They find Pau Seco empty of people, possessions, animals. Two soldiers, standing next to the branchless tree trunk atop which the signal flag left by the vanguard is fluttering, salute. Moreira Cesar reins his mount in and looks around at the mud huts, the interiors of which are visible through the doors left ajar or fallen from their hinges. A toothless, barefoot woman, dressed in a tunic full of holes through which her dark skin shows, emerges from one of the huts. Two rickety children, with gla.s.sy eyes, one of whom is naked and has a swollen belly, cling to her, staring at the soldiers in stupefaction. From astride his horse, Moreira Cesar looks down at them: they strike him as the very image of helplessness. His face contorts in an expression in which sadness, anger, and rancor are commingled.

Still looking at them, he gives one of his escorts an order: "Have some food brought them." And he turns to his adjutants: "Do you see the state they keep the people on their lands in?"

His voice trembles and his eyes flash. In an impetuous gesture, he draws his sword from its scabbard and raises it to his face, as though he were about to kiss it. Craning their necks, the press correspondents then see the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment give, before riding off again, that ceremonial sword salute reserved at parades for the national flag and the highest authority, here addressed to the three miserable inhabitants of Pau Seco.

The incomprehensible words had been pouring out in great bursts ever since they came upon him lying near the sad-faced woman and the dead body of the mule being pecked at by urubus- urubus-black vultures. Sporadic, vehement, thunderous, or hushed, murmured, furtive, they poured out day and night, at times frightening the Idiot, who began to tremble. After sniffing the redheaded man, the Bearded Lady said to Jurema: "He has delirious fever, like the one that killed Dadiva. He'll die before the day is out." But he hadn't died, although at times he turned up the whites of his eyes and appeared to be about to go into the death rattle. After lying for a long time not moving a muscle, he would start tossing and turning again, grimacing and uttering words that were meaningless sounds to them. Now and again, he would open his eyes and look at them in bewilderment. The Dwarf swore that he was talking in gypsy cant and the Bearded Lady insisted it sounded like the Latin of the Ma.s.s.

When Jurema asked whether she could come with them, the Bearded Lady consented, perhaps out of compa.s.sion, perhaps out of simple inertia. Between the four of them they hoisted the stranger into the wagon alongside the cobra's basket and started off again. Their new companions brought them luck, for as darkness fell they were invited to stay for supper in the farm settlement of Querera. A little old woman blew smoke over Galileo Gall, placed herbs on his wounds, made him a decoction, and said that he'd get well. That night the Bearded Lady did a turn with the cobra to entertain the cowhands, the Idiot performed his clown act, and the Dwarf told them his stories of knights and chivalry. They went on, and as it turned out, the stranger did begin to swallow the mouthfuls of food they gave him. The Bearded Lady asked Jurema if she was his wife. No, she wasn't: while her husband was away, he had dishonored her, and what else could she do after that except tag along after him? "Now I understand why you're sad," the Dwarf said sympathetically.

They went steadily northward, guided by a lucky star, for they found something to eat every single day. On the third day, they gave a show at a village fair. What the villagers liked best was the Bearded Lady: they paid money to prove to themselves that her beard wasn't false and gently felt her t.i.ts to make sure she was really a woman. Meanwhile, the Dwarf told them her life story, since the days when she'd been a normal little girl, back in Ceara, who one day became the shame of her family when hair started growing on her back, her arms, her legs, and her face. People began to whisper that there was sin involved somewhere, that she was the daughter of a sacristan or of the Can. The little girl swallowed some ground gla.s.s of the sort used to kill rabid dogs. But she didn't die and lived the life of the town laughingstock till the King of the Circus, the Gypsy, appeared one day, took her off with him, and made a circus performer out of her. Jurema thought the Dwarf was making the whole story up, but he a.s.sured her that every word of it was true. They would sit down to talk together sometimes, and as the Dwarf was nice to her and she trusted him, she told him about her childhood on the hacienda at Calumbi as a servant of the wife of the Baron de Canabrava, a very beautiful and kind woman. It was sad that, instead of staying with the baron, Rufino, her husband, had gone off to Queimadas and become a guide, a horrid occupation that kept him away from home a great deal of the time. And what was sadder still, he'd not been able to make her a baby. Why should G.o.d have punished her by keeping her from having a baby? "Who knows?" the Dwarf murmured. G.o.d's will was sometimes difficult to understand.

A few days later, they camped at Ipupiara, a hamlet at a crossroads. A tragedy had just happened. In a fit of madness, a villager had hacked his children and then himself to death with a machete. Since the villagers were holding a funeral for the child martyrs, the circus people did not give a performance, though they announced that there would be one the following evening. The settlement was a tiny one, but it had a general store, where people from all over the region came to buy their provisions.

