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Sketch: Inspiration for Cecilia Branard’s Woman with Horns

December 11, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

This is one of my (Cecil­ia Brainard) sketch­es in reed and pen and ink.  This depicts two women from my child­hood who fas­ci­nat­ed me and inspired my fic­tion.  One was a woman who report­ed­ly had horns on her fore­head; the oth­er was said to be a witch and who always car­ried an umbrel­la so she could hide her face.  I’m past­ing below my short sto­ry “Woman With Horns” which is part of lit­er­a­ture cur­ricu­lum in many schools in the Philippines.

 

WOMAN WITH HORNS

by

Cecil­ia Manguer­ra Brainard

Copy­right 2019 by Cecil­ia Brainard

Dr. Ger­ald McAl­lis­ter lis­tened to the rat­tle of doors being locked and foot­steps clat­ter­ing on the mar­ble floors. The doc­tors and nurs­es were hur­ry­ing home. It was almost noon and the peo­ple of Ubec always lunched in their din­ing rooms with high ceil­ings, where their ser­vants served soup, fish, meat, rice, and rich syrupy flan for dessert. After, they retired to their spa­cious airy rooms for their mid­day sies­ta. At three, they resumed work or their studies.

His assis­tant, Dr. Jaime Lau­rel, had explained that the prac­tice was due to the trop­i­cal heat and high humid­i­ty. Even the dogs, he had point­ed out, retreat­ed under hous­es and shade trees.

Ger­ald could not under­stand this local cus­tom. An hour for lunch should be more than enough. He bare­ly had that when he was a prac­tic­ing physi­cian in New York.

He reread his report about the cholera epi­dem­ic in the south­ern town of Car­car. Thanks to his vac­ci­na­tion pro­gram, the epi­dem­ic was now under con­trol. The suc­cess was anoth­er feath­er in his cap, one of many he had accu­mu­lat­ed dur­ing his stay in the Philip­pine Islands. No doubt Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al Taft or per­haps even Pres­i­dent McKin­ley would send him a let­ter of com­men­da­tion. Politi­cians were like that; they appre­ci­at­ed infor­ma­tion jus­ti­fy­ing Amer­i­ca’s hold on the archipelago.

He glanced at the cal­en­dar on his ornate desk. It was March 16, 1903, a year and a half since he arrived at the Port of Ubec aboard the huge steamship from San Fran­cis­co. Three years since Blanche died.

His head hurt and he removed his glass­es to stroke his fore­head. When the headache passed, he straight­ened the papers on his desk and left the office. He was annoyed at how qui­et his wing of the Ubec Gen­er­al Hos­pi­tal was, as he walked past locked doors, pot­ted palms, and sand-filled spittoons.

In front of Dr. Lau­rel’s office, he saw a woman try­ing to open the door. She looked dis­traught and wrung her hands. She was a native Ube­can — Ger­ald had seen her at the May­or’s func­tions —a come­ly woman with bronze skin and long hair so dark it glint­ed blue. She wore a long blue satin skirt. An embroi­dered panue­lo over her camisa was pinned to her bosom with a mag­nif­i­cent brooch of gold and pearls.

“It is lunchtime,” he said in Eng­lish. His Span­ish was bad and his Ube­can dialect far worse.

Dark fiery eyes flashed at him.

“Com­er,” he said, ges­tur­ing with his right hand to his mouth.

“I know it’s lunchtime. It was­n’t, fif­teen min­utes ago.” She tried the door once more and slapped her skirt in frus­tra­tion. Tears start­ed welling in her eyes. “My hus­band died over a year ago.”

“I’m sor­ry.”

“I’m not. He was in pain for years. Con­sump­tion. I have been cough­ing and last night, I dreamt of a funer­al. I became afraid. I have a daugh­ter, you see.”

“Dr. Lau­rel will return at three.”

“You are a doc­tor. Amer­i­can doc­tors are sup­posed to be the best. Can you help me?”

“I don’t see patients.”

“Ahh,” she said, curved eye­brows ris­ing. She picked up her fan with a gold chain pinned to her skirt. “Ahh, a doc­tor who does­n’t see patients.” She fanned her­self slowly.

