The War Of The End Of The World Part 12

The baron saw her leave the room and knew that before doing anything else she had gone off to tell Sebastiana everything. He sent for Aristarco and discussed the preparations for the journey with him. Then he shut himself up in his study and spent a long time destroying notebooks, papers, letters. The things that he would take with him filled no more than two small valises. As he went up to Gall's room, he saw that Sebastiana and Estela had already gone to work. The house was caught up in feverish activity, with maids and menservants rus.h.i.+ng all about, carrying things here and there, taking things down from walls, filling baskets, boxes, trunks, and whispering together with panicked expressions on their faces. He entered Gall's room without bothering to knock, and found him sitting writing at the bedside table; on hearing him come into the room, Gall looked up, pen still in hand, and gazed at him with questioning eyes.

"I know it's madness to allow you to leave," the baron said with a half smile that was really a grimace. "What I should do is parade you through the streets of Salvador, of Rio, the way they paraded your hair, your fake corpse, the fake English rifles..." Too dispirited to go on, he did not finish the sentence.

"Make no mistake about it," Galileo said. He and the baron were so close now their knees were touching. "I'm not going to help you solve your problems; I'll never collaborate with you. We're at war, and every weapon counts."

There was no hostility in his voice, and the baron looked at him as though he were already far away: a tiny figure, picturesque, harmless, absurd.

"Every weapon counts," he repeated softly. "That is a precise definition of the times we're living in, of the twentieth century that will soon be upon us, Mr. Gall. I'm not surprised that those madmen think that the end of the world has come."

He saw so much anguish in the Scotsman's face that he suddenly felt pity for him. He thought: "The one thing he really wants to do is go die like a dog among people who don't understand him and whom he doesn't understand. He thinks that he's going to die like a hero, and the truth is that he's going to die exactly as he fears he will: like an idiot." The whole world suddenly seemed to him to be the victim of an irremediable misunderstanding.

"You may leave," he said to him. "I'll provide you with a guide to take you there. Though I doubt that you'll get as far as Canudos."

He saw Gall's face light up and heard him stammer his thanks.

"I don't know why I'm letting you go," he added. "I'm fascinated by idealists, even though I don't share their feelings in the slightest. But, even so, perhaps I do feel a certain sympathy for you, inasmuch as you're a man who is irredeemably lost, and your end will be the result of an error."

But he realized that Gall was not listening to him. He was gathering together the pages filled with his handwriting that lay on the bedside table, and held them out to him. "They're a summary of what I am, of what I think." The look in his eyes, his hands, his very skin seemed to quiver with excitement. "You may not be the best person to leave it with, but there's n.o.body else around. Read it, and when you've finished, I'd be grateful to you if you'd send it on to this address in Lyons. It's a review, published by friends of mine. I don't know if it's going to continue to come out..." He fell silent, as though overcome with shame for some reason or other. "When may I leave?" he asked.

"This very minute," the baron answered. "I needn't warn you of the risk you're taking, I presume. It's more than likely that you'll fall into the army's hands. And in any event, the colonel will kill you."

"One can't kill dead men, sir, as you yourself said," Gall answered. "I've already been killed in Ipupiara, remember..."

[V].

The group of men advance across the stretch of sand, their eyes riveted on the brush. There is hope in their faces, though not in that of the nearsighted journalist who has been thinking ever since they left camp: "This is going to be useless." He has not said a word that would reveal the feeling of defeatism against which he has been fighting ever since their water was rationed. The meager food is not a hards.h.i.+p for him, since he never feels hungry. Thirst, on the other hand, is difficult for him to endure. Every so often he finds himself counting the time he must wait till he takes the next sip of water, in accordance with the rigid schedule he has set for himself. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to go out with Captain Olimpio de Castro's patrol. The sensible thing to do would have been to take advantage of the hours in camp and rest. This scouting excursion is certain to tire him, poor horseman that he is, and naturally it is going to make him thirstier. But if he stayed behind there in the camp, he'd be overcome with anxiety, filled with gloomy thoughts. Here at least he is obliged to concentrate on his arduous struggle not to fall off his horse. He knows that among themselves the soldiers poke fun at his eyegla.s.ses, his dress, his appearance, his portable writing desk, his inkwell. But this does not bother him.

The guide who is leading the patrol points to the water well. The expression on the man's face suffices for the journalist to realize that this well, too, has been filled in by the jaguncos jaguncos. The soldiers hurry over to it with their canteens, pus.h.i.+ng and shoving; he hears the sound of the tin hitting the stones at the bottom and sees how disappointed, how bitter the men are. What is he doing here? Why isn't he back in his untidy little house in Salvador, surrounded by his books, smoking a pipeful of opium, feeling its great peace steal over him?

