Maite looked up and around the structure of the fort standing in front of her. It was mostly built from stone, with the massive door made of wood. There wasn’t anything to really conduct electricity, to let her use her powers to attack the structure. She started circling the fort, looking for any weakness, any place where she might be able to enter. She didn’t need much, just some metal support or…
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
That! On the side of the building, seemingly jammed between two stones, a metal rod protuded. She didn’t know if it was meant to add support to the structure or what, and she didn’t care. She grabbed the rod, sending pulses of electricity into it. It started heating, glowing red hot. Maite then let go and let it cool. She did this several times, over and over, letting it heat and then cool. The constant cycling, the constant expansion and then contraction of the metal put strain on the surrounding stone. At first, little happened, but then Maite began to hear the popping of the stone cracking. Flakes started falling to the ground. Soon the masonry also began to fall away. And, with one loud crack that sounded almost like a gunshot, one of the big stones cracked in half.
Maite pulled the now loose rod from the structure and used it to pry the loose stones from the wall. In the end, only a few of the massive stones were loose enough to extract, but once she was done Maite had created a hole just large enough for her to squeeze through. The jagged stone caught her dress, ripping the skirt to shreds, and cut up her arms and legs. She barely noticed. When she stood up on the other side, she looked like a visage from a horror movie, blood flowing down her bare arms and legs, her hair a wild mess, and electricity sparking in her eyes.
“I am notably impressed,” rumbled Garuna.
“Isilik, I said,” she responded in a hiss.
Inside the walls, she found herself in front of a central building where she assumed the soldiers bunkered and ate. The walls themselves had a walkway and stations for soldiers, for the moment empty. She had expected a large contingent of soldiers waiting for her, expected to see a multitude of rifles aimed at her heart, but there was no one there.
She mentally shrugged and turned her attention to the central building. If there were any soldiers in the fort, they must be there. But, so was the zatia. She could feel it now, pulling like a magnet.
Another set of wooden doors, much less impressive than those that formed the gate to the fort, separated her from the zatia. As she pulled them open, she saw a contingent of soldiers, surrounding what she thought must be their commander in two rows, one kneeling and another standing behind and over the first. All had their muskets aimed at the door. She heard a shout as the air filled with the acrid smell of burnt gun powder and the bangs of gun shots.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
One day, we were all sitting around the table listening to stories from dad. I’m not quite sure how it came up, but he made a sound of a rooster. Instead of our cock-a-doodle-doo, his rooster said kee-keeree-kee-keeree-coo. His rooster spoke Euskara instead of English! I guess it should have been obvious that animal sounds were different in different languages, but I had never really thought about it. So, it is pretty convenient that berria.eus has a long list of sounds that not only animals but other things “say” in Euskara. Here, I’ve added translations to English. Some of these ideophones I’ve written about before, but this adds to that list.
Some animal sounds in Euskara. Image from Elinberri, who also have a list of onomatopoeias in Euskara.
Maite turned back to the bay. The large ships sat quite, rocking almost peacefully, belying the threat they posed for the city and the inhabitants. Maite shook her head. She was sick of the death and destruction that seemed to follow her at every turn, that seemed to be at the heart of every bubble she had visited so far. Did the zatiak seek out these times of conflict or was it that humans were always at conflict and it didn’t matter where the zatiak went?
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
“Humans are always at conflict,” murmured Garuna in the back of her mind. “The only solution is forced compliance, for a superior being to guide the flock, to keep it in line.”
“And I assume you are that superior being?” asked Maite, rhetorically.
Not catching the irony, Garuna replied “Of course.”
“I assume the whole reason you wanted to come with me is to reestablish yourself, to find a way to resume power again. Is that not right?”
Garuna was silent for a moment. “You are too clever,” it eventually replied. “Yes, that is my goal.”
Maite nodded to herself. “And you think the zatiak are a path to that power?”
“I do not know what the zatiak are, but I do expect they can help me achieve my goals.”
Maite sighed. “And then what? Subjugation of humans? Making us do what you think is best?”
“Isn’t what I think is best better than what you have all been doing?”
