THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK FIVE: THE BOOK of STONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The guitarist's remains were shipped back to Mexico City, a few of the brawlers lost their stripes and two, who had already fallen into Bravo's disfavor were court-martialed, convicted and pitched into the church as prisoners of the Republic they'd served. One survived two weeks, the other for only two days and Santa Cruz then sank back into its obstinate and greedy, though languorous, simulation of civilization. Again, the unkempt figure of the Maya sorcerer was seen about the fringes of the city. It was a time of sickness and of soggy heat... there were warnings of hurricanes but one of the great storms passed to the east on its way towards Cuba, another vented its fury over the British colony to the south. Even as destructive as these storms were, there was an almost savage disappointment at their loss; as if the territory had fallen so grievously that only a great purging by wind and rain could make it clean again.

General Bravo had kept his word to José Macias but, now, telegraphed him to return from Akbal to stay in Santa Cruz for a week while he would be taking another of his frequent tours of inspection. Something in his old bones warned against leaving the capital under the command of the decrepit Tavares. He was tired of struggling, particularly, with his son, Tomas. The Major, receiving his orders, sighed and made towards the railroad junction to await the next coming of the eastbound train.

At sundown, Bravo and the sorcerer led three turkeys and a yearling bull into the plaza, which had been sealed off by Corporal Boleaga and the Jackal with Matochino and Colonel Solis at the watch.

"The story goes," said Chankik, when the plaza was secure, "that in this same katun, but many centuries before, the people of the Ytza were so burdened with the evil winds that they lacked even the will to maintain their purity. They forgot their gods and the rain, and their souls were lost to wander through the stars. The people starved, but the Ytza still made a wrapping of their delusions until they were, finally, taken from their high places and sacrificed to appease the Chacs. What we perform is a symbolic purification. It may be all that is required to lift some of the burden of the stones from this place. A more effective way would be to sacrifice men... noble enemies, taken in honest combat... but I do not see any of those here."

Bravo snorted at the remark but allowed Chankik to oversee the slaughter of the bull and turkey and the burning of incense, which was sweet and so thick that it rose only slowly, remaining in great clouds over Santa Cruz del Bravo. Under the sorcerer's direction, the head, the feet and viscera were taken to the trees by the two roads of approach to the city and hanged there with ropes. Overruling the old Indian’s entreaties, the rest disappeared into the General’s private kitchen.

An hour before dawn, Bravo wrapped himself in an old blanket to disguise his features and, riding on a swaybacked mule, slipped undetected from the plaza and from Santa Cruz. José Macias arrived by Decauville in the middle of the day... passing beneath the meat trees already shining with flies... to find that Colonel Tavares slept and would not be disturbed.

"Whether that one sleeps or wakes is meaningless," the Major thought, and decided to pay a visit to Rosario to bring himself up to date on events in the capital before the inevitable confrontation with Tomas Bravo.

He found the doctor seated by the hammock of a young Teniente, shivering in the final stage of his fever. Every breath the Teniente took was imbued with deadly struggle and his eyes veritably rattled in their sockets.

"Good Lord," José said, "he is dying."

"Drink?" Rosario suggested, raising his glass. He drew up another stool for the Major. "Yes, I'm afraid that this is so. There's not a grain of quinine in the territory, for the General sold our last shipment to the British and the next is late. They are understandably too busy in the capital to fill orders from a place so remote as this. And so, Lieutenant Gomez dies. Were you acquainted with him?"

"No," José replied.

"A pity. He is much as you were a few years back, all full of fire and prepared to move the earth, the heavens and the sea for the glory of Mexico. Look at him now! I hope his family will get a medal, it hardly seems fair that a man who stood up where he should have knelt, and took a bullet through the heart, should be honored for his carelessness when an officer like this man should have to have endured the fever at its worst and then be carried away because of the General's appetite. It hardly seems fair. But he'll last a few more hours, so let's go back into my office where we can talk."

He grasped his bottle of clear, evil-smelling fluid by the neck and showed the Major to his door. José changed his mind, locating a sooty glass, and let Rosario fill it halfway with cognac from another bottle. "Good for you," the doctor said. "I am no longer consoled with brandy but must have formaldehyde - there's no problem with the supply of that. It keeps the mosquitoes away and, what's more, I think that it has effect on the evil eye. The ojo of the indians, who are always around here nowadays... I think there's something in their stare that makes a man sick. Oh... our old sorcerer's back."

"Chankik?"

"That's the one! He and the General were cooped up in the plaza all yesterday." Rosario tossed back his copita for emphasis.

"Well, it can't be that bad," José ventured, thinking about all those grisly offerings hanging in the trees but deciding to let someone else bring that matter up. "The old boy did save my life."

The Doctor exhaled rudely. "His weeds did, at any rate. Surprising, what they do around these parts."

"Chankik's familiar with a lot of weeds," José acknowledged. "But the General..."

