In the Light of the Oil Lamp

WOLVES

I’ve often heard it said that wolves don’t attack people. But that’s not true. The Caldas secretary was eaten by some wolves on his way back from Viana fair. Some said he’d been killed by robbers and then eaten, but two hundred yards from where he was eaten they found a dead wolf with a bullet hole in its neck.

Shepherds had seen a flock of ten of them, with a she-wolf and three cubs. It’d been snowing and they’d come down from the Moá range. It would seem that, having used up all his cartridges, he tried to climb a tree, but couldn’t. There, next to his body, was the revolver with six empty shells in the cylinder. It was a good American revolver. Some of the wolves felt that they’d been wounded and they all jumped on top of him. Had he had a good electric torch, he might have been saved. A wolf that’s not mortally wounded is worse. I killed one once with two bullets. It ended up dying a stone’s throw away. I hit it in the head and snout, and it left a trail of blood, tearing up clumps of broom with its teeth. It may not have turned on me because it was during the day.

At night their heart grows and they’re very brave. No, don’t laugh. It’s the same with wolf-dogs. The priest in Peites had one. At night it’d take to the hills and summon the wolves. They’d go with it. They say it could lift the latches of gates like a human. One night the priest kept watch. He was a top-class hunter, had a ten-shot rifle a nephew had brought him from California. He shot it twice between the eyes as it jumped over a stream. The priest was standing at the rectory window with a torch when the wolf-dog came down from the hills, around three in the morning, in the company of the wolves. They slit it open and skinned it then and there, and found its heart was swollen…

Do you know when wolves will take a man on? When they’re very hungry or when they realize he’s afraid. Which is why they hardly ever attack three or more together. When they spot a man on his own out on the range, they start to work him. They’re very skilful, as you’ll see. First they track him; then they go in front; later they’ll even whip his legs with their tails… And so on, little by little. There comes a point the man can’t take any more. His hair stands on end. He feels as if his head’s been pricked with needles. His voice trickles away, he loses touch with his surroundings. There’s nothing he can do. The wolves pounce on him and tear him to pieces. Every twenty years or so, you get a case like that round these parts. A man disappears. He’s believed to be dead or to have run off to America. After two or three years, nobody remembers him. A hunter finds a skull in a patch of broom. Whose is it? This is what happened, years ago, to Pastrán from Vesuña. But if the man keeps faith, they’ll leave him alone.

You all, like me, know Emilio, the Rugando castrator. Listen up and you’ll see how everything I’ve told you about wolves is true. You too, young sirs…

There’d have been no one like him had he not been such a gambler. He’d bet his own shirt. Once, in the bar in Cruz, he bet his mare with all its trappings and lost. He had to walk from Leixazós to Pacios, Bustelo to Vilañán, castrating piglets. He was very forward and always the first to get into a fight.

If I’m not mistaken, it was around St Lucy’s Day that the following occurred. Now, as you all know, gelders don’t work during that period. Our friend was out enjoying himself. He’d only just got married to a girl from a wealthy family and was already in discussions with a dealer from Ermida about buying a new horse.

He was much loved wherever he castrated pigs and was always invited to the slaughter. That day, he’d had lunch in Arnado. You all know what those lunches are like. They start at twelve, let’s say, and finish at five. Livers roasted with pepper and oil, pork scratchings, loin. Wine, all you want. Season of plenty. He’d had lunch that day at Rulo’s. The paths had filled with mist. You couldn’t see a donkey three feet away, if you’ll pardon the expression.

Rulo invited him to stay the night.

“It’s thick with wolves out there,” he warned him. “In such heavy fog, you could easily come to grief. Don’t do the same as Bieito from Corga, who was on his way to Ferramolín when he fell off Mazo rock and landed in the river. That was the end of him. He broke his back for being stubborn and insisting, like you, on leaving Vilarbacú on a night like this.”

But, as I said, the castrator had just got married and was in no mood to stay. He didn’t even want to take some bundles of hay with him for the journey. Off he went with just a stick of ash and a knife in his pocket for protection. Thank God he knew the way. I’ve already said he was brave. He told me the story himself in Santa Culicia de Quiroga, at Avelino’s.

To begin with, everything was fine. He saw no signs of wolves anywhere. He stopped to light a cigarette at the boundary of the Bonxa estate. But, a little later, he heard splashing in a puddle. As you know, it’s low-lying land and collects water. Shortly after that, he heard a long, drawn-out howl, answered by another from the other side of the dell. He also heard the pitter-patter of feet on both sides of the trail. The wolves were calling to each other. Luckily for him, there were lots of stones on the ground. He filled his pockets with pebbles. He didn’t say he’d started to feel afraid, but I reckon he had…

Two huge wolves were keeping him company, one on either side, like two dogs with their master. If he stopped, they stopped. Sometimes they’d go in front. Then the gelder would throw a stone. And hit them… The wolves moved aside. At the bottom of a path, he had to cross a bridge. He’d used up all the pebbles in his pockets. He only had a few matches left. On the far side of the bridge, he saw some lights like glow-worms. He lit a match. The ground was bare. He had to scrape together some mud and throw it at the wolves while shouting loudly. One stood up and let him pass. There may have been six in total, all with gleaming eyes. One sank its teeth into the stick and wrenched it out of his hand. They were getting more and more confident, and began lashing his legs with their tails. One after the other, he lit his last three matches and managed to find a stone, hitting a wolf on the chest. They snarled as when they’re about to pounce on a sheep. He felt he was running out of energy, losing strength. The wolves carried on calling to each other. He was trembling like a leaf. He couldn’t frighten them off any more or even shout. His heart was bursting. A few more strides and he’d be home. Would he make it? Suddenly he saw some lights flickering in the darkness; some dogs were barking in the distance. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. They were calling out to him. A shotgun fired.

“Go, Rabelo, go, Sultan,” he heard them saying.

Three bundles of hay were burning in front of him. His three brothers-in-law were embracing him.

“We were looking for you,” said one.

Sultan and Rabelo came running up, howling with delight.

They entered the house. The women were in the kitchen. In the main fireplace, a fire was roaring.

“Bring me some water,” said the gelder.

And, with that, he slumped to the ground.

Everyone panicked. There was shouting and crying. He was unconscious for more than two hours. They carried him to bed, where, after a massage, he came to.

“If you hadn’t come out looking for me, there’d have been nothing left but my bones. I was at the end of my strength,” he said.

So you can see how wolves work people.

THE DEAD MAN’S BOX

What I am about to tell you happened a long time ago. It was before the war in Cuba, before the gold exchange.

