Shifter's Heart: A Paranormal Shifter

Romance (The Hills Book 1) Sarah J.

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 Shifter’s Heart

(The Hills Book 1)

SARAH J. STONE

Copyright © 2017 by Sarah J. Stone.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any

manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this

copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the

Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.
 This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the

writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be constructed as real. Any

resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America

Want a free book? Sarah J. Stone is giving away a free copy of Exiled Dragons, the prequel to

her Exiled Dragons Series (no strings attached). This book is exclusive to her newsletter subscribers.

>>>Click Here<<<
 Table of Contents
Shifter’s Heart
Dragons of Umora (Bonus):
1. Cole
2. Alexander
3. Peter
4. Nicholas
Previews:
Saved by Alpha Bear
Saved by a Dragon
About the Author
 CHAPTER 1

MOVING DAY

“The Hills. A beautiful, shifter-only community for you and your family. A place to feel safe. A

place to grow. The Hills is a new development that the city of Fort Bachman, built by the goodwill of

our volunteers, our leaders, and shifter friends. Reserve your place today and enjoy life more starting

right now.”

Grey watched the commercial with wide, eight-year-old eyes. He loved the female narrator’s

sweet, encouraging voice and the images that moved across the screen as she said the words “safe,

grow, goodwill.” His favorite image was that of President Bachmann hard at work at a construction

site, surrounded by beautiful green landscape.

Bachman’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he had on a hard hat. He pointed to the

horizon as if commanding the sun to rise, and the sun complied, pouring over the nearby mountain

range and onto a completed housing development. The houses were small but colorful and cozy, and
surrounded by pink and yellow flowers. Grey couldn’t wait to go there.

He glanced over at the packed suitcases that he and his parents had stacked near the doorway of

their small apartment in the bad part of town. They had a few boxes full of cooking supplies and a

few, yellowing books, but nothing else. They had no bedsheets, no extra furniture, and Grey had no

toys. He imagined their new house would be magnificent, with soft beds big enough for a whole

family to snuggle up in and a glorious TV mounted on the wall so they could see all the president’s

shows and announcements. And maybe, just maybe, there would be a kitchen full of food and a closet

with toys in it. Anything seemed possible in The Hills.

A knock at the door took him out of his reverie, and his mom, Avey Wiseman, called out from her

bedroom where she was cleaning. “Sweetie, get that, would you?”

“Sure, mom.” Out of habit, Grey went up on his tiptoes and looked through the peephole. It was

two police officers with massive guns, padded vests, and helmets with plastic visors over their faces.

Grey jerked back from the peephole and ran back to his mother.

“Mom! Mom! It’s two policemen! They have guns!”

“What?” His mother’s mouth fell open in shock. She put down the rag she was using on the floor,

and Grey sat next to it in the empty room, hugging his knees to his chest. He knew that policemen were
mean and angry, and he was scared that he had somehow inspired them to come to his home. Did they

know all the bad things he thought? Had his teacher told them about the other day when he’d

accidentally shifted? Tears came to his eyes as he pressed his face down onto his crossed arms and

prayed they would just leave.

As Avey walked up to the door, it rattled with the force of the officer banging on it as hard as he

could. “Open up! We are here on behalf of the office of Human-Shifter Relations. I demand you open

this door!”

“I’m coming,” Avey called, but she forced herself to stop, take a breath, and then continue

forward with a smile on her face. She opened the door gently but kept the chain on. Looking out

through the opening, she smiled at the two armed policemen outside her door.

“Why hello, officers. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mrs. Wiseman, I insist you open this door. We are here to escort you and your family to the new

compound.”

“Escort us?” Avey tilted her head in genuine confusion. “But, we’ve got it all arranged. A friend

is loaning us a car later this afternoon. We’ll have it once my husband gets home. We don’t need an

escort.”
 “We have to ensure that your transition is as peaceful as possible. Please collect your things.”

Avey set her jaw and then immediately forced herself to smile again. “Well, it’s very nice of you

to offer to take us, but as I said, we’re waiting for my husband. He works as a messenger for the

government offices, you know.”

The first officer took a step forward, but the second stopped him with a hand to the chest. “Which

offices?”

“Why, the president’s office. You boys must have seen him. Floyd Wiseman? In his eagle form,

he’s just enormous – he won the award for Fastest Messenger just last month. He’s got a lovely

golden sheen to his feathers and very keen sight. He’s got a couple of big meetings today and won’t be

home for another hour or so. Would you mind coming back?”

The two officers glanced at one another, then the first clicked the communicator on his vest.

“Nancy, come in.”

A voice crackled out at him while Avey maintained a sweet smile. Behind her, Grey got up his

nerve and slowly crept back into the kitchen where he stood behind his mother and tried to see the

policemen over her shoulder, but they were blocked from sight.

“Present. What is your situation?” Nancy’s voice crackled and sounded supremely bored.
 “I need a check on Floyd Wiseman. Can you let me know where he’s employed?”

“One moment.” Everyone in the kitchen held their breath. Grey made a little step to the right, but

his movement made the floor creak and he froze in place. Over his mother’s shoulder, he saw the

angry eyes of a policeman look at him through plastic. He gulped and stood up straight.

“Officer, you there?”

“I’m here. You find anything?”

“Floyd Wiseman works directly with President Bachmann as a personal messenger. Will there be

anything else?”

Avey tried not to be smug as the police officer’s face went from angry red to deathly pale. “No,

thanks. Take care, Nancy.”

“Over and out.”

Once the advantage had shifted, the police officers found themselves unable to find any more

words. They glanced at one another as Avey did her best not to give them a smug grin, as badly as she

wanted to.

“You say you have yourselves all arranged?” The first cop suddenly looked sweaty and immature
as he shifted his weight from side to side.

“Yes, of course. We’re happy to check in with you once we arrive.” Avey took a moment to reach

behind her back and give the ‘OK’ sign to Grey. He let himself breathe and went back to the TV. The

President’s History was about to be on, and he didn’t want to miss it.

“Very well, Mrs. Wiseman. We’ll see each other at The Hills.” The two officers nodded

respectfully at Avey and moved to the stairwell to leave. She waited until she was sure they were

gone, then closed and slammed all eight of her locks. Grey listened to each one of them thunk closed

and then watched his mother rest her forehead on the door. She looked like a statue they had in the

nearby park for the mortals – a solitary woman with her eyes closed. Perhaps that statue was meant to

remind children that mothers get tired, too.

“Mama?”

She turned back and looked at him with a pale, shocked face. The moment she looked at Grey, she

quickly relaxed her face and smiled at him.

“Are you hungry, Little Bird?”

Grey was starving, but he shook his head ‘no.’ He already knew there was no food in the house.

His mother seemed a bit uncertain what to do next. She smoothed down the front of her dress and
adjusted the curls that brushed her face. She started to walk away from the door, then stopped and

walked over to a kitchen chair and sat down.

Without being asked, Grey brought her the nuts and bolts that were on top of one of the boxes they

had packed that morning. “Here, Mama Bird.” He held out the old box, and she turned to him and

smiled.

“Oh, my Little Bird!” She reached down to hug him and kiss his cheeks. “You are the best.” She

dumped out the bolts and then the nuts on the table and patted the chair next to her. “Want to do it with

me?”

He nodded and climbed into the chair next to her. Together, they inspected each nut; they checked

the thickness of the spiral, the size and the age, then looked for the matching nut. Once they’d found a

match, they placed the nut on top and turned it slowly and carefully. His mother could always spin a

nut just right; her little octagon never went on at a wonky angle or get stuck the way Grey’s would.

His little fingers struggled with the rusty parts, and his mother would put her hands on top of his and

help him screw the parts down.

“Don’t rush, Little Bird. Gentle turns.” She undid yet another wrong angle and handed the two

separated pieces back to her son. He stuck his tongue out and tried again, copying his mother’s light
touch at the top that seemed to get the nuts to turn just right.

Soon the two of them had several fat, rusty bolts with a nut all the way at the top. Grey was truly

fascinated with this odd habit of his mother’s; she could spend hours putting these parts together and

taking them apart. As they completed the little metal puzzles, the finished pieces spread across the

table like odd, spiral bugs with fat, round heads. Grey loved this process, loved the shift in his

mother’s demeanor whenever she held and inspected the old, rust-covered parts. Her face relaxed

and her eyebrows unknotted. Her smile returned, and Grey could see a rush of youth and beauty return

to his mother’s face.

The two of them were making the parts walk and talk around the table like tiny people when

Grey’s father walked in. When he opened the door, he filled the frame; he was over six feet tall with

massive shoulders, long, thin legs and a hardened, grizzled face that made most other men think twice

before saying a harsh word against him.

Grey quickly dropped his pieces and slid off his chair so that he could run to his father. Floyd

Wiseman worked long hours as a messenger and rarely got home while the sun was still up, so it was

a treat to see him in the daytime. Floyd lifted his son up to his face and then in for a big hug, complete

with Grey’s legs wrapped around his father’s waist.

 “Hello, Floyd,” Avey greeted him, accepting a little kiss on her cheek.

The man froze and looked down at his wife. “Uh-oh. Floyd? Did something happen?”

“The police came to the door and talked to Mama.” Grey’s father snapped his head around to look

at his little boy, then back to Avey.

“The police?”

“Little Bird,” Avey said to her son, “I want you to go and check your room. Make sure you didn’t

forget anything, okay?”

“Okay.” Grey hopped down from his father and ran off to his bedroom to look around the already

bare space. He was certain there was nothing there, but he got on all fours and crawled around,

sniffing the corners of the tiny room and narrowing his eyes like an earthbound shifter. Caught up in

his game, he got on his back and rolled side to side with his arms up and hands flopped down like

paws.

“Meow, meow, meow.” He laughed at his own little joke and then went out to share it with his

parents, but he stopped when he saw them. His mother was sobbing into his father’s chest as his big,

strong dad stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
 Grey swallowed hard and walked up to them, gently touching his mother’s hand. She pulled him

in closer to her and cried even harder, and listening to her made her son’s eyes well up. Why was his

mother crying?

Later, the three of them were in the car and on their way, but Grey was suddenly very uncertain

about where the road was taking them. He wanted to sit backwards and watch the buildings shrink

away, but his mother had insisted he buckle up and keep his eyes forward.

“You want to see where we’re going, don’t you?” she’d asked as she locked him in place with the

old, stiff belt.

“Yes, Mama Bird.” The strap going across his body was wide, heavy, and unforgiving as he

wiggled underneath it. Why did grown-ups like these things?

As they drove away from the city, the people in the car fell quiet and focused on the wide,

unmarked landscape in front of them. Every once in a while, they would pass an old sign that Grey’s

father would read to them. Some of them had the names of old places: Spearfish, Deadwood, Sturgis.

Grey explained to all of them that the land used to be made up of many cities, back when this was

called ‘America.’ They tried to pay attention, but any history beyond the president’s stories bored
everyone except Floyd, who finally let it go. After the dull history lesson, there was a tense and

terrible silence.

