CHRISTINE VON HAGEN For use with the Level 5 Language Arts course
By CHRISTINE VON HAGEN Illustrated by ZHENYA GAY
Cover illustration by Anna Speshilova Cover design by Phillip Colhouer First published in 1943 This unabridged version has updated grammar and spelling. © 2022 Jenny Phillips goodandbeautiful.com
CONTENTS Chico ��������������������������������������������� 1 Without a Name��������������������������������14 Search through the Past �����������������������27 Search��������������������������������������������46 A Discovery�������������������������������������51 Return �������������������������������������������58 The Fine Straw Hat�����������������������������67 How Panama Hats Came to Cuenca ���������80 In the Potato Field������������������������������87 Chico Goes to Cuenca�������������������������97 Cuenca����������������������������������������� 105 In the Night ����������������������������������� 118 The Panama Hat Fair ������������������������ 122 In the Cathedral ������������������������������ 131 The Fiesta ������������������������������������� 142 The Discovery �������������������������������� 154 Chico Decides �������������������������������� 164 Return to the Paramos����������������������� 172
Glossary achiote—a shrub or small tree native to tropical South America adiós—bye ai—oh (often spelled “ay”) alpargatas—espadrilles (a sandal usually made of canvas or cotton, with a rope sole) alto—stop amigo—friend anda—go; walk aquí estamos—here we are arriero—muleteer; a person who drives mules buenos días—good morning caramba—gosh; boy; whoa Casa Americana—American House centavo—cent; penny cuidado—watch out; be careful dueño—owner
el Americano—the American empanadas—individual sweet or savory filled pastries es posible—it’s possible fiesta—party gracias—thanks; thank you hermana—sister hola—hello huérfano—orphan Jesu Cristo—Jesus Christ joven—young; young person la profesora—the teacher llapingachos—fried patties made with mashed potatoes and annatto (made from the seed of the achiote) loco—crazy in a foolish or wild sense mamacita—dear mommy mamita—mommy mil gracias—many thanks muchas gracias—thank you very much
mula—mule muy bien—very good niño—child olla—pot padre—father; priest padrecito—dear father padrino—godfather paja—straw; hay paja toquilla—straw from the toquilla palm peluquería—barbershop or hair salon perdón—pardon me; forgive me pobrecito—poor thing poncho—a blanket with a slit in the middle so that it can be slipped over the head and worn as a sleeveless garment por favor—please presidente—president qué linda—how beautiful; how lovely
qué pasa—what’s going on; what’s up qué quieres—what do you want rápido—fast sala—living room señor—sir señora—ma’am sí—yes sí, pues—well, of course sucre—cent; penny sus mercedes—your graces; my good men tambo—a place to provide food and shelter tía—aunt tierra—land; earth vamos—let’s go vaya con Dios—go with God venga—come on viejito—old person; old friend
One CHICO “Old Man! Old Man, here he comes! He is here!” a boyish voice shouted. A young boy with a round, brown-skinned face and short, stocky body jumped up from the doorsill of a small stone house. His brown, almost black, eyes sparkled as he leaned inside the door and shouted. Without waiting for an answer, he started to run down the narrow trail toward the distant sound. An old man, his faded red poncho pushed back over one shoulder, came to the door and peered out of smoke-filled eyes across the empty, treeless moors. “Who is coming? What are you talking about?” he called after the flying figure in the white trousers and tattered poncho. Then, as he listened, there came through the sunlit silence of the Paramos the sharp “clink” of a hoof
2 Chico of the Andes striking stone. The old man smiled, and his face crinkled into a thousand tiny lines. “Don Ernesto!” he exclaimed to himself. By this time, the boy was far away. A line of mules climbed up over the hill. One after another they came into sight, each loaded with two big sacks. Behind the last one walked a strong, sturdy man, dressed in white trousers, a poncho, and a straw hat. In his hand he carried a stick, which he shook at the animals as he shouted, “Anda, mulas—get on.” When he saw the boy waiting for him on the rocky trail, the arriero waved his stick in greeting. A broad smile spread over his square, weather-beaten face, and he called, “Hola—hola, Chico. How are you? And how is the old man?” “Well, Don Ernesto. We are both well,” the boy answered, dancing up and down happily. With encouraging shouts, Chico helped the muleteer drive his animals on up the trail. At the grass-thatched stone hut, the mules stopped and waited patiently to be unloaded, their tired heads drooping almost to the ground. The old man and the muleteer embraced each other. “Well, and how are you, Don Ernesto?” asked the old man. “We had given you up this year. Is it not so, Chico?” “Sí, sí,” the boy laughed. “We thought you were not
CHICO 3 coming at all, Don Ernesto.” “You cannot be rid of an old mountain arriero so easily, Don Fernando,” exclaimed Ernesto loudly. “No, things did not go well with my mules. Their hooves broke off from so much rain, and I had to wait until they grew back again. But I have a fine cargo here for the mines at Zaruma, so I have lost nothing,” he said, slapping the bulging sacks of corn. The man blew out his breath in a whistle and wiped his face with his sleeve. Then he turned toward the boy and looked at him carefully: first the tough, bare feet and sturdy legs, then the strong little body and the brown face and merry dark eyes. He saw the deep cleft in the firm chin and the straight black hair, which kept falling over his eyes. As usual, when he was excited, Chico was tugging at his stained trousers as though he thought they would fall off. The arriero’s eyes twinkled. “Well, Chico, you are still small, eh? You never grow, it seems.” He winked at the old man. Chico laughed. This was an old joke between them. Because his name meant little, Don Ernesto pretended that he never grew. But Grandfather was always complaining that he grew so fast that he could not keep him in trousers. Just then, Chan, Chico’s pet bear, wandered out of the house. He stopped to stretch his short legs and
4 Chico of the Andes yawned until they could see down into his pink throat. Then he turned his head to one side and stared out of his fur-encircled eyes. The dark fur made him look as if he had spectacles on, and his name, most appropriately, meant “spectacled bear.” “Caramba! What is that?” Don Ernesto jumped back as though he were afraid of the little animal. “This is Chan,” Chico answered proudly. He stooped down and picked up the little bear. Chan stuck out a rough pink tongue and licked the boy’s cheek. “Where did you get him?” The arriero touched the bear with one finger as though he expected him to bite. “I found him on the Paramos,” Chico said excitedly. “One day, when I was out there, I heard a crying noise behind a rock. When I looked, there was Chan. Oh, he was wild then.” The boy held up one arm and showed a red scar. “When I tried to pick him up, he scratched me and bit my hand. But I wrapped my poncho around him and carried him home. He is tame now and follows me everywhere. Does he not, Grandfather?” “Sí, sí. He is not a bad little fellow,” the old man answered. The arriero resumed his conversation with the old man. He was eager to tell him of his hard trip up the mountain. “Ai-ya. What a trip! Never have I seen such trails.
