4th August, afternoon

Paol regarded him a moment more, then nodded and crouched next to Charcot. "Can you get up for a minute, mate?" he asked, touching his arm, "I think he wants you to try one of the crutches. Check if it's too tall, like."

"Crutches?" he repeated in a whisper. But he rose to his feet and he could hear the man close by, and the clack of wooden things touching each other. Then someone was touching his wrist and lifting his arm - he could not tell if it was Paol or the Spaniard - and he flinched, remembering when his captors had tied his hands. But he obediently raised his arm and felt a wooden crutch placed under it. He did not know what he was supposed to do with his hand, but the man positioned it where he wanted it to rest.

"Easy, mate, it's alright," he reassured Charcot, his voice low and calm, but even as he said it his hand was curling tightly into a fist and he had to fight back the impulse to shove the Spaniard away. The man was not being rough, far from it, but Charcot was clearly frightened and Paol's mind could not seem to reconcile the two states. Instinct demanded immediate, violent action, but there was nothing he could reasonably react against.

"Finished?" he demanded tightly.

There was a cry of "Papá!" from across the courtyard and Martita came bounding towards them, throwing her arms around her father's legs.

The man grunted as the girl grabbed him. "What are you doing, little honey? Hold on a minute, I have to mark the height on this crutch." He reached out and abruptly pulled it away from the short Frenchman. He would have immediately walked away but for the girl's arms wrapped around his legs. "Let go now. I'm working."

"What are you doing?" she asked, still clinging to one leg, "Are you making a crutch for the Frenchman too? Is he hurt?"

"No, it's for the English captain. I'm just seeing if it's the right size. I don't think he's hurt, I think he's just blind." At least that was what Manuela had thought, and the young man's eyes did seem to be staring (fearfully) at nothing.

The carpenter looked skeptically at the taller Frenchman. "Is this the man who picked the figs for you?"

"Yes. He picked the really high ones!" she told him, letting go of his leg and standing on tiptoe, her hand stretched as high as she could to illustrate the point.

*

Paol could guess what they were talking about now and felt his face begin to redden. Still, he was glad of the little girl's presence, though he didn't dare address her in front of her father without first being spoken to.

"Hmm," the father said, eyeing the big Frenchman again. He did not like the idea of his daughter interacting with French soldiers, but it was difficult to forbid altogether since they were housing one in their own home. And if the soldiers stayed in the courtyard then he could at least keep an eye on them, as could the other neighbors. "Well just make sure you don't talk to him alone without someone else there, like me or Maria. Or Manuela or Tia Carla. Someone else who's not French," he added emphatically.

"Yes, Papá," she said, though she wasn't really listening and instead regarding the two enemy soldiers curiously. Paolo seemed different than he had earlier and he wouldn't look at her. Was he in trouble? Sometimes when Martita was in trouble her sister or father would send her out into the courtyard. "Esclavo," she addressed him formally, receiving in return a quiet, "Señorita." This pleased her and, folding her arms across her chest, she demanded, "What are you doing outside? Did Manuela let you out? Were you a bad slave? Who is your friend?"

There was the smallest hint of a smile behind the carpenter's thick mustache, but he watched the big Frenchman carefully to see how he would react. It was no use telling Martita that the French and English soldiers could not always understand her; she refused to believe it.

The smaller Frenchman sank back to his little stone wall, looking shaken by the experience. He wrapped his arms around himself and took deep breaths. The carpenter felt a little sorry for him then. He could not be much older than Maria Dolores, and his life was effectively over.

Paol leaned forward, listening intently, but nearly all of what she said was lost on him. He did, however, recognize the last word, and turned to look at Charcot, but his friend was no longer standing beside him; he was sitting huddled on the wall and the sight seemed to knock something out of Paol.

He was silent a moment, as if he was wrestling with something, then sinking to his knees, he rested a hand on Charcot's arm. "This is my friend, Dominic," he told Martita. "Dominic, this is Martita. She's the little girl I told you about, the daughter of the man with the crutches."

Charcot seemed to come out of hiding then, albeit cautiously. Still, there was nothing to fear from a little girl, was there? "Hello," he said, turning his head to where he thought she must be. "I mean - Buenos días."

