Cumanda

By Juan Leon Mera

Chapter VI

Years Before

It was a day in the month of December, 1801. Brother Domingo de Orozco, a Dominican who had been serving as curate of Andoas for about six months, moved about more uncomfortably and sadly than usual, and an Indian who helped him at mass went so far as to say that during the morning services he had seen him shedding tears.

Unhappy cleric! He carried in his heart, inscribed indelibly, a terrible story, whose anniversary would take place in a few days.

In his youth he had loved madly, as only young men can love, the exceedingly beautiful and virtuous Carmen N., like him, a native of Riobamba. Marriage reinforced the passion, and produced progeny worthy of such an unusually harmonious couple. The first child was Carlos; five children followed, more beautiful than some loves (?), and the youngest was a girl superior in beauty to all of her brothers, to whom the parents, who worshipped her, gave the sweet name of Julia.

Don José Domngo de Orozco had a farm in South Riobamba, and pleasure or necessity compelled him to spend long periods of time there with his family.

One morning, towards the end of 1790, don José Domingo wanted to visit Carlos, who was ten years old, attending school in the city, and he left the farm before sunrise. The sky was clear and beautiful, and the square of old Puruhá, the noble cradle of the Duchicelas, was magnificent. The two chains of the Andes sloped downward and separated from each other, as though to permit the stars to bathe more easily with torrents of light the land that had in earlier times held altars and worshippers. It was covered with heavy snow; to the northeast is the world-famous Chimborazo, its face lifted to the sky, its steep sides clear and resplendent above its immense stony throne; to the east Tungurahua raises its head above the deep region in which it sleeps, and seems still to contemplate the fantastic gardens in which the Shiris play; to the southeast the ruined Cápac-urco eternally symbolizes the destroyed empire, to whose throne various fine sons of Puruhá ascended. When the full moon shines above these colossal peaks covered with snow, and waves of pale, magical light illuminate them, as though they extended through space, cutting the clouds, which seem like white mountains moving majestically, propelled by the nocturnal breezes, oh, then the eastern horizon of Riobamba is unrivaled in the world.

But it was no less enchanting on the morning that Orozco left his farm for the city, though he could not enjoy it, since his mind was incapable of receiving pleasant sensations, it was so disturbed by a secret restlessness. Carmen had had a bad dream, she was sad and still anxious, and she said goodbye to her husband, embracing him and weeping without knowing why. Her heart knew the reason, but she could not translate the language of the heart, which is called “presentiment” – a mysterious language which almost always expresses a terrible future truth.

On that same day, an uprising of the Indians of Guamote and Columbe occurred, bringing about bloody atrocities, preserved with shock even today in the memory of our people.

It was already late afternoon when news of the event arrived at Riobamba. Sensing the danger to his family, Orozco mounted his horse and sped to the farm. Half way there, night fell. A boy who was coming from the spot where the uprising took place told him that several houses in the countryside had been burned by the Indians, who had not left a single white person alive. Don José Domingo burst the guts of the horse, which made valiant efforts to climb a hill, but died of exhaustion. It did not matter: the fear of arriving late, the desire to fly, the anxiety, gave him wings and he made it up the hill. He saw thick clouds of smoke