All around them was dry, exposed land. The grass got shorter and drier until there was only dirt

all around them. Avey began biting her nails, and Floyd reached across to the passenger seat to

silently remind her not to with a gentle touch of her hand. From the backseat, Grey saw his mother

quickly grab his father’s hand for a squeeze and then let it go.

Every few miles, a white, unmarked van would pass them going far too fast. Every time it

happened, the family in the car would hold their breath until the van veered around the next corner

and disappeared. They all seemed to be going in the same direction as the Wisemans, but they

couldn’t be sure.

The day got darker and darker, and soon the sky was painted in several pink and orange hues as

the sun went down. Grey’s head nodded, and his eyelids got heavier and heavier. He didn’t want to

miss his chance to see The Hills, but he was so sleepy. Maybe he could close his eyes for just a

moment…

When he opened them, the sky was dark and he was still in the car. He looked to the front seat, but

his parents weren’t there. He could see some grown-ups standing in a big group and was fairly
certain he saw his father’s head above the crowd. He unbuckled and climbed into the front seat away

from all the boxes and bundles and then out the passenger door.

As he walked up, he could hear gasps and groans. The grown-ups weren’t happy. He looked

around for some more kids and found a group of airborne and earthbound shifter children crouching

down and playing with some sticks, drawing designs in the hard, dry dirt. He wandered over a little

confused; why were the airbornes sitting with this other group of kids?

Grey rubbed his eyes and approached them hesitantly, certain the earthbound shifters would shift

and attack him before he got a word out. His parents used a word to describe them that gave him

chills down his spine. The word was “unpredictable.”

He got a little closer and saw the young, uncomfortable group a bit better. One was an earthbound

girl with her dark hair in pigtails and dressed in a pink, faded T-shirt, shorts, and pink tennis shoes.

Next to her was a scowling little boy – an airborne shifter in a ripped shirt and old parachute pants

held on to his skinny waist with the help of safety pins on each of his hips. Then, Grey noticed an odd

girl just off by herself…no, it was a boy. No, he was right the first time – a girl. He shook his head

and looked again and realized he couldn’t quite tell what gender this shifter had. She was earthbound,

but her animal side had an unfamiliar scent and her dark, liquid eyes watched Grey so closely that he
was unable to return her gaze. He shuddered with a new understanding of why earthbounds and

airbornes were normally kept apart.

Another big groan from the adults made him turn around. They were all gathered around a

policeman standing on something tall who was saying something that made everyone angry. He turned

back to the kids.

“Hi,” he attempted, “I’m Grey. What game are you playing?”

“It’s not a game,” the girl with the dark eyes responded, never blinking. “We’re just drawing with

some sticks we found.”

“There aren’t any more sticks, so you can’t draw with us.” That was the skinny boy. Grey

swallowed and told himself to be brave.

“That’s okay,” he said, trying to be casual. “I can watch you guys draw.” He stepped forward but

the skinny boy scoffed at him as soon as he moved.

“Way to go, nerd! You stepped all over my drawing. Here!” He threw his stick at Grey’s shins and

stood to leave. “Just take it.”

Grey waited to see if anyone else was upset, but the other kids didn’t look that interested. He
gingerly picked the stick up and joined the two girls still scratching away. He drew a circle and then

three lines inside of it.

“Hey,” he attempted again, “do you know where the houses are? I can’t see any.”

“There aren’t any.”

Grey waited for the girl in pink to laugh or say something like, “Got ya!” but she seemed serious.

He tried again.

“But, the commercial–”

“It was a trick,” the dark-eyed girl volunteered. “They made us think this would be a nice place

so we would all come out here. But there’s nothing. Just a bunch of dirt.” Resigned to their fate, the

two kept poking at the ground, burrowing little holes in the dry ground and arranging small rocks.

Grey sat down on the ground, not caring if he got dirty. Surely, there was some mistake; the

government wouldn’t ask them to live outside.

“My name’s Tina.” The girl in pink traced the shape of his hand in the ground. “She’s Larissa. The

boy who got mad at you is Black Feather. He’s an airborne, like you.”

“You’re an earthbound shifter?” Grey asked the question in a whisper.

 Tina nodded. “I’m a wolf.”

Grey waited to see if Larissa would offer any information about herself, but she remained silent.

Grey wanted to ask, but instead he just stared. Finally, she threw her stick down and glared at him.

“What?”

“Um, are you, uh, a wolf? Like Tina?”

“No.” Unwilling to volunteer anything else, she brushed the dirt from her hands and walked off.

Grey felt tears well up in his eyes; everyone was so angry and sad. He tried hard to push his tears

down, but Tina saw his screwed-up face and put her stick down to move close to him and give him a

hug.

“Don’t cry. It will be okay.”

“We don’t have a home,” he said, putting his face down onto his knees. “I thought this would be a

nice place.”

“Me too.” The two sat like that, Grey weeping softly as Tina squeezed him in for a tight hug. He

wished she had a tissue like his mother always did, but he didn’t say anything. “Hey,” Tina said,

poking him in the rib, “I think your mom and dad are coming over here.”
 Grey quickly wiped his face on his knees and looked up to see his parents storming over, both

glowering.

“Come with us, Grey.” His father held out his hand, and Grey jumped up to go without saying

goodbye to Tina. When he turned back to see if she was still sitting and drawing, she was gone.

Grey, Avey and Floyd walked together to a small square of land where Grey’s mother made him a

little nest of blankets and boxes. His father built a fire in the center and volunteered to ‘keep watch’

all night.

“What are you going to watch, Papa Bird?”

His dad started at the question, then smiled at his son. “I’m going to watch all these beautiful stars

we can see now that we’re out of the city. You know, I studied the stars when I was younger. I love

outer space and all its stories. I’ll teach you about the stars one day.”

“You will? Wow,” Grey yawned. His mother rubbed his back, and he curled up in her lap and fell

deep asleep, oblivious to the petrifying fear his parents felt that night. He wouldn’t feel it himself for

several more years.

 CHAPTER 2

AN EDUCATION

The next few days were odd ones for Tina. Her mother was having long, hushed talks with other

grown up wolf-shifters and kept looking around at the people nearby with wide eyes and hands

clutching at the purse she never put down. After their first night, her mother explained to Tina that she

had to find someone who knew how to build a house.

“I can build you a house, Mama.” Tina pointed to a little lean-to she had fashioned out of a stick

and a leaf against a nearby boulder. “See? I know how to build lots of things.”

“Oh.” Her mother stared at the little structure and then at Tina with that strange look she got

sometimes. Tina knew it was silly, but every once in a while, she wondered if her mother was scared

of her. “That’s very good, darling. Very, very good. I like it.”

Her mother smiled at her in that weird, big smile that she used sometimes, and Tina’s shoulders

fell. She knew what that meant. “I’ll go find some other kids to play with.” Sighing, she trudged away,
unappreciated yet again.

There were lots of kids in The Hills, but many of them were too frightened to make friends. They

had all grown up around other shifters who were just like them – if not from the same territory, at

least the same species. A lot of them were airbornes who cowered behind their parents’ legs when

Tina waved and smiled at them. She didn’t mind; she thought it was kind of funny that the other kids

were scared of her. She wasn’t scary.

After she’d walked quite a ways away, she came upon Grey running with scraps of wood and

putting them in a pile. He had scratches all over his arms, but he didn’t stop; he ran as fast as he could

to the nearby supply trucks, picked up what he could carry and then ran back, pumping his short legs

and breathing big, heavy breaths.

“Hi, Grey.”

When he heard his name, he looked back and stopped as soon as he recognized Tina. “Oh, hi.” He

set his pile down, but that turned out to be a mistake. Other kids ran over and took all the pieces as

fast as they could, zipping away as fast as they could.

“Hey! Hey, that’s ours. We need it. Stop!” He stomped his foot and yelled after the other young

scrap-collectors who were too busy running away to worry about a young shifter’s rage. Frustrated,
he walked back to the truck and Tina followed, determined to help out.

The two of them fell on the scrap pile, collecting any piece they could into their arms, and Tina

prided herself on finding a big, wavy piece of metal that she was sure her mother would like. She

piled her goods on top of it and then dragged it behind her all the way back to her mother.

“Bye, Grey,” she called out as she left, but the little boy wouldn’t be deterred this time. He put all

his focus and energy into his delivery as Tina watched and then shrugged, walking back.

She had to stop a few times to scare off a few other kids who tried to steal her loot. She gave

them a quick snarl and they froze, not wanting to get gobbled up by a wolf-girl. She rolled her eyes at

them as they shrieked and ran away. Was she living with a big bunch of scaredy-cats?

Tina hummed a little tune to herself as she walked through the little bumps that gave The Hills

encampment its name. What a joke – these were barely even bumps. Not only were there no homes

here, it was flat! Adults were incredibly weird.

The shifters were silently organizing themselves into the kind of shifters they were. First, there

were the airborne shifters. They took the area right by the western boundary. This was the highest part

of the land, although it was only slightly higher. It had more boulders and even some short, scraggly

trees, but otherwise was unremarkable. There was a small, nondescript border after the final airborne
family, then earthbound shifters started with the bears.

Tina knew a few bear shifters before the big move. They were incredibly quiet and calm. Nothing

got them upset. She had once asked her mother why they never seemed to get upset, and her mother

had simply shrugged and said, “Well, if you knew you could get ten times bigger and gobble up

anyone you wanted, nothing would worry you, either.”

The bear families had the nicest fireplaces and some had even created scrappy rock structures

reminiscent of caves. Tina stopped to admire an especially big one, and an older boy of about fifteen

came around the corner and looked at her calmly.

“Hi.” She stood on her toes to try and look into his new home. “Nice cave.”

“It’s not a real cave. We made it last night while everyone was sleeping. My parents are resting.”

The boy had big, sleepy eyes, broad shoulders, and he slumped forward a bit as if he were eternally

relaxed.

“Wow. I really like it. I’m Tina.”

“I’m Sam. Sam Digger.” He turned his head slowly and looked over his shoulder into the

blackness of the cave. “I would say come in, but if you wake my parents up, they’ll eat you. They

should wake up in a couple days.”

 “That’s okay. I have to go help my mom. We’re over with the wolves.” Over Sam’s shoulder, she

saw Larissa walking with her mother towards the scrap pile. “Hey,” she said to Sam, “do you know

that girl? Larissa?”

He turned to stare directly at the girl and regarded her for a long time. “No, sorry. What is she?”

“I don’t know. Her family is here from Madagascar. They’re not lemurs or anything like that.

She’s an animal I’ve never heard of. Sometimes she looks like a boy.”

That got a slight reaction from Sam. His eyebrows raised slightly, and he turned back to Tina a bit

faster. “Whoa. I’ve never met a shifter like that.”

Behind them, Larissa walked across the landscape with her mother, found some ugly, grey

wooden boards that she eagerly collected up and then moved on to the piles of metal rebar and gears.

Tina watched for a moment, waiting to see if Larissa would turn into a boy again, but the girl stayed

consistently female.