In any self-respecting house in the Queiroga valley people kept many hundreds of ounces. There were also highly valuable jewels. Although I was very small, I remember it well. Thieves roamed the ranges of Caurel. They were still there just a few years ago. Don’t you recall the thief of Oencia? And the thief of Río? They went about in groups, robbing and killing… It didn’t matter whether they were muleteers or cattle raisers. And they also went into people’s homes. Poor you – if you refused to hand over the money! You know they burnt a man alive in Rodela. From the manor in Ruitelán, they took more than a hundred ounces and raped a girl. There were no banks then to store your money.

Have you not heard of the Brave? He was at the head of eight or nine men. They had two women with them. The Brave had taken to the mountains because he had killed his girlfriend’s father – they reckon that was one of the women who travelled with him. They also said the father had been interfering with his daughter… Things people do who are outside the law of God… May he keep us from them!

My father had been a steward in the Count’s Tower, and I had served there as a shepherd, when I was a young lad. You’ll soon see, young sirs, what an interesting story.

It was a very big house with the best fields in the valley. It had five large balconies at the front. There was an enclosed area on the right, which contained the stables and the servants’ quarters. Directly opposite, on the other side of the royal road, was the garden, which was a bit steep. Blessed Mary, how many trees there were! Yews, cypresses, others the young sirs called empress trees, chestnuts that are said to be from the Indies, and centenarian box trees. There was also a dam to collect water and a reed bed. And lots of rosebushes. It was glorious to go walking there in spring. The scent of flowers reached the other side of the river. Those masters of old sure knew how to live…

Behind the house was a large pine forest and a gully with lots of mimosas. That was where the range began, which is where the sheep were put out to pasture. More than a hundred hectares belonged to the house. And then there was the vineyard, meadows and cultivated lands.

These used to produce more than six thousand gallons of wine and 170 gallons of oil. There were six or seven horses and three pairs of oxen. More than a hundred capons and the same number of kids were paid in kind each year, in addition to eighty pounds of eels.

The masters spent almost every winter in Madrid. The administrator, Don Froilán, was left in charge of the house. As well as the stewards, there were seven servants and maids. The maid who had been in the house longest was Rebola of Toca, who had gone there as a young girl. She was a woman in her fifties, as dark as a firebrand and very bad-tempered. Even though she was old and ugly, that damn woman liked to be brought flowers. She was always looking out for a sweetheart, a fancy man, among the servants, and was always stealing ham or cheese to present to her beau. The administrator threw her out of the house because he had caught her in bed with a young man. Many years later, she used to beg by the side of the road. Apparently, when he threw her out, the administrator said, “When the masters are away, there’s only one cock in this roost… Understand?” She used to do the cooking.

Don Froilán was a short, thickset man. He used to ride a horse a lot and wear a poncho he had brought back from Argentina. He had also been in the North, and told us lots of things about the gold mines in California and the pirates in those parts.

No one could boss people the way he did! When he got angry, we all quailed. He would shout and go red. They say he used to sleep with the lady’s maid. I saw them kissing once in a room where there were lots of paintings and mirrors on the walls. And it seems he had a son with her, who was being raised in the house of some farmworkers in Lemos. He liked his food. I have seen him gobble down two partridges and a dozen and a half of pancakes with honey in a single meal. He always used to drink coffee after lunch.

Another of the oldest servants in the house was Strawback. He was called this because he had a very broad back with a hump. He was about forty and a little fatuous. He used to do the work of two people. He was the gardener and cut the firewood. When he got drunk, everybody ran in the other direction, because he became blind and could easily kill somebody. He would grab his axe and brandish it about, in all directions, while shouting, “I’m thirsty for blood…” It was necessary to go and fetch Don Froilán, who was the only one he wouldn’t confront. The administrator didn’t beat about the bush. He went straight up to him, placed a revolver on his chest, and exclaimed:

“Don’t you move, you brute, you’re the victim here! Are you in such a hurry to become defunct?”

And Strawback would burst into tears like a child, putting down the axe.

“Ah, Don Froilán,” he would say, “take that weapon away, it frightens me!”

We would all crack up with laughter, since we knew the gun wasn’t loaded.

Don Froilán would flick his whip at him and say:

“Calm down, man, calm down, we all know what it is to have one drink too many.”
Even though he was very courageous, Don Froilán was afraid of thieves. This was not surprising. In Quintá, shortly before, they had killed a muleteer in order to fleece him. And everybody knew there was a lot of gold in the Count’s Tower. An hour before nightfall, the door to the house would be locked, and even though there was a knock outside, nobody would open. Don Froilán would go out onto the balcony with his shotgun…

It was in the month of December, the time when channels in the meadows are cleaned. The masters were away.

It was starting to get dark, a little before the house was closed, when two men appeared on the road. They stopped at the door and knocked with their crooks on the open leaf. They had a donkey with them, on top of which was a coffin, a dead man’s box, tied down with ropes.

As Rebola told me, the two men were still young. One wore a reed cape, the other a blanket.

Rebola shouted from within:

“Who is it?”

“We,” answered a voice, “are on our way to Bustelo. Do us the favour of drawing near.”
Rebola almost had an attack when she saw the coffin. One of them explained:

“Do you think we could leave the box here? It’s for Mr Ramón’s daughter, who died in childbirth yesterday. We went to buy it in San Martín. But we have to go to Carballo now. We’ll come and pick it up tomorrow morning. The donkey is on loan – we’ll bring another. I wonder if we could leave it in the corral, where it doesn’t rain. We’ll bring a blanket with us tomorrow.”

Before carrying on, I should point out to all that Don Froilán was a man of much charity. When Rebola told him what the men wanted, he ordered them to be shown into the kitchen and given refreshments, bread and cheese, while they got warm. He couldn’t see to them himself because he was doing the day labourers’ accounts. And, of course, he gave permission for them to leave the coffin in the yard, where it wouldn’t get wet.

I was out on the range with the sheep. The two guard dogs and a hunting dog were with me. As soon as it started to snow, I came down from the mountain and crossed the gully.

When I reached the tower, the two men were no longer in the house. I was told to fetch wood from the shed with the oven. I saw the coffin there, lying on a cart. It seems Rebola left them alone while they were placing it in the yard.

It was dusk. I looked at it. I could have sworn something was stirring inside. A dead man’s box is enough to put the wind up a young lad. Besides, the dogs kept on barking at it. I was frightened. I grabbed the wood as quickly as I could and returned to the kitchen, the dogs still barking.

I tossed down the wood and lifted up a lantern… I went back to the shed. I approached the coffin. I thought I heard a little sound, as if someone was sawing. I would have dropped down dead, had it not been for the dogs. They bared their teeth at the coffin. I was trembling so much I couldn’t hold onto the lantern. And I went to speak to the administrator…

Don Froilán was in his office. He had the heather stove working. He was sat at his desk, writing out accounts in the light of an oil lamp. He didn’t even realize I had entered, because I hadn’t asked permission. I felt my ears growing hot. I blurted out:
“Ah, sir…! You wouldn’t know what was happening?”

