Sophie sat next to Walt on the soft ground outside the cave. Across the open area, she noticed an armed man guarding the truck. Philip was on patrol with some of the others, getting a sense of the vastness of the mountains controlled by the guerilla fighters. The sun had set an hour ago, and the air had cooled drastically. She rubbed her hands on her arms to warm them.
"So what changed your mind—about my heading into the castle instead of our trying to make it to Barcelona?"
"It just seemed like the right thing to do. These men offered help and protection. Emanuel found us again when we needed his help. All the pieces seemed to just come together."
Sophie cocked her head and looked into Walt's face. Now that she knew he was Michael's brother, she wondered how she hadn't seen it before. The shape of their noses was the same. And their hands. Her stomach turned as she looked at his hands, remembering all the times she'd held Michael's.
Pushing those thoughts out of her mind, she bumped Walt's shoulder with hers. "So are you saying that maybe you could believe God had a hand in all this . . . and perhaps He sent Emanuel to us?"
Walt looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. "I didn't say that. But the more I thought about it, I also realized that you could help us get the information we need—about the right roads to take to Barcelona. And maybe send messages from there to my contacts." He shrugged. "I don't know. The benefits far outweigh the risks."
"I hope you're right. I feel totally unprepared."
"We're not sending you in yet. There are a few things you need to know."
"Such as?"
"Such as, some of the history of the area."
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. "History—one of my favorite subjects as of late. Okay, since I am a visiting niece, what history would my uncle have told me?"
"He'd probably have told you this story to start." Walt lowered his voice to sound like an old, wizened storyteller. "In the hills there is an old Moorish castle. In the time of the Moors it was said this fortress could house forty thousand men."
Sophie swatted at his arm, laughing. "Oh, that will make the story so much more authentic."
Walt continued. "Rulers came and went, never staying for long. There was even a time when lawless invaders called this place home. This was their base for smuggling and thievery."
Not unlike today, Sophie thought.
"One great king lived there during the wars of Granada. It is said that the armies of Queen Isabella came to claim the land. The Moor king had no worries, for he knew he was safe from their reach. The path to the castle was unknown to outsiders."
As he spoke, Sophie thought of the outpost high in the hills near the cottage they'd recently left. And although she knew it wasn't the same one, she'd wondered more than once how the Moors had ever got up there—let alone built a large structure in the high peaks.
"The story goes that the Virgin Mary appeared to the queen and guided her and her army up a mysterious path in the mountains—a path that had never been discovered before this time. The Moors had no time to escape, and somewhere under that castle the Moorish king buried a great treasure. Until this day, it has never been discovered. Everyone believes it is there, and they think that when the Virgin comes again she will disclose the location."
Walt's voice trailed off, and he studied something over Sophie's shoulder. She turned to see Domingo exiting from the cave. He approached and sat by them. His gray hair had recently been trimmed, and when he sat he folded his legs as easily as a young man.
"Anything interesting in those maps?" Walt asked.
Domingo lowered his head. He picked up a round rock from the ground and moved it from hand to hand. "No. I am afraid not. The information was at least a few weeks old." He lifted his gaze, and his dark eyes met Sophie's.
She could read his question there—he wondered when she was heading into Granada."
I was just telling Sophie of the Moorish treasure."
"Really?" Domingo's normally calm expression brightened. "Yes, it only makes sense that if you are familiar at all with this area you should know about it. I myself first heard the stories before I was able to walk. My father always dreamed of finding it."
Domingo spoke of various people who claimed they found the treasure. Every one of them, he insisted, had been killed in a tragic accident before they were able to disclose the location or retrieve any of the booty. What amazed Sophie is how similar the stories were. Whether in Spain or South America, they seemed to develop a life of their own.
Sophie yawned and glanced up at the moon high in the sky. "Yes, well, all this is interesting," she said. "But can you tell me about the castle itself?"
