By Night the Mountain Burns

by Juan Tomas Avila Laurel

  I don’t know for sure how the sickness ended. What basically happened was that we waited for whoever was in charge of our destiny to decide what to do with us. The islanders knew there was nothing they could do by themselves to get out of the hole, so who can blame them for not doing anything? In fact, because that evil had a name, the cholera, and because it was a name we hadn’t heard before, it was treated as something new. I know that to try and combat the cholera we didn’t just drink water made from boiling guava tree leaves, and I know the adults thought the mass death was being caused by something that came from the sea. So people talked to the ministrants and they took the Maté Jachín and went round the island with it three times in a canoe. I never knew what the Maté Jachín was but, at the same time, I knew that it was the centre of our strength, the most pure, sacred and powerful thing on the island. The ministrants, and only the ministrants, knew what it was. All I knew was that the Maté Jachín was wrapped in a cloth and seemed to be the shape of a cross. And I also know that anything that had to do with the ministrants’ science and beliefs was shrouded in mystery and fear. Which is why their songs had such an effect on me. If the song about the cross and the crown of thorns brought tears to our eyes, the ministrants’ songs reminded us that they, the ministrants, were our sole protection from the evil powers that hovered over our island. I understood, from what I’d been told, that only the ministrants’ orations could save us from the worst dangers our island faced. Therefore, whenever I saw the ministrants praying, I thought the island must be in grave danger, that we were confronting the threat and magic of a very evil and powerful enemy. So I really didn’t like it when we had to appeal to the ministrants and I wished we never had to. Was I afraid of the ministrants because I lacked faith? Or did I lack faith because my fear of danger was greater than my belief in the ministrants’ ability to combat the danger? Whichever it was, I was afraid of the ministrants; their activities and their songs frightened me terribly.

  That axe hanging over us left the whole village exhausted. And while the evil was with us, no one could go to the southern plantations to plant and harvest. Practically none of the women went any further than their nearest plantations, between the big village and the Pico. And the men didn’t stray far from the big village when fishing. No one gathered or sowed anything of significance. People in the big village simply waited for the heavy hammer of unrelenting death to strike its next random blow. So for all that time we either didn’t eat or hardly ate, and when we did eat the food tasted bitter, because of all the crying, the bitter taste of tears. As children, we lived in constant fear, all the time expecting to be shut up at home so that the air of the dead couldn’t touch us, and when we had succulent chunks of yam and boiled banana placed before us, which were the daily food staples of our island, we stared at them as if we’d never seen them before, as if we didn’t know what to do with them. With so many of our adults crying, we lost the will to eat. With so many of our adults not only crying but disappearing, for back then we didn’t go to the cemetery and so we didn’t know where they’d gone, where they’d been taken. And also because there was so little fish, for although the yam and banana were succulent, we preferred to eat fish. We always did. But we put those chunks of yam and banana in our mouths and they tasted bitter, especially if in the corner of the house or the kitchen our adults were crying for that day’s death, or deaths.