Maite fell silent. She hated that Garuna might be right, that humans might be better off with an all powerful, but benevolent, dictator. The thought made her stomach churn, but how could she argue that humans had done a good job of things so far? Thinking of Kepa’s body laying in that street, she couldn’t.
“Kepa. That’s all that’s important,” she thought to herself. “Damn the rest.”
The fort stood in front of her. She could feel the pull of the zatia from within. She knelt down and placed her palms on the ground in front of her. Small bolts of electricity snaked from her fingertips and along the damp ground. As they reached the stone fort, they found any bits of metal to aid their journey as they fanned out and spead across the entire structure. They snaked their way better stones, up walls, across the ceiling, until they found the zatia.
“There,” said Maite, standing up. “It’s in the center.”
She approached the door, two massive wooden structures hanging in front of her, keeping her from bringing Kepa back. She placed her palms on the doors and let out an electric discharge. She squealed as the electricity jumped back at her, almost knocking her over.
She shook her head as she wiped her brow. “The wood is insulating,” she muttered to herself in disappointment. She looked down at her fingers. Blisters were starting to form on her fingertips.
“Humans are always rash, never thinking ahead, never evaluating the situation,” rumbled Garuna.
“Isilik!” she barked out loud in a voice full of anger and frustration. “Shut up!”
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
The Basque men and women who came to the American West typically came because of the sheepherding industry. However, they often had other, even greater, impact on their local communities. One example is Ignacio Berriochoa who settled in southern Idaho. He was of course a sheepherder, and a farmer, but his more lasting contributions (besides his family) were the numerous stone buildings he crafted, several of which have been recognized as historic places worthy of preservation and remembrance.
The Galo Aramberri boarding house, built in 1914 by Ignacio Berriochoa. Photo by Tom Young and found on Wikipedia.
Ignacio Ygnatil Berriochoa was born on July 31, 1863, in Elorrio, Bizkaia to Jose Maria Berrio Ochoa Aretio-aurtena and Maria Victoriana Alcerreca Arreguia. In 1889, he married Antonia Capistain Uriol, who was also from Bizkaia (though one source says she was born in Zaragoza), born February 14, 1875. They immigrated to the United States in 1904, settling in Idaho.
In 1910, they moved to Shoshone, Idaho, which was an important stop for Basques making their way west across the United States. There was at least one boarding house, the Galo Arambarri boarding house, in Shoshone, built in 1913-1914 by Ignacio.
Though Ignacio was noted to be a farmer and sheepherder in his obituary, he was also a talented and prolific stonemason. Ignacio built several structures with local lava stone – basalt – that are now recognized for their historic importance, appearing on the National Register of Historic Places. These include the Jose and Gertrude Anasola House, built around 1913; two buildings on Ignacio’s own farm, built in 1920; the JC Penney Company Building in downtown Shoshone, built in 1918; the Denton J. Paul Water Tank, also built in 1918 perhaps with the help of Julian Pagoaga; and the Manuel Silva Barn, built in 1910.
Basalt was a common building material used in southern Idaho in the late 1800s and early 1900s. It is a hard stone, formed from volcanic activity, and can be found in extrusions throughout the southern part of the state.
The buildings on Ignacio’s farm were built in about 1-2 years. He and Antonia had bought the property in 1919, after losing his previous ranch.
Together, Ignacio and Antonia had ten children. At the time of his death, on May 17, 1949, he had 32 grandchildren and 31 great-grandchildren.
Note: there are a lot of different dates online for the events in Ignacio and Antonia’s lives. It is hard to be sure what are the most accurate, but the birth and death dates listed here are those on their gravestone.
I’m often asked why I do this. Why did I start this website? Why do I invest so much time in it? Why is the Basque thing so important to me? For a long time, I didn’t really have a good answer. Maybe because it’s cool? I mean, being Basque is sort of like being part of a special club. A mysterious origin lost to the mists of time. A strange and unique language that even the devil struggled to learn. Long and unprounouncable last names that are full of k’s and tx’s. A people who have been besieged from all sides but somehow managed to maintain their identity over the centuries. Isn’t all of that cool?
As I dwelled upon it more over the years, though, I realized that wasn’t the real reason I created this page and continue to maintain it. The real reason was my dad.
