“When the first Caxláns came, centuries ago, there were many who preferred to die than to give in to them.”

An old man nodded. Yes, he had heard his grandparents say something. Something about a group of warriors who had thrown themselves from a crag to the bottom of a river.

“From that time on the Sumidero canyon has been sacred.”

The sacrifice of so many souls sanctified every stone, every branch, every slope of the chasm. And Chamula was going to remain helpless? In this immense territory, the spirit of San Juan, the spirit of the builder and the master of the flocks would no longer reign? This land, where so many springs welled up, where the mist came down to rest so frequently, would be defiled? How unworthy of living on it they would have been if they were incapable of disputing its possession with the Ladinos now!

The wild, chaotic force of galloping horses would come, razing everything to the ground, leaving ashes, ruin and slavery behind. Traditions would be abolished, the positions of the principal men would be usurped, the sanctuary would be profaned. What would become of the sky if the Chamulas surrendered their land?

A group of the principal men, headed by Pedro González Winiktón, stood up to go and speak to Ulloa.

“Ajwalil, tomorrow is the fiesta of Good Friday. We want you and your assistant to attend because it will be a great and solemn ceremony.”

XXXII

CHAPTER XXXII

THIS CATALINA DÍAZ PUILJÁ. knew: that Lent is the belly of the year. In its hours—long, transparent and motionless—ferment the seasons that will hold sway over the tribe’s destiny. The parched earth is waiting: the emaciated animals are waiting. The soothsayer invokes the signs of rainfall and conjures away the ragged ghost of drought.

Lent is the time for propitiation. The saints leave the shade of their niches, the shelter of their altars, and go out on the shoulders of their mayordomos to the center of the plaza. There, food, health and life are prayed for. And sacrifices are offered in return.

But during Holy Week, the last week, the decisive week, no one, neither saints nor mayordomos nor the faithful, can bear bad weather. All of them take refuge inside the church, because a bolt of lightning will fall and no one knows whom it will strike down.

Catalina leads Domingo by the hand. She grasps him firmly so the crowd will not separate them.

The ilol’s appearance in San Juan’s church does not mean she is betraying her gods, her children in Tzajal-hemel. Sustained by their memory she moves forward, more defiant than reverent, to the place where the wise ones direct the order of the ceremonies, the order that is necessary to keep the world from straying off its path. And to keep men’s customs from breaking down.