Who could defend Catalina against the intrusion of the sacred? No intimate companion, no stable affection. Only disembodied shadows, insubstantial words, mirages. Pedro, impassive, silent, frowning; Pedro, devoured by an unknown passion, a flame whose burning kept all external annoyances at a distance. Domingo, eager for novelties, forgetful of the gratitude he owed to the person who raised him. And the others: an idiot and a woman with whom it is impossible to speak because one cannot speak with objects. More real, more truly present were these unknown guests come from who knows where. Submissive and demanding, like all worshippers, the pilgrims came, filled with hope. Was it possible to let them leave without having fulfilled their hopes? Naturally, all eyes converged on Catalina. “What the idol’s silence does not say, you must speak.”

(You! You! The syllable echoes in a hollow brain; it oppresses and deepens an anguished breathing; it throbs in an uncertain pulse. You! If only you were able to hear. . . . Close your eyes, Catalina, do not be distracted by the sputtering of the candles, the murmur of the prayers, the sounds of life from outside. Focus. This call is weaker than a newborn’s wail. Track it down among the confused and pointless noises. There is nothing but a voice. Its voice.)

Those who stood near Catalina could see her pallor. A heavy sweat run down her temples, drenching her neck and blouse; her rigid limbs convulsed. Suddenly she let out a cry and fell to the ground, writhing.

The whole assembly saw her fall and no one made the least movement to assist her, as if in some tacit way they had all agreed that the nature of the event taking place before their eyes outlawed any human intervention.

At the supplicants’ feet, Catalina moaned; a thick, copious froth came from between her clenched teeth. The ilol twisted like a reptile being hacked apart with a machete. Frozen in terror the others watched her, trembling at the imminency of a revelation.

And Catalina spoke. Incoherent, meaningless words. Images, memories crowded together on her tongue. Her memory overran its limits to encompass experiences, lives that were not her own insignificant and impoverished one. In her voice the dreams of the tribe vibrated, the hope snatched away from those who died, the remembrance of an abolished past.

The sheaf of powers bound fighting around Catalina’s name came undone and through the shreds of her personality the collective yearning overflowed, driven by delirium.