Ogre's Lament E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Spain, 1648. Fifteen-year-old Luis is different than everyone else in the small, sweltering village of Riodelgado - because he can read.

Targeted by the local toughs, who make his life a misery, Luis works tirelessly to provide for his ailing mother and young sister. Then, one day, a wandering soldier arrives to the village and everything changes.

People are murdered. Children disappear. The mayor blames an ogre, and the soldier has evidence of the hideous creature. He demands it be hunted down.

It becomes clear to Luis that there is more to the story than the appearance of an ogre. Is the mythical beast just a smokescreen, designed to keep everyone from the truth?

Leseprobe

Ogre's Lament

The Story of Don Luis

Stuart G. Yates

Copyright (C) 2017 Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To the real Don Luis, who suffered so many taunts and so much spite, but rose above it all to become someone very special.

And to everyone else who has been bullied, this story is for you.

Chapter One: A Village

The morning dawned much as any other, but many remembered this day as the last one of normality before death came to visit the silent streets. From afar, the old clock chimed out the hour as it always did, the peel of its bell cutting through the still air, shattering the quiet, but only briefly. Locals said the mechanism had come from Germany, or Italy. Nobody knew for certain and nobody really cared so long as it worked.

Luis Sanchez stepped out into the bright sunshine and took in a breath. Another beautiful day. For a moment, the sun shone within him and he hoped today might be a good day. His mood, however, soon changed as the mundane routine of each and every day bore down on him like a heavy weight. Thoughts turned to his mother lying in bed dying, his tiny sister Constanza sitting on the damp earthen floor, playing with the little wooden doll Luis had fashioned for her out of an old piece of wood. The images brought a sad, resigned smile to his lips. If only he could do more for them. If only he were older, bigger, stronger, somehow able to find a decent occupation and bring in more money. So many ifs and buts. He sighed, shoulders dropping, and resigned himself to the fact that right now, the only thing he could ever do was go to Señor Garcia's bakery to pick up the bread for the early-morning deliveries, and get through. What followed soon afterwards would be worse, and he knew that. The trek to school to face the baying of the children from the village. Home by two, sweeping out the house, making the meals, reading Constanza a story before bed. Always the constant round of monotony and despair.

The sunshine inside faded, despite the heat still burning his face. The day would be neither good nor indifferent, merely the same as every other.

Señor Garcia welcomed Luis with his usual growl. Already the bread lay on the table, bundled up for the various customers whose orders never changed. Luis knew them all by now, so no need for the list. Señor Garcia marvelled at this revelation when Luis first appeared at his doorstep not so many mornings ago, his eager face peering around the door entrance.

“I can help you with your deliveries, Señor Garcia,” Luis had said, flashing his best smile.

Garcia paused from kneading the bread and frowned. “Why would I want you to do that?”

Luis stepped inside, waved his hand over the flour, water, waiting masses of soft, sticky dough. “Because you're a busy man and I've been watching you working hard, making your bread. After it's baked, you have to rush out and get the deliveries done before your next batch of bread burns. I could help.”

“With the deliveries?” Garcia shook his head. “I'd have to pay you.”

Luis had shrugged. “Yes, but maybe the money you give me would not be as much as the money lost from all that wasted bread, burnt whilst you rush around.”

Garcia thought about the reasonableness of this. His mouth turned down at the corners and he appeared unconvinced. “You'd have to remember all the customers, where they lived. It would take months. I've been doing this for half a lifetime and I still manage to get some of them mixed up. I'd lose too much money. I'm sorry.” He picked up a large handful of dough and slapped it down on the worktop, kneading it with those thick, strong fingers of his.

“I'll write them down,” said Luis, stepping closer, wafting his hand through the great cloud of flour pluming up around the baker's hands. The baker had stopped, mouth open, stunned. Luis smiled when he saw the look of total incredulity on Garcia's face. “Yes, I can read and write, Señor Garcia.”

