The War Of The End Of The World Part 11

He remained in the chapel for almost two hours more to receive pilgrims, only one of whom was not granted permission to stay, a grain merchant from Pedrinhas who had been a tax collector. He did not reject former soldiers, guides, or purveyors for the army. But tax gatherers were to depart immediately, never to return, under threat of death. They had bled the poor white, seized their harvests and sold them off, stolen their animals; their greed was implacable, and they risked being the worm that spoils the fruit. The Little Blessed One explained to the man from Pedrinhas that in order to obtain heaven's mercy he must fight the Can, somewhere far away, on his own. After sending word to the pilgrims outside to wait for him, he headed for the Sanctuary. It was mid-morning now, and the bright sunlight made the stones shimmer. Many people tried to detain him, but he explained in gestures that he was in a hurry. He was escorted by members of the Catholic Guard. In the beginning he had refused an escort, but now he realized that one was indispensable. Without these brothers, making his way across the few yards that separated the chapel and the Sanctuary would have taken him hours because of the number of people who a.s.sailed him with requests or insisted on having a word with him. As he walked along, the thought came to him that among this morning's pilgrims were some who had come from as far away as Alagoas and Ceara. Wasn't that extraordinary? The crowd that had gathered around the Sanctuary was so dense-people of all ages craning their necks toward the little wooden door where, at one moment of the day or another, the Counselor would appear-that he and the four members of the Catholic Guard were trapped. They waved their bits of blue cloth then and their comrades on duty at the Sanctuary cleared a path for the Little Blessed One. As he walked with hunched shoulders down this narrow pa.s.sage lined with bodies, he told himself that without the Catholic Guard chaos would have descended upon Belo Monte: that would have been the gate through which the Dog would have entered.

"Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ," he said, and heard in answer: "Praised be He." He was immediately aware of the peace that the Counselor created round about himself. Even the din outside became music here.

"I'm ashamed at having made you wait for me, Father," he muttered. "More and more pilgrims keep pouring in, so many I can't speak with them or remember their faces."

"All of them have a right to salvation," the Counselor said. "Rejoice for them."

"My heart rejoices to see that there are more and more of them each day," the Little Blessed One said. "It's myself I'm angry at, because I can't find the time to get to know them well."

He sat down on the floor, between Abbot Joao and Big Joao, who were holding their carbines across their knees. Besides Antonio Vilanova, his brother Honorio was there too, apparently just back from a journey, to judge from the dust he was covered with. Maria Quadrado handed him a gla.s.s of water and he drank it down slowly, savoring every drop. Enveloped in his dark purple tunic, the Counselor was sitting, very erect, on his pallet, and at his feet was the Lion of Natuba, his pencil and notebook in his hands, his huge head resting on the saint's knees; one of the latter's hands was buried in his coal-black, tangled hair. The women of the Choir were squatting on their heels along the wall, silent and motionless, and the little white lamb was sleeping. "He is the Counselor, the Master, the Comely One, the Beloved," the Little Blessed One thought with fervor. "We are his children. We were nothing and he made us apostles." He felt a rush of happiness: again the angel's wing brushing him.

He realized that there was a difference of opinion between Abbot Joao and Antonio Vilanova. The latter was saying that he was opposed to burning Calumbi, as Abbot Joao wanted to do, that it would be Belo Monte and not the Evil One who would suffer the consequences if the Baron de Canabrava's hacienda disappeared, since it was their best source of supplies. He spoke as though he were afraid of hurting someone's feelings or of uttering such serious thoughts aloud, in so soft a voice that the Little Blessed One had to strain his ears to hear him. How unquestionably supernatural the Counselor's aura was if a man like Antonio Vilanova was so diffident in his presence, he thought. In everyday life, the storekeeper was a force of nature, whose energy was overpowering and whose opinions were expressed with a conviction that was contagious. And that booming-voiced stentor, that tireless worker, that fountainhead of ideas, became as a little child before the Counselor. "He's not distressed, though; he's feeling the balm." Antonio had told him so himself many times in the past, as they had walked and talked together after the counsels. Antonio wanted to know everything about the Counselor, the story of his wanderings, the teachings that he had spread, and the Little Blessed One enlightened him. He thought with nostalgia of those first days in Belo Monte, of the sense of freedom and openness to others that had been lost. He and the shopkeeper used to chat together every day, walking from one end of Canudos to the other, in the days when it was still small and not yet populated. Antonio Vilanova bared his heart to him, revealing how the Counselor had changed his life. "I was always upset, with my nerves constantly on edge and the sensation that my head was about to explode. Now, just knowing that he's close at hand is enough to make me feel a serenity I've never felt before. It's a balm, Little Blessed One." But they could no longer have long talks together, for both of them were now enslaved by their respective responsibilities. Thy will be done, Father.

