(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (19 page)

So, that settled, everybody was happy: The Colomas family rejoiced that Sam had decided to remain in Llanes, and I was glad that I did not have to say good-bye to my friend quite so soon.

Don Enrique offered to lend us a burro for the journey.

"Really, señor, you are too trusting," Sam reproved him. "Suppose we sold your burro with the mule in Santander and never came back?"

"My boy," said the smith, "when you reach my age you learn how to distinguish between honest men and thieves."

However, we said we did not need the burro. "We would take turns riding the mule (privately I resolved that Sam should have all the turns); then Sam would bring her back to Llanes and the Colomases would keep her. Indeed, this was another part of the plan that made me glad, for I was greatly attached to my hardy and untiring, if bad-tempered, companion, and had hated the notion of selling her to a stranger. Don Enrique wanted to give me money for her, but I said that I would prefer him to take her in requital for three weeks' lodging and Juana's kind nursing while I was sick; when he protested that anybody would have done as much, I pointed out how much it would comfort my heart, when in England, to know she had such a good home. At this he agreed, but said they would continue to think of her as mine, so that I could always come back and claim her; thus the matter was left, and later, as events turned out, how glad I was that I had not taken his money.

Our parting, therefore, was not so sorrowful as it might have been, though I was melancholy enough at leaving yet another set of kind friends and such a pleasant place.

As I traveled farther and farther out into the world, it amazed me to discover how many friendly people it contained—which had not been at all my expectation when I left Villaverde.

We left at first light on the second day after the Mayor's party. The journey to Santander would take us two or three days, depending on the weather and our adventures along the way. Juana gave us a bag of food to take with us, and Don Enrique recommended us to a cousin of his who owned a
posada
at Santillana, which was one of the towns we must pass through. The whole family (indeed, half the town) turned out to say good-bye to us; and so we went on our way, Sam taking first turn at riding the mule, who seemed quite pleased to be on the road again; she snuffed the air and went loping along at a good speed, while I ran with a hand on the stirrup.

Our path now lay along the coast, with a mighty range of mountains rising to the south of us; since the day was clear and brisk, every crack and seam of their rocky slopes seemed as close as if they were but a stone's throw from us, though in truth they were some three or four leagues distant.

At first we passed by orchards and vineyards; then we reached a bare and dismal region of rock and stone, with no trees and hardly a blade of grass on the hard bare ground.

This was one of the most melancholy sections of my journey—as regards the aspect of the country—and yet, looking back, I cannot recollect any happier time in my whole life than those hours, as we traveled along, with the sea on our left and the great rampart of mountains on our right, singing ballads, inventing new melodies for old words, trying different harmonies
for old tunes, reminding each other of our favorite airs. Even the mule seemed pleased with our music; she put back first one ear, then the other, arched her neck, and picked up her feet as if she had been trained by the Mamelukes.

Sam, who had traveled this way before, told me that the mountains hereabouts were all seamed with caves, many of huge size and going for miles underground. The local people put them to all manner of uses, from storing hay to holding religious services. This recalled to me my adventure at the round-hutted village and, with a shudder, I changed the subject, asking Sam how long he thought he would remain in Llanes.

"All my life, if God permits it," he said gravely.

I inquired if there was any person in England to whom I should give news of him—was there nobody who might be gladdened by the knowledge that he was alive and well, and prospering in foreign parts? But he said no, his parents being dead, while his uncle would only be displeased by the news; and all his friends were sailors and no doubt scattered about the sea.