“I better get back to my mom. Bye Sam.”

“Bye, Tina.”

The girl walked on through the bear settlement, which wasn’t too big. Next were the cats –
cougars, jaguars, a few cheetahs. All of them were on high alert as Tina walked through, and her

friendly wave and big smile seemed to make them more suspicious than anything else. They all

narrowed their eyes at her and lowered their chins down to follow her with an intense gaze. At the

edge of the cat settlement, she saw Larissa and her mother and stopped a moment to see what they

were building.

Rather than make a house, Larissa’s family was making a series of platforms with rebar legs and

flat, wooden tops. The wood was splintering, and the rebar was difficult to work with, but Larissa’s

father seemed to be an expert.

He was a massive, muscular black man with a big welding mask on his head that made him look

half-machine and half-human. He had pulled off his shift, and his big shoulders were like slabs of

onyx. The sight of him welding and the stream of sparks flying from his welding tool and his wide,

strong stance enchanted Tina. She stood and watched him with her mouth open without even realizing

she was staring.

“What are you doing?”

Tina spun around and found a quiet, big-eyed Larissa staring at her. Her heart had tried to jump

out of her chest with the surprise of Larissa’s voice, but as soon as she saw who it was she took a
deep breath and pressed her hand to her chest.

“Whoa. Larissa, you scared me.”

Larissa didn’t respond, but she gave a little half-smile, highly amused that she was so frightening.

“You should be scared of us. We’re predators to everyone, even wolves.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She turned and looked at her father who stopped welding for a moment and lifted his

mask to reveal an animated face with a big, friendly smile. For a moment, Tina was even more

confused. This friendly man was Larissa’s father?

“Tonga eto ny zanako vavy,” he called, making a scooping motion with his hand through the air.

Larissa quietly walked over, and Tina followed, anxious to see this shifter up close.

“Wow!” She took in his stature and his huge, open structure with big, admiring eyes. “Look at

this! And what language is that? And how do you know how to build so well?”

He let out a big, deep laugh and tousled Tina’s already messy hair. “That is a language called

Malagasy, little wolf. All fossa shifters speak it.”

“Fossa shifters…” She thought hard, but couldn’t recall ever hearing about this mammal. She
turned to Larissa. “What’s a fossa?”

“Nothing.” Larissa walked off to get another round of scrap and left Tina there with a man who

she didn’t know. Not that she minded. She tried again, facing the father.

“What’s a fossa? I’ve never heard of that animal before.”

“The fossa is the hunter of the world. We can eat lots of different animals: frogs, rabbits, little

wolves…” Tina sucked in a frightened breath, but he winked and laughed at her. “Don’t worry, baby

cub. We won’t eat you. We’re building a tall shelter so that we can see non-shifter animals for our

food and so that we can protect the camp. No one is a better hunter than a fossa.”

“I bet I am.” She lifted her chin and stood tall.

“Look how tall you are! I am certain you are a fine hunter, zaniko vavy.”

The odd phrase made Tina tilt her head in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘my little sister.’ And you can call me Andry or zoky lahy. It means ‘big brother.’”

Tina clapped her hands in excitement. “I’ve always wanted a brother. I mean, a zoo-key lah-hee.

Hey, can you come with me? My mom needs some help.”

A moment later, Tina came over the boundary where the wolves had gathered and saw her mother
standing and talking with a group of women. Her mother turned to see her and went stark white. Tina

waved to show that everything was okay, but it didn’t seem to help. Her mother ran over as if she was

hurt and grabbed her hand.

“Hi mama. This is Andry.”

Her mother stood slowly and then raised her head almost all the way back to take in Andry as he

smiled and extended his hand.

“Good morning. Your lovely daughter tells me you are looking for some help building your

house.”

Tina smiled at her mother, but her mother just squeezed her hand tightly and swallowed hard. The

little girl waited for her mother to be happy for the help, but something seemed wrong. After a

moment, her mother cleared her throat and spoke.

“Hello. I’m Faye. Nice to meet you. I, uh, I don’t know anything about building a house. We need

something cool and that doesn’t stand out too much. There’s just two of us, so...”

“Of course,” Andry offered, “something modest. Not too showy. Sounds perfect. Let me take a

look at the materials you have here, and we’ll see what we can do.”
 “Oh, I don’t know.” Tina watched her mother look around as if she were searching for someone to

help her, but everyone was busy with projects of their own. She looked down at Tina and the pile of

scrap metal she was guarding. With a big sigh, Faye nodded.

“Yes, please. Please help us get this place together.”

For the rest of the day, Tina had a great time. She and Andry sorted through the junk, and he got

busy building an arched framework for their new home. He sent her on endless errands to the scrap

pile and she shot through the camp, now familiar with all the little paths in the community. On one

trip, she caught sight of Larissa watching her and got a chill down her back, but she shook it off and

continued her errand. She was excited to see her new home.

She came back to find Andry lifting his weird, square facemask and talking to some of the other

wolf shifters and smiled at him. She knew everyone would like him. She turned to see that their new

place was looking good – a slapped together metal shell in a kind of cave shape, a cheap version of

stone and mountain. Tina liked it; it looked fun and crazy. She ran inside to look up into what seemed

like an endless arch and was thrilled to feel a rush of cool breeze come from an opening in the very

top. In the back were cozy, dark corners, perfect for sleeping in. The front was broad and clear with

plenty of room for a fire pit.

 She ran back out and looked for her mother. She saw her standing alone and staring at their new

home the same way she used to look at a messy kitchen or Tina’s unmade bed. Curious, Tina walked

up to her.

“What’s wrong, Mama?”

Her mother put her hand on Tina’s head, but it didn’t feel nice. It felt like a toy hand was on her

head, not her mother’s caressing touch.

“Mommy’s just tired, sweetheart. The move was a little more than I was ready for.”

“I made lots of friends today. Did you?”

“No, baby. I didn’t make any friends.”

Perplexed, Tina looked up at her mother, squinting against the bright glow of the sunset over the

dry land. “Can I go and play with my friend Grey? He’s an airborne on the other side of The Hills.”

“Sweetheart, you should play with earthbounds. You know that.”

Tina sighed. Grown-ups never understood anything. “Mama,” she whined, pulling on her mother’s

hand, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

She yanked her hand away and ran towards Grey’s house, leaving her mother behind.
 CHAPTER 3

FAMILY

Harper Bachman, daughter of President Bachman, smiled up at her father as he smiled and waved

to the photographers and journalists in front of him. All of them fired questions at him, and each

question was about The Hills.

“Where did you find the money to fund this project?”

“That’s the best part,” President Rhett Bachman said, his voice pouring down onto the heads of

the audience like thick, dark honey. “We found an unused, unclaimed piece of land just perfect for a

little development. We want our shifter community to be safe and have a place to hunt without being a

threat to nearby humans. When my Chief of Staff proposed this location to me, I fell in love right

away. It’s a gorgeous expanse of green, with sources of fresh water, plenty of wildlife, and just

begging for someone to come and live there.” The crowd murmured appreciatively, and the cameras

snapped away. Right on cue, President Bachmann smiled down at his adorable daughter, and the two
crinkled their noses at one another as everyone in the room ahhed and chuckled at the sight.

Under the table, Harper swung her seven-year-old legs back forth, kicking her black, shiny shoes

against the metal legs of the folding chair that she sat in. Her brown hair was looking extra shiny in all

the lights, and she was glad she had worn her new, red velvet headband with a flower on the side to

go with her red dress. Making sure to smile, she folded her little, manicured hands on the table and

looked around the room so that everyone could see the dimple on the right side of her face just like

her father’s helpers had encouraged her to do. She was short for her age, so any time she had to attend

a public announcement she had to sit on a special cushion that lifted her up a bit. The cushion was a

secret; the helpers had explained to her that she couldn’t ever talk about it. She had yet to tell anyone.

A rough-looking journalist in an old, brown coat covered in stains stood up and raised his pen.

Bachman nodded at him. “Yes?”

“President Bachmann, when will the press be invited out to The Hills?”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” the president chuckled. “As we all know, shifters are a

highly unpredictable, very violent bunch and are more than happy to kill and eat a human. We’ve

separated this population for a reason, Mr…”

“Mr. Nissy, Independent Press. What do you have to say about the allegations that this beautiful
location is, in reality, nothing more than desert with no plumbing or electricity or access to clean

water?”

The room went quieted as everyone waited for the president to respond. A man in a dark suit

leaned down to the president and whispered something in his ear. The president smiled a nodded up

to him. The suited man lifted his chin to the back of the room.

“Now, why would I do that, Mr. Nissy? That simply wouldn’t make any sense. I don’t want them

somewhere desolate. That would drive them into the city to hunt – an illegal act if there ever was

one.”

As Mr. Nissy listened to the president’s response and quickly took notes, two security guards

came up behind him and took hold of his arms. The reporter dropped his pencil to the floor.

“Now,” the president continued, “I have always been a huge supporter of The Independent Press.

It’s very important to have an unaffiliated source of media available for the everyday consumer.” As

he spoke, the two guards escorted the reporter out of the room while the other journalists watched.

“Why, it’s the cornerstone of free speech. In fact,” he continued as all the other reporters turned to him

and continued taking notes and snapping pictures, “I encourage all of my constituents to pick up a

copy of The Independent Press first thing tomorrow. I will be reading the front page with everyone
else. I just cannot wait to see what my favorite publication will have to say about this historic day.”

Harper reached down and pressed her hand into the secret cushion, adjusting her weight. She was

sweaty, and her dress was stuck to her legs.

“Excuse me, everyone, but the duties of fatherhood call. My young one requires a snack and a nap,

and I think I do as well.” Everyone laughed, and Harper slumped down onto the table at the mention

of her afternoon bedtime.

“Daddy, I’m not tired. I’m bored!”

“Me too,” he whispered, giving her a wink. To the crowd, he said, “If you will all excuse us, we

have to wrap this up for the day.”

The press gave their usual round of applause as he walked out of the room. Harper turned to wave

goodbye to them and got a new round of ohhs and aahs. She spun back around and looked up at her

father.

“Daddy,” she said, “how come everybody likes you so much?”

He looked down at her and gave her a sad smile. “Well, I don’t know if everybody likes me. But,”

he sighed, lifting her into her spot in their big, gleaming car, “the ones who do like that I help people.
That’s Daddy’s job – helping the people.” He closed the door and then walked around to the other

side and climbed in.

“Daddy,” Harper started again, “do you like sharks?”

He considered the question. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You know what I learned in school?”

“What?”

“Teacher told me that everyone thinks sharks are scary, but really, they don’t do anything mean.

They just have big teeth, so people think they might bite people swimming in the ocean. But they

don’t. They just swim away.”

“Well, I will be darned.” Rhett patted his daughter’s hand as the car pulled away from city hall

and into the city to the Presidential Palace. “You are getting so smart. I think one day you may have to

take over as president. Would you like that, darling?”

“I don’t want to be president,” she said, tapping her toes together in the air above the floor of the

car. “Presidents have to work a lot. I want to play all day.”