Garcia put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly. For the first and only time that Luis remembered, the man smiled. “Well, if the good Lord has seen fit to bless you with such a gift, then I don't see how I can deny you! You can start tomorrow, at six.”

And so, every morning for the past three months, Luis had done just that. This morning was no different.

Without a word, he gathered up the bundles of bread as Garcia worked away at more dough. Luis stepped out into the street to begin his rounds.

Despite the early hour, the Sun beat down with relentless intensity. Summertime in the village was often unbearable. Riodelgado sat in a little valley, surrounded by the steep sides of the mountains, the heat funnelling downwards, hugging the streets, never managing to escape. The residents cooked in this natural oven and they grumbled and groaned constantly. No one liked the heat. They retreated into their dark, cramped homes, like so many tiny, nervous animals escaping from the danger of predators. They waited for the cool of the night to arrive before venturing outside again, to sit and talk. And talk. Constant talking.

Luis sauntered through the streets, placing a bundle of bread inside each customer's open door. Not everyone ordered bread; some did not have the money, others made their own. Times, however, were hard, the lack of rain turning the ground iron-hard, crops unable to flourish. Coupled with this, news of the War filtered through every now and then, causing fear and concern amongst the villagers, numbing appetites. Recently things were not going well for the Spanish. Once, many years before Luis had been born, stories circulated of Spain defeating the heretics in the far north. But then the Swedes came, followed by the French who joined with these Protestant upstarts to oppose the Imperialist cause. The forces of Spain soon became hard-pressed. Luis, when he heard the news from a one-eyed itinerant tradesman called Pablo, didn't believe the man's words at first. “But France is of the true religion,” he'd blurted out.

Pablo had frowned, a gesture which made his single eye look quite terrifying. “How do you know anything about France?”

“I read it.”

“You read it…?” Pablo had shaken his head. “What is the world coming to when a mere child can read…”

“It's true though, Señor Pablo. How can the Catholic French fight alongside the Swedes, who are Protestants?”

Pablo shook his head again, much more sadly this time. They sat by the dried riverbed, under the shade of the orange trees, not far from the tiny bridge. When he spoke again, Pablo's voice sounded resigned, almost sad. “Like everything else in this mad world, it's a mystery. Protestants fighting alongside Catholics, against other Catholics! Death is everywhere. I see so many horrors in my travels, and I hear tales of so many dreadful, inhuman things done to others. Things done in the name of religion, in the name of God.” He shook his head. “We are in the end-of-days young Master Luis, the end-of-days.”

Nevertheless, despite the War spreading, the tiny village of Riodelgado remained untouched by the scourges in the north. No soldiers ever came and the village carried on the way it always had, boiling in the summer, freezing in the brief winter.

A village like a hundred others in the mountains of Andalucía.

Until, one day, a soldier did come.

Chapter Two: A Soldier

Luis first spotted the man as he rode into the village square. A tall man astride a thin, over-laden horse, grey coat streaked with the sweat of a long ride. A soldier, that much was clear; sword at his hip, pistols in their holsters, breastplate protecting chest. He wore no helmet, instead a large, floppy hat, which cast his face in deep shadow. A bright red feather took all of Luis' attention, as the man's features, masked by the wide brim and a thick tangle of black beard, were difficult to work out. Except for the eyes, burning with an intensity Luis had seldom seen before. Dust covered the soldier like an extra coat, his poor steed stumbling forward to the drinking trough. They had obviously ridden for many miles in the searing, unrelenting heat. The horse dipped its head and drank. Luis, with only two more bundles left to deliver, sat down on the fountain steps next to the animal and studied the man keenly.

The soldier dismounted, stretched and sighed, his joints cracking. He pulled a bandana from around his neck, dipped it into the water beside his still drinking horse and washed himself, running the soaked piece of cloth over his face before pressing the material into his mouth. He dabbed his lips, stopped and noticed Luis as if for the first time, his eyes narrowing. Luis stiffened, a tiny thrill of fear running through him. The man's look seemed dark and terrible, as did the rest of him. A soldier, quick to judge, violence never far from the blade of his sword. Luis quickly averted his face and went to move away.