The following morning the capangas capangas arrived. They came galloping into the village, and the pawing and stamping of their mounts awakened the Bearded Lady, who crawled out from under the tent to see who it was. Villagers appeared at the doors of all the huts in Ipupiara, as surprised by this apparition as she was. She saw six armed riders: she could tell, by the way they were dressed and by the clearly visible brand of the same hacienda on the flanks of all their horses, that they were arrived. They came galloping into the village, and the pawing and stamping of their mounts awakened the Bearded Lady, who crawled out from under the tent to see who it was. Villagers appeared at the doors of all the huts in Ipupiara, as surprised by this apparition as she was. She saw six armed riders: she could tell, by the way they were dressed and by the clearly visible brand of the same hacienda on the flanks of all their horses, that they were capangas capangas and not and not cangaceiros cangaceiros or Rural Police. The one riding in front-a man dressed in leather-dismounted and the Bearded Lady saw him head her way. Jurema had just sat up on her blanket. The Bearded Lady saw her face turn deathly pale and her mouth gape open. "Is that your husband?" she asked Jurema. "It's Caifas," the young woman said. "Has he come to kill you?" the Bearded Lady asked insistently. But instead of answering her, Jurema crawled out from under the tent on all fours, stood up, and walked over to the or Rural Police. The one riding in front-a man dressed in leather-dismounted and the Bearded Lady saw him head her way. Jurema had just sat up on her blanket. The Bearded Lady saw her face turn deathly pale and her mouth gape open. "Is that your husband?" she asked Jurema. "It's Caifas," the young woman said. "Has he come to kill you?" the Bearded Lady asked insistently. But instead of answering her, Jurema crawled out from under the tent on all fours, stood up, and walked over to the capanga capanga, who stopped dead in his tracks. The Bearded Lady felt her heart begin to pound, thinking that the man dressed in leather-a swarthy, bonyfaced man with cold eyes-was about to strike her, kick her, and maybe plunge his knife into her, and then walk over and plunge it into the back of the redheaded man, whom she could hear tossing about in the wagon. But the man didn't hit her. Quite the contrary: he removed his sombrero and greeted her in an obviously polite and respectful manner. From astride their horses, the five men watched this dialogue that for them, as for the Bearded Lady, was merely lips moving. What were the two of them saying to each other? The Dwarf and the Idiot had awakened and were also watching. After a moment, Jurema turned around and pointed to the wagon where the wounded stranger was sleeping.

With the young woman following after him, the man in leather walked over to the wagon and poked his head underneath the canvas. The Bearded Lady then saw him gaze indifferently at the man, who, asleep or awake, was still talking with his ghosts. The leader of the capangas capangas had the dead-calm eyes of those who are used to killing, the same look that the Bearded Lady had seen in the eyes of the bandit Pedrao that time that he'd beaten the Gypsy in the fight and killed him. Her face deathly pale, Jurema waited for the had the dead-calm eyes of those who are used to killing, the same look that the Bearded Lady had seen in the eyes of the bandit Pedrao that time that he'd beaten the Gypsy in the fight and killed him. Her face deathly pale, Jurema waited for the capanga capanga to finish his inspection. He finally turned to her, said something to her. Jurema nodded and the man then signaled to his men to dismount. Jurema came over to the Bearded Lady and asked her for the shears. As she searched about for them, the Bearded Lady whispered: "Is he going to kill you?" to finish his inspection. He finally turned to her, said something to her. Jurema nodded and the man then signaled to his men to dismount. Jurema came over to the Bearded Lady and asked her for the shears. As she searched about for them, the Bearded Lady whispered: "Is he going to kill you?"

"No," Jurema answered. And with the pair of shears that had belonged to Dadiva in her hand, she climbed into the wagon. Leading their horses by the reins, the capangas capangas headed for the Ipupiara store, whereupon the Bearded Lady, followed by the Dwarf and the Idiot, went to see what Jurema was up to. headed for the Ipupiara store, whereupon the Bearded Lady, followed by the Dwarf and the Idiot, went to see what Jurema was up to.

