When the Owl Cries

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

4

Sitting in his living room, Raul tried to rationalize his own actions. It still seemed illogical he had waited so long before assuming authority. Slouched in a red plush chair, he regarded his son, writing at the desk, doing an assignment given him by his school. Vicente would return to his school in Colima on Monday. A brass candlestick, holding five candles, burned beside the boy; the back of his blond head was toward Raul. Raul listened to the scratch of pencil on paper. Now and then Vicente sighed. He was ten, attractive, sweet-mannered, bright, and kind. He said he wanted to become a priest—"like Father Gabriel." Raul hoped he would change his mind and administer Petaca someday. How quiet Vicente had become since Raul had taken over the hacienda! It was as if he understood the gravity of the changes; the responsibilities. Yesterday at breakfast, Chavela had spouted, as she served: "Is it true? What will happen? Is that why Don Fernando won't eat? You know he won't eat anything at all. Why, he won't talk to me!"

Vicente had dug impulsively at his sliced pineapple. "You leave things to Papa," he had said.

Raul went over his decision, blaming the delay on his character. He saw the old Christ face and knew Alberto had sprung the latch, though other things had contributed their influence. He had been too slow, like so many Mexicans—willing to see men suffer. Afraid to stop their suffering. Afraid to be myself, he thought. When have I been myself? At school, abroad? No, I was a foreigner there, reticent, shy. This is home—Petaca—with its evasions, its ignorance. That's it. Perhaps I'm ignorant, ignorant of life's meaning and my own purpose!

A week or more before in Colima, the fat, ignorant licenciado Don Pascual had had something to say: "Mark my words, Raul, we're in for trouble. Far off, lost as we are in Colima, men are angry. When men grow angry, they're like bees, and when they swarm anything can happen. Mark my words!"

The Don Pascuals can be right. I must watch my step. I must reform old ways slowly. And he remembered that he had done nothing slowly as yet. Could he learn to work slowly? He brushed his hands restlessly over the arms of his chair.

True, Fernando had refused to eat. He had not summoned Pedro. He talked to no one.

Vicente had gone to him and given him water. He had lingered around his bed and talked; discouraged and embarrassed by his grandfather's silence, he had wandered out of the room.

"Why is he like that, Papa?"

"He'll be all right in a day or two," Raul had assured him.

Caterina came into the living room, took a book from the corner bookcase, and strode out, unaware of her father and brother. She was slender, dark, olive skinned. She liked to parade about with her wavy hair loose over her shoulders. She loved scarlet dresses and had one on. Only thirteen, she was a rare sight on an hacienda. Raul wondered if she had chosen a book to read to her grandfather. She was fond of him—blind to his cruelties, oblivious of his ugliness. She found in him something no one else could find.

If he continued his starvation, he would soon die.... Fernando Medina, El Clarín, starving himself! It didn't make sense. Perhaps Caterina would induce him to eat. She could coax better than anyone.

Raul was tempted to follow her, but instead he got up and paced the room, walking noiselessly. In front of the fireplace he lit his pipe, flaring the head of the match with his thumb-nail. Vicente smiled at him and he grinned back.

"How are you doing, boy?"

"Almost done."

"Good for you. Is it hard?"

"Hard enough."

Raul drew reflectively, enjoying the sweet warmth of the Cuban tobacco. He kicked idly at the pelt of the mountain lion beside the hearth. Dust and ashes puffed from the old, dried hair. On the mantelpiece, a great beam of unpeeled cedar, between a pair of crystal candle holders, lay the lion's tail, torn off by Vicente and Caterina during some game.

Walking the length of the room, Raul tried to concentrate. There was only concern: where to begin? Who needed help? How much corn and wheat were to be allotted? Yesterday, he and Velasco and Hernández had worked with the sick. He had put men to building huts behind the stables; the stable hands must have places of their own and not continue sleeping with the cattle. He had men clean the well that watered the stock. Carts had gone to Colima for lumber. Tomorrow he wanted repairs to begin on the granary roof. He wanted to speak to Gabriel about reconditioning the schoolroom, he wanted to see Salvador about the oxcarts.

