The Vanquished by César Andreu Iglesias

Author:César Andreu Iglesias
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The University of North Carolina Press
Published: 2018-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

15

As the sun rose above the Sillas de Calderón, reclaiming the mountain ridges from the shadows, there slowly spread from each peak a sinking, roseate tide of light, flooding the narrow gullies. The depths of each gully were colored a dark green, lending a uniform hue to the vegetation. But as the mountains became brighter, the light brought into view a most amazing variety of shades of green.

Now the sun rose rapidly, shedding red tones upon the clouds. And meanwhile, green became master of the earth. In the deepest corners green held sway in the shadows. Along the steep slopes there climbed the dark green of the pomarrosas. Above them rose the green of the guava, the green of the guamá, the green of the guaraguao. Among these dark greens there spread the brilliant green of the banana grove. And amid this mosaic of greens there shone the silvery green of the yagrumos.

In the mountains of Las Indieras, Maricao, one felt keenly the near frost of early morning. Don Antonio gazed at the scene indifferently, as on so many other mornings in the course of his long life. But lowering his gaze from the landscape, he looked down into the yard of the hacienda. An automobile? What was that doing here?

He hurried down the stairs. The higuerillo planks of the stairs creaked under his step. He approached the car and stuck his head through one of the windows. To his surprise he recognized Marcos, rolled up like a ball of wool in the back seat.

“Well, I’ll be damned, it’s Marcos Vega!” he exclaimed.

His hand was wet. The car was soaked with morning dew. Marcos must have arrived at dawn, he said to himself. What foolishness! He ought to have awakened them.

Marcos’s left arm was asleep. It felt as if it had been nailed down. For some time he’d been trying to move it without being able to. He felt an awful weight on his arm. He tried to draw it back. On moving, he woke up. His limbs were swollen. He sat up in the seat, rubbing his arm with his right hand. Finally he felt the blood flowing back into his veins, like a river.

“What way is this to arrive at Hacienda Santa Rita?”

He lifted his eyes. It was Don Antonio’s fatherly voice, gently reproaching him.

“Forgive me, Don Antonio. I arrived at dawn and I hadn’t slept for two nights.”

“Hombre! You should have called.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You know perfectly well that this is your house. Let’s go up!” Marcos followed the old man up the steps. On reaching the porch, he stopped. Before him there stretched a panorama of beautiful mountains, dissolving into narrow valleys. Farther off, he could see the plains of the coast and beyond them the sea, the horizon wreathed in fog.

Don Antonio let him sink into silent admiration. Marcos murmured: “How truly beautiful is our land!”

“We are on the roof of la patria, Marcos. There beneath you, you have the Caribbean sea. Come, so you can see the cordillera at this hour of the morning.

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