Todor Todorov

Hagabula

(excerpts from the novel)

by Todor P. Todorov

Translated from the Bulgarian by Ekaterina Petrova

1. Hernán Dreams

A condor swoops over the ocean. It barely touches the water—serenity, grace. All is aglow—the wings and the sky, and the waves, ablaze in flames. A white sail shines in the azure. At home, a linen sheet repeats the same refrain, blown by the wind. Two quiet hands, the scent of soap and spring. And the thread of time—in the palm of a child’s hand. The earth, the sky, the rain, each blade of grass, everything rises. The peony unfurls for the sun. A gust wafts, the primrose quivers, a bee lands into the blue blossom. A dewdrop lurks in the walnut leaf. A child dreams of butterflies illuminated by a bolt of lightning. Someone is running. The afternoon lowers its shutters over the wheat fields, it’s getting late. A woman is crying, bathed in moonlight. Stars illuminate the firmament, fireflies paint over the night. Summer is a mother, and the world is endless. But there, something darkens. The condor searches for land, a shadow captures its wings. A lonely ship sinks into the sea. All is distant—the youth, the hours, the years. Only Spain is forever, never forgotten. Thunder devours the dream of the fish that has swallowed a castaway. In the heart of the tiger, a deer is born. A cold cyclone rips through the steppe, chases after wolves, cranes, snakes. The wilderness sways, something in the taiga keeps silent. The boats are moored in the harbor. The wind whispers a black prayer, the fishermen pull on their boots. A dusky moon rises—a sun of darkness. And there, the night rushes in from the other world to this one. Hagabula everywhere.

Hernán awakes, sweat has broken over his forehead. His eyes are distracted, still unseeing beyond the dream. He stands up and walks along the deck. The night shines above him—a cloak incrusted with fire. He peers into the darkness ahead. His face is sunburnt, his hair is scattered by the southern winds, scorched by the heat. His boots, blood red and made from salamander skin, creak over the wooden floor. The wind spreads open his clothes, tickles his skin, sends a pleasant tingle through his bones. His steps slash through the silence. How deadly quiet it is here. The world is lost—he feels like the last man on earth.

A lone ray-finned fish slices the water beneath the ship, and its silvery sheen briefly sets the dusky billows aflame. It has no interest in the flotilla above, keeping its eyes fixed on the ocean depths. Far down in the sands, something stirs. The land ahead is already visible, just a few hours of sailing away. Monolithic cliffs and gray rocks, shores bathed in moonlight, and beyond them—forests, as inhospitable as the brows of a sleeping monster.

“Black motherland, womb of wonders! Here I am!” Cortés exclaims. Only the wind and the heartless wail of the forests respond.

They set foot ashore, the sand is still scorching. Despite the darkness, everything shines white. Every pebble, every grain of sand—all is light. The expedition unloads the ships and makes its way through the narrow ford beyond the rocks on foot, leading the horses laden with saddlebags, weapons, sacks full of maps, compasses, food provisions, tobacco.

“Salgado,” Hernán says.

Salgado, his secretary, is wearing an unshorn beard that frames his gaunt face, and his hair is tied back in a ponytail. He turns around slowly—not an awake man, but a sleepwalker. The flame of the torches illuminates his eyes, which shine like lakes of glass. Something terrifying awakens in their depths. An alien and frightening gaze. His skin is inhumanly pale—he looks like a hermit, a lost prophet. Like someone forever abandoned.

“Where are you, God?” Salgado utters. And then: “Nothing good awaits us here.” A silence sets in. Then he repeats: “Nothing good.”

A cloud briefly conceals the moon, coldness sets in. Cortés says nothing, just smiles, but shadows float around his eyes. He’s tired, sleeplessness has devoured his nights. But now, right before they arrive, he is overcome by the demon of sleep. He orders a squad to be formed of Haitians, Africans, and a gang of Spanish scum—gamblers and bandits gathered up from the brothels around the islands. He gives his commands, and several boats set off, disappearing among the ships. Sounds are heard of rough voices, exclamations, curses in Spanish and other languages, growling, suppressed laughter. Then everything falls silent. Sparks burst into flames, fiery balls descend upon the sails. The wooden skeletons crack, sigh, bend their limbs—charred corpses are thrown into the ocean. A moment later, everything is burning—Santa Maria, Santa Anna, San Miguel, and San Antonio are sent to hell. Six more ships follow, a triumphant procession toward the ashes. The sea is in flames.