He had been so lost in memories he hadn't even noticed when Antonio Vilanova stopped speaking. Abbot Joao was now answering him. The news was definite and Pajeu had confirmed it: the Baron de Canabrava was in the service of the Antichrist, he was ordering the landowners to supply the army with capangas capangas, provisions, guides, horses, and mules, and Calumbi was being turned into a military camp. The baron's hacienda was the richest, the largest, the one with the best-stocked storehouses, able to provision ten armies. It was necessary to raze it, to leave nothing that could be of use to the Can's troops; otherwise, it would be much more difficult to defend Belo Monte when they arrived. Abbot Joao stood there with his eyes fixed on the Counselor's lips; Antonio Vilanova did likewise. There was no need to discuss the matter further: the saint would know if Calumbi should be saved or go up in flames. Despite their disagreement-the Little Blessed One had seen the two men argue many times-their feeling of brotherhood would be undiminished. But before the Counselor could open his mouth, there was a knock on the door of the Sanctuary. It was armed men, coming from c.u.mbe. Abbot Joao went to see what news they were bringing.

When he had left, Antonio Vilanova began to speak again, though this time it was about the deaths in Belo Monte. With the flood of pilgrims arriving, the number of dead had increased, and the old cemetery, behind the churches, had almost no room left for any more graves. He had therefore sent people out to clear and wall in a plot of ground in O Taboleirinho, between Canudos and O Cambaio, so as to start a new one. Did the Counselor approve? The saint gave a brief nod. As Big Joao, waving his huge hands, perturbed, his kinky hair gleaming with sweat, was recounting how the Catholic Guard had begun the day before to dig a trench with a double parapet of stones which would run from the banks of the Vaza-Barris to the Fazenda Velha, Abbot Joao returned. Even the Lion of Natuba raised his huge head and his inquisitive eyes.

"The army troops arrived in c.u.mbe at dawn this morning. They were asking about Father Joaquim as they came into town, and went looking for him. It would seem that they've slit his throat."

The Little Blessed One heard a sob, but he did not look around: he knew that it was Alexandrinha Correa. The others did not look at her either, despite the fact that her sobs grew deeper and deeper, till the sound of them filled the Sanctuary.

The Counselor had not moved. "We shall now pray for Father Joaquim," he said in a tender voice. "He is with the Father now. He will continue to help us there, even more than in this world. Let us rejoice for him and for ourselves. Death is a fiesta for the just man."

As he knelt, the Little Blessed One was filled with envy for the parish priest of c.u.mbe, safe now from the Can up there in that privileged place that only the martyrs of the Blessed Jesus enter.

Rufino reaches c.u.mbe at the same time as two army patrols, who behave as though the townspeople were the enemy. They search the houses, strike with their rifle b.u.t.ts anyone who protests, post an order promising death to anyone who conceals firearms, and proclaim it with a rolling of drums. They are looking for the parish priest. Rufino is told that they finally located him, that they had no scruples about entering the church and dragging him out by brute force. After going all about c.u.mbe asking after the circus people, Rufino finds lodgings for the night in the house of a brick maker. The family comments on the searches, the mistreatment, but they are even more deeply shocked by the sacrilege: invading the church and striking a minister of G.o.d! What people are saying must be true then: those wicked men are the Can's servants.

Rufino leaves the town convinced that the stranger has not pa.s.sed by way of c.u.mbe. Can he perhaps be in Canudos? Or in the hands of the soldiers? He is about to be taken prisoner at a barricade set up by the Rural Police to block off the road to Canudos. Several of them recognize him and intercede with the others on his behalf: after a time they let him continue on his way. He heads north via a shortcut, and after walking only a little way, he hears a rifle report. He realizes from the dust suddenly raised at his feet that they are shooting at him. He throws himself on the ground, crawls along, locates his attackers: two guards crouching on a rise. They shout to him to throw down his carbine and knife. He leaps up and runs as fast as he can in a zigzag line toward a dead angle. He arrives at this safe spot unhurt, and from there manages to put distance between himself and the guards by darting from rock to rock. But he loses his bearings, and when he is certain that he is no longer being followed, he lies down to rest. He is so exhausted that he sleeps like a log. The sun puts him on the right track to Canudos. Groups of pilgrims flowing in from all directions flock down the muddy trail that a few years before was used only by droves of cattle and poverty-stricken traders. At nightfall, camping among pilgrims, he hears a little old man covered with boils who has come from Santo Antonio tell about a circus show he has seen there. Rufino's heart pounds madly. He lets the old man talk without interrupting him and a moment later he knows that he has picked up the trail.

He arrives in Santo Antonio in the dark and sits down alongside one of the pools along the banks of the Ma.s.sacara to wait for daylight. He is so impatient he is unable to think. With the sun's first rays, he begins to go from one little house to the next, all of them identical. Most of them are empty. The first villager he comes across shows him where to go. He enters a dark, foul-smelling interior and halts till his eyes adjust to the dim light. He begins to make out the walls, with lines and scrawls and a Sacred Heart of Jesus scratched on them. There are no pictures or furniture, not even an oil lamp, but there is something like a lingering memory of these things that the occupants have carried away with them.

