When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

15

Roberto sat on the veranda at Petaca and sipped a ron fuerte, his feet on the railing, a handkerchief in one hand. He felt happy though tired, happy to be showing off his new dark green riding suit and tired because he had already performed his stock of equestrian tricks. It was almost mid-morning and growing hot and humid, a clear, cloudless day.

"Federicka rides better every year," he said to Raul, sitting beside him, drinking, eyes on Federicka as she jumped a barrier.

Baroness Radziwill executed precise jumps on her claybank, her split skirt flapping gayly. For a stout woman she was a fine rider, and her horse carried her weight well, taking each hurdle rhythmically.

Armand Guerrero, her friend, followed on a Cuban horse, sailing over the whitewashed logs, all of them participating in an improvised arena, sodded and graveled for their annual get-together.

"Armand's mare is heavy-footed," Raul said. "Maybe a bit too old."

Count de Selva sat down beside Raul, breathing through a corner of his mouth, an unlighted cigar between his fingers. Dressed in duck, like Raul, his clothes rather creased, he brushed dust off his knees and groaned because of his asthma.

"There used to be quite a showing of us—quite a showing," he said. "I can remember when as many as fifteen of us families turned out.... Say, that Benito does well enough. If he's as good a mayor as he is a horseman, we'll get things done in Colima."

Benito Serrato had a lean black that carried him proudly, ribboned tail switching. Benito, wearing black, tilted his derby as he rode, sitting erect, quirt dangling from his wrist.

The circle in front of the house had become dusty, but a breeze carried the dust away from the veranda, toward the lagoon.

"How many families are here today?" asked the count.

"Um, several ... four or five ... I hope others will come," said Raul.

Federicka Kolb wore red. Her cousin, Eloise Martini, rode a gray which she had matched with a finely tailored outfit. The pair rode side by side, laughing as their mounts cleared the hurdles gracefully.

Roberto jiggled the ice in his glass. "It's getting too muggy to ride—or I'm getting too fat," he said, and patted his paunch. "Nothing like beautiful women on beautiful horses to rest the eyes."

Raul had a horse, known locally as a good jumper, and he put the mare over the hurdles, enjoying her leaps, thinking her so much steadier than Chico. Her great yellow mane, tied with white ribbons, flared at every jump.

Vicente tagged behind.

"How are you coming, boy?" Raul called, as his son curbed his range pony.

"Some people have come to see you, Papa. See, Captain Cerro and his horsemen ... a lot of rurales. I guess you'll have to speak to them."

Raul slipped from his saddle to shake hands with the arrivals. Cerro had brought a number of his best men. Could they ride? Perhaps it wasn't customary, but they would appreciate it very much. Dr. Velasco and Dr. Hernández had also come. Then, to his astonishment and delight, he saw Lucienne.

Bareheaded, she stood in the midst of them, proud, one glove removed. She seemed on the verge of running off and couldn't find much to say beyond civilities. When she got Raul alone she criticized herself for coming, for riding a white horse, for wearing white. She felt her hair falling about her neck and shoved it up underneath her beret.

"Lucienne, have a drink on the veranda with us," said Raul.

Roberto took her arm and hugged her.

"Lucienne ... something cool. Will you ride with us?"

Angered, she drew away, and said: "I wouldn't have come if something terrible hadn't happened yesterday. You know"—she paused to swallow—"they broke into the hacienda Refugio and killed the priest and killed Francisco Goya and his sons."

"Who?" asked Roberto.

"Armed men—I don't know."

"Who told you this?" said Raul.

"Jesús Peza. He told me. He was there, doctoring someone. He got away," said Lucienne. "He's back in Colima."

"My God!" exclaimed Roberto.

"How far is Refugio from here?" Raul asked. "What's the shortest way, Velasco?"

"Forty miles or more," said Velasco.

"Maybe fifty," said de Selva.

"What can we do to help?" asked Gabriel.

"I'm sending men immediately," said Raul. "Gabriel, look after Lucienne. I'll be back shortly."

"Hello, Lucienne, what seems to be wrong?" asked the Baroness, curious that she had come to Petaca, aware of some kind of excitement.

Lucienne explained briefly and sat down with Gabriel on the veranda, out of the sun. Removing her glove, she said: "I'd like a drink. Would someone get me a drink?"

Others had crowded round her and she had to repeat in detail the Refugio tragedy.

Father Gabriel put a drink in her hands.

"There, my dear."

"Thank you.... No, I didn't ride here alone.... No, Francisco wasn't disliked at the hacienda ... but of course...."

"Who knows what was behind the killings?" said the Baroness, in a harsh voice.

"We're all in grave danger," said de Selva.

"You can rely on us to help," said Cerro, behind Lucienne. "I'll inform General Matanzas."

"Yes, yes, do that," the Baroness said.

