The Horse Healer (39 page)

For some time, Diego had been finding strange objects the man had left on the farms. They didn't seem to do any harm, but then one morning he saw something truly unsettling.

He was treating some sheep that had ringworm when some stones hanging from different parts of their bodies caught his eye. The owner explained to him:

“They are black snakestones. … That's what Efraím calls them.”

“I see … And what does he say they do?”

The shepherd took one in his hands and showed it to him. It was round, with an irregular hole in its center run through with a cord. This particular one was tied to a sheep's tail.

“This sheep has always had problems giving birth. He told me if I left this hanging here, they would go away.”

“And that one?” Diego pointed to another sheep with a stone over one eye.

“That one has always been really mean to her lambs. She pushes them away and I have to pass them off to other sheep. Efraím put that stone there so she would open her eyes and her heart too, that's what he told me.”

“And you believe him?”

Diego began to feel discomfited by the man. Without any apparent science or wisdom, the Jew was managing to hoodwink many of Diego's customers. Diego's presence and his counsels had suddenly lost their prestige. First people called the Jew, and if he didn't solve the problem, then they would have Diego come.

“And how could I not listen to him, when he performed an actual miracle for me?”

“Did he hang a stone on you as well?” Diego smiled, imagining one hanging on the man's head to help him with his stupidity.

“Don't make fun. You know as I do that the sheep don't go into heat in the springtime easily, but he told me to rub them down with oil and parsley, on, you know, their parts. … And it's like a blessing from a saint. I have more of them pregnant than ever.”

“I'm happy to hear that, but I think it might be the result of something else. The land was fertile this year, and the more they eat, the more of them get pregnant.”

The pastor looked at him with benevolent disdain. The Jew had powers a mere albéitar couldn't access. It was logical that he'd be jealous, the man decided.

Diego began to be tired of the Jew, of seeing how his followers increased, of his false abilities, of how they worshipped him. … Tired, until, during the harsh winter that followed, they met each other.

IV.

D
iego helped pull the girl from the ditch and tried to empty the water from her lungs, but she was no longer breathing. Five worried women surrounded her. All thought she was dead.

“Let Efraím try, let him through …” one of them said.

Diego looked back and saw the arrival of a man dressed in black from head to toe, with a pointed hood, scowling, with sunken cheeks. A long goatee hung from his chin, and his eyes were small and impenetrable. He seemed quite old.

He made an opening among the women and looked askance at Diego. He pressed his wooden cane into the girl's chest and waited for some reaction. He clicked his tongue twice when she remained there unmoving, and he began to look around on the ground. He found a group of dogs drinking from the river. To the astonishment of all, he walked over to them and rooted around in their feces. For some incomprehensible reason, he selected a pinch of it with a whitish color. He took the girl in his arms and tore open her tunic, exposing her breasts to the air, and rubbed that filth carefully onto her chest.

Diego, like the rest of the spectators, covered his nose with disgust and tried to stop that nonsense, but he had to be quiet. Soon the girl began to cough, and at the same time, water shot from her nose and mouth. When she opened her eyes, she saw the man's emotionless expression. She wrinkled her nose, smelling a repulsive scent, but then she smiled.

The obscure personage turned to the public and looked at them without saying a word, very mysterious. And without even saying good-bye, he turned back to where he'd come from. The women mumbled among themselves, astonished at the miracle, but they didn't dare to call after him, because they were afraid of him.

“Wait!” Diego exclaimed. “Allow me to accompany you.”

With his look, the old man gave his approval.

“My name is Diego de Malagón …”

“I know that, son, I already know,” he responded, his voice grave. “I know much more than you can imagine.”

Diego looked at him incredulously and studied his profile. A long nose curved down from his forehead, and his face was furrowed with wrinkles, deep, dry, and branching out in some places.

“In your opinion, what is it in dog feces that manages to cure a drowned person?”

“There is a power that is present in stones, in vegetation, and in matter. It just needs to be recognized by someone with enough sensitivity to be able to apply it at the right time and in the right place.” He coughed in a violent, almost forced manner. “You're a healer, I suppose you know what I'm talking about.”

“I'm an albéitar. Science is all I know.”

“I don't deny its power, but your science isn't good enough for everything.”

“What is it not good enough for, in your opinion?”

“To reach the world hidden behind reason. The magic realm.”

Diego laughed when he heard that.

“Magic? Magicians? Farces, they're only good for entertaining the gullible at markets and fairs, with tricks and sleight of hand …”

“You're a fool,” the old man replied drily.

“Why do you say that?”

