Rustic humour—The haunted _venta_—Prehistoric graves—A
deferred journey—More mountain hospitality—The end of my
ride—A lost train—A night in a _posada_—Chivalrous José—Mixed
company—Good-bye to the hills.
The rain poured in torrents, and the clouds were so black that at three
in the afternoon we sat in semi-darkness; but the time did not hang
heavy on our hands, for I was entertained by watching the amenities of
my pretty girl and her lover, a shy youth with an odd lock of white hair
over his forehead. And there was a wizened old fellow picturesquely clad
in a short brown jacket strengthened in the decorative style of the
province at the elbows, wrists, collar, and seams, with black cloth cut
in a design, and wearing really handsome embroidered leather overalls
reaching from his waist to his knees, who had a sly humour that brought
forth peals of laughter from the company. He sharpened his wits upon
Mariquita and her Rafael, but I took care not to understand these jokes,
knowing that they are apt to embarrass a modest British matron; and
as soon as I could I turned the conversation by asking if it was true
that there was a _susto_ (fright), _miedo_ (fear), or _duende_ (ghost)
haunting the river, as I had heard tell in Algodonales. It was not
strictly true that I had heard such a tale, but I know by experience that
an inquiry of the kind, if made sympathetically, often brings forth some
interesting folk-lore.
[Illustration: RUSTIC LOVERS.]
It did so in this case, and the story proved so strange that I must tell
it in full.
I learnt that the _venta_ is haunted by the ghost of a white cat, which
appears outside the door and vanishes up the gully in the direction of a
place called Las Cuevas.
How did they know it was a ghost, and not a real cat?
Because there was no white cat on the premises, and because it answered
when spoken to. Many people had seen it, and if they said
“_Gatito, gatito, porque tan flaquito?_”
(Little cat, little cat, why art thou so thin, or feeble?)
The cat would answer
“_Porque ’tamo’ li’to’_,”
which is the peasant pronunciation of “_estamos listos_.” The correct
meaning of this is “Because we are ready,” or “clever” (_listo_ has both
meanings), but they here gave “_listo_” the meaning of “finished” or
“done with.”
But why did the cat go up to the Cuevas (caves)? And what caves did it go
to? And who were referred to as “finished”?
Well, it went there because there were other ghosts there, many of them
animals in all sorts of shapes; but the cat was the only one that spoke.
There always had been a _susto_ in that gully. The _cuevas_? Well, they
were just caves, like any other caves in the Sierra. The gipsies slept in
them on their way from one fair to another, and shepherds too were glad
enough to take shelter there from storms like the present one. Would my
honour like to see them? The storm was passing over now, and they could
take me up there in a moment, before I continued my journey.
José was quite willing to accompany me to Las Cuevas, but pointed out
that it was already so late that we could not hope to catch the five
o’clock train at Morón, as the road, although quite safe for the rest of
the way, would be muddy in places and make our progress slow. The Señora
must understand that it would be night before we arrived, and Señoras
seldom liked riding at night, although he had observed that day that
English Señoras, if they were all like me—the first specimen of the race
that he had come across—were much more valiant than those of his own
country.
The _ventera’s_ family, now quite determined to overcome all difficulties
in the way of a visit which would “give importance” to their ghosts,
flung themselves into the breach. Why should I not stay the night in
their house? True, it was only a house of poor people, but I should
have a _catre_ in the kitchen, and the mattress of Mariquita, and the
bed-linen from her chest, all quite new for her approaching wedding.
And then I could go on next day at my ease for the afternoon train, for
certainly it would be fine to-morrow after the storm, and the mud would
have dried up; while as for food, if I would condescend to share the
family _puchero_, it would be very rich to-day, for they had killed a
fowl to put in it, and there were fresh eggs and goat cheese, and plenty
of wine.
Who could resist such an offer? Certainly no archæologist on the track of
caves and ghosts.
And now comes the really strange part of my story. I found the Cuevas
to be a series of chambered tombs, more or less destroyed by the wind
and the rain of ages, but unmistakably sepulchral, the necropolis of a
race which still used implements of stone, as many remains of such lying
in the débris around testified. And on the morrow, with the aid of José
and the sons of the widowed _ventera_, I set to work to open one as yet
untouched, and found, as I expected, a human skeleton extended full
length on the ground, and with it sherds of broken pottery which enabled
me to astonish my peasant friends by making a vague guess at the tens of
centuries that had elapsed since “those dead men” were buried here.
I saw at a glance that the Cuevas had a scientific importance, for close
at hand I found the relics of a remarkable temple to the sun, with its
stone altar for, I fear, human sacrifices, and a stone seat for the
priests. It was beyond my power to neglect such a chance for research,
and I sent José back to his own village while I lingered on for a week
at the _venta_, digging at the tombs all day. And I slept, attended by
Mariquita, in a tiny two-roomed cottage built near her mother’s house
for her to live in when she married, and shared the simple but excellent
meals of the family, who most considerately suppressed the garlic as long
as I stayed with them.
