The Horse Healer (20 page)

“This is absurd,” Marcos protested when he found out what happened. “I don't know what we're doing here. They'll never let you get to those books, and you won't learn anything from him.”

“Maybe I was showing a lack of loyalty when I contradicted his words. I admit he's a difficult person, maybe impossible. I know my attitude may seem absurd to you, but I came here to finish my education as an albéitar and to enter into that magnificent library, and I won't leave these walls until I do it.”

Marcos didn't try to explain how he would do it, but from that moment he decided to intervene so that Diego's wishes would come true faster. If they respected Friar Servando's rhythms, they could spend years there without managing anything but a shiny polished floor. And he didn't have the patience for that.

For a few days the two friends didn't see each other again since Diego had been sent to the latrines, but Marcos's luck changed suddenly, and only because he heard a conversation.

It was between two monks; the key keeper in charge of the kitchens and another who managed the finances. Marcos was helping the first to empty a wheelbarrow of olive barrels when the other came over to ask a question.

“Have you talked yet with the prior?”

“I did, but he still hasn't offered me anyone. Can you believe it?” He slapped his knees. “Right now I only have one helper, and to top it off, he's sick. My previous employees will be arriving in Salvatierra to help defend that fortress. How am I going to feed two hundred friars, organize all the purchases, store the necessities, and clean everything on my own. Anyone who thinks that's possible is mad. For me it's impossible. …”

Marcos saw the opportunity to get out of the stables and away from Friar Servando and do something he liked better.

“Maybe you're not being insistent enough,” the friar replied.

“I've already gotten a serious reprimand from the prior. He says I don't show sufficient interest in my job, I don't know how to sacrifice, and I've lost my trust in providence.” The man put his hands on his head in desperation. “Providence … I don't imagine providence plucking chickens, but that's what I have to do.”

“I could help you with that job,” Marcos soon interrupted.

“Excuse me?” The man was surprised.

“Since I was very young, I've been working around ovens.” He was lying, as was customary. “And I know cooking well enough to let you get a bit of sleep.”

The friar, fat, but in excellent health, remembered the prior's words. Could this boy be the fruit of that famed providence?

“Boy, I have no idea how you know I've been suffering from insomnia lately, but I like your proposal. Tell me who's in charge of you and I'll claim you for myself right now. You work in the stables?”

Marcos nodded.

It didn't seem too hard for Friar Jesús, as he was called, to convince Friar Servando, because from that afternoon on, Marcos began to work with him in the kitchens of the monastery, content and more enthusiastic.

But for Diego, those days were not as fortunate as those of his friend, and in fact, a few days after he left the latrines, he became acquainted with Friar Servando's true character, as well as making an already bad situation much worse.

And all because of a horse illness that almost everyone calls “fig.”

IV.

F
riar Servando, as a horse healer, attended to different cases both inside and outside the monastery.

At last Diego had managed to accompany him a few more times, not many but enough to begin to feel deceived.

He couldn't understand where the monk's reputation came from when his shortcomings were obvious and the consequences to his patients grave. Diego came to think that the friar lacked even a quarter of the knowledge Diego himself had; he had never seen him use any diagnostic technique that Diego didn't already know, and his catalogue of remedies was both limited and often absurd. His limitations were so grave that Diego began to suffer even when he saw him shoe a horse, because he wasn't particularly good at that, either.

Nevertheless, Diego was quiet, preferring not to speak, until that morning when everything went against him.

A stallion belonging to the royal ensign of Navarre arrived at the stables. It was the first time he had been there and he arrived with a squire.

Diego was lighting some kindling to start up the forge when the animal entered in the stable, led by the squire. The stallion was a beautiful specimen, strong, with an enormous frame. Its coat was cream colored with an almost cherry undertone.

When Diego saw it, and especially when he discovered the enormous lump on its hindquarters, he couldn't resist the temptation to come and watch when Friar Servando attended to it.

Diego looked at the color and texture of the tumor. Luckily for the animal, it was red and seemed recent. He had seen those tumors a number of times with Galib, but never as large as this one, which was as big as an orange. He remembered that in the treatise on the albéitar, his first book, the one Benazir gave him, such tumors were described in detail. They called them “figs,” and they were classified by color: the black ones were more serious, then the red ones, and finally the white ones.

Without taking even a breath, the stable boy returned with the news that Friar Servando was not in the monastery and that no one knew when he was coming back, whether that morning or even at night.

Given the situation, Diego couldn't resist and decided to treat that malformation. He looked for a piece of leather and made a hole in it equal to the size of the tumor. Then he put it over the horse to isolate it from the rest of the skin.

“It has what's called a fig, sir.” The squire said he didn't know what it was. Diego explained it to him and begged pardon for Friar Servando's absence, presenting matters as though he was the assistant as well as a horse healer.

