The War Of The End Of The World Part 17

"They're going to kill us, Jurema," the Dwarf whimpered.

Yes, she thought, they're going to kill us. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed the Dwarf, and shouted: "Run, run!" She dashed up the slope, toward the densest part of the caatinga caatinga. She was soon exhausted but found the strength to go on by remembering the soldier who had flung himself upon her that morning. When she could not run another step, she slowed down to a walk. She thought with pity how worn out the Dwarf must be, with his short little legs, though she had not heard him complain even once and he had kept up with her all the way, holding tightly to her hand. By the time they halted, darkness was falling. They found themselves on the other side of the mountain. The terrain was flat in places here and the vegetation a denser tangle. The din of the war was far in the distance now. She collapsed on the ground and automatically groped about for gra.s.ses, raised them to her mouth, and slowly chewed them till she tasted their acid juice on her palate. She spat the wad out, gathered another handful, and gradually a.s.suaged her thirst somewhat. The Dwarf, a motionless lump, did likewise. "We've run for hours," he said to her, but she did not hear him and doubtless thought that he, too, did not have enough strength left to talk. He touched her arm and squeezed her hand in grat.i.tude. They sat there, catching their breath, chewing and spitting out fibers, till the stars came out between the spa.r.s.e branches of the scrub. Seeing them, Jurema remembered Rufino, Gall. All through the day the urubus urubus, the ants, and the lizards had no doubt been devouring their remains and by now they must be beginning to rot. She would never again see their two dead bodies, perhaps lying only a few yards away, locked in each other's arms. At that moment she heard voices, very close by, and reached out and found the Dwarf's little trembling hand. One of the two silhouettes had just stumbled over him, and the Dwarf was screaming as though he'd been stabbed.

"Don't shoot, don't kill us," a voice from very close by screamed. "I'm Father Joaquim, the parish priest of c.u.mbe, we're peaceable people!"

"We're a woman and a dwarf, Father," Jurema said, not moving. "We're peaceable people, too."

This time, she had the strength to speak the words aloud.

On hearing the roar of the first cannon sh.e.l.l that night, Antonio Vilanova's reaction, after an instant of stunned surprise, was to protect the saint with his body. Abbot Joao and Big Joao, the Little Blessed One and Joaquim Macambira and his brother Honorio all had the same reaction, so that he found himself standing arm in arm with them, surrounding the Counselor, and calculating the trajectory of the sh.e.l.l, which must have fallen somewhere in Sao Cipriano, the little street where the healers, sorcerers, pract.i.tioners of smoke cures, and herb doctors of Belo Monte lived. Which of the shacks of old women who could ward off the evil eye with potions of jurema jurema and and manaca manaca, or of bonesetters who put things back in their place by yanking and pulling on people's bodies, had been sent flying through the air? The Counselor brought them out of their paralysis: "Let us go to the Temple." As they headed up Campo Grande, arms linked, in the direction of the churches, Abbot Joao began to call out to people to darken their houses, for oil lamps and open fires helped the enemy locate their targets. His orders were repeated, pa.s.sed along from house to house, and obeyed: as they left behind them Espirito Santo, Santo Agostinho, Santo Cristo, Os Papas, and Maria Madalena, narrow little streets meandering off from the edges of Campo Grande, the little shacks were gradually swallowed up in darkness. As they came opposite the slope that had been named the Hill of Martyrs, Antonio Vilanova heard Big Joao say to the Street Commander: "Go lead the battle. We'll get him to the Temple safe and sound." But the former cangaceiro cangaceiro was still with them when the second sh.e.l.l exploded, causing them to let go of each other's arms and see, in the great flash that lighted up all of Canudos, planks and debris, roof tiles, remains of animals or people suspended for an instant in the air. The sh.e.l.ls seemed to have landed in Santa Ines, where the peasants who looked after the fruit orchards lived, or in the section of town next to it where so many was still with them when the second sh.e.l.l exploded, causing them to let go of each other's arms and see, in the great flash that lighted up all of Canudos, planks and debris, roof tiles, remains of animals or people suspended for an instant in the air. The sh.e.l.ls seemed to have landed in Santa Ines, where the peasants who looked after the fruit orchards lived, or in the section of town next to it where so many cafuzos cafuzos, mulattoes, and blacks had settled that it was called O Mocambo-the Slave Refuge.

The Counselor separated from the group at the door of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and went inside, followed by a mult.i.tude. In the pitch-dark outside, Antonio Vilanova sensed that the esplanade was crowded with people who had followed the procession, for whom there was no room left in the churches. "Am I afraid?" he thought, surprised at his weakness. No, it was not fear he felt. In his years as a merchant, traveling all through the hinterland transporting goods and carrying money on him, he had run a great many risks and not been afraid. And here in Canudos, as the Counselor reminded him, he had learned to count, to find a meaning in things, an ultimate reason for everything he did, and that had freed him from a fear which, before, on certain sleepless nights, had made icy sweat run down his back. It was not fear but sadness.

A hand shook him roughly. "Can't you hear, Antonio Vilanova?" Abbot Joao's voice said. "Can't you see that they're here? Haven't we been getting ready to greet them? What are you waiting for?"

"Excuse me," he murmured, rubbing his hand over his half-bald head. "I'm in a daze. Yes, yes, I'm going."

"These people have to be moved out of here," the ex-cangaceiro said, shaking him. "Otherwise, they'll be blown to bits." said, shaking him. "Otherwise, they'll be blown to bits."

"I'm going, I'm going, don't worry, everything will go as we planned," Antonio replied. "I won't fall down on the job."

He shouted for his brother as he stumbled through the crowd, and in a moment or two heard him call out: "I'm over here, compadre compadre." But as he and Honorio went into action, exhorting people to go to the shelters they had dug inside their houses and calling to the water carriers to come get stretchers, and then headed back down the Campo Grande toward the store, Antonio was still fighting against a sadness that rent his soul. There were already several water carriers at the store waiting for him. He distributed the stretchers that had been made, of cactus fiber and strips of bark, and sent some of them in the direction that the explosions had come from and ordered others to wait. His wife and sister-in-law had left for the Health Houses and Honorio's children were in the trench in As Umburanas. He opened the storehouse that had once been a stable and was now the a.r.s.enal of Canudos, and his helpers took the boxes of explosives and projectiles to the back room of the store. He instructed them to hand ammunition over only to Abbot Joao or men sent by him. He left Honorio in charge of the distribution of gunpowder and with three helpers ran through the meanders of Santo Eloi and Sao Pedro to the Menino Jesus forge, where the smiths, following his instructions, had for the past week stopped making horseshoes, hoes, sickles, knives, and worked day and night turning nails, tin cans, hooks, iron tools, and every sort of metal object that could be found into bullets for blunderbusses and muskets. He found the smiths in a state of confusion, not knowing whether the order to put out all lamps and fires also applied to them. He had them relight the smithy furnace and go back to work, after helping them stop up the cracks in the walls on the side facing the hills. When he returned to the store, with a case of ammunition that smelled of sulfur, two sh.e.l.ls crossed the sky and landed in the distance, out toward the animal pens. The thought crossed his mind that a number of kids no doubt had their bellies and legs blown off, and perhaps a few shepherds too, and that many she-goats had probably run off in panic and were doubtless breaking their legs and getting badly scratched in the brambles and cacti. At that moment he realized why he was sad. "Everything is going to be destroyed yet again, everything is going to be lost," he thought. He felt a taste of ashes in his mouth. He thought: "Like the time of the plague in a.s.sare, like the time of the drought in Juazeiro, like the time of the flood in Caatinga do Moura." But those who were sh.e.l.ling Belo Monte that night were worse than hostile elements, more deadly than plagues and natural catastrophes. "Thank you for having made me feel so certain of the existence of the Dog," he prayed. "Thank you, for thus I know that you exist, Father." He heard the bells, ringing very loudly, and their pealing did his heart good.

