“Doesn’t it really matter to you at all whether Rufino kills your wife or not?” he heard Ulpino ask him. “Why did you steal her from him, then?”
He felt himself choke with anger. Stumbling over his words, he roared that he didn’t have a wife: how dare he ask him something that he’d already answered? He felt hatred of him mounting, and a desire to insult him.
“It’s beyond all understanding,” he heard Ulpino mutter.
His legs ached so and his feet were so swollen that shortly after they started walking again, he said he needed to rest a while more. As he sank to the ground, he thought: “I’m not the man I was.” He had also grown much thinner; as he looked at the bony forearm on which his head was resting, it seemed to be someone else’s.
“I’m going to see if I can find something to eat,” Ulpino said. “Get a little sleep.”
Gall saw him disappear behind some leafless trees. As he closed his eyes he caught sight of a wooden board mounted on a tree trunk, with half the nails fallen out and a faint inscription: Caracatá. The name kept going round and round in his head as he dropped off to sleep.
Pricking up his ears, the Lion of Natuba thought: “He’s going to speak to me.” His little body trembled with joy. The Counselor lay on his pallet, absolutely silent, but the scribe of Canudos could tell from the way he was breathing whether he was awake or asleep. He began to listen again in the darkness. Yes, he was still awake. His deep eyes must be closed, and beneath his eyelids he must be seeing one of those apparitions that descended to speak to him or that he ascended to visit above the tall clouds: the saints, the Virgin, the Blessed Jesus, the Father. Or else he must be thinking of the wise things that he would say the following day, things that the Lion would note down on the paper that Father Joaquim brought him and that believers of the future would read as believers today read the Gospels.
The thought came to him that since Father Joaquim wouldn’t be coming to Canudos any more, his stock of writing paper would run out soon and he would then have to write on those big sheets of wrapping paper from the Vilanovas’ store that made the ink run. Father Joaquim had rarely spoken to him, and ever since the day he first saw him—the morning he entered Cumbe, scooting along at the Counselor’s heels—he had noted in the priest’s eyes, too, many times, that surprise, uneasiness, repugnance that his person always aroused, and that rapid movement of his head to avert his eyes and put the sight of him out of his mind. But the priest’s capture by the Throat-Slitter’s soldiers and his probable death had saddened him because of the effect that the news had had on the Counselor. “Let us rejoice, my sons,” he had said that evening as he gave his counsel from the tower of the new Temple. “Belo Monte has its first saint.” But later, in the Sanctuary, the Lion of Natuba had been aware of the sadness that had come over him. He refused the food that Maria Quadrado brought him, and as the women of the Choir made his toilet he did not stroke, as he usually did, the little lamb that Alexandrinha Correa (her eyes swollen from weeping) held within his reach. On resting his head on the Counselor’s knees, the Lion did not feel his hand on his hair, and later he heard him sigh: “There won’t be any more Masses; we are orphans now.” The Lion had a foreboding of catastrophe.
Hence he, too, was having difficulty falling asleep. What was going to happen? War was close at hand once again, and this time it would be worse than when the elect and the dogs had clashed at O Taboleirinho. There would be fighting in the streets, there would be more dead and wounded, and he would be one of the first to die. No one would come to his rescue, as the Counselor had rescued him in Natuba. He had gone off with him out of gratitude, and out of gratitude he had followed the saint everywhere, despite the superhuman effort those long journeys meant for him, since he was obliged to hop about on all fours. The Lion understood why many followers missed those bygone days of wandering. There were only a handful of them then, and they had the Counselor all to themselves. How things had changed! He thought of the thousands who envied him for being able to be at the saint’s side night and day. Even he, however, no longer had a chance to be by himself with the Counselor and speak alone with the only man who had always treated him as though he were like everyone else. For the Lion had never noticed the slightest sign that the Counselor saw him as that creature with a crooked back and a giant head who looked like a strange animal born by mistake among human beings.