CHICO 5 The mud came to here.” He measured half up his leg. “And the rain, I thought it would never end.” “It was that way here for a while. But now the weather is fine.” The old man waved toward the sky that looked like a blue bowl turned upside down on the towering crags of the Andes. “The trail on the other side of the mountains will be fine,” he added. Chico was as polite as Grandfather had taught him to be. While the men talked, he stood by quietly. Still, he could not help glancing out of the corner of his eye at the saddlebags, stuffed with packages, that hung over the cargo of the last mule. Usually, Don Ernesto brought him a present from Cuenca. At last, Chico could stand his curiosity no longer. He slipped to the saddlebag and prodded it. He could feel something hard and something soft. “Chico.” Don Ernesto’s voice boomed over the quiet Paramos. Chico jumped guiltily. The two men laughed. “Do me the favor of bringing that bag here, Chico,” called the muleteer. Chico stood on tiptoe to pull down the double bags, woven of white cotton and decorated with little colored figures of animals. He carried them to the house. Don Ernesto made a great fuss over the packages. He knew how lonesome it must be for these two who
“Ai-ya. What a trip! Never have I seen such trails.”
CHICO 7 lived high in the Andes, far from any town. He always looked forward to staying the night with them and taking a present, especially for Chico. First, he pulled out some round brown cakes of sugar wrapped in dry corn husks. He handed these to the old man and said, “Here is something to sweeten your coffee, old man.” Then he pulled out a long bundle and gave it to Chico. His eyes twinkled as he said, “Some fine new straw to weave your hats, Chico. Plenty of it.” Chico made a face, and Don Ernesto laughed. But Grandfather frowned. He did not like it that the boy should take no interest in hat weaving. True, the boy worked at it, but his thoughts were always somewhere else. Don Ernesto pulled out a pair of alpargatas, white cotton sandals with rope soles. Chico smiled. That was a real present. His old ones had fallen apart months ago. Then there was a small book with colored pictures in it. Chico took it eagerly. Grandfather would teach him to read it. When he saw the paper package of hard pink candy, he exclaimed, “Gracias, Don Ernesto. Muchas gracias.” Chico never had enough sweet things to eat. When they had their presents, Grandfather turned
8 Chico of the Andes toward the house. He paused to pick up the halfwoven hat on which Chico had been working when Don Ernesto arrived. Then he went inside to make coffee for his tired friend. Chico helped to unload the mules and pile the sacks and saddles under the long thatch of the roof. When the mules were free, they wriggled their skin back and forth and then lay down to roll on the hard earth. Grandfather called from the house, “The coffee is ready, amigo. Chico, take the mules out and hobble them before it gets dark.” Chico nodded and picked up the rope on the lead mule. He started back down the trail that led across the Paramos. Halfway down it, he turned up the hill and away from the trail and led them toward the place where the ichu grass grew longest. On the hillside, Chico looked back at the little house crouched close to the gray-green earth. Behind it was a small potato field, the green leaves and purple flowers waving in the afternoon wind. All around the lonely house rose the high rocky mountain peaks, which cut jaggedly into the blue sky. Below them, spread out like a fan, was the treeless, barren Paramos. The little figure of Chan trotted down the trail. Chico waved the end of the rope at him. “Go home, Chan. Go home,” he called.
CHICO 9 But Chan paid no attention. Keeping out of reach of the rope, he circled the boy and ran after the mules. In a few seconds, he had them scattered all over the hillside. Chico made angry sounds at the bear as he ran after the animals. Just when he wanted to get through quickly and go back to listen to the men talking, Chan had to be a bother! As soon as Chico caught a mule, he tied its lead rope between its legs to hobble it. Not that it would make much difference, for before morning the mules would have hobbled far away. Chan lost interest in the mules and went off to explore the long ichu grass. Suddenly he began to whine and bark as he did when he was excited. Chico looked toward him. “What is it, Chan?” The bear often found something. Sometimes, however, he just barked to make his master pay more attention to him. Chico walked toward him. When he reached the tall clump of grass, there was a sudden whir of wings. A little bird, no larger than Chico’s smallest finger, fluttered out of the grass. Although it was tiny, it was covered with golden-green feathers that made it gleam like a jewel in the sunlight. A long tail, five times as long as its body, streamed behind.
