In Bayonne, we met with scepticism, not to say outright doubt, when we told guides and equipage purveyors that we wished to go to Ponte Marvella. No one knew how to get there. We spoke of it in English; we spoke of it in French. No one had ever been there. Finally, as we were about to give up in despair during the third or fourth day of quite concentrated effort—at our age it takes concentration to keep doing things over and over—a man presented himself to us and, speaking with a strange accent, told us he could guide us. He is, the French say, a Basque. His name is Echevaria, or Eskavaria, or some such. He speaks a language which no one else in the world speaks unless that person is another Basque. It does not derive from Latin, as does normal speech. It is not related to the languages of the heathen. It has no words in common with other European tongues. Eskavaria says it is the language used by the angels when they helped God make the world, the language of Eden, from which all Basques came directly. He was laughing at me, of course. I thought of teaching him it is unwise to laugh at one who is half fairy, but he is pleasant enough otherwise, so why make a fuss. Besides, he is a very little man, not four feet tall. He reminds me of Bill except that he is less childlike. He is not a dwarf, as my father’s fool was. He is simply very small.
As to what he was doing in Bayonne, he did not say. He did say we could take a carriage to the town of Lourdes, not a very great town in this century, on the River Pau. In Lourdes, the river becomes a torrent, plunging down from the heights of the mountains. There, he told us, we would take horses and ride up beside the plunging water toward the highest peak, the “lost one.” It is named “lost” in Spanish, that is, Perdido, but not in Basque. In Basque they call it something else. Halfway up the mountain, we will turn aside, so he says, along a valley, and in that valley is the principality of Marvella.
“Not a kingdom?” I asked. I had thought the prince’s father was a king.
“It’s maybe ten miles long. It’s maybe three or four miles wide,” Eskavaria replied. “There’s two villages and a castle. It has some cows, some sheep, some goats, a few horses. I don’t know is it a kingdom, or a duchy, or something else. What I hear them call it is a principality. Whatever it is, it’s very small.”
“You have never been there,” guessed Giles.
“True,” said Eskavaria, “but I been close.”
“Why haven’t you gone there if you’ve been close?” Giles wanted to know.
Eskavaria shook his head and gave us a half smile. “Perhaps when you get close, you’ll decide not to go there.” It sounded almost like a recommendation.
Thus far we have done almost everything that Eskavaria has recommended. We took a carriage to Lourdes. Most of the time, Grumpkin rode on top, with the driver. We spent a day sightseeing in the town. The river is very dramatic, as is the new castle set high above it. The next day we bought five horses, three for us and two to carry our supplies, and the day after that we started up the mountain. Grumpkin rides in a basket on one of the packhorses. They are small animals, scarcely larger than ponies, but they are sturdy. Because they are small, they are easier for me to ride than a big horse would be. My legs don’t bend as well as they used to. Sidesaddle is actually easier than astride. Except for that, we get along well enough, Giles and I. We are brittle. We ache. But we get along. The early morning is the hardest. That and trying to get comfortable in our blankets at night. Eskavaria is so small he curls up as Grumpkin does.
Days we simply ride, hearing the marmots whistle, hearing the rocks rattle as herds of chamois flee from our horses. The marmots are very curious. They stand on their hind legs and wriggle their noses at us as we pass. Grumpkin stares at them and yawns, thinking them too large for prey and too impudent for acquaintance.
LATER
I asked Eskavaria what day it was. He doesn’t know. He neither reads nor writes. He says no one writes in his language. I recall reading of the Basques back in the twentieth, but I don’t remember a thing about the language or the people. All I can recall is something about a separatist movement from Spain with some of the terrorism separatists seem to consider requisite. I asked Eskavaria if he had ever blown anyone up, and he seemed quite shocked at the idea.
I have been reading more of the City of Ladies book. Christine would have frowned on my love for Giles. She talks of foolish love affairs and says, “If it happens that some young princess or highborn lady is so lacking in knowledge or constancy that she is unable, does not know how, or does not wish to resist the appeals of the man who is trying to attract her by various signs and gestures (as men well know how to do) …”
The only sign Giles ever gave me was the love in his eyes. The only sign I ever gave him was to blush when he looked at me, and for that
