Halloween Story: La Princesa, Part 2

Recently I posted the story of La Princesa (read part one here), wife of a 19th-century owner of the Yucatán hacienda San Antonio Xpakay who was brutally murdered by her husband for infidelity with a hacienda employee. She bled to death in the main house, known in Yucatán as a casona, more than 150 years ago, but locals believe that her unhappy spirit still lingers on the hacienda. Here I tell about my experience with La Princesa. Verse by the Mayan poet Briceida Cuevas Cob, translated into English by current San Antonio Xpakay owner Jonathan Harrington, helps tell the story.

When Jonathan bought San Antonio Xpakay about ten years ago, there was a family that had been on the hacienda for twenty years still living in one of the houses, and Jonathan kept them on for awhile after he moved in. Jonathan reports that Basilio, long-time hacienda employee and father of the family, his wife and children all had stories about La Princesa.

...in these moments in which the blood of the sun

is scratched by the limbs of a tree

like the blood of my heart

is scratched by the claws of solitude. (1)

She appears as a faint female figure normally seen at a distance, wandering around the grounds in the evening. She is beautiful.

The children reported seeing a lone female moving along the albarradas, or stone fences, at the far ends of the garden. And they were pretty sure it wasn't just some neighbor. San Antonio Xpakay is located in the midst of wild monte, which is forest or what we in Alaska might call The Bush, kilometers away from the nearest pueblo or other house. It is reached by traveling over horse trails or rough ranch roads and has no close neighbors. The area is remote, can be dangerous, and is an easy environment in which to get lost. Occasionally in the Mérida newspaper there appears a story about a skeleton or just a few scattered human bones found in the monte, which if they are ever identified, usually turn out to be the remains of someone who had been reported missing. Authorities and family members often can only speculate how and why the deceased died alone in el monte. The wild country around San Antonio Xpakay is not the kind of place where someone, especially a woman alone, would be out wandering in the moonlight.

Basilio's family did not go out after dark.

Night falls, and the crickets begin to sing again,

once again the night sinks into my sadness. (2)

Late one night not long after moving in, Jonathan was asleep in his bedroom in the casona when he was awakened by the clap-clap of sandaled footsteps on the tile floors. He went back to sleep and thought little of it until the next day, when he casually asked Basilio why he had come into the house in the middle of the night. Basilio swore that he had stayed in with his family after dark, and had not been in the main house the night before. Basilio was not surprised because the explanation was easy: it was just La Princesa.

After posting the first part of this story last week, I decided to go back out to

the hacienda to talk once again with Jonathan about La Princesa and to take more pictures. Although the murder room (right) has undoubtedly changed a lot since La Princesa died here more than 150 years ago, it still exists just off of a main living area used as a guest bedroom, where I usually sleep when I visit. The large room measures five by ten meters, with six meter ceilings (16 by 33 feet with 20-foot ceilings). It is sparsely furnished with several small tables, shelves, and a bed with mosquito net, and is accessed by three doors and two windows.

When I arrived at San Antonio Xpakay, Jonathan was not there, so I located a hidden key and let myself into the house. It was afternoon, so I put sheets on my bed, readied some food I had brought along, and after a short walk decided to take a siesta while I waited for him to get home. Laying on the bed, I looked straight up at the high ceiling, with the mosquito net, designed to cover the whole bed and lowered on a rope by means of a pulley attached to a ceiling beam, directly over my head. The drape of the suspended mesh reminded me of the hems of an old-fashioned woman's dress. I began thinking about my first night in this room, several years ago.

On my first overnight visit, after a long day on the hacienda and in the nearest pueblo, we stayed up late in the dark, sitting on the front terrace and talking. Jonathan had told me stories about the hacienda, mentioned that there had been a murder in the house and that people believed that the ghost, called La Princesa, still haunted the area.

Finally I went to bed in the big room, and Jonathan went to his adjoining bedroom. Nights in the country can be noisy, and when you are not accustomed to the variety of sounds, it takes awhile to get comfortable and to sleep. I am not accustomed to sleeping in such a large room, and it is not cozy, with its numerous open windows and doors.