“Alright then,” Rhett said, scrunching his nose up and touching the tip of it to his daughter’s nose.
“You will be a professional fun-haver. You’ll help everyone by making them play.”

She giggled at how weird her father’s face looked so close to hers; his eyes looked more like one

giant eye, and his face seemed to spread out into the car. His moustache tickled her, and she snuggled

into the corner of the seat. “Stop! Daddy, your moustache.”

“Oh, are you ticklish?” He reached out and tickled the sides of her ribs until she giggled even

more. Harper closed her eyes and felt the car careening around the corner and her nerves jump around

under her skin. She smelled her father’s cologne and listened to him laugh with her. She was

deliriously happy; she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been sad.

The next few weeks were normal ones for Harper. She attended her classes in her small

schoolroom with her private tutor and learned how to subtract from numbers as big as thirty or forty,

read about sleeping princesses who were woken by a handsome hero, and painted pictures of suns

and mountains to carry across the palace to her father’s offices. On her own side, she minded her

manners and went to bed without complaint. She saw her father every evening and every morning and

made sure to listen to everything he said and kept a big smile on her face. She didn’t want to give

anyone any cause to cancel her Big Day.

The Big Day was a day that Harper had come to love. It was a day when everyone who worked
for her father was invited to bring their children to the presidential palace and work on their training.

Harper lived for the Big Day, it was the only time that she was surrounded by other young girls and

boys and was allowed to speak with anyone she wished. For Harper, it was heaven on earth.

The night before, she laid out a pretty blue dress with the help of her nanny who insisted she

would need white tights and a white headband to go with it. Harper clapped her hands at the sight of

her clothes all arranged on her big, soft chair.

“It will look so nice! Thank you, Carol Anne.”

“You’re so welcome, my sweetheart.” Carol Anne quickly shifted into a cat and jumped onto

Harper’s lap. Harper picked up a brush and stroked Carol Anne’s back. She loved to brush her nanny.

“Carol Anne,” she said, wagging her finger and talking as if she were the adult in the room, “your

hair is just an absolute mess. I need to get you all pretty.” She focused on Carol Anne’s ears and then

her whiskers, finally touching up the tip of the cat’s long, waving tail. “There. Now you look

presentable.”

Harper’s wristband let out a small beep to let her know it was eight o’clock, and Carol Anne

quickly jumped down and shifted back into human form.

“Oh, my goodness! The time went so quickly. Come on, let’s go see your father.”
 Harper jumped down from the bed with a squeal. “Daddy! Daddy’s home!” She ran through the

spacious hall to her father’s rooms, and the security guards quickly opened them up for her. She ran in

and saw President Bachmann already kneeling down with open arms. She picked up speed and

jumped right into his embrace.

“I missed you, Daddy!”

“I missed you, my perfect little pumpkin. What did you do today?”

Harper quickly recounted her day as she was lifted up and out of the room in her father’s arms.

Together, they moved into the dining room and took their seats on either side of the table’s corner. A

huge meal was laid out for them with three servants waiting on them.

“Oh my goodness. You had quite a day!”

“I really did. Did you have fun today, Daddy?”

“Well,” the president considered the question as he put his napkin on his lap, “actually, I had kind

of a sad day. You see, darling, some bad people are telling lies about your father and just won’t stop.

I don’t know what to do.”

“You should tell the truth,” Harper offered, shoving a big bite of chicken into her mouth. “The
truth is always best.”

Her father tickled her under the chin and laughed a little. “You are going to make one fine

president once you’re grown up.”

“But I don’t want to be president. I told you.” She speared a roasted potato, splitting it down the

middle.

“I know you did,” her father said, stopping her hand before she could put another enormous bite in

her mouth. “Goodness, you must be growing even bigger. Your appetite is mind-blowing.” He

gestured to a waiter who helped Harper cut her food into manageable bites.

“Thank you, Niles,” she said politely, before going back to devouring her delicious meal. Her

father watched her a moment and then gave her a big, warm smile.

“I hope you change your mind about running this country, my darling. You know, I got this job

from my father who was made president by my grandmother, the founder of our state. You come from

a long line of leaders and thinkers. I would be so proud to see you behind my desk.”

“You will, Daddy. I’m coming to work with you tomorrow.”

Everyone in the room laughed a little and the president moved in for a hug with his daughter.
“Silly me. I almost forgot about the Big Day. Are you excited?”

She nodded and wiped her milk moustache away with dainty touches of a napkin to her face. “I

already laid out a dress and everything.”

“Oh, perfect. I cannot wait to have you walk into Headquarters with me. Everyone just loves to

see you.”

Harper crossed her eyes and slumped forward. “Do they like to see me like this?”

Her father stroked his chin and nodded slowly. “You know, I think this could be your new look.”

The two of them burst out laughing and went on eating and talking as the staff stood and watched the

president and his only living relative put away enough food for a whole family.

The next morning, Harper pulled up to Headquarters with her father in the big, silver car he

always rode in. As they stepped out, Harper was thrilled to see that each security guard had a

younger, smaller version of themselves holding their hands or standing by with their earpieces in. The

doorman was there with his daughter in a matching red coat with gold trim, and the receptionist had

her son right next to her, stapling papers and answering the phone. Harper wanted to meet all of them,

but there were just too many. She waved and smiled, and they all waved back.

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the sight of them all around her. Other kids! Kids who got to go
to a real school and ride on busses and go to the public park. She could hardly believe they were real.

She and her father went with his staff and their children to the big couches in his office for the

morning coffee. There, everyone complimented on all the decisions he had made the day before,

laughed at his jokes, and put a stack of papers in front of him. Harper listened to everything they had

to say as she sipped her chocolate milk and looked around the room.

In one corner was a boy whose hair was very carefully combed down on top of his head and

dressed in a white shirt and tan pants that looked odd in a way that Harper couldn’t quite figure out.

She looked to her father to ask him, but he was busy laughing with all of his office people, so she put

down her milk and slid off the couch to talk to him.

“Hi.”

The little boy’s eyes went wide and he was sweating. He nodded and then stammered out. “H-hi.

Hi. You’re the president’s daughter. Hi.”

“Yeah, I am. Who are you?”

“I’m Grey. That’s my dad.” He pointed to the man standing nice and tall in the corner. Harper

knew that the man had an important job, but she had never seen him do it. The man didn’t smile or

wave when Harper waved at him. Rather, he kept his eyes on the president and his meeting as if he
were a little bit nervous. The girl shrugged and went back to her new friend.

“What job are you learning today?”

Grey puffed out his skinny chest and grinned. “I’m learning how to be a messenger like my dad.

He already let me take one message all by myself.”

“A messenger?”

“Yeah. I can fly in my eagle form. It helps a lot of people. I fly really fast.” Grey spread his arms

out and ran around in a little circle and Harper quickly jumped in and ran around with him. She heard

her father say her name, but she didn’t stop. She was dizzy with the centrifugal force and the glee of

the moment and wanted the moment to last. Her father said her name a couple more times, each time

getting a little louder. Before she knew he was standing over her, he lifted her into the air and scared

her silent.

“Harper Bachmann,” he said, holding her right at his eyeline, “this is not how we behave at

Headquarters. Apologize to my staff for your behavior right now.”

Tears welled in Harper’s eyes. She loved playing, but it always seemed to get her in trouble. She

took in a big, shuddery breath, and then said, “Sorry, everybody.”

 Everyone gave her a sympathetic face and mumbled their forgiveness, assuring her it was fine, but

all of that somehow made the moment worse. Her father pulled her in for a hug and addressed the

room.

“Excuse us, everyone. I think all of this was a bit more than young Harper was ready for. Excuse

me, Floyd?”

The tall man in the corner came to life just as Harper turned her teary face towards him. He gave

her a warm smile and walked over. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“I know you’re very busy, but seeing as we have two little ones who really should get to know

one another, I’m curious if perhaps I could persuade you to take them out into the garden so that they

could get some of this energy out? Who knows,” he added, giving the room a wink, “maybe they’ll be

best friends.”

Another big laugh followed Grey and Harper out of the room as Floyd escorted them out the back,

and the adults all congratulated the president on another joke well-told. Harper glanced back at her

laughing father as the door closed, then shrugged and ran to lead the way out to the garden, daring

