(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (27 page)

My wits returned to me by slow degrees. Violent physical discomfort was the first token that I was still alive.

Now I know how Nico must have felt, I thought—like a sardine in a net. Ropes were tightly crisscrossed all over my body. My hands were fastened behind me, my ankles were tied, and I seemed to be lying in a lumpy, knotted sling, with various heavyweights piled on top of me. Perhaps I am dreaming? Am I really still crossing the rope bridge? Or creeping down the cliff face, entangled somehow in my own climbing rope? Cords, cables, rope, I was lying in a mesh, like a fly in a web, and something rough and thick was pressed against my face. For a while I wondered if I could be in a boat, for I and everything around me seemed to be swaying about in a horrible manner. It was like a nightmare....

The dark made it all much worse.

Then I began to receive the impression that there were other live bodies pressed against mine—shifting, struggling, the other sardines in the net—and, I suppose, I must have let out a stifled groan. A creature—softie small, active body—rubbed close against me, writhing upward toward my face, and after a while I felt a warm tickling breath against my ear, and heard a tiny voice, which whispered, "Señor Felix? Are you alive?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Hush—don't speak aloud!"

"
Que tal?
Where am I?"

"In the tartana."

Now, all of a sudden, my surroundings made sense. The rope, the swaying motion...

"Is it night?" I asked.

"Yes; but wait a moment. I will try and see if I can pull with my teeth—"

I felt a sudden sharp tug at my hair, and let out an involuntary hiss of pain. But then a fold of thick cloth which had enwrapped my head was partially twitched aside. Now the darkness was not quite so dark, and I could breathe more easily; I was able to distinguish night sky and dark trees overhead, also hear the clip-clop of mules, pulling the cart along.

At this point, remembrance came back to me with a most agonizing rush.
Pedro,
I thought. Oh, Pedro. How will I ever tell Grandfather? How can I bear to face him with such news? Or Pedro's Aunt Prudencia?

Alongside remembrance and grief came deep rage, boiling up inside me, so that I wrestled furiously and vainly with the cords that tied my wrists and ankles. How
dared
they kill Pedro—who was so good, so cheer-fid, never grumbled, never harmed a living soul—how dared they? This had not been his affair, he had come on the mission out of duty to my grandfather and friendship to me—it was the most wicked injustice that he should have been shot down, with such callous disregard, too, as if he were no more than a rabbit or a wild deer. Just let them wait till I get at them, I thought, battling with my bonds. And when my struggles had not the slightest effect, some angry tears rolled down my face, of which I was heartily ashamed.

The little voice came again.

"Señor Felix?"

"Yes? Who is that? Is it Pilar?"

"Yes."

"Can you undo my hands?"

"No," she whispered, sounding subdued. "Mine are tied too."

"Where are Nico and Doña Juana and Don Amador?"

"Uncle Dor-Dor is driving the tartana. He is a pig. I hate him," she muttered. "Nico and Cousin Juana are at the other end of the cart; I think they are tied up too. And there are a lot of things on top of them."

"So there are on me too."

"I know," Pilar whispered. "It is all Mama's clothes—her cloaks and furs and the bedding she brought. And stones and branches on top of that. They piled them on to hide us. I could hardly breathe at first, but I managed to move my head about and make a space."

"Where do you suppose they are taking us?"

"Back to Berdun, they said. To Don Ignacio's house, perhaps."

This gave me plenty of matter for thought, as the tartana plodded on its way. It seemed to be moving at quite a speedy pace; I supposed they had Pedro and my mules harnessed, beside the original pair.

On whose side, I wondered, was Don Ignacio? Was he a Royalist? A Carlist? Or simply interested in his brothers inheritance? And Don Amador? Where did he stand, now that Conchita was dead?

"Where are Pepe and Esteban?" I whispered.

"Riding ahead," said Pilar.

If only I could locate Juana and talk to her. Was she asleep? Unconscious? Stifled, gagged? I tried to move, but only evoked a squeak from Pilar, who said I was crushing her.

After what seemed like a couple of hours' travel we halted to rest the beasts, I supposed. It was still dark, but we had come out of the forest; I could see the jagged edge of mountain peaks, a deeper black against the starry sky.

