When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  14

  Raul and Lucienne camped in a canyon at twelve thousand feet, close tothe timber line, where a fire munched pine logs and emitted wisps ofsmoke. Directly above them a lava cliff bulged and towered, an ominousflat slab, that had been chiseled off centuries ago. Time and erosionhad broken chunks that now cluttered the ground. Lucienne had climbedamong the lava blocks, noticing the various kinds of plant life pushingtheir way through. For her, this rock bowl had a spirit of its own.

  Two men had accompanied them on the ride up the volcano and, at supper,all had shared venison, rice and tortillas. Raul had shot a buck andit hung nearby from a tree. It was a starry, chill night, withoutwind. Raul and Lucienne bedded down under several serapes--the menslept lower down in the canyon. Only the sound of the fire and thestamp of horses broke the silence.

  After a while, Raul asked:

  "Are you asleep?"

  "I'm cold. Can you put more wood on the fire?"

  "Of course I can. Right away."

  "Put on several logs."

  "How's that?"

  "That's lovely. Now hug me. I'll soon get warm. The sparks areflying 'way up the cliff."

  "Are you too tired to sleep?" he asked.

  "It's not that.... I'm not used to all these strenuous things," shelaughed, her mouth against his neck.

  "I love you, my dear," he said.

  "Darling, it's wonderful anywhere with you."

  "Do you want to ride higher tomorrow?"

  "This is high enough, Raul."

  "How brilliant the stars ... at this altitude."

  "There are clouds again. It could rain."

  "It looks only threatening."

  "A wet trail won't help," she said sleepily.

  "We've got sure-footed horses," he said.

  "I climbed near here with my father, during the dry season. We saw theocean from the rim ... such a clear day," she said.

  "We used to cut wood below here. There's a first-rate stand of pine afew thousand feet down."

  The fire sputtered and jets of steam puffed. She felt the warmthpenetrating her serape, and was grateful.

  Her hand found his face. His hand found her breast.

  "It's nice to wake up like this."

  "Alfredo used to climb mountains. You know Alfredo Villasenor? Whathappened to Alfredo? He was a likable fellow. Your father wanted youto marry him."

  "He went to Europe ... and I don't know what became of him."

  "Did you like him?"

  "Very much ... for a while."

  He had a faded picture of Villasenor, mountaineer, Spanish,freckle-faced, well dressed, demanding.

  "I'm the sort who runs away to the mountains, takes his own woman, asorry Catholic, Lucienne. I've been thinking of my lapses. I professone thing and do another."

  His seriousness woke her a little and she said, emphatically, "There'ssuch a thing as tolerance--the scripture teaches that."

  "Not license."

  "Love sanctifies things."

  "Then will the Church accept us?"

  "Accept me?" she said, making it a pointed question. "I won't acceptthe Church. Hush, hush, Raul, it's time to sleep. Think where we are,up here, at the top of things...."

  "Are you warm?" he asked.

  "Very warm. Let me sleep on your arm."

  "Tomorrow we have a long ride," he said.

  In a matter of seconds, she fell asleep, breathing gently, her armsaround him. He turned thoughts over in his head while listening to awolf howl, high on the cliff above. How ridiculous to ask: Will theChurch accept us? As if Angelina no longer had anything to do with mylife. Yet, as he lay there, staring at the gathering clouds, he feltshe had less and less to do with his life. Guadalajara would claimher, the parties, friends, theater--Estelle Milan.

  It was drizzling when they awoke. They had breakfast around thecampfire, the horses tethered nearby, ready for departure. As theybegan the slow descent, the drizzle changed to rain, chilly, at timesfalling fast. To reach the regular trail, they filed through a forestof scrub oak. Shale made the going tricky, but the rocky area did notlast long. Once on the main trail, they quickened their pace andthen--like a great swab--mist puffed over them and swallowed trees andboulders. Because of the mist, Raul had trouble with Chico. Somewherebelow nine thousand feet they crossed a number of small cornfields,mist along their edges.

  "I wouldn't want to live up this high," said Raul.

  Dressed in white tropicals, Raul's men shivered. Raul felt cold and alittle shabby in old blue denim. Lucienne was comfortable in corduroy:tan jacket, dark green riding skirt, darker beret, raincoat. Italianboots, laced with yellow laces, reached almost to her knees. She lovedthe mist, and sang as they plugged along, corkscrewing through pine.Unpacking her plant press, she stopped for a rare fern.

  In a flash of sun, the mist broke and below them lay a rancho, a raggedL-shaped patch of lava rock huts with yellow straw wigs, a chapel andmunicipal building.

  "Are we going down there?" Lucienne asked.

  "I want to speak to the jefe."

  "It looks wild."

  "Haven't you been there?"

  "No, I've never been there."

  "The jefe wears _tigre_ skins."

  "You're joking."

  Raul's men laughed at her.