Grey to try and run as fast as her to the other side of the garden.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
mezcla confusa del estilo Luis XV y del gusto neoclásico puesto en
moda por el imperio francés. La tapicería era rica y graciosa; el piso
cubierto de finísimo junco, daba carácter español al recinto, y por e
techo corrían, entre nubecillas semejantes a espuma de huevo batido
varias ninfas a lo Bayeu que parecían representaciones de la retórica
de Hermosilla y de la poesía moratiniana, según las baratijas
simbólicas que cada una llevaba en la mano para dar a conocer su
empleo en el vasto reino de lo ideal. La luz que alumbraba la pieza era
escasa; apenas se distinguía un Carlos IV en traje de caza que en la
pared principal estaba, escopeta en mano, la bondadosa boca
contraída por la sonrisa, con la vista un poco extraviada hacia el techo
cual si intentara dar un susto a las ninfas que por él se paseaban
tranquilas sin meterse con nadie.
La hermosa figura del obispo y el elegante cuerpo negro del jesuita
concordaban admirablemente con aquel fondo o decoración palatina
Ambos dijeron algunas palabras precipitadas que no pudimos oír, y
salieron a prisa por distintas puertas. Seguiremos al jesuita guapo
quien rápidamente nos llevó a otra monumental y vistosa sala, donde
salieron a recibirle dos damas más notables por su rango que por su
belleza. Eran la infanta doña Francisca y la princesa de Beira
brasileñas y ambiciosas. La primera habría sido hermosa si no afeara
sus facciones el tinte rojizo, comúnmente llamado color de hígado. La
segunda llamaba la atención por su arremangada nariz, su boca
fruncida, su entrecejo displicente, rasgos de los cuales resultaba un
conjunto orgulloso y nada simpático, como emblema del despotismo
degenerado que se usaba por aquellos tiempos.
El padre Carranza les habló con nerviosa precipitación, y ellas le
oyeron con la complacencia, mejor dicho, con la fe que el buen seño
les inspiraba, y en el ardiente y vivísimo coloquio, semejante a un
secreteo de confesonario, se destacaban estas frases: «Dios lo
dispone así... Veremos lo que resulta de ese consejo... ¿Y qué hará
esa pobre Cristina?».
Los tres pasaron luego a la pieza inmediata, solo ocupada en aque
momento por un hombre, en el cual conviene que nos fijemos por se
de estos individuos que, aun careciendo de todo mérito personal y
también de maldades y vicios, dejan a su paso por el mundo más
memoria y un rastro mayor que todos los virtuosos y los malvados
todos de una generación. Hallábase sentado, apoyado el codo en e
pupitre y la mejilla en la palma de la mano, serio, meditabundo
parecido por causa del lugar y las circunstancias a un grande
emperador de cuyos planes y designios depende la suerte del mundo
Y la de España dependía entonces de aquel hombre
extraordinariamente pequeño para colocado en las alturas de la
monarquía. Tenía todas las cualidades de un buen padre de familia y
de un honrado vecino de cualquier villa o aldea; pero ni una sola de las
que son necesarias al oficio de rey verdadero. Siendo, como era, rey
de pretensiones, y, por lo tanto, batallador, su nulidad se manifestaba
más, y no hubo momento en su vida, desde que empezó la
reclamación armada de sus derechos, en que aquella nulidad no
saliese a relucir, ya en lo político, ya en lo marcial. Era un genio
negativo, o hablando familiarmente, no valía para maldita de Dios la
cosa.
Su Alteza se parecía poco al rey Fernando. Su mirada turbia y sin
brillo no anunciaba, como en este, pasiones violentas, sino la
tranquilidad del hombre pasivo, cuyo destino es ser juguete de los
acontecimientos. Era su cara de esas que no tienen el don de hace
amigos; y si no fuera por los derechos que llevaba en sí como un
prestigio indiscutible emanado del cielo, no habrían sido muchos los
secuaces de aquel hombre frío de rostro, de mirar, de palabra, de
afectos y de deseos, como no fuera el vehemente prurito de reinar. Su
boca era grande y menos fea que la de Fernando, pues su labio no iba
tan afuera; pero el gran desarrollo de su mandíbula inferior, alargando
considerablemente su cara, le hacía desmerecer mucho. El tipo
austríaco se revelaba en él más que el borbónico, y bajo sus facciones
reales se veía pasar confusa la fisonomía de aquel espectro que se
llamó Carlos II el Hechizado. A pesar del lejano parentesco, la quijada
era la misma, solo que tenía más carne.
Cuando entraron las infantas, don Carlos levantó los ojos de su
pupitre, miró con tristeza a las damas, después a un cuadro que frente
a él estaba, y era la imagen de la Purísima Concepción. El soberano
de los apostólicos dio un suspiro como los que daba don Quijote en la
presencia ideal de Dulcinea del Toboso, y luego se quedó mirando un
rato a la pintura cual si mentalmente rezara.
—Francisquita —dijo al concluir—, no me traigas recados, como no
sean para darme cuenta de la enfermedad de mi adorado hermano
No quiero intrigas palaciegas, ni menos conspiraciones para subleva
tropa, paisanos o voluntarios realistas. Mis derechos son claros y
vienen de Dios: no necesitan más que su propia fuerza divina para
triunfar, y aquí están de más las espadas y bayonetas. No se ha de
derramar sangre por mí, ni es necesario tampoco. Yo no conquisto
tomo lo mío de mano del Altísimo que me lo ha de dar. Esa, esa
augusta Señora —añadió señalando el cuadro— es la patrona de m
causa y la generalísima de nuestros ejércitos: ella nos dará todo hecho
sin necesidad de intrigas, ni de sangre, ni de conspiraciones y
atropellos.
Doña Francisca miró a la imagen bendita, y aunque era, como su
ilustre esposo, mujer de sincera devoción, no parecía fiar mucho, en
aquellos momentos, de la excelsa patrona y generalísima. La de Beira
fue la primera que tomó la palabra para decir a Su Alteza:
—Carlitos, no podemos estar mano sobre mano ni esperar los
acontecimientos con esa santa calma tuya, cuando se van a decidir las
cosas más graves. Nosotras no intrigamos, lo que hacemos es
apercibirnos para cortar las intrigas que se traman contra ti, legítimo
heredero del trono, y contra nosotras. No conspiramos; pero estamos
a la mira de la conspiración asquerosa de los liberales, que ahora se
llamarán cristinos, para burlar tus derechos, emanados de Dios, y
alterar la ley sagrada de la sucesión a la corona. En este momento
Cristina, por encargo del rey, llama a consejo al ministro Calomarde, a
obispo de León y al conde de la Alcudia. ¿Sabes para qué?
—¿Para qué?
—Para proponer un arreglo, una componenda —dijo prontamente
doña Francisca, no menos iracunda que su hermana—. Pronto lo
sabremos. Esa pobre Cristina apelará a todos los medios para
embrollar las cosas y ganar tiempo, hasta que se desencadenen las
furias de la revolución, que es su esperanza.
—¡Un arreglo!... —dijo don Carlos con entereza—. ¿Con quién y de
qué? Entre los derechos legítimos, sagrados y la usurpación ilegal no
puede haber arreglo posible.
Dijo esto con tanto aplomo, que parecía un sabio. Después miró a la
Virgen como para tener la satisfacción de ver que ella opinaba lo
mismo.
—Basta de cuestiones políticas —dijo Su Alteza volviendo a toma
una actitud tranquila—. ¿Sigue Fernando más aliviado del paroxismo
de esta tarde?
 —Hasta ahora no hay síntomas de que se repita...
—Pero puede suceder que de un momento a otro...
—¡Pobre Fernando! —exclamó don Carlos dando un gran suspiro y
apoyando la barba en el pecho. Incapaz de fingimiento y de mentira, la
apariencia tétrica del infante era fiel expresión de la vivísima pena que
sentía. Amaba entrañablemente a su hermano. Para que todo fuera en
desventaja de los españoles, Dios quiso que estos se dividieran en
bandos de aborrecimiento, mientras los hermanos que ocasionaron
tantos desastres vivieron siempre enlazados por el afecto más leal y
cariñoso.
Poco más de lo transcrito hablaron el infante y las dos damas
porque empezó a reunirse la camarilla en el salón inmediato, y doña
Francisca y su hermana abandonaron a don Carlos para recibir a los
aduladores, pretendientes y cofrades reverendos de aquella cortesana
intriga. En poco tiempo llenose la cámara de personajes diversos: e
conde de Negri, el padre Carranza, el embajador de Nápoles, vendido
secretamente a los apostólicos desde mucho antes, y don Juan de
Pipaón, que, según todas las apariencias, representaba en el seno de
la comunidad apostólica a Calomarde. Luego aparecieron el obispo de
León y el conde de la Alcudia, y entonces la cámara fue un hervidero
de preguntas y comentarios. Vanidad, servilismo, adulación, los rostros
pálidos, las palabras ansiosas, el respeto olvidado, el rencor no
satisfecho, la esperanza cohibida por el temor... todo esto había bajo
aquel techo habitado por sosas ninfas, entre aquellos tapices
representando borracheras a lo Teniers, remilgadas pastoras, o
cabriolas de sátiros en los jardines de Helicona.
—Una proposición inaudita, señores —dijo el reverendo obispo con
fiereza—. Veremos lo que opina el señor. Ahí es nada... Quieren que