He remembered the night on the outskirts of Tepidó, many years before. How many pilgrims were with the Counselor then? After they had prayed, they had begun to make confession aloud. When his turn came, in an unexpected rush of emotion the Lion of Natuba suddenly said something that nobody had ever heard him say before: “I don’t believe in God or in religion. Only in you, Father, because you make me feel human.” There was a deep silence. Trembling at his temerity, he felt the shocked gaze of all the pilgrims fall upon him. He now heard once again the Counselor’s words that night: “You have suffered much more than even devils must suffer. The Father knows that your soul is pure because your every moment is an expiation. You have nothing to repent, Lion: your life is a penance.”
He repeated in his mind: “Your life is a penance.” But in it were also moments of incomparable happiness. Finding something new to read, for example, a few lines of a book, a page of a magazine, some little bit of printed matter, and learning the fabulous things that letters said. Or imagining that Almudia was still alive, still the beautiful young girl in Natuba, and that he sang to her, and instead of bewitching her and killing her, his songs made her smile. Or resting his head on the Counselor’s knees and feeling his fingers making their way through his thick locks, separating them, rubbing his scalp. It was soothing; a warm sensation came over him from head to foot, and he felt that, thanks to that hand in his hair and those bones against his cheek, he was receiving his recompense for the bad moments he had had in his life.
He was unfair; the Counselor was not the only one to whom he owed a debt of gratitude. Hadn’t the others carried him in their arms when his strength had given out? Hadn’t they all prayed fervently, the Little Blessed One especially, that he be given faith? Wasn’t Maria Quadrado good, kind, generous to him? He tried to feel tenderness in his heart toward the Mother of Men as he thought of her. She had done everything possible to gain his affection. In their days as pilgrims, when she saw that he was worn out, she would massage his body for a long time, just as she massaged the limbs of the Little Blessed One. And when he had attacks of fever, she had him sleep in her arms to keep him warm. She found him the clothes he wore, and the ingenious combination glove and shoe, of wood and leather, that made walking on all fours easier for him had been her idea. Why, then, didn’t he love her? No doubt because he had also heard the Superior of the Sacred Choir accuse herself, when the pilgrims would halt for the night in the desert, of having felt repugnance for the Lion of Natuba and of having thought that his ugliness came from the Evil One. Maria Quadrado wept as she confessed these sins and, beating her breast, begged his forgiveness for being so wicked. He would always say that he forgave her, and called her Mother. But in his heart of hearts he knew he hadn’t forgiven her. “I still bear her a grudge,” he thought. “If there is a hell, I shall burn forever and ever.” At other times the very thought of fire terrified him. Tonight it did not trouble him.
He wondered, remembering the last procession, whether he should attend any more of them. How frightened he had been! How many times he had been nearly smothered to death, trampled to death by the crowd trying to get closer to the Counselor! The Catholic Guard had all it could do not to be overrun by believers who wanted to reach out their hands and touch the saint amid the torches and the incense. The Lion found himself being badly jostled, then pushed to the ground, and had to yell to the Catholic Guard to lift him up just as the human tide was about to engulf him. In recent days, he hardly dared set foot outside the Sanctuary, for it had become dangerous for him to be out on the streets. People rushed up to touch his crooked back, believing that i
t would bring them luck, and snatched him away from each other as though he were a doll; or else they kept him at their houses for hours asking him questions about the Counselor. Would he be obliged to spend the rest of his days shut up between these four adobe walls? There was no bottom to unhappiness; the stores of suffering were inexhaustible.
He could hear by the Counselor’s breathing that he was asleep now. He turned an ear in the direction of the cubicle where the women of the Choir spent the nights all huddled together: they, too, were sleeping, even Alexandrinha Correa. Was it the thought of the war that was keeping him awake? It was imminent: neither Abbot João nor Pajeú nor Macambira nor Pedrão nor Taramela nor those who were guarding the roads and the trenches had come to the counsels, and the Lion had seen the armed men behind the parapets erected around the churches and the ones going back and forth with blunderbusses, shotguns, bandoleers, crossbows, clubs, pitchforks, as though they were expecting the attack at any moment.