He found Abbot Joao and some twenty men carrying away the ammunition and the gunpowder: they were faceless creatures, shapes moving silently about as the rain poured down once more, making the roof shake. "Are you taking everything?" he asked him in surprise, for Abbot Joao himself had been adamant that the store should be the distribution center for arms and provisions. The Street Commander led him to the esplanade, by now a quagmire. "They're deploying from here to there," he said, pointing to A Favela and O Cambaio. "They're going to attack from those two sides. If Joaquim Macambira's men don't hold out, this sector will be the first to fall. It's better to distribute the ammunition now." Antonio nodded. "Where are you going to be?" he asked. "All over," the ex-cangaceiro answered. answered.

The men were waiting with the boxes and the sacks in their arms.

"Good luck, Joao," Antonio said. "I'm going to the Health Houses. Any message for Catarina?"

The ex-cangaceiro hesitated. Then he said slowly: "If I die, I'd like her to know that even though she's forgiven what happened in Custodia, I haven't." He disappeared in the damp night, in which another sh.e.l.l had just exploded. hesitated. Then he said slowly: "If I die, I'd like her to know that even though she's forgiven what happened in Custodia, I haven't." He disappeared in the damp night, in which another sh.e.l.l had just exploded.

"Did you understand Joao's message to Catarina, compadre compadre?" Honorio asked him.

"It's a story that goes back a long way, compadre compadre," he answered.

By the light of a candle, in silence, listening to the dialogue between the church bells and the bugles and from time to time the roar of the cannon, they went on getting provisions, bandages, medicines ready. A little while later a little boy sent by Antonia Sardelinha came to tell them that many injured had been brought to the Santa Ana Health House. He picked up one of the boxes containing iodoform, substrate of bis.m.u.th, and calomel that Father Joaquim had procured for him and set out for the Health House with it, after telling his brother to rest for a while since the worst would come at dawn.

The Health House on the Santa Ana slope was a madhouse. There was weeping and wailing on every hand, and Antonia Sardelinha, Catarina, and the other women who went there regularly to cook for the aged, the disabled, and the sick could scarcely move amid the crowd of relatives and friends of the injured who kept tugging at them and demanding that they attend to this victim or that. The injured were lying on the floor, one atop the other, and at times being stepped on. With the help of the water carriers, Antonio forced the intruders to leave, then had the men stand guard at the door while he went off to help treat the injured and bandage them. The sh.e.l.ls had blown off fingers and hands, left gaping wounds in bodies, and one woman had had her leg ripped off. How can she still be alive, Antonio wondered as he gave her spirits to inhale. She must be suffering so terribly that one could only hope death would come take her as quickly as possible. The apothecary arrived as the woman was breathing her last in his arms. He had come, he said, from the other Health House, where there were as many victims as in this one, and immediately ordered that all the dead bodies, which he recognized at a single glance, be taken out to the henhouse. He was the one person in Canudos who had any sort of medical training and his presence calmed everyone. Antonio Vilanova found Catarina sponging the forehead of a boy wearing the armband of the Catholic Guard; a sh.e.l.l splinter had put out one of his eyes and slashed his cheek to the bone. He was clinging to her like a baby as she hummed softly to him.

"Joao gave me a message," Antonio said to her. And he pa.s.sed the cangaceiro cangaceiro's words on to her. Catarina merely gave a little nod. This thin, sad, silent woman was a mystery to him. She was an obliging, devoted disciple, yet at the same time seemed withdrawn from everything and everybody. She and Abbot Joao lived on the Rua do Menino Jesus, in a little hut squeezed in between two wood houses, and they preferred to be by themselves. Antonio had seen them, many a time, walking together down by the little cultivated plots behind O Mocambo, deep in a conversation that never seemed to end. "Are you going to see Joao?" she asked him. "Maybe. What would you like me to tell him?"

"That if he suffers eternal d.a.m.nation, I want to, too."

Antonio spent the rest of the night setting up infirmaries in two dwellings on the road to Jeremoabo, after having moved their inhabitants to neighbors' houses. As he and his aides cleared each place out and had wooden stands, cots, blankets, buckets of water, medicines, bandages brought, he was overcome with sadness once again. It had been such hard work to make this land productive again, to lay out and dig irrigation ditches, to break and fertilize this stony ground so that maize and beans, broad beans and sugarcane, melons and watermelons would grow in it, and it had been such hard work bringing goats and kids, raising them, breeding them. It had taken so much work, so much faith, so much dedication on the part of so many people to make these fields and pens what they were. And now the cannon fire was destroying them and soldiers were about to enter Canudos to destroy people who had gathered together there to live in the love of G.o.d and help each other since no one else had ever helped them. He forced himself to banish from his mind these thoughts that provoked in him that wrath against which the Counselor had so often preached. An aide came to tell him that the dogs were coming down the hillside.

It was dawn; there was a blare of bugles; the slopes swarmed with red-and-blue forms. Taking his revolver from its holster, Antonio Vilanova headed on the run to the store on Campo Grande. Just as he arrived he saw, fifty yards farther on, that ranks of soldiers had already crossed the river and were overrunning old Joaquim Macambira's trench, firing in all directions.

