(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (13 page)

Luckily she proved both shrewd and dexterous; more so than her son, indeed, who, coming back with a coil of rope and a cord, stood gaping, quite unable to comprehend what I was at.

I now took the thin cord, and tied its end to the thread; then signaled the old lady to pull it in very carefully, which she did. This was the most apprehensive part of the business, and took some time, for she durst not pull too hard. But at last she had the end of the cord in her hand, and waved her kerchief triumphantly. By
now her son had understood, and he made haste to fasten the cord to the rope, which was pulled across in its turn.

Now came another anxious moment.

"Will your mother have enough strength to tie the rope suffciently firmly to a tree?" I asked the son, who muttered, "We are in the hands of God. I do not know."

However, it was plain that God was on our side, for the valiant old lady wound the rope a great many times round a fair-sized chestnut tree and then made a great many knots; we, meanwhile, did the same on our side; and then the boat was secured to the rope by another cord, doubled and knotted twice, so that we had a ferry rigged up, which was subject only to two possible hazards: that the trees at either end might be uprooted, or, more probably, that the rope might break.

Spurred on by hope, the man sprang into the boat, and said to me, "You will come, too? You will help me? It will be easier to catch the pigs if there are two of us."

So, leaving Asistenta perched on the saddle of the tethered mule (whose nose I kissed, just in case I was washed away downstream and we only met again in Paradise), I embarked with the man in his boat, which was, in fact, of a good size, large enough to take five or six pigs.

The passage across the river made my stomach lurch and my legs feel strangely weak; especially in the center, where the rope dipped below water, and several
rolling billows slopped over us as we pulled our way along; but we reached the bank of the island without mishap, and I used my hat to bail the water out of the boat.

The old lady was waiting for us.

"Thanks be to María Santísima! The pigs and I are saved!" she exclaimed, embracing her son. "Though how the good God came to put such a clever notion into your head, I can't think!"

"Never mind that! Fetch the pigs!" was his reply.

I suggested, however, that she should get into the boat, so as to encourage any pigs who might be afraid to embark. Indeed we had considerable trouble with them, for although we could drive them to the verge, when they saw they were expected to jump into the wildly tipping boat, they attempted to escape along the bank with shrieks of terror. Pigs are stupid things! Give me a mule any day.

In the end we had to lift them in, one by one, while the old mother hung on to the rope, in order to prevent the boat slipping away into midstream.

I have never in my whole life handled anything so heavy as those frantic, wet, slippery pigs; they might have been stuffed with lead, instead of chestnuts.

And all the time I noticed that the water was rising along the bank, higher and higher.

There were too many pigs for one boatload.
We
had to go back three times.

"While chasing the pigs around the island (which, now half covered with floodwater, was not much bigger
than a small paddock) I had observed that the channel on the far side of it was much narrower than the one we had crossed in the boat; the second part of the bridge spanned it in a single arch. Nor was that bridge so deeply submerged, for the arch was higher.

Therefore, on my last trip to the island, I led my mule into the boat, where she stood shuddering with disapproval and horror, her nostrils raised, and her eyes staring. I gended and soothed her, and bade her follow the example of the parrot, who was not in the least agitated, but merely informed us that the time was one hour after noon, and that foxglove seeds were good for palpitations.

The pig farmer was so amazed to see me bring my mule on board that he had no wonder left over for the parrot.

"You're never going to try and get across the other channel?" says he, gaping.

"I shall try," said I, "for I am anxious to get to Santander. But if it should not prove possible, I beg you'll have the kindness to wait till I have made the attempt before you undo the rope."

Going and coming with the pigs, we had brought over a second rope, passed it round a tree, and taken the end back to the near side of the river; so now the first rope could be undone and the second one pulled in when he was safely back.

"Oh, very well, very well," said he fussily, "but I may tell you that I have a dozen uses for that rope and cannot leave it there for more than a short time."

Reflecting that stupidity and ingratitude often seem to go together, I led the mule out of the boat and onto the island. Then I helped the man assemble his last levy of pigs and urge them on board; this took a shorter time than the previous boatloads, for there was less of the island for them to run around on. Once they were all in the boat and safely launched on their way, I mounted the mule and directed her nervous course to the half-submerged bridge.

"Now,
niña,
" I said to her, "you must be a brave
macha;
be a brave
muchacha;
keep to the middle and don't let your feet be swept from under you. I'd lead you, but I think my weight on your back keeps you steadier. Just go steadily along—one foot after the other, that's the way—good girl—and if we get safe to the other side, you shall have the biggest piece of bread that's left in my saddlebag, all for yourself."

Slowly and steadily she pushed her way through the fierce, pulling water, which at times rose up to her shoulders. I had some trouble myself to keep steady on her back as the current dragged at my legs; and the ›last stretch was the worst, for a strong eddy swirled in under the bank, just where the curve of the bridge descended to its lowest point. However, by good fortune and God's goodwill we struggled through, and up onto solid ground, where I dismounted and hugged the mule, then unsaddled her so that she could relieve her spirits by rolling and shaking some of the wet off her shaggy hide.

Having reharnessed her, I rode down to a point
from which I could signal to the pig farmer and his mother that I had safely made the crossing, for the island would have impeded their view.

The old lady fell on her knees at sight of me and made signs of blessings with her hands. Her son was hard at work coiling up his rope, having pulled up the boat high on the bank. Looking back at the island, I saw that I had made my crossing only just in time, for now it was completely under water; only the branches of the trees could be seen, bowing downstream with the current; and the bridge by which I had crossed was not to be seen at all.

I was about to turn away when I saw a sight that made me thank Providence even more heartily for my safe passage of the river.

