The Hill of the Lost Spirits · I

On All Souls’ Night, I was awakened at I know not what hour by the tolling of the bells; their monotonous and eternal chime brought to my mind this tradition that I heard not long ago in Soria.

I tried to sleep again; impossible! Once goaded, the imagination is a wild horse that bolts and whom pulling the rein avails not. To pass the time I resolved to write it down, as indeed I did.

I heard it in the very place where it happened, and I have written it turning my head back with fear whenever I felt the panes of my balcony creak, shaken by the cold night air.

Be that as it may, here it goes, like the jack of spades.

“Tie up the dogs; blow the signal on the horns for the hunters to gather, and let us turn back to the city. Night is approaching, it is All Saints’ Day, and we are on the Mount of the Dead.”

“So soon!”

“Were it another day, I would not fail to finish off that pack of wolves that the snows of Moncayo have driven from their lairs; but today it is impossible. Soon the Angelus will sound at the Templars’, and the souls of the departed will begin to toll their bell in the mountain chapel.”

“In that ruined chapel! Bah! Do you want to frighten me?”

“No, beautiful cousin; you are unaware of what happens in this land, because it is not yet a year since you came to it from afar. Curb your mare, I will also set mine to a walk, and as the journey lasts I will tell you that story.”

The pages gathered in merry and boisterous groups; the counts of Borges and Alcudiel mounted their magnificent horses, and all together followed their children Beatriz and Alonso, who preceded the retinue at a considerable distance.

As the journey lasted, Alonso narrated the promised story in these terms:

“That mountain they now call the Mount of the Dead belonged to the Templars, whose convent you see there, on the river bank. The Templars were warriors and religious men at once. Soria having been conquered from the Arabs, the king made them come from distant lands to defend the city on the bridge side, thereby doing a notable wrong to his Castilian nobles, who thus would have known how to defend it alone as they alone conquered it.”

Between the knights of the new and powerful Order and the hidalgos of the city, a profound hatred fermented for some years, and finally broke out. The former had fenced off that mountain, where they reserved abundant game to satisfy their needs and contribute to their pleasures; the latter determined to organize a great battue in the preserve, despite the severe prohibitions of the spurred clerics, as they called their enemies.

The word of defiance spread, and nothing availed to stop the ones in their mania for hunting and the others in their determination to hinder it. The projected expedition was carried out. The wild beasts did not remember it; rather, so many mothers who dragged out mourning for their sons would keep it in mind. That was not a hunt, it was a frightful battle: the mountain was strewn with corpses, the wolves that were meant to be exterminated had a bloody feast. Finally, the king’s authority intervened: the mountain, the accursed occasion of so many misfortunes, was declared abandoned, and the religious chapel, situated on the same mountain and in whose atrium friends and enemies were buried together, began to fall into ruin.

Since then they say that when All Souls’ Night arrives, the chapel’s bell is heard tolling by itself, and that the souls of the dead, wrapped in shreds of their shrouds, run like a fantastic hunt among the scrub and brambles. The stags bellow in terror, the wolves howl, the serpents give horrible hisses, and the next day the prints of the skeletons’ fleshless feet have been seen pressed into the snow. That is why in Soria we call it the Mount of the Dead, and that is why I wanted to leave it before nightfall.

Alonso’s account concluded just as the two young people reached the end of the bridge that gives passage to the city on that side. There they waited for the rest of the retinue, which, after the two horsemen joined them, was lost among the narrow and dark streets of Soria.

The servants had just lifted the tablecloths; the high gothic fireplace of the palace of the counts of Alcudiel gave off a bright glow, illuminating some groups of ladies and gentlemen who were conversing familiarly around the hearth, and the wind lashed the leaded glass of the salon’s lancet windows.

Only two people seemed oblivious to the general conversation: Beatriz and Alonso. Beatriz followed the caprices of the flame with her eyes, absorbed in a vague thought. Alonso watched the reflection of the bonfire sparkle in Beatriz’s blue pupils.

