“Make way! Make way!” the captain cries. “Make way for the great Inca.”
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 43 up their heads and cock them on one side and then hurry to the side of the road and peer down it, shading their eyes from the sun with brown, dirt-stained hands. What is it? Who blows the trumpet? In the distance four men appear. On swift-sandaled feet, they run over the stone-paved road. As they run, they hold giant seashells to their lips. From them comes a piercing blast that echoes through the silent mountains. These are only the forerunners. Next comes a captain of the guard, his white cotton trousers slapping around his legs, his brilliantly dyed poncho streaming back from his brown arms. On his feet are white woven sandals, tied in place with green and red leather thongs. He carries a long lance, tipped with gleaming volcanic glass, which catches the rays of the sun and sends them shooting back over the Paramos. Behind the captain are his soldiers. Their red and green and blue ponchos make a rainbow of color against the drab landscape. “Make way! Make way!” the captain cries. “Make way for the great Inca.” Then, like tall grass before the wind, the people who line the road bend to their knees and bow their heads. “It is our king, the Inca, who comes all the way from Cuzco,” they murmur softly.
44 Chico of the Andes And now comes the gorgeous litter of the Inca. It is covered with rich embroidery, with golden tassels hanging down. Beautiful gems are sewn into the cloth. The Indians gasp in amazement. The bowed heads bow even lower, and they jerk off their little caps of red wool. Not one dares to look at the Inca. His beauty is too great; his person too brilliant for ordinary eyes. It would be like staring into the sun— and one would be blinded. Then the litter, carried by eight strong men, sweeps by. Other soldiers follow, and the procession disappears down the road. Once more the road is empty. Chico drew a deep breath. He shook his head and looked around him. How real it had been, just as if the Inca had really passed by! But he had only imagined it, and once more he saw the empty Paramos. A sudden gust of wind roused the boy from his dreaming. Pulling his poncho close, he stood up and looked around. He lifted his eyes to the high mountains. What he saw made him shiver. White veils of Paramos fog were creeping through the sharp passes. With each blast of wind, the fog burst through and spread out over the valley. The sun shone still above the mountains, but quickly now it began to sink in the west. It was far later than Chico had thought. And the mist was gathering early. Chico grabbed up the little bear and started down
SEARCH THROUGH THE PAST 45 the hill. He must hurry if he was to find the trail. It was too late now to hunt for the pile of stones. Bitterly, he remembered how he had wasted his time dreaming of the Incas instead of searching. And he had meant to look so hard. Perhaps he would never find it now. But a new fear came over the boy and wiped out his unhappiness. As he ran over the rocky earth, he turned his head to look back. Slowly, silently, the white mist was creeping after him. Would he be able to reach the trail in time?
Four SEARCH The mist covered the Paramos like a heavy white veil. Swirling through the mountain passes, it filled the valley and crept down around each rock and each blade of grass. Then there was nothing to be seen except the fog. Inside this white gloom, Chico struggled on. His bare feet were cold now, and, as he stumbled, the sharp rocks cut into them. He could not see more than a few steps ahead. Chan clung to him, moaning and whimpering with cold and fright. Chico could only guess at his direction. As long as the land sloped downward, he knew he was walking toward the mouth of the valley. But the ground seemed more uneven; there seemed to be more boulders to walk around than when he came up. Suddenly, from up the valley came a loud shriek,
SEARCH 47 and the wind burst through the mountain passes. Where the Paramos had been coldly silent, now it was turned into a churning, screaming mass of winddriven fog. The wind hit Chico with a blast that made him struggle to keep on his feet. Its force drove him sideways, and he staggered for several steps. Chan snuffled and moved closer for warmth. It was impossible now for him to keep on in the same direction. To escape the force of the wind, he turned and let it push him onward from the back. The ground began to rise, and he knew he must be going to the left. Perhaps he could still reach the trail farther down than he had left it. Once on the trail, his feet could feel their way, even through the fog, he thought. He hurried on. Then came the night. Like the sudden dousing of a candle, the day ended. There was no half-light between night and day. One moment there was light; the next, darkness. The wind moaned. Chico was growing tired. It was hard now to lift his legs. With each step he moved more slowly. His arms grew numb. Little Chan felt three times as heavy as when he had started. The boy knew he could not go on much longer. How many hours now had he been walking? It seemed a long time. By now, he knew, he should have come to the trail.
48 Chico of the Andes Instead, the earth went on rising under his feet. He must have turned around in the storm. He was lost. His fears were real: he would never see the little stone house again, or Grandfather; he would lie down to rest, and in the morning the condors would find him. No! No! He must get home. He hurried on. Suddenly, his tired feet tripped over a small rock, and he fell. Cold water seeped through his clothes and wet his face. He was too tired to move. Sobbing quietly, he lay there. The mist settled over him. Except for the shriek of the wind, all was quiet on the Paramos. Then Chico felt a sharp sting on his bare leg where his trouser had pulled up. Another struck his arm and the back of his head. Like a rain of pebbles, the sharp stings struck all over his body with growing force. Hail! A hailstorm had come. Chico pulled himself painfully to his knees. The icy pellets struck his face, and he threw up his arms to protect it. Then he was on his feet, driven on by the maddening sting of hail. Chico felt a soft, warm tongue touch his cold feet. It was Chan, who had been thrown out of his arms when he fell. The little bear whined and begged to be picked up again. Tears rolled down Chico’s face. He was too tired to carry little Chan. He must leave him behind in the hailstorm. Chico knew what that meant. Even
SEARCH 49 mules left on the Paramos in a hailstorm were crazed by the sleet and whirled in circles until they dropped, exhausted, and died. “I can’t carry you, Chan,” he sobbed. Limping on his stubbed toe, he began the painful walk once more. At first he could hear the little bear’s cries; then they were lost in the clatter of falling hail. He would never see Chan again, even if he, himself, were to live. Chico wandered for a long time. His hands and face were cut by the pieces of hail that blew against him. His ears ached from the cold wind. Even though he knew it was hopeless to keep trying, something made him do it. He was almost ready to give up when his feet struck something strange on the Paramos. At first he thought it was the trail. Then he felt smooth stones and knew he had reached the old Inca road. The walking was easier, but Chico knew that it would not lead him to the trail. It would only take him higher into the mountains. However, as he did not know where else to go, he kept on going. Then Chico almost fell over a large rock. As he put out his hand, he felt that rocks surrounded him. While he thought about the rocks, he realized that something had happened. Had the storm stopped? He put one hand to his cheek. It was true; the hail no longer struck him.