"Well, this was only to be expected," Captain Olimpio de Castro murmurs. "How many other wells are there in the vicinity?"

"Only two that we haven't been to yet." The guide gestures skeptically. "I don't think it's worth the trouble seeing if there's water in them."

"Go take a look anyway," the captain interrupts him. "And the patrol is to be back before dark, Sergeant."

The officer and the journalist accompany the patrol for a time, and once they have left the thicket far behind and are again out on the bare sun-baked mesa they hear the guide murmur that the Counselor's prophecy is coming true: the Blessed Jesus will trace a circle round about Canudos, beyond which all animal, vegetable, and, finally, human life will disappear.

"If you believe that, what are you doing here with us?" Olimpio de Castro asks him.

The guide raises his hand to his throat. "I'm more afraid of the Throat-Slitter than I am of the Can."

Some of the soldiers laugh. The captain and the journalist part company with the patrol. They gallop along for a while, until the officer, taking pity on his companion, slows his horse to a walk. Feeling relieved, the journalist takes a sip of water from his canteen despite his timetable. Three-quarters of an hour later they catch sight of the camp.

They have just pa.s.sed the first sentinel when the dust raised by another patrol coming from the north overtakes them. The lieutenant in command, a very young man, covered with dust from head to foot, has a happy look on his face.

"Well, then?" Olimpio de Castro greets him. "Did you find him?"

The lieutenant points to him with his chin. The nearsighted journalist spies the prisoner. His hands are bound together, he has a terrified expression on his face, and the long, tattered garment he is dressed in must have been his ca.s.sock. He is a short-statured, robust little man with a potbelly and white locks at his temples. His eyes gaze about in all directions. The patrol proceeds on its way, followed by the captain and the journalist. When it reaches the tent of the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, two soldiers shake the prisoner down. His arrival causes a great commotion and many soldiers approach to have a better look at him. The little man's teeth chatter and he looks about in panic, as though fearing that he will be beaten. The lieutenant pushes him inside the tent and the journalist slips in behind the others.

"Mission accomplished, sir," the young officer says, clicking his heels.

Moreira Cesar rises to his feet from behind a folding table, where he is sitting between Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos. He walks over to the prisoner and his cold little eyes look him over from head to foot. His face betrays no emotion, but the nearsighted journalist notices that he is biting his lower lip, as is his habit whenever he is taken by surprise.

"Good show, Lieutenant," he says, extending his hand. "Go take a rest now."

The nearsighted journalist sees the colonel's eyes meet his for the s.p.a.ce of an instant and fears that he will order him to leave. But he does not do so.

Moreira Cesar slowly studies the prisoner. They are very nearly the same height, though the colonel is much thinner. "You're half dead with fear."

"Yes, sir, I am," the prisoner stammers. He is trembling so badly he can scarcely speak. "I've been badly mistreated. My office as a priest..."

"Has not prevented you from placing yourself in the service of the enemies of your country," the colonel silences him, pacing back and forth in front of the cure of c.u.mbe, who has lowered his head.

"I am a peace-loving man, sir," he moans.

"No, you're an enemy of the Republic, in the service of a monarchist insurrection and a foreign power."

"A foreign power?" Father Joaquim stammers, so stupefied that he forgets how terrified he is.

"In your case, I shall not allow you to use superst.i.tion as an excuse," Moreira Cesar adds in a soft voice, his hands behind his back. "All that foolishness about the end of the world, about G.o.d and the Devil."

Those present watch, without a word, as the colonel paces back and forth. The nearsighted journalist feels the itch at the end of his nose that precedes a sneeze, and for some reason this alarms him.

"Your fear tells me that you know what's going on, my good man," Moreira Cesar says in a harsh tone of voice. "And it so happens that we have ways of making the bravest jaguncos jaguncos talk. So don't make us waste time." talk. So don't make us waste time."

"I have nothing to hide," the parish priest stammers, beginning to tremble once more. "I don't know if I've done the right thing or the wrong thing, I'm all confused..."

"In particular, the relations with conspirators outside," the colonel interrupts him, and the nearsighted journalist notes that the officer is nervously twining and untwining his fingers behind his back. "Landowners, politicians, military advisers, either native or English."

"English?" the priest exclaims, completely taken aback. "I never saw a foreigner in Canudos, only the poorest and humblest people. What landowner or politician would ever set foot amid all that wretchedness? I a.s.sure you, sir. There are people who have come from a long way away, I grant you. From Pernambuco, from O Piaui. That's one of the things that amazes me. How so many people have been able..."

"How many?" the colonel interrupts him, and the little parish priest gives a start.

