THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

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 Porfirismo, and 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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