The Forests of the Night - J P S Brown

by J P S Brown

  "Excuse me, I hear someone," Don Panchito said. "I'll attend to him. I'm expecting Don Julio, your cousin, from Satebo."

  Miguelito, the Guarijía, began passing through with buckets of fresh water. He filled tubs in the kitchen and olla.; in the rooms. He turned the burro in the light of the kitchen door and led him away to remove the empty bota. He came back into the kitchen. He was short, walking stiffly straight. His blunt toes in their huaraches seemed to be part of the dust at his feet. He walked up to Adán, removed his hat, and offered his hand. He did the same for Doña Chayo. He did not look directly into the face of anyone. He stepped back away from the light of the cachimba. He used a straight bang of hair on his forehead to shield his eyes. He sniffled and looked to see if the men had noticed him sniffle. He did not want them to notice any untoward sounds that might come involuntarily from him. Adán saw that Miguelito was suffering from the new grippe that was spreading through the mountains. The only time Adán had seen Miguelito ill before had been when he had fallen from a cliff while taking a panal of honey. Miguelito had broken nearly every bone in his body. He never saw a doctor and had been healed by his mother. Now the sniffles seemed to overwhelm Miguelito's face as though some impossible, calamitous misfortune was happening to him.

  Dona Chayo brought a chair and faced it toward the table for Miguelito. He sat in it and glanced blankly around, his attention turned inward upon himself, fighting the grippe. He coughed a dry cough that hurt, and the blank look changed to mild fear in his eyes. Juan Vogel looked at him.

  "You have a cough, Miguelito? Are you sick?"

  "A little bit sick," Miguelito said quietly.

  "You have the grippe," said Juan Vogel unmercifully.

  "Yes, the grippe," Miguelito stifled a cough. He looked toward the door as though it might be an escape route from the cough he held down, a cough that was growing in his chest to overcome him.

  "What have you done for it? What medicines have you taken?"

  "Water. I have taken water. We have no medicine. The herbs did not grow this year."

  Adán saw perspiration on Miguelito's face. He had never seen Miguelito sweat, not even on hot days when he worked hardest pounding maguey heads into pulp for the distillery at Guasaremos. Juan Vogel examined his thoughts patiently. The room was silent and music was heard from a home on the hill above the hacienda.

  "Now the music," Dona Chayo said crossly. "They have decided to celebrate the feast of Los Dolores, the seven sufferings of Our Lady. If they did not have pains and sufferings and murders to celebrate they would invent an ascension of some little borrachito, drunk, into heaven."

  Adán looked at the woman. She seemed taller and thinner than she had ever been. As she grew older the skeleton in her seemed to grow more imposing. The long, soft fingers he had held in salutation were kneading and guiding flour dough. The woman was Adán's age. They had grown up together. Manuel Anaya, her husband, was old enough to be her grandfather. Dona Chayo had become known as Dona because of her old spouse. She was catching up to her husband in age by making herself look and act older each time she saw Adán. Adán knew her to be a good woman. Her lips were as bare and beautiful as two pine needles side by side. Her face was perspiring healthily from her work by the stove. Chayo never had a fever except for goodness, truth, and hard work.

  "An epidemic," Juan Vogel said, rousing himself from his pensive silence. "Do you suppose we are having another epidemic of the grippe like we had years ago?"

  "Many people are sick," Adán said. "People like Miguelito are sick who have never been sick in their lives."

  "Epidemics of drunkenness is what we have," said Dona Chayo calmly. "Wait and watch the epidemic run its course. Now we have music up on the hill. In about an hour we'll have a river of lechuguilla to quench the drouth and brave musicians to prevent starvation. In the morning the river will be dry and all the head sickness and bellyaches will be blamed on an epidemic of the grippe."

  "I could give you an injection of penicillin, Miguelito," Juan Vogel offered. "This would stop any infection to your lungs and the rest of your system. This would halt your aching."

  "No!" Miguelito said. "I don't know injections."

  "No, of course not," Juan Vogel said. "An injection is a cure for yoris, white people. You are only an Indian."

  "Si," Miguelito said softly. He sighed, relieved.

  "You know pills, though."

  "Si."

