break the silence
melodies
long gone
Friday, February 25, 2011
I lived in Brasil. I thought I always would, spinning yarns until the day I died. Then I became Brasil.
***
My father and I lived in a small village tucked away near the base of the Serra de Mantiqueira, “the mountains that cry,” a mountain range in the southeastern corner of the country. My mother died several years before. Or disappeared. I am never quite sure which. One day she walked up the hill with the special pot I made her to gather water from the river and never came back. Papa and his brother searched for three days but were unable to find her or any proof that she had ever even existed. The pot was not really special, at least not outwardly so, but the moment in which she had looked on as I painstakingly painted the tiny stick figures onto its blank, sweeping curves was one of my last of her, and that made it special.
***
“Minha linda, who are these tiny men?” she said, pointing at the now-drying stick figures adorning the jar.
She knelt beside me to get a better look. I licked the end of the horsehair brush that my father had made me and dipped it into the saffron powder.
“They are shepherds, mama,” I said, raising my brush to the empty space next to the men.
“Shepherds of what, my love? Of men?”
I rested my brush on a paint pot and stood up, walking to the window. She rose and joined me, wrapping a well-tanned arm around my waist.
“Look, mama,” I said, pointing at the nearby mountain. Her eyes followed the trail of my finger to where a distant herd of animals could be seen grazing. “Of the alpaca.”
***
I remember she laughed when I said that and wrapped her other arm around me, snuggling me closer. The heat her arms exuded had seeped through my thin, cotton nightgown, warming me more than any midday sunshine.
After my mother disappeared, the elder women in the village took it upon themselves to help my father raise me.
“Look at her hair!” our neighbor, Tia Rosalia, clucked, holding it up for my father to see as we stood on the cracked porcelain tile in the kitchen. “All these twists and knots!” He shifted in his seat, his eyes appearing over the shield of his morning newspaper. The way they seemed to dance with light when they met mine told me he was grinning behind the paper. I tugged my head and she let her hand drop, my hair falling from her grasp like a tangled mass of vines, convoluted but united in its will to defy the wooden comb she began trying to rake through it.
“It is time she stopped playing with her paints and fishing with her boy cousins and started doing things more suited to her. Estela will never become a woman and be able to care for others if she cannot even learn to care for herself.”
But I did learn. My father took ill not long after that, forcing me to expand my regular housekeeping chores to include caring for the livestock in our yard, as well as for my father. One day I was collecting eggs from a particularly irate hen when my father called for me. She pecked at my hand as I withdrew it, glad to be rid of me, and I took off running up the worn down path toward the house, slamming the screen door as I entered the kitchen. The door, with its chipped and faded turquoise paint, did not shut completely anymore and its screen sagged where it had once been attached to the frame. I walked quickly to his room, taking care not to trip over his lonely boots as I went in.
“What is it, Papa?” I took his hand.
He was propped up in bed where I left him, but he was looking paler than usual. His room, like the rest of the house, was in a state of disarray. I did what I could, but I only had so much time in the day.
“My love, since I am not yet better and am still indebted to Dr. Juarez, I am going to need you to start weaving again.”
One of the things the elder women taught me was how to weave. Since I was eight I had been working the loom, making fabric to be sewn into clothing for my father and me. Before my father took ill, I had been making blankets to sell for extra money to the tourists who sometimes stumbled into our village. They would insist on paying over the full price for a blanket or purse and when you handed the item to them, their eyes would light up like a child getting their first taste of sugar. Though there did not seem to be a set schedule for the tourists’ arrival, their visits were frequent lately and many of the ladies would keep a few extra blankets or purses on hand to meet the demand. Woven blankets were every day for us, but they must have been going home and proudly showing off their finds.
“Okay, Papa.” My eyes cast downward to the floor. “But I am almost out of wool and I cannot afford to buy anymore.”
He smiled and squeezed my hand.
