The priest went to the window. Beyond the glass planes stretched a misty landscape of sterile hills, scattered clusters of huts, stray animals.

Respect. Xaw felt a pang of jealousy when he pronounced the word. He had remembered how the multitude congregated in Tzajal-hemel bowed down as Catalina Díaz Puiljá went past.

Abruptly the sacristan stood up and turned his back on his superior.

“If San Juan tells them: it is fiesta time, come from your village carrying the harp or the three-string guitar so I can hear music, what do they answer? That it is time to go to the cornfield, that the corn will rot if they do not harvest it right away. And if San Juan tells them: I am walking in darkness and need candles; I want to smell pom and see garlands of flowers hanging in front of me, they claim: wait, tatic, this year we do not have the means and the harvest was poor and there is much sickness. If San Juan tells them: I want my mayordomos to take me to the river and wash my garments, they pay no attention. Tomorrow, patrón, or another time, or never. There is plenty of time. But when that woman talks to them. . . .”

Pedro Mandujano slowly turned around. In the tangle of complaints Xaw had thrown out he had caught nothing but the thread of the last two words.

“What woman?”

“She is evil, padrecito. She is marked. She has never had children.”

“What woman?” the priest repeated.

Then Xaw spoke: of what he had seen in Tzajal-hemel, of what he knew about Catalina, of the catastrophes that were about to be unleashed. As his tale progressed, Padre Manuel’s expression became more and more animated.

At first with misgiving (how could he trust the testimony of this man, befuddled by old age, stupidity and alcohol?) then with curiosity and finally with resolve, the priest of Chamula interrupted the sacristan: “There is no time to lose, Xaw. This is a very serious matter. You will guide me to this cave tomorrow.”

Xaw was not expecting such immediate action. In an undefined way he was afraid of its consequences and wanted to delay it.

“Tomorrow? The rain is not going to clear up tomorrow, padrecito.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Manuel Mandujano was euphoric; all obstacles seemed insignificant.

“We’ll take along our rubber ponchos. And what if we do get wet? We’re not made of sugar paste, sacristán! Well, then: hurry up. You see to it that they catch my horse in the corral and saddle him up very early. I’ll arrange for provisions to be prepared for the journey.”

Once Padre Manuel was alone he could not stay still; excitement made him cross the room in all directions. When he stopped it was to move a piece of furniture from its place, leaf through a book impatiently and inattentively, drum his fingers on the windowpanes.