Villa of the Deaf Man
I cannot say whether it was the Basque, midwinter humidity or whether it was some semblance of a spirit that infected my mind that Christmas Eve. After having crossed the border from France and being about a day’s hike from Pamplona I had strayed from my path and wandered into a valley filled with green pastures and low hanging fog. Zugarramurdi was a quiet town settled in the bosom of the hills and it was there that I found a hostel to sleep for the night.
As quickly as I lay down to sleep a storm had rushed in like an unwanted visitor who, banging on my window, demanded entry into the empty hostel. A few times during the night I was startled awake by what sounded like the fists of God pounding against the oak shutters. On the third instance, I leaped up out of bed and landed on my tired legs, weary from days of hiking the Basque country, and flung open the window and its shutters allowing the wind to breathe in and out of the opening. Exhausted and feeling defeated, I sat back onto the bed and stared at the sky awash with dark gray hues. Half asleep, I walked myself down to the front desk where the old woman who had checked me in still sat, stirring a spoon into her tea, reading some untitled tome. Somehow, if only for a moment, I had lost my words and stared deeply into the cup where she made gentle circles, its color like that of the cloudy night outside.
“Zer,” she said, but upon looking up at my confusion switched to Spanish, “que?”
“No puedo dormir.”
She set her book face down on the counter and looking up inquisitively asked, “la tormenta?” I nodded.
Getting up, she motioned for me to follow her behind the counter and lead me through a door into the kitchen. She had a little kerosene camping lantern which she lit, pumping the dull flame into a most singular and poignant point of light. Next, she found her way through the darkness to a step ladder, placing it near the foot a large wooden shelf filled with oddly shaped bottles. As she raised the lantern I could see by its light that each bottle contained herbs or powders, occasionally a liquid elixir gleamed as the lantern light passed over it. She pulled a few bottles off the shelf, set them on the counter, and lit the stove. She took a bottle of what looked like wine from a rack in the corner. Pouring the wine into a pot she heated it to a boil before mixing in measured amounts of whatever she had plucked from the shelf. When she was finished; she turned off the stove, put out her lamp, and handed me a cup of the concoction. It certainly smelled of wine, though, when I tasted the substance my mouth was filled with a bitter, medicinal punch.
My mouth numbed as I lay down. I sunk into the mattress to the clashes of thunder and thundering shutters slammed against my windowsill. I found myself at home. I was splayed out like a buffet on a table except that there were no places set and no candles lit. The empty candelabra next to my mother’s potpourri sent shivers like shocks of electricity down my spine. I had never seen the family heirloom unadorned. I tried to move but could not—paralyzed—whether by fear or by noxious concoction I had no idea. I lay there alone with the darkness closing in around me. Then, from the abyss, emerged my father. His hair had frayed, grown long and gray, while his bulging eyes seemed to dart around the empty unknown where our dining room had been. Now nothing remained but the table, my father, and myself. When his gaze connected with mine I felt a pang of fear in my chest as he bore down on me, a ravenous beast. His pearly white teeth bore into my flesh, his great hands grasped my torso, wrapping all the way around my body, he tore off chunks of raw meat. I watched him devour both an arm and my heart before his mighty jaws came down on my head.
I awoke in a pool of sweat.
Outside, it seemed hours had gone by and the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle. When I opened the window once more the sky had turned ochre and seemed the hover above the earth like a like a muddy shell. Among the pitter patter of the rain, I began to hear something crescendo in from the landscape. The whining yowls of a banshee came riding in on the breeze.
I closed the windows quickly and resolved to forget the sound. I lay there, eyes wide open, trying to forget. When I knew, I could not simply put that piercing sound from my mind, I stood up again, putting on my boots and a windbreaker. I crept downstairs and slipped out the front door into the elements and down the main avenue. Rain tapped against my back and filled the cracks in the cobblestone, here and there rivulets carried soil downhill. Following the sound out of town, I found myself on top of a steep embankment where a trail cut through the mountainside. The yowling grew louder until I was looking down upon a deep patch of mud. The head of a dog stuck out and struggled to free its body, but the poor creature had been engulfed up to its neck in thick mud. I slid down the embankment, boots caked in brown, and as I did the dog calmed and looked up at me. Its ears pushed back, its gaze was helpless. I loomed over the animal, my shadow cast over it like a judge peering down from his bench, the moon my seal of jurisdiction. Soon enough, I identified where its limbs were, buried my hands into the prison, and pulled slowly and steadily upward until the torso was exposed. From there, I wrapped one arm around the dog’s belly, dug the heels of my boots into the firm soil, and yanked until the creature came free.
