The guards, realizing the extent of his drunkenness, wheeled him away. And Adolfo Reyes went out yelling that the kid was his grandson and he could talk to his grandson whenever he damn well pleased. Gaspar listened to his shouts until the heavy silence fell again over Puerto Reyes, and he took the object in his hands. By then, they had brought back many gifts. How many excursions? Six? Seven. They had infested the terrain by now. He brought the mounted bones close to his mouth and whispered Dad, it’s you, you were here, you know these places.

We must go into the forest, he told them during the next excursion. When he was on the Other Side he talked to them, he went in front of them, he guided them. Florence and Mercedes followed. He didn’t let them intimidate him, nor did he feign obedience. On the Other Side he also dominated because he had a secret: everyone got tired except for him. The old people were left exhausted. Crossing the swamp to the field was no more than five hundred meters, but they reached it nearly unconscious. He especially liked to see his grandmother keeling over. Seeing her breathe with her mouth open was extraordinary, a spectacle from hell. How had his father hurt her like that? And why? He would have the answers. It wouldn’t be long now.

We have to get to the forest, he said, and he made them follow him. The guards were outside the door, they were never allowed in. That meant he had to leave with Stephen, who knew how to fight. Gaspar needed him. He didn’t want to need him, didn’t want another father figure ever again. If it weren’t for the guards, he would leave Stephen on the Other Side, except that he was also the only witness to his father’s life. Him and Tali. He needed Stephen alive. He had a lot to tell.

The forest wasn’t dense, the trees were spaced far apart. The members of the Order caught sight of the hanged man. A mummy. Dried-out skin. The body was still. Gaspar backed up and let the others go forward without him. They all found something fascinating. Mercedes: a tree of hands; that is, a trunk with stiffened hands wrapped around it, some of them mummified, others rotting. Grandfather Reyes: a torso skewered on a thin trunk. There were several. The heads on some of them had been replaced with animal heads. Someone was having fun behind the door. Gaspar had known it ever since Adela’s house. There’d been something of the collector about those shelves with their fingernails, their teeth. He remembered his father’s box of eyelids. He couldn’t get distracted. He had to finish, and the arm, his own arm, told him where to go. His scar was burning. Follow the arm. A little farther. Past the forest. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew what direction to take.