Bridge in the Jungle

by B. TRAVEN

  He lit the candle, allowed a few drops of the hot paraffin to fall on his center mark, placed the candle firmly on these drops, waited a minute, and then touched the candle to see whether it would stand. He worked with great patience and still greater care. From all sides and angles he looked at the candle to be sure that it was standing absolutely straight. “If it were inclined towards one side even only slightly, success would be doubtful,” he explained while admiring his job as an artist would.

  A score of men and women watched every move the old Indian made. The longer they observed what he was doing, the more they showed an expression of awe in their faces. They might lose all their fear, even all reverence towards their Catholic priests. But they could not lose their deep-rooted fear, reverence, and awe for anybody of their own race who was considered gifted with divine powers and with a knowledge of nature’s secrets. If the old man had said: “Now I need the bleeding heart of one of you,” half a dozen men and youngsters would have stepped forward to offer it. Not so much out of sheer joy or of a faint hope of becoming saints in the hereafter, but merely because they had lost their own free will and had become spellbound. None of them would offer his heart or even a hand to please a Catholic priest. Their brujos and medicine men still held immense power over their souls and minds—in most cases for their own good.

  Everybody knew without asking that all of the old man’s strange and mysterious manipulations had something to do with the missing kid. No one spoke. No one interrupted the old man with questions. The more patiently he worked and made his tests, the bigger became the circle of people surrounding him. But they were no longer standing close, in their neighborly intimacy, as they did half an hour ago. The old man was growing into something which made him seem different and difficult for them to comprehend. Everybody was sure that he was trying to get in touch with the beyond on behalf of the child.

  He now lifted the board from the ground. As carefully and devotedly as a priest carries the monstrance, he carried the board towards the river-bank. All the people followed as if it were a procession.

  Those who were still on the bridge remained there to watch and learn what it was all about. The few who were still fishing with hook and pole also took notice and ceased working. They dropped their tools and came slowly forward.

  18

  An old, old Indian woman with a thousand wrinkles in her face, who was surely more than a hundred years of age, was squatting on the bridge. Like all the others, she watched the procession, but she showed little interest, let alone curiosity. She was smoking a thick cigar and puffed away with great gusto. Seeing her calm and philosophic serenity, I realized that it must be a very great thing to be a hundred years old and not an inmate of an institution for the aged, but rather the honored and respected chief of a family or a clan.

  After each puff she contemplated her cigar, apparently brooding over the sad fact that everything good on this earth must end sooner or later, even a good cigar. And a good cigar it was, no doubt, because its leaves had not been cooked, cured, toasted, perfumed, cooled, sweetened; and a shipload never coughed as long as you left it alone. From her lack of interest I conceived the idea that besides the old man she was the only one who knew what was going to happen.

  I squatted Indian fashion beside her.

  “Caray!” I said to her. “That cigar of yours is a good one. It smells like paradise.”

  “You’re telling me, me who made it! And besides, my young man, mind your own goddamned business. Get me?”

  It was too late to mind my own goddamned business. I could take it. So I went on: “What are they doing there with that candle on the board?”

  She looked at me with half—no, with almost fully closed eyes, and the wrinkles on her face trebled in number. Then, obviously satisfied with my bearing, she blew out a huge cloud of smoke, brooded over the loss of tobacco, and then said: “If you must know, damned gringo, if you must know how we do our things without asking your advice or permission, well, they’re searching for that good-for-nothing bastard of that lousy hussy—lazy bitch that she is—and if she had looked in time for her brat and what he was doing, we would not have to look for him now and call heaven and God and the devil for help. Never mind, young man, they will get him all right. Now they will get him out of the dirt and mud, now that at last they’re searching the proper way, as they should have done four hours ago and not waited until he is eaten up by the crabs.”

  “How do you mean, señora, searching the proper way?”

  “Searching. Yes, that’s what I said, searching. If that brat is in the river and nowhere else, they’ll have him in a quarter of an hour, provided there is not much current.”

  “How can he be in the river, señora? We have searched the river for hours and we have not found him.”

  She grinned at me ironically. Her teeth were thick, large, and of a brownish-yellow color. The gums had retreated so far that her teeth were laid bare to the roots, which made them look even longer. “What did you say? Oh yes, you said you searched for hours. What people call searching in these days, that’s what you have done and nothing better. How smart and clever you are, all you people of today! Talking of superstition and never knowing a goddamned thing about what is behind the world you see with your eyes—or you think you see while in fact you see nothing because you are blind and deaf and dumb and you can’t even smell. That’s the trouble you people suffer from. The way you and the others have been searching, well, my young man, you may be sure that you could search that way for seven days and you wouldn’t find the brat if he didn’t come up by himself. If you had waited until the morrow, there wouldn’t have been much of him left to show his father, that damned drunkard, when he comes back from that useless trip which anyway he made only to get booze. Every sane person knows that the little devil is in the river and nowhere else. The trouble is, there is not one single sane person around, myself not excluded, because I am just as mad and crazy as all the others. I tell you, my young man, they are all crazy here, waiting for the music to come and none realizing that the music has been here and playing for hours already. But they are deaf and blind, that’s what they are.”

