"Yes, I've heard that," said Manuel.
"I wonder why the old gods died," Raul said.
"People say they died because no one cared any more. Why does anything die, Don Raul?" Manuel shook his head; he removed his hat and forked his fingers through his hair. Faced by his own question, he felt tired, old. The forest could answer that question. Bending over his cigarette, sheltering it, smelling it, he listened to the woods.
"We couldn't go on living, all of us," he said, exhaling after a long drag, the smoke flooding over his eyes. "Some of us must be lost, in jungles, in rivers, fall on the sides of mountains, take sick of fever, be buried in ruins and little roadside places."
"But the gods weren't buried," objected Raul.
"They were buried at Tenochtitlan, at Monte Albán, at temples in Yucatán."
The flycatcher went on preening its lovely feathers.
Manuel lowered his voice: "Perhaps the old gods may return. I've heard it said...."