A Legacy Remembered

By Donna Mauk

Jennifer Lund was on a quest for answers to some of lifes most enduring and unresolvable questions.

Why am I here? Have I been here before? Who was I?

Jennifer had a unique predisposition for psychic experiences which had surfaced in childhood. But she began to suspect that these brief encounters with the unknowable might be more than they appeared.

Now a middle-aged, professional administrator, she has managed to dismiss her somewhat inconvenient abilities. But on the day she suddenly and inexplicably becomes terrified of her own husband, she begins a quest for answers that leads her back in time. Finding herself as a young child, daughter of a cobbler in a small Basque village during the early-nineteenth-century Carlist Wars, the events of that lifetime unfold, casting shadows upon the present and the choices that both she and her skeptical therapist are about to make.

Her journey weaves itself through pre-Christian, Basque mythology and nineteenth-century French history to present-day psychology and back again.

Is it merely a creation of her mindor is she calling up memories from another time? Another place? Another life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491741702

Donna Mauk

As a junior high school literature teacher, school principal, curriculum consultant for the Los Angeles County Office of Education, and small-business owner, Donna Mauk’s life has been rich and rewarding. She was born in San Diego, raised in the San Gabriel Valley, and now lives with her family in the Azusa Foothills of California.

Book preview

ANCIENT BASQUE MYTHOLOGICAL CHARACTERS

1. Arbeiza: Navarran town where a well of mythological tradition exists

2. Austarri: monolith; gods of fire

3. Belagile: witches of Zuberoa

4. Betadur: force of fascination that one who casts the evil eye throws upon its object with only a look

5. Erensuge: evil spirit that adopts the form of a snake

6. Gizotso: man-wolf; monster that inhabits the forests

7. Ilargia: the moon; a feminine force emerging from the world of hidden things; belonging to the world of the deceased, of souls

8. Illari: stones of the dead, funeral stones

9. Jentil: wild man inhabiting mountains and forests

10. Lamiak: seductive creature resembling a mermaid, who can tempt mortals to their downfall

11. Maju: husband of Mari

12. Mari: female divinity, the lady or gentlewoman who lived in caves, a breathtakingly beautiful woman who allowed no mortal to enter her dwelling so that no personal goods were unduly appropriated; knew how to turn coal into gold and back; referred to as the Lady (Damea) or ‘grandmother of the mountain’; married to Maju, mother of Attarrabi and Mikelats.

13. Tartalo: evil spirit Cyclops

14. Zezengorri: red bull subterranean spirit

CHAPTER ONE

MR. AGUIRRE ONLY ALLOWED HIS shoes to be handled by two people, himself and Papa. And because Mr. Aguirre was by far the wealthiest and most powerful man in the small Basque township of Arbeiza, nobody much argued with him. Mari was understandably unnerved when Papa instructed her to carry the shiny black boots down the road and deliver them in person. But Papa, she whispered, he will know that I’ve touched them.

Her father turned from his cobbler’s bench with smiling eyes, wiping the stain from his hands on his blackened apron. Mais oui, ma petite, he agreed, handing her the boots, Allez, vite! She received the massive shoes in her small hands as if they were breakfast eggs, and stood motionless, waiting in silent desperation for some sign of reprieve. Hold on tight, he said, pressing her hands firmly around the boots, and watch where you step. All will be well. His voice was soothing and confident, filling her with new resolve.

Eight-year-old Mari was a bit of an odd mixture of Papa’s French heritage and the pure Basque lineage of her mother. The little girl’s light brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled with a bit of ‘feisty’ that could only be attributed to her French genes. Her stunning olive complexion however, and her natural ability to endure whatever came her way, were gifts from the Basque side of the family. She was small in frame, but strong in character for one so young.

An angel kiss to her forehead, and Papa grinned. Go! he said, nudging her toward the door. A hurricane of what-ifs raced across her mind as she lingered a moment in the doorway and then moved out onto the cobblestones. What if Erensuge appeared before her in the road and his evil spirit took over her body, slithering and hissing on the ground beneath her? What if Gizotso became hungry and came out of the woods to devour her, bite by bite, as if she were but a tasty morsel of lamb? Mr. Aguirre would be terribly upset with her. No, worse than that, he would be upset with Papa for having entrusted the valuable boots to such a careless little girl. It would ruin Papa’s reputation, and it would cast shame upon her mother’s ‘house.’ That simply couldn’t happen. She clutched the boots close to her chest, vowing to conquer all such beasts as appeared before her and to deliver the goods unscathed.