Walt nodded. "You, Sophie, have been given permission to occupy one of the vacant rooms in the Moorish palace. I am sure you won't be bewitched by the place, but I want to warn you all the same. The legendary halls almost seem to have a life of their own . . . as if a drama is being played out there."
Sophie nodded, noticing how Domingo's eyes widened with Walt's words, and she wondered if Walt spoke so flamboyantly because of their guest.
"The fortified wall is flanked by thirteen towers. The river Darro foams through a deep ravine in the north."
Sophie sighed. "It sounds beautiful."
"The name of the castle is Alhambra," Walt said. "It means red in Arabic—the color of the clay from which the bricks were made. Alhambra is now controlled by some of Franco's most faithful men. They have supported Franco for years, and are now rewarded."
Domingo's face returned to its bored state, and he rose and waved good night as he retreated inside the cave.
"Just like America," Sophie commented. "If you have trouble sleeping, just start discussing politics. It will either put you to sleep or fully wake you up—depending on whom you're debating with."Sophie laughed, but Walt's expression didn't change.
"Sophie, how much do you know about Franco?" he asked.
"Not much."
"Well, since you are a dedicated follower as of today, maybe you should know a little more."
She yawned and stretched again. "I'll give you five minutes."
Walt leaned his head back against the cave. "It will only take me two."
"Even better."
"In 1934, Franco took part in the massacre of Asturian miners. . . ."
"Miners?" Sophie's mind immediately went to Eleanor's journal. Mateo—Eleanor's husband—had been a miner, working for their very existence. A pain tugged at Sophie's heart, and her hatred of Franco grew even greater.
Walt cocked his head and studied her face by the light of the moon. "Señorita, you look as if you've lost your best friend. What are you thinking about?"
Sophie didn't know how to explain. "I . . . well . . . it's just that I've heard about the miners and the conditions they work in. It was—it is—a tough life."
"Yes, well . . . Franco, a general after the '33 elections, was put in charge of the insurgency by the miners' union. Over twelve hundred men lost their lives."
Walt didn't explain how, and for that Sophie was glad. She could imagine.
"So what happened after the massacre?"
"Less than two years later, after the elections, the Popular Front won control of the government. In spite of the demands of the Communists, they didn't put Franco in prison. Instead they sent him to be military governor of the Canary Islands."
"And that is where he was when this war broke out, right?"
"Yes, and he was called back to Spain right away. It was the Germans who ferried his troops from North Africa." Walt paused, and then smiled. "I dare to say that took less than two minutes."
"So that's it? That's all I need to know? That is surprising. You usually like to spend more time imparting your knowledge." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "But not as surprising as Domingo's reaction to the story of the Moorish treasure. I felt my skin burning. Did you see the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke of it?"
"Yes, he did transform into a different person before our eyes, didn't he?"
Sophie looked back into the sky just in time to see a shooting star. She made a quick wish that Philip would return safe from his guard duty, then turned her mind back to the conversation. "So many people talk about such riches. I never really thought about hidden treasure before. I feel bad that Domingo has no idea how close he really is to the sort of treasure he talks about. I almost wanted to get out one gold coin for him. Can you imagine how his eyes would have lit up then?"
"Yes, and if you had, the news of what our truck contained would fall to all the people in this area harder and faster than any rainfall. It is wise to watch yourself and your words carefully. These people lead simple lives, and anything out of the ordinary is great news. It's tricky enough seeking out help and food. If word got out to the wrong person about strangers—Americans—up in these hills, Michael and his friends would find us before the sun crested over the peaks."
He rose and offered her a hand. "Speaking of which, the day will be upon us before we know it. Your uncle Tomas is already making arrangements for your arrival. It will be a big day for you . . . Eleanor."