durante la enfermedad del rey se encargue del gobierno doña Cristina
y que el serenísimo señor infante sea... su consejero.
Una exclamación de horror acogió estas palabras. La princesa de
Beira casi lloraba de rabia, y a la orgullosa doña Francisca le
temblaban los labios y no podía hablar.
—Es una desvergüenza —se atrevió a decir Pipaón, que siempre
quería dejar atrás a todos en la expresión extremada del entusiasmo
apostólico.
—Es una jugarreta napolitana —indicó Negri, que en estas
ocasiones gustaba de decir algo que hiciera reír.
 —Es burlarse de los designios del Altísimo —afirmó Abarca, atento
siempre a entrometer a la Divinidad en aquellas danzas.
—Es simplemente una tontería —dijo el de la Alcudia—. Veamos la
opinión de Su Alteza.
El ministro y el obispo pasaron a ver a don Carlos, que hasta
entonces tenía la digna costumbre de huir de los conventículos donde
se ventilaban entre aspavientos y lamentaciones los intereses de su
causa, y al poco rato salieron radiantes de gozo. Su Alteza había
contestado con enérgica negativa a la proposición de la madre de
Isabelita; que de este modo solían allí nombrar a la reina Cristina.
Corrieron entonces los cortesanos del cuarto del infante a la cámara
real, donde, en vista de la denegación, se buscaban nuevas fórmulas
para llegar al deseado arreglo. Hora y media pasó en ansiedades y
locas impaciencias. La reina y los ministros conferenciaban en la
antecámara del rey. En la alcoba de este nadie podía penetrar, a
excepción de Cristina, los médicos y los ayudas de cámara de Su
Majestad. El infante no salía del rincón de su cuarto en que se recogía
como un cenobita que hace penitencia; pero la bulliciosa infanta, la
implacable princesa de Beira, su hijo don Sebastián y la mujer de este
no se daban punto de reposo, inquiriendo, atisbando, en medio de
vertiginoso ciclón de cortesanos que iba y venía y volteaba con
mareante susurro.
Al fin aparecieron el obispo y el conde de la Alcudia trayendo las
nuevas proposiciones de arreglo. ¿Cuáles eran? «¡Una regencia
compuesta de Cristina y don Carlos, con tal que este empeñase
solemnemente su palabra de no atentar a los derechos de la princesa
Isabel!». Tal era la proposición, que a unos parecía absurda, a otros
insolente, a los más ridícula. Hubo exclamaciones, monosílabos de
desprecio y amargas risas. «¡Los derechos de Isabelita!». Esta idea
ponía fuera de sí a la enfática y siempre hinchada princesa de Beira.
¿Y quién sabrá pintar la escena del cuarto de don Carlos, cuando e
obispo y el ministro le comunicaron la última proposición de los reyes?
Por todos los santos se puede jurar que el que tal escena vio no la
olvidará aunque mil años viva. Nosotros, que la vimos presente, la
tenemos cual si hubiera pasado ayer; ¿pero cómo acertar a
describirla? Es tan rica de matices y al propio tiempo tan sencilla, que
fácilmente se perderá en las manos del arte. ¡Pasó allí tan poca cosa
y fue de tanta transcendencia lo que allí pasó!... No hubo ruido; pero
en el silencio grave de aquella sala se engendraron las mayores
tempestades españolas del siglo.
Al ver entrar al obispo y al ministro, seguidos de las infantas, don
Sebastián y el agraciadísimo padre Carranza, levantose don Carlos
solemnemente. Era hombre que sabía dar a ciertos actos una
majestad severa que contrastaba con su llaneza en la vida privada
Mientras Alcudia leía el borrador del decreto en que se establecía la
doble regencia, la princesa de Beira estaba lívida y doña Francisca
mordía las puntas del pañuelo. Ambas hermanas vestían
modestamente. ¿Quién olvidará sus talles altos, sus ampulosos senos
sus peinados de tres lazos y sus pañoletas de colores? Eran como dos
estatuas de la ambición doméstico-palatina, erigidas en el centro de
arco que formaba la comisión de príncipes y magnates. Miraban
ansiosos a don Carlos, cual si temieran que el grande amor que al rey
tenía venciera su entereza en aquel crítico instante, haciéndole incurri
en una debilidad que se confundiría con la bajeza.
Don Carlos no tenía talento, pero tenía fe, una fe tan grande en sus
derechos, que estos y los Santos Evangelios venían a ser para Su
Alteza Serenísima una misma cosa. La fe, que en lo moral producía en
él la honradez más pura y en los actos políticos una terquedad
lamentable, fue lo que en tal momento salvó la causa apostólica
llenando de júbilo los corazones de aquellos señorones codiciosos y
princesas levantiscas. Mientras duró la lectura, don Carlos no quitó los
ojos del cuadro de la Purísima, a quien sería mejor llamar Capitana po
las prerrogativas militares que el príncipe le había dado. Siguió a esto
una pausa silenciosa, durante la cual no se oía más que el rumorcillo
del papel al ser doblado por el conde de la Alcudia. Las infantas
miraban a los labios de don Carlos, y don Carlos se puso pálido, alzó
la frente, más ancha que hermosa, y tosió ligeramente. Parecía que
iba a decir las cosas más estupendas de que es capaz la palabra
humana, o a dictar leyes al mundo como su homónimo el de Gante las
dictaba desde un rincón del Alcázar de Toledo. Con voz campanuda
dijo así:
—No ambiciono ser rey; antes por el contrario, desearía librarme de
carga tan pesada, que reconozco superior a mis fuerzas... pero...
Aquí se detuvo buscando la frase. Doña Francisca estuvo a punto
de desmayarse, y la de Beira echaba fuego por sus ojos.
 —Pero Dios —añadió don Carlos—, que me ha colocado en esta
posición, me guiará en este valle de lágrimas... Dios me permitirá
cumplir tan alta empresa.
Aún no se sabía qué empresa era aquella que Dios, protecto
decidido de la causa, tomaba a su cargo en este valle de lágrimas. E
conde de la Alcudia, que a pesar de estar secretamente afiliado a
partido de don Carlos quería cumplir la misión que le había dado e
rey, dijo algunas palabras en pro de la avenencia. Pero entonces don
Carlos, como si recibiera una inspiración del cielo, habló con facilidad y
energía en estos términos, que son exactos y textuales:
—«No estoy engañado, no, pues sé muy bien que si yo po
cualquier motivo cediese esta corona a quien no tiene derecho a ella
me tomaría Dios estrechísima cuenta en el otro mundo, y mi confeso
en este no me lo perdonaría; y esta cuenta sería aún más estrecha
perjudicando yo a tantos otros y siendo yo causa de todo lo que
resultare; por tanto, no hay que cansarse, pues no mudo de parecer».
Dijo, y se sentó cansado. Las infantas dejaron a sus abanicos la
expresión del orgullo y vanagloria que sentían por aquellas
cristianísimas palabras. ¿Qué cosa más admirable que un príncipe
decidido a reinar sobre nosotros, no por ambición, no por deseo de
aplicar al gobierno un entendimiento que se siente poderoso, sino po
cristianismo puro, por temor de Dios y por miedo al infierno? En aque
breve discurso nos explicó Su Alteza Serenísima la clave de sus ideas
de su modo de hacer la guerra y de gobernar. No era ambicioso n
conquistador, sino una especie de cruzado de la Tierra Santa de sus
derechos. Según él, Dios estaba profundamente interesado en aque
negocio; no se sabe lo que habría pasado en los reinos celestiales si a
buen infante le da la mala tentación de dejar reinar a Isabelita. Es
sabido que estas contiendas de familia se miran allá arriba como cosa
de casa. Bien enterado estaba de todo el confesor de Su Alteza, que
así le había pintado la imposibilidad de ser modesto, y la urgente
precisión de ceñirse la corona, por estar así acordado allá donde se
hacen y deshacen los imperios. ¿Y cómo se iba a atrever el pobre don
Carlos a confesar en el temeroso tribunal de la penitencia el horrible
delito de no querer ser rey? ¿Y además, no estaba de por medio la
infeliz España, a quien Dios no podía abandonar? ¿Y qué era e
príncipe más que el instrumento de Dios, protector decidido en todos
tiempos de nuestra nación, con preferencia a todas las demás que
ocupan la interesante Europa, la América lozana, la negra África y e
Asia opulenta? ¡Instrumento de la Providencia! Esto y no otra cosa era
don Carlos, y bien lo comprendía así el bueno, el evangélico, e
seráfico obispo de León, cuando al salir de la cámara del infante se
abrió paso entre la multitud de cortesanos, diciendo con entusiasmo:
—¡Paso al partido del Altísimo!
Olvidábamos decir que don Carlos, luego que dio aquella respuesta
digna de un arcángel encargado de defender una celestial fortaleza
sitiada por los pícaros demonios, habló con sus amigos y con su
esposa y cuñada, repitiéndoles lo que ya les había dicho muchas
veces, a saber: que se negaba resueltamente a apelar a las armas
que desaprobaba todas las conspiraciones fraguadas en su nombre, y
que se le enterase cada poco rato del estado de la salud del rey.
Luego se encerró en su oratorio, donde rezó gran parte de la noche
pidiendo a Dios, su superior jerárquico, y a la Limpia y Pura, su
generala en jefe, que salvaran la vida de su amado hermano
Fernando. Tal era, ni más ni menos, aquel don Carlos que en España
ha llenado el siglo con su nombre lúgubre, monstruo de candor y de
fanatismo, de honradez y de ineptitud.
 XXXII

