Dead Awake: The Last Crossing

  ***

  When morning finally came, the warmth of the island swept into my window. The dampness of the air and the free breeze woke me gently to a new day. I almost forgot the calamities of yesterday, until a couple of young girls outside my window started pointing their fingers at me. No doubt they had come to see who had agitated the medicine man and destroyed his ritual ground. My fingers crept up, carefully and noiselessly, in search of the shutters. I pulled them to hide my shame from the girls or any other creature that might have a case of morning curiosity.

  Luckily, the guilt didn’t last the entire morning. I got up and dressed, then splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth. I decided to wear my Gilligan hat, just for kicks, and left in search of breakfast. Hopefully, by now, Blanca had gotten used to me occasionally skipping her home-cooked meals. She had to understand that I needed to go out and look around. Blanca provided excellent conversation, but that’s not what I had gone on vacation for. I wasn’t going to stay cooped up in the same little house, even though I sure did appreciate her cooking.

  With those thoughts, I stepped through the door into the beautiful morning, which waited to greet me. My Gilligan hat served its purpose. It stopped the rays from blinding my eyes and kept my hair in its place.

  I drifted into the pleasing morning. The trees, the sky, the sand and even the people pulled my attention to them. A couple of the villagers peeped out of their windows as I passed, probably still looking at me because of what I’d done the day before; but the shame had left me and now I was only hungry and happy. Yes, what a great day it was. In fact, as I thought it over, yesterday had not been a bad day either. All of it had served its purpose and was a good experience for me. An adventure! I chuckled to myself, as my wit returned. It was even funny, the more I thought about it, after all, it was good to have a sense of humor.

  I think the island’s beauty will make me depressed when I get back to the city: the wonderful fresh air and the little hand built straw houses. The people look so happy on top these huts as they fix their roofs; pushing in the new straw to keep out the rain. Life is so simple here. Every need is met – housing, food, friends.

  My walk took me to a little bar/eatery that was serving camarones. I sat and ordered a bowl of them and a tamarindo, a local drink made from a sweet root. The shrimp were very good; dipped in some kind of batter and fried, then served with a tart-lemon sauce. They went down well with the tamarindo. After the shrimp, I ordered a large baked fish, which they called “El Mojarra.” It tasted a lot like carp, but wasn’t served like it. The huge size of it overlapped the plate, and it was served with the head and tail still attached. Very strange looking indeed, but very tasty if not for the spines. I finished the tamarindo and ordered a lemon drink. The bartender looked at me as if I was a sissy and said, “Let me guess, you want that non-alcoholic?”

  I responded in the affirmative, so he served it to me with a wink. Stupid bartender, I thought, what makes him a man? He’s probably an alcoholic and that’s supposed to make him manly. If I choose to drink or not, that’s my choice, so what is it to him? Their beer was too strong anyway; and I’d definitely stay away from the mixed drinks for I knew what kind of bomb their hard alcohol was. It was at least six times as strong as in the States. I finished the plate, then paid the man and left. He tipped his hat to me with a last teasing wink. I think he was poking fun at my hat as well. What an idiot.

  When I arrived back to my room, I noticed that my door had been left slightly ajar. I wondered if I’d forgotten to close it. Perhaps someone had come to show me some island hospitality. Near my door, on the floor, was a piece of paper; and judging from its appearance, it had been there all night, in the rain. Most likely, I had overlooked it the night before, seeing as I was so tired.

  I picked up the paper. It was a note, addressed to me, and still a little damp. I knew it was for me because it was addressed to “el guero,” which means “the blond one,” although I’m not really blond. The people in these parts just like to call anyone who has anything other than black hair a blond.

  Unfortunately, it was the only thing I could read. The rest was written in some other dialect, one of the many spoken on the island. I immediately thought of Blanca. She could interpret the note for me. I stepped inside to retrieve my things, then headed to the kitchen to find Blanca.

  “Como esta mi querida, Blanca!” I greeted. “So good to see you.”

  “And you tus, mi hijito,” she replied. “Are you come for your suppers now? I affixin’ some berry good caldo de res and some empanadas that yous like. Yous sit down right here and I go and get for you.”

  I tried correcting her English, even though I wasn’t interested in eating just then. “Yes, thank you Blanca, but it’s breakfast now, see, the sun is up.”

  “Ah yes, breakfas-lunch, whatever you like Mr. Finch. I get for you right now, so you sit down plis, okay.” She went over to the stove, as she started in her preparations, and made more conversation. “So how waz your day, you do? Have you seen a lot?”

  “Actually, Blanca, that’s part of why I came. You see, someone, one of the villagers, left a note on this scraggly piece of paper, attached on my door last night, and I wanted to know what it said, and since you speak all the dialects of this island I thought you could translate it for me.”

  I handed her the paper. She unfolded it and stared at it a moment, then her eyes became the size of mangos and her hands started to sweat. She looked at me as if a great evil had just befallen us both. Surely whatever the note said, it must have been bad enough to upset her.

  “This is El Malagra!” she said with the grim reaper’s voice, “El Malagra! We are in great trouble!” She went pale, after that, and started to chant some prayer to El Gauchito. I didn’t understand it, at that time, but later heard it many other times. It went something like this: “Oh bendito ser divino, no se que hacer! What can we do? It has come, as I prayed it would not!”