Kneeling alongside the stranger-there was barely room for the two of them in the small s.p.a.ce-Jurema was shearing him down to his very scalp, holding his bright-red locks in one hand and the squeaking scissors in the other. There were dried bloodstains, tears, dust, bird droppings on Galileo Gall's black frock coat. He was lying on his back, amid multicolored pieces of cloth and boxes, hoops, lampblack, pointed hats with half-moons and stars. His eyes were closed, he had a growth of beard on which there was also dried blood, his boots had been removed and his long toes with dirty nails were poking out of the holes in his socks. The wound in his neck disappeared from sight beneath a bandage and the healer's herbs. The Idiot burst out laughing, and though the Bearded Lady dug her elbows into his ribs, he went on whooping. Beardless, skinny as a rail, his eyes blank, his mouth open and a thread of spittle hanging from his lips, he writhed with laughter. Jurema paid no attention to him, but the stranger opened his eyes. His face contorted in surprise, pain, or terror at what was being done to him, but he was so weak he was unable to sit up and simply lay there tossing about and uttering one of those sounds that the circus people found incomprehensible.

It took Jurema a long while to finish her task-so long that, before she was done, the capangas capangas had had time to go to the store, hear the story of the children murdered by the madman, and go to the cemetery to commit a sacrilege that left the villagers of Ipupiara stupefied: namely, disinterring the corpse of the filicide, loading it, coffin and all, on the back of one of their horses, and carrying it off. Now they were back, standing a few yards away from the circus people, waiting. When Gall's hair was all sheared off, and his skull covered with an uneven iridescence like red shot silk, the Idiot burst out laughing once again. Jurema gathered up the locks of hair that she had carefully laid in her lap, tied them in a bundle with the bit of string with which her own hair was fastened back, and then the Bearded Lady saw her search through the stranger's pockets and take out a little pouch that he had told them contained money, in case they wanted to use it. With the shock of hair in one hand and the pouch in the other, she climbed down out of the wagon and headed past the circus people. had had time to go to the store, hear the story of the children murdered by the madman, and go to the cemetery to commit a sacrilege that left the villagers of Ipupiara stupefied: namely, disinterring the corpse of the filicide, loading it, coffin and all, on the back of one of their horses, and carrying it off. Now they were back, standing a few yards away from the circus people, waiting. When Gall's hair was all sheared off, and his skull covered with an uneven iridescence like red shot silk, the Idiot burst out laughing once again. Jurema gathered up the locks of hair that she had carefully laid in her lap, tied them in a bundle with the bit of string with which her own hair was fastened back, and then the Bearded Lady saw her search through the stranger's pockets and take out a little pouch that he had told them contained money, in case they wanted to use it. With the shock of hair in one hand and the pouch in the other, she climbed down out of the wagon and headed past the circus people.

The leader of the capangas capangas stepped forward. The Bearded Lady saw him take the stranger's locks that Jurema handed him and, almost without looking at them, put them in his saddlebag. His motionless pupils were threatening, despite the fact that he addressed Jurema in a studiedly courteous, formal manner, picking at his teeth the while with his index finger. This time the Bearded Lady could hear what they said. stepped forward. The Bearded Lady saw him take the stranger's locks that Jurema handed him and, almost without looking at them, put them in his saddlebag. His motionless pupils were threatening, despite the fact that he addressed Jurema in a studiedly courteous, formal manner, picking at his teeth the while with his index finger. This time the Bearded Lady could hear what they said.

"He had this in his pocket," Jurema said, holding out the pouch. But Caifas did not take it.

"I mustn't," he said, as though repelled by something invisible. "That belongs to Rufino, too."

Not making the slightest objection, Jurema tucked the pouch in her skirts. The Bearded Lady thought that she was about to walk off, but looking Caifas straight in the eye, she asked him softly: "And what if Rufino's dead?"

Caifas thought for a moment, without changing expression, without blinking. "If he's dead, there will always be someone to avenge the dishonor done him," the Bearded Lady heard him say, and she seemed to be hearing the Dwarf and his tales of knights and princes. "A kinsman, a friend. I myself, if necessary."

"And what if your boss finds out what you've done?" she asked then.

"He's only my boss," Caifas replied self-a.s.suredly. "Rufino's more than that. He wants the stranger dead and the stranger's going to die. Maybe from his wounds, maybe at Rufino's hand. The lie is soon going to become the truth, and this hair is going to be that of a dead man."

He turned his back on Jurema to mount his horse. Anxiously, she put one hand on the saddle. "Will he kill me, too?"

The Bearded Lady saw the man dressed in leather gaze down at her without pity and perhaps with a certain contempt. "If I were Rufino I'd kill you, because it's your fault, too-perhaps more than his," Caifas said from the back of his mount. "But since I'm not Rufino, I don't know. He'll know, though."

He spurred his horse and the capangas capangas rode off with their strange, stinking booty, in the same direction from which they had come. rode off with their strange, stinking booty, in the same direction from which they had come.

