THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK THREE:
BOOK of the PACIFICATION
CHAPTER TEN
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, Padrón," 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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