Winter's End (28 page)

“I certainly can. It’s what I felt about Basil. He might seem stubborn, but he had such a generous spirit. I got the impression that he’d have died to deliver that letter to me.”

“Not just an impression. I can assure you he’d have done exactly that. When you entrust a mission to a cart-horse, he’s ready to die to carry it out. That’s why the Phalangists wanted the horse-men on their side when they seized power. What a godsend that would have been: a hundred thousand of them, immensely strong and ready to demolish anything once they were given orders to do it. But there was one thing the Phalangists had forgotten.”

“What?”

“They’d forgotten that while the horse-men need a master, they like to choose that master for themselves. And simple and uncomplicated as they may be, they don’t pick just anyone.”

“They refused to serve the Phalange?”

“Every last one of them! People think they are uncouth, but they know the difference between good and bad. Your father was sent to make contact with them. I thought he was the wrong choice, too reserved and short-tempered, while they think in simple terms and are very emotional. But surprisingly, they adored him and he instantly and entirely trusted them. In short, they allied themselves with the Resistance. It cost them severely. It’s all very well to be physically strong, but that’s not much use when you’re facing armed men. Many of them were killed. Others were arrested and treated like animals in prison. When it was all over, the Phalangist police did a deal with their leader, who was called Faber.

“They’d never been able to capture him. They would release all the horse-men who had been taken prisoner, they said, in return for his own public surrender. Faber had been chosen by the horse-men as their leader not because he was the most intelligent or the wisest of them, simply because he was the strongest. The Phalangists never imagined that the unfortunate Faber would fall into their trap so easily, and next day the guards were surprised to see a giant of a man with almost no neck and large, gentle eyes — eyes like a horse’s — turn up at the gate saying, ‘Good morning, I’m Faber. I’ve come to surrender.’

“The poor fellow thought he’d done the right thing. He never suspected they were going to
humiliate him. They harnessed him to a cart with ten or so Phalangist leaders in it, and he was made to pull them through the city streets by himself, bare to the waist, amid laughter and mockery.”

“But I thought you said people respected the horse-men.”

“Most do, yes. But they realized that there were a great many others around who backed the Phalange. These Phalangist supporters had kept well hidden up to this point, but now the fight was won, they emerged from the shadows. They let fly at Faber with all the cruelty of cowards who have nothing to fear anymore. Someone even put a cap with horse’s ears on his head as the cart went up the street to Phalange headquarters. They spat at him and shouted abuse. He was treated as a cart-horse, and the name stuck.”

“He took it all without protest?”

“Everything. He’d decided to sacrifice himself, and he went all the way. Any horse-man would have done the same. He braced himself to climb the hill. He took the handfuls of oats and buckets of water they flung at him without flinching. He was a proud man, and it was hard for him.”

“But you . . . were you there? Did you watch this show?” asked Bart, aware of the condemnation in his question.

Jahn registered it too. “I saw the parade pass from my window, like thousands of others, and I was ashamed of doing nothing. But you have to remember that we had fought back fiercely
until then, losing almost all who were dear to us: Eva-Maria Bach, your father, hundreds of other comrades. It was over. They could do anything they liked now, and they indulged themselves to the full.”

“But did they keep their word? Did they release the horse-men?”

“Months later. Once they were sure there was no one left for their prisoners to follow.”

“They must have borne my father a grudge, surely? After all, he’d dragged them into disaster.”

“That’s not the way they reason. They still think they did the right thing. And your father had given his own life for the cause. You don’t bear a martyr a grudge.”

“What about Faber? Did they let him go?”

“Yes, but the humiliation left its mark on him. He hardly speaks anymore, I’m told. He’s withdrawn to a remote village with his family, or those of it who are left.”

“And that’s where we’re going?” asked Bart in a low voice.

“That’s where we’re going,” Jahn confirmed.