“How could I,” he replied, “if you don’t tell me first?”

“But can’t you hear,” I remarked, “the dogs barking?”

He smiled and spoke affectionately:

“Let them bark. They have nothing else to do.”

I insisted:

“They won’t budge from the coffin brought by those two men who continued to Carballo.”
He maintained his mocking tone:

“I don’t suppose the dead man flew down and got inside, to give them something to do.”
At this point, the dogs started barking more forcefully.

“Excuse me, sir,” I warned him, “but when I went for wood, it seemed to me something was moving inside… What if it was a living person and not a dead one? Because the dogs keep baring their teeth, and I haven’t been goading them…”

Don Froilán stopped smiling. He stood up and declared:

“Perhaps you’re right. It would be best to have a look.”

Having said this, he grabbed the double-barrelled shotgun, which was hanging off a nail next to the window. He loaded it with two cartridges that were on his desk and left it there. Then he took six or seven spare cartridges from the drawer, after rummaging about, and put them in his jacket pocket.

He smiled again. He placed a hand on my back and reassured me:

“If it’s not a ghost, it will have blood. And if it’s the devil, it will get a taste of the cartridges I have loaded… Don’t be afraid, boy. I’ve been in worse situations in California, when I got into a gunfight with the miners. Tell them to bar all the doors. Get Strawback to bring his axe. And tell Daniel to come, so he can hold the lantern. Go to the kitchen and shut yourself in with the women. Tell them I don’t want to hear any shouts or lamentations. And get them to summon the dogs. I wouldn’t want to hit them by mistake.”

I went looking for Strawback and Daniel, who were in the kitchen, talking to the women. I told them what was going on and what the administrator had decided. The women started weeping. It seemed to me that Daniel went pale… I haven’t told you yet, Daniel was a farm boy, two years older than me. The other young men were in the steward’s house with the pot of brandy. There wasn’t time to inform them. Strawback said:
“I wonder if I’ll be as lucky as when I cracked a wolf’s head open.”

And saying this, he picked up the axe, while Daniel grabbed the lantern. They went out, and we shut ourselves in as Don Froilán had ordered. The women prayed. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest.

We all listened out… Five minutes must have gone by, perhaps ten… I would have said it was a week. We heard them calling the dogs. Everything went silent. All we could make out was the gurgling of the fountain in the yard. The dogs went back to barking. A short while later, a shot reverberated in the house. I was just getting warm, sitting on the bench, when I suddenly stood up and almost fell into the fire. Another shot.

Strawback’s voice reached us:

“Can’t you see the flow of blood? Take another pop, Don Froilán.” Two more shots, in quick succession. And the administrator’s voice:

“Now you, with the axe.”

A short time after that, there was a knock at the door.

“Open up,” Don Froilán was saying, “there’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

We opened. Daniel came first, with the lantern. He looked like a dead man. The administrator lit a cigarette from the flame in the oil lamp. And said to the women:
“Get dinner ready. I’ll have dinner here with you. Daniel can go and release the dogs, but don’t let them into the yard. Take the single-barrel shotgun with you. And bring me the revolver and all the cartridges that are in the drawer. Meanwhile you can make some coffee, and let them bring up some brandy and wine from the cellar. We have to stay awake tonight, his companions may come to avenge him. I would bet a thousand reales he belonged to the Brave’s band… You realize there was a man alive inside the coffin. The boy was right. He’ll be getting an ounce from me this very day.”

The women dabbed their eyes on the corners of their aprons. One by one, we all sat down around the fire.

I was thinking about the clothes and boots I would buy with the ounce on market day. I don’t remember now whether I said thank you or not…

Don Froilán carried on explaining:

“Had it not been for the boy, God knows what would have happened. Perhaps they would have gone and slit all our throats. We were lucky. I went over, aiming at the coffin. I aimed where the person in there might have had their head. One shot… then another. I reloaded. Drops of blood were oozing through the cracks in the coffin. We heard a whistle from over in the gully. Another whistle answered from the pine forest. This was followed by the sound of galoshes on the road. I waited no longer and took another couple of pops. That was when I shouted at Strawback to smash in the coffin. Your hand was trembling all right, Daniel, when you came over with the lantern. And sure enough… there was a man inside. He had a revolver in one hand, and a key ring with hooks and a knife in the other. Strawback wanted to lift him out of the box, but I said not to, everything had to remain as it was until Justice arrived. Tomorrow I’ll send a messenger on horseback to San Martín. They’ll have to set out early.”

Daniel came back with the single-barrel shotgun and the revolver. Strawback said he didn’t want any other weapon, apart from his axe.

The women kept saying:

“The devil be damned! Blessed Mary! Holy Jesus!”

We stayed awake all night. Daniel himself went to inform the authorities. At six in the morning, the young men who had been with the pot of brandy arrived. They had heard the shots, but not dared to venture forth.

Don Froilán asked if they’d been afraid of getting their blouses ripped. We all had a good laugh.

Justice arrived at lunchtime.

No stranger had been in Carballo that night; but it was true that Mr Ramón’s daughter from Bustelo had died in childbirth.

I had the gold ounce Don Froilán gave me for more than twenty years. He was a very good man. God have him in his glory.

ALLELUIA!

I went to the coast, happy ground, to forget that unfortunate love. The misfortune of that love is not relevant here. I had nothing else to do. I had abandoned my studies. Later on, I would head to the Americas. I had sold some fields and been given more than twenty thousand reales for them. I would not return to Ameixende until the autumn. Rosario’s face was always before me. What does anyone care about Rosario? I went to Pontevedra, to Marín and Combarro. And yet the contemplation of the sea infused me with great sadness. I wandered about, searching for something I couldn’t find anywhere: peace of spirit. I couldn’t tell you what lands I visited! Laxe, Corme, Camariñas, Cee… One fine day, I found myself in Vigo.

I would go for long walks in the surroundings of that great town. I travelled on foot as far as Panxón or Baiona. And all because I knew I could get to sleep if I was very weary.

Suddenly, I realized I was suffering from a bad case of neurasthenia. You will soon see how this ties in with the story. One day, after lunch, I went to drink a coffee in a bar in the centre of town. I sat on the terrace. I stared in astonishment at the trams, the passers-by, the vehicles. One of those ox-drawn wagons known as zorras stopped there. One of the oxen gave me a stare. Or so it seemed. Its look was human. It gazed at me as if it had known me for a long time. I couldn’t remain there. I got up and left. I fell to thinking I might be completely mad.

I made new friends. I stayed out at night, because I was afraid, terribly afraid, of going to bed early. And even when I went to bed late, I would often wake up, riddled with anxiety, unnerved by astonishing nightmares. I felt this deep rage against myself for not being able to enjoy such a warm and beautiful spring. It seemed to me everybody was happy, except for me. A dull resentment putrefied my brains.

