Entre las dos
almas
Chapter One
Agua
He stood in the foothills at the edge of Sierra Morena, looking
down upon the Guadalquivir, to south toward the sea so distant. Green eyes
pierced through the varying growth of evergreens and scrub oak, searching out
the quickest route to the grand river and its straightforward route south-east
toward ever distant Cordoba.
//Cordoba, lejana y sola.//
Strange, how those words came to him. He looked to his steed, a
black beast with feathered feet and a long wavy mane and tail, lithe yet
strong. The horse whickered in response, bending his neck to reveal the tips of
his ears. The young man scratched them willingly, smiling to himself at the
brief moment of calm and peace left only to the forests anymore. A sigh escaped
his tanned lips.
"Cordoba lejana y sola,
Jaca negra, luna grande."
The horse whickered again and tossed his head a bit. //move
on// he seemed to say, rolling his brown eyes around in his head to the
saddle behind him. The young man nodded, brown hair bobbing over one eye,
hiding it from view. "You must be thirsty, eh Trueno." He reached up
to pat the beast's neck, fingering a moment upon the coarse mane. "It will
be a day, yet, before we reach Guadalquivir, let alone Cordoba, my friend. The
moon is out, the sun is setting. We'd better find a stream and make camp."
A rumble came in reply, and his friend nuzzled him thoroughly, nibbling at his boots playfully as he mounted, securing his sword at his side. Scanning the horizon he noticed the declining yellow sun. It truly was time to move on, or they would never find place to camp. Trueno wasn't found of the monster shadows in the dark and neither was the youth.
At the slight pressure of his calves, the stallion started
forward, trotting a ways, even though it was likely that his energy had been
spoiled from the long trek from Castilla. He had been sent, with others, on
errand of Rey Alfonso VIII to learn of what the heathen Moros were planning in
their stronghold in Cordoba. The young man had thought it more sensible to go
directly to Marrakkush, the devil's capital city across the Strait of Gibraltar
in Marruecos. However, it was argued that Cordoba had a wider wealth of
information, as it was actually inside the country. It was the Royals belief that the Governor or Hajib of
Andalusia held more power than the leader of the heathens in their homeland.
Besides, know one ever listened to a Vascongado. After all, some for their
traditions were at one time more heathen than the Moors, but that was before
the romanos invaded, foreign devils.
Up beat, down beat. Up beat, down beat. The trot bounced him
continually up and down, a taxing affair, whether one was trying to sit the
gate or post on each opposing stride.
He felt the horse move under him as he rode, listening sharply for any
sign of a local mountain stream feeding into the river below. It was a quiet
ride, filled with the unobtrusive songs of birds and the constant two-beat
rhythm of his horse's hooves striking the ground. However, the birds' songs of
the south were foreign to him. He was a long way from the north coast on Biscay
... A long way from home.
Up beat, down beat. The rhythm continued, as his body
unconsciously lifted up and down to better accommodate the movement of the
animal below him. Slowly, he became conscious of a different music, one sweeter
than the flute he had packed in his saddlebags. The trickling of water ... A
stream was nearby. The young man sat back on his haunches, reining Trueno in to
a stop.
With a swift and sudden movement, he kicked his feet from the
stirrups. Raising his right leg over the side, he slid from the back of his
mount to the soft, forest ground beneath. Lion-like he tilted his head, ears
appearing to move of their own volition, searching for the source of the sound.
West, it was slightly to the west, trickling down the rocky slopes toward its
mother river.
The horse looked at him questioningly, ears pricking first
toward his master then to the sounds of the arollo. In response, the youth
lifted the reins over the steed's head, and lead him carefully toward the
sound, listening attentively for signs of possible danger. They were in Moor
country, and anything could happen to a Castillano or a man thought to be one.
Cautiously, he proceeded to the brook, eyes darting back and forth between the
brush as his ears still searched for any foreign sounds. Luckily the only sound he heard was his
own breathing and own heavily beating heart.
Finally, through the brush, he caught the rippling glint of the
brook they had been searching for. It tumbled of the smooth mountain stones
playfully, laughing as it went. With watchful, emerald eyes, he scouted for any
hint of disturbance, and then lead his loyal blooded friend forward to drink.
The steed looked about for a moment warily, ears twitching back
and forth. Apparently satisfied, Trueno relaxed, and dipped his head to the
brook to drink. The stallion guzzled the water eagerly, as befit a healthy
horse, and by no manner of grace thoroughly soaked his rider with the leftover
dribbles by rubbing his head again on his chest.
