The Reaping (La Ganadera)

Emilia Pardo Bazán

Nor was the priest of Penalouca able to sleep peacefully; tormented as he was by not knowing if he was fulfilling his mission, as a priest and as a Christian, of procuring the salvation of his sheep.

Nor could the father say if his sheep really were sheep as such or rather straying and stinking goats. And, pondering the case, he was inclined to believe that perhaps they were goats for part of the year and sheep for the rest.

In fact, the father’s congregation did not trouble him in the least, apart from in the seasons of the high tides and stormy seas; the harsh winter months and the howling autumns. For it must be understood that Penalouca is hung, in the manner of a gull’s nest, above some wild reefs that the Cantabrian Sea at times lulls to sleep and at others seems to want to swallow, and that beneath the tooth-like and narrow line of these coastal reefs lurks, treacherous and hungry for human life, the most dangerous of the many sandbanks feared by the sailors on that coastline. On the shoals of the Agonía – for this is its sinister name – every winter boats would smash themselves to pieces, and the beach of Socorro – irony to call it that – was covered in sad spoils, bodies and broken planks, and then, alas!, then was when the priest lost sight of that beloved, inoffensive, trusting, tame flock of sheep that for so long had not caused him the least unease. (For in Penalouca, nobody gambled, couples lived in blessed peace, the children obeyed their parents blindly, professional drunks were unknown, and there did not even exist grudges or paybacks, or fisticuffs at the end of parties and pilgrimages.) The flock was lost, the flock no longer grazed in the pasture of its devoted shepherd … and what he saw around him was a crowd of goats gone astray or – better still – a pack of ferocious, rabid and devouring wolves.

Every night, when the wind bellowed, and the retreating tide launched its deep and mournful complaint, and the unleashed waves pounded the reefs, breaking on them their furious strip of foam, the villagers of Penalouca left their houses, furnished with lanterns, baskets, boat hooks and poles. Those little lanterns! The father likened them to the burning eyes of prowling wolves. Those lanterns were the bait used to attract to the deadly coast the sailors lost as a result of the rough seas and the darkness, on the point of shipwreck or already shipwrecked, when perhaps their one remaining hope was the rowing-boat, with which they tried to gain the coast … Lured by the sirens of death to the fatal beach, they had barely touched land when the howling mob fell on them, the swarm of black demons, armed with stakes, stones, hoes and sickles … This is known as ‘to go to the reaping’. And the priest, in his nights of sleeplessness and stricken conscience, saw the horrifying scene: the miserable castaways, attacked by the mob, wounded, killed, robbed, thrown back, naked, into the roaring sea, while the wolves withdrew to divide up the booty in their lairs …

In the days following the shipwreck, all the sins that for the rest of the year were unknown to the sheep were unleashed among the pack of wolves, gorged on prey and blood. Jealous quarrels and stabbings over the sharing out of the booty; drunken frenzies in finishing off the contents of the casks thrown up by the waves; after the drunkenness, another kind of depravity; in short, the peaceful village became a cave of bandits … until the fears died down, the wind retreated to its deep dens; the sea calmed down like a lioness that has devoured its portion, and the men, women and youngsters of Penalouca again became the tame little flock of sheep that at Easter bloomed, running to the church to beat their breasts and recite their prayers in good faith, while sending to the father, as an Easter present, baskets of eggs and hens, inoffensive cheeses and curds …

‘I cannot bear this anymore,’ resolved the father. ‘I will explain myself to the mayor right now.’

The mayor was the influential person, the top dog. He would sell, in the city, the fruits of the reaping, and was, it was rumoured, made of money. On hearing the priest, the mayor crossed himself in astonishment. Give up the reaping? But it was what the fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers of Penalouca had been doing all their lives so as not to die of want! Was the poor labour of the earth enough to maintain them? The father knew very well that it was not. There would not even have been bread in the village if it was not for the reaping; evidently, with the fruit of the reaping the town hall had been built; the church had been repaired, which was falling apart; the youth had been saved from conscription, those useful hands; the cemetery had been built. It was not possible to go against a custom so ancient and so necessary, and none of the previous priests had even thought about it, and Penalouca was Penalouca, thanks to the reaping …

‘What to do, oh my God, what to do?’

And the priest, on hearing the crack of the lightning, the autumn tempests that come at the time of the harvest festival, felt that this conflict already dominated his soul, that he would go mad if he had to face Him, who sees us, with the responsibility of having tolerated, inert, silent, so many evils …

On a certain dreadful November night, the priest realised that there must have been a shipwreck … Mysterious toings and froings in the village, muffled sounds that came from the houses, shadows that slid along the walls, a woman’s exclamation, the silvery voice of a child … Penalouca was going about its signature crime; Penalouca was already the pack of wolves, with sharp teeth and burning, hungry jaws … The priest got up from his bed trembling, hurriedly put on a coat and scarf, took down the crucifix from the headboard and broke into a run towards the beach of Socorro.

When he burst onto the beach, the full picture presented itself to him. The sea, tremendously rough, had just thrown up castaways, whom the mob, with guttural screams of triumph, was viciously attacking.

One, after breaking his head with a club, they had stripped of a belt stuffed with gold; another, they had stripped naked, and with a woman, still young, alive, imploring, they were about to do the same. Kneeling, very pale, the woman was begging for mercy, for the sake of God …

The priest raised the crucifix and threw himself among the wild beasts.

‘Get back! God is here!’ he shouted flourishing the carving. ‘Leave that woman alone! He who moves is damned!’

The villagers backed away; subdued for a moment by the voice of their priest, overwhelmed by the great Christ covered in wounds, similar to the castaway that was lying there, naked, and also bloody. But the mayor, watchful, unrepentant, was the first to turn away from the priest, brandishing the club, uttering curses … And the multitude followed its impulse and defended itself, blind, in the confusion of instinct, in the fury of a passionate unleashing …

A few days later there washed up on the shore, with those of the castaways, the body of the priest, exhibiting various wounds. He too had gone to the reaping.

Traducido por Karen Openshaw