50 Chico of the Andes The boy could hear the wind raging over the Paramos. From someplace nearby, he heard a sharp clack-clack as hailstones splattered on the earth. The storm had not stopped, but, accidentally, he had found some sort of refuge. What it was, he could not tell in the misty dark. He slid down against a stone wall and curled up, shaking and shivering from weariness and the cold that had crept into his blood. Perhaps he could stay here until morning. Perhaps he would not die after all. Another chill shook him from head to foot. A soft scratching and patter brought Chico upright again. Through the dark came a little shape, whining and crying. Then a warm nose searched for his face. Too tired to do more than laugh softly, Chico reached out and took the little bear in his arms. Slowly, slowly, the little bear and the boy warmed each other. Chico stopped shivering gradually. Curled into a tight ball around his pet, he drifted off to sleep. Outside the wind and hail whirled, but Chico and Chan were safe in the shelter.
Five A DISCOVERY Where was he? Chico sat up suddenly and then sank back to the ground and groaned. His whole body was stiff and sore. He wiggled a toe cautiously, and then one foot. He could move them. But where was he? Where were the smokeblackened walls of the stone house? And where was Grandfather? Chico lay still, gathering his sleepy wits. Gradually, as if it were a dream, he remembered the night before. He shuddered. How cold and frightened he had been! But now a beam of sunlight fell across his legs. It was morning, and he was still alive! Chico lifted himself carefully on one elbow and peered from swollen eyes through a crack in the stones. The mist lay everywhere in feathery patches,
52 Chico of the Andes but already, the morning sun was clearing it from the Paramos and warming the cold air. From where he lay, Chico could see far over the moor. What a long way he had walked in the storm! He was, without doubt, high on the hillside which he had seen from the ruins. No wonder his feet were sore. He bent down to examine the cuts and bruises. Chico turned back to the shelter. It had been a safe refuge. He reached out one hand and patted the nearest stone gratefully. As he touched the cool rock, a strange feeling came over the boy. It was as though he had done this before. Suddenly, this place was not strange at all, but very familiar. This had all happened before. Trembling with excitement, Chico pulled himself to his feet. He hobbled a few steps. His head began to nod, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Yes, there was a wall—it had protected him from the wind. And the stones were square-cut—even those that had tumbled down—just as Don Ernesto had said. And he remembered that last night his feet had followed that Inca road and brought him here. This must be a ruined Inca tambo, a resting place. It must be—it was—the place where Don Ernesto had found him when he was a baby! Chico moved suddenly, and his whole body twinged with pain. But he almost forgot it in his excitement.
A DISCOVERY 53 By accident and in the dark night, he had found what he was searching for. His journey had not been in vain. Chico began to look among all the rocks and in the corners of the tumbled hut. It did not take long, for there had only been two rooms to this tambo. At first, he had been so sure he would find something that he had moved hastily and eagerly. Then, even though his sore muscles loosened with the exercise, he slowed down. At last, when he came to the end of the search, he sat down once more. His brown eyes were sad. Chico had been so sure there would be some trace of his people here, something that would tell him who he was and where he came from. But there was nothing. The stones stared back at him silently. It was not for them to speak of what had gone before. If they had, how many more important things they would have had to tell than the finding of one small boy a mere eight years ago. The Incas had rested here—these stones could talk in terms of hundreds of years. Chico stood up and sadly pulled his poncho around him. There was nothing for him to do but find the trail and return home. A scuffle and a sharp bark, coming from behind some stones, made Chico turn. He had forgotten that Chan was with him. Now where had he been? Out searching for grubs, no doubt, for he had not been in that corner when Chico had searched the ruin.
54 Chico of the Andes “Venga, Chan. Come on. We have a long way to go,” he called. When Chan did not come running, Chico walked to the corner and squinted toward him. Chan was digging again, of course. Chico spoke sharply. He was hungry and tired and unhappy. He had no time to fool with Chan and his digging. Chan came then, carrying something in his mouth. He wanted to play, as usual, and dashed in and out among the rocks as fast as his short furry legs could carry him. Chico could see that he carried something square and black, but as soon as he got close to him, off Chan would dash. Chico hobbled after him as best he could on his sore feet. Once, Chico almost caught him. The bear was so excited that he dropped the thing he carried and dashed off behind a rock. That was all Chico wanted. Paying no attention to Chan, he picked the object up and brushed off the dry dirt. Chico’s lips trembled as he looked at the thing Chan had dug up out of the earth. It was no relic of the Incas. It was a black book, six inches long, bound in smooth leather. On the torn and soiled cover, there was the faintest outline of a gold cross. Chico had seen one other book like this; it was in Grandfather’s wooden chest. This was a Prayer Book. There was no doubt of that. But how could a Prayer Book be in
Chan came then, carrying something in his mouth.