The woman is lying on the floor and sits up on seeing him enter. Round about her are bits of colored cloth, a wicker basket, and a brazier. In her lap is something that he has difficulty recognizing. Yes, it's the head of a snake. The tracker now notices the fuzz that darkens the woman's face and arms. Between her and the wall is someone lying stretched out; he can see half the person's body and his or her feet. He catches a glimpse of the grief that fills the eyes of the Bearded Lady. He bends down and respectfully asks her about the circus. She continues to look at him without seeing him, and finally, dejectedly, she hands him the cobra: he can have it to eat if he likes. Squatting on his heels, Rufino explains to her that he hasn't come to take food away from her but to find out something. The Bearded Lady talks to him about the dead one. He'd been dying by inches and the night before he breathed his last. He listens to her, nodding. She reproaches herself, she is filled with remorse, perhaps she should have killed Idilica before and given her to him to eat. If she'd done that, would it have saved him? She herself says no. The cobra and the dead man had shared her life ever since the beginnings of the circus. Memory brings back to Rufino images of the Gypsy, of Pedrim the Giant, and other performers he saw as a child in Calumbi. The woman has heard that if dead people aren't buried in a coffin they go to h.e.l.l; this fills her with anguish. Rufino offers to make a coffin and dig a grave for her friend. She asks him point-blank what he wants. His voice trembling, Rufino tells her. The stranger? the Bearded Lady repeats. Galileo Gall? Yes, him. Some men on horseback took him away as they were leaving the village. And she speaks again of the dead man, she couldn't drag him any farther, it was too hard, she'd decided she'd rather stay behind and care for him. Were they soldiers? Rural Police? Bandits? She doesn't know. The ones who cut off his hair in Ipupiara? No, it wasn't the same ones. Were they looking for him? Yes, they didn't bother the circus people. Did they go off in the direction of Canudos? She doesn't know that, either.

Rufino uses the boards over the window to prepare the deceased for burial, tying them around with the bright-colored bits of cloth. He hoists the dubious coffin onto his shoulder and goes outside, followed by the woman. Some villagers show him the way to the cemetery and lend him a shovel. He digs a grave, places the coffin in it and fills it up again, and remains there while the Bearded Lady prays. On returning to the little settlement, she thanks him effusively. Rufino, who has been standing staring into the distance, asks her: Did they also take the woman with them? The Bearded Lady blinks. You're Rufino, she says. He nods. She tells him that Jurema knew he'd be coming. Did they take her away with them, too? No, she went off with the Dwarf, heading for Canudos. A group of sick people and healthy townspeople overhear the conversation and are amused. Rufino is so exhausted he begins to stagger. He is offered hospitality and agrees to go rest in the house that the Bearded Lady is occupying. He sleeps till nightfall. When he wakes up, a man and wife bring him a bowl with a thick substance in it. He has a conversation with them about the war and the upheavals all over the world. When the man and woman leave, he asks the Bearded Lady about Galileo and Jurema. She tells him what she knows and informs him that she, too, is going to Canudos. Isn't she afraid she's entering the lion's den? She is more afraid of being all by herself; up there she'll perhaps meet up with the Dwarf again and they can go on keeping each other company.

The following morning, they bid each other goodbye. The tracker takes off toward the west, since the villagers a.s.sure him that that was the way the capangas capangas were headed. He makes his way amid bushes, thorns, and thickets and in the middle of the morning he dodges a patrol of scouts who are combing the scrub. He halts often to examine the animal tracks on the ground. He captures no game that day and is obliged to chew on bits of greenery. He spends the night in Riacho de Varginha. Shortly after resuming his journey the next morning, he spies the army of Throat-Slitter, the name that is on everyone's lips. He sees the troops' bayonets gleaming in the dust, hears the creaking of gun carriages rolling along the trail. He breaks into his little trot again but does not enter Zelia till after dark. The villagers tell him that not only have the soldiers pa.s.sed that way but Pajeu's were headed. He makes his way amid bushes, thorns, and thickets and in the middle of the morning he dodges a patrol of scouts who are combing the scrub. He halts often to examine the animal tracks on the ground. He captures no game that day and is obliged to chew on bits of greenery. He spends the night in Riacho de Varginha. Shortly after resuming his journey the next morning, he spies the army of Throat-Slitter, the name that is on everyone's lips. He sees the troops' bayonets gleaming in the dust, hears the creaking of gun carriages rolling along the trail. He breaks into his little trot again but does not enter Zelia till after dark. The villagers tell him that not only have the soldiers pa.s.sed that way but Pajeu's jaguncos jaguncos as well. n.o.body, however, remembers having seen a party of as well. n.o.body, however, remembers having seen a party of capangas capangas who have anybody who looks like Gall with them. Rufino hears the cane whistles keening in the distance; they hoot intermittently all night long. who have anybody who looks like Gall with them. Rufino hears the cane whistles keening in the distance; they hoot intermittently all night long.