  The weight of that axe left us exhausted because we lived with fear in our bodies, and because we didn’t know when the evil would end; the adults were exhausted not from work but from the tension of constantly expecting bad news, bad news that unfailingly came. Nobody ate, either because there was nothing to eat or because everything tasted bitter from the tears that ran down everyone’s faces in furrows from their eyes. It was a terrible time, truly the worst time in the history of the island. If witnessing the hounding of that woman was the singular thing that made the biggest impression on me, the cholera was what caused me the most tears. Because it took so many of our people … If it had taken one hundred people it would have made a huge dent in the island’s population. But it took a lot more than that. A lot more than one hundred girls and boys, men and women, were taken from their homes, put in a floating wooden box, buried in the graveyard and given a little cross. In total there were †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, †, † corresponding to the people who died of that violent disease. Some crosses were accompanied by handwriting done by those who knew how to write. Excluding the doctor, there was Mené Jachiga, Mamentu Lavana, Pudu Kenente, Maguntín Jambab’u, Toiñ Yaya, Pudu Toñía, Madalam’u Tómene, Pudu Gadjin’a, Masamentu Áveve, Jodán Tómbôbô, Majosán Ánjala Pet’u, Fidel Tompet’u, Madosel Menfoi, Chit’e Zete Doix, Nando Guesa Ngaiñ, Mápudu Chipa Longo, Saan’e Sámene, Xancus’u Menenov, Menembo Jalafund’u, Ximá Dancut and his three sons; Manel’a Vepanu, Saana Tábôbô, Mafidel Ménkichi, Mené Ze Palm’a, Pilinguitu Menfoi, Masantu Jadôl’o, Magutín Bichil, Menembofi Dadot, Santo Dadot, Mafidel Dadot, Másamentu Fadoliga, Mal’e Púluv, Menesamentu Guesagaiñ, Fidel Dadalán, Zetoiñ Padjil, Mafide’l Padjil, Yahií Padjil, Ndeza Liguilía, Rosal Tombal’b, Nando Lem’u Bass’u, Tusantu Dosal’u, Mámentu Jonofund’u, Majosán Zanja Gôôd’ô, Chigol Zampet’u, Mal’é Bojô Longô, Gutín Pendê Mozso, Chiit’e Masamentu, Joodán Pendê, Magutín Pendé, Ximé Jambuk’u, Doszal Sámpete, Fiip’a Tonchiip’a, Gutín Tonfiip’a, Madozee Menfoi, Majolé Ntelacul, Menembô Fídiligu’i, Gutín Lamabas’u, Jodán Menpix’i, Yahií Jázuga, Pudul Legaváan, Madalam’u Maapendê, Toiñ Babadjí’an, Mené Jandjía, Mápudu’l Jandjía, Madalam’u Awacul’u, Quilit’u Menedoix, Menembofi Japiz’a, Fidel Sana Jodán, Tayayô Meendjing’u, Nguzal’u Tómene, Mámentu Chipafend’e, Szebel’u Teszalicu, Ndêêsa Jonoxinc’u, Jodán Chiipagaiñ, Menembofi Límapeet’u. All were lowered into the ground to the Padre’s Latin. All were of adult age. Boys and girls died too, some without even having names, for on our island children don’t tend to have names until they get a little older. Little children have short names their families use in the home, but the real naming process happens later, out on the street; that’s where you acquire your real name, the name you’ll be known by for the rest of your life. The unnamed dead slain by the furious axe of the cholera were taken to the square in front of the church and splashed with holy water in the form of the cross, then carried to the cemetery and buried. By the end, there could be no wasting time with funerals, for the deaths came too thick and fast. Children even ended up being buried without a cross. A small mound of earth was left atop the grave to remind everyone that here lay a child too young to know its own innocence, a tiny being snatched away from its parents by the vagaries of nature.

  Did we count the doctor as separate? Did he not have a name? Why have I not listed him? All I can say is that back then it was normal for a doctor not to have a canoe because, working all day in the hospital, he wouldn’t have had time to go fishing. Furthermore, he’d have had to learn how to be a doctor elsewhere, somewhere where people didn’t understand the sea. So as an islander, he’d have needed initiation into such matters before he could have his own canoe. But the thing was, a doctor didn’t have to go out fishing in order to eat fish. Nor did he have to go to the vidjil. Every afternoon, those who knew he was a busy man would send a bundle of fish to his house and he would thank them with a smile. Everybody greeted t
he doctor because he was the only person who knew the cures for our sicknesses. He was therefore allowed to live like an incomer – in exchange for his charity, and also for his name. Such was his life when that devastating wave of death came to our island and he went to where he worked, to his hospital, the big village’s hospital. And when he learned what the disease might be, he opened all the drawers, all the boxes, all the cupboards and glass cabinets in the hospital, but he found nothing, nothing he knew or thought might combat that terrible evil. He went on searching, for the island’s need was desperate, and the only thing he did find he administered generously. Know what it was? The sick screamed out in pain from those awful cramps, writhed in agony on the ground and groaned aahs that rolled out to sea, out to the furthermost parts of the deep blue ocean; they sweated and they felt they were dying. So the doctor gave them something to take away the pain, and they closed their eyes and went to sleep, and they slept, and slept, and slept; and so they remained, asleep forever. What happened was that he gave them pills that put them to sleep, yes, but that didn’t stop the torrents from pouring out of them and taking their lives away. So those people moved into the other world without waking from their sleep, a sleep they’d entered into after taking the only thing the doctor could find in all the cupboards and glass cabinets of the hospital, the big village’s hospital. This only became known afterwards, when everyone could finally talk about what the island had lived through. And people wondered why those pills had been brought to the island in the first place, and in such great quantities that so many people could be put to sleep, in this case without knowing they’d never wake up again because life was pouring out of them and they were left with no water in their insides. You slept, you slept and you slept, in order to forget that before you’d gone to sleep you’d been screaming in pain and even found your cold sweats painful, really very painful. You went on sleeping, but you wet your trousers, your shirt, the mattress, the rest of your clothes, until you no longer had the strength to get up and tell the doctor that you still had pains, or to ask for the chamber pot. If you slept, the person who sat with you let you rest, or they cried in the corner for those who’d gone to the other world that day, or since the previous afternoon.

