"Provided they aren't attacking via A Favela at the same time," Honorio growls.

Antonio doesn't believe they are. Opposite him, coming down the ravines of the dry river, are several thousand soldiers, more than three thousand, perhaps four, which must be all the troops the dogs can field. The jaguncos jaguncos know, because of what the "youngsters" and spies have reported, that there are more than a thousand sick and wounded in the field hospital set up in the valley between A Favela and the Alto do Mario. Some of the troops must have stayed behind there, guarding the hospital, the artillery, and the installations. The soldiers in front of them must const.i.tute the entire attack force. He says as much to Honorio, without looking at him, eyes fixed on the ravines as he checks with his fingers to make sure the cylinder of his revolver is fully loaded. Though he has a Mannlicher, he prefers this revolver, the weapon that he has fought with ever since he has been in Canudos. Honorio, on the other hand, has his rifle propped on the edge of the trench, with the sight raised and his finger on the trigger. That is how all the other know, because of what the "youngsters" and spies have reported, that there are more than a thousand sick and wounded in the field hospital set up in the valley between A Favela and the Alto do Mario. Some of the troops must have stayed behind there, guarding the hospital, the artillery, and the installations. The soldiers in front of them must const.i.tute the entire attack force. He says as much to Honorio, without looking at him, eyes fixed on the ravines as he checks with his fingers to make sure the cylinder of his revolver is fully loaded. Though he has a Mannlicher, he prefers this revolver, the weapon that he has fought with ever since he has been in Canudos. Honorio, on the other hand, has his rifle propped on the edge of the trench, with the sight raised and his finger on the trigger. That is how all the other jaguncos jaguncos must be waiting in their dugouts, remembering their instructions: Don't shoot till the enemy is practically on top of you, so as to save ammunition and have the advantage of taking them by surprise. That is the only thing that will be in their favor, the only thing that can compensate for the disproportion in numbers of men and equipment. must be waiting in their dugouts, remembering their instructions: Don't shoot till the enemy is practically on top of you, so as to save ammunition and have the advantage of taking them by surprise. That is the only thing that will be in their favor, the only thing that can compensate for the disproportion in numbers of men and equipment.

A youngster bringing them a leather canteen full of hot coffee and some maize cakes crawls up to the dugout and jumps in. Antonio recognizes those bright twinkling eyes, that twisted body. The lad's name is Sebastiao, and he is already a battle-hardened veteran, for he has served both Pajeu and Big Joao as a messenger. As he drinks the coffee, which restores his body, Antonio sees the youngster disappear, slithering along with his canteens and knapsacks, as swiftly and silently as a lizard.

"If only they all advance at once, in a single compact unit," Antonio thinks. How easy it would be then, in this terrain without trees, bushes, or rocks, to mow them down at point-blank range. The natural depressions will not be of much use to them since the jaguncos jaguncos' dugouts are on rises of ground from which they can fire down on them. But they are not advancing in a single unit. The center corps is marching forward more rapidly, like a prow; it is the first to cross the dry riverbed and scale the ravines on the other side. Figures like toy soldiers, in blue, with red stripes down their trouser legs and gleaming bits of metal, appear, less than two hundred paces away from Antonio. It is a company of scouts, some hundred men, all of them on foot, who regroup in two compact formations, five abreast, and advance swiftly, not taking the slightest precautions. He sees them crane their necks, keeping a sharp eye on the towers of Belo Monte, completely unaware of the sharpshooters in the dugouts who have them in their sights.

"What are you waiting for, compadre? compadre?" Honorio says. "For them to see us?" Antonio shoots, and the next instant, like a multiple echo, earsplitting shots ring out, drowning out the drums and bugles. Thrown into confusion, the soldiers mill about amid the smoke and dust. Antonio squeezes off his shots slowly till his revolver is empty, aiming with one eye closed at the soldiers who have now turned tail and are running away as fast as their legs will carry them. He manages to make out four other corps which have crossed the ravines and are approaching in three, four different directions. The shooting stops.

"They haven't seen us yet," his brother says to him.

"They have the sun in their eyes," he answers. "In an hour they won't be able to see a thing."

Both of them reload. They can hear scattered shots, from jaguncos jaguncos trying to finish off the wounded whom Antonio sees crawling over the stones, trying to reach the ravines. Heads, arms, bodies of soldiers keep emerging from these. The lines of soldiers curve, break up, scatter as they advance across the uneven, shifting terrain. The soldiers have begun to shoot, but Antonio has the impression that they still have not located the dugouts, that they are aiming above their heads, toward Canudos, believing that the hail of gunfire that mowed down the spearhead has come from the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. The shooting makes the cloud of dust and gunsmoke even denser and every so often earth-colored whirlwinds envelop and hide the atheists, who keep advancing, crouching over, bunched together, rifles raised and bayonets fixed, to the sound of drums rolling and bugles blaring and voices shouting out "Infantry! Advance!" trying to finish off the wounded whom Antonio sees crawling over the stones, trying to reach the ravines. Heads, arms, bodies of soldiers keep emerging from these. The lines of soldiers curve, break up, scatter as they advance across the uneven, shifting terrain. The soldiers have begun to shoot, but Antonio has the impression that they still have not located the dugouts, that they are aiming above their heads, toward Canudos, believing that the hail of gunfire that mowed down the spearhead has come from the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. The shooting makes the cloud of dust and gunsmoke even denser and every so often earth-colored whirlwinds envelop and hide the atheists, who keep advancing, crouching over, bunched together, rifles raised and bayonets fixed, to the sound of drums rolling and bugles blaring and voices shouting out "Infantry! Advance!"

The former trader empties his revolver twice. It gets hot and burns his hand, so he puts it back in its holster and begins to use his Mannlicher. He aims and shoots, seeking out each time, amid the enemy troops, those who-because of their sabers, their gold braid, or their att.i.tudes-appear to be the commanding officers. Suddenly, seeing these heretics and pharisees with their panicked faces who are falling by ones, by twos, by tens, struck by bullets that seem to be coming out of nowhere, he feels compa.s.sion. How can he possibly feel pity for men who are trying to destroy Belo Monte? Yes, at this moment, as he sees them fall to the ground, hears them moan, and aims at them and kills them, he does not hate them: he can sense their spiritual wretchedness, their sinful human nature, he knows they are victims, blind, stupid instruments, prisoners caught fast in the snares of the Evil One. Might that not have been the fate of all the jaguncos? jaguncos? His, too-if, thanks to that chance meeting with the Counselor, he had not been brushed by the wings of the angel. His, too-if, thanks to that chance meeting with the Counselor, he had not been brushed by the wings of the angel.

"To the left, compadre compadre," Honorio says, nudging him in the ribs.

