As she knelt in front of the metate, grinding a portion of posol, Catalina watched her husband from the corner of her eye. At what moment would he force her to speak the words of repudiation? How much longer would he tolerate the offense of her sterility? Marriages like theirs were not valid. One word from Winiktón would be enough to make Catalina return to her family’s hut back in Tzajal-hemel. She would not find her father or her mother there; both of them had been dead for years. There was no one left but Lorenzo, the brother who was called “the innocent” because of his simple nature and the vacuous laugh that split his mouth in two.

Catalina stood up and placed the ball of posol in her husband’s bag of provisions. What made him stay with her? Fear? Love? Winiktón’s face kept its secret. Without a sign of farewell the man left the hut. The door closed behind him.

An irrevocable decision froze Catalina’s features. They would never separate, she would never be left alone, never be humiliated before her people.

Her movements quickened, as if she were about to fight an enemy then and there. She came and went through the hut, guided more by touch than by sight; the only light filtered in through holes in the walls and the room was blackened, impregnated with smoke. Even more than touch, habit steered her, keeping her from stumbling against the objects heaped up randomly in the tiny space. Clay pots, chipped and cracked; the metate, still too new, not yet broken in by the strength and skill of the woman who used it; tree trunks instead of chairs; ancient chests with useless locks. And, leaning against the fragile wall, innumerable crosses. One, made of wood, was so tall it appeared to be holding up the roof; the others, woven from palm fronds, were small and deceptively like butterflies. Hanging from the principal cross were the official insignia of Pedro González Winiktón, judge. And scattered throughout the hut were the professional instruments of Catalina Díaz Puiljá, weaver.

The sound of activity in the other huts, increasingly clear and urgent, made Catalina shake her head as if to chase away the painful dream that was tormenting her. Hurriedly she prepared for the day, carefully placing in a mesh bag the eggs she had gathered the night before, wrapped in leaves to keep them from cracking. When the bag was full, Catalina lifted it to her shoulders. The strap digging into her forehead looked like a deep scar.

Around the hut a group of women had gathered, waiting in silence for Catalina to appear. One by one they filed past her, bowing to show their respect. They did not lift their heads until Catalina had quickly brushed them with her fingers while reciting the courteous, automatic phrase of greeting.