By Night the Mountain Burns

by Juan Tomas Avila Laurel

  What motivated them to do what they did? I’ve already said. It was what the family members kept in their hearts, which were the dying words of the ministrant. The morning he died, that woman, the wife of Toiñ, a man who spoke so slowly and softly, that woman, who was a she-devil, left her house and followed the ministrant; when she saw him climb the palm tree, she made him fall using the black magic she’d learned from the being that visited her at night. She was a she-devil, so when everyone else slept in their beds at night, she started to feel suffocating heats, she took off her clothes, opened the door to her house and ran down to the beach to bathe in the sea. And if neither her husband nor her two daughters, the two sisters who caused the fire on the Pico, had ever seen her do this, or were even aware that it happened, how could they be blamed for what she did? The daughters had never noticed the terrible thing that happened to their mother at night. They were totally unaware of it. They weren’t she-devils themselves and they were oblivious to her having been one. And maybe that’s why they didn’t believe in the reasons the ministrant’s family had for doing what they did. They were not she-devils and they could not understand how a woman who had not gone up the palm tree and grabbed hold of the harness and thrown the man out of the tree could be said to have caused the accident. But they did not know what someone visited by a strange being in the night is capable of. When did she take her clothes off? Before the visit? Afterwards? As far as the senior ministrant’s sons and daughters were concerned, their father had been followed by the she-devil and, if she hadn’t been seen there in person, it was because she’d caused the accident that killed him by using her black magic. If the senior ministrant had seen her in person before he climbed that palm tree, he wouldn’t have climbed it. He’d have gone home and waited for another day. But she-devils don’t always let themselves be seen, and it’s possible the man didn’t even know he’d been followed that morning, for he might never have looked over his shoulder. On our island, any woman being followed by a she-devil would have realised it, for she would have felt a ‘weighing’ at her back and she would have stepped aside to allow the she-devil to pass. This I know from my grandmother. She was once on her way to the plantations with one of her grandsons when she felt someone staring at her with great intensity. She looked over her shoulder and saw a woman coming, a woman who people talked about on account of her suspicious behaviour. So my grandmother stepped aside to let the woman pass, but the woman refused to go on ahead and stepped off the path herself, as if to pee. She remained standing but she lifted up her clothes, put her hand between her legs and let out her stream, or at least it’s assumed she did. Everything on the paths to the plantations is governed by rules of courtesy, so my grandmother didn’t wait and watch, rather she went on walking, with the boy out in front. What a cheek that woman had. For this behaviour alone she deserved a reprimand; it truly was suspiciously she-devilish behaviour. They went on walking and my grandmother felt the weighing at her back again but, whenever she stopped, the other woman refused to pass. When they reached a fork in the path, my grandmother called the boy back, for he’d gone on ahead as he knew where they were going. But my grandmother decided to take another route and follow a path that led to a place where there were no plantations. She’d therefore never been down that path before. She was only taking it to escape the other woman’s harassment. As the path forked, my grandmother veered off to the right, while the other woman went straight on. But after a certain time had passed, my grandmother felt the weighing and the harassment again, very strongly, and she knew that other woman had evil intentions. Not wanting the day to be spoiled, my grandmother told the boy to stop, and they turned round and headed in the opposite direction, to a totally different plantation, one she hadn’t thought of going to that morning.

  But the men, who were not at all acquainted with the paths to the plantations and what might be encountered on them, felt only the weight of the harnesses on their shoulders and the axes slung over their backs.

  Why am I recounting all this? That woman was buried as if nobody knew her. Only a handful of men dug the grave, with her husband unable to help due to his broken arm, and two men made the coffin. It was a struggle to carry, for those sisters had no husbands on whose shoulders it could be hoisted. The two men who made the coffin found two others to help, and for those four men that funeral would live long in their memories. Four men was the bare minimum for carrying a coffin, so there was no opportunity to swap shoulders, no respite, and the dead are said to weigh heavy. I can picture the scene, for I know they did at least bury her in a coffin. But I don’t know any more than that. I think she was buried without anyone wanting or choosing to be there, and that Toiñ and her two daughters went to the cemetery as if they were visiting her tomb, dressed in black and with their heads shaved. They didn’t cry much, neither in the house nor out on the street, for although their hearts were full of lament, they held back their tears, knowing nobody would help them cry like the women usually did, with singing. No one would accompany them in their grief, even though their mother’s death had been the saddest event the island had ever known. And no one would accompany the sisters in their grief because the dead woman was a she-devil, and anyone who cried for a she-devil in public would have to justify themselves. Why are you crying for a she-devil? Why are you crying for a she-devil you weren’t even related to? What are you crying for? The rest of us turned our backs on her long ago.

