(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (15 page)

As we neared the church we heard the faint sound of chanting. And, looking with caution through the door, which was half open, we found two exceedingly old monks conducting the service of Sext. Removing our hats we joined them, and I again took the opportunity of thanking God for his interesting and unexpected kindness.

When the service was done, I asked the holy fathers if any stranger had lately visited this ancient place—but thinking, as I did so, that if Manuel de la Trava had taken refuge here, not even the President of the Military Commission in Madrid would have power to dislodge him, for he would surely be in sanctuary. To my slight surprise, one of the monks nodded his head.

"Yes, my son. There
is
a person here now at this very time. He told us that he was a scholar, pursuing researches into the Early Church, and asked leave to examine the tombs of the kings of Aragon and the other curiosities to be seen here. You will find him somewhere about the place."

No word of three children.

So we began to explore and hunt about, finding more and more dark rock chambers, nooks and vaults and chapels cut out from the overhanging cliff, with steps going down into darkness, and water dripping, and a cold smell of dust and rock and loneliness. But there was no sign of Manuel de la Trava or his three children; if three children had ever been there, I thought, surely the monks must have seen them? Somehow I began to feel certain that the man we sought was not here.

However, my certainty was shaken when we heard a footstep and a cough in one of the very lowest chambers—a small dark vault or crypt that I thought must be very ancient indeed.

"
Quien vive?
" called Pedro sharply. Both of us instinctively put our hands on our pistols—though I felt rather ashamed of doing so in a holy place, and the more so next moment when an astonished voice exclaimed, "And who under the sun are
you
?"

Out of the darkness at the far end of the chapel emerged a short, slight man—nothing but his size could be seen in the dim light. But even before my eyes grew accustomed I could be sure that he was not Manuel de la Trava—he was nothing like tall enough and had no black patch over his eye.

"Your pardon, señor—we did not intend to disturb you—we were looking for a—a person," I said rather lamely.

"A person? And what person might that be?"

He began to climb the stair, so we followed; plainly there was nobody else down here.

In the big vaulted hall above he was revealed as a man of rather less than average height with tawny, badger-colored hair, a keen shrewd face, and such eyes! They glowed like those of a wild cat, full of intelligence and fire in his pale face.

I might have remained silent, but Pedro said bluntly, "We are searching for Señor Manuel de la Trava, who has absconded with his three children."

"Oh,
are
you indeed?" said the pale-faced man, looking at us very sharply. "And what do you propose to do with Señor de la Trava when you find him?"

"Señor," I said, "our business is not with him at all, but with the children; I have been engaged by their mother to search for them. It is not right that they should be carried off into the wilderness, and she is most deeply distressed about them."

The man nodded his head once or twice. "So who are
you?
" he asked at length.

I might have been rather affronted at his assuming the right to interrogate me like this, if there had not been such an air of authority about him—instinctively I felt that he was to be respected. And trusted.

"My name is Felix de Cabezada y Brooke," I said, and he nodded again, frowning.

"I have heard of your grandfather; and of you, a little," he said. "Your grandfather the Conde is a good man—"

"Oh yes, señor, he is—"

"I hope that you resemble him. I hope that you are telling the truth."

Pedro looked offended, but I said, "Señor, I am telling the entire truth. I mean no harm whatsoever to Manuel de la Trava."

He accepted this with a thoughtful look, and said, after a moment, "My name is Jose de Larra—"

"Oh," I exclaimed, "señor, I have heard of you, naturally!" and I looked at him with great interest. "I have read some of your writings."

"You are lucky not to have been thrown into jail for doing so," he remarked drily.

Hardly older than I—though he looked it; his face was weary and careworn—Jose de Larra was already one of the best-known political writers in Spain; I had heard it said that he was better paid than any other journalist. Under the pen name of Figaro he had written many essays attacking government corruption, false patriotism, and our national indolence and backwardness.

"I am honored to meet you, señor," I said. "But greatly surprised, I must confess, to encounter you here. I thought that you lived in Madrid."

