next to David, looking at the graffito.
‘Some of the Basque kids worship him…’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Cause he’s so perfectly ruthless. A brilliant killer…who comes and goes. Who never gets caught.’
She was visibly shivering. She added:
‘And they admire the cruelty. Of course.’
‘Miguel is…especially cruel?’
‘Rhapsodically. Voluptuously. Poetically. The Spanish torture Basque radicals, but Miguel tortures them right back. He frightens the fuck out of the Spanish police. Even the anti terrorists.’
Amy leaned to look at the graffito. David asked:
‘What kind of tortures?’
Her fringe of blonde hair was dewed with water in the mist. ‘He buried one Guardia Civil guy in quicklime.’
‘To destroy the evidence?’
‘No no no. Miguel buried the man alive, in quicklime, up to his neck. Basically he dissolved him. Alive.’
Abruptly, she walked on. David jogged after her, together they walked down a damp stony path, between two of the older Basque houses. David looked left and right. Brown and thorny sunflowers decorated the damp wooden doors, hammered fiercely to the planks. Some of the wayside thistles had been made into man shapes. Manikins made out of thistles.
The silence of the village was unnerving. As they paced through the clinging mist, the echo of their footsteps was the only noise.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’
‘Killed. Died. America.’
They were at the end of the lane. The houses had dwindled, and they were surrounded by rocks and thickets.Somewhere out there was France, and the ocean – and cities and trains and airports .
Somewhere.
Abruptly, a church appeared through the mist. Grey-stoned and very old, and perched above a ravine which was flooded with fog. The windows were gaunt, the location austere.
‘Not exactly welcoming. The house of God?’
Amy pushed at a rusty iron gate. ‘The churches are often like this. They used to build them on older sites, pagan sites. For the ambience, maybe.’
David paused, perplexed. Odd circular stones, like circles balanced on squares, were set along the path to the church door. The stones were marked with lauburus – the mysterious and aethereal swastika. David had never seen circular gravestones before.
‘Let’s try inside,’ he said.
They walked down the slippery cobbled path to the humble wooden church door. It was black, old, wet – and locked.
‘Damn.’
Amy walked left, around the side of the church – shrouding herself with mist. David followed. There was a second, even smaller door. She twisted the rusty handle; it opened. David felt the lick of moisture on his neck; it was cold now, as well as gloomy. He wanted to get inside.
But the interior of the church was as unalluring as the exterior. Dank and shadowy, with unpainted wooden galleries of seating. The reek of rotten flower-water was intense; five stained glass windows filtered the chill and foggy daylight.
‘Curious,’ said Amy, pointing up. One of the stained glass windows showed a large bull, a burning tree, and a white Basque house. Then she elaborated, still pointing at the window.
‘The Basques are very devout, very Catholic. But theywere pagan until the tenth century, and they keep a lot of their pre-Christian imagery. Like that. That house – there –’ she gestured to the main window ‘– that’s the exte , the family house, the sacred cornerstone of heathen Basque culture. The souls of the Basque dead are said to return to a Basque house, through subterranean passages…’
David stared. The stained glass tree was burning in the cold glass light.
‘And the woman? In the other window.’
‘That’s Mari, the lady of the witches.’
‘The…’
‘Goddess of the witches. The Basque witches. We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are fourteen thousand strong .’ She looked at him, her eyes blue and icy in the hanging light. ‘That was their famous – or infamous – saying. We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are
‘Some of the Basque kids worship him…’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Cause he’s so perfectly ruthless. A brilliant killer…who comes and goes. Who never gets caught.’
She was visibly shivering. She added:
‘And they admire the cruelty. Of course.’
‘Miguel is…especially cruel?’
‘Rhapsodically. Voluptuously. Poetically. The Spanish torture Basque radicals, but Miguel tortures them right back. He frightens the fuck out of the Spanish police. Even the anti terrorists.’
Amy leaned to look at the graffito. David asked:
‘What kind of tortures?’
Her fringe of blonde hair was dewed with water in the mist. ‘He buried one Guardia Civil guy in quicklime.’
‘To destroy the evidence?’
‘No no no. Miguel buried the man alive, in quicklime, up to his neck. Basically he dissolved him. Alive.’
Abruptly, she walked on. David jogged after her, together they walked down a damp stony path, between two of the older Basque houses. David looked left and right. Brown and thorny sunflowers decorated the damp wooden doors, hammered fiercely to the planks. Some of the wayside thistles had been made into man shapes. Manikins made out of thistles.
The silence of the village was unnerving. As they paced through the clinging mist, the echo of their footsteps was the only noise.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’
‘Killed. Died. America.’
They were at the end of the lane. The houses had dwindled, and they were surrounded by rocks and thickets.Somewhere out there was France, and the ocean – and cities and trains and airports .
Somewhere.
Abruptly, a church appeared through the mist. Grey-stoned and very old, and perched above a ravine which was flooded with fog. The windows were gaunt, the location austere.
‘Not exactly welcoming. The house of God?’
Amy pushed at a rusty iron gate. ‘The churches are often like this. They used to build them on older sites, pagan sites. For the ambience, maybe.’
David paused, perplexed. Odd circular stones, like circles balanced on squares, were set along the path to the church door. The stones were marked with lauburus – the mysterious and aethereal swastika. David had never seen circular gravestones before.
‘Let’s try inside,’ he said.
They walked down the slippery cobbled path to the humble wooden church door. It was black, old, wet – and locked.
‘Damn.’
Amy walked left, around the side of the church – shrouding herself with mist. David followed. There was a second, even smaller door. She twisted the rusty handle; it opened. David felt the lick of moisture on his neck; it was cold now, as well as gloomy. He wanted to get inside.
But the interior of the church was as unalluring as the exterior. Dank and shadowy, with unpainted wooden galleries of seating. The reek of rotten flower-water was intense; five stained glass windows filtered the chill and foggy daylight.
‘Curious,’ said Amy, pointing up. One of the stained glass windows showed a large bull, a burning tree, and a white Basque house. Then she elaborated, still pointing at the window.
‘The Basques are very devout, very Catholic. But theywere pagan until the tenth century, and they keep a lot of their pre-Christian imagery. Like that. That house – there –’ she gestured to the main window ‘– that’s the exte , the family house, the sacred cornerstone of heathen Basque culture. The souls of the Basque dead are said to return to a Basque house, through subterranean passages…’
David stared. The stained glass tree was burning in the cold glass light.
‘And the woman? In the other window.’
‘That’s Mari, the lady of the witches.’
‘The…’
‘Goddess of the witches. The Basque witches. We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are fourteen thousand strong .’ She looked at him, her eyes blue and icy in the hanging light. ‘That was their famous – or infamous – saying. We do not exist, yes we do exist, we are
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