When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

3

Gabriel Storni's small room was in a one-story stone building across the court from the main house. There had been a school there, next door to Gabriel's room, until Don Fernando had discontinued it after he and the teacher had quarreled. As Raul walked across the forecourt, pigeons lit on the roof, then fluttered off nervously and swarmed through the air above the chapel spire. Raul heard the wings, but did not see them as he walked along. Horsemen clopped over cobbles, yet he did not turn his head. Rapping on Storni's door he waited, fingers nicking at the sun ridged wood, wood that was more slab than door. Rusty hinges hung the slab and they squealed as Gabriel opened the door.

"Come in, come in," he said affably.

The robe was Franciscan, the face Italian. Gabriel, at fifty-seven, had lustrous brown eyes, a bald head, a compassionate mouth, thick neck, large ears, a reddish wen under one eye. His front teeth had been capped with gold. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. He walked with a limp. But his defects were forgotten when he smiled.

The smile welcomed Raul.

"So nice to see you."

Momentarily the dark room, after brilliant sun, bothered Raul and he bumped into one of the familiar leather chairs. He only half saw the Spanish desk with papers in every pigeonhole, its reed-bottom chair, the shelves of books, and the plain wall cross carved from a scrap of high altitude cedar. Raul touched Gabriel's silver and bone rosary, where it lay on a corner of the desk.

"I'd like to talk with you."

"Sit down. Let me take these papers off the chair."

They faced each other on leather chairs, the door slightly open; again horsemen crossed the court, the hoof beats making the cobbles sound like empty clay bowls.

"One of these days you'll have your stained-glass windows," said Raul.

"Ah," said Gabriel, amused at such an unprompted declaration. "Right now, I think we ought to have a school teacher. We must reopen our school."

"I'm going to see to it," said Raul.

"What made your father change his mind?" asked Gabriel eagerly.

"I've decided to make these changes, now."

Gabriel began to laugh softly, one hand on his knee. His glasses shook and seemed about to fall.

"My dear boy, what's happened? Hadn't you better explain?"

"I've decided to take over Petaca. I should have done it long ago."

Gabriel blinked at Raul as if seeing him through smudged lenses. He trusted Raul, but he cleared his throat and knotted together the edge of his robe.

"We're in for trouble," Gabriel said, drawing his feet underneath his chair and bending forward thoughtfully. "This will really upset the hacienda."

"I don't want trouble; that's why I came to you."

Gabriel sighed. He was willing to assume responsibility, but he could not see where he could help. He had looked forward to the young man's administration of the estate at the death of his father. Removing his glasses, he pinched his nose, and then put the glasses on again.

"There's Pedro Chávez," he said. "You'll have to deal with him."

"Angelina reminded me," Raul said.

"Did you have to be reminded?" asked Gabriel. "Who else knows your decision besides Angelina?"

"Salvador and Manuel."

"Well, in a short time everyone will know."

"Father doesn't know. Shall I tell him today?"

"We'll tell him later. I see no reason to go to him now."

"I think I should tell him today. He should hear it from me.

"What precipitated your decision? I thought you would wait until..." He did not bother to finish the sentence; he was trying to consider problems dispassionately.

"It's the shortage of corn. Father has refused to supply grain. Many are ill, but you know the situation better than I do. I won't wait any longer. Farias was sent to check the corn and fences along the del Valle line. I don't want any shootings and I don't want any trouble."

Gabriel chuckled. "You don't want trouble," he said. "Now you'll have your hands full."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Come—what about Pedro Chávez?"

"I'll order him to leave the hacienda." Raul slapped the side of his boot with the palm of his hand. "I've had more than enough of Pedro."

"I'm with you," cried Gabriel. "Let's get him out of here as soon as possible."

Raul grabbed the priest's arm, and squeezed it. Gabriel's eyes glittered, and he stood up and said: "I remember the talks we've had in this room. I'll help you see that our people are treated right at Petaca. The Americans fought for their liberty.... Their war brought freedom! God will bless your decision, Raul. We'll work together."

"I'll talk to my father," said Raul, rising.

"Perhaps we should wait till Dr. Velasco comes," said Gabriel.

"I'd rather not."

"The shock may be too much for Don Fernando. I'd wait." Gabriel hesitated.

"You're wrong. Father will fight. He won't give in to me, in spite of his stroke. Let's talk to him before Velasco comes. Come with me."

"I suppose we may as well," sighed Gabriel.

Together they crossed the cobbles, a mangy yellow dog trailing them, sniffing the priest's robes. Entering by the veranda, they went directly into Don Fernando's bedroom. He was asleep. Gabriel bent over him, made the sign of the cross, and counted his pulse, the old man's skin cold to his fingers.

"It's steady," he whispered to Raul.

Fernando opened his eyes.

"Is it time for Mass?" he jibed thickly. He disliked Father Gabriel. To his way of thinking, his kind of mental superiority was out of place on an hacienda. It had been Gabriel who had influenced Raul to study abroad. Priests were for women and children. He had been a fool to put money into Raul's education. Education destroyed a man's strength.... Lids barely open, he glared at his son and the priest's bald head.

"How are you feeling?" Gabriel asked, avoiding his stare.

"Thirsty," said Fernando.

Raul poured water from the table bottle and gave the glass to his father.

"More water, Father?"

"No."

"You look rested," said Gabriel.

"I'm hungry."

"I'll speak to Chavela," said Gabriel, and started to leave the room.

"I came to tell you I have taken charge of the hacienda. People are hungry and sick. They can't wait any longer." Raul realized that Gabriel had halted abruptly, to listen. He had spoken distinctly but not loudly. He was not disturbed. He felt ashamed of himself for not declaring himself long ago.

His father's eyes flashed with wild anger; his mouth twitched; his jaw dropped; his decayed teeth showed. He raised one hand but it shook, and he shoved it underneath his sheet and tried to sit up. His Adam's apple rose and fell; he gulped and rolled on his pillow. He tried to get one leg out of bed but could not. Patches scabbed his sight; he shook his head but saw his father riding a white range horse. With great difficulty, Fernando made out that Gabriel had returned to his bedside.

"Get out," Fernando managed. "Get out!" he shrilled.

"It's time Raul managed Petaca," said Gabriel kindly. "You must see it his way. You need to rest." He was alarmed by the man's tortured face.

"I am dismissing Pedro Chávez," said Raul. "There will be no more killings on my hacienda."

Fernando's eyes were bloodshot; they flicked from left to right; tears oozed at the corners.

"God damn you!" he said hoarsely. He puckered his lips to spit, wanting to catch them both.

"It's time our sick were cared for, Don Fernando," said Gabriel.

"Shut up," said the old man.

They waited a few moments longer by his bed. A burro screeched and hollered in a field. A cloud passed over the sun. The old man coughed and faced the ceiling, one hand clenched; the other, beneath the sheet, trembled.

Raul tapped Gabriel's arm and they went out.

In the patio, Raul said, "It's done now."

"He took it hard," said Gabriel.

"When it came time to tell him, I couldn't spare him," said Raul.

"Such hate," said Gabriel,

"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resenting the scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it.

"Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough."

"It won't be bad for our people."

"I know ... I know," said Gabriel.

"Tomorrow our people will have grain."

"Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from his bald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gotten cloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I must talk to others."

Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neck chain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed as he walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the hacienda people; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good come of this transition, no additional anguish.

In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tiles before the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurine appeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's house in Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt beside him, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudy and sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman was speaking.

Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in blue cloth. The sound of her voice was also lost.

"Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy and his home and family and began to pray:

"Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy. Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendas are headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another."