"So I do. But—like you—I am here searching for my friend Manuel de la Trava. I received a message that he had escaped from Montjuich." He looked at me narrowly; it was plain that he was still not prepared to give us entire trust. He said, "Where is Doña Conchita? Is she here too?"

"She is in Berdun." I explained about the carriage horses.

"Is she staying with her brother-in-law? Do not trust that man," de Larra said quickly. "He is a rat—a snake—he would not give asylum to his brother when asked, and I am quite sure he immediately informed the authorities that Manuel was in this region."

I thought of the second man whose voice I had heard from the chimney. Very likely he was some official from the Military Commission.

"Yes, I believe you, señor."

He reflected, then said, "If you plan to take charge of the children—I confess that
would
relieve me—for I hope to help my friend Manuel, but two children as well would make the task far more difficult."

Plainly he was not disposed to give me any more information. I guessed that he might have plans to smuggle Manuel out of the country, perhaps help him take ship for Mexico or another of the Spanish American provinces that had rebelled and freed themselves from Spanish rule.

"The three children are best with their mother, no doubt," I said.

"Three? You said three? I had thought there were only two. Manuel spoke of two—I was able to visit him, once in jail, before he was sent to Barcelona—"

"No, there are certainly three: Nico and Luisa and Pilar."

"Odd—most odd. Can I have been mistaken?" He shook his head. "Still, it is of no importance."

Then there came a pause. We looked at one another warily, like card players each wondering what was in the other's hand. Did I trust him? Did he trust me?

"Come into the church," he said abruptly, so we followed him in there. The old brothers had gone to their living quarters in some cranny of the cliff, leaving a candle burning on the altar.

"Lay your hand on that altar and swear that you mean no harm to Manuel de la Trava," said Jose de Larra.

"Very gladly, if you will too, señor."

So we all three swore. Then de Larra said, "What will you do next?"

"I suppose I must report back to Doña Conchita. For I promised to do so today." I regretted this promise but she had begged me in such a trembling voice, with tears in her eyes.

De Larra said, "I would prefer that you did not tell her about my presence here. She does not like or trust me."

Something in his voice told me that he did not trust her either. Well, I thought, recalling Juana, he was probably right to trust as few people as possible.

"Very well, señor, I promise."

He went on, "There's a place called the Mouth of Hell, Boca del Infierno. High up in the mountains near the source of the Aragon river. The de la Travas own land in that region; there is a ruined castle. I think Manuel may be there."

This did sound probable, and hope rose in my heart.

"I shall go there today without delay," said de Larra.

"How far is it from here?"

"Seven or eight leagues, perhaps. But it is among the high mountains, to the north—6,000 feet up, twice as high as we are here. And a most wild and rugged road. It is a hard place to reach."

"You have been there before?"

"Yes—before—with Manuel—when we were both boys."

"Is it a place to which I could take Doña Conchita?"

He looked horrified.

"
Por Dios,
no! On no account. Why should she want to go?"

"I—I suppose to beg—to plead for the restoration of her children."

I thought of Doña Conchitas silk dresses; of her feet in their tiny velvet slippers; Boca del Infierno certainly did not sound like the kind of place that would be suitable for her to visit.

"It will be much,
much
better if you do not bring her," said de Larra positively. "She and her husband did not agree. It was a foolish marriage—he was bewitched by her black eyes and white skin. But they had nothing in common. By the time he was imprisoned they had come to disagree most bitterly. Indeed they had already parted. The sight of her would do nothing but harm."

"Well, I will try to dissuade her. But she is a lady with a very strong will."

Pedro said diffidently, "Señor Felix, do you think it would be a good thing if I went with Señor de Larra now, to find out the way to this place? Then I could return to Berdun and guide you—or meet you somewhere along the way tomorrow?"

"Yes, I do think that a good plan—if Señor de Larra agrees?"

