by Clare Dudman
The hunting ground to the north of the valley is flat, and almost empty of vegetation. From time to time a small swirl of dust builds up into something larger – a ghost-like cloud hovering above the ground. Up until now it has seemed to Silas that that is all there is: distant layers of higher rock and closer small lakes crusted with pink salt and matching flamingos and various ducks, then small bushes and bare ground in between. But as the old man approaches things change. It is as if he breathes magic into the air. A swing of his arm and what seems to be just a bush changes into a smaller bush with deer; a series of scattered rocks suddenly moves and becomes a flock of the small Patagonian rhea. The guanaco flee gracefully while the rhea make a strange strutting zig-zag. When they open their wings they cease to look like birds but sweep along the countryside like small sailing boats, tacking to catch the wind.
Yeluc has learnt a few words now and gives them quiet clipped instructions. They have left the women to come on slowly behind them, making as much noise as they like, scaring anything with legs from their lairs, while the boys and men move out in a semi-circle, gathering the game in front of them like a human net.
Yeluc picks out a bush with a grunt and a finger.
Silas squints to look. He wishes his eyes were stronger. All he sees is the desert, yellow-green and yellow-brown.
‘Sil-as!’ Yeluc’s voice is a harsh whisper.
Silas follows his finger and one of the brown mounds moves. A guanaco. It is alone, separated from the rest by the galloping hooves of Joseph’s horse and the fence of noise that the women have made with their horses and chatter. Silas takes out his bolas and slowly unravels the sinews that hold the stones together. Yeluc nods, checks to see that Silas is holding it correctly, and then nods again. Silas is practised now. He grips the end of the leather rope tightly and then twists it around above his head until it is making the air throb, then lets go as it reaches its highest arc. The three stones seem to stagger in the air, one dropping below the other two before it hits the animal on the nose. The guanaco falls silently and at once.
‘Kow!’ Yeluc gives a wide grin of approval then bows his head and invites Silas to inspect his kill. It is only then that Silas dismounts, grins, and for the first time dares to turn his back.
They return to the village singing: Yeluc attempting to join in the chorus but his old voice wavering and out of tune. The Jones siblings and the rest of the young men return to their families, while Silas returns to the barn where Megan has arranged to meet him with Caradoc and Jacob. It is his first hunt and they are anxious to hear what he’s done, what he’s learnt. Jacob, as usual, is interested in the Indians – how they live, how they speak, their gods, their habits, but Silas can tell him little except for how they hunt. The man, or at least Yeluc, seems to spend his life hunting, and when he is not hunting sitting at his fire smoking or playing cards or mending his tools and weapons; while the women pin out skins, cook, sew, gather wood and water and are constantly busy, and like Welsh women they like to keep their houses clean. Twice now he has been cleared out of the way so that Yeluc’s wife can finish her sweeping.
‘Just like us, then,’ Megan says.
‘But innocent, like children,’ says Jacob.
Silas shakes his head. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much Yeluc won’t tell him and keeps to himself. ‘They are not children. They have more guile than a child, more animal cunning.’
Caradoc takes the carcass and turns it over. It is a fine animal, not too large but with a lot of flesh. ‘If this carries on we are going to eat like lords,’ he says, ‘there must be enough meat on that thing to feed at least two families. You have done well, bachgen.’
Despite himself, Silas stands a little taller.
Thirty-three
It is July – their second winter in Patagonia – and the weather is cold. The first anniversary of their arrival at Port Madryn passes without comment. The supplies from Buenos Aires are slowly petering out and there is an uncomfortable and widely-held suspicion that without the Indians – without Yeluc and his patient teaching – there would be no Welsh colony at all.
In his discussions with the council Caradoc bluffly tries to take credit for their good fortune in encountering Yeluc, and then, when that is dismissed, reminding them of what he considers to be his tactful treatment of the old man. ‘He respected my age and experience,’ he tells them, ‘he trusted me.’