Between Zelia and Monte Santo the terrain is flat, dry, strewn with sharp stones, and without trails. Rufino makes his way cautiously, fearing that he may meet up with a patrol at any moment. He finds water and food at mid-morning. Shortly thereafter, he has the feeling that he is not alone. He looks about, inspects the scrub, walks back and forth: nothing. A while later, however, there is no doubting the fact: he is being watched, by several men. He tries to shake them, changes direction, hides, runs. Useless: they are trackers who know their business and they are still there, invisible and very close by. He walks on resignedly, taking no precautions now, hoping that they'll kill him. A few minutes later, he hears a herd of goats bleating. He finally comes upon a clearing. Before he spies the armed men, he sees the young girl: an albino, deformed, with a mad look in her eyes. Dark bruises show through her ripped garments. She is playing with a handful of animal bells and a cane whistle of the sort that shepherds use to guide their flocks. The men, some twenty of them, allow him to approach them, not saying a word to him. They look more like peasants than cangaceiros cangaceiros, but they have machetes, carbines, bandoleers, knives, powder horns. When Rufino reaches them, one of them walks toward the girl, smiling so as not to frighten her. Her eyes open wide and she sits there stock-still. Making gestures the while to rea.s.sure her, he takes the little bells and the whistle from her and joins his comrades again. Rufino sees that all of them are wearing little bells and whistles around their necks.

They are sitting more or less in a circle eating. They do not appear to be at all surprised by his arrival, as though they were expecting him. The tracker raises his hand to his straw sombrero: "Good afternoon." Some of the men go on eating, others nod, and one of them murmurs with his mouth full: "Praised be the Blessed Jesus." He is a husky Indian half-breed with an olive complexion and a scar that has left him with almost no nose at all. "That's Pajeu," Rufino thinks. "He's going to kill me." This makes him feel sad, for he'll die without having struck in the face the man who dishonored him. Pajeu begins to question him. Without animosity, without even asking him to hand over his weapons: where he's from, who he is working for, where he's going, whom he's seen. Rufino answers without hesitation, falling silent only when he is interrupted by another question. The other men go on eating; only when Rufino explains what it is he's looking for and why, do they turn their heads and scrutinize him from head to foot. Pajeu makes him say again how many times he has guided the flying brigades that hunt down cangaceiros cangaceiros, to see if he'll contradict himself. But since Rufino has decided from the beginning to tell the truth, he doesn't give any wrong answers. Did he know that one of those flying brigades was hunting for Pajeu? Yes, he knew that. The former outlaw then says that he remembers that brigade led by Captain Geraldo Macedo, Bandit-Chaser, because he had a hard time shaking it. "You were a good tracker," he says. "I still am," Rufino answers. "But your trackers are better. I couldn't get rid of them." From time to time a silent figure emerges from the brush, comes over to Pajeu to tell him something, and then melts back into the brush like a ghost. Without becoming impatient, without asking what his fate is to be, Rufino watches them finish eating. The jaguncos jaguncos rise to their feet, bury the coals of their fire, rub out the traces of their presence with rise to their feet, bury the coals of their fire, rub out the traces of their presence with ico ico branches. Pajeu looks at him. "Don't you want to save your soul?" he asks him. "I must save my honor first," Rufino answers. No one laughs. Pajeu hesitates for a few seconds. "The stranger you're looking for has been taken to Calumbi, to the Baron de Canabrava's," he mutters. The next moment he rides off with his men. Rufino sees the albino girl, still sitting on the ground, and two black vultures at the top of an branches. Pajeu looks at him. "Don't you want to save your soul?" he asks him. "I must save my honor first," Rufino answers. No one laughs. Pajeu hesitates for a few seconds. "The stranger you're looking for has been taken to Calumbi, to the Baron de Canabrava's," he mutters. The next moment he rides off with his men. Rufino sees the albino girl, still sitting on the ground, and two black vultures at the top of an imbuzeiro imbuzeiro, clearing their throats like hoa.r.s.e old men.

He leaves the clearing immediately and walks on, but before half an hour has gone by, a paralysis overtakes his body, an utter exhaustion that causes him to collapse on the spot. When he awakens, his face, neck, and arms are full of insect bites. For the first time since leaving Queimadas, he feels bitterly discouraged, convinced that what he is doing is all in vain. He sets out again, in the opposite direction. But now, despite the fact that he is pa.s.sing through an area that he has been back and forth across countless times since the day when he first learned to walk, in which he knows where all the shortcuts are and where to look for water and which are the best places to set traps, the day's journey seems interminable and at each and every moment he must fight off his feeling of dejection. Very often, something that he has dreamed that afternoon comes back to him again: the earth is a thin crust that may split open and swallow him up at any moment. He cautiously fords the river just before Monte Santo, and from there it takes him less than ten hours to reach Calumbi. All through the night, he has not stopped to rest, and at times he has broken into a run. As he crosses the hacienda on which he was born and spent his childhood, he does not notice how overgrown with weeds the fields are, how few people are about, the general state of deterioration. He meets a few peons who greet him, but he does not return their greetings or answer their questions. None of them bars his way and a few of them follow him at a distance.