Her words irri­tat­ed him and he brusque­ly said, “Come back in a few hours; Dr. Lau­rel will be back then.” She stood there with eyes still moist, her neck tilt­ed grace­ful­ly to one side and her hand lan­guorous­ly mov­ing the fan back and forth.

*

“It was noth­ing,” Jaime said. “I lis­tened to her chest and back. There are no lesions, no T.B. I told her to return in a month. I think she is spec­tac­u­lar; she can come back for check­ups for­ev­er.” With mis­chief in his eyes, he added, “Agusti­na Macaraig has skin like vel­vet; if she were not my patient — “

“Jaime, your oath. You and your women. Does­n’t your wife mind?” Ger­ald said.

“Eh, she’s the moth­er of my chil­dren, is she not?” Shrug­ging his shoul­ders, he fixed the Pana­ma hat on his head.

It was late Fri­day after­noon and they were prom­e­nad­ing in the park, try­ing to catch the cool sea breeze. The park was in front of an old Span­ish fort. There was a play­ground in the mid­dle and bench­es were scat­tered under the sur­round­ing aca­cia and man­go trees. Chil­dren led by their yayas crowd­ed the play­ground. Men and women walked or hud­dled togeth­er to talk about the day’s events.

As he walked by the play­ground, Ger­ald was sur­prised to see Agusti­na push­ing a girl of around five on the swing. When the child plead­ed to do the push­ing, Agusti­na got on the swing. He watched her kick her legs out and throw her head back, her blue-black hair fly­ing about. She was laugh­ing, obliv­i­ous to the scan­dal she was causing.

“The peo­ple don’t approve of her,” Ger­ald com­ment­ed when he noticed women gos­sip­ing behind their fans, their eyes riv­et­ed on Agustina.

“There is a say­ing in Ubec, ‘A man­go tree can­not bear avo­ca­dos,’“ Jaime continued.

Ger­ald shrugged his shoulders.

“Look at her. Is she not delec­table?” Jaime said. “Peo­ple say she is wicked, like her moth­er. She has a very mys­te­ri­ous background.”

They sat on a bench next to a bloom­ing hibis­cus bush where they could see her. The child pushed her hard and Agusti­na’s infec­tious laugh­ter rose above oth­er sounds.

“I can see why the peo­ple would despise a wid­ow who car­ries on the way she does,” Ger­ald said.

“But, friend, you don’t under­stand. We love her. She is one of us. It’s just that Ube­cans love to gos­sip, even when she patient­ly nursed her hus­band. They said she had lovers, but for five years, she took care of him. The peo­ple of Ubec like to talk. Over their meals, they talk; after eat­ing, they talk; out­side church after wor­ship­ping God, they talk; dur­ing after­noon walks, they talk. Just like we’re talk­ing, no?”

“I did not come here to gos­sip. I was per­fect­ly con­tent plan­ning my bubon­ic plague cam­paign when you —”

“Friend, you don’t know how to enjoy life. Look at that sun turn­ing red, get­ting ready to set spec­tac­u­lar­ly. It is a won­der­ful after­noon, you walk with a friend, you talk about beau­ti­ful women, about life. Now, let me fin­ish my sto­ry. Peo­ple say her moth­er — a sim­ple laun­dry woman —jumped over the sem­i­nary walls and behind those hal­lowed walls, under the arbol de fuego trees, she bed­ded with one of Christ’s chosen.”

“Ridicu­lous!”

“Ridicu­lous, noth­ing,” Jaime replied as he pulled out a cig­ar from his pock­et and offered it to Ger­ald. “Taba­calera, almost as good as Havanas.”

Ger­ald shook his head. “Thank you, but I don’t smoke.”

“You don’t smoke; you don’t have women; you are a shell. Bring­ing you here was a chore. Are all Amer­i­can doc­tors like your­self? If they are, I would­n’t be caught dead in your rich and great coun­try. You look like a god from Olym­pus — tall, blonde with gray eyes. You’re not forty, yet you act like an old man.”

“Jaime, skip your lec­ture and get on with your sto­ry.” Ger­ald watched Agusti­na loll her head back. She was bit­ing her low­er lip, afraid of how high she was.