Honorio and half a dozen aides had barricaded themselves inside the store, behind barrels, counters, cots, crates, and sacks of dirt, over which Antonio and his men clambered on all fours, with those inside pulling them in. Panting, he found himself a place that gave him a clear aim outside. The gunfire was so heavy that he could not hear his brother, even though they were elbow to elbow. He peered through the barricade of various objects: clouds of dust coming from the direction of the river were advancing along Campo Grande and the slopes of Sao Jose and Santa Ana. He saw smoke, flames. They were setting the houses on fire, trying to fry all of them to a crisp. The thought crossed his mind that his wife and sister-in-law were down there, in Santa Ana, being asphyxiated and burned to death along with the wounded in the Health House, and once again he was overcome with rage. Several soldiers emerged from the clouds of smoke and dirt, looking wildly to right and left. The bayonets of their long rifles gleamed; they were dressed in blue tunics and red trousers. One of them tossed a torch over the barricade. "Put it out," Antonio roared to the lad at his side as he aimed his revolver at the chest of the closest soldier. He fired away, almost blindly because of the dense cloud of dust, his eardrums nearly bursting, till there were no bullets left in his revolver. As he reloaded it, with his back against a barrel, he saw that Pedrim, the boy he had ordered to smother the torch, was lying on top of the end of wood smeared with tar, with blood on his back. But he was unable to go to him, for the barricade gave way on his left and two soldiers squeezed through the breach, getting in each other's way. "Watch out, watch out!" he shouted to the others, firing at the soldiers till once again he heard the click of the hammer on the empty chamber of his revolver. The two soldiers had fallen to the floor and by the time he reached them, knife in hand, three aides were finis.h.i.+ng them off with theirs, each thrust accompanied by an insult. He looked around and was overjoyed to see Honorio unharmed and smiling. "Everything all right, compadre? compadre?" he asked him, and his brother nodded. He went to have a look at Pedrim. He was not dead, but in addition to the wound in his back he had burned his hands. He carried him to the next room and laid him down on some blankets. His face was wet with tears. He was an orphan whom he and Antonia had taken in shortly after settling in Canudos. Hearing the fusillade begin again outside, he covered him and left his side, telling him: "I'll be back to take care of you, Pedrim."

At the barricade, his brother was shooting with a rifle that had belonged to one of the soldiers, and the aides had plugged up the breach. Antonio reloaded his revolver and installed himself next to Honorio, who said to him: "About twenty of them just went by." The deafening fusillade seemed to be coming from all sides. He looked to see what was happening on the Santa Ana slope and heard Honorio's voice saying: "Do you think Antonia and a.s.suncao are still alive, compadre? compadre?" At that moment he spied, lying in the mud in front of the barricade, a soldier with a rifle lightly cradled in one arm and a saber in his other hand. "We need those weapons," he said. They made an opening in the barricade for him and he dashed into the street. As he leaned over to pick up the rifle, the soldier tried to raise his saber. Without a moment's hesitation, he sank his knife into the man's belly and flung himself on top of him with all his weight. The soldier's body beneath his gave a sort of belch, grunted something, went limp, and stopped moving. As he pulled his knife out of him and grabbed the man's saber, rifle, and knapsack, he examined the ashen face with a yellowish tinge, the sort of face that he had often seen among the peasants and cowhands, and for the s.p.a.ce of an instant he felt bitter regret. Honorio and the aides were outside on the street, stripping another soldier of his weapons. And at that moment he recognized Abbot Joao's voice. The Street Commander had arrived as though driven by the wind, followed by two men. All three were covered with bloodstains.

"How many of you are there?" he asked, gesturing to them at the same time to hug the facade of the building.

"Nine," Antonio answered. "And Pedrim's inside, wounded."

"Come on," Abbot Joao said, turning around. "Be careful, there are soldiers inside lots of the houses."

But the cangaceiro cangaceiro himself was not at all cautious, for, holding himself erect, he strode rapidly down the middle of the street, as he went on to explain that they were attacking the churches and the cemetery from the direction of the river and that the soldiers must be prevented from approaching from this way as well, since that would leave the Counselor isolated. He wanted to close Campo Grande off with a barrier at Martires, almost at the corner of the Chapel of Santo Antonio. himself was not at all cautious, for, holding himself erect, he strode rapidly down the middle of the street, as he went on to explain that they were attacking the churches and the cemetery from the direction of the river and that the soldiers must be prevented from approaching from this way as well, since that would leave the Counselor isolated. He wanted to close Campo Grande off with a barrier at Martires, almost at the corner of the Chapel of Santo Antonio.

Some three hundred yards separated them from there, and Antonio was surprised to see how much damage had been done: houses demolished, torn from their foundations, riddled with holes, rubble, heaps of debris, broken roof tiles, charred planks with scattered corpses lying in the middle of them, and clouds of smoke and dust that blurred, effaced, dissolved everything. Here and there, like markers of the soldiers' advance, were tongues of fire from burning buildings. Striding up to Martires at Abbot Joao's side, he repeated Catarina's message to him. The cangaceiro cangaceiro nodded without turning his head. Suddenly they came upon a patrol of soldiers at the entrance to the Rua Maria Madalena, and Antonio saw Joao take a running jump and send his knife flying through the air, as in marksmans.h.i.+p contests. He, too, broke into a run, shooting. The bullets whined all around him and a moment later he stumbled and fell to the ground. But he was able to get to his feet and dodge the bayonet that he saw coming at him and drag the soldier down into the mud with him. He traded blows with the man, not knowing whether he had his knife in his hand or not. All of a sudden he felt the soldier double over and go limp. Abbot Joao helped Antonio to his feet. nodded without turning his head. Suddenly they came upon a patrol of soldiers at the entrance to the Rua Maria Madalena, and Antonio saw Joao take a running jump and send his knife flying through the air, as in marksmans.h.i.+p contests. He, too, broke into a run, shooting. The bullets whined all around him and a moment later he stumbled and fell to the ground. But he was able to get to his feet and dodge the bayonet that he saw coming at him and drag the soldier down into the mud with him. He traded blows with the man, not knowing whether he had his knife in his hand or not. All of a sudden he felt the soldier double over and go limp. Abbot Joao helped Antonio to his feet.

"Gather up the dogs' weapons," he ordered at the same time. "The bayonets, the bullets, the knapsacks."

Honorio and two aides were bending over Anastacio, another aide, trying to lift him.

Abbot Joao stopped them. "Don't bother. He's dead. Drag the bodies along with you. We can use them to block the street."

