The Snow Gypsy(100)
“I’m fine!” Rose smiles back, watching the sun glance off his forehead as the car takes another bend, lighting up the peppering of gray in his hair. He reminds her so much of her brother. And he inherited his uncle’s love of horses. Rose’s latest home is a cottage on the grounds of the stud farm he has set up in Segovia. It’s good to be living close to him. And it means that the grandchildren can pop in to see her whenever they feel like it.
“You know, I don’t remember any of this.” Nieve is sitting in the passenger seat, craning her neck at the view. She still has curly hair, but it’s white now. She’s due to retire next year from a long and distinguished career in the law.
“I do,” Lola replies. She shoots a heartfelt glance at Rose. “I’ll never forget that ride up the mountain, the day you sent the telegram. It was the worst day of my life.”
Rose thinks how glamorous Lola looks, even though she’s dressed for a funeral. In her late seventies, she can still turn heads.
As the car slows down, Rose notices Lola reaching into her handbag for a pair of dark glasses. But it’s a futile gesture. The paparazzi are out in force. Rose was expecting a few photographers—for an event of such significance. But word must have got out that Lola Aragon is going be attending. The news hounds are not going to miss the chance to capture an international celebrity coming to pay her respects to the recovered remains of long-dead family members. They still call her “the face of flamenco.” Even if she lives to be a hundred, that will never change.
There’s a welcome committee standing by to make sure that the photographers and the TV cameras don’t intrude on what is supposed to be a private ceremony. The cemetery is cordoned off, and once they’re inside the whitewashed walls, the atmosphere becomes more serene.
Nathan takes his mother’s arm as they make their way down the few steps to the Garden of Rest. Nieve is just ahead of them, helping Lola. When they are all safely down, Nieve glances at a woman who is standing a few yards away, handing out booklets. “That’s Ortiz Chanes,” she whispers. “She’s from the Granada wing of the Association for the Recovery of Historical Memory.”
Rose nods. She has followed reports of this organization in the news. They’ve been uncovering Civil War mass graves around Spain since the late 1990s. But it’s only a few months since legislation has been passed to support those who want to excavate the remains of their loved ones. As a high-court judge, Nieve has been a driving force behind that new law.
Rose, Lola, and Nieve were among the first people in the country to undergo DNA tests to enable their dead relatives to be identified. Burial vaults have now been made ready for Nathan, for Lola’s mother, and for her twin, Amador. There’s also a grave for Heliodora, Nieve’s biological mother. And Rose has asked for Adelita’s name to be added to Nathan’s gravestone, although there was no means of identifying her remains.
Lola turns to Rose with a wistful smile as Nieve goes to greet the woman who has campaigned alongside her. “When I was growing up, there was an old saying in these mountains—that children fostered by goats grow up to be noble adults.”
“You must be so proud of her.”
“I am. I don’t know how she did it, raising a family and making such a success of herself at the same time.”
“Well, she had a pretty good example in you, didn’t she?”
“Not to mention her Auntie Rose.” Lola’s eyebrows arch over the dark glasses. “Are you still getting all those letters from the States?”
“Yes—they’ve asked me to be the keynote speaker at a convention in Chicago this summer. The American Herbalists Guild. I don’t know if I’m up to going all that way.”
“Yes, you are!” Lola takes Rose’s gloved hand in hers and squeezes it. “Nathan told me you did an emergency caesarean on one of his mares last week—how many vets are still doing that in their eighties?”
“I think they’re about to start.” Nathan has been reading the names on the vaults. Nieve comes back at the same time. They all link arms as the priest begins to recite the words of the committal.
They watch the coffins slide, one by one, into the vaults. When the priest reads out the name of Lola’s mother, Rose feels the grip on her arm tighten. Then Amador. Rose hears Lola release a long breath. There is a sense of the past finally being laid to rest.
Next is Heliodora’s coffin. How sad for Nieve, Rose thinks, that she has never even seen a photograph of the woman who gave birth to her.
And then it is Nathan’s turn. Rose offers up silent thanks that her search for him brought her the family she longed for—in a way she could never have anticipated. And in her heart, she knows that if his spirit is nearby, looking down on them, it won’t stay here for long. No. Nathan will be up there on the mountain, his soul gliding through the scented meadow, where the cherry stone she planted all those years ago has grown into a fine, strong tree.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Snow Gypsy is a work of fiction inspired by someone who really existed. The character Rose Daniel is based on Juliette de Ba?racli Levy (1912–2009), a British-born herbalist and author noted for her pioneering work in holistic veterinary medicine. After training as a vet, she left England to study herbal medicine in Europe and beyond, living with Gypsies and nomadic farmers, from whom she acquired a wide knowledge of herbal lore.