56 Chico of the Andes this lonely place, unless—? Chan had stopped his play and was watching his master with bright eyes. Why did he not carry on the game? Chan barked gruffly to show his annoyance. But Chico did not even hear him. He opened the black cover and looked at the pages that were stained and torn. Words were written there. Chico moved to the entrance of the ruin to get more light. Yes, there was writing, faint as a spider’s web, across the top of the first page. The boy’s lips moved as he spelled out the letters. The first three were all that remained of a word that had been torn in half. “—i-n-a,” he spelled. Below that was another word, and this one was complete. “C-u,” painfully, the boy puzzled out each dim, faded letter—“C-u-e-n-c-a.” “Cuenca!” he exclaimed. Cuenca. That was the town where Don Ernesto lived with his sister. That was the capital of the Province of Azuay. That was the city Chico had heard Grandfather and Don Ernesto talk of so very often. That was where Grandfather sold his Panama hats. And that was what was written in this precious book. Precious, yes, for Chico never doubted that the Prayer Book had belonged to his mother. Had he not been
A DISCOVERY 57 led to the very spot through all the storm? Had not God helped him to find it? And who else would have left her Prayer Book in this spot except the mother who expected to return for her son? Tears trembled in his eyes as he thought of his mother, who had once held this book. He had seen her only when he was a baby—and he would never see her again. But he would find out who she was, and from where she had come. He would learn his name and seek out his bit of earth. That he could do. Chan pricked up his ears when he heard Chico call him. His master sounded excited and almost happy again. He hurried on his short legs to catch up with Chico, who was walking down the mountain slope. At the bottom Chico picked up the little bear and carried him. He must get home quickly. Now that he knew what he was going to do, he did not want to waste any time. He must go to Cuenca at once, but first he would go home. So, at an awkward trot, Chico padded over the rocky Paramos, found the narrow trail, and set out for home.
Six RETURN The same Andean sun that had wakened Chico that morning shone brightly over Grandfather’s thatchroofed hut. It shone on the color in the red feathers of old Inca, the rooster, as it strutted proudly back and forth in front of the house, stopping to crow and flap its wings. But now Old Man had no eyes for his pet. For the hundredth time that day, he came to the doorway and searched the Paramos with his weak old eyes. For the hundredth time, he sighed deeply and turned away. The Paramos was empty. All night long, the old man had sat by the fire in his hut, listening to the shriek of wind and the pound of hail against the stone walls. He had crouched near the fire, keeping it blazing with pieces of wood and bunches of dry ichu grass. Waiting. Waiting for the little boy who was alone out on the moors.
RETURN 59 Today, for the first time, Grandfather’s many years rested heavily on his shoulders. His wrinkled hands trembled, and his head bowed until the gray and white beard hung down on his chest. “Ai-ya,” he sighed over and over again. “Why did I ever permit the boy to go alone? If only I had kept him here! Now he is gone, lost as his mother and father were in the Paramos storm.” The old man set about his tasks wearily. With a stiff broom of twigs, he swept the hard earthen floor of the room. He straightened the blankets on his bed and rinsed out the gourd dishes. All the time, his thoughts ran around inside his head like a guinea pig in a pen. “So now he is gone,” he thought, “and I am alone once more. My last comfort has been taken from me. I thought the Good Lord had pardoned me when Don Ernesto brought the little fellow here. And when no one claimed him, I felt that he was meant to be mine. But now I know I am still being punished for my wickedness.” A tear rolled from his eye, found its way among the wrinkles of his old face, and fell on his hand. “Yes, my wickedness,” he repeated. “What else would it be when a man drives his only daughter from her home? As my sorrow is now, so it was when Josefina left me, twelve years ago. Ai—I regretted it. But it was too late. Josefina never came home again,
60 Chico of the Andes though I’ve waited and waited. And now the boy is gone. There is nothing left.” Outdoors the morning breeze rustled the dry thatch on the roof. A hummingbird twittered nervously. From a distance came the shrill cry of the giant condor as it circled the valley. With bent shoulders, still murmuring to himself, Grandfather moved once more to the doorway and leaned against the wall. He looked down the trail in the direction that Don Ernesto and the boy had taken only the day before. The sunlight, after the dark room, was so bright that he shaded his eyes with one hand. He stared for a long time. Nothing. Grandfather dropped his hand and turned away. Then he jerked around again. Was that something moving far down the trail? He rubbed his eyes with both fists and looked again. No, there was nothing. He had stared so long that now there were black spots dancing before him. He must give up looking. But something kept drawing the old man back to the doorway. Each time the black dot seemed larger. Then there was no doubt. The speck leaned down, grew tall again, and began to run. Behind it was another little spot that dashed back and forth from one side of the trail to the other. It was Chico with Chan following.
RETURN 61 When Chico saw Old Man standing in the doorway, he was so happy he thought his heart would burst. Tired as he was, he ran up the last part of the trail as fast as his legs could carry him. Not even his sore feet bothered him. He reached the man and was held close in the trembling arms. He felt his eyes burn with hot tears— but they were happy ones—and a lump came into his throat. He had not known until now how much he loved the old man! They sat down by the fire and drank coffee. Chico ate bits of cold boiled potatoes so fast that he almost choked. Old Man could do no more than watch the boy and hand him more food the instant he finished a piece. At last Chico had had enough. He could wait no longer to tell the old man all that had happened. Leaning forward eagerly, he began his story from the time he had left Don Ernesto. He told how he had found the ruins of Pucará, and Grandfather opened his eyes wide at this. He told how, because he had daydreamed, he had been caught by the Paramos mist, which poured in so much earlier on that far-distant moor. He looked sidewise at the old man as he confessed about the daydreaming, for he had often been scolded for this. Now Grandfather showed no sign of scolding him.
