Panting, his temples pounding, the nearsighted journalist has the sensation that everything has come closer, that he can reach out and touch the war. On the outskirts of Canudos there are houses in flames and two lines of soldiers are entering the town, amid puffs of cloud that must be gunsmoke. They disappear, swallowed up in a labyrinth of rooftops made of tiles, of straw, of corrugated tin, of palings, from which flames leap up from time to time. "They are pumping all those who escaped the cannon fire full of bullets," he thinks. And he imagines the fury with which officers and men are no doubt avenging the corpses strung up in the caatinga caatinga, avenging themselves for those ambushes and whistles that have kept them awake nights all the way from Monte Santo.

"There are nests of sharpshooters in the churches," he hears the colonel say. "What's Cunha Matos waiting for? Why doesn't he take them?"

The bells have been pealing continually and he has been hearing them all this time, like background music amid the cannonades and the fusillades. In the narrow winding streets between the dwellings he makes out figures running, uniforms scurrying every which way. "Cunha Matos is in that h.e.l.l," he thinks. "Running, stumbling, killing." And Tamarindo and Olimpio de Castro? He looks for them and can't see the old colonel, but the captain is among the officers with Moreira Cesar. For some reason, he feels relieved.

"Have the rear guard and the Bahia police attack on the other flank," he hears the colonel order.

Captain Olimpio de Castro and three or four escorts run up the mountainside and several buglers begin to sound calls until similar calls answer in the distance. Only now does he realize that orders are pa.s.sed on by means of bugles. He would like to note this down so as not to forget it. But several officers cry out something, in unison, and he begins to watch again. In the open s.p.a.ce between the churches, ten, twelve, fifteen red-and-blue uniforms are running behind two officers-he can make out their unsheathed sabers, and tries to identify those lieutenants or captains whom he must have seen many times now-with the obvious intention of capturing the Temple with very tall white towers surrounded by scaffolding, when they are met with heavy fire from all over the building which downs the majority of them; a handful turn and disappear in the dust.

"They should have protected themselves with rifle charges," he hears Moreira Cesar say in an icy tone of voice. "There's a redoubt there..."

Many figures have come running out of the churches; they make for the soldiers who have fallen and throw themselves on them. "They are finishing them off, castrating them, plucking out their eyes," he thinks, and at that instant he hears the colonel murmur: "Those demented fools, they're undressing them."

"Undressing them?" he repeats mentally. And he again sees the corpses of the fair-haired sergeant and his men hanging from the trees. He is half dead from the cold. The open s.p.a.ce is still enveloped in a cloud of dust. The journalist's eyes peer about in different directions, trying to make out what is happening down below. The soldiers of the two corps that have entered Canudos, one on his left and the other at his feet, have disappeared in that taut web, while a third corps, on his right, continues to pour into the city, and he is able to measure their progress by the whirlwinds of dust that precede them and rise in their wake along the narrow alleyways, little streets, twists and turns, meanders in which he can imagine the clashes, the thrusts, the blows of rifle b.u.t.ts smashing doors, knocking down planks, palings, staving in roofs, episodes in the war which, on breaking down into encounters in a thousand huts, turns into utter confusion, hand-to-hand combat of one against one, one against two, two against three.

He has not taken a single swallow of water this morning, nor has he eaten anything the night before, and in addition to the hollow feeling in his stomach his guts are writhing. The bright sun is at its zenith. Can it possibly be noon, can so many hours already have gone by? Moreira Cesar and his staff officers walk a few yards farther down the mountainside, and the nearsighted journalist follows along after them, tripping and falling, till he catches up with them. He grabs Olimpio de Castro by the arm and asks him what is happening, how many hours the battle has been going on.

"The rear guard and the Bahia police are there now," Moreira Cesar says, the field gla.s.ses at his eyes. "The enemy is hemmed in on that flank."

The nearsighted journalist makes out, on the far side of the little houses half hidden by the dust, some blue, greenish, gold-colored patches, advancing in this sector that thus far has been spared, with no smoke, no fires, no people visible. The attack now encompa.s.ses all of Canudos; there are dwellings in flames everywhere.

"This is taking too long," the colonel says, and the nearsighted journalist notes his impatience, his indignation. "Have the cavalry squadron come to the aid of Cunha Matos."

He immediately detects-from the officers' surprised, disconcerted faces-that the colonel's order is unexpected, risky. None of them protests, but the looks they exchange are more eloquent than words.