Agitábanse sin descanso los manipuladores de aquella intriga, pero

ninguno como Pipaón, el correveidile de Calomarde, el que tan pronto
llevaba un recado al embajador de Nápoles, caballero Antonini, como
un papelito al padre Carranza para que lo diera a las infantas. Cuando
el barullo cesó en los salones y empezó a reinar un poco de sosiego
el bueno de Bragas retirose con Calomarde y Carranza a una pieza
remota, donde estuvieron charlando acaloradamente y revolviendo
papeles y haciendo números hasta por la mañana. Cuando amaneció
tenía la augusta cabeza tan caldeada por el cúmulo de ideas y
proyectos que en aquella cavidad bullían, que juzgó prudente no
acostarse y salir a los jardines para dar por ellos algunas vueltas.
Largo rato estuvo recorriendo alamedas y bosquecillos de tallado
mirto, sin parar mientes en la hermosura de la naturaleza en tal hora
porque su ambición ocupaba al cortesano todas las potencias y
sentidos. Así, la deliciosa frescura de la mañana, el despertar de los
pajarillos, la quietud soñolienta de la atmósfera, la gala de las flores
humedecidas por el rocío, eran para aquel infeliz esclavo de las
pasiones como páginas de un idioma desconocido, del cual no
comprendía ni una letra ni un rasgo.
Ciego para todo, menos para su loco apetito, no veía sino la cartera
ministerial, el sueldazo, las obvenciones, las veneras, el título de
nobleza, y todo lo demás que del próximo triunfo de los apostólicos
podía obtener.
Junto a la fuente de Pomona tropezó con don Benigno Cordero, que
volvía de su paseo matinal. Era hombre que madrugaba como los
pájaros y daba paseos de leguas antes del desayuno. Aquella mañana
el héroe estaba tan meditabundo como Pipaón; pero por diferentes
motivos.
 —No he dormido en toda la noche, señor don Benigno —dijo e
cortesano con énfasis—. Hemos trabajado para evitar derramamiento
de sangre. El rey se nos muere hoy: quizá no llegará a la noche
¡España por don Carlos!
—Yo tampoco he dormido; pero no me desvelan a mí esas
trapisondas palaciegas, no —repuso el héroe melancólico—
Barástolis, rebarástolis..., ¡pensar que hasta ahora no he podido
conseguir de ese intrigante la cosa más fácil y sencilla que se puede
pedir a un obispo!... ¡Una firma, una, don Juan, una firma! He
prometido una gran cesta de albaricoques, amén de otras cosas, a
familiar de Su Ilustrísima y... ni por esas... Su Ilustrísima no se puede
ocupar de eso; Su Ilustrísima se debe al rey y al estado y al... ¿En qué
país vivimos? ¿Se tratan así los intereses más respetables? ¿Es esto
ser obispo?... ¡Le digo a usted, amigo don Juan, que estoy de obispos
hasta la corona!... ¿Qué es lo que pido? Una firma, nada más que una
firma en documento corriente, informado y vuelto a informar, y que ha
pasado por más manos que moneda vieja... ¡Oh, malhadada España
¡Y estos hombres hablan de regenerarte!
¡Una firma, nada más que una firma! Indudablemente el revoltoso
obispo debía ser ahorcado. Pipaón consoló a su amigo lo mejor que
pudo, prometiéndole recomendar el caso a Su Ilustrísima, y
conseguirle si triunfaban los apostólicos, no una firma, sino cuatro o
cinco docenas de ellas.
Cuatro o cinco docenas de Barástolis echó después de su boca don
Benigno, y juntos él y Bragas se dirigieron hacia la casa de Pajes.
—Si estuviera aquí Jenarita —decía Cordero—, ella, con su
irresistible poder, haría firmar a ese condenado.
Pipaón se acostó; pero llamado a poco rato por Su Excelencia, tuvo
que dejar el blando sueño para acudir a los cónclaves que se
preparaban para aquel día. El inconsolable y aburridísimo Cordero
luego que se desayunó, volvió a los jardines, único punto donde
hallaba algún esparcimiento en su tristeza, y no había llegado aún a la
Fuente de la Fama, cuando topó con Monsalud, que venía de malísimo
talante. El día anterior se habían visto y saludado un momento, como
amigos antiguos que eran desde las trapisondas de la Milicia naciona
el año 22, memorable por la hazaña del nunca bastante célebre arco
de Boteros. Alegrose don Benigno de verle, por tener alguien con
quien hablar en aquella desolada corte, tan llena de interés para otros
y para él más triste y solitaria que un desierto. De manos a boca
Monsalud le habló de Sola, del casamiento, y tales elogios hizo de ella
y con tanto calor la nombró, que Cordero sintió inexplicables
inquietudes en su alma generosa. No sabía por qué le era
desagradable la persona y la amistad de aquel hombre, protector y
amigo de su futura en otro tiempo, y luego nombrado en sueños po
ella. Recordó claramente cuán triste se ponía la huérfana si le faltaban
cartas de él, y cuánto se alegraba al recibir noticias suyas; pero a
mismo tiempo le consoló el recuerdo de la perfecta sinceridad, signo
de pureza de conciencia, con que Sola le supo referir su entrevista con
Salvador en los Cigarrales, mientras Cordero estaba en Madrid
ocupado de los nunca bastante vituperados papeles. Recordó muchas
cosas: unas que le agitaban, otras que calmaban su inquietud, y, po
último, la fe ciega que tenía en el afecto puro y sencillo de la que iba a
ser su señora le confortaba singularmente. No obstante, quiso evitar la
compañía de aquel hombre, y ya preparaba la conversación para
buscar un pretexto de ausencia, cuando Salvador dijo:
—Reniego de esta cansada y revoltosa corte. Aquí estoy hace seis
días atado por una pretensión sencilla y fácil, y aunque tengo
relaciones en Palacio, nada puedo conseguir. A usted no le
sorprenderá el saber que lo que pretendo no es más que una firma
nada más que una firma en documento corriente. Pero el seño
Calomarde, que para daño eterno de nuestro país sigue sin reventa
todavía, no se ha decidido aún a tomar la pluma. ¡Y de que la tome y
rubrique dependen mi fortuna y mi porvenir!
—Nuestra cuita es la misma —exclamó don Benigno sintiéndose
consolado con la desgracia ajena—. Yo también me aburro y me
desespero y me quemo la sangre solo por una firma.
—¡Qué ministros!
—Están intrigando para arrancar al rey un codicilo que dé la corona
a don Carlos.
—¡Qué menguados hombres!... ¡Que una nación esté en tales
manos!...
—Y según los vientos que corren, barástolis, lo estará para in
eternum. La consigna de esa gente es que el rey se muere hoy
Parece que han sobornado al Altísimo.
—Es gracioso.
—Ya tratan a don Carlos de Majestad.
 —Lo creo. Será rey. Vamos progresando. ¿Piensa usted emigrar?
—¿Yo? —dijo Cordero sorprendido—. Si triunfa ese partido brutal lo
sentiré mucho, porque, en fin, tengo ideas liberales... algo ha leído uno
en autores filosóficos...
—Sí, ya sé que lee usted a Rousseau. Rousseau dice: «no hay
patria donde no hay libertad». ¿Piensa usted emigrar?
—Emigrar no, porque no me mezclo en política. Viviré retirado de
estos trapicheos, dejándoles que destrocen a su antojo lo que todavía
se llama España, y con ellos se llamará como Dios quiera. Un padre
de familia no debe comprometerse en aventuras peligrosas. Usted...
—Yo no soy padre de familia ni cosa que lo valga —dijo el otro
dejando traslucir claramente una pena muy viva—. No tengo a nadie
en el mundo. No hay casa, ni hogar, ni rincón que guarden para mí un
poco de calor; soy tan extranjero aquí como en Francia; soy esclavo
de la tristeza; no tengo en derredor mío ningún elemento de vida
pacífica; la última ilusión la perdí radicalmente; vivo en el vacío; no
tengo, pues, otro remedio, si he de seguir existiendo, que lanzarme
otra vez a las aventuras desconocidas, a los caminos peligrosos de la
idea política, cuyo término se ignora. Mi antigua vocación de
revolucionario y conspirador, que estaba amortiguada y como vencida
en mí, vuelve a nacer ahora, porque el freno que le puse se ha roto
porque la vocación nueva con que traté de matar aquella se ha
convertido en humo. Hay que volver al humo pasado, a las locuras, a
la lucha, a las ideas, cuya realización, por lo difícil, toca los límites de
lo imposible.
Don Benigno le oía con estupor. Habíanse internado en uno de
aquellos laberintos hechos con tijeras, que parecen decoraciones
teatrales construidas para una sosa comedia galante, o para una
opereta de Metastasio. Solidarias y placenteras estaban las callejuelas
y las bovedillas verdes. Nadie podía oírles allí. Salvador no puso
trabas a su lengua, y se expresó de este modo:
—Cuando vine aquí persistía en mi propósito de huir para siempre
de la política; pero sin determinar aún qué dirección o empleo había de
dar a mi pensamiento y a mi voluntad. No se puede vivir de
monólogos, como yo vivo ahora. Mi desgracia o mi fortuna, que esto
no lo sé bien, quisieron que entrara algunas veces en Palacio. Allí traté
a gentilhombres y cortesanos, hice amistad con ministriles y
empleadillos menudos; todo por el negocio maldito de esta rúbrica que
pido a Su Excelencia y que no me quiere dar. Además soy amigo de
un montero de Espinosa, que me ha enterado de todo lo ocurrido aye
y anoche. ¡Qué cosas, amigo mío; qué horrores! Si cuando se lee la
historia sentimos emociones tan hondas y queremos ser actores en los
sucesos pintados, ¿qué será cuando vemos la historia viva, antes de
ser libro, y asistimos a los hechos antes de que sean páginas? E
drama de anoche me ha espeluznado. Pues se prepara otro drama
junto al cual el de anoche será comedia. No, no es posible ver esto
como se ven por anteojo los muñecos y las vistas de un tutilimundi. De
repente me he sentido exaltado, y mis antiguas vocaciones renacen
con ímpetu irresistible.
—Cuidado, cuidado —dijo don Benigno, temeroso del sesgo
peligroso que aquella conversación tomaba—. Los arbolitos oyen
chitón. Le veo a usted en camino de ser un cristino furibundo.
—Yo no sé por qué camino voy: solo sé que cuando veo a esa reina
joven, hermosa, inocente de todos los crímenes del absolutismo
cuando considero sus virtudes y la piedad con que asiste al rey
enfermo, que solo merece lástima; cuando veo los peligros que la
cercan, los infames lazos que se le tienden y el desdén con que la
miran los mismos que hace poco se arrastraban a sus pies, siento
arder la sangre en mis venas, y no sé qué daría, créame usted, don
Benigno, por hallarme en situación de enseñar a estos murciélagos
apostólicos cómo se respeta a una señora y a una reina. En la corona
que no han podido quitarle todavía, y que sobre su hermosa frente
tiene mayor brillo, veo la monarquía templada que celebra alianzas de
amistad con el pueblo; pero en la corona de hierro que esos clérigos y
cortesanos intrigantes están forjando en el cuarto de don Carlos, veo
la monarquía desconfiada, implacable, que no admite más derechos
que los suyos. No, no hay ya en España caballeros, si España
consiente que esa turba de fanáticos expulse a la reina y arrebate la
corona a su hija...
—Sí, sí —exclamó Cordero sintiendo que revivía lentamente en su
alma el antiguo entusiasmo liberalesco—. Pero cuidado, mucho
cuidado, amigo. Lo que usted dice es peligrosísimo. Todo el Real Sitio
es de los apostólicos. No nos metamos en lo que no nos importa.
—¿Cómo que no nos importa? —dijo el otro con viveza—. Es
cuestión de vida o muerte, de ser o no ser. En estos momentos se está
decidiendo, y pronto se probará, si los españoles no merecen otro
destino que el de un hato de carneros o si son dignos de llamar nación
a la tierra en que viven. Yo, que había tomado en aborrecimiento las
revoluciones y el conspirar, ahora siento en mí un apetito de rebeldía
que me llevaría a las mayores locuras si viera junto a mí quien me
ayudase. Desanimado ayer y deseoso de la oscuridad, hoy, que la vida
doméstica me es negada por Dios, quisiera tener medios de revolver a
España, y amotinar gente, y romper todos los lazos, y levantar todos
los destierros, y desencadenar cuanto encadena este régimen brutal
Yo iría a esa reina atribulada y le diría: «Señora, lance Vuestra
Majestad un grito, un grito solo en medio de este país que parece
dormido y no está sino asustado. No tema Vuestra Majestad; estas
situaciones se vencen con el valor y la confianza. Abra Vuestra
Majestad las puertas de la patria a los emigrados, a todos
absolutamente sin distinción. Para vencer al infante se necesita una
bandera; para hacer frente a un principio se necesita otro; nada de
términos medios ni acomodos vergonzosos; esa gente pide todo o
nada; pues nada, y guerra a muerte. Levántese Vuestra Majestad y
ande con paso seguro; no se deje asustar por los errores de los que
no han sabido establecer la libertad. Es preciso tolerarles como son
porque son la salvación, y si aseguran el trono y la libertad, sus
imperfecciones y extravíos les serán perdonados. Y entonces, Señora
se alzará del seno de España, oprimida y deseosa de mejor suerte, un
sentimiento, un prurito incontrastable, y miles de hombres generosos
se agruparán al lado de Vuestra Majestad protestando con la voz y con
la espada de que quieren por soberana a la reina del porvenir, la reina
liberal, Isabel II».
 XXXIII