62 Chico of the Andes Then he told of the walk through the storm and of how he had found the shelter. When he spoke of how he and Chan had kept each other warm, the old man reached out a hand and petted the little bear. He had almost reached the part about Chan’s discovery, which he was saving for the last, when Grandfather interrupted him. “We must thank the Good Lord, Chico, for your safe return,” he said gently. “Surely it was a miracle that you lived through such a night. And you must not be sad because your journey was in vain. Perhaps it was meant that you should keep an old man company until the end of his life.” So he tried to comfort the boy for the unhappiness that he felt must now come over him when the excitement had ended. But all the time Chico was tugging at his back pocket, trying to pull out the Prayer Book. He was so excited that he stammered when he tried to talk. “But, Viejito, you do not understand,” he said. “The shelter was the place where Don Ernesto found me. And l-l-look. Look what Chan dug up. Is this not proof that I found the place? Do you not think that this was left by my mother?” He thrust the dirt-stained book into the old man’s hands. Slowly, Grandfather turned it over and over. “Inside, Old Man, inside. See the writing. I could
RETURN 63 read the letters myself.” Chico looked at him proudly. Grandfather had often scolded him because he did not study his letters harder, but at least he had learned enough for this. “See, it says ‘Cuenca.’ That must be where my mother came from.” Grandfather opened the book and turned it sidewise to catch the light. He, too, read the letters: i-n-a. Cuenca. “What do the first letters mean?” Chico asked, getting up on his knees to peer at the torn page. The old man pondered. “I would say that they were part of someone’s name, the last part,” he muttered. “A woman’s name, surely, for it ends in A. But you must not be too sure, Chico. Perhaps it is not your mother’s.” “But, sí, Old Man,” Chico argued heatedly. “How else would it come to be in the ruins where I was found? Are there so many people, then, who have been lost in that same place? No. It must be my mother’s,” he cried. He took back the book and stroked its pages tenderly. “Well, perhaps it is,” Grandfather answered. “Stranger things have happened.” But Chico was thinking now of something else. “Old Man, what might the name be that ends
64 Chico of the Andes thus?” he asked. Chico had never known a girl, so how could he know what kinds of names they had? “Oh, there are many. There is Teresina, Marina, Elvina, Josefina—,” Grandfather whispered the last name. There were many thoughts in the old man’s head this morning, and, in spite of the boy’s return, they were not all happy ones. Chico jumped to his feet. Running to his bed, he dived under it and began to pull out his few clothes. He chattered excitedly. “I will have to hurry. There is no time to waste now. Just think that yesterday I did not even know where to look.” Grandfather watched him, and then asked, “Hurry? Hurry for what? What are you doing, Chico?” “I am going to Cuenca, where else? Once there, I know I shall find out who my people were and where they lived.” “Slowly, slowly, Chico. You cannot go to Cuenca,” the old man said firmly. Not go! Chico was stunned. Why did Old Man think he had hurried so to get home? Of course, he had wanted to see him, but it was to get ready to go to Cuenca, too. He had already wasted too much time. Grandfather looked toward him and smiled gently. “Chico, come here and sit down,” he said. “I cannot talk to you when you rush around like Chan.”
RETURN 65 The boy walked over to the fire. He had been brought up to obey the old man and knew that what he said, he must do. “Now, Chico, listen to me carefully. I know how much this means to you. But you must remember, too, that you are still just a boy. What do you know of the city? Do you think I would let you take that journey to Cuenca alone? Why, it is four days to there, and sometimes the trail is not clear. Even Don Ernesto loses his way sometimes, as he told you.” Don Ernesto! Chico looked up hopefully. “Could I not go with Don Ernesto?” he begged. “He will return soon.” “But what would you do in Cuenca? Do not think you could find what you seek at once. It might take months. How would you eat? A city is not like here. Each night’s sleep and each bite of food costs money. And that is something we do not have, as you well know. Although we have a roof over our head, and plenty of food and work, we do not have money. No,” the old man went on, raising his hand to silence the boy’s question, “you could not expect Don Ernesto to take care of you. He would do it if he could, but I know he has the mouths of his sister and her children to feed.” Chico’s face lost its happy excitement. It had all seemed so simple. But now he knew how hopeless
66 Chico of the Andes it was. He turned and looked out over the Paramos dully. “Chico.” The boy turned toward him hopelessly. “Chico, this that you wish to do is not to be done in a moment. If this wish of yours is truly in your heart, you will never lose it,” the old man said. “For that reason, you must work and plan toward it. Then someday you will go to Cuenca, as you wish.” Chico waited, but his eyes had brightened a bit. “But how, Old Man? How will it ever be different than it is now?” “I do not know yet, my boy. I will think of something. And I promise you it will not be so long as you think,” the old man said and smiled happily as he saw the old, joyous Chico, excited and full of plans, return to him.
Seven THE FINE STRAW HAT “Now, Old Man? Now? Have you thought of anything yet?” Chico lowered the gourd full of black coffee from his mouth and looked at the old man hopefully. Grandfather waved his smoking pipe. “Not yet, not yet. Give me time,” he grumbled. Ever since last night, Chico had been asking the same questions. How could a man think when he was pestered so? Why, even in the middle of the night, the boy had wakened to ask again. And now, the first thing in the morning, before a man’s brains were warm enough to move at all, he was at it again. The old man sucked on his pipe and stared at the fire. The house was silent. Outdoors, the blue sky was covered with thick masses of clouds, purple-black and heavy with rain. Soon there would be a storm.