Once he crosses the rocky ridge, Cortés finds three hundred men and thirteen horses, all silent under the devilish sky. The men look pale beneath the vault of the night—an army of ghosts gazing upward with damp eyes. Yesterday’s warriors, inured to bloodshed and injustice, now look like children frightened by a looming shadow. What have they lost? Why are they mourning the end of the world?

Where is courage, where has bravery gone, Cortés wonders.

The firmament is painted in a bloody glow, the heavenly spheres are burning. The priest Domingo stands with his arms lifted upward, as though calling for something or somebody—a martyr who will soon be swallowed by an abyss. Clouds like hungry dogs gnaw at the celestial vault. Having taken off his boots, Aguilar is sitting on a stump to the side, chewing on a piece of meat and watching the overhanging trees topped by foggy crowns. When he notices Cortés, he stands up and takes a few steps forward. His hair shines, raven-like. The sandy grains blown by the gusts of wind singe his face. A wandering star rips through the expanse above him. He spits, and they all suddenly freeze, finding themselves in an unfamiliar silence. A silence that whispers fateful omens into their hearts, face to face with the eternity of the unknown.

Then Aguilar says: “Here is your womb of wonders. Here is your infernal curse.” He looks around. The wind whistles, the night closes its fist. “Here are the rocks where our flesh will rot. Look at the mountain. It knows only one word, and that word is death. Black is the soul of this land, black and hollow your eyes will turn.”

The men stay silent and listen. Aguilar’s words awaken in them that frightening premonition that has been stuck in their throats during the whole voyage.

Where are our unborn children? Who are the women we left behind caressing now? Is that why we lived—to die in misery? To turn into teeth-baring skeletons in this foreign land? No, there is no hope here, in this godforsaken land.

“That’s enough, Pablo,” Cortés interrupts.

“You set the ships on fire, you devil. You buried Spain, there’s no going back now,” Aguilar replies.

“There isn’t,” Cortés concedes. “No warm bread, no mother’s embrace, no comfortable bed, and no sated stomach. No lover’s solace, no mutton or wine, no home, and no sound of bells. You’ll only see your father’s house in your dreams. The sailor’s life is hard, his days are cast in bitter glory. But be proud, you sons of Spain! And be vigilant. It’s no accident that fate has called us here.”

“We’ll start the ascent in an hour. There’s no home behind us now, there’s nothing. The only way is up,” he soon adds. And points to the forests ahead. Raining from the frowning sky, the ashes of the burned ships are coming down. The cold stings the skin. Some debris stabs into the sand, washed ashore by the waves. Nobody says a word.

Soon the sun rises from the east, the ocean is sprinkled with a golden light. Black smoke drifts over the brushwood. The men gaze at the sea as it devours the sinking boats and the vanishing sails into its stomach. Somewhere over on the other side lie the island harbors, illuminated by sun and seduction, with their prostitutes, beautiful Creoles and Puerto Ricans, with their brothels, taverns, and soft beds, with their spicy food and aged wine. And even further away, beyond all that is visible, beyond the night, lies Spain—naked, bloody, proud, touched by the sun and God.

The azure sky turns radiant. The men slowly start to climb the steep path between the cliffs and the tree trunks. They soon enter an immense forest. Once having crossed into it, they can’t escape the restless presence of leaves, grasses, and branches. They feel as though they’re being watched. They feel like captives not just of their own anxiety, but also of somebody else’s. Since setting foot here, they’ve been seized by an inexplicable despair, which the earth itself seems to exude. Strange birds scream from the darkness. The men peer into the surrounding shadows and silently curse their fate, curse the madman who left them with no way back, no home, no hope. As they advance, their hearts fill with a dread, suspicion creeps into their chests. The world slowly retreats and makes space for dusk, dusk slowly turns into blue twilight, the expedition continues. They step over roots, go around rocks with strange shapes, a haze like yellow milk sticks to their feet, and low by the ground will-o’-wisps mysteriously flicker like pearls. Nobody touches them. It is not even noon, and yet everything grows dark, the shroud of untimely night descends. Soon it gets so humid and stifling that the horses can barely walk, and the men are covered in sweat. The sweat drips into their eyes, blurs their vision, stains their shirts, causes their lips to turn painfully dry.

A condor flies high over the cliffs, its wings rip through the azure sky, its gaze sweeps over the world below: the cold ocean, the barely visible shorelines around the black mountain—massive, endless, exalted in the middle of the world. A lone navel—an eye ominously staring into the heavens.