"What is it?" Moreira's eyes sweep round the circle of officers and light on Olimpio de Castro. "What is the objection?"

"None, sir," the captain says. "Except that..."

"Except what?" Moreira Cesar replies sternly. "That's an order."

"The cavalry squadron is our only reserve, sir," the captain goes on to end his sentence.

"What do we need it up here for?" Moreira Cesar points downhill. "Isn't the fighting down there? When those who are still alive see our cavalrymen they'll come pouring out in terror and we can finish them off. Let them charge immediately!"

"I request your permission to charge with the squadron," Olimpio de Castro stammers.

"I need you here," the colonel answers curtly.

The nearsighted journalist hears more bugle calls, and minutes later the cavalrymen, in troops of ten and fifteen, appear at the summit, with an officer at the head of the squadron; as they gallop past Moreira Cesar they salute him with upraised sabers.

"Clear out the churches, drive the enemy north!" the colonel shouts to them.

The journalist is thinking that those tense young faces-white, dark-skinned, black, Indian-are about to enter the whirlwind, when he is convulsed by another fit of sneezing, worse than the one before. His gla.s.ses shoot off his nose, and he thinks in terror, as he feels asphyxia set in, his chest and temples explode, his nose itch, that they have been broken, that somebody may step on them, that his remaining days will be a perpetual fog. When the attack is over, he falls on his knees, gropes all about him in anguish till he comes across them. He discovers, to his joy, that they are intact. He cleans them, puts them back on, looks through them. The hundred or so cavalrymen have reached the bottom of the slope. How can they have descended so quickly? But something is happening to them down by the river. They cannot manage to get across it. Their mounts enter the water and then appear to rear, to rebel, despite the fury with which they are urged on with whips, spurs, saber blows. It is as if the river terrified them. They turn round in midstream, and some of them throw their riders.

"They must have set traps in the water," one officer says.

"They're being fired on from that dead angle," another one murmurs.

"My mount!" Moreira Cesar cries, and the nearsighted journalist sees him hand his field gla.s.ses to an orderly. As he mounts the horse, he adds in irritation: "The boys need to have an example set them. I'm leaving you in command, Olimpio."

His heart beats faster as he sees the colonel unsheathe his saber, put the spurs to his mount, and begin to descend the slope at a fast gallop. But he has not gone fifty yards when he sees him slouch over in the saddle, leaning on the neck of his horse, which stops dead in its tracks. He sees the colonel turn it around-to come back up to the command post?-but as though it were receiving contradictory orders from its rider, the animal wheels round twice, three times. And now he sees why officers and escorts are uttering exclamations, shouting, running downhill with their revolvers unholstered. Moreira Cesar rolls to the ground and almost at the same moment he is hidden from sight by the captain and the others, who have lifted him up and are carrying him up the hill toward him, as quickly as they can. There is a deafening uproar, voices shouting, shots, all sorts of noises.

He stands there stunned, unable to move, as he watches the group of men trotting up the mountainside, followed by the white horse, its reins dragging. He has been left all by himself. The terror that overcomes him drives him up the slope, slipping and falling, struggling to his feet, crawling on all fours. When he reaches the summit and bounds toward the tent, he vaguely notes that there are almost no soldiers in the area. Except for a group crowded around the entrance to the tent, the only ones in sight are a sentinel or two, looking in his direction with fear-stricken expressions. He hears the words "Can you help Dr. Souza Ferreiro?" and although the person speaking to him is Captain Olimpio de Castro, he does not recognize his voice and barely recognizes his face. He nods, and the captain pushes him forward with such force that he collides with a soldier. Inside the tent, he sees Dr. Souza Ferreiro's back, bending over the camp cot and the colonel's feet.

"A medical corpsman?" Souza Ferreiro wheels around, and on catching sight of him a sour look comes over his face.

"I've told you already-there aren't any medical corpsmen," Captain de Castro shouts at him, pushing the nearsighted journalist forward. "They're all with the battalions down below. Let this fellow help you."

The nervousness of the two of them is contagious, and he feels like screaming, like stamping his feet.

"The projectiles must be removed or infection will be the end of him in no time," Dr. Souza Ferreiro whines, looking all about as though awaiting a miracle.

"Do the impossible," the captain says as he leaves. "I can't abandon my post, I'm in command, I must send word to Colonel Tamarindo to take..." He goes out of the tent without finishing the sentence.

"Roll up your sleeves and rub yourself with this disinfectant," the doctor roars.