"Gracias, Trueno," he grumbled. The horse just pricked
his ears at him again, and snorted. "I love you too," he finally
laughed.
The youth wiped his hands upon his leggings (the only clean part
of him left), and then squatted down on his haunches to take a sip himself. He
tread the water with his fingers for a moment before cupping both hands
together beneath the surface to drink. Lifting the water to his parched lips he
sipped delicately, which was a stark contrast from his greedy, still drooling
stallion, admiring the forest silence about him. However, as pulled his hands
up with more of the vital liquid, he caught sight of something white reflecting
from the other bank.
Hands still at his mouth, he lifted his eyes up to look. His
eyes darted about until the settled upon a pair of startled ocean colored
eyes. They stared back at him
across the way, pale hair gleaming in the dimming light around them. The
glinting reflection on the water had given away his reflection as well, leaving
the two strange youths to blink at each other for a startled moment. The young
man had to rub his eyes to be sure it was true. When he opened them again, the
figure was gone, not a leave rustling in the wake of ... whatever it was.
The way the oceanic eyed being had appeared, seemed more like a
spirit than a human. He had never seen anyone so perfectly pale. The skin was
not the white of death. It was the
white of light. He was made like
the alabaster that los Moros decorated their castles with. The young man
pondered over the scene for a moment.
He wasn't Castillano. No, he was a Moor, or he would have hailed him
instead of fled.
Brown eyebrows twitched.
There was only one pale Moor that was spoke of in all the
Western World. Warriors had met him here and there in battles, and were never
heard from again. The King dismissed the tale as an illusion of the sick and
wounded. However, to those who had lost friends and family to el Moro Angel, he
was very real, and very much not an angel of light-but a fallen angel, an angel
of Death, like los Moros heathen arch-demon Iz'rail. But then, whoever heard of
a white Moslem? Now he was seeing things.
"I think I need sleep."
Trueno nickered again, nibbling at the alforjas on his back. The
brown haired Basque smiled. He
could take a hint. "Time to eat. Full stomachs mean better sleepers."
He got a whinny in reply. With well-practiced precision the northerner ungirthed
the saddled and removed the heavy leather from the sweaty back of the beast.
Taking out a small burlap bag, he held out a handful of oats to his companion.
The horse lipped it up greedily and nickered for more. "Un momento,
compadre."
Calloused hands scooped out a few hand fulls of the rich grain,
dumping on the ground near a particularly nice looking patch of grass. It took
no encouraging to point Trueno in the right direction and he quickly began to
munch up both grass and grain.
"And now for myself." He opened the small package of
dried meat from his pack, and began chewing at it thoughtfully. He looked
toward the sky, watching the sun set. //Red, like Sangre.// the young
warrior thought. He looked Eastward. //La luna ...// The falling sun
had it lit red as well, reminding him again of the poem that he had been
muttering ...
"Por el llano, por el veinto,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me esta' mirando
Desde las torres de Cordoba."
Such a sad, sad song, stuck in his head by some mystic bard, or
emanating from his dreams. He couldn't remember where it had come from, but it
was there. The youth brushed a bronze hair from his eyes. Too much traveling,
it was time for a rest.
Rolling out his blanket a little ways away from Trueno and the stream,
the lonely young man lay down to rest his aching muscles. He gazed up at the
brightening stars and breathed a sigh. He was always so alone in the world.
Basques were few, and the Castellanos failed to even want to learn the Basque
language, so foreign and enigmatic to them, compared to the romantic
Castillano. He fought on their side, only because ... Well, he didn't really
know, after all, it had been a long time since the Moors had control of his
homeland Euskotarak- Vasco as the Castillanos called it. Brown eyebrows knitted
together in confusion. He owed the Spanish king no true allegiance, but theirs
was a common enemy; the heathen Moors and their filthy leaders, the Almohad.
Still, he would rather be at home, in the cool rainy mountains
of Vizcaya, not in this horrible, hot southern land.
"!Ay que camino tan largo!
!Ay mi jaca valerosa!
!Ay que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Cordoba!"
With that as a final thought, the boy closed his eyes and waited
for sleep to take him, consciousness fading into the world of dreams.
*******************************************************************************
Night was woven over the land like a thick veil. The forest was
quiet, but for the calls of night owls and the soft padding of deer in the
sparse brush and trees. A steel-like calm had settled over the foothills,
silence that was threatening. It was as the he forest world knew that some
danger was stalking forward in the depths of the abounding darkness.
"You do as I say," whispered a voice in the dark.
