Gringo

XVI

SUKURI

THE rain had been falling for days, weeks, and Gringo wandered with his question — when one is hungry, is it a question? Life seemed destined to be the same forever, with this path or another, and the small creatures that didn't see the days passing. Man is first the one who counts time, as if an eternal "something" were out there, farther off, at the end of... what? As if something were not there — and what is it that is not there?

The little pamba is perfectly there, coiled in the leaves; the hoopoo too, striped in brown and white. They do and it is done.

We do, and it is never done.

And what is not done, not there, never there — and nothing is done?

Gringo was perched in the tangle of the mangrove's tall roots, watching the half-submerged mangroves, the black silt pocked by rain in which a water lily's green leaf sometimes burst open. He watched the interminable rain, the silent serpent coiling at the root and moving as if not moving, pointing its small tongue. He was lost there — neither serpent nor root, not even that drop of light shining on the lily's leaf. He could have hunted, fished, and hunted again, and filled the days with a thousand reassuring gestures — and then... and then what?

A malaise came over him. He turned.

Sukuri, the anaconda, was gliding toward him, mottled in gold and black.

One could not run in those tangled roots, and Sukuri swam even better than it glided. It glided slowly like a living wave.

Gringo straightened. He was naked and copper-colored; his streaming body was like a flame in that enormous teeming. He looked at Sukuri with all that flame gathered in his eyes.

"Go away," he said in a clear, neutral voice. 

Sukuri stopped. It looked at Gringo. 

Everything was motionless, without a tremor.

It was as thick as a mangrove trunk.

"Go away," Gringo repeated, emphasising each word. And all at once he sensed, felt that Sukuri was gathering its long coils — Ma! cried Gringo.

There was a flash of white light. Gringo staggered, nearly fell backward into the swamp. Sukuri turned its flat head and went off through the roots without a sound, like a movement of death. 

Gringo turned: there She was, all white and motionless on the mangrove bank. Then he plunged in, swam toward Her:

— Ma!

And he threw himself at Her feet.

— On your feet, little one. A man stands upright.

She stroked his hair; he looked at her as one plunges into a clear spring, as one loses oneself in the shimmer of the waters at the edge of the savanna. And everything stood still. It was timeless time — where there was both a fullness and a void together.

— Listen, little one...

She smiled, and one was so peaceful in that smile, so sure — as if all the centuries had already been lived.

— I am leaving soon...

— No, no — not yet!

— They are weary of me; they go around in their small circles with their recurring stories. They are already grumbling.

— What will I do without you?

— When you no longer have me, you will have to find me where I always am.

— Oh! Ma, the path drops away under my feet. I don't know the path.

— Your cry makes the path — it is the path itself! As thirst leads to the stream.

— But why must you leave? Can't you stop them all, like Sukuri, in a flash?

— I can, she said...

And there was something like the hint of a sadness in her smile:

— But who will remain standing among the little men? I am not the queen of a tribe of cowards.

— But why don't they love you? Why?

— Whatever changes the law is a misfortune for man. They don't want to change their law or only to change it and adopt another one. They want to hunt, fish, sleep... or dream a little, play the flute like Quino.

— Ma, Sukuri follows its law — what is man's law?

— It is to undo the law, little one. He is the one who can change the law: Sukuri cannot.

— How will I undo these days and days with their hunger and their wake of sleep?

— The question is the answer itself, like the drop of water that splits the rock.

— Ma, can you not split my rock?

— I can, she said...

And She remained a moment looking into the distance, as if She traversed those days and days filled with small gestures and vain desires.

— But to split the rock is the very power of becoming the other thing.

— How far will one have to go?

— To the end of everything, when all the paths are worn out. Listen, little one... pass once more through the white door and I will deliver you from the burden of vain hopes — what one hopes for is still the thickness of the unsplit rock. When the rock is split, that is there. She turned slightly.

A kingfisher darted through the air with a rattling sound.

Vrittru was there, arms crossed.

— And don't forget: the enemy is the one who helps you walk the path; I placed him there to shake your sleep — just as Sukuri was placed for your cry. Now go — they are waiting for us.

And She went towards the man.

— O Queen, he said...

He raised his chin, spread his legs a little — they were somewhat knock-kneed. He would have liked to be king — but king of what?

— You promised us a happy land and we followed you here, but where is your abundance? Our children are struck by fever — mine is going to die. Show me your power.

He pushed his thumbs into his belt. She looked so frail.

— Come then, she said simply.

And they disappeared behind the tall mangrove roots.