“Boy, wait there.”

Luis froze, the gruff voice sharp, used to giving orders and no doubt expecting compliance. The man stepped closer, his air of supreme confidence unsettling.

“Where is everyone?”

Luis blinked. “Er… it is only early, sir. Most people will still be in their beds.”

“Bah… peasants.” He looked around, as if he were trying to find something that would prove the lie of Luis's words. Nothing else moved in the square. They were quite alone. The soldier exhaled and slumped down on the stone bench next to the fountain, coat and trousers creaking as he bent limbs. He motioned Luis to join him. For a moment he hesitated. “I don't bite, boy.”

Luis forced a smile and sat down. The tangy mix of stale sweat and aged, cracked leather invaded his nostrils, and something else. Something he knew, had smelled many times before; the acrid stench of decay.

“What's your name, boy?”

“Luis, sir. Luis Sanchez.”

The man cocked an eyebrow as he scanned Luis, from head to foot. Luis felt his stare and grew uncomfortable, edging away from him slightly. “You wear your hair long, like a girl,” said the man, turning away to rifle inside a little pouch at his hip. “You must be a page, or a scholar perhaps.”

Luis studied the man filling a white bone pipe with tobacco taken from the pouch. Once before had he seen this. The mayor often smoked a pipe, the only man in the village to do so. Tobacco was rare and expensive, brought in from the Americas. Luis knew where that was. He had pored over maps at his school and would often spend hours daydreaming of adventures in far off lands, of voyages across vast, open seas, of mountains and valleys and—

“Are you listening to me?”

Luis snapped his head around, blinking rapidly. The man's eyes burned with anger and the atmosphere became charged with danger. Luis held up his hand, alarmed. “I'm sorry, sir. I was thinking, and I meant no disrespect.” He tried a smile, but the man's expression did not change.

“Thinking about what?”

Swallowing hard, Luis pointed towards the pipe. “Tobacco. Our mayor, he has a pipe. Rare things. Expensive.”

“Expensive…” The man's voice drifted away and he sat back, closed his eyes and sucked on his pipe. His mouth made tiny popping sounds and smoke trailed white into the air.

The relief was palpable, the moment of danger past. Nevertheless, Luis remained upright, anxious not to allow his imaginings to return and so receive another sharp rebuke. So he sat and he waited, whilst the soldier quietly puffed away.

They remained like that for some time, neither speaking nor moving. Luis concentrated on his heartbeat, struggling to keep it steady. He had an urge to run, but he overcame it, grinding his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the soldier as the man's lips popped around the stem of the pipe.

The horse shook its head and abruptly, the soldier stood up. He knocked out the old tobacco against the fountain step, then stuffed the pipe back inside the pouch. “A tavern.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is a tavern close by, where I can find refreshment? Stable my horse?”

Looking up at him, Luis marvelled at the man's size. The buff leather coat strained across wide shoulders, arms thick and strong, legs, like coiled springs of steel, stuffed inside long riding boots. Sheer strength oozed from every pore. Even Fernando, the village blacksmith, couldn't compare with this man. What stories he must have, what tales to tell of battles fought, cities besieged, all the things he'd seen, the places visited.

“Have you never seen a soldier before boy?”

Luis shook his head, and for a moment allowed his imagination to wander, pictures of distant castles, endless forests, rivers of silver, adventures invading his mind, sending him far away.

A crack of laughter shattered his imaginings. He gasped and held his breath, waiting for the reprimand. But this time the man did not seem vexed, merely curious. Luis let out a slow sigh of relief. “No, sir, I've never seen a soldier. Never.”

“So none have ever passed this way?”

“None.”

“Are you certain?”