They didn’t talk as they drove the next few miles. The landscape had changed; the car was now winding its way through wooded hills with their tops veiled in mist. Farther on, they drove past gray rocks thickly covered with lichen, looking like the backs of some strange species of animals. Bart opened his window and breathed in the moist moorland air.
He felt as if they were leaving the human world behind and entering a land of legend. He would hardly have been surprised to see an elf or a goblin appear around a bend somewhere ahead.

“The horse-men thought very highly of your father,” Jahn said, breaking the silence. “They’ll feel the same about you. That’s why I’m taking you to see them.”

The question that had been troubling Bart for some time was on the tip of his tongue. “What exactly do you expect me to do?” But he refrained from asking it. When they finally drove into the horse-men’s village, he was almost dropping off to sleep, lulled by the regular purr of the engine.

A boy of about fifteen came to meet them.

“Basil!” Bart cried in spite of himself.

The boy bore a striking resemblance to his friend at the school: the same long face, the same flattened nose, the same powerful shoulders, the same unruly hair.

Jahn stopped level with the lad. “Do you know where Faber lives, please?”

“No,” said the boy, frowning. “What d’you want with Faber?”

“Only to talk to him. Don’t be alarmed — we’re friends.”

“I’m not allowed to . . .” the young horse-man let slip, without realizing that he was giving himself away.

“Is it farther on?” asked Jahn.

“That’s right.”

They drove slowly on and met two children coming downhill at a run, one carrying the other on his back.

“This is amazing!” exclaimed Bart. “They’re all like miniature versions of Basil!”

Higher up in the village, a girl with the same long, rough-hewn face was climbing the hill slowly, carrying a bucket of water.

“Is Faber’s house over there?” asked Jahn, his elbow on the open window of the car.

“Yes . . . er, no,” said the girl, confused. “Who are you?”

“Friends. That’s his house, is it?”

“That’s right.”

It certainly wasn’t difficult to worm information out of these people.

Jahn stopped the car a little farther up the hill, and they came down again on foot to knock at the door. It was opened by a very tall, strong woman of about fifty with a look of sadness about her. She let them in. The curtains were drawn, and it was some time before their eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room. A large ginger cat was asleep on a chair near the fireplace. The woman wore an apron and a head scarf with locks of white hair escaping from it. Faber was in bed, she told them. “But if you’re friends . . .”

She climbed the stairs with a heavy tread. No more was heard for some time. She must have been talking to her husband in low tones. Then she
reappeared at the top of the stairs, leaned forward, and called down, “What was your name, please?”

“I’m called Jahn. He knows me.”

She disappeared again, and the silent waiting resumed. The two men downstairs looked at each other, baffled. What could the couple be talking about up there? At last the woman slowly came down again and planted herself in front of Jahn, arms spread helplessly to show there was nothing she could do. “He doesn’t want to see you. Hasn’t wanted to see anyone for months. He’s not well.”

“Tell him this is important,” Jahn persisted. “Tell him I’ve come with . . . with Casal.”

She went off for the third time.

“But,” murmured Bart, “he’ll think it’s —”

“Your father back again? I don’t know. I just need him to get up.”

As she came downstairs this time, the woman was nodding. Apparently there was news.

“He’s coming,” she announced, and something that was almost a smile spread over her kindly face. “Sit down while you wait.”

They sat down on the benches set on each side of the table. She remained standing, automatically wiping her hands on her apron. She was a heavy woman, but the floor on the story above hadn’t creaked while she was up there. Now, however, it was groaning under the weight of the man walking about as he dressed. It sounded as if it might collapse.

“He’s coming down,” the woman repeated.

There was the dull thud of a shoe that had gotten away, then footsteps, then two gigantic feet were placed on the top steps. Two endlessly long legs followed, and when Faber appeared on the staircase in his entirety, the sight took Bartolomeo’s breath away. He had never seen such a huge human being. The man’s torso in particular was twice as broad as the chest of a normal man. His shoulders, arms, and hands all appeared double the usual size. Above this enormous mass his long face suggested the head of a sad, old horse, with drooping cheeks and a soft mouth.

He didn’t spare a moment’s glance for Jahn but walked slowly over to Bartolomeo and stopped in front of him.

