By Night the Mountain Burns
Page 18
Time went by on our island and there was no news of our fathers, who were somewhere you went to by boat. The sun rose and set, it rained, we experienced the rain in the big village and then went to the settlements with our mothers when the dry season came. On our island, everyone went to the settlements where they had plantations. Almost everyone went, except for my grandfather and a few others who had reason to stay in the big village. Something must have happened with my grandfather, circumstances that I was never made aware of, because I have the feeling I never saw him again after leaving him on the beach by the cemetery. I left him sitting there, talking to the canoeman who had been transporting grandmother’s daughter, and I have the feeling I never saw him again, although when that man came crying to the house my grandfather must surely have been there and said something. But I don’t remember. As far as my memory is concerned, I left him there on the beach, the day we gave food to the Saltwater King. That was the last I knew of him, though in truth it probably wasn’t. That time and place is doubtless engraved on my memory because of the special circumstances. Besides, that was the day I discovered that grandfather was sick, and that perhaps because of his sickness he’d lost his job on the boat where he was captain, and was brought to the big village for someone to take care of him. He had a bag strapped to his stomach to put his leftovers in, his excrement. I don’t want to talk about it any more. But through grandfather I learned that such a thing could happen to a human being. And I think he was the only person on the island who suffered from it. So it gives me a funny feeling when I think about it. In any case, life went on and as far as I’m concerned I left him sitting there on the cemetery beach, and that was the last I knew of him until he died. When he died, on the very day of his death, they burned a lot of things from his room, things we’d seen when we went in there in his absence. But I’d rather not talk about it. I’ve said why.
So in the dry season everyone who could went to the settlements to work on the plantations and to harvest what they’d planted at the start of the rainy season. Those who couldn’t make the journey, for whatever reason, stayed in the big village, including the Padre. He never went to the settlements, not once. I’d have liked him to have gone to the village whose patron saint is San Xuan. I’d have liked him to have spent the night there. But there was no Misión house there, and if there had been, he’d have had to sleep on a bed of dry banana leaves. On a bed of dry banana leaves on the floor under a jambab’u roof. If the priest had gone to San Xuan’s settlement, he’d have been given a chamber pot to pee in at night. And if he’d had bigger needs, he’d have had to do them in that chamber pot and give it to one of the villagers in the morning to empty out somewhere, somewhere on the outskirts of the village. I think it was because of all these things that the Padre never went to the settlements and always stayed in the big village, at the Misión. But I’d have liked him to have spent a night in the village of San Xuan, the very severe patron saint of that place that has a beach like a cave. I’d have liked to have seen what happened between the Padre and the patron, whether the patron would have allowed the Padre to sleep.
We went to the settlements with our mothers, and those children who were old enough to walk walked and those who were too young were carried on backs. And almost everyone who went to the villages had to go down the steep hill that had drinking water at the bottom. That was the only way to get to almost all the settlements, unless you went by canoe. But woe betide anyone who tried to paddle their canoe into the cave at San Xuan’s village. The waves there were … Anyway, you got there somehow: there were too many things to do in the settlements not to go; you couldn’t just stay in the big village for the dry season because of the waves or the steep hill. For whoever stayed in the big village ran the risk of having nothing to eat in the rainy season. Or not having enough to eat: having too little to see them through the rainy spell. Eating fish was a different business. It was very hard to get fish to eat in the big village during the dry season. And there were two reasons for that: firstly, there were not many men around to go fishing; secondly, the sea was very different from the way it was when fishing was easy, for the water became cold. So to eat fish again, you had to wait until everyone came back to the big village and the weather turned. You led a different life in the settlements. Part of that life, something that happened when we were in the south village during the dry season, became etched on my memory forever. It was something that caused great sorrow, in me and in everyone else who witnessed it, and I will tell of it now.