"Thousands," he murmurs. "Five thousand, eight thousand, I couldn't say. The poorest of the poor, the most helpless. And I know whereof I speak, for I've seen endless misery hereabouts, what with the drought, the epidemics. But it's as though those worst off had agreed to congregate up there, as though G.o.d had gathered them together. The sick, the infirm, all the people with no hope left, living up there, one on top of the other. Wasn't it my obligation as a priest to be there with them?"

"It has always been the policy of the Catholic Church to be where it believes it to be to its advantage to be," Moreira Cesar answers. "Was it your bishop who ordered you to aid the rebels?"

"And yet, despite their misery, those people are happy," Father Joaquim stammers, as though he hadn't heard the question. His eyes fly back and forth between Moreira Cesar, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos. "The happiest people I've ever seen, sir. It's difficult to grant that, even for me. But it's true, absolutely true. He's given them a peace of mind, a resigned acceptance of privations, of suffering, that is simply miraculous."

"Let's discuss the explosive bullets," Moreira Cesar says. "They penetrate the body and then burst like a grenade, making wounds like craters. The army doctors had never seen wounds like that in Brazil. Where do those bullets come from? Are they some sort of miracle, too?"

"I don't know anything about arms," Father Joaquim stammers. "You don't believe it, but it's true, sir. I swear it, by the habit I wear. Something extraordinary is happening up there. Those people are living in the grace of G.o.d."

The colonel gives him a sarcastic look. But there in his corner, the nearsighted journalist has forgotten how thirsty he is and is hanging on the parish priest's every word, as though what he is saying is a matter of life and death to him.

"Saints, the just, people straight out of the Bible, the elect of G.o.d? Is that what you're expecting me to swallow?" the colonel says. "Those people who burn down haciendas, murder people, and call the Republic the Antichrist?"

"I haven't made myself clear, sir," the prisoner says in a shrill voice. "They've committed terrible deeds, certainly. But..."

"But you're their accomplice," the colonel mutters. "What other priests are helping them?"

"It's difficult to explain." The cure of c.u.mbe hangs his head. "In the beginning, I went up there to say Ma.s.s for them, and I had never seen such fervor, such partic.i.p.ation. The faith of those people is incredible, sir. Wouldn't it have been a sin for me to turn my back on them? That's why I continued to go up there, even though the archbishop had forbidden it. Wouldn't it have been a sin to deprive the most wholehearted believers I've ever seen of the sacraments? Religion is everything in life to them. I'm baring my conscience to you. I know that I am not worthy of being a priest, sir."

The nearsighted journalist suddenly wishes he had his portable writing desk, his pen, his inkwell, his paper with him.

"I had a woman who cohabited with me," the parish priest of c.u.mbe stammers. "I lived like a married man for many years. I have children, sir."

He stands there with his head hanging down, trembling, and undoubtedly, the nearsighted journalist thinks to himself, he does not notice Major Cunha Matos's little snicker. And undoubtedly, he also thinks to himself, his face is beet-red with shame beneath the crust of dirt on it.

"The fact that a priest has children isn't going to keep me awake nights," Moreira Cesar says. "On the other hand, the fact that the Catholic Church is with the insurgents may cause me a good many sleepless nights. What other priests are helping Canudos?"

"And he taught me a lesson," Father Joaquim says. "When I saw how he was able to give up everything, to devote his entire life to the spirit, to what is most important. Shouldn't G.o.d, the soul, be what comes first?"

"The Counselor?" Moreira Cesar asks sarcastically. "A saint, no doubt?"

"I don't know, sir," the prisoner says. "I've been asking myself that every day of my life, since the very first moment I saw him come into c.u.mbe, many years ago now. A madman, I thought at the beginning-just as the Church hierarchy did. The archbishop sent some Capuchin friars to look into the matter. They didn't understand at all, they were frightened, they, too, said he was crazy. But then how do you explain what's happened, sir? All those conversions, that peace of mind, the happiness of so many wretched people?"

"And how do you explain the crimes, the destruction of property, the attacks on the army?" the colonel interrupts him.

"I agree, I agree, there's no excuse for them," Father Joaquim concedes. "But they don't realize what they're doing. That is to say, they're crimes that they commit in good faith. For the love of G.o.d, sir. It's admittedly all very confused in their minds."

He looks all around in terror, as though he has just said something that may lead to tragedy.

"Who put the idea into those wretches' heads that the Republic is the Antichrist? Who turned all that wild religious nonsense into a military movement against the regime? that's what I'd like to know, padre." Moreira Cesar's voice is sharp and shrill now. "Who enlisted those people in the service of the politicians whose aim is to restore the monarchy in Brazil?"