He obeys as fast as he can in the daze that has come over him, and a moment later he finds himself kneeling on the ground soaking bandages with spurts of ether-a smell that brings back memories of carnival b.a.l.l.s at Politeama-which he then places over Colonel Moreira Cesar's nose and mouth to keep him asleep while the doctor operates. "Don't tremble, don't be an idiot, keep the ether over his nose," the doctor barks at him twice. He concentrates on his task-opening the flacon, wetting the cloth, placing it over that fine-drawn nose, those lips that are contorted in a grimace of interminable agony-and he thinks of the pain that this little man must be feeling as Dr. Souza Ferreiro bends over his belly as though he were about to sniff it or lick it. Every so often he takes a quick glance, despite himself, at the spatters of blood on the doctor's hands and smock and uniform, the blanket on the bed, and his own pants. How much blood inside such a small body! The smell of ether dizzies him and makes him retch. He thinks: "I've nothing to throw up." He thinks: "Why is it I'm not hungry or thirsty?" The wounded man's eyes remain closed, but from time to time he stirs and then the doctor grumbles: "More ether, more ether." But the last of the little flacons is almost empty now and he says so, feeling guilty.

Orderlies enter, bringing steaming basins in which the doctor washes lancets, needles, sutures, scissors, with just one hand. Several times, as he applies the ether-soaked bandages, he hears Dr. Souza Ferreiro talking to himself, dirty words, insults, imprecations, curses on his own mother for ever having borne him. He becomes more and more drowsy and the doctor reprimands him severely: "Don't be an idiot, this is no time to be napping." He stammers an apology and the next time they bring the basin he begs them to get him a drink of water.

He notes that they are no longer alone in the tent: the shadow that brings a canteen to his lips is Captain Olimpio de Castro. Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos are there too, their backs leaning against the canvas, their faces grief-stricken, their uniforms in tatters. "More ether?" he says, and feels stupid, for the flacon has been empty for some time now. Dr. Souza Ferreiro bandages Moreira Cesar and is now covering him with the blanket. He thinks in astonishment: "It's nighttime already." There are shadows round about them and someone hangs a lantern on one of the tent poles.

"How is he?" Colonel Tamarindo says in a low voice.

"His belly is ripped to shreds." The doctor sighs. "I'm very much afraid that..."

As he rolls down his shirtsleeves, the nearsighted journalist thinks: "If it was dawn, noon, just a moment ago, how is it possible for time to go by that fast?"

"I doubt that he'll even come to," Souza Ferreiro adds.

As though in answer to him, Colonel Moreira Cesar begins to stir. All of them move to his bedside. Are his bandages comfortable? He blinks. The nearsighted journalist imagines him seeing silhouettes, hearing sounds, trying to understand, to remember, and he himself remembers, like something from another life, certain awakenings after a night's peace induced by opium. The colonel's return to reality must be just as slow, as difficult, as hazy. Moreira Cesar's eyes are open and he is gazing anxiously at Tamarindo, taking in his torn uniform, the deep scratches on his neck, his dejection.

"Did we take Canudos?" he articulates in a hoa.r.s.e voice.

Colonel Tamarindo lowers his eyes and shakes his head. Moreira Cesar's eyes search the embarra.s.sed faces of the major, the captain, of Dr. Souza Ferreiro, and the nearsighted journalist sees that he is also examining him, as though performing an autopsy on him.

"We tried three times, sir," Colonel Tamarindo stammers. "The men fought till their last ounce of strength was gone."

Colonel Moreira Cesar sits up, his face even paler now than before, and angrily waves a clenched fist. "Another attack, Tamarindo. Immediately! That's an order!"

"There are heavy casualties, sir," the colonel murmurs shamefacedly, as though everything were his fault. "Our position is untenable. We must retreat to a safe place and send for reinforcements..."

"You will be court-martialed for this," Moreira Cesar interrupts him, raising his voice. "The Seventh Regiment retreat in the face of good-for-nothing rascals? Surrender your sword to Cunha Matos."

"How can he move, how can he writhe about like that with his belly slit wide open?" the nearsighted journalist thinks. In the prolonged silence that follows, Colonel Tamarindo looks at the other officers, wordlessly pleading for their help. Cunha Matos steps closer to the camp cot.

"There are many deserters, sir; the regiment has fallen apart. If the jaguncos jaguncos attack, they'll take the camp. Order a retreat." attack, they'll take the camp. Order a retreat."