Luis nodded. The man seemed satisfied, pulled in a breath and adjusted his belt. “So… tavern?”

“Filipe runs an inn, sir. Up the main road,” Luis stood and pointed towards the hill that ran from the square. “Just after the bridge. You can't miss it. Or the mayor, he sometimes lets out rooms I believe.”

A moment of tension returned, the man's shoulders tightening. “Filipe's will suffice.” He took up the reins and lifted himself into the saddle. The horse stamped at the ground, annoyed to be moving so soon.

Luis patted the horse's neck. It nuzzled into him and he stroked its soft nose. “You have come a long way.”

The soldier studied Luis intensely. “You're not just a country bumpkin, boy. I can see that. You are a scholar, then?”

“Yes, sir. I like to think of myself as such.”

“Peasants are ignorant, stupid. Dangerous. But you… you are different. And that, my friend,” he struck the horse's flanks and began to move away, “makes you even more dangerous. We shall meet again, Luis Sanchez. Farewell… and thank you.”

Luis stood still, contemplating the man's words. Different… Yes, he was different; he knew that much, the other children of the village reminded him of it every day. But the soldier meant something more, a difference which '…makes you even more dangerous.' Those words, curious, made no kind of sense to Luis at all. How could he, little Luis, be dangerous? If anyone was dangerous, it was he—the soldier. He had an air about him of barely contained fury, as if he struggled constantly to keep it at bay. Violence was his companion, his friend, his constant. And now he was here, in Riodelgado. But why? That was the biggest question of them all.

Chapter Three: The Bullies

After he placed the last bundle of bread inside the door of the Ramirez family, Luis relaxed his breathing, dropping his shoulders as the stress left him. Another day of deliveries done. He relished these moments, when he could simply be.

He stood against a wall, under the shade of an orange tree, and searched the sky. No sign of any cloud. Already the temperature had risen to uncomfortable levels. From down the way came the sounds of morning, a village slowly waking up. A baby crying, parents running around to find food scraps, an old man opening bedroom shutters and wheezing in a great gulp of air. From afar someone else coughing violently, sounding as if they were bringing up their entire lungs. A woman calling to her neighbour, barking out the usual 'Buenos dias' that they had exchanged everyday for the past fifty odd years. Luis listened and he breathed it all in. His village. His world.

He called back at his house to check that his mother and sister were all right. His mother was sat up in bed, dragging a comb through her hair. She looked a little better, some colour returned to her cheeks, but Luis knew not to build his hopes up. She often rallied like this, however the illness which had ravaged her for so long eventually returned, often with a vengeance.

For now, at least, face flushed and eyes bright, she seemed in livelier spirits than she had been when he left.

“Luis,” she cried as he came through her door, her face breaking into a smile. He rushed over and fell into her arms. She hugged him tightly and he snuggled into her shoulder, breathing in her perfume.

“You are feeling a little better?” He rocked back, so he could take in the details of her face.

She nodded. “A little.” She placed the comb on her bedside table. “It is very hot today.”

She often changed the subject like this whenever conversations turned to her illness. It was almost as if by not talking about it, in some bizarre way, the illness might become less. Luis, despite knowing this not to be so, much preferred to keep his mother in good spirits, so he decided to tell her of his earlier encounter in the square. “I met someone today. A stranger.”

“Really?” She appeared indifferent and adjusted her nightdress. “And where did he come from, this stranger, or was it a 'she'?”

“No, a man. A soldier.”

Her right eye narrowed. A slight holding of the breath. Luis noticed, but made no comment. “A soldier? Interesting. What's a soldier doing all the way down here?”

“He didn't say. I told him where to find a room, over at Filipe's.”

“A room?” She smoothed down the side of her hair. Her gaze did not meet his. “That means he might be staying. Did he tell you his name?”

“No, mama. Why, do you think you might know him?” He wasn't sure why he asked, but something about her changed attitude unsettled him. Might the mention of a soldier be the precursor to something more sinister in her view?