He looks that way and sees: cavalrymen with lances. Some two hundred of them, perhaps more. They have crossed the Vaza-Barris half a kilometer to his right and are grouping in squads to attack this flank, amid the frantic din of a bugle. They are outside the line of trenches. In a second, he sees what is going to happen. The lancers will cut across the rolling hillside to the cemetery, and since in that sector there is no line of trenches to stop them they will reach Belo Monte in just a few minutes. On seeing the way clear, the foot soldiers will follow them into the city. Neither Pedrao nor Big Joao nor Pajeu has had time yet to get back to Belo Monte to reinforce the jaguncos jaguncos behind the parapets on the rooftops and towers of Santo Antonio and the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and the Sanctuary. So, not knowing what exactly he is going to do, guided by the madness of the moment, he grabs his ammunition pouch and leaps out of the dugout, shouting to Honorio: "We must stop them, follow me, follow me!" He breaks into a run, bending over, the Mannlicher in his right hand, the revolver in his left, the ammunition pouch slung over his shoulder; it is as though he were dreaming, or drunk. At that moment, the fear of death-which sometimes wakes him up at night drenched with sweat or makes his blood run cold in the middle of a trivial conversation-disappears and a proud scorn for the very thought that he might be wounded or disappear from among the living takes possession of him. As he runs straight toward the cavalrymen-who, grouped now in squads, are beginning to trot in a zigzag line, raising dust, whom he can see at one moment only to lose sight of them the next because of the dips and rises in the terrain-ideas, memories, images fly up in his head like sparks in a forge. He knows that these cavalrymen belong to the battalion of lancers from the South, gauchos, whom he has spied roaming about behind A Favela in search of cattle. He thinks that none of these hors.e.m.e.n will ever set foot in Canudos, that Big Joao and the Catholic Guard, the blacks of the Mocambo or the Cariri archers will kill their mounts, magnificent white horses that will make excellent targets. And he thinks of his wife and his sister-in-law, wondering if they and the other women have been able to get back to Belo Monte. Among these faces, hopes, fantasies, a.s.sare appears, his native village in the state of Ceara, to which he has not returned since he fled from it because of the plague. His town often comes to mind in moments like this, when he feels that he has reached a limit, that he is about to step over a line beyond which there lies nothing but a miracle or death. behind the parapets on the rooftops and towers of Santo Antonio and the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and the Sanctuary. So, not knowing what exactly he is going to do, guided by the madness of the moment, he grabs his ammunition pouch and leaps out of the dugout, shouting to Honorio: "We must stop them, follow me, follow me!" He breaks into a run, bending over, the Mannlicher in his right hand, the revolver in his left, the ammunition pouch slung over his shoulder; it is as though he were dreaming, or drunk. At that moment, the fear of death-which sometimes wakes him up at night drenched with sweat or makes his blood run cold in the middle of a trivial conversation-disappears and a proud scorn for the very thought that he might be wounded or disappear from among the living takes possession of him. As he runs straight toward the cavalrymen-who, grouped now in squads, are beginning to trot in a zigzag line, raising dust, whom he can see at one moment only to lose sight of them the next because of the dips and rises in the terrain-ideas, memories, images fly up in his head like sparks in a forge. He knows that these cavalrymen belong to the battalion of lancers from the South, gauchos, whom he has spied roaming about behind A Favela in search of cattle. He thinks that none of these hors.e.m.e.n will ever set foot in Canudos, that Big Joao and the Catholic Guard, the blacks of the Mocambo or the Cariri archers will kill their mounts, magnificent white horses that will make excellent targets. And he thinks of his wife and his sister-in-law, wondering if they and the other women have been able to get back to Belo Monte. Among these faces, hopes, fantasies, a.s.sare appears, his native village in the state of Ceara, to which he has not returned since he fled from it because of the plague. His town often comes to mind in moments like this, when he feels that he has reached a limit, that he is about to step over a line beyond which there lies nothing but a miracle or death.

When his legs refuse to move a step farther, he sinks to the ground, and stretching out flat, without seeking cover, he steadies his rifle in the hollow of his shoulders and begins to shoot. He will not have time to reload, and therefore he aims carefully each time. He has covered half the distance separating him from the cavalrymen. They pa.s.s in front of him, in a cloud of dust, and he wonders how they can have failed to see him when he has come running across open terrain and is now shooting at them. Yet none of the lancers even looks his way. Now, however, as though his thought of a moment before has alerted them, the lead squad suddenly veers to the left. He sees a cavalryman make a circular motion with his dress sword, as though calling to him, as though saluting him, and then sees the dozen lancers gallop in his direction. His rifle is empty. He grabs his revolver in his two hands, leaning on his elbows, determined to save these last bullets till the horses are right on top of him. There the faces of the devils are, contorted with rage, their spurs digging cruelly into the flanks of their mounts, their long lances quivering, their balloon pants billowing in the wind. He shoots one, two, three bullets at the one with the saber without hitting him, thinking that nothing will save him from being run through by those lances, from being crushed to death by those hoofs pounding on the stones. But something happens, and again he senses the presence of the supernatural. Many figures suddenly appear from behind him, shooting, brandishing machetes, knives, hammers; they fling themselves upon the animals and their riders, shooting at them, knifing them, hacking at them, in a dizzying whirlwind. He sees jaguncos jaguncos hanging on to the cavalrymen's lances and legs and cutting the reins; he sees horses roll over onto the ground and hears roars of pain, whinnies, curses, shots. At least two lancers ride across him without trampling him before he manages to rise to his feet and join the fray. He shoots the last two bullets in his revolver, and using the Mannlicher as a club, he runs toward the nearest atheists and hanging on to the cavalrymen's lances and legs and cutting the reins; he sees horses roll over onto the ground and hears roars of pain, whinnies, curses, shots. At least two lancers ride across him without trampling him before he manages to rise to his feet and join the fray. He shoots the last two bullets in his revolver, and using the Mannlicher as a club, he runs toward the nearest atheists and jaguncos jaguncos fighting hand to hand on the ground. He swings the rifle b.u.t.t at a soldier who has a fighting hand to hand on the ground. He swings the rifle b.u.t.t at a soldier who has a jagunco jagunco pinned to the ground and lashes out at him till he topples over and stops moving. He helps the pinned to the ground and lashes out at him till he topples over and stops moving. He helps the jagunco jagunco to his feet and the two of them rush to rescue Honorio, who is being pursued by a cavalryman with his lance outstretched. When he sees them coming toward him, the gaucho puts spurs to his mount and gallops off in the direction of Belo Monte. For some time, Antonio runs from one place to another amid the cloud of dust, helping those who have fallen to their feet, loading and emptying his revolver. Some of his comrades are badly wounded and others dead, run through with lances. One of them is bleeding profusely from a deep saber cut. He sees himself, as though in a dream, bludgeoning unhorsed gauchos to death with the b.u.t.t of his rifle, as others are doing with their machetes. When the hand-to-hand combat ends for lack of enemies and the to his feet and the two of them rush to rescue Honorio, who is being pursued by a cavalryman with his lance outstretched. When he sees them coming toward him, the gaucho puts spurs to his mount and gallops off in the direction of Belo Monte. For some time, Antonio runs from one place to another amid the cloud of dust, helping those who have fallen to their feet, loading and emptying his revolver. Some of his comrades are badly wounded and others dead, run through with lances. One of them is bleeding profusely from a deep saber cut. He sees himself, as though in a dream, bludgeoning unhorsed gauchos to death with the b.u.t.t of his rifle, as others are doing with their machetes. When the hand-to-hand combat ends for lack of enemies and the jaguncos jaguncos regroup, Antonio tells them they must go back to the dugouts, but as he is saying that he notices, when the clouds of reddish dust part for a moment, that the spot where they were lying in ambush before is now being overrun by companies of Freemasons, spread out in formation as far as the eye can see. regroup, Antonio tells them they must go back to the dugouts, but as he is saying that he notices, when the clouds of reddish dust part for a moment, that the spot where they were lying in ambush before is now being overrun by companies of Freemasons, spread out in formation as far as the eye can see.

