The Horse Healer (3 page)

When Diego saw his father's and sister's faces disappear in the cloudy water, his soul was torn in two. Only a few hours separated him from his previous happiness, normality, his life together with his family, the beings he loved more than anything. And now, his father and his sister were sunk in the lake and Blanca and Estela victims of a cruel destiny.

Everything he was—his family, his roots—everything had been devastated at the hands of those barbarians whom he now hated down to the very depths of his soul.

His father's final rebuke resounded in his mind. His disobedience had brought about his older sister's horrid death and the kidnapping of the other two.

“I made a mistake,” he repeated over and over, crying without respite. “I beg the forgiveness of God, of the heavens, of everyone …”

With his feelings on edge as he traveled to Toledo where he would look for help in rescuing his sisters, Diego slowed Sabba down, almost stopping her. He turned back. It was almost night.

His gaze turned southward, toward nothing in particular.

At fourteen years of age, without family, without money, abandoned to an uncertain future, he felt lost. He had the feeling he had lost his past forever.

And there, trailed by a cool westerly breeze, surrounded by the aroma of broom and with his mare, Sabba, as a witness, he swore out loud he would avenge his people's deaths.

One day, he would defeat the Imesebelen.

IV.

T
oledo didn't want them.

The doors to the city were closed by order of the bailiff, who was alarmed by the massive numbers of country people coming from the south.

An endless line of carts had blocked the bridges over the Tagus River as well as the other roads into the city and its outskirts.

The authorities had tried to convince people to set up camp in the royal gardens, the Huerta del Rey, to the north, over a broad field bordered by the river, which the king himself had placed at their disposal, but nobody obeyed. To the contrary, the embittered masses began to respond with sticks and stones, and they menacingly waved their rakes and pitchforks.

Thousands of throats shouted, indignant, complaining of their rejection. Voices of farm workers and commoners, men and women turned out of their houses by war, still terrified, thinking the enemy was at their back.

Never before had Toledo been witness to so much desperation in one place, nor to such a clamor.

Diego had arrived at dawn, protected by a large caravan, and now he found himself trapped between the entrance of the bridge of Alcántara, pushed by a furious sea of men and beasts, carriages and freight.

On the way, he found out that the caliph's troops had taken all the land stretching from Malagón to the Guadiana River. The place where his family's inn had stood no longer belonged to the kingdom of Castile. The situation was so dangerous there that to turn back could only be called suicide, not valor. Those he talked to assured him he would find no one willing to help him find his sisters and that he would die if he attempted to turn back.

With the memory of his disgrace still fresh before him, and the contagious nervousness all around, he sensed the proximity of disaster as he stood there on the bridge. Sabba did as well. She shook her head tensely and tried to find an opening amid the multitude. Diego began to scream at the people around him, pressuring them to step aside. Fearing they would be trampled, some let them through, glancing at Diego and Sabba with jealousy and rage.

And all of a sudden, a mounting racket drowned out the din of the people. Thousands of women, filled with tenacity and rage and weary of so much disdain, began beating their pots and pans and all sorts of other objects against the stones of the bridge. That penetrating noise became lodged in the stones of the city walls themselves, as well as in the consciousness of those who had barred the people entry, and began to echo in their ears.

Sabba, terrified, reared up angrily and lifted her forelegs, at last making an opening. Horse and rider managed to escape from the lunacy just in time to avoid the frightful wave of panic that swept through the crowd right afterward.

Someone shouted that the Saracens were coming and that word coursed through the procession of the displaced like a terrible wind. Such terror arose that the people made a mad dash for the city walls. Some, in despair, jumped from the bridge into the river. Others leapt over the crowd, until others pulled them down and, finally, they were trampled. The horses kicked and bucked around them. Many women, arduously carrying their children, fell to the ground and disappeared amid the hysterical multitude. Those who were closest to the gates were crushed against them, and even still, they weren't opened.

Luckily Diego had managed to make it onto a hill from which he could see the profusion of jagged stone that bore up the city of Toledo, three of its four sides protected by the jagged cliffs leading down to the river. From there he could also see the frightened multitude. The people massed together flowed over the bridges then pressed themselves into the gates of the city amid wails and howls. The air shattered before them and panic descended upon everyone.