She sucked in what she suspected might be her last breath, and began the arduous journey down the road. She passed the meeting place where a group of middle-aged husbands regularly gathered to drink wine, argue in Euskera, and escape from their wives for an hour or so before the evening meal. Just past the Pelote court at the crossroad, she turned to the right, lifting her feet as she went so as not to catch her worn shoes in the crevices between the stones. Another deep breath and she plodded on, ignoring the greetings of Mr. Maques and his son who were engaged in a lively game of mus on the small round table just outside the book shop. She did pause momentarily when the sweet scent of fresh pastries wafted out of the bakery, but Mr. Aguirre’s huge wooden house beckoned to her from the end of the road as it waited impatiently at the foot of the mighty black mountains.

The muffled voices and laughter of deep throated men bounced off the wooden store fronts from behind her, but she continued on with determination. Then she heard it…a young boy’s voice calling to her. Mari! Mari, it’s me. Tomàs! Her eyes widened with excitement as she whirled around to search for him. She had only this morning scurried down to the pastures to look for the sheep…and for Tomàs. He had always managed to be there by her birthday, but by late afternoon there was still no sign of him. Papa had tried to cheer her, saying that the grazing was good on the mountain this year and had probably delayed the arrival of the herds to the lowlands. He assured her Tomàs would come, but she had her doubts.

As usual, Papa was right. Tomàs was here…right on schedule for her eighth birthday, waving his arms over his head and galloping toward her with all the energy he could muster. Mari’s face lit up as she ran to meet him, the forgotten boots toppling to the street. Instantly, her tattered shoe wedged itself inextricably into a crack, catapulting her into the air with arms flailing. Before she could catch herself, she had plummeted face down on the street.

By the time she rolled herself over and pulled up her woolen skirt to view her skinned knees, Tomàs was beside her. His black eyes sparkled, and the dark locks of his thick hair curled around the band of his Elosogui beret. Well aren’t you just a sight! he laughed, squatting beside her to examine her wounds.

Her eyes shot back fire as she yanked her skirt down over her knees. "You don’t look so good either. You’re all dirty, and you stink of sheep!" The look on her face dared him to speak. Mari envisioned herself every bit as tough as Tomàs even though he was two years older, and she meant to prove it at every opportunity.

His eyes moved down her forearms to the palms of her hands which were riddled with blood and bits of gravel. It was only then that she noticed his exhaustion. He appeared so completely spent that she began to be sorry for what she’d said. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over the edges, partly from the sting of her wounds and the other part from the sting of her words.

Okay my little lamiak, let’s see if you can stand up, he soothed, moving behind her. He slipped his arms around her small frame and pulled her to her feet.

Of course I can get up, she snapped back. And stop calling me a lamiak! As she moved forward to retrieve her wedged shoe, her ankle buckled slightly and she faltered.

Tomàs scrambled to grab the shoe and called back toward the crossroad. Father! Mari needs help. He turned to caution her. Don’t move. Her bottom lip rolled forward as the tears streamed down her cheeks. And there it was again, that terrible, frightened churning in the pit of his stomach…a sense of helplessness that could not be overcome. He had felt it before, the night Mari’s mother had died two years past, when nothing he could say or do would change it. Her tears had come in giant waves, and he could barely breathe for drowning in them. He had vowed that horrible night that he would allow nothing more to hurt her. It was the foolish vow of an eight-year-old boy, for in the Spring he would leave again to herd the flock up the mountain.

Robert Arana, now hovered above her. He was a towering figure, heavily bearded and adorned with animal skins. His thick hair grew rampantly on his head and huge arms. He bent down, scooping up the little girl, and she breathed in the smell of sheep from him too. Most people found the odor objectionable, but to Mari it was a happy smell. It meant good times, good friends and good food.