I had been drinking beer in the company of a group of friends until one in the morning. We all went outside to take a turn in the street before retiring. As always, I was the last to return home. I shuddered at the thought of having to lie down. I never felt I was tired enough, even if I had been dragging my feet behind me. I knew a thousand imps would be waiting for me at my bedside… And so, I carried on walking the streets.

I said goodnight to my friends, one by one, and headed in the direction of O Berbés. Fish-filled boats were coming in. I paced up and down the quay. I gradually moved away from there. Suddenly, I found myself on a very long street I didn’t know. It must have led down to the harbour, because it was sloping. And I said to myself, “I’ll stay on it and turn back when I reach the port.” All the same, I couldn’t work out how I had come to be there. I didn’t recall having climbed up from O Berbés. On both sides of the street were numerous chalets and rows of acacias. How wonderful the acacia flowers smelled! I almost felt like crying. There were acacias as well in the garden of my girlfriend’s house. From time to time, I would come across a gas lamp. This must be where the affluent people in town lived. Horse chestnuts, sycamore maples…

I pulled my watch out of my pocket. It was three. When I had the watch in my hand, I heard three or four dull blows, like those of a stick hitting the ground: tap, tap, tap. I continued without paying attention. It must have been a beggar, a blind or a lame man. What did I care? Tap, tap, tap, came the sound of the blows behind me. I turned around, but didn’t see anybody. I stopped. I could no longer hear the thuds. I started walking again: tap, tap, tap… I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. A little bit. A worm of fear wriggling inside me like remorse. Do you understand?

I walked and I walked, but I couldn’t see an end to this street. The houses became fewer, it was getting darker, not even the sea was visible, though ship horns could be heard in the distance. Tap, tap… I heard behind me. I walked more quickly. I heard the tapping grow faster as well… And I started running. Tap, tap, tap, the noise re-echoed behind me, getting closer and closer. I took to my heels like a partridge dog when it scents a wolf.

I turned down a side street. I felt this sudden joy. I was saved! This was the street where my house was. I reached the front door in three strides. I clapped my hands, so the night watchman would come. I stamped on the ground, anxious that he should open. I gave him a one-peso tip. He opened wide his eyes. I started up the stairs. I took out the key and opened the door to the apartment where I had my room. I entered and switched on the light. I left my clothes on a chair. I had trouble taking off my shoes, because one of the laces had got knotted. Thick drops of sweat fell down my back. I went to bed with the light on.

But no sooner had I got into bed than I heard someone conferring with the watchman. I got up again and went to close the door to my room. I locked it and put the key on my bedside table. I got back into bed and lay there, listening. The door in the hallway opened. Bam!… Tap, tap, tap… A man with a stick was climbing the stairs. I felt the strength draining from me. I trembled like a reed. The whole bed shook. I gave the key two turns. Tap, tap, came the sound of the staff on the landing. Drops of sweat coursed down my cheeks.

My room had a very high ceiling. On top of the door was a large transom window. I don’t know why I looked there. Stuck to the glass was a horrible, terrifying face, the most awful face one could imagine. It was dark, with long locks and strips of muddy earth on its cheeks. It was the man with the stick, he was coming for me. He must have been a giant for his head to reach above the door. His eye sockets were empty. Outside, talking to the watchman, someone was laughing loudly…

Was he coming in? Yes, he was coming in… All the worst had to happen. He opened the door with a key. Why hadn’t I left mine in the lock? The door turned slowly. A man walked in. A dead man from the cemetery. Dressed in a friar’s habit. His boots and hands were also caked in mud. He sat on the chair where I had left my clothes. He tapped his ribcage with his hand – it sounded hollow, like an empty coffin. He opened his mouth, there was no tongue. And he kept on banging on the floor with his accursed crutch.

The chair, which he had done nothing to move, started sliding towards the bed. I reached out my arm; the chair kept going. I reached it out again; and the chair stopped. I couldn’t say how long I held my arm outstretched.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I felt someone ripping my heart to shreds…

I opened my eyes. There was no such man in the room. Through the half-open window came the first light of day. Tick-tock, tick-tock, went the alarm clock on the bedside table. It seemed to me all the bells of all the churches in the world were playing the Gloria. Never in my life have I felt so happy. I jumped out of bed and flung open the window. The beauty of dawn exploded in mirthful colours.
And I let out this shout, “Alleluia!”

Never again did I dream of apparitions.

THE DOCUMENT

Don’t laugh at me if I tell you I was a witness to a document signed at the top of an ash tree, over in Amandi lands… That must have been about twenty years ago. I had been a schoolteacher there for two or three months.

Good lands, they are, in Amandi. The wine on that riverbank is very famous, and for good reason. I reckon it’s just as good as the wine in Avia or Queiroga. Or even better.

The children from my school were all busy with the grape harvest. Since I had nothing better to do, I used to go for walks.

I was making my way along the main road one beautiful, serene afternoon. In the distance could be heard the songs of girls working in the vines. If my memory serves me right, I might even have been reading a book. Lots of voices reached me. In a grove by the river, there was a multitude kicking up a fuss. More than two hundred people were shouting at the foot of a very tall ash tree. They were all staring at the top. I could hear men and women shouting:

“Poor thing!… Sluggard!… Wretch!… Dawdler!”

What was going on? I headed straight in that direction.

A patron in a flannel waistcoat, without a jacket, was shouting as hard as he could, gazing up at the crown of the tree:

“Come down, man! Don’t be a fool. Get that idea out of your head, it’s driving you crazy. You’re still a young man. You haven’t even been drafted yet! Think about what you’re doing!”

An old man in a large hat like a cartwheel was also saying, in a loud voice:
“If you would only do a bit of work, loafer, you wouldn’t have these outbursts. Lackadaisical tramp!”

And a woman in a red underskirt was talking like this:

“Consider your uncle and aunt, they love you like a child! Think about it, pirate, without your procurement they’ll be helpless in old age. I also had problems with love in my youth and wanted to drink poison. Now you see I have grown-up children. You’ll find a woman who can govern your life. Listen to what your uncle and aunt have to say…”

The foliage at the top of the ash wouldn’t let me see who was up there, but I could hear a voice:

“I’m going to kill myself. I can’t live without her. Tell Sabeliña she’s a haughty woman. I will throw myself from here or hang myself. I’ve brought a rope. Make some room down there, I don’t want to crush anybody. Here I come…”

The women were weeping. Three or four scallywags moved away from the foot of the ash. And again there were lots of voices, saying:

“Whoever saw anything like it! That wastrel deserves a thrashing! Wretched boy!”

