The moon wind blew for the first time around the middle of the seventeenth century when, by the light of a full moon, the itinerant priest Plácido died a martyr’s death on a limestone plateau on the north coast, slain by a drunken, red-haired mercenary. Ever since, the phenomenon has been repeated in the same place almost every September. There has not been a single family from the village lying at the foot of the plateau that has not had at least one member snatched away by the terrible moon wind and the raging fever it brings. The three shops in the village sell only sombre mourning garb, as no one ever has a chance to don colourful clothes; before the two years of mourning for one victim are up, there is always a new death in the family. No one plays music in their houses or even in the village’s two bars. The men and women wear such surly expressions, and even the children are serious when they play. The late poet Pierre L. once read me a moving poem, an epic without a hero, in which he calls the village successively Village of Mourning, Village without Music and Village without Smiles.
Legend has it that, when Father Plácido’s strength was failing and he sank, mortally wounded, onto the chalky ground, purple blood flowed from his Spanish body. There came a roar like that of a gale, but the brightly lit night was windless and the atmosphere was sultry. The rumbling in the sky persisted. It was a sound that the soldiers had never heard before, and it filled them with a strange fear. The heat became almost unbearable, and all the air seemed to be sucked away. Cursing, the soldiers unbuttoned their tunics, revealing sweaty, hairless chests that glistened in the moonlight. Suddenly an icy blast came whistling across the plateau and chilled them to the bone. They took refuge in a cave, but the moon wind fever was already coursing through their bodies. None of them left the cave alive. The eleven skeletons were found some twenty-five years later.
Each September, when the moon is full, the villagers gaze into the sky with resignation on their faces but bitterness in their hearts. If they see a purplish glow around the lunar disc, they know the moon wind is on its way. They quickly lock themselves in their houses. Everything is shut tight; they stuff folded newspapers and strips of rag between the closed shutters and in every chink, so that not a breath of air can get in. When the wind has gone from the plain and the heat returns, it becomes boiling hot inside the houses, but people know that they are safe from the biting cold that will roar past. But almost every year there are victims. A window swings open in a little room where a baby is crying because of the heat. An old man, ignorant of the danger, sleeps off his hangover behind the tavern. A rash youth refuses to give credit to a silly legend.
When rumours started to circulate that the island’s Catholic authorities had begun an inquiry into the life and death of Father Plácido, with the object of starting the official process of canonisation, or at least beatification, some of the villagers saw this as an excellent opportunity to gain favour with the saint-to-be and thus stop the moon wind. They organised a collection with the aim of erecting a statue of Father Plácido. There was a shady Italian in town with a flourishing trade in magic potions, designed to protect you against evil influence, bind a loved one to you forever, cause children’s milk teeth to come through painlessly and much else besides; hearing of the collection, the Italian announced that he was in fact a trained sculptor and would be glad to offer his services. As a sample of his work he produced a painting showing a rather stocky man with his face raised piously to heaven and his habit half-open to reveal a snow-white chest bearing a purple heart; “The Violet Saint,” read the inscription. But the statue never materialised, because the rumours about canonisation were false. The diocese found it necessary to issue a communiqué containing the startling revelation that neither the Archivo General de Indias in Seville nor the archive of the apostolic prefecture in Caracas contained any information about a Father Plácido.
Thus the Violet Saint remained unpropitiated and the moon wind still sweeps across the plain almost every year. Men, beasts and plants alike are affected when, in the midst of scorching heat, the freezing wind unexpectedly descends from the mountains and chills everything in its path. Young vegetables lose their sheen and come out in black spots, tamarind husks shrivel on the branch and unripe mangoes and medlars fall from the trees, riddled with tiny grey worms. The morning after the full moon, cattle are found with paralysed hind quarters. Pregnant goats lie on their backs and writhe in pain as violent abdominal cramps choke the young inside them. Not a single offspring of any species survives exposure to the moon wind. Small children lose all power of movement, their skin develops thick, ugly folds and death follows swiftly; older children may hold out for two or three days, but very few withstand the devastating fever. In grown men and women it lasts from eight to ten days. With eyes tight shut, distorted mouth agape and cheeks seemingly turned to leather, the victims lie in bed with trembling limbs, constantly shifting from their left side to their right. Their families and neighbours busy themselves day and night administering folk remedies that are supposed to draw the fever from the head of the sufferer to the soles of his feet, so as to quench the heat ravaging his body. After a week, sometimes a little longer, the patient suddenly rolls over onto his back, his arms and legs stop trembling, his glazed eyes are half-open and his tanned face begins to look like a death’s head. The priest is hurriedly summoned to give the last rites with professional aplomb.
Occasionally some man or woman who is stronger in body, mind and faith survives the fever, but no one escapes the chastisement of the Violet Saint without some memento. Pipi Gatiero, the skinny village drunk who no one thought would recover, was left with a permanently bent neck, so that his head lolls ridiculously when he walks. “The booze in my blood was my salvation,” he constantly intones, and drinks more than ever. Since his miraculous recovery Fèfè Notisiero has had ten stiff fingers that he cannot persuade to move. All day long he sits on his step violently shaking his head. His grandson sits next to him, and from time to time shoves a pipe into the mouth of the old man, who sucks furiously on it. Since Fèfè used to be a keen domino player and now walks around with his fingers splayed, the village boys have nicknamed him “Double Five.” Chela, the only loose woman in the village and one of the few females to have withstood the fever, emerged from her ordeal without a hair on her head. For years she wore a black headscarf day and night, but now she goes around in a luxuriant wig. Tough old Don Bèni, who owns more goats than anyone else, escaped with nothing more than slurred speech. This was because his wife summoned a doctor from town who gave him injections. In his case the fever lasted only six days. “I have lived twice,” Don Bèni never tires of telling anyone who will listen. “In those days of delirium my whole life — even things I had long forgotten — passed before my mind’s eye in the minutest detail. I have lived twice, and the second time around every experience was more intense.”