On the terrace surrounding the manor house, beneath the imperial palms and the tamarinds, in addition to peons going back and forth to the stables, storehouses, and servants' quarters, there are armed men. The blinds at the window are lowered. Rufino walks slowly toward the capangas capangas, watching them carefully. Without any sort of order, without a word to each other, they step forward to meet him. There are no shouts, no threats, not even an exchange of questions and answers between them and Rufino. When the tracker reaches them, they take hold of him and pin his arms down. They do not hit him or take his carbine or his machete or his knife away from him, and try not to be brutal with him. They simply block his way. At the same time, they clap him on the back, say h.e.l.lo to him, tell him not to be pigheaded and to listen to reason. The tracker's face is drenched with sweat. He does not hit them either, but he tries to get away. When he gets loose from two of them and takes a step forward, two others immediately force him to step back. This sort of game goes on for quite some time. Rufino finally gives up and hangs his head. The men let go of him. He looks at the two-story building, the round roof tiles, the window of the baron's study. He takes a step forward and immediately the men bar his way again.

The door of the manor house opens and someone he knows comes out: Aristarco, the overseer, the one who gives the capangas capangas their orders. "If you want to see the baron, he'll receive you this minute," he says to him amicably. their orders. "If you want to see the baron, he'll receive you this minute," he says to him amicably.

Rufino's chest heaves. "Is he going to hand the stranger over to me?"

Aristarco shakes his head. "He's going to hand him over to the army. The army will avenge you."

"That guy's mine," Rufino murmurs. "The baron knows that."

"He's not yours to kill, and the baron's not going to hand him over to you," Aristarco repeats. "Do you want him to explain to you himself?"

His face livid, Rufino answers no. The veins at his temples and neck have swelled, his eyes are bulging, and he is sweating heavily. "Tell the baron he's not my G.o.dfather any more," he says, his voice breaking. "And tell that other one that I'm going off to kill the woman he stole from me."

He spits, turns around, and walks off the way he came.

Through the window of the study, the Baron de Canabrava and Galileo Gall saw Rufino leave and the guards and peons return to their places. Galileo had bathed and been given a shirt and a pair of trousers in better condition than the ones he had on. The baron went back over to his desk, beneath a collection of knives and whips hanging on the wall. There was a cup of steaming-hot coffee on it and he took a sip, with a faraway look in his eye. Then he examined Gall once again, like an entomologist fascinated by a rare species. He had been scrutinizing Gall in that way ever since he had seen him being brought into his study, worn out and famished, by Aristarco and his capangas capangas, and, more intently still, ever since he had first heard him speak.

"Would you have ordered them to kill Rufino?" Gall asked, in English. "If he had insisted on coming inside, if he had become insolent? Yes, I'm certain of it, you'd have ordered him killed."

"One can't kill dead men, Mr. Gall," the baron answered. "Rufino is already dead. You killed him when you stole Jurema from him. If I had ordered him killed I'd have been doing him a favor. I'd have freed him of the anguish of having been dishonored. There is no worse torment for a sertanejo sertanejo."

He opened a box of cigars and as he lighted one he imagined a headline in the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias: ENGLISH AGENT GUIDED BY BARON'S HENCHMAN ENGLISH AGENT GUIDED BY BARON'S HENCHMAN. It had been a clever plan to have Rufino serve Gall as a guide: what better proof that he, the baron, was a co-conspirator of the foreigner's?

"The only thing I didn't understand was what pretext Epaminondas had used to attract the supposed agent to the backlands," he said, moving his fingers as though he had cramps in them. "It never entered my head that heaven might favor him by putting an idealist in his hands. A strange breed, idealists. I've never met one before, and now, in the s.p.a.ce of just a few days, I've had dealings with two of them. The other one is Colonel Moreira Cesar. Yes, he too is a dreamer. Though his dreams and yours don't coincide..."

A great commotion outside interrupted him. He went to the window, and through the little squares of the metal grille he saw that it wasn't Rufino who'd come back, but four men with carbines who had arrived and been surrounded by Aristarco and the capangas capangas. "It's Pajeu, from Canudos," he heard Gall say-that man who was either his prisoner or his guest, though even he himself couldn't say which. He looked closely at the newcomers. Three of them were standing there not saying a word, while the fourth was speaking with Aristarco. He was a caboclo caboclo, short, heavyset, no longer young, with skin like rawhide. He had a scar all the way across his face: yes, it might be Pajeu. Aristarco nodded several times, and the baron saw him head toward the house.

