Idolina. Very early, when the first bell tolled for the first mass of the day, who would bring her coffee with bread? She liked the crunchy, ring-shaped rosquillas, the cazueleja fresh from its tin mold, the molde de yema, rich with egg yolks. And she, Idolina’s nana, chose the tenderest and most golden morsels to give her. It was the only time Idolina ate. Because later, when all the inhabitants of the house were awake and the door of her bedroom was unbolted and her mother and stepfather could come in without warning, Idolina was no longer hungry. She picked here and there in order not to expose herself to the adults’ reprimands. But she did not lift anything of any substance to her mouth, nothing that would make her blood red or strengthen her body. Only recently, when Julia arrived. . . .

Teresa wanted to chase away the image. But La Alazana intruded anyway, smiling, energetic, forcing Idolina to obey her in everything. Teresa finally fell asleep but in her sleep enemies would suddenly appear, faces twisted in hatred, their fists, strength and speed making her their victim.

She was not the only one who was suffering. Ever since the burning of the huts at Tzajal-hemel and the imprisonment of Catalina and the other women, everyone was trembling. When the Ladino remembers the Indian, it is to finish him off. Each one waited for his turn with a kind of somber fatalism which only in Felipa became a frantic rebellion, a passionate reproach against the guilty party who was responsible for the threats that were hovering over Chamula: Catalina.

One afternoon while she was carrying wood, Teresa left the pathway and sat down on her load to weep. She could not go on. The work drained her to the point of annihilation. And why work? To have a roof under which to take shelter, a tortilla with salt to eat. Living was not worth the trouble. Because no one really needed her. The transitory invalid state of the former martoma Rosendo, always caused by over-imbibing, was repulsive. And Felipa, despite her ailments and complaints, was a robust and capable woman. Teresa thought of them both with hostility. She could not have any pity for them. But her pity, which had had no object since it withdrew from Idolina, was always sloshing around inside her like water in a jug. And at times like today, the jug was so full it spilled over.