Obabakoak (33 page)

“So it’s true what the women in Aumont told us.”

The women in Aumont had told us that the Normans kept wild animals in cages and tamed them like dogs and that anyone seeing them would never again forget them for they were as big as cows but with the hooves of horses and the heads of wolves, and that if we ever went into battle we would be devoured by those monsters.

“God have mercy on us, Jean Baptiste,” sighed Pierre.

We were just on our way back to the tent to get Pierre’s rebec when a soldier, old and lame, who was always following us around and was angry with us because we never wanted his company, suddenly threw a bird at us just as one might throw a stone and the bird brushed both our chests, first Pierre’s then mine. The bird had yellow wings and was dead from the cold, its eyes tight shut, and the fact that it had touched us seemed to us an omen of great evil.

Count Lothaire shut himself up in his tent to think and all the soldiers prayed to Our Lord God to make him see that the only way open to us now was retreat and that it was time for the sons of Lorraine to return to their beloved land. But the Count was not even considering retreat, he was seeking a new scout. And that was how he came to choose Guillaume, a bastard child from the village of Aumont who was always hanging around the camp, for the Count thought that the Normans would never suspect a nine-year-old child. And Guillaume accepted the order with great joy, because he wanted to be a soldier and because the Count promised him a fistful of silver in exchange for the news that none of his other scouts had yet managed to bring him.

He left laughing and quite without fear, having enjoyed to the full the party some soldiers had insisted on holding in his honor. Pierre and I joined in the party too because we felt that our fate was somehow in his hands. And we prayed to Our Lord God to guide the steps of that child and bring him to the cages where the Normans kept the cows with the heads of wolves and the hooves of horses. Because one thing was certain, no soldier would want to go into battle against such monsters and then the Count would be forced to give in and allow the retreat.

Meanwhile the winter continued. Many soldiers fell ill. Others stole horses and deserted.

Guillaume returned after about a fortnight and did so wearing the same joyful expression he had worn when he left. And when he went over to our master Lothaire’s tent, every soldier in the camp followed behind him.

“This time we will get news of the Normans,” I said to Pierre. But when Guillaume climbed onto a cart and began to shout out tales of what he had seen in the enemy camp, we all looked at each other in amazement, for we understood nothing of what he said. He was not speaking in our language, nor even in Latin. And when our master Lothaire began asking him questions, the child looked as amazed as we did. He did not understand what he was asked.

“Do you know what language he’s speaking, Jean Baptiste?” Pierre asked sadly.

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s speaking in Norman. In a matter of only a fortnight, he’s forgotten his own language and learned theirs. They are much more powerful than we thought, Jean Baptiste. They must have an army of at least twenty thousand men.”

“But Pierre, children are very quick. They have a great capacity for learning new words.”

But we could not continue our conversation because out of the murmuring that followed Guillaume’s words there emerged first one shout, then another and another and very soon there were a thousand soldiers from Lorraine shouting and a thousand running toward the horses, pushing and shoving one another, for there were not enough horses to go around.

“Let us fly too, Pierre,” I said to my friend.

“The rebec, Jean Baptiste, I left it in the tent!” he exclaimed, running off.

“Pierre!” I shouted.

I wanted to tell him to forget about the rebec, to keep out of the way of that crazed mob. Then, right before my eyes, he slipped in the mud and fell beneath the hooves of a horse. Another three horses trampled over him and a few dozen soldiers followed.

“Pierre!” I shouted again. But he was already dead.

I started to cry, unable to move from where I stood, lacking even the will to stop the lame soldier, the one who had always trailed around after us, from coming up to me and throwing me down in the mud. For I, Jean Baptiste Hargous, wanted to die as my friend, Pierre de Broc, had died, with my skull smashed in by a horse.

ALLOW ME
, dear friends, to begin this explanation with a description of a dream and do not be concerned that, in doing so, I postpone for a while considerations more directly relevant to the exercise of plagiarism, for it will not be an unfruitful digression, indeed it will serve to set us off along the right track and, or at least so I hope, give pleasure to all. You should know, moreover, that this dream was the origin and basis of the change that has taken place in me; it is because of this dream that today I support opinions and tendencies that, until recently, I despised and disapproved of. For, as you know, before today I was always resolutely opposed to plagiarism.

One night I had a bad dream in which I saw myself in the midst of a wild forest, dense and inhospitable. Since the forest was plunged in the most utter darkness and beasts of every kind swarmed on all sides, I believed I would end my days there and I was exceedingly afraid.

Nevertheless, not allowing myself to succumb to despair, I tried to find a way out, and, having walked some distance through the matted undergrowth, I reached the foot of a hill where the valley covered by the forest ended. And truly my efforts were not in vain for at the top of that hill I saw clear signs of the presence of the star that gives us our light, a sight that restored me to calm. My heart told me that if I managed to reach that luminous place I would be safe.

Guided by that hope, I began the ascent, leaving behind me the gloom of the forest. But when I reached the top, I was amazed, there was no sign of life anywhere to be seen, not a single plant growing in that sterile soil. And once more I felt lost and helpless, unable to decide which direction to take. And I was still in that state of distress, sitting on a rock with my head in my hands, when someone came up to me.

“Take pity on me, whoever you are,” I said.

He stood looking at me, but said not a word, as if he were dumb.

“What are you? A shadow or a man of flesh and blood?” I asked.

And only then did he answer:

“I am not a man though once I was. My parents came into the world in Urdax in Navarra. As regards my time on earth, you should know that after living in Salamanca and various other places, I settled in the village of Sara in accordance with the wishes of my dear master Bertrand de Echaus, and that there I lived out the eighty-eight years granted me by Our Lord God.”

I was speechless, wide-eyed as much with joy as with amazement.