"They aren't politicians. They don't know anything at all about politics," Father Joaquim squeaks. "They're against civil marriage; that's what the talk about the Antichrist is about. They're pure Christians, sir. They can't understand why there should be such a thing as civil marriage when a sacrament created by G.o.d already exists..."

But at that point he gives a little groan and suddenly falls silent, for Moreira Cesar has taken his pistol out of its holster. He calmly releases the safety catch and points the gun at the prisoner's temple. The nearsighted journalist's heart is pounding like a ba.s.s drum and he is trying so hard not to sneeze that his temples ache.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me, in the name of what you hold dearest, sir, Colonel, Your Excellency!" He has dropped to his knees.

"Despite my warning, you're wasting our time, padre," the colonel says.

"It's true: I brought them medicines, supplies, things they'd asked me to bring up to them," Father Joaquim whimpers. "And explosives, gunpowder, sticks of dynamite, too. I bought them for them at the mines in Cacabu. It was doubtless a mistake. I don't know, sir, I wasn't thinking. They cause me such uneasiness, such envy, on account of that faith, that peace of mind that I've never known. Don't kill me."

"Who are the people who are helping them?" the colonel asks. "Who's giving them arms, supplies, money?"

"I don't know who they are, I don't know," the priest moans. "I do know, that is to say, that it's lots of landowners. It's the custom, sir-like with the bandits. To give them something so they won't attack, so they move on to other people's land."

"Do they also receive help from the Baron de Canabrava's hacienda?" Moreira Cesar interrupts him.

"Yes, I suppose they get things from Calumbi, too, sir. It's always been the custom. But that's changed now that so many people have left. I've never seen a landowner or a politician or a foreigner in Canudos. Just poor people. I'm telling you everything I know. I'm not like them. I don't want to be a martyr; don't kill me."

His voice breaks and he bursts into sobs, his shoulders sagging.

"There's paper over there on that table," Moreira Cesar says. "I want a detailed map of Canudos. Streets, entrances into the town, how and where it's defended."

"Yes, yes." Father Joaquim crawls over to the little camp table. "Everything I know. I have no reason to lie to you."

He climbs up onto the chair and begins to draw. Moreira Cesar, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos stand around him. Over in his corner, the correspondent from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias feels relieved. He is not going to see the little priest's head blown off. He gazes at the cure's anxious profile as he draws the map they've asked him for. He hears him hasten to answer questions about trenches, traps, blocked streets. The nearsighted journalist sits down on the floor and sneezes, two, three, ten times. His head is spinning and he is beginning to feel unbearably thirsty again. The colonel and the other officers are talking with the prisoner about "nests of sharpshooters" and "outposts"-the latter does not appear to have a very good idea of what they are-and he unscrews his canteen and takes a long swallow, thinking to himself that he has failed once again to stick to his schedule. Distracted, dazed, uninterested, he hears the officers discussing the vague information that the priest is giving them, and the colonel explaining where the machine guns and the cannons will be placed, and how the regimental companies must be deployed in order to close in on the feels relieved. He is not going to see the little priest's head blown off. He gazes at the cure's anxious profile as he draws the map they've asked him for. He hears him hasten to answer questions about trenches, traps, blocked streets. The nearsighted journalist sits down on the floor and sneezes, two, three, ten times. His head is spinning and he is beginning to feel unbearably thirsty again. The colonel and the other officers are talking with the prisoner about "nests of sharpshooters" and "outposts"-the latter does not appear to have a very good idea of what they are-and he unscrews his canteen and takes a long swallow, thinking to himself that he has failed once again to stick to his schedule. Distracted, dazed, uninterested, he hears the officers discussing the vague information that the priest is giving them, and the colonel explaining where the machine guns and the cannons will be placed, and how the regimental companies must be deployed in order to close in on the jaguncos jaguncos in a pincers movement. He hears him say, "We must leave them no avenue of escape." in a pincers movement. He hears him say, "We must leave them no avenue of escape."

The interrogation is over. Two soldiers enter to take the prisoner away. Before he leaves, Moreira Cesar says to him, "Since you know this region, you will help the guides. And you will help us identify the ringleaders when the time comes."

"I thought you were going to kill him," the nearsighted journalist pipes up from where he is sitting on the floor, once the priest has been led away.

The colonel looks at him as though he had not noticed his presence in the room until that very moment. "That priest will be useful to us in Canudos," he answers. "Moreover, it will be worthwhile to let the word get around that the Church's adherence to the Republic is not as sincere as some people believe."

