Bridle the Wind Read online

  ‘It is one of those English dogs!’ said Juan, peering ahead into the dusk. And he added indignantly, ‘Savage brutes of animals they are!’

  ‘English dogs? What can you mean?’

  ‘When the English were in this region before the siege of Bayonne, the Duq de Vailanton’ – by which I assumed that Juan meant the Duke of Wellington – ‘kept a pack of his English chiens de chasse –’

  ‘Foxhounds –’

  ‘Foxhounds,’ Juan repeated carefully, ‘and they have run wild, and their descendants have plagued the farmers and wild animals ever since.’

  It was true that the black, brown, and white animal barking and leaping at the foot of a lime tree did bear a strong resemblance to the pack of foxhounds kept on my English grandfather’s estate – except that it was smaller and thinner and a great deal wilder and more vociferous.

  ‘There is a poor terrified cat that it has chased up the tree,’ said Juan. ‘Be off, you detestable brute!’ and he aimed a kick at the frenzied hound.

  ‘Malepeste, Juan!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do not involve yourself in more trouble than you need. Come away, for heaven’s sake!’

  But Juan, snatching up a dead bough, thwacked the dog with it, and reached up to rescue the cat, which, hurt and bleeding, had scrambled six or seven feet up the trunk of the tree, but seemed unable to climb any farther, and was hanging by all her claws, looking over her shoulder at the dog, in imminent danger, it seemed, of slipping backward into its jaws.

  Juan took hold of the cat, and was rewarded by being sharply bitten.

  ‘Ah!’ he cried out, but kept his grip of the animal, and commanded, ‘Felix, beat that brute of a dog with your makhila.’

  ‘It is probably somebody’s faithful house-dog and I shall be seized by the town watch.’ But I did as he suggested and gave the beast a poke with the point, which sent it howling off down the street. Next moment Juan was almost knocked flying by a tiny girl who rushed at him crying, ‘Minou, Minou!’ and tried to grab the cat.

  ‘Gently, petite,’ said Juan. ‘Is she your cat? She is hurt, poor thing, see, and must be treated with care.’ The child stared at him uncomprehendingly, and he switched from French to Basque. At this juncture a very small, wizened man arrived, apparently the child’s father, who in a torrent of incomprehensible language evidently scolded his daughter for permitting her pet to stray, ordered her to return home, and thanked us for our intervention. Then he took the cat from Juan, handling it more delicately than, from his rough appearance, I would have expected, touched his beretta to us, and vanished with his child into the dusk.

  ‘Now perhaps we can attend to practical matters,’ I said to Juan, who, sucking his lacerated hand, merely shrugged and followed me without replying.

  However we were due for disappointment. When we reached the cousin’s house, up a steep, narrow street, we found that the big handsome mansion was closed, dark and silent; evidently the cousin was away from home.

  ‘We had best find some barn or straw stack on the edge of town,’ I was beginning, ‘and return to the horse fair early tomorrow’ – when we heard a loud, cheerful sound of music: flute, drum, bagpipes, and stringed instruments.

  ‘Oh, listen!’ cried Juan joyfully, ‘I believe it must be a masquerade! Do let us go and see!’ And without pausing for reflection, or to see if I agreed, he bounded off down the street at a run.

  I, perforce, followed him, thinking that to be in charge of Juan, since his health had begun to mend, was hardly easier than looking after an unbroken colt or a wild hedge bird.

  Back at the main square, which was now illuminated by flaring lamps, we saw that what seemed the entire population of the city had assembled round the sides of the place, while in the centre a series of amazingly costumed characters pranced and capered, receiving enthusiastic applause.

  Juan, whose arm I had managed to grab before he disappeared in the throng, pulled me along to where we had a good view and excitedly told me the names of the dancing characters as they performed.

  ‘See: those are the Reds; they always come first. Look, that big one with the bells on his sash, waving a horsetail – he is Tcherrero; and that one behind him is the Standard-bearer; then the one in black, prowling and pouncing – is he not wonderful! – he is Gathuzain, the cat-man; those two holding tongs, they are the Marichalak, the blacksmiths; the gorgeously dressed couple are Jauna eta Anderea, the Earl and his wife; those ones in scarlet jackets with bells and flat hats, they are the Satans, that is, Satan and Bulgifer; and the one with the wicker horse’s head and draped body, he is Zamalzain.’