68 Chico of the Andes As Grandfather thought, he would nod his head. Chico would watch him. When he would shake it as if to say, “No, that will not do,” Chico would sigh unhappily. At last, the old man nodded two or three times. He straightened up on the stool and slapped his thin leg with one hand. “That is it!” he exclaimed. “What is it, Viejito? Have you an idea?” Chico stood up excitedly. “Sí, sí, but it is not easy. It will take time,” warned the old man. “What is it?” Grandfather paused and looked importantly at the boy. “We will weave a hat—or rather, you will,” he answered. “Oh!” All the air blew out of Chico’s lungs. He had believed that Grandfather had thought of something. But hat weaving! They had been doing that for years, and still, they had no money. “Do not make such a face, my boy. This is different. How much do we get for a hat?” Chico sat down in discouragement. “Two sucres, sometimes three, if I am careful,” he answered hopelessly. “Well, then, this time we will weave a hat that is
THE FINE STRAW HAT 69 worth—” the old man paused and waited for the boy to look at him, “That is worth fifty sucres.” “Fifty sucres!” Chico had never seen so much money in his whole life. “Fifty sucres for just one Panama hat, Grandfather? Who would be crazy enough to pay that much?” “Ah-ha, that is how much you know! Have I not always told you that you have much to learn yet?” he chuckled. “No, Chico, they would not be crazy. You see, there are other hats than the kind you have woven. Those are quickly made of coarse straw. But there is another kind which only a few people know how to weave. They are so fine and beautiful that any buyer is willing to pay that much money and more. “This kind,” the old man went on proudly, “is made by only a few families. The skill is handed down from father to son and mother to daughter, and my own family was one of these. Once, they wove the finest in the Provincia de Azuay.” Chico looked carefully at the old man. What he said sounded true, but then, why had he not woven good hats before? The boy’s eyes stared at the old man’s hands. The skin on them was black and tough from years of digging in the cold Paramos earth. The knuckles were swollen, and some of the fingers were twisted out of shape. It was hard for the old man to weave the cheap hats. How could he make a finely
70 Chico of the Andes woven one? Grandfather followed the boy’s glance. He stretched one hand in front of him and bent the stiff fingers back and forth awkwardly. “Yes,” he said sadly, “it is true. My fingers are too old now. But I have the secret of weaving them here,” he tapped his forehead with one finger. “And your fingers are young. If you work hard and do just as I say, you may be able to make a good hat. When it is done, you can go to Cuenca and sell it.” The old man paused and looked at Chico very thoughtfully. Then with a sigh, he continued, “But perhaps you will not be able to make a fine one. It has always been true that one must be born into a hat-weaving family to have the knack.” Chico was convinced. Once more he jumped up from his stool. If Grandfather would teach him, he knew he could weave the hat. Of course, he had not done well on the cheap ones, but that was because it was so easy. His fingers could move by themselves, and then his thoughts would wander, and he would make a mistake. But on a fine one, he was sure he would work carefully. And then he would go to Cuenca. “When can we begin?” he cried. “We must hurry so that it will be made when Don Ernesto returns.” “Gently, Chico, gently. That is what I have been telling you. It will take a long time—many weeks,
THE FINE STRAW HAT 71 perhaps months. You must not plan to go with Don Ernesto this next trip. This hat cannot be hurried.” Just then thunder crashed outside the house. The first large drops of rain spattered on the thatch roof. A flash of lightning lit up the silent Paramos, and the storm began. A solid sheet of water poured down over the house. Chico and the old man knew they would be kept indoors all day. “This is a good time to start,” said the old man. “Get the new straw that Don Ernesto brought, Chico.” Chico ran to the corner and climbed up on the bed. From the shelf above it, he pulled down the paperwrapped package of long straw. “We shall have to cut this straw. It is too coarse for our hat,” Old Man said and took out a small sharp knife and unrolled the package. Taking out one piece, he examined it critically. Chico watched. The old man placed his knife at the very end of the straw and made a small cut. Putting down his knife, he took hold of the two cut ends and pulled gently. The straw separated evenly. Grandfather held up the straw that had now become two fine strands instead of one coarse piece. “See?” “Let me do it, Old Man,” Chico said eagerly. He was anxious to get to work. Grandfather moved the straw away from Chico’s hands.
72 Chico of the Andes “Not so fast. Let me see your hands first,” he ordered. Chico held them out with palms turned up and fingers widespread. “Just as I thought. Go and wash them. This straw must be kept clean, or the hat will be of no value.” Chico stood up obediently, pushing the little bear, Chan, who had come to sleep on his lap, gently to the floor. Walking to the door, he dipped out a gourd full of water from the clay olla and began to rinse his hands. “Use some sand to scrub them,” Grandfather called. So Chico dipped into the coarse sand that they used instead of soap and rubbed his hands back and forth. Then he rinsed them with clear water. When he went back to the fire, Grandfather was poking Chan with one bare foot to keep him away from the straw. Now that the bear was awake, he was ready to play, and the pile of straw looked as if it would be fun. Chico sneaked up behind his pet. “I will get him,” he said and grabbed the little fellow by the neck. “You are not going to spoil this hat,” he said. Once when he was making a hat, Chan had got hold of it and spent all one afternoon chewing it up into tiny pieces.