I can’t claim that I was overly close to my dad. When I was a kid, we never played catch or kicked a ball. We never talked about girls – he never had any advice for me regarding romance. We never hung out, just the two of us. We never talked about my future, about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I don’t think dad ever really appreciated what going to graduate school and studying physics really meant, where it might lead me. He was just a little flabbergasted that anyone would choose to go to school that long. And the only real advice he ever gave me was to work inside, with an air conditioner, not outside in the hot sun like a jackass like he did.
Photo by Lisa Van De Graaff.
When we were kids, my brothers and I would often go out with dad on his hay runs. He would get one of us up at some ungodly hour – sometimes as early as 3 or 4 in the morning – since he wanted to be at the haystack by dawn to begin loading the truck. I didn’t like getting up that early, but it was one of the few times it was just me and dad. It was the only time we got to sort of hang out together. We didn’t talk much, but we would stop at some convenience store, grab a few sodas and sandwiches. At the haystack, I would help straighten loose bails or tie up the ropes when he was done. It wasn’t much, but it was time, just me and dad.
It took me a while to understand that there was this gulf between me and my dad that was almost insurmountable. We came from different cultures, from different worlds. Growing up in the United States, I was part of a collective experience with my friends and neighbors. We all studied the American Revolution and the Civil War in school. We all knew the rules to football and baseball. We all got excited about the next episode of Knight Rider or The Greatest American Hero (ok, maybe that was just me). But, my dad didn’t have any of that. He couldn’t care less about American football. His sport was boxing. And while he did get into some TV shows – Little House on the Praire or Walker, Texas Ranger – these weren’t the exciting new shows that me and my friends watched. And he didn’t really know much about US history.
Photo by Lisa Van De Graaff.
And what he did know – Euskara, the folksongs of Bizkaia, the history of Goikoetxebarri, the baserri he was born in – he never really shared and so it was foreign to me. When I was a kid, dad worked and tended his garden – he didn’t really have any hobbies. When I was older, after I left for college, dad started making jamón and chorizos – things that came from his upbringing – but by then I was off doing my own thing and I never really got to learn how to do those things from him.
My dad came from a very different cultural context, one that I knew next to nothing about. In the first thirty years he lived in the United States, he went back to the Basque Country maybe twice. And he couldn’t afford to take us.
When I was in college, studying physics at the University of Idaho, I decided to go to the Basque Country myself and learn Euskara. My dad asked me why. Why learn Euskara? Spanish was so much more useful, you could speak it in so many more places. I tried to explain that I wanted to learn Euskara because it was his language, that I wanted to learn more about his culture. I think he understood, but if he did, he never really said so. But, even more than learning some of his language and culture, I got to meet his family, I got to meet the aunts and uncles I never knew, I even got to meet my amuma for the first time. I stayed in the baserri – Goikoetxebarri – where he grew up. I started getting to know something about where dad came from.
After I got back and started grad school at the University of Washington, I decided what I had learned about the Basque language, culture, and people was cool, and I wanted to share it, so I created this page. I quickly made a lot of new friends, people in the Basque Country who were eager to share their culture with the rest of the world. And it was a way for me to build even stronger connections to the Basque Country, to learn something beyond the things I could read in the admittedly few books I could find in English, most of which focused on history or the pastoral life of the Basque sheepherder in America. None of those books talked about the Basque Country as it is today. I learned about bands like Negu Gorriak and Su Ta Gar. I learned about the unique policies of Athletic Bilbao. I saw the Guggenheim. I learned about the complex political history of the Basques. And I learned about the land my dad came from.
Ironically, I learned about a Basque Country that my dad didn’t really know. Much had changed in the decades since he left the Basque Country. The music was different. The language itself was different. While the baserri was still an important part of Basque cultural identity, the direct connections to it were different, more remote. Just as many baserri had become luxury dwellings as they were the ancient centers of family that my dad grew up in. Once, when we were all driving somewhere in dad’s big pickup truck, I had him pop in a cassette of Negu Gorriak. Normally, he just ignored the loud noise that I played from the speakers, but this time, he understood some of the lyrics. And it was the first time he said something like “What the hell is this?”