  ‘But what does it all mean?’ I asked, watching the dancers, who were, indeed, amazingly skilful and spirited. ‘Who are these characters? What do they represent?’

  ‘Oh, how should I know?’ Juan replied impatiently. ‘They are themselves, that is all. Why should you ask for a meaning? Listen to the music! Does it not make your feet itch to dance?’

  The music was strange to my ears, but full of a wild energy; it was performed on two drums, flute, trumpet, a small three-holed instrument which Juan told me was a tchurula, and a six-stringed guitar called a soinua. The players sweated with the vigour of their performance, while the first group of dancers gave way to a second, of comedians and clowns, dressed as gipsies and tinkers, who hopped about performing all manner of antics, evidently making fun of local worthies, for there would be roars of laughter from the crowd at references we did not understand. Then the first group returned to perform a series of intricate and formal dances.

  ‘These dances are called the bralia?,’whispered Juan. ‘Are they not superb? Oh, how I wish I could put that motion into words.’

  Some of the dances were performed with swords, or with staves, which the performers handled with wonderful dexterity. Then they placed a large goblet, full of wine, in the middle of the cleared space, and proceeded to do a most remarkable ballet over and around it.

  ‘This is called the godalet danza!’ Juan instructed me.

  Time and again each of the dancers leaped over the glass, they spun round it, passed by it, skimmed on either side of it, and finally the big one called Zamalzain, who greatly excelled all the rest in the agility and elasticity of his bounds, twiddles, bounces, and pirouettes, was left to dance by himself. At times he seemed to hang in the air over the goblet, remaining suspended apparently in defiance of gravity – and all this was done without spilling one drop of the wine!

  Juan, clutching my arm, seemed wholly taken out of himself in delight at the spectacle; he had almost ceased to breathe in his absorption and admiration. When Zamalzain finally concluded his dance with a sweeping bow, Juan joined frenziedly in the applause, then drew a long, long sigh of contentment.

  ‘Oh, how I love to watch the dancing! How I have always wished to take part in it. But, of course, my father would never allow such a thing.’

  ‘Why not –?’ I was beginning, when he gripped my arm again in an entirely different way. This was a grip of shock and terror. He had gone deathly pale.

  ‘Oh, mon Dieu! Felix! Do you see – over there – under the big lime tree – standing under the light – there are Cocher and Father Vespasian!’

  ‘No, no, Juan, you must be mistaken – surely’ – But while one of his hands was still frantically gripping my wrist, the other pointed, and following the direction of his shaking finger, I saw two figures, one of which was indubitably the man called Cocher, readily recognisable by his tallness, shock of white hair, and the black patch over one eye; while the other …

  ‘Quick! Come away!’ I hissed to Juan, and dragged him back into the crowd, glancing over my shoulder for an instant as I did so. It seemed to me that the two men, after a word had passed between them, were moving in our direction.

  The crowd had broken up, now that the formal dancing was over, and many smaller parties of dancers were capering about the streets, to the music of fifes, tabors, tambourines, and zam-bombas. On the edge of the main square I noticed a pile of cos
tumes, cast off by the group called the Reds while they refreshed themselves with wine. Struck by a lightning notion I clapped the wicker framework of the character called Zamalzain over my head, and Juan, instantly divining my plan, thrust his beretta and jacket into his bag, and pulled on the scarlet bell-embroidered jacket, scarlet silk scarf, and three-cornered hat hung with ribbons of a Satan. He also snatched up the Satan’s wand, a stick adorned with red ribbons ending in fishhooks.

  ‘Dance!’ I shouted in his ear, and myself broke into a series of gambols, capers, twirls, and prances, which I hoped would sufficiently resemble the steps of Zamalzain to deceive the onlookers; I had occasionally (unknown to my grandfather) danced at the peasants’ celebrations in Villaverde, and learned some flamenco steps which were not too unlike these Basque dances; while Juan, with admirable spirit, considering the fright we had just been given and the distance we had travelled that day, followed my example, striding with a springing gait, leaping into the air, spinning round, and flinging out the hooked ribbons of his staff as if to snatch members of the audience into his power.

