Desperate, Catalina turned to Lorenzo, as if he could answer her questions. She clawed at his arm, twisted it to wring a revelation from the tortured flesh. Marcela watched this scene, open-mouthed, without daring to intervene; all her sister-in-law’s actions were always incomprehensible to her, though she never failed to consider them mysteriously correct.

Catalina let her brother go and went to sit next to the fire. She was cold, yet sweat drenched her back and the palms of her hands. Shivering, she held a cup of coffee and drank it anxiously. The flames’ glow danced across her gaunt face, tracing grotesque shadows. A great fatigue left her limp. Tears rolled down her sallow cheeks.

No presence came now in response to her prayers, her invocations. Catalina started like a skittish mare at a sound, a murmur. But the sounds and murmurs of the world brought no message, no word destined for the ilol.

As if they could tell what was happening, people avoided contact with her. No one sought out Catalina any longer to ask for advice or request some form of vengeance. Her left hand hung down lifelessly. Her right hand was empty.

Catalina began to speak. Her words were a confused mingling of threats and promises:

“The time is growing ripe; the great days are approaching, our days. The woodcutter’s ax is chopping the tree which must fall in order to destroy many people. I am telling you and you. Do not let what is coming catch you off guard. Get ready. Be prepared. Because a great peril is coming soon.”