10 Chico of the Andes “Qué linda!” the boy exclaimed. Chico watched the little hummingbird, its tiny wings beating the air. He thought of how Grandfather had told him that once, many hundreds of years ago, the rulers of the ancient people of the Andes had made long cloaks from the tiny feathers of the hummingbird. It made him feel sad to think of so many little birds killed just to make a cloak. But still, the bird fluttered close by. Chico hurried toward the grass and parted it. Just as he had thought! A tiny, tiny nest hung near the top of the coarse grass. Two little eggs were in it. Chan had been whining excitedly. Now he ran up and began to scratch at the grass. “For shame, Chan,” Chico scolded him. “Do you want to tear up the nest?” That was just what the little bear wanted to do. Chico caught hold of his pet. How could he keep him away until he had finished hobbling the mules? The piece of rope he held in his hand gave him an idea. He tied the rope around the bear’s neck. Then, walking a good distance away so that the mother bird would not be frightened, he fastened the bear to a clump of grass. “Ha ha,” he laughed down at the disappointed Chan, “that will keep you from hurting the poor little bird.”
CHICO 11 Chan looked unhappy, but when he saw that Chico was serious, he curled up and went to sleep. As Chico walked back to his work, the little bird fluttered in front of him. It hovered for a moment above the nest, and then, with a whir of wings, flew into the grass. Chico nodded contentedly. Perhaps when the baby birds were hatched, he could look at them. The boy hummed a tuneless song as he worked with the mules. At last, he finished and stood up, rubbing his hands together. He glanced up at the mountains. The western sky was a bright orange. A white mass of fog crept through the lower passes. Blown onward by the wind, it crept down the valley toward Chico. Chico shuddered and started to run toward the house. It was good that he had finished when he did. He did not want to be caught in the Paramos fog. Chico was afraid of this mist. He did not mind it if he were inside the little house, safe and warm by the fire. But if, as had happened once or twice, he was caught on the moors when the mist came down, he would start to shake and shiver. He did not know why. Once he had asked Grandfather about it, but the old man had only mumbled something under his breath and turned away. The fog was still behind him when he reached the bottom of the hill. He could get home easily now.
12 Chico of the Andes Then he stopped and slapped his forehead with one hand. He had left Chan up there on the hill! For a second, Chico paused. Should he go back? He would surely be caught in the fog if he did. But the bear was tied, and if there were a storm, he might die on the Paramos. With his heart pounding from fear, Chico turned back again. He reached the bear and untied him while the moor was still clear. As he started back, carrying Chan, the fog fell like a white blanket. One minute he could see around him, and the next, the mist covered every rock and blade of grass. Chico shivered as he ran. He could not stop shaking. There was nothing to fear, he knew, for he would be home in a moment. It was just that the white fog seemed to creep into his backbone and turn it to jelly. When Chico reached the house, the fear left him. He waited outside to gather himself together. He would be ashamed to let Don Ernesto see him so frightened. As he stood there, pushing his hair back from his face and tugging at his trousers, he heard the men’s voices inside. They were arguing again. Chico laughed softly. Every time Don Ernesto came, he and the old man argued about something. Still, they were the best of friends.
CHICO 13 Then, as he stood there, Chico heard his own name. The two men were talking about him. Chico listened and heard words that would change his whole life.
Two WITHOUT A NAME The voices rose and fell. Grandfather’s was like the high thin squeak of an ancient tree, but Don Ernesto’s boomed even when he tried to keep it low. Chico, as he listened, trembled as though the cold Paramos wind passed through him. “No, señor,” came the squeaky voice, “the boy must have a trade. Is it not bad enough to be an orphan, with no family of his own?” “But if he went to school, Viejito—” boomed Don Ernesto. “School—pah! That is for rich people. When Chico can weave hats and earn his own living, there will be time for school. I shall not live forever, and who will care for the poor orphaned lad then?” A great buzzing came into Chico’s ears. He could feel the blood leave his face and drain away. For a
WITHOUT A NAME 15 moment he swayed. He caught hold of the hut and held. Then, in a rush, his face flamed up. He put his hands up to his ears as if to cut off the sound of voices. If only he could forget what he had heard! He, Chico, was an orphan. He had no family, no name, not even a home. Chico leaned down and touched the hard earth. Was the Paramos that he loved so much—was that not his land? Why, even the condor had his nest—the hummingbird his home on the broad Paramos. But not he, not Chico. Who was this old man whom he called “Grandfather”? A sob rose and caught in the boy’s throat, choking him. Grandfather was not his grandfather at all. Chico was nobody. In all the world, there was no one who knew him. For a few moments, Chico was too stunned to move. Then—with a rapid movement, he burst through the doorway of the house. He took the two men by surprise. Grandfather’s old eyes glanced reproachfully at the arriero as if to say, “See what you have done now with your loud voice.” Poor Don Ernesto’s round, flat face looked confused. Chico stood between the two men, his feet spread apart, and glanced from one to the other. In a low voice he asked, “Grandfather, who am I?” “Eh, eh, who are you?” the old man faltered. “Why, you are Chico. Who else?” He tried to laugh.
