You are King and Beggar You are Everything and Nothing

by Heather Hoins (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Spain

“You know,” I say to his back, “this city held its own against invaders for centuries.” Nothing. “Griffin honey,” I try again. “These roads follow the original carriage routes; eventually they’ll make their way to the city gates.” I shift the unaccustomed weight of my pack; lengthen my stride. “If we can find the old battlements or the main square…?” He keeps the distance between us. Tears of exhaustion mix with rain and blur my vision. The cobbles beneath the diffused light of the streetlamps appear to glow, each a giant cabochon of topaz, jet, amber. Pools of rainwater – like mirrors reflect out passing. Any other time and I’d be enchanted. Why did I yell at him? This is my fear and my fault – he’s just a boy, he’s excited and I shouldn’t have taken that away. I should have researched where the train station was in relation to the old city before we got here. I should have purchased a proper map and I should have checked the bus schedule. When I was a kid - in a situation like this, I’d hunker down in a doorway and wait for daybreak. As a mom, that’s not an option. The residential roads with their pruned trees and iron palings give way to winding lanes, ancient building-fronts inches from the curb. I follow my son into a small, illuminated square, a picture-book tableau of carved stone facades and doorways surmounted with weather worn coats-of-arms. An elaborate fountain, a vestige of the days before modern plumbing holding place of honor. This is Pamplona Spain, a fortified mediaeval city; one steeped in centuries of conflict and war and tonight – empty, cold, wet and doing an excellent job of fortifying itself against us. I raise what I hope looks like a conciliatory eyebrow and gesture to the right, but Griffin takes one turn around and chooses the far corner. I shrug, try to avoid the drizzle and follow. “Mom! Hey – mom,” he hiss-whispers. “That’s one, isn’t it?” I wipe the moisture from my face and follow his gaze. It takes me a moment, but then I see it. “I think so,” I hiss-whisper back, “looks like one.” Painted at eye-level onto the cornerstone of a building is a yellow arrow no bigger than my hand pointing in the direction of an unlit passage, little wider than an alley. “Grif,” I smile, “follow it.” His features soften – all frustration and anger forgotten in an instant. Minutes later, I hear his echoing footsteps slow and stop. When I reach him, he’s in front of an enormous wood door, bands of black iron beaten into its surface. What has his attention however is a piece of worked metal set just under the framing arch. “You found a refugio,” I whisper peering up at the scallop shell. He tries the door’s iron latch. “Locked.” I stare defeated. The door and its flanking barred windows are set into massive granite blocks that look as if they were borrowed from another time and place. The floor above constructed of long, narrow courses of brickwork, more windows, not barred – but all dark. On the uppermost level, smaller windows run tucked just under the roof’s eave. While I study them, one flicks into a soft yellow light and a hand pushes the tiny pane open to the night. “Hola,” I say, the pounding of my heart drowning out the word. I clear my throat, “hola,” louder this time - and see a halo of dark hair and a flash of a pale face. “Estamos cerrados!” My limited Spanish leaves me completely. I manage a dejected, “okay,” and watch. The hand hesitates. “How many?” comes the whisper. Griffin steps out from the shadows; I whisper back, “just two.” My thirteen-year-old son is lean with moss colored eyes and freckles. His chestnut curls are black with rain and slick against his forehead. I look up, the room’s reflected lamplight catching a woman’s features and watch her watch us. “Un momento,” her hand takes hold of the latch, “be very quiet.” She pulls the window closed. Minutes pass, then a human sized door opens farther up the street spilling welcoming light onto the black cobbles.