"Díaz has gone ... that's the reason for this situation," said Roberto, his calm words peculiarly distracting.

"If he hadn't left us ... if he had chosen a successor, there would be no rebellion," said Armand Guerrero.

"No, no ... it's revolution," said de Selva.

"We must protect ourselves," said someone.

"How do you fight hate?" asked Lucienne.

"With hate," said de Selva. "I've been telling you. It's coming. It's here now. The new priest at Refugio is dead. Francisco Goya and his sons are dead. What more do you need to hear?"

Federicka Kolb and her cousin overheard de Selva, and Federicka began to sob, for she had known the Goyas for years.

"Why ... why?" she asked.

"The men who killed them cried Down with the haciendas!" said Lucienne.

Raul returned and said: "I have sent men to Refugio. I'll go there later myself."

Felipe Meson, an hacendado, in his fifties, sturdy, gray-headed, sunburned, with the face of a crippled hawk, gestured toward Raul.

"You're making a mistake at Petaca," he exclaimed. "You can't pacify the peons. You can't trust them. They'll kill you now."

"I haven't tried to pacify them," Raul explained. "I've tried to help them."

Everyone was crowded on the veranda, with servants going about, serving drinks and putting ice in glasses.

"How can one man help at such a time as this?" asked the Countess.

"I simply want to look after my people when they're sick, see to it they have enough to eat, stop floggings and killings. Could Matanzas know about Refugio?" Raul asked Captain Cerro.

"I'll see, when I ride back. We'll be leaving shortly," said Cerro.

"You'd better supply us with escorts," said de Selva.

Lucienne finished her drink, stood up, and arranged her hair and beret; pulling on a glove, she said: "Raul, you must take care of Petaca. It's walled and you can post guards."

Raul did not reply: a question began in his brain: What about Palma Sola, wholly unprotected? What about de Selva's place, the Radziwill hacienda, the Meson house?

Shortly, luncheon was served in the garden, and they tried to talk of other things. Nothing seemed to go right, however; some of the food was missing, some of the drinks. The servants were confused and whispered among themselves. De Selva talked of fleeing to Mexico City, where he owned a house. "You should have had a town house, Raul." The Baroness mistrusted almost everyone at her hacienda, yet could not make up her mind to desert her property. Roberto and Dr. Velasco drank together. Lucienne, Gabriel and Raul ate at a small table under a chinaberry tree.

One by one, the families drove away, Raul seeing them off. The Count, coughing badly, leaned from his carriage window and told Raul how to defend Petaca. Roberto rode off on a magnificent black he had borrowed from a Colima friend.

Already mounted, Lucienne called goodbye: "I'll be with some of Captain Cerro's men. Be careful when you go to Refugio."

"I'll be careful. Will you stay in Colima until I can send men to help at Palma Sola?"

"Yes—Federicka has asked me to stay with her."

"Right. Stay with her. I'll see you there."

"All right, Raul."

Lucienne's horse backed away, swung around, and she waved.

Raul sent Vicente back to his Colima school in the rurales' care.

He did not get to go to Refugio, for that night Angelina returned on the train—her carriage rolled up to the house, accompanied by a guard of rurales. Greeting her calmly, Raul discovered that she was also calm, calm in an indrawn way, as if pain sucked at her, chilled her from deep within. Something dead shadowed her face. Something dead underlined her voice. She said she was ill, but this was more than the fatigue of travel. No one had told her about Refugio; that was easy to determine. She clung to his arm and asked him to have a snack with her, and yet she could eat very little. She sipped some brandy, her gaze on window, candles, door, servants, nothing for long.

He planned to tell her about Refugio in the morning, hoping she might sleep an undisturbed sleep. He would break the news as undramatically as possible.... Had something tragic happened to her in Guadalajara? Certainly something had precipitated this long train trip—to the place she hated most.

It was not until Sunday that he learned the reason for her return. She did not confide in him. He found a partly finished letter on her desk; seeing it addressed to María, he read it, hoping for a clue to her state of mind.

Dated Sunday morning, it began:

"Dear María,

"I have come back to Petaca for a while because I have quarreled with Estelle, a bitter, bitter quarrel and all because she says I see a dog following me about. But I didn't, I don't see a dog. Why does she say that, María? I beg you to go and speak to her, for me. She has another friend right now, but surely she will listen to me. I want to make up with Estelle...."

Without reading any further, Raul knew what was happening to her. An icy sensation closed over his brain, a fear for her sanity, a fear he had never experienced before ... a fear tied in with a dog with bones of glass. What could he say to her? What could he do to help her? Gabriel? Velasco? María? Perhaps María could care for her in Guadalajara. He would confide in María. He must get her away from Petaca, as soon as possible. But how? With trains running irregularly.