Footsteps echoed alongside the tartana, and a hand reached in and dragged me to a semi-sitting position. I could just make out the fat form of Don Amador.

"So: You are waking," he said, peering at me closely. "Are you sensible?"

I made some noise of assent.

"Listen then. God knows I do not wish to send you to prison—"

"To
prison
? Are you mad, señor, or am I? What have I done to justify my being sent to prison?"

"My friend—I could send you off to Montjuich just like
that
"—I heard him snap his fingers—"by writing your name on a slip of paper. I have friends on the Council of Regency; the Bishop of Osma is my brother-in-laws cousin. Chaperon, the President of the Military Commission, is the brother of my sister's husband—"

"But what have I—"

"Assisting a felon to escape! Women, even children are sent to jail for lesser crimes. You have not only yourself to think about, my young friend, remember. What about Doña Juana? The children? Do you want your grandfather the Conde to be impeached—his estates seized by the Crown?"

"But why should—"

"God knows," he repeated in his thin, reedy voice. "I do not wish you or your grandfather—or, indeed, Doña Juana or the children—any harm, not the least in the world..."

"Then why are you threatening me, señor?" I asked angrily. I saw his fat face shine in the moonlight, like an overripe fruit, beaded with sweat. He was, I realized, more frightened than I

All that filled
me,
just then, was rage.

"You killed my friend Pedro!" I burst out. "You killed him like a farmyard beast—with no more thought than that!"

"Friend? He was your servant." Don Amador sounded genuinely surprised.

"I knew him since I was born!"

"He was only a servant," the fat man repeated. "How can his death be of concern to you?"

"Only a servant!" I was almost strangled with fury.

"
Listen.
" Don Amador leaned closer and spoke more urgently. "You are in bad danger, boy. The
only
way you can avoid terrible trouble for yourself and your loved ones—
are
you listening?" He spoke lower, and shook my arm, which he still clutched. "The only way is to pretend to know nothing, pretend that you saw nothing—that Manuel was gone when you entered the castillo, or that you never entered it—do you understand?"

He is afraid for himself, I thought; that I will betray his part in the death of Luisa, and so, also, of her mother; that I will tell about Pedro.

"I cannot pretend, señor."

"Fool!" he hissed. And then, suddenly, in a much louder voice, "Come, now—what we must know is the whereabouts of those casks of gold and silver dollars. For sure, you and your grandfather still have them."

Briefly, I thought that he must have gone mad. Gold and silver dollars? And then, looming up behind him, I saw the figures of the two outriders. He was speaking, evidently, for their ears.

"I know nothing about any gold and silver dollars, señor," I said curtly.

"It is stupid to pretend. You know perfectly well what I am talking about. It happened at the village of Cerezal in January of the year 1809, when the English general Moore would not release draft oxen to draw the carts with the British army paychests. And so all the money was left behind, hidden on the mountainside. You know perfectly well," he repeated.

"That old tale! If my grandfather had known where it was, he would long ago have restored it to its rightful owners.
He
is an
honorable
man!" I snapped.

"And he has not restored it," said Don Amador smoothly. "Therefore it still lies where it was hidden.
You
know its whereabouts. A letter was sent to you about it."

"Not true," I told him wearily. "The letter that the Englishman, Smith, sent me was not about any treasure. He was warning me of a threat to my life. And that was six years ago. If he had told me about any treasure, I would have informed my grandfather."

"You know where the money is," repeated Don Amador stubbornly. "And if you are wise, you will tell us." He gave my arm a warning nip.

"Enough, enough now, señor," Esteban said roughly. "We must hurry on our way. We need to reach the house of Don Ignacio before daylight. The young man may be questioned again later."

And then, to my utter consternation and surprise, he stepped behind Don Amador and swiftly garroted him by twisting a knotted kerchief about his throat; the fat man gave one piteous, gasping cry, then crumpled to the ground, dead as a shot hare. The two postilions speedily dragged him to the side of the road and tumbled him down the bank. We had halted near a high-arched bridge; he was deposited in the water under the bridge, where he might lie for months until he was nibbled down to his bones by fish, before anybody discovered him.

