Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [199]
EYES IN THE SKY
Earlier, just as they sat down to dinner, word had come that slaves had set fire to San Bernabé. Manolo and Miguel rushed to the stables, saddled, and rode out without a thought or a weapon. In the city or campo, when the fire bell rang, every man must answer, and by the time they reached the main road there were other men like themselves, dressed for a quiet evening at home but ready to do their duty. They followed the soldiers, whose mission was to quell a possible uprising, while the neighbors and volunteers were charged with putting out the blaze.
By the time they left behind the outskirts of Guares, the moon was a tenuous ember in a muddy sky. Miguel trailed the riders. At the turnoff to San Bernabé a heavy canopy of branches obscured the path, so it was nearly impossible to see where they were going. The soldiers led the way uphill, but Miguel stopped at an overlook when he saw fire in the valley. A soldier stopped alongside him. It was too dark to make out his features clearly, but he had the voice of a younger man still excited about his work.
The stars cast a gray light over a landscape punctuated by the orange and yellow flickers of torches and candlelight, but below in front of Miguel were blue, angry flames.
“The Los Gemelos fields are on fire,” the soldier said. “That’s unusual at night. I don’t see any men down there, but who knows—it’s dark as a wolf’s mouth tonight.”
Miguel’s attention was drawn to lights and barely discernible buildings beyond the burning canebrakes. “Is that the house?”
“No. The house is El Destino, up there.” The soldier pointed to a yellow flicker in the upper distance. “What you’re seeing, where you see lights? That’s what they call the lower batey, with the old casona and doña Ana’s infirmary.”
“Do you think she has any idea that the cañaveral is on fire?”
“She’s sure to have seen the flames from El Destino but … I’m guessing … in an emergency she’d be in the infirmary.” He sensed that he might have said too much. “But don’t worry, señor, don Severo probably has men on the fires already. He doesn’t miss much.”
Miguel held up his hand to quiet him. “Voices.”
The soldier listened. “You’re right. As I said, don Severo doesn’t miss much.” He slapped a mosquito from his neck and adjusted his hat. He squinted into the darkness and decided he needed more orders. “Maybe I better let the lieutenant know.”
“I’m going down there,” Miguel said. “Is it to the right, when I get to the bottom of the hill?”
“Yes, but if you wait, someone will accompany you.”
“All right,” Miguel said.
“It will take a few minutes.”
Miguel was alone on the overlook, mesmerized by the colors, by the constantly changing patterns of blue, red, yellow, and orange flames against the velvety countryside. Men’s voices rose above the clatter and snap of cane and fire. Every once in a while smoke floated toward him that smelled of burned sweetness. He watched, dazzled by the shapes and fluctuating edges as fire crept in different directions. “Thank you, Mother Forest, for orange and red.…” An immense sadness tightened his chest. He couldn’t understand why, when he looked at the glimmering lights, he had the sense that Nana Flora was there, that Nana Inés was there, that Siña Damita was there, and Nena, and his father, dressed in white, just like he was now, waiting for him in the batey. His mother was down there, too, but Miguel couldn’t conjure an image of her as he could with the others. She was an elusive phantom. What he knew about her were thousands of words inked upon fine paper, steadfast majuscules curled at the ends, resolute crossbars on t’s, adamant tildes over n’s, uncompromising dots over