Tierra del Fuego (6 page)

“From here,” Handler went on, “I could see the great white wave, apparently held back on the other side of the sound, but in fact advancing inexorably. From time to time, the crest of the great wave cracked, making a deafening boom, and the ice moved a little closer to the woods.

“On one occasion when the booming was getting louder, I ran out in search of other men to go with me, but when I approached the other caves, they came out with their clubs and drove me back, just as I had done to them. Oh, how I missed my woman's gentle eyes and my child's little hand! . . .

“One day, the ice boomed so loudly that the wood was filled with the shrieks, snorts and roars of frightened animals. I tried to leave the cave, but a mass of terrified beasts was coming up the slope. Many continued up the hill, but a group of them, seeing the mouth of the cave, came in . . . I still remember the little gilded horse the color of dawn galloping to this corner, followed by the great saber-toothed puma and then the giant armadillo, the marsh otter and others.

“Time passed, as inexorable as the roar of the ice, which was collapsing like huge planks of wood. The animals and birds kept coming, filling the hills and woods with their frightened cries. But then there came a colossal bang, louder than the others, and the cave grew even dimmer . . .

“I tried to rise, but my heart climbed into my throat like a startled mouse . . . The light grew ever dimmer between the wall and the circle of stones where I kept the big animals . . . In fact, it was one of them that had made the cave go dark, since it had escaped from the circle and was now standing with its huge body in the entrance, uncertain whether to come back inside, terrified by the stampede, or run out.

“Other dark shapes followed the first, and they started to bear down on me . . . I fled to the furthest corner of the cave, but the roar of the great saber-toothed puma stopped me. Beside it, the little golden sorrel horse was neighing with terror. But, curiously, the roaring puma made no move to jump on it and eat it. Both of them were as scared as the great marsh otter, which was mewing frantically, or the giant armadillo, which was coughing dully, as if it were the very throat of the cave, now filled to the brim with fleeing animals. In the midst of the uproar, mingling with the booming of the ice, the little sorrel could clearly be heard neighing, like a bright trumpet call in the gloom.

“Is it the blizzard rumbling? . . . No, that wouldn't make this croaking sound! . . . It's the dark shape, the big animal . . . its long neck is what's croaking and moaning like that, collapsing like a broken trumpet on judgment day . . . The other animals are also bellowing threateningly, they're advancing, advancing toward me, faster and more inexorable even than the ice . . .

“Everything is mixed up, the stampede, the roaring, the bellowing, the marsh otter, the cavernous coughing, the howling of the armadillo, the ash and the ice and the woods, the birds, the fish, the stalks, the neighing of the little horse of dawn . . .

“A huge leg, yes, a huge ashen leg . . . it's advancing toward me, it's reached me, it sinks into my chest. Then, suddenly, there's a flash of lightning! It streaks out across the old grasslands where the sun shone and the stalks were juicy and the round fruit hung . . . The lightning flashes, lighting up the whole of that past life when we were so happy . . . Woods shaking like hair blown loose by the storm . . . I am the tenderest shoot, the son of the water and the wind! The wind, the wind is uprooting me, carrying me off through the air . . . What will become of me? Will I return once more to a branch in a wood from where no wind can carry me off? Or will I be transformed forever into a wandering gust?

“The guttural roars, the last neighs of the horse of dawn, gradually die out, covered by the ash . . . The luminous tail of the last flash of lightning releases the woman . . . She slides away from the wall of rock and creeps toward me, as if she wanted to go with me . . . She smiles sadly because she's coming to say farewell to me . . . I go up to her and ask, ‘How is the child?' and with a vague gesture she tells me he's fine . . . So the child is fine! . . . But wasn't he dead? How can a dead person be fine? Are they alive? Wasn't she dead, too? I go up to her and brush her ashen smile with my lips . . . How sweet they taste! They are like the grasslands when the ice was advancing, like a dead shoot. Now I know she's only pretending to be alive! That cold, smooth woman's skin is a lie! What does she want with me if she's dead? Like ash left by the thunder and lightning, I break free of her, but I don't know where I'm going! Perhaps some eternal wandering gust will carry me somewhere else, where life can again take shape! But if I am born again, will I remember what I have lived through? I should! Because if not, it's better not to be born again. Oblivion is the only thing that's really dead.”