Somebody shouted out:

“Listen to what your uncle has to say, Manueliño, you still have time to kill yourself. Here comes your uncle, Román of Piñol. Hearken to him!”

Everybody fell silent. Only the birds could be heard tweeting. And then his uncle spoke:

“We’ve cried enough for you, your aunt and I. If you insist on killing yourself, may you struck by lightning. What have you got to complain about? Didn’t we treat you like our own son? Was there another young man in the whole parish as picturesque as you? When did you lack ten pesos to spend at the local shrines, or a hundred reales to eat octopus at the fair? It’s our fault for treating you with such affection. He’s only gone and fallen in love. I thought those things were for the young masters. Layabout! We raised a snake, not a man of sense. Beetles and sucklings have crept into your brains…”

A voice descended from the top of the ash:

“Finish quickly, dear uncle, I’m in a hurry to kill myself.”

Someone behind me observed:

“This boy is under a spell. It would be best to call the priest. Doesn’t he realize there’s always time to die?”

His uncle spoke again:

“Wait just a little, man, I don’t think your being defunct will do you much good. Consider what you’re doing. And if you insist on killing yourself – may the devil not take me – why don’t you prepare a document first before the notary, arranging your affairs? That’s what those who think they’re going to die soon do. How could you have forgotten that? Don’t you know if you die without bequeathing your fields by the river, they’ll end up in the hands of your siblings? And what do you owe your siblings? Insults and derisions, I’ll be darned! They spoke badly about us as well. Vespertine tongues! Didn’t they kick you out of the house, calling you an indolent donkey? Don’t you know without those fields we’ll be paupers? Is that why we spent so much money raising you, ignoring our own interests? And that chatterbox of a stepmother of yours, who’s always turning her back on you, because you didn’t want to sign that piece of paper… Otherwise, you don’t have respect for anybody.”

His nephew said to him:

“I’m going to throw myself, dear uncle, I’m going to throw myself. Let all those people go back to their homes to see to their lives, they don’t care about mine. Besides, I need to take a piss, my bladder’s full to bursting. Let everybody move away.”

There were a few guffaws… The uncle replied:

“Listen, man, listen. Aren’t you ashamed to leave us so helpless? Do you want us to go begging from door to door in our old age? Don’t you realize your aunt’s a cripple? She’ll have to go about on crutches.”

We all heard a sigh. The uncle carried on talking:

“Kill yourself, since you’re so stubborn. It might have been better to drown yourself in the river, on a Sunday, during Mass, so nobody would have seen you and you wouldn’t have given us more to do. You would have been found far from here. Don’t you know you can’t be buried in consecrated ground? It’s a shame for the whole parish. And to smash into the earth, you’ve put on your new suit? Your working clothes would have been sufficient. We won’t turn our backs on you. Come down from the ash, and we’ll draw up a deed. Have a thought for your aunt, she’s bawling like a baby at the breast.”
“Speak no more, dear uncle,” said his nephew, “you’re breaking my heart.”

But his uncle continued:

“Come with us. We’ll go and fetch the magistrate, so he can prepare the document.”
The crowd was growing larger by the minute.

“Here comes the priest, here comes the priest. He’s going to release him from that spell,” remarked some.

The priest was wearing a cassock and a farmer’s hat. As soon as he reached the foot of the ash, he said to Manueliño:

“Mark my words, sheep who have gone astray.”

He then launched into a sermon in a mixture of Spanish and Galician:
“Come down, stubborn youth, from that leafy scaffold you yourself have sought; come down on pain of being excommunicated; come down from the ash, patron of ignominy, stone of scandal, mirror of concupiscence. I’ve told you, Manueliño, what the demons want is you to fall. You’ve fallen a long way, even if we can see you’re at the top of the ash tree. The flames of the deep have already set fire to the tips of your galoshes. Do penance, stray…”

Manueliño answered in a very determined voice:

“I’m not coming down. No, I’m not. The most I will do is sign that document. Let them go and fetch the magistrate; let them bring a table and write it here… That magistrate is a trickster, and I want to know what’s in it.”

An old woman in a yellow headscarf said to Manueliño:

“If you want to kill yourself, what does it matter? Just sign, and that’s it. And how are you going to sign if you don’t come down? Someone will have to come up to you.”
“I don’t want anyone coming up,” replied Manueliño. “They can put the document in a bundle, with a pen and ink, tied to the end of the rope. I’ll sign it here.”
And so off went his uncle, in the company of other patricians, to fetch the magistrate.

In the meantime, everybody carried on talking to him. I could see the uncle, he was a stout man with long buttocks. An old man, suffering from fatigue, said to him:
“Is there no way to change your mind? And all because of a woman? Why are you being so obstinate? And what do you know if this isn’t the first time? I could understand if it was because of the property! What’s a farmer to do without his property? Pardon the expression, it’s a bit like a man without his privates. What do you think a woman is? A woman is a carpenter’s brace. And whoever listened to one of those?”

Shortly afterwards, the magistrate arrived with four other men. The magistrate was wearing a black cape and a new hat. They brought a table and two benches. Román was rubbing his hands. The magistrate put on his spectacles. He was already an old man.
As soon as the table was at the foot of the ash, they all sat on the benches. The magistrate banged the table with his staff and said:

“Make room at the foot of the ash, let the undersigned approach… Silence!… I don’t want anyone disturbing the drafting of this document. Then we will read it to the contracting parties. Let the schoolteacher and the priest draw near also, as quality witnesses.”

I sat on the bench, and the magistrate started writing. Everybody was quiet. He finished after an hour. From time to time, he would say, “Silence!” He stood up with the deed in his hand and said:

“We are now going to read the document with all its clauses, so the contracting parties, each and every one, can be informed.”

At this point, a donkey brayed. Everybody burst out laughing. The magistrate banged the table with his stick and said:

“Who is responsible for those squeals of laughter?”

Without further ado, he proceeded to read the document. According to said document, Manueliño sold all his fields by the river, which were listed in the deed with measurements and limits, to his uncle and aunt for twenty thousand reales, and renounced payment in recognition of the fact his uncle and aunt had spent that amount in raising him. His uncle was obliged to pay the magistrate a stipend of a hundred pesos for formalizing the deed. All witnesses signed. Then they placed the deed, a pen and ink, in a bundle. They tied the bundle to the end of the rope. Manueliño pulled it up. After a short while, he shouted:

“Now, everybody get out of here, I’m going to throw myself.”

A woman was crying and praying, saying:

“God deliver us from a bad outcome!”

The bells of two hunting dogs were heard.

“Here comes Don Rosendo,” said one of the scallywags, “the person he respects most. Let’s see if he can do something.”

Don Rosendo, the lord of Tambarría, was walking through the grove with two dogs. He had his shotgun with the barrels pointing downwards. He was still a young man, quite short, with a red beard. All the scamps stared at his yellow leather gaiters and his hunting hat with its green feather.