“Then you must be Pedro Daquerre Azpilcueta, the rector who became famous under the pen name Axular! Our most illustrious master, our highest authority, the greatest of all Basque writers! I’m so pleased now that I read you. You are my teacher and my best-loved author. Help me, please. Look how lost and vulnerable I am in this desert. Kind and wise Master, save me from these desperate straits in which I find myself.”

“First, I must show you something,” he said and set off walking up a much steeper hill than the previous one, toward an even higher peak. Trusting in him, I followed.

When we reached the second peak, I saw that we were on an island, lost in the immensity of the sea. It was very small and there was no sign of life there. A black ship was approaching the shore.

“How tiny and cramped it is!” I said, my heart troubled. “And how lonely!” I added.

The Master nodded.

“All the other common tongues and languages of the world have intermingled and are related among themselves. But Basque,
euskera,
is unique and different from any other language. That’s why it’s so lonely.”

When I heard those words I realized that the island was not like the islands of Sardinia or Sicily but made of quite a different material. Incredible though it may seem, the geographical feature I was looking at was none other than my own language. But it seemed to me that the Master had more to tell me and I left the confusion of thoughts going around and around in my head for later consideration.

“Once, this was a place of delights, whereas now it is dead and arid. That’s why the island seems so tiny and cramped to you. Nevertheless, if as many books had been written in
euskera
as have been written in French or in any other language for that matter, it would be as rich and perfect as they are and if that is not the case it is the speakers of
euskera
themselves who are to blame, not the island.”

The Angelic Doctor from Euskal Herria seemed to have grown melancholy and for a while I said nothing in order not to distress him further. But I saw that the black ship was drawing ever closer to the shore and as it got nearer I could even make out the different groups of people standing on the deck. I could not keep back a question that demanded to be asked.

“What ship is that, Master? And who are those people traveling in her?”

Before replying, he sighed.

“That ship is like the
Grand Saint Antoine
that reached the port of Marseilles.”

“I know nothing about such a ship, Master,” I confessed.

“
Grand Saint Antoine
was the name of the ship that brought the plague to Marseilles.”

“Who are those people then?” I asked alarmed.

“Do you see the ones standing in the bows?” he asked.

“Yes, I see them. And very happy they look too! They’re waving flags and cheering as if they wanted to drink a joyful toast to the island.”

“Well, don’t you believe them. In truth I say they are hypocrites and everything they do is done only for the sake of appearances. They talk at great length but as to actions… you’ll never see them do a thing. They create heavy loads impossible to bear and place them on the shoulders of the man next to them, while they never lift a finger. Everything they do is for show. One will sport engravings or mottos pinned to his attire; another will embellish the facade of his house with an inscription stolen from the island; the next, for his part, will want his name to figure first when it comes to signing a petition. But it’s all hot air. Their words, like Master Adam’s counterfeit money, serve only to deceive.”

“And those making up the group behind them? Who are they?”

“You mean the ones cradling accounts books in their arms?”

“Yes, Master.”

They are the banausians, my son. They are people of great greed and stupidity, devoid of any spiritual aspirations. They are constantly drawing up accounts and know better than anyone how to make a profit from the island. Indeed I tell you they are much to be feared because—like all those of their ilk—it suits them perfectly that the island should remain just as it is, tiny and cramped. If the island came to enjoy a stronger position, it would be much harder for them to balance their books.”

The more I discovered about what the future held for the island, the more I felt my breath desert me. Even so, I could not remain silent. There was still much for me to learn and that impelled me to go on asking questions.

“And those standing by the ship’s mast?” I asked.

“Those of a yellowish complexion?”

“Yes, Master, they are the ones I mean.”

“They are coming to the island to see if there are any meadows here. If there are and they find them, they will immediately sow them with the seeds of tares and other pernicious weeds. They cannot live without sowing bad seeds among the wheat. Wherever there is some sterile, miserable argument going on, wherever they see the chance to spread anger and enmity, you will find them gathered there in the name of the people or of their newspaper.”

“And those who have climbed up the mast? Why do they grimace so?”

“They have not climbed up the mast, they are roped to it. If they weren’t, they would be carried off by the wind, as if they were balloons. For you should know that they belong to the family of the conceited, they are puffed-up as toads. They believe themselves to be sublime and by constantly mocking the island and attacking it, consider their sublimity proven. But they are not sublime, they are mean-minded and foul. They believe they are bold but they only dare attack the island because they see how scrawny and weak it is. Were that not the case, they would simply seek out some pond near the Court and stay there.”

This time it was my turn to sigh.

“I’m going to ask you one last question, Master, for there are many people traveling on the ship and I do not wish to tire you. Tell me, who are the ones in the stern? The ones at the other end of the boat, crying and lamenting.”

“Being, as I am, a shadow, I know nothing of fatigue. You, on the other hand, do. I see that you cannot bear much more and that your strength is failing and so, once I have told you about those last travelers, I will say no more. The people you see there are the ‘sad ones.’ Like petty lovers, they offer the island only their griefs, with which they merely make the situation worse. Like Icarus’s father, they whisper in the ear of the person who is falling: you’re on the road to ruin; they cast despairing looks at the person for whom things are going well and who is on the way up, letting him know that do what he may, it will all be in vain. Were the island to end up in their hands, Gethsemane would be a joyous place by comparison.

We both stayed there for a while, not saying anything, looking out at the black ship. Then he took me by the hand and led me down the hill, to one of the few green spots remaining on the island. The ground was covered by tall grasses and scattered all around were fig trees heavy with fruit.

“Master, don’t go yet,” I begged, seeing that he let go of my hand.

“What do you want from me? Some solution?” he said, reading my thoughts. I nodded.

“I told you before: If as many books had been written in
euskera
as in…”