"As you may have noticed, Bravo is assuming too many habits of these indians." Rosario reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink.

"You ought to be more careful," José said.

"Of this?" The doctor smiled. "You would drink more, too, if you had to spend so much time in Santa Cruz."

"Reliance upon liquid spirits is a symptom of distress among the higher spirits," José said, feeling no contradiction at his own indulgence. The little eagle was at his call and, moreover, he sensed the agreeable presence of don del Muerte, skulking about some nearby plane of being... no doubt awaiting the last breath of the Lieutenant in the other room. "Do you want to know how it is that I learned this?"

Rosario pretended fear, then laughed. "Why not?"

"The last time I was in Merida with my family, my mother invited Rigoberto and myself to a función at a house on the Paseo, currently owned by one Osvaldo Saenz... although it stood vacant for some years during the last century. Haunted, they say. There were a number of curious people there, followers of a Russian medium, a woman of truly enormous proportions. Five chins, at least, and working on the sixth. One of those present was a thin, poetic fellow, of little account at the time... although he is now the leader of all the antireelectionistas and Liberal trash of the whole peninsula. A man named José Maria Pino Suarez, the great friend of Francisco Madero."

"Not that runt who has given Don Porfirio headaches."

"The very same," José averred. "And now it gets curiouser."

The Major rose abruptly and went to the door, which Dr. Rosario had left, open a crack, so as to be able to hear if one of his patients called out. José closed this firmly with a somber look.

"I trust your silence, but this is a matter that could be misinterpreted. This Russian medium I've told you about... she was brought to Mexico by one of those societies of women who occupy their time with works of either charity or the occult to lecture upon the latter, the usual stew of aethers, trances and this sort of thing. She also read planchettes in a rather dramatic way, going first into a trance by which, she claimed, the destinies and past lives of those in the room would appear before her..."

"But of course," the doctor interrupted. "Some sort of Egyptian mummery..."

"Yes." José felt his throat going dry and swallowed a little of the cognac to relieve it. "By and by, she held her planchette over the board, where it moved this way and that, and neither I nor any of the others could make out the means by which she made her prophecies although, of course, it might have had some meaning in Russian."

"And is that all which occurred?"

"At first. There was nothing out of the ordinary, a long vacation for some, fascinating strangers and that sort of thing. Some were told that information of a dire or vital nature was indicated and would require private consultation at her hotel suite. Whether matters of the spirit world or more corporeal motives were involved is something that I leave to your imagination. As you may gather, the invitees were not lacking in means. But the soireé came to an abrupt end. The planchette began to bounce about in a most ostentatious fashion, alarming the Russian so that she swept the board from its table. Something had disturbed her mightily. All she would say was that some of those in the room were in great danger of murder, and that their killers were also present. Well, you can imagine the effect of that!"

"I suppose. It hardly seems to justify such alarm, not even another drink, so I'll have to enjoy my copita for its own sake." Which the doctor did.

"I haven't related the whole of it," José said and Rosario nodded agreeably. "As you can imagine, the afternoon hadn't made much of an impression upon me and I remarked something on that order to my brother, who is far more skeptical than I - the very epitome of scientific positivism - while we enjoyed cigars at the gate. So who should come up but this Suarez, in a high dudgeon, proceeding to let us know quite explicitly that the spirit world would be far more agreeable to us if we abstained from tobacco, as well as meat and drink and several other things, and, as a sort of proof, declaimed that he knew for a fact that the spirit world already had anointed the next President of Mexico, and that this person was his little friend Francisco Madero."

"It would take a spirit stronger than this to conceive of such a thing," smirked Dr. Rosario, waggling his bottle of formaldehyde.

"Madero had stood before a medium, much like this Russian one, and he was told that some unusual desire burned within his breast, a thing to which he readily agreed, and it was further added that his destiny was that this summons be answered.

"Yes, what this Suarez told me," José explained "was nothing less than that the whole antireelectionista cause was begun by a medium with her ouija board."

"Mother of God," the doctor swore, "can that explain..."

"It explains everything perfectly," the Major said. "That poor, misguided little fellow went out and began to work on his prediction and what has it come to? He is ruined and imprisoned, and his family is shamed. The laughing-stock of all Mexico, doctor, and all for belief in superstitions."

Rosario smothered his laughter in the copita, too much of the formaldehyde causing him to shake his head like a wet dog in coughing. "Isn't that capital?" he said, recovering.

José responded with a thin smile. "Quite," he agreed. "But also..." and the Major suddenly became lost in his thoughts. The doctor could not help but notice a sudden swing of mood.

"Are you all right?" he asked. José nodded.

"I must not keep you from your rounds," he said, rising and making for the door, the echo of the Peninsular press crashing through the window to its doom once more in his ear.

"Don't think of it," Rosario called out cheerfully. "They are all going to die, sooner or later." But without another word, José had gone.

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