16 Chico of the Andes “I heard what you and Don Ernesto said, Grandfather. Who am I, then, if I am not your grandson?” The boy’s clear brown eyes begged for the truth. The old man gave up pretending. With a sorrowfully lined face, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Muy bien, Chico. I will not try to keep it from you. You have heard what was not intended for your ears. I am sorry. But perhaps it is as well. Some day you would have to know.” Chico shifted his feet and turned his head to one side. He waited for the old man to go on. “But not now, my boy. Now we are hungry. Think what a long trip Don Ernesto has made and how empty he must be. Later, when we have finished our meal.” Grandfather tried to make his voice light. Chico said not a word but crouched on his bare heels in front of the little fire. He arranged the tiny sticks of wood and piled on some dry ichu grass. Then, leaning down, he filled his mouth with air and blew on the coals. After three tries the wood and grass burst into flames. Then Chico moved to a corner in back of the fire and sat down. Crouching there, he looked around the little house. There was only one room. Above its gray stone walls rose the peaked straw roof, blackened by years of wood smoke. The floor was of earth, packed as hard as stone by the constant passing of feet. On each
WITHOUT A NAME 17 side of the room, at the far end away from the door and the fire, there were two narrow beds. The frames of these were set into the floor itself. Across the tops, laced strips of rawhide made a springy bed. On each bed was a faded wool poncho. The only other items of furniture in the house were two wooden stools and an old chest in which Grandfather kept his things. From pegs set between the stones of the wall hung bits of rope and old bridles. A string of garlic and the brown sugar cakes which Don Ernesto had brought hung from the roof. On the floor near the fire were half a dozen clay pots, black as night from the smoke of the fire. That was all there was in the house except the boy, the two men, Chan, and old Inca, Grandfather’s pet rooster. Chico sighed and shook his head in bewilderment. Not even this house, which he remembered from the time he was old enough to remember anything at all—not even this house was his home. The fire had died down to a steady flame. Grandfather threw a handful of potatoes into a clay pot and set it over the fire. In another pot he heated water and then reached up for the piece of dried meat which Don Ernesto had brought. This was to have been a surprise for the boy whom they both loved, for it was not often that these two mountain dwellers had meat. But there was no use trying to surprise him now.
18 Chico of the Andes Old Grandfather knew how the boy felt. He remembered, and he knew that Chico did too, the stories he had told the boy in front of the fire on the cold, misty nights. He had tried to explain to this lad, to whom he had been both father and mother, some of the ways of his people. He had told him that no matter how far away a man lived from the earth on which he and his people had been born, at some time in his life he must return to that land for strength. The land, the earth where his people lived, was like his skin or the blood in his veins. It fed him. There, too, grew the plants that would cure his illnesses. Sometimes, when a child was ill, the whole family, with old people and babies, set off on a pilgrimage to the land of their birth. It might be but an hour away, or perhaps several days’ journey. Still, they must go. But what if, like Chico, one did not know one’s own land? Don Ernesto and Grandfather began to eat heartily of the rich soup and boiled potatoes. Then when they felt the boy’s bright eyes on them, they could hardly choke down the food and, at last, set their bowls aside. Then each filled a gourd with strong black coffee, sliced a few slivers of brown sugar into it, and sat back to drink in a leisurely fashion. Chico looked from one to the other and waited. The old man sipped his hot coffee and then began to talk softly and thoughtfully.
WITHOUT A NAME 19 “First of all, Chico,” he said, “you must not be so sad at what you have learned. Are you different now than you were this morning? Is your hair curly, or has your skin turned green? Does not your heart beat, and do not your eyes still see? Well, then you are still the same Chico. A name is not so important. It does not come with you when you are born, written on your chest, like writing on a paper. It is given to you by someone, and we, Don Ernesto and I, have given you the name of Chico.” The old man looked at the boy triumphantly. Don Ernesto nodded his head up and down in agreement. But Chico looked away into the dark corner of the room. Grandfather sighed and went on, “Here is how it happened: a long time ago—let me see—you are now almost ten, and when Don Ernesto found you, we decided you must be almost two years old. Yes, it was eight years ago.” “Found me!” Chico exclaimed. Don Ernesto stood up to stretch his legs. He took one or two quick steps, his sandals, in his excitement, slapping at his heels. “Yes, yes, Chico,” he interrupted, “I found you.” He came closer to the fire and knelt down, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. “It hardly seems so long ago. It was an afternoon just like this one—foggy
20 Chico of the Andes and cold. I was driving my mules up the trail from the mines. The road was so muddy that we slipped often and had to repack the animals many times. For that reason we were long delayed, and before we could arrive here at Don Fernando’s, the Paramos mist had caught us. It poured down like a white poncho from the mountains and hid every rock and landmark. We could not even see the trail, which, as you know, is faint here on the Paramos. Before we knew it, we were wandering far off the trail, lost on these Andean moors.” Chico’s round face was flushed as he leaned forward, eager to catch every word. What did the Paramos and the mist have to do with him? “Do not forget how frightened you were,” Grandfather put in, tugging at his beard. “Tell him how you were afraid the hailstorm would come while you were lost, and drive the mules crazy, as it does so often.” Don Ernesto glared at Grandfather and asked petulantly, “Who found him, Old One? Who knows the story better than I?” “Please, please go on,” Chico barely breathed the request. “Well,” Ernesto boomed on, “we wandered for a long time. I had a boy to help me then, a useless, good-for-nothing, lazy boy, if there ever was one.” Don Ernesto spoke angrily as he remembered the day