There are not more than fifty men around him. What about the others? Those who were able to drag themselves about have gone back to Belo Monte. "But there weren't many of them," a toothless jagunco jagunco, Zozimo the tinsmith, growls. Antonio is surprised to see him among the combatants, when his age and his infirmities should have kept him in Belo Monte putting out fires and helping to bring the wounded to the Health Houses. There is no sense in staying here where they are; a new cavalry charge would be the end of them.

"We're going to go give Big Joao a hand," he tells them.

They break up into groups of three or four, and offering those who are limping an arm to lean on, taking cover in folds in the terrain, they start back to Belo Monte. Antonio falls to the rear, alongside Honorio and Zozimo. Perhaps the great clouds of dust, perhaps the sun's rays, perhaps the enemy's eagerness to invade Canudos, suffice to explain why neither the troops advancing on their left nor the lancers they spy on their right come to finish them off. Since they can manage to see the dogs now and again, it is not possible that the dogs do not see them, too, now and again. He asks Honorio about the Sardelinha sisters. Honorio answers that before leaving the dugouts he sent word to all the women to leave. They still have a thousand paces to go before they reach the nearest dwellings. It will be difficult, with the slow progress that they are making, to get there safe and sound. But his trembling legs and his pounding heart tell him that neither he nor any of the other survivors is in any condition to walk faster. Seized by a momentary dizzy spell, old Zozimo is staggering. Antonio gives him a rea.s.suring pat on the back and helps him along. Can it be true that before the angel's wing brushed him this old man was once about to burn the Lion of Natuba alive?

"Look over by Antonio the Pyrotechnist's hut, compadre compadre."

A heavy, deafening fusillade is coming from the jumble of dwellings across from the old cemetery, a section whose narrow little streets, as difficult as a labyrinth to wind one's way through, are the only ones in Canudos not named after saints but after minstrels' stories: Queen Maguelone, Robert the Devi, Silvaninha, Charlemagne, Peers of France. The new pilgrims are all grouped together in this district. Are they the ones who are shooting like that at the atheists? Rooftops, doorways, street entrances are spitting fire at the soldiers. All of a sudden, amid the jaguncos jaguncos lying flat on the ground, standing, or squatting, he spies an unmistakable figure, Pedrao, leaping from one spot to another with his musketoon, and he is certain he can distinguish, amid the deafening din of all the firearms, the loud boom of the giant mulatto's ancient weapon. Pedrao has always refused to exchange this old piece of his, dating back to his days as a bandit, for a Mannlicher or a Mauser repeating rifle, despite the fact that these guns can fire five shots in a row and can be very quickly reloaded, whereas every time he fires his musketoon he is obliged to sponge the barrel, pour powder down it, and ram it in before shooting off one of the absurd missiles he loads it with: bits of iron, limonite, gla.s.s, wax, and even stone. But Pedrao is amazingly dexterous and performs this entire operation so fast it seems like magic, as does his incredible marksmanship. lying flat on the ground, standing, or squatting, he spies an unmistakable figure, Pedrao, leaping from one spot to another with his musketoon, and he is certain he can distinguish, amid the deafening din of all the firearms, the loud boom of the giant mulatto's ancient weapon. Pedrao has always refused to exchange this old piece of his, dating back to his days as a bandit, for a Mannlicher or a Mauser repeating rifle, despite the fact that these guns can fire five shots in a row and can be very quickly reloaded, whereas every time he fires his musketoon he is obliged to sponge the barrel, pour powder down it, and ram it in before shooting off one of the absurd missiles he loads it with: bits of iron, limonite, gla.s.s, wax, and even stone. But Pedrao is amazingly dexterous and performs this entire operation so fast it seems like magic, as does his incredible marksmanship.

It makes him happy to see him there. If Pedrao and his men have had time to get back, so have Abbot Joao and Pajeu, and hence Belo Monte is well defended. They have now less than two hundred paces to go before reaching the first dwellings, and the jaguncos jaguncos who are in the lead are waving their arms and shouting out their names so the defenders won't shoot at them. Some of them are running; he and Honorio start running too, then slow down again because old Zozimo is unable to keep up with them. They each grab an arm and drag him along between them, staggering along all hunched over beneath a rain of gunfire that seems to Antonio to be aimed straight at the three of them. They finally reach what was once the entrance to a street and is now a wall of stones, tin drums filled with sand, planks, roof tiles, bricks, and all manner of objects, on top of which Antonio spies a solid line of sharpshooters. Many hands reach out to help them climb up. Antonio feels himself being lifted up bodily, lowered down, deposited on the other side of the barricade. He sits down in the trench to rest. Someone hands him a leather canteen full of water, which he drinks in little sips with his eyes closed, feeling mingled pain and pleasure as the liquid wets his tongue, his palate, his throat, which seem to be made of sandpaper. The ringing in his ears stops for a moment every so often and he can then hear the gunfire and the shouts of "Death to the Republic and the atheists!" and "Long live the Counselor and the Blessed Jesus!" But at one of these moments-his tremendous fatigue is going away little by little, and soon he'll be able to get to his feet-he realizes that it can't be the who are in the lead are waving their arms and shouting out their names so the defenders won't shoot at them. Some of them are running; he and Honorio start running too, then slow down again because old Zozimo is unable to keep up with them. They each grab an arm and drag him along between them, staggering along all hunched over beneath a rain of gunfire that seems to Antonio to be aimed straight at the three of them. They finally reach what was once the entrance to a street and is now a wall of stones, tin drums filled with sand, planks, roof tiles, bricks, and all manner of objects, on top of which Antonio spies a solid line of sharpshooters. Many hands reach out to help them climb up. Antonio feels himself being lifted up bodily, lowered down, deposited on the other side of the barricade. He sits down in the trench to rest. Someone hands him a leather canteen full of water, which he drinks in little sips with his eyes closed, feeling mingled pain and pleasure as the liquid wets his tongue, his palate, his throat, which seem to be made of sandpaper. The ringing in his ears stops for a moment every so often and he can then hear the gunfire and the shouts of "Death to the Republic and the atheists!" and "Long live the Counselor and the Blessed Jesus!" But at one of these moments-his tremendous fatigue is going away little by little, and soon he'll be able to get to his feet-he realizes that it can't be the jaguncos jaguncos who are yelling: "Long live the Republic!" who are yelling: "Long live the Republic!"