Even though the Basque Country I got to know had changed a lot from the Basque Country my dad grew up in, it still gave me a touch stone. More importantly, I got to know some of the names of the people he grew up with. The names of the other baserriak and barrios. I slowly began to recognize the names and places he would throw out in the stories he started telling. And when I took him to the Basque Country, just him and me, I was able to start putting things together.
Back in 1997, my dad had a heart transplant. We were lucky that Washington has a great med school and I was living in Seattle, getting my PhD, so mom and dad could live with me for a time. And, after dad’s surgery, he still had to come back up for appointments, and he would crash with me. I didn’t really take advantage of having dad around as much as I should have, but I was still able to spend time with him, often in the kitchen, as he started cooking more and hanging out with some of the Basque friends I had made. We weren’t playing catch or anything like that, but we finally got some time to just hang out.
On one drive, up from Nevada back to Idaho, I got my dad (at the suggestion of my wife Lisa) to start talking about his childhood. And I recorded it. He would throw out names of people, baserri, and towns as if I should know them all, and I was pleasantly surprised that I did know at least some of them. I knew who this lady was, or where that town was. A lot of names still escaped me, but I knew a lot more than I would have guessed. And I could ask him questions about these people and places, at least some of them, because I knew who and what they were.
Photo by Lisa Van De Graaff.
In the end, this page and all of the things I’ve learned over the years working on it, all of the people I’ve gotten to know through it, all gave me some connection to my dad that I would never have had otherwise. I like to pretend that I got to know him a little better by getting to know the Basque Country, that maybe I understand a little more where he came from and the circumstances and culture that made him the man I knew. This page is my way of honoring my dad and keeping him alive.
So, yeah, it’s cool to be Basque, but it’s even cooler getting to know my dad better.
Goian bego, aita. I miss you.
Thanks to Lisa Van De Graaff for encouraging me to record dad and his stories when I could.Lisa took the photo at the top.
Basques looking for opportunity traveled throughout the world. Many landed in the Americas but more than a few made their way to Australia, encourage by informal government initiatives between Spain and Australia to work in the sugarcane fields. But these lonely men desired companionship, so a second plan was hatched to bring “young, attractive, and single” women to the continent. Though it was a hard and lonely life, many of these Basques established a new community in this far-away land.
The only chances “Martas” would have to socialize was at mass. Photo from SBS.
Basques, typically from Hegoalde rather than Iparralde, first arrived in Australia in maybe the 1910s. There is a story that some merchants from Lekeitio abandoned their ship in Sydney to work in the lucrative sugarcane industry. However they first got there, some Basques saved and bought their own sugarcane properties. These Basques would sponsor family members to come to Australia and this was the nucleus of the Basque-Australian community.
However, after the Great Depression, the Spanish Civil War, and World War II, Basque immigration to Australia essentially stopped. The sugarcane industry took a hit as there was no new labor force arriving for the hard work of working in the fields. To help recruit new Basques to the area, people like Alberto Urberuaga were sent back to their native lands to find more Basques to come to Australia.
In informal agreements with the Spanish government (at the time, Australia and Spain didn’t have formal diplomatic ties), Basques and other Spanish citizens were recruited to Australia. The first group that came as part of Operation Kangaroo arrived in Brisbane, Queensland, aboard the SS Toscana, on August 9, 1958. In total, these “operations” – Emu, Eucalyptus, and Kangaroo – brought some 700 men from northern Spain to northern Queensland as sugarcane cutters.
There was then a concern that these men, mostly single, were lonely and even suicidal. Thus, a second agreement was arranged between Australia and Spain to bring single women. Plan Martha, or Operation Martha, brought 7 groups of women to Australia. The first contingent of 18 women arrived on March 10, 1960, on what became known as the “brides’ plane.” Between 1960 and 1963, about 300 (one source says 700) young women immigrated to Australia through Plan Martha. While told they were coming to work as domestic servants, the real goal was to balance the genders in the Basque/Spanish population – they were selected on the criteria of being “young, attractive and single.” The women were met by crowds of young Basque and Spanish men looking for a bride. Many felt they had been deceived, promised a land of opportunity but finding a backwards place where they couldn’t even go out for a coffee.
