The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [102]
“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