"Long live Marshal Floriano!"

"Death to traitors!"

"Down with the English!" Is it possible that the dogs are so close that he can hear their voices? The bugle commands are right in his ears. Still sitting there, he places five bullets in the cylinder of his revolver. As he loads the Mannlicher, he sees that he is down to his last ammunition pouch. Making an effort that he feels in his every bone, he gets to his feet and, helping himself up with his knees and elbows, climbs to the top of the barricade. The others make room for him. Less than twenty yards away, countless soldiers, rank upon rank of them, in close order, are charging. Without aiming, without seeking out officers, he fires off all the bullets in the revolver and then all the ones in the Mannlicher, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder each time the rifle b.u.t.t recoils. As he hurriedly reloads the revolver he looks around. The Freemasons are attacking on all sides, and in Pedrao's sector they are even closer than here; a few bayonets are already within reach of the barricades and jaguncos jaguncos armed with clubs and knives suddenly spring up, dealing the attackers furious blows. He does not see Pedrao. To his right, in a giant cloud of dust, the wave upon wave of uniforms advance upon Espirito Santo, Santa Ana, Sao Jose, Santo Tomas, Santa Rita, Sao Joaquim. If they take any of these streets, in a matter of minutes they will reach Sao Pedro or Campo Grande, the heart of Belo Monte, and will be able to launch an attack on Santo Antonio, the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, and the Sanctuary. Someone tugs on his leg. A very young man shouts to him that the Street Commander wants to see him, at Sao Pedro. The young man takes his place on the barricade. armed with clubs and knives suddenly spring up, dealing the attackers furious blows. He does not see Pedrao. To his right, in a giant cloud of dust, the wave upon wave of uniforms advance upon Espirito Santo, Santa Ana, Sao Jose, Santo Tomas, Santa Rita, Sao Joaquim. If they take any of these streets, in a matter of minutes they will reach Sao Pedro or Campo Grande, the heart of Belo Monte, and will be able to launch an attack on Santo Antonio, the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, and the Sanctuary. Someone tugs on his leg. A very young man shouts to him that the Street Commander wants to see him, at Sao Pedro. The young man takes his place on the barricade.

As he goes up the steep incline of Sao Crispim, he sees women on both sides of the street filling buckets and crates with sand and carrying them away on their shoulders. All round him are people running, dust, chaos, amid dwellings with the roofs caved in, facades riddled with bullet holes and blackened from smoke, and others that have collapsed or been gutted by fire. The frantic hustle and bustle has a center, he discovers on reaching Sao Pedro, the street parallel to Campo Grande that cuts through Belo Monte from the Vaza-Barris to the cemetery. The Street Commander is there, with two carbines slung over his shoulders, erecting barricades to close off the area on all the corners facing the river. Abbot Joao shakes hands with him and without preamble-but also, Antonio thinks, without undue haste, so calmly and deliberately that he will understand precisely-he asks him to take charge of closing off the side streets that lead into Sao Pedro, using all the men available.

"Wouldn't it be better to reinforce the defenses down below?" Antonio Vilanova asks, pointing to the place he has just come from.

"We won't be able to hold out very long down there. It's open terrain," the Street Commander replies. "Up here they won't know which way to go and will get in each other's way. It's going to have to be a real wall, a good solid high one."

"Don't worry, Abbot Joao. Carry on, and I'll take care of it." But as Abbot Joao turns away, he adds: "What's with Pajeu?"

"He's still alive," Joao answers without turning around. "He's at Fazenda Velha."

"Defending the water supply," Vilanova thinks. If they're driven out of there, Canudos will be left without a drop of water. After the churches and the Sanctuary, that is what matters most if they are to survive: water. The former cangaceiro cangaceiro disappears in the cloud of dust, striding down the slope leading to the river. Antonio turns his eyes toward the towers of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. Out of a superst.i.tious fear that they might no longer be there in their place, he has not looked that way since returning to Belo Monte. And there they are, chipped but still standing, their solid stone armature having withstood the dogs, bullets, sh.e.l.ls, dynamite. The disappears in the cloud of dust, striding down the slope leading to the river. Antonio turns his eyes toward the towers of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. Out of a superst.i.tious fear that they might no longer be there in their place, he has not looked that way since returning to Belo Monte. And there they are, chipped but still standing, their solid stone armature having withstood the dogs, bullets, sh.e.l.ls, dynamite. The jaguncos jaguncos perched in the bell tower, on the rooftops, on the scaffolding are keeping up a steady fire, and others, squatting on their heels or sitting, are doing the same from the rooftop and the bell tower of Santo Antonio. Amid the little groups of sharpshooters of the Catholic Guard firing from the barricades surrounding the Sanctuary, he spies Big Joao. All that suddenly uplifts his heart, fills him with faith, banishes the panic that has mounted from the soles of his feet on hearing Abbot Joao say that the soldiers are bound to get through the trenches down below, that there is no hope of stopping them there. Without losing any more time, he shouts to the swarms of women, children, and old men, ordering them to begin tearing down all the dwellings on the corners of Sao Crispim, Sao Joaquim, Santa Rita, Santo Tomas, Espirito Santo, Santa Ana, Sao Jose, so as to turn all that section of Belo Monte into an inextricable maze. He takes the lead, using his rifle b.u.t.t as a battering ram. Making trenches, erecting barricades means constructing, organizing, and those are things that Antonio Vilanova is better at than making war. perched in the bell tower, on the rooftops, on the scaffolding are keeping up a steady fire, and others, squatting on their heels or sitting, are doing the same from the rooftop and the bell tower of Santo Antonio. Amid the little groups of sharpshooters of the Catholic Guard firing from the barricades surrounding the Sanctuary, he spies Big Joao. All that suddenly uplifts his heart, fills him with faith, banishes the panic that has mounted from the soles of his feet on hearing Abbot Joao say that the soldiers are bound to get through the trenches down below, that there is no hope of stopping them there. Without losing any more time, he shouts to the swarms of women, children, and old men, ordering them to begin tearing down all the dwellings on the corners of Sao Crispim, Sao Joaquim, Santa Rita, Santo Tomas, Espirito Santo, Santa Ana, Sao Jose, so as to turn all that section of Belo Monte into an inextricable maze. He takes the lead, using his rifle b.u.t.t as a battering ram. Making trenches, erecting barricades means constructing, organizing, and those are things that Antonio Vilanova is better at than making war.

