“The captain saw you in his prayers,” the boy whispered. “He said we had to take you with us. For luck. For some kind of purpose you’ll serve. Everyone’s guessing how you’ll help. There’re bets, you know.” The boy smiled, revealing his brown-edged teeth. “Some say you won’t help at all, but they won’t tell that to the captain. My bet is it’s got something to do with your name—like the saint. Baiano says maybe you’ll give us vision. Show us a new path.”
Luzia nodded. That night, her monthly blood came. Luzia had to put the old dress that Emília had packed to a different use. With her penknife, she quickly shredded the dress’s fabric. She kept the feathers from the rolinha doves the men caught, and at night, sewed clumps of them between the dress’s shreds. Then she took her feather creations and walked away from camp, into the scrub. The men did not question or follow her. They’d seen her ripping her dress apart and seemed to sense that what led her into the scrub was some mysterious, feminine duty that they wanted no knowledge of.
Wary of scorpions and snakes, Luzia quickly crouched and put a feather roll between her legs. Later, when a roll became heavy with blood, Luzia returned to the scrub and buried it.
Blessed are you among women,
she prayed as she dug.
And blessed is the fruit of your womb.
Luzia prayed to the Virgin because she understood what it was like to be doubted by some men and made into a talisman by others. When the boy had told her the Hawk’s reasons, Luzia was confused and disappointed. During her first days with the group, she’d felt both fear and pride in the belief that he’d taken her as a prize, that he saw something of value in her. In the end, she was nothing but a charm—like his medallions, his prayer papers, his crystal rock—her worth measured by something as capricious and unfaithful as luck.
4
One day, they made camp earlier than ususal. A stray goat had wandered near their path. Chico Coffin had heard the animal’s brass chocalho clanging around its neck and set off into the scrub. He appeared minutes later, tugging the bleating goat by its horns. The cangaceiros stopped walking to celebrate his find.
As the men set up their toldas and Canjica built a fire, Luzia sat on a rock, her back to the sun. They’d picked a spot between a gulley and a cluster of giant boulders. One of the boulders had cracked along its center. Urtiga grew in the crooked fissure. Hummingbirds made their nests within the plant’s branches, unfazed by its stinging nettles. The birds chased each other, zooming between gaps in the rocks. Sometimes they hovered in midair near Luzia, their wings blurred and their emerald bodies still, like jewels suspended before her.
Luzia straightened her shoulders. She’d shucked off her belongings but she slouched, as if their weight was still upon her. She took her bornal in her lap and tugged a needle and embroidery thread through its thick cloth. She was grateful for her sister’s erratic packing. The bornal’s strap was one palm wide and seven long and she had already covered it with embroidery. Along the edges she’d sewn a curling scroll stitch. Inside she’d scattered São Jorge’s cross and added several cross-stitched fleur-de-lis, as if the ratty bag was one of Dona Conceição’s fancy tablecloths. Sewing soothed her. The stitches were reliable and familiar. Each had its own method—the placement of the needle, the order of its threading—which never changed.
A few meters away, the goat bleated. Inteligente—the man with the most brute force—clapped its skull with the butt of his rifle. Stunned, the animal fell silent. Little Ear straddled it. He cradled its limp head in his arms and, with one quick jab, punctured its neck. A dark puddle formed at Little Ear’s feet. Luzia looked away. She concentrated on her embroidery until Ponta Fina called her aside.
“Come on,” the boy said, his hands fidgeting with his knife holsters. “We’ve got to treat it.”
He did not look at her when he spoke; he kept his eyes at his feet, or on some faraway point in the distance. Luzia put away her embroidery and followed Ponta to the gulley. There, Inteligente hung the goat upside down from a thick-limbed umbuzeiro. Her dry udders hung limply against her belly. The white fur on her head and neck were stained pink. Ponta removed one of his knives. He cut circles around the goat’s ankles. He sliced slowly along its sides. Then he slipped the blade into his incisions, moving between meat and skin as if peeling a fruit. When he finished, a pink, muscled body hung from the tree.
“Have you guessed why the call me Ponta Fina?” He smiled, flashing his knife.
Luzia shrugged. The goat’s teeth were clenched, as if it was cold without its skin. She placed one of Canjica’s large tin bowls beneath the animal.