By dusk of that day we reached the town of San Vicente, which is approached by a great gray bridge of thirty-two arches, across a deep, wide inlet; the bridge was very ancient and crumbling; in some parts the footway was only just wide enough to cross, and at that, with considerable danger. The town, though larger than Llanes, proved very poverty-stricken and
miserable; the port was almost silent, with green, barnacled, rotting timbers on the wharves, and very few boats. We found the largest
posada,
and played our music there, but it was a dark and dismal place; the main room had an earth floor where travelers slept on sacks of straw in among the goats and poultry of the household; a fire burned in one corner where we might cook our own food; none was provided. We got but little money from our music; it seemed that in San Vicente nobody had any money to spare; however, that did not trouble us, since we had sufficient for our needs, and plenty of food provided by Juana—ham, eggs, olives, cheese, and bread. We therefore played for our own pleasure.

People retired to bed early in that town, and we did, too, but slept badly, tormented by fleas. We were later roused entirely by a terrific raging thunderstorm which broke out over the mountains to the south of us; flashes of blue-white lightning followed one after another, with a glare hardly to be described, accompanied by such deafening peals of thunder that many of the guests at the
posada
stuffed their ears with hay lest their eardrums should crack. The rain rattled down with such violence that soon the streets of the town were awash with water, which begun to flow under the door of the
posada,
and soon, since the level of the floor was lower than the street, we found ourselves lying in a pool.

Since nobody could sleep in such conditions,
presently Sam proposed that we should rise up and continue on our way. By now the storm had died down, and the moon shone out, clear as if it had been washed by the rain; traveling on by its light seemed greatly preferable to lying in half an inch of dirty water and sodden straw. So we paid our small bill arid went on our way, leaving the town of San Vicente without regret.

Now for some leagues we traveled along the seashore, with the moon above us and the waves thundering in white majesty on our left hand. From time to time a shallow river ran down across the beach, which we must ford, but none of these gave too much difficulty. After an hour or so the sky began to lighten, and at last the sun rose, dazzling our eyes with its brilliance, for since we traveled eastward it lay directly ahead of us and spread a flashing path across the wet sand of the shore. Indeed so blinding was the light in our eyes that we resolved to turn inland for a space, and so left the beach and made our way into a thick wood of wild fig and cork trees and tangled vines; among the trees there were also rocks and gorges and the dark clefts of caverns. Sam told me that this forest had a bad name, which was why the path ran along the shore; robbers were supposed to lurk here, and evil deeds to be committed in its dark depths; but the hour of sunrise seemed an unlikely one for robbers to be abroad, and indeed we saw no persons of that sort, and passed on our way undisturbed.

Toward the eastern edge of the wood (which was very large) we did, however, come across a surly-looking fellow driving a large ox before him into a gully which led to a cave entrance.

The man gave us an unfriendly look as we approached him, and did not seem best pleased when Sammy—who would fall into chat with the devil himself—gave him a cheerful greeting.

"Good day, friend! Are you intending to plow the floor of that cave?" For the man carried a plowshare over his shoulder.

"No!" replied the man shortly, and gave the ox a thump with the wooden plow, to hurry it on its way.

"Then," said Sam teasingly, "I can only suppose that you are taking the ox to shelter. Perhaps you have not noticed that the storm is over and the sun is drying the ground?"

"I am not taking the ox to shelter," replied the exasperated man. "I do not know why you are prying into what is none of your business! However, as you are strangers I will tell you that I am hiding the ox in the cave because the priest is anxious to borrow it to plow his land; he has no beast of his own, and the miserable cadge never loses a chance to sponge on somebody else; he has had a day's labor from every beast in the village except mine, and I'm determined he shan't lay his hands on it. Get on, you!" And he gave his ox another tremendous whack on its bony quarters, which made it start hurriedly forward and disappear into the dark cave, where he followed it.

We went on our own way, and Sammy remarked, "Lord 'a mercy, if that isn't a prime case of cutting off his nose to spite his face!"

"How do you mean, Sammy?" said I.

"Why, that surly fellow will very likely spend the day in the cave with his ox—losing its labor as well as his own—he might just as well have lent it to the priest and done something useful at least."

"That's true," I said, "but" (thinking of Father Tomás) "if the priest is really a scoundrelly sponging sort of a fellow I don't know that I blame him."