As soon as the Ma.s.s celebrated by Father Joaquim in the Chapel of Santo Antonio was over, Abbot Joao went to the Sanctuary to get the crate full of things that he had asked the priest to bring. There was a question preying on his mind: How many soldiers are there in a regiment? He hoisted the crate onto his shoulder and strode rapidly across the uneven ground of Belo Monte, dodging the people who hurried over to ask if it was true that another army was coming. He answered yes, without stopping, leaping over the chickens, goats, dogs, and children in his way so as not to step on them. He reached the former hacienda steward's house, now turned into a store, with his shoulder aching from the weight of the crate.

The crowd of people standing in the doorway moved aside to let him by, and inside Antonio Vilanova broke off whatever it was he was telling his wife Antonia and his sister-in-law a.s.suncao and hurried across the room to join him. From its swing, a parrot kept frantically repeating: "Felicity! Felicity!"

"A regiment's coming," Abbot Joao said, setting his load down on the floor.

"How many men is that?"

"He brought the fuses!" Antonio Vilanova exclaimed, squatting on his heels, eagerly examining the contents of the crate. He beamed with satisfaction as he discovered, in addition to the packets of fuses, tablets for diarrhea, disinfectants, bandages, calomel, oil, and alcohol.

"There's no way to repay Father Joaquim for what he does for us," he said, lifting the crate onto the counter. The shelves were full of canned goods and bottles, lengths of material and all manner of wearing apparel, from sandals to sombreros, and sacks and cartons were sitting about everywhere on the floor, with the Sardelinha sisters and other people walking about among them. Lying on top of the counter, a long plank resting on barrels, were several black ledgers, of the sort used by hacienda bookkeepers.

"Father Joaquim also brought news," Abbot Joao said. "Could a regiment be a thousand men?"

"Yes, so I've heard, an army's coming." Antonio Vilanova nodded, setting the things the priest had brought out on the counter. "A regiment? More than a thousand men. Two thousand maybe."

Abbot Joao realized that Antonio's mind was not on how many soldiers the Can was sending against Canudos this time. He watched the fat, slightly bald, bushy-bearded storekeeper putting packages and bottles away in his usual brisk, efficient way. There was not the slightest trace of anxiety, or even interest, in his voice. "He has too many other things to do," Abbot Joao thought, as he explained that it was necessary to send someone to Monte Santo right away. "He's right; it's better for him not to have to worry about the war along with everything else." Because Antonio was perhaps the person who, for years now, had slept the least and worked the most of anyone in Canudos. In the early days, just after the Counselor arrived, he had gone on with his work of buying and selling merchandise, but gradually, with the tacit agreement of everyone, he had taken on in addition the task of organizing the society that was aborning, a responsibility that now occupied most of his time. Without him it would have been hard to eat, sleep, survive as the waves of pilgrims began pouring into Canudos from all over. He was the one who had parceled out the land so that they could build their dwellings and put in their crops, advised them what to grow and what livestock to raise, and it was he who took charge of bartering in the villages round about, exchanging the things Canudos produced for the things it needed, and when donations began to come in, it was he who decided how much would be set aside for the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and how much would go for the purchase of arms and supplies. Once the Little Blessed One gave them permission to stay permanently, the newcomers then went to Antonio Vilanova for help in getting settled. The Health Houses for the old, the sick, and the disabled were his idea, and at the time of the engagements at Uaua and O Cambaio, he was the one who took charge of storing the captured weapons and distributing them, after consulting with Abbot Joao. He met with the Counselor almost every day to give him an account of everything and learn of his wishes. He had not gone back to traveling all about, and Abbot Joao had heard Antonia Sardelinha say that this was the most amazing sign of the change that had taken place in her husband, that man once so possessed by the demonic urge to be forever on the move. It was Honorio who traveled all over on community business now, and no one could have said whether the elder brother's stay-at-home habits were due to his many important duties in Belo Monte or to the fact that he was thus able to be in the Counselor's company almost every day, if only for a few minutes. He came away from these meetings with renewed energies and a profound peace of heart.

"The Counselor has agreed that there should be a corps of guards to protect him," Abbot Joao said. "He also agreed that Big Joao should be the head of it."

This time Antonio was interested in what he had to say and looked at him in relief. "Felicity!" the parrot screamed again.

"Have Big Joao come round to see me. I can help him choose his men-I know all of them. If you think I ought to, that is."

Antonia Sardelinha had approached. "Catarina came around this morning asking for you," she said to Abbot Joao. "Do you have the time right now to go see her?"

