one of those convulsions of being which we know at the hour of a
great misfortune, when we see no possible refuge and all our hopes
take flight. If then a ray of light illumine some little corner,
we fly toward it without stopping to question.
Sisa ran swiftly, pursued by many fears and dark presentiments. Had
they already taken her Basilio? Where had her Crispin hidden?
As she neared her home, she saw two soldiers coming out of the little
garden. She lifted her eyes to heaven; heaven was smiling in its
ineffable light; little white clouds swam in the transparent blue.
The soldiers had left her house; they were coming away without her
children. Sisa breathed once more; her senses came back.
She looked again, this time with grateful eyes, at the sky, furrowed
now by a band of garzas, those clouds of airy gray peculiar to
the Philippines; confidence sprang again in her heart; she walked
on. Once past those dreadful men, she would have run, but prudence
checked her. She had not gone far, when she heard herself called
imperiously. She turned, pale and trembling in spite of herself. One
of the guards beckoned her.
Mechanically she obeyed: she felt her tongue grow paralyzed, her
throat parch.
"Speak the truth, or we'll tie you to this tree and shoot you,"
said one of the guards.
Sisa could do nothing but look at the tree.
"You are the mother of the thieves?"
"The mother of the thieves?" repeated Sisa, without comprehending.
"Where is the money your sons brought home last night?"
"Ah! the money----"
"Give us the money, and we'll let you alone."
"Senores," said the unhappy woman, gathering her senses again,
"my boys do not steal, even when they're hungry; we are used to
suffering. I have not seen my Crispin for a week, and Basilio did
not bring home a cuarto. Search the house, and if you find a real,
do what you will with us; the poor are not all thieves."
"Well then," said one of the soldiers, fixing his eyes on Sisa's,
"follow us!"
"I--follow you?" And she drew back in terror, her eyes on the uniforms
of the guards. "Oh, have pity on me! I'm very poor, I've nothing to
give you, neither gold nor jewelry. Take everything you find in my
miserable cabin, but let me--let me--die here in peace!"
"March! do you hear? and if you don't go without making trouble,
we'll tie your hands."
"Let me walk a little way in front of you, at least," she cried,
as they laid hold of her.
The soldiers spoke together apart.
"Very well," said one, "when we get to the pueblo, you may. March on
now, and quick!"
Poor Sisa thought she must die of shame. There was no one on the
road, it is true; but the air? and the light? She covered her face,
in her humiliation, and wept silently. She was indeed very miserable;
every one, even her husband, had abandoned her; but until now she
had always felt herself respected.
As they neared the pueblo, fear seized her. In her agony she looked
on all sides, seeking some succor in nature--death in the river would
be so sweet. But no! She thought of her children; here was a light
in the darkness of her soul.
"Afterward," she said to herself,--"afterward, we will go to live in
the heart of the forest."
She dried her eyes, and turning to the guards:
"We are at the pueblo," she said. Her tone was indescribable; at once
a complaint, an argument, and a prayer.
The soldiers took pity on her; they replied with a gesture. Sisa went
rapidly forward, then forced herself to walk tranquilly.
A tolling of bells announced the end of the high mass. Sisa hastened,
in the hope of avoiding the crowd from the church, but in vain. Two
women she knew passed, looked at her questioningly; she bowed with
an anguished smile, then, to avoid new mortifications, she fixed her
eyes on the ground.
At sight of her people turned, whispered, followed with their eyes,
and though her eyes were turned away, she divined, she felt, she
saw it all. A woman who by her bare head, her dress, and her manners
showed what she was, cried boldly to the soldiers:
"Where did you find her? Did you get the money?"
Sisa seemed to have taken a blow in the face. The ground gave way
under her feet.
"This way!" cried a guard.
Like an automaton whose mechanism is broken she turned quickly, and,
seeing nothing, feeling nothing but instinct, tried to hide herself. A
gate was before her; she would have entered but a voice still more
imperious checked her. While she sought to find whence the voice came,
she felt herself pushed along by the shoulders. She closed her eyes,
took two steps, then her strength left her and she fell.
It was the barracks. In the yard were soldiers, women, pigs, and
chickens. Some of the women were helping the men mend their clothes
or clean their arms, and humming ribald songs.
"Where is the sergeant?" demanded one of the guards angrily. "Has
the alferez been informed?"
A shrug of the shoulders was the sole response; no one would take
any trouble for the poor woman.
Two long hours she stayed there, half mad, crouched in a corner,
her face hidden in her hands, her hair undone. At noon the alferez
arrived. He refused to believe the curate's accusations.
"Bah! monks' tricks!" said he; and ordered that the woman be released
and the affair dropped.
"If he wants to find what he's lost," he added, "let him complain to
the nuncio! That's all I have to say."
