The Magic of Guam

IN the midst of lapping waters floats a far-off, magic island, whose purple mountain-peaks rise from the mists of the sea. The slow-heaving swells turn white along its shore, and rocky cliffs, resounding to the boom of surf on the reef, encircle the same harbor into which Magellan sailed in 1521. There stands Fort Santa Cruz, as it was when so lately fired upon by an American vessel, and there are the white roofs of Piti, from which a barge put out that day and pulled up alongside the American battleship in order to explain that there was no powder on the island with which to return the salute. But it was not a salute, and although El Gobernador had not heard of the war between Spain and the United States, he at least realized the fact, when, tied to a creaking bullock-cart, in the hot sun, he was slowly conducted back to Agaña, the last of the Spanish governors.

So now the Spanish régime had passed away, and the echoing corridors and sunken gardens of the old ‘ palace’ resounded to the shouts and laughter of small Americans. It was a strange environment for a western child. In the case of a little girl of twelve, there was, of course, the usual routine life of the tropics, — lessons in the morning with a governess, and a siesta in the afternoon. Now and then a guest would take tiffin at the Government House; the captain of a schooner who had lived for sixty days on copra, and who told wild tales of the Arctic storms; or a German from distant islands, escorted by his bodyguard of savages, whose ear-lobes touched their black shoulders, so heavy were the beads they wore. And once a month, on transport-days, when the mails came, and every quiles¹ and bull-cart was pressed into service, as well as the daily ambulance with the blind mule, to carry the passengers from Piti to Agaña, why then all thought of routine was abandoned, even lessons, and a palm tree was cut down, so that the strangers might enjoy a palmetto salad. Then, too, a native swimmer would dive deep into the sea to draw from his home in a coral cave that delicacy, the crawfish. But this, of course, was seldom.

At four o’clock you put on a fresh white dress, socks, and sandals, and then the day really began. If the water was too hot for a swim at Dunker’s beach, a romp with the little native girls was the next best thing, — shy children with bright eyes, and eager to learn English. Or, you went to see the fat lady, who made wonderful baskets, or Señor Martinez, the silversmith, who would pound three dollars Mex into a bracelet or spoon if you gave him five.

Sometimes, even, you peeped into Mr. Lhemkuhl’s garden, where pawpaw and mango trees were combined in a bewildering maze with every kind of tropical and temperate vegetation, overshadowed by the tall stack of the ice-plant. But that was a joke you could never quite appreciate. And besides, not all the interesting things were in the city. Beyond lay the rice-paddies, the yamand taro-fields, and, best of all, the ranchos, for there you caught and plucked a chicken, and, as it fried over the fire of cocoanut husks, you sat native-fashion eating rice in the doorway of a nipa hut. Above roosted hens in woven baskets, beneath grunted the black pig, tied by one hind leg. And there you could suck sugar-cane to your heart’s content, fill your pocket with coffee-berries, and cocoa-beans, and then, with oranges dangling from your saddle, race home on a trotting cow.

While the Pacific cable was still under way, and before the first official message went round the world in nine minutes, the child often visited the cable station, a cluster of temporary buildings in a grove of banyan trees. And when weary of the clicking keys and of sending nursery rhymes hundreds of miles along the ocean bottom by Morse code, she would climb high into a labyrinth of banyan branches, where flowers and ferns grew sixty feet in air, until, terrified by the great height, she was rescued, and descended on the shoulders of a strong young operator, who slid down one of the straight roots to the ground.

So the American child learned many things. Learned? No, rather absorbed, and without effort, for she had merely a growing consciousness of the joy of living. To be up with the sun, and, leaving the world wrapped in mist, to plunge through thick jungle, urging the pony on with caresses, —and kicks, — while wet branches brushed the cold dew against the face, and lemon china bushes scratched the arms, — this was to live. Then, suddenly, she might look into the depth of a still black pool, surrounded by gigantic trees, gray lichen, and matted, hanging vines. At one side the spring had overflowed to form a gliding river, through waving pampas-grass, and near the outlet, where the water bubbled over glistening pebbles, stood two ruined pillars of stone. One could not learn about these, but one could feel the hush and awe of that enchanted spring, as it had been felt by an ancient, unknown civilization centuries ago.