—¡Chitón, chitón por todos los santos del cielo! —dijo don Benigno
poniéndole la mano en la boca para hacerle callar.
Participaba el héroe de aquel noble ardor; pero temía que tales
demostraciones les trajeran a entrambos algún perjuicio. Tembloroso y
ruborizado, Cordero llevó a su amigo fuera del verde laberinto
incitándole a que callara, porque —y lo dijo en la plenitud de la
convicción— si el obispo Abarca y el ministro Calomarde llegaban a
tener noticia de lo que se habló en los jardines, no firmarían ni en tres
siglos. Salvador tranquilizó al buen comerciante sobre aque
endiablado negocio de las firmas, y cuando se separaron invitole a que
comieran juntos aquella tarde. Excusose don Benigno, por sentirse, a
oír la invitación, tocado de aquella misma inquietud o recelo de que
antes hablamos; pero las reiteradas cortesanías del otro le vencieron
al fin. Mientras Cordero entraba en la casa de Pajes pensando en e
convite, en la muerte del rey, en la firma, y, sobre todo, en su familia de
los Cigarrales, Salvador penetró en Palacio y no se le vio más en todo
el día.
Era aquel el 18 de septiembre, día inolvidable en los anales de la
guerra civil, porque si bien en él no se disparó un solo cartucho, fue un
día que engendró sangrientas batallas; un día en el cual se puede
decir figuradamente que se cargaron todos los fusiles y cañones
Desde muy temprano volvió a reinar el desasosiego en Palacio. Su
Majestad seguía muy grave, y a cada vahído del monarca la causa
apostólica daba un salto en señal de vida y buena salud: así es que
cuando circulaban noticias desconsoladoras no se veía el dolo
pintado en todas las caras, como sucede en ocasiones de esta
naturaleza, aun en regios alcázares, sino que a muchos les bailaban
los ojos de contento, y otros, aunque disimulaban el gozo, no lo hacían
tanto que escondieran por completo la repugnante ansiedad de sus
corazones corrompidos.
En medio de esta barahúnda, la reina apuraba sola en el silencio
lúgubre de la alcoba regia el cáliz amargo de la situación más triste y
desairada en que pueda verse quien ha llevado una corona. Los
cortesanos huían de ella; a cada hora, a cada minuto veía disminuir e
número de los que parecían fieles a su causa, y cada suspiro del rey
moribundo producía una defección en el débil partido de la reina. E
día anterior aún tenía confianza en la guardia de Palacio; pero desde
la mañana del 18 las revelaciones de algunos servidores leales la
advirtieron de que, muerto el rey, la guardia y probablemente todas las
fuerzas del Real Sitio abrazarían el partido del infante.
Cristina se vistió en aquellos días el hábito de la Virgen del Carmen
y con la saya de lana blanca estaba más guapa aún que con manto
regio y corona de diamantes. No salía de la real alcoba sino breves
momentos, cuando el rey parecía sosegado y ella necesitaba ver a sus
hijas, o desahogar su pena en llanto amarguísimo, derramado sin
testigos en su cámara particular. Allí también habla bullicio y
movimiento, porque la servidumbre arreglaba las maletas y embaulaba
el ajuar de la reina en previsión de una fuga precipitada.
Por la noche Cristina no dormía. Sentada junto al lecho del rey
vigilaba su enfermedad, atendía a sus dolores, preparaba por sí misma
las medicinas y se las daba, dirigíale palabras de esperanza y
consuelo, no permitía que los criados hicieran cosa alguna que pudiera
hacer ella, esclava entonces de sus deberes de esposa con tanto rigo
como la compañera del último súbdito del tirano enfermo. Haciendo
entonces lo que no suelen ni saben hacer generalmente las reinas
María Cristina se puso una corona de esas que no están sujetas a los
azares de un destronamiento ni a los desaires de la abdicación.
La historia no dice lo que pasó por la mente del atormentador de
España al ver que en pago de sus violencias, de su bárbaro orgullo, de
sus vicios y de su egoísmo brutal, Dios le enviaba aquel ángel en su
última hora para que el autor de tantas agonías viera endulzada la
suya y pudiera morirse en paz, como se mueren los que no han hecho
daño a nadie. Cuando se entraba en la alcoba real, no se podía ver sin
horror el enorme cuerpo del rey en el lecho, hinchado, inmóvil
oprimido por bizmas, ungido con emplastos, que a pesar de sus
virtudes no vencían los dolores; hecho todo una miseria; conjunto
lastimoso de desdichas físicas, que así remedaban la moral más
perversa que ha informado un alma humana.
Su rostro variaba entre el verdoso de la muerte y el amoratado de la
congestión. Ligeramente incorporado sobre las almohadas, su cabeza
estaba inerte, su mirada fija y mortecina, su nariz colgaba cual s
quisiera caer saltando al suelo, y de su entreabierta boca no salía sino
un quejido constante, que en los breves momentos de sosiego era
estertor difícil. Por fin le tocaba a él también un poco de potro. Debía
de estar su conciencia bastante despierta en aquellos momentos
porque no se quejaba desesperado como si en el fondo de su alma
existiese una aprobación de aquel horrible quebrantamiento de huesos
y hervor de sangre que sufría. La cama del rey, por el estado de aque
desdichado cuerpo que desde algún tiempo vivía corrompiéndose
parecía más bien un ensayo de las descomposiciones del sepulcro
Esto solo es un elocuente elogio de la cristiana abnegación de la reina
Había en la alcoba dos o tres crucifijos e imágenes, solicitados po
la piedad de Cristina para que no permitieran que España se quedara
sin rey. Mas por el momento no había síntomas de que tan noble
anhelo fuera atendido, porque Fernando VII se moría a pedazos
Aquella masa inerte, tan solo vivificada por un gemido, no era ya rey
ni siquiera hombre. Hacia el mediodía se temió la pérdida absoluta de
las facultades mentales, y antes que esto llegara se reconoció la
necesidad de dar solución al tremendo conflicto. Una chispa de razón
quedaba en el espíritu del rey. Era urgente, indispensable, que a la
débil luz de esa chispa se resolviese el problema.
Cristina hubiera dilatado aquel momento, ganando algunas horas
para dar tiempo a que llegara su hermana la infanta doña Carlota
mujer de brío y resolución para tal caso. Desde que se agravó Su
Majestad le habían enviado correos al Puerto de Santa María
rogándola que viniese, y ya la infanta debía de estar cerca, quizás en
Madrid, quizás en camino del Real Sitio. Pero el aniquilamiento rápido
del enfermo no permitía esperar más. Entraron, pues, en la rea
cámara tres figuras horrendas: Calomarde, el de la Alcudia y el obispo
de León. La reina y el confesor del rey habían llegado poco antes y
estaban a un lado y otro de Su Majestad, Cristina casi tocando su
cabeza, el clérigo bastante cerca para hablar al oído del pobre
enfermo. Había llegado un momento en que ninguna alma cristiana
podía conservar rencor ante tanta desdicha. No era posible ver a
Fernando VII en aquel trance sin sentir ganas de perdonarle de todo
corazón.
Los tres temerosos figurones se situaron a los pies de la cama
después de besar uno tras otro con apariencia cariñosa aquella mano
lívida que había firmado tantas atrocidades. El obispo estaba grave
imponente, como quien suponiéndose con autoridad divina, se cree
por encima de todas las miserias humanas; el conde de la Alcudia
triste y acobardado por la solemnidad del momento, y Calomarde, e
hombre rastrero y vil, cuya existencia y cuyo gobierno no fueron más
que pura bajeza y engaño, arqueaba las cejas mucho más que las
arqueaba de ordinario, pestañeaba sin cesar y hacía pucheros. Crue
con los débiles, servil con los poderosos, cobarde siempre, este
hombre abominable adornaba con una lagrimilla la traición infame que
a su amo hacía en los umbrales de la muerte.
Quien presenció aquella escena terrible cuenta que la luz de la
estancia era escasa; que los tres consejeros estaban casi en la
sombra; que el rey volvía su rostro hacia la reina, vestida de hábito
blanco; que hubo un momento en que el confesor no hacía más que
morderse las uñas; que la hermosura de Cristina era la única luz de
aquel cuadro sombrío, intriga política, horrible fraude, vil escamoteo de
una corona perpetrado al borde de un sepulcro.
Cuenta también el testigo presencial de aquella escena que e
primero que habló, y habló con entereza, fue el obispo de León
Puesto de pie, parecía que llegaba al techo. Su voz hueca de
sochantre retumbaba en la cámara como voz de ultratumba. Aque
hombre, tan rígido como astuto, principió tocando una fibra del corazón
del rey: habló de las inocentes niñas de Su Majestad y de la virtuosa
reina, que según él corrían gran peligro si no pasaba la corona a las
sienes de don Carlos. Después pintó el estado del reino, en el cual
según dijo, no había un solo hombre que no fuera partidario de la
monarquía eclesiástica representada por el infante.
Fernando dio un gran suspiro y fijó sus aterrados ojos en el obispo
Este se sentó. Puesto en pie, Calomarde dijo que su emoción al ver en
aquel estado al mejor de los reyes, y al mejor de los padres, y al mejo
de los esposos, y al mejor de los hombres, no le permitía hablar con
serenidad; dijo que se veía en la durísima precisión de no ocultar a su
amado soberano la verdad de lo que ocurría; que había tanteado e
ejército, y todo el ejército se pronunciaría por don Carlos si no se
modificaba en favor de este la Pragmática sanción del 29 de marzo de
1830; que los voluntarios realistas, sin excepción de uno solo
proclamaban ya abiertamente como rey de derecho divino al mismo
señor don Carlos, y que para evitar una lucha inútil y el derramamiento
de sangre, convenía a los intereses del reino...
El infame hacía tales pucheros que no pudo continuar la frase
Sintiose que el cuerpo dolorido del rey se estremecía en su cama o
potro de angustia. Oyose luego la voz moribunda, que dijo entre dos
lamentos:
—-Cúmplase la voluntad de Dios.
El confesor silbó en su oído palabras no entendidas por los demás
y entonces la reina Cristina, sin mirar a las tres sombras, volviendo su
rostro al rey y haciendo un heroico esfuerzo para no dar a conocer su
dolor, pronunció estas palabras:
—Que España sea feliz, que en España haya paz.
El rey exhaló un gran suspiro mirando al techo, y después dijo algo
que pareció el mugido de un león enfermo. La reina tomó su pañuelo
y sin decir nada, dejando correr libremente sus lágrimas, limpió e
sudor abundante que bañaba la frente del rey.
Siguió a esto un discursillo del conde de la Alcudia confirmando e
dictamen de los otros dos apostólicos. Aquel famoso triunvirato traía la
comedia bien aprendida, y en el cuarto de don Carlos se habían
estudiado antes detenidamente los discursos, pesando cada palabra
El confesor dijo también en voz alta su opinión, asegurando bajo su
palabra que el Altísimo estaba en un todo conforme con lo expuesto
por los señores allí presentes. ¡Y se quedó tan satisfecho después de
este mensaje...!
Fernando pareció llamar a sí todas sus fuerzas. Claramente dijo:
—¿En qué forma se ha de hacer?
No vacilaron los apostólicos en la contestación, pues para todo
estaban prevenidos. Calomarde, fingiendo que se le ocurría en aque
mismo instante, propuso que el rey otorgase un codicilo-decreto
derogando la Pragmática sanción del 30, y revocando las
disposiciones testamentarias en la parte referente a la regencia y a la
sucesión de la corona.
Después de una pausa, el rey se hizo repetir la proposición de
ministro, y oída por segunda vez, Cristina volvió a limpiar el sudor que
corría por la frente de su marido. Con un gesto y la mano derecha
este mandó a los tres apostólicos consejeros que salieran de la
estancia, y se quedó solo con su esposa y con su confesor, el cua
salió también poco después. Consternados los tres escamoteadores, y
dudando del éxito de su infame comedia, no decían una palabra, y con
los ojos se comunicaban aquella duda y el temor que sentían
Calomarde y el obispo dieron algunos paseos lentamente por la
cámara, esperando que el rey les volviera a llamar, y el conde de la
Alcudia aplicó el oído a la puerta y dijo en voz baja y temerosa:
—Parece que llora Su Majestad.
—No lo creo —murmuró el obispo, acercando también su oído.
Entonces se abrió la puerta y apareció el confesor con las manos
cruzadas y el semblante compungido, imagen exacta de la hipocresía
Los cuatro cuchichearon un momento como viejas chismosas. Media
hora después, Cristina les llamó y volvieron a entrar. Fernando no
estaba ya incorporado en su cama, sino completamente tendido de
largo a largo, fijos los ojos en el techo, rígido, pesado, el resuello lento
y difícil. Sin mirar a los que habían sido sus amigos, sus aduladores
terceros de sus caprichos políticos y servidores de sus gustos con la
lealtad y sumisión del perro, Fernando VII les manifestó en pocas
palabras que aceptaba el sacrificio que se le imponía. Esforzándose
un poco, habló más para exigir secreto absoluto de lo acordado hasta
que él muriese.
Los tres apostólicos bajaron; encerráronse en un gabinete. Entre
tanto, la chusma del cuarto de don Carlos ardía en impaciencias
sobresaltadas y nerviosas, las dos infantas padecían atroz martirio. La
historia, muy descuidada en cierras cosas, no dice el número de tazas
de tila que se consumieron aquel día. El obispo, Calomarde y Alcudia
mostráronse tan reservados aquella tarde, que los carlinos se
impacientaban y aturdían cada vez más. No obstante, algunas
palabras optimistas, aunque enigmáticas, de Abarca al salir de
gabinete en que los tres se encerraron para extender el decreto
codicilo, hicieron comprender a la muchedumbre apostólica que las
cosas iban por buen camino. Finalmente, al llegar la noche, y cuando
se difundía por Palacio, corriendo y repercutiéndose de sala en sala
como un trueno, la voz de el rey ha muerto, el señor Abarca entró
triunfante en la cámara donde la corte del porvenir se hallaba reunida
En su mano alzaba el reverendo un papel, con el cual amenaza
parecía, o que lo tremolaba como estandarte o divisa de una ley