“My father was a butcher,” Ponta continued. “The greatest butcher on this side of the Rio São Francisco.” He regarded the blade in his hand, tracing its curved edge with his fingertip. “This is a lambedeira. It’s for skinning and slicing.”
Luzia nodded. Ponta slid the knife down the goat’s belly. With both hands, he pressed his weight on the animal’s ribs and eased them open carefully, so their tips would not cut him. A rush of heat erupted from the animal, like a foul breath. Ponta stepped back. Intestines shifted and curled like pale snakes, then splattered into the bowl below.
Ponta wiped his hands. One by one, he removed the other knives from their holsters. He showed her the facão, with its thick, flat blade for cutting scrub and opening pathways. He showed her the short, sharp knife he used to scale river fish and bleed animals. He showed her the pajeuzeira, a long, straight knife with a rounded tip that looked harmless compared to the rest. It was a medicine man’s knife, he said, made to cut bark and roots. The final knife was the long, silver blade all of the cangaceiros stuffed prominently into the front of their belts. It was not a knife, but a punhal—a long, shining steel rod with no flat edge.
“Mine’s only fifty centimeters.” Ponta sighed. “The captain’s is seventy!” He balanced it across the palms of his hands. “Want to hold it?”
Luzia nodded. Ponta kept his fingers around the silver handle and laid the rod across her open palms. It was heavy and cold.
“It goes clean through,” he whispered, as if imparting a secret. “It’s more a bullet than a knife.”
Half-Moon appeared. In the fading light of dusk, his injured eye took on a blue tinge. Ponta Fina quickly put away the punhal.
“Hurry up and treat that goat,” Half-Moon said. “We’re hungry.”
They would make buchada: boiling the intestines and organs, mincing them, and then stuffing them inside the stomach bag with spices to cook again. Ponta untied the goat and moved it to a flat rock where he sliced it apart. Luzia carried the heavy bowl to the gulley. Winter rains made the gulley deep and wide. Tree limbs moved within its brown waters. Luzia squatted at its edge. She washed the innards piece by piece, turning the intestines inside out with a small stick, as if threading a long needle. She scrubbed the honeycombed stomach, the rubbery white gullet.
Farther downstream, the Hawk appeared. Half of the men accompanied him. They moved several meters apart from one another and knelt at the edge of the water. They removed their hats and jackets. They pulled their tunics over their heads. The Hawk scrubbed his hands clean, then splashed water on his face. His torso was squat and lean. He poured a handful of water over his head. With each movement, Luzia could see the workings of his muscles beneath his brown skin. It was as if the scrub’s unyielding heat had simmered away any excess from him. The Hawk looked up. Luzia quickly scooped the innards into their tin bowl and left the gulley.
It was inconsiderate of him, she fumed, and the rest of them, to bathe and forget that she was nearby, cleaning their dinner. As if she didn’t merit modesty. As if she was not a woman.
At camp, the rest of the men sat around the cook fire. With a set of metal tongs, Canjica gingerly removed two fist-size rocks from the flames. He dropped them into a coffeepot filled with water. The rocks sizzled.
“I can’t wait to dance some forro,” Sweet Talker said, extending his arms and shuffling his feet back and forth.
“You want to do more than dance,” Baiano said, smiling. “I saw a little boy who looked like you in that last town we visited.”
“There’re little boys who look like him all over Pernambuco!” Little Ear said.
The men laughed. Inteligente looked at them, confused. Canjica shook his head. He touched the coffeepot, then quickly pulled his hand away. The rocks had already heated the water. He wrapped a cloth around its handle.
When Luzia emerged from the shadows, the men stopped laughing. The bowl in her hands was heavy. She handed it to Canjica. Little Ear stepped toward them. His hair was pulled back and the fire was behind him, making the edges of his ears glow pink. He inspected the tin bowl, swishing the contents with his fingers.
“These aren’t clean,” he said, staring at Luzia. “Wash them again.”
“We can boil away what’s left,” Canjica said, taking the bowl. Little Ear stopped him.
“It’s a sloppy job,” he said. “Wash them again.”
Luzia met his eyes. The men were bathing in the gulley; she could not go back. She put her hand to her throat and shook her head.
Little Ear squatted and grabbed a handful of sand. He held it over the bowl of innards and opened his fingers. With a plop, the sand fell. Behind him, one of the men chuckled.
“See here,” he said. “It’s dirty. We don’t eat dirty food.” He placed the bowl on the ground beside his feet. “Pick it up and wash them again.”