“You’re Casal?”

“His son,” said Bart, feeling uneasy. He had to put his head back slightly to look Faber in the eyes, not something he usually needed to do.

“You’re his son?” asked Faber, and emotion made his chin wobble.

“Yes,” Bart confirmed.

The giant took one more step, opened his great arms, and flung them around the young man. He clasped Bartolomeo to his chest and didn’t let him go for several minutes. Bartolomeo felt as if he had been swallowed up. Held so close to this peaceful colossus, he felt that nothing bad could happen. When Faber loosened his embrace, his eyes were
moist with tears. Only then did he turn to Jahn and offer his hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Jahn. Pleased to see you again.”

A few moments later, they were sitting at the table with a jug of wine. Faber’s wife brought him a bowl of milk, and throughout the conversation he dunked pieces of bread in it and fished them out again with a soupspoon. In his hand it looked as if it belonged to a doll’s tea set.

Jahn began, cautiously, “Listen, Faber. You must be aware that a long time has passed since they did you such harm.”

No reply.

“And you must also be aware that things changed some while ago.”

“They did? I don’t know. I don’t go out. What’s changed?”

“People are sick and tired of the Phalange, understand? If there’s a revolt, they’ll be with us.”

“Why would they be with us? They did nothing when I was pulling that cart and folks threw filth at me.”

“They were afraid,” Bartolomeo put in. “Afraid of being arrested, beaten up, killed.”

“You’re right there,” Faber agreed.

“And then,” Bart went on, “then they thought perhaps the Phalange wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It would put the country in order. They’d wait and see. So now they do see —”

“And they see it wasn’t a good thing,” Faber finished the sentence. He needed to have everything put into plain words.

“Exactly. They see it wasn’t a good thing, and they’ll support us. Are the horse-men ready to fight on our side?”

Faber put his spoon down on the table and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, looking awkward. “Us horse-men, we don’t like killing.”

“No one likes killing,” said Bart. “But we have to defend ourselves. You saw what they did to you — to you personally and your people. You can’t have forgotten!”

Faber looked at him with his large, moist eyes. “I know that, but we’re used to putting up with things, we are. We’re strong but we don’t like fighting.”

“Those of your age, perhaps, but that’s changed too. I made a friend at the boarding school, a horse-man like you, and I can tell you it wasn’t a good idea to cross him. The horse-men have learned not to let themselves be humiliated, I assure you. We’re going to need your strength, Mr. Faber, the strength of all the horse-men. Without you we’ll be defeated for the second time.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Faber mumbled unhappily. “Who’ll command us?”

Jahn, who had said nothing for some while now, looked at Bartolomeo and gave him an encouraging nod.

“I will command you,” said the young man firmly. “You can count on me.”

As he spoke those words, he felt that his father was there beside him, almost as if he were physically present at the table with them. He felt convinced that his father heard him and approved of what he said. His throat tightened.

“I will command you, with Mr. Jahn. I’ll be back here with you when the moment comes. Until it does, build up your health again and talk to your people. You know how pleased they’ll be to see you up and about. They must all be ready on the day, and it’s up to you as their leader to convince them and gather them together. Prepare them to fight, Mr. Faber!”

At seventeen Bartolomeo didn’t have the necessary experience to lead the horse-men himself, and he knew it. But that was not what Jahn expected of him. He had brought him here because his name was Casal, because he knew how to handle words and find arguments to persuade the huge horse-man to emerge from his state of depression. And Bart had indeed found them.

“You’ll have something to eat, won’t you?” the large woman asked them.

“A good idea, Roberta,” Faber agreed. “You must be hungry, coming all that way. You came from the capital?”

They had no time to reply, for a child of about eight rushed in, clung to the woman’s apron, and whispered something to her. His nose was running.

“There’s another black car driving into the village,” Roberta told the three men.

“Who’s in the car, my boy?” Jahn asked.

“Two thin gentlemen, sir,” said the child, proud to be asked in person.

Jahn was on the alert. “Did they ask you any questions?”