Chapter 19

The priests were riding along the track between the two villages, the old one riding ahead, as befitted his status. He set a very slow pace, allowing the mule to pick his own way through the ruts and stones. He was trying to go gently because of the pain in his leg. The pain in his leg was huge. It was like a red, glowing fire, pulsing with heat, and every time his leg knocked against the side of the mule it flared up to a white-hot intensity that made him bite back a scream.

He could not understand why the Lord should choose to inflict such suffering upon him - an old man who had given his entire life to the church.

He had tried everything. He had prayed to every saint in the church, and especially Our Lady of the Remedies, but nothing had worked. At last, in desperation, he had submitted to the ministrations of his housekeeper, who had bound his leg with a foul-smelling poultice and made him drink some vile potion of her own making. But even though it tasted like all the demons of Hell had pissed in it, still it did no good.

She had not wanted him to go this morning. She wrung her hands and cried that he was in no condition to ride a mule. She was right, of course, but he felt he had no choice. He did not trust the young priest. In his weakness, he had allowed him to take the mass in Amendillas for the previous two weeks, but the boy was young and inexperienced, and altogether too enthusiastic, and he dare not let him continue. He could not understand why the bishop had sent him. He did not need an assistant. He had managed the two parishes perfectly well by himself for forty years. Why send him an assistant now?

And so, he trudged up the mountain, suffering the pain of his leg and the torment of his thoughts, cursing all the way under his breath.

When they entered the village square, there seemed to be an inordinate number of young girls gathered around the fountain. They were huddled together, nudging each other and giggling in a most unseemly manner. The old man gave them a hard look, but they did not even see him. They only had eyes for the young priest as he rode up the church steps and slipped gracefully from his mule. As he did so, a collective sigh rose from their lips.

The old priest looked at them again. They all had the same, slightly unfocused expression in their eyes. He wondered if they were not a little touched. Clearly, things were getting out of hand in Amendillas. He had returned only just in time.

The young priest tied his mule to the church wall and walked back to the old man. There was a spring in his step that seemed to mock the old one's infirmities.

"Let me help you, Father," he said, taking the mule's bridle in one hand and offering the other to the old man.

"I do not need any help," snapped the priest, tugging at his bad leg and trying to pull it across the mule's back."I have been riding mules for twice..."

A particularly vicious tug suddenly threw him off balance and he shot backwards off the mule, his head making a sickening thump as it smacked against the cobbles.

For a moment it was as if time had stopped--the young priest and the village girls staring in horror at the old man on the ground. His face was grey and he did not seem to be breathing. Then one of the girls jumped up and began to run to Rosalba's house. The young man bent down to see what he could do.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" The young man snatched back his hand as if he had burnt it. Rosalba was marching across the square, dressed in her best Sunday black, her hair bound up in a mantilla.

She knelt beside the old priest and gently placed her hand on his forehead. As she did so, his eyelids fluttered and his eyes opened. The young priest felt a thrill of superstitious awe and crossed himself hurriedly. It was as if she had raised the dead.

"Can you hear me, Father?" she asked.

"Of course I can hear you," snapped the old man, and suddenly sat up. "I may be old, but I am notªaaarrrgghh!"

He collapsed back again to the cobbles.

Rosalba raised her eyebrows and looked at the young priest.

"Well," she said, "clearly his back is not broken, but it seems he has suffered some injury."

Around them, the villagers were beginning to congregate in an interested group.

"My leg!" cried the priest.

Rosalba looked down at his leg, her eyes widening as she took in the grubby bandages and the misshapen appearance.

"Gout," said the young priest.

Rosalba frowned. Then she stood up and brushed down her skirts. "José Fernandez Negrete, Salvador Domcinguez Garccia!" she shouted imperiously, "Take the father to my house and put him on the couch in my back kitchen."

"No!" cried the priest, struggling weakly as they carried him away. "I have to take the service."

Rosalba raised her eyes to heaven, then turned to the young priest, who was fidgeting beside her, hopping from one leg to another in an agony of indecision. "You take the mass," she said. "I will see to the father."

"But" his voice tailed away as he caught the expression on Rosalba's face, and he nodded vigorously, swung on his heel and headed for the church. The village girls watched him go with adoration in their eyes.

"And you," said Rosalba, placing herself firmly between the girls and the departing figure of the priest, "can go home and prepare for the service."

The girls nodded sheepishly and went away in various directions, dragging their feet, their heads hanging down.

"Well?" asked Rosalba, turning to the rest of the crowd. "What are you standing around for?"

Limping Pepe and Salva the Baker laid the protesting priest gently on Rosalba's couch.

"Let me up!" he cried. "I must not miss the service!"

The two men exchanged glances. It was not right to disobey a priest. On the other hand, it was unthinkable to disobey Rosalba.

As they struggled with their dilemma, Rosalba herself walked into the room and, with a sigh of relief, they bowed to the priest and left.

Rosalba went to an alcove in the corner of the room furthest from the fire and brought out a leather bottle and an earthenware jar. The old priest watched in fascination and some trepidation as she took these to the table, fetched down a glass from the shelf, and then, holding the glass to the light, poured in a carefully considered amount of liquid from the bottle and added something else, which he could not quite see, from the jar.

"Here," she said, passing him the glass. "Drink this!"

He sniffed it suspiciously. "What's in it?" he asked.

Rosalba gave a snort. "Nothing that will do you any harm," she said, went over to the fire and took the kettle off the hob.

The old man sniffed the glass again. It appeared to be ordinary wine and it certainly smelt better than the dreadful stuff Anna-Marcia had made him drink. He took an exploratory sip. It was, indeed, as far as he could tell, just vino del terreno. He drank the rest as he watched Rosalba pour the water from the kettle into a large bowl, then take the kettle outside where he heard her filling it from the well.

She returned and replaced the kettle on the hob, then disappeared into the recesses of the house. The priest sank back on the pillows. It was a funny thing, but he no longer felt anxious about the mass. And then he realised something elseªa miracleªhe could feel the pain in his leg ebbing away. It did not suddenly stop, it drained away slowly. It was as if a valve had opened and the pain, which had been dammed up inside him for so long, flowed out, leaving him feeling light and euphoric. He almost seemed to be floating.

Rosalba returned, carrying armfuls of cloths and put them down on the table by the couch, then she fetched over the bowl of hot water, then finally returned with a huge pair of scissors, the blades glittering wickedly in the sunlight.

The old priest shrank back into the corner, whimpering a little.

"Shh!" said Rosalba. "I am just going to remove these bandages to see what I can do about the leg."

He watched her as she worked, cutting away the bandages, a little frown creasing her brow. There was no pain now. He could feel the blades, cool against his flesh, and he could feel the bandages fall away, but there was no sensation of pain at all. And as he watched her, he realised what a handsome woman she was, and marvelled that he had never noticed before.

Rosalba looked down at the black, glutinous mass under the bandages and caught her breath in horror.

Gangrene! she thought, but then sniffed at the bandages and thought again. The smell was appalling, but it lacked the distinctive, sweetish odour of gangrene. No, it was some kind of poultice.She cleaned it away and found the flesh whole underneath. There were bluish marks in the skin, the result of the bandage being too tight. She pursed her lips and began to massage the foot, encouraging the blood to flow.