These women were at the heart of a local scandal. There were news reports that some of the women were working at a vineyard, picking grapes in the nude to escape the heat. While the story was debunked, it rose to enough of a story that the Consul-General for Spain in Australia was brought in to investigate.
From these beginnings in the sugarcane fields, Basques spread to other parts of Australia and other parts of the Australian economy. They formed clubs in both Melbourne and Sydney.
Maite walked down the middle of the cobbled street, oblivious to everything around her. Miniature lightning bolts flashed from her eyes. Her fingers sparked with electricity but she barely felt it. Her heart was numb. She thought seeing Kepa die once would be the hardest thing she would ever experience. She was wrong.
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
A French soldier burst onto the street in front of her, his rifle raised but shaking in his hands as he yelled. “Arrête, sorcière!” Maite kept walking as if the man – perhaps, maybe no more than a boy – wasn’t there. Sweat poured down his brow as he pulled the trigger. The musket made a loud bang and a cloud of smoke as the musket ball flew from the mouth of the rifle toward Maite’s chest. Maite kept walking as the ball approached, disintegrating as it hit the electric field surrounding her. And stil she kept walking. The young man screamed as he frantically tried to reload his musket, pulling out his powder horn. But Maite simply walked on by. The boy turned and yelled “Arrête!” one more time. Maite turned, the expression on her face never changing, as she touched the boy’s cheek. A shock of electricity poured from her arm through her finger and into the boy. His body fell to the ground, stunned.
Garuna’s voice echoed in the back of her head. “The logical thing would be to eliminate him.”
Though Maite had just lost her lover, and she knew that killing this boy would be temporary at best, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She shook her head. “Ez,” she whispered, more to herself than to Garuna.
“And this is why you humans will eventually fade away,” said Garuna. “You do not possess the ability to do the necessary. You are illogical.”
Maite forgot about Garuna as more soldiers, maybe five, appeared in front of her. These did not hesitate to fire and soon the street was filled by the stench of burnt gunpowder. Musket balls whistled through the air at her only to explode as they hit her body, the electric aura protecting her from any damage. Still she walked, her steps taking her by the cowering soldiers. At least one dropped his musket and ran. Another attempted to grab her hand and screamed as an electrical pulse swept through his body.
“They cannot harm me,” said Maite. “There is no need to kill them.”
“They will not stop until you do,” replied Garuna.
Maite shrugged. “And so?”
Maite continued on a rocky path that led up the side of Mount Urgull. She could hear a larger contingent of soldiers behind her, their excited chatter reaching her ears. Every once in a while a musket ball would fly through the air. Most missed by a wide margin, smashing into a tree or ricocheting off a rock, but once in a while one would be true. She could feel the pop against her skin, as it shattered against her, but she simply ignored them. They weren’t hitting hard enough to leave a bruise, much less do any real damage.
Within minutes, she was at the top of the mount. In front of her stood walls of an old fort. She stopped to look around. In the bay, large ships rested, their canons eerily silent at the moment. She half expected swarms of British and Portuguese to flow from the ships but no one came. She saw the city, smoke swirling from some of the buildings that had been bombarded the night before. While much was different from the city she was about to call home, there was still much that was familiar. She almost smiled when she realized there was no McDonald’s nor Starbucks in sight. But, the musket balls that began pelting her body brought her back to the present.
Maite turned to see maybe twenty or more soldiers at the edge of the clearing. They were shouting at her and each other in French. Muskets fired and balls burst as they neared her. She knelt down and touched the ground with her finger. A burst of electricity spread through the wet earth in an instant, finding the soldiers and snaking up their bodies, which convulsed briefly before falling to the ground. The few soldiers who had been in the back and standing on rock, and thus insulated against the shock, dropped their muskets and fled down the hill.
If you get this post via email, the return-to address goes no where, so please write blas@buber.net if you want to get in touch with me.
On May 15, 2023, President Joe Biden nominated Dr. Monica Bertagnolli to head the United States National Institutes of Health (NIH), the largest public funder of biomedical research in the world. Dr. Bertagnolli’s nomination is notable because, if confirmed, she would be only the second woman to lead the NIH. Dr. Bertagnolli is the granddaughter of Basque immigrants from Nafarroa Beherea who settled in rural Wyoming in the early 1900s to raise sheep and cattle.
