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Go Saddle the Sea by Joan Aiken |
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CHILDREN'S FICTION | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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In 1821, an orphaned twelve-year-old boy runs away from his unhappy home in Spain to England where he tries to find his father's family. The first book in an adventure trilogy set in the earlynbsp;nineteenth century Felix Brooke, the orphaned son of an English soldier and an aristocratic Spanish mother, has been raised in the strict, loveless household of his grandfather in Villaverde, Spain. When Felix gains possession of a letter that contains a clue to the whereabouts of his father’s family, he gladly runs away form home to pursue the trail. His journey from Spain to far-off England begins the adventurenbsp;of a lifetime. 1 In which I set out to seek my fortune nbsp; The sheep had been brought down from the mountains, because the year was dwindling; winter would soon be here. That’s how I know it must have been around September, my saint’s month, when Pedro came and rattled my door at black of night. nbsp;You could hear the sheep a-crying and a-calling, near and far; the dark night was riddled by their thin, peevish voices, even louder than the wind—and that was loud enough. The sound kept me wakeful. Also my bed was cold as a marsh, for there had been weeks of rain before the weather turned wintry. I had not even thrust my feet down to the bottom yet, so I had no particular objection to getting up again. But I did wonder what brought Pedro to this part of the house. He was the cook’s great-nephew, and he slept on a shelf in the kitchen, which was a good ten minutes’ run from my quarters on the upper floor. nbsp;I had a whole room of my own—lucky Felix!—with two windows that pierced clean through the city wall, and looked southward toward the mountains, the Sierra de Picos de Ancares. For sure I was lucky: I had a room, and a mule to ride, and learned Latin and the Lives of the Saints from Father Tom?s, and was Don Francisco’s grandson. But, no question, Pedro had the snuggest crib. He was fourteen, two years older than I, and six inches taller. nbsp;But I was heavier, and could throw him on the floor, three times out of five. nbsp;“What’s the row?” says I, pulling on my jacket—I hadn’t taken off my shirt, it was too cold to go to bed naked. nbsp;I padded across the massive, creaking boards in my stocking feet to open the door. Always sleep with your door locked—if you’re fortunate enough to have a door—was one of the things Bob had taught me. Bob had been dead four years and the French had been gone for eight, but you never knew; maybe the French had invaded and come back, burning and snatching. If not the French, there was always a chance of armed brigands or guerilleros, on the scavenge for anything they could pick up. There were plenty of queer culls in the mountains. nbsp;“It’s me—P-Pedro,” he called, shivering. “Santa Mar?a, am I glad I’m not you. Fancy having to sleep in this icehouse!” nbsp;“Why the devil did you come, then? Do?a Isadora would have your skin off.” nbsp;I had thought my bed cold, but the air was much colder. nbsp;“Great-aunt’s dying. She wants you.” nbsp;“Dying? How do you know?” nbsp;Bernardina, his great-aunt, had been cook in my grandfather’s house ever since I was born. And long before. She was a huge woman, quick on her feet as a bull, with a bull’s little red eyes and neat ankles. She could rage like a bull, too, when she was drunk, but, most of the time, she was laughing, roaring out songs, cursing, hoisting huge trays in and out of her oven, giving a stir to all her pots: I found it hard to believe that she had even been taken sick. And as for dying, that seemed impossible. Could she have run her head against a stone doorpost, while chasing one of the maids with a skillet? nbsp;“I wouldn’t tell a lie. It’s true enough,” whimpered Pedro, pulling at me to hurry me. His hands were shaking, and all he did was unbalance me as I tried to stamp into a shoe, so that I put my foot down heavily, and a splinter from the floorboard ran into my toe. nbsp;“Est?pido!” I snapped, but instead of taking offense, he said, nbsp;“Father Tom?s is with her, hearing her confession.” nbsp;That settled it. Bernardina w |
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