The Dagger - Sequel To John Steinbeck's The Pearl

IV

             The town and the village went about their lives. The people bided their time, awaiting the day of days. The divers went to the sea and dragged their canoes along. They fished for pearls, like any other day. The women and children went about their usual tasks as well, the children played and the mothers nursed their infants.

All the while, a song played in the background of their lives. It was a single chord that was repeated, each spread far apart from each other, but marginally getting closer with each beat. And with each beat, the villagers remembered, every time they had been beaten, every time they had been refused service by the doctor. They remembered the stories of their elders of a time far gone, before the Spaniards, a time of prosperity, a time without fear.

And now, they had hope. A man was willing to rally the people, to be hub of the wheel that connected the spokes of the people. And what better man, then someone who has lost everything. All of the village knew of the story of Kino, all of the village secretly told their children that Kino was an example of too much ambition and too high aspirations. But now, they told their children of Kino, not as a measure of what they could descend to be, but of what they could become.

Freedom whispered in their ears. The promise of a better life murmured in their hearts. They began to make plans, and as Kino knew all too well, plans were solid. Plans were real. And the gods despised plans. After all, he had planned and he had been ruined. But he did not care of the outcome of the uprising. He only cared of the looking down the sights of his rifle, and squeezing the trigger.

And after days, the Song of Anticipation was fast, and the villagers were ever vigilant, listening for word of when it would come. Their pulses quickened and their blood warmed. In the night, they starred at their thatched roofs, dreaming of the chandelier that would hang from a plaster ceiling. Their delusions of grandeur grew, from a new canoe to a brick mansion.

Kino waited in the same spot in the center of his brother's hut. He starred at the gleaming black barrel of the rifle and marveled at the man who starred back. He was soaked in rain and blood and his hair clung to his heads. His eyes were devoid of emotion, except for malice. He grinned at Kino, a sinister evil grin. There was no humor in his eyes, only the psychotic look of a man who was long gone.

What will you become? His brother's words rang in his eyes and he tore his eyes away from the man- no monster- in the reflection of the barrel. He could become no more without Juana, without Coyotito.

Kino knew that the song had engaged the villagers, and that it was the time. Their hearts had been stirred and their minds opened. They had listened to the quickening of the song with growing anticipation. And so Kino let the word out, the single word that they had wanted to hear for days.

Tonight.

So the villagers steeled their hearts and armored their minds. They prepared their knives, and any other tool or utensil they had. They did not have much, but they had fear, fear that led to anger, and anger to strength.

But their strength that stemmed from fear was not their sharpest weapon. Their sharpest weapon was a hope, a cause, a reason to fight. They carried their descendants lives on their back, they would either free themselves from the rule of the Spaniards or cement their position.

The already dark and cloudy sky grew darker and the rain redoubled its efforts to soak everything in sight. A strong wind blew in from the east blowing the large droplets of water into the side of the brush houses and onto the backs of the villagers. The sodden earth turned to mud that clung to the villagers' feet and ankles.

Kino stood on a small earthen mound in the center of the little village. His hair was soaked and each strand clung to one another. Locks of hair stuck to his forehead and rivulets over water ran all over his face.

Rapidly, a crowd grew around him. Kino stood on the small earthen mound and looked over the gathered faces. Many were solemn, while others tried to mask their excitement. The entire village gathered around him, carrying all varieties of makeshift weapons like sickles and hunting knives. All the sun burned faces looked up at him with expectancy.

Kino was a man of few words. He never wasted breath on useless remarks or comments. He knew when to talk and when to listen. But mow was his time to talk and it was the villager's time to listen.

"This village," Kino began in a voice that carried over the howling wind and the splashing rain, "this family, was prosperous and peaceful. The elders tell of times long gone, ages long past. But then the Spaniards came."

A low growl of anger and hate rumbled in the crowd and the Song of Anticipation quickened. "We were forced to dive for pearls for the Kings of Spain. But we despise them, and resent them.

And now in this twilight of a new era, we are at a crossroads. We can continue on our path being herded and subject . . . or we can diverge and carve our own path. We must be the shepherds of our own society. We must make our decision now! Are we going to cower like dogs, or are we going to take back the life our ancestors once had?"
An uproar of approval rose from the belly of the crowd. The Song of Anticipation reached its peak, an almost constant chord with minuscule intervals. Now was the time.

Kino stepped down from the earthen mound and the crowd parted. He slowly began to walk towards the walls of the city. But as he walked he picked up pace and was eventually running full pelt towards the town. The people moved as a sea, not jostling each other, but slowly picking up pace behind Kino.

Their marching feetovercame the falling rain and screaming wind. Their footstep became the beat toa new song as the Song of Anticipation ended. This was a song of renewal. Thiswas the Song of Freedom.