Joao shook his head: no, he didn't. Tonight, perhaps. He felt abashed, though the Vilanovas understood that with him G.o.d came first and his family second: wasn't it the same with them? But in his heart of hearts it distressed him deeply that through force of circ.u.mstance, or the will of the Blessed Jesus, he saw less and less of his wife these days.

"I'll go tell Catarina," Antonia said to him with a smile.

Abbot Joao left the store thinking how strange things had turned out in his life, as they did in everyone's perhaps. "Like in the minstrels' stories," he thought. On meeting up with the Counselor, he had believed that blood would vanish from his path, and here he was involved in a battle that was worse than any he had ever fought. Was that why the Father had made him repent of his sins? So as to go on killing and seeing people die? Yes, that was no doubt why. He sent two kids he ran into on the street to tell Pedrao and old Joaquim Macambira to meet him at the exit from town leading to Jeremoabo, and before going to where Big Joao was he went to look for Pajeu, who was out digging trenches on the road to Rosario. He found him a few hundred yards past the last huts, covering a trench across the trails with boughs of buckthorn to hide it. A group of men, some of them with shotguns, were bringing tree branches and putting them in place, as women distributed plates of food to other men sitting on the ground who appeared to have just finished their work shift. On seeing him coming, everyone flocked round him, and he found himself in the center of a circle of inquisitive faces. Without a word, one of the women placed in his hands a bowlful of goat meat sprinkled with maize meal; another handed him a jug of water. He was so tired-he had come all the way on the run-that he had to take a deep breath and drink a long swallow of water before he was able to speak. He did so as he ate, without the thought ever occurring to him that a few years before-at the time when his gang and Pajeu's were trying to wipe each other out-the people listening to him would have given anything to have him at their mercy like this so as to subject him to the worst tortures imaginable before killing him. Luckily, those chaotic days were a thing of the past.

Pajeu didn't turn a hair on hearing of Father Joaquim's news about a second army coming. He did not ask a single question. Did Pajeu know how many men there were in a regiment? No, he didn't know, and neither did any of the others. Abbot Joao then asked him what he had come to ask him to do: go south to spy on these troops that were coming and hara.s.s them. His band of outlaws had marauded in that region for years; he knew it better than anybody else: so wasn't he the best man to patrol the route the soldiers took, to hunt up guides and bearers to infiltrate their ranks, to set up ambushes to delay them and give Belo Monte time to ready its defenses?

Pajeu nodded, still without having opened his mouth. Seeing his yellowish-gray pallor, the enormous scar across his face, and his strong, solid body, Abbot Joao wondered yet again how old he was, whether he wasn't a man far along in years whose age didn't show.

"All right," he heard him say. "I'll send you reports every day. How many of these men am I to take with me?"

"However many you want," Abbot Joao answered. "They're your men."

"They were were my men," Pajeu growled, glancing quickly around at the men surrounding him, a sudden warm gleam in his expressionless, deep-set little eyes. "They're the Blessed Jesus' men now." my men," Pajeu growled, glancing quickly around at the men surrounding him, a sudden warm gleam in his expressionless, deep-set little eyes. "They're the Blessed Jesus' men now."

"We're all His men," Abbot Joao replied. And with sudden urgency in his voice: "Before you leave, have Antonio Vilanova give you ammunition and explosives. We have fuses now. Can Taramela stay here?"

The man whose name had been mentioned stepped forward: he was a tiny little fellow with slanted eyes, scars, wrinkles, and broad shoulders, who had been Pajeu's lieutenant.

"I want to go with you to Monte Santo," he said to Pajeu in a tart voice. "I've always looked after you. I bring you good luck."

"Look after Canudos now. It's worth more than I am," Pajeu answered brusquely.

"Yes, stay and bring us good luck," Abbot Joao said. "I'll send you more men so you won't feel lonesome. Praised be the Blessed Jesus."

"Praised be He," several voices answered.

Abbot Joao had turned his back to them and was running once more, cutting across the fields toward the looming bulk of O Cambaio, where Big Joao was. As he ran, he thought about his wife. He hadn't seen her since he had decided to have hiding places and trenches dug along all the trails, an undertaking that had kept him running day and night within a circ.u.mference of which Canudos was also the center, as it was of the world. Abbot Joao had come to know Catarina when he had been one of that handful of men and women-whose number rose and fell like the waters of the river-who entered villages with the Counselor and stretched out on the ground at his side at night after the long, tiring day's journey to pray with him and listen to his counsels. Among them had been a figure so thin she seemed to be a ghost, enveloped in a tunic as white as a shroud. The former cangaceiro cangaceiro's eyes had often found hers fixed on him during their marches, prayers, halts to rest. They made him uncomfortable, and at times they frightened him. They were eyes ravaged by pain, eyes that seemed to threaten him with punishments that were not of this world.