WITHOUT A NAME 21 eight years past. “And this boy became frightened and began to cry. All we could hear in that heavy mist was the sound of the mules’ hooves sucking in and out of the mud and the wailing of that loco Segundo. “All at once, when the wind was rising and whistling down the valley, we almost fell over a tumbled pile of rocks. They were not ordinary rocks like those that lie about the moors. No, señor, they were cut into squares, just like these.” The muleteer waved a brown arm toward the stone wall of the hut. Chico stirred restlessly and pulled at one ear. He knew how long it took Don Ernesto to tell a story. When it was just a story, he liked it, for Don Ernesto never forgot anything. But now, when it was about him, he did wish that he would hurry. “These rocks seemed like a house that had fallen in,” Don Ernesto went on. “There was enough left of it to give us a little shelter, however, and we had time to gather our wits. I soon decided that we were too far to the right. It did not take me long to figure out how I would get back on the trail.” There were few people in Ecuador who knew the trails across the Paramos as well as Don Ernesto did. “We were just about to start off again when we heard a strange sound from amongst these rocks. It is true, it startled even me, for who would expect to hear noises on the Paramos? But that boy,” Don
22 Chico of the Andes Ernesto threw up his big hands at the remembrance, “why, I thought he would die of fright. When the cry came again—it was like the mewing of a kitten from beneath a blanket—I walked toward it. In the thick white fog, it took me a long time to find the noise. Then I came to a spot where the rocks still stood in a sort of corner wall, which cut off the wind. And what do you think I found?” Don Ernesto paused and looked at Chico. But Chico just sat and stared at Don Ernesto. His mouth had fallen open in the way that always made Grandfather say, “Close your mouth, and the flies will not enter.” Both men watched the boy eagerly, and then Don Ernesto pointed a calloused finger at him. “You!” he exclaimed. “I found you! A little baby, not two years old, all wrapped up snugly in a black scarf and with a white cloth tied around your head. Oh, how you cried when I picked you up! Soon, when you began to get warm in my arms, you went sound asleep.” Grandfather could keep quiet no longer. Waving his small black pipe in the air, he went on with the story. “When Don Ernesto brought you here, you were so hungry that we thought we could never fill you up. And I doubt if we could have if the old llama had not had plenty of milk then. For what would I have in this house to feed a baby?” Chico looked from one to the other. In the silence,
WITHOUT A NAME 23 the burning wood in the fire snapped and shot sparks up into the air. “But, Don Ernesto,” he asked when the men said no more, “was that all? How did I get there? Did you see no one else?” “No one.” Both men spoke together. “I searched for signs, but I found nothing,” Don Ernesto said slowly. “For weeks, Viejito here waited for someone to come by and recognize you for his own. That is why I left you with the old man. We knew that whoever traveled this road must pass Don Fernando’s house. But nobody ever came.” Grandfather reached out a hand and touched the boy. His words were spoken gently as he said, “You see, Chico, we believe, Don Ernesto and I, that your mother and father were lost in the Paramos fog. While they searched for the trail, they put you down in the most protected spot. Then they could not find it again. “No, no,” the old man continued quickly. “I know what you are thinking. No, they did not leave you behind on purpose. No one who did not love their child would have wrapped it so carefully or dressed it so nicely. No, it is as I have said.” “But then, my mother and my father—?” Chico could not finish the question. But the old man understood. “Sí, my boy,” he sighed and bowed his head. “They
24 Chico of the Andes must have been lost in the mountains, in the terrible storm that came that night. There has never been any trace of them since, may the Lord bless and keep them.” Then the smoke-blackened little house was quiet, except for the sizzling of coffee which had boiled over on the coals. Chico knew now that he was an orphan. He had no mother and no father. He did not question that. When people were lost on the Paramos overnight, they were never seen again. He himself had seen crosses out on the moors that marked the resting places of these unfortunates. What more then? There was his name. How could he grow up with no name except that of Chico, Little One? Who were his people? What did they do? Surely somewhere there must be an uncle, an aunt, perhaps even a grandfather. A tear slid down the boy’s cheek and fell on his poncho. If only Viejito were his grandfather! Then there was the tierra from which his mother and father had come. That remained, if only he could find it. The boy lifted his head almost eagerly. “Grandfather—Old Man,” he added hastily, for now he had no right to call Viejito his grandfather, “was there not something to tell where we came from? Surely there was some mark, some sign so I would know where to search.” The boy’s voice begged the old
WITHOUT A NAME 25 man to tell him it was true, that there was someplace where he was known, where he belonged. The old man shook his head sadly and answered, “Nothing, nothing, Chico. We thought of that, too, and Don Ernesto asked in Cuenca and at Portovelo, but no one had heard of two people with a baby who had left on a journey. For a long time, I worried about it, and then I decided that the good God had wanted me to have you,” he finished wistfully, looking at the boy who was more than a son to him. When he had finished speaking, the old man stood up, his stiff joints creaking as if in protest, and walked toward the small black chest. Opening it, he reached under his good sandals and the tobacco and pulled out a square of folded black cloth. Silently, he handed it to the boy. “Here is the scarf in which you were wrapped, Chico. It is of good quality, so your people were not poor. It must have been your mother’s, and when it grew cold, she wrapped you in it. Your other little clothes are here, too.” “Gracias, Viejito,” murmured the boy. For a few moments, he sat quietly looking at the black cloth. Then, slowly, he stood up and walked toward the door of the little house. “Where—?” began Don Ernesto. But the old man motioned him to be quiet.