Two men riding ponies had arrived at the far bank and were talking to the pig farmer, gesturing and pointing over the water. They wore black hats and carried staves; they looked like
alguacils.
The man glanced across at me, and shrugged; his old mother spread out her hands and shook her head.

Whether they were saying that it was not possible to cross the river, or that I was a stranger and they did not know me, I could not guess, but I waited no longer; picking up the parrot, I kicked the mule into her fast trot, and made off along the road that led eastward from the bridge.

Next befell me a very strange adventure, which makes me shudder, even now, when I recall it, so singular, so utterly uncanny were the circumstances, and so dreadful might the end have been, if matters had turned out differently.

After leaving the farmer rejoicing over his pigs by the swollen river, the mule and I turned uphill, on a steep winding road that climbed out of the
ria
through a forest of close-set beeches and gum trees, with all kinds of dense leafy bushes growing in between; so that we were soon out of sight of the water.

The mule and I were both fatigued—I from chasing and grappling with the wayward pigs, the mule from her valiant struggle through the flooded river—besides which, we had been traveling all the previous night—so I resolved that, since we must now be safe from pursuit while the river remained in flood, we might as well stop at the next village and find lodging for the night.

The rain still pelted down, which encouraged me to hope that the river would not be likely to return to its normal level for some time, but made me dismiss any notion of sleeping out of doors under a haystack. Indeed, there were no haystacks to be seen hereabouts; nothing but sodden thickety woodland.

By slow degrees the rain slackened off, but now a thick sea mist added to the difficulties of our journey. All that could be seen was the wavering white, indistinct shapes of tree trunks along the verge of the road. All that could be heard—apart from the mule's footfalls—were the drips falling from the trees, the sigh of the branches, and the infrequent call of a pheasant through the woods. The road climbed and climbed; presently the forest changed from beech and gum to fir and pine, but by now the light was so bad that I would hardly have known this had my nostrils not picked up the tarry, bitter scent of the pine needles on the wet ground. Even the surefooted mule was obliged to go more and more slowly in the fog, and she began to grumble and snort, as mules will, demanding, in her own way, when this interminable climb would be ended and she given a dry stable and supper.

"I wish I knew,
niña,
" I said to her. "I begin to fear that in the fog we must have strayed off the coast road onto some mountain track. But there is no sense in turning round; this path must lead
somewhere
if we only continue on it for long enough."

The mule shook her head, as if she violently disagreed, but she did not rebel, poor thing; she was too
tired for that; so on we went, I reciting Latin verses, and anything else that came into my head, to her and the parrot, in order to prevent myself from felling asleep. Also I pondered in my mind about the pig farmer and his stupidity and greed; he must have known the river was liable to flood, living by it as he did, so why had he sent his mother and the pigs to the island? If he wanted the pigs to eat the chestnuts before they were all washed away, why not take the pigs to the island himself, for he would be able to judge better how long it was prudent to stay there? Finding no clue to his actions, I thought instead about my grandfather, and decided that, if he had been a poor pig farmer, he would not have sent my grandmother or Doña Isadora to herd his pigs, but would have gone himself.

The picture of Doña Isadora herding pigs made me chuckle, and I cheered myself for quite a long way by fancying her struggles as she tried to pick up the pigs and drop them into the boat. How they had squealed!—as if they thought their throats were being cut.

Then the remembered sound of squealing in my mind's ear changed to a real sound—the faint, faraway bleat of a goat. At this, the mule pricked up her ears. Presently the bleating was followed by the faint sound of a bell.

"Come, our troubles are over,
mocha,
" I said to the mule. "All you have to do is walk in the direction of that sound, and we shall find a bed for me, a stable for
you, a big bowl of
estofado,
plenty of hay, and a handful of barley. Just go straight ahead."

The mule, however, refused to make directly for the sound of the bell, but chose her own way, and I, remembering the incident of the boggy meadow, did not try to persuade her to do otherwise. She pursued a zigzag course through the fog, still ascending a steep track To my relief, the sound of the bell continued to grow louder, and I thought hopefully: Perhaps it is some friendly monastery, built to supply food and shelter for the pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela. By now we must be up on a high mountaintop, a long way from the coast.

We had left the forest behind us, and the air was bitterly cold. The parrot, who, I thought, had been asleep, tucked inside my jacket, woke up and muttered something about the constellation Orion, in a hoarse grumbling manner, which made me laugh.

"If only we could see the constellation Orion, Asistenta, we should have been able to find our way to shelter long ago."

No monastery did we discover, but presently found ourselves among a herd of goats—easily recognizable by their smell and their voices, and their shining eyes like candles in the dimness—guarded by a couple of ragged snarling dogs. The bell was attached to the leader of the herd.

"Come, we must be near
some
kind of habitation," I told the mule, peering about in the icy fog, which was now moving and drifting on the back of a sharp
wind. Then, among broken gliding layers of mist, I perceived objects which, at first, I took to be large round boulders, haphazardly grouped at either side of the track.

Looking closely, I saw that dim lights gleamed here and there among them. Also I smelled smoke, and dung.

Could they be dwellings?—huts?—the homes of human beings? Or were they the lairs of animals? They seemed too small for men to live in.

There was, however, the evidence of the goats, which the dogs had brought up among the huts. And now a dark figure came out, stooping, from one of the holes where a light showed.

When it was fully out, it stood upright and moved toward me. Through the floating mist, I saw that it was an old man with scanty white hair falling to his shoulders. He wore some kind of dark, ragged garment, tied round the waist by a cord.

I said, and my voice shook a little,"
Buenas noches,
señor. Can I get food and a bed in this place, for myself and my mule?"

His reply came after a moment's pause. He spoke in a strange, lisping voice, and in so strange and broad a mountain dialect that, for a moment, I did not catch his meaning. But when I did, it startled me to the marrow of my bones.