The Burning (24 page)

T
he beat of the drum gets louder as the procession makes its way slowly across the square. It is Sunday, so that everyone can be here. They have been told to attend by the king himself. It is compulsory. It is an act of faith. Absence will be a sign of guilt, to be punished as these poor people are to be punished
.

It is not cold, but the little girl shivers as the parade comes closer. A twisting, terrible serpent: its body black with the sweating pelts of horses and the cloaks of men, its nostrils streaming plumes of smoke and its glittering eyes the flames of burning torches
.

The approaching footsteps shake the girl’s body in time with her pulse. She thinks her heart will burst as the bugles sound and the first of the black horses approaches. She hears its urgent whinny, sees the flash of its wild eyes and teeth. She feels the flecks of frothy spittle on her face as it tosses its head
.

The man on the horse has had his shirt torn away and his
upper body is naked. His hands are tied behind him and he writhes in pain as soldiers on either side tear into his back with whips. He is followed by another man, then a woman, then three others – their faces all masks of pain as the soldiers lay on vicious strokes without mercy
.

This is what comes of helping the Traveller, for believing his words. For being his friend
.

She presses her face into the coarse material of her mother’s skirts. Her twin brother does the same. They feel the warmth of her legs and try to breathe in the scent of her body, in the hope that it will take them away from this dreadful place
.

The little girl hears a roar from the crowd, and she cannot help but look
.

Here is the man himself, held high and strapped into a wooden chair. A gnarled green candle has been forced into one hand and a string of beads has been woven between the fingers of the other. A pointed hat has been pushed on to his head. It is decorated with suns and moons and stars, giving him the appearance of a terrible, tragic clown
.

A steel collar attached to the back of the seat holds the man’s head upright and his mouth is gagged with a red cloth. The others can speak; can cry out in pain. They can stop the whipping by yelling out their admissions of guilt and save themselves from the flames
.

But no one wants to hear what the Traveller has to say
.

The king and the priests have heard enough of his ridiculous and wicked ideas. They do not want to hear that the
universe is endless; that this earth is neither flat nor unique. They have seen enough of his sorcery and his so-called “healing” powers
.

The little girl looks up. She sees the tears rolling down her mother’s face as the Traveller passes and she sees that his eyes are unafraid, calm and green. She hears her mother sobbing and muttering blessings. She knows that her mother is remembering the stranger’s kindness; remembering how a few years before, he had healed her and had eventually become anything but a stranger
.

The little girl remembers how, after she and her brother had been born, her own grandfather had been among the first to denounce the very man who had given him grandchildren. Had accused him of sorcery and heresy: of witchcraft. The same grandfather who now walked with the grim procession and helped to carry the chair up the few wooden steps to the stake, before adding his own flaming torch to the bonfire
.

The little girl and her brother cry as the heat from the flames scorches their faces and the terrible smell catches in their throats
.

As the Traveller burns, he reaches out a hand to those who have condemned him and to his own children, who have been condemned to watch him die. The little girl sees her father, sees the love in his eyes; she looks around and sees the blood-lust in the eyes of everyone else
.

She takes her brother’s hand and runs…

*  *  *

It was clear that Salvador Abeja would have been happy to see his guests stay a lot longer. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get back to his shop. The next day, when Gabriel announced, after a late breakfast of milky coffee, pastries and freshly squeezed orange juice, that it was time to be moving on, the Spaniard’s face fell.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Gabriel said. “We have a lot to do.”

While the children gathered up their things, Abeja led Gabriel to a quiet corner of the courtyard. “Seville is over five hundred kilometres from here,” he said. “How will you travel?”

“We can get the train, or it’s only an hour’s flight…”

Abeja shook his head and whispered conspiratorially, “There are people who are looking for you, yes?” Gabriel nodded. “Well, they can always get on the same train as you. The same flight. You would be trapped, like sitting ducks.”

“We are not helpless,” Gabriel said.

