Time Commences in Xibalbá

First There Was the Wind . . .

1 —First There Was the Wind . . . it blew into town like it was just playing—jumping all over the place, flicking at the muddy trousers of the tired, bored, sleepy men; tickling the little boys’ tummies; sneaking up the women’s skirts, licking their grimy, shapeless legs.—¡Look! What a mischievous little wind—said one of the women. But, no sooner had she spoken, than the wind, like someone who gets mad over the silliest little thing, opened its snout and . . . then it was impossible to hear anything at all. Not even the wind itself. It was as if the noise were the silence. The very first blast broke up the groups of men puffing on their cigarettes there on the street corners, and they ran, buffeted from behind, chasing their hats like white kites that disappeared into the sooty night; an ancient woman, so old and blind she couldn’t find anywhere to hide, ended up blowing head over heels through the streets of the town; the little rascals who were still playing in their yards went tumbling down the slopes into the vacant lots, followed by their mamas who, more flying than running, threw themselves after them until they could grab hold of a leg, or an arm, and, with all their might, haul them back to their houses. The wind whipped open and slammed shut all of the doors in the town, again and again, making a mockery of latches, keys, locks; the wind broke down fences and ripped apart thatched roofs; it made off with sheets of tin roofing and smashed roof tiles; it got up under the beds, filling everything time commences in xibalbá 2 with dirt; it hurtled through the cooking pots, smashing them; it killed the chickens, scratched at the clothes of the people, bit into their flesh, and ran its rough, blunt tongue all the way up past their hearts, to the very bottom of life itself. Curled up, piled together, the grown-ups covered up their kids; while outside, squealing, whimpering , crying, people let themselves be thrown to the ground so as not to be battered; the trees reached out to the birds; and the birds, gone mad, their wings broken, unable to flee toward the stars, moribund, some not even half alive, reached out to the trees, too. But it didn’t last long; only as long as it takes you to walk around your kitchen, but slow, real slow, like if you had rheumatism. That’s how long it lasted and then it was gone. Everyone saw how it suddenly sort of found the road and went off looking for other people, other places. Because it wasn’t wind. It was an animal in the shape of wind. Or it was a person in the shape of an animal. But then, after the wind went around that last corner in town and dove into the wall of cypress trees that runs along the country road, then the other thing came. It came from this side of town, where the sun comes up. From over there where the plain ends just past the barbed wire, a little above where the pines whistle and whistle at the palo de señorita shrubs, exactly there where that little current of water comes down in the winter, forming a cascade of sparkling glass shards among the rocks. The whole town thought it must have been that they wanted the chickens, or the birds, that it was because the wind had blown by them carrying the scent of chicken blood. But no. Soon it became clear that it wasn’t that. A thread, that’s all that could be heard at first—a long, long, long, thread. Then another thread joined the first one. Then another. And another. And soon, among them all, they had woven together a funeral dirge that would stretch itself out and then shrink back down. Then, the dogs came out from where they had taken refuge from the wind; each one walked to the door that faced the street, sat down, and looked toward where the sun drops into the canyon, and began, at length, to make a chorus, like a person who spits his sorrow out of his mouth in the shape of a single, long worm. The howls of the coyotes and the dogs blanketed the village. Still huddled together, the people were struck mute; they wanted to talk to each other but their mouths would neither...