Where to begin ... the thought haunted. It seemed to him a million beginnings could add up to nothing. Most of all, he wanted to reassure his people. Life at Petaca would have to even out over a long stretch of time to reassure the peasants.

Fussing with his pipe, he crossed the patio to look at his father. Fernando lay asleep, hand over the edge of his bed. A book lay open beside him, almost ready to slip to the floor. Perhaps Caterina had read to him. Raul smiled, as he took in an empty soup bowl under the bedside table lamp ... bread crumbs peppered the floor.

Going to the veranda, to the intricate grilled gate that closed the front of the house at night, he saw a bonfire across the cobbled court, near the far wall. Flames bloodied the wall and the turret on top. Men huddled close and seemed to be heating tortillas or making tacos over embers scraped from the blaze. Someone began to pluck a guitar, and Raul caught the glint of wood and strings. A man sang: "Es de los que bailan grande obligación darle a su pareja ..."

When had his people known freedom. Had it been under the last Indian emperor, Cuauhtemoc? Had it been under Moctezuma? Had it been at Chichén Itzá or Palenque? Surely, in some bygone age, his people had been freer and suffered less. Men still worshiped the old gods. A while ago, at the base of the volcano, at a place called Ojo Blanco, he had discovered an altar encrusted with blood. Turkey blood, said Manuel, since feathers had gotten stuck in the black crust. Deep inside a granite niche, a stone figure had grinned apishly.

"Toltec?" he asked Manuel.

"I don't know, Don Raul."

Higher up the volcano, on the seaward side, his men had reported other altars, through the years. On his own climbs, Raul had come across other idols, one a bloated thing of obsidian, the glass unpocked by time. Had these men known happier days?

The moon shone brightly, and it was chilly. He wanted to stroll along the lagoon and yet felt he should not walk alone, not for the time being. As a boy, he had played along the lagoon, speared frogs, sailed boats, waded and swum. As a boy ... What about Vicente? Would anyone molest him? Of course not. Then his own risk was an exaggeration.

He got a jacket, went through the garden, and opened a rose-trellised gate that led to the shore. First one frog and then another plopped into the water. A night bird startled him by whirring off from sedges near his feet. He stood still, his heart pounding. At once, he called himself a coward, but as he began to follow the shore, he realized someone was trailing him. He stopped, his hand on the trunk of a primavera tree and waited for the man to approach.

"Coming ... coming," came Manuel's voice. Raul broke into a chuckle.

"Why are you following me? Haven't you anything better to do?"

"You need company."

"I suppose I do. A night bird scared me. I'm an old woman."

"It's no time for an old woman to be about alone," laughed Manuel.

"I'm not going far."

"I brought this," said Manuel, tapping his revolver.

"For the frogs," said Raul.

"Not tonight," Manuel said.

Raul walked on, across clumps of grass that had wiry tops.

"I think we're overdoing this gun business ... too much precaution."

Raul was touched by Manuel's solicitude. Who else, beside his children, cared so much at Petaca? Even if there was no danger, it amounted to the same thing. Their walk took them through cane, and a snake slid toward the lagoon, its gray-white body sparkling, as if carrying dew or pieces of spider web. He and Manuel had routed many a snake along this shore. Ash, eucalyptus, pepper, jacaranda, primavera, tabachin and palm grew here. His grandfather and father had planted them. Close to the shore some of the trees had not done well, but on higher ground all were superb. Paths wound among them. Where moonlight scraped a circle on the ground, Angelina had placed a rustic table and chairs.

Raul sat on a log, and Manuel crouched on his heels, his back against an ash tree.

"Were the men having tortillas in the court?" Raul asked.

"Yes ... they hadn't had any for several days."

"Salvador came tonight, to live at the hacienda," said Raul.

"I know," said Manuel. "He'll be a lot of help."

"Do many know of my decision?"

"Most of them, I think."

"How do they feel about it? What have you heard?"

"I've heard only good things: some are very pleased, even excited."

Manuel moved closer and squatted beside Raul. For a while they were silent, listening to the waves and the night sounds.

