An Eagle Flight
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
In the Woods.
There had not been much hope in this second baklad. Every one expected to find there the crocodile’s mate; but the net always came up full. The fishing ended, the boats were turned toward the shore. There was the party of the townspeople whom Ibarra had invited to meet his guests of the morning, and lunch with them under improvised tents beside a brook, in the shade of the ancient trees of the wooded peninsula. Music was resounding in the place, and water sang in the kettles. The body of the crocodile, in tow of the boats, turned from side to side; sometimes presenting its belly, white and torn, sometimes its spotted back and mossy shoulders. Man, the favorite of nature, is little disturbed by his many fratricides.
The party dispersed, some going to the baths, some wandering among the trees. The silent young helmsman disappeared. A path with many windings crossed the thicket of the wood and led to the upper course of the warm brook, formed from some of the many thermal springs on the flanks of the Makiling. Along the banks of the stream grew wood flowers, many of which have no Latin names, but are none the less known to golden bugs, to butterflies, shaded, jewelled, and bronzed, and to thousands of coleopters powdered with gold and gleaming with facets of steel. The hum of these insects, the song of birds, or the dry sound of dead branches catching in their fall, alone broke the mysterious silence. Suddenly the tones of fresh, young voices were added to the wood notes. They seemed to come down the brook.
“We shall see if I find a nest!” said a sweet and resonant voice. “I should like to see him without his seeing me. I should like to follow him everywhere.”
“I don’t believe in heron’s nests,” said another voice; “but if I were in love, I should know how at once to see and to be invisible.”
It was Maria Clara, Victoria, and Sinang walking in the brook. Their eyes were on the water, where they were searching for the mysterious nest. In blouses striped with dainty colors, their full bath skirts wet to the knees, outlining the graceful curves of their bodies, they moved along, seeking the impossible, meanwhile picking flowers along the banks. Soon the little stream bent its course, and the tall reeds hid the charming trio and cut off the sound of their voices.
A little farther on, in the middle of the stream, was a sort of bath, well enclosed, its roof of leafy bamboo; palm leaves, flowers, and streamers decked its sides. From here, too, came girls’ voices. Farther on was a bamboo bridge, and beyond that the men were bathing, while a multitude of servants were busy plucking fowls, washing rice, roasting pigs. In the clearing on the opposite bank a group of men and women had formed under a great canvas roof, attached in part to the branches of the ancient trees, in part to pickets. There chatted the curate, the alférez, the vicar, the gobernadorcillo, the lieutenant, all the chief men of the town, including the famous orator, Captain Basilio, father of Sinang and opponent of Don Rafael Ibarra in a lawsuit not yet ended.
“We dispute a point at law,” Crisóstomo had said in inviting him, “but to dispute is not to be enemies,” and the famous orator had accepted the invitation.
Bottles of lemonade were opened and green cocoanut shells were broken, so that those who came from the baths might drink the fresh water; the girls were given wreaths of ylang-ylang and roses to perfume their unbound hair.
The lunch hour came. The curate, the alférez, the gobernadorcillo, some captains, and the lieutenant sat at a table with Ibarra. The mamas allowed no men at the table with the girls.
“Have you learned anything, señor alférez, about the criminal who attacked Brother Dámaso?” said Brother Salvi.
“Of what criminal are you speaking?” asked the alférez, looking at the father over his glass of wine.
“What? Why, the one who attacked Brother Dámaso on the highway day before yesterday.”
“Father Dámaso has been attacked?” asked several voices.
“Yes; he is in bed yet. It is thought the maker of the assault is Elias, the one who threw you into the swamp some time ago, señor alférez.”
The alférez reddened with shame, if it were not from emptying his glass of wine.
“But I supposed you were informed,” the curate went on; “I said to myself that the alférez of the Municipal Guard——”
The officer bit his lip.
At that moment a woman, pale, thin, miserably dressed, appeared, like a phantom, in the midst of the feast.
“Give the poor woman something to eat,” said the ladies.
She kept on toward the table where the curate was seated. He turned, recognized her, and the knife fell from his hand.
“Give the woman something to eat,” ordered Ibarra.
“The night is dark and the children are gone,” murmured the poor woman. But at sight of the alférez she became frightened and ran, disappearing among the trees.
“Who is it?” demanded several voices.
“Isn’t her name Sisa?” asked Ibarra with interest.
“Your soldiers arrested her,” said the lieutenant to the alférez, with some bitterness; “they brought her all the way across the pueblo for some story about her sons that nobody could clear up.”
“What!” demanded the alférez, turning to the curate. “It is perhaps the mother of your sacristans?”
The curate nodded assent.
“They have disappeared, and there hasn’t been the slightest effort to find them,” said Don Filipo severely, looking at the gobernadorcillo, who lowered his eyes.
“Bring back the woman,” Crisóstomo ordered his servants.
“They have disappeared, did you say?” demanded the alférez. “Your sacristans have disappeared, Father Salvi?”
The curate emptied his glass and made another affirmative sign.
“Ho, ho! father,” cried the alférez with a mocking laugh, rejoiced at the prospect of revenge. “Your reverence loses a few pesos, and my sergeant is routed out to find them; your two sacristans disappear, your reverence says nothing; and you also, señor gobernadorcillo, you also——”
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