He heard the cock crow; day was breaking between the reeds. When the water carriers began to blow their conch shells to announce that water was being distributed, the Counselor awakened and fell to his knees. Maria Quadrado came into the Sanctuary immediately. The Lion was already up, despite the sleepless night he had spent, ready to record the saint’s thoughts. The latter prayed for a long time, then sat with his eyes closed as the women washed his feet with a damp cloth and put his sandals on his feet. He drank the little bowl of milk that Maria Quadrado handed him, however, and ate a maize cake. But he did not stroke the little lamb. “It’s not just because of Father Joaquim that he’s so sad,” the Lion of Natuba thought. “It’s also because of the war.”
At that moment Abbot João, Big João, and Taramela entered. It was the first time that the Lion had seen the latter in the Sanctuary. When the Street Commander and the head of the Catholic Guard rose to their feet after kissing the Counselor’s hand, Pajeú’s lieutenant remained on his knees.
“Taramela received news last night, Father,” Abbot João said.
It occurred to the Lion that the Street Commander had no doubt not slept a wink all night either. He was sweaty, dirty, preoccupied. Big João downed with gusto the bowl of milk that Maria Quadrado had just handed him. The Lion imagined the two men running all night long from trench to trench, from one entrance to the town to another, bringing gunpowder, inspecting weapons, talking the situation over. “It’ll be today,” he thought. Taramela was still on his knees, crushing his leather hat in his hand. He had two shotguns and so many bandoleers around his neck that they looked like festive carnival necklaces. He was biting his lips, unable to get a word out. Finally, he stammered that Cíntio and Cruzes had arrived, on horseback. One of the horses had been ridden so hard it died. The other one might be dead now, too, for when he had last seen it there were rivers of sweat running down its flanks. The two men had galloped for two days without stopping. They, too, had nearly died of exhaustion. He fell silent, abashed, not knowing what to say next, his little almond eyes begging Abbot João for help.
“Tell the Father Counselor the message that Cíntio and Cruzes brought from Pajeú,” the former cangaceiro prompted him. He spoke with his mouth full, for Maria Quadrado had given him a bowl of milk and a little corn cake, too.
“The order has been carried out, Father,” Taramela reported. “Calumbi was burned down. The Baron de Canabrava has gone off to Queimadas, with his family and some of his capangas.”
Struggling to overcome the timidity he felt in the saint’s presence, he explained that, instead of going on ahead of the soldiers after he’d burned the hacienda down, Pajeú had positioned himself behind Throat-Slitter so as to fall upon him from the rear as he attacked Belo Monte. And then, without pausing, Taramela began to talk about the dead horse again. He had ordered that it be butchered for the men in his trench to eat, and that if the other one died it was to be given to Antônio Vilanova, so that he could distribute…But as at that moment the Counselor opened his eyes, he suddenly fell silent. The saint’s deep, dark gaze made Pajeú’s lieutenant feel even more unnerved; the Lion could see how hard his hand was crushing his sombrero.
“It’s all right, son,” the Counselor murmured. “The Blessed Jesus will reward Pajeú and those who are with him for their faith and courage.”
He held out his hand and Taramela kissed it, holding it for a moment in his and looking at the saint with fervent devotion. The Counselor blessed him and he crossed himself. Abbot João gestured to him to leave. Taramela stepped back, nodding reverently the while, and before he left the Sanctuary, Maria Quadrado gave him some milk, in the same bowl that Abbot João and Big João had drunk out of.
The Counselor looked at them questioningly.
“They’re very close, Father,” the Street Commander said, squatting on his heels. He spoke in such a solemn tone of voice that the Lion of Natuba was suddenly frightened and felt the women shiver, too. Abbot João took out his knife, traced a circle, and then added lines leading to it to represent the roads along which the soldiers were advancing.