“If you were not my boss, I would shake you to your sens­es. Any­way, the sto­ry goes that Agusti­na was born with horns.”

Horns?”

“Like toro, yes.” Jaime put his fin­ger to his fore­head. “At noon, her moth­er went to the enchant­ed riv­er to do her wash. The spir­its roam at that time, do you know that?”

Ger­ald shook his head at this non­sense. “I swim almost dai­ly at your so-called enchant­ed riv­er and I have seen noth­ing but fish and an occa­sion­al water buf­fa­lo.  Filthy animals.”

“Well, maybe there are or aren’t spir­its, no? Who are we to say there are none? The peo­ple say that her moth­er had — ah, how do you say —an encounter with an encan­ta­do, a riv­er spir­it. And Agusti­na is the prod­uct of that brief encounter.”

Ger­ald watched her jump off the swing, her skirt swirling up, her shape­ly legs flash­ing before his eyes.

“Her moth­er bribed a car­pen­ter to saw off her horns when she was an infant.”

“She does­n’t look much like a riv­er spir­it’s daugh­ter, Jaime,” Ger­ald said with a snort.

“Beware, you can nev­er be sure.”

She took the girl’s hand and they ran to a group of women. Agusti­na car­ried on an ani­mat­ed con­ver­sa­tion then waved good­bye. Before she turned to leave the park, she looked briefly at Ger­ald. He caught her gaze but she quick­ly low­ered her eyes and walked away as if she had not seen him.

*

On the way to the May­or’s house, Ger­ald thought that attend­ing social func­tions was part of his job. He was not only Ubec’s Pub­lic Health Direc­tor, he was also an ambas­sador-of-sorts for the Unit­ed States. The truth was, he did­n’t real­ly mind social affairs at all. They kept him occu­pied. When he was busy, he did­n’t have time to think about the past, to feel that shak­i­ness, that pain that had pos­sessed him after Blanche died.

Dur­ing the day he was fine; he worked, lunched, swam, went on prom­e­nades, had rich frothy choco­late with the men. Lat­er he dined, sipped after-din­ner brandies and liqueurs, and chat­ted until way past mid­night. It was when the ser­vants locked the doors and the house was still, when the only sound was the lone­ly chat­ter of the night watch­man, that he would feel his com­po­sure slip away. His heart would pal­pi­tate and an uneasi­ness would over­come him. He would try to cram his mind with thoughts — health edu­ca­tion cam­paigns, san­i­ta­tion pro­grams, quar­an­tine reports —but the dis­qui­et would stay with him.

The May­or of Ubec, a small round man, greet­ed Ger­ald warm­ly. He intro­duced him as the great Amer­i­can doc­tor who was wip­ing out cholera, small­pox, and bubon­ic plague from Ubec. The peo­ple knew him of course and they shook his hand hearti­ly. They con­grat­u­lat­ed him on his recent suc­cess in Car­car and inquired about his cur­rent bubon­ic plague cam­paign. Rats, Ger­ald explained, trans­mit the dis­ease; there­fore get­ting rid of the pest by traps and arsenic poi­son­ing would elim­i­nate the problem.

When the food was served on the long din­ing table with tall sil­ver can­de­labras, the May­or teased Dr. McAl­lis­ter for his squea­mish­ness at the roast­ed pig. The women gig­gled demure­ly, cov­er­ing their mouths with their hand paint­ed fans or lace hand­ker­chiefs, while the men laughed bois­ter­ous­ly. The May­or’s moth­er, a fat old woman with a mus­tache, tore off the pig’s ear and pressed it in Ger­ald’s hand. “Taste it, my Amer­i­can son,” she said. Laugh­ing and clap­ping, the peo­ple urged him to take a bite until he final­ly did.

When he lat­er went to the veran­dah to drink his rice wine, he saw Agusti­na stand­ing there, gaz­ing at the stars. She looked dif­fer­ent, not the fright­ened woman at the hos­pi­tal, not the care­free girl at the partk, but a prop­er Ube­can wid­ow in black, with her hair done in a severe bun. Curi­ous­ly, the stark­ness enhanced her grace and beau­ty, call­ing atten­tion to the curves of her body.

