When had his people known freedom. Had it been under the last Indian emperor, Cuauhtemoc? Had it been under Moctezuma? Had it been at Chichén Itzá or Palenque? Surely, in some bygone age, his people had been freer and suffered less. Men still worshiped the old gods. A while ago, at the base of the volcano, at a place called Ojo Blanco, he had discovered an altar encrusted with blood. Turkey blood, said Manuel, since feathers had gotten stuck in the black crust. Deep inside a granite niche, a stone figure had grinned apishly.
"Toltec?" he asked Manuel.
"I don't know, Don Raul."
Higher up the volcano, on the seaward side, his men had reported other altars, through the years. On his own climbs, Raul had come across other idols, one a bloated thing of obsidian, the glass unpocked by time. Had these men known happier days?
The moon shone brightly, and it was chilly. He wanted to stroll along the lagoon and yet felt he should not walk alone, not for the time being. As a boy, he had played along the lagoon, speared frogs, sailed boats, waded and swum. As a boy ... What about Vicente? Would anyone molest him? Of course not. Then his own risk was an exaggeration.
He got a jacket, went through the garden, and opened a rose-trellised gate that led to the shore. First one frog and then another plopped into the water. A night bird startled him by whirring off from sedges near his feet. He stood still, his heart pounding. At once, he called himself a coward, but as he began to follow the shore, he realized someone was trailing him. He stopped, his hand on the trunk of a primavera tree and waited for the man to approach.
"Coming ... coming," came Manuel's voice. Raul broke into a chuckle.
"Why are you following me? Haven't you anything better to do?"
"You need company."
"I suppose I do. A night bird scared me. I'm an old woman."