She gave a quick giggle, “Know him? Goodness me, no. I don't think I have ever met a soldier… at least, not for many years.”

Luis swung his legs over the bed and stood up. “Well, I'm sure he won't be staying for long. Nothing of very much interest for a soldier, here in the village.”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes peering beyond him, her voice distant as she said, “No. That much is true.”

“I have to be going. I'll see to Constanza, give her some breakfast, then I'll walk up to school.”

He leaned forward and kissed his mother on the cheek. She reached over, a thin hand stroking his face. “Luis…”

“Yes, mama?”

“Be careful.”

“Careful? Of what, mama?”

She shrugged. “Just… Be careful.”

He laughed and turned to go. When he reached the door, she shouted out to him, “And Luis—if you get the chance—find out his name.”

Frowning, Luis left her and went to the kitchen to prepare something for his sister to eat.

What did his mother mean by that, he wondered as he made his way down the slope towards the square. Why would his mother be interested in a strange soldier's name? She had said she didn't know any, had never met any, so why the interest? And the way she had become nervous, almost afraid at the mention of him. All of this was very curious. He couldn't remember his mother ever telling him to 'be careful', but to mention it this morning, after the meeting with the soldier, just seemed strange, a little too much of a coincidence. He was sure she was holding something back, keeping a secret or knowledge of something from him. Whatever it was, he would have to wait and see.

By now the early morning bustle had given way to the resigned and much calmer atmosphere of a small village gripped by strength sapping heat. Groups of men gathered on street corners, discussing what work they might be able to find. The olives were as yet unready to be gathered and, until they were, employment of any kind was scarce. Only some two hundred people resided in the village, but most of them lived on the borderline of starvation, desperate to find ways and means to feed their families. Luis was perhaps luckier than most. The pittance he earned from the baker meant that at least he could provide one meal a day for his mother and sister. Many in the village couldn't even do that.

At the fountain, where he had spoken to the soldier not two hours earlier, a small bunch of boys gathered. Often they would find work to do out in the fields, picking out the stones from the hard, unforgiving ground. They had to move fast, as by midday the heat was so intense that no one, not even flies, ventured outside. Lounging around, as they always seemed to do, one of their favourite, early morning sports was to goad and abuse Luis. When they noticed him, their spirits became much more buoyant. Luis saw it and groaned.

“Here he is,” began Alvaro, their leader, almost as soon as Luis came into view. A large, brutish looking lad of around fifteen, what Alvaro lacked in intelligence he made up for in sheer physical strength. Highly regarded by the local farmers, he always took particular pleasure in inflicting pain and misery on Luis. “Look at him, prancing around like a dancer in a bordello. Hey, Luigi, show us a dance!”

The other boys roared at this, the purposeful distortion of Luis's name. Luis kept his eyes averted, head down. He had long become accustomed to the tirade that greeted him most mornings. He wished there was another route he could take to his tutor's house, but there was none. Consequently, virtually every morning would find him forced to run the gauntlet of abuse. He gritted his teeth and marched on.

Two of the boys stepped out and barred his way. Luis sighed, resigned to what would come next. Señor Martinez, his tutor, would be angry when Luis explained what had happened, always saying the same thing, 'Luis, for the Lord's sake, why don't you fight back? Stand up to them Luis, don't allow yourself to be disrespected in this way.' It was all right for Señor Martinez to give such advice, he was a grown man, people revered him. No one would dare hurl insults at him. Luis, for his part, had long since learned that it was better to simply soak all the abuse up rather than try to retaliate. He had done so once and Alvaro had slapped him across the ear. The sting of the blow, the ringing that went on in his head for at least two days afterwards, was a memory more painful than the slap itself. So he let his shoulders drop and he sighed, preparing himself for the usual onslaught.