Dr. Monica Bertagnolli was born in 1959 in Wyoming. Her parents, John and Elizabeth Bertagnolli, were of Italian and Basque descent, respectively. Dr. Bertagnolli was raised on a cattle ranch – the White Acorn Ranch – near Boulder, Wyoming. She got her undergraduate degree in biochemical engineering at Princeton University before studying medicine at the University of Utah.
Over her career, Dr. Bertagnolli has established herself as an expert in treating cancers. She is also an advocate for rural health care. In 1999, she joined the Harvard Medical School and became Chief of Surgical Oncology at the Dana–Farber Cancer Institute in 2007. She has received numerous recognitions for her work, including being elected to the National Academy of Medicine and appointed to the Board of Directors of the American Cancer Society.
In 2022, Dr. Bertagnolli was confirmed as Director of the National Cancer Institute. If she is confirmed as Director of the National Institutes of Health, she would be the second woman to lead that institution. She was the first woman to head the National Cancer Institute.
Her mother, Elizabeth Jean Bertagnolli (nee Carricaburu), was born on February 6, 1936, in Rock Springs, Wyoming. She obtained her nursing degree from St. Joseph’s Hospital School of Nursing in Denver.
Her aunt, Josephine Marie Jauregui, was a strong advocate for the Basque culture. A fixture of the Alkartasuna Basque Club in Rock Springs, Josephine would share her knowledge of all things Basque to any who would listen.
Elizabeth’s parents were Gaston and Mary Carricaburu (nee Larre). Gaston was born in 1904 in Banka, Nafarroa Beherea in a region known as Kintoa, a pasture area that has been long disputed between France and Spain. Mary, born in 1910, was from nearby Baigorri, also in Nafarroa Beherea. Carricaburu – Karrikaburu in modern spelling – means something like crossroads or intersection.
“You know,” said Kepa as they made their way through the narrow streets that intertwined in the Parte Vieja of Donostia, “if we can just point our way to the zatia, that will make our lives a lot easier.”
The Adventures of Maite and Kepa is a weekly serial. While it is a work of fiction, it has elements from both my own experiences and stories I’ve heard from various people. The characters, while in some cases inspired by real people, aren’t directly modeled on anyone in particular. I expect there will be inconsistencies and factual errors. I don’t know where it is going, and I’ll probably forget where it’s been. Why am I doing this? To give me an excuse and a deadline for some creative writing and because I thought people might enjoy it. Gozatu!
Maite nodded. “If we could have done this with Donnie, you wouldn’t have gotten shot.”
Remembering the bullet that had pierced his heart made Kepa wince. He had thought he was over it, but a pain shot through his chest and he stumbled.
“What’s wrong?” asked Maite, obvious concern in her face as she put an arm around his shoulder to keep him from falling.
“Just the thought of Donnie’s bullet, it’s overwhelming at times.”
“It is for me too, and I wasn’t the one who got shot.”
“I’m ok,” said Kepa as he straightened up. “Let’s keep going. Where did you say the zatia is?”
Maite pointed. “That way.” Her finger was pointing to Urgull, the small hill that rose out of the end of the old part of town. In his time, this is where the San Telmo museum stood, at the base of Mount Urgull. He didn’t expect to find any tourists this time.
They rounded a corner and nearly bumped into a group of three French soldiers. Before the soldiers could respond, they turned and ran.
“Halt!” cried one of them as the other two began pursuit. The first one raised his musket and fired, a ball ricocheting off the walls next to him.
“Dammit!” cried Kepa as they turned another corner. He was beginning to lose his sense of direction, buried deep in the Parte Vieja without any visible landmark to guide him. He wasn’t sure which way he was going. It didn’t matter, as he could hear the heavy footsteps of the soldiers and their boots behind them.
“When we make it out of this bubble,” said Maite between panting breaths, “we need a proper vacation.”
Kepa nodded silently as he pulled her around another corner. He suddenly stopped. In front of them was a wall.
“Dammit!” he cried, his face scrunched in frustration. He turned, putting Maite between himself and the wall as the French appeared in front of him. Two of them had their muskets raised while the third, a young man no older than Kepa with a dark mustache and a sickening smile, approached them.