  Gauchito Gill protegenos de las manos del enemigo. Guardanos como has guardado a tantos que te rezan, de las garras de Satanas. Oh Gauchito, explicanos como vivir mejor y ayudanos para que podamos servir en paz. Ahora que a llegado este gran maleficio sobre nosotros, quitanos el pesar de nuestras manos y te prometemos servirte y ayudar a todos los que actuan por el bien.

  Oh con tu bondad, como lo hiciste en tu vida mortal, cuando de tus enemigos escapaste y dejaste con el castigo adequado para los asesinos. Tu que predicaste y profetizaste en tu vida. Ahora guardanos la nuestra y sacanos de estas tinieblas, te lo ruego!”

  She was very frantic, while she held the note, almost terrorized by the fact that she was holding it. Still, she was unable to put it down, as if by doing so she might offend some local god and make matters worse. She kept on shouting “Malagra-Malagra” and repeating her prayer many times. I later on found out that the prayer was a fixed prayer, and always chanted the same way.

  Gill (pronounced hill) is a local saint of the island of Natial who has not, as yet, been recognized by the Roman Catholic church, but who is very much a part of the local folklore tradition. From what I understood, this Gauchito Gill became recognized as a saint by the people because he made some prophecies during his life that came true.

  It turns out that Gauchito had been sentenced to die at the hands of one of the great conquistadors of the early period for theft, plunder and murder, but while in prison El Gauchito claimed to have repented and seen a vision. Hill claimed that such apparition made him exempt from his previous life and he demanded to be set free, but the conquistador didn’t see it that way and sentenced execution for the following day.

  With vengeance, El Gaucho prophesied that the conquistador’s daughter would also die, the next day, if he were not set free. So, as things would have it, he was not set free and indeed the daughter died. The fame of his accurate prediction turned him into a martyred legend; but from what I got of it, El Gauchito Gill was a murderous fiend who had plundered the village, and raped and murdered many of
the women. The villagers overlooked this and pronounced him a saint. They also gave him an official prayer and banner, in tribute to his greatness, even though he was practically the Devil himself.

  I looked at Blanca with uncompassionate eyes, and held her to her reason. “Maybe if you just read it to me,” I said, “it won’t be that bad.”

  “No don,” she wept, “It is that bad. You have over-stepped yurself and have cosed El Malagra to come on us.” She was crying and looked really sad, but I didn’t care. I just wanted her to stop being a fool and tell me what the note read.

  “Look Blanca, it can’t be that bad; if anything, it was written to me, not to you, so you have nothing to fear. Why don’t you read it so we can see what it says.” She persisted, claiming it all came from Hades.

  “Mr. Finch, it is certainly a curse that does not respect a persons. It spread itself across and you don’t even know what can happens to you and to me.”

  “Blanca!”

  “Ok, I read it you, but I warning you...”

  THE RIVER’S FLOW

  Look at the river – it is white, and it flows into chaos, then falls.

  The rain drops into an open hole, where eternity shatters before it awakens,

  And never Lives.

  As she cries the raindrops give life unto her tears,

  Splashing upon the water where they’re lost,

  Through the memories that awake and the image that reflects.

  She looks at death with emptiness

  It glitters in her eyes, but souls of all immortals have fallen there before.

  Streaks crumble and shatter as her hands let go the shards,

  Empty with the flesh of men once won.

  A swirl of wind, a swirl of dust the river bends and dries.

  Soft thoughts from heaven wash on barren banks forgetting all the lies.

  The hum soft-strum has turned directions, the stream to claim its soul,

  Giving chance for the raindrop’s dream to escape, and never Die.

  Peace is ended with the black of sky

  While all dry earth is begging for a taste of dew

  As the first raindrop falls it falls into the rift.

  She put the poem down with a look of fearful satisfaction that said to me, “See how terrible it is?” But it wasn’t, and I don’t know how anyone could think anything wrong of it. If anything, the local villager who wrote it ought to be thanked. I would easily buy more poems from whoever was the author of such work. He or she could have easily made a living with their writing. They just had to place little wooden frames around each poem, along with their English translation, and sell them as souvenirs to tourists like myself. Heck, I would have paid even without the frame.

  I took the poem from her hand, and then gave her a stern look. “It’s not bad at all,” I scolded, “How could a beautiful poem like this possibly mean any harm? If anything, it’s the islanders greeting me, or more likely, one of the girls trying to win me over. In any case it is nothing bad at all.”

  “You don’t know, Mr. Finch. It is El Malagra. Theys all start that way, then bam, worse and worse. The only thin that will save usss – you now is – here you take this.” She went over to one of her shelves and pulled a necklace that smelled as if it were made of garlic, but was made of some other root that I’d never seen before.

  She tried to put it around my neck, but I pulled back offensively. I wasn’t the least bit interested in changing my style to that of some native vegetable-garden wearer.

  “I am not going to wear that thing around my neck.” I said annoyed, “There is nothing wrong with this poem, and I want nothing more of it!”

  She kept insisting, as a mother does and not as a host. “You do as I says. You don’t know. If you put dis on and reza, Gauchito will help you. He don’t care if you believe or no. He help no-believer and believer alie. Come on, put it on, then you eat, yes?” Her eyes were sad and puppy dog like, as she begged me, so much that I could not reject her.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll do it for you this time, but don’t keep on it.”

  “There, there, you feel better, you see. Now I go cook for you.” She went to cook, but I had no intention on wearing the necklace for more than a few minutes after I finished eating; and as soon as I was well beyond her sight-it came off. I can’t say I did better at keeping my promise to pray to el Gauchito. As far as I was concerned, this Gauchito could rot in hell without missing one more prayer from me.