The War of the End of the World

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  They began to put on shows again and once more they earned enough to put food in their mouths. But things weren’t the same as before. The Gypsy, crazed with grief at the loss of his children, took no interest in the performances now. He had left the three children in the care of a family in Caldeirão Grande, and when he came back to get them after the drought, nobody in the town could tell him anything about the Campinas family or his children. He never gave up hope of finding them, and years later he was still questioning people in the towns as to whether they’d seen them or heard anything about them. The disappearance of his children—everyone else was sure they were dead—turned him from a man who had once been energy and high spirits personified into a creature filled with bitterness, who drank too much and flew into a fury over anything and everything. One afternoon they were putting on a show in the village of Santa Rosa and the Gypsy was doing the turn that Pedrim the Giant used to do in the old days: challenging any spectator to make his shoulders touch the ground. A robust man presented himself and knocked him clean over at the first shove. The Gypsy picked himself up, saying that he’d slipped and that the man would have to try again. The brawny man again sent him sprawling. Getting to his feet once more, the Gypsy, his eyes flashing, asked him if he’d be willing to repeat his feat with a knife in his hand. The man didn’t really want to fight it out with him, but the Gypsy, having taken leave of his reason, egged him on in such an insulting way that finally there was nothing else the husky fellow could do but accept the challenge. As effortlessly as he’d knocked him down before, he left the Gypsy lying on the ground, with his throat slit and his eyes turning glassy. They learned later that the Gypsy had had the temerity to challenge Pedrão, the famous bandit.

  Despite everything, surviving through simple inertia, as if to prove that nothing dies unless it’s meant to (the phrase had come from the Bearded Lady), the circus did not disappear. It was admittedly a mere shadow of the old circus now, huddling round a wagon with a patched canvas top, drawn by a lone burro; folded up inside it was a much-mended tent, which the last remaining performers—the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Idiot, and the cobra—set up and slept under each night. They still gave shows and the Dwarf’s stories of love and adventure were still as great a success as in the old days. In order not to tire the burro, they traveled on foot and the only one of them to enjoy the use of the wagon was the cobra, which lived in a wicker basket. In their wanderings hither and yon, the last members of the Gypsy’s Circus had met up with saints, bandits, pilgrims, migrants, people with the most startling faces dressed in the most improbable attire. But never, before that morning, had they come across a flaming-red mane of hair such as that of the man stretched out full-length on the ground that they caught sight of as they rounded a bend of the trail that leads to Riacho da Onça. He was lying there motionless, dressed in a black garment covered with patches of white dust. A few yards farther on were the rotting carcass of a mule being devoured by black vultures and a fire that had gone out. And sitting alongside the ashes was a young woman, watching them approach with an expression on her face that did not seem to be a sad one. The burro, as though it had been given an order to do so, stopped in its tracks. The Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Idiot, took a close look at the man and spied the purplish wound in his shoulder half hidden by the fiery-red locks, and the dried blood on his beard, ear, and shirtfront.

  “Is he dead?” the Bearded Lady asked.

  “Not yet,” Jurema answered.

  “This place will be destroyed by fire,” the Counselor said, sitting up on his pallet. They had rested only four hours, since the procession the evening before had ended after midnight, but the Lion of Natuba, whose ears pricked up at the slightest sound, heard that unmistakable voice in his sleep and leapt up from the floor to grab pen and paper so as to note down these words which must not be lost. His eyes closed, totally absorbed in the vision, the Counselor added: “There will be four fires. I shall extinguish the first three, and the fourth I shall leave to the Blessed Jesus.” This time his words awakened the women of the Sacred Choir in the next room as well, for, as he wrote, the Lion of Natuba heard the door open and saw Maria Quadrado, enveloped in her blue tunic, come into the Sanctuary—the only person save for himself and the Little Blessed One who ever entered, either by day or by night, without first asking the Counselor’s permission. “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ,” the Superior of the Sacred Choir said, crossing herself. “Praised be He,” the Counselor answered, opening his eyes. And with a note of sadness in his voice, he said, dreaming still: “They will kill me, but I shall not betray Our Lord.”