“One more simpleton. … One of those who only believe in what they see. The limit between the real and unreal is very fragile, like the one between science and magic. Don't get me confused; I'm not a wizard or someone juggling at the market. I am acquainted with dimensions of reality you can't even imagine.”

“You are speaking with a man schooled in science. I only believe in the tangible; everything else sounds like trickery.”

“Science. … For you everything is science, yes? You mean, then, that everything outside of reason is false, or a clumsy trick. I see … And if I gave you a potion or a remedy that would make you see clearer, that would be helpful to Sancha, so that she would never be bothered by her husband again?”

Diego lost his breath and stopped.

“How do you know about that?” He looked for answers in the depths of his eyes. “She … I don't know, she's always kept that a secret, it's impossible.”

“I already told you I knew many things.”

“But you didn't finish. No one can know what took place in that house. And besides, it's been months since anyone's heard from her husband.”

“He'll return, wait and see.” The man's face turned somber. “He'll come back full of evil and will sow darkness in the house. He will come back soon. As I told you, I am acquainted with magic, and I know how to guess many more things. … Now do you believe me?”

“I admit you've surprised me.”

“Magic is everything that confounds reason; sometimes it is words, sometimes deeds. Magic is in the surprise, in enchantment, sometimes in charm. … All that, the cause of which is hidden to reason and hard to clarify, is magic.”

Diego listened to him with real interest. He thought he had read something similar in
Mekhor Chaim
, the treatise on philosophy and kabbalah that Friar Tomás had lent him. It was explained there that the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet were spiritual forces that had formed the universe. And it also described the ten Sephirod and the hidden meanings of life and of the realities that surrounded us. But he remembered that it wasn't a book of magic. Diego's mind was open to any sort of knowledge, call it kabbalah or call it magic, but still, even though he had guessed the situation with Sancha and her daughters, the man's way of working clashed with Diego's habitual manner of learning. Diego approached the truth through observation and study, not daydreams or journeys into the ether, as this old man did.

“They call me Efraím. Now I have to go, but if you need that potion I mentioned before, look for me. I'll prepare it so that you can believe me as well.”

A few months passed before Diego remembered that potion and that strange magician, until the following spring had come and gone and it had rained nonstop for a week straight. It happened one day when he was visiting Sancha. His last job for the day had been very close to her house.

As soon as she saw Diego, the woman looked very nervous and didn't speak until the two girls were in the stables and they could be alone.

“He was here yesterday. …” She was twisting a cotton kerchief in her hands.

“Your husband?”

“Yes, Diego, yes. He wandered around the stables and then he disappeared. Since then, I've been staring out the window imagining him coming to the door. I'm terrified. He's crazy. He painted some strange black figures on the doors of the stable and also on the walls outside. I don't know what he wants. … I don't know what he'll try to do to us now. …”

Diego embraced her to calm her down and then remembered his conversation with the magician. He had predicted that Basilio would come back to sow darkness in the house. He was sure those had been his words and the worst was that they matched what Sancha had just told him.

“I'll sleep here tonight with you and the girls. If he sees I'm here, he won't dare to come in.”

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but the terrible thing is, the danger won't end tonight. How will we protect ourselves when you go to work? What will become of us? Nothing and no one will stop him and he'll hit us again. … You'll see.” Sancha felt her legs giving way and had to sit down. “In the past, there were times when I was tempted to do something so he would never touch us again. Do you understand what I'm saying?” Diego nodded. “But I wasn't able.”

Diego thought of Efraím again. He felt confused. Just the idea of asking for his help turned his stomach, but he couldn't stop thinking about his offer of a potion that would prevent Sancha from suffering such humiliation and abuse.

“There may be a way to avoid it.” Sancha opened her eyes wide and begged him to explain.

“I still haven't talked to you of Efraím, right?”

She shook her head.

“It's time for you to meet him.”

Sancha entered the Jewish quarter of Cuéllar that afternoon, but alone. Diego had thought it was better for them not to be seen together on the street and for that reason he had stayed behind, half a league outside the city walls. Before he said good-bye, he explained how and where she should look for the magician and what his incredible prediction had been.

Once he was alone, Diego dismounted from Sabba and began to walk through the cool, tree-lined path alongside the river. A little while later, he heard the noise of hoofbeats. He made sure it wasn't Basilio, but to his surprise, Marcos had come. Diego didn't call or make himself known since his friend was with the only daughter of the lord of Cuéllar, and he looked very occupied.

“Efraím's house, please?”