That Sunday was the longest day in his life. He could not eat. He went about shrouded in anguish. He tried to resolve problems of defense for the house. He tried to talk normally with Manuel, Gabriel, Salvador, Velasco, and Angelina. He tried to hide in his room, tried to hide in the garden. He tried to reinterpret Angelina's letter differently, calling his deduction an error.

That night, after Raul had gone to sleep, Angelina stole downstairs and entered the chapel. Fear gripped her, the same fear that had overtaken her in Guadalajara, at Estelle's, the same night fear. Now, as she hesitated in the chapel, she saw Mona beside her, transparent.

Calling Mona, she went toward the altar: she knew that thieves were stealing the Virgin's jewels. Someone must protect her. Lighting a taper, she hurried to the front of the chapel. The Virgin was intact under her watermelon dome of glass. Her tiny olivewood face smiled serenely, and Angelina felt happy. In the wavering light, the diamonds and rubies sparkled, and Angelina knelt in prayer.

She thanked God for the Virgin's safety and then burst out:

"Oh, Virgin, help me! I have had a terrible quarrel with Estelle. We were so dear to each other. I want so to have at least one friend, someone to love me ... and—and take Mona away from me. Take her away!"

She thought she heard a sharp sound. She gathered her nightgown about her and stood up. Carrying the taper, she rushed toward the door, where she listened, her ear against the wood.

Perhaps Raul had missed her?

Frightened, she thought of going to Vicente's room, seeing his face, touching him. No, he was at school in Colima. She remembered the phantom dog, expecting to see it, and sobbed.

Stealing back into the house, she heard Don Fernando coughing. It sounded as though he were in pain, and so she lit a night lamp and took him a glass of water and held it patiently.

"Thanks. My throat ... gets dry. What time is it?"

"It's night ... sometime in the night."

"Go back to bed," he told her.

"But I can't sleep," she said softly.

He tried to see her, but without his glasses he saw only a white blur.

"I've been awake a long time," he said. "A long time."

"Are you in pain?"

"No. But I keep seeing things," he said.

"What kind of things?" she said.

"People ... faces mostly. People I've known."

"Oh," she said.

"Do you remember Lola Navarro?" he asked.

"No," she said. The darkness of the room, pierced at either end by the window and the door, seemed to tremble as a breeze came through.

"You were just married when Lola lived here with me," he said.

"I remember," she said, half-remembering. It felt good to be able to speak, to say anything at all.

"Do you remember how well she rode?" He paused, the dark room bothering him. "I miss Caterina..." he said, and his coughing started again and she held the glass, making an effort to steady her hand.

Presently, she asked, "Are you asleep?"

"No."

"I thought you'd fallen asleep."

"I wish I could."

"I've had a quarrel with Estelle."

"You shouldn't have brought her here."

"I didn't bring her."

"Women without men are no good," he said.

Back in bed, she fell into a troubled sleep until peacocks and roosters woke her. She dressed and the shrill pot-rack, pot-rack of the guinea hen annoyed her; it seemed to her the most hideous of hacienda noises. Raul got up and dressed rapidly and as he dressed he told her that he and his men must drive three hundred head of cattle to Colima. At breakfast, he still could not tell her about Refugio.

She toyed with her dish of fruit, thinking of Estelle, remembering Guadalajara people.

Such a sad face, he thought.

"Couldn't you and Gabriel do something with some of the children?" he suggested.

"Perhaps we could. I ... I'll talk to Gabriel."

He gulped his food: eggs and bread.

"Bring my coffee," he said to Chavela.

His chewing annoyed her and she wanted to leave the table.

"Why do we change so?" she asked.

"Many things are changing," he said, not following her.

"I don't mean that." She poured herself water.

He got up and drank his coffee standing. "Have to go," he mumbled. "I hear the cattle in the court. Goodbye."

Raul overtook the cattle outside the hacienda gate: Esteban had the group in front, Manuel worked the rear, and other cowboys covered the sides, to pick up strays and keep them moving.

Raul and Manuel rode side by side a while.

"Have we got them all?"

"So far, so good. A fine bunch," said Manuel. "Are we sure of railroad cars?"

"General Matanzas promised cars. He gets a cut."

"Engines too?" joked Manuel.

"Well, they're going through to Guadalajara."

The cattle followed a narrow road through palmera, fronds roofing the trail, dumping dust and dirt on the riders. The hoofs drummed a hollow insistence, hollower in rocky places, where boulders towered. Between houselike rocks lay the ruins of a temple, ancient limestone walls in stubble, weeds and bushes, a circular platform partially terraced. Years ago, Raul had planned to dig there. What for? he asked himself as he rode by. Bones, old pots, an idol? Let the temple keep its secrets.... A young doe, crouched among stones, eyes shifting, ears up. Raul liked this route to Colima, seldom used because it was too rough for carriages and wagons.