"It's beautiful tonight," Raul said.

"Perhaps it's too beautiful. The charcoal makers, who came down from the volcano today, say smoke is seeping from the crater."

"If there were much smoke we would have seen it ... wouldn't we?"

"Perhaps," said Manuel.

"You sound pessimistic. What is it? Tell me why you followed me?"

"Pedro is here," he answered, after a pause.

"You know that for a fact?" asked Raul, stiffening.

"I saw him. He came from Manzanillo."

"Where did you see him?"

"In the stable, with other men."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No. He's drinking. He's out for trouble." Manuel spoke with a peculiar emphasis, recalling Pedro's drunken brawls, Raul's displeasure, Don Fernando's disregard. Manuel took time to pull a grass blade and poke it between his teeth, and then said, "He's very drunk."

The moon floated directly overhead, a spray of cloud in front of it. Something shook the dried fingers of a palm—a bird.

"Pedro came to talk with Don Fernando," said Manuel.

"I won't stop him," said Raul.

"I hear he says he'll never leave Petaca."

"He talks big. He's afraid."

"No—he's not afraid. Don't make that mistake, Don Raul!"

"Pedro has to leave.... I won't put up with him," he exclaimed.

In his mind's eye, Raul saw Pedro roping cattle in their corral, his lasso pinning a yearling. In the corral and on the range he had no rival. But as overseer, his cowpuncher skill meant nothing. He had not the slightest concept of what cooperation meant.

Returning, they took the road that led straight to the hacienda and entered the feudal wall through a seldom used gate. Raul said good-night to Manuel and lingered on the terrace, beside the swimming pool. Lighting his pipe, he reminded himself he must fill his tobacco pouch. The pool was flecked with jacaranda flowers, bats zoomed. Elbows on the adobe wall, Raul searched the volcano for a sign of smoke. High on the flank, nearest the ocean, he detected a red spark; perhaps a charcoal burner's fire. In the living room, he put his pipe on the desk, filled his pouch, and blew out the candles.

During the night, Caterina called him:

"Papa, Papa ... come."

She was having a bad dream and he rubbed her legs and stomach and quieted her, kissed her cheek and tiptoed back to bed. Sleep would not come and for a long time he contemplated the starry windows. Angelina lay curled in a kitten's ball. Suddenly, clearly he heard an owl cry. Before he could restrain himself, he sat up. Angelina stirred and muttered. Ridiculing superstitions, he lay still and tried to plumb the stars.

In the morning, the children got up first and dressed happily.

Caterina dashed down the stairs singing, her loose slippers clumping the tiles. "Soy la golandrina ... soy la golandrina..."

Almost at once she rushed back up the steps, screaming:

"... Grandpa's fallen on the floor! I think he's dead! Grandpa's lying on the floor ... quick, quick. He's fallen out of bed!" she cried, repeating herself till her mother hurried down. Caterina hid her face in her pillow and sobbed. Raul threw on his robe and got into his slippers.

A gentle rain trickled across the window glass of his father's window. Shadows, formed by the water on the pane, shimmered on Fernando's face. His features seemed a little less ugly. He groaned, as Angelina propped up his head and gave him a drink.

With his hand on a bedpost, Raul contemplated his wife. Her face was tender, and she spoke sweetly. Her attitude helped him feel compassionate. Together, they placed Don Fernando in bed and covered him. How pitiful, shut off by sickness and age. His hate had raised walls around him. It was more than hate, Raul knew. In Guadalajara, three or four months ago, he and his father had attempted to locate a pump suitable for irrigation. After a futile day they had gone to the nearest cantina, a fairly disreputable place. His father had ordered drinks. Then, when the waiter had gone, he had turned to Raul:

"I can't forget it, even here! I try to get away from it. I drink to get away from it; I ride like hell to get away..."

"What are you trying to get away from?"

"You're not that stupid, Raul! After all these years! Christ ..."

Swiftly, he had gripped Raul's hand with cold fingers.

"It's my father ... I often see him. I thought you knew."