"Maybe," agreed Sammy, "though most of the priests I have dealt with have been good enough men."

In fact, we were soon to encounter that same priest, and were much surprised at our first sight of him.

We had now come within sight of the little town of Santillana, which lies about a league inland from the sea, among green hills, and fertile farmland, all planted with walnut trees, apple trees, palms, and patches of maize and blue-flowering flax. Santillana is a small, pretty place, of cobbled streets and thick-beamed stone houses.

As we walked up the main street the cows were being milked in the stables under the houses. We bought a cup of milk from a pretty girl and asked her the way to Don Enrique's cousin's house. She directed us to the seaward end of the village. Here we saw the church, at the top of a sloping open square. In front of the church grew a huge ash tree, and as we approached this, we saw the priest come out of the church door,
carrying what looked like a bundle of sticks. He was followed by a boy in a white acolyte's robe who carried a lighted taper. Priest and boy passed out of sight behind the thick bushy trunk of the ash tree, and apparently came to a stop there; we heard the priest say:

"Thank you, my child; very good; now pass me the taper; excellent; now step well back and cover your eyes!"

To our great astonishment we then heard a series of loud reports as several rockets shot up into the air and exploded,' one after another, with sharp claps of sound; a huge cloud of starlings, who had been roosting in the ash tree, left it and circled frenziedly about the sky above the church tower, screaming and complaining, while down below the mule snorted with fright, and Sam and I stared at one another in wonder.

"Do you think he did it to scare away the starlings?" said I in a low voice. "For if so, I do not think he is going to be successful." (Indeed the birds were already beginning to return to their perches.) "And why should he wish to do so?"

"Fair has
me
in a puzzle," agreed Sammy, grinning and scratching his head.

At this moment the priest came round the thickset tree and, seeing us stand so amazed, burst out laughing. He was a merry-looking little dumpling of a man, round and brown as a chestnut, very different from tall pale Father Tomás.

"Are you wondering at my fusillade?" he said. "I
will explain it to you later—for I see you are strangers. But first come in to mass."

The bell was now being rung lustily in the tower, doubtless by the boy who had carried the taper. A number of townspeople began to appear, coming rather slowly down the street and across the square. We followed them into the church and heard mass. It was the first time I had done so since leaving San Antonio, and I was glad to be in a church again; I felt that I had a great deal to tell God about my adventures and about the world I was discovering outside Villaverde which was so very different from what Father Tomás had led me to expect. I wondered what this priest would say about that. God himself had nothing to say at that time, but it seemed to me that He listened to me in a silence that was full of interest and sympathy. I felt much more comfortable with Him in that bare church than I had ever done in the richly furnished chapel of my grandfather's house

After mass, the priest invited Sam and me to come and have coffee with him; he seemed delighted to entertain visitors. We found that he lived in a wretched little house on the edge of the village, where a thin old lady in a black shawl brought us dry bread biscuits and some very good coffee.

"Coffee is my one luxury," said the priest (he told us he was called Father Ignacio). "I came here from Pamplona, where the French (when they were there) taught me to enjoy it more than chocolate."

He told us about his life in Pamplona where he had been for ten years. He had lived there during the French wars and through a great battle when the British attacked the town and finally won it from the retreating French. He had many interesting tales of this terrible time, of eating rats and dandelion roots; and he told us about the spring festival which they celebrate in Pamplona with bulls running wild through the streets.

"It must seem rather dull to you in Santillana," said I. "This seems a very quiet place."

"A little too quiet," Father Ignacio agreed. "The priest who was here before me, Father José, died at the age of a hundred and two. He had become so old that he was unable to perform most of his duties, and so the people in the village did as they liked; nobody bothered to dig Father Josés land, which was all grown over by bushes; and very few people ever came to mass, because they said that, when the wind blew from the west (which it generally does here) they could not hear the sound of the church bell."