Peering past the doctor and the captain, the nearsighted journalist sees Moreira Cesar's shoulders fall back onto the cot. "You're a traitor, too?" he murmurs in desperation. "You all know how important this campaign is to our cause. Do you mean to tell me that I have compromised my honor in vain?"

"We've all compromised our honor, sir," Colonel Tamarindo says.

"You know that I had to resign myself to conspiring with corrupt petty politicians." Moreira Cesar's voice rises and falls abruptly, absurdly. "Do you mean to tell me that we've lied to the country in vain?"

"Listen to what's happening outside, sir," Major Cunha Matos says in a shrill voice, and the nearsighted Journalist tells himself that he has been hearing that cacophony, that clamor, those running feet, that confusion for some time, but has refused to realize what it means, so as not to feel more frightened still. "It's a rout. They may finish off the entire regiment if we don't make an orderly retreat."

The nearsighted journalist makes out the sound of the cane whistles and the little bells amid the running footfalls and the voices. Colonel Moreira Cesar looks at them one by one, his face contorted, his mouth agape. He says something that no one hears. The nearsighted journalist realizes that the flashing eyes in that livid face are fixed on him. "You there, you," he hears. "Paper and pen, you hear? I want to dictate a statement concerning this infamy. Come, scribe, are you ready?"

At that moment the nearsighted journalist suddenly remembers his portable writing desk, his leather pouch, and as though bitten by a snake frantically searches all about for them. With the sensation that he has lost part of his body, an amulet that protected him, he recalls that he did not have them when he ran up the mountainside, they are still lying on the slope down below, but he can think no further because Olimpio de Castro, his eyes full of tears, thrusts some paper and a pencil into his hand, and Major Souza Ferreiro holds the lantern above him to give him light.

"I'm ready," he says, thinking that he won't be able to write, that his hands will tremble.

"I, Colonel Moreira Cesar, commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, being in possession of all my faculties, hereby state that the retreat from the siege of Canudos is a decision that is being taken against my will, by subordinates who are not capable of a.s.suming their responsibility in the face of history." Moreira Cesar sits up on the camp cot for a moment and then falls back once more. "Future generations will judge. I am confident that there will be republicans to defend me. My entire conduct has been aimed at the defense of the Republic, which must make its authority felt in every corner of the country if it wishes it to progress."

When the voice, so low that he can scarcely hear it, stops speaking, it takes him a moment to realize this, for he has fallen behind as he takes down the dictation. Writing, that manual labor, like that of placing cloths soaked in ether over the wounded man's nose, is a boon to him, for it has kept him from torturing himself with questions as to how it can have happened that the Seventh Regiment failed to take Canudos and must now beat a retreat. When he raises his eyes, the doctor has put his ear to the colonel's chest and is taking his pulse. He straightens up and makes a gesture fraught with meaning. Chaos immediately ensues, and Cunha Matos and Tamarindo begin to argue in loud voices as Olimpio de Castro tells Souza Ferreiro that the colonel's remains must not be desecrated.

"A retreat now, in darkness, is insane," Tamarindo shouts. "Where to? Which way? How can I ask any more of exhausted men who have fought for an entire day? Tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow not even the dead will still be around down there," Cunha Matos says with a wave of his hand. "Don't you see that the regiment is disintegrating, that there's no one in command, that if the men aren't regrouped now they'll be hunted down like rabbits?"

"Regroup them, do whatever you like. I'm staying here till dawn, to carry out a retreat in good and proper order." Colonel Tamarindo turns to Olimpio de Castro. "Try to reach the artillery. Those four cannons must not fall into the enemy's hands. Have Salomao da Rocha destroy them."

"Yes, sir."

The captain and Cunha Matos leave the tent together and the nearsighted journalist follows them like an automaton. He hears what they are saying and cannot believe his ears.

"Waiting is madness, Olimpio. We must retreat now or by morning there won't be anybody left alive."

"I'm going to try to get to the artillery," Olimpio de Castro cuts him short. "It's madness perhaps, but it is my duty to obey the new commanding officer."

The nearsighted journalist tugs at the captain's arm, muttering: "Your canteen, I'm dying of thirst."

He drinks avidly, choking, as the captain advises him: "Don't stay with us. The major is right. Things are going to end badly. Clear out."