The nearsighted journalist leaves the tent. Night has fallen, and the camp is bathed in the light of the big yellow moon. As he walks toward the hut that he shares with the old journalist who is always chilly, the mess call is heard. The sound of the bugle echoes in the distance. Fires have been lighted here and there, and he pa.s.ses among groups of soldiers heading over to them to get their meager evening rations. He finds his colleague in the hut. As usual, he has his m.u.f.fler wound round his neck. As they stand in line for their food, the correspondent from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias tells him everything he has seen and heard in the colonel's tent. Their rations that night are a thick substance with a vague taste of manioc, a little flour, and two lumps of sugar. They are also given coffee that tastes wonderful to them. tells him everything he has seen and heard in the colonel's tent. Their rations that night are a thick substance with a vague taste of manioc, a little flour, and two lumps of sugar. They are also given coffee that tastes wonderful to them.

"What is it that's impressed you so?" his colleague asks him.

"We don't understand what's happening in Canudos," he replies. "It's more complicated, more confused than I'd thought."

"Well, I for one never thought there were emissaries of Her Britannic Majesty running around in the backlands, if that's what you mean," the old journalist growls. "But neither am I prepared to believe that little priest's story that the only thing behind all this is love of G.o.d. Too many rifles, too many skirmishes, tactics far too well planned for all of this to be the work of illiterate Sebastianists."

The nearsighted journalist says nothing. They go back to their hut, and the veteran correspondent immediately bundles up and drops off to sleep. But his colleague stays up, writing by the light of a candle, with his portable desk on his knees. He collapses on his blanket when he hears taps sounded. In his mind's eye he can see the troops who are sleeping in the open, fully dressed, with their rifles, stacked by fours, at their feet, and the horses in their corral alongside the artillery pieces. He lies awake for a long time, thinking of the sentries making their rounds at the edge of camp, who will signal to each other all night long by blowing whistles. But, at the same time, something else is preying on his mind, below the surface: the priest taken prisoner, his stammerings, the words he has spoken. Are his colleague and the colonel right? Can Canudos be explained in terms of the familiar concepts of conspiracy, rebellion, subversion, intrigues of politicians out to restore the monarchy? Listening to that terrified little priest today, he has had the certainty that all that is not the explanation. Something more diffuse, timeless, extraordinary, something that his skepticism prevents him from calling divine or diabolical or simply spiritual. What is it, then? He runs his tongue across the mouth of his empty canteen and a few moments later falls asleep.

When first light appears on the horizon, the tinkling of little bells and bleating are heard at one end of the camp, and a little clump of bushes begins to stir. A few heads are raised, in the company covering that flank of the regiment. The sentry who has just pa.s.sed by swiftly retraces his steps. Those who have been awakened by the noise strain their eyes, cup their hands behind their ears. Yes, bleating, bells tinkling. A look of joyous antic.i.p.ation comes over their sleepy, hungry, thirsty faces. They rub their eyes, signal to each other not to make a sound, rise cautiously to their feet, and run toward the bushes, from which the bleating, tinkling noises are still coming. The first men to reach the thicket spy the sheep, an off-white blur in the deep shadow tinged with blue: baaa, baaa...They have just caught one of the animals when the shooting breaks out, and moans of pain are heard from those sent sprawling on the ground, hit by bullets from carbines or arrows from crossbows.

Reveille sounds from the other end of the camp, signaling that the column is to move on.

The casualties resulting from the ambush are not very heavy-two dead and three wounded-and though the patrols who take out after the jaguncos jaguncos do not catch them, they bring back a dozen sheep that are a welcome addition to their scanty rations. But perhaps because of the growing difficulties in securing food and water, perhaps because they are now so close to Canudos, the troops' reaction to the ambush betrays a nervousness of which there has been no sign up until now. The soldiers of the company to which the victims belong ask that the prisoner be executed in reprisal. The nearsighted journalist notes the change in att.i.tude of the men who have crowded round the white horse of the commander of the Seventh Regiment: contorted faces, eyes filled with hate. The colonel gives them permission to speak, listens to them, nods, as they all talk at once. He finally explains to them that this prisoner is not just another do not catch them, they bring back a dozen sheep that are a welcome addition to their scanty rations. But perhaps because of the growing difficulties in securing food and water, perhaps because they are now so close to Canudos, the troops' reaction to the ambush betrays a nervousness of which there has been no sign up until now. The soldiers of the company to which the victims belong ask that the prisoner be executed in reprisal. The nearsighted journalist notes the change in att.i.tude of the men who have crowded round the white horse of the commander of the Seventh Regiment: contorted faces, eyes filled with hate. The colonel gives them permission to speak, listens to them, nods, as they all talk at once. He finally explains to them that this prisoner is not just another jagunco jagunco but someone whose knowledge will be precious to the regiment once they are in Canudos. but someone whose knowledge will be precious to the regiment once they are in Canudos.

"You'll get your revenge," he tells them. "And very soon now. Save your rage for later: don't waste it."

