, He put the plan into my head.

When at last the man came out, he was still carrying the limp form of his child, which caused a check in my flow of spirits. He laid her back on the cart with a sigh, and then stood dolefully scratching his head, as if he did not know what in the world to do next. It was
plain to me that he had not the strength to begin on the return journey, yet did not dare linger where he was.

I had not intended to discover myself to him (curiosity as usual had kept me there) but, seeing him at closer quarters, I felt sorry for his plight and came out from my hiding place.

"
Buenas noches,
señor," I said.

He started with terror.

"Who are you?" he gasped. "Are you from the village below?"

"No, señor, I am a wayfarer. But I have met your sister down below. And I have a message to you from her. You are to descend to the village, go boldly into the
venta,
and say that the saints have told you it is their will that the feud should be ended."

He was amazed.

"Did my sister really say that?"

"That is her wish," I said. "Shall I help with your cart down this hill? It is very steep."

He seemed irresolute still, but the child behind him made a soft whimpering, like somebody who awakens from sleep, and that appeared to decide him. He murmured to himself, "If the saints wish it, I must not stand in their way," and so we half dragged, half lifted the cart with the child on it down the zigzag path: a most difficult task, for she was far heavier than I had expected.

When we reached the gap between the houses I said, "I will leave you now, señor," for I feared that if I were seen with him, somebody in the village might begin to
suspect the truth. Therefore I slipped round the other side of the house and ran like a hare to the cowshed at the back of the
venta,
from which a door led through into the main room. I passed through this, and so into the street. I found that every soul in the village appeared to have gathered on the flat piece of ground in front of the
venta,
where they were all talking in low amazed voices and crossing themselves repeatedly.

I noticed the innkeeper's wife in the crowd and made my way to her without attracting attention. When I reached her side I plucked her sleeve and said softly, "Señor, your brother is coming. He has been protected so far by the saints."

Her mouth dropped open when she saw me. She began to say, "Was it
you—?
"

"Hush, señora! Not a word!"

At that moment a kind of gasp went through the crowd, and a lane opened to show the dusty, skinny figure of José from San Antonio, dragging his little cart across the ground toward the inn building.