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

What was the use of the stupid paper? I would never be able to read it. I might as well throw it away.

I almost did. But then I changed my mind. It
was
a relic of my father, after all; this soiled paper, scrawled with unreadable words, and the pitiful little plume, and the tarnished buttons, were all I had of him, things he had once touched. I wrapped them all carefully in the linen once more, and then clambered back into my cold bed.

Hours went by before I fell asleep. I thought of Bernardinas last words: "Go saddle the sea." She had stopped in the middle, but I knew the rest of the proverb: "Saddle the sea, put a bridle on the wind, before you choose your place."

Put a bridle on the wind ... I could hear the wind wailing outside, hurling itself against the massive stone walls, rattling the casement. And mixed with it, the crying of the sheep, like sad lost souls. Where was Bernardina now? Was her soul in purgatory, or had she gone to provide the angels with her baked butter cakes, chicory salad, beans with smoked pork, and semolina balls in syrup?

Trying to say a prayer for her, I fell at last into uneasy, dream-threaded slumbers.

When I woke next it was high daylight. The room was full of sorrow, which seemed to have stolen in like a mist. There was real mist outside, too; when, as was my habit, I clambered up onto the stone windowseat and looked out toward the Sierra, all I could see was a short stretch of pale stony plain, huddled with sheep in their damp coats. The distant snowy ranges were out of sight. I could feel their icy breath, however, in
the wind that came through the fog, and I pulled on a thick sleeveless vest over my shirt and under my black jacket.

Bernardina has died. What am I going to do?

It was late, I knew, and didn't care. Presently Father Tomás came to reprimand me for not attending early mass.

"But Grandmother said go to my room and stay there—"

"Don't answer back, boy!" he snapped. "Come - along now, you are wanted in the saloon."

Dismally, I followed him down the stairs. I was only ever summoned to the saloon, now, when I had done something wrong.

The saloon was a large, handsome room, freezing cold, like all the rooms in that house except for the kitchen. My grandparents and great-aunts were all so old that I suppose they had ceased to feel the cold; they wrapped themselves in a few more shawls, that was all. Occasionally in the depths of winter my grandmother Mercedes would have a charcoal brazier placed beside her chair.

The walls were hung with linen wall hangings in dove gray and gold, and the furniture was all upholstered in gray satin. Marble side tables were protected by fringed damask cloths. Enormous walnut cabinets against the walls were filled with treasures of china and silver, which my grandmother and great-aunts polished themselves because the servants could never be trusted not to break things. The pictures, in thick gold
frames, were of dead hares, great slices of watermelon, cut salmon, and bunches of grapes, painted so realistically that you expected the fish to drip. They were supposed to be very valuable, and so were the ornaments of Toledo steel over the fireplace. So were the gilded leather-bound books in the library, and the heavy chairs of studded leather, and the gray curtains interwoven with gold thread. Everything was a treasure in that house, and for years my grandparents lived in terror of the French, who might arrive and burn it all—or the English, who were just as bad. It was a piece of luck, that Villaverde was such a high-up, tiny, unimportant place that all the armies had missed it completely in their various comings and goings. For years the silver had been hidden under clay and sacking in the stables, the pictures perched on rafters in the barns. But now the various valuables were all back in their places. All that the house lacked was sons—my grandfathers four sons, Manuel, Carlos, Juan, and Esteban, who had died in the wars, one after another, at Talavera, and La Albuera, and two at the battle of the Bidassoa. And his daughter Luisa, who had died giving birth to me.

The old people were sitting in the saloon, silent as the painted fish in the pictures, munching their breakfasts: fried eggs, cups of chocolate, and toast, which they dipped in the chocolate. I preferred Bernardinas crispy
churros
to the dry bits of toast, but nobody was offering me any breakfast.

"Boy! Come here!" said my grandfather.

I went, trying not to look humble, trying not to look cocky, and stood in front of his invalid chair, which was made of oak, steel, and damask. The Conde was very lame, and had to be wheeled everywhere in this contraption, which was equipped with a side table, a writing desk, a lamp, and a mirror.