  And in that sleep, the sick rested in everlasting peace, confirmed a few hours later by a brief Latin prayer from the Padre at the door to the church. Right where the whole catastrophe had first been unleashed. Right there at the church door where that ominous incident had taken place, where the woman had come out of the church after meeting the Padre to surrender her life to those who showed no mercy to her, nor fear of anyone or anything. That incident that took place in broad daylight and about which no one wished or was able to speak. That incident that I saw with my own eyes, though I closed them when I realised they were planning to take the woman’s life, and I went running home, albeit having already witnessed an act of such wickedness it stood out even amidst something so awful: when I saw a stick thrust inside her female organ. I just couldn’t understand why they had to thrust a stick inside her as they beat her. If someone had told me right then that we’d all die because of that incident, I’d have said it stood to reason. Today, looking back, I see, or understand, that the incident and the cholera were part of the same sickness. And the cure for that sickness was beyond the reach of our adults for it was a sickness that was greater than them, and so it was able to dominate them. And on that island out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, nasty episodes unfortunately had to be explained somehow; something had to satisfy people’s need for a cause. Living so far away from everything else gave us a particular way of feeling. Of seeing, of thinking.

  Our house was on a street that passed through the town square. If you followed it all the way in one direction – north-east – you reached the sea, via the beach area where people went to attend to their physiological needs at night. Going in the other direction, the street ran parallel with the sea before bearing off to the right and reaching the cemetery. Therefore, when grandfather went to the cemetery with that friend of his, we could see him from the house, walking along with his arms behind his back. We could see the back of his head and even make out that haircut of his, so very lacking in taste. Our house had its back to the sea, presumably because grandfather wanted nothing to do with the shore or the ocean. And with that attitude, he presumably wanted nothing to do with what came from the shore and the ocean either, meaning we regularly had no fish to eat. And as I’ve already said, if you didn’t have fish to eat on our island, you didn’t put your pot to boil on the stone tripod of the fireside. And if you didn’t put your pot on to boil, you had a bad night, or a hot night if you resorted to chillies, that oh-so-painful alternative. Of this I have also already spoken. And our house had its back to the sea because it was located where it was and not on the next street, the one nearest the sea. That street had the same layout as ours, with the cemetery at one end and the beach where people satisfied their physiological needs at the other. But before reaching the beach by that street you came upon a clearing that might have been a town square but wasn’t. We played football there some afternoons, but it was an area of town that didn’t really correspond to me; if the people who thought it belonged to them were there, those of us who weren’t from that neighbourhood weren’t allowed to play. That place, that wasn’t a square or even a football pitch, always flooded when there was a lot of rain on the island. And even though the flooding only happened once or twice a year, that was the reason there were no houses there. It flooded so badly you could paddle a canoe across it and, as the water made its way to the sea, threatening nearby houses or actually damaging them, it dug a trench in the ground. When you looked at that trench you thought you were looking at the mouth of a river, albeit a river that was dry for most of the year. Any house built nearby had to be made out of cement or, if that wasn’t possible, reinforced with a cement base to protect it from what could be four feet of water. I’ve seen the devastation caused by rising water levels in the mini-lagoon, which was what we called it, or at least a name in our language that sounded like the Spanish for mini-lagoon: Lagunita.