Since all the rifles, cases of ammunition, and explosives had been taken away, the general store seemed to have tripled in size. The huge empty s.p.a.ce made the nearsighted journalist feel even more lonely. The sh.e.l.ling made him lose all sense of time. How long had he been shut up here in the storeroom with the Mother of Men and the Lion of Natuba? He had listened to the Lion read the paper about the plans for attacking the city with a gnashing of teeth that still hadn't stopped. Since then, the night must have gone by, day must be dawning. It wasn't possible that the cannonading had been going on for less than eight, ten hours. But his fear made each second longer, made the minutes stop dead. Perhaps not even an hour had gone by since Abbot Joao, Pedrao, Pajeu, Honorio Vilanova, and Big Joao had left on the run, on hearing the first explosions of what the paper had called "the softening-up." He remembered their hasty departure, the argument between the men and the woman who wanted to go back to the Sanctuary, how they'd obliged her to stay behind.

Nonetheless, all that was encouraging. If they'd left these two intimates of the Counselor's in the store, it meant that they were better protected here than elsewhere. But wasn't it ridiculous to think of safe places at a time like this? The "softening-up" was not a matter of shooting at specific targets; it involved, rather, blind cannon salvos whose purpose was to cause fires, destroy dwellings, leave corpses and rubble strewn all over the streets, thereby so badly demoralizing the townspeople that they would not have the courage to stand up to the soldiers when they invaded Canudos.

"Colonel Moreira Cesar's philosophy," he thought to himself. What idiots, what idiots, what idiots. They hadn't the slightest notion of what was happening here, they hadn't the least idea of what these people were like. The only one who was being softened up by the interminable barrage of the pitch-dark city was himself. He thought: "Half of Canudos must have disappeared, three-quarters of Canudos." But thus far not a single sh.e.l.l had hit the store. Dozens of times, closing his eyes, clenching his teeth, he thought: "This is the one, this is the one." His body bounced up and down as the roof tiles, the sheets of galvanized tin, the wooden planks shook, as that cloud of dust rose amid which everything appeared to shatter, to tear apart, to fall to pieces over him, under him, around him. But the store remained standing, holding up despite being rocked to its foundations by the explosions.

The woman and the Lion of Natuba were talking together. All he could hear was the murmur of their voices, not what they were saying. He p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. They had not said one word since the beginning of the sh.e.l.ling, and at one point he thought that they'd been hit by the bullets and that he was keeping vigil over their dead bodies. The cannonade had deafened him; he could hear a loud bubbling sound, tiny internal explosions. And what about Jurema? And the Dwarf? They had gone in vain to Fazenda Velha to take food to Pajeu, since as they were going out there he was coming back to the meeting in the store. Were they still alive? A sudden wave of affection, aching loneliness, pa.s.sionate concern washed over him as he imagined them in Pajeu's trench, cringing beneath the sh.e.l.ls, surely missing him as much as he missed them. They were part of him and he was part of them. How was it possible for him to feel such a great affinity, such boundless love for those two beings with whom he had nothing in common, whose social background, education, sensibility, experience, culture were in fact altogether different from his? What they had been through together for all these months had forged this bond between them, the fact that without ever imagining such a thing, without deliberately seeking it, without knowing how or why, through the sort of strange, fantastic concatenation of cause and effect, of chance, accident, and coincidence that const.i.tute history, the three of them had been catapulted together into the midst of these extraordinary events, into this life at the brink of death. That was what had created this tie between them. "I'm never going to be separated from them again," he thought. "I'll go with them to take food to Pajeu, I'll go with them to..."

But he had the feeling that he was being ridiculous. After this night, would their daily routine be exactly the same as in the past? If they lived through this bombardment, safe and sound, would they survive the second part of the program that the Lion of Natuba had read aloud? He could already see in his mind the dense, solid lines of thousands and thousands of soldiers coming down from the mountaintops with bayonets fixed, pouring down all the streets of Canudos, and felt a cold blade in the thin flesh of his back. He would shout to them to tell them who he was and they wouldn't hear him, he would shout to them "I'm one of you, a civilized person, an intellectual, a journalist," and they wouldn't believe him or understand him, he would shout to them "I have nothing to do with these madmen, with these barbarians," but it would be useless. They wouldn't give him time to open his mouth. Dying as a jagunco jagunco, amid the anonymous ma.s.s of jaguncos jaguncos: wasn't that the height of the absurd, the flagrant proof of the innate stupidity of the world? He missed Jurema and the Dwarf with all his heart, he felt an urgent need to have them close at hand, to talk to them and listen to them.

As though both his ears had suddenly become unstopped, he heard, very clearly, the voice of the Mother of Men: there were faults that could not be expiated, sins that could not be redeemed. In that hard, resigned, tormented voice full of conviction was a suffering that seemed to come from the depths of time itself. "There's a place in the fire waiting for me," he heard her repeat. "I can't close my eyes to that, my child."

"There is no crime that the Father cannot pardon," the Lion of Natuba answered promptly. "Our Lady has interceded in your behalf and the Father has forgiven you. Don't torture yourself, Mother."

That was a voice with a good timbre, steady, fluent, full of the music of the heart. The journalist thought to himself that that normal, lilting voice always seemed to belong to a strong, handsome man, standing straight and tall, not to the man who was speaking.

"He was tiny, defenseless, a tender little newborn lamb," the woman chanted. "His mother's milk had dried up; she was a wicked woman who'd sold her soul to the Devil. Then, on the pretext that she couldn't bear to see him suffer, she stuffed a skein of wool in his mouth. It's not a sin like the others, my child. It is the unpardonable sin. You'll see me burning in h.e.l.l forever."

"Don't you believe the Counselor?" the scribe of Canudos said consolingly. "Doesn't he speak to the Father? Hasn't he said that...?"

A deafening explosion drowned out his words. The journalist's body went rigid and he closed his eyes and trembled as the whole building shook, but the sound of the woman's voice lingered on as he a.s.sociated what he had heard with a dim memory of long ago which, beneath the spell of her words, was rising to the surface from the depths where it lay buried. Was it she? Once again he heard the voice that he had heard in the courtroom, twenty years before: soft, sorrowful, detached, impersonal.

"You're the filicide of Salvador," he said.

