The Snow Gypsy(80)
Her mind’s eye flashed back to that summer, ten years ago, when she had camped out on the Sussex marshes, waking each morning with joy in her heart at the sound of the birds and the scent of the dew-covered meadow. In those days she had sensed the presence of God in every living thing: the birds, the animals, the trees, and the flowers—and in Bill Lee and his sisters. Was she the sort of person who could believe in a benevolent creator only when things were going well? Was her spirituality the fair-weather kind? Too flimsy and ephemeral to stand against a storm?
She glanced at the cliffs above her head, as if the answer were up there, contained in the little shrine she couldn’t reach. Did the pilgrims who climbed up to it each year find answers to their questions? Was the journey the key rather than the destination?
She thought of her own journey to Spain—full of unexpected twists and turns, exhilarating highs and miserable lows—ending in nothing but a sense of closure, of something laid to rest. But no—that wasn’t the whole story. Because other lives had been affected by this journey. If she had chosen not to come to Spain—if she had stayed safely cocooned in London—what would have become of Nieve?
Rose drew in a sharp breath. The sun was high in the sky now—and there were still three more plants to find. With some difficulty she got to her feet. Her ankle felt stiff, and she hobbled the first few steps from the rock to the goat track she’d been following. It was a relief when she spotted two of the wildflowers she was looking for growing just a few yards apart. One was the Sierra Nevada violet—more like a pansy than the violets native to Britain, with pale-pink and yellow petals. Maria said the crushed leaves could be used as a poultice to treat skin cancers and growths. The other herb was called trumpet gentian, with intense blue flowers shaped like the musical instrument it was named after. It was the root of this plant Maria wanted. She used it to neutralize the poison in snakebites and scorpion stings.
Once she had collected enough of each of these, Rose trudged on up the path. She paused to admire a flower she had read about but never seen: Plantago nivalis—the star of the snows. It had tiny star-shaped petals covered in fine hairs that looked like frost when the sun caught them. She crouched down to get a closer look, and when she straightened up, she caught sight of the final item on her list. Tall, with a halo of ghostly white petals, the opium poppies sprouted in the shadow of a blackened cactus that looked as if it had been struck by lightning.
Rose had been surprised when Maria had added this plant to the list. “Aren’t they dangerous?” she’d asked.
“Of course,” Maria had replied. “Many herbs are dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. Opium poppies don’t cure anything—and they’ll kill a man if he takes too much—but they’re wonderful for relieving unbearable pain.”
Maria had explained that it was the juice of the poppy heads she needed, extracted from the plant before the petals fell off and the seeds inside the pod dried out. Rose picked half a dozen and packed them carefully inside her rucksack. Then she started to make her way back down the track. If anything, going down the mountain was harder than going up. The angle of her foot aggravated the soreness of her ankle. When she came to a place where the path ran past a waterfall, she decided to take off her boots and soak her throbbing muscles.
The water was breathtakingly cold. Even Gunesh, who had lowered his head to take a drink, jumped back in surprise at the icy temperature. But once she got used to it, the effect was very soothing. She sat on a rock, both feet dangling in the gushing pool the meltwater had carved out. The only sound was the splash of the water and the background chorus of cicadas. In such a remote spot, with the sun so hot, she was tempted to throw off her clothes and get right into the pool. But with her ankle still weak, it wouldn’t be sensible. The rocks beneath the surface were slimy with weeds. She could end up stuck in the freezing water, unable to clamber out.
She thought about the last time she had been out for a swim—in the sea in Provence with Cristóbal. It made her wither inside to remember the way she had felt that night, the wild, erotic sense of being in love in a place where the night went on forever. This mountain wilderness could hardly be more of a contrast with the frenetic atmosphere at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. As different as Zoltan was from Cristóbal.
She closed her eyes, angry with herself for allowing Cristóbal back into her thoughts. But she couldn’t help wondering where he was now—whether he had taken Juanita and the children to the countryside for safety, whether he had stayed there or come back to Granada to try to see Lola.
Thinking of Lola sent the icy sensation in Rose’s feet coursing through her whole body. She felt guilty for being in such a beautiful place, for breathing in fresh mountain air and feeling the sun on her skin while Lola was shut away in a gloomy, stinking cell.
As she opened her eyes, she caught a movement on the opposite bank. A flash of black and white. Then another. She blinked as her brain tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. A pair of badger cubs, tumbling over each other as they frolicked in the sunshine. Instinctively she reached for Gunesh’s collar, afraid that he would jump into the water and try to get at them. But the dog had dozed off in the heat.
She watched, enchanted, as a third cub appeared over the top of the bank. She had never seen badgers in daylight before. Like the golden eagle that had flown over her head, it was magical. Uplifting. A private show for her delight. As if God were saying, Here I am.