And setting the example, he grabbed the nearest corpse by one foot and started walking in the direction of Martires. At the entrance to the street were many jaguncos jaguncos, already busy erecting the barricade with everything they could find at hand. Antonio Vilanova set to work along with them. They could hear shots, bursts of gunfire, and a few moments later a youngster from the Catholic Guard appeared to tell Abbot Joao, who was helping Antonio bring up the wheels of a cart, that the heretics were again advancing on the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. "Everybody back there," Abbot Joao shouted, and the jaguncos jaguncos followed along behind him on the run. They entered the square just as several soldiers, led by a fair-haired young man brandis.h.i.+ng a saber and discharging a revolver, came out onto it from the cemetery. A heavy fusillade from the chapel and the towers and rooftop of the Temple under construction kept the soldiers from advancing. "Follow them, follow them," Antonio heard Abbot Joao roar. Dozens of men poured out of the churches to join in the pursuit. He saw Big Joao, immense, barefoot, catch up with the Street Commander and talk to him as he ran. The soldiers had entrenched themselves behind the cemetery, and on entering Sao Cipriano the followed along behind him on the run. They entered the square just as several soldiers, led by a fair-haired young man brandis.h.i.+ng a saber and discharging a revolver, came out onto it from the cemetery. A heavy fusillade from the chapel and the towers and rooftop of the Temple under construction kept the soldiers from advancing. "Follow them, follow them," Antonio heard Abbot Joao roar. Dozens of men poured out of the churches to join in the pursuit. He saw Big Joao, immense, barefoot, catch up with the Street Commander and talk to him as he ran. The soldiers had entrenched themselves behind the cemetery, and on entering Sao Cipriano the jaguncos jaguncos were met with a hail of bullets. "He's going to get killed," Antonio, who had flung himself headlong onto the ground, thought as he saw Abbot Joao standing in the middle of the street gesturing to those following him to take cover in the houses or hit the dirt. were met with a hail of bullets. "He's going to get killed," Antonio, who had flung himself headlong onto the ground, thought as he saw Abbot Joao standing in the middle of the street gesturing to those following him to take cover in the houses or hit the dirt.

Then he walked over to Antonio, squatted down alongside him, and said in his ear: "Go back to the barricade and secure it. We have to dislodge those troops from here and push them back to where Pajeu is going to pounce on them. Go back and see that they don't sneak in from the other side."

Antonio nodded and a moment later ran back, followed by Honorio, the aides, and ten other men, to the intersection of Martires and Campo Grande. He seemed to be coming to at last, to be coming out of his stupor. "You know how to organize things," he said to himself. "And that's what's needed now, precisely that." He ordered the men to take the dead bodies and the rubble on the square back to the barricade and helped them till, amid all the hurrying back and forth, he heard shouts inside one of the buildings. He was the first one in, kicking a hole in the wall and shooting at the soldier squatting on his heels. To his stupefaction, he realized that the soldier he had killed had been eating: in his hand was a piece of jerked beef that he had doubtless just grabbed off the stove. The owner of the house, an old man, lay dying alongside him, a bayonet thrust into his belly, and three little children were screaming in terror. "How hungry he must have been," he thought, "to have forgotten everything and gotten himself killed for a mouthful of jerked beef." He and five men searched all the houses between the end of the street and the square. All of them looked like a battlefield: disorder, roofs with gaping holes, walls ripped apart, objects smashed to bits. Women, oldsters, children armed with shovels and pitchforks greeted them with looks of relief on their faces, or began to chatter frantically. In one house he found two buckets of water, and after he and the men had had a drink, he toted them back to the barricade. He could see how joyfully Honorio and the others drank the water down.

Climbing up onto the barricade, he peeked out between various objects and dead bodies. The only straight street in all of Canudos, Campo Grande, was deserted. To his right there was heavy gunfire amid the burning buildings. "Things are rough in O Mocambo, compadre compadre," Honorio said. His face was crimson and dripping with sweat. Antonio smiled at him. "The dogs aren't going to be able to get us out of here, right?" he said. "Of course they're not, compadre compadre," Honorio replied. Antonio sat down on a cart and as he was reloading his revolver-there were almost no bullets left in the cartridge belts wound around his middle-he noticed that most of the jaguncos jaguncos were now armed with rifles taken from soldiers. They were winning the war. were now armed with rifles taken from soldiers. They were winning the war.

He suddenly remembered the Sardelinha sisters, down below, on the lower slope of Santa Ana. "Stay here, and tell Joao that I've gone to the Health House to see how things are going there," he said to his brother.

He climbed to the top of the barricade, stepping on corpses swarming with flies, and leapt down on the other side. Four jaguncos jaguncos followed him. "Who ordered you to come with me?" he shouted at them. "Abbot Joao," one of them answered. He didn't have time to argue, for at Sao Pedro they found themselves caught in a fusillade: there was fighting in the doorways, on the rooftops, and inside the houses along the street. They turned back to Campo Grande and were able to make their way down to Santa Ana from that direction, without encountering soldiers. But there was shooting in Santa Ana. They crouched down behind a house going up in smoke and the storekeeper took a look around. Up by the Health House there was another cloud of smoke; the shooting was coming from there. "I'm going to go closer. Wait here," he said, but as he crawled off, he saw that the four followed him. "Who ordered you to come with me?" he shouted at them. "Abbot Joao," one of them answered. He didn't have time to argue, for at Sao Pedro they found themselves caught in a fusillade: there was fighting in the doorways, on the rooftops, and inside the houses along the street. They turned back to Campo Grande and were able to make their way down to Santa Ana from that direction, without encountering soldiers. But there was shooting in Santa Ana. They crouched down behind a house going up in smoke and the storekeeper took a look around. Up by the Health House there was another cloud of smoke; the shooting was coming from there. "I'm going to go closer. Wait here," he said, but as he crawled off, he saw that the four jaguncos jaguncos were crawling along at his side. A few yards farther on he finally spied half a dozen soldiers, directing their fire not at them but at the houses. He stood up and ran toward them as fast as his legs could carry him, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, but he did not shoot until one of the soldiers turned. He fired all six bullets at him and threw his knife at another one who came at him. He fell to the ground and grabbed his attacker's legs, or those of another soldier, and somehow found himself strangling him, with all his strength. "You've killed two dogs, Antonio," one of the were crawling along at his side. A few yards farther on he finally spied half a dozen soldiers, directing their fire not at them but at the houses. He stood up and ran toward them as fast as his legs could carry him, his finger on the trigger of his revolver, but he did not shoot until one of the soldiers turned. He fired all six bullets at him and threw his knife at another one who came at him. He fell to the ground and grabbed his attacker's legs, or those of another soldier, and somehow found himself strangling him, with all his strength. "You've killed two dogs, Antonio," one of the jaguncos jaguncos said. "Their rifles, their bullets-take all of them" was his answer. The doors of the houses opened and people came pouring out, coughing, smiling, waving. Antonia, his wife, was there, and a.s.suncao, and behind them Catarina, Abbot Joao's wife. said. "Their rifles, their bullets-take all of them" was his answer. The doors of the houses opened and people came pouring out, coughing, smiling, waving. Antonia, his wife, was there, and a.s.suncao, and behind them Catarina, Abbot Joao's wife.

"Look at them," one of the jaguncos jaguncos said, giving him a shake. "Look at them jumping into the river." said, giving him a shake. "Look at them jumping into the river."

Above the jumble of rooftops on the slope of Santa Ana, to the right, to the left, were other uniformed figures, clambering frantically up the hillside; others were leaping into the river, a number of them having first thrown away their rifles. But what drew his attention even more was the gathering darkness. Night would soon be upon them. "We're going to take their arms away from them," he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Come on, boys, we can't leave the job half finished." Several of the jaguncos jaguncos ran toward the river with him, and one of them began to shout: "Down with the Republic and the Antichrist! Long live the Counselor and the Blessed Jesus!" ran toward the river with him, and one of them began to shout: "Down with the Republic and the Antichrist! Long live the Counselor and the Blessed Jesus!"