Jacob prevents an embarrassed silence. ‘I am sure he did, brawd. But he is clearly a kind man, don’t you think? I think he could see…’
‘That we were on the verge of starving to death,’ says Annie.
‘Yes, food for the birds we’d be now, if it weren’t for Yeluc.’
Mary and Annie have become Yeluc’s enthusiastic champions. They are teaching his women how to make bread and they, in turn, are showing them where to find herbs for cooking and healing. Annie is pregnant and Mareea has shown her where to gather weeds that might help her morning sickness.
Yeluc rarely comes near Silas’ house, preferring instead the warmth and activity of Mary’s table. Whenever Silas visits the Jones household, Yeluc seems to be there sitting at the table with one of the younger Jones children on his knee, while Mareea or Tezza stands next to Mary watching all that she does. The woman is an excellent cook, proficient with both baking pot and griddle, and she seems to enjoy the old man’s attention and appreciation. She feeds him titbits as if he is one of his wife’s little dogs and his vocabulary is improving daily. However, when Silas asks Mary if she has changed her mind about the Indians she shakes her head. ‘Just Yeluc, and his women,’ she says. ‘As for the rest of them…’ she shrugs, ‘who knows?’
Gradually Mary and her daughter are becoming experts on the Tehuelche way of life. They love to show off what they know, and as a result Jacob too has become a frequent if not quite as welcome a visitor, quizzing the two women, and, Silas suspects, hoping to befriend Yeluc as well. With the slightest prompt Miriam will explain how the Tehuelche are dependent on the guanaco, how the old hides are used for the awnings, while the younger ones are used for blankets and the youngest ones, especially the skins of those killed while still unborn, are prized for making the softest cloaks or mantles. She will tell how the Indians waste nothing, and this is somehow part of what they believe, their religion. The necks and legs are used to make boots and the remainder used to make harnesses and leads. How the animals are revered almost as gods, rhea is useful for fat, feathers, and their sinews good for thread, but the meat is dry and sometimes fed to the dogs. She will tell how they follow the herds, how they have done so for centuries – inland to the breeding grounds in the summer, out to the coast during the winter. Then she will take a breath and tell how it seems to her that their voices change when they talk about their world around them, how they seem to feel part of it, as if it is something living, and how they seem to value and cherish everything they find and everything they kill. Then she will tell how much she doesn’t know, how much she has to learn: about rituals she has seen only fleetingly – strange gestures over the kill and muttered words at places that look just like everywhere else, but nonetheless seem revered.
Jacob sits entranced – either at the sound of her voice or at what she has to say, while Mary clears up around him. ‘If you’re so interested in our friends why don’t you ask them yourself?’ she asks him, and he smiles and says that one day he hopes that the Lord will give him an opportunity.
Throughout the early winter there is rain, and by August the crops are still green but growing slowly. The patches of green are small – they have planted just where there was growth before – but Caradoc assures them that this will just be the start. Few of them are farmers, he reminds them, but he is sure that the Lord will guide them if they persevere.
So they nod and smile and stamp their feet to drive away the cold. At least their bellies are not empty, at least they are still here, and at least the Good Shepherd seems to be keeping a watchful eye over them – c
learly, in Patagonia, says Megan, he sends Indians rather than angels.
Thirty-four
Jacob has come to bless Silas’ house. For the last few weeks Silas has been making it ready and now there is enough space to accept visitors. There are just three rooms – a living room, a bedroom and a kitchen with a scullery in an outhouse – and it is bigger than anything he has lived in before. They have nine guests – the Jones family, Jacob, Selwyn and Annie. It is not very comfortable, there is not much space, and the children – the three youngest Jones children and Myfanwy – are sitting on skins on the floor, but even so they are all in here together. It is going to be just a short ceremony because they have collected their rations together and Megan and Mary have prepared a feast of bread, meat and cheese in the kitchen next door. Miriam has also picked some berries that Seannu has assured her are safe to eat, and made them into a jam with a little sugar. It is the sweet smell of this jam, newly made on the stove that Silas has constructed in the kitchen, which is making Jacob’s voice so moist with saliva that he hurries through his words, obviously anxious to be finished.
