Read Online (2/3) The Teeth of the Gale by Joan Aiken - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Aiken
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out of my chamber.
Hen-witted old creatures, I thought, as they twittered and clattered their way down the flight of stone stairs outside my door, silly, self-absorbed old fools. All they worry about is where their next meal is coming from. As if I would let their remonstrances affect me in any way—specially in a matter such as this!
***
M Y GRANDFATHER had interviewed Pedro while I slept, and arrangements were already in preparation for our new journey. Pedro was so unaffectedly delighted at hearing he was to accompany me again that I had not the heart to let him know how contrary to my wish this had been.
"Look!" he said with pride. "The Conde has lent me this pair of pistols, which belonged to your uncle Esteban! What an honor! Are they not handsome? How far is it to Bilbao? I believe the people all speak Basque in that place. How in the world shall we make ourselves understood?"
I remembered how Juana had attempted in vain to teach me Basque, or, as it should properly be called, Euskara. It is undoubtedly a language of the Devil. In all the weeks we were together I learned only about half a dozen words:
gab-boon, egg-en-noon,
for good night, good morning,
gizon,
a man,
khatten,
to eat,
erratten,
to drink. But, they say, Euskara is the language that our father Adam spoke in Eden.
"Don't worry your head," I told Pedro. "Nearly all the Basques speak some Spanish and some French."
My grandfather sent for me after dinner and presented me with a corresponding pair of pistols that had belonged to my uncle Juan.
"I hope you will not need to use them," said he. "But it is well to be provided against danger. And they are good weapons. Besides, if de la Trava has really taken refuge in the High Pyrenees, you may need to protect yourselves against wolves or wild boar. Ha! Now your eyes begin to sparkle. Well, I hope such beasts may prove the worst perils that you have to encounter. Wolves can be easier to tackle than wicked men."
"Grandfather ... my great-aunts Josefina and Visitación seem to believe there is a plot..."
"I know," he said seriously. "Poor old ladies—they see plots in everything. Just the same, they need not be wrong. I have today heard a strange and troubling tale"—glancing at a sombrero, which for the first time I noticed lying on the large table where he kept estate maps. The sight of it surprised me, firstly, because my grandfather had almost given up going outdoors since his house arrest, even though that had now been revoked; secondly, because if he did venture out, he wore an old-fashioned tricorne, never a sombrero. "The villagers of Navia came to me, while you slept, to inform me that there had been a landslide on the road from Becerrea and that two travelers had been killed by it. The slide must have taken place after you and Pedro passed that way; I thank God that
your
lives were spared. The matter was reported to me as
Corregidor
of the district."
Now I found myself in a severe dilemma; I had not told my grandfather about the action taken by the farmer of Navia. Ought I to do so? The man would have to be tried for manslaughter—or murder—would probably be executed—
While these thoughts ran through my head, the Conde continued.
"Men from Navia dug the road clear, thus discovering the two bodies. One of them, it seems, was El Caramanchel, a notorious brigand, and one of the greatest rascals in all Spain."
I nodded. I had heard often enough, at Salamanca, of El Caramanchel and his outrageous crimes.
"There was a price upon his head, which the people of Navia intend to claim, so his end will afflict nobody and will benefit many. But the other man, who was with him, did not appear to be a robber; he had papers on him showing him to be a government clerk from Salamanca."
I glanced again toward the hat on the table. Now I knew why it was so familiar. It was the hat of Sancho the Spy!
"But what in the world," said my grandfather, "was a civil servant from Salamanca doing so far from
Hen-witted old creatures, I thought, as they twittered and clattered their way down the flight of stone stairs outside my door, silly, self-absorbed old fools. All they worry about is where their next meal is coming from. As if I would let their remonstrances affect me in any way—specially in a matter such as this!
***
M Y GRANDFATHER had interviewed Pedro while I slept, and arrangements were already in preparation for our new journey. Pedro was so unaffectedly delighted at hearing he was to accompany me again that I had not the heart to let him know how contrary to my wish this had been.
"Look!" he said with pride. "The Conde has lent me this pair of pistols, which belonged to your uncle Esteban! What an honor! Are they not handsome? How far is it to Bilbao? I believe the people all speak Basque in that place. How in the world shall we make ourselves understood?"
I remembered how Juana had attempted in vain to teach me Basque, or, as it should properly be called, Euskara. It is undoubtedly a language of the Devil. In all the weeks we were together I learned only about half a dozen words:
gab-boon, egg-en-noon,
for good night, good morning,
gizon,
a man,
khatten,
to eat,
erratten,
to drink. But, they say, Euskara is the language that our father Adam spoke in Eden.
"Don't worry your head," I told Pedro. "Nearly all the Basques speak some Spanish and some French."
My grandfather sent for me after dinner and presented me with a corresponding pair of pistols that had belonged to my uncle Juan.
"I hope you will not need to use them," said he. "But it is well to be provided against danger. And they are good weapons. Besides, if de la Trava has really taken refuge in the High Pyrenees, you may need to protect yourselves against wolves or wild boar. Ha! Now your eyes begin to sparkle. Well, I hope such beasts may prove the worst perils that you have to encounter. Wolves can be easier to tackle than wicked men."
"Grandfather ... my great-aunts Josefina and Visitación seem to believe there is a plot..."
"I know," he said seriously. "Poor old ladies—they see plots in everything. Just the same, they need not be wrong. I have today heard a strange and troubling tale"—glancing at a sombrero, which for the first time I noticed lying on the large table where he kept estate maps. The sight of it surprised me, firstly, because my grandfather had almost given up going outdoors since his house arrest, even though that had now been revoked; secondly, because if he did venture out, he wore an old-fashioned tricorne, never a sombrero. "The villagers of Navia came to me, while you slept, to inform me that there had been a landslide on the road from Becerrea and that two travelers had been killed by it. The slide must have taken place after you and Pedro passed that way; I thank God that
your
lives were spared. The matter was reported to me as
Corregidor
of the district."
Now I found myself in a severe dilemma; I had not told my grandfather about the action taken by the farmer of Navia. Ought I to do so? The man would have to be tried for manslaughter—or murder—would probably be executed—
While these thoughts ran through my head, the Conde continued.
"Men from Navia dug the road clear, thus discovering the two bodies. One of them, it seems, was El Caramanchel, a notorious brigand, and one of the greatest rascals in all Spain."
I nodded. I had heard often enough, at Salamanca, of El Caramanchel and his outrageous crimes.
"There was a price upon his head, which the people of Navia intend to claim, so his end will afflict nobody and will benefit many. But the other man, who was with him, did not appear to be a robber; he had papers on him showing him to be a government clerk from Salamanca."
I glanced again toward the hat on the table. Now I knew why it was so familiar. It was the hat of Sancho the Spy!
"But what in the world," said my grandfather, "was a civil servant from Salamanca doing so far from
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