Sisa, who could scarcely move, was almost carried out of the
barracks. When she found herself in the street, she set out as fast
as she could for her home, her head bare, her hair loose, her eyes
fixed. The sun, then in the zenith, burned with all his fire: not a
cloud veiled his resplendent disc. The wind just moved the leaves of
the trees; not a bird dared venture from the shade of the branches.
At length Sisa arrived. Troubled, silent, she entered her poor cabin,
ran all about it, went out, came in, went out again. Then she ran
to old Tasio's, knocked at the door. Tasio was not there. The poor
thing went back and commenced to call, "Basilio! Crispin!" standing
still, listening attentively. An echo repeating her calls, the sweet
murmur of water from the river, the music of the reeds stirred by
the breeze, were the sole voices of the solitude. She called anew,
mounted a hill, went down into a ravine; her wandering eyes took a
sinister expression; from time to time sharp lights flashed in them,
then they were obscured, like the sky in a tempest. One might have said
the light of reason, ready to go out, revived and died down in turn.
She went back, and sat down on the mat where they had slept the night
before--she and Basilio--and raised her eyes. Caught in the bamboo
fence on the edge of the precipice, she saw a piece of Basilio's
blouse. She got up, took it, and examined it in the sunlight. There
were blood spots on it, but Sisa did not seem to see them. She bent
over and continued to look at this rag from her child's clothing,
raised it in the air, bathing it in the brazen rays. Then, as if
the last gleam of light within her had finally gone out, she looked
straight at the sun, with wide-staring eyes.
At length she began to wander about, crying out strange sounds. One
hearing her would have been frightened; her voice had a quality the
human larynx would hardly know how to produce.
The sun went down; night surprised her. Perhaps Heaven gave her
sleep, and an angel's wing, brushing her pale forehead, took away
that memory which no longer recalled anything but griefs. The next
day Sisa roamed about, smiling, singing, and conversing with all the
beings of great Nature.
Three days passed, and the inhabitants of San Diego had ceased to talk
or think of unhappy Sisa and her boys. Maria Clara, who, accompanied
by Aunt Isabel, had just arrived from Manila, was the chief subject
of conversation. Every one rejoiced to see her, for every one loved
her. They marvelled at her beauty, and speculated about her marriage
with Ibarra. On this evening, Crisostomo presented himself at the
home of his fiancee; the curate arrived at the same moment. The house
was a delicious little nest among orange-trees and ylang-ylang. They
found Maria by an open window, overlooking the lake, surrounded by
the fresh foliage and delicate perfume of vines and flowers.
"The winds blow fresh," said the curate; "aren't you afraid of
taking cold?"
"I don't feel the wind, father," said Maria.
"We Filipinos," said Crisostomo, "find this season of autumn and
spring together delicious. Falling leaves and budding trees in
February, and ripe fruit in March, with no cold winter between,
is very agreeable. And when the hot months come we know where to go."
The priest smiled, and the conversation turned to the pueblo and the
festival of its patron saint, which was near.
"Speaking of fetes," said Crisostomo to the curate, "we hope you will
join us in a picnic to-morrow, near the great fig-tree in the wood. The
arrangements are all made as you wished, Maria. A small party is to
start for the fishing-ground before sunrise," he went on to the curate,
"and later we hope to be joined by all our friends of the pueblo."
The curate said he should be happy to come after his services were
said. They chatted a few moments longer, and then Ibarra excused
himself to finish giving his invitations and make his final
arrangements.
As he left the house a man saluted him respectfully.
"Who are you?" asked Crisostomo.
"You would not know my name, senor; I have been trying to see you
for three days."
"And what do you want?"
"Senor, my wife has gone mad, my children are lost, and no one will
help me find them. I want your aid."
"Come with me," said Ibarra.
The man thanked him, and they disappeared together in the darkness
of the unlighted streets.
XIX.
THE FISHING PARTY.
The stars were yet brilliant in the sapphire vault, and in the
branches the birds were still asleep when a merry party went through
the streets of the pueblo, toward the lake, lighted by the glimmer
of the pitch torches here called huepes.
There were five young girls, walking rapidly, holding each other by
the hand or waist, followed by several elderly ladies, and servants
bearing gracefully on their heads baskets of provisions. To see these
girls' faces, laughing with youth, to judge by their abundant black
hair flying free in the wind, and the ample folds of their garments,
we might take them for divinities of the night fleeing at the approach
of day; but they were Maria Clara and her four friends, the merry
Sinang, her cousin, the calm Victoria, beautiful Iday, and pensive
Neneng. They talked with animation, pinched each other, whispered in
each other's ears, and pealed out merry rounds of laughter.
After a while there came to meet the party a group of young men,
carrying torches of reeds. They were walking, silent, to the sound
of a guitar.
When the two groups met, the girls became serious and grave. The men,
on the contrary, talked, laughed, and asked six questions to get half
a reply.