In Fernando's eyes, in the cantina, there had been the glaze of fear. Fear and regret had cut him with their termites. Nobody cared for him, unless it was little Caterina. She had not seen Flores dragged behind a horse, across a field and back again, across a field and back again ... she had been in school in Guadalajara.

Chavela brought a tray of breakfast things, and Raul left the room as Angelina began to wash the old man's face, saying: "Come now, you're all right. Come now."

In the patio, Vicente ran up to Raul and asked, "Is Grandpa dead?"

"No, son, he fell on the floor."

"Shall I go in?"

"If you want to. Mama's there. You don't have to go inside."

With a frightened face, he dashed off.

As Raul crossed the patio, Gabriel appeared. He spoke, and Raul nodded significantly toward the bedroom. Gabriel limped past. Raul did not stop, but walked onto the veranda, to find Pedro Chávez, squatting on his heels by the steps.

Pedro was six foot two, about thirty-six, a Yaqui, with square shoulders, big arms, big hands, big legs and feet. His facial tissue folded thickly across sharp bones and he had the swarthy complexion of Sonorans. Deep-set brown eyes glared past a Mongolian nose. He wore his hair long, and strands of it hung over his plaid shirt and buckskin vest. A single silver button dangled loosely on his vest and other silver buttons ran down the seams of his black trousers. His feet bulged in a pair of chamois-colored boots. He carried a Colt and had a belt of cartridges.

Seeing Raul, he grinned a nervous grin (it was as if he had nothing to do with the grin) and his eyes blazed.

"I hear Don Fernando is worse," he said, continuing to squat disrespectfully on his heels. He spoke with obvious contempt.

Raul held himself straight.

"When did you hear that?" he asked.

"Last night. They say he won't eat," said Pedro.

"I just came from his room. He ate last night ... I've been wanting to talk to you. This time is as good as any. I've taken over the management. I want you to leave Petaca." Raul realized he had spoken too rapidly. He stopped.

"I'm not leaving here," Pedro snapped, eyes on the floor.

"I order you to leave Petaca, at once," said Raul, accenting each word.

"I couldn't do that. It's my job."

"I never hired you."

"But your father hired me." Pedro talked slowly, the Yaqui way, clicking each syllable.

A brown cricket crept over the red tiles, crept near Pedro's boots, crawled on, circling a little.

"You're no longer employed here. Go to the Banco Nacional in Colima. I'll write a note to the bank. They'll pay you off. Manuel will give you my note for the bank."

"Haven't you any money here?"

"I'll pay you through the bank. I want it that way. That way there's no question about a record of payment."

"I refuse to leave Petaca."

"I'll speak to the rurales."

Pedro lashed with the flat of his palm and smashed the cricket. He continued to squat, though he swayed on his heels.

"I'll tell the rurales to remove you. They know how. You'll rot in jail a while. The police will appreciate my attitude. You have your choice. Now, get out. I've had more than enough of your killings. When Flores was tied behind a horse and dragged across the ground, you whipped the horse. I should have killed you myself then. God knows, I wanted to."

Raul paused to wet his lips. Pedro glared at the floor between his legs. "You've killed four of our men, two without provocation. I'm not running that kind of hacienda."

"I get the work done," Pedro muttered.

"I can get the work done without beatings and killings. Don't be a fool, Pedro. Your job is over. My father can't keep you against my will. Go back to being a Yaqui sergeant."

"I'll see," said Pedro.

Raul jerked at his belt. The angry gesture made Pedro look up; it annoyed him to be reminded that Raul was unarmed; then he reconsidered that thought—his right hand stole toward his Colt: a secretive, instinctive movement: his hand had performed the same movement on the hunt or when among brawling men: the timing would be perfect. Raul had begun to turn away; instantly, instinctively, he whirled around.

"Get out of here!"

Raul's stony face moved Pedro. He got up, hitched his trousers, hitched his belt, snuffed, examined the cricket stain on his hand, and stalked off, his spurs nicking the stone steps. He had a cowboy sprawl, a cowman's gait; he strolled toward the corral, rolling a cigarette as he walked, feeling the weight of his Colt, insensible to everything but the urge to kill.