“You heard Alvaro,” said another, a short and swarthy looking tough by the name of Carlos. Luis feared him more than almost all of the others put together. Excepting Alvaro, of course. “Let's see you dance.”

“Please Carlos,” Luis said in a small voice and made to go past.

Carlos, sensing Luis's despair, grinned at the prospect of some fun. He stepped up to the others in blocking Luis's path. “Dear me, Luis, refusing our request? We can't have that—we want entertaining, Luis.”

“That's right,” said a thin boy named Francisco. Jet-black hair and jet-black eyes which smouldered with unrelenting fury. Luis wondered if he were angry only towards Luis, or possibly the entire world. He didn't think he had ever seen the boy happy. Some said his father had fought with the Imperialist tercios at the battle of Lutzen and had died there. No one could be certain as news rarely filtered through about the War in the north. Luis believed the possibility Francisco might never see his father again, must affect him in some way. Almost a kindred spirit, Luis had often played with the idea that they could be friends. After all, he had lost his father too. Today, he was like the rest. Mean, mocking. He prodded Luis in the chest, sneering. “Dance for us, Luis.”

Luis looked wildly from face to face, finally settling on Alvaro, who beamed, slapping one of the other toughs on the shoulder. “We are about to see the great dancing Luis. Come on, let's get moving.” He slowly began to clap his hands and stamp his foot. Soon the others took up the cue, a steady beat designed to goad Luis into moving.

“I can't dance,” Luis said through clenched teeth. “Why do we have to go through this every morning?”

“Because you're a girl,” said Francisco, reaching over and flicking Luis's long hair. “Look at that! Caballero! You wear your hair like a girl's, so dance like a girl.”

Carlos stepped closer and Luis gasped when he saw the thin blade in the boy's hand. “Shall I cut it off for you, Luis? Eh? Would you like that, make you like the rest of us?”

“You keep that away from me, Carlos.” Luis instinctively stepped back, only to find himself right up against Alvaro, who leaned over him and breathed down into his ear.

“Dance!”

Letting his shoulders drop even lower, Luis looked down at his feet. No one ever came to help him, no doubt enjoying the show themselves. A few old, tired men looked on, sitting against the wall, their faces blank. Luis wished he had the strength, the courage to fight back. But he had neither. So, tentatively at first, he began to shuffle his feet from side to side as the baying applause gathered momentum. Gradually he lifted up his knees and danced in earnest. With his eyes closed, battling to keep back the tears, he tried to lose himself in his thoughts. Memories of when he was younger, with his father taking him up on his shoulders, walking him out across the fields and into the forest. The miles they walked, the things they talked about. Distant lands, people who spoke strange tongues, oceans and ships and cities that swarmed with thousands of citizens; tales of monsters, giants and dwarfs. They all thrilled him, especially the tale of the ogre who lived in the mountains nearby. An ogre that could sometimes be heard roaring in the distant valleys as hunger gnawed at his very soul. He would come down into the village and prey on some unfortunate who happened to be out after dark. No one else ever spoke about the ogre, but Luis believed that was because they all feared that the mere mention of his name would bring him back down in to the village, to feast once again on children and grown-ups alike.

A great cheer sprang up and Luis snapped himself out of his dreaming. The boys had gathered around in a tight circle to enjoy the show and applauded loudly. Luis, dancing like a maniac, had earned their appreciation. He stopped and stood, hands on hips, breathing hard, sweat running down the bridge of his nose.

Alvaro stepped up and clapped Luis on the back. “That was a fine display, Luis. Tomorrow, we want you to dress up in a hat.”

“With a feather,” chirped in Carlos.

“Yes, with a feather. Then you'll be a proper Caballero.”

Luis groaned again, already thinking of a plan to outwit them, anything that would mean he wouldn't have to go through this ignominy again. He hefted his bag and went to move away.

“Enjoy your lessons, Luis.”