  Anyway, I speak of the particulars of the neighbourhood and the Lagunita because on that street, the one that wasn’t mine but was the next one along, nearest to the sea, there was a house that you had to avoid walking past, or else hurry past very quickly. I hurried past just as I was told, but I always did so very curiously, very, very curiously. I’d say that along with my grandfather’s room, which I’ll talk about later, that house aroused more curiosity in me than anything else on the island. From my house, heading in the direction of the cemetery, there was a street that crossed ours, and at the end of that street, if you walked towards the mountain that burned, the Pico, there was another house that you had to avoid or hurry past quickly. That one was far from the beach and not somewhere we tended to go very often, so we didn’t have to worry too much about it, but whenever I did pass it, I did so curiously. But it was a curiosity I only felt by day. If for some reason I had to pass by one of those houses at night, I would run past if I was on my own, which was very unusual, or I would position myself on the far side of my companion so that he or she was exposed to the danger emanating from that house. Why were we warned about those houses? Why did they fill us with such fear? Well, in both of them there lived an adult, a woman in each case, and in other houses too, houses I haven’t mentioned because they were quite far from my house and so less relevant, and those women were imprisoned in their houses by the governors of the island. They were imprisoned not because they were sick, as with the cholera, but because of what was known about them. They were old, but they weren’t so old they couldn’t walk to their plantations and perform their farming activities, but they were not allowed to do so by the governors. They had to stay inside, at home. They satisfied their needs in chamber pots and one of their relatives had to come and empty the pot outside. Or if the woman lived alone, she emptied the pot outside herself, when nobody was looking, wh
ich was essentially the point of their being confined to their houses: nobody was supposed to look at them.

  Those female adults were obliged by the governors to remain in their homes and never come out. They were not allowed to go to their plantations and nobody sent their children to ask them for a burning coal to make a fire or to borrow some bananas, as is our custom. The woman might sometimes ask others for such things if she was desperate, but people would usually not answer the door to her, denying her the right to practise those customs of ours. And this was because the adults were afraid of these women too. In fact it was the adults who agreed to their being confined to their houses. Why? It’s a question worth asking again. They were confined to their houses because of their secret knowledge. Women like them lived like normal people, but at a certain hour of the night they started to feel hot, very hot – so hot that if they didn’t immediately splash themselves with water they’d fall ill. That’s what the adults said, and there had to be some truth to the matter for it had been talked of on the island for so long. Overcome with heat, they secretly left their houses in the middle of the night and went down to the beach to bathe. As I’ve already said, no activity took place on the beach at night. It was a dark place where all that could be heard was the breaking of the waves on the sand, a sound that was amplified because everything else was silent. What’s more, in our village it is very unusual for an old lady to go to the beach to bathe, even during the day. In fact, no woman of marrying age ever does so. Nor is it common for men of the same age to do so. Therefore, was it not rather strange that a female adult would leave her house in the middle of the night to go and bathe? Furthermore, seemingly a confirmation of the secret nature of the thing, she bathed completely naked. This was unthinkable for a woman beyond marrying age. The beach was not somewhere a woman tended to go to by day, unless she needed to send something to the south village, or collect a load brought from there, so what led them to go to such a dark and solitary place at night? Well, it was because of the heats that invaded them. The heats became unbearable after midnight, which in actual fact was not a time when it was particularly hot on our island. And when it was hot, during the daytime, those same women went around with lengths of cloth draped over their clothes, covering their heads and their backs. In any case, they were invaded by the heats, and it was said, the adults said, that it was because they’d been visited by someone. This someone didn’t visit just anyone, and not at just any time either, and that’s why those women were considered special. If any woman was discovered bathing on the beach at night it was treated as proof that she’d been visited by someone at night, a mysterious being that transmitted the unbearable heats. And because such things always required explanations on our island, it was understood that whoever visited the women at night was a powerful being, because the heats they felt were no ordinary heats. It was therefore understood that it was an evil being, a being that brought evil. A being, therefore, connected to the Devil.