In that dreaming that is and is not, a dozing that blurs the borderline between waking and sleeping and that reminds him of certain opium nights in his disorderly little house in Salvador, the nearsighted correspondent from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias has the sensation that he has not slept but has spoken and listened, told those faceless presences that are sharing the has the sensation that he has not slept but has spoken and listened, told those faceless presences that are sharing the caatinga caatinga, hunger, and uncertainty with him that for him the worst part is not being lost, with no idea of what will happen when day breaks, but having lost his big leather pouch and the rolls of paper covered with his scribbling that he has wrapped up in his few clean clothes. He is certain that he has also told them things that he is ashamed of: that two days before, when his ink was all gone and his last goose-quill pen broken, he had a fit of weeping, as though a member of his family had died. And he is certain-certain in the uncertain, disjointed, cottony way in which everything happens, is said, or is received in the world of opium-that all night long he has chewed, without repulsion, the handfuls of gra.s.ses, leaves, little twigs, insects perhaps, the unidentifiable bits of matter, dry or moist, viscous or solid, that he and his companions have pa.s.sed from hand to hand. And he is certain that he has listened to as many intimate confessions as he believes that he himself has made. "Except for her, all of us are immensely afraid," he thinks. Father Joaquim, whom he has served as a pillow and who in turn has served as his, has acknowledged as much: that he discovered what real fear was only the day before, tied to that tree over there, waiting for a soldier to come slit his throat, hearing the shooting, watching the goings and comings, the arrival of the wounded, a fear infinitely greater than he had ever felt before, of anything or anybody, including the Devil and h.e.l.l. Did the cure say those things, moaning and every so often begging G.o.d's forgiveness for having said them? But the one who is more frightened still is the one she has said is a dwarf. Because, in a shrill little voice as deformed as his body must be, he has not stopped whimpering and rambling on about bearded women, gypsies, strong men, and a boneless man who could tie himself in knots. What can the Dwarf look like? Can she be his mother? What are the two of them doing here? How can she possibly not be afraid? What is she feeling that's worse than fear? For the nearsighted journalist has noted something even more destructive, disastrous, distressing in the woman's soft-spoken voice, in the sporadic murmur in which she has never once spoken of the one thing that has any meaning, the fear of dying, but only of the stubbornness of someone who is dead, left unburied, getting soaked, freezing, being devoured by all sorts of creatures. Can she be a madwoman, someone who is no longer afraid because she was once so afraid that she went mad?

He feels someone shaking him. He thinks: "My gla.s.ses." He sees a faint greenish light, moving shadows. And as he pats his body, feels all about him, he hears Father Joaquim: "Wake up, it's already light, let's try to find the road to c.u.mbe." He finally locates them, between his legs, unbroken. He cleans them, stands up, stammers "All right, all right," and as he puts his gla.s.ses on and the world comes into focus he sees the Dwarf: a real one, as small as a ten-year-old boy but with a face furrowed with wrinkles. He is holding the hand of a woman of indeterminate age, with her hair falling round her shoulders, so thin she seems nothing but skin and bones. Both of them are covered with mud, their clothes are in tatters, and the nearsighted journalist wonders whether he too, like the two of them and the robust little cure who has begun walking determinedly in the direction of the rising sun, gives the same impression of disarray, forlornness, vulnerability. "We're on the other side of A Favela," Father Joaquim says. "If we go this way we should come out onto the trail to Bendengo. G.o.d grant there won't be any soldiers..."

"But there will be," the nearsighted journalist thinks. "Or else jaguncos jaguncos. We're not anything. We're in neither the one camp nor the other. We're going to be killed." He walks along, surprised that he isn't tired, seeing in front of him the woman's scrawny silhouette and the Dwarf hopping along after her so as not to fall behind. They go on for a long time in that order, not exchanging a word. In the sunny dawn they hear birds singing, insects buzzing, and a confusion of many sounds, indistinct, dissimilar, growing louder and louder: isolated shots, bells, the wail of a bugle, an explosion perhaps, human voices perhaps. The little priest wanders neither right nor left; he appears to know where he is going. The caatinga caatinga begins to thin out, dwindling down to brambles and cacti, and eventually turns into steep, open country. They walk along parallel to a rocky ridge that blocks their view on their right. Half an hour later they reach the crest line of this rocky outcropping and at one and the same time the nearsighted journalist hears the cure's exclamation and sees the cause of it: soldiers, almost on top of them, and behind them, in front of them, on either side of them, begins to thin out, dwindling down to brambles and cacti, and eventually turns into steep, open country. They walk along parallel to a rocky ridge that blocks their view on their right. Half an hour later they reach the crest line of this rocky outcropping and at one and the same time the nearsighted journalist hears the cure's exclamation and sees the cause of it: soldiers, almost on top of them, and behind them, in front of them, on either side of them, jaguncos jaguncos. "Thousands," the nearsighted journalist murmurs. He feels like sitting down, closing his eyes, forgetting everything. "Jurema, look, look!" the Dwarf screeches. To make himself less visible against the horizon, the priest falls to his knees, and his companions also squat down. "We've ended up right in the middle of the battle," the Dwarf whispers. "It's not a battle," the nearsighted journalist thinks. "It's a rout." The spectacle unfolding on the hillside below makes him forget his fear. So they didn't heed Major Cunha Matos's advice; they didn't retreat last night and are doing so only now, as Colonel Tamarindo wished.

The ma.s.ses of soldiers swarming over a wide area down below, in no order or formation, bunched together in places and in others spread far apart, in utter chaos, dragging the carts of the medical corps behind them and carrying stretchers, with their rifles slung over their shoulders any which way, or using them as canes and crutches, bear no resemblance whatsoever to the Seventh Regiment of Colonel Moreira Cesar that he remembers, that highly disciplined corps, scrupulous in dress and demeanor. Have they buried the colonel up there on the heights behind them? Are they bringing his mortal remains down on one of those stretchers, one of those carts?

"Can they have made their peace with each other?" the cure murmurs at his side. "An armistice perhaps?"

The idea of a reconciliation strikes him as unthinkable, but it is quite true that something bizarre is happening down there below: there is no fighting. And yet soldiers and jaguncos jaguncos are very close to each other, closer and closer by the moment. His myopic, avid gaze leaps, as in some wild dream, from one group of are very close to each other, closer and closer by the moment. His myopic, avid gaze leaps, as in some wild dream, from one group of jaguncos jaguncos to another, that indescribable ma.s.s of humanity in outlandish dress, armed with shotguns, carbines, clubs, machetes, rakes, hunting crossbows, stones, with bits of cloth tied round their heads, that seems to be the embodiment of disorder, of confusion, like those whom they are pursuing, or rather, escorting, accompanying. to another, that indescribable ma.s.s of humanity in outlandish dress, armed with shotguns, carbines, clubs, machetes, rakes, hunting crossbows, stones, with bits of cloth tied round their heads, that seems to be the embodiment of disorder, of confusion, like those whom they are pursuing, or rather, escorting, accompanying.