Luis looked up into Alvaro's cruel eyes. He could see the loathing simmering away in those deep, black rimmed orbs. Luis knew how much these ignorant, uneducated boys hated him. They hated him for the fact he could read and write, that he stopped at the bridge to look at the mountains, and in the cool of the evening he would stretch himself out in the grass and pick out the stars. They hated him for the fact that Luis had dreams, aspirations. That if anyone could, he would be the one to leave the village one day and make something of himself in that hardest and cruellest of worlds. Not them. Oh no, they would live out their lives here, dead by the time they were fifty, broken arms and broken backs, bodies worn out by the daily, unremitting toil of working in the fields. Not a life for Luis. So, the hatred. The envy. Luis didn't know which was worse.

Leaving the cackling voices behind, Luis trudged up the narrow footpath that climbed towards his tutor's home. As he took the first step, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

Some way off, the soldier stood leaning nonchalantly under the shade of an orange tree, arms folded, smoking his long, thin pipe. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, a forefinger tipping the brim of his hat in greeting. Luis gave a tiny smile, then hurried up the path.

He must have seen it all, he thought, the taunting, the jostling, the humiliation.

And he hadn't helped.

Chapter Four: The Teacher

Señor Martinez greeted Luis with his usual dour expression, piercing eyes searching him under bristling brows. Wiry and bent over by the years, Señor Martinez still bore the stature of a well-respected man, a certain arrogance rooted in his strong jaw, the slightly turned down corners of his mouth. He did not suffer fools lightly, this old music teacher who had, so the stories went, once tutored the king's son in Madrid. For Luis to have discovered such a man as this, in this forgotten backwater of a dried-up village, was good fortune indeed. That he did not charge Luis a single peseta, even better. “There's something about you that I like,” the old man had said when he first came across Luis a few years before. “Come and talk to me and I will open your eyes to a whole new world.” So Luis did, and every morning since, excepting Saturdays and Sundays, he went to Martinez's simple house and worked through his studies. Soon, it became routine. Not a painful one, however; one borne from necessity. Luis might find himself trapped here forever without his tutoring. Riodelgado, the world's end.

“You're late again,” said Martinez without anger. “They belittled you did they, as usual?”

Luis placed his bag on the table and slowly pulled out his books and the quill he'd borrowed from Martinez some days before. “Only a little.”

“Bah!” Martinez slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “When are you going to stand up to them, meet them full on and end all of this? Heh?”

Luis had no answer. He had been through this conversation any number of times and he was bored with it. He sat down and began to sharpen the nib of his quill. “There is a soldier come to the village,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “I met him this morning.”

“German?”

“No. Spanish, I think.”

“You think? Don't you know? What was he, a mercenary?”

Luis frowned. “Mercenary?”

“Soldier of fortune—one who fights for the highest bidder. Now the war is almost over many such men will be roaming the countryside, looking for employment.” Martinez sucked his teeth. “Or trouble.”

“Well, he was certainly a soldier. He had a sword and pistols. A rougher looking man I have yet to see. He looked as if he had been travelling for days, perhaps even weeks.” Luis carefully put the quill down and smoothed open the page of his copybook. “The war is over, you say? When did that happen?”

“I can't begin to know.” Martinez disappeared for a moment into the tiny kitchen adjacent to the room and returned with a basket of bread. He placed it down before Luis, together with a slab of cheese. “Eat your breakfast, Luis. You can't learn on an empty stomach.”

Luis smiled. The old man could always sense Luis's need for food, probably by simply listening to the rumblings coming from deep inside his young scholar.

Chewing through the bread, Luis asked again, “So, the war. When did it end?”

“I said I don't know. Pablo told me some weeks ago.” Martinez pushed over a jug of fresh water. Luis poured himself a mug full. “Apparently a peace agreement has been signed by all the countries involved. Somehow, I suspect the struggle between Spain and France will only grow worse.” He lowered his eyes, as well as his voice. “Much worse.”