That friend of grandfather’s, the one who came to speak to him the day they went to the cemetery, was in the south village, and someone asked him to build a canoe. As I said earlier, he was a maestro. A maestro in canoe building and in other things. For example, he knew how to speak to the Calabarians, and to dance like them. Anyway, he agreed to the request, went to wherever the chosen tree was, felled it and without further ado got down to hollowing out the trunk. The hollowing out stage is the hardest stage and so sometimes the maestro is helped by a younger man. In this case he and the younger man had made good progress, and they were working away when a woman came to see them with a child on her back. Who was the woman? She was the maestro’s goddaughter, a woman who’d lost her father when she was very young, then lost her mother too and was left all alone, all alone except for a sister. She’d gone to where the maestro was working to ask him a favour. She asked the maestro, her godfather, to take her to the big village because her son was sick. Her son had only just started crawling, so he was not many months old. And who was her son? Well in fact it was Luis Mari. She went to where her godfather worked to ask a favour of him. She was all alone in that village and her child was sick, her only child, a child she’d had after visiting the boat of the sailors who stole our fish. She spoke with a tearful voice and said that the white child was burning up with fever and there was no medicine in the south village, as everyone knew, so she thought she should take him to the big village, in case the man in charge of the hospital, or anyone else for that matter, had anything to give the boy. The maestro didn’t so much as look at the child, who was on the woman’s back with his eyes closed, sleeping; he accepted what she said and didn’t doubt her need. But the child’s sickness had come at a bad time, for all the men in the south village had already been told their help would be required that very afternoon to carry the half-built canoe to the shore where the final work on it would be done. And the canoe owner’s female relatives had been told to prepare malanga soup for everyone who took part in that arduous task. Everything was ready and everyone was all set, so the job of moving the canoe couldn’t not take place. That’s what he told her, but as she was his goddaughter, he promised he’d help her as soon as the half-built canoe had reached its final destination. He said that as soon as the canoe was on the sand he’d ask the canoe’s owner to take her to the big village to find medicine for her sick child, the child with the foreign father. The child whose father was from a friendly nation, albeit one that stole our fish. The young man who was the future owner of the canoe could not refuse such a favour, given his obligations to the maestro. And the maestro himself was old and he found certain tasks onerous, and he’d have found it onerous to paddle, with some haste, to the big village in a canoe that carried his goddaughter and her child. They agreed to do as the maestro said and the woman went home to wait until it was time for her and the child to leave. Hours went by and everyone gathered around the half-built canoe. The rope was tied, the rollers were cut, smaller branches and tree trunks were collected. They waited for the last people to arrive for, as everyone lived in different places, it took more of an effort for some to get there than others, so not everyone arrived at the same time. And then the mother of the sick child appeared. That woman, who had only one living family member, a sister, knew there could never be too many hands when it came to pulling a canoe to its final destination. She knew her strength ought not be wasted, for until it was time for them to leave with her sick child, she’
d be doing nothing, nothing other than waiting. So she went to help and she carried her sick son on her back.
The last people arrived and all the preparations were in place. The maestro checked over everything, looked at everyone, made the sign of the cross and announced that the long journey to the shore was about to commence. And then he sang that song which, as I said, is the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard:
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
And the transporting of the canoe to the shore began. Everyone pulled and sweated, and they took care to avoid accidents, to which end a thin rope was tied to the back of the canoe and held by a man who walked behind everyone else. He watched to make sure the canoe didn’t veer off the path and he pulled on the rope whenever it had to be stopped.
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
And they advanced a stretch. The men sweated, the women sweated, and that goddaughter of the maestro sweated even more, for besides pulling the canoe, she had a sick child to carry on her back. She’d worn a worried look when she’d gone to ask her godfather the favour and she still wore it, for the child’s sickness was serious. But nothing more could be done, for the plans were set and she just had to wait. She knew she just had to wait, and therefore she knew she ought to help, regardless of the seriousness of the baby’s sickness. The maestro also knew the child was very sick, although he hadn’t looked at the boy when his mother had come to ask the favour. He must have sensed it by some other way old people have of knowing things.
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
And they advanced another stretch on that journey to the sea. The men sweated, the maestro sweated and his goddaughter sweated with her sick child on her back. The path to the sea went downhill and the maestro had to shout warnings to the people pulling to make sure there were no catastrophes, for if the canoe slipped and they couldn’t get out of the way in time they could be crushed or knocked over. The maestro sang, the men pulled, the women pulled and so too did the woman with the child on her back. And if their hearts beat hard with all the effort they were making, her heart beat harder, for she was making the same effort as them but with the added heartache of her child’s sickness. The maestro sang and that song echoed through every corner of the south village. Anyone anywhere nearby heard that simple but meaningful song:
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
And they sweated, they took care, they moved out of the way when they were told to, so that the propulsion of their combined strength didn’t lead to a catastrophe. And they sang unceasingly:
Maestro: Aaale, toma suguewa,
All: Alewa!
Maestro: Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
All: Alewa!
And that song echoed around the bush and through every corner of the south village. And the men, the women and the woman with the child on her back went on pulling whenever the maestro said ‘pull’.
They all gave their energy to get that canoe to the shore. They stopped to rest several times over the course of the journey, and each time they did so the woman moved a little bit away from the others and took the sick child off her back. She perhaps did this to suckle it and also to relieve the weight. And although she took part in the pulling of the canoe just as much as the men did, she had to move a little bit away from them to suckle her child, for suckling wasn’t something men did and she couldn’t do it in front of them. They rested, then the maestro looked at them and started the song again:
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
‘Will you give it a pull?’