"This is an eventful day," he murmured, puffing on his cigar.

Aristarco's face had the same inscrutable expression as always, but the baron could nonetheless tell how alarmed he was.

"Pajeu," he said laconically. "He wants to talk to you."

Instead of answering, the baron turned to Gall. "I would like you to leave me now, if you will. I'll see you at dinnertime. We eat early here in the country. At six."

When Gall had left the room, the baron asked the overseer if only those four men had come. No, there were at least fifty jaguncos jaguncos round about outside the house. Was he certain that the round about outside the house. Was he certain that the caboclo caboclo was Pajeu? Yes. was Pajeu? Yes.

"What will happen if they attack Calumbi?" the baron asked. "Can we hold out?"

"We may get ourselves killed," the capanga capanga replied, as though he had asked himself the same question and arrived at that answer. "There are lots of the men I don't trust any more. They, too, may go off to Canudos at any moment." replied, as though he had asked himself the same question and arrived at that answer. "There are lots of the men I don't trust any more. They, too, may go off to Canudos at any moment."

The baron sighed. "Bring him inside," he said. "And I'd like you to be present at this meeting."

Aristarco went outside and came back a moment later with the newcomer. The caboclo caboclo from Canudos halted a yard away from the master of the house, removing his hat as he did so. The baron tried to see some hint in those stubborn little eyes, in those weather-beaten features, of the crimes and terrible misdeeds he was said to have committed. The cruel scar, which might have been left by a bullet, a knife, or the claw of a great wild feline, was a reminder of the violent life he had led. Apart from that, he might easily be taken for a peon on his land. But when his peons raised their eyes to his, they always blinked and lowered them. Pajeu's eyes stared straight into his, without humility. from Canudos halted a yard away from the master of the house, removing his hat as he did so. The baron tried to see some hint in those stubborn little eyes, in those weather-beaten features, of the crimes and terrible misdeeds he was said to have committed. The cruel scar, which might have been left by a bullet, a knife, or the claw of a great wild feline, was a reminder of the violent life he had led. Apart from that, he might easily be taken for a peon on his land. But when his peons raised their eyes to his, they always blinked and lowered them. Pajeu's eyes stared straight into his, without humility.

"You're Pajeu?" he finally asked.

"I am," the man said.

Aristarco was standing behind him, as motionless as a statue.

"You've wreaked as much havoc in these parts as the drought," the baron said, "with your robbing and killing and marauding."

"Those days are past now," Pajeu answered, without resentment, with heartfelt contrition. "There are sins I've committed in my life that I will one day be held accountable for. It's not the Can I serve now but the Father."

The baron recognized that tone of voice; it was that of the Capuchin Fathers of the Sacred Missions, that of the sanctimonious wandering sects who made pilgrimages to Monte Santo, that of Moreira Cesar, that of Galileo Gall. The tone of absolute certainty, he thought, the tone of those who are never a.s.sailed by doubts. And suddenly, for the first time, he was curious to hear the Counselor, that individual capable of turning a ruffian into a fanatic.

"Why have you come here?"

"To burn Calumbi down," the even voice replied.

"To burn Calumbi down?" Stupefaction changed the baron's expression, voice, posture.

"To purify it. After so much hard labor, this earth deserves a rest," the caboclo caboclo explained, speaking very slowly. explained, speaking very slowly.

Aristarco hadn't moved and the baron, who had recovered his self-possession, looked closely at the former cangaceiro cangaceiro in the same way that, in quieter days, he had so often examined the b.u.t.terflies and plants in his herbarium with the aid of a magnifying gla.s.s. He was suddenly moved by the desire to penetrate to the innermost depths of this man, to know the secret roots of what he was saying. And at the same time there came to his mind's eye the image of Sebastiana brushing Estela's fair hair amid a circle of flames. The color drained from his face. in the same way that, in quieter days, he had so often examined the b.u.t.terflies and plants in his herbarium with the aid of a magnifying gla.s.s. He was suddenly moved by the desire to penetrate to the innermost depths of this man, to know the secret roots of what he was saying. And at the same time there came to his mind's eye the image of Sebastiana brushing Estela's fair hair amid a circle of flames. The color drained from his face.

"Doesn't that wretch of a Counselor realize what he's doing?" He did his best to contain his indignation. "Doesn't he see that haciendas burned down mean hunger and death for hundreds of families? Doesn't he realize that such madness has brought war to the state of Bahia?"

"It's in the Bible," Pajeu explained imperturbably. "The Republic will come, and the Throat-Slitter: there will be a cataclysm. But the poor will be saved, thanks to Belo Monte."

"Have you even read the Bible?" the baron murmured.

"The Counselor has read it," the caboclo caboclo answered. "You and your family can leave. The Throat-Slitter has been here and taken guides and livestock off with him. Calumbi is accursed; it has gone over to the Can's side." answered. "You and your family can leave. The Throat-Slitter has been here and taken guides and livestock off with him. Calumbi is accursed; it has gone over to the Can's side."