  A rough but short route got them to Palma Sola in the late afternoon,sun at their heels. Before freshening up, Lucienne and Raul went tosee some monster turtles lying in beached dugouts. Each one hadbarnacles on its wounded shell: how their red eyes begged for freedom!

  A fisherman, coiling hand line, put his foot on the gunwale, pointed atone and said, "It came from far off," as if he had a magical probe thatreached undersea and understood all mysteries.

  "Turtles stare in such a sad way," Lucienne said, as they went into thehouse. She spun her beret onto a chair.

  "They know they have to die," said Raul.

  "I like plants because they can't look at me, can't accuse, can'tplead. They never fill me with a sense of guilt and sorrow."

  At a window, facing the beached dugouts, she clasped him tightly,tasting the flavor of transience: she saw her parents' death, sawherself in Europe, thought of other lovers, other friends. Almosttearfully, she kissed him and said, "Let's get dressed for supper."

  "You must be tired."

  "Not too tired."

  At supper he said, "I'm afraid I have to leave tomorrow."

  "Can't you stay on a day or two?"

  "Can't we meet in Colima soon?" he asked.

  "Of course we can."

  "But it's never like here--or in the mountains."

  "It's such a closed feeling, people, too many people. Maybe we canmeet before I go to Guanajuato. When I wrote you about the mine itdidn't seem so serious. The manager thinks the mine is giving out."

  "So serious ... I hope not."

  "Without that income, what shall I do?"

  Breaking open a crisp roll, he studied her and considered the problem.He had descended the mine's moldy ladders. He had checked the ore, hadhad it assayed, had estimated the output. Few mines had less to offer,for both gold and silver ran low. The copper percentage might pay, butno copper smelter existed in Guanajuato.

  "I hope I can help. I'll send Senor Rul around to check for you.Maybe it's a case of mismanagement."

  "I trust my man.... He can't produce ore if there isn't any ore."

  "Let's not let it worry us, Lucienne."

  "I hear that the peons are quitting, are in revolt," she said, whenthey were alone in the dining room. "My people whisper. I pick upremarks."

  "What do you hear? Is it about Palma Sola?"

  "Other haciendas ... threats, anger, disobedience. It's as you'vesaid: they're turning against us. I'm afraid."

  "There won't be trouble here," he said. "Father has so many enemies,we'll have trouble at Petaca, if it comes anywhere. Three-quarters ofour land was Indian property years ago."

  "So was m
ine," she said.

  "If the peasants revolt, we must give in or fight. We have no choice."

  "Not a pleasant prospect," she said.

  "It hasn't been pleasant, sweating it out in the mines, sweating it outin the sugar-cane fields, up at dawn, down at dark, always in debt...."He reached for his pipe but did not fill it.

  "I don't defend myself against father's accusation of politicalidealism, weakness, call it whatever you want. I'm groping. But I cansee how the people suffer ... in almost every hacienda. Diaz wasn'tright for us!"

  "I hear of your changes at Petaca. People are amazed at what you'veaccomplished."

  "I like to help. I feed my people. If they're sick they get care. Ilet them go to Colima to buy things. I've canceled debts in the tiendade raya books. I talk over problems. Many places could do that ...but we have so much to live down at Petaca. I'm glad there never werebeatings and killings here."

  When he returned to Petaca he found a letter from Angelina, gay andtrivial. It heartened him until he reached the final paragraph: "Ithink Mona is really my dog, not Lucienne's. I think she won't alwaysstay at Palma Sola but will come to me, changing so prettily, her glassbones shining...."

  What did Angelina mean. "Glass bones shining?"

  In his easy chair, in the living room, he reread her letter; the lastparagraph continued to bewilder him. He thought of showing the letterto Gabriel, but dismissed the idea and crumpled the sheet and tossed itinto the fireplace. Holding out his hands to the blaze, he leaned hiselbows on his knees. He did not need a confidant but needed to bealone. Wind puffed across the house, making a wintry sound. Raul feltdisappointed when Father Gabriel appeared, rolling Fernando in hiswheelchair.

  _Glass bones shining_, Raul thought, seeing that his father was merebones, sunken eyes, perhaps accented by his new glasses. Fernandostretched out his bony fingers toward the fire and sighed.

  "The cold spell will help the corn," he said, his voice thin.

  Raul could think of nothing to say.

  "Nothing like a fireplace," said Gabriel, sitting down; he was tired,still fighting off his malaria; he, too, was hunting for thoughts."Raul, I see you've had the Swiss clock repaired. I've always likedit."

  "I brought it back from the jeweler's last week," Raul said.

  All three eyed the clock on the mantel, a white marble clock veinedwith black, thin and tall.

  "Humph ... you had your clock repaired, what of it?" Fernando said.

  Raul and Gabriel waited, ill at ease.

  "Time is for getting; get what you can before it gets you. You don'tfind it on a dial." With his good hand, he pushed angrily at the armof his chair; each man heard the tick of the marble clock.