"Is the lake smooth? Do you think we shall have a fine day?" demanded
the mamas.
"Don't be disturbed, senoras, I'm a splendid swimmer," said a tall,
slim fellow, a merry-looking rascal with an air of mock gravity.
But they were already at the borders of the lake, and cries of
delight escaped the lips of the women. They saw two great barks,
bound together, picturesquely decked with garlands of flowers and
various-colored festoons of fluffy drapery. Little paper lanterns hung
alternating with roses, pinks, pineapples, bananas, and guavas. Rudders
and oars were decorated too, and there were mats, rugs, and cushions to
make comfortable seats for the ladies. In the boat, most beautifully
trimmed, were a harp, guitars, accordeons, and a carabao's horn; in
the other burned a ship's fire; and tea, coffee and salabat--a tea
of ginger sweetened with honey--were making for the first breakfast.
"The women here, the men there," said the mamas, embarking; "move
carefully, don't stir the boat or we shall capsize!"
"And we're to be in here all alone?" pouted Sinang.
Slowly the boats left the beach, reflecting in the mirror of the lake
the many lights of their lanterns. In the east were the first streaks
of dawn.
Comparative silence reigned. The separation established by the ladies
seemed to have dedicated youth to meditation. The water was perfectly
tranquil, the fishing-grounds were near; it was soon decided to abandon
the oars, and breakfast. Day had come, and the lanterns were put out.
It was a beautiful morning. The light falling from the sky and
reflected from the water made radiant the surface of the lake, and
bathed everything in an atmosphere of clearness saturated with color,
such as some marines suggest. Everybody, even the mamas, laughed and
grew merry. "Do you remember, when we were girls--" they began to each
other; and Maria and her young companions exchanged smiling glances.
One man alone remained a stranger to this gayety--it was the
helmsman. Young, of athletic build, his melancholy eyes and the severe
lines of his lips gave an interest to his face, and this was heightened
by his long black hair falling naturally about his muscular neck. His
wrists of steel managed like a feather the large and heavy oar which
served as rudder to guide the two barks.
Maria Clara had several times met his eyes, but he quickly turned
them away to the shores or the mountains. Pitying his solitude,
she offered him some cakes. With a certain surprise he took one,
refusing the others, and thanked her in a voice scarcely audible. No
one else seemed to think of him.
The early breakfast done, the party moved off toward the fishing
enclosures. There were two, a little distance apart, both the property
of Captain Tiago. In advance, a flock of white herons could be seen,
some moving among the reeds, some flying here and there, skimming
the water with their wings, and filling the air with their strident
cries. Maria Clara followed them with her eyes, as, at the approach
of the two barks, they flew away from the shore.
"Do these birds have their nests in the mountains?" she asked the
helmsman, less perhaps from the wish to know than to make the silent
fellow talk.
"Probably, senora," he replied, "but no one has ever yet seen them."
"They have no nests, then?"
"I suppose they must have; if not, they are unhappy indeed."
Maria Clara did not catch the note of sadness in his voice.
"Well?"
"They say, senora, that the nests of these birds are invisible, and
have the power to render invisible whoever holds them; that as the
soul can be seen only in the mirror of the eyes, so these nests can
be seen only in the mirror of the water."
Maria Clara became pensive. But they had come to the first baklad, as
the enclosures are called. The old sailor in charge attached the boats
to the reeds, while his son prepared to mount with lines and nets.
"Wait a moment," cried Aunt Isabel, "the fish must come directly out
of the water into the pan."
"What, good Aunt Isabel!" said Albino reproachfully, "won't you give
the poor things a moment in the air?"
Andeng, Maria's foster-sister, was a famous cook. She began to prepare
rice water, the tomatoes, and the camias; the young men, perhaps to
win her good graces, aided her, while the other girls arranged the
melons, and cut paayap into cigarette-like strips.
To while away the time Iday took up the harp, the instrument most
often played in this part of the islands. She played well, and was
much applauded. Maria thanked her with a kiss.
"Sing, Victoria, sing the 'Marriage Song,'" demanded the ladies. This
is a beautiful Tagal elegy of married life, but sad, painting its
miseries rather than its joys. The men clamored for it too, and
Victoria had a lovely voice; but she was hoarse. So Maria Clara was
begged to sing.
"All my songs are sad," she said.
"Never mind," said her companions, and without more urging she took
the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.
The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they
seemed listening still. The young girls felt their eyes fill with
tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing
far away.
Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and
stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his
lungs the carabao's horn. There needed nothing more to bring back
laughter, and dry tears.
"Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?" cried Aunt Isabel.
"Senora," he replied, "I've heard of a poor trumpeter who, from
simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and
noble lady."
"So he did--the Trumpeter of Saeckingen!" laughed Ibarra.