“You know how to cure it?” The man studied Diego. He didn't seem to be sufficiently convinced to leave that valuable horse in unfamiliar hands, but the boy was so secure and firm in his words that he managed to convince him.

Diego began to compound various ointments. One was made of lime and earth. The other, a paste, from dry river herbs and water. And a third, with a repugnant scent, warm chicken feces mashed in a mortar with soap.

With the herb paste, he made little cakes and took them over the forge. He placed the first on a hot iron and afterward pressed it against the horse's lump. When it was cold, he changed it for another. And he worked this way for a while until the tumor began to whiten. Diego explained to the man that this was a way to lower the blood before he cut it with a sharp knife.

All the stable boys left their labors and gathered around to watch him in action.

“I need you to give me a hand holding the horse. It's going to feel a good bit of pain now.”

With ropes and cinches, a number of them working together managed to immobilize it. Diego approached with a knife, the tip of which he had heated in the fire, and began to cut the fig down to the base, pressing down the flesh on either side of it. He cut deep, but carefully, not wanting to damage any nerves. It was fast, demonstrating that he had a sure hand and wasn't intimidated by the sharp whinnies of protest on the part of the animal.

“Now he'll bleed a little. That's a good thing.”

The knight's eyes were focused on the enormous lump that had been extracted and its enormous size.

Diego dusted the wound with a mix of lime and earth and quickly pulled away from the animal, foreseeing its violent reaction. Then he took a red-hot iron and passed it around the edges of the wound to stop the bleeding. The horse, furious and in pain, wouldn't stop moving.

“Does he have to go through all this?” the squire asked, white from witnessing the terrible pain the animal was suffering.

“Be calm. The next ointment will relieve his pain.”

Diego soaked a linen cloth in the blend of feces and soap and laid it over the wound. Last, he prepared an unguent of honey and pentamyron and told the man to apply it warm once a day.

“If it grows back, ask them to make you a thin rope with hairs from a young nag that has never been with a mare. Use that to tie off the fig until it's strangled. You can do it one, two, even three times, as many as necessary until it falls off.”

Diego ordered them to untie the animal carefully and he spoke, very low, into its ear, at the same time scratching its breast to gain its trust. The horse began to look at him timidly, but shortly after, it was neighing more calmly.

Diego felt pleased with his work. The silence that had accompanied him while he operated was suddenly broken by spontaneous applause. All present were sincerely impressed.

“You should find the most comfortable place for him inside the stable, keep him away from dampness, and make sure he doesn't lick the wound. If he does, it will complicate the healing process.”

The squire was satisfied with his explanations and congratulated him without any criticism. He asked the young man for his name in case he might need him in the future.

“My name's Diego, Diego de Malagón, apprentice albéitar or horse healer, whichever you prefer to call me.”

The squire, the horse, and its illness left, as did the rest of the stable boys, still amazed by the abilities of their companion. And yet that satisfaction lasted for too short a time; Friar Servando was not appreciative of Diego's work.

As soon as Diego saw him step into the stables, he saw he'd been informed of what had happened. The monk looked crazed, and his eyes reflected his bottomless rage. At Diego's side, he began to scream and upbraid him as if he'd gone half mad.

“Do you want to explain to me who gave you the right to attend to my clients?” He walked around Diego with his fists clenched. “If you knew who that horse belonged to …”

“To the royal ensign of Navarre.”

Friar Servando pushed his shoulder violently, offended by his response.

“Don't you have just a bit of shame?” he snorted, exasperated. “Perhaps you think yourself more capable than me?”

“I'm an albéitar,” Diego answered proudly.

The man, beside himself, grabbed Diego's tunic and began to pull so furiously that he ended up tearing it.

“You know I hate that name …”

Diego decided not to speak, since in that moment anything he said would be taken badly. That reaction enraged the monk even further. Tired of Diego's silence, the friar decided that punishment would be the best thing to put the young man in his place.

“You'll go back to the latrines, but from today on, you'll sleep in them as well. You will eat there, amid the stench, and you won't come out until I say so. I hope that for once this will make you reconsider your actions.”

Diego felt tempted to choke him right there or give him a serious kick to the stomach. He also considered abandoning the monastery and forgetting that absurd person once and for all; but instead, he decided to take another approach.

“Fine,” he responded, without raising his voice. “Should I consider this penitence or punishment?”

“Well … Well,” Friar Servando repeated, indignant. “A penitence … Your sin is known as disloyalty and vainglory.”

“I don't understand.”

“You understand very well. I know you still consider the albéitar's a science greater than the one I possess, and you are stubborn besides. You don't like me calling you a horse healer or veterinarius, I can tell, and you are judgmental of every job I perform. I have felt it when you watch me.”

