The Super Power of Fear
When I was little, I used to go with my friends into the haciendas that surrounded our houses. Our neighborhood had been built in a clear in the middle of thick forest or rubber and cedar trees part of which were felled to give way to cocoa plantations. Interspersed among the big trees, farmers had planted bananas, coffee, chino (taro or malanga), and many other crops. These forests were full of fruit trees that had popped up everywhere almost magically. Our favorite was mango. Twice a year we ventured into the known parts of the haciendas to collect ripe mangoes to eat and, if we picked enough, for our mothers to prepare some desserts and drinks.
One day, two of my best friends and I went to my next-door neighbor’s hacienda. It was the one we knew better, at least one or two kilometers of it, in only one direction. Usually, one would ask the old man or woman who lived next door for permission to enter their property, but sometimes one would find they were either sleeping or out and, since we were not stealing anything anyway, we’d just walk in, open the little wooden door in the middle of the planks that served as fence, and got in. The fence itself was very tall, probably two meters high. Being locked in was not a big problem because one could always climb up the fence. That day, we left the door ajar, just in case.
Familiar as these haciendas were for us, getting lost was as easy as finding mangoes. People told stories of a certain vine that you had to avoid stepping on. If you did step on it, you would lose your sense or direction and get lost easily. The remedies to counter this sort of spell were many and bizarre. From taking off your clothes and wearing it inside out to chanting secret words learned from the elders in the town, to crafting amulets or walking backwards. Most people’s favorite method was simply to cry for help at the top of their lungs.
That day, we must have stepped on one of those damned vines. I had never experienced walking in circles before. I must have been eleven or twelve and I can assure you it was a demential experience. With every turn that leads you to the same place, your desperation increases at the same rate your body temperature and breathing goes up. You no longer know where you are or why you are there. You question the very essence of reality and consciousness. At some point I was sure I was dreaming.
For a bunch of small kids, the idea of sleeping in the forest, not being found, or being bitten by a snake (of which we had plenty in those areas) was more terrifying than the licking we’d all get from both our parents.
We were about to start crying when we ran into an abandoned hut. We had never seen that place and we were sure we had not ventured too far from the main house. It looked like the backyard of any of our humble houses. There was a fire place outside the shabby hut. There were empty containers probably used to do laundry and washing things. There were some pieces of rope hanging from a stick frame. one of them held a bunch of half-ripe bananas. The dirt floor looked well-trodden, almost shiny. There was a clay container with water and we were very thirsty. We were about to drink from it when a bird, a black bird that looked like a crow (a species we didn’t have in that area) flapped its way down to the hut. It looked at us enigmatically; it hopped from one place to the other; until it landed on the cold fireplace.
We were intrigued, but we did not know what to do. The fantasy of any child was to find a wild bird one could pet. Catching a bird with one’s hands was a feat (we usually used glue made from the rubber tree’s sap or slingshots, which rarely left the bird in pettable conditions). Thus, we forgot we were lost and probably trespassing and started to try to catch the seemingly tame black bird.
At one point, one of my friends was able to hold it for a second, but the bird wrestled its way out of his hands.
Suddenly, whole place wetn silent. The leaves stopped rustling and the bird dropped dead on the spotless dirt floor.
We looked at one another in disbelief. We poked the bird with a stick and when it looked too dead to be a playing possum sort of trick, we yelled and ran. We were not sure what direction we were running to or from; we just followed our scared instincts. Then, we heard it: BANG!
A shotgun! just what we needed. Being shot in an hacienda was the other thing anyone feared in these lands. It did not happen very often, but there were plenty of stories to keep that possibility haunting our wildest fears. I turned back and realized I was running last. I sprinted and caught up with my friends. We looked pale and ghostly. BANG! We heard again.
Years later, I still wonder how the three of us jumped over that fence. The door was locked and none of us remembers having climbed over it. We never knew who shot at us, but we never went back to that hacienda and never again showed any interest in birds or mangoes.
Thanks for your reading
This was my entry to @mariannewest, @felt.buzz, and @latino.romano’s 5-Minute Daily Freewrite: Sunday Prompt: ABANDONED HUT. You can see the details here
Make sure you visit the Freewrite House!!!