"Can the soldiers have surrendered?" Father Joaquim says. "Can they be taking them prisoner?"

The large groups of jaguncos jaguncos are mounting the slopes, on either side of the drunkenly meandering current of soldiers, pressing in upon them, closer and closer. But there are no shots. Not, in any event, the sort of gunfire there had been the day before in Canudos, heavy fusillades and bursting sh.e.l.ls, though scattered reports reach his ears now and then. And echoes of insults and imprecations: what else could those s.n.a.t.c.hes of voices be? The nearsighted journalist suddenly recognizes Captain Salomao da Rocha in the rear guard of the wretched column. The little group of soldiers tagging along far behind the rest, with four cannons drawn by mules that they are pitilessly whipping, finds itself completely isolated when suddenly a group of are mounting the slopes, on either side of the drunkenly meandering current of soldiers, pressing in upon them, closer and closer. But there are no shots. Not, in any event, the sort of gunfire there had been the day before in Canudos, heavy fusillades and bursting sh.e.l.ls, though scattered reports reach his ears now and then. And echoes of insults and imprecations: what else could those s.n.a.t.c.hes of voices be? The nearsighted journalist suddenly recognizes Captain Salomao da Rocha in the rear guard of the wretched column. The little group of soldiers tagging along far behind the rest, with four cannons drawn by mules that they are pitilessly whipping, finds itself completely isolated when suddenly a group of jaguncos jaguncos descends upon it from the flanks and cuts it off from the other troops. The cannons stop dead and the nearsighted journalist is certain that the officer in command-he has a saber and a pistol, runs from one of his men to the next as they huddle against the mule teams and the cannons, doubtless giving them orders, urging them on, as the descends upon it from the flanks and cuts it off from the other troops. The cannons stop dead and the nearsighted journalist is certain that the officer in command-he has a saber and a pistol, runs from one of his men to the next as they huddle against the mule teams and the cannons, doubtless giving them orders, urging them on, as the jaguncos jaguncos close in on them-is Salomao da Rocha. He remembers his little clipped mustache-his fellow officers called him the Fas.h.i.+on Plate-and his incessant talk about the technical advances announced in the Comblain catalogues, the precision of Krupp artillery pieces and of the cannons to which he has given a name and surname. On seeing little puffs of smoke, the nearsighted journalist realizes that they are firing at each other, at point-blank range, even though he and the others are unable to hear the rifle reports because the wind is blowing in another direction. "They've been shooting at each other, killing each other, hurling insults at each other all this time, and we haven't heard a thing," he thinks, and then stops thinking, for the group of soldiers and cannons is suddenly lost from view as the close in on them-is Salomao da Rocha. He remembers his little clipped mustache-his fellow officers called him the Fas.h.i.+on Plate-and his incessant talk about the technical advances announced in the Comblain catalogues, the precision of Krupp artillery pieces and of the cannons to which he has given a name and surname. On seeing little puffs of smoke, the nearsighted journalist realizes that they are firing at each other, at point-blank range, even though he and the others are unable to hear the rifle reports because the wind is blowing in another direction. "They've been shooting at each other, killing each other, hurling insults at each other all this time, and we haven't heard a thing," he thinks, and then stops thinking, for the group of soldiers and cannons is suddenly lost from view as the jaguncos jaguncos surrounding it descend upon it. Blinking his eyes, batting his eyelids, his mouth gaping open, the nearsighted journalist sees the officer with the saber withstand for the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds the attack of clubs, pikes, hoes, sickles, machetes, or whatever else those dark objects might be, before disappearing from sight, like his men, beneath the hordes of a.s.sailants now leaping upon them, no doubt with shouts that do not reach his ears. He does hear, however, the braying of the mules, though they, too, are lost from sight. surrounding it descend upon it. Blinking his eyes, batting his eyelids, his mouth gaping open, the nearsighted journalist sees the officer with the saber withstand for the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds the attack of clubs, pikes, hoes, sickles, machetes, or whatever else those dark objects might be, before disappearing from sight, like his men, beneath the hordes of a.s.sailants now leaping upon them, no doubt with shouts that do not reach his ears. He does hear, however, the braying of the mules, though they, too, are lost from sight.

He realizes that he has been left all by himself on the rocky ledge at the crest line from which he has seen the capture of the artillery corps of the Seventh Regiment and the certain death of the soldiers and the officer serving in it. The parish priest of c.u.mbe is trotting down the slope, some twenty or thirty yards farther below, followed by the woman and the Dwarf, heading straight toward the jaguncos jaguncos. He hesitates to the depths of his being. But the fear of remaining there all by himself is worse, and he scrambles to his feet and begins running down the slope after them. He stumbles, slips, falls, gets up again, tries to keep his balance. Many jaguncos jaguncos have seen them, there are faces tipped back, raised toward the slope as he comes down it, feeling ridiculous at being so clumsy and unsteady on his feet. The cure of c.u.mbe, ten yards in front of him now, says something, shouts, makes signs and gestures at the have seen them, there are faces tipped back, raised toward the slope as he comes down it, feeling ridiculous at being so clumsy and unsteady on his feet. The cure of c.u.mbe, ten yards in front of him now, says something, shouts, makes signs and gestures at the jaguncos jaguncos. Is he betraying him, denouncing him? In order to curry favor with them, will he tell them that he's a soldier, will he...? And he starts to roll downhill again, in a spectacular fas.h.i.+on. He somersaults, turns over and over like a barrel, feeling neither pain nor shame, his one thought being his eyegla.s.ses, which by some miracle remain firmly hooked over his ears when he finally stops and tries to stand up. But he is so battered and bruised, so stunned and terrified that he cannot manage to do so until several pairs of arms lift him up bodily. "Thanks," he murmurs, and sees Father Joaquim being clapped on the back, embraced, kissed on the hand by smiling, surprised, excited jaguncos jaguncos. "They know him," he thinks. "If he asks them not to, they won't kill me."

"It's really me, Joao," Father Joaquim says to a tall, st.u.r.dy, mud-stained man with weathered skin standing in the middle of a group of men with bandoleers about their necks who have flocked round him. "Me in the flesh, not my ghost. They didn't kill me-I escaped. I want to go to c.u.mbe, Abbot Joao, I want to get out of here. Help me..."

"Impossible, Father, it's dangerous. Can't you see that there's shooting on all sides?" the man answers. "Go to Belo Monte till the war is over."

