The search for darkness leads them to the caves. They chase away the predatory animals; they adorn the caves with forest branches; they fill their enclosures with the beneficial emanations of pom. And there they congregate, on certain nights when the coyote howls in desperation and the moon rises pale and bloodless.

In the center of the cave, in the center of the circle formed by those congregated there, lies the ark. They have defended it from the greed of marauders and more than one man has died before he would allow it to be seized. They shield it from inclement weather as if it were a sickly infant; they protect it from carelessness; they surround it with devotion and reverence. Because in the ark, the divine word reposes. There the testament of those who were and the prophecy of those who are to come is kept. There is the record of what the dark powers dictated to their slaves. There radiates the promise that brings comfort in days of uncertainty and adversity. There is the substance the soul eats in order to live. The pact.

On solemn occasions (dates which the profane would never succeed in determining), the ark is opened and what it contains is manifested before the elect.

They kneel, faces hidden in their hands, wailing, praying, while the leader among them officiates.

The torches of ocote pine splutter as they illuminate the instant when the lock yields and the lid of the ark opens. A bundle appears. Each one, in order of rank, takes a turn untying a knot, unwrapping the cloths. Meanwhile the flask of liquor sates the thirst of expectation. It is emptied, filled, emptied again.

At last the book appears. There are only a few pages. A few pages, but nevertheless the bridge between humanity and the divine.

The book is exposed to their adoration. The leader raises it between his hands with exquisite care. He brings it close to the faces of those who are present so they may testify to its existence and make it known to those who do not have access to the ceremony.

They are the witnesses that the book exists. That it has not been lost in the vicissitudes of flight or in disaster’s ransacking. It exists, so that hope will not grow faint. It exists.

Now the eyes that brim with tears can close forever. What they have seen is their salvation.

And there remains exposed, like a communion wafer, the page that an unknown hero rescued from the catastrophe. The first page, on which a title flames:

Military Directives.

XL

CHAPTER XL

STRETCHED OUT ON her bed, her face turned toward the wall, Idolina lies awake.

It’s the same night or day. At all hours the churchbells echo, along with the confused murmur in the street, the sounds of the house.