He did not have time to feel alarmed at having said that, for suddenly there were two explosions, one after the other, and the store creaked violently, as though it were about to fall in. A cloud of windblown dust blew in, all of which seemed to settle in his nostrils. He began sneezing, a crescendo of ever more violent, ever more desperate sneezes, closer and closer together, that made him writhe on the floor. His chest was about to burst for lack of air and he pounded it with both hands as he sneezed, and at the same time, as in a dream, he caught a glimpse of blue between the cracks: day had dawned at last. With his temples stretched to the bursting point, the thought came to him that this was the end, he was going to die of asphyxiation, of a sneezing fit, a stupid way to die but preferable to being bayoneted by soldiers. He collapsed on the floor and lay on his back, still sneezing. A second later his head was resting on a warm, affectionate, protecting lap. The woman sat him on her knees, wiped the sweat from his forehead, cradled him in her arms as mothers do to rock their children to sleep.

The sneezes, his discomfort, his near-suffocation, his weakness had the virtue of freeing him from fear. The roar of the cannons sounded as though it had nothing to do with him, and the idea of dying seemed a matter of complete indifference to him. The woman's hands, her voice softly murmuring, her breath, her fingers stroking the top of his head, his forehead, his eyes, filled him with peace, took him back to a dim childhood. He had stopped sneezing but the tickling sensation in his nostrils-two open wounds-told him that he might have another attack at any moment. In that fuzzy, drunken state, he remembered other attacks when he had also been certain that it was the end, those bohemian nights in Bahia which the sneezing fits brutally interrupted, like a censorious conscience, to the hilarious amus.e.m.e.nt of his friends, those poets, musicians, painters, journalists, parasites, actors, and night owls of Salvador among whom he had wasted his life. He remembered how he had begun to inhale ether because it brought him relief after these attacks that left him exhausted, humiliated, his every nerve on edge, and how, later, opium saved him from sneezing fits by bringing on a lucid, transitory death. The caresses, the soft whispering, the consolation, the warm odor of this woman who had killed her baby, back in the days when he was a cub reporter still in his teens, and who was now the priestess of Canudos, were like opium and ether: something gentle that brought on drowsiness, a pleasing absence, and he wondered whether when he was little that mother whom he did not remember had caressed him like this, making him feel invulnerable and indifferent to the world's dangers. There pa.s.sed before his mind the cla.s.srooms and courtyards of the school of the Salesian Fathers where, thanks to his sneezes, he had been-like the Dwarf no doubt, like the monstrous creature here in the room who had read the paper-a laughingstock and a victim, the b.u.t.t of cruel jokes. Because of his fits of sneezing and his poor eyesight, he had been treated like an invalid, kept from sports, violent games, outings. That was why he had become such a timid person; on account of that accursed, uncontrollable nose of his, he had had to use handkerchiefs as big as bedsheets, and because of it and his squint eyes he had never had a sweetheart, a fiancee, or a wife, and had lived with the permanent feeling of being an object of ridicule and hence unable to declare his love for the girls he loved or to send them the verses he composed for them and then like a coward tore up. On account of that nose, that myopia of his, he had never held any woman save the wh.o.r.es of Bahia in his arms, known only love for sale, hasty, filthy encounters that he paid for twice over, the second time with purges and treatments with catheters that made him howl with pain. He, too, was a monster, maimed, disabled, abnormal. It was no accident that he had ended up where the cripples, the unfortunate, the abnormal, the long-suffering of this world had congregated. It was inevitable: he was one of them.

He wailed at the top of his lungs, curled up in a ball, clutching the Mother of Men with both his hands, stammering, bemoaning his wretched fate and his misfortunes, pouring out in a torrent, slavering and sobbing, his bitterness and his desperation, present and past, the disillusionments of his lost youth, his emotional and intellectual frustration, speaking to her with a sincerity he had never before been capable of, not even with himself, telling her how miserable and unhappy he felt because he had not shared a great love, not been the successful dramatist, the inspired poet that he would have liked to be, and because he knew now that he was about to die even more stupidly than he had lived. He heard himself say, between one panting breath and another: "It isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair." He realized that she was kissing him on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the eyelids as she whispered sweet, tender, incoherent words to him, as one does to newborn babies to enchant them and make them happy just by the sound of them...And in fact he felt great comfort, wondrous grat.i.tude toward those magic words: "My little one, my little son, little baby, little dove, little lamb..."

But they were abruptly brought back to the present, to violence, to the war. The earsplitting explosion that tore the roof away suddenly left them with the sky overhead, the beaming sun, clouds, the bright morning air. Splinters, bricks, broken roof tiles, twisted wire were flying in all directions, and the nearsighted journalist felt pebbles, clods of dirt, stones. .h.i.t a thousand places on his body, face, hands. But neither he nor the woman nor the Lion of Natuba was knocked down as the building collapsed. They stood there clutching each other, clinging to each other, and he searched frantically through his pockets for his monocle painstakingly a.s.sembled from bits of gla.s.s, thinking that it had been reduced to shards again, that from now on he would not be able to count on even this scant aid. But there it was, intact, and still holding tight to the Superior of the Sacred Choir and the Lion of Natuba, he managed little by little to see, in distorted images, the havoc caused by the explosion. In addition to the roof, the front wall had also caved in, and except for the corner that they were in, the store was a mountain of rubble. Beyond the fallen wall he could vaguely make out piles of debris, smoke, silhouettes running.

And at that moment the place was suddenly filled with armed men, with armbands and blue headcloths; among them he could make out the ma.s.sive bulk of Big Joao, naked to the waist. As the nearsighted journalist, his eye glued to the monocle, stood watching the men embrace Maria Quadrado, the Lion of Natuba, he trembled: they were going to take them away with them and he would be left all by himself in these ruins. He clung to the woman and the scribe, and past all sense of shame, all scruples lost, he began to whine to them not to leave him, to implore them, and the Mother of Men dragged him off by the hand after the two of them when the huge black ordered everyone out of there.

He found himself trotting along in a world turned topsy-turvy, a chaos of clouds of smoke, noise, mountains of debris. He had stopped weeping, all his senses focused now on the perilous task of skirting obstacles, of keeping from tripping, stumbling, falling, letting go of the woman. He had gone up Campo Grande dozens of times, heading for the square between the churches, and yet he recognized nothing: walls caved in, holes, stones, all manner of things scattered about everywhere, people scurrying in all directions, shooting, fleeing, screaming. Instead of cannon reports, he now heard rifle shots and children crying. He didn't know exactly when it was that he let go of the woman, but all of a sudden he realized that he was no longer clinging to her but to a quite different shape trotting along, the sound of its anxious panting breath mingling with his own. He was holding on to it by the thick locks of its abundant mane. The two of them were straggling; they were being left behind. He clutched his fistful of the Lion of Natuba's hair in an iron grip; if he let go of it, all would be lost. And as he ran, leapt, dodged, he heard himself begging him not to get too far ahead, to have pity on a poor soul who could not make his way along by himself.