Friar Servando swallowed, angered by Diego's tranquil mood.

“If it is a penitence, then, will I be absolved of my sin afterward?”

“Ummmm …” It took the friar an eternity to answer and a strong dose of humility. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And once my sin is forgiven, will I be able to go to the scriptorium afterward?”

Friar Servando clenched his fists and looked at Diego with exasperation, but he did not say no.

The third night he spent in his new destination, Diego received an unexpected visit that relieved him. It was Marcos.

He arrived with a piece of stewed meat, a pound of black bread, and the best repast for his soul, a bit of affection.

“How are you?”

Marcos lit up the floor with a torch to make his way through such filth.

“Not as well as you.” Diego stared at the contents of the clay pot that Marcos was carrying in his hands.

Marcos left the torch in a crack in the wall and looked for a seat close to Diego. He couldn't hold back an expression of disgust when he perceived the scent.

“I'm coming to give you good news.”

“You don't know how welcome it will be.” Diego smiled.

“I've made friends with the friar responsible for the library. His name is Friar Tomás. He's a cheerful man, with a dreamy gaze and forgetful face, but he likes to eat as much as I like scheming. Since I spend the whole day in the kitchen, it hasn't been hard for me to satisfy his weakness, and I've been pleading your case with him.”

Diego opened his eyes wide. All he wanted was to hear the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

“I spoke to him about you without leaving out any detail. He knows your wishes to learn and that you can read Arabic without difficulty. He also knows what's been happening with Friar Servando. Believe me, he's interested in your case and wants to know what you're looking for.”

“And …?”

“I have bad news and good news.”

“Start with the bad.”

“Friar Servando is lying when he says you can enter the scriptorium or the library with relative freedom. I found out that those who haven't taken vows are not granted admission.”

Diego sighed, defeated. That could mean the end of his plans.

“But wait! I haven't told you the good news.”

“Can there be anything positive after what you've just told me?”

“If we can't go in, they can still come out. …”

“What?”

“Friar Tomás has another weakness aside from eating.”

“Tell me.”

“Herb brandies.” He smiled roguishly. “Two bottles and the promise of a regular supply took care of it, and thanks to that …” He took out a package wrapped in cotton cloth. “While you're down here in this filth, you can read the Roman Vegetius. Isn't that one of the writers you were looking for?”

Diego pulled back the wrappings anxiously and found a book with the title
Digestorum artis mulomedicinae
, signed by Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, written in the fourth century.

“He also told me that if you're interested,” Marcos continued, “he would pass you the book by the author from Cádiz, Lucius Junio Columella, and then two more treatises in Latin, I think he said from Pliny and one from Paladius. Anyway, I don't know any of them.”

Diego couldn't contain his emotion and felt a few tears stream down his cheeks. At last he had one of those books in his hands; it didn't matter anymore that he'd had to put up with so many calamities, far more than could be considered reasonable. Now, thanks to this treatise, he could broaden his knowledge in an area little studied among the Arabs, the methodology for diagnosing illnesses.

Vegetius had been a soldier in the Roman army, an expert in war strategy, a defender of the use of cavalry as a weapon when the rest of his colleagues trusted only in the infantry. Perhaps for this reason, he studied and compiled the most extensive collection of knowledge about those animals, even than that of the Greeks. The book's pages contained marvelous descriptions of the most varied illnesses, recommendations for raising the animals, breeding them, and other aspects such as the ideal physical form and an organized system to select the best stallions.

By candlelight, Diego passed night after night reading, learning each one of the paragraphs by heart. At last he felt happy. That compensated for everything.

In the mornings, he washed the large pieces of perforated marble where the monks emptied their waste, or went down in the dark to clear out the frequent clogs in its drains, but it scarcely mattered. Nor was he bothered by the need to carry spadesful of human waste to the carriages where it would be later used as fertilizer.

He even grew used to the horrible odor, with the lone desire to wait for nightfall and feed himself on that delicious and nutritive science of the books, as he called it. He became drunk with the wisdom written in ink, without understanding why it should be hidden from the eyes of the world. He didn't understand what harm could be done to men's souls by knowledge or what reason there was to have to hide between those stones and temples, authentic walls of faith, the sweet effect of knowledge. He would never understand it.

And thus the days and weeks passed until the last night of his punishment.

He didn't go to sleep until very late, absorbed in his reading of a treatise by Hippocrates. From his deep and solid thought he extracted three rules and the wise man defended them as the basic principles of the medical profession.

Diego memorized them and repeated them out loud several times.

“
Primum non nocere
: First do no harm.” He savored the meaning of it. “It's better to do nothing than make the situation worse.”