Then Esteban took the drivers seat, his mule was tethered at the rear of the cart, and we resumed our journey in silence. The whole assassination had been so lightning-quick, so merciless, and so unexpected, that I could still hardly credit what I had seen. Don Amador had been a worthless, venal man, quite prepared, I was sure, to sacrifice anybody else for his own ends—except Conchita; I suppose he had truly loved her in his way—but still, his murder came as a fearful shock. And came, also, as a stark message showing what the rest of us might expect.

Indeed, after a few miles, Esteban addressed me.

"
Ingles?
Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you," I said. "But I am not English. I am as Spanish as you."

"I am
not
Spanish, I am Catalan. Did you take notice of how we dealt with that fat fool?"

"I could hardly avoid it."

"Well! Take warning! If you and your grandfather do not lead us to that treasure, you will go the same way as Don Amador. The Conde will be glad enough to tell us where the treasure lies, when we send him a few of your fingers and toes."

I did not reply. What was the use? He would never believe my assertion that we did not know where the treasure lay—if, indeed, there was any treasure left by now.

The postilions' act had shown them to be ruthless, professional assassins; to hope for mercy or reason in them would be like hoping for sweet water in mid-ocean.

I heard Pilar snuffling quietly beside me and realized, with some compunction, that she was weeping for Don Amador. His murder had come as a terrible shock for her, too.

"Poor Uncle Dor-Dor! He bought me turron in Zamora..."

Wretched little creature, I thought. In the space of a few hours she has seen both her parents die unexpected and brutal deaths; if indeed, Don Amador was her father. And if her father is Don Manuel, he shows no intention of acknowledging her, and has gone away, God knows where.

Had he succeeded in making his way along the tunnel? How many hours had elapsed since he and de Larra left the castillo? More than twelve, I guessed; they must have met the gypsy horse shearers long ago. Supposing that the tunnel was not flooded...

I tried to whisper consolations to Pilar. "Never mind; I am sure Doña Juana will look after you lovingly—"

But where was Doña Juana? Deeper and deeper grew my worry about her. Why was there no sound from the other end of the tartana? What had they done to her?"

"I am going to try to wriggle along to Juana," I whispered to Pilar.

"I want to come, too," she answered instantly.

"Not just yet. You stay here. Otherwise Esteban will notice."

It had never occurred to me, in my life hitherto, to ask myself what a worm must feel like, as it bores its weary way through the solid earth. Now I did not wonder; I
knew.
For my hands and feet were tied, reducing me to the shape of a worm; I could not use my arms to assist motion, but only my feet, elbows, and leg muscles. Moreover I had to fold my body like a jackknife in order to impel myself in the direction toward which my feet were pointing; and all these movements had to take place under a weight of clothes, cloaks, blankets, stockings, and petticoats (it seemed Conchita had equipped herself with enough garments to supply the whole Convento de la Encarnacion); these, furthermore, pressed down by stones and pine branches.

Writhing my way through this mass of material was a slow and laborious business; I dared not push too hard for I would make the tartana sway suspiciously.

At last, after what seemed like hours of struggle among the various shapes and textures, I encountered one that was warm, and moved; and I thought I heard a stifled cry.

"Don't be afraid; it's I, Felix," I whispered reassuringly. I had no answer, save another muffled sound; can she be suffocating under all those layers of petticoats, I thought in horror, and tried to increase my speed. Fortunately I was now at the rear of the cart, farther from the driver.

At last, pushing through a mass of lace and feathers, I saw, ahead of me, Juana's unmistakable profile—or part of it; now I understood why she had not been able to communicate, for the poor girl was gagged with a couple of mantillas, part of one thrust into her mouth, and the other tied round her head. I saw the despairing flash of her eyes as she rolled her head, trying vainly to convey some meaning.

"Ah, those devils," I muttered. "Wait a little, I'll try to pull it loose."

Pulling a lace mantilla from somebody else's head with one's teeth is no easier than boring through mounds of petticoats with hands tied. The task took many minutes. Often my cheek had to press against Juana's, while I gnawed and bit; sometimes I could feel her shake—whether with laughter or tears I did not know. At last I had the lace chewed through, and thought I felt her signal to me by moving her head; then I could plainly feel the actions of her jaw, as she painfully expelled the gag from her mouth, blowing and pushing and thrusting it out; at last she took in a great gulp of air.