He was a handsome old man, my grandfather; his legs might be useless, but his back was straight as a musket. Smooth gray locks, eyes like chips of coal, a beak of a nose, a gray satin jacket, striped satin waistcoat, and a snowy cravat. His face, much lined, was the same color as his jacket—like pewter. He looked at me as if I were a weevil that he had found in his toast.

"You were to be confined to your room for three days. Yet you left it without permission."

"She
asked
for me—she was
dying
—" I began hotly. I had meant to keep my temper, but injustice always put me in a passion.

The Count raised his hand.

"That is not all. Father Tomás tells me that he found in your schoolroom a disgracefully impertinent poem that you had written about him, and a drawing so outrageous that I ordered him to tear up the paper before your grandmother or any of your great-aunts should chance to set eyes on it."

I couldn't help half a grin at the thought of their expressions if they
had seen
that drawing, but the Count added coldly, "Father Tomás has done so."

Miserable old pig, I thought. Trust him to go rooting about among my schoolbooks and papers while I was shut up.

I hope the poem stung his thick hide.

"Also," continued my grandfather, "when Father Agustín returned from his visit to the monastery at Lugo and retired for the night, he found among the coverings of his couch a dead fish. I have no doubt that it was you who put it there—such disgusting pranks have been all too common."

"I did
not
—" I began indignantly. Father Agustín was rather stupid, and I had not been able to resist the trick with his dangling waist cord, when it occurred to me, but I had no real grudge against him; at least the subjects he taught were a little more interesting than the prosing of Father Tomás; and he had once showed me how to make a kite.

"As if I'd put a fish in his bed! What a stupid notion! Besides, how could I? I was in my room."

"You have played such tricks before. And what reason have we to believe you?" said my grandfather coldly.

All the old great-aunts—six of them had flocked to this house, from every part of Spain, during the French wars, and had stayed ever since—nodded their mantilla'd heads up and down and hissed to one another: "Disgraceful, disgraceful! The boy's little better than a savage. But can you wonder? Poor Francisco—how I pity him, having such a troublesome charge."

Moan, moan, mutter, mutter, mutter. Isadora di
rected a particularly mean stare at me; I daresay she was the one who had persuaded my grandfather that I must have put the fish in Father Agustín's bed; she was always carrying spiteful tales against me.

"I don't tell lies!"

"Hold your tongue, boy!" said my grandfather wearily. "It is the height of impertinence to speak to your elders until you are requested to do so."

"It isn't fair!" I burst out in a real rage. "I am the only person in this house who is not allowed to speak when I have something to say. Every soul about the place despises me. And yet I ám your
grandson!
"

"Oh, how outrageous to address his grandfather in such a way," muttered the old ladies behind their fans.

My grandfather, turning his face away as if he could not bear the sight of me, said to Father Tomás, who was standing by him looking like a hungry raven, "Take the boy away and beat him. Three strokes for leaving his room without permission, three for the poem and the drawing, three for the fish in Father Agustín's bed, and three for his impertinence to me. Twelve in all."

"Doesn't Your Excellency think he ought to have a few more strokes for the poem and the drawing?" said Father Tomás, obviously disappointed. "After all, he was not only ridiculing
me
—as if
I
should care for a boy's insults—but was making fun of Holy Church in my person!"

"Twelve will be sufficient," said my grandfather.
"You may do it in the dining room. Then take him back to his chamber."

"You're a lot of old fossils!" I yelled, as Father Tomás dragged me away by my ear. "You and your silver plates and your china jugs and your dead-as-dust treasures.
That's
what I think of you all!"

Father Tomás was hauling me past a leather-and-gilt table on which there was a little alabaster statue of a boy. I snatched the statue as we wrestled past, and flung it onto the stone floor, where it broke into three pieces.

A hiss went up from all the old ladies.

"Oh!
Look
what he has done now! The monster! Why, he must have the
devil
in him!"

But my grandfather only said, "Three more strokes, Father Tomás, for the statue."