Clear out? Take off by himself, through the caatinga caatinga, in the dark? Olimpio de Castro and Cunha Matos disappear, leaving him confused, afraid, petrified. Around him are men running or walking very fast. He takes a few steps in one direction, then another, starts toward the tent, but someone gives him a shove that sends him off in another direction. "Let me come with you, don't go away," he cries, and without turning around, one soldier urges him on: "Run, run, they're coming up the mountainside right now. Can't you hear the whistles?" Yes, he hears them. He starts running behind them, but he trips and falls several times and is left behind. He leans against a shadow that appears to be a tree, but the moment he touches it he feels it moving. "Untie me, for the love of G.o.d," he hears a voice say. And he recognizes it as that of the parish priest of c.u.mbe, the same voice in which he answered when he was interrogated by Moreira Cesar, yelping now with the same panic: "Untie me, untie me, the ants are eating me alive."

"Yes, yes," the nearsighted journalist stammers, joyous at having found company. "I'll untie you, I'll untie you."

"Let's get out of here this minute," the Dwarf begged her. "Let's go, Jurema, let's go. Now that the cannons have stopped firing."

Jurema had been sitting there, looking at Rufino and Gall, without realizing that the sun was tingeing the caatinga caatinga with gold, drying up the raindrops and evaporating the humidity in the air and the underbrush. The Dwarf shook her. with gold, drying up the raindrops and evaporating the humidity in the air and the underbrush. The Dwarf shook her.

"Where are we going to go?" she answered, feeling great fatigue and a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach.

"To c.u.mbe, to Jeremoabo, anywhere," the Dwarf insisted, tugging at her skirt.

"And which way is it to c.u.mbe, to Jeremoabo?" Jurema murmured. "Do we have any idea? Do you know?"

"It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter!" the Dwarf yelped, pulling at her. "Didn't you hear the jaguncos jaguncos? They're going to fight here, there's going to be shooting here, we're going to be killed."

Jurema rose to her feet and took a few steps toward the mantle of woven gra.s.s that the jaguncos jaguncos had put over her when they rescued her from the soldiers. It felt damp. She threw it over the corpses of the guide and the stranger, trying to cover the parts of their bodies that had been battered worst: their torsos and their heads. Then, suddenly determined to overcome her apathy, she set out in the direction that she remembered seeing Pajeu take off in. She immediately felt a chubby little hand in her right hand. had put over her when they rescued her from the soldiers. It felt damp. She threw it over the corpses of the guide and the stranger, trying to cover the parts of their bodies that had been battered worst: their torsos and their heads. Then, suddenly determined to overcome her apathy, she set out in the direction that she remembered seeing Pajeu take off in. She immediately felt a chubby little hand in her right hand.

"Where are we going?" the Dwarf asked. "And what about the soldiers?"

She shrugged. The soldiers, the jaguncos jaguncos: what did she care? She had had enough of everything and everybody, and her one desire was to forget everything she'd seen. As they walked on, she gathered leaves and little twigs to suck the sap from them.

"Shots," the Dwarf said. "Shots, shots."

It was heavy fire. In a few seconds the din filled the dense, serpentine caatinga caatinga, which seemed to multiply the bursts and volleys. But not a single living creature was to be seen anywhere about: only rising ground covered with brambles and leaves torn off the trees by the rain, mud puddles, and thickets of macambiras macambiras with branches like claws and with branches like claws and mandacarus mandacarus and and xiquexiques xiquexiques with sharp thorns. She had lost her sandals at some point during the night, and though she had gone about barefoot for a good part of her life, she could feel how badly cut and bruised her feet were. The hillside grew steeper and steeper. The sun shone full in her face and seemed to mend her limbs, to bring them back to life. She realized that something was up when the Dwarf's fingernails dug into her flesh. Some four yards away a short-barreled, wide-mouthed blunderbuss was aimed straight at them, held in the hands of a man from the vegetable kingdom, with bark for skin, limbs that were branches, and hair that was tufts of gra.s.s. with sharp thorns. She had lost her sandals at some point during the night, and though she had gone about barefoot for a good part of her life, she could feel how badly cut and bruised her feet were. The hillside grew steeper and steeper. The sun shone full in her face and seemed to mend her limbs, to bring them back to life. She realized that something was up when the Dwarf's fingernails dug into her flesh. Some four yards away a short-barreled, wide-mouthed blunderbuss was aimed straight at them, held in the hands of a man from the vegetable kingdom, with bark for skin, limbs that were branches, and hair that was tufts of gra.s.s.

"Clear out of here," the jagunco jagunco said, poking his face out of his mantle. "Didn't Pajeu tell you that you should go to the Jeremoabo entrance?" said, poking his face out of his mantle. "Didn't Pajeu tell you that you should go to the Jeremoabo entrance?"