“You did not like the lechon?” she asked soft­ly, with an amused twin­kle in her eyes.

“I beg your par­don?  Oh, the pig —?”  He shook his head, embar­rassed that she had wit­nessed that cha­rade. They were alone and he hoped that some­one would join them.

“What do Amer­i­cans eat, Dr. McAl­lis­ter?” She was study­ing him, eyes half-closed with a one-sided smile that was becoming.

Ger­ald pushed his hair from his fore­head. “Pies — cher­ry pies, boy­sen­ber­ry pies —I miss them all. Frankly, I have — “

She drew clos­er to him and he caught a warm, musky scent com­ing from her body.

“—I have lost ten pounds since I’ve been here.”

“In kilos, how many?”

“Around four and a half.”

“San­ta Clara! You must get rid of your cook. She must be an incom­pe­tent, starv­ing you like that. It is a shame to the peo­ple of Ubec.”

Ger­ald watched her, aware of his grow­ing infatuation.

“I like you,” she said sud­den­ly. “You and I have a kin­ship. Come to my house and my daugh­ter and I will feed you.” Paus­ing, she reached up to stroke his face with her fan. His cheeks burned. “Noth­ing exot­ic,” she con­tin­ued, “just some­thing good.” Her eyes flashed as she smiled. “You know where I live?”

He hes­i­tat­ed then shook his head. His knees were shaking.

“The house at the mouth of the riv­er. I see you swim­ming dur­ing sies­ta time. I like to swim at night, when the moon is full.” She looked at him, closed her eyes lan­guid­ly and walked away.

*

After din­ner, Ger­ald hur­ried home and paced his bed­room floor. He should have been flat­tered by Agusti­na’s advances, but instead he was angry and con­fused. She was enchant­i­ng and desir­able and he was upset that he should find her so.

Once he had been unfaith­ful when Blanche was bedrid­den. The sur­gi­cal nurse who laughed a lot had been will­ing, and he had want­ed even for just a few hours to for­get, to be hap­py. Blanche had known, just by look­ing at him. “Oh, Tiger, how could you? How could you?” After her death, he had not giv­en this side of him­self a thought. Yet now, he found him­self recall­ing that inde­scrib­able musky-woman scent ema­nat­ing from Agustina.

There was some­thing else. It both­ered him deeply that Agusti­na, wid­owed for only a lit­tle over a year, would laugh, be hap­py, even flirt out­ra­geous­ly with him. Why was she not con­sumed with grief? Why did she not sit at home cro­chet­ing white doilies? Why did she not light can­dles in the crum­bling musty church­es, the way prop­er Ube­can wid­ows did? He was out­raged at her behav­ior. He con­demned her for the life that oozed out of her, when he need­ed every ounce of his strength just to stay sane.

He strode to his desk and stared at the album with pho­tographs, which he had not looked at in years. The wed­ding pic­ture showed a vibrant smil­ing girl with a ring of tiny white flow­ers around her blonde curly hair. His face was unlined then, and his mus­tache seemed an affec­ta­tion. Anx­ious eyes peered through round eye­glass­es, as if he knew even then that the future would give him anguish.

He stud­ied the oth­er pic­tures — seri­ous daguerreo­types — that unleased a flood of emo­tions. He found him­self weep­ing at some, smil­ing at oth­ers. He remem­bered Blanche’s soft voice: “Oh, Tiger, I adore you so.” Blanche in bed, wait­ing for him. And lat­er, Blanche in bed, pale, thin, with limp hair. She had been eat­en bit by bit by con­sump­tion; she had been con­sumed, until only a skele­ton that coughed inces­sant­ly and spat blood remained. Ger­ald did not believe in God, but he had prayed for her death, just so it would end. When she died, he was sur­prised to feel anoth­er kind of grief, more acute, more searing.

After her funer­al, his mind would go on and on about how use­less he was —  a doc­tor whose wife died of con­sump­tion was a fail­ure. And always the soft voice: Oh, Tiger, how could you?

