The Legacy of the Bones. Dolores Redondo
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be long now. This is when your daughter needs your help.’
Amaia nodded.
For the next two hours she made herself pace up and down the hospital corridor, which was empty at this hour of the morning. By her side, James seemed completely lost, distraught at how impotent he felt watching her suffer without being able to do anything.
For the first few minutes, he had kept asking if she was all right, whether he could help, or did she want him to bring her something, anything. She scarcely replied, intent upon keeping a degree of control over her body, which no longer felt like it belonged to her. This strong, healthy body that had always given her a secret feeling of pleasant self-assurance, was now no more than a mound of aching flesh. She almost laughed at the absurdity of her long-held belief that she had a high pain threshold.
In the end, James had given up and decided to remain silent. She was relieved. She had been making a superhuman effort not tell him to go to hell each time he asked her if it was hurting. Pain produced a visceral anger in her, which, coupled with her exhaustion and lack of sleep, was beginning to cloud her mind, until the only thought she could focus on was: I just want this to be over.
Dr Villa threw away her gloves, satisfied.
‘Good work, Amaia, you need to dilate a little more, but the baby is in position, so it’s all a matter of contractions and time.’
‘How long?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘As a first-time mother, it could take minutes or hours, but you can lie down now – you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll monitor you and prepare you for labour.’
The moment Amaia lay down, sleep overwhelmed her like a heavy stone slab closing eyes she could no longer keep open.
‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up.’
Opening her eyes, she saw her sister Rosaura aged ten, hair dishevelled, wearing a pink nightie.
‘It’s nearly morning, Amaia, go to bed. If Ama finds you here she’ll scold us both.’
Clumsily drawing back the blankets, Amaia placed her small five-year-old feet on the cold floor. She managed to open her eyes enough to make out the pale shape of her own bed amid the shadows, the bed she didn’t want to sleep in, because if she did, she would come in the night, to watch her with those cold black eyes, her mouth twisted in a grimace of loathing. Even without opening her eyes, Amaia could see her with absolute clarity, sensing the stifled hatred in her measured breath as she watched her feigning sleep, well aware that she was awake. Then, just when she felt herself weakening, when her muscles started to go stiff from the pent-up tension, when her tiny bladder threatened to empty its contents between her legs, eyes shut tight, she would become aware of her mother leaning slowly over her strained face, and a prayer, like an incantation, would echo in her head, over and over, preventing her even in those moments of darkest dread from falling into the temptation to disobey the command.
Don’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyes.
She wouldn’t open them, yet even with them closed she could sense the slow advance, the precision of her mother’s approach, the icy smile forming on her lips as she whispered:
‘Sleep, little bitch. Ama won’t eat you today.’
Amaia knew she wouldn’t come near if she slept with her sisters. Which was why, every night, when her parents went to bed, she would plead with her sisters, promise to do anything for them if only they would let her sleep in their bed. Flora seldom indulged her, or only in exchange for her servitude the following day, whereas Rosaura would relent when she saw Amaia cry; crying was easy when you were scared out of your wits.
She groped her way across the darkened room, vaguely aware of the outline of the bed, which seemed to recede even as the ground softened beneath her feet, and the smell of floor polish changed into a different, more pungent, earthy odour of dank forest floor. She threaded her way through the trees, protected as if by ancient columns, as she heard nearby the babbling waters of the River Baztán flowing freely. Approaching its stony banks, she whispered: the river. And her voice became an echo that bounced off the age-old rock framing the river’s path. The river, she whispered once again.
And then she saw the body. A young girl of about fifteen lay dead on the rounded pebbles of the riverbank. Eyes staring into infinity, hair spread in two perfect tresses on either side of her head, hands like claws in a parody of offering, palms turned upwards, showing the void.
‘No,’ cried Amaia.
And as she glanced about her, she saw not one but dozens of bodies ranged on either side of the river, like the macabre blossoms of some infernal spring.
‘No,’ she repeated, in a voice that was now a plea.
The hands of the corpses rose up as one, their fingers pointing at her belly.
A shudder brought her halfway back to consciousness for as long as the contraction lasted … then she was back beside the river.
The bodies were immobile again, but a strong breeze that seemed to be coming from the river itself tousled their locks, lifting them into the air like kite strings, while it whipped the limpid surface of the water into white, frothy swirls. Above the roaring wind, Amaia could hear the sobs of the little girl, who was her, mingling with others that seemed to come from the corpses. Drawing closer, she saw that this was true. The girls were weeping profusely, their tears leaving silvery tracks on their cheeks that glinted in the moonlight.
The suffering of those souls tore at her little girl’s heart.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried helplessly.
The wind suddenly died down, and the riverbed was plunged into an impossible silence. Then came a watery, rhythmic, tap-tapping.
Splash, splash, splash …
Like slow rhythmic applause from the river. Splash, splash, splash.
Like when she would run through the puddles left by the rain. After the first sounds, more followed.
Splash, splash, splash, splash, splash …
And more. Splash, splash, splash … and yet more, until it was like a hailstorm, or as if the river water were boiling.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried again, wild with fear.
‘Cleanse the river,’ shouted a voice.
‘The river.’
‘The river.’
‘The river.’ Other voices echoed.
She tried desperately to find the source of the voices clamouring from the waters.
The clouds parted over Baztán, and the silvery moonlight seeped through once more, illuminating the maidens who sat on the overhanging rocks, tapping their webbed feet on the water’s surface, long tresses swaying, their furious incantation rising from red, full-lipped mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth.
‘Cleanse the river.’
‘Cleanse the river.’
‘The river, the river, the river.’
‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up!’ The midwife’s strident voice brought her back to reality. ‘Come on, Amaia, the baby is here. Now it’s your turn.’
But Amaia couldn’t hear, for above the midwife’s voice, the maidens’ clamour still filled her ears.
‘I can’t,’ she cried.
But it was no use; they didn’t listen, only commanded.
‘Cleanse the river, cleanse the valley, wash away the crime …’ they cried, their voices merging with the cry issuing from her own throat as she felt the stabbing pain of another contraction.
‘Amaia, I need you here,’ said the midwife. ‘When the next one comes, you have to