"I don't know how to get there," Jurema answered.

"Shh, shhh," she heard voices say at this moment, as though the bushes and the cacti had started to speak. Then she saw men's heads appear amid the branches.

"Hide them," she heard Pajeu order, without being able to tell where his voice was coming from, and felt herself being shoved to the ground, crushed beneath the body of a man who whispered to her as he enveloped her with his mantle of woven gra.s.ses: "Shhh, shhh." She lay there motionless, with her eyes half closed, stealing cautious glances. She could feel the jagunco jagunco's breath in her ear and wondered if the same thing had happened to the Dwarf as had happened to her. She spied the soldiers. Her heart skipped a beat on seeing how close they were. They were marching in a column, two abreast, in their trousers with red stripes and their blue tunics, their black boots and their rifles with naked bayonets. She held her breath, closed her eyes, waiting for the shots to ring out, but as nothing happened, she opened them again and the soldiers were still there, pa.s.sing by them. She could see their eyes, feverish with anxiety or bloodshot from lack of sleep, their faces, undaunted or terrified, and make out a few scattered words of what they were saying. Wasn't it incredible that so many soldiers should pa.s.s by without discovering that there were jaguncos jaguncos so close that they could almost touch them, so close that they were almost stepping on them? so close that they could almost touch them, so close that they were almost stepping on them?

And at this moment a great blinding flash of exploding gunpowder filled the caatinga caatinga, reminding her for a second of the fiesta of Santo Antonio, in Queimadas, when the circus came to town and fireworks were set off. Amid the fusillade, she caught sight of a rain of silhouettes dressed in gra.s.s cloaks falling or flinging themselves upon the men dressed in uniforms, and amid the smoke and the roar of gunfire she found herself free of the weight of the jagunco jagunco pinning her down, lifted up, dragged along, as voices said to her: "Crouch down, crouch down." She obeyed, hunching over, tucking her head between her shoulders, and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, expecting at any moment to feel the smack of bullets. .h.i.tting her in the back, almost wishing that that would happen. The dash left her dripping with sweat and feeling as though she were about to spit up her heart. pinning her down, lifted up, dragged along, as voices said to her: "Crouch down, crouch down." She obeyed, hunching over, tucking her head between her shoulders, and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, expecting at any moment to feel the smack of bullets. .h.i.tting her in the back, almost wishing that that would happen. The dash left her dripping with sweat and feeling as though she were about to spit up her heart.

Just then she spied the caboclo caboclo without a nose standing alongside her, looking at her with gentle mockery in his eyes: "Who won the fight? Your husband or the lunatic?" without a nose standing alongside her, looking at her with gentle mockery in his eyes: "Who won the fight? Your husband or the lunatic?"

"The two of them killed each other," she panted.

"All the better for you," Pajeu commented with a smile. "You can look for another husband now, in Belo Monte."

The Dwarf was at her side, gasping for breath, too. She caught a glimpse of Canudos. It was spread out there in front of her, the entire length and breadth of it, shaken by explosions, licked by tongues of fire, drifted over with scattered clouds of smoke, as overhead a clear blue sky belied this disorder and a bright sun beat down. Her eyes filled with tears and she felt a sudden hatred against that city and those men, killing each other in those narrow little streets like burrows. Her misfortunes had begun because of this place; the stranger had come to her house because of Canudos, and that had been the start of the misadventures that had left her without anything or anybody in the world, lost in the midst of a war. She wished with all her heart for a miracle, for nothing to have happened, for Rufino and her to be as they had been before, back, in Queimadas.

"Don't cry, girl," the caboclo caboclo said to her. "Don't you know the dead are going to be brought back to life? Haven't you heard? There's such a thing as the resurrection of the flesh." said to her. "Don't you know the dead are going to be brought back to life? Haven't you heard? There's such a thing as the resurrection of the flesh."