“Why do you run?” he asked in broken Spanish.
“We want no trouble,” replied Kepa.
“Then you should not run,” said the soldier. His smile slowly transformed into a snarl. “No one is allowed out of doors.”
“We needed food,” said Kepa.
“There is no food here,” snapped the soldier. “But there is plenty in the cells.” He waved to his comrades. “Take them.”
Kepa raised his hand, the light from his palm beginning to grow in brightness. Just as a flash burst forth, one of the soldiers yelled “Sorcière! Witch!” while the first one, the one that had been talked, raised his pistol and fired blindly into the light.
Maite heard Kepa scream as the soldiers stumbled, their hands over their eyes. Kepa’s body slumped to the ground. Maite rushed to his side. “Not again,” she whispered over and over to herself as she saw the bright red stain spread across Kepa’s shirt.
Tears fell across her face as she looked down at him. “Why are you always trying to play the hero?” she said between her sobs.
Kepa coughed, his spittle bright red. “I just want to keep you safe,” was all he could muster.
His eyes glanced over at the soldiers, who were slowly recovering from the light.
“You need to go,” he said. “Find the zatia, and get us home.”
Maite was about to protest leaving him there but she just nodded. She got up and calmly walked up to the still dazed soldiers. The first one took an elbow in the nose. His hands covered his face as blood gushed down his front as he collapsed to the ground. Maite hit the second one hard in his throat with the side of her hand, knocking the air out of him. She then grabbed his head and threw it down as she slammed her knee up. The soldier crumpled to the ground. Maite approached the third soldier, who had dropped his musket and was fumbling to find his pistol. His face was ashen. “Sorcière!” he repeated. “Stay away!” he cried.
He backed against the wall, his hands too sweaty to grab his gun. Maite leaned in, her eyes flashing with the light of the zatia. “Boo,” she whispered. The soldier fainted in a pool of his own urine. Maite turned to look back at Kepa who lay lifeless at the end of the alley, then walked back into the street, light crackling at her fingertips.
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Happy Mother’s Day (at least in the United States)! Today marks the 22nd edition of the Zegama-Aizkorri Mendi Maratoia – the Mountain Marathon of Zegama-Aizkorri. Part of the Golden Trail World Series, this marathon takes runners through the mountains surrounding the town of Zegama – in particular, passing over the Aizkorri massif. Noted for the steep ascents and the throngs of spectators, it is the first race in this year’s World Series.
Zegama is an ancient town in Gipuzkoa, not far from the town of Idiazabal which is famous for its cheese. The origins of Zegama have been lost to time – there is no founding document on record – but its first mention in the historical record occurred in 1384. One of the Caminos de Santiago passes through the town. Tomas Zumalakarregi Imatz, a Carlist leader in the First Carlist War who is sometimes credited with inventing Spanish tortilla, died in Zegama after being wounded in the siege of Bilbao.
Aizkorri, also known as Aitzgorri, is the highest mountain in Gipuzkoa and, indeed, in the Basque Autonomous Community. It reaches a height of 1551 meters, or 5008 feet – almost a mile. Aizkorri means bare stone in Euskara. In 2006, the region was declared a national park. The Aizkorri-Aratz Natural Park is the second largest in the Basque Country.
The Zegama-Aizkorri Mendi Maratoia – known as a skymarathon as runners climb to altitudes of more than 6000 feet – began in 2002. Part of the Golden Trail World Series, the course has an accumulated height gain of nearly 18,000 feet (according to the race’s website). Other races in the series include Pikes Peak Ascent in Colorado and the Mammoth 26K in California.
The Zegama-Aizkorri race is notable for the enthusiasm of the spectators. Nearly 1/3 of the 1,500 inhabitants of Zegama become involved in the race, with some 15,000 spectators cheering the runners on along the course. Many of these congregate at Santi Spiritu, the highest point of the race in which, over 1.4 miles, the runners climb 1,700 feet.
The current course record holders are (men) Kilian Jornet of Spain with a time of 3:36:40 and (women) Nienke Brinkman of the Netherlands with a time of 4:16:43, both set last year. No one from the United States has yet won the Zegama-Aizkorri marathon.