Who gets the fancy boots? he boomed at Mari. She pointed a small, quivering finger toward the big house at the end of the road. Robert gravely nodded his oversized head in appreciation of her predicament. Tomàs, he ordered, motioning to the crumpled leather goods, deliver those to Mr. Aguirre. Tomàs was not at all inclined to oblige his father’s request, but then it wasn’t really a ‘request’, was it?…and besides, he would do it for Mari, even if it meant engendering Mr. Aguirre’s wrath.

Mr. Arana toted Mari down the road, passing two of his herders on their way to the bathhouse. When he turned the corner, Mari spied Papa waiting in the threshold of the cobbler’s shop. The name Etxaberria was carved into the weathered, wooden plank above the doorway, her mother’s surname always welcoming her back. Etxaberria, she whispered.

Izena duen guzia omen da, Mr. Arana comforted. That which has a name exists. Mari smiled.

As they entered the shop, Papa greeted his old friend Robert joyously in a mixture of languages that Mari always found somewhat confusing. Then, bending down to take hold of her small hands, Papa asked, Qu’est-ce que c’est?

She took a tumble, Charles, Mr. Arana explained. I sent Tomàs on with the shoes.

Papa looked up at his dear friend and thanked him for his kindness. Robert nodded and began to excuse himself. We’ll take a room at the inn, he said, and we’ll return later with our birthday surprises. Mari recognized the pretense that the two men reenacted each year. In spite of the stinging sensation on her arms and knees, she smiled with delight as she watched them work through the charade.

I won’t hear of it, Robert, Papa insisted. You and Tomàs will stay here, in the house of my family. He turned to Mari. Take Robert to the house, and tell Nettie we have two more for the evening meal.

Robert responded with a chuckle. I’ve not journeyed this far just to offend my friend. We accept your offer. Mari signaled Robert to follow her, and as he did he laughed. After the meal, Charles, he quipped to Papa over his shoulder, we will go out and drink fine French wine…and bed many loose women!

Papa rolled his eyes and shook his head. That made Robert laugh, even more.

Behind the cobbler’s shop and through the garden, in the house of Etxaberria, Mari’s Aunt Nettie added two plates to the table, sliced a few more vegetables for the soup and pulled two sets of bedding from the linen closet for the stacking beds. Her disapproval of the little girl’s carelessness was apparent, as she made note of the tear in the woolen dress, but she tended dutifully to Mari’s wounds. Charles’ sister had never married and had lived with Mari’s grandmere in St. Pee. Grandmere, or Meme as they called her, had passed early last Fall. That was when Aunt Nettie came to live with Papa. It was apparent, from the day Nettie arrived in fashionable French attire, that she was not at all happy with her circumstances. The dreary existence of a cobbler’s sister in a tiny, rural township was a far cry from her sophisticated city lifestyle. It was however, the best she could hope for after having lost Meme’s house to back taxes and monies owed to merchants. Mari was certain that Aunt Nettie, who had Papa’s deep eyes and brown wavy hair, had been quite beautiful in her day. But Nettie seemed not to take much care with herself any more. One thing could be said for certain…Aunt Nettie did take on her responsibilities with great effort. Her love of good food and knowledge of wonderful French recipes had made her joyously welcome in the household.

Robert had gone to bathe by the time Tomàs returned. The young man seemed none the worse for his encounter at the Aguirre mansion, and he carried with him an elegant package wrapped in silk cloth and tied with a rose colored satin ribbon. It was beautiful. "Is this from you, Tomàs?" Mari beamed, arms outstretched to receive the treasure.

His head dropped. It’s from Mrs. Aguirre, he muttered, handing her the parcel. He wished that he had brought something for her as elegant as the package before them. Mari’s blue eyes danced at the sight of it. She carried the gift to the table and placed it strategically next to her setting.

Tomàs, she said with excitement, We have bistochak for dessert. Aunt Nettie doesn’t know that I know. But I smelled it baking in the kitchen this afternoon! Removing the beret from his curly head, he smiled at her delight. He was glad that, for a moment at least, she had forgotten her injuries.

I’ll go wash up, he assured her. I don’t want to ‘stink like sheep’ for your birthday!

