THE INSURGENCE of
CHAN SANTA CRUZ
BOOK SIX:
THE FIRST of the BOOKS of CHANGE
CHAPTER THIRTY
The
prisoners of Santa Cruz del Bravo had only the shaft of light from the high
window of the church by which to measure time. When it began a slow retreat up
the opposite wall, such condition meant that it was some time after seven in
the evening. Inch by inch its tip receded and, to those locked there for over
thirty hours now with neither food nor water, this waning shaft seemed nothing
less than a semblance of life itself, receding from their reach. "We are
abandoned," whispers came in so many ways and words and languages...
Spanish in the main but, additionally, Maya, Mixtec, Zapotec
and other tongues native to Mexico and, here and there, a word in English,
French or Italian from one of those foreigners who'd bitten the hand of the Porfirismo, but had been forgotten by his successor.
The
escaping light brought a new measure of desperation to the territory's damned
and in the solitude of night, which would at least preserve their dignity, some
thirsty prisoners emptied the slops pail and filled their mouths with the
reeking mud below in the hope of squeezing a drop of moisture from this filth.
Others shrank but beheld, enraptured, the shadow of don del Muerte
hovering above the altar... murmuring to one another that he was of a darkness
so perfect, so absolute that the surrounding night lay visible by its flawed
quality. One beheld the vision of a bat, a second saw an owl, a third perceived
a tiger... others only crossed themselves for they had seen don del Muerte in the shape of that
which was the most private and shameful of their fears.
Sandoval
Padilla was one of those to whom the apparitions' form were many and changing,
for he had been a bandit who boasted of having called twenty men to judgment,
and these shades now fought with one another to place themselves foremost as
his death approached. "I am lost," he admitted to his great protector
Matochino and the hot-tempered officer Octaviano Solis.
"No,
amigo," said Matochino, but in a high, rusty
voice, for lack of water had dried his tongue and whatever influence he had
possessed to have him excused from this place during its lockdown had been
overridden by the mercurial Bravo. Even the bag of coins he displayed openly
atop the tabernacle could not avail him, for water was not to be had at any
price, nor extorted by the most grievous of threats.
"It's
not the end," he added, although the words gave him pain. "Freedom's
at hand. Francisco Madero himself shall come to relieve us."
Even in
these direst of circumstances, Matochino's
intelligence was better than that of Bravo.
"Perhaps
he will free you," Padilla said, "but I have seen that this is
my last night on earth and, when the first light of morning comes, I will be
carried away by that same light." He stopped and breathed a few times to
put wind in his speech. "All that you can do, old friend, is to pray for
me... pray to the Devil beneath us all that there will be rivers in Hell,
rivers of cold water and of aguardiente, good friends and good fighting. Pray
that the demons are no worse than Bravo's men, that their cruelty can be
tempered by offerings."
He
laughed harshly. "Before I was captured I feared don del
Muerte, but now his approach does not trouble me.
Such as ourselves, we have no cause to fear eternal torment, for we have
fortified ourselves here, is that not so? I will be leaving you... but we will
all be together, by and by."
Padilla
fell silent, though Matochino and Solis could hear
him breathe and they dove in and out of sleep, taunted by spirits who enticed
as much as they invoked dread. No man nor woman could sleep long, even upon the
altar, and the things which flitted through their dreams were so terrible and
the release that was held out before them so tempting that Solis and Matochino forced their eyes open and even Padilla awoke
with a start.
The
bandit forced a twitching hand into his trousers, removing a small knife, which
he was allowed to carry with the collaboration of Matochino
and the Captain of Bravo's guard. Octaviano Solis
could not see what thing Padilla carried but it was thrust at him and he could
run his finger across the blade, wondering for a moment if the man had gone mad
with his thirst. But Padilla's words were pleading. "Cut my throat when I
have gone and satisfy your own thirst for a little while... as many good men as
can live a little longer on what blood as I have left. Only let none of those
who are informers touch this wound, nor those who dishonor women or have
practiced extortion or usury. Only our honest men... murderers and thieves, old
friends."
"That
is your thirst and hunger talking," Solis said. "I have heard
nothing."
"Would
you prevent a dying man from giving what he possesses to his friends to save
their lives... and perhaps doing so save something of his soul?" Padilla
asked. "Think of your vows, Colonel, when you were in the army. Is it not
the duty of patriots to sacrifice for the good of the Republic? Those who are
to live and those who shall die must help each other, eh?"
"What
can we do?" said Matochino who, after all, was a
simple murderer and bandit. The dark presence above the altar respected his
pistol or machete not at all, his gold even less nor, even, the garrote of
Solis.
"Sing!"
Padilla answered. "Sing the old songs and the new, those that the
revolutionaries sing. It will prevent this thirst from locking your tongue into
place until the morning brings the Devil's light to guide you to my throat, the
blood..."
They
were still singing when the first sunbeam of morning appeared on the church
wall.
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