"I will not allow you to raze the hacienda," the baron said. "Not only on my account, but on account of the hundreds of people whose survival depends on this land."

"The Blessed Jesus will take better care of them than you," Pajeu answered. It was evident that he meant no offense; he was making every effort to speak in a respectful tone of voice; he appeared to be disconcerted by the baron's inability to accept the obvious truth. "When you leave, everyone will go off to Belo Monte."

"And in the meanwhile Moreira Cesar will have it wiped off the face of the earth," the baron said. "Can't you understand that shotguns and knives are no defense against an army?"

No, he would never understand. It was as useless to try to reason with him as it was to argue with Moreira Cesar or Gall. The baron felt a shiver down his spine; it was as if the world had taken leave of its reason and blind, irrational beliefs had taken over.

"Is that what happens when you people are sent food, livestock, loads of grain?" he asked. "The agreement with Antonio Vilanova was that you wouldn't touch Calumbi or harm my people. Is that the way the Counselor keeps his word?"

"He is obliged to obey the Father," Pajeu explained.

"In other words, it's G.o.d who ordered you to burn down my house?" the baron murmured.

"No, the Father," the caboclo caboclo corrected him vehemently, as if to avoid a very serious misunderstanding. "The Counselor doesn't want to cause you or your family any harm. All those who wish to do so may leave." corrected him vehemently, as if to avoid a very serious misunderstanding. "The Counselor doesn't want to cause you or your family any harm. All those who wish to do so may leave."

"That's very kind of you," the baron answered sarcastically. "I won't let you burn down this house. I won't leave."

A shadow veiled the half-breed's eyes and the scar across his face contracted. "If you don't leave, I'll be forced to attack and kill people whose lives could be spared," he explained regretfully. "I'll have to kill you and your family. I don't want all those deaths hanging over my soul. What's more, there'd be hardly anybody left to put up a fight." His hand pointed behind him. "Ask Aristarco."

He waited, his eyes pleading for a rea.s.suring answer.

"Can you give me a week?" the baron finally murmured. "I can't leave..."

"A day," Pajeu interrupted him. "You may take whatever you like with you. I can't wait any longer than that. The Dog is on his way to Belo Monte, and I must be there, too." He put his sombrero back on, turned around, and, with his back to him, added as his parting words as he went out the door, followed by Aristarco: "Praised be the Blessed Jesus."

The baron noted that his cigar had gone out. He brushed off the ash, relighted it, and calculated as he puffed on it that there was no possibility of his asking Moreira Cesar to come to his aid within the time limit given him by Pajeu. Then, fatalistically-he too, when all was said and done, was a sertanejo- sertanejo-he asked himself how Estela would take the destruction of this house and this land to which their lives were so closely tied.

Half an hour later he was in the dining room, with Estela at his right and Galileo at his left, the three of them seated in the high-backed "Austrian" chairs. Though darkness had not yet fallen, the servants had lighted the lamps. He watched Gall: he was spooning food into his mouth with no sign of enjoyment and had the usual tormented expression on his face. The baron had told him that if he so desired he could go outside to stretch his legs, but except for the moments he spent conversing with him, Gall had stayed in his room-the same one that Moreira Cesar had occupied-busy writing. The baron had asked him for a written statement of everything that had happened to him since his meeting with Epaminondas Goncalves. "If I do what you ask, will I be free again?" Gall had asked him. The baron shook his head. "You're the best weapon I have against my enemies." The revolutionary hadn't said another word and the baron doubted that he was writing the confession he had asked him for. What could he be scribbling, then, night and day? In the midst of his depression, he was curious.

"An idealist?" Gall's voice took him by surprise. "A man reputed to have committed so many atrocities?"

The baron realized that without warning the Scotsman was resuming the conversation they had been having in his study.

"Does it strike you as odd that Colonel Moreira Cesar is an idealist?" he replied, in English. "He is one, there's no doubt of that. He's not interested in money or honors, and perhaps not even in power for himself. It's abstract things that motivate him to act: an unhealthy nationalism, the worship of technical progress, the belief that only the army can impose order and save this country from chaos and corruption. An idealist of the same stamp as Robespierre..."

He fell silent as a servant cleared the table. He toyed with his napkin, thinking that the next night would find everything that surrounded him reduced to rubble and ashes. For the s.p.a.ce of an instant, he wished that a miracle would occur, that the army of his enemy Moreira Cesar would suddenly appear at Calumbi and prevent that crime from happening.

"As is the case with many idealists, he is implacable when it comes to realizing his dreams," he added without his expression betraying what his real feelings were. His wife and Gall looked at him. "Do you know what he did at the Fortress of Anhato Mirim, at the time of the federalist revolt against Marshal Floriano? He executed one hundred eighty-five people. They had surrendered, but that made no difference to him. He wanted the ma.s.s execution to serve as an example."