It was Jacob who insisted that the house be blessed, and he has spent the morning inspecting the place and passing comment. Of course everything that Silas has constructed is wrong: the hearth to the chimney is not wide enough, the outhouse is inconveniently located and its door pointing the wrong way, and the bedroom is too small and lacks proper ventilation.
It has taken several months for the work to be complete. Silas, John, Joseph and Ieuan have constructed the place from stone and the Jones family seems to be taking as much pride in the result as Silas. When anyone admires their handicraft they smile at each other and then at Silas. All this from nothing. A miracle. The walls are straight, the thatch neatly finished, and the dried guts of rheas used to ‘glaze’ the windows. In return Silas has helped them build their own larger house close by. A short path, lined in some places with gravel, connects the two.
‘Safety in numbers,’ Mary Jones had said, and for once John had added his voice: ‘You build yours right next to mine, Silas, so we can watch out for each other. We can’t be too careful... and despite what that old fool Caradoc says, you can’t trust those Indians. I’ve heard tales that would make you afraid to shut your eyes in your bed.’
Miriam is a frequent visitor. She spends quite a lot of her time walking the path between the two cottages in order to take a message from her mother who seems to be always busy at home, or to collect Myfanwy so she can play with the younger children.
Even though they are all still very young, Miriam is endeavouring, with some success, to teach the children to read. In Wales she was a bit of a scholar, her mother tells Silas in one of their many conversations at her table.
‘She wanted to be a teacher.’
‘Maybe she could still be one.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, with Jacob.’
‘Jacob?’ Miriam looks up, wrinkling her nose as if she has smelt something unpleasant. Mary and Silas grin at each other, and when she sees them Miriam snorts. ‘I would be very grateful if some people would stop talking about me as if I am not here.’ And she sweeps by, her skirt almost up to her knees.
Miriam is in front of him now, singing along to the hymns that Jacob insists they sing. Her mother seems to have found enough material to make her a new dress since she has grown so conspicuously out of her old one. It is a dark check, the colours so muted they are almost indiscernible in this light. He finds himself watching the cloth – the way it stretches and relaxes when she sings. It is trimmed with a high lace collar. This is obviously an uncomfortable feature; from time to time she pulls it away from her throat quite roughly and sighs then glances irritably at her mother who takes no notice. Silas smiles and nudges Megan, but she is busy with Myfanwy. He guesses that the wearing of the collar is the result of a battle that Miriam lost. He imagines it will be ripped off at the earliest opportunity.
Even though everyone is hungry, Jacob continues to talk. Silas isn’t listening, but everyone around him seems to be listening or pretending to listen, with rapt attention. Everyone, that is, except Miriam. She has her head bowed and is obviously trying to smother a smile. Her head turns slightly and her eyes slide towards his under her fuzz of hair, which seems to have been worked into a neat arrangement involving a slide, and he knows she has been aware of his scrutiny. His face warms and he looks away.
Jacob is still talking. He is so self-absorbed, so self-righteous, so convinced that everything he has to say is worth everyone’s attention, but the children are becoming restless. The baby is whimpering and Mary is now looking at him with such a face of irritation it seems incredible that he hasn’t taken the hint. He threatens and then soothes and cajoles. Our Lord can be wrathful, he says, kind but always good. He has learnt a lot from Edwyn Lloyd’s rhetoric and is improving with practice. His eyes roll and his voice rises to a thunder. Then, without pausing, his voice softens so everyone has to strain to hear: whispering threats, muttering promises, sharing secrets of eternal life. But then there is another noise too. Silas turns to where it is coming from – a scratching at the brittle rhea gut of the window, and behind it the shadow of a head, and then another one. Silas is not the only one who has noticed. Selwyn goes quietly to the door, opens it a little then closes it again. ‘Indians,’ he mouths to the rest of them, while Jacob continues his sermon. There are lots of them, about twenty, he says quietly to Silas, and more around the house. Megan creeps into the kitchen and comes back nodding. ‘More Indians,’ she whispers. ‘Strangers.’