His voice was calm, as though he and his men had not just had a gunfight with the soldiers. She dried her tears with her hand and looked around, reconnoitering the place. It was a shortcut between the hills, a sort of tunnel. To her left was an overhanging wall of stones and rocks without vegetation that hid the mountain from view, and to her right the somewhat spa.r.s.e caatinga caatinga descended till it gave way to a rocky stretch of ground which, beyond a broad river, was transformed into a jumble of little jerry-built dwellings with reddish roofs. Pajeu placed something in her hand, and without looking to see what it was, she raised it to her mouth. She ate the soft, sour fruit in little bites. The men in the gra.s.s mantles were gradually scattering, hugging the bushes, disappearing in hiding places dug in the ground. Again the chubby little hand sought hers. She felt pity and tenderness toward this familiar presence. "Hide in here," Pajeu ordered, pushing aside some branches. Once the two of them had crouched down in the ditch, he explained to them, pointing to the rocks: "The dogs are up there." In the hole was another descended till it gave way to a rocky stretch of ground which, beyond a broad river, was transformed into a jumble of little jerry-built dwellings with reddish roofs. Pajeu placed something in her hand, and without looking to see what it was, she raised it to her mouth. She ate the soft, sour fruit in little bites. The men in the gra.s.s mantles were gradually scattering, hugging the bushes, disappearing in hiding places dug in the ground. Again the chubby little hand sought hers. She felt pity and tenderness toward this familiar presence. "Hide in here," Pajeu ordered, pushing aside some branches. Once the two of them had crouched down in the ditch, he explained to them, pointing to the rocks: "The dogs are up there." In the hole was another jagunco jagunco, a toothless man who hunched up to make room for them. He had a crossbow and a quiver full of arrows.

"What's going to happen?" the Dwarf whispered.

"Be still," the jagunco jagunco said. "Didn't you hear? the heretics are right above us." said. "Didn't you hear? the heretics are right above us."

Jurema peeked out through the branches. The shots continued, spa.r.s.e and intermittent now, followed by puffs of smoke and the flames of fires, but from their hiding place she could not see the little uniformed figures she'd spied crossing the river and disappearing into the town. "Don't move," the jagunco jagunco said, and for the second time that day soldiers appeared out of nowhere. This time they were cavalrymen, two abreast, mounted on whinnying brown, black, bay, speckled horses, who suddenly emerged, incredibly close at hand, below the rock wall on her left and galloped on toward the river. They appeared to be about to roll down the almost vertical slope, but the animals kept their balance, and she saw them pa.s.s swiftly by, using their hind legs to brake themselves. She was dizzied by the succession of cavalrymen's faces flashing by and the sabers that the officers were brandishing to point the way, when suddenly there was a stir in the said, and for the second time that day soldiers appeared out of nowhere. This time they were cavalrymen, two abreast, mounted on whinnying brown, black, bay, speckled horses, who suddenly emerged, incredibly close at hand, below the rock wall on her left and galloped on toward the river. They appeared to be about to roll down the almost vertical slope, but the animals kept their balance, and she saw them pa.s.s swiftly by, using their hind legs to brake themselves. She was dizzied by the succession of cavalrymen's faces flashing by and the sabers that the officers were brandishing to point the way, when suddenly there was a stir in the caatinga caatinga. The men in gra.s.s mantles emerged from the holes, the branches, and fired their shotguns, or, like the jagunco jagunco who had been with them and was now creeping downhill, riddled them with arrows that hissed like snakes. She heard, very distinctly, Pajeu's voice: "Go after the horses, those of you who have machetes." She could no longer see the cavalrymen, but she imagined them splashing in the river-amid a fusillade and a distant pealing of bells she could hear whinnying-and being struck in the back, without knowing where they were coming from, by those arrows and bullets that she could see and hear the who had been with them and was now creeping downhill, riddled them with arrows that hissed like snakes. She heard, very distinctly, Pajeu's voice: "Go after the horses, those of you who have machetes." She could no longer see the cavalrymen, but she imagined them splashing in the river-amid a fusillade and a distant pealing of bells she could hear whinnying-and being struck in the back, without knowing where they were coming from, by those arrows and bullets that she could see and hear the jaguncos jaguncos scattered about her shooting. Some of them, standing upright, were steadying their carbines or crossbows on branches of the scattered about her shooting. Some of them, standing upright, were steadying their carbines or crossbows on branches of the mandacarus mandacarus. The caboclo caboclo with the nose missing was not shooting. He was standing directing his men to the right or to the left. At that moment the Dwarf clutched her belly so tightly that she could barely breathe. She could feel him trembling, put her two arms round him, and rocked him back and forth: "They've pa.s.sed now, they're gone, look!" But when she looked herself, there was another cavalryman there, on a white horse, its mane ruffled by the wind as it galloped down the slope. The little officer riding it was holding its reins with one hand and brandishing a saber in the other. He was so close that she could see his frowning face, his burning eyes, and a moment later she saw him hunch over, his face suddenly blank. Pajeu had his carbine aimed at him and she thought that he was the one who had shot at him. She saw the white horse caracole, wheel about in one of those pirouettes that cowboys put their mounts through to impress the crowds at fairs, and saw it climb back up the slope with its rider clinging to its neck. As it disappeared from sight, she saw Pajeu aiming once again and doubtless getting off another shot. with the nose missing was not shooting. He was standing directing his men to the right or to the left. At that moment the Dwarf clutched her belly so tightly that she could barely breathe. She could feel him trembling, put her two arms round him, and rocked him back and forth: "They've pa.s.sed now, they're gone, look!" But when she looked herself, there was another cavalryman there, on a white horse, its mane ruffled by the wind as it galloped down the slope. The little officer riding it was holding its reins with one hand and brandishing a saber in the other. He was so close that she could see his frowning face, his burning eyes, and a moment later she saw him hunch over, his face suddenly blank. Pajeu had his carbine aimed at him and she thought that he was the one who had shot at him. She saw the white horse caracole, wheel about in one of those pirouettes that cowboys put their mounts through to impress the crowds at fairs, and saw it climb back up the slope with its rider clinging to its neck. As it disappeared from sight, she saw Pajeu aiming once again and doubtless getting off another shot.