Return­ing from work each night, he had found him­self wait­ing for her voice: How was your day, Tiger? He saw slight women with curly blonde hair and he had fol­lowed them. He plunged into a depres­sion — not eat­ing, unable to work, to think clear­ly, to talk coher­ent­ly. He stayed shut up in his room with wine-col­ored drapes. At times he thought he was los­ing his mind. When he point­ed a gun to his fore­head, a part of him pan­icked and said: NO. That part had tak­en over and start­ed run­ning his life again. Eat, so you will gain weight; exer­cise, so your body will be healthy; work, so your mind will not dwell on the agony.

It was this part that had led him to the Islands, far away from slight women with curly blonde hair. It was this same part that now said: Blanche is dead, you are alive; you have the right to laugh and be hap­py just as Agusti­na laughs and is happy.

Ger­ald strug­gled with him­self but would not allow him­self to sur­ren­der his mourn­ing.  He decid­ed not to see Agusti­na; he would not allow her to cor­rupt him.

*

Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al William H. Taft’s hand­writ­ten let­ter from Mani­la arrived that morn­ing and Ger­ald reread it sev­er­al times, try­ing to absorb the con­grat­u­la­to­ry words. He felt noth­ing. He would not have cared if the let­ter had nev­er come. He real­ized that he did­n’t real­ly care, nowa­days. Work was pre­dictable; there was lit­tle risk. He applied him­self and the lau­rels came.  But the suc­cess­es, the com­men­da­tions did not fill his empti­ness. He picked up the conch shell that he used as a paper weight and tapped it, lis­ten­ing to the hol­low ring that echoed in his office.

Ger­ald went to Jaime’s office to show him the let­ter. Jaime appeared cross; he sat erect and immo­bile as he lis­tened quietly.

“Well?” Ger­ald asked after read­ing the let­ter aloud.

“Well, what?”

“The let­ter — it’s a fine let­ter, don’t you think?” He hoped for an enthu­si­as­tic reply that would rub some life into him.

“The May­or’s moth­er is dead,” Jaime said. “She choked on some food.”

“Too bad. Well, at least it was­n’t typhoid or any­thing con­ta­gious,” he said.

Jaime’s black eyes snapped at him. “You bas­tard!” he said. “All you think about is work. You have no soul.”

Ger­ald could not work the rest of the morn­ing. He felt a grow­ing rest­less­ness, a vague uneasi­ness that he could not pin­point. No soul. Had he indeed lost his soul? Was that why he could not feel and why he did­n’t care about any­thing? In try­ing to bring order to his life, in restruc­tur­ing it after Blanche died, had he lost a vital part of him­self — his soul?

*

Funer­als, Ger­ald thought as he walked to the May­or’s house, were drea­ry, maudlin affairs, where peo­ple wore long faces and tried to sound sin­cere as they dug up some mem­o­ry of the deceased.

He braced him­self when he saw mourn­ers in black and the huge black bow on the May­or’s front door. Inside, he was sur­prised to see the num­ber of peo­ple crowd­ing the place.  Some wept; oth­ers laughed and relat­ed sto­ries about the old woman. A rather fes­tive air filled the place.

The May­or hugged Ger­ald, say­ing, “What a tragedy, what a tragedy!  She was eat­ing pick­led pig snout when sud­den­ly she choked. It was over before any of us could do any­thing. She loved you like a son and wor­ried that you were too thin.”

“I’m sor­ry,” mum­bled Gerald.

The May­or brought him to the cas­ket in the liv­ing room. “Mama chose her own funer­al pic­ture,” the May­or said as he point­ed at the huge pic­ture of a slim young girl, propped up next to the cof­fin. “She was a vain woman. The pic­ture was tak­en almost half a cen­tu­ry ago.”

The May­or con­tin­ued, “Her mind was not clear. She want­ed to be buried in her wed­ding gown but it was far too small. I had to hire three seam­stress­es to work all night. They ripped and stitched, adding pan­els of cloth to the dress. It was still too small. Final­ly we decid­ed to clothe her anoth­er dress and to lay her wed­ding gown on top, pinned it here and there to keep it in place. Fam­i­ly deaths can be try­ing,” he said.

