Juan Ávila Laurel - By Night the Mountain Burns

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 back, 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.