  ‘I am Satan!’ he cried. ‘Beware, beware, ye sinners!’

  I could not help but admire his courage, since the moment before he had seemed almost paralytic with terror.

  And I myself, indeed, had felt a most singular clutch of dread at my heart when I set eyes on that figure under the lime tree. Surely it was not Father Vespasian? Surely it was Plumet? The two men had been much of a height; I thought I must have been mistaken. Father Vespasian was drowned, he had sunk below the waters of St Just bay; or, by this time, his drowned corpse would have been retrieved by the monks of the Abbey and would be lying at rest in the graveyard on the headland. What could the Abbot possibly be doing in the place du marche of St Jean Pied de Port? I must have been mistaken, I thought, as I swung and capered and gesticulated, making my way all the time, erratically but steadily, towards the edge of town, while Juan followed close behind me.

  Then, rounding a corner, we saw the two men again; this time they had with them a shorter one, hunchbacked, his small pointed head sunk between his shoulders. They stood at an intersection of ways, talking urgently, looking in all directions, evidently uncertain which road to take. The one who might or might not be Plumet had his head turned away; I could not see his face.

  There was no choice but to dance past them, for our example had been followed by a dozen others and we were now at the head of quite a procession, while the spectators laughed and cheered us on. I felt confident enough in my concealing horse’s head, but what of Juan? Spinning around, I saw that he had pulled the Satan’s red silk scarf up to cover his face, so that only his eyes showed above it; thus disguised, he boldly danced up to the three men, casting out his hooked ribbons as if to tweak them; then, as the third man turned round, he bounded after me, taking a huge leap, which looked as if it were done in exuberance but which I thought was really prompted by sheer terror; for, seen thus close to, there could be no question but that the third man was the Abbot of St Just de Seignanx, white-faced, flame-eyed, unmistakable. What could he be doing here, with members of the Mala Gente? One could not even begin to guess. My heart felt like an icy stone inside me as we quitted the flare-lit streets of the town and plunged into the darkness beyond.

  The other dancers had left us and turned back into the town; we were suddenly alone.

  ‘Are they after us?’ gasped Juan.

  ‘No, we have lost them – I think. Let us hide here and wait.’

  A beech grove bordered the highway; we plunged into its shadow, put twelve yards or so between us and the road, then stopped, hidden behind trees, and waited to see if we were pursued. A long time passed and nobody came; all we could hear was the distant music of the masquerade, and the beating of our own hearts.

  At last I drew a long breath and said, ‘I think we have managed to lose them. But we had better not go back into the town.’

  ‘Oh, no, no!’ breathed Juan. ‘Let us not lose a minute but put as much distance between us and them as possible. What shall we do with these?’

  He was pulling off his Satan’s hat and jacket.

  ‘Hang them on a tree,’ said I, doing so with my horse’s head. ‘Somebody will be sure to find them.’ And I laid a few coins at the foot of the tree to pay the owner for their use.

  Despite his terror and chattering teeth, Juan could not refrain from a chuckle.

  ‘Even you, virtuous Felix, sometimes steal!’

  ‘That was not theft but borrowing,’ I replied coldly.

  I felt his thin, cold hand steal into mine.

  ‘I know it! I was only teasing. And I think you showed wonderful presence d’esprit in clapping on that horse’s head and beginning to dance. J felt so paralysed with fear that I was like a rabbit hypnotised by a serpent; I was on the point of walking up and offering myself back to them! But how well you dance, Felix! I had no idea that an English boy could foot it so nimbly.’

  ‘You did not do so badly yourself! And I am not English, but Spanish.’

  Then we saved our breath for walking through the wood, which was very dark, for the moon had not yet risen. On the far side, beyond the trees, we almost tripped over a village; I say almost tripped, for the houses, or hovels, were so low that they seemed more like pigsties or dog kennels than dwellings meant for humans. But human they were, lit by small gleams of light, enlivened by low human voices, and made welcoming by smells of food and cookery.

