14. El Jíbaro de Puerto Rico #4
Abuelo and Mrs. Rosario’s conversation shifts. She’s telling him that she’s worried about her son, about the things that he sees when he sleeps, and the things he sees sometimes when he’s awake.
“He’s going to be just fine,” Abuelo tells her, and then he raises his voice so that we can all hear. “It’s time.”
Abuelo stands and walks over to the white table.
I take a seat at his right. Mrs. Rosario takes a seat to his left, and Jonathan is seated directly across from Abuelo.
Mrs. Rosario’s eyes turn to each of us. She bites her bottom lip and then says, “I’m Catholic.”
Abuelo smiles. “I am, too,” and this seems to give Mrs. Rosario some comfort. She leans over and kisses her son on his cheek.
“Thank you. We’re ready,” Mrs. Rosario says.
Abuelo raises his right hand to the tabletop and knocks three times. “Victoria, wake up.”
“I’m ready,” I say.
Abuelo places his hands together in prayer, lowers his head, and the misa begins.
First, he starts by reciting several prayers and scriptures he has memorized, the Our Father, Psalm 91.
“For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands…” Abuelo says.
Jonathan is trying not to laugh. I nudge his foot with mine and both of us giggle. Abuelo opens his eyes, winks at me, and then continues.
When Abuelo completes his prayers, it’s then that he begins my favorite part of the misa. He starts clapping in a slow, steady beat. His eyes remain closed, and he opens his mouth.
I thought I knew all the folk songs Abuelo would sing, but I’d never heard this one. Abuelo sings the tale of El Gigante Dormido and how he came to be:
“Legend tells us long ago—
There were people who wanted this land
For it was fertile, green,
and lush and beautiful
Here coffee grew, sugar cane, too,
papaya, mango, avocado, more
Those people knew on this land
Lived a mighty giant
The giant’s head stretched above
mountain peaks, into the sky
His arms when spread
Covered the entire range
A witch had a vision how to kill the giant
Strike him in his right eye
One day the witch climbed this mountain
Aimed a poison arrow and struck the giant
The giant fell back, injured from the arrow in his right eye
As he lay on his back, he punched the ground
A hole was torn into the land
From it water gushed, and waterfalls sprang
The giant, in so much pain and fear,
Remained in that position
There he remains. We see his outline
Yet we know he’s not dead, just sleeping.”
When Abuelo opens his eyes, the pupils are gone, replaced by two milky white orbs that gleam like marbles under the light, lifeless and staring through her. A wet gasp escapes Mrs. Rosario’s throat before it turns into a scream.
She stumbles backward, knocking her chair to the floor with a sharp crack, her hands flailing for balance as if the air itself might hold her.
“Please,” I say. “Remain seated. Everyone is safe here in the misa.”
“What do you see, Jonathan?” Abuelo asks.
When I turn to Jonathan, he, too, has no pupils, just milky whites for eyes.
“Jonathan!” Mrs. Rosario reaches for his face.
“No! Please don’t touch him,” I stress again. “We’re all safe here in the misa.”
Mrs. Rosario is breathing heavy now. Her shoulders rising and falling. Her chin quivering.
“I promise you,” I say. “We will not be harmed here.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s visiting the other side. The in-between place. It’s not far. He’s just there looking.”
Jonathan’s body is rigid. His lips move slowly, speaking as if he is in a dream.
“What do you see, Jonathan?” I ask.
“I see… ships sailing toward land. Men in armor. Swords. There are people on the beach. This is the land they come from.”
I lean in slightly, voice gentle. “What’s next?”
“It’s dark. I can’t see. I hear chiseling. Crying. Sobbing. Weeping. We’re in a cave. Mining.”
I glance at his mother. She’s clasping her hands, whispering prayers under her breath.
“What’s next?” I ask again, this time more carefully, bracing myself.
“It’s dark. Nighttime. There’s firelight.
I see nude bodies, stacked. There are piles of them.
Hundreds. Thousands. Some are being tossed into the sea.
I hear splashes. The men in armor are tossing bodies into the fire, too.
But some people are still moving, even though many are missing arms or legs.
They’re covered in blood. There’s so much screaming. Screaming coming from the fire.”
My voice is barely a breath. “What’s next?”
Jonathan trembles. His hands curl into fists.
“People are hiding in caves. Women. Many women. There are babies here, too. A woman. She’s cradling a baby to her breast. The men in armor arrive.
She darts out of the cave. She’s running.
They chase her. Slashing past palms, hiking across streams. They reach her.
She stands at a mountaintop. She looks down and sees the crashing waves.
She tells them this is a better death, and leaps. ”
His mother gasps. Tears spilling down her cheeks.
I stop myself from reaching for him. My hand hovers in the space between us. “What’s next?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“More ships,” Jonathan says. “But these are different. They aren’t occupied by men in armor. These are full of people. There are chains around their hands, feet, necks. They’re all chained together. They’re just so many. They’re lined up on the beach. Covered in sweat. Blood. Vomit.”
I draw in a breath. “What’s next?” I ask softly, careful not to break whatever thread is holding him there.
“People are working. In the fields. Coffee. Sugarcane. Under the sun. It’s hot. It’s just so hot. Their skin is burning, blistering in the heat. They’ve got scars and cuts that are bleeding and pus-filled. They’re being screamed at to move faster. One of them passes out. No one comes to help him.”
His mother moans, covering her mouth, rocking.
I steady my voice, but urgency creeps in. “What’s next?”
“Different men. They’re wearing green. Soldiers. American soldiers. They’re in a ship. They land on a beach.”
I press again, firmer now. “And then what?”
“There’s a parade… no, a march, in town. Ponce. I know it’s Ponce. I’ve been there before with school. People are gathering in front of a building, and I see… you, Victoria. I see you. You’re there.”
I feel my hands begin to tremble. Jonathan continues.
“It’s Palm Sunday. Some people are holding palms in their hands and signs that say Patria.
Some are carrying Puerto Rican flags. There are women, men, children, babies, young, old.
Everyone. So many people are in the procession.
They’re all dressed so nice. Church clothes.
There are soldiers who are gathering in a formation in front of them.
American soldiers. They have machine guns.
They point them at the peaceful procession.
The American soldiers start shooting into the crowd.
There are screams. There’s so much screaming.
People are running. Some fall, trip over each other.
There’s blood pooling around them. There’s blood filling the streets. It’s a massacre in Ponce.”
I stand up and scream, stomping my right foot against the floor. The house shakes. The table shakes. The world shakes. “No! No! No! No! No!”
I hear three knocks, and Abuelo’s voice. “Victoria, wake up.”