The Social Cancer
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
Chapter 52: The Cards of the Dead and the Shadows
The moon was hidden in a cloudy sky while a cold wind, precursor of the approaching December, swept the dry leaves and dust about in the narrow pathway leading to the cemetery. Three shadowy forms were conversing in low tones under the arch of the gateway.
“Have you spoken to Elias?” asked a voice.
“No, you know how reserved and circumspect he is. But he ought to be one of us. Don Crisostomo saved his life.”
“That’s why I joined,” said the first voice. “Don Crisostomo had my wife cured in the house of a doctor in Manila. I’ll look after the convento to settle some old scores with the curate.”
“And we’ll take care of the barracks to show the civil-guards that our father had sons.”
“How many of us will there be?”
“Five, and five will be enough. Don Crisostomo’s servant, though, says there’ll be twenty of us.”
“What if you don’t succeed?”
“Hist!” exclaimed one of the shadows, and all fell silent.
In the semi-obscurity a shadowy figure was seen to approach, sneaking along by the fence. From time to time it stopped as if to look back. Nor was reason for this movement lacking, since some twenty paces behind it came another figure, larger and apparently darker than the first, but so lightly did it touch the ground that it vanished as rapidly as though the earth had swallowed it every time the first shadow paused and turned.
“They’re following me,” muttered the first figure. “Can it be the civil-guards? Did the senior sacristan lie?”
“They said that they would meet here,” thought the second shadow. “Some mischief must be on foot when the two brothers conceal it from me.”
At length the first shadow reached the gateway of the cemetery. The three who were already there stepped forward.
“Is that you?”
“Is that you?”
“We must scatter, for they’ve followed me. Tomorrow you’ll get the arms and tomorrow night is the time. The cry is, ‘Viva Don Crisostomo!’ Go!”
The three shadows disappeared behind the stone walls. The later arrival hid in the hollow of the gateway and waited silently. “Let’s see who’s following me,” he thought.
The second shadow came up very cautiously and paused as if to look about him. “I’m late,” he muttered, “but perhaps they will return.”
A thin fine rain, which threatened to last, began to fall, so it occurred to him to take refuge under the gateway. Naturally, he ran against the other.
“Ah! Who are you?” asked the latest arrival in a rough tone.
“Who are you?” returned the other calmly, after which there followed a moment’s pause as each tried to recognize the other’s voice and to make out his features.
“What are you waiting here for?” asked he of the rough voice.
“For the clock to strike eight so that I can play cards with the dead. I want to win something tonight,” answered the other in a natural tone. “And you, what have you come for?”
“For—for the same purpose.”
“Abá! I’m glad of that, I’ll not be alone. I’ve brought cards. At the first stroke of the bell I’ll make the lay, at the second I’ll deal. The cards that move are the cards of the dead and we’ll have to cut for them. Have you brought cards?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“It’s simple enough—just as you’re going to deal for them, so I expect them to play for me.”
“But what if the dead don’t play?”
“What can we do? Gambling hasn’t yet been made compulsory among the dead.”
A short silence ensued.
“Are you armed? How are you going to fight with the dead?”
“With my fists,” answered the larger of the two.
“Oh, the devil! Now I remember—the dead won’t bet when there’s more than one living person, and there are two of us.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t want to leave.”
“Nor I. I’m short of money,” answered the smaller. “But let’s do this: let’s play for it, the one who loses to leave.”
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