"Let's get out of here, let's get out of here. We're in the midst of the battle," the Dwarf whimpered, huddling up next to her again.

"Shut up, you stupid idiot, you coward," Jurema insulted him. The Dwarf fell silent, drew away, and stared at her in terror, his eyes begging forgiveness. The din of explosions, gunfire, bugle calls, pealing bells continued and the men in gra.s.s mantles disappeared, running or crawling down the wooded slope that descended in the distance to the river and Canudos. She looked around for Pajeu and he, too, was no longer there. The two of them were all alone now. What should she do? Stay where she was? Follow the jaguncos jaguncos? Look for a trail that would lead her away from Canudos? She felt dead tired, a stiffness in her every joint and muscle, as though her body were protesting against the mere idea of budging from the spot. She leaned her back against the damp side of the pit and closed her eyes. She felt herself drifting, falling into sleep.

When awakened by the Dwarf shaking her, murmuring apologies for rousing her, she found herself barely able to move. Her bones ached and she was obliged to ma.s.sage the nape of her neck. Darkness was already falling, to judge from the slanting shadows and the fading light. The deafening din that a.s.sailed her ears was not a dream. "What's happening?" she asked, her tongue feeling parched and swollen. "They're coming this way. Can't you hear them?" the Dwarf murmured, pointing down the slope. "We must go have a look," Jurema said. The Dwarf clung to her, trying to hold her back, but when she climbed out of the pit, he followed her on all fours. She walked down to the rocks and brambles where Pajeu had disappeared from sight, and squatted on her heels. Despite the cloud of dust, she spied a swarm of dark ants moving about on the foothills below her and thought it was more soldiers descending to the river, but she soon realized that they were not moving downward but upward, that they were fleeing from Canudos. Yes, there was no doubt of it, they were emerging from the river, on the run, making for the heights, and on the far side of it she saw groups of men shooting and chasing after isolated soldiers who ran out from between the huts, trying to reach the riverbank. Yes, the soldiers were fleeing, and it was the jaguncos jaguncos now who were pursuing them. "They're coming this way," the Dwarf whined, and her blood froze as she noticed that because she had been watching the hillsides opposite, she had not realized that there was a battle going on at her feet as well, on both banks of the Vaza-Barris. That was where the uproar that she had thought she'd dreamed had been coming from. now who were pursuing them. "They're coming this way," the Dwarf whined, and her blood froze as she noticed that because she had been watching the hillsides opposite, she had not realized that there was a battle going on at her feet as well, on both banks of the Vaza-Barris. That was where the uproar that she had thought she'd dreamed had been coming from.

She glimpsed-in a dizzying confusion, half blotted out by the dust and the smoke that deformed bodies, faces-horses that had fallen and been stranded on the riverbanks, some of them dying, for they were moving their long necks as though asking for help to get themselves out of that muddy water in which they were about to drown or bleed to death. A riderless horse with only three legs was wheeling about, maddened with pain, trying to bite its tail, amid soldiers who were fording the river with their rifles over their heads, as others appeared, running and screaming from amid the walls of Canudos. They burst out by twos and threes, some of them running backward like scorpions, and plunged into the water, trying to reach the slope where she and the Dwarf were. They were being shot at from somewhere, because some of them fell, howling, wailing, but others of those in uniform were beginning to clamber up the rocks.