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Authors: Alfred Ávila
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stolen from a Buddhist temple and sold as a souvenir. What is known is that the sailor took it on board the galleon, and that on his return to his home port of Acapulco, he fell short of cash and sold it to a shopkeeper. Later, the shopkeeper asked a friend of his, an old seagoing sailor, what he thought of the jar.
âItâs heavy. Letâs open it and check its contents,â this second sailor suggested.
Anticipating some item of value, the two men opened the urn only to find ashes and bits and pieces of human bone charred by a crematory fire.
Shocked, the shopkeeper asked his friend to kindly dispose of the ashes and the urn, something the sailor agreed to do on his way home while on shore leave.
The following morning, the sailor left the area and headed down the long dusty road home to Atoyac, a small town about three days travel from Acapulco.
On the second day, as he walked in the hot blazing sun, the weight of the urn became a small burden to him and was sapping his strength. The old sailor felt sorry for the unknown person. He had wanted to bury the urn in Acapulco, but he did not have that much money. The local priest had refused to accept the urn because the deceased had been a heathen.
The sailor was getting tired of the extra weight. He stopped to rest alongside the road by a large cactus patch. He decided to leave the urn in the undergrowth where it could remain unnoticed and undisturbed. He walked into the cactus patch, entered as far as he could, and set the urn down. He wrapped it in an old serape because he felt bad about leaving the deceased in this place.
âAt least he will be warm and protected against the elements,â the old sailor said.
He knelt in the undergrowth, said a prayer, and apologized for having to abandon the deceased so far from a cemetery. He slowly turned and walked back toward the road. He looked back one last time, feeling very sorry for his action. It was not the nature of his people to treat the dead so uncaringly, but he had no choice. His village was still too far for him to continue carrying the heavy urn.
Walking away from the cactus patch, the sailorfelt the same desolation as when one of his shipmates was buried at sea and the only thing that he could see after the body plunged down into the waters was a bit of white foam on the surface of the ocean. Down, down it would go into the darkness of the deep where only the dead themselves would know where their final resting place was, the sailor thought sadly. In the same manner, no one would ever know the final resting place of the poor soul whose ashes were held in the Japanese urn.
Once more the sailor stopped briefly for a backward glance at the cactus patch. It was then that a horrible, spine-chilling screech, like the yowling of a large cat, pierced the air.
âItâs probably a puma,â he said, moving away as fast as he could. âIâm lucky to get away with my life! Little did I dream the cactus patch was the home of a deadly cat, or for all I know, the Devil,â he added with relief later, once he had put some safe distance between himself and the source of the terrible cry, making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his chest, and his lips, The man was still muttering to himself as he headed home down the dry, dusty road heading home.
The days passed into weeks and months. The urn sat in the brushy undergrowth forgotten, in the shadows of the cactus trees. But soon stories were heard of a haunted cactus patch by the road out in the lonely countryside. Indians and mestizos alike would avoid the area after the evening twilight. It was not a safe place to be, they said.
A large fireball would appear at night by the cactus patch. It would float and move in various directions over the dirt road, and then it would vanish. This was usually followed by a loud screechand a howl of what sounded like a puma or some sort of large cat.
Sometimes the wailing and moaning of a woman in
âItâs heavy. Letâs open it and check its contents,â this second sailor suggested.
Anticipating some item of value, the two men opened the urn only to find ashes and bits and pieces of human bone charred by a crematory fire.
Shocked, the shopkeeper asked his friend to kindly dispose of the ashes and the urn, something the sailor agreed to do on his way home while on shore leave.
The following morning, the sailor left the area and headed down the long dusty road home to Atoyac, a small town about three days travel from Acapulco.
On the second day, as he walked in the hot blazing sun, the weight of the urn became a small burden to him and was sapping his strength. The old sailor felt sorry for the unknown person. He had wanted to bury the urn in Acapulco, but he did not have that much money. The local priest had refused to accept the urn because the deceased had been a heathen.
The sailor was getting tired of the extra weight. He stopped to rest alongside the road by a large cactus patch. He decided to leave the urn in the undergrowth where it could remain unnoticed and undisturbed. He walked into the cactus patch, entered as far as he could, and set the urn down. He wrapped it in an old serape because he felt bad about leaving the deceased in this place.
âAt least he will be warm and protected against the elements,â the old sailor said.
He knelt in the undergrowth, said a prayer, and apologized for having to abandon the deceased so far from a cemetery. He slowly turned and walked back toward the road. He looked back one last time, feeling very sorry for his action. It was not the nature of his people to treat the dead so uncaringly, but he had no choice. His village was still too far for him to continue carrying the heavy urn.
Walking away from the cactus patch, the sailorfelt the same desolation as when one of his shipmates was buried at sea and the only thing that he could see after the body plunged down into the waters was a bit of white foam on the surface of the ocean. Down, down it would go into the darkness of the deep where only the dead themselves would know where their final resting place was, the sailor thought sadly. In the same manner, no one would ever know the final resting place of the poor soul whose ashes were held in the Japanese urn.
Once more the sailor stopped briefly for a backward glance at the cactus patch. It was then that a horrible, spine-chilling screech, like the yowling of a large cat, pierced the air.
âItâs probably a puma,â he said, moving away as fast as he could. âIâm lucky to get away with my life! Little did I dream the cactus patch was the home of a deadly cat, or for all I know, the Devil,â he added with relief later, once he had put some safe distance between himself and the source of the terrible cry, making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his chest, and his lips, The man was still muttering to himself as he headed home down the dry, dusty road heading home.
The days passed into weeks and months. The urn sat in the brushy undergrowth forgotten, in the shadows of the cactus trees. But soon stories were heard of a haunted cactus patch by the road out in the lonely countryside. Indians and mestizos alike would avoid the area after the evening twilight. It was not a safe place to be, they said.
A large fireball would appear at night by the cactus patch. It would float and move in various directions over the dirt road, and then it would vanish. This was usually followed by a loud screechand a howl of what sounded like a puma or some sort of large cat.
Sometimes the wailing and moaning of a woman in
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