  As he wrote, not letting his mind wander for an instant, aware to the very roots of his hair of the transcendent importance of the mission that the Little Blessed One had entrusted him with, thereby allowing him to share the Counselor’s every moment, the Lion of Natuba could hear the women of the Sacred Choir in the next room, anxiously awaiting Maria Quadrado’s permission to enter the Sanctuary. There were eight of them, and like her, they were dressed in blue tunics with long sleeves and a high neck, tied at the waist with a white girdle. They went about barefoot, and kept their heads covered with kerchiefs that were also blue. Chosen by the Mother of Men because of their spirit of self-abnegation and their devotion, they had one mission, to serve the Counselor, and all eight of them had vowed to live a life of chastity and never return to their families. They slept on the floor, on the other side of the door, and accompanied the Counselor like an aureole as he supervised the construction of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, prayed in the little Church of Santo Antônio, led processions, presided at Rosaries and funerals, or visited the Health Houses. In view of the saint’s frugal habits, their daily tasks were few: washing and mending his dark purple tunic, caring for the little white lamb, cleaning the floor and the walls of the Sanctuary, and vigorously beating his rush mattress. They were entering the Sanctuary now: Maria Quadrado had let them in and closed the door behind them. Alexandrinha Correa was leading the little white lamb. The eight of them made the sign of the cross as they intoned: “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Praised be He,” the Counselor replied, gently stroking the lamb. The Lion of Natuba remained squatting on his heels, his pen in hand and his paper on the little bench that served him as a writing desk, and his intelligent eyes—gleaming brightly amid the long filthy mane that fell all about over his face—fixed on the Counselor’s lips. The latter was about to pray. He stretched out face downward on the floor, as Maria Quadrado and the eight pious women knelt round him to pray with him. But the Lion of Natuba did not stretch out on the floor or kneel: his mission exempted him even from joining in the devotions. The Little Blessed One had instructed him to remain on the alert, in case one of the prayers that the saint recited turned out to be a “revelation.” But that morning the Counselor prayed silently in the dawn light, growing brighter by the second as it filtered into the Sanctuary through the chinks in the roof and the walls and the door, strands of gold shot through with motes of dust. Little by little, Belo Monte was waking: roosters, dogs, human voices could be heard. Outside, doubtless, the usual small groups had already begun to gather: pilgrims and members of the community who wished to see the Counselor or ask his favor.

  Once the Counselor rose to his feet, the women of the Sacred Choir offered him a bowlful of goat’s milk, a bit of bread, a dish of boiled cornmeal, and a basketful of mangabas. But all he took was a few sips of the milk. Then the women brought a bucket of water so as to wash him. As they silently, diligently circled round his pallet, never once getting in each other’s way, as though they had practiced their movements, sponging his hands and face and vigorously scrubbing his feet, the Counselor sat there without moving, lost in thought or in prayer. As they were placing on his feet his shepherd’s sandals that he had removed to take his night’s rest, the Little Blessed One and Abbot João entered the Sanctuary.

  The outward appearance of those two was so different that the former a
lways looked even frailer, more absorbed in his reflections, and the latter more corpulent, when the two of them were together. “Praised be the Blessed Jesus,” one of them said, and the other: “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Praised be He.”

  The Counselor extended his hand, and as they kissed it, he asked them in an anxious tone of voice: “Is there any news of Father Joaquim?”

  The Little Blessed One replied that there was none. Although he was painfully thin, in delicate health, and old before his time, his face revealed that indomitable energy with which he organized all the worship services, took charge of receiving the pilgrims, planned the processions, saw to it that the altars were properly cared for, and found the time to compose hymns and litanies. His dark brown tunic was draped with scapulars and full of holes through which one could see the wire circling his waist, which, people said, he had never once removed since that day in his tender years when the Counselor had first knotted it round him. He stepped forward now to speak, as Abbot João, whom people had started calling Leader of the Town and Street Commander, stepped back.