One night, when the pilgrims were already asleep round a campfire, Abbot Joao crawled over to the woman whose eyes he could see in the firelight, riveted on him. "I want to know why you keep looking at me," he whispered. She answered with an effort, as though struggling to overcome great exhaustion or great repugnance. "I was in Custodia when you came to wreak your vengeance," she said in a voice that he could barely hear. "The first man you killed, the one who gave the warning shout, was my father. I saw how you plunged your knife in his belly." Abbot Joao remained silent, hearing the sound of the campfire crackling, the insects buzzing, the woman breathing, trying to remember those eyes on that dawn so long ago. After a moment, his voice, too, scarcely more than a whisper, he asked: "So not all of you in Custodia died that day?"

"There were three of us who didn't," the woman murmured. "Dom Matias, who hid in the straw on his roof. Senhora Rosa, whose wounds healed, though her mind was gone. And me. They thought they'd killed me too, and my wound also healed." It was as though the two of them were speaking of other people, of other happenings, of a different, poorer life. "How old were you?" the cangaceiro cangaceiro asked. "Ten or twelve, something like that," she said. Abbot Joao looked at her: she must still be very young, then, but hunger and suffering had aged her. Continuing to speak very softly so as not to awaken the other pilgrims, the two of them gravely recalled the events of that long-ago night, still so vivid in their memories. She had been raped by three men and later someone had made her kneel in front of a pair of pants that smelled of horse dung, and callused hands had crammed down her throat a member so big it would barely fit in her mouth, and she had been forced to suck it till a gob of his seed spurted out of it and the man ordered her to swallow it. When one of the bandits slashed her with his knife, Catarina felt a great peace come over her. "Was I the one who slashed you with the knife?" Abbot Joao whispered. "I don't know," she whispered back. "Even though it was daylight by then, I couldn't tell the faces apart and I didn't know where I was." asked. "Ten or twelve, something like that," she said. Abbot Joao looked at her: she must still be very young, then, but hunger and suffering had aged her. Continuing to speak very softly so as not to awaken the other pilgrims, the two of them gravely recalled the events of that long-ago night, still so vivid in their memories. She had been raped by three men and later someone had made her kneel in front of a pair of pants that smelled of horse dung, and callused hands had crammed down her throat a member so big it would barely fit in her mouth, and she had been forced to suck it till a gob of his seed spurted out of it and the man ordered her to swallow it. When one of the bandits slashed her with his knife, Catarina felt a great peace come over her. "Was I the one who slashed you with the knife?" Abbot Joao whispered. "I don't know," she whispered back. "Even though it was daylight by then, I couldn't tell the faces apart and I didn't know where I was."

From that night onward, the former cangaceiro cangaceiro and the survivor of Custodia always prayed together and walked along together, recounting to each other stories of their past lives that now seemed incomprehensible to them. She had joined the saint in a village in Sergipe, where she had been living on the charity of others. After the Counselor, she was the frailest of the band, and there came a day when she fell into a dead faint as they marched along. Abbot Joao lifted her up and carried her in his arms till nightfall. He carried her for several days and also took it upon himself to bring her little bits of food soaked in liquid that she could keep down. Then at night, again as he would have done with a child, after they had listened to the Counselor together he told her the tales of chivalry he had heard the and the survivor of Custodia always prayed together and walked along together, recounting to each other stories of their past lives that now seemed incomprehensible to them. She had joined the saint in a village in Sergipe, where she had been living on the charity of others. After the Counselor, she was the frailest of the band, and there came a day when she fell into a dead faint as they marched along. Abbot Joao lifted her up and carried her in his arms till nightfall. He carried her for several days and also took it upon himself to bring her little bits of food soaked in liquid that she could keep down. Then at night, again as he would have done with a child, after they had listened to the Counselor together he told her the tales of chivalry he had heard the cantadores cantadores recite when he was little, which now-perhaps because his soul had regained its childhood innocence-came back to him with a wealth of detail. She listened to him without interrupting him, and days later, in her voice so faint it was almost inaudible, she asked him questions about the Saracens, Fierabras, and Robert the Devil, whereupon he realized that those phantoms had become as intimate a part of Catarina's life as they had once been of his. recite when he was little, which now-perhaps because his soul had regained its childhood innocence-came back to him with a wealth of detail. She listened to him without interrupting him, and days later, in her voice so faint it was almost inaudible, she asked him questions about the Saracens, Fierabras, and Robert the Devil, whereupon he realized that those phantoms had become as intimate a part of Catarina's life as they had once been of his.