The old Span­ish fri­ar said a Latin Mass and spoke lengthi­ly about her good­ness and kind­ness. “She had a rich and long life,” he con­clud­ed. Near the hearse, an old man rid­ing a horse stopped them. He was dressed in a rev­o­lu­tion­ary uni­form with medals hang­ing on his chest, and a gun in his right hand which he fired once. Gasp­ing, the mourn­ers stopped still. The old man ordered the men to open the cas­ket. He got off his horse, bent over the cas­ket and plant­ed a kiss on the corpse’s lips. Then, he got back on his horse and gal­loped off.

It took a while for the mourn­ers to com­pose them­selves and con­tin­ue to the ceme­tery. A pair of scis­sor was placed under the satin pil­low; fam­i­ly mem­bers kissed the body; the priest blessed the cof­fin and she was final­ly buried.

Every­body returned to the May­or’s house for a huge ban­quet. Jaime tried to explain the rev­el­ry by say­ing that a per­son was fet­ed on his birth, his mar­riage, and his death. “It’s the end of a good life, my friend,” he said.

Agusti­na, who was there, walked up to Ger­ald. “It was a beau­ti­ful funer­al,” she said.

“I’ve nev­er attend­ed one like it,” he replied and laughed. “I guess it was.”

They were near a win­dow and she looked out. “Ahh, the moon is full.”

*

From his room, Ger­ald watched the large moon rise, shin­ing on the star apple and jack­fruit trees in his back­yard. It was a warm night, even with all the win­dows open. He wait­ed for even the slight­est breeze to stir the sil­very leaves, but there was no wind and a rest­less­ness grew in him.

At last he decid­ed to go to the riv­er. Silence and oppres­sive heat dom­i­nat­ed Ubec as he walked the cob­ble­stones. He reached the path lead­ing to the riv­er and the sea. The moon was so bright that the air seemed to vibrate as he fol­lowed the trail that widened, then nar­rowed, then widened again, until he reached the riverbank.

After leav­ing his things under a coconut tree, he walked to the water and saw how clear it was. Lit­tle gray fish dart­ed between col­or­ful rocks. In the dis­tance the riv­er and sea shim­mered brilliantly.

The water felt cool and silky. Ger­ald swam back and forth, mar­veling at the brazen­ness of the fish that brushed against him, some even nib­bling his toes. He spot­ted a bright green rock and won­dered about it. Div­ing to the riv­er bot­tom, he fetched it. When he sur­faced, he saw her stand­ing next to his things. He was not sur­prised; he knew she would be there.

Moon­light bathed her, mak­ing her glow. A green and red tapis was wrapped around her, expos­ing gold­en shoul­ders and neck, show­ing mounds of flesh.

Ger­ald felt life stir­ring in him and, hold­ing his breath, he wad­ed to the shore. She walked toward him. The water splashed and the small gray fish skit­tered away when she slipped into the water. He watched the riv­er creep high­er and high­er as her tapis float­ed grace­ful­ly around her, until they fell into each oth­er’s arms.

 

“Woman with Horns” is part of the col­lec­tion, Woman With Horns and Oth­er Sto­ries, reviewed here by World Lit­er­a­ture Today.

Tags: fic­tion, short sto­ry, Cebu, Philip­pines, #Ubec

Filed Under: Fiction, Uncategorized Tagged With: Cebu, fiction, Philippines, short stories

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Welcome!

I am a daugh­ter of the Philip­pines and an adopt­ed daugh­ter of Amer­i­ca. I have also trav­eled to many places so I am also a daugh­ter of the Earth. My expe­ri­ences have found their way into my sto­ries, which try to depict char­ac­ters caught in impor­tant moments in their lives, sit­u­a­tions that force them to act, make deci­sions, change. I try to see the world from my own point of view, not the dom­i­nant West­ern one, thus my inter­est in his­to­ry, cul­ture, and set­ting. But my char­ac­ters car­ry my sto­ries; they are the most impor­tant in my sto­ry-telling. I have to dive deep into them to under­stand their human­i­ty – their good­ness as well as their bad­ness, their beau­ty as well as their ugli­ness. Just like us. Just like each of us. I need to know where they came from, where they are now, so I under­stand where they are going. Just like us.

Please read my full biog­ra­phy here

 

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