The Eagle & The Dove

 Finishing the tortilla, Habby took another swallow of the wine, intending to Finnish it then leave immediately.  Overhearing the old men in the corner, he noted surprisingly, that their talk had now moved away from olives, and on to eagles.  This in itself was not an unusual topic of discussion in the valley.  Because of the action earlier, Habby's curiosity became aroused.

  'I tell you by the saints,' said one of the old men.  'I’m certain there are only a few of them devil birds left in the valley.  It could be there is only one remaining,' he concluded.

  'By God almighty, I only wish this to be true,' remarked a companion.

  The first speaker continued.  'I’m sure there’s only one.  Think about it.'

  Before his companions had a chance to think about it.  He started to explain his reasoning.  'You remember the one that killed Herreria last year?' He asked.  Both the others nodded gravely.

 'How can anyone be sure it’s the same bird?' Interrupted the third, who had stayed out of the conversation until now.

  'Since when have you seen eagles hunt alone, They’ve always hunted in pairs,' replied the first, who seemed more knowledgeable on the subject then his friends.  'Herreria managed to kill her mate before she butchered him and his stock.'

  Both companions nodded their heads, recalling only to vividly the events of last summer.'

  'She hunts alone,' and here the speaker paused so as to dramatise his next pronouncement, 'because her mate is dead and there are no more birds to help her.'

  There were a few moments of silence, as this profound statement sunk in.  It was interrupted by the barkeeper who had also been listening in.

  'You may be right there friend,' he said from behind his bar.  'But I’ll be a lot happier when she joins her mate in hell, along with the rest of those demon creatures.'

  The old men seemed to shudder at that statement.  'Amen to that,' said one, and they all made the sign of the crucifix.

  Habby felt a sudden rush of rage engulf him.  He was tempted to turn around and tell them, that he would prefer to see them all in hell then the eagle.  Common sense prevailed.  He chuckled to himself about what they would say, when today’s events became related to them.  They would remember Habby, and it would not take a lot of figuring out for them to realise that he had been the Gypsy that saved the eagle.  An ironic thought indeed, Habby mused.

  Reaching for his money, he extracted the coins needed to cover his purchases, placed it on the table and turned to leave, bidding goodbye to the barkeeper and the old men.  As he expected, they looked at him but did not bother to reply.  He wandered why the Eagles did not come into the towns to hunt.  Surly he thought.  One of these old men would make a decent meal for an eagle, and he doubted if the world would be a worse place for it.  But then again, said a voice inside him, the eagles are not that stupid, they knew poisoned meat and kept well away from it.

  By the time Habby reached the encampment, it was mid-afternoon and already the sun was beginning to lose some its heat.  He left his mount with the Caballero’s, and they in turn passed it on to the Caballerizo’s who were their young apprentices.  Their duties included grooming, feeding and all chores involved with horse care.  When the Caballerizo’s had checked, fed and groomed Habby’s animal, they would return it back to the main herd. 

  Horses were designated from the main herd, as and when there was a specific requirement.  If messages needed sending to fellow travellers, swift strong horses would be selected.  Likewise, gentle horses were used for training youngsters, or for the elderly to ride.  Stronger beasts were utilised for pulling wagons and carts. The Caballeros’ had complete authority in all equestrian matters, and apart from them, only a select few people in the clan had the privilege of their own private mount.

  Habby had owned this particular horse, since capturing him in a round up six years ago.  He had broken it in and trained it himself.  Since then, he had ridden only this horse.  Taking only his saddle-pack and blanket, Habby left the horse coral without a word.  The horse now belonged to the Caballero’s, Habby would not dare to comment about their work, or ask for any special privileges.  The rules were simple.  Once inside the camp, horses were the responsibility of the horsemen and no one else. 

  Making his way to the inner circle where his wagon stood, he called his greetings to anyone he encountered.  More than a few questioning glances passed his way, people obviously curious as why he should have returned so early.  Despite the curiosity aroused, no one would openly question Habby about his return.  It was pretty much accepted, that if Habby wanted to tell them, he would.  They also new, that if there was an interesting story was to be told, they would find out soon enough anyway.