"If we move quick we can catch the Castillano while he sleeps. He may be
able to tell us what Alphonse is planning."
"Right, Master Quatre," replied another, deeper voice,
not so certain about the business of his master doing much of anything in the
matter of this Spaniard.
The shadows slipped into the dim moonlight, moving swiftly and
silently through the patches of forest. The soft-shod feet made little sound on
the bed of sticks and leaves. The
smaller youth slipped forward, stealthy as a cat, while the other followed more
clumsily behind. The former would have preferred to go alone, but Rashid would
not allow it and had sent with him a member of his "family", Abdul.
Quatre shuddered, surprise was more effective in singles. He could take that Spaniard down with one blow. If worse came to worse he would have to kill him, a tragedy, but it was one less Castillano for el Almohad to deal with in battle. It was nothing that he hadn't don before-in battle. It was difficult for him to understand why Rashid trusted him so little.
/It's the Castillanos I don't trust, Master Quatre, not your fighting skills./
The lips curved upward slightly at the memory. The burly Rashid was so like an
over-protective parent, smothering his little ward that he quite knew could
care for himself in a pinch.
For a brief moment, the young man slipped out of shadow into full face of the
moonlight. The white rays glinted on his pale hair, making it look like spun
silver. His pale features caught the light like an ancient god, or the angels
that the pope spoke of. He was celestial, yet mortal. He heard a sound behind
him and his breath quickened.
"Quiet, Abdul," he hissed. The older man froze, as
Quatre looked around with the wide blue eyes that had first saw the one he
mistakenly called Castillano: Eyes that had first spied him reflecting from the
precious water that was so sacred and wonderful.
Seeing nothing, he turned to his diligent partner. "Sorry,
Abdul, but try to be more quiet. Their ears are as sharp as Shaitan's
himself."
His fellow nodded, and pulled his loose tunic about him, so it
would catch any branches again. //There's no honor in dying when the odds
are in your favor.// the Moor thought to himself. He noticed that
Quatre had started off again, and quietly began moving to catch up to the
sharply retreating form. Adjusting
the fez atop his head as he went, he muttered several curses about Castillanos
and the unholy hours they made him keep.
Soon, the alabaster youth became aware of a change in the smell.
Sweet and enticing it came: //Water ... We are here.//
"Stay, Abdul. If there is any trouble at all I'll
whistle."
"But Master Quatre!"
"Two is an unfair advantage. I will take care of the
Castillano … By myself!"
Unable to argue, the dark-skinned Abdul gave an unwilling
consent, allowing the youth to slip off to the brook, whispering quickly away
like a phantom-spirit.
Small, lithe feet dodged through the trees with an almost
arrogant confidence. Charged by the powers of Allah, he would take the
Castillano and force him to tell him everything. He would then, of course, let
him free. His earlier thoughts of murder were more foreign to him than anything
else. Only allegiance to the Almohad which had united his people even, allowed
the thought to enter in the first place.
He stopped. The tiny creek was there, babbling before him in the
light of the moon. The rebel's camp was on the other side, he knew because his
horse was standing there asleep. He snickered. The horse was a stallion,
foolish Spaniards. Stallions always whinnied at the sight of another horse.
They were not good at keeping the secrets of a surprise attack. Mares were a
much more worthy mount, silent if they were of a fine breed.
He shuddered. The horse was such a coarse breed too. He couldn't stand the
European mounts. They had no grace and no stamina. They were like the plows
that they were meant to pull, bulky and slow. This black beast even looked like
iron. The creatures did have
strength though. He would give
them that.
Silent as a ghost, the pale Berber tread across the brook, marveling at the cool, relieving touch of the clear mountain water. Water was so precious to the people of him home country. The abundance that this foreign land contained amazed him daily. He thanked Allah at every prayer for the blessing that had been bestowed upon him in this world.
The brook sloshed about him, babbling nonsense, as he slid his
feet through to the other bank. The noise was louder than he had hoped it would
be, and prayed that Allah would not allow the horse to wake up and give his
appearance away. He kept a steady
watch on the beast, praying all the while it would remain asleep.
No such luck. Quatre was well aware of the beast's ear swiveling
around long before the horse nickered a greeting to him. However what could one
do to a horse? Choke it? The Berber thought not, and put a hand to the dagger
at his side as the young Vascongado jumped to his feet, pulling his broadsword
from its scabbard with trained precision.
//Pathetic bulky weapon// the young Berber thought.