* * *
Pain, which he had spent a year ignoring, rose in Philip's chest. He leaned against the cave wall breathing hard as if he'd just finished a race. In truth, he attempted to hold his thoughts at bay, attempted to dam up the tears that threatened to flow. Sophie would be leaving again—out of his sight. Out of his grasp. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He glanced over his shoulder and knew that she watched him. He had returned from the patrol and noticed her laying out her blankets to sleep. Her worried eyes studied him, but he didn't care. He had stayed in Spain for Attis. He had stayed in Spain because the Americans needed volunteers. He had stayed by Sophie's side even when he really wanted to be on the front lines. Then he had been taken from his duties because of her. His heart had broken a hundred times because of her too.
He took another drink from the wineskin. His new friend, Salvador, had given it to him as they'd walked up the road, back to the cave.
Sophie lay down on her blanket, but still she watched him. After a moment, she rose, drew near, and sat by his side. Philip ran a hand down his face, knowing he looked awful—smelled awful too—but he didn't care.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"Something wrong? Sophie, I was bound and taken to the south of Spain. Nobody asked if I wanted to go," he mumbled, as if trying to make a joke out of it. "Then I got roped into helping Walt. Nobody asked, 'Philip, what do you think? Where should we go?' Now I'm patrolling mountain trails around who knows where—and you're leaving."
"Walt thinks it's best. He thinks the information . . ." She glanced around, and her voice trailed off.
Yes, and I thought it was a good idea too, he wanted to tell her. Until he really started thinking about it. The men had talked excitedly through the day about how wonderful it would be to have her on the inside. They talked about her as if she were another weapon to help their cause. But to Philip she was much more than that.
He looked at her again. Her face was so beautiful; Philip didn't think he could bear to lose her. His chest throbbed as he imagined her going into the castle alone. Surrounded by the enemy. Don't do it. I can't lose you. He reached over and took her hand.
She leaned close and whispered. "Walt thinks it is best. . . . I can help us get the information we need for the rest of our journey. Each step now will take us closer to home, to America. Where we can be safe . . . together."
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he released it abruptly. He was tired of hurting. Tired of worrying.
"Well, right now, Sophie, I honestly don't care what anyone else thinks we should do. What I should do. What you should do. I'm going to drink a little more wine, and then I'm going to get a good night's sleep. I'm going to dream. Maybe I'll dream about running that doesn't involve people chasing me. Or maybe I'll dream about actually having a fighting chance to win this war."
She didn't move. Didn't try to talk some sense into him. "Okay, Philip. If that's what you think best. I suppose a good night's sleep is a good idea." She went back to the blanket laid out by the crackling fire, turning her back to him.
Philip took another long drink from the wineskin. Then another for the mere fact that he did have a voice, and had all along. And if there was anyone to blame for what had happened in Spain, it was himself. He didn't like that fact. It was easier to blame others than to realize the truth.
And, when it came down to it, he would have chosen to follow Sophie, gold or no gold. He'd been tied up and taken down to the south of Spain; that was for sure. But in the long run it had made it easier for him. He hadn't needed to find his own ride.
He set the wineskin to the side and pressed his face into his hands, trying to hold back the emotion.
She'll be okay, he told himself. She'll be okay.
Dear God, please let Sophie be okay.
Each day Deion's small group moved. Some days it was forward. Some days it was back. Sometimes the only movement was lateral as they traveled down the dry riverbed to check on the others and see how everyone else was holding up.
His throat ached. He could never find enough to drink, and the continual thirst bothered him more than the sound of explosions in the distance.
In the rainy season there were rivers all around this area, but in July the riverbeds were dry. Bone dry.
Overhead, bombers flew. The same type that had bombed Guernica, he knew. Of course here there were no buildings to aim for, just lines of men in hastily dug foxholes.
Deion heard a plunk, and the man standing next to him fell dead. It was a surprise, but in a strange way not unexpected. He didn't ask why it wasn't him; he was just thankful that it wasn't.
In the light of the moon, Deion watched his feet move forward as if they belonged to another. He felt numb all over. He'd seen too much to try to feel any longer. Somewhere he had a memory of what life was before Spain, but it was too hard to draw out. Too hard to remember.
A friend called his name, and he turned. At least he remembered his name.