Free Like Chaff in the Wind by Anna Belfrage Page B

by images she generally kept well at bay. And all because Ángel intended to use Alex to trap her witch mother, destroy Mercedes once and for all.
    “A lot,” she abbreviated, “and I ended up pregnant.” She omitted to tell him that the future Ángel had ended up immolated, courtesy of her weird mother. “So somewhere in the future lives a boy, Isaac, and he’s my son and the son of your descendant.” She laughed and took his hand. “Except, of course, that he’ll not be your direct descendant – given your profession, I mean.”
    Don Benito averted his eyes.
    “Can it happen to anyone?” he said after some moments of silence.
    “I guess so. And…” she hesitated but then decided there was no reason not to tell. “I found a painting in a shop two years ago, a small, very bright painting that made my head spin.” A square of swirling blues and greens, of miniature whirlwinds that drew your eye to the white throbbing point of light at its centre. And if you looked for too long, or leaned in too far, she’d been told you’d be sucked in and transported to another time – but she didn’t know, she added, suppressing a tremor, she’d never actually seen it work. Don Benito’s mouth hung open, yawning so wide he could easily have swallowed a suckling pig. Okay, okay, that was an exaggeration, but not that far off.
    “The strangest thing is that I knew immediately who had painted the picture.” Alex eyed him nervously. “My mother.”
    “ Ay, Dios mío !” He crossed himself – twice. She totally agreed.
    *
    Don Benito’s head rang with snippets of prayers and hymns, short incoherent sequences of holy words that he hoped would protect him. He snuck Alex a look, crossed himself yet again. A painting, she said, a painting filled with evil witchcraft, and he, God help him, he had one just like it in his cabin.
    “ Proteja me, Señor, ” he mumbled, clasping his hands hard. Dear Lord, protect me! The small oblong package, wrapped in oilcloth, was destined for the private collection of Sir William, courtesy of Charles the Second. The one time he’d seen it, he’d broken into a cold sweat, all of him overtaken by nausea. Why, oh why hadn’t he refused to take it? But then, how could he have refused, him being nothing more than a servant to his royal master? An urge grew in him to retrieve the package and throw it overboard, but even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t do it – he couldn’t do it, not when the king had personally addressed the parcel to the unknown Sir William.
    “And to what time do these pictures lead?” He made an effort to sound casual.
    “I don’t know. I burnt it, it seemed the right thing to do.”
    He nodded his silent agreement but chose not to tell her about the vivid blues that rested at the bottom of his bag.
    “And your mother?”
    “She’s dead,” Alex said shortly. “Very dead.”
    To distract himself from thinking about the painting and its creator – the woman who’d painted it had to be a witch, a most powerful witch – he asked Alex to tell him more about this future life. He gaped at her descriptions of this future world, every now and then bursting into incredulous, nervous laughter.
    “And God?” Don Benito asked once Alex fell silent.
    “Poor old God doesn’t stand a fighting chance. I come from an age where proof is king, and how can you prove God exists?”
    “But that’s why it’s called faith!” He shook his head at the idiocy of these future generations.
    “Yes, but in my time man will prefer to believe in his own capacity to change his destiny rather than to leave it up to God.”
    Don Benito laughed. “Even now God expects you to work for your happiness, child. He doesn’t just drop things in your lap.”
    “He did to me. He gave me my husband. Will He take him from me, do you think?” She leaned against him, in an intimate but platonic gesture.
    “ No hija . He has given you to each other.”
    She nodded and yawned, looking