"Who's there?" challenged the youth, full aware that
the pale youth standing before him was the same he had thought was fantasy
earlier today.
The other youth gritted his teeth, clenching the dagger firmer
in his fist. "I should ask the same of you, Castillano."
The tall youth's emerald eyes narrowed, glaring coldly. "Castillano. You insult me! I am a
Euskaldunak, a Vascongado from the north, and if you dare call me such a name
as Castillano again, I will take my sword and send you back to Hell where you
belong." The youth was angry. He his loyalty was to Vasconia, and he
protected Vasconia when he protected Espana.
"Who are you?" challenged the Angel Moor again.
"Why are you in Al-Andalus?"
The words the Basque returned ere as cold as his glare. "I
am a man, and I am here for Euskotarak." The brunette did not wish to talk
anymore, and charged forward toward the Moor with all of his half-recharged
force, wielding his sword in honor of his homeland. Trueno whinnied in
response, rearing up on his hind legs as his eyes rolled around wildly, whites
showing in fear.
It was a poor show of swordsmanship or of any tactical fighting
whatsoever. The blind charge was a
foolish angry rush by someone untrained in the art of one-on-one combat. Quatre, just stood as he came, letting
calm pass over him as the other vented a rage that the blond could tell was
foreign to him. He waited as the Basque's momentum increased, then sidled out
of the way just in time for him to tumble toward the creek.
"Perhaps you will talk more at our camp," the Moor
stated as the other charged by. Using the opportune moment of imbalance, the
pale Arab cracked the Spaniard over the head with the butt of his dagger,
letting him fall with a gentle thud to the bank. The horse whinnied again, but
Quatre ignored it, looking at the unconscious body of his fallen opponent. He
was disgusted, amused, and saddened all at the same time. He was such a
strange, foreign enemy-with a manner entirely different from the Castillanos
whom he hated so much.
//You aren't a warrior.// thought the angel. //Not in
Andalusia and not in Castilla.//
TBC.
Author's Notes:
A: Marruecos: Morocco
B. Iz'rail: Azrael, the archangel of death in Islamic lore.
1. Agua: water
2. Sierra Morena: Mountains in southern Spain, just north of the
Guadalquivir River and Cordoba.
3. Guadalquivir: A river, and one that was very sacred to the
Moors.
4. Cordoba: The capital city of the Moors during the
Reclaimation, at least religiously.
5. Castilla: A province consisting of what is now Castilla-Leon
and Castilla-La Mancha in the middle portion of Spain. Its what gives the
language, Castillian ( or Spanish) its name.
6. Rey Alfonso VIII: The king of Spain during the decisive era
of the Reconquest and Reclaimation of Spain from the Moors.
7. Moors: Moslems who invaded Spain in 711. They were mostly
from Morrocco and lived with Christians and Jews in peace untill the death of
Abderraman III, in which they split into warring factions, eventually to be
taken over by the Almohad- a family of Moors who is mentioned in this chapter.
8. Basques: Also called Vascongado, and Euskaldunak (which is
the Basque name for themselves.) They are a people who are isolated in Northern
Spain, and are the only remains of a pre-Roman Spanish culture. Their language
is related to none known to man today, and are an autonomous Sector called Pais
Vasco in modern Spain.
9. Basque Country: Pais Vasco, Vasconia, Euskotarak- The three
provinces in the north where the Basques live in Spain. These provinces are
Guipuzca, Alava, and Vizcaya.
10. Vizcaya: One of the Basque provinces. Its on the rainy
northern coast of the Bay of Biscay.
11. Shaitan: The devil, according to some Moslem traditions.
12: The poem appearing in this chapter is not of the time
period. It was written by Lorca, who lived from 1898-1936. The full poem is as
follows:
Cancion de Jinete
by Federico Garcia Lorca
Cordoba,
Lejana y sola.
Jaca negra, luna grande.
Y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegare a Cordoba.
Por el llano, por el viento,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me esta mirando
Desde los torres de Cordoba.
Ay que camino tan largo!
Ay mi jaca valerosa!
Ay que la muerte me espera,
Antes de llegar a Cordoba!
Cordoba,
Lejana y sola.
Cordoba,
Distant and alone.
Black steed, grand moon.
And olives in my saddlebags.
Although I may know the roads
I will never arrive to Cordoba.
Over the plain, by the wind,
Black steed, red moon.
Death is looking at me
From the towers of Cordoba.
Oh, what a long road!
Oh, my valient steed!
Oh that Death waits for me,
Before I arrive to Cordoba!
Cordoba,
Distant and alone.
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