THE FINE STRAW HAT 73 Chico tied the bear to the bed leg with a piece of bark, and then went back to the fire. “Maybe we shall have some peace now,” grumbled Grandfather, but he smiled fondly at the little animal. When the boy was seated cross-legged at the old man’s feet, Grandfather handed him another knife. “Do just as I do,” he said and picked up another piece to split. “We shall cut it all before we begin weaving. In that way, we shall make no mistake and get a big piece in the hat.” Chico began to split the straw carefully. His tongue stuck out between his teeth, and his eyes squinted anxiously. This time he must do it correctly. When he had done a few pieces, he stopped, the knife held in midair, and eyed the uncut pile of straw. “It will take a long time to split all that,” he said uneasily. “Not so long, if you work hard,” answered Grandfather. “It is impossible to make a fine hat if the straw is coarse, no matter how well you weave. Of course, if you do not want to—.” He started to lay down his knife. “Oh, I was only joking, Grandfather,” Chico said hastily and grabbed up two straws at one time. They worked in silence. As the stack of fine strands grew larger, the other shrank. With the two of them working, it went quickly. Long before he came to the
74 Chico of the Andes last piece of straw, however, Chico felt as if his back would break. He leaned back and stretched. Grandfather bent down from his stool and began to count the new straws. “Ten—twenty—thirty,” he added aloud. “I hope there will be enough. This kind of hat uses up a great deal.” But nothing could discourage Chico. He was going to weave a fine hat and then take it to Cuenca and sell it for fifty sucres. With all that money, he could live for a long time while he searched for some trace of his people. Grandfather stood up and stretched his arms. “Are we going to start the hat now, Grandfather?” Chico asked eagerly. “Let us have something to eat first. We must eat and sleep, even if you are going to weave a hat,” replied the old man jokingly. Chico helped the old man build up the fire and make fresh coffee. From a small basket, he took out some cold boiled potatoes and a piece of the meat that Don Ernesto had left. It did not take long for them to finish eating. While Chico washed his hands again, Grandfather peered out into the storm. As the rain came down and ran off the hillside, the Paramos became like a rushing river. Flashes of lightning showed
THE FINE STRAW HAT 75 the mountain peaks, leaving the moors in a purple twilight. “I hope Don Ernesto reached the mines safely,” said the old man. “How would you like to be out on the Paramos today, Chico?” Chico shuddered. With the fire built up, the man and the boy were warm and snug in their little house. The roof had been newly thatched a few months before, so not one drop of water leaked through. No matter how the storm raged outside, they were safe. Grandfather picked up some straw and began the hat. Chico hung over him so that sometimes Grandfather could not see his own hands. The weaving was just the same as in the other hats. Up and over—in and out—Grandfather pulled the delicate strands. But this time he had to be very careful. If the straw was pulled too hard, it would break. The top of the crown of the hat was no larger than a five-cent piece when Grandfather had to stop. His old hands trembled. This was work for young fingers. His were too old and stiff. He handed the hat to the boy. “You do it,” he said. “Weave just as you always do, but be very careful. And keep the straw pulled firmly so that the weave will be tight.” The thin straw felt odd in Chico’s fingers. With the other hats there was something to hold on to, but this
Up and over—in and out—Grandfather pulled the delicate strands.
THE FINE STRAW HAT 77 felt as though it would slip out of his fingers. Very slowly, he began to weave. There was silence for a time as Grandfather watched him. Once or twice, he nodded. The boy had learned to weave better than he had expected. Then gradually, as Chico became more confident, his fingers moved faster. He even looked up once from his work. Grandfather shook his head. “Careful, now. Not so fast. If you break a straw and have to make a knot, the hat will be valued less.” Chico glanced up at the old man and then slowed down. He must do as Grandfather told him on this hat. Still, he could not help letting his fingers move quickly. They seemed to know by themselves when to hold the straw firmly and when to loosen it. He had never had this feeling with the other straw hats he had woven. That had been plain, tedious work, but this was fun. He closed his eyes and felt his hands move back and forth in perfect rhythm. Grandfather leaned back and felt behind him for his pipe. The boy was doing well—very well. There was nothing for him to do but watch and make suggestions. His old hands were no good for weaving, although once upon a time—. Absently, he tamped tobacco into the black pipe bowl, his eyes on Chico’s bent head. Just so, many, many years ago, he had worked as a
78 Chico of the Andes young boy. He well remembered his father teaching him how to carry on the art of his family. And he had taught his daughter, Josefina, and she, too, had been a good weaver. Now his family was gone. Everyone was gone, even Josefina, who had left him in anger. The old man did not fool himself. He was sure that when the boy went off to Cuenca, he would go forever. Somewhere, surely, there would be a family waiting for the boy, and they would keep him. Soon old Inca, the rooster, would be his only companion. Chico stopped his flying fingers and looked up. He had come to the end of a straw. In a cheap hat he would have stuck it in any old way or tied a knot. But not in this one. “What do I do now, Viejito?” he asked. “Here, give me the knife.” The old man picked up another piece of paja and held it so that Chico could see. With his pipe clamped tightly between his teeth, he tapered one end of the new straw to a point. Taking the hat from Chico, he did the same on the short piece of straw there. He held the two tapered ends together so that they fitted smoothly. “Weave that into the hat now. There will be no bump to show.” Chico looked at the old man, respectfully. Who
THE FINE STRAW HAT 79 would ever have believed that he knew so much about hat weaving? “That is a secret taught to our family by a weaver from Jipi-Japa,” said Grandfather, sucking on his pipe and blowing out gusts of blue-gray smoke. “Jipi-Japa?” Chico glanced up quickly. “That is a town on the coast of Ecuador. It is where Panama hats were first made, long before they ever heard of them in Cuenca.” “But, I thought—” “Sí, sí, I know. You thought hats were made only in Cuenca. That is because you know very little. True, Cuenca makes the most hats, but the finest ones have always come from the coast where the straw grows.” Chico was even more puzzled. This straw grew? He looked at the slender, cream-white strands. “Tell me about it, Old Man,” he begged. “It is a long story,” Grandfather warned, smiling down at the boy. “Por favor.” “Very well, but keep on working at your hat, and I will tell you how Panama hats came to Cuenca.” Chico settled himself comfortably as the story began.