‘We’ll PUll!’
‘Will you give it a pull?’
‘We’ll PUll!’
‘Will you give it a pull?’
‘We’ll PUll!’
I ought to mention that alewa is not actually a word in my language. I’ve only ever heard it used for pulling a canoe to the shore, not for anything else. Like the ho of heave-ho.
Those men and women pulled to the limits of their strength, they were tired, they asked the maestro to let them rest, he let them rest, and then they took hold of the ropes and pulled again to the sound of the song:
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaale, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
Aaaalee, toma suguewa,
Alewa!
The woman was at the limit of her strength, but she didn’t give up, she couldn’t give up. She had the sick child on her back, but she had to keep pushing herself, giving her energy to help get that canoe to the shore where the maestro would finish working on it. If she’d had an older son, or if the son on her back had learned to paddle, he’d have been one of the boys asked to take the canoe out when it was ready. New canoes are given to children to ‘treat’. Treating a canoe means paddling it for the first time and for several days, long enough to find out how it handles. Once the canoe is in the water and given over to children to paddle, no further refinements are made, but it has to be treated, whereby the sap in the wood seeps out and saltwater seeps in. The canoe gets used to being paddled in the shallow waters before being taken out and paddled in the deep, and that’s why it’s a job undertaken by children, for they can only paddle in shallow waters. But the maestro’s goddaughter had no older sons; her only boy had not learned to paddle, for he was so little she carried him on her back; and he was sick. The maestro sang, the choir responded, the maestro sang, the chant came back, and everyone gave their energy to get the canoe to where it needed to be, on the south village beach. The patron saint of that place was cross-eyed but not especially severe. When they got to the beach, they rested a little and then went up to the village to eat the malanga soup that the women had prepared. They gathered around the cooking pot, but first they went home to fetch a bowl, for no family had enough bowls for so many people. They fetched their own bowls and then sat around on stones waiting to be served, and while they did this three people remained on the beach, three people unable to go up to the village to eat the malanga soup: the maestro, the goddaughter and the man who would take her to the big village. The young man gathered his paddling kit and put it in the canoe, which would have been a borrowed canoe, perhaps the maestro’s own. They dragged the borrowed canoe down the beach and left it at the water’s edge. In all villages with rocky beaches the sea demands your attention and you should never turn your back on it, no living being should. With the canoe at the water’s edge, it was time for the woman and child to get in. The banana leaves the woman would sit on had already been laid down in the canoe, but for her to get in she would have to take the child off her back. She did so, and in order to climb in and sit down, she handed the child to her godfather for a brief moment. The child was wrapped in the cloth she tied around her back and it was asleep, suffering from the sickness they were hoping to find medicine for in the big village. She sat down and her godfather handed the child back. She laid the child in her lap and they were now ready to launch the canoe into the water. From then on, it would be down to the seafaring skills of that young canoeman, down to his ability to guide them smoothly out of that bay full of black rocks and jutting cliffs. He quickened his hands and took hold of his heart, as we say on our island, and he pushed off out to sea. In almost all the bays of the settlements, a canoeman requires someone to push him off and watch to make sure a wave doesn’t come in and immediately knock the canoe b
ack, even send it careering into the rocks. That’s what the maestro was there for, and he watched them make their way out of the rocky bay. If something happened and an angry wave came rolling in to send them back from whence they came, the maestro would be their only hope. He’d have to throw himself into the water, grab hold of the canoe and try and keep it afloat, for he knew terrible things could happen if the canoeman lost control and the canoe was sent careering into the rocks. And there was a woman on board, a woman with a sick child asleep in her arms, so the canoe simply couldn’t capsize. But nothing untoward did happen: from the moment that young man jumped out of the water and into the canoe, he did as all men of the island did: he proved his skills with hand and paddle. It was important to leave the shore behind as quickly as possible, for it was a bay of unpredictable currents. And he was a skilful canoeman, as were all men in the south, and he steered the canoe clear of hazards. By the time he’d done this, the maestro had moved away from the beach and was standing further up, on a small mound from where he could see them better. When he saw they were clear of the bay and out of harm’s way, he shook his head, as if in disbelief at the situation, and he turned his back on them and the sea and went up to the village. The other men, who were by now eating malanga soup, had already taken away all the equipment that had been used to pull the canoe to the beach. You didn’t make the maestro carry unnecessary loads, because of his age and because he was a maestro.