After some thought, Jose de Larra did agree. Pedro was visibly a good and simple fellow and also a tough and well-muscled fighter, if fighting should be required. It would have been folly to refuse his offer.

As we all walked down the hill—de Larra's mule, he told us, was stabled like ours in the village below—Pedro said to me privily, "I've a notion that it will be a good thing to get to this Boca del Infierno as soon as possible, just in case somebody tries to steal a march on us."

"You are thinking of our fat friend?"

He nodded.

"We didn't see him in Berdun."

"That's not to say he wasn't there."

In fact, I had wondered: Could the other voice, talking to Don Ignacio, have been the fat man's? I tried to remember him in Zamora saying to the child, "Do not scold your papa! You shall have all the treats you want at the end of the journey." Could it have been the same voice? And what
was
the end of his journey?

We all rode a short way together along the carretera, and then, at a hamlet called Puenta de la Reina, where there is a bridge over the brawling Aragon river, Pedro and Jose de Larra turned northward toward the mountains. Pedro promised to meet me, or to leave word for me tomorrow, at a village called San Quilez, about five leagues into the foothills. And I rode back to Berdun at a brisk pace.

Leaving my beast, as before, stabled in a barn at the foot of the hill, I made my way up the steep zigzag track into the town and inquired at the posada for the ladies. Sister Belen was within, I heard, tending various sick people who had come to her for help; the other two ladies had walked out and I should easily find them somewhere about.

Accordingly I turned along the Calle Mayor to its end, then emerged through a narrow doorway in the town wall and followed a footpath that girdled it on the outer side. This path commanded a handsome view over the plain below, and a little rocky river, the Veral, that wound around Berdun and ran down to join the Aragon.

And there, leaning on a low wall by a flowering acacia, were my two ladies, one in white, the other black-veiled in her fur cloak, for the evening was cool and breezy. They were talking together and did not at first notice my approach.

Juana was saying, "But why in the world did you not bring the old nurse, Guillermina? I'd have thought you would need her badly once they are found—after all, you have never had to care for them entirely by yourself—"

"Oh, my dear! Where would we have put her? On the floor?"

"Belen or I could have sat on the box."

"Unthinkable! Besides—in fact—I had to dismiss old Guillermina. She was becoming quite incapable of dealing with little Pilar—couldn't discipline her at all—"

She seemed to have forgotten how affronted she was when Juana said the same thing.

"Well," Juana was saying doubtfully, "I hope that I shall be—"

Then she turned and saw me and fell silent.

Doña Conchita was all smiles and welcome.

"Felix! Our good friend! I am so rejoiced to see you back! What fortune have you had?"

I explained that we had had no luck at San Juan but that somebody we saw there—I contrived to make it sound as if it were one of the old priests—had advised us to try la Boca del Infierno. She listened, nodding gravely.

"Then it is there that we must certainly go tomorrow. This time I will accompany you. I feel in my bones that is the place where Manuel has my poor darlings confined; if only he does not have them chained up and half starved! Oh, it is too horrible to contemplate! We must start as soon as breakfast is over. Don Ignacio has managed to find us some kind of equipage and a couple of animals to pull it."

"From the sound of the road, señora," I said, "I don't know if even that will take you all the way. It may be necessary to walk. I should certainly advise you to wear some stout shoes."

"Walk!" she said distastefully.

All this while Juana had remained silent. The dusk was now so thick that I could not see her face, shadowed under the white hood. But I felt an emanation of anger coming from her. Could I in some way have displeased her, I wondered?

We turned back toward the posada, Conchita chatting gaily about the deficiencies of the town.

"Only think! There is just the one baker. And no doctor at all. If you fall sick, you say a prayer in the church—or ride twelve leagues into Jaca and seek help there. And just see what they do with their waste—"

She pointed to a structure we just passed, a massive wooden trough, supported on props, the top end of which rested on the low wall by which the ladies had stood. The trough ran down the steep rocky precipice, which dropped away on the north side of the town, and disappeared into the darkness below; where it ended one could not see.