Juan Ávila Laurel - By Night the Mountain Burns

‘Goodbye mothers, goodbye children, Dios will know where to find you down in the abyss, and he’ll guide you to his bosom, or to a place without suffering, for you have died a painful death,’ said a woman, and, as she said it, she recalled she’d just heard the Padre ’s Latin, and she opened her throat to launch into that song that was not really a song but something that made the spirit shake. Something which was no mere lament. And, faced with so much death, there was no reason for her to stop crying. So she cried, and cried, and cried …

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.