excerpt
At dawn, a column of dark smoke rose to heaven from the funeral
pyre on which all the bodies were burnt. The smell of singed flesh
was nauseating. Neighbouring chiefs came to pay their respects, and
the crying intensified with each new arrival. I saw them from my hut
where I had lain in my hammock for the past hours, not wanting to
offend their grief with the colour of my skin.
The slanted rays of the late afternoon sun stretched the shadows
to the east, and I saw people gathering fat and ashes from the
remains of the pyre. Drinking them mixed with chicha was
considered the utmost honour, and only the chiefs were invited to
partake. But there was a canoe brimming with chicha for the rest, and
many kept refilling their gourds.
I stayed in my hut, listening to the unnerving weeping and
wailing, which escalated into a dance in which men and women
separately rested their arms on each other’s shoulders and moved
back and forth. Their sudden screams and shrieks chilled me. They
were drinking, and it showed. The dance turned into frenzy. Now, I
understood the tales of friars who insisted the Indians could talk to
the devil, for what I was witnessing was nothing short of infernal.
The firelight drew macabre shadows on their skin adorned with
feathers, dark paint and dead leaves. I wondered whether they
would want to kill me.
Where could she be? I peered out but could not identify many
faces. She was not there. I thought I could see Baruta sitting with a
group of visitors, but I wasn’t sure. I surrendered to the loneliness
and sadness and decided to go back to my hammock. I wanted to
sleep—sleep and never wake up again.
She stood so near and quiet that I almost bumped into her as I
turned. Seeing her made me feel like a child who has scraped a knee
and only cries when he sees his mother. She put a hand on my face
and stroked my cheek with her thumb. I wanted to speak, but the
lump in my throat . . . I lowered my head to hide the tears brimming
in my eyes, and she stepped closer and pulled me to her.
Libros Libertad 