"Abbot Joao?" the nearsighted journalist thinks. "Abbot Joao's in Canudos, too?" He hears sudden loud rifle reports from every direction and his blood runs cold. "Who's that four-eyes?" he hears Abbot Joao say, pointing to him. "Ah, yes, he's a journalist, he helped me escape, he's not a soldier. And this woman and this..." But the cure is unable to end his sentence because of the gunfire. "Go to Belo Monte, Father, we've cleared them out of there," Abbot Joao says as he starts down the slope at a run, followed by the jaguncos jaguncos who have been standing round him. The nearsighted, journalist suddenly spies Colonel Tamarindo in the distance, clutching his head in his hands in the midst of a stampede of soldiers. There is total disorder and confusion: the column appears to be scattered all over, to have completely disintegrated. The soldiers are das.h.i.+ng about helter-skelter, their pursuers close behind. From the ground, his mouth full of mud, the nearsighted journalist sees the troops, spreading like a stain, dividing, mingling, figures falling, struggling, and his eyes return again and again to the spot where old Tamarindo has fallen. Several who have been standing round him. The nearsighted, journalist suddenly spies Colonel Tamarindo in the distance, clutching his head in his hands in the midst of a stampede of soldiers. There is total disorder and confusion: the column appears to be scattered all over, to have completely disintegrated. The soldiers are das.h.i.+ng about helter-skelter, their pursuers close behind. From the ground, his mouth full of mud, the nearsighted journalist sees the troops, spreading like a stain, dividing, mingling, figures falling, struggling, and his eyes return again and again to the spot where old Tamarindo has fallen. Several jaguncos jaguncos are bending down-killing him? But they linger too long for that, squatting there on their heels, and the nearsighted journalist, his eyes burning from straining so hard to make out what is happening, finally sees that they are stripping him naked. are bending down-killing him? But they linger too long for that, squatting there on their heels, and the nearsighted journalist, his eyes burning from straining so hard to make out what is happening, finally sees that they are stripping him naked.

He is suddenly aware of a bitter taste in his mouth, begins to choke, and realizes that, like an automaton, he is chewing the dirt that got into his mouth when he threw himself to the ground. He spits, not taking his eyes off the rout of the soldiers, amid a terrific wind that has risen. They are scattering in all directions, some of them shooting, others tossing weapons, boxes of ammunition, stretchers onto the ground, into the air, and though they are now a long way off, he can nonetheless see that in their frantic, panic-stricken retreat they are also tossing away their kepis, their tunics, their bandoleers, their chest belts. Why are they, too, stripping naked, what sort of madness is this that he is witnessing? He intuits that they are ridding themselves of anything that might identify them as soldiers, that they are hoping to pa.s.s themselves off as jaguncos jaguncos in the melee. Father Joaquim gets to his feet and, just as he had a moment before, begins to run again. In a strange fas.h.i.+on this time, moving his head, waving his hands, speaking and shouting to pursued and pursuers alike. "He's going down there amid all the shooting, the knifing, the killing," the journalist thinks. His eyes meet the woman's. She looks back at him in terror, mutely pleading for his counsel. And then he too, obeying an impulse, stands up, shouting to her: "We must stay with him. He's the only one who can help us." She gets to her feet and starts running, dragging the Dwarf along with her, his eyes bulging, his face covered with dirt, screeching as he runs. The nearsighted journalist soon loses sight of them, for his long legs or his fear give him an advantage over them. He runs swiftly, bent over, his hips jerking grotesquely back and forth, his head down, thinking hypnotically that one of those red-hot bullets whistling past has his name written on it, that he is running directly toward it, and that one of those knives, sickles, machetes, bayonets that he glimpses is waiting for him in order to put an end to his mad dash. But he keeps running amid clouds of dust, glimpsing now and again the robust little figure of the cure of c.u.mbe, his arms and legs whirling like windmill blades, losing him from sight, spying him again. Suddenly he loses sight of him altogether. As he curses and rages, he thinks: "Where is he going, why is he running like that, why does he want to get himself killed and get us killed?" Though he is completely out of breath-he runs along with his tongue hanging out, swallowing dust, almost unable to see because his gla.s.ses are now covered with dirt-he goes on running for all he is worth; the little strength he has left tells him that his life depends on Father Joaquim. in the melee. Father Joaquim gets to his feet and, just as he had a moment before, begins to run again. In a strange fas.h.i.+on this time, moving his head, waving his hands, speaking and shouting to pursued and pursuers alike. "He's going down there amid all the shooting, the knifing, the killing," the journalist thinks. His eyes meet the woman's. She looks back at him in terror, mutely pleading for his counsel. And then he too, obeying an impulse, stands up, shouting to her: "We must stay with him. He's the only one who can help us." She gets to her feet and starts running, dragging the Dwarf along with her, his eyes bulging, his face covered with dirt, screeching as he runs. The nearsighted journalist soon loses sight of them, for his long legs or his fear give him an advantage over them. He runs swiftly, bent over, his hips jerking grotesquely back and forth, his head down, thinking hypnotically that one of those red-hot bullets whistling past has his name written on it, that he is running directly toward it, and that one of those knives, sickles, machetes, bayonets that he glimpses is waiting for him in order to put an end to his mad dash. But he keeps running amid clouds of dust, glimpsing now and again the robust little figure of the cure of c.u.mbe, his arms and legs whirling like windmill blades, losing him from sight, spying him again. Suddenly he loses sight of him altogether. As he curses and rages, he thinks: "Where is he going, why is he running like that, why does he want to get himself killed and get us killed?" Though he is completely out of breath-he runs along with his tongue hanging out, swallowing dust, almost unable to see because his gla.s.ses are now covered with dirt-he goes on running for all he is worth; the little strength he has left tells him that his life depends on Father Joaquim.

When he falls to the ground, because he stumbles or because his legs give way from fatigue, he has a curious feeling of relief. He leans his head on his arms, tries to force air into his lungs, listens to his heart beat. Better to die than keep on running. Little by little he recovers, feels the pounding in his temples slow down. He is sick to his stomach and retches, but does not vomit. He takes his gla.s.ses off and cleans them. He puts them back on. He is surrounded by people. He is not afraid, and nothing really matters. His exhaustion has freed him from fears, uncertainties, chimeras. Moreover, no one appears to be paying any attention to him. Men are gathering up the rifles, the ammunition, the bayonets, but his eyes are not deceived and from the first moment he knows that the groups of jaguncos jaguncos here, there, everywhere, are also beheading the corpses with their machetes, with the same diligence with which they decapitate oxen and goats, and throwing the heads in burlap bags, threading them on pikes and on the same bayonets that the dead were carrying to run here, there, everywhere, are also beheading the corpses with their machetes, with the same diligence with which they decapitate oxen and goats, and throwing the heads in burlap bags, threading them on pikes and on the same bayonets that the dead were carrying to run jaguncos jaguncos through, or carrying them off by the hair, while others light fires where the headless corpses are already beginning to sizzle, crackle, curl up, burst open, char. One fire is very close by and he sees that men with blue headcloths are throwing other remains on top of the two bodies already roasting on it. "It's my turn now," he thinks. "They'll come, cut my head off, carry it away on a pole, and toss my body in that fire." He goes on drowsing, immunized against everything by his utter exhaustion. Even though the through, or carrying them off by the hair, while others light fires where the headless corpses are already beginning to sizzle, crackle, curl up, burst open, char. One fire is very close by and he sees that men with blue headcloths are throwing other remains on top of the two bodies already roasting on it. "It's my turn now," he thinks. "They'll come, cut my head off, carry it away on a pole, and toss my body in that fire." He goes on drowsing, immunized against everything by his utter exhaustion. Even though the jaguncos jaguncos are talking, he doesn't understand a word they are saying. are talking, he doesn't understand a word they are saying.

