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- into a calabash placed below. This vessel supplied each drop of water
ever drunk upon the isle by the Cholos. Hunilla told us the calabash,
would sometimes, but not often, be half filled overnight. It held six
quarts, perhaps. “But,” said she, “we were used to thirst. At sandy
Payta, where I live, no shower from heaven ever fell; all the water
there is brought on mules from the inland vales.”
Tied among the thickets were some twenty moaning tortoises, supplying
Hunilla’s lonely larder; while hundreds of vast tableted black
bucklers, like displaced, shattered tomb-stones of dark slate, were
also scattered round. These were the skeleton backs of those great
tortoises from which Felipe and Truxill had made their precious oil.
Several large calabashes and two goodly kegs were filled with it. In a
pot near by were the caked crusts of a quantity which had been
permitted to evaporate. “They meant to have strained it off next day,”
said Hunilla, as she turned aside.
I forgot to mention the most singular sight of all, though the first
that greeted us after landing.
Some ten small, soft-haired, ringleted dogs, of a beautiful breed,
peculiar to Peru, set up a concert of glad welcomings when we gained
the beach, which was responded to by Hunilla. Some of these dogs had,
since her widowhood, been born upon the isle, the progeny of the two
brought from Payta. Owing to the jagged steeps and pitfalls, tortuous
thickets, sunken clefts and perilous intricacies of all sorts in the
interior, Hunilla, admonished by the loss of one favorite among them,
never allowed these delicate creatures to follow her in her occasional
birds’-nests climbs and other wanderings; so that, through long
habituation, they offered not to follow, when that morning she crossed
the land, and her own soul was then too full of other things to heed
their lingering behind. Yet, all along she had so clung to them, that,
besides what moisture they lapped up at early daybreak from the small
scoop-holes among the adjacent rocks, she had shared the dew of her
calabash among them; never laying by any considerable store against
those prolonged and utter droughts which, in some disastrous seasons,
warp these isles.
Having pointed out, at our desire, what few things she would like
transported to the ship—her chest, the oil, not omitting the live
tortoises which she intended for a grateful present to our Captain—we
immediately set to work, carrying them to the boat down the long,
sloping stair of deeply-shadowed rock. While my comrades were thus
employed, I looked and Hunilla had disappeared.
It was not curiosity alone, but, it seems to me, something different
mingled with it, which prompted me to drop my tortoise, and once more
gaze slowly around. I remembered the husband buried by Hunilla’s hands.
A narrow pathway led into a dense part of the thickets. Following it
through many mazes, I came out upon a small, round, open space, deeply
chambered there.
The mound rose in the middle; a bare heap of finest sand, like that
unverdured heap found at the bottom of an hour-glass run out. At its
head stood the cross of withered sticks; the dry, peeled bark still
fraying from it; its transverse limb tied up with rope, and forlornly
adroop in the silent air.
Hunilla was partly prostrate upon the grave; her dark head bowed, and
lost in her long, loosened Indian hair; her hands extended to the
cross-foot, with a little brass crucifix clasped between; a crucifix
worn featureless, like an ancient graven knocker long plied in vain.
She did not see me, and I made no noise, but slid aside, and left the
spot.
- title
- Chunk 8