That noon, however, the soldiers have the revenge they are so eager for. The regiment is marching past a rocky promontory, on which there can be seen-a frequent sight-the head and carca.s.s of a cow that black vultures have stripped of everything edible. A sudden intuition causes one of the soldiers to remark that the dead animal is a blind for a lookout post. He has barely gotten the words out when several men break ranks, run over, and, shrieking with excitement, watch as a jagunco jagunco who is a little more than skin and bones crawls out from his hiding place underneath the cow. The soldiers fall on him, sink their knives, their bayonets into him. They decapitate him and carry the head back to Moreira Cesar to show it to him. They tell him that they are going to load it into a cannon and send it flying into Canudos so the rebels will see the fate that awaits them. The colonel remarks to the nearsighted journalist that the troops are in fine fettle for combat. who is a little more than skin and bones crawls out from his hiding place underneath the cow. The soldiers fall on him, sink their knives, their bayonets into him. They decapitate him and carry the head back to Moreira Cesar to show it to him. They tell him that they are going to load it into a cannon and send it flying into Canudos so the rebels will see the fate that awaits them. The colonel remarks to the nearsighted journalist that the troops are in fine fettle for combat.

Although he had ridden all night, Galileo Gall did not feel sleepy. The mounts were old and skinny, but showed no signs of tiring till after daylight. Communication with Ulpino, the guide, a man with a roughhewn face and copper-colored skin who chewed tobacco, was not easy. They barely said a word to each other till midday, when they halted to eat. How long would it take them to get to Canudos? Spitting out the wad he was chewing on, the guide gave him a roundabout answer. If the horses held up, two or three days. But that was in normal times, not in times like this...They would not be heading for Canudos in a straight line, they'd be backtracking every so often so as to keep out of the way of both the jaguncos jaguncos and the soldiers, since either would make off with their horses. Gall suddenly felt very tired, and fell asleep almost immediately. and the soldiers, since either would make off with their horses. Gall suddenly felt very tired, and fell asleep almost immediately.

