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.


Chapter 1 : Agua Chapter 2 : Mentiras Chapter 3 : La Condesita de Cataluna Chapter 4 : Alba Next Chapter ( 2 ) »

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