It took me a long time to get to sleep. Besides all of the noises, including frogs, crickets, owls and other night creatures, the house has its own set of sounds: creaks and bangs of the old metal kitchen roof, scurryings of unidentified creatures, the sounds of the metal windmill and its tower, and many small knocks and rustlings.

Although there were not many insects about, I had lowered the mosquito net over the bed. In the candlelight it glowed a soft yellow. Another candle flickered twenty feet away inside the bathroom, where La Princesa died so long ago. It took me awhile to get there, but I slept.

In the middle of dreamless sleep I suddenly awakened with the feeling that someone had closed a cloth bag or pillowcase over my head. Although I lay in the middle of the double bed and the mosquito netting formed an ample tent overhead, the netting from the right side of the bed was now pushed inward toward me, covering my face and head. Startled, I lay still for a few minutes, listening and moving only my eyes back and forth in an attempt to figure out what had happened. Sensing nothing, I calmed down and rearranged the netting. Although I observed no air movement, I attributed the event to a maverick wind blowing through the open windows, and after tossing and turning for a good long time, eventually went back to sleep.

Now you suffer.

You remain in the sounds of the deaf night. (3)

Later, I was having one of those dreams in which I am scared, being chased or hiding from something that I never can quite recall after I awake. Suddenly it GOT me. I was enveloped and suffocating, and I awoke with a gulping for air, to find the gauze of the netting again in my face and over my mouth. This time I did not stay still, but bolted up and groggily pushed the net quickly away with a flailing of my arms. I sat still and looked around the room. Not a breath of wind wafted through the windows, but again the tent was deformed, the netting to my right pushed inward toward me. I could see that the candle in the room where La Princesa died was no longer burning. Nothing else was disturbed. I wanted to say something out loud, but I didn't know what to say, or to whom.

Where is your voice?

Where have you lost it? (4)

I never figured out what happened and it does not matter. There did not seem to be wind, and my arms were not tangled in the netting when I twice woke with a start, so I did not think that I had somehow pulled the material over onto myself. It was an interesting experience and it makes a good story, no matter what the cause. Although I like to think that I had an encounter with La Princesa, it will remain another of the occasional mysteries I come across around here that keep life interesting.

Notes:

(1) from the poem, In These Moments, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.
(2) from the poem, Like the Morning Star, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.
(3) from the poem, Hypocritical Moon, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.
(4) from the poem, Your Voice, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.

Halloween Story: La Princesa, Part 1

Occasionally I like to resurrect favorite stories that were published before I had many readers on this blog. So in the spirit of the Halloween season, here is an authentic Yucatán ghost story, the true tale of  The Princess of San Antonio Xpakay, originally published in July, 2010. This is the first of two parts.

On a recent Friday night I slept in the midst of el monte, or forest, and it was the noisiest night I have spent in a long, long time. I had driven out that morning to Hacienda San Antonio Xpakay, owned by my friend Jonathan Harrington, the poet, translator and writer, to spend a couple of relaxing days enjoying the remoteness, to read, and to have a rambling conversation with him about one of our favorite topics: translating poetry.

It rained Friday afternoon, and roused by the moisture, as soon as the sun went down the frogs, ranas in Spanish, began to call. When the frogs on Xpakay start up, you can't help but notice. There are hundreds, possibly thousands of them, and their groaning, ribbeting chorus is a wall of sound that they begin constructing at dark and maintain into the morning hours of the next day. In addition there was an occasional breeze, which meant that the old windmill next to the house would begin to turn from time to time, adding its rusty screech to the din. A broken rhythm was added to the mix by the fruits of the ramón trees whose branches overhang the back of the house. With an irregular-regular beat these fell tapping like hail on the metal roof of the kitchen, and then rolled slowly down its canted surface to drop on the ground. To this, Jonathan's calf and sometimes owls or other animals of the night added their voices. Romanticizing the atmosphere, there is no electricity at Xpakay; flickering candles provide the only illumination.