“That’s okay. When your mother used to run out, she would climb up the hill just as though she were going to get water and take the path a little ways up the mountain. It could not have been too far since she never stayed gone very long. But there was always someone on the mountain who was willing to supply her with wool because they so admired the patterns she wove. You are almost as good of a weaver as your mother. Take one of your blankets with you as proof of your skill.”
“Yes, Papa.”
***
I carefully picked my way over a heap of branches, probably felled in the thunderstorm several days earlier. An hour ago I had gone up the hill and disappeared, just as my mother did the day she died, but, to my surprise, I was still breathing when I reached the other side. I had been hearing strange sounds, huffing and a low-pitched calling, for the past few minutes but only now was the distance between us shortening. The way the sun was bleeding through the tree leaves hinted at a clearing beyond the wreckage.
Once across, I came to a meadow. The strange noises had stopped and an eerie silence hung over the field. All around me were alpaca, and they were all staring at me. I felt my eyes widen.
One of them came up to me. His hair was longer than the rest and the way the sunlight was reflecting of it made him glow, like some kind of angelic being. I averted my eyes, staring nervously at my shoes.
“Do not worry, child. We do not wish to harm you. What has brought you here?” He spoke with confidence, as though humans visited him regularly, though the dense and undisturbed surrounding forest said that this was not so.
“Um…” My own confidence wavered, but clearly this was the place that my mother had visited on her own trips up the mountain. I looked up and met his eyes. “I am in need of wool. My father has taken ill and I have turned to weaving as a way to pay for his treatment.”
The other alpaca had returned to grazing, but his attention did not shift.
“There used to be a woman, she was older than you, who used to come here sometimes and ask for wool. I was hesitant at first to allow her any, but she wove such beautiful fabric that I could not tell her no. Do you have any proof that you are worthy to take from my flock?”
I unfolded the blanket I had brought with me. He seemed satisfied.
“You have talent, my child.” I blushed and he let out what must have been a laugh, but it sounded something like the strange noises I had heard earlier. “You may shear all the wool you need, but you must not take in excess. And most importantly, you may take only from my flock, but not of me.”
I nodded and slowly took out my shears.
“I am sure you will make good use of our wool.” He bared his teeth, I suppose it was a smile, and nudged me with his head toward the flock.
I spent the rest of the afternoon gathering wool. Nightfall was quickly approaching and I decided it would be best to wait until morning to leave, so I lay near the flock, contemplating my next move.
I gathered enough today to make several blankets, but where would the harm be in taking just a little more? After all, Papa is very sick. My reasons are just.
I slowly got to my feet, taking special care to move noiselessly so as not to disturb the alpaca sleeping nearby. I stood before the flock, weighing my options. Most of them were closely shorn and did not have any more wool to give. My thoughts kept slipping back to earlier today, to how luminous and soft the talking alpaca’s wool was. He slept alone in a corner of the field.
I’ll just take a bit. Besides, he is asleep, and the other alpaca cannot speak to tell him if they see me. It will never be missed.
I crept silently to the edge of the field. The grass was nearly as soft as the wool I had collected, and my thoughts drifted to my father.
He will be wondering what has become of me, but hopefully he will not worry too much. I will see him tomorrow, and he will be gladdened by all of the wool I have found to spin into yarn. And then, I approached the sleeping alpaca, he will be able to afford more medicine.
***
He did not wake at first, and my mind blanked shortly after he did. By that time, I had almost enough wool for seven blankets. It was not enough to be considered serious excess but a bit more than needed all the same. I remember he raised his head and gave me a sorrowful look, and I had opened my mouth to make an excuse, but my voice was already gone. The shears fell and my hands were gone too. The ground grew farther away as I grew taller, and the deep indigo and lavender faded to sable and charcoal as my eyes adjusted to their new body. Suddenly it was clear why the other alpaca, my family now, did not talk. There is nothing to say when everything is lost.
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Some of this is a little jumbled, I think. I'll fix that after it's workshopped next week. Comments, does it make sense, what could it use, etc. is welcome and appreciated.
8:55 PM