At that moment he spies Father Joaquim. He is not going but coming, he is not running but walking, in long strides, emerging from that cloud of wind-blown dirt that has already begun to produce that tickling in the journalist's nostrils that precedes a sneezing fit, still making gestures, grimaces, signs, to anybody and everybody, including the dead that are roasting. He is spattered with mud, his clothes are in tatters, his hair disheveled. The nearsighted journalist rises up as the priest walks by him and says: "Don't go, take me with you, don't let them chop my head off, don't let them burn me..." Does the cure of c.u.mbe hear him? He is talking to himself or with ghosts, repeating incomprehensible things, unrecognizable names, making sweeping gestures. He walks along at his side, very close to him, feeling his proximity revive him. He notes that the barefoot woman and the Dwarf are walking along with them on the right. Pale and wan, covered with dirt, worn out, they look to him like sleepwalkers.

Nothing of what he is seeing and hearing surprises him or frightens him or interests him. Is this what ecstasy is? He thinks: "Not even opium, in Salvador..." He sees as he pa.s.ses by that jaguncos jaguncos are hanging kepis, tunics, canteens, capes, blankets, cartridge belts, boots on the thornbushes dotting both sides of the path, as though they were decorating Christmas trees, but the sight leaves him completely indifferent. And when, as they descend toward the sea of rooftops and rubble that is Canudos, he sees heads of dead soldiers lined up on either side of the trail, looking across at each other, being riddled by insects, his heart does not pound wildly, nor his fear return, nor his imagination race madly. Even when an absurd figure, one of those scarecrows that farmers place in sowed fields, blocks their path and he recognizes the naked, corpulent form impaled on a dry branch as the body and face of Colonel Tamarindo, he does not turn a hair. But a moment later he stops short, and with the serenity that he has attained, he takes a close look at one of the heads crawling with flies. There is no possible doubt: it is the head of Moreira Cesar. are hanging kepis, tunics, canteens, capes, blankets, cartridge belts, boots on the thornbushes dotting both sides of the path, as though they were decorating Christmas trees, but the sight leaves him completely indifferent. And when, as they descend toward the sea of rooftops and rubble that is Canudos, he sees heads of dead soldiers lined up on either side of the trail, looking across at each other, being riddled by insects, his heart does not pound wildly, nor his fear return, nor his imagination race madly. Even when an absurd figure, one of those scarecrows that farmers place in sowed fields, blocks their path and he recognizes the naked, corpulent form impaled on a dry branch as the body and face of Colonel Tamarindo, he does not turn a hair. But a moment later he stops short, and with the serenity that he has attained, he takes a close look at one of the heads crawling with flies. There is no possible doubt: it is the head of Moreira Cesar.

The fit of sneezing overtakes him so completely that he does not have time to raise his hands to his face, to hold his gla.s.ses on: they fly off, and as one burst of sneezes follows another and he doubles over, he is sure he hears them hit the pebbles underfoot. As soon as he is able to, he squats down and fumbles about. He finds them immediately. Now, yes, on running his fingers over them and feeling that the lenses are smashed to smithereens, the nightmare of last night, of this morning at dawn, of a few moments ago returns.

"Stop! Stop!" he shouts, putting the gla.s.ses on, looking out at a shattered, cracked, crazed world. "I can't see anything. Please, I beg you."

He feels in his right hand a hand that-from its size, from its pressure-can only be that of the barefoot woman. She pulls him along, without a word, guiding him in this world suddenly become inapprehensible, blind.

The first thing that surprised Epaminondas Goncalves on entering the town house of the Baron de Canabrava, in which he had never before set foot, was the odor of vinegar and aromatic herbs that filled the rooms through which a black servant led him, lighting his way with an oil lamp. He showed him into a study with shelves full of books, illuminated by a lamp with green gla.s.s panels that lent a sylvan appearance to the oval writing desk, the easy chairs, and the little tables with bibelots. He was examining an old map, on which he managed to read the name Calumbi in ornate Gothic letters, when the baron entered the room. They shook hands without warmth, like two persons who scarcely know each other.

"I thank you for coming," the baron said, offering him a chair. "Perhaps it would have been better to hold this meeting in a neutral place, but I took the liberty of proposing my house to you because my wife is not feeling well and I prefer not to go out."

"I wish her a prompt recovery," Epaminondas Goncalves said, refusing a cigar from the box the baron held out to him. "All of Bahia hopes to see her very soon in as radiant health and as beautiful as ever."

The baron looked much thinner and older, and the owner-publisher of the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias wondered whether those wrinkles and that dejection were due to the ravages of time or of recent events. wondered whether those wrinkles and that dejection were due to the ravages of time or of recent events.

"As a matter of fact, Estela is physically well; her body has recovered," the baron said sharply. "It's her mind that is still affected. The fire that destroyed Calumbi was a great shock to her."

"A disaster that concerns all us Bahians," Epaminondas murmured. He raised his eyes to follow the baron, who had risen to his feet and was pouring them two gla.s.ses of cognac. "I said as much in the a.s.sembly and in the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias. The destruction of property is a crime that affects all of us, allies and adversaries alike."

The baron nodded. He handed Epaminondas his cognac and they clinked gla.s.ses in silence before drinking. Epaminondas set his gla.s.s down on the little table and the baron held his between his palms, warming the reddish liquid and swirling it about the gla.s.s. "I thought it would be a good idea for us to talk together," he said slowly. "The success of the negotiations between the Republican Party and the Autonomist Party depends on the two of us reaching an agreement."

"I must warn you that I have not been authorized by my political friends to negotiate anything tonight," Epaminondas interrupted him.

"You don't need their authorization," the baron replied with an ironic smile. "My dear Epaminondas, let's not put on a Chinese shadow play. There isn't time. The situation is extremely serious and you know it. In Rio, in Sao Paulo, monarchist papers are being attacked and their owners being lynched. The ladies of Brazil are raffling off their jewels and lock