After getting used to this music it is possible to sleep, but the erratic nature of the cacophony makes for a wakeful night. A weird thing that happens is that suddenly, coordinated by a signal that we humans cannot perceive, the frogs all stop at once, both the ones close by and all those barely audible in the far distance. This abrupt silence wakes me with a start more certainly than any sudden noise. When I awoke at these silences and found myself unable to go right back to sleep, I began wondering what kind of signal it could be that would prompt all of the frogs over a wide area to stop together so suddenly. Whatever it might be, it is something I am unable to detect. I then, watching long shadows thrown by a single candle flame play on the high beamed ceiling, began thinking about another mystery on the hacienda, that of The Princess, known here as La Princesa.

I was reminded of the stories of La Princesa earlier that day because Jonathan and I were reading over his translations of work by the Mayan poet from Campeche Briceida Cuevas Cob. She writes in the Mayan language and has translated some of her poems into Spanish. Jonathan is working for a publisher in the United States on English versions of some of these poems. The themes of Cuevas Cob's writing, often revolving around love, longing and loss, frequently remind me of the story of La Princesa.

Some time in the early to mid 1800's, La Princesa was the wife of the hacendado, the owner of Hacienda San Antonio Xpakay. Hacendados didn't usually live full time on their haciendas, preferring to overlook their business interests from the comfort of Mérida or another larger town, and to leave the dirty day-to-day running of things to managers, called encargados. However for a period this hacendado was on the hacienda, accompanied by his wife. Apparently La Princesa became interested in the encargado. An attraction that began perhaps with small smiles or a glance held a little longer than appropriate eventually became something more.

Because your heart, you handsome boy,

is a red firefly that winks in the darkness of my existence. (1)

We do not know how it began or how long it lasted. We don't know whether it was love or just a strong physical attraction. But one can imagine a protected, younger wife (why else is she called La Princesa?) who is tired of being stuck in the middle of nowhere, bored with her pampered existence and distant, busy husband. She feels irresistibly drawn to the muscular, energetic hacienda foreman in his wide-brimmed white hat. Perhaps she observes him through a barred and partially-shuttered window as he supervises work around the main house. Possibly he notices her watching, and occasionally glances toward the house to see if she is still at her window. There is more eye contact. This goes on innocently for awhile, but at some point they find themselves alone together, and the situation escalates.

What do I care?

I love you down to my bones!

What the devil do I care if our love goes to hell,

if I go by your side. (2)

The story goes that the hacendado walked one day into the bathroom and discovered not just that his wife was being unfaithful. There he saw that she was willing to perform the most intimate of acts with his employee -- things that a proper woman, a lady of this era should not even have known about, much less done -- things that, if the hacendado had ever experienced them, he probably paid a prostitute to do.

This very day

the knees of my soul are sore,

because they have knelt down to cast off your sins,

because they have gone down to receive the lash of your voice, Sir:

...this day you have dismantled my soul (3)

In his rage the hacendado stabbed his wife to death on the spot. Whether the encargado fought or ran, the story does not mention, but considering the customs of the times, to fight El Patrón probably would have meant a death sentence whatever the short-term outcome. The encargado most likely fled and was never able to return to the area. After the murder, possibly the hacendado did not return either. What we do know, if the stories told by local people can be believed, is that the restless spirit of La Princesa, brutally killed by her husband and abandoned by her lover, never left the hacienda.

Come back.

You must realize that if you are not with me,

the night does not fall. (4)

It is believed around the hacienda that La Princesa still lingers at San Antonio Xpakay. I have mentioned La Princesa to others but have rarely told the whole story, in part because I don't want people to think that I have cracked or started having hallucinations from drinking rot-gut mezcal. I'll tell the rest of this story, including my experience with her, in my next post.

Part Two of this story will be posted soon.

Notes:

(1) from the poem, In the Darkness, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.

(2) from the poem, By Your Side I Go, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.

(3) from the poem, This Very Day, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.

(4) from the poem, Come Back, by Briceida Cuevas Cob, translation (in draft) by Jonathan Harrington.

Nature: The Tree

Near Xcanchakan, Yucatán -- After you've driven about three kilometers on the rough ejido road through rocky, scrubby Yucatán monte and passed by one pyramid, one small planted field and through two cattle gates, the tree comes into view. You walk back to your vehicle after closing the final rusty gate behind you and tying it securely with the frazzled piece of rope that dangles from its bars for that purpose. If you know where to direct your gaze at that moment, you will glimpse the top of the tree's canopy, spreading high above its neighbors.

