Free Dance of the Dwarfs by Geoffrey Household

last half mile will be long and arduous, and then he may emerge into one of those vile tangles where water, land and vegetation are indistinguishable; but with the river as low as it is a shore of sand or gravel can never be far off.
    Lord knows where this story of pygmies comes from! I have never heard it before. Provided they have always kept to the shelter of the trees it is no more or less possible than traveler’s tales of hundred-foot anacondas.
    Leading his gray gelding, I cantered Estrellera back to the estancia and noticed at least three places where the creek was quite dry between shallow pools. Chucha and Mario seemed ridiculously anxious about me. I had hardly unsaddled and turned both horses into the corral when five of the Santa Eulalia toughs galloped up, loudly demanding entry. I received them as if they were the sixteenth-century caballeros whose manners and cruelty they have inherited, and they were compelled to respond with a due measure of courtesies before coming to the point.
    I gave them my word that Pedro was not in the estancia. He had asked for food, which I had given, and then I had ridden with him to the forest and taken his horse. He had told me only that some gentlemen had tried to cut his throat and set fire to his store, but did not say why. Could they enlighten me?
    â€œA private affair,” one of them replied, showing no disapproval at all of my behavior. “I need tell you only that he has well deserved it.”
    I watched them through field glasses vaguely searching the frontier between trees and llano, and saw no more of them till they called in for a drink, two hours before sunset, on their way back to Santa Eulalia.
    [ April 9, Saturday ]
    I found Chucha crying this morning. She was comforting her lime sapling, or else it was comforting her. It is a totem, like a vegetable and living teddy bear, with which she takes refuge in trouble. She would not tell me what the matter was. I hope the loneliness is not getting on her nerves. She is a creature of closed horizons, of mountain valleys and rivers. This vast emptiness may oppress her. One needs to travel over it on a horse, not to look at it hopelessly from our oasis.
    At first she was as frightened of the horses as her ancestors in Peru. For her they were alarming and self-willed animals with ferocious sets of teeth, only to be handled by the conquerors and certainly not by humble women. Neither Tesoro nor Estrellera was helpful. Tesoro is only half broken by European standards—and Estrellera was very well aware that at last she had a human being in front of her who could be bullied.
    But Chucha’s ancestral inferiority complex is now on the way to be cured. Partly this is due to the presence of the llaneros the other evening. They were showing off in front of a pretty girl how magnificently they ride, yet they were all much darker skinned than she is. And partly it is due to Pedro’s Pichón, who has gone out of his way to be polite to her ever since she nervously offered him the first carrot he had ever tasted. He likes women anyway. Pedro’s wife used to treat him as a pet. He is a proper corporal’s horse, quiet and unintelligent, willing to carry a pack or a rider. I think I can persuade Chucha to sit on his back.
    But what can she wear? That’s a problem which Teresa, who dresses in a single shapeless garment with one of my old shirts underneath, would be unable to solve. Nothing at all is the right answer. It would be less indecent than a skirt rucked up round her waist; but both Chucha and Teresa would certainly be shocked at the thought of an Indian Lady Godiva. I should also fear for the pale primrose skin on the inner part of her thighs. The chiripá of the Argentine pampas would look very well on her. I must try to remember how the length of cloth used to be folded and fixed in position.
    [ April 10, Sunday ]
    I made a dashing job of the chiripá by cutting up a green nylon pup tent