THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

BOOK SEVEN: CUAHTENOTL EPACT

CHAPTER EIGHT

José circled the village twice... the first time relying upon his eyes, the second upon his ears. On the third passage he opened his nose... and detected the faint odor of burning wood, twigs, probably... but, then, his aguila chica briefly focused his vision upon a tiny trail of smoke... white against the gray of the skies. And then, the aroma of coffee... weak coffee... and tortillas being baked.

The Major removed his Webley and transferred the satchel from his right hand to his left; taking care that he stepped carefully, so that his boots would make as little noise as possible in the mud, he approached the occupied hut from the rear. Like all of the houses of this village, there was no glass in the window... only a few dry stalks of caña cemented into place, like prison bars. Probably dumped here from Mexico, like everything else, José thought, absurdly, no caña could be grown at this altitude. Peeking through the slats, he observed an elderly man squatting before a rude griddle, tending a coffeepot and laying tortillas fashioned by his own hands on the plate metal, snatching at them with his fingers when they began to brown. Poor fellow, wife probably dead, children gone... an indian, or mostly so, from his pleated hair and white clothes.

"I've brought dozens of ancianos as you to don del Muerte," the Major reminded himself, "hundreds, really, so you'd best show me your deference, and then show me the way to Kanegis."

Assuring himself that the structures to either side of this shanty were vacant, José stepped through the doorway, gun drawn but at his side, not trained upon the old man's heart... though it would be so in a second, if the Major chose, despite the dizziness that he felt from the weather, the altitude... and the strangeness of this place.

"Buenas dias, abúelo," he said, laying his satchel down and giving his slouch hat a brief, left-handed tip. "I am an Oficiale, in search of a notorious criminal... dangerous to the Republic and all who inhabit it."

"I do not know any criminals," the fellow replied softly, casting a furtive glance towards a wall, against which rested a tall, peaked straw sombrero. It resembled those worn by Zapata's legions although... if the truth be told... such a hat was common everywhere in the states of Puebla and Morelos. "We are all poor men, here."

José put the Webley in his belt and, spotting a tin cup hanging from the wall, rolled his cuff over his left hand, picked up the coffeepot and quickly poured himself a drink, helping himself to one of the tortillas, also. It was, at least, fresh and the coffee was no worse than that of San Sebastien... he repeated, "I am searching for a notorious criminal. There is a man here who knows where to find him, and if he tells me where to find my criminal, no harm will come to him. And if you tell me where to find this man, no harm will come to you either. His name is Kanegis, he wears a red shirt..."

"I know this man," said the widower. "He is not of us, you know... he is abajo." And he turned a hand downward... a gesture meaning that Kanegis might be from San Sebastien, down the mountain, or even Mexico, or that the informer might have erupted from an even deeper valley of the netherworld.

"Take me to him," José ordered, placing his hand on the Webley, but leaving it in his belt. The old man finished his own coffee and gathered up a few useless belongings... a gesture to give the visiting Oficiale a message that he was not excessively afraid for his life, an understandable salvation of dignity that the Major recognized and allowed. He stretched, placed the slanted palm hat over his head... it sagged down to his earlobes... and led José through a maze of muddy streets (all vaguely west of the plaza) and past hovels where only smoke or the occasional murmur or a child's brief cry betrayed habitation. They reached a whole block of abandoned residences. Some of these had no roofs, even a wall or part of one fallen in, but the old man gestured towards one of those least decayed, and said...

"Man with the red shirt. In there."

"Wait!" José said, removing the Webley and kicking at the door which swung inwards to reveal a scene of squalor. A hammock had been strung between posts, but Kanegis lay on the floor... arms outspread, unevenly barbered moustache like a growth of mold upon the visage of a corpse. The Major slapped him twice... hard... but the man in the red shirt never moved; he pressed two fingers to his neck, but sniffed before he could detect the pulse and then observed the empty bottles of aguardiente in a corner of the shanty. Kanegis lived, but would be worth nothing for hours. Kicking the dissolute Greek in the thigh, he placed his gun back in his belt and shook his head. "Worthless one! You!..." he remembered the old man, "who has authority in the place? A policeman! A priest!"

"Nobody, señor. They are all inside and will not come out... these are the days of Epact, señor. Nobody walks through this village except the dead, the Devil, those beneath and men as yourself, who search for evil."

"Who says so?" José demanded. "A priest in that ruin of a church?"

The old man rewarded him with a ghost of a smile; that which was to good nature as Cuahtenotl was to a real village. "Padre Luis is a sort of a ruin, himself. Go to him if you will... you will find him as this one." And he gestured downwards to Kanegis who, at the moment, revealed himself at least to be among the living by a cough, a mumbled curse and some waving of his arms, which then dropped back to the bare earth.

José dug a peso out of his pocket, then added a second, even though the old man did not fall into a fit of gratitude and fawning as most of his sort did when rewarded unexpectedly. It annoyed the Major, but also earned the fellow a measure of grudging respect. "I may have need of your assistance later. I am Jorge Bustamente, and you..."

"Eliseo Martín."

"Very well. Go with God!"

But the old man did not, as would be customary, declare himself to be at the service of "Jorge Bustamente", in fact, he smirked distinctly as he took his leave, eyes all but hidden by the brim of the enormous, sinister hat.

"What a benighted place!" José muttered, kicking up a few clods of earth and scraping a swath of mud off his boots... as futile a gesture as he had ever made, for it was time to go out into the village and discover what could be unraveled before he encountered the Jackal, face to face.

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