“All the same…”

Gabriel saw the concern on the man’s face. “What have you got in mind?”

Once the others were packed, they all followed Abeja down to an old wooden garage at the back of his house. It was filled with ancient beekeeping equipment and crates of honey, ready to be shipped. In the middle sat a large vehicle of some sort under a dusty, black tarpaulin.

“This is the best way,” Abeja said. He whipped away the sheet to reveal a grubby, blue camper van. “I have had this since I was a young man,” he said. “I used to make lots of deliveries.”

“That would explain the … decoration.” Adam pointed to the large, flaking painting of a beehive on the side of the van and at the huge plastic bee on the roof, just above the windscreen.

Abeja nodded. “The engine is still good. It will get you to Seville. I have no real use for it any more.”

Rachel saw the sadness in his eyes as he spoke and remembered what he had told them the night before about the bees dying out. She wondered how much he had suffered financially; how much longer he would be able to stay in business. She walked across and slipped an arm through his. “Thank you,” she said.

He seemed to brighten up suddenly. “You are more than welcome.” He pointed at the van. “It’s not exactly inconspicuous … but it’s the best way.”

“Who’s going to drive?” Adam asked.

Duncan’s arm shot into the air. “I don’t think so,” Gabriel said.

The French boys were muttering to each other, and after a few moments Jean-Luc spoke up. “We can drive,” he said. “We can take it in turns.”

“What are you? Sixteen?” Adam asked. “That the legal age in France?”

Jean-Luc shrugged. “Legal, illegal, what’s the difference? We are good drivers.”

Gabriel nodded and the children started loading up their stuff and clambering into the camper van. As they bickered about who was going to sit where, Abeja hurried back to the house, insisting that his mother would want to see them off. When the two of them returned, there were tearful goodbyes: Morag sobbing her heart out as the old woman hugged her and stroked her hair; Rachel fighting to control the quiver in her lip as she thanked Abeja once again. Even Adam had a lump in his throat as the camper van pulled out on to the side street that led back to the main road, and everyone craned their necks to wave goodbye to the beekeeper and his mother.

“Which way?” Jean-Luc asked. He was taking first turn at the wheel.

Gabriel began unfolding the large map that Señor Abeja had given him, then stopped when Duncan cleared his throat in the seat behind him.

Morag leant forward and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. “We don’t need a map.”

“Head for the Paseo de Santa María de la Cabeza,” Duncan said. “After half a kilometre, take the exit towards Toledo, then two kilometres after that, turn on to the A-42. Exactly the same distance later, turn on to the service road and take exit six towards the M-40, then…”

Adam, Rachel and Morag were starting to giggle.
Jean-Luc held up a hand. He waited for Duncan to stop, then leant towards the dashboard and began fiddling with the old radio to try and find some music.

“Just tell me where to turn,” he said.

Two hours later, they were making good progress along the main motorway that twisted through Andalucia. The road was busy, and the landscape grew greener and more hilly as they went, becoming warmer and bathed in honey-coloured light as the sun began to drop in the late afternoon sky. On the back seat, Rachel gazed out of the window and let her mind wander; her thoughts dancing to the rhythm of the engine’s incessant sputter. Voices echoed in her head, blending into one another like a twisted tape-loop.

Her mother. Abeja. Gabriel.

I’m fine, though, baby. I promise
.

You have a great responsibility
.

Are you ready to fight?

It was quiet in the van. Bar the odd snippet of conversation, nobody had said much once they had negotiated their way out of Madrid and into open country. Rachel had been especially struck by how quiet Morag was. She sensed enormous apprehension radiating from the two youngest, and wondered if this was the longest time they had spent in any vehicle since that fateful journey with their parents five years before. Rachel knew that, if she looked hard enough, she would be able to see the pictures in the minds of Morag
and Duncan, but it would have felt invasive, somehow. If she was right, she knew what they would be thinking.

Dark water and green weed, and the lights of a car tumbling down into the depths. The silent screams for help.