A few hours later, they rode off again. Shortly thereafter, they were able to cool off a bit in a tiny rivulet of brackish water. As they rode on amid stony hillsides and level stretches of ground bristling with p.r.i.c.kly pears and thistles, Gall was beside himself with impatience. He remembered that dawn in Queimadas when he might well have died and the stirrings of s.e.x had flooded back into his life. Everything was lost now in the depths of his memory. He discovered to his astonishment that he had no idea what the date was: neither the day nor the month. Only the year: it was probably still 1897. It was as though in this region that he kept continually journeying through, bouncing back and forth, time had been abolished, or was a different time, with its own rhythm. He tried to remember how the sense of chronology had revealed itself in the heads that he had palpated here. Was there such a thing as a specific organ that revealed man's relations.h.i.+p to time? Yes, of course there was. But was it a tiny bone, an imperceptible depression, a temperature? He could not remember its exact location, though he could recall the capacities or incapacities that it revealed: punctuality or the lack of it, foresight or continual improvisation, the ability to organize one's life methodically or existences undermined by disorder, overwhelmed by confusion... "Like mine," he thought. Yes, he was a typical case of a personality whose fate was chronic tumult, a life falling into chaos on every hand...He had had proof of that at Calumbi, when he had tried feverishly to sum up what it was he believed in and the essential facts of his life story. He had had the demoralizing feeling that it was impossible to order, to hierarchize that whole dizzying round of travels, surroundings, people, convictions, dangers, high points, and low ones. And it was more than likely that those papers that he had left in the hands of the Baron de Canabrava did not make sufficiently clear what was surely an enduring factor in his life, that loyalty that had been unfailing, something that could provide a semblance of order amid all the disorder: his revolutionary pa.s.sion, his great hatred of the misery and injustice that so many people suffered from, his will to help somehow to change all that. "Nothing of what you believe in is certain, nor do your ideals have anything to do with what is happening in Canudos." The baron's phrase rang in his ears once more, and irritated him. How could an aristocratic landowner who lived as if the French Revolution had never taken place understand the ideals he lived by? Someone for whom "idealism" was a bad word? How could a person from whom jaguncos jaguncos had seized one estate and were about to burn down another have any understanding of Canudos? At this moment, doubtless, Calumbi was going up in flames. He, Galileo Gall, could understand that conflagration, he knew very well that it was not a product of fanaticism or madness. The had seized one estate and were about to burn down another have any understanding of Canudos? At this moment, doubtless, Calumbi was going up in flames. He, Galileo Gall, could understand that conflagration, he knew very well that it was not a product of fanaticism or madness. The jaguncos jaguncos were destroying the symbol of oppression. Dimly but intuitively, they had rightly concluded that centuries of the rule of private property eventually came to have such a hold on the minds of the exploited that that system would seem to them of divine origin and the landowners superior beings, demiG.o.ds. Wasn't fire the best way of proving that such myths were false, of dispelling the victims' fears, of making the starving ma.s.ses see that it was possible to destroy the power of the landowners, that the poor possessed the strength necessary to put an end to it? Despite the dregs of religion they clung to, the Counselor and his men knew where the blows must be aimed. At the very foundations of oppression: property, the army, the obscurantist moral code. Had he made a mistake by writing those autobiographical pages that he had left in the baron's hands? No, they would not harm the cause. But wasn't it absurd to entrust something so personal to an enemy? Because the baron was his enemy. Nonetheless, he felt no enmity toward him. Perhaps because, thanks to him, he now felt he understood everything he heard and other people understood everything he said: that was something that hadn't happened to him since he'd left Salvador. Why had he written those pages? Why did he know that he was going to die? Had he written them in an excess of bourgeois weakness because he didn't want to end his days without leaving a single trace of himself in the world? All of a sudden the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had left Jurema pregnant. He felt a sort of panic. The idea of his having a child had always caused him a visceral repulsion, and perhaps that had influenced his decision in Rome to abstain from s.e.xual relations. He had always told himself that his horror of fathering a child was a consequence of his revolutionary convictions. How can a man be available at all times for action if he has an offspring that must be fed, clothed, cared for? In that respect, too, he had been single-minded: neither a wife nor children nor anything that might restrict his freedom and sap his spirit of rebellion. were destroying the symbol of oppression. Dimly but intuitively, they had rightly concluded that centuries of the rule of private property eventually came to have such a hold on the minds of the exploited that that system would seem to them of divine origin and the landowners superior beings, demiG.o.ds. Wasn't fire the best way of proving that such myths were false, of dispelling the victims' fears, of making the starving ma.s.ses see that it was possible to destroy the power of the landowners, that the poor possessed the strength necessary to put an end to it? Despite the dregs of religion they clung to, the Counselor and his men knew where the blows must be aimed. At the very foundations of oppression: property, the army, the obscurantist moral code. Had he made a mistake by writing those autobiographical pages that he had left in the baron's hands? No, they would not harm the cause. But wasn't it absurd to entrust something so personal to an enemy? Because the baron was his enemy. Nonetheless, he felt no enmity toward him. Perhaps because, thanks to him, he now felt he understood everything he heard and other people understood everything he said: that was something that hadn't happened to him since he'd left Salvador. Why had he written those pages? Why did he know that he was going to die? Had he written them in an excess of bourgeois weakness because he didn't want to end his days without leaving a single trace of himself in the world? All of a sudden the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had left Jurema pregnant. He felt a sort of panic. The idea of his having a child had always caused him a visceral repulsion, and perhaps that had influenced his decision in Rome to abstain from s.e.xual relations. He had always told himself that his horror of fathering a child was a consequence of his revolutionary convictions. How can a man be available at all times for action if he has an offspring that must be fed, clothed, cared for? In that respect, too, he had been single-minded: neither a wife nor children nor anything that might restrict his freedom and sap his spirit of rebellion.

The stars were already out when they dismounted in a little thicket of velame velame and and macambira macambira. They ate without saying a word and Galileo fell asleep before he'd drunk his coffee. His sleep was very troubled, full of images of death. When Ulpino awakened him, it was still pitch-dark and they heard a mournful wail that might have been a fox. The guide had warmed up the coffee and saddled the horses. He tried to start up a conversation with Ulpino. How long had he worked for the baron? What did he think of the jaguncos jaguncos? The guide's answers were so evasive that he gave up trying. Was it his foreign accent that immediately aroused these people's mistrust? Or was it an even more profound lack of communication, between his entire way of feeling and thinking and theirs?