  Juan Vogel left the room and came back with his saddle-bags. He opened them in the poor light and found a bottle of candied pills. He spilled a few into his hand and gave them to Miguelito. He found a long tube of Seltzer tablets and gave some to Miguelito. Miguelito took them without changing the blank, inward regard of his eyes. Dona Chayo filled a cup with water, gave it to Miguelito and showed him how to prepare the Seltzer. Miguelito did not look at the cup while the tablet dissolved and sprayed small white bubbles on his hand, and Adán knew he was enduring the fizzing against his will but trusting Juan Vogel because Juan Vogel had ordered it. He shifted his hold on the cup when the base of his thumb seemed to be getting more spray than was comfortable for it. The instant the tablet stopped fizzing, he drank the water, returned the cup to Dona Chayo without looking at it, and left the kitchen.

  A short, fat, pale, bareheaded man followed Don Panchito into the kitchen. He wore a small square mustache under his nose and thick tinted glasses in front of his eyes. He was Julio Vogel. A deep, good-humored voice issued from him as he walked around the kitchen shaking hands. Dona Chayo placed a chair near the table for him.

  "A swallow for you, young man," Don Panchito said, sloshing lechuguilla over a cup.

  "Don't spill it, compadre. After all, it is rare," Julio said, laughing in his deep voice.

  "What have you brought from pavement land for the Sierra, Julio?" Juan Vogel asked.

  "Heh! Myself was enough," said Julio. "Myself and the good wishes of your wife and family and their questions about when you are coming home."

  "¡Lastima avión! A shame to waste the pay load of an airplane on a cousin bearing empty good wishes. You could have at least come with enough medicines and provisions to load one good mule."

  "The airplane was overworked bringing me. It will be coming again in a few days to pick me up, though. I'll be talking to the pilot by radio from Satebo. I'll have him bring anything you need. Just write down your requisition and I'll radio it in."

  "I have an important requisition. This requisition will solve all the problems of my cattle in the Sierra. My requisition will cure hunger, sickness, and solve the problem of our need for rain."

  "Well tell me what it is and I'll order it. This is the advantage of having radio in the Sierra." Julio began talking solely to Adán because he saw Juan Vogel was not listening to him. Juan Vogel kept a bright gaze on his cousin while he absently plucked hairs from his broad mustache.

  "I talk, as I say, each morning to my home," Julio said to Adán. "I have often advised our cousin to install a radio here at Avena. At the very least it would serve him in emergencies. But I never have convinced him of the value of the miracle of communications of the twentieth century. He is worse for not having them because he has much more business with banks and farms in Rio Alamos than I."

  "You could have brought my requisition on this trip and not endangered or displaced your foolish body or my family's good wishes," Juan Vogel said.

  "It would have to be small. We were overloaded. Tell me what it is. I'll send for it. I promise."

  "A good sharp skinning knife. A knife to cut the throats of my cattle and stop their suffering and stop my need to find pasture and water for them. A knife to save the hides before they spoil and dry in the sun."

  "Heh! As usual you exaggerate, cousin. We are only two months from rain. We'll survive because we always have survived. I grant you that this year we've had more hardship than usual, but we will tough through it. We're as accustomed to drouth as we are accustomed to floods, predators, Agrarians trying to t
ake our lands, and lazy workmen."

  "Yes, we survive, cousin. You survive as I saw you surviving the other day in Rio Alamos. You were surviving by passing the heat of the day drinking cold beer at the drive-in, seated in your air-conditioned pickup with the windows rolled up, letting a whore play with your pants while the mariachis serenaded you and waiters brought you broiled meats."

  "Heh, heh! Wouldn't you? What better way to pass the heat of the day?"

  "I admit this is a good way to survive. You have that manner of survival. I, if I had the huevos, the testicles, would use the sharp knife method and would waste my cattle for their hides instead of wasting myself and my people. Don Victoriano, the manager and mayordomo of your ranch, survives by caring for your ranch. Without the ranch you would not need Don Victoriano, or his three sons, or his old wife, or his sons' wives and children, or his three unmarried daughters. Don Victoriano survives by eating corn tortillas and beans and feeding all his dependents the same. He eats game when he has salt. Since you have given him no salt for his personal use this year he cannot kill game and jerk the meat."

