The big village wasn’t totally empty and the man found some people and explained what had happened: he had brought a woman from the south village with her sick child; they’d had a problem advancing in the canoe, but they’d got there in the end; the woman had climbed out of the canoe, taken her child and set off for home, but a few feet away from the water’s edge she’d fallen down a hole, and now she couldn’t walk. He said he needed help to get her off the dark shore, and that they needed to act right away. She’d be very frightened on her own at the water’s edge. As I’ve said before, everyone on the island knew each other, although not everyone knew the particular circumstances of everyone else. The people he told the story to showed their concern and a few minutes later they were all down on the beach, at the exact spot where the man had left the mother and her sick child, near the hole into which she’d fallen and hurt her ankle. They went with a lantern, and with people pitying that poor woman’s plight, but she wasn’t where the man had left her. She couldn’t walk, so how could she have moved? Did the woman have strange powers after all? The hole was there, but there was no sign of the woman. The lantern they had didn’t produce much light, and it made them nervous being on the beach at that time of night. Although if the lantern had made a lot of light, they’d have been nervous too, for they’d have been combating the darkness but exposing themselves to who knows what — for it was the middle of the night. Where had the woman gone? The man had assured the people who’d come to help that she couldn’t walk, and surely he would not have lied to make them leave home in the middle of the night. They looked at one another, they looked around, but they didn’t dare call out. Had yet another misfortune befallen her? Just as they started to doubt what they were doing there, they heard a whimper from a few feet away. A whimper like someone blowing their nose. A little fearful of what it might be, they approached with the lantern, the canoeman in front, and, in among the beached canoes, he found the woman. She lay sprawled out in the sand, her child held to her chest, though because of the way she was turned, the boy was also laid out in the sand. What had happened was that she’d felt very exposed out there in the middle of the beach, so she’d managed to drag herself, or crawl, with her child under one arm, to the beached canoes, where she’d squeezed in between two of them. The canoes were beached very close together with just enough room for a man to walk between them, so as not to take up too much space. She felt safer there. Lying in the dark, she’d thought about how all she had in life was one sister, that they’d had a hard life and that, although it had gone on being hard with a child she’d got after going to talk to the white men on the boat, she now felt devastated, for in a few hours’ time her child would be buried in the ground, because some sickness, or hardship itself even, had taken the child’s life away. That’s why she held the child to her breast, as if her son were still alive, and she cried for all that her life had been, culminating with breaking an ankle on the beach in the dark in the middle of the night. She cried in silence but you could still hear her sniffling, the sound of her nose. She lay sprawled out in the sand, something an adult rarely did. Sprawled out in the darkness, at the water’s edge, on an island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
I’m not a writer, or a teacher, or a priest. I don’t know anyone on the island who could be described as a writer. It’s an occupation, or a state, that none of us knew anything about. We’d never heard of it before. The only people who ever knew how to write on the island were the teacher, the priest and the functionaries who worked in the governor’s office, though we never knew what they came to do. What I have spoken of is what I experienced, heard and saw when I was a child. It has never been put down in writing before, because, as I said, I am not a writer; nobody on the island is. If this story becomes known, it will be because of some white people. They came to our island and wanted to know our folk tales, the stories we tell at night before going to sleep. Or that we used to tell, or that we remember being told by others as we gathered round, ears at the ready. They asked me to tell them a folk tale, or several, and I thought the best thing to do was to tell them the story of my childhood, for I couldn’t remember any folk tales from back then. The white people said they had come to recover our oral storytelling tradition, and their leader, a man named Manuel, said I could tell him whatever story I liked, because childhood memories would likely hold some significance too. I told him what I remembered of those years, and I closed my mouth when I considered the story finished. It took us two days; that’s to say, we met twice, on two different days. I hope the contraption he used to capture my words captured them properly … If I’d been good at writing myself, I wouldn’t have required someone else to put down in writing what I myself experienced. But after learning to count up to five hundred and something, after learning to add, subtract, multiply and divide numbers with two figures, and after learning that Spanish words are divided into aguda, llana and esdrújula, I couldn’t take my studies any further. For many reasons. So the white people’s interest is my opportunity. I hope Manuel manages to find a way to get my story written down, so that anyone who experienced it, anyone from our island who was the same age as me when I experienced these things, is able to recall what happened in their lives. I know you can’t cover everything in a story told over just a few hours. But I thank Manuel for allowing my story, which is also the story of many people on the island, to take the place of the folk tales he wanted for his work.
They found that woman drowning in tears, her child held close to her chest, sprawled out in the sand. She could no longer contain herself. She’d held it all in for the whole journey, and even a good while before that, but she could no longer contain her grief; she could no longer bear to wait until she got home, as she’d planned to do. Before getting home, yet another misfortune had befallen her, another misfortune to add to her living on that island in total hardship, to her never having lived with her parents and to the only child Dios had seen fit to give her having died. Her sorrow was tremendous, and she cried for herself, and they let her cry. And she’d broken her ankle, or at least could no longer use it, and could not take her dead child home. Few people have experienced such things. Her misfortune seemed to be particularly great, for ending up without the use of your foot just when you need it most is no small thing, not something that happens every day on the island.
The people who had come to help the canoeman picked up the dead child, or the sick child, depending on how much of the story they knew, and the canoeman put the woman on his back. Then they went to the house the woman told them was hers, or that some of them already knew was hers. By midday the next day, a little coffin to bury the dead child in was ready. And because the boy was from his land, or at least half of him was, the Padre came down from the Misión and sprinkled holy water on his coffin. Then a man hoisted the coffin onto his shoulders and they took it away to be buried. Only a few people followed, people who knew the young woman, her only sister for example. The woman herself was not there. She could not attend her son’s funeral. She could not walk and there was no one strong enough to carry her on their back all the way to the cemetery. Besides, the adults on our island say that a person with broken bones should not enter a cemetery. If they do, the bones might heal wrong or not at all. And so she could not follow behind the tiny coffin of her son, Luis Mari. And while her son was taken away in that small, narrow coffin, she sat in her house crying about everything that had happened. No one stayed behind to console her. She cried in a low murmur, as if she hadn’t the strength to show the magnitude of her pain. But her tears were plentiful, so abundant that you feared for her. She cried for herself, for her solitude, for her many years of hardship, and because she’d been abandoned by Luis Mari, the only child she had.