26 Chico of the Andes Chico opened the door and stepped outside. He pulled the door shut and took a few steps away from the house. Outside it was dark and cold. The fog closed about him like a silent cloak. The boy gently rubbed one finger over the soft, thin wool of the scarf and then lifted it to his cheek. Tears filled his eyes and dripped down onto the cloth. This piece of cloth was all he had that belonged to his mother. Somehow, with the scarf against his face, he felt very close to her. If only the scarf could tell its secrets to him! Chico lifted his head and stared out toward the fog-covered Paramos. The strange feeling of loneliness that he always felt in the mist came over him. Now he knew why. His eyes strained to cut through the curtain of white. For a long time, he peered as if, could he look but far enough, he would be able to solve the mystery. Out there—somewhere on the Paramos—was the answer to his questions.
Three SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST Chico’s bare feet slapped the worn earth of the mountain trail. In a steady dogtrot, he followed Don Ernesto and the string of patient, plodding mules across the Paramos. The morning was bright and still. Only the arriero’s cries broke into the silence of the moorland as he shouted to the animals, “Mula, anda— get on mules, get on,” hurrying the reluctant beasts onward. Don Ernesto had a long journey yet to reach the mines of Portovelo. He had no wish to be caught at night in the high Andes. Chico’s thoughts were not on the mules and this journey over the barren wastes of the Paramos. He was remembering the night before. When he had gone back into the little house, both men were rolled up in their blankets and in bed. From Don Ernesto’s side came a deep snoring, interrupted by grunts and
28 Chico of the Andes whistles, for not even Chico’s sorrow could keep the tired muleteer awake for long. The old man lay silent, his breathing light and even, and Chico did not know whether he was asleep or not. For a long time, Chico had tossed and turned in his woolen poncho by the fire. Then a great idea had come to him. Throwing off his blanket, he had crept across the dark, cold little room to Grandfather’s side and tugged at the old man’s sleeve. “Eh, what? What is it?” Grandfather had murmured, sitting up so quickly that Chico knew he had been lying awake. “Old Man,” he had said, “Old Man, tomorrow I must go with Don Ernesto. He can show me where he lost the trail that time. I have thought and thought, and I know that I must search out the place where I was found. I feel here,” Chico laid one hand on his chest, “that I shall find something there.” Grandfather was silent. Inside his old head, the thoughts raced around and around. “But, Chico, there is nothing,” he had argued. “Don Ernesto has told you how he searched. There was nothing.” A closed, stubborn look came over Chico’s usually happy face. This was something he must do. In the darkened room, Grandfather had seen Chico’s face and knew what he was thinking. Before
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 29 the boy could answer, he had said, “Very well, then, my boy. So be it. You may go. If you feel it in your heart, then perhaps there is some truth to it. But be careful. The Paramos are dangerous, as you well know. Now it is late. Go to sleep,” and the old man had turned his face to the stone wall. Chico had crept back to the fire, rolled up once more in his blanket, and in a moment was sound asleep. In the morning Don Ernesto had objected and shouted, “No. Do you think I want you to be lost again? That place is far away, and to make the trip in one day and search for the stone hut would be more than you could do. No, I say!” Chico had glanced anxiously at the old man, who then began to speak to Don Ernesto in a soft voice. Chico had grabbed up his hat and ran out into the dark Paramos to get the mules. Perhaps Grandfather could persuade him. It had taken a long time to find the animals. For an hour Chico had run up and down the valley and through icy streams, rounding them up. By the time he had them all together, his hands were red and sore. At last, he had led them back to the hut. As he had worked, throwing the saddle blankets and wooden pack saddles on the mules’ backs, he had glanced anxiously toward the house. Then Don Ernesto had come out.