I lay there heaving, both of us heaving, covered in mud that was slowly spritzed away by the rain. When I caught my breath, I slung the animal over my shoulders and carried it up the embankment. When I set down the dog it took off in the opposite direction of the town. As I said, I do not know what spirit had taken hold of me as I chased after the hound, dashing into the forest where I was met with a series of switchbacks. Below I spotted the dog through the trees and still further down the slope I saw a hovering light beckon me downward. I snuck up on three elderly women hobbling down the side of the mountain. They chattered to themselves in Basque and I could not understand what they were saying. When the hound overtook them they greeted it by name and the four figures followed the path down into a ravine. There, they were met with a procession of men, women, and children, some hooded and hunched, who all were filtering into the mouth of a large cave. For fear of being discovered, I hid behind tree trunks and boulders as the sounds of drums and chants boomed from the throat of the cavern. Keeping my distance, I crept around the side of the cave to where an overhead window emitted a spear of light out into the black.
Below me the cavern dropped down like the belly of a whale, roaring bonfires lit up the congregation as the last of the procession found their seats. The roar of crowd met with the roar of the fires and the drums and the lyres and the accordions played roaring hymns like I had never heard before. Directly below me, two grizzled men huddled against one another with bowls of soup, the shoveled it, slurping into their skeletal faces. They were only two of around two thousand that blanketed the cave floor. I also saw groups of men huddled together reading from books and stroking their beards. Women laughed at their astute postures, mimicking them behind their backs. At the front sat an altar adorned with an iron eagle. Aside from the crowd stood an old man beside the altar, his hair and beard, long and white. He rested on a cane. Behind him a bald man with a disfigured face shouted into his ear over the crowd as the elder nodded calmly, checking his digital wristwatch.
As the drums grew in volume before dropping away altogether the crowd quickly silenced along with them and a ram was brought forth from out of the crowded and slaughtered upon the altar. I couldn’t help but wince as I watched its throat open and blood spilled down the steps toward the feet of the crowd. They were barbarians. I wanted to run away but instead grasped the cross around my neck and held fast. From the crowd grew a booming cheer and then the sound of stomping feet began like thunder from below as they waved their hands out in front of themselves. The old man lifted the limp body of the animal into the air and flung it into a pit directly behind the altar.
Like a snake from its basket, something huge, white, and hideous rose from that place in a cloud of incense smoke. Straining my eyes to see what had emerged if found myself focused in on the snow-white head of the ram, attached to the shoulders of a pale muscular man. That devil climbed over the altar, arms raised, and was met with a resounding cheer. As quickly as he had come, a hush now swept over the congregation. The he-goat sat down on the steps, cross-legged, and began to preach in a language I could not discern.
For some time, the entire mass commenced in this fashion as they gazed upon the dark figure in pale robes and listened to its teachings. He sat like the Buddha, held his hands like Christ, and spoke in the thundering voice of a father. When finally he stood, he switched to Spanish, “donde esta Judith?” A woman stood waving her hand amidst the crowd and she was ushered down to the front and handed the athame they’d used to open the ram’s throat. “y donde esta Holofernes?” he asked again. He was met only with silence until slowly all heads seemed to turn like a wave until they reached the two men directly below me and I realized the entire congregation was staring directly at me.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
I got up and ran. I ran up the switchbacks and along the embankment. Suddenly, the dog I had saved was running with me but the path had turned to mud and clung to my boots, behind us I could hear the thundering of drums and saw lamps flicker amidst the trees. My breath began to burn, my heart began to pound, I could see the town surfacing in the distance. Somehow I reached the hostel, ran up the stairs, and bolted the door behind me. I didn’t dare to look out the window for fear of what I might see.
In the morning, I was greeted with breakfast by the old woman. She came in early and asked why I had left last night. I told her my story and she laughed.
“I think, too much wine.”
I tried to explain, even lead her to the cave, but no tracks remained, no scorch marks on the floor of the cave, no blood, no scraps of food. I could see the images so clearly on the walls of my mind, that torment, completely contained within a silent home.