Tip Marugg - The Roar of Morning

It is not completely dark in the room I am in, as there is a small fire burning somewhere. I cannot make the fire out itself. But I can see the flickering of its flames reflected on the massive roof beam above my head. The only sound I can hear is the guttural rattle I produce as I inhale the cold air through my nostrils and expel it feverishly, causing a dull pain in my chest. Where did the chattering women go? It’s probably the middle of the night and everyone is asleep. But it’s nothing new for me to be lying alone at night while other people sleep. Once again I am lying, as I used to, in the little square of dark.

But I am not alone. Someone is sitting at the foot of my bed. One of the old women? What has she brought now? Another bowl of iguana soup to build up my strength, or another infusion of lemon grass that she will make me drink while it’s still boiling so as to drive out the fever? I cannot identify the nodding figure.

“Are you awake?” I recognise the old woman’s voice.

“What? I don’t know. .”

“It’s best not to talk, it’ll tire you out. You must save all your strength to get better. Santísima Virgen , make this son’s body healthy again. Is there anything this old woman can do for you? Do you want a drink?”

“I need a pee.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I’ll just get the can.”

The blanket is shoved aside and with strong hands the woman rolls me onto my right side.

“Have I got my trousers on?”

“Yes, just a minute, we’re almost there.”

The callused hands fiddle roughly with my body. Then she says, “It’s hanging in the can. Go ahead.”

As the burning liquid leaves my body I experience enormous relief. Then I feel myself sinking back into the blackness of a yawning chasm. The last thing I hear is the splash as the old woman throws the contents of the can out through the doorway.

The grey fronds before my eyes turn into the green of a papaya plantation. I see endless, dead-straight lines of trees, their six-fingered leaves waving in the wind, and I begin to hope that the breeze they are sending in my direction will dispel all the pain. I look up at the white clouds gliding mysteriously past against the vast blue backdrop. The shadows are dark on the earth, but white in the sky. These clouds are the white shadows of things on the earth, the capricious silhouettes of mountains, trees, houses and people driven silently and aimlessly across the sky like insubstantial veils and fleshless forms. The spectacle does not last long. Low on the horizon a broad grey band spreads and in the far distance there is the dull, intermittent rumble of thunder. The white clouds and the blue backdrop darken and draw a new, hazy night over themselves. Everything goes black.

The next night — in my delirium, that is — I am a boy of about eleven. I am staying with my uncle, who lives on the mainland, and am lying on my back on the roof of the house. I am watching incredibly large white clouds being blown into each other by the wind, like fragile curtains, and finally being driven away to distant countries. The corrugations of the iron roof are hurting my back, but I do not move. Any movement would make the metal creak and betray my presence. And anyway I welcome the pain. I lie there motionless.

The evening dew makes the metal sheets freezing cold, and the soreness in my back is almost unbearable. I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes tight shut. Perhaps the pain will get so bad that I will die. In the morning, when the sun rises and the roof begins to warm up, I shall be dead: a corpse with eyes tight shut and clenched teeth. The birds of prey that live in the mountains will discover my body during their early morning reconnaissance and start to circle the house. Suddenly they will hang perfectly still in midair, and if no one in town is watching them, they will swoop like lightning down onto the roof. They will rip my flesh, greedily drink my blood and crush my bones. When their bellies are full, they will fly off with the remaining scraps of meat and bone to feed their young in their nest high in the mountains. Then it will pour with rain, washing all trace of blood off the roof.

No one will know what has happened to me. In the eyes of my classmates at the Colegio Aquino, I shall be a hero: a schoolboy who simply vanished off the face of the earth! The old women in our neighbourhood will say that it is not the first time a boy on the threshold of manhood has been abducted by an evil spirit. He’ll be lying at the edge of town somewhere, they’ll say, in some dark place where people seldom go, foaming copiously at the mouth. The men will jeer at the women and say the boy has met a rich lady who has fallen in love with him and that he’s now living like a lord in the capital. Who’d have thought it of such a well-behaved boy, brought up strictly and with a smile for everyone. My uncle the minister will call in the police to search for me, and if they find nothing he will send a sad telegram to my parents and probably pray for weeks for the return of the prodigal son.

I am lying not on a corrugated iron roof, but on a hard bed, and I have pains not only in my head, but also in my chest and throat. I am awake now, but I keep my eyes tight shut and my teeth clenched; I breathe laboriously through my nose. To judge by what I can hear, there are a lot of people in the room — men, women and children — and there is a lot of noise: the hubbub of the voices, the clatter of plates, pots and pans, and a scraping noise as if something is being dragged across the floor. I am surprised to find that, in spite of feeling pain all over, I feel at ease amid the turmoil of this strange room and among these people who are not part of my past. What am I doing here? Why am I not at home in my own bed? Is anyone missing me? Why am I not being rescued from this hole by my relatives?

“This one’s on the way out,” I hear a man’s voice say. “That lousy Violet Saint of yours is already cheering in heaven.”

“ Por Dios , Bencho!” cries an alarmed woman’s voice. “I wouldn’t say things like that if I were you. It’s just asking for trouble. You’d better cross yourself right away.”

Suddenly there is complete silence, as if everyone has disappeared and left me alone in an empty room. A new dream is about to start. I can see no images, but I know that I am in a secluded spot in the forest, and I inhale the scent of thick undergrowth and newly dug earth. I open my eyes to see where I am, but I am back on the hard bed again, with two female figures moving about at the foot. I cannot make them out with any clarity, because the dream seems determined to stay incoherent. Then my delirium is completely dispelled by the sharp sunlight that streams through the doorway and casts a pattern of rectangles across the floor.

My eyes adjust to the light and I can at last see the two old witches. One of them is a real virago, tall and wide, with an enormous head of curly hair that glistens hideously from an excess of coconut oil and looks like a nest of young snakes. She is holding a dove in each hand, white creatures with red eyes incessantly jerking their heads back and forth. The second woman is equally tall, but is thin as a rake and flat-chested; she holds a knife between her teeth and is tying a grubby apron around her companion. When she has finished, she pulls the blanket off me and rolls up my trouser legs. She takes one of the doves from the other woman and in one rapid movement she twists its wings over its back and holds it belly up in the palm of her left hand. Her fingers grasp the bird’s neck and tail, so that it can move only its legs. With her other hand she takes the knife out of her mouth and with one swift stroke slits the dove open from neck to tail. The bird makes no sound. With the same dexterity the woman presses the creature she has cut open against the sole of my foot.