Matadora by Elizabeth Ruth

Author:Elizabeth Ruth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cormorant Books
Published: 2013-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

WHEN LUNA WAS NINE years old, she’d followed Manuel up the mountain behind the ranch house, without him knowing. The wind was strong and warm, and their steep path cut with heather. They passed a denuded cork forest where hundreds of bright sienna trees stood with their trunks exposed and vulnerable, the unharvested tops as steely grey and wrinkled as the skin of an elephant. Luna heard the far away clanging of tin bells as a herd of sheep grazed in a pasture. The higher she climbed the cloudier it got, and the air thinned. Manuel stopped at the mouth of a cave where an old farmer stood picking at moss growing on the rock face. Luna hid behind a giant boulder.

“What do you want?” the man barked in an odd voice that came more from his chest than his throat. Luna peeked and saw that he looked weary as he walked over to Manuel. “There’s nothing in there except broken tools,” he said.

“I’ve heard otherwise,” said Manuel.

“If bat shit is a treasure, I suppose you heard right.”

“People say there are paintings.”

“Oh that.” The farmer nodded and stretched his arms out at his sides to show the scale.

“Charge me entry,” Manuel said. “I’ll pay to see them.” The old man’s mouth fixed into a grimace. “From time to time your father buys goats from me,” he said. “Why does he send his son to insult me? You tell Don Carlos this is my sanctuary. There’s no hidden treasure here, and no more goats either.”

Luna popped out from behind the boulder. “Don Carlos needs nothing from you,” she said.

“Luna, you shouldn’t have followed me!” said Manuel.

“But I was afraid you wouldn’t return.”

The farmer pointed at her. “You’re the orphan of Sangre Mío?” “The one,” she said, fanning the heat with her hands.

Manuel pulled her to stand properly before the man. “I present, Luna García Caballero,” he said, lending her his family name, and she noticed that one of the farmer’s eyes was brown and the other milky white, including the pupil, as though a small cloud sat over top of it. She made an obligatory curtsey.

“I’m Francisco Pintado,” he said, almost deferentially. “I’ve heard about you. You were born on the greatest day of the year. Maybe you bring luck to my crops?” “Maybe,” she shrugged.

Francisco observed her with his one good eye as though he might find evidence of magic or a miracle on her face, though what he saw was the dark skin and tired eyes of an indentured servant not unlike himself. He bent down with breath smelling of rotten goat meat, and peered closely. Behind his cloud eye there was an outline of another eye peeking through. “To her, I will give a tour of the cave.”

“If she goes in so do I,” said Manuel.

The cave was blacker than black, and slippery. They squinted to see by Francisco’s oil lamp and Luna held onto Manuel as they descended the crude staircase through an odourless fog. She ran her hand along the damp wall but withdrew it instantly, as though she were touching a living thing.

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