The Road to Santiago: Pilgrims of St. James

callousness we associate with such a calling. He reminded me, in fact, of El Chico de Ataun, a peasant visionary I had known in the village of Ezquioga in 1931 when the people began to see visions of Our Lady. * Nemesio, too, seemed to be a visionary, for he told his stories in a jerky, hallucinated manner, as though responding to the impulse of some inner demon.
    “I must tell you another story,” said Nemesio after a minute of silence: “People often ask me why I never married—tell you the honest truth, I’m scared stiff of women—must be my nature; never had any use for them—besides, I’m a seventh son; why they say I have a cross underneath my tongue—hasn’t done me much good either— though, mind you, I’m supposed to be able to cure people bitten by mad dogs, aye, and I can take away the evil eye. Well, talking of witches reminded me of what happened to me a few years back. It was one evening when old Patxi the farmer who lives on the other side of Jaizkibil came to me: ‘Nemesio,’ says he, ‘pack your two sharpest knives in your bag and off you go as quick as you can to my farm. It is on the right of the road before you come to the village. That cow of mine has the wasting sickness—incurable, in fact: better have it killed and I’ll raise a bit of money on the carcass.’ Well, orders is orders, so off I set for the farm on my mule Benitillo with my two big carving knives in the bag. Just as I was rounding the corner after leaving home I runs across an old woman; bad’cess to it, says I to myself; it s unlucky to meet a lonely woman when setting out on a journey— I should ask her for a pin to avoid hearing bad news—but I was in a hurry, so I crossed myself and hurried on. ’Twas a threatening evening and I says to myself: ’twill be a dirty night, I’m thinking, thank God I ve got a piece of hawthorn in my pocket in case of thunderbolts. When I arrived at Patxi’s house I found he wasn’t back at home— only the old aunt—a villainous old witch she was and no mistake. I crossed myself as soon as I set my eyes on her—she’ll put the begiskoa on me as sure as my name is Nemesio. ‘Who sent you here,’ says she giving me a look that froze my blood: she was bent double with age and she hobbled along with a stick which she raised every now and then and threatened me with it. ‘I’ve come about your cow,’ said I. ‘Patxi told me I was to kill it, seeing that it’s wasting away with the disease. The carcass will surely fetch some money. Those are my orders.’
    “The old woman kept mumbling and muttering to herself, making queer faces and twisting her fingers; she was just like a wild black cat spitting venom. ‘You’re not to kill that cow,’ says she and goes on muttering to herself. I shut the door on her and off I went to the outhouse where the sick cow was lying. I drew out my knives, and in the twinkling of an eye I killed the cow, making a nice, tidy job of it, whisding as I worked to keep my spirits up. All of a sudden I feels a stiff blow on the shoulder; I turns round and there was the old hag glaring at me; foaming with rage she was, and no mistake. ‘Oho!’ says she in a shrill voice. ‘So you’ve been and done it, have you? You’ll rue this, my lad: I’ll get even with you; I’ll kill you this night.’ With that she raises her right hand and makes a sign and in a cackling voice she puts a curse on me. I paid no attention to the old witch’s raving and I kept whistling as I washed my knives and packed them in the bag, but I wasn’t feeling any too sure, so I clutches the lucky jet higa my mother—God rest her soul—gave me, and sets out for home. But would you believe it, the old witch must have called up the sorgin-aizi [the witch-wind] for the storm begins to rise and the rain it comes down in buckets: I could hardly mount my mule Benitillo. The poor beast was as scared as I was and kept shying at his own shadow. We plodded along the lonely road but then the thunder began to roll and there was forked lightning criss-crossing the sky: I clutches the piece of hawthorn. The storm was raging around me and above the moaning wind all of a sudden I hears behind me a harsh laugh: looking back I swear to you I saw the old hag above in the air riding on a broomstick after me. I then puts my thumb between my two fingers, crying out “Pueyes!” to ward off her spell and on I rides as if old Satan himself was after me: but Benitillo was more scared than