  In fact a shrill astonished babble of voices greeted us as we stumbled into the dim circle of illumination; voices of wonder and alarm, then of welcome and goodwill. For a moment or two I was filled with fearful uneasiness, remembering a strange heathen hamlet of mountain folk I had wandered upon in Spain, where the inhabitants seemed prepared to make me into a human sacrifice; but I soon saw that these little people were of a very different kind.

  Little they certainly were; none of them was higher than myself or Juan, and many were far shorter; they were blunt-featured, with strangely shaped ears, but not otherwise peculiar or ill-looking; the garments they wore were similar to all others in the region, but each had, embroidered upon the shoulder, a three-toed crow’s-foot emblem. They clustered around us, smiling and pointing, but speaking among themselves such a rustic form of the Basque language that, so far as I was concerned, they might well have been a flock of crows cawing.

  Juan seemed in no way disconcerted by their appearance, and they were plainly prepared to be friendly and hospitable to us; I soon saw why, for among them was the small man with the wizened face and the tiny girl whose cat Juan had saved from the foxhound; the latter went up to Juan and wound her threadlike arms round his knees – she could reach no higher – while he, looking somewhat embarrassed, patted her head.

  Then we were ushered into a hut – for their thatched houses were little more; the thatch came down to the ground, and a hole let out the smoke from the fire in the middle. We were given something in wooden bowls that seemed to be a mess of biscuit, onions, liver, and beans, all boiled together, washed down with rough red wine; it was tasty enough, and we were in no mood to be critical. We then made signs indicating a great need for sleep, and were respectfully led to a smaller hut on the edge of the settlement, which contained a heap of bracken and straw piled high.

  ‘Felix?’ whispered Juan through the silence when at last we had been left alone.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Was that indeed Father Vespasian? It looked like him – yet it also looked like Plumet. Which of them was it?’

  His cold hand stole once more into mine.

  I took a long time trying to decide what to answer him, and before I made up my mind, he whispered, ‘Do you think it could be both of them?’

  ‘Yes. I do. That is what I do think.’

  ‘S-so do I,’ he said, shivering. ‘And the thought makes my heart die of terror within me.’

  ‘Come, now,’ said I, though I knew exactly how he felt, for I felt the same, ‘pluck up y
our spirits. Think! God has seen fit to help and preserve us so far. Why, we do not know. But He must have some purpose in leading us along. I do not believe that He will desert us now. So we must not let ourselves be too afraid. It would be ungrateful.’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Juan agreed, but he sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Ask me some questions in Euskara.’

  After a moment Juan said, ‘What is a man?’

  ‘Gizon.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Gizonek.’

  ‘What is “I have seen the house”?’

  ‘Ikusi dut etxea.’

  ‘Very good, Felix. You are coming along.’

  Then he repeated a couple of lines of Basque verse which I could not understand.

  ‘What does that mean, Juan?’

  ‘I will wait until I can translate it into English to tell you,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Gab-boon, Felix.’

  ‘Gab-boon, Juan.’

  And so we slept.

  5

  We encounter gypsies and buy pottoka; are entertained by a hermit and obliged to visit a smith; the bertsulari contest; fleeing the Gente, we enter the mountains

  I was awakened by a sharp cry and sprang confusedly from my pile of bracken, fearing I do not know what – devils, brigands, wild beasts. I had been roused from some black and fiery dream, in which Father Vespasian, with a white crumpled face and eyes like beacons flaring, pursued us, wielding a pronged trident, over an oozy marsh in which we sank at every step, while he rapidly overtook us.

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ I mumbled in fright, looking all about me.

  But the cause of Juan’s alarm was merely a large rat which had sniffed inquisitively at his nose and now, startled at our noise, scampered away and out through a hole in the thatch.

  ‘Only a rat!’ I exclaimed in disgust. ‘I thought at least we were surrounded by the Gente! What a child you are!’

  ‘I hate rats.’ Juan gave me an angry look, ‘If it had sniffed at your nose, I daresay you would have jumped and cried out. You need not be so superior!’