Eight HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA “First of all,” Grandfather said, “these hats were woven on the hot coastland to shade the people from the strong sun. How they learned that they could make hats from a palm leaf, I do not know, but they did.” “Palm?” Chico looked at the long slender strands of white straw in his hand. “Yes, that is a palm. Paja toquilla, or straw from the toquilla palm, it is called. It grows only in the steamy lowlands and is usually small, not over five feet high, with broad green leaves that open up until they are four feet wide. But the straw hunters do not wait until the leaf has opened; they cut it when it is tightly folded—like a, like a—.” He glanced around the room for something that looked like a rolled-up leaf. “Like
HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA 81 an umbrella,” he finished, although Chico had no idea what an umbrella looked like. “It is cut and thrown into hot water. There it is kept for several days, and then it is dried in the sun. In that way it loses its green color and becomes almost white. “Finally, it is cut with a knife and shaped like a comb, into strips as long as the leaf. Some strips are coarse, and some are very, very fine. It all depends on what type of hat they are meant for. “Nowadays, most of this straw is sent to the mountains to the towns of Cuenca, Azogues, and Biblian, but it was not always so. Once, the only weaving was done right there on the coast, and we mountain people knew nothing of straw hat making.” A blast of cold, damp wind swept through the half-open door and whirled around the fire, blowing up the ashes. The fire flared. Grandfather bent over and pulled out a burning branch, then moved the pile of hat straw farther away from the sparks. Chico stopped work for a moment and looked up at the old man. He was anxious for him to go on with the story. “It was very curious, the way we learned to weave,” said Grandfather, tugging at his gray-white beard. “Many years ago, at the time when García Moreno was presidente—and a very good one, too—there was
82 Chico of the Andes trouble in the Province of Azuay. Cuenca is the capital of the province, you know.” Chico nodded. “The mountain soldiers in Cuenca had a part in the uprising. Therefore, they could no longer be trusted to keep order or do what they were told. So troops were brought up from the coastal provinces and stationed in Cuenca.” Chico looked puzzled. What did all these soldiers— not that he did not like to hear about them—have to do with Panama hats? Perhaps Grandfather had forgotten what he started out to say and was telling a different story! “Well, this revolt, or trouble, did not last long. They never do,” Grandfather said, waving his pipe. “And the soldiers, who were far from their homes and families, had nothing to do. So they sent back home to the coast for hat straw and began to weave hats. That was the first time they were ever made in Cuenca, I have been told.” “The soldiers, themselves, wove hats?” Chico interrupted. “Sí, pues.” Chico laughed. He always thought of soldiers as fierce men with spears and clubs—like the Incas. But weaving hats! “They could not always be fighting or marching,
HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA 83 you know,” Grandfather continued. “Most of the time they just sat around the barracks. They must have been cold, too, coming as they had from the hot coast cities. Anyway, cold or not, they wove hats. Perhaps they wanted to earn a little extra money by their work.” The boy looked down at his own hat. That was what he was going to do. But it was slow work; the straw circle had grown no more than a quarter of an inch in all the time the old man had been talking. “Did the soldiers stay in Cuenca?” he asked. “No, they were finally sent back. But in the meantime, the Cuencanos had learned the secret. And do you know how?” Grandfather blew out a mouthful of smoke and coughed. Chico shook his head. “Through the women!” This was too much for Chico. Now, what could the women have to do with it? “The women sold fruit and cakes and little meat pies to the soldiers. When they took their goodies to the soldiers, they saw them weaving the hats. You know how curious women are,” he said. “They stared at the hats and then began begging to be shown what they were doing.” Grandfather raised his voice to imitate the women. “This is what they said: ‘How do you do it? Where
84 Chico of the Andes does the straw come from? How do you weave so quickly? Show me,’” he piped. His voice dropped back to normal. “At last, the men were too tired to resist longer. First, one woman learned, then another, until all the women in the town knew how to make hats. Why, those soldiers even sent to the coast for more straw for them. “Of course, the women soon let out the secret to everyone in town. For a while it seemed as if all the people were going to stop raising potatoes and corn and fruit and do nothing but weave hats. Then the excitement wore off, and they began to weave only in their spare time. They found, just as you have, that it was tiring to work too long at one time.” Grandfather had noticed that Chico had to stretch his back more and more often to get the kinks out. His fingers moved slowly as he grew tired. “It was not for some years that buyers from foreign countries came to Cuenca to buy our hats,” Grandfather said. “Then, when hundreds of hats could be sold, even more people began to weave. Still, they did so only in their spare time. I remember,” he chuckled, “when a foreign buyer thought he could make the people work better and faster in a factory. So he gathered together the best weavers and put them to work in a big house. He could not understand why they could not weave. They looked so sad and worked
HOW PANAMA HATS CAME TO CUENCA 85 so slowly that he sent them home. The men wanted to weave when they had finished their farming. The women needed to talk while they worked. So, today, everyone works at home.” “And the soldiers?” Chico asked. He was worried about them. What if the Cuencanos made so many hats that no one bought those from Jipi-Japa and the other coastal towns? The old man stood up and stretched his arms as he answered, “Oh, they went right on weaving. Their people still make the best hats. The cheapest ones come from Cuenca, but the hats from Jipi-Japa and Montecristi are the most expensive.” Chico looked crestfallen. What about this hat he was weaving? That was not a cheap one. The old man smiled. “We have a few good weavers—as good as those on the coast. My family, as I told you, were known as fine Panama hat makers.” The boy looked more cheerful. “But why are they called Panama hats? You did not tell me that.” “Because they were first sold in Panama, a country far to the north of us. But they are not made there. Really, they should be called Ecuadorian hats.” The old man picked up his gray wool poncho and walked toward the door.