He collided with something that he took to be a wall but turned out to be men's bodies. He felt himself being pushed back, turned away, when he heard the woman's voice asking to be let through. The wall opened, he caught a glimpse of barrels and sacks and men shooting and shouting to each other, and, with the Mother of Men on one side of him and the Lion of Natuba on the other, pa.s.sed through a little door made of wooden pickets and entered a dark, closed s.p.a.ce. Touching his face, the woman said to him: "Stay here. Don't be afraid. Pray." Straining his eyes, he managed to see her and the Lion of Natuba disappear through a second little door.

He sank to the floor. He was worn out, hungry, thirsty, sleepy, overcome by a desperate need to forget the whole nightmare. "I'm in the Sanctuary," he thought. "The Counselor is here," he thought. He was amazed at having ended up here, aware of how privileged he was: he was about to see and hear, from close at hand, the eye of the storm that had shaken all of Brazil, the most famous, the most hated man in the country. What good would it do him? Would he have the chance to tell people about it? He tried to overhear what they were saying there inside the Sanctuary, but the uproar outside kept him from catching a single word. The light filtering through the cane-stalk walls was a dazzling white and the heat stifling. The soldiers must be in Canudos, there must be fighting in the streets. He nonetheless felt a deep peace steal over him in this solitary, shadowy redoubt.

The picket door creaked and he glimpsed the dim silhouette of a woman with a kerchief on her head. She placed a bowl of food in his hands and a tin full of a liquid, which, when he took a sip of it, proved to be milk.

"Mother Maria Quadrado is praying for you," he heard a voice say. "Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor."

"Praised be He," he answered, continuing to chew and swallow. Every time he ate in Canudos his jaws ached, as though they had become stiff from disuse: it was an agreeable pain that his body rejoiced in. Once he had finished, he lay down on the floor, cradled his head in the crook of his arm, and fell asleep. Eating, sleeping: this was now the only happiness possible. The rifle shots were closer, then farther away again, then seemed to be coming from all around him, and there was the sound of hurrying footsteps. Colonel Moreira Cesar's thin, ascetic, nervous face was there, just as he had seen it so many times as he rode alongside him, or at night when they camped, talking together after chow. He recognized his voice without a moment's hesitation, its peremptory, steely edge: the softening-up operation must be carried out before the final charge so as to save lives for the Republic; an abscess must be lanced immediately and without sentimentality, otherwise the infection would rot the entire organism. At the same time, he knew that the gunfire was growing heavier and heavier, the casualties, the cave-ins following one upon the other faster and faster, and he had the feeling that armed men were coming and going above him, trying their best not to trample him underfoot, bringing news of the war that he preferred to turn a deaf ear to because it was bad.

He was certain that he was no longer dreaming when he discovered that the bleating that he was hearing was coming from a little white lamb that was licking his hand. He stroked the creature's woolly head and it allowed him to do so without bolting in fear. The other sound was the voices of two people talking together alongside him. He raised to his eye his monocle of gla.s.s shards, which he had clutched tightly in his fist as he slept. In the dim light he recognized the vague silhouette of Father Joaquim and that of a barefoot woman dressed in a white tunic with a blue kerchief on her head. The cure of c.u.mbe was holding a rifle between his legs and was wearing a bandoleer of bullets around his neck. As well as he could make out, Father Joaquim had the look of a man who had been fighting: his spare locks were disheveled and matted with dirt, his ca.s.sock in tatters, one sandal was tied round his foot with a length of twine rather than a leather thong, and he was obviously completely exhausted. He was speaking of someone named Joaquinzinho.

"He went out with Antonio Vilanova to get food," he heard him saying dejectedly. "I heard from Abbot Joao that the whole group that was out in the trenches along the Vaza-Barris got back safely." His voice choked up and he cleared his throat. "The ones who survived the attack."

"What about Joaquinzinho?" the woman said again.

It was Alexandrinha Correa, the woman people told so many stories about: that she knew how to find underground water sources, that she had been Father Joaquim's concubine. He was unable to make out her face. She and the cure were sitting on the floor. The inner door of the Sanctuary was open and there did not appear to be anyone inside.

"He didn't make it back," the little priest said softly. "Antonio did, and Honorio, and many of the others who were at Vaza-Barris. But he didn't. n.o.body could tell me what happened to him, n.o.body's seen him since."

"I'd at least like to be able to bury him," the woman said. "Not just leave him lying there in the open, like an animal with no master."

"He may not be dead," the cure of c.u.mbe answered. "If the Vilanova brothers and others got back, why shouldn't Joaquinzinho? Maybe he's on the towers now, or on the barricade at Sao Pedro, or with his brother at Fazenda Velha. The soldiers haven't been able to take the trenches there either."

The nearsighted journalist suddenly felt overjoyed and wanted to ask about Jurema and the Dwarf, but he contained himself: he sensed that he ought not to intrude upon the couple's privacy at this intimate moment. The voices of the cure and the devout disciple were those of calm acceptance of fate, not at all dramatic. The little lamb was nibbling at his hand. He raised himself to a sitting position, but neither Father Joaquim nor the woman seemed to mind that he was there awake, listening.

"If Joaquinzinho is dead, it's better if Atanasio dies, too," the woman said. "So they can keep each other company in death."

He suddenly had gooseflesh across the nape of his neck. Was it because of what the woman had said, or the pealing of the bells? He could hear them ringing, very close by, and heard Ave Marias chorused by countless voices. It was dusk, then. The battle had already gone on for almost an entire day. He listened. It was not over yet: mingled with the sound of prayers and bells were salvos of artillery fire. Some of the sh.e.l.ls were bursting just above their heads. Death was more important to these people than life. They had lived in utter dereliction and their one ambition was to be given a decent burial. How to understand them? Perhaps, however, if a person were living the sort of life that he was at this moment, death would be his only hope of a reward, a "fiesta," as the Counselor always called it.

The cure of c.u.mbe was looking his way. "It's sad that children must kill and die fighting," he heard him murmur. "Atanasio is fourteen, and Joaquinzinho isn't yet thirteen. They've been killing and risking being killed for a year now. Isn't that sad?"

"Yes, it is," the nearsighted journalist stammered. "Indeed it is. I fell asleep. How's the battle going, Father?"

"They've been stopped at Sao Pedro," the parish priest of c.u.mbe answered. "At the barricade that Antonio Vilanova erected this morning."

"Do you mean here inside the city?" the nearsighted man asked.

"Just thirty paces from here."

Sao Pedro. The street that cut through Canudos from the river to the cemetery, the one parallel to Campo Grande, one of the few that deserved to be called a street. Now it was a barricade and the soldiers were there. Just thirty paces away. A chill ran up his spine. The sound of prayers grew louder, softer, disappeared, mounted again, and it seemed to the nearsighted journalist that in the intervals between explosions he could hear the Counselor's hoa.r.s.e voice or the tiny piping voice of the Little Blessed One there outside, and that the women, the wounded, the oldsters, the dying, the jagunco jagunco sharpshooters were all reciting the Ave Maria in chorus. What must the soldiers think of these prayers? sharpshooters were all reciting the Ave Maria in chorus. What must the soldiers think of these prayers?

