These apprehensions had been uppermost in the priest’s soul from the day he accepted the mission to Chamula. He was oppressed by the certainty of failure, the anguish of knowing that a bottomless chasm was opening at his feet, an abyss that would devour him in the end. And his downfall would have neither the merit of a sacrifice freely consented to and carried out nor the fecundity of a martyrdom. It would be like a rock falling down a well. A mournful echo, then nothing more.

At the very beginning of his stay in San Juan, Padre Manuel drove off these bitter prospects by throwing himself into an exhausting bout of physical activity that left him wanting nothing more than rest.

He had put off travelling to the outlying parts of his parish for the moment. Even so, he had more than enough work simply trying to make the large, broken-down parish house inhabitable. Rain trickled through the roof’s broken tiles and ran down the walls, staining them and impregnating them with a dampness that soon became green with mold. Rats, bats and opossums had found a convenient shelter in the rooms. And the freezing wind of Chamula battered at the rickety doors, the empty, unglazed windows.

Benita did what she could to help her brother. But what could a woman do under such circumstances? Manuel had a man’s work to do, a strong man’s work.

The residents of San Juan spontaneously presented themselves to place themselves at the parish priest’s disposition. He accepted the offers of some, those who seemed most experienced. And with the help of the sacristan, Xaw Ramírez Paciencia, who translated his orders from Spanish to Tzotzil, he was able to clear away a little of the rubble heaped up in the kitchen, to patch up the gutters and chase away the animals who were living in the house and causing so much damage.

Because provisions were scarce, Benita prepared frugal meals, hardly any better than what Xaw was used to eating. Xaw scrutinized her with an almost imperceptible expression of disappointment. Why did the new arrival scorn the “tidbits” by which his parishioners tried to show him their affection? Was he unaware that many of them had resigned themselves to going hungry so that their parish priest would have a well-furbished larder? But Padre Manuel rejected the gifts he was offered. The other priests had behaved differently. Was it because this one thought he was worth more and therefore had greater pride?

Manuel did not notice that his attitude toward his parishioners’ gifts (which stemmed from his disgust at anything that came out of their filthy huts and from his slowness to feel gratitude) was giving rise to resentment. He continued devoting himself to his labors, oblivious to the distance that was growing up around him.