A young redhead, with long curly hair and a mischievous face, pointed it out to Sancha. She turned left and took the street that ran on the inner side of the ramparts.

An enormous line of people in front of a small door was the definitive clue that she had found what she was looking for. Some identified her upon her arrival.

“You're Sancha, correct?” The woman at the end of the line was one of her neighbors from the village. “I'm here for my daughter. She can't have children and I heard this man concocts excellent remedies for all types of ills.”

“I understand,” Sancha said, not wanting to make conversation.

“And you, what do you want from Efraím?” The woman looked at her shamelessly, not respecting her silence.

“I don't really know,” she responded softly. Her life didn't matter to anyone.

“You can't come here without a firm reason in mind,” the woman went on.

Sancha waved her hands, compelling the woman to talk more quietly.

“Don't tell me, it doesn't matter. … You're going to ask him to make your husband come back. Or maybe it's the opposite you want, so that albéitar will take his place. Of course, that's it!” she shouted.

“Leave me in peace, señora,” Sancha protested.

The comment bothered her, and she hoped no one else had heard. She observed those who preceded her in the line, and judging from the murmurs she heard and a few sidelong glances, she could see she wasn't correct. And moreover, the woman had turned her back to her, indignant.

“How dare you,” Sancha protested in her ear.

“You're a harpy. Look how you take advantage of your husband's absence to shack up with another man. I've never seen such a thing in my life!”

When she heard that, Sancha became enraged and was tempted to choke the woman then and there. She was saved by the opportune appearance of an old man with a hooked nose who peeked out from the door of his shop.

“You, Sancha, come in!” Efraím pointed a finger at her, and she looked back, thinking there might be another person with the same name.

The rest of those present protested, but the old man silenced them with a sharp stare. While she walked to the door, she was surprised by the submissiveness his clients showed. As soon as she entered, she asked him how he knew her name.

“I saw it in the water this morning. I knew you would come.”

The man had her pass through to a circular room where there was only a table in the center with a collection of strange figures. He showed her where to sit.

“You don't believe in this, do you?”

“Not very much. I'm coming on Diego's recommendation.”

“That's good to hear. You are the proof that finally he has begun to believe. … Do you love him?”

“What?” That question not only disconcerted her, but also made her blush brightly. “Are you talking about my husband?”

Efraím looked deep into her eyes, and she felt ashamed.

“I know what you want; that is why I've prepared a potion that will make him disappear from your life.” He coughed loudly and wiped his mouth with a black cloth. “Now, it depends on you whether the effect is fatal, definitive, or only temporary.” She didn't hesitate to confirm that was what she wanted, though she didn't understand the implications of his commentary.

Efraím picked up some small knucklebones, shook them, and threw them down on the table. He pushed his hair out of his face and looked at how they had landed. Then he sniffed them anxiously and looked at her again.

“When I was talking about your love, I didn't mean him. … You have to understand that I see into realms no one else can reach. That is why I know what is moving inside your heart.” He closed his eyes. “You like Diego, you feel more and more attracted to him, you want him …”

“He's never touched me! From the first day he's respected me, and I have him as well,” she protested, though the man was partly right.

“Make him yours, if you love him so much.” He lifted a hand to stop her from commenting further. “But now you have to decide about the potion. I have much to do and little time. Do you want it, or no?”

“Yesterday he was wandering around my house. I hate his face, his voice, his breath. I don't want to see him ever again.”

“Then you are deciding to have a more definitive effect on your husband, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I will not ask any further.”

Sancha looked at his sharp fingers and felt disgust when she saw his nails; they were long and painted black.

Efraím read out a fragment of a strange book entitled
Picatrix
that he had picked up from the table.

“‘You take a leaf of laurel and tear it with one hand, not letting any of it fall to the floor. It should be placed behind the ear of the person the spell is meant for. Then he is to be given wine. He should take as much as he wants. Then love will disappear from his eyes and it will never return with its erstwhile passion.'”

“Forgive me, but that doesn't seem strong enough,” Sancha affirmed.

“Fine. Urgency is a bad companion to wisdom, but let us see what one of the ancient Hindus tells us, something stronger.” He turned two more pages of the
Picatrix
and read aloud again: “‘The Rowan is a tree contrary to human beings, not by nature, because it kills, but its properties, because it changes hearts …'” He raised his eyes and pinned her with his gaze. “This is the one you need,” he said, and he slapped the table, convinced, before reading on: “‘If a man tries its flower on a full moon, he will no longer be slave to the vice that tormented him, and if he still attempts to engage in it, he will die that very day. No antidote can work against this recipe.'”