The evening meal was indeed a very special one. Nettie had prepared a wonderful soup, with mussels and rascasse added to the vegetables, and she’d made a whole basket of her French croutons to soak up all the delicious flavors. After Papa closed the shop, he put on his best Sunday shirt, green suspenders and slicked his hair down with oil. He looked very handsome. Robert looked like a new person…still huge and hairy…but his beard was trimmed neatly, and there was no doubt he’d brought clean clothes for the occasion. Even Aunt Nettie had donned one of her best French dresses, and Mari thought she looked like an angel draped with sky blue silk and creamy lace. Tomàs was the biggest surprise of all. His attire was a complete mystery, from his white bloused shirt and grey wool vest to his pin striped knickers and black leather shoes. He explained rather apologetically that it was his mother’s wish. Mari tried not to laugh, but in the end, she couldn’t contain herself.

After the meal, Nettie brought out the cherry bistochak, and a new woolen dress that she had made as her gift. Mari was properly appreciative of all the work that had gone into the new piece, but thought it looked suspiciously like the dress she was already wearing…maybe a bit larger, and definitely minus the rip. Robert had brought a tiny figurine, a shepherd with a small lamb, and Mari thought it was the tiniest, most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Papa produced a gift that she’d wanted since she had first learned to read. It was a book by Hans Christian Andersen called ‘The Ugly Duckling’. It was not a new book, mind you, as those were expensive. Nonetheless, it was a decent copy of the book that she’d repeatedly cradled in the bookshop whenever the opportunity arose. She fancied that she herself, a lost and lonely duckling, would someday grow into the beautiful swan. The gift from Mrs. Aguirre was a lovely dyed silk scarf in rose and peach colors. It would brighten up that new brown woolen dress that Aunt Nettie had made her, and the girls in town would see that even a cobbler’s daughter could have beautiful things. It appeared that Tomàs had come empty-handed, which was strange because he’d never done that before. But Mari was simply glad that he had arrived on time, and that they had many days ahead to spend together.

After the meal, Papa and Robert excused themselves and left for Akelarre’s, the local tavern. Nettie busied herself, changing back into her work clothes and cleaning up after the evening meal. Mari and Tomàs gathered up the strings from the birthday wrappings, and positioned themselves close to the hearth to stay warm while playing Cats in the Cradle. The evenings were already getting cool, and the fire assuaged the chill. Mari knew that Tomàs was used to the cold mountain air and would not sit near the fire long before he moved to the canapé, but for now she would absorb the heat into her small body and feel the joy of it. Soon it became obvious that Tomàs didn’t have his mind on the game as she had caught him in the cradle too many times. What was he thinking? Finally, he began his usual chatter. He had a variety of tales to tell about nights in the mountains with the herd, the hazards of getting through the pass, and the lucrative spring and summer of trading, bartering and selling the wool and skins. His wit was quick, and he always had a way with words and stories that made her laugh. But there was something…something behind the stories that he wasn’t telling. She knew it…she always knew with Tomàs…when there was something left to say.

After a lengthy pause, Tomàs moved toward the canapé. I have a gift for you, he said, motioning to her to sit with him.

She beamed. I have one for you too, she chirped as she joined him. But it’s a surprise and you can’t have it until tomorrow. Her mind spun around the vision of the marvelous Pelote basket that Papa had worked on for so long. It was covered in brown leather scraps that Charles had saved in the shop and carefully stitched together to encase the scoop. She could picture Tomàs smashing the ball against the wall, then darting to retrieve it in the leather scoop and spinning round to thrust it forward again. But Tomàs was very serious, and appeared to be having difficulty with what to say next. She waited.

My mother, he began slowly, has no brothers.

This was what was bothering him? Mari wanted to be sympathetic, but it seemed that he was taking this fact all too seriously. After all, had he not known this all along? Well, she responded, in her most caring voice, "Papa is like your uncle. He loves you as much as an uncle would. Maybe more!"

Tomàs scrunched up his face, and shushed her. Just listen, he went on. In my family there is something that is passed down from mother to eldest son. It stays always in the father’s house. He stopped and searched her deep, blue eyes. Do you understand? he asked, unsure if he should proceed.

Of course, she nodded, carrying through to the conclusion. Your grandmother had no one to give it to.

Exactly, he confirmed. This was the one time he was glad she was so smart. "So instead, before she passed, my grandmother gave it to me. Now it will be in two houses, my mother’s and my father’s. So it’s very important that I do as Grandmother asked."