  "Ah, he doesn't have it so bad. I never get to eat game."

  "This year Don Victoriano survived by allowing his only mule to die of a belly bursting with dirt because he ate dirt when he needed salt. Don Victoriano survived by not breaking into the warehouse full of ground salt to which you hold the key. He survives your stinginess and neglect because he is afraid you will dismiss him if he breaks a door down to get your miserable salt. He has this fear and great honesty because he could not bear to think what your grandfather would tell him if he knew he had jeopardized his work as the man responsible for the survival of your ranch and livestock at Satebo. Now tell me, how is he going to plow his corn for tortillas this year without a mule? He has lost a staple of his survival because you did not provide him with salt to preserve and sustain him."

  "Heh, heh, heh!" Julio chuckled good-naturedly. "And how do Adán and Don Panchito and Doña Chayo, your employees here present, survive?

  "These, my loyal people, at least have salt for making cheeses from the milk of my cows in good years. They get to keep all the cheeses for their provisions and pocket money after I raid their cheese stores and take the choicest ones home to my wife. I advance them salt, which costs nothing in years that are bad, and I prohibit the making of cheeses in those years, so the little calves can have all their mothers' milk. I let my people run a few cattle and a few saddle horses and mules of their own.

  They use their own animals to look after my cattle and I am not out the cost of raising their horses and mules. I buy the calves and trained horses and mules and other produce of their stock at prices so low I triple my money when I resell them."

  "Heh, heh, heh! And what do you do in bad years when they have no calves, no cheeses, and no horses and mules to use for you and sell cheap to you?"

  "In bad years they have cheese salt they can use to salt game, salt their beans and tortillas if there are beans and corn for tortillas. Of course I discount the price of their salt when the good years come back. But at least my people always have salt. It costs them money and sweat, but my salt is never under lock and key."

  "How cynical you are, cousin," Julio laughed. "And our cousin Martinillo? Has he seen the tigre? I've been hearing that the Martinillo is going to kill a monster and cut off his ears for us."

  "He knows him and has named him El Yoco. The tigre killed his fine bay filly and his fine burro. Your filly was a purebred, was she not, Adán? Of course I know your burro was pure-blooded."

  "No. She was only corriente, daughter of the buckskin mare," Adán said, ignoring Juan Vogel's derision.

  "I say let the tigres kill the burros and extra horses. The burros, at least, are a plague, eating our cow country barren." said Julio.

  "Ah, well, the tigre is wrong to kill our livestock, even though the drouth makes it suffer more before it dies. You see how our cousins in the Sierra survive, Julio? They fight for the lives of even the most worthless stock. We all have different ways of survival."

  "But, was it a tigre?" Julio asked, a smile of disbelief under his square, well-kept mustache. "There are no tigres in this region. You must mean you saw a lion or maybe even a gato tigrillo, not a tigre. Ocelot looks very big up close. You might even have seen an onza. The onza is a threat, I know." He winked at Adán and inclined his head slightly toward the Onza, Juan Vogel. "The tigre is no threat here. Even if a real, full-grown tigre came here I would be gratified. The tigre keeps the lions away. A tigre can displace ten lions and calm the preying on our colts and cattle."

  "He's a tigre, " Adán said quietly. "He's big and spoiled. He drew our blood. He's our enemy."

  Julio suppressed his chuckle. He looked at his mountain cousin with amusement. "And you have appointed yourself as the man to correct him?" he asked. "You have left bed, board, and loving wife to save the region from El Yoco? Aim for an eye or an anus, will you? Heh, heh! Don't damage the skin. The skin of the tigre is worth plenty of money, is it not?"

  "It had better be," Juan Vogel said. "Martinillo won't work. He'll have to profit some way by his hunting."

  "Then, cousin Martinillo, I promise to buy the hide of El Yoco from you to make sure you make money on this venture. After all, I have many cattle, calves, and colts for you to protect. Also I have always wanted the skin of a tigre by my bed so my feet won't touch the cold floor in the morning. I believe, though, that you are going to find your cebado is a lion or an ocelot. If I'm right, I'll still be happy to buy the hide--at less cost, of course." He exaggerated a sigh. "I hope I won't have to warm my feet on a lesser hide."