The dining room had a huge polished table, and more chairs of studded oxhide. Father Tomás tied my hands to one of the chairs with a cord from his pocket, and beat me with vigor. There was plenty of room for him to wield his cane—you could have fitted a couple of farm wagons into that room as well as the table and sideboard. I pressed my lips together so as not to make a sound; I could picture all the old things in the next room pricking up their ears as they sipped their chocolate, hoping to hear me blubber.

When Father Tomás had done, he pushed me back to my bedroom and this time bolted me in, shouting through the keyhole, "There you stay, until your grandfather decides you can come out!"

"I
prefer
to stay in! I don't want to see
any
of you, ever again!" I shouted back, and then I went and lay on the bed, on my stomach. I wondered if the whole world was as hateful and wretched as this house. I could not call to mind one single thing that seemed pleasant or cheering—so, in the end, I went to sleep for a couple of hours. When I woke, feeling very hungry and stiff, I went back to poring over the papers Bob had left me, for something to pass the time. By daylight it was easier to see the shaky scratches, but no easier to guess at their meaning: I worked all the way through, line by line, wondering if the words were English at all—maybe, they were in French—or some strange script, Arabic or Moorish? But then, on the last page, after a lot of thought, I decided that I recognized some English words. One was "the," another was "and." Hurray! thought I. With two words, I am on my way. The sentence in which they occurred was printed out more carefully than the rest, in large wavering spidery lines. Probably, I thought, the person who wrote these pages—my father?—wanted to make sure that whoever read them would understand this at least.

I stared and stared, and at last, after perhaps another sixty minutes of utter concentration, decided that those particular words were "The Rose and Ring-Dove." But, given that was so, the words made no sense to me, nor did they help me in deciphering the rest of the message, which remained wholly cryptic.

The Rose and Ring-Dove. What could that mean? Was it the name of a ship? A book, a play, a poem?

I had gone as far as this when there came a tap on the door, and the outer bolt was cautiously pulled back.

"Who is it?" I growled. Yesterday it would have been Bernardina. Today, there was nobody I wanted to see.

"It's me, Pedro."

"What, again? Haven't you got me into enough trouble?"

"I am very sorry," he said, coming in. He carried a handful of fritters, a bag of nuts, and some slices of ham, which he put down on the stone windowseat. He said, "It was I who put the fish in Father Agustín's bed."

"Do you think I didn't guess?"

"It was good of you not to tell."

"What would be the use? They would have beaten me anyway. Thanks for the food. Now, get out!"

"I don't blame you for being angry," he said dejectedly.

I threw a shoe after him as he left, but my aim was half-hearted. It missed, as he slammed the door hurriedly. I had an idea that he had forgotten to shoot the bolt—or perhaps he had left it undone on purpose.

My first act was to eat the ham and fritters. Then I put on my riding jacket, found my hat, took a little money which I had saved up in a box, and the nuts, and the bundle of my father's things, and a book, and put all these things in a canvas bag. Then I tried the
door. As I thought, it was unbolted. I walked out, and bolted it, just to puzzle them.

Then I went down to the stable. No one was likely to be about at this time of day; it was midafternoon, siesta time.

On my way to the horse and mule stalls, I passed the little harness room where Bob had always slept. As I invariably did, I opened the door and put in my head. The room was just as Bob had left it—blanket folded, a few clothes hanging on a hook. Bob had died in the stable one night, doctoring a colicky mare. His body had been found next day.

"Bob?" I said softly into the empty room. I did not expect an answer. I don't know
what
I expected. Only, the room still held such a memory of him that it comforted me to say his name there.

"Bob, I'm going. I'm going to try and find my father's family."

There was no reply from inside the room. Only a mew, from the stable yard behind me.

I closed the door again and walked over the cobbles to the horse boxes. Old Gato was waiting for me, as he always did when I came to the stable. He was the stable cat, really, but I pretended to myself that he was mine, because he seemed to like me best. He was a stripy ocher color, with big yellow eyes. Old, and rather lame, but a clever mouser.

"A tiger, just like you,
hijo,
" Bernie said once, laughing. "No wonder you are so fond of each other."