Mari hated to interrupt, and she hated even more to be shushed, but there was a long silence after that, and she was more than curious about where he was going with this story. He usually spoke more quickly, and she was getting weary of waiting. So…what did she ask?

He fidgeted in his pocket for a moment, finally producing a small black bag drawn with strings at the top. Carefully, he pulled the strings apart and emptied the contents into his hand. It was a gold locket shaped like a heart, snuggled in a fine gold chain. It almost took her breath away with its beauty. It far outdid the shepherd figurine…it far outdid anything she had ever seen, except maybe for the small diamond ring that Meme had handed down to Aunt Nettie. Even then, it was debatable.

Tomàs went on. "She told me to keep it safe until I found the girl I was going to marry. Then I was to give it to her to wear until she gave it to our first born son on his fifteenth birthday. Mari’s eyes grew wide, as the fear carved its way into her brain with every word he spoke. Her mind was so wild she barely heard him speak, as he flipped the piece over to show her the names of both his mother’s family and his father’s etched on the back. He held the locket out to her. Happy Birthday, Mari."

She scrambled off the canapé, and onto her feet in sheer terror. I don’t want your old locket! she railed at him. I’m not going to marry you! Why would I want to marry you? I can read much better than you, and I’m better at Pelote. She knew that last part wasn’t exactly right…but it was close enough for making her point.

Hearing the heated conversation, Aunt Nettie came to settle them. What’s the issue here? she asked sternly.

Mari turned to her in complete frustration. He wants me to marry him, she puffed.

"Not now!" Tomàs pleaded on his own behalf. "Just someday."

Aunt Nettie had a strange sort of hidden smile on her face as she wiped her wet hands on her apron. Well, she said with amusement dancing about in her otherwise drab eyes, perhaps you can discuss this tomorrow. Tomàs, you’re tired…and Mari, it’s well past your bedtime. Off with you both! She turned back to the kitchen, chuckling to herself.

Mari glared at him. NOT tomorrow, she shot at him in a hushed yell. "Not ever!" And with that, she stormed off to her room.

She knew she had hurt him…and for that, she felt a twinge of guilt. They had been best friends for as long as she could remember. Over the years that Robert had included him on the drives, the little ones had spent much of their childhood together. It wasn’t altogether strange that Tomàs might believe they belonged together…always. But Mari didn’t see it that way at all. She watched from her bedroom door as he poured the golden heart back into its black pouch, but she would not capitulate.

Papa returned a couple of hours later, after Nettie had finished her chores and had gone to bed. The fire was only embers now, but Charles warmed himself at the hearth before shedding his coat. He heard Mari sniffling and thought she might be coming down with something, so he made his way to her room. As he grew nearer, her tiny frame trembled with soft sobs. Sitting beside her on the bed, he put an arm around her head. Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas? he asked softly.

Oh, Papa, she lamented, burying her wet face in his chest. Tomàs wants me to marry him.

Papa managed to keep a serious face as he listened. And what did you say to that? he prompted.

I said no, of course! I’m too young to get married! Why did Papa not understand this?

Well, he responded, in his most thoughtful tone, perhaps he didn’t mean right now. Maybe he meant when the two of you are older.

She was alarmed that he was seeing Tomàs’ side of this. No, not ever! she insisted.

Why would it be so bad? he asked. It would have been easiest to reveal the truth…that such a marriage could never be. But it was not yet time, and for the most part, he was more concerned about her view of marriage in general. "Tomàs is your best friend. It’s good to marry your best friend. Mama was my best friend."

Mama died, she declared defiantly, as though her point had been made.

Charles was suddenly filled with overwhelming sadness, his chest collapsing onto his heart, squeezing it tightly enough to make it stop completely. As always, he moved forward. Yes, she did, he acknowledged. What does that have to do with Tomàs?

I will never marry Tomàs. I’m never going to marry anyone. When people marry they have babies, and then they die. It’s just you and me, Papa. Nobody else…just us.

He was horrified at the scar that her mother’s untimely death had left behind. Mari, this isn’t true. What happened with your mother was unusual. Don’t let it scare you, ma petite, he comforted. "I tell