“What have we here? What,” he asked, “is this multitude doing in my wood? Am I informed that there has been a misfortune?”

A blond lad replied for everybody:

“There will be, my lord. It’s Manueliño, who insists on killing himself because Sabela won’t have him. There he is, at the top of the ash.”

The priest greeted Don Rosendo. The two of them conferred in low voices, at one remove from the rabble.

Don Rosendo came back, holding the shotgun in both hands, as if he was expecting a specimen. He reached the foot of the tree and shouted at Manueliño:

“Pay attention to what I have to say, wild beast… It’s for your own good. You know how well I can aim. To make you come down, I could heap some gorse at the foot of the tree and set fire to it, but I don’t want to damage the ash tree, which will make a good beam.”

And saying this, he brought the shotgun to his face, aiming at Manueliño. He then spoke again:

“If you throw yourself, I will hunt you in mid-air, just like a partridge. Don’t think you’ll die any old how – you’ll die from a bellyful of pellets. As God is my witness, that is how you will die. And as you’re writhing on the ground, I will finish you off the way I do with wolves. Listen, you buck. I’m going to count to thirty. If, when I finish, you haven’t come down, I’ll shoot you out of the tree. If you have any sense, that is what you’ll do. Then the two of us will eat from my basket at this table and have ourselves a drink, hand to hand. And that will be the end of the story.”
The lord of Tambarría started counting.

“One, two, three, four…”

When he got to ten, Manueliño shouted:

“Wait, Don Rosendo, I’m coming down right now. Even if it’s only to have a drink… I have a thirst that’s tearing my soul asunder.”

And he descended as quickly as a cat.

He was a small lad, a bit of a weakling. I felt like giving him a thrashing there and then.

There were guffaws, there were insults.

Some shouted:

“He deserves a good beating!”

Another, threatening him with a goad:

“They should knock you over. Why didn’t you kill yourself? You gave your word, now you have to keep it.”

Thanks to the lord, they didn’t measure his back. He brought the shotgun to his face and said:

“God help me, I will blow somebody’s brains out. I pity the man who lays a hand on that boy. Get out of my sight, all of you. Let only those in the document stay behind.”

Everybody began to slope off, still stirring the embers. Manueliño took a swig from the wineskin and started eating. He had been in the ash for ten hours. Night was falling. The young men talked about asking the lord for permission to hold a dance.
I heard his uncle saying to the magistrate in a quiet voice:

“Well, blow me down, if that damned noble knew how to govern his own household, they might listen to him more.”

The document remained at the top of the ash.

THE CHARCOAL BURNER’S HUT

Ricardo and I had been to see the Torgán witch – going on about twenty years ago, as old people like to say.

Ricardo was a cattleman aged thirty, thickset and stout. He always wore cloth jackets with very short sleeves. His wife had been away for over a year. Things to do with life. There had been a lot of unpleasantness between them. He wanted to ask the witch what his wife was up to. You know what I mean… I wanted to know whether the Narón charcoal burner was going to pay me the hundred pesos he owed me for a calf, which I had sold him three or four months earlier.

The Torgán witch was well known by all the traders in those parts. And she would charge for a consultation more than a lawyer: five or ten pesos, to give an example. They would come to consult from as far afield as Monforte. She really could predict the future. And she knew what people who lived in America, or wherever, were doing. Even dead people came to talk to her. She also read cards. There was nothing like it. Nobody knew where she had come from, because she wasn’t from Torgán. She had a live-in lover, a dark man with big, black eyes and stuck-up buttocks. He never looked you in the face. I didn’t like him at all. I’m pretty sure he’d committed murder.

The witch always gave her consultations after having outbursts. While the outbursts continued, she would bark and howl like a dog, bedridden. Then she would come to the consultation room and blindfold her eyes. I never saw such an ugly woman. Her hair had gone white, her teeth were brown and protruding. She talked in a thick voice. Ramón, her lover, acted as secretary. They lived in a low house a little away from the village. She always consulted after midnight and with a great deal of mystery.
On the way back from Caldelas market, the two of us had been to see her. We knocked at the door, and out came the lover. He took us to a smallish room where there was a round table with a heater. We had to wait about half an hour for her outburst to finish. God take me, it was really impressive! She barked like a guard dog. We could hear her perfectly, even though she was in the other room. She shouted that the devil was taking her. Then she started sobbing. In the meantime, we drank wine in the lover’s company. When she fell silent, he said:

“I’ll go and get her. Now her vision will come. I’ll prepare the brandy.”
Shortly afterwards, the two of them arrived. The witch was dragging her feet and sighing. I even think she was kissing her lover. They sat down. Ramón placed a bowl full of burning firewater on the table. The witch started stirring with a spoon. The two of them looked as dark as firebrands to me. When the brandy went out, the witch started sipping it and burping. I’d been there before, but still found it all very strange.

The consultation began. Ricardo explained who he was and why he’d come. The witch covered her eyes with a black cloth and talked like this:

“Your wife is going to have a baby in three months – it’s not yours, as you well know. You’ll decide whether you need to kill somebody. I advise against it.”

Ricardo only said:

“That’s what I wanted to know. I’ve been thinking of going to the Americas for some time. I already realized.”

The witch spoke with both arms outstretched, as if about to hug someone.

I told her my case, giving her all kinds of indications. She took a minute to reply.
She opened her arms and said:

“Go and find him as quickly as you can – there are people out to kill him. Take hold of his horse, because he doesn’t have a penny. You know that thieving lover he has in Leixazós sucks all the money out of him. Go and see him tomorrow, you might still find him alive. Don’t waste any time.”

She then stood up and said to the two of us:

“Now, get out of here. You think for the ten pesos you’re giving me, I’m going to stand around all night, chatting?”

We placed the money on the table and left.

I never saw Ricardo again.

The next day, I went up into the mountains in search of the charcoal burner. I had to get there about nightfall, without him seeing me, otherwise he would try to slink off. I had to arrive when he was in the hut, next to the pit kiln. Luckily, he didn’t have a dog.

I shall always remember that hut on top of Mount Narón. It was a shack with earthen walls and a roof made of broom and heather branches. It had no door. Ramón used to spend the nights there, keeping an eye on the kiln. Heather charcoal was a profitable business. He always had the horse with him. One time, wolves had reached the hut. One of them bit into his leg. Thankfully the charcoal burner had a shotgun. It was still a close-run thing. The shotgun was what gave me pause for thought. He used to take the horse, put on the harness, and go and see his lover in Leixazós, which wasn’t a great distance. Leixazós is the worst land I have ever seen. To quote the refrain, “No cart nor God enters Leixazós.” It’s a saying Bulgarians have… Anyway, there was no other house around the cabin for up to half a league. Roe deer, wild boar and wolves roam Mount Narón. It’s not like now, when they have made lots of meadows on the mountain and you see lots of farmers with their wagons. All you saw then were shepherds and coalmen.