Adam had tried to generate a little enjoyment. He’d told them about the games that he and Rachel had played during long drives with their parents. The silly quizzes and competitions on road trips from New York to Connecticut or down the East Coast. “See who can spot the most cars of a particular colour, like blue and red. First one to get ten red and ten blue cars is the winner, OK?”

“What do we win?” Morag had asked unenthusiastically.

“It’s just for fun,” Adam had said. “Remember, fun?”

Adam had started counting the cars out loud, but had given up when nobody had seemed willing to join in and Morag had lain down across the seat. Half an hour later, when Adam had been dropping off himself, Duncan had suddenly begun talking. “We’ve passed seventeen blue cars and fourteen red ones, and that includes lorries and coaches. There were thirty-six other vehicles of assorted colours – the most common of which was white.” It had been when he had began reciting the individual number plates that Adam had announced he was the winner and undisputed champion. That had been the last time anyone had spoken.

Rachel must have drifted off to sleep. When she opened her eyes she was cold and the sky was full of stars. They were driving along an unlit, deserted road. Jean-Bernard was now
at the wheel, and with the van’s interior in virtual darkness, she could not be sure if anyone else was awake. Then she heard Adam sigh, and up front, Jean-Luc whispered something to his brother.

“Where are we?” Rachel asked sleepily. “Are we lost?”

In front of her, Gabriel raised an arm and pointed. “Follow that,” he said.

“Follow
what
?” Jean-Bernard asked.

“The star…”

Jean-Bernard peered up through the windscreen and Rachel leant forward to do the same. One star was far brighter than the rest and, as she watched it, it seemed to drift a little. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and looked again. Jean-Bernard began shaking his head and muttering in French.

Adam nudged her. “Bit early for Christmas, isn’t it?”

“
Follow
it!” Gabriel said. “It’s not far now.”

Rachel looked out of the window but could see nothing. Not far to
what
? she thought.

The Englishman stared at the screen on his laptop. He reread the email from one of his followers, followed the link to El Telegrafo website and studied the news story from the local paper. The picture showed that the car involved in the accident had been badly damaged, but the report made it clear that nobody had been hurt.

A shame. That would have saved him a lot of trouble.

The sender went on to detail the children’s movements for the rest of their stay in the city, such as he had been able to piece together. It was all a little late now, of course, but the Englishman had not expected it to be easy.

He remembered how close he had been on the Métro in Paris. The look on the face of the boy with the green eyes. The
defiance
, even after he had been warned…

He glanced at the bottle of painkillers on the desk. The agony was almost unbearable in the evenings, but he left the bottle unopened. There were times when the pain was useful. It reminded him of what
had
been done and it helped take his mind off minor disappointments.

So he had missed the Newmans in Madrid; he would pick up their trail quickly enough. His followers were growing in numbers and the more there were, the harder they would be to avoid. Once he had put the word out, they would deal with the interfering Spaniard.

There would always be those who tried to help these children; to offer them protection. They were foolish, of course, and the Englishman would make it his mission to put them right. They would be made to pay.

An hour and a half later, the camper van began rattling across a track that felt as though no vehicle had travelled on it for a long time. The wheels tossed stones up against the underside of the van as it bumped and lurched. Staring out of the windows, Rachel could still see nothing beyond a sea
of blackness, a jagged line of mountains silhouetted against a dark grey sky and the solitary star.

They hadn’t seen a single sign of life for many kilometres.

It was getting colder inside the van. Morag and Duncan were huddling together and Adam had wrapped a jacket round his shoulders. Rachel could see Jean-Bernard shiver as he leant forward, straining to see past the camper van’s headlights, to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead of the weak, milky beams.

On Gabriel’s instruction, he had slowed the van to a crawl. The engine spluttered, as though it might die any second. Rachel was on the verge of asking where the hell they were going, when Gabriel turned round and smiled, reading her thoughts.