‘Sing,’ Jacob orders, and indicates to Silas that he is to give them their notes. He chooses a loud defiant re, and then the line of the first verse praising and yet also appealing for help: ‘Oh God, Our Help In Ages Past’. They sing out loud, some of their voices shaking when they delve downwards in pitch.
‘Another!’ calls out Silas when that is finished. So they keep on singing: all the loud defiant hymns that they know, one after the other, and the door opens and the Indians fall in, staggering and then walking upright, peering into the colonists’ faces, breath rancid as old fat, cloaks ragged and smelling of animal, bands of old dirty cloth wrapped tightly round their heads, faces pitted with old wounds and sores, skin dark and polished like hide, and hair hanging down in knots. Megan closes her eyes. Myfanwy’s voice trembles a little, and Silas’ hands closes around hers and squeezes it once. They sing while the Indians inspect each face in turn, peering into eyes as though they are trying to see something inside, picking at clothes and rubbing the cloth between their fingers. They touch the blond hair of one of the younger Jones children and the child squeals and buries his face in his mother’s skirts. But still the Welsh sing. They are becoming a little hoarse now but still they sing. Then the young Indian boys with them pick their way around the room touching, lifting things up, tapping and dropping them and then grunting. The colonists sing until their breath runs out and Silas nods at Jacob.
‘Now let us pray,’ commands Jacob and falls to his knees.
Stupid. Silas is aware of his exposed neck at just the right height for a sharp blow downwards, but the Indians just watch for a few seconds and then a couple of them do likewise. The rest of them continue to stand. There is little room to move now. Every patch of space is covered with legs or hands. These Indians are tall, even Miriam and her brothers are dwarfed by them; they have to bend just to peer into the Welsh faces. But Jacob takes no notice and starts to recite the Lord’s Prayer loudly as an invitation for everyone else to join in.
‘Amen,’ says Jacob at the end.
‘Amen,’ the congregation echoes.
‘Amen,’ says another voice at Silas’ elbow. He opens an eye. The child next to him is kneeling too. ‘Amen,’ says the child again, and gives a quiet short giggle.
‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,’ says Jacob.
‘As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Am
en,’ they answer.
‘Amen,’ says the boy, happily. Now a couple more of them are kneeling, looking at the colonists’ clasped hands and then holding theirs together too.
‘Glory, honour, praise and power be unto the Lamb forever. Jesus Christ is our redeemer. Halleluyah, Halleluyah.’
‘Halleluyah,’ repeat a few voices all around them.
Miriam makes a strange little choking noise. Silas opens both his eyes to look at her. Her face is red with suppressed giggles but now they seem to be escaping from her in an eruption of quiet snuffles. Now she laughs out loud, her mouth wide with bellows and snorts. He looks around him. The Indians have gone. The door of his house is open and bangs shut in the wind.
‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us ever more,’ Jacob says with relief.
‘Amen,’ they reply. They stand up, looking at each other incredulously. They are still alive. John feels himself all over as if he is trying to check. They didn’t kill them. They hug each other and congratulate each other in loud high voices, while Selwyn checks the kitchen. The Indians have gone and so, unfortunately, has the bread from the table – but not the meat and not the horses in the yard. So Jacob instructs Joseph to take his horse and gallop back to the village warning everyone he meets along the way that there are more Indians heading down the valley. Then, after they have packed away what remains of the food, they all follow in the cart or on horseback.
When they see Rawson they stop. Camped outside the village is another village, just as large, of many tents, horses, dogs and people.
‘There must be a hundred of them at least,’ Jacob says in a hushed voice. Silas nods and Megan holds Myfanwy tightly on her lap. Even Miriam and Joseph are silent and pale.
‘Who are all those people, Dadda?’ Myfanwy asks.
‘More friends,’ Silas says, trying to sound certain.