“There is no one coming from this side,” he said, pointing to the entrance to town on the Jeremoabo road. “The Vilanovas are taking a great many of the old and the sick there so as to get them out of the line of fire.”
He looked at Big João to indicate that he should tell the rest. The black pointed at the circle with one finger. “We’ve built a shelter for you here, between the stables and the Mocambo,” he murmured. “A deep one, parapeted, with lots of stones so that it will be bulletproof. You can’t stay here in the Sanctuary, because they’re coming from this direction.”
“They’re bringing cannons with them,” Abbot João said. “I saw them, last night. The guides sneaked me into Throat-Slitter’s camp. They’re big long-range ones. The Sanctuary and the churches are sure to be their first target.”
The Lion of Natuba was so drowsy that the pen slipped out of his fingers. His head was buzzing, and he pushed the Counselor’s arms apart and managed to rest his great mane on his knees. He barely heard the saint’s words: “When will they be here?”
“Tonight at the very latest,” Abbot João replied.
“I’m going to go to the trenches, then,” the Counselor said softly. “Have the Little Blessed One bring out the saints and the Christs and the glass box with the Blessed Jesus, and have him take all the statues and the crosses to the roads along which the Antichrist is coming. Many people are going to die, but there is no need for tears. Death is bliss for the faithful believer.”
For the Lion of Natuba, bliss arrived at that very moment: the Counselor’s hand had just come to rest on his head. He immediately fell fast asleep, reconciled with life.
As he turns his back on the manor house of Calumbi, Rufino feels relieved: breaking the tie that bound him to the baron has suddenly given him the feeling of having more resources at his disposal to achieve his goal. Half a league farther on, he accepts the hospitality of a family he has known since he was a youngster. Without asking after Jurema or inquiring as to the reason for his having come to Calumbi, they give ample demonstration of their affection for him, and send him off the following morning with provisions for his journey.
He walks all day, and every so often along the way meets pilgrims heading for Canudos, who invariably ask him for something to eat. Hence by nightfall his provisions are all gone. He sleeps near some caves that he used to come to with other children from Calumbi to burn the bats with torches. On the following day, a peasant warns him that an army patrol has passed that way and that jagunços are prowling all about the region. He walks on, with a feeling of foreboding.
At dusk he reaches the outlying countryside round Caracatá, a handful of shacks in the distance, scattered about amid bushes and cacti. After the burning-hot sun, the shade of the cajueiros and cipós is a blessing. At that moment he senses that he is not alone. He is surrounded by a number of shadowy figures who have stealthily crept out of the caatinga. They are men armed with carbines,
crossbows, and machetes and wearing little animal bells and cane whistles around their necks. He recognizes several jagunços from Pajeú’s old band, but the half-breed is not with them. The barefoot man with Indian features who is in command puts a finger to his lips and motions to him to follow them. Rufino hesitates, but a look from the jagunço tells him that he must go with them, that they are doing him a favor. He immediately thinks of Jurema and the expression on his face betrays him, for the jagunço nods. He spies other men hiding amid the trees and brush. Several of them are camouflaged from head to foot in mantles of woven grass. Crouching down, squatting on their heels, stretched out on the ground, they are keeping a close watch on the trail and the village. They motion to Rufino to hide, too. A moment later the tracker hears a noise.
It is a patrol of ten men in red-and-gray uniforms, headed by a young fair-haired sergeant. They are being led by a guide who, Rufino thinks to himself, is no doubt an accomplice of the jagunços. As though he had a sudden presentiment of danger, the sergeant begins to take precautions. Keeping his finger on the trigger of his rifle, he dashes from one tree to the other, followed by his men, who also take cover behind tree trunks. The guide moves forward down the middle of the trail. The jagunços around Rufino appear to have vanished. Not a leaf stirs in the caatinga.
The War of the End of the World Page 39