I left home shortly after lunch and went to fish for trout with maggots in the Ferreiriño. I had caught more than ten pounds. As the sun was setting, I headed up towards the cabin. I would arrive unexpectedly. If he refused to pay me, I would take hold of the horse and not give it back until he paid me the hundred pesos for the calf. But how to get to him without him seeing me? What worried me was the shotgun, if things went pear-shaped. I thought, however, we wouldn’t argue. I would offer him half the trout. I would jump him and grab the shotgun before he had a chance to come to his senses. I knew he was a dangerous man, but I was very strong, he was ten years older than me, I wasn’t yet thirty. Besides, his left arm had been half useless ever since he’d fallen off his horse. I had a sickle with me, should the need arise. The charcoal burner was a shortish man with blue eyes. He was a bit of a wastrel, to tell the truth. A skinny-malinky of the kind they call secanías around here.

On climbing a ridge near the hut, I saw the charcoal burner’s horse grazing in a small glen. Its legs were hobbled. He always used to leave it there until nightfall. And yet I found it strange that it should still be in the glen, since it was completely dark already. I knew he used to put it in the hut because of the wolves. The glen was two hundred yards from the cabin.

When I reached the hut, I shouted out to Ramón. He didn’t answer. Where could he have got to? He wasn’t next to the kiln, either. I shouted again. Without further ado, I entered. It was very dark inside. I struck a match. I saw a gas lamp by my feet. I lit it. I took the lamp and started having a look around.

I found Ramón lying in a corner, contorted like a willow, his nails dug into the earthen floor. Next to him was a bowl of broth and two mouldy sausages. I kicked him with my foot and passed my hand over his forehead. He must have died five or six hours earlier, since he was cold and stiff. He had been poisoned. Who had put the poison in his food? I cursed the moment I had thought to go and talk to the Torgán witch… But I didn’t have time to think for very long.

I heard footsteps and voices in the distance. I extinguished the lamp and crept outside. I listened. There were people on the other side of the ridge. I was so frightened, holy Mo…! I still don’t know how I had the sense to duck behind a strawberry tree.

Three men were coming along the top of the ridge. All three were carrying shotguns. The glow from the kiln fire lit up their faces. They looked to me like three wolves in the shape of men. The three of them dropped to the ground and started crawling along. I thought my heart was going to split my ribcage asunder. When they were near the cabin, the three of them got to their feet. One lit a torch and the others went ahead, aiming inside with their shotguns.

After a little while, I heard a voice:

“Luckily there’s nothing for us to do. Here’s that son of a bitch. He didn’t realize the food was poisoned. Better like that. Blood always leaves a trail.”

I heard another voice:

“It would be better to bury him.”

The first voice said:

“Somebody’s been here. Can’t you see this string of fish? And the lamp is still smoking. He can’t be far.”

One who hadn’t spoken before declared:

“We need to search the surroundings. Let’s go straightaway! Wherever we find him, we’ll kill him.”

Luckily for me, they all headed towards the glen. There was no time to lose. I don’t know how fear let me run. I leapt straight onto the path that led down to the valley, which was very deep and flanked by clumps of broom. I even felt as if my feet had grown wings.

A shotgun bullet whistled past my right ear. Two more shots. Then a voice shouting:
“There he is, on the path to the valley!”

Don’t ask me anything else… The witch had been right.

MY UNCLE’S SUIT

We lived then in the country, about four leagues from Lugo, in a pretty house with a vegetable and a flower garden. My mother had been a widow for five years. My two siblings were a little older than me. When Father died, Aunt Ramona, who was a schoolteacher in O Páramo, came to live with us.

I shall always remember that little house where we spent a long time. When spring came, thousands of red and white roses would climb up the old walls to the roof. A fig tree’s dense shade sheltered a suntrap made of dark stone. Swallows screeched, dizzy with happiness; blackbirds and orioles competed to see who could whistle better. It was glorious to sit in that suntrap, watching the clouds slide across a clear sky, full of calm, gazing at the peaks of mountains in the distance, on the other side of the river, wrapped in a tremulous gauze of mist.

I remember what I am about to relate as if it happened yesterday…

Aunt Ramona was about fifty, small and shrivelled, always bustling about in an occupied, resolute manner. She took care of the household accounts, which she wrote down in large, pointed letters in a very big diary with red covers. She also gave us two or three hours’ classes per day. When we made a mistake or hadn’t studied our lessons, she would rap us on the head with the back of her hand. Whenever she grew angry, she would recall that she was a teacher and start talking in choice Spanish with refined turns of phrase. She was the first to get up in the house. When the weather was fine, at six in the morning she would already be drawing water from the well to give to the flowers. It’s as if I can still hear the long creaking of the pulley wheel, which drowned out the twittering of the birds, from my bed. Then, with large, rusty scissors, which went chin, chin, she would set to cutting roses with which to make large bunches and take them to church.

At around nine, we would all have breakfast in the dining room – fresh milk and wheat cake. Through the open windows, the branches of peach and cherry trees barged in, and even the odd bird. One morning, we caught a green woodpecker that had collided with the mirror by throwing caps and jackets on top of it, ignoring our mother and aunt’s cries. We put it in a wicker cage.

On the same day I turned ten, my aunt called me very early to go to the church and cemetery, and then to visit Uncle Pepe, my grandfather’s brother, who lived in isolation in his old house, A Folgueira, a quarter of a league from ours. It was some time since he had emerged from there because he had problems with his heart. I went along happily because I was trying out some new yellow boots and a straw hat with a blue ribbon, where it said “Battleship España”.

Before leaving home, my aunt said to me:

“Watch where you put your feet, so you don’t ruin your boots. I wouldn’t want you to get a slap. Be very careful with the pebbles.”

The whole way, I was frisking about like a dog, rummaging in the brambles to see if I could find any nests, catching crickets, whistling with my fingers in my mouth. My aunt warned me:

“Don’t jump so much, little boy, you’re going to come to harm. Leave the lizards alone; don’t throw your hat in the air.”

It must have been about ten in the morning when we entered the cemetery. I shall never forget that tranquil cemetery around the church, in the shade of old walnuts, full of serene, grave peace.

Lorán, a farmer who acted as gravedigger, was opening a hole with a long-handled pickaxe. Next to him was a pitcher full of wine. Every so often, he would go over to the pitcher and take a swig. He was a very strong man with a broad back and short legs. The more he drank, the more energetically he applied himself. Even though he had never tasted milk, he used to say:

“Milk and wine turn an old man into a strapping lad.”

