Offering to the Storm. Dolores Redondo
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mother seemed to have stopped crying now; even so, Amaia closed the door at the top of the stairs. She stood watching as Montes and Etxaide processed the scene, cursing her phone, which had been vibrating in her pocket since they left the station. The number of missed calls was piling up. She checked her coverage: as she had suspected, because of the thick walls it was much weaker inside the farmhouse. Descending the stairs, she tiptoed past the kitchen, registering the sound of hushed voices typical at wakes. She felt a sense of relief as she stepped outside. The rain had stopped briefly, as the wind swept away the black storm clouds, but the absence of any clear patches of sky meant that once the wind fell the rain would start again. She moved a few metres away from the house and checked her log of missed calls. One from Dr San Martín, one from Lieutenant Padua of the Guardia Civil, one from James, and six from Ros. First she rang James, who was upset to hear that she wouldn’t be home for lunch.
‘But, Amaia, it’s your day off—’
‘I’ll be home as soon as I can, I promise, and I’ll make it up to you.’
He seemed unconvinced.
‘But we have a dinner reservation …’
‘I’ll be home in an hour at the most.’
Padua picked up straight away.
‘Inspector, how are you?’
‘I’m fine. I saw your call, and—’ She could barely contain her anxiety.
‘No news, Inspector. I just rang to say I’ve spoken to Naval Command in San Sebastián and La Rochelle. All the patrol boats in the Bay of Biscay are on the alert and they know what to look for.’
Padua must have heard her sigh. He added in a reassuring tone:
‘Inspector, the coastguards are of the opinion, and I agree, that one month is long enough for your mother’s body to have washed up somewhere along the shore. It could have been swept up the Cantabrian coast, though the ascending current is more likely to have carried it to France. Alternatively, it could have become snagged on the riverbed, or the torrential rains could have taken it miles out to sea, into one of the deep trenches in the Bay of Biscay. Bodies washed out to sea are rarely found, and given how long it’s been since your mother disappeared, I think we have to consider that possibility. A month is a long time.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ she said, trying hard not to show her disappointment. ‘If you hear anything …’
‘Rest assured, I’ll let you know.’
She hung up, thrusting her phone deep into her pocket, as she digested what Padua had said. A month in the sea is a long time for a dead body. But didn’t the sea always give up its dead?
While talking to Padua, she had started to circle the house to escape the tiresome crunch of gravel outside the entrance. As she followed the line in the ground traced by rainwater dripping from the roof, she reached the corner at the back of the building where the eaves met. Sensing a movement behind her, she turned. The older woman from the photographs in the little girl’s bedroom was standing beside a tree in the garden, apparently talking to herself. As she gently tapped the tree trunk, she chanted a series of barely audible words that seemed to be addressed to some invisible presence. Amaia watched the old woman for a few seconds, until she looked up and saw her.
‘In the old days, we’d have buried her here,’ she said.
Amaia lowered her gaze to the trodden earth and the clear line traced by water falling from the eaves. She was unable to speak, assailed by images of her own family graveyard, the remains of a cot blanket poking out from the dark soil.
‘Kinder than leaving her all alone in a cemetery, or cremating her, which is what my granddaughter wants to do … The modern ways aren’t always the best. In the old days, we women weren’t told how we should do things; we may have done some things wrong, but we did others much better.’ The woman spoke to her in Spanish, although from the way she pronounced her ‘r’s, Amaia inferred that she usually spoke Basque. An old Baztán etxeko andrea, one of a generation of invincible women who had seen a whole century, and who still had the strength to get up every morning, scrape her hair into a bun, cook, and feed the animals; Amaia noticed the powdery traces of the millet the woman had been carrying in the pockets of her black apron, in the old tradition. ‘You do what has to be done.’
As the woman shuffled towards her in her green wellingtons, Amaia resisted the urge to go to her aid, sensing this might embarrass her. Instead she waited until the woman drew level, then extended her hand.
‘Who were you speaking to?’ she said, gesturing towards the open meadow.
‘To the bees.’
Amaia looked at her, puzzled.
Erliak, elriak
Gaur il da etxeko nausiya
Erliak, elriak
Eta bear da elizan argia
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Amaia recalled her aunt telling her that in Baztán, when someone died, the mistress of the house would go to where the hives were kept in the meadow and ask the bees to make more wax for the extra candles needed to illuminate the deceased during the wake and funeral. According to her aunt, the incantation would increase the bees’ production three-fold.
Touched by the woman’s gesture, Amaia imagined she could hear her Aunt Engrasi saying, ‘When all else fails, we return to the old traditions.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said.
Ignoring Amaia’s hand, the woman embraced her with surprising strength. After releasing her, she lowered her eyes to the ground, wiping her tears away with the pocket of the apron in which she had carried the chicken feed. Amaia – moved by the woman’s dignified courage, which had rekindled the lifelong admiration she’d felt towards that generation – maintained a respectful silence.
‘He didn’t do it,’ the woman said suddenly.
Trained to know when someone was about to unburden themselves, Amaia didn’t reply.
‘No one takes any notice of me because I’m an old woman, but I know who killed our little girl, and it wasn’t that foolish father of hers. All he cares about is cars, motorbikes and showing off. He loves money the way pigs love apples. I should know, I courted men like that in my youth. They would come to pick me up on motorbikes, or in cars, but I wasn’t taken in by all that nonsense. I wanted a real man …’
The old woman’s mind was starting to wander. Amaia steered her back to the present:
‘Do you know who killed her?’
‘Yes, I told them,’ she said, waving a hand towards the house. ‘But no one listens to me because I’m an old woman.’
‘I’m listening to you. Tell me who did this.’
‘It was Inguma – Inguma killed her,’ she declared emphatically.
‘Who is Inguma?’
The old woman’s grief was palpable as she gazed at Amaia.
‘That poor girl! Inguma is the demon that steals children’s souls while they sleep. Inguma slipped through the cracks, sat on her chest and took her soul.’
Amaia opened her mouth, confused, then closed it again, unsure what to say.
‘You think I’m spouting old wives’ tales,’ the woman said accusingly.
‘Not at all …’
‘In the annals of Baztán it says that Inguma awoke once and took away hundreds of children. The doctors called it whooping cough, but it was Inguma who came to rob their breath while they slept.’
Inés Ballarena appeared from around the side of the house.
‘Ama,