The Snow Gypsy(65)
At first, Rose couldn’t work out what she was looking at. They were in a clearing, the ground in front of them dry and dusty where the sun had penetrated the trees. Suddenly she saw a flicker of movement—something thin and whiplike flicking out of the parched soil. Then, a foot or so to the left, she caught a glimpse of a brown zigzag pattern arching sideways.
“Snakes!” she whispered. She felt Gunesh straining at the lead and put her hand out to pat him on the shoulder. “What are they doing?”
“It’s a sort of love dance,” Zoltan whispered back. “Watch!”
Rose gazed, transfixed, as the two creatures reared up, advancing toward each other until they collided, then twining and twisting their slim, supple bodies in a swaying rhythm. She could see the thin tongues extended as the snakes shifted this way and that, their courtship dance stirring ghostly waves of dust up from the ground. The way they moved was as graceful and symmetrical as ripples across a pool when a pebble is thrown in.
“Wow,” she breathed. “That must be one of the strangest sights on earth!”
“They’re Iberian adders,” he said. “This is their favorite spot.”
“How did you know where to find them?”
“I come down here for honey—there are beehives on the other side of those trees. I first saw the snakes a couple of weeks ago. It must be the time of year for mating.”
As they left the clearing and made their way back to the track, a bird piped up from a branch overhead. Rose recognized the call. It was a haunting sound, a fast succession of rich notes, high and low. She’d heard the same song in the Sussex marshes the night she’d said goodbye to Nathan.
“What do you call that in English?” Zoltan glanced upward.
“A nightingale.”
“The Spanish call them ruise?ores. They say the birds have pearls and corals in their throats.”
“That’s a lovely way to describe it,” Rose said. “I’ve never heard them sing in the daytime before.”
“It’s quite common here—I don’t know why. There are a lot of them up at Maria’s place. They seem to like mulberry bushes—and she has dozens of them.”
Rose remembered the silk-weaving shed she had passed in Pampaneira. She asked Zoltan if his friend farmed silkworms as well as cherries.
He nodded. “She weaves the silk herself. She has goats as well. It’s quite a big place. She runs it all on her own—won’t accept any help. She makes cheese, and she pretty much lives on that and the fruit and vegetables she grows. Once a week I bring her a couple of loaves of maize bread from the market and some salted cod.” He made a face. “Have you tried that?”
“Not yet. I’ve seen it on sale in the village—it looks like starched underwear.”
“It does.” He chuckled. “And it doesn’t taste much better. I’ve offered her trout I’ve caught in the river, but she doesn’t seem interested in fresh fish. By the way, don’t be alarmed when you see her—she’s very old and . . . kind of unusual looking. People say she’s a hechicera.”
“What’s that?”
“A witch,” he replied. “A white witch—that’s what it means. They have another word—bruja—for the bad kind. I think you’ll like her—she’s an expert on herbs. She uses them to dye the silk and to make medicine. I’ve heard people say she’s better than the local doctor at curing people.” He paused to swipe away a cloud of flies hovering over his head. “That’s why she wasn’t punished for collaborating with the partisans—she cured the wife of the comandante of the Guardia Civil.”
“What was the matter with her?” Rose asked.
“She suffered great pain in her legs. She could hardly walk and hadn’t slept properly for weeks. Maria says she turned up at the door of the farmhouse one night begging for help. She hadn’t dared tell her husband where she was going, because he was a churchy man.” He turned to Rose with a shrug. “During the Civil War the Guardia Civil were hand-in-glove with the Catholic church—still are, actually. Anyway, Maria treated her for a week—with some sort of poultice made from leaves—and by the end of that time, she was completely better: not a trace of pain. From then on she never had any trouble from the police.” Zoltan took another swipe at the flies with his hat. “That’s Maria’s place—down there.”
The stone farmhouse was half-hidden by the orchard that surrounded it. As they made their way toward it, Rose spotted quinces, plums, and apricots growing among the cherry trees. Then they passed through a patch of mulberry bushes, which gave way to rows of potatoes, peas, and beans. The land that lay directly in front of the house was given over to a profusion of herbs. Rose could smell rosemary, thyme, and lavender, and she could see marigolds, mallows, comfrey, and southernwood. These were the staples of her own herbal medicine practice. She brightened at the thought of meeting a kindred spirit.
There was a big iron bell hanging outside the door of the farmhouse. Zoltan rang it vigorously, making a terrific din. “She’s a bit deaf,” he said. “I hope she’s not asleep.”
He rang again. This time Gunesh joined in, barking loudly and pawing the peeling blue paint on the wooden door.
“Shush!” Rose pulled him away just as the door opened. Standing on the threshold was a woman who looked as if she’d stepped out of the pages of a book by the Brothers Grimm. Her skin was a bloodless gray yellow, and her hair clung to her scalp like wisps of spider thread. When she opened her mouth to greet them, Rose saw that her teeth were black and chipped. But she had fanglike canines that looked strong enough to bite through the shells of almonds. Like all the local women, she was dressed entirely in black.