“The Chamulas rose up to come to us from the most distant villages. Was it so absurd to imagine that an upheaval like that would lead to something more than a kind of ambulatory delirium?”

“That the movement had a goal, you mean? And that the goal was Ciudad Real? If you were paying any attention to the map, ingeniero, we’ve never gone in that direction. On the contrary. We chose the paths that would take us away from it, protect us from it. In reality, we started fleeing from the very moment of the crucifixion.”

“But why? Who are we fleeing from? They hadn’t defeated us even once.”

“The Virgen de la Caridad appeared to the Ladinos and stands guard over the town. The Indians don’t dare fight her.”

“They believe that? That is what’s stopping them? Winiktón has never said anything to me about it.”

“He doesn’t trust you any more.”

The answer was simple, irrefutable. Ulloa’s first reaction was not bitterness but alarm. But he didn’t want to let it show. He didn’t trust the others any more, either. None of them. Not even Santiago.

César shook Catalina awake with the tip of his foot and said a few phrases to her in Tzotzil. The woman made an effort to understand and obey the order she was given. She stood up and began a clumsy search of the ground around her. She gave the impression of not knowing very well what she was looking for. She picked up pebbles, looked at them stupidly for long seconds, then let them fall. César, who was following her movements with a mocking gaze, said a word, repeating it many times until Catalina could distinguish, among the enormous, the inexhaustible mass of objects that surrounded her, the only one she was being asked for. And she began to gather up branches and bits of dry wood to revive the fire.

The new fuel crackled tranquilly; hissing flames leaped up. Catalina faded into the darkness.

“And the Coletos? What are they waiting for to putean end to all of us?”

Santiago made a gesture of ignorance, indifference.

“Does it really matter to you whether we’re killed by the Coletos or by the Indians?”

“Us? Killed by the Indians?”

“Yes. You and I. They can decide one day that we’re a couple of traitors, a couple of Caxláns, after all, and do away with us.”

Fernando did not want to believe that this conjecture was viable. But Pedro’s gaze, the other men’s gazes—evasive, when not openly hostile—destroyed his sense of security.

“And if the other side takes us alive, you can imagine what the consequences will be. They’re not going to demote us from the position of leaders of the uprising. And before they can make a more detailed investigation, we’ll be shot.”