“Fernando, take out the paper that talks; note down what you hear so you can keep all of it in your mind. Here is Crisanto Pérez Condiós and the story of when they indentured him by force to work on the fincas. Here is Raquel Domínguez Ardilla, with whip marks that have not yet scarred over on her back. And you must know about the sister of Domingo Gómez Tuluc, kidnapped in the streets of Jobel to work as a servant in a rich man’s house. Put down, with those letters, that the soldiers entered the village of Majomut and razed everything in their path. The accusation that the Indians had set up a still to make liquor was a, lie. But now, who will give back the stolen chickens, the wrecked loom, the life of the children whose bellies were ripped open by bayonets? No one will give an unfrightened gaze back to the women or a soul without bitterness to the men. It must be told. Note it down, Fernando; write it, Caxlán.”

This man, César meditated, as he watched the engineer bent over his papers, is getting in way over his head with his promise to use the law to help these wretches. What law? In Ciudad Real, in the highlands of Chiapas, there is no law but force. And force is what the ranchers have. The Indians would have it if sheer numbers were all that mattered. There are many of them here, and these aren’t the only ones. There are still more higher up in the mountains, waiting for a signal, a voice, to bring them together. But Fernando doesn’t have what it takes to be their leader. He’s full of good intentions and fails to anticipate other people’s malevolence.

“If they left it to me, they’d see how I’d play the game.”

XVI

CHAPTER XVI

CATALINA DÍAZ PUILJÁ turned the spindle while her sheep grazed. From time to time she cast a resentful glance around her. No one.

She was alone; day and night she was alone. Ever since the pair of Ladinos had been making the rounds of the villages with their words and their numbers, Pedro González Winiktón had not been the same.

But when had it been any other way? Catalina made an effort to remember, to revive the husband she had had during the early times, the man who was clear water, cool water she drank from when she was thirsty. Not this enemy who had since taken his place, always sunk deep inside himself, sad and remote, thinking —about what?