30 Chico of the Andes “Muy bien, Chico,” he had said, his breath blowing white on the chill air as he talked. “You can go with me. I think it is foolish, for you will find nothing. But if you must, you must.” An hour later the mules were loaded and ready to go. Still the two men and the boy had sat around the fire sipping their hot coffee and munching boiled kernels of corn. They were waiting for the first gray light of dawn to show them the way. Then, at last, they had started. Grandfather had handed Chico a bundle of boiled potatoes and corn. With his arm across the boy’s shoulder, he had looked down at him and said, “Take care, my boy. Be sure to start back early.” “Sí, Viejito,” Chico had answered. With the bundle of food slapping at his thigh, he ran after the mules, which had already started on their long journey. Now it was late in the morning. The bright sunlight shone over the gray-green Paramos. But this Paramos was strange to Chico. It was even more wild and lonely than his own. In all the miles of rolling land perched on top of the world, there was not a tree. Even the coarse ichu grass was scant. A cold wind blew down from the higher peaks. For the last half hour, Don Ernesto had been grumbling under his breath. Whenever Chico spoke to him, he answered sharply. Chico knew this was
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 31 because he was worried. The man was afraid to have him start off over this desolate land alone. But Chico was not afraid. If only he could find the place, then perhaps he would be happy again and feel that he really “belonged.” “Alto, mulas, alto,” Don Ernesto called, then ran up ahead to grab the rope on the lead mule, stopping the caravan. “Here it is, Chico. See the stones where I marked it?” He pointed to three flat rocks, piled one on top of the other. “Now you must go off to the left there. Somewhere amidst those little hills is where I found you.” Chico nodded his head and slowly started away from the trail. “Now, remember to start back early,” Don Ernesto called after him. “I will, Padrino. Never fear. Mil gracias. I will see you when you return next trip,” he answered. Chico hurried his step and soon was trotting across the moors. For a while he heard Don Ernesto’s shouts to the mules. Then, as he passed behind a small spur of rocks, the sound was cut off. All was silent. He was alone on the Paramos. For the first time, Chico realized what he had done. The idea had seemed so simple, at first, that he had paid no attention to Don Ernesto. But now the trail
32 Chico of the Andes seemed longer than he had thought, and he was alone and far from his house. With his head thrown far back, Chico stared at the rugged mountain peaks which enclosed the Paramos. Carefully, he memorized them, first facing away from the trail, then turning toward it. In this way he would know how to find his way back. Then he looked carefully over the broad plain that stretched before him. All the rocks looked the same. Chico’s face wrinkled in a frown. It would take him all day running back and forth over the moor to search them all, and he would still not be through. If he were to find the special pile of stones of which Don Ernesto had spoken, he must make a plan. Looking down the valley, Chico noticed that it was widest near the trail. There it spread out into miles and miles of Paramos. At the far end, however, it bumped against another mountain, and he could see that the valley rose gently to a small hill. From there he would be able to look out over the whole Paramos. With his mind made up, Chico set off at a jog trot. As he ran, he hummed a mournful Indian tune, such as Grandfather often did. He would not admit it, but this lonely Paramos frightened him. He had not gone far when something broke the stillness. There was a scuffling, panting sound behind him. With his heart pounding, he whirled about. For
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 33 a moment he saw nothing. Then, from behind a stone boulder, a weary little figure appeared. Panting and with pink tongue hanging from his mouth, Chan scrambled toward his master. “Chan! What are you doing here?” Chico was so surprised he almost fell over. He leaned down and picked Chan up, cradling him in his arms. He was too happy to see him to scold him, even though he knew that he would have to carry the little bear most of the way. Chan reached up his pink tongue and licked Chico’s face joyfully. Now that he had a companion, the boy was no longer afraid of the lonely Paramos. The sun climbed high over the mountains and stood straight overhead while Chico and the bear hurried toward the mountain, but no matter how fast Chico walked, he could not seem to come nearer to it. Then, after a long time, they came to the base. Here Chico put Chan down, and they started the climb together. When they reached the top, they were both panting and hot. Chico sat down and breathed heavily. He had, of course, expected to see only a barren hilltop. Imagine his astonishment when, after he had rested a bit, he turned and discovered that the hilltop was covered by the ruins of a giant stone building! It was so big that once a thousand people might have lived in it. Perhaps more!
Imagine his astonishment when, after he had rested a bit, he turned and discovered that the hilltop was covered by the ruins of a giant stone building!
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 35 The part of the ruins that still stood was shaped like a giant circle. It rose twenty feet above the hill and was formed of great gray stones cut into squares. As it circled toward the abutting mountain, its height became less until, at the back, it was level with the sloping ground. The inside of this foundation was filled with earth, overgrown with grass and moss. On top stood a small section of wall made of mud. Once, perhaps, this wall had enclosed the whole building and a thatch of grass had covered the wall. But the rain and wind had beaten these down until only the small corner remained. Chico’s memory worked rapidly. He knew this was not the place where Don Ernesto had found him, of course. It was too large, and then, too, it was high on the hill. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he had a dim recollection of one of Old Man’s stories. Then, suddenly, it came to him. Ever since Chico could remember, Grandfather had told him stories by the firelight. And of all the stories, Chico had loved best the tales of the people who had once lived, as he did, on the Paramos: the Quitus and the Incas. As soon as Grandfather would finish one tale about them, Chico would beg for another. When the old man had run out of stories, Don Ernesto had brought a book from Cuenca, and Grandfather had read it over and over again to
