The Horse Healer Read Free Page B

to life as well.
    Still at a gallop, without ceasing to look at her, Diego understood what his obligation was, remembering the promises he’d made his father, and he decided to go help his other sisters. Sabba, disciplined, noticed the slight pressure of his knee in her left ribs and changed direction.
    Hundreds of pebbles flew up from her hooves, even more so when she understood her master’s wishes. In fact, he scarcely had to guide her; she herself chose the route. She stayed clear of the rockier areas that would slow her down and sped up over the smooth, sandy plains.
    On reaching an elevation, Diego looked back, thinking he had put some distance between himself and his attackers. But it wasn’t so. One of the men, perhaps with a stronger horse, was coming up on him with hellish speed.
    Diego spoke to Sabba again, asking her to run harder, to give it everything she had. And she did it, without knowing where such energy came from. She galloped tirelessly southward, ignoring the strain of it, measuring neither time nor distance.
    After making sure he’d been able to leave his attackers behind, he came up to a tortuous mountain pass. There, in the deepest part of a narrow gulch, he found the cart, but not his sisters.
    A large group of soldiers, black skinned like the others, were seated on blankets, passing around a variety of objects. It seemed they had stopped to gloat over the spoils of war.
    The camp consisted of a single, fairly small tent, round and vivid red in color.
    Diego dismounted from Sabba, told her to keep quiet, and crouched behind an enormous boulder, studying how to make his approach.
    He spied ten women tied together close to a fire. His sisters weren’t there.
    When twilight fell, white-faced men began to leave from the tent, dressed in their battle clothes with shields, turbans, and leather helmets. One of them was dragging Blanca by her hair while she kicked and screamed. Behind her, in the hands of a taller man, was her sister Estela. Her skirt was shredded and her shirt torn and hanging open. The scoundrel was dragging her by the wrist as if she were an animal he had hunted and killed.
    Diego breathed rapidly, imagining with dread what must have happened to them. When he saw the man with Estela, he noticed an unmistakable particularity in his face. A scar ran across his forehead, from one end to the other. But something else called his attention as well: both in his dress and in other aspects, he seemed to be a Christian soldier and not a Saracen.
    He sat up to see him better, and it was then that the man, turning his head and looking in the same direction, revealed his face in full. Diego memorized it. He saw how Estela hit him and how her captor, enraged, slapped her face. And suddenly the black guard looked up to where Diego was. There was no chance to hide. Had he seen him? Diego doubted it.
    He heard horses approaching and realized he couldn’t risk waiting if they were coming from those who had chased him before. Aware that alone, he could do nothing, he thought of the Calatravans; they could help him.
    He mounted Sabba and decided to turn back toward the inn. At his orders, the mare flew off, pushed ahead by the fury of the deserts that coursed through her veins. The wind blew away her sweat and the earth seemed to press her ahead. The animal was compressing all the strength of her breed in that dazzling getaway. And in that way, they distanced themselves from the area, so much so that she began to gain confidence and to slow down to a soft trot. A little later, once again close to the inn, Diego studied the situation with extreme care, making sure that nobody was lurking around.
    Soon he found Belinda’s stretched-out body, but she was not alone. Vultures were tearing at her clothing and her flesh. He prodded Sabba to frighten them off, holding back his urge to vomit. It took various attempts before he managed to run them off, and afterward, he got off the horse to