"It's buenas tardes," the carpenter corrected. Then, satisfied that everything was under control, he moved across the courtyard to the workbench he had set up so he could keep an eye on everyone.

"Do-mi-niik," she repeated, testing each syllable on her tongue as if it were suspect, then shook her head. "Domingo," she corrected them. Silly Frenchmen.

"Is he really blind?" she asked Paolo, frowning when he simply looked questioningly at her. "Bliiind," she said again, drawing out the word and covering her eyes with one hand. Now he understood and nodded, but Martita still wasn't convinced. She waved a hand in front of Domingo and when that brought no response, she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

*

Paol tried to suppress a smile. "She is making faces. I think she likes you."

"Making faces at me?" It made Charcot smile a little bit, reminding him of his sister Caitin. But she must be a young woman now, and he would never see her making faces of any sort again. That thought ended his brief smile.

Martita frowned. "Are you sick?"

"Me?  I'm not sure what - yes.  Si.  I'm blind.  I can't see with my eyes."  And it was a horribly depressing thought that he would be repeating that explanation for a long, miserable life unless he found some way to cut it short.  He muttered a curse quite inappropriate for a little child's hearing, and then he blushed at the realization.  "Sorry."  The apology was meant for both Paol and the girl, though he hoped she hadn't understood.

Martita looked at him intently. "What does it mean?" she asked, attempting to repeat the second to last word Domingo had used. She had heard it often enough from the French officer in their house.

"Huh?  Oh, um, no no, blind, I can't see."  He waved his hand in front of his eyes and then covered them.  "Yeah?"

"No, not that one." She said the word again, stressing each sound.

Paol winced. "No," he said quickly, "That is not a good word to say. Bad—uh, malo?"

A glint came into Martita's eyes then and she grinned, blithely repeating the expression. "I will tell it to El Tigre."

"No," Paol shook his head emphatically. "Please, Martita, you can't say that to him." But she only laughed at him and went racing off toward the house.

Charcot cursed again.  "Sorry, Paol," he said, sighing.  "Where's she going now?  Probably going to tell he father, and of course he'll know where she heard it. Should we go back inside?"

"Only if you want," he answered. "She's run inside the house; she isn't telling her father." He didn't see any purpose in telling Charcot what he guessed of her intentions; that would only make things worse. And there was always the chance he had misunderstood... He leaned forward, straining to catch any sounds coming from the house.

Several moments later, however, Martita reappeared, scampering towards them with something clutched in her hand. She was chattering in breathless, gleeful, utterly incomprehensible Spanish, presumably recounting what had just passed inside the house. No shouts followed her, however, and she appeared unscathed, and Paol found himself smiling with relief.

"You're back!" Charcot exclaimed with a little smile of relief. And it didn't sound like she was with an angry father. He could hear him hammering away at something across the courtyard.

Martita laughed, taking their smiles to be those of co-conspirators, rather than relieved onlookers. "I was too fast for him," she boasted. In truth, he hadn't really tried to chase her, but he might have done.

"This is Isabella," she said, abruptly thrusting the object in her hand -- a carved, wooden doll -- at Paolo's face. "Papa made her for me."

Then recalling the old, blind woman they sometimes saw at Mass and the way she was always touching things, she seized Domingo's hand, pressing his fingers over the doll's face and chest. "Isabella," she repeated, "My friend."

Charcot was surprise but not frightened when she took his hand.  He could feel something wooden and some cloth, but he had to use both hands to puzzle it out.  The name helped.  "Isabéa?  Pretty name."  It was beyond strange to be having this conversation with a young Spanish girl after the terrors of the past week.  Was he dreaming?  No, this was all to much for him to have dreamed up.  He never would have dreamt the crutches or a child repeating swear words in an awkward Spanish accent.  He held the doll out for her to take again.

"Isabella," she corrected him, taking the doll and hugging it to her chest. She looked down at the toy as if seeking its opinion, then blurting out something in Spanish, she skipped off.

She did not go far; every so often he could hear a rustle amid the plants and shrubs behind them, or a loud whisper as she and the doll conspired together.