  “João has an idea that’s inspired, Father,” the Little Blessed One said in the shy, reverent tone of voice in which he always addressed the Counselor. “There’s been a war, right here in Belo Monte. And while everybody was fighting, you were all alone in the tower. There was nobody protecting you.”

  “The Father protects me, Little Blessed One,” the Counselor murmured. “As He protects you and all of those who believe.”

  “Though we may die, you must live,” the Little Blessed One insisted. “Out of charity toward all mankind, Counselor.”

  “We want to organize a guard to watch over you, Father,” Abbot João murmured. He spoke with lowered eyes, searching for words. “This guard will see to it that no harm comes to you. We will choose it the way Mother Maria Quadrado chose the Sacred Choir. It will be made up of the best and bravest men, those who are entirely trustworthy. They will devote themselves to serving you.”

  “As the archangels in heaven serve Our Lord Jesus,” the Little Blessed One said. He pointed to the door, the mounting din. “Every day, every hour, there are more people. There are a hundred of them out there waiting. We can’t be personally acquainted with each and every one of them. And what if the Can’s men make their way inside to harm you? The corps of guards will be your shield. And if there’s fighting, you’ll never be alone.”

  The women of the Sacred Choir sat squatting on their heels, quietly listening, not saying a word. Only Maria Quadrado was standing, alongside the two men who had just arrived. The Lion of Natuba had dragged himself over to the Counselor as they talked, and, like a dog that is its master’s favorite, laid his head on the saint’s knee.

  “Don’t think of yourself, but of the others,” Maria Quadrado said. “It’s an inspired idea, Father. Accept it.”

  “It will be the Catholic Guard, the Company of the Blessed Jesus,” the Little Blessed One said. “They will be crusaders, soldiers who believe in the Truth.”

  The Counselor made a gesture that was almost imperceptible, but all of them understood that he had given his consent. “Who is to lead it?” he asked.

  “Big João, if you approve,” the erstwhile cangaceiro answered. “The Little Blessed One also thinks he might be the right one.”

  “He’s a firm believer.” The Counselor remained silent for a moment, and when he began to speak again his voice had become completely impersonal and his words did not appear to be addressed to any of them, but rather to a far greater number of listeners, a vast, imperishable audience. “He has suffered, both in body and in soul. And it is the suffering of the soul, above all, that makes good people truly good.”

  Before the Little Blessed One even looked his way, the Lion of Natuba had raised his head from the saint’s knees and with feline swiftness had seized pen and paper and written down the words they had just heard. When he had finished, he crawled back on all fours to the Counselor and once more laid his massive head with its tangled locks on his knee. Abbot João had meanwhile begun to recount what had taken place in the last few hours. Jagunços had gone out to reconnoiter, others had come back with provisions and news, and still others had set fire to the haciendas of people who refused to help the Blessed Jesus. Was the Counselor listening to him? His eyes were closed, and he remained perfectly silent and motionless, as did the women of the Sacred Choir. His soul had seemingly taken wing to participate in one of those celestial colloquies—as the Little Blessed One called them—following which he would bring back revelations and truths to the inhabitants of Belo Monte. Even though there were no signs that other soldiers were coming, Abbot João had posted men along the roads that led from Canudos to Jeremoabo, Uauá, O Cambaio, Rosário, Chorrochó, Curral dos Bois, and was digging trenches and erecting parapets along the banks of the Vaza-Barris. The Counselor did not ask him any questions, nor did he ask any when the Little Blessed One gave an account of the battles that he for his part was waging. As though reciting one of his litanies, he explained how the pilgrims had poured in the evening before and that morning—from Cabrobó, from Jacobina, from Bom Conselho, from Pombal—and were now in the Church of Santo Antônio, awaiting the Counselor. Would he receive them during the morning before going to see how the work was getting on at the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, or in the evening during the counsels? The Little Blessed One then gave him an account of how the work was going. They had run out of timber for the vaulting and were unable to start on the roof. Two carpenters had gone to Juazeiro to see about getting more. Since, happily, there was no lack of stones, the masons were going on with the bracing of the walls.