  I’ve never stopped thinking about that woman. As I’ve already said, the incident affected me a great deal. It’s something I’ll never forget, something I’ll always think about and reflect upon. I’ll always have my views on what happened. And I ought to add that my views are the same now as they were then, when it happened: my views haven’t changed. For example, even as a child, I thought there was no way that woman could have been responsible for the accident that caused the ministrant’s death. Not because I felt particularly inclined to defend that woman, or didn’t think she was a she-devil or that she-devils were capable of doing such things. No, the reason I didn’t believe that woman was responsible was that I believed a ministrant’s powers were greater than a she-devil’s. I couldn’t believe a she-devil could follow a ministrant to the plantations with the intention of making an attempt on his life and the ministrant wouldn’t find out and defend himself from whatever trap she laid. With the Maté Jachín, the white tunics they wore, their mysterious songs and all their followers, which was basically the whole island whenever there was danger – I couldn’t believe that, with all that, he couldn’t defend himself against a she-devil, couldn’t use eyes in the back of his head to see her coming, see her following him, scheming to use her evil to make him slip out of the harness or lose his footing and fall to the ground.

  Therefore I thought that woman was innocent, though not for one moment did I stop thinking she was a she-devil and therefore dangerous. In fact, I was very afraid of going down her street. When news first reached us that the ministrant had died and that a she-devil was implicated, I immediately thought she must have secretly followed him to the palm tree, waited until he’d climbed to the top, sneaked over, shrieked at the top of her voice, a deafening voice she-devils are capable of producing, and given the man such a fright that he fell from the tree to his death. But I was told later that it didn’t happen like that, that her arts had been darker, more silent. More like when she sent a piece of wood into a child. It was then that I thought it couldn’t have been her.

  I am a cristiano, a practising one, and the only reason I haven’t been married to my wife by the church is that in the traditions of the island, marriage is a couple’s final act. First they do everything else, then they get the wedding suit and talk to the Padre about marriage. I continue to believe in Dios, in my faith and in the doctrina. But in spite of all this, and think of me what you will, I don’t believe that woman, the she-devil I’ve been talking about, went to heaven. She didn’t go to heaven, nor is she ever going to go, if indeed it’s true that s
ome chosen ones go there later, rather than immediately after their death. And what I believe is hard to explain and justify. But it’s got nothing to do with her being a she-devil, or my belief that she-devils don’t go to heaven because of their wickedness and night visits. That’s to say, I don’t think she didn’t go to heaven because of what she was. If it were just a matter of what she was, there’d be no doubt in my mind: I’ve never thought for a second that she-devils go to heaven; none of them do, not a single one. The reason I don’t think she went to heaven, wasn’t granted salvation by Dios even though she confessed and received Communion, has to do with the way she died. That woman died having been abandoned by the entire village, having run naked before us, having pleaded for help that didn’t come, having bled profusely. Died out in the open. And no one went to her funeral. When she was alive, she only ate food given to her by her daughters, and only those two daughters and her husband could accept food from her. Food or drink. Practically nobody ever greeted her, nor did she greet anybody, for she knew people were afraid of her and fled from her wherever she went. She was beaten to death and, if nobody tried to save her, it was because they wouldn’t forgive her. And she would have needed the island’s forgiveness in order to go to heaven. Yes, I know Dios forgave her, through the priest, but she didn’t receive our forgiveness and she therefore couldn’t have gone to our heaven. Or she could have gone, but she’d have had to go alone. A woman who dies hated by her people can’t go to heaven. Where would they put her? Not in the same place as us, we who condemned, mistreated and refused to help her, for I can’t see how friendships can be rebuilt after the Final Judgement. And although I believe she would cease to be a she-devil in heaven, the way people acted towards her on the island was not wholly down to her being a she-devil. What I mean is that the island’s attitude towards her cannot solely be explained by her having been a she-devil. Therefore people were not suddenly going to start laughing and joking with her in heaven, going round to her house and eating her food, not after what they’d done to her. And if reconciliation was an impossibility, she couldn’t go to heaven. On one side of heaven you’d have everyone from the island, including the senior ministrant, for there was no doubting he went to heaven, for he was a senior ministrant, and on the other side you’d have her, the she-devil. A she-devil can’t go to the same place as a ministrant. And anyway, if anyone deserves damnation it’s a she-devil. That’s to say, I can’t see how we, everyone else on the island, including the senior ministrant, could be damned so that a she-devil might be saved. So I’ve never believed that woman went to heaven, even though she confessed and received Communion.

