Долорес Редондо – The Legacy of the Bones (страница 8)

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 push, and depending how hard you push you can do this in two or in ten contractions. It’s up to you, two or ten.’

Amaia grasped the bars to heave herself up, while James stood behind, supporting her, silent and nervous, but reliable.

‘Excellent,’ the midwife said encouragingly. ‘Are you ready?’

Amaia nodded.

‘Right, here comes another,’ she said, her eye on the monitor. ‘Push, my dear.’

She pressed down as hard as she could, holding her breath as she felt something tear inside her.

‘It’s finished. Well done, Amaia, very good. Except that you need to breathe, for your sake and that of your baby. Next time, breathe – believe me, it’ll be over much more quickly.’

Amaia agreed obediently, while James wiped the sweat from her face.

‘Good, here comes another. Push, Amaia, let’s finish this, help your baby, bring her out.’

Two or ten, two or ten, a voice inside her head repeated.

‘Not ten,’ she whispered.

Concentrating on her breathing, she kept pushing until she felt as if her soul were draining out of her, and an overwhelming sensation of emptiness seized her entire body.

Perhaps I’m bleeding to death, she thought. And she reflected that, if she were, she wouldn’t care, because to bleed was peaceful and sweet. She had never bled like this, but Agent Dupree had nearly died from a bullet in the chest; he had told her that, although being shot was agonising, to bleed felt peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away. And the more you bled, the less you cared.

Then she heard the wail. Strong and powerful, a genuine statement of intent.

‘Oh my goodness, what a beautiful boy!’ the nurse exclaimed.

‘And he’s blond, like you,’ added the midwife.

Amaia turned to look at James, who was as bewildered as she was.

‘A boy?’ she said.

The nurse’s voice reached them from the side of the room.

‘Yes, indeed, a boy who weighs 3.2 kilos and is pretty as a picture.’

‘But … they told us it was a girl,’ stammered Amaia.

‘Well, they were wrong. It happens occasionally, but usually the other way round, girls who look like boys because of where the umbilical cord is.’

‘Are you sure?’ insisted James, who was still supporting Amaia from behind.

Amaia felt the warmth of the tiny body the nurse had just placed on top of her, wrapped in a towel and wriggling vigorously.

‘A boy, no doubt about it,’ said the nurse, raising the towel to reveal the baby’s naked body.

Amaia was in shock.

Her son’s little face twisted in exaggerated grimaces; he was squirming as though searching for something. Raising a tiny fist to his mouth, he sucked at it hard, then half-opened his eyes and stared.

‘Oh my God, James, it’s a boy,’ she managed to say.

Her husband reached out and stroked the infant’s soft cheek with his fingers.

‘He’s beautiful, Amaia …’ he said with a catch in his voice, as he leaned over to kiss her. The tears ran down his face and his lips tasted salty.

‘Well done, my darling.’

‘Well done to you, too, Aita,’ she said, gazing at the baby, who appeared fascinated by the overhead lights, eyes wide open.

‘You really had no idea it was a boy?’ the midwife asked, surprised. ‘I was sure you did, because you kept repeating his name during the birth. Ibai, Ibai. Is that what you’re going to call him?’

‘Ibai … the river,’ whispered Amaia.