  “The Temple of the Blessed Jesus must be finished as soon as possible,” the Counselor murmured, opening his eyes. “That is what matters most.”

  “Indeed it is, Father,” the Little Blessed One said. “Everyone is helping. What’s lacking isn’t willing hands but building materials. We’re running out of everything. But we’ll get the timber we need, and if we have to pay for it, we’ll do so. People are prepared, one and all, to give whatever money they have.”

  “Father Joaquim hasn’t come round for many days now,” the Counselor said, with a note of anxiety in his voice. “There hasn’t been a Mass in Belo Monte for quite some time now.”

  “It must be the fuses that are delaying him, Father,” Abbot João said. “We have hardly any left, and he offered to go buy some at the mines in Caçabu. He’s no doubt ordered them and is waiting for them to come. Do you want me to send someone out to look for him?”

  “He’ll be along. Father Joaquim won’t let us down,” the Counselor answered. And he looked around for Alexandrinha Correa, who had been sitting with her head hunched over between her shoulders, visibly embarrassed, ever since the name of the parish priest of Cumbe had first been mentioned. “Come here to me. You mustn’t feel ashamed, my daughter.”

  Alexandrinha Correa—with the years she had become thinner and her face grown more wrinkled, but she still had her turned-up nose and an intractable air about her that contrasted with her humble manner—crept over to the Counselor without daring to look at him.

  Placing one hand on her head as he spoke, he said to her: “From that evil there came good, Alexandrinha. He was a bad shepherd, and because he had sinned, he suffered, repented, settled his accounts with heaven, and is now a good son of the Father. When all is said and done, you did him a service. And you did your brothers and sisters of Belo Monte one as well, for thanks to Dom Joaquim we are still able to hear Mass from time to time.”

  There was sadness in his voice as he spoke these last words, and perhaps he did not notice that the former water divineress bent her head to kiss his tunic before retreating to her corner. In the early days at Canudos, a number of priests used to come to say Mass, baptize babies, and marry couples. But after that Holy Mission of the Capuchin missionary priests from Salvador which ended so badly, the Archbishop of Bahia had forbidden parish priests t
o offer the sacraments at Canudos. Father Joaquim was the only one who had continued to come nonetheless. He brought not only religious solace but also paper and ink for the Lion of Natuba, candles and incense for the Little Blessed One, and all sorts of things that Abbot João and the Vilanova brothers had asked him to procure for them. What impelled him to defy first the Church and now the civil authorities? Alexandrinha Correa perhaps, the mother of his children, with whom, each time he visited Canudos, he had an austere conversation in the Sanctuary or in the Chapel of Santo Antônio. Or the Counselor perhaps, in whose presence he was always visibly perturbed and seemingly moved to the depths of his soul. Or the hope perhaps (as many people suspected) that by coming he was paying a long-standing debt owed heaven and the people of the backlands.

  The Little Blessed One had started to speak again, about the Triduum of the Precious Blood that was to begin that afternoon, when they heard a gentle knock on the door amid all the uproar outside. Maria Quadrado went to open it. With the sun shining brightly behind him and a multitude of heads trying to peek over his shoulders, the parish priest of Cumbe appeared in the doorway.

  “Praised be Our Lord Jesus Christ,” the Counselor said, rising to his feet so quickly that the Lion of Natuba was obliged to step aside. “We were just speaking of you, and suddenly you appear.”

  He walked to the door to meet Father Joaquim, whose cassock was covered with dust, as was his face. The saint bent down, took his hand, and kissed it. The humility and respect with which the Counselor always received him made the priest feel ill at ease, but today he was so perturbed that he did not appear to have even noticed.

  “A telegram arrived,” he said, as the Little Blessed One, Abbot João, the Mother of Men, and the women of the Sacred Choir kissed his hand. “A regiment of the Federal Army is on its way here, from Rio. Its commanding officer is a famous figure, a hero who has won every war he’s ever led his troops in.”