  I don’t know if I have these convictions and feelings about the she-devil’s salvation, or lack thereof, because of the Padre’s attitude and the way it became engraved on my memory. What I mean is, if I don’t think the woman went to heaven, it’s because of feelings I still have about that day, feelings I’m not always aware of or able to express. Not believing she was granted salvation is my way of suffering for what the Padre failed to do, my way of saying I don’t agree with him or what he did; that despite the fact that he took her confession and gave her Communion, I don’t believe she went to heaven. It could of course be argued that deep down it’s my way of fighting the Misión or the doctrina. The events of that day affected me a lot, so it’s possible that something changed in me beyond my control. I accept this, and I’m conscious that I always thought the situation should have been handled differently, that the Padre should have acted differently. If there was any sinning involved, the only person who suffered from it was the she-devil. And Dios me perdone, but if that woman had been my mother, I’d have preferred it if she hadn’t confessed or received Communion, but had been saved from death. Especially that death. That was no ordinary way to die. The way I see it, the Padre considered only the fact that he had a woman before him who needed confession and Communion; he ignored the fact that she was about to die, and how it was going to happen. I believe, and Dios me perdone again, that the Padre would have done a great deal more by preventing her death. And I know he could have prevented it. And on a personal level, if that woman, that she-devil, had died without confessing and taking Communion, it would have made no difference to me, so long as she hadn’t died the way she did. If it was only a matter of the woman’s spiritual needs then fine, that’s her business, but it wasn’t only that: those events affected everyone. What would the priest have done if the woman had been his sister? Or his brother? Yes, the Padre was a white man, but even white priests have brothers and sisters. What happened on our island that day was a sin committed by many people at once. It should therefore have been resolved in a way that implicated everybody. As I see it, by hearing her confession the Padre left the matter only half resolved. And I refer solely to the confession. When a wicked thing happens in a village, its negative consequences scatter into the air and are left hanging until a ceremony of purification is performed. That’s why I say the Padre only half resolved things. If I’d had the learning of a priest, or if I’d been an adult at the time, I’d have ended up arguing with the Padre. If a man lets his own house burn, or lets the village he lives in burn because of a fire started by his neighbours, I don’t believe that man goes to heaven. I don’t believe such a man can be admitted into heaven.

  After death had called a ceasefire on the island, a friend of my grandmother’s came to the house to ask for a boy to accompany her to the south village, for she didn’t want to go there alone. The woman was a distant relative of my grandmother and had no children of her own, or if she had them, they were in the same place as the fathers of all the children in our house. It seemed a lot of fathers of children on our island were in that place that you went to by boat. My grandmother could not deny the woman such a favour, so she told me to go with her. I was to live with that woman for as long as she stayed in the south village, I was to accompany her to her plantations and give her someone to talk to. The time of year was approaching when most families moved to the settlements to spend a few months there, planting and harvesting, but that year many families chose not to go. They preferred to stay in the big village and cry for their dead. Therefore, anyone who went to the southern settlements on their own, without company, would have a miserable time, especially a woman. The bush was a lonely place, its atmosphere thick with the sorrow that had spread throughout the island. And in such an atmosphere, it wasn’t uncommon for the spirits of the dead to make their presence felt. In such circumstances, a woman was easily frightened on the plantations. Whenever she heard a sound, especially the cry of the bird with the black and yellow feathers, she’d see it as a sign that the spirits of the dead were present, and this would unnerve her. But if she had a boy to accompany her, she’d mutter something under her breath and go on with her business, or she’d perhaps recall someone close to her who’d died and recognise that someone in the form of the bird with the black and yellow feathers. That bird represents the spirit of the dead on our island and is never eaten.

  So, somewhat reluctantly, I accompanied that friend of grandmother’s to the south village. There were very few people there and, if it wasn’t quite as desolate as we’d expected, the people who were there were very spread out, meaning there were lots of gaps in the village, gaps filled by the sorrow that extended over the island. Walking about the south village, you’d see a closed-up house, two sticks criss-crossed over the door at right angles. You’d pass that house and see another one just the same, with two sticks in the same position, and another, and another, and another. And because you knew the village you knew whose houses they were, and you knew that some of those houses would never be opened again, or at least not for many years, because their owners had perished, taken away by that wave of the cholera. Somewhere in the big village cemetery there would be a †, and most likely no other details, for whoever planted that cross probably didn’t know how to write, not even a date. You’d see another house shut up with sticks and, outside it, you’d see the stone
tripod of the fireside but no pot boiling with banana-leaf parcels. And beneath the house’s jambab’u roof you’d see the stones the owners sat on when they were in the south village, and you’d see how the stones had become coloured with age, a sign that nobody had sat on them for a long time. And you passed another house, and another, and another, and in the next one a friend of yours used to live, a friend you’d never see again. They told you he died of the cholera and you couldn’t go and see them bury him because you were only a child. And if you cried out in the south village, you heard an echo at the other end of the village, as if the emptiness dispersed your cry so that it might reach those who were no longer there, those that might have been present in the form of a black and yellow bird.