When they figured out the warning had been false, a chorus of grief and sorrow shuddered through the scene before him. The carts were piled with bodies and the atmosphere was dense with an extraordinary grief. Little by little, as the hours passed, the refugees dwindled away and they began to be seen again at the Huerta del Rey.

Diego remained still, standing before the city with his soul in torment. The memories of his previous trip to Toledo made him forget the enormity of the experience he'd just lived through for a moment.

He had gone with his father three years ago, when Don Marcelo's terrible illness was only beginning. There had been a few severe but inconsistent fevers that would sometimes cause him to lose consciousness. Then there were the spasms, and immobility in his arms. The village barber declared it beyond his abilities and counseled Diego and his sisters to take their father to the offices of a famous surgeon in Toledo, a Hebrew of great fame and hands of gold.

As he gazed now at the city's profile, Diego had no problem making out the Jewish quarter, the
aljama
; it was an enclosed area, walled in on the eastern side. He remembered its tortuous alleys leading up to the house of Josef Alfakhar. He was a scrawny person of wizened aspect, old, with a cultured way of speaking, graceful manners, and a sharp gaze. Diego could still remember the intense aroma that infused everything there and the image of flasks of herbs and colored powders extending far and wide over the walls of his office.

When after a long examination the surgeon explained what Don Marcelo had and what the cause was, Diego had understood nothing. Nor, when they had returned to the inn, did his father seem to accept the explanation of an excessive concentration of black bile.

The strong impression that the bustling city had made on him, back then when the biggest place he'd been was the village of Malagón, resounded in Diego's memory as well. He remembered Toledo's huge churches, the richly scented quarter where thousands of Muslims, who were called
mudéjars
or “accepted ones,” still lived. He was charmed by their markets, their many colors. He was astonished when he saw houses with more than two floors, magnificent palaces protected by armed guards, and especially when he saw the streets, lined with so many kinds of shops and businesses.

A neigh of warning brought Diego back to reality. A group of young people were coming toward them. There must have been ten. Diego sensed something strange and was on guard.

“That's a precious nag you have. …”

The one who spoke had an ugly scar on his forehead and was missing hair on part of his head.

“What do you want from me?”

Without answering, four of them surrounded him and the others charged with the idea of stealing the animal. Diego rammed Sabba against them, sure of winning. The mare responded energetically and with two strikes of her hooves, she had gotten free of them. Still, one managed to dodge her and grabbed onto her mane, while another took her by the tail.

“Now we've got her,” they both shouted together.

At that moment, the others leapt on Sabba and tried to immobilize her, but the animal wouldn't allow it. She struck the ones who flanked her with her rump and kicked without mercy at those behind her. She got away from them one by one, kicking at their thighs or knees. And once out of danger, as soon as she could, she hurried downhill until she arrived at a leafy forest where she and Diego were out of view.

Shortly afterward, the pair found a large clearing thick with green grass. When she saw it, Sabba began to eat.

Seeing her so happy, Diego stroked her and realized she had eaten nothing for the past two days apart from a half-dozen bitter plums while they were traveling.

He didn't have money, nor anything that he could sell. He had fled so quickly, with so few resources, that he had not even a saddle or stirrups. There was nothing he could exchange for food. Just a bridle.

When Sabba was done feeding, they made off toward a group of houses toward the east in search of provisions. There was a garden there and a number of fruit trees.

When they hadn't yet passed the first, two crude-looking men came out onto the path.

“What do you want?” one of them, the fatter of the two, screamed. Diego saw him wave a wooden rod, but in spite of this violent gesture, he approached him.

“Answer the question!” the other one shrieked, a toothless man in his sixties. “Tell us what you're here after or you're going to have a big problem on your hands.”

“I had to escape from the Imesebelen, and I just arrived in Toledo.”

“And you're hungry … for sure,” the first one interrupted him. “And when you passed by here you asked yourself if we'd have something to give you, maybe in exchange for work. Right?”

“Yes. You've got a good eye.”

“Well, go back the way you came, and run if you don't want all your bones broken.”

“But what did I do to you all?” Diego pulled Sabba back, letting her know of his intentions.

“You haven't done anything because we haven't let you. … Others have already come through with the same thing in mind and they've robbed us of all our fruit and vegetables.”