And there were other things that could be only felt, — the hoof-beats of the pony on the hard sea-sand, the fresh, salt wind, and the knowledge that this was perfect happiness, free as the trampling surf. And in this beauty, untouched and unharmed by man, one felt akin to the fawn that nibbled morning-glories without trembling, the wild boar that gruffly turned and fled into the jungle, and the stupid blue starfish that could be gathered from the saddle where the water was shallow.

There were moments too from a fairy tale, when the black Alphonso swam and dived about the horse’s legs, rubbing them with a split cocoanut-shell, while the Princess of Piti perched high on Demonie’s back, till the morning bath was over. Then, snorting through cool lilies on the river-banks, they pranced from the shadows into glistening sunshine, and would have flown, had not the bugle sounded ‘colors’ and held them motionless.

Another phase of the life greatly impressed the child with the reality and power of the elements. It was first evident one day at dinner when a low rumbling was followed by severe shocks, a lamp fell from a shelf, a wall split, each half falling in a different direction, and the old shaven St. Bernard calmly walked out on the terrace. For he knew, as does any painted junk on the China sea, that it was merely the island’s stubbing its toes on a coral reef. But earthquakes were not the only evidence of nature’s power. One dark night, the lightning flashed so incessantly that the Ordenancas could be distinctly seen patrolling up and down the plaza. Within, the matting rose and fell in the long, draughty rooms, and a little whiteclad figure, creeping into her sister’s bed, was mechanically thrust out, and spent the rest of the night on the great eifel-wood table in the salon, with only a small Jap poodle. By daybreak the wind had become a circling typhoon, and though there was a lull at noon, while its centre passed over the island, when the natives might rest from the tiring position of sitting on their roofs to keep them down, yet again the wind blew as fiercely, and again it raised and flattened the bamboo bandstand, but now in the opposite direction, as well-regulated typhoons always do.

When the sun came out after that storm and the trade-winds blew great balls of cotton cloud across the sky, a thrill of patriotism swept over the whole island. Against the clear, deep blue darted all sorts and kinds of kites, and halfway up the line of the largest, was run the American flag. Then of a sudden on the horizon appeared a white battleship, and then another, and another, until at last the whole Asiatic squadron was steaming by like so many white swans on the blue water.

In sharp contrast to the military atmosphere of the island, was the fervent, childlike worship of the natives, all Christians. Now and then, on a well-worn road, one would pass a lonely shrine, covered with creepers and decked with bunches of wild-flowers. And then, on nearing the town at dusk, a tolling bell would break the stillness of the warm night air, and presently, with lighted candles and bared heads, a long procession would pass by, carrying images of the saints; and winding on, would disappear again into the dusk.

At night the silvery-haired old padre, who knew more about the island and its inhabitants than any one else, would sometimes consent to tell the children stories. They were weird, wandering stories about the gente del monte (mountain spirits) or tauto monos (giant people), but sooner or later always came the favorite one, the story of why the carabao can only squeak. Of course you know that the carabao is the big, slaty-blue buffalo with long horns, that is always wallowing in the soft, oozy mud with only its eyes and nose out of water. Well, once upon a time, the Virgin Mary was singing the ChristChild to sleep, when down the street galloped a carabao, bellowing with all his powerful might, and waking up the baby. Whereupon the Virgin Mary pulled off her slipper and tapped the carabao’s nose with it, to teach him better manners. And so from that day to this the carabao has been able to make no more noise than a little, tiny mouse.

They were only stories. But in the deep silences of the night, when the Southern Cross and the Scorpion shone bright in the heavens, and when a meteor turned the whole world now red, now green, now yellow, and disappeared behind the hills, then the spirits of the Anitos lay no longer lost and buried in the jungle, but walked abroad, and the tauto monos bathed in the sea by Devil’s Point, or, as of old, hurled great rocks to stop the flight of the Chamorros in their swift canoes.

Once, the western child, called by these spirits of the night, could sleep no longer, but crept from bed, and out upon the terrace. The world was very still, — only the dull, distant boom of the surf and the tread of a sentinel on his beat, then — silence. The air was laden with the fragrance of opopanax, and the blossoming ling-a-ling; and blinking from a branch of the lemon tree hung a bat. Below in the old, walled garden, the moonlight cast strange shadows through the tracery of branches, and, as the child flitted with these shapes and thoughts, she breathed the magic of the night, and knew that this was life in the Southern Seas.