  "While you were away last week," said Fernando, "I sold the horses inSector 9." The Clarin stared at Raul maliciously. "Senor Filar paidme sixty pesos per head. We've never done better. I stopped the cornplanting in 21.... That sector must be kept for pasture." He beat theside of his chair. "Sitting right here, I can manage Petaca. Mypeople understand me." His voice shrilled, broke.

  Raul walked over to the piano. Someone had placed Caterina's picturethere, and her face comforted him.

  "'A house divided against itself...'" Gabriel began.

  "God, don't spout at me!" cried Fernando. "Have some sense. Life iscruel."

  "Life is what we make of it," said Gabriel, very gently.

  Raul accepted the truism, knowing it was one thing in his father'smind, another in Gabriel's, and another in his own. He tried to remainsilent.

  "I don't like the bronze figure you had put on Caterina's grave,"Fernando objected.

  "I haven't seen it yet," said Raul.

  "You're ostentatious," said Fernando.

  "It was done out of love," said Raul, moving close to the front windowswhere he could see the forecourt.

  With a jolt, Fernando remembered his love for Caterina, remembered thechild reading to him, feeding him, remembered his old, old longings foraffection. His fear of death came again; he floundered, hoping hemight touch something kind before the end.

  "Yes ... yes, I'm sure ... it was love," he admitted.

  "What did you say?" Raul asked.

  "It was love ... not ostentation. But I would have put something elseon her grave ... not a statue of a girl."

  "What would that have been?" asked Gabriel, curious at this about-face.

  "An animal, a frog, a bird ... I think I would have put a bird there."

  "I thought of putting her sundial there, her noonday cannon," said Raul.

  "Get me a cigarette," said Fernando, to Gabriel.

  "I'll light one for you," said Gabriel.

  The ticking of the clock came into being again.

  Fernando's thoughts faded backward into time: he heard his fatherspeak. His head throbbed. Everything had grown indistinct. What wasthe purpose of death? Was death talking to someone who never listened?Was death shoving something inside something already black?

  "I want to go to bed," Fernando said. "Push me. Help me to bed,Gabriel."

  Raul tried to say good night but could not utter a word and neithercould Fernando. A rubber tire on the wheel chair squeaked; the windand the clock continued. His feet toward the fire, he thought ofLucienne and their mountain trip; then he got up and got his jacket andwent outside, the wind whipping his hair. So the little figurine hadbeen placed beside the grave.

  He found the statue just as he had hoped it would be, the right size,the right pose. True to the artist's sketches, a young girl carried abouquet of roses and contemplated them lovingly. The bronze had manylights and shadows. A gust of wind blew Raul's jacket, as he stoodthere, looking.

  Manuel, carrying a large box of sea shells, found him testing thestatue's base, for balance and security.

  "I like it very much," Raul said.

  "It's beautiful," Manuel said, setting down the box. "I had them placeit for you. Is it all right?"

  "It's just the way I wanted it."

  Manuel began laying down shells, one by one, in a design around thebase of the figure, white shells, most of them identical in size, aboutas big as the hand.

  Raul found a spade and began leveling behind the statue, where Manuelhad not placed his shells.

  "Shall I lay them in rows, here?"

  "I like them that way, Manuel."

  Blackbirds shot past on the wind; a large white butterfly wobbled by,as if injured; on a mound of sand an iguana scratched its way over avine, its head cocked toward the men.

  Spade in hand, Raul stepped to a crooked marker that read AlbertoSaenz, in jagged lettering. The musician had died during Raul'sGuadalajara trip. Raul missed him now. So there would be no morecedar harp at the fiestas.

  Manuel said that his box of shells was empty and that he was going formore.

  "I'll go with you," Raul said.

  They walked together, and Raul asked, "Was Alberto born at Petaca?"

  "Yes. His father was born here too."

  "Who'll play the harp for us now?"

  "Cipriano."

  "Cipriano's only a boy."

  "He plays well."

  "Do you know who taught him?"

  "Alberto," said Manuel.

  "How time passes," said Raul.

  He and Manuel found cowboys struggling with a bull, outside the maincorral, the bull flat in the mud near a watering trough, three lariatson him. While mounted cowboys kept the lariats tight, a veterinarianstuck a hypodermic needle in the animal. The bull bellowed. At asignal, the lariats went limp and the bull struggled to his feet andmade off.

  The veterinarian, a small man wearing a five-gallon hat, explained thebull's serious condition to Raul, emptying his hypodermic as he talked.

  He had been trained in northern France and had ideas and methods oftreatment frowned upon by most _hacendados_. Raul welcomed his care,for under his supervision Petaca cattle losses had decreased 20 percent.

  In the dying light the volcano had a
greenish mist over it and, with nosmoke coming out of the crater, expressed indolence: it said men willdawdle in hammocks and rest on _petates_, that fruit will have time toripen, that birds will be able to build their nests wherever they wantto, that animals will find cool hideouts to escape the summer heat ...nothing will change, only the clouds, the flying things, maybe a fish,nothing more.

  Raul understood the lie, and grinned back at the old king.