sierra, which abounded in ravines and caves, and where wild animals would soon have removed all traces of an abandoned corpse, it seemed strange to us that the assassins should bother to put themselves to such trouble. But who could say what motives—irrational though they might seem to us—were involved?
The dead man, identified as Miguel Garcia, had been killed by a gunshot wound in the right side of the chest, and the major cause for consternation in the village was that—according to the shaman’s expert advice—he had died between two and three days before, and not only had putrefaction set in, but all the delicate machinery of the manipulation of the soul, which must begin its journey to the underworld five days after death, had been thrown completely out of gear by this delay.
Death had taken the village off its guard. At this moment we should all have gathered by the body to drink ritual beer, but there was none. There were no candles to be found either, no animal of any kind that could have decently been sacrificed, hardly enough maize flour even for the five funerary tortillas that would sustain the spirit on the first stage of its journey. What could be found of the dead man’s possessions had been assembled for burial, but it was essential to include with them symbolic bodily parts: arms and legs, and a head, woven from some sacred material, that would replace the physical body as corruption advanced. None of this could be discovered, and the shaman had to make do with ordinary grass. The atmosphere was one of depressed improvisation, against a background of the controlled sobbing of the dead man’s sister.
The Tatouan and his officers now arrived, presenting stoic Indian faces to the ritual confusion. Wearing their ceremonial hats, decorated with buzzards’ and eagles’ feathers, they stalked in slow procession into the council house to begin their deliberations. A grave fifteen feet deep was almost finished outside the village’s limits, but their first ruling was that, whatever the religious imperatives, the body must remain unburied until all the relatives had been assembled—and some of them lived on ranchos a day’s ride away.
In this the shaman, who had called for immediate burial, was overruled. He was overruled too in the matter of the bandit suspect, who received a short and perfunctory trial and was released—seemingly for lack of sufficient evidence. The man was given back his gun, but as a concession to Ramon’s objections it was unloaded and Ramon was allowed to take the bullets. He left the village, with a swagger emphasizing victory—and, departing, he shot us a last meaningful glance that was devoid of amity. In a way the verdict came as a relief. We were obliged now to accept the fact that in the sierra human life was cheap indeed. At first there had been hints of rough justice and, to the last, the shaman—still certain that the man would be found guilty—had insisted that we would take him back to Tepic with us, to hand him over to the federal police there. There now remained the uncomfortable possibility that somewhere in the forest between San Andres and Santa Clara an armed man with a grudge against the shaman might be lying in wait. In consequence, when we set off we walked well separated and in single file—the local method of reducing the risks inherent in such a situation.
Reaching the Nautla Gorge, we threw ourselves down to rest. The mission was only half an hour’s scramble away down the mountainside and already the sun had fallen behind the peaks.
By this time our relationship with the shaman had grown close and cordial, and he chose this moment to create us honorary compañeros of the Huichol people, and formally invited us to set out with him on the annual peyote pilgrimage, which would start in twenty-five days’ time. For the sixth time Ramon would lead his people, at the head of four captains, across mountain and desert for twenty days to Rial Catorce in
The dead man, identified as Miguel Garcia, had been killed by a gunshot wound in the right side of the chest, and the major cause for consternation in the village was that—according to the shaman’s expert advice—he had died between two and three days before, and not only had putrefaction set in, but all the delicate machinery of the manipulation of the soul, which must begin its journey to the underworld five days after death, had been thrown completely out of gear by this delay.
Death had taken the village off its guard. At this moment we should all have gathered by the body to drink ritual beer, but there was none. There were no candles to be found either, no animal of any kind that could have decently been sacrificed, hardly enough maize flour even for the five funerary tortillas that would sustain the spirit on the first stage of its journey. What could be found of the dead man’s possessions had been assembled for burial, but it was essential to include with them symbolic bodily parts: arms and legs, and a head, woven from some sacred material, that would replace the physical body as corruption advanced. None of this could be discovered, and the shaman had to make do with ordinary grass. The atmosphere was one of depressed improvisation, against a background of the controlled sobbing of the dead man’s sister.
The Tatouan and his officers now arrived, presenting stoic Indian faces to the ritual confusion. Wearing their ceremonial hats, decorated with buzzards’ and eagles’ feathers, they stalked in slow procession into the council house to begin their deliberations. A grave fifteen feet deep was almost finished outside the village’s limits, but their first ruling was that, whatever the religious imperatives, the body must remain unburied until all the relatives had been assembled—and some of them lived on ranchos a day’s ride away.
In this the shaman, who had called for immediate burial, was overruled. He was overruled too in the matter of the bandit suspect, who received a short and perfunctory trial and was released—seemingly for lack of sufficient evidence. The man was given back his gun, but as a concession to Ramon’s objections it was unloaded and Ramon was allowed to take the bullets. He left the village, with a swagger emphasizing victory—and, departing, he shot us a last meaningful glance that was devoid of amity. In a way the verdict came as a relief. We were obliged now to accept the fact that in the sierra human life was cheap indeed. At first there had been hints of rough justice and, to the last, the shaman—still certain that the man would be found guilty—had insisted that we would take him back to Tepic with us, to hand him over to the federal police there. There now remained the uncomfortable possibility that somewhere in the forest between San Andres and Santa Clara an armed man with a grudge against the shaman might be lying in wait. In consequence, when we set off we walked well separated and in single file—the local method of reducing the risks inherent in such a situation.
Reaching the Nautla Gorge, we threw ourselves down to rest. The mission was only half an hour’s scramble away down the mountainside and already the sun had fallen behind the peaks.
By this time our relationship with the shaman had grown close and cordial, and he chose this moment to create us honorary compañeros of the Huichol people, and formally invited us to set out with him on the annual peyote pilgrimage, which would start in twenty-five days’ time. For the sixth time Ramon would lead his people, at the head of four captains, across mountain and desert for twenty days to Rial Catorce in
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