In Colima, the promised cars lay on a siding and, after checking the cattle into the loading pen, Raul and Manuel rode to the Hotel Ruiz, a shabby white stucco building overlooking the plaza. The town heat was oppressive, and when Raul had eaten in the flyspecked dining room, where not a breath stirred, he sought the square. There, the iron swans spewed water through misshapen beaks into a mossy fountain; dried bougainvillaea flowers blew about from little piles left by the gardener. The clock—pasted in the Presidencia wall—bonged the hour.

On a bench, Raul smoked and listened to Colimans argue: a bearded fellow was peeved over domino rules. He clacked a domino up and down at his rustic playing table under a laurel tree. His fat partner scowled and talked back. Across the plaza, in the house of Doña Camila, somebody struggled with a guitar.

Colima—he had been here so many times!

Colima—narrow streets, simple one- and two-story homes, red-tiled roofs, whitewashed fronts, patios with banana, breadfruit, coco palms, bamboo and mango. A little town that fought earthquakes and hurricanes, a sugar-cane town with a few coffee plantations nearby.

He smoked and listened to the badly strummed guitar (the domino players had gone); he thought of Angelina.... Kindness, could that help?

He loved Lucienne for her auburn beauty, her even temper, her grace, her humor.

He strolled down a shady street and circled back to the plaza and noticed a band of armed men alongside the church, sitting on the curb, leaning against the wall; most of them had carbines. At first he disregarded them, and then felt concerned.

In the hotel, he mentioned the band of men to Manuel and Esteban, and the three talked it over with the manager. He was a huge, high-strung Spaniard, sallow, fish-eyed, egg-chinned; he said that the hoodlums ought to be strung up and that if they entered the hotel he'd shoot them "one by one." Manuel winked at Raul.

During the night Raul heard rifle shots but in the morning no one had any information. "Drunkards," the manager conjectured.

Raul paid a call on Federicka. In her shady bamboo-slatted living room, he read a letter Lucienne had written him, telling him why she had gone hastily to Guanajuato, her handwriting more of a gardener's scribble: "They say the trains will start running regularly in 1912.... I think I had better find a lead mine, for bullets...." Her humor was there, even in her concern.

"What a foolish thing, to go to Guanajuato at this time," he said.

"I begged her not to go," Federicka said.

She gave him a venison lunch and then they went to see Vicente, at his school, where the sisters and students were blissfully unaware of Mexico's impending disaster. Federicka, too, shrugged a provincial shrug.

Raul, alone for a moment with Vicente, thought: My God, the boy resembles Angelina, face, body, her posture even! Putting a rough arm about him, he hugged him close.

Late in the afternoon, the postmaster showed Raul a newspaper from Guadalajara, brought in by a horseman. It reported street fighting. Raul found many Colima friends who were sorely distressed, who predicted tragedy, who blamed foreign governments and the hacendados.

Raul described a cartoon, in the Guadalajara newspaper, to Manuel, as they rode out of Colima, for Petaca.

"It showed a butterfly of death hovering above an hacienda," said Raul.

"How does the song go about the butterfly of death?" asked Manuel, hitching his gun belt, kicking his horse with his spurs.

"I don't remember," said Raul.

"I should remember," Manuel laughed. "I used to sing it to you."

Raul chuckled. "That was quite a time ago."

"It's a Chiapan song about a loco butterfly that went after men, poisoning them on the trail ... 'A touch of the wing, just a touch of the wing,'" Manuel sang.

Outside Colima, children played ball in the yard of a Jesuit school; a priest—robe flung open—drowsed on a swing. Workers trudged along one side of the yard, toward town, bunches of green bananas suspended between them. White oxen wandered by.

Raul's cowboys came up behind them, riding at a leisurely pace, some of them singing, one playing a harmonica.

Raul and Manuel trotted down a long hill and began to climb. Suddenly, Chico drew close to Manuel's mare. He reared, throwing himself on his hind legs and hurled Raul to the road. The blow knocked the wind out of him and pain wired his shoulder to the ground. He thought of his bullet wound. For a few seconds he lay motionless but by the time Manuel reached his side, he was able to stagger to his feet. Chico was standing calmly under a tree.

"Are you hurt?" asked Manuel.

"No ... just stunned."

"That damn' Chico! You cabrón!" Manuel cried, rushing angrily toward the horse, whip in hand. "God damn you!"

"Leave him alone," commanded Raul. "You can't teach him by beating him. He's too old to change. No, Manuel!"

Manuel, helping Raul mount, thought of the Petacan beatings, the men, even boys ... now all that had been stopped by Raul. Teach a horse. Maybe not one as old as Chico. Teach people, maybe so! But it was too late to change the haciendas. The butterfly was over Petaca.