Luzia’s breath was short and quick. She bent down. Beside them, cooling on a circle of rocks, was the coffeepot. Instead of reaching for the tin bowl at Little Ear’s feet, her good arm grabbed the pot and flung it forward. Hot water splattered her hand, stinging her skin.
“Shit!” Little Ear cried. He staggered backward, batting the front of his trousers. “Shit!”
There was silence, then muffled laughter.
“She burned his
pinto
!” Branco cried.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sweet Talker said, “he never used it!”
The men held their stomachs with laughter. Little Ear stared at the circle of cangaceiros, then at Luzia. He slid the punhal from behind his belt. Baiano held his arm. Luzia picked up the tin bowl and hurried into the scrub.
5
She did not go to the gulley. Not directly. She crouched in the scrub, her hands shaking, her breath shallow. She saw the Hawk and his men move back toward camp, the tops of their tunics wet and clinging to their chests. Luzia held her breath until they passed. When she reached the gully it loomed before her, its waters dark and churning. She could not swim. Perhaps the men secretly wanted her to cross it, to leave them. Luzia set down the tin bowl, suddenly angry. She would not lope away like a dog. She would return with their silly buchada and would sit beside them, invisible and irritating, like a thorn beneath their skin.
Her throat burned. Luzia chided herself. She’d dreamed of water, craved it. Yet when she had a river before her she did not drink. She took one handful, then another. She could not stop herself. Water ran down her chin, soaking her jacket. It soothed her throat, but as soon as she swallowed, it became raw and dry again.
Behind her, there was rustling. Luzia smelled the waxy, perfumed scent of brilliantine. She heard footsteps behind her. She kept drinking.
“It’s time to take you off the xique-xique,” he said, squatting beside her. “I’d rather have you argue with my men than injure them.”
Luzia wiped her chin. She would not look at him.
“The men,” he continued slowly, “some of them aren’t happy you’re with us. Every day we say the corpo fechado prayer to seal our bodies, and here I am, bringing you along, opening us up like watermelons so any bullet will go through.” He rubbed his face roughly, then looked at Luzia. “Most women carry sadness. Bad luck. It’s not your fault. It’s just your nature.”
Luzia coughed. The water she’d gulped rose up into her throat, but different now, more acidic. She’d had too much.
He cleared his throat. “That morning, on the ridge, I thought the bird thief would be a boy. Some poor kid. When I make a guess, I’m usually right. But there you were: hair braided, shoes on your feet. A family girl. You surprised me. Not much surprises me these days.” He sighed and shook his head. “I can’t tell my men what kind of luck you’ll bring us,” he said, “because I don’t know myself.”
If she had a voice, Luzia would have told him he didn’t know anything at all. She was no paper saint, no necklace of red string.
“Look there,” the Hawk said. He stood suddenly and pointed into the scrub.
It was a mandacaru cactus, its trunk as brown and thick as a tree’s except for the finger-length spines emerging from it. Above them, its limbs were green and tube shaped. A few smooth bulbs emerged from its surface.
“Sit still,” the Hawk said.
The sky darkened. Sapo-boi frogs moaned in the distance, their faraway calls resembling the bleating of cows. Above them, on the cactus, a bulb broke open. A white petal pushed out. Luzia’s neck felt stiff but she didn’t move, afraid of startling the flower back into its bulb. More petals unfolded, each thick and white.
Slowly, Luzia turned her eyes to him. The line of scarred flesh on his face was as white as that mandacaru flower. Luzia stared at it as if it, too, would open and reveal itself. She eyed his wet hair, his shaved face. The men in Taquaritinga, the rowdy ones people called “cabra valente,” all wore beards. They swore and drank and shot their pistols into the air. She’d believed a cangaceiro would be worse. But she could not imagine him yelling, and with a certainty that startled her, she knew that if he shot, it would not be into the air.
“They open once,” the Hawk said. “Before a big rain. Tomorrow it will be gone.”
He faced her. Luzia quickly looked up at the bloom. She could not bring herself to rise and leave. There was something growing within her, something unwanted and insistent, like the onion grass that invaded Aunt Sofia’s garden in thick, green clumps. It was attractive but could choke out every other plant if left unchecked. The only solution was to pluck it from the root and burn it in the fire, if anything else was to survive.