Diego made Sabba turn around and squeezed his knees into her sides. The animal burst into a trot, taking them away from those men.

“We'll kill whoever steps onto our land! Tell everyone!”

Rather dispirited, Diego came across several groups of refugees, but none of them seemed ready to share their food. The women looked at him suspiciously and the men sent him away, some casting insults and stones.

After numerous leagues riding slowly around the outskirts of Toledo, when night had begun to fall, Diego realized that nobody was going to do anything for him. They had tried to rob him and fight him, and the reality was, he felt treated worse than a stray dog.

He passed that first night without being able to sleep, watching over Sabba, because he was afraid someone would steal her.

Nor did he eat anything the next day until night had nearly fallen. Every time they came across an encampment, he would look through the rubbish furtively, trying to find a little bit of cast-off food. Only in one did he find a few chicken bones, and in others, a few apple skins that he chewed slowly, savoring them, as though they were manna from heaven.

Increasingly desperate, he decided to try his luck on another farm. He found one isolated on a hill; it looked abandoned, but a delicious scent filtered from it.

The only thing he had to sell was Sabba's bridle. He would exchange it for dinner if they wouldn't accept his labor.

“You'll see how our luck is going to start to change. …” he told Sabba.

The mare responded with a neigh and a shake of her head, as though she understood.

The ramshackle dwelling had a small garden on one side and a neglected stable on the other. As he faced the door, Diego thought it would fall to pieces if he knocked too hard. He was bowed over, just like the walls in the humble adobe façade.

At that moment, a delicious aroma of stew reached him and his stomach burned with hunger.

The first two times he struck the wood, nobody responded; it was only with the third that a woman appeared, as filthy as she was indifferent, ugly, and haggard.“We don't pass out alms here!”

She was going to shut the door in his face and yet something made her change her mind. She began to scrutinize him from head to toe, as though he reminded her of someone. Her eyes traveled over his face, his neck and ears, and then his skin, his height. … Seeing him so thin, for a moment she almost seemed to pity him, but then, without knowing why, she decided to carry on and sent him away.

“Wait, lady! If you help me, I'll pay you.”

That worked wonders. All of a sudden her eyes began to sparkle, and a fake welcoming air came over her face.

“Well, come in then, boy!” She opened the door and stepped aside to let him through.

Diego took the bridle from Sabba and felt nauseated as he entered. A mixed scent of cats and urine impregnated the interior. He counted some twenty cats of different colors and ages scattered around the modest dwelling. Some stared at him, without showing much interest.

The woman walked toward the stove and began to stir a cauldron. Diego didn't manage to see what it was.

“Ma'am, I won't beat around the bush. I'm hungry, and when I smelled your stew …”

He took the bridle from his coat and showed it to her.

“I'll give you this piece of excellent leather. It's got fine embossing and it's barely been used. At the least it's worth ten denarii.”

The woman grimaced—she'd imagined she would see cash—but in an instant, she had snatched the bridle away. She assayed its quality and, between her teeth, uttered the words: “It'll do.”

She grabbed her skirt to wipe out an earthenware bowl and filled it with the contents of the pot, then she left it atop a table beside the fire. Diego pushed a stool over and sat down to eat eagerly.

“You're not eating?”

“I will later, when my son comes home.”

Generous chunks of meat and lots of vegetables floated in the dense broth. Despite the bad impression the place had given him at first, this had convinced him: Finally, he had made a good decision.

“It's very tasty,” he said, wetting a piece of black bread and gulping it down with delight. “What does your son do?”

The women grunted.

“You talk too much! I've never liked people who carry on asking one thing after another, I don't like that, not at all.” She waved her arms to emphasize her point.

“Sorry. I wasn't trying to bother you.”

Diego thought that perhaps she was mad, and he turned his attention to the meal he was savoring.

“My son is a menial,” she announced.

Recalling her previous reaction, Diego doubted whether he should ask what exactly her son's job consisted of. She guessed what he was thinking and explained.

“He has a donkey that he loads with clay pots. He fills them with water in the river and then he sells it through the streets of the city.” She waved her filthy rag demonstratively, as though it were a fine silken cloth. She covered her face with it, in imitation of a noblewoman. “The ladies he serves are so delicate, they can't even go down to the river to get their own water.”