"It's also sad that a priest should be obliged to take rifle in hand," Father Joaquim said, patting the weapon that he was holding across his knees, just as the jaguncos jaguncos did. "I didn't know how to shoot. Father Martinez had never shot a rifle either, not even to go deer-hunting." did. "I didn't know how to shoot. Father Martinez had never shot a rifle either, not even to go deer-hunting."

Was this the same elderly little man the nearsighted journalist had seen whimpering and sniveling before Colonel Moreira Cesar, half dead with panic?

"Father Martinez?" he asked.

He sensed Father Joaquim's sudden wariness. So there were other priests in Canudos with them. He imagined them loading their guns, aiming, shooting. But wasn't the Church on the side of the Republic? Hadn't the Counselor been excommunicated by the archbishop? Hadn't edicts condemning the mad, fanatical heretic of Canudos been read aloud in all the parishes? How, then, could there be cures killing for the Counselor?

"Do you hear them? Listen, listen: 'Fanatics, Sebastianists! Cannibals! Englishmen! Murderers!' Who was it who came here to kill women and children, to slit people's throats? Who was it who forced youngsters of thirteen and fourteen to become combatants? You're here and you're still alive, isn't that true?"

He shook with terror from head to foot. Father Joaquim was going to hand him over to the jaguncos jaguncos to be made a victim of their vengeance, their hatred. to be made a victim of their vengeance, their hatred.

"Because the fact is you came with the Throat-Slitter, isn't that true?" the cure went on. "And yet you've been given a roof over your head, food, hospitality. Would the soldiers do as much for one of Pedrao's or Pajeu's or Abbot Joao's men?"

In a choked voice, he stammered in answer: "Yes, yes, you're right. I'm most grateful to you for having helped me so much, Father Joaquim. I swear it, I swear it."

"They're being killed by the dozens, by the hundreds." The cure of c.u.mbe pointed in the direction of the street. "And what for? For believing in G.o.d, for living their lives in accordance with G.o.d's law. It's the Ma.s.sacre of the Innocents, all over again."

Was the priest about to burst into tears, to stamp his feet in rage, to roll about on the floor in despair? But then the nearsighted journalist saw that the priest, controlling himself with an effort, was beginning to calm down, standing there dejectedly listening to the shots, the prayers, the church bells. The journalist thought he heard bugle commands as well. Still not recovered from the scare that he had had, he timidly asked the priest if by chance he had seen Jurema and the Dwarf. The cure shook his head.

At that moment he heard a melodious baritone voice from close by say: "They've been at Sao Pedro, helping to erect the barricade."

The monocle of gla.s.s shards allowed him to make out, just barely, the Lion of Natuba alongside the little open door of the Sanctuary, either sitting or kneeling, but in any event hunched down inside his dirt-covered tunic, looking at him with his great gleaming eyes. Had he been there for some time or had he just come in? This strange being, half human and half animal, so disconcerted him that he was unable to thank him or utter a single word. He could hardly see him, for the light had grown dimmer, though a beam of waning light was coming in through the cracks between the pickets of the door and dying away in the unkempt mane of the scribe of Canudos.

"I wrote down the Counselor's every word," he heard him say in his beautiful lilting voice. The words were addressed to him, an effort on the hunchback's part to be friendly. "His thoughts, his evening counsels, his prayers, his prophecies, his dreams. For posterity. So as to add another Gospel to the Bible."

"I see," the nearsighted journalist murmured, at a loss for words.

"But there's no more paper or ink left in Belo Monte and my last quill pen broke. What he says can no longer be preserved for all eternity," the Lion of Natuba went on, without bitterness, with that calm acceptance with which the journalist had seen the people of Canudos face the world, as though misfortunes, like rainstorms, twilights, the ebb and flow of the tide, were natural phenomena against which it would be stupid to rebel.

"The Lion of Natuba is an extremely intelligent person," the cure of c.u.mbe murmured. "What G.o.d took away from him in the way of legs, a back, shoulders, He made up for by way of the intelligence He gave him. Isn't that so, Lion?"

"Yes." The scribe of Canudos nodded, his eyes never leaving the nearsighted journalist. And the latter was certain that this was true. "I've read the Abbreviated Missal and the Marian Hours many times. And all the magazines and periodicals that people used to bring me in the old days. Over and over. Have you read a great deal too, sir?"

The nearsighted journalist felt so ill at ease that he would have liked to run from the room, even if it meant running right into the midst of the battle. "I've read a few books," he answered, feeling ashamed. And he thought: "And I got nothing out of them." That was something that he had discovered in these long months: culture, knowledge were lies, dead weight, blindfolds. All that reading-and it had been of no use whatsoever in helping him to escape, to free himself from this trap.

"I know what electricity is," the Lion of Natuba said proudly. "If you like, sir, I can teach you what it is. And in return, sir, you can teach me things I don't know. I know what the principle or the law of Archimedes is. How bodies are mummified. The distances between stars."

But at that moment there was heavy gunfire from several directions at once, and the nearsighted journalist found himself thanking the battle that had suddenly silenced this creature whose voice, whose proximity, whose very existence caused him such profound malaise. Why was he so disconcerted by someone who simply wanted to talk, who so naively flaunted his talents, his virtues, merely to gain his warm fellow-feeling? "Because I'm like him," he thought. "Because I'm part of the same chain of which he is the humblest link."

The cure of c.u.mbe ran to the little door leading outside, threw it wide open, and a breath of twilight entered that revealed to the nearsighted journalist other of the Lion of Natuba's features: his dark skin, the fine-drawn lines of his face, the tuft of down on his chin, his steely eyes. But it was his posture that left him dumfounded: the face hunched over between two bony knees, the ma.s.sive hump behind the head, like a big bundle tied to his back, and the extremities appended to limbs as long and spindly as spider legs. How could a human skeleton dislocate itself, fold itself around itself like that? What absurd contortions were built into that spinal column, those ribs, those bones?

Father Joaquim and those outside were shouting back and forth: there was an attack, people were needed at a certain place. He came back into the room and the journalist could dimly make out that he was picking up his rifle.

"They're attacking the barricades at Sao Cipriano and Sao Crispim," he heard him stammer. "Go to the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. You'll be safer there. Farewell, farewell, may Our Lady save us all."

He ran out of the room and the nearsighted journalist saw Alexandrinha Correa take the lamb, which had begun to bleat in fright, in her arms. The devout disciple from the Sacred Choir asked the Lion of Natuba if he would come with her and in his harmonious voice he answered that he would stay in the Sanctuary. And what about him? What about him? Would he stay there with the monster? Would he tag along after the woman? But she had left now and deep shadow reigned once more in the little room with cane-stalk