As soon as he saw my aunt, he remarked:

“A very good day to you, Doña Ramona… I suppose you know Garela of Cernandas has been in bed for eight days, lying with a man.”

My aunt gave him an angry look as she approached. Then, gesturing towards the church with her hand, she said to him:

“You never change, Lorán. How dare you profane this sacred enclosure with your impudence?”

Having stood up straight, Lorán scratched his head and let out an enormous guffaw:
“They’re things that happen, madam, things that happen.”

He was smiling a lot when he said this. Naturally, I didn’t understand a thing.
“I wonder, Lorán,” continued my aunt, “if you could collect my father’s ashes, which are in the grave in the corner, and take them to the new niche before Sunday.”
“At your orders… It will be done, Doña Ramona.”

My aunt went into the church to place a bunch of flowers on the altar to St Anthony, and I went to pick foxgloves along the walls in order to pop them with my hands.
Aunt Ramona came out of the church, and we set off for A Folgueira. After twenty minutes, we were in front of the house. We had to cross a dunghill where some pigs were rooting about, being very careful not to get our boots dirty.

A Folgueira was the best house in the village, and the only one with a gallery. I liked going there because in the dining room, above a cherrywood sideboard, there was a blunderbuss and two bronze pistols.

The garden gate was ajar. Out came a dog, barking, as big as a calf. It was Lobeiro, my great friend, my uncle’s guard dog.

“Be careful. Don’t play with him, he might be rabid,” said my aunt.

Lobeiro stuck his paws on my shoulders, at the risk of knocking me over, and insisted on licking my face.

At the door of the house appeared Farruco and Nisclona, my uncle’s two servants. Farruco was a young man aged about thirty, short, dark and strong; he didn’t talk much, perhaps because he had a stutter. He could always be seen working. He fulfilled the role of gardener and shepherd.

Nisclona was a tall woman, about forty, snub-nosed, with black eyes. She had a real temper and was always arguing with the neighbours. She was a very good cook. Nobody knew how to make ring cakes for the festivities, compote, rice with milk and other sweet things, as well as she did. It was rumoured she had an understanding with my uncle. She had been in A Folgueira for fifteen years. She had come from Belesar.
We soon reached Uncle Pepe. But before I go on, I should explain that he was the uncle I loved best. He used to go to Lugo three or four times a year, “to recall the good old days, when I was a fun-loving youngster,” he used to say. He would always bring me bagels and toys from there. He also used to tell me beautiful stories about pirates and slave traders, over on the Caribbean Sea. He had lived in Cuba for more than twenty years. He enjoyed the good life. After lunch, he always had coffee and a glass of something. He always turned up at the local shrines dressed in white, a Charuto cigar between his lips and a magnificent Panama hat covering his head. He had a joyful temperament, his jokes and party pieces were famous for two leagues around. He had taught all the boys and girls in the surrounding villages to dance the rumba. After he turned seventy, he stopped attending the festivities, and the last few months, with seventy-three years behind him, he never set foot outside the house. And yet he still walked as upright as a spindle. I shall always remember him with his white hair.
We climbed a dark staircase to the gallery, where my uncle was sitting in a large armchair. Nisclona was in front of him. She left us and went to the kitchen, muttering something under her breath.

“What brings you here?” asked Uncle Pepe. “Please sit down.”

“Oh, uncle,” exclaimed my aunt, “not a year goes by for you! Always so hale and hearty.”

My uncle got up from his seat, gave me a peck on the forehead and fondled my cheeks.
“How much you’ve grown! You’re a man already. You look a lot like your grandfather, the eldest of my siblings, after Rosa, God have her in his glory as well.”
Aunt Ramona pulled up a chair, drawing near my uncle, who had just sat down. I realized she had something interesting to tell him, because she glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“All right. There’s nobody. I’m going to tell you, Uncle Pepe, a vision I had last night, which gave me much food for thought.”

“Tell me, woman, tell me.”

“You’ll see. It was almost dawn when I was wakened by the barn owl’s call. At that instant, I don’t know why, I looked at the doors of the wardrobe opposite my bed. Suddenly, they opened wide, without making a noise. Fear curdled my blood. It’s just as I’ve told you, uncle, just as I’ve told you.”

She had got to this point when she started crying. She then continued:

“The window opened as well, without anyone touching it. From out of the wardrobe came a swollen, grey, striped suit, as if worn by a man without a head or feet. Do you understand? And it flew very slowly out of the window, in the direction of the moon. What does this mean?”

After two minutes’ silence, my uncle replied:

“It means, Ramona, that I’m going to die, they’re signalling me from the cemetery.”
“Don’t say that, dear uncle, don’t say that!”

“Let me finish. Or rather, start. You’ll see… Shortly after I came back from Cuba, your father and I had gone to Lugo, for the feast of St Froilán. We had bought a piece of grey, striped cloth for two suits, one for him and the other for me, which had cost us twenty-five pesos. He insisted we wear them for the first time at the feast of St Martin. Two months later, your father died. He went to the earth in that suit. I didn’t want to wear mine after that.

“There it is, hanging in the wardrobe in the corridor.”

He got up from his armchair and said:

“Now go, and don’t think about it anymore.”

There was a change in the weather. When we left A Folgueira, it started drizzling. We walked very quickly. The rain tapped mildly on the chestnut leaves.

I kept asking Aunt Ramona questions, but she was weeping and praying silently.
“Why are you crying so much? Are you afraid Uncle will die? And why does he live so alone?”

My aunt would only answer:

“Shut up, boy. You’re going to earn yourself a slap.”

That same night, when we had just gone to bed, there was a series of loud knocks at the door. We heard Farruco, my uncle’s servant, shouting out:

“Get up and come to A Folgueira with me, Don Pepe’s very poorly, and I have to go and fetch the doctor from Puebla.”

Mother and Aunt jumped out of bed and went to open the door. We little ones didn’t get up, but we listened to what Farruco told them:

“Two hours ago, he had an attack after dinner, he’s very poorly. When I left A Folgueira, Lobeiro stayed behind, howling.”

My mother spoke:

“Let’s go to A Folgueira. You’d better summon the priest as well. Don’t make any noise, either of you, so the little ones don’t wake up.”

We heard them closing the door. We leapt out of bed and gazed out of the window, naked and everything. The rain was drumming on the roof. Farruco went ahead with a lit lantern. He was wearing a reed cape. The women followed beneath a very large umbrella. Farruco’s clogs squelched in the mud. Far, far away, a dog was howling. We deduced it must have been Lobeiro…

We then sought out some matches and lit the oil lamp. We all got into bed and talked a lot to banish our fear.

When our mother came back from A Folgueira, at nine in the morning, we found out Uncle Pepe had died. We didn’t see him laid out, but Aunt Ramona told us he had been clothed in the suit that had been hanging in the wardrobe in the corridor for a long time.