THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chankik returned hastily to Santa Cruz del Bravo, entering unobserved and proceeding directly to the cathedral. Noticing with disgust how floor was littered with peanut shells, and that the muchacho had allowed the images of the saints to become dusty, he attended to each in its turn absorbing the essence of the dust in becoming a harmless old man once again. His sinews wilted, withered, his spine began bending, wrinkles creased his face... when Padre Juliano found him, in the afternoon, he made no reasoning other than that the frail old manco must have walked three kilometers in as many days.

The priest had returned from the hospital tent, where he'd given the last rites to a corporal who'd carelessly cut his own foot with a machete and, even more carelessly, allowed it to become gangrenous before seeking medical attention. Because he had not expected to die, nor had the doctor expected don del Muerte until this very morning, the carpenters were taken by surprise, so the Padre played a few rounds of cards with Dr. Rosario while they hammered a coffin together and took, also, a few nips from the doctor's bottle. Then, the corporal had been buried in the monte and Dr. Rosario invited a few of man's companions to take a few more drinks in his memory, the Padre also, and then Juliano availed himself of the dead man's hamaca for a little nap, because the tributes had been many and the hour was hot. Awakening several hours later, he had returned to the church in a contented frame of mind, the Corporal redeemed, his own oft-tested faith renewed by the unexpected power of the sacraments.

So the sight of the old indian brought him from his pleasant reveries as swiftly and completely as were Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise. "Where have you been hiding, you Mayan dog!" he shouted, "leaving me alone with that less than useless boy? Look what has happened in my church! And if you still dare to call yourself a Christian how can you think of absenting yourself as you did?"

He struck Chankik with a closed fist, not the open hand he usually used, out of consideration for the age of the sacristan. The force of the blow pained him considerably but it was a satisfying pain and he looked about him for something even stronger, a stick to beat the reprehensible old man within an inch of his life. But around him were only saints; San Tomas, Santa Teresa, San Francisco, and his aching knuckles twitched in the frustration of the absence of a stout piece of unsanctified board to grip. Chankik tumbled backwards, bleeding from the nose and mouth, and cowering theatrically, raising his thin, cracked hands in supplication. "I am sorry, Padron," he cried pathetically. "I found so many villages stricken with the blood-vomit that I made myself late, for I am not as young and fast as I once was."

"Well... here! look at this floor," the priest complained. "Two sacks of peanuts these imbeciles brought from Peto, and they eat them here, in the house of God! It's your fault," he pointed to the cringing sacristan, "you people defiled this place and, so, our soldiers do not treat it with respect as they would the cathedral in their own village. A broom is in my office... follow me."

The padre marched away, his feet crunching the scattered shells. Chankik followed with a lowered head, reminding himself that he again was among the dzulob. The cave of serpents and the altar of Coba seemed far away and lost, the smell of Mexico omnipresent, like noxious smoke from a kettle of raw zapote sap. But there was hope; the xtabai was on the way. He permitted himself a smile. How would Padre Juliano contend with her?

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