  “I think you are right, señora. Only you see I can’t understand the meaning of that board with the candle on it. We have looked and searched with torches and huge bonfires for light. If we couldn’t find him with so much light, how do they expect to find him with that little candle?”

  “Borregos, yes, that’s what you are, muttonheads. You and your iron hooks and poles and sticks and lanterns, which are good for a dog but not for a human. The candle alone will find him as surely as it’s night now and there’ll be day tomorrow. All the old man has to do is watch where the candle goes, and wherever it stops, there below is the kid.”

  “How can the candle find him if we didn’t?”

  She puffed her cigar, blew out huge clouds, contemplated the cigar with dreamy eyes, and then scanned me all over from top to bottom to see whether I was worthy of being talked to any longer. It had all come out in bits which I had had to arrange in the right order myself to catch what she wanted to say. That was difficult because she mixed words of the Indian idioma with her poor Spanish. But she accompanied her words with vivid facial expressions and with an occasional gesture, so it was not so hard after all to understand her. Her eyes often opened wide and then they would sparkle like those of a young woman telling her intimate girl friend of her honeymoon experiences.

  All my attention was now concentrated upon the activities at the river-bank. I forgot to ask the old woman more questions, but I was aware that she was watching me, catlike, to learn what I might think of the strange performance I was witnessing. I was sure she was taking note of every move or gesture I made. No doubt I was gaining her confidence every minute. The fact is I was taking the whole rite, or whatever it was, very seriously; I would under no circumstances make fun of it or joke about it. After all, every religion is right and proselytism is always wrong.

&
nbsp; On the bank, a score of men were again forming a circle around the old Indian. He held the board with the candle on it before him. The flame of the candle was on a level with his eyes. I think the old Indian priests of the ancient Aztecs and Toltecs must have looked as he did at that moment if one forgot his simple peasant clothes. About him there was the dignity and the aloofness of the high priest who is about to celebrate a mysterious rite. Perhaps he would evoke the gods whom he knew and recognized in his heart, for the Lord to whom he and everyone of his race prayed in church dwelled on their lips only and never reached their hearts.

  From the corners of my eyes I saw that the old woman did not cease watching me. And still I had no reason to disapprove of what those men were doing. It was their business, not mine.

  The old woman, guessing correctly what I was going to ask her, suddenly said: “The kid is calling all the time. Can’t you hear it?”

  Perhaps I dreamed those words. Yet there they were. Rather dazedly I said: “I am sorry, señora, I can’t hear him calling. Did you say the kid is calling?”

  “That’s exactly what I just said. And you don’t have to be sorry that you can’t hear him calling. I can’t hear it either, the way we hear ordinary things. No human ear can hear him calling the ordinary way. It is the light of the candle which is hearing his calls. We can only watch and see the calling, but not hear it ourselves.”

  “The light of the candle? Did you say the light of the candle?” I was still not sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Or perhaps I did not really understand what the old woman was saying in her corrupt Spanish mixed with Indian lingo. So I asked once more: “Do you really mean to say the light hears the kid calling?”

  “Yes, and don’t make me believe you are too dumb to understand plain language. I’ll tell you something else. So far no one knows if the kid is actually in the river. But if he is, and I am sure he is, then he’ll call the light close to him. The light will follow his calling and it will come to him as sure as there is a God in heaven. And the light will stand by because the light has to obey his calls and it cannot do anything on its own account or of its own free will. Not in such a case.”

  It was night. It was a pitch-black night. It happened in a tropical jungle. I was in the midst of Indians, very few of whom I knew, and even those few I knew only superficially. What was it the old woman had just told me? What she had told me was something out of their everyday life, an ordinary thing. I wondered which of us was mad. One of us surely was. Anyway, in such a night, in a jungle, among Indians, whatever else the old woman might have told me would have sounded unnatural. The old woman simply could not talk any other way than she did. It was in harmony with everything. I saw clearly what the men were doing on the river-bank, so it could not be a dream. I was awake, And I remained squatting beside the old woman. She spoke no more, enjoyed her cigar immensely, and with a bored look in her eyes she watched the group of men preparing the mysterious ceremony.

  The old Indian began to speak in a loud, chanting voice. What he said I could not understand, because I was still on the bridge.

  Now he ceased speaking and moved the board before him three times up and down and three times sidewise and then once more up and down. After a short silence he raised his voice and again chanted a few lines. This time his chant was taken up by a dozen of the men standing around him and they repeated these lines as a kind of response.

  All the men had taken off their hats. Everybody near followed the ceremony with solemn zest.

  I leaned forward to try to catch the words, for I would have liked to know them. But I preferred to stay away even if I had to miss the words. Theirs was a religious service to which I had not been invited, so I considered it rude to go close when everyone was aware of the fact that I was not moved by faith, but by curiosity.