She had recovered and was walking on her own two feet again when one night Abbot Joao, trembling with embarra.s.sment, confessed before all the pilgrims that he had often felt the desire to possess her. The Counselor called Catarina to him and asked her if she was offended by what she had just heard. She shook her head. Before the silent circle of pilgrims, the Counselor asked her if she still felt bitterness in her heart because of what had happened in Custodia. She shook her head once more. "You are purified," the Counselor said. He had both of them join hands and asked all the disciples to pray to the Father for them. One week later the parish priest of Xiquexique married them. How long ago had that been? Four or five years? Feeling that his heart was about to burst, Joao at last caught sight of the shadows of the jaguncos jaguncos on the lower slopes of O Cambaio. He stopped running and went on in that quick, short stride that had taken him so many miles in his endless journeys. on the lower slopes of O Cambaio. He stopped running and went on in that quick, short stride that had taken him so many miles in his endless journeys.

An hour later he was with Big Joao, telling him the latest news as he drank cool water and ate a plateful of maize. The two of them were by themselves, since after announcing to the rest of the men that a regiment was coming-none of them could tell him how many soldiers that was-he had asked to be alone with Big Joao. The former slave was barefoot as usual, and wearing a pair of faded pants held up at the waist by a length of rope from which there hung a knife and a machete, and a shirt with all the b.u.t.tons missing that bared his hairy chest. He had a carbine slung over his shoulder and two bandoleers draped round his neck like necklaces. When Big Joao heard that a Catholic Guard was to be formed to protect the Counselor and that he was to be the leader of it, he shook his head emphatically.

"Why not?" Abbot Joao asked.

"I'm not worthy of such an honor," the black murmured.

"The Counselor says you are," Abbot Joao replied. "He's a better judge than you."

"I don't know how to give orders," the black protested. "And what's more, I don't want to learn how. Let somebody else be the leader."

"You're the one who's going to be the leader," the Street Commander said. "There's no time to argue, Big Joao."

Lost in thought, the black stood watching the groups of men scattered about amid the rocks and boulders on the mountainside, beneath a sky that had turned a leaden color.

"Watching over the Counselor is a heavy load on my shoulders," he finally said.

"Choose the best men, the ones who've been here the longest, the ones you saw fight well at Uaua and here in O Cambaio," Abbot Joao said. "When that army gets here, the Catholic Guard must already exist and serve as a shield for Canudos."

Big Joao remained silent, chewing slowly even though his mouth was empty. He stood there gazing at the mountain peaks round about him as though he were seeing the shining warriors of King Dom Sebastiao suddenly appear on them: awed, overwhelmed, taken completely by surprise.

"It's you who've chosen me, not the Little Blessed One or the Counselor," he said dully. "And you haven't done me any favor."

"No, I haven't," Abbot Joao conceded. "I didn't choose you so as to do you one, or to do you any harm either. I chose you because you're the best man. Go to Belo Monte and get to work."

"Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor," the black said. He got up from the rock he was sitting on and started off across the stony ground.

"Praised be He," Abbot Joao said. A few seconds later he saw the ex-slave break into a run.

"In other words, you were untrue to your duty, twice," Rufino says. "You didn't kill him the way Epaminondas wanted you to. And you lied to Epaminondas, leading him to believe he was dead. Two times."

"Only the first time is really serious," Caifas says. "I handed his hair and a corpse over to him. It was somebody else's dead body, but neither he nor anybody else could tell that it was. And the foreigner will be a corpse soon, if he isn't one already. So that's a minor fault."

On the reddish bank of the Itapicuru, opposite the one the Queimadas tanneries are on, that Sat.u.r.day, like every other Sat.u.r.day, stalls and stands have been set up where vendors from all over the region are hawking their wares. Discussions between buyers and sellers rise above the sea of heads, bare or topped with black sombreros, that dot the marketplace, and mingle with the din of whinnying horses, barking dogs, screaming children, and roistering drunkards. Beggars appeal to people's generosity by exaggerating the contortions of their maimed and crippled limbs, and minstrels accompanying themselves on guitars stand in front of little knots of people, reciting love stories and tales of the wars between Christian crusaders and unbelievers. Shaking their skirts, their arms covered with bracelets, gypsy women, young and old, tell fortunes.

"Anyway, I'm grateful to you," Rufino says. "You're a man of honor, Caifas. That's why I've always respected you. That's why everybody respects you."

"What's a person's greatest duty?" Caifas says. "Toward his boss or toward his friend? A blind man could have seen that I was obliged to do what I did."