86 Chico of the Andes “That is enough story for now, Chico. See, the storm has gone. Put up your hat and run on outdoors. We need some water and more ichu grass to dry for the fire.” “But if I do not work on the hat—” “If you work too much, it will not be good. No, that is enough for one day. There is plenty of time, even before Don Ernesto returns. You are weaving quickly. Tomorrow you may weave again.” And the old man, followed by Chico and the bear, walked out into the freshly washed Paramos, where the golden sunlight flashed from the mountain tops.
Nine IN THE POTATO FIELD And so Chico wove his hat. During the many weeks that followed, there were storms that lashed the little stone hut on the lonely Paramos, and there were days of golden sunlight when not even the mist fell until late at night. And Chico was content. In his happiness at working on the hat and his love for the Paramos, he almost forgot Cuenca. Almost, but not quite. Then there came a day when the hat was nearly finished. There was nothing to do but tie off the brim and trim the straw; then it would be done. Even Grandfather said it was a good hat. But still, Don Ernesto, the arriero, had not returned from the mines. One morning Chico awakened early with Chan’s wet, rough tongue licking his cheek. Sleepily, he turned under his red poncho and looked toward the
88 Chico of the Andes fire. Old Man knelt there, blowing on the coals. With each breath, his wrinkled, old cheeks blew out until they were as smooth as Chico’s own. Then, as he puffed, the skin collapsed like a burst fruit. Chico watched and tried not to laugh. It was always so hard for Grandfather to blow up the fire. At the noise, the old man looked up. His eyes were watery from the smoke. “Caramba!” he exclaimed. “This wood is too wet. It will never burn.” Chico jumped out of his warm bed and pulled his trousers and shirt around him. “Let me do it, Viejito,” he said. “It will burn no better for you,” grumbled the old man, but he moved aside and made room for the boy. Chico knelt down and crisscrossed the wood. Gently, he pushed the hot coals underneath it and threw on a few pieces of dry grass. Then he filled his cheeks with air and puffed. The wood burst into flames. He glanced at the old man out of the corner of his brown eye. “And why not? The wood was hot by the time you got to it.” But Grandfather smiled, even though he spoke severely. While Grandfather put on the clay pot of water for coffee, Chico glanced outdoors. It was still dark. What was Grandfather doing up so early? He yawned and
IN THE POTATO FIELD 89 shivered in the morning cold. The little fire blazed, and in a few minutes, the water bubbled, boiled, and sizzled over the edge. Grandfather lifted the pot off with a corn husk. While Chico held the cloth sack half-filled with fine black coffee, the old man poured hot water through it. The dark brown liquid ran through into another pot. From this each filled his own gourd and settled down to drink. Chico reached up and pulled down the brown sugar cake. He added a few slivers to his own and gave some to Chan. Chico did not try to talk. He knew that Grandfather was not happy until he had had his morning coffee, and, as he said, taken some of the chill out of his old bones. As usual, Chan was bent on getting into mischief. This morning he discovered the coffee pot and tried to climb into it. Each time he stuck his nose over the edge, the hot steam would burn him, and he would fall backward. Chico put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Even Grandfather had to chuckle. A ray of sunshine broke through the morning mist and fell in a thin streak across the earthen floor. The day had come. Grandfather set down his cup and slapped his leg. “Come on, Chico. We are going to work in the
90 Chico of the Andes potato field today. I have a feeling in my bones that Don Ernesto will come soon, and the potatoes must be ready to send down with him.” Chico jumped up, spilling some of his coffee on one foot. He grabbed the burned foot and hopped around with it in his hand. “Do you think he will come? When? Tomorrow?” He had almost forgotten that Don Ernesto was ever coming. “I do not know when, but I think it will be soon. Anyway, the potatoes should have been dug a week ago.” The old man picked up a hoe, put it over his shoulder, and started toward the field. Chico hopped along behind with Chan following him. At the field the old man stopped. The green leaves and purple flowers of the potato plants were gone now. Only the leafless stems remained. It was time to pull them out, harvest the potatoes, and plant a new crop. “You start down at the far end of the field, Chico, and work toward me,” he said. The boy nodded and walked to the other end of the potato patch. Bending over, he loosened the soil around the plant with his hoe; then, grasping the plant, he pulled it up and all the little potatoes with it. He went on to the next one. As he worked, digging into the soft earth for any
IN THE POTATO FIELD 91 potatoes that remained buried, Chan dug, too. He made the dirt fly until he caught a shiny black beetle for his breakfast. Walking away proudly, he lay down to eat, watching the boy as though he thought he would try to take this fine morsel away from him. Chico laughed and went on working. Grandfather was the first to reach the center of the field. He straightened up to ease his back and said, as he looked back at the mounds of shining, yellow potatoes, “We have a good crop this year to send to Cuenca; that is, we will if you hurry up.” Chico dug his hoe deep into the earth. In a few moments, he, too, came to the center of the field. “Ai-ya.” He dropped his hoe and stood up straight. “That is hard work. When I get through here, I shall never want to see another potato.” “You will not say that by dinnertime,” answered the old man, his eyes twinkling. Chico laughed, for he knew he would be glad to eat hot boiled potatoes by then. Once more the two bent over and began to work. This time they walked away from each other, down the long row. On the next row, they moved toward the center again. Chico worked more quickly now, for Chan had wandered away. He had found a new plaything. Among the young potatoes in the other field, the little