Both had kept a profound silence for some time.

The duennas were relating, apropos of All Souls’ Night, fearful tales in which specters and apparitions played the principal role, and the bells of the churches of Soria tolled in the distance with a monotonous and sad chime.

“Beautiful cousin,” exclaimed Alonso at last, breaking the long silence they found themselves in: “soon we are going to part, perhaps forever; the arid plains of Castile, its rough and warlike customs, its simple and patriarchal habits I know you do not like; I have heard you sigh several times, perhaps for some gallant of your distant lordship.”

Beatriz made a gesture of cold indifference; an entire woman’s character was revealed in that disdainful contraction of her thin lips.

“Perhaps for the pomp of the French court, where until now you have lived,” the young man hastened to add. “One way or another, I foresee that I shall soon lose you... upon parting, I would like you to take a token of mine... Do you remember when we went to the temple to give thanks to God for having returned to you the health you came to seek in this land? The jewel that fastened the feather of my cap captivated your attention. How lovely it would look fastening a veil over your dark hair! It has already fastened that of a bride; my father gave it to the one who gave me being, and she wore it to the altar... Do you want it?”

“I know not in yours,” answered the beauty, “but in my country a received token pledges a will. Only on a ceremonial day should a present be accepted from the hands of a kinsman... who can even go to Rome without returning empty-handed.”

The icy accent with which Beatriz pronounced these words momentarily disconcerted the young man, who after composing himself said with sadness:

“I know it, cousin; but today All Saints’ is celebrated, and yours among all; today is a day of ceremonies and presents. Will you accept mine?”

Beatriz bit her lips slightly, and extended her hand to take the jewel, without adding a word.

The two young people fell silent again, and once more was heard the cracked voice of the old women talking of witches and goblins, and the buzzing of the air that made the glass of the lancet windows creak, and the sad and monotonous tolling of the bells.

After a few minutes, the interrupted dialogue resumed in this way:

“And before All Saints’ Day concludes, in which just like yours mine is celebrated, and you can, without binding your will, leave me a remembrance, will you not do it?” he said, fixing a gaze on his cousin’s, which shone like lightning, illuminated by a diabolical thought.

“Why not?” she exclaimed, carrying her hand to her right shoulder as if to look for something among the folds of her wide velvet sleeve embroidered with gold... Then, with an infantile expression of sentiment she added:

“Do you remember the blue ribbon I wore today to the hunt, and which for some emblem of its color you told me was the badge of your soul?”

“Yes.”

“Well... it has been lost! It has been lost, and I was thinking of leaving it to you as a remembrance.”

“Lost! And where?” asked Alonso, rising from his seat, and with an indescribable expression of fear and hope.

“I know not... on the mountain perhaps.”

“On the Mountain of the Skulls!” he murmured, turning pale and sinking back into his seat; “on the Mountain of the Skulls!”

Then he continued in a broken, muffled voice:

“You know it, for you must have heard it a thousand times; in the city, throughout all Castile, they call me the king of the hunters. Not yet having been able to test my strength in battle, like my ancestors, I have poured all the vigor of my youth, all the hereditary ardor of my race, into this pastime, which is the image of war. The rug beneath your feet is made from the spoils of beasts I have slain with my own hand. I know their lairs and their habits; I have fought them by day and by night, on foot and on horseback, alone and in the chase, and no one will ever say they saw me flee from danger on any occasion. On any other night I would fly to that region, and I would fly as joyfully as to a feast; and yet, tonight... tonight, why hide it from you? I am afraid. Do you hear? The bells are tolling, the evening prayer has sounded at San Juan del Duero, the spirits of the mountain will now begin to raise their yellowish skulls from among the brushwood that covers their graves... the spirits! whose very sight can freeze with horror the blood of the bravest man, turn his hair white, or sweep him away in the whirlwind of their fantastic career like a leaf driven by the wind, no one knowing whither.”