And there, Handler broke off his incoherent story and looked up at the roof. The stalactites hung there, as if the whole cave were weeping an endless, age-old nocturnal lament. He turned his graying head like a living, ashen stalactite, searched for something in the shadows, and, not finding it, again raised his hand to his forehead and pressed it into his eyes. The bat stuck out its thin tongue, licked its little nose with it, and with the edge of its wing wiped its eye as though wiping away a tiny tear.

“Let's go, Handler!” I said, shooing the bat away. It rose like a tiny condor, beating its wings, black leather umbrellas in place of plumage.

 

Outside, the November night was cool and bright. A full moon was advancing like a great round diamond between cottony clouds that merged with the eternal snows of the high peaks to the northeast of Ultima Esperanza Sound. Higher still, the Southern Cross hovered over the Magellanic Clouds, which, like two gigantic udders, filled all this part of the heavenly vault with milky brightness.

We got on our horses and set off for the ranch. We rode in silence, one behind the other, trusting our horses to lead us in the right direction. From time to time, at a bend in the trail, the moon cast the shadow of Handler's horse across my horse's hooves . . .

It was after midnight by the time we reached the peninsula of Lake Toro, the tip of which is cut across by what may be the shortest river anywhere, being no more than a hundred feet long, running between Lake Maravilla and Lake Toro.

Our horses stopped in an arroyo to drink from the stream. A small distance away, there was a gap between the tops of the oaks, and the moon shimmered on the water, the reflection shattering like glass when the horses raised their heads.

A cloud of gnats, which are characteristic of Lake Toro, surrounded us. I calmly let them come to rest on my hands and bite, just for the pleasure of seeing them drop—these insects die after sucking human blood.

But the cloud of gnats preferred Handler, and he slapped irritably at the back of his neck and pulled them off in handfuls. All at once, I saw his hand glistening with blood in the moonlight.

“You're wounded!” I said, going toward him.

“I don't know . . .” he replied.

The gnats kept massing behind his neck, and a small ­trickle of blood started to run down his neck and under his shirt.

“Let me see it,” I said, spurring my horse on.

Under the shaggy hair at the base of his skull was a wound that had been staunched but, with the bites of the gnats and his own slaps, the congealed crust had come off and started bleeding again. I bound the wound with a handkerchief to protect it from the gnats, which continued pestering us until we had abandoned the wooded area and entered the smooth hills that lead to the full Patagonian pampa.

The shore of the lake became lower, flatter and treeless, allowing the silvery light of the waters to extend across the tussock grasslands with unusual brilliance. The moonlight, reflected on the silver plain of the lake and the grasslands, became even more enchanting when we entered an extensive field of scrub covered with
paramelas
, small yellow flowers that reached up to the hocks of the horses. A curious plant, this
paramela
from the shores of Lake Toro, with its strong scent, and its leaves and stalks that are often used instead of tea or
mate—
although they say that, when the infusion is too strong, it gives you a headache and makes you hallucinate.

The silver of the lake had been transformed into pure gold by the time we were in the middle of the field of
paramelas
. As the flowers were crushed under our horses' hooves, they gave off their heady scent, which enveloped us along with golden light, making us feel as though we were riding across the pastures of the moon.

A group of ostriches suddenly rose from the ground, a large male with its five females, and started running, cutting across the plain with their mottled plumage. Handler spurred his horse and set off in pursuit. But the birds were faster than his horse, and they ran up a hill and disappeared. Handler followed them to the top and reined sharply.