At that moment Ulpino said something he didn't understand. He asked him to repeat it, and this time each word was clear: Why was he going to Canudos? "Because there are things going on up there I've fought for all my life," he told him. "They're creating a world without oppressors or oppressed up there, a world where everybody is free and equal." He explained, in the simplest terms he could, why Canudos was important for the world, how certain things that the jaguncos jaguncos were doing coincided with an old ideal for which many men had given their lives. Ulpino did not interrupt him or look at him as he spoke, and Gall could not help feeling that what he said slid off the guide as wind blows over rocks, without leaving the slightest trace. When he fell silent, Ulpino tilted his head a little to one side, and in what struck Gall as a very odd tone of voice murmured that he thought that Gall was going to Canudos to save his wife's life. And as Gall stared at him in surprise, he went doggedly on: Hadn't Rufino said he was going to kill her? Didn't he care if Rufino killed her? Wasn't she his wife? Why else would he have stolen her from Rufino? "I don't have a wife. I haven't stolen anybody," Gall replied vehemently. Rufino had been talking about someone else; Ulpino was the victim of a misunderstanding. The guide withdrew into his stubborn silence once more. were doing coincided with an old ideal for which many men had given their lives. Ulpino did not interrupt him or look at him as he spoke, and Gall could not help feeling that what he said slid off the guide as wind blows over rocks, without leaving the slightest trace. When he fell silent, Ulpino tilted his head a little to one side, and in what struck Gall as a very odd tone of voice murmured that he thought that Gall was going to Canudos to save his wife's life. And as Gall stared at him in surprise, he went doggedly on: Hadn't Rufino said he was going to kill her? Didn't he care if Rufino killed her? Wasn't she his wife? Why else would he have stolen her from Rufino? "I don't have a wife. I haven't stolen anybody," Gall replied vehemently. Rufino had been talking about someone else; Ulpino was the victim of a misunderstanding. The guide withdrew into his stubborn silence once more.

They did not speak again till hours later, when they met a group of pilgrims, with carts and water jugs, who offered them a drink. When they had left them behind, Gall felt dejected. It was because of Ulpino's totally unexpected questions, and his reproachful tone of voice. So as not to let his mind dwell on Jurema and Rufino, he thought about death. He wasn't afraid of it; that was why he had defied it so many times. If the soldiers captured him before he reached Canudos, he would put up such a fight that they would be forced to kill him; in that way he would not have to endure the humiliation of being tortured and of perhaps turning out to be a coward.

He noted that Ulpino seemed uneasy. They had been riding through a dense stretch of caatinga caatinga, amid breaths of searing-hot air, for half an hour, when suddenly the guide began to peer intently at the foliage around them. "We're surrounded," he whispered. "We'd best wait till they come out." They climbed down from their horses. Gall tried in vain to see any sign that would indicate that there were human beings close by. But, a few moments later, men armed with shotguns, crossbows, machetes, and knives stepped out from among the trees. A huge black, well along in years, naked to the waist, greeted them in words that Gall could not follow and asked where they were coming from. From Calumbi, Ulpino answered, on their way to Canudos. He then indicated the roundabout route they'd taken, so as, he said, to avoid meeting up with the soldiers. The exchange was tense, but it did not strike Gall as unfriendly. He then saw the black grab the reins of Ulpino's horse and mount it, as one of the others mounted his. He took a step toward the black, and immediately all those who had shotguns aimed them at him. He gestured to show his peaceful intentions and asked them to listen to him. He explained that he had to get to Canudos immediately, to talk with the Counselor, to tell him something important, that he was going to help them fight the soldiers...but he fell silent, disconcerted by the men's distant, set, scornful faces. The black waited a moment, but on seeing that Gall was not going to go on, he said something that the latter didn't understand this time either, whereupon they all left, as silently as they had appeared.

"What did he say?" Gall murmured.

"That the Father, the Blessed Jesus, and the Divine are defending Belo Monte," Ulpino answered. "They don't need any more help."

And he added that they were not very far away now, so there was no need for him to worry about having lost the horses. They immediately set out again. And in fact they made their way through the tangled scrub as fast on foot as they would have on horseback. But the loss of the horses had also meant the loss of the saddlebags with their provisions, and from that moment on they ate dry fruits, shoots, and roots to appease their hunger. As Gall had noted that, since leaving Calumbi, remembering the incidents of the most recent period of his life opened the doors of his mind to pessimism, he tried-it was an old remedy-to lose himself in abstract, impersonal reflections. "Science against an uneasy conscience." Didn't Canudos represent an interesting exception to the historical law according to which religion had always served to lull the ma.s.ses and keep them from rebelling against their masters? The Counselor had used religious superst.i.tion to incite the peasants to rise up against bourgeois order and conservative morality and to stir them up against those who traditionally had taken advantage of religious beliefs to keep them enslaved and exploited. In the very best of cases, as David Hume had written, religion was a dream of sick men; that was doubtless true, yet in certain cases, such as that of Canudos, it could serve to rouse the victims of society from their pa.s.sivity and incite them to revolutionary action, in the course of which rational, scientific truths would gradually take the place of irrational myths and fetishes. Would he have a chance to send a letter on the subject to L'Etincelle de la revolte L'Etincelle de la revolte? He tried once again to start up a conversation with the guide. What did Ulpino think of Canudos? The latter chewed for a good while without answering. Finally, with serene fatalism, as though it were of no concern to him, he said: "All of them are going to get their throats slit." Gall decided that they had nothing more to say to each other.