36 Chico of the Andes him. In between stories, Chico would pore over the brightly colored pictures. Of all the things he liked to hear, the best was when Grandfather told about the ancient Inca fortress that was supposed to be somewhere in their own part of the Andes. And now he had found it! He had found the ruins of Pucará! Forgetting everything that he had come for, Chico started out to explore. He ran around the big stone blocks, as tall as he, which had fallen from the ruins and lay tossed about as though some mountain giant had playfully thrown them there. When he reached the back of the ruin, he was able to climb up on top. He was disappointed that so little remained now. In his mind he pictured the time when thousands of Inca soldiers had swarmed busily over the fortress. Perhaps the great Inca himself had rested there on one of his journeys! As he ran about examining the ruins, Chico remembered the story of why such a fortress as Pucará was here in these mountains when, by rights, it had belonged to the Kingdom of the Quitus. Grandfather had told him the story many times. “Once upon a time,” the old man would begin, “many, many years ago, our country was not called Ecuador, as it is today. It was known as the Kingdom of the Quitus. That is where our capital of Quito got
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 37 its name, and the Quitu Indians lived in all this part of the Andes. “These Indians lived under a strong ruler, and everything they did was guided by his laws. Each one hundred families was formed into a village called an ayull, and each ayull was under one chieftain who was responsible to the king alone. “The king himself was owner of all the land in the Kingdom of the Quitus. To each male Indian he gave a certain number of acres to care for. When the man married, this was doubled. If he had a girl child, he was given half as much again; if a boy, he received a piece of earth equal to that which he first had. “On this land the family lived and died. They seldom left their village unless there was a war, and then only with the chieftain’s consent. That,” the old man would say in explanation, “is why our people love the land so dearly. “The Quitus lived simply, such as we do today. They planted beans and corn and potatoes and fruit, depending on where they lived. From the cotton that was grown on the lowlands, the women wove cotton trousers and blouses on their own looms. With the wool they collected from the llamas, they made heavy skirts and ponchos. “They were happy people, for they had all that they needed. Everyone had plenty to eat. The land of the
38 Chico of the Andes sick and the old and the soldiers who were away was taken care of by their neighbors. Each good year a part of the crops was stored so that when a bad year came, and the harvest failed, there would still be plenty. Yes, they were happy people.” The old man would nod and puff his pipe before adding, “Then came the war.” Chico always became excited when he said this. Now, standing on the ruins where all this had happened, his eyes sparkled. “Far to the south,” the old man would continue, “in the country known as Peru, there lived another nation of Indians. These we call the Incas, although really, only the rulers were Incas—that was what they called the king’s family. These Indians lived as our own people did, but there were more of them. “The Incas were very war-like. They decided to take the Quitus into their nation and sent an army into our land. There were many battles, some right here on our own high Paramos. “I have heard how the great army came, thousands and thousands of soldiers. And they were so fierce that it was enough to frighten our poor mountain people to death just to see them. These soldiers were dressed in bright-colored clothes and wore vests made of shells. Their faces were painted in horrible designs with colored clay. Each carried a long lance tipped with sharp copper. Some had slingshots, and others
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 39 great bows and arrows. Behind these marched more Indians armed with clubs. And there were many fierce battles.” “Who won?” Chico would ask. “Why, the Incas did. They conquered our whole country.” The old man would shake his head sadly, although in truth he knew not whether he was part Inca or part Quitu Indian. All he knew was that the blood of later conquerors, the Spaniards, ran in his veins. “And when they had conquered a part of our country, they would build a huge fortress to protect it. There the soldiers would live until they went out to battle again.” Chico sighed. It was a wonderful story. He was always sorry when it came to an end. And now, to think that he had found one of the fortresses! One of the biggest. When he had examined everything in the main part of the ruins, Chico followed a narrow path, worn down by many feet into the solid stone. This led up the hill in back of the ruins. Panting a little, he reached a flat spot. His eyes popped when he saw that a square, three feet deep, had been cut into the solid rock. Around the edge of it were little niches like benches. Chico sat down on one and leaned back, pretending that he was an Inca. Perhaps this was
40 Chico of the Andes where the leader had rested and looked out over the Paramos. When it rained, the hollow would be full of water. Well, perhaps he had taken a bath there. Chico laughed and then shivered. It would be a cold bath up here where the mountain winds whistled. From this high place, Chico could see for miles, but he was too high to see clearly the piles of stone that dotted the Paramos. The thought reminded him of his search. Already he had wasted too much time dreaming of the ancient Incas. Chico started down the trail at a run. At the bottom he whistled for Chan, who had disappeared. In a second the bear came running, carrying something in his mouth. So, Chan had been digging again. Chico took the round piece of metal from the bear. It was green with age. Chico put it on his arm like a bracelet. This would prove to Grandfather that he had really found the ruins, he thought. “Come on, Chan. We’ll sit out here on the edge of the hill. While we search for the rocks, we can eat our lunch.” Chan pricked up his ears as he saw the boy fumble with the bundle of food. He trotted after him and lay down. Chico chewed on a piece of cold potato. Starting at one side of the valley, he searched each pile of stones carefully, eyes squinting. All the rocks looked the
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 41 same. The gray-green Paramos stretched before him, but each part looked like the rest. Chan whined and, absentmindedly, Chico handed him the potato he had been chewing on. He picked up another for himself. Suddenly, Chico’s eyes stopped their restless wandering and focused on one spot. He nodded his head. Yes, it was a road. No doubt about it. From his high place, he could see a wide road, like a faint scar on the earth, leading across the Paramos and toward the mountains. But it could not be the regular trail. This was too wide, and, besides, the trail was far to the left and at the mouth of the valley. Then Chico remembered that Grandfather had said that the Incas built stone roads from Cuzco in Peru to Quito. Over these roads, runners had passed, and sometimes the Inca had come with his caravan to visit his new country. Chico’s eyes seemed to glaze and take on a faraway look. Steadily, he stared at the road of long ago. As he stared, the Paramos seemed to change. On each side of the road that ran down the mountain and toward the ruins were fields of potatoes, their green leaves and purple blossoms waving in the wind. Indians, men and women and children, were working in their fields. In his imagination, Chico heard a shrill blast of a trumpet. In his imagination, he saw the Indians throw