And now for the point of my long story. Until the tombs were opened
and the skeletons discovered, no one in the neighbourhood had the
remotest idea that there had ever been burials in Las Cuevas. How then
did the place get the reputation of being haunted? The _susto_ was of
old standing, for the _ventera_ was far from young, and she remembered
hearing her grandfather say that _his_ grandfather, like himself, had
seen the white cat in the doorway of the _venta_, which the same family
had owned for generations.
Upon examination I found that the present house, rebuilt when the actual
owner was married some twenty-five years ago, stood on the ruins of a
Tartessian construction, the walls of which, over a yard thick, were
still visible, forming the boundary of a paved floor on which tables and
benches were set out for the wayfarers frequenting the place. Previous
to the rebuilding, the ruined walls had enclosed a tank or reservoir for
winter rains, about ten feet deep. It had been filled up with stones from
the hillside, because the stagnant water proved unhealthy; but the place
retained its ancient name, the _Venta_ of the _Albercón_ or tank. There
was no doubt about it, those ruined walls were pre-Roman, for I had to
work for days to get through the fellow to them which sealed the entrance
to one of my chamber tombs; and the mortar was crystallised with age.
Why, I ask again—for I am quite unable to answer the question myself—do
these unlettered Andalucian peasants think they see the ghost of a white
cat come out of a modern house and disappear into a burial-place, which
may have dated from somewhere near the period when the people of ancient
Egypt worshipped a cat, among other animal deities? The only thing I can
certainly say is that the legend is one of which no one can tell the
origin, and that no one would be more astonished than these ghost-seers
to learn that a cat was something more than a cat when those tombs
were first dug out of the rock. From a certain jealousy concerning my
discovery, with which any archæologist will sympathise, I have slightly
misdescribed the locale of the haunted caves. But every word of the story
is strictly true, and I am quite willing to give full particulars to any
one who takes a scientific interest in the matter. He will not, however,
hear anything about the cat ghost unless he speaks Spanish freely and
adopts an attitude of awed credulity, for no Spanish peasant will talk of
ghosts if he thinks he is being laughed at.
When I finally left the _venta_ I had to charter an extra donkey to carry
the load of sherds of pottery, bricks, stones, and mortar that I had
gathered in the neighbourhood of Las Cuevas, to say nothing of skulls,
jaw-bones, and teeth, which Mariquita shuddered at and refused to touch
when I was packing them. But the rest of the journey to Morón was
accomplished in perfect weather, and nothing worthy of note happened on
the way.
I missed my train, owing to my inveterate habit of stopping to study
stones on the road. And the result was that I had to spend the night
in a tiny and far-from-clean room over the _posada_ where José stabled
his beasts, because the only houses of call were full of _viajantes_
and I could find nowhere else to sleep. José himself waited on me, for
a _posada_ provides no service, although a modest tip produced a pair
of nice clean sheets from the landlady of the stable. He brought me hot
strong coffee from the café which is always to be found even in small
Spanish villages, coaxed hot water from some unknown place, for there is
never a kettle in a _posada_, and slept with his head on my baggage at
the foot of the stairs leading up to my room.
“It was no place for a lady,” he said, “but at least he knew the people
to be honest, and I could feel quite safe (as indeed I did) with himself
close at hand.”
I only caught three fleas in my bed, which I thought a moderate allowance
for a room over a stable, and when I was awakened by the chumping and
stamping of the numerous animals below me I smiled to think of my
family’s horror could they have seen my quarters that night. They have
accustomed themselves, by force of circumstances, to the idea of my
sleeping on straw mattresses in country cottages, but this was my first
introduction to a _posada_.
I do not know that I yearn to repeat the experiment, but it was worth
while for once. The discomfort was atoned for by the picturesqueness of
the stable through which I had to pass to get in and out of my room, with
the animals and their owners dimly outlined in the light of two or three
ancient olive-oil lamps hung here and there on the walls. A Madonna-like
young mother with a baby at her breast, resting against a pair of
panniers which her husband had backed up with a load of straw and covered
with a gay striped rug, formed a pretty contrast to a grey-haired old man
who was cooking his supper on a blackened brick stove in a corner near
by. And the people of the house, fat and comely and pleasant-looking, sat
on a queer little landing half-way upstairs, sewing and chatting under a
two-candle-power electric bulb hanging from a wire so thick with flies
that it looked like a hempen rope. They seemed quite indifferent to those
around, but I saw that they were keeping a watchful eye on the comings
and goings below, ready to secure their money at any moment from the
customer whose movements indicated an early departure with his donkey.
The gallery gave on to a tiny kitchen, where they cooked their own
meals, although declining, as the law permits, to cook mine. It was hung
with brightly polished brass utensils, and a few bits of coarse pottery
adorned the chimney shelf. Among these was a curious old plate of local
manufacture, which they sold to me for a few pence when I took my leave
in the morning.
And so ended that trip in the Sierra. A chill in the air told me that
winter was approaching as I rode down to the station, escorted to the
very carriage door by the faithful José; and with a sigh of regret I saw
my _jamugas_ consigned to the luggage van, knowing that they would now
have to lie idle at home for many weeks to come.
[Illustration: A FUNERAL VESTMENT OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.]