“Can that be possible?” Luis took a large drink. It tasted fresh and sweet. “I have heard it said that this war has been the worst in all recorded history. Hundreds of thousands of people killed, either by fighting or plague. Whole cities burned to the ground, miles upon miles of farmland throughout Germany salted, blighted forever.”

“You know much, Luis. All of this from Pablo?”

Luis nodded, nibbling at a piece of cheese. “Mostly. Mother also told me some things.”

“Yes, well… she would know.”

Martinez slid over a wrinkled piece of parchment. “Enough talk of war, Luis. Your Latin requires urgent attention.” Luis sighed, drained his mug and settled down to some study.

At the door, a few hours later, Martinez placed a tightly wrapped bundle of bread and cheese into Luis's hand, together with a small stone bottle of wine. “Tomorrow we will talk of some history, Luis. Geography too. That way you can make sense of all these things you keep hearing and all these strangers you keep meeting.”

Luis gave an awkward smile, a little embarrassed. He stuffed the food and drink into his bag. “Thank you, Señor Martinez.”

“And learn your verbs, Luis. You won't get anywhere without knowing them.”

Luis waved goodbye to the old tutor and made his way back down into the square. Almost at once he broke out in sweat. The heat had become unbearable and not a soul was out. At least this meant he would not have to suffer another bout of bullying. The intense sunlight, however, was almost as bad, making his head hurt with all the frowning. By the time he reached his house, he was soaked through with perspiration, but all of this discomfort vanished when he saw old Señora Gomez standing at the doorway, wringing her hands.

“Oh Luis,” she said, coming forward at a rush. She clamped her hands on his shoulders.

“What is it?” He could see by her flushed face something serious had happened. She shuffled into the house, wringing her hands again, and slumped down on a rickety old chair, mumbling incoherently. “Señora Gomez, tell me what's happened – is it Mamá?”

Luis dumped his bag down and rushed towards his mother's room. Señora Gomez caught him by the arm. “No, your mother is sleeping. Please don't disturb her. It's Constanza. She is not well. I have taken her to my house, kept her in bed, given her some broth.”

“Constanza?” Luis felt his stomach pitch over. “But, what is it? A fever?” He was wild with worry. How could this have happened? When he had left them this morning they both seemed bright enough. Señora Gomez always came in to stay with them for a few hours whilst he worked and studied. To discover his sister was ill shocked him, turning his legs to jelly and he sat down on his bed, pressing his hands against his face.

Señora Gomez knelt down next to him. “She is very weak, with some kind of fever.” She shook her head. “You should have told me.”

Luis gaped at her. “I didn't know. When I left this morning, everything was fine. Even Mamá seemed better, more cheerful.” He put his face in his hands, leaning forward, the news becoming too much all of a sudden. “I can't believe this.”

She placed a hand gently on his arm. “You need some rest as well. You do too much, what with your bread deliveries and that… school. Can't you give it up?”

He brought his head up from his hands. “And what would I do with my life then, Señora Gomez? Become a farmer, perhaps? A worker in the fields?”

She shook her head, looking sad. “What will you become if you continue with your studies?”

“I will go to university, Señora Gomez. Madrid, possibly even Paris. I will learn to be a doctor.”

“A doctor.” She shook her head again, this time more vigorously. “My, what silly dreams you have.” She bent forward, her face very close. “I know you want to do what is best for your mother and sister, Luis, but you have to understand that this is the real world in which you live, not some fairytale. Studies and education are not for the likes of us. We are peasants, Luis. We always will be.” She smiled. “You have to think of your mother. I am afraid she is not long for this world. I would prepare yourself, Luis.”

“Prepare myself for what, Señora Gomez?”

“I think you know.” She patted his knee and stood up, groaning a little as she did so, showing the few teeth she still had remaining. “My aching bones.” Slowly she shuffled towards the door. “When your mother awakes, tell her about Constanza. Then, I suggest you go and visit the priest.”