"Well," said Albino, "we shall see if I am as happy!" and he began
to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas
attacked him hand and foot.
"Ouch! ouch!" he cried, rubbing his hurts; "the Philippines are far
from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted,
another put in the san-benito!"
At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.
The fisherman's son now climbed the weir or "purse" of the
enclosure. It was almost circular, a yard across, so arranged that
a man could stand on top to draw out the fish with a little net or
with a line.
All watched him, some thinking they saw already the quiver of the
little fishes and the shimmer of their silver scales.
The net was drawn up; nothing in it; the line, no fish adorned it. The
water fell back in a shower of drops, and laughed a silvery laugh. A
cry of disappointment escaped from every mouth.
"You don't understand your business," said Albino, climbing up by
the young man; and he took the net. "Look now! Ready, Andeng!"
But Albino was no better fisherman. Everybody laughed.
"Don't make a noise, you'll drive away the fish. The net must be
broken." But every mesh was intact.
"Let me try," said Leon, the fiancee of Iday. "Are you sure no one
has been here for five days?"
"Absolutely sure."
"Then either the lake is enchanted or I draw out something."
He cast the line, looked annoyed, dragged the hook along in the water
and murmured:
"A crocodile!"
"A crocodile!"
The word passed from mouth to mouth amid general stupefaction.
"What's to be done?"
"Capture him!"
But nobody offered to go down. The water was deep.
"We ought to drag him in triumph at our stern," said Sinang; "he has
eaten our fish!"
"I've never seen a crocodile alive," mused Maria Clara.
The helmsman got up, took a rope, lithely climbed the little platform,
and in spite of warning cries dived into the weir. The water, troubled
an instant, became smooth; the abyss closed mysteriously.
"Heaven!" cried the women, "we are going to have a catastrophe!"
The water was agitated: a combat seemed to be going on below. Above,
there was absolute silence. Ibarra held his blade in a convulsive
grasp. Then the struggle seemed to end, and the young man's head
appeared. He was saluted with joyous cries. He climbed the platform,
holding in one hand an end of the rope. Then he pulled with all his
strength, and the monster came in view. The rope was round its neck
and the fore part of its body; it was large, and on its back could be
seen green moss--to a crocodile what white hair is to man. It bellowed
like an ox, beat the reeds with its tail, crouched, and opened its
jaws, black and terrifying, showing its long and saw-like teeth. No
one thought of aiding the helmsman. When he had drawn the reptile
out of the water he put his foot on it, closed with his robust hand
the redoubtable jaws, and tried to tie the muzzle. The creature made
a last effort, arched its body, beat about with its powerful tail,
and escaping, plunged outside the enclosure into the lake, dragging
its vanquisher after it. The helmsman was a dead man. A cry of horror
escaped from every mouth.
Like a flash, another body disappeared in the water. There scarce
was time to see it was Ibarra's. If Maria Clara did not faint, it
was that the natives of the Philippines do not yet know how.
The waters grew red. Then the young fisherman leaped in, his father
followed him. But they had scarcely disappeared, when Ibarra and the
helmsman came to the surface, clinging to the crocodile's body. Its
white belly was lacerated, Ibarra's knife was in the gorge.
Many arms stretched out to help the two young men from the water. The
mamas, hysterical, wept, laughed, and prayed. Ibarra was unharmed. The
helmsman had a slight scratch on the arm.
"I owe you my life," said he to Ibarra, who was being wrapped in
mantles and rugs.
"You are too intrepid," said Ibarra. "Another time do not tempt God."
"If you had not come back!" murmured Maria Clara, pale and trembling.
The ladies did not approve of going to the second baklad; to their
minds the day had begun ill; there could not fail to be other
misfortunes; it were better to go home.
"But what misfortune have we had?" said Ibarra. "The crocodile alone
has the right to complain."
At length the mamas were persuaded, and the barks took their course
toward the second baklad.
XX.
IN THE WOODS.
There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one
expected to find there the crocodile's mate; but the net always
came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the
shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had
invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them
under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient
trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place,
and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of
the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly,
white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man,
the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.
The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among
the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many
windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course
of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on
the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood
flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less
known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed,
and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with
facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the
dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the
mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voices were
added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.
"We shall see if I find a nest!" said a sweet and resonant voice. "I
should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow
him everywhere."
"I don't believe in heron's nests," said another voice; "but if I
were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible."
It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their
eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious
nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts
wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies,
they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers
along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall
reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.
A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath,
well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and
streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls' voices. Farther
on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a
multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting
pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women
had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches
of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate,
the alferez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the
chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio,
father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not
yet ended.
"We dispute a point at law," Crisostomo had said in inviting him,
"but to dispute is not to be enemies," and the famous orator had
accepted the invitation.