  "You won't, cousin. I saw the jaguar at Limón. I'm following his track."

  "And have you seen him since the, heh, 'depredations'?"

  I doubt anyone can identify an animal by its track like you say you do unless you see the animal often."

  "Adancito saw the animal, and I saw the track at the killings."

  "Your little son, Adancito? How old is he? Not over seven, I'm sure. A child that age could see demons in a church during morning mass. I hope you are not wrong, though. I want the hide. I wish you luck."

  "Thank you," Adán said.

  A tall young man walked into the room. He was dressed in his clean clothes and wore shoes and socks. He was the vaquero, Che Che, son of Manuel Anaya. He was glowing with drink. He carried a demijohn of lechuguilla. Manuelito Espinoza came into the room behind him. Che Che set the demijohn on the table and walked around shaking hands with everyone. Manuelito watched from a dark corner holding his hands over his mouth, stifling giggles. To him Che Che was bold and familiar with his betters by approaching them with strong spirits in his hand and on his breath and shaking their hands as though he was their equal.

  Che Che addressed Adán. "Adán, my friend of hunting, I come from the fiesta of Los Dolores at my father's house."

  Look at the size of him, thought Adán. Grown up and offering me a drink. Friend of hunting! He tagged along as far as he could with me all his life, until this minute. Now he wants to lead me somewhere. "Knowing how much you love music and dancing and fresh menudo, Adán," Che Che continued. "I come to invite you to the fiesta. We have sent emissaries to the homes of various young girls. These girls have sent back word that we can expect their presence in the company of their fathers at the dance. You are free to bring your cousins. To begin the celebration, I bring you all a swallow of the strong, the very best lechuguilla it has been our good fortune to introduce this season."

  He began to pour the wine into the cups on the table. Julio raised his hand to stop him from pouring into his cup.

  "Yes, man," Dona Chayo said to her son. "Very correct. Invite sane and sober men who have only just finished their supper to go up on the cold mountain and get drunk. They have nothing better to do. You have nothing better to do yourself than to drink that gallon and more. No girls are going to come over the mountain at this time of the night to dance with drunkards."

/>   "The girls are coming, Mama," Che Che said, respectfully. "We are only honoring the feast day of Our Lady of Sorrows. We have personages visiting Avena and men and women named Dolores celebrating their feast day. We have fresh beef and good wine. My father says we should dance and celebrate."

  "Not for me," said Julio. "I had enough drink with that trago Don Panchito gave me. If I drink any more I'll stay drunk for a week."

  "Drink up, Don Julio," Juan Vogel said. "We all know how rowdy you become in Rio Alamos drinking in the air-conditioning of your pickup. Don't be afraid. We won't let you get wild. Have a drink with your workers. Show your democratic spirit. We won't let you get into trouble. We won't offer you another drink after you take this one."

  Julio chuckled but did not pick up his cup. Everyone else lifted his cup. Che Che stood over them solicitously with his demijohn, ready to pour. Manuelito giggled out loud. "Manuelito! Get a cup and come over here," ordered Juan Vogel. Manuelito walked over and stood by the shoulder of Juan Vogel. "Ah, you old lépera, you wretch, you arrive with momentum, already charged with drink. Shameless! Lecherous! You've been getting drunk, haven't you?"

  "¡Qué chulo! How cute you are, my cousin!" Manuelito said, pinching Juan Vogel's cheek.

  "Yes, your style is elegant, an example of good deportment this evening, cousin," Juan Vogel scolded good-naturedly. "You've become so beautiful since you grew up and moved away from us, little cousin," Manuelito said. He patted Juan Vogel's breast and caressed his chin with the cupped palm of his hand. His eyes glazed over Juan Vogel's face with affection. "I'm proud of you," he said. He straightened, picked up Julio's cup and poured its contents into his stomach with no sign or action of swallowing and then poured the cup full again in time to drink a toast with the rest.

  "To my cousin, Manuelito Espinoza, the Little Thorn," Juan Vogel offered. "The neatest and most irreverent swallower of mezcal in the Sierra Madre."