"He slit their throats," the baroness said. She spoke English without the baron's easy command of the language, slowly, p.r.o.nouncing each syllable cautiously. "Do you know what the peasants call him? Throat-Slitter."

The baron gave a little laugh; he was looking down at the plate that had just been served him without seeing it. "Just think what's going to happen when that idealist has the monarchist, Anglophile insurgents of Canudos at his mercy," he said in a gloomy voice. "He knows that they're really neither one, but it's useful to the Jacobin cause if that's what they are, which amounts to the same thing. And why is he doing what he's doing? For the good of Brazil, naturally. And he believes with all his heart and soul that that's so."

He swallowed with difficulty and thought of the flames that would destroy Calumbi. He could see them devouring everything, could hear them crackling.

"I know those poor devils in Canudos very well," he said, feeling his palms grow moist. "They're ignorant and superst.i.tious, and a charlatan can convince them that the end of the world has come. But they're also courageous, long-suffering people, with an unfailing, instinctive dignity. Isn't it an absurd situation? They're going to be put to death for being monarchists and Anglophiles, when the truth of the matter is that they confuse the Emperor Pedro II with one of the apostles, have no idea where England is, and are waiting for King Dom Sebastiao to emerge from the bottom of the sea to defend them."

He raised the fork to his lips again and swallowed a mouthful of food that seemed to him to taste of soot. "Moreira Cesar said that one must be mistrustful of intellectuals," he added. "Even more than of idealists, Mr. Gall."

The latter's voice reached his ears as though it were coming from very far away. "Let me leave for Canudos." A rapt expression had come over his face, his eyes were gleaming, and he appeared to be deeply moved. "I want to die for what is best in me, for what I believe in, for what I've fought for. I don't want to end my days a stupid idiot. Those poor devils represent the most worthy thing there is on this earth, suffering that rises up in rebellion. Despite the abyss that separates us, you can understand me."

The baroness gestured to the servant to clear the table and leave the room.

"I'm of no use to you at all," Gall added. "I'm naive perhaps, but I'm not a braggart. What I'm saying isn't blackmail but a fact. It won't get you anywhere to hand me over to the authorities, to the army. I won't say one word. And I'll lie if I have to; I'll swear that I've been paid by you to accuse Epaminondas Goncalves of something he didn't do. Because, even though he's a rat and you're a gentleman, I'll always prefer a Jacobin to a monarchist. We're enemies, Baron, and you'd best not forget it."

The baroness made a move to leave the table.

"You needn't go." The baron stopped her. He was listening to Gall, but all he could think about was the fire that would burn down Calumbi. How was he going to tell Estela?

"Let me leave for Canudos," Gall repeated.

"But whatever for?" the baroness exclaimed. "The jaguncos jaguncos will take you for an enemy and kill you. Haven't you said that you're an atheist, an anarchist? What does all that have to do with Canudos?" will take you for an enemy and kill you. Haven't you said that you're an atheist, an anarchist? What does all that have to do with Canudos?"

"The jaguncos jaguncos and I have many things in common, Baroness, even though they don't know it," Gall answered. He fell silent for a moment and then asked: "May I leave?" and I have many things in common, Baroness, even though they don't know it," Gall answered. He fell silent for a moment and then asked: "May I leave?"

Without realizing it, the baron switched to Portuguese as he addressed his wife. "We must leave here, Estela. They're going to burn Calumbi down. There's nothing else we can do. I don't have the men to put up a fight and it's not worth committing suicide over losing it." He saw his wife sitting there stock-still, becoming paler and paler, biting her lips. He thought that she was about to faint. He turned to Gall. "As you can see, Estela and I have a very serious matter that we must discuss. I'll come up to your room later."

Gall went upstairs immediately. The master and mistress of Calumbi remained in the dining room, in silence. The baroness waited, not opening her mouth. The baron told her of his conversation with Pajeu. He noted that she was trying her best to appear calm, but was not succeeding very well: she was deathly pale, and trembling. He had always loved her very deeply, and what was more, in moments of crisis he had admired her. He had never seen her lose her courage; behind that delicate appearance of a porcelain doll was a strong woman. The thought came to him that this time, too, she would be his best defense against adversity. He explained to her that they could take almost nothing with them, that they must put all their most precious things in trunks and bury them, that it was best to divide everything else among the house servants and the peons.

"Is there nothing that can be done, then?" the baroness said very softly, as though some enemy might overhear.

The baron shook his head: nothing. "In reality they're not out to do us harm but to kill the Devil and give the land a rest. There's no reasoning with them." He shrugged, and as he felt that he was about to be overcome with emotion, he put an end to the conversation. "We'll leave tomorrow, at noon. That's the time limit they've given me."

The baroness nodded. Her face was drawn now, her forehead furrowed in a worried frown, her teeth chattering. "Well then, we shall have to work all night long," she said, rising to her feet.