  I could pick up some phrases. I learned that in the main it was Spanish they spoke. Yet this Spanish of theirs was blended with words and phrases taken from the Indian idioma, which was still spoken by hundreds of families in that jungle region. However, the expression “Madre Santisima!” was used so frequently that it stood out clearly. I felt, however, that they prayed to the Most Holy Virgin only with their lips while with their hearts they were calling upon their ancient holy mother, perhaps to Cioacoatl.

  This ceremony lasted about ten minutes. The old Indian raised the board high above his head. The light of the candle was reflected in the water. While holding the board in this position, he chanted a few lines more. The audience joined him before he ended. And they all finished together. I listened carefully, but there was no Amen, only a sound like an owl’s hoo-oo.

  Quick as a flash Perez stripped. He stood in the water for a while. Then with arms stretched forward he strode slowly towards the old Indian, who also came forward until he too was standing in the water. With a solemn gesture he handed Perez the board and mumbled a few words. Perez gestured with his right hand over his chest and then over the board. Perhaps it was the sign of the cross that he made—perhaps another sign. When he received the board he also said a few words in a low voice as a response to the old man’s chant. As soon as the board was in Perez’s hands, the old Indian made similar gestures with his right hand over the board and then over his heart. After this he stepped back to the bank, walking backwards with his face to the board.

  Perez carried the board high above his head. He waded into the river until the water reached his chest. Now he stopped and waited until the water had calmed down again. Then he set the board upon the water with infinite care. When the board was floating he waded slowly back to the river-bank, facing the strange little raft as he did so.

  19

  The board rests quietly on the water as if it were deciding which way to go.

  Perez wraps his shirt around his loins and steps back from the river-bank. With his eyes fixed upon the board he keeps walking backward, then turns to the bridge, from where he can see better what is happening. As I was told later, the board might go straight to its goal, but it might also merely wobble, and in that case the right direction could be determined only by an expert.

  All the people present are spellbound. For moments on end they forget to breathe and then have to catch up suddenly, so that a ceaseless moaning comes from their lips. They seem to force themselves not to wink and their eyes redden and widen, which gives the crowd the appearance of being in a deep trance.

  Some men hold their hats in their hands; others have thrown theirs away. Nobody smokes any more. Not a word is heard, not even a murmur or a whisper. Only the singing, chirping, and fiddling of the jungle fills the night. This great jungle symphony is at times unexpectedly interrupted by a deep silence, as if the jungle insects were ordered to stop for two or three seconds, for no other reason than to break out again louder and more intensely than before. These sudden intervals in the jungle music deepen the mystery of the night and heighten the tension of the people who are waiting almost ecstatically for the miracle to happen. No one knows whether the miracle will take place tonight as it took place, according to their traditions, five hundred, yes, ten thousand years back under similar circumstances. All present have a faith which no power could shake. There is not one in the whole crowd who even for a second thinks the light could fail to obey the call of the lost boy. Of course, it would fail if the kid is not in the river, for then he could not call, and the light has no will of its own; it can only go if it is called. It will float down the river and disappear if the boy is not in the water.

  Suddenly that multi-headed body utters a cry and takes a deep breath as though there were only two very huge lungs in that body.

  The board has started to move.

  With infinite slowness it begins to sail away from the bank towards the middle of the river. Now it stops, wobbles, sways, trembles slightly. Then it takes again the same direction.

  The bridge is crowded with people. Those along the rim are kneeling, tightly pressed against each other, their heads reaching as far over the edge as possible
. With burning eyes they stare at the slowly moving board. Nobody breathes more than absolutely necessary, partly because of tension, but more because their breathing might throw the board off its course.

  I stand on the bank near the end of the bridge, from which point I can see the face of everyone kneeling along the rim. This row of eager faces is lighted by the new bonfires on the banks. The fact is I am far more interested in these sixty or seventy faces and in these bronze and dark-yellow bodies than in what the board is doing at this moment. The board I am sure will do its job all right. If it does not, it will be of little concern to me. Yet during the rest of my life I may never again behold such a grandiose picture, such a huge human body with threescore and more heads, all thinking the same thought, all concentrated upon the same hope, all charmed by the little flame of an ordinary candle. Their deep brown eyes reflect that little flame as if each contained a tiny, forlorn star. There are half-naked bodies, stark naked bodies, bodies clothed in rags only, and bodies covered with white shirts and white or yellow cotton pants. So thick is their black wiry hair that it looks as if these men had heavy fur caps on their heads.

  Against the simple and natural clothes of the men the women’s dresses from modern sweat-shops make a pitiful contrast. What sin have these women committed that providence could allow Syrian jobbers to hang upon those beautiful bodies dresses designed by immigrant watch-repairers starving in New York’s East Side? In their simple week-day skirts, even in their rags, these women are in harmony with the jungle, the river, the bridge, the asthmatic pump, the pack train, the alligators, the earth, the whole universe. Now they are aniline-dyed ghosts, foul bastards of the land, nobody’s daughters. Thanks to a merciful God and to Nature with its eternal good taste, beautiful wild flowers still grow and blossom in jungle and bush, and these women can pick them at their hearts’ desire and with them cover the ugliness of modern products. And it is only on account of the wild flowers and orchids of the jungle that these women do not lose all their contact with the earth which has borne them.