  Climbing the small set of steps leading into his wagon, he was glad to see his wife was still busy fussing over some herbs.  He dropped his saddle-pack and blanket in the corner and walked over to his wife.  Although happy to see him, Anito was naturally puzzled as to why he had returned so early.  She asked him what was happening.

  With no embellishments, Habby explained the full story.  He also mentioned the fact he would have to leave the valley, if he wanted to continue working.  Anito, well aware of the choices her husband had, would make no complaint whatever he chose.  Her trust that her husband would make the right decisions was complete.

  'Where is Manana?' He asked.

  'Down by the Silbido pass, collecting herbs,' she answered him.  'She left about two hours ago, she’ll be back before dark.'

  Satisfied with the answer, Habby told Anito that he had to visit some of the Elders, to explain what had happened today, and the possible consequences of his actions.  Understanding fully the seriousness of the situation, Anito nodded her head in agreement. 

  As he left the wagon, Anito could not help feeling  a little upset.  She hated it when Habby had to go away. In the far recesses of her mind, the bad times before Manana would always be remembered.  She knew he had contemplated leaving her then.  Despite the fact he would never leave her now, doubt still ate away at her whenever he went away. 

  Habby reached the wagon of Paco Borrionerro, eldest of all the Elders, and considered by many to be as wise and in some ways wiser than Pierre.  He knocked respectfully at the wagon door.  A few seconds later, Habby heard bolts being drawn back, and the top half of the door opened up.  Behind the door, stood Lorrita, Paco’s wife.

  'Habby!' she exclaimed with unconcealed delight, 'what a surprise.'

  'Good day Lorrita,' Habby politely replied.  As an Elder himself, he was entitled to address fellow Elders and their wives by their first names.  'Is Paco at home,' he enquired.

  'Yes he is, come in Habby.'  Opening the upper half of the door, she stood aside to allow Habby to enter.

  Paco sat at the back of the wagon, looking through an open rear window towards the mountains.  The ventilation hatch in the roof was also open, allowing the last of the afternoon sunlight to filter in.  The wagon had a aromatic smell of herbs and freshly cut flowers.  Paco, having given up his pipe smoking a few years back, due to a chest illness, benefited from the clean air constantly circulating through his wagon.  He also benefited from the herb and plant oils burnt in Lorrita’s incense burner. 

  As Habby approached, Paco turned to greet him.  A shaft of sunlight beaming through the ventilation hatch caught the old mans head in its rays, turning the grey of his hair and beard into a snowy white mane.  They extended their hands to each other. 

  Although the Gypsies constantly met each other on a day to day basis, the shaking of hands was considered significant.  Custom declared that any discussion must be preceded by a handshake.  There were two main reasons for this.  One being that should any bad blood come between the participants in a conversation.  The handshake acted as a truce, at least until the discussion was finished.  Secondly, a meeting of hands was to declare friendship, so that despite any misunderstanding that may occur, the friendship should remain intact.

  'Is this formal or friendly?' Paco inquired.

  This itself was no idle question.  Lorrita stood close by awaiting the answer.  If Habby replied formally, Loritta would disappear and brew tea for the men, and take no part in the discussion.  If he said friendly, Lorrita would then offer the guest wine instead.  She would also stay and be able to contribute her opinions.

  Habby pondered this for a moment.  It was after all a little of each.  Deciding to play safe, he replied that it was a friendly visit, to discuss some formalities. 

  Paco chuckled.  'Lorrita,' he called.  'Fetch Habby a wine.  Habby take a seat and tell me what this friendly formality is about.'

  It was Habby’s turn to chuckle.  The old fox, he thought.  He may be getting on, but he still misses very little.

  Habby took the chair opposite Paco and sat.  When he was comfortable, he began once more to narrate the days' events.  When he reached the part about breaking Herrera’s wrist, Paco let out another long chuckle.