An Eagle Flight
Copyright© 2024 by José Rizal
The Nochebuena.
Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers and wild boars’ heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the chase and the cup of the woods.
Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons, and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It is Sisa’s son, Basilio.
“When your foot is well,” said the little boy, “you will go with us to the top of the mountain and drink deer’s blood and lemon juice; then you’ll grow fat; then I’ll show you how to jump from one rock to another, over the torrent.”
Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at the sun, which was shining splendidly.
“Sell these brooms, Lucia,” said the grandfather to the young girl, “and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas.”
“Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!” cried the little boy.
“And what do you want?” the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got up and went to the old man.
“Señor,” he said, “have I been ill more than a month?”
“Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have passed. We thought you were going to die——”
“May God reward you; we are very poor,” said Basilio; “but as to-day is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me.”
“But, son, you aren’t well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when they come from the forest.”
“You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night—a son!”
The grandfather felt his eyes grow dim.
“You are as sensible as an old man! Go, find your mother, give her her present! Go, my son. God and the Lord Jesus go with you!”
“What, you’re not going to stay and see my fire-crackers?” said the little boy.
“I want you to play hide and seek!” pouted the little girl; “nothing else is so much fun.”
Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.
“I shall come back soon,” he said, “and bring my little brother; then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia.”
“Don’t forget us!” said the old man, “and come back when you are well.” The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo over the rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo with her basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched them both out of sight.
The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego were trembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo was sad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the houses announcing the joyful time, as in other years.
At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talking with Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.
“You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment,” Captain Basilio was saying to his guest. “They’ve burned your books, that’s true; but others have fared worse.”
A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant, her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.
“Sisa?” asked Don Filipo, in surprise. “I thought she was with a physician.”
Captain Basilio smiled bitterly.
“The doctor feared he might be taken for a friend of Don Crisóstomo’s, so he drove her out!”
“What else has happened since I went away? I know we have a new curate and a new alférez——”
“Well, the head sacristan was found dead, hung in the garret of his house. And old Tasio is dead. They buried him in the Chinese cemetery.”
“Poor Don Astasio!” sighed Don Filipo. “And his books?”
“The devout thought it would be pleasing to God if they should burn them; nothing escaped, not even the works of Cicero. The gobernadorcillo was no check whatsoever.”
They were both silent. At that moment, the melancholy song of Sisa was heard. A child passed, limping, and running toward the place from which the song came; it was Basilio. The little fellow had found his home deserted and in ruins. He had been told about his mother; of Crispin he had not heard a word. He had dried his tears, smothered his grief, and without resting, started out to find Sisa.