They walk on side by side, very gravely, indifferent to the colorful, motley throng, the chaotic atmosphere round about them. They rudely push their way through the crowd, forcing people aside with one glaring look or a shove of their shoulders. Every so often someone standing behind a counter or inside a canvas-covered stall greets them, and both of them return the greeting so curtly that no one approaches them. As if by tacit agreement, they head for a place where drinks are being sold-wooden benches, plank tables, an arbor-with fewer customers in it than in the others.

"If I'd finished him off there in Ipupiara I'd have offended you," Caifas says, as though putting into words something he has long been mulling over in his mind. "By keeping you from avenging the blot on your honor."

"Why did you go there to kill him in the first place?" Rufino interrupts him. "Why at my house?"

"Epaminondas wanted him to die there," Caifas answered. "Neither you nor Jurema was to be killed. My men died so as to keep her from getting hurt." He spits in the air past an eyetooth, and stands there thinking things over in his mind. "Maybe it was my fault they died. It didn't occur to me that he might defend himself, that he knew how to fight. He didn't look the type."

"No," Rufino agrees. "He didn't."

They sit down and pull their chairs closer together so as to talk without being overheard. The woman waiting on them hands them two gla.s.ses and asks if they'll have cane brandy. Yes. She brings a half-full bottle, the guide pours the two of them a drink, and they down it without offering a toast. Then Caifas takes a turn filling the gla.s.ses. He is older than Rufino, and his eyes, with their fixed stare, are dull and lifeless. He is dressed all in leather, as always, from head to foot.

"She was the one who saved him?" Rufino finally says, lowering his eyes. "She was the one who grabbed your arm?"

"That's how I realized she'd become his woman." Caifas nods. There are still traces of the surprise on his face. "When she leapt on me and deflected my aim, when she attacked me at the same moment he did." He shrugs his shoulders and spits. "She was already his woman, so what else could she do but defend him?"

"True," Rufino says.

"I don't understand why the two of them didn't kill me," Caifas says. "I asked Jurema why, in Ipupiara, and she couldn't tell me. That foreigner is a strange one."

"That he is," Rufino agrees.

Among the people at the market are a number of soldiers. They are what is left of Major Febronio de Brito's expedition, troops who have stayed in town waiting, they say, for an army that is to arrive. Their uniforms are in rags, they wander about like lost souls; they sleep in the main square, in the train station, in the gorges of the river. They are here too now, roaming aimlessly about amid the stalls, by twos, by fours, looking longingly at the women, the food, the drinks all round them. The townspeople make it a point not to speak to them, not to listen to them, not to take any note of them.

"Promises tie your hands, don't they?" Rufino says timidly, a deep frown furrowing his forehead.

"That they do," Caifas concedes. "How can a person go back on a promise made to the Blessed Jesus or the Virgin?"

"Or to the baron?" Rufino says, thrusting his head forward.

"The baron can release you from one made to him," Caifas says. He fills their gla.s.ses again and they drink. Amid all the hubbub of the market, a violent argument breaks out somewhere in the distance and ends in a chorus of laughter. The sky has clouded over, as though it is about to rain.

"I know how you feel," Caifas suddenly says. "I know that you can't sleep, that everything in life is over for you. That even when you're with other people, the way you're with me right now, you're wreaking your vengeance. That's how it is, Rufino. That's how it is when a man values his honor."

A line of ants heads across the table, detouring around the bottle of cachaca cachaca that is now empty. Rufino watches them advance and disappear. His hand, still holding the gla.s.s, clenches it tightly. that is now empty. Rufino watches them advance and disappear. His hand, still holding the gla.s.s, clenches it tightly.

"There's something you ought to keep in mind," Caifas adds. "Death isn't enough. It doesn't remove the stain. But a slap, a whiplash, square in the face, does. Because a man's face is as sacred as his mother or his wife."

Rufino stands up. The woman who owns the place hurries over and Caifas reaches toward his pocket, but the tracker stops him and pays the bill himself. They wait for her to bring the change, neither of them saying a word, each lost in his own thoughts.

"Is it true your mother's gone to Canudos?" Caifas asks. And, as Rufino nods: "Lots of people are going there. Epaminondas is enlisting more men in the Rural Police. An army's coming and he wants to give it a hand. I have kinfolk who are with the saint, too. It's hard to wage war against a person's own family, isn't that so, Rufino?"

"I've another war to wage," Rufino murmurs, pocketing the coins the woman hands him.

"I hope you find him, that he hasn't died of illness," Caifas says.

Their silhouettes disappear amid the tumult of the Queimadas market.