I carried on at a slow canter, expecting him to ride back down, but, as he was still up there, as motionless as an equestrian statue, I decided to go up and get him. His horse was a dark brown sorrel, and, as I came closer, I noted that both man and horse had taken on the aura of that night of magical beauty, on which the
paramelas
gilded the face of the earth with a light brighter than that given off by our dead satellite.

I was impressed with the silence of man and beast as they gazed out in ecstasy over the vast landscape. It was as if, after a long ride, they had reached a shore from where they could see a ghostly world they dared not enter.

In their hurried escape, the birds had startled other groups of ostriches from their nests, and they gathered on the side of a nearby hill, watching, curious as ever, those who had come to disturb their nocturnal peace.

“It was a good thing you came,” Handler suddenly said. “Now there'll be other eyes to see what mine see!

“Because here,” he went on, “were the first seven hills that emerged from the sea. At that time we did not exist on earth, and on these shores, between the algae and grass, they were the first creatures to tread the first fields in the world.

“The light rose for the first time from the marshes in their little brains, and their thin tongues tasted the first tastes of earth. But they left their great eggs to sit on the earth, and one day when the father star grew a little cold they were unable to defend their young. The eggs did not hatch and those great species died out.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Don't you see them?”

“What?”

“The dinosaurs . . . the dinosaurs!” he cried joyfully. “There they are on the first hills from the sea!”

“They're the ostriches you roused from their nests,” I said, pointing to the birds walking with great strides on the side of the next hill, still driven along by the large males, whose long, flexible necks swayed as if they were arms making meaningful signals to us.

“What a pity you can't see what my eyes see,” he replied sadly.

“Let's go, Handler!” I said, gently taking one of the reins and leading him down toward the track that led to the ranch.

After a while, we broke into a gallop in the hope of getting there as soon as possible. As we left the field of
paramelas
and their heady scent, the purple light that precedes dawn spread over the vast tussock grasslands, rapidly replacing the haunted glow of the moon as it dipped. Like a slow throb, that purple brilliance passed, and the crude light of dawn revealed the Patagonian landscape. The early morning breeze shook the grass, waking it, and an even more glorious jewel replaced that of the moon, sending luminous stripes across the earth.

 

It was three days later, and we had just sat down to lunch in the ranch's small canteen, when all at once we saw Handler turn intensely pale and start to tremble. He slumped, and had to steady himself against the edge of the table.

We all rushed to help him and stop him slipping to the floor, then sat him down in an armchair. The assistant ­manager, somewhat at a loss and in a hurry to be done with it, tried to open his teeth with the handle of a spoon and give him water, but one of the foremen stopped him, warning him that the liquid might choke him.

“His heart's beating,” Clifton said, feeling it.

In that remote place a doctor was out of the question, so we did the only thing we could. We loosened his clothes and left him to rest.

Three days had passed since the night Handler's hallucinations had made me think his mind had been damaged by the blow he had received at the base of his skull. But the strange thing was that during those three days he had worked ­normally in his office. True, we only saw him at meal times, but during these he had talked quite sanely about everyday things. In fact, he never referred to his accident, and never repeated his fantastic stories. The rest of us, observing the discretion typical of country people in such cases, never made any allusion to the fact that he had fallen off his horse.

“The soup's getting cold!” Clifton said, sitting down to serve us from the head of the table, since he was higher in the hierarchy.

Although none of us felt much like eating, given the unsolved mystery of our sick comrade, we sat down, just to keep the unscrupulous assistant manager company. But our first spoonfuls of soup were interrupted by a weak moan, like that of a newborn calf. It came from the prostrate bookkeeper.

Gradually the deathly pallor vanished, and a gray gleam of life came back into his eyes. We were relieved. Life had been absent from our friend's face for too long.

Handler half sat up in the armchair, and looked at us one by one as if recognizing us after a long period of forgetfulness.

“What happened to you?” Clifton asked.

“My horse threw me . . .” he replied, lifting a hand to the back of his neck and looking around him curiously. “But where am I? I . . . I . . . fell off my horse outside the Milodón Cave . . .”