It's fairly wild country. As you look in the tree's direction, you are likely to glimpse the local vultures and falcons high in the air above. You'd be well advised to keep one eye on the ground, too. A variety of serpents, including boas, rattlers and coral snakes, not to mention tarantulas, scorpions and innumerable thorny plants, make a comfortable living here.

After passing through the second gate on the vantage point of a rocky cerro, the track again descends, but from this spot forward, because of its height the tree is always in view. Now, if you tap the horn, the hacienda's owner, Jonathan Harrington, still half a click away, will probably hear it, and may start walking down his grassy front drive toward the dirt road to greet you. If he walks briskly while at the same time you drive slowly and carefully to avoid splitting open the crankcase on one the many large rocks in the way, you might just meet Jonathan in the vast welcoming shade of the tree, which stands a couple hundred meters directly in front of the columns and arches of his front terrace.

Likely as not, if Jonathan has heard the horn and meets you by the tree, he will direct you to drive under the high arches of its branches and continue on just a bit further, where there is a second driveway, the old worker's entrance, that brings you right up to the side of the house.

This tree is known locally by its Mayan name as pich (pronounced "peach" by English speakers). Scientifically it is called enterolobium cyclocarpum. Commonly it is also known as an elephant ear tree, ear pod tree, monkey ear tree, devil's ear tree, monkeysoap tree or guanacaste.

The English common names come from the shape and properties of the seed pods, which resemble an ear, and whose waxy interior can be used to manufacture a kind of soap. The seeds inside the intact dry pod make a nice rattle, and are also used in a variety of crafts.

The massive size of this tree is impressive. On a recent visit, I paced off the diameter of the circle of shade the tree casts on the ground around midday, and found that it measures approximately 45 meters (about 148 feet). This means that the tree's canopy shades about 1590 square meters or nearly .4 acres of earth. Looking at my photos later and using the diameter measurement for scale, I estimate that the tree rises at least 23 meters (75 feet) into the air. 

In doing a little research, I discovered that this is not a terribly large example of the species, which is known to reach an altitude of 35 meters, or more than 110 feet. This pich, if not a youth, is no more than comfortably middle-aged. I suspect in this region that the biggest obstacle to longevity for these trees is the occasional hurricane. But so far, this tree has managed to weather storms pretty well. Jonathan tells me that an elder in a nearby pueblo, who was about 90 years old, once asked if the tree, remembered from his childhood, was still alive. Apparently this pich was already a looming presence on the hacienda nearly a century ago.

It is hard to appreciate the size of this organism without spending some time hanging out under it. Coming into its shade you first notice the dark and the pleasant coolness. The lower branches, which arch high in the air where they leave the massive trunk, eventually come low enough at their extremes to be touched by a person walking by. The roots, looking like the gray, scaly tails of living dinosaurs, have as they've grown pushed large rocks upward to the surface. 

Interestingly, the tree's doubly-compound leaves, which grow in clusters, are feathery and tiny, but that does not keep them from creating the remarkably dense and cool shade beneath the branches. Many types of organisms, including orchids, epiphytes, and various species of lizards, birds and insects take advantage of the temperate micro-climate of this umbrella.

If you follow this blog you probably are familiar with the legend of La Princesa (part 1, part 2). You might be interested to know that during the period of my investigation and rumination on this story I always envisioned her ghost languishing in the twilight gloom of this very tree. It fits the role perfectly.

The other day I told Jonathan, a serious poet, that I was going to blog about his pich, and jokingly started quoting the famous Joyce Kilmer poem that I had to memorize as a kid in school. At this, Jonathan rolled his eyes. All of the information I have shared above is interesting, but to me the fascination of this tree is something more. The magnificent creation that is this tree is not something that approaches poetry... to me it far surpasses poetry. And so Kilmer, as overused, tired and trite as he may be, is appropriate. Therefore, if you will excuse me (with apologies to Kilmer)...

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a pich.

Jonathan Harrington poses under the massive pich that marks the driveway into Hacienda San Antonio Xpakay.