The horses can feel death pursuing them and need no other whip. The silence of night is so deep that the wagon's wheels can scarcely be heard as they turn on the rough surface of these old roads, and the horses' trot sounds muffled as if their hooves were clad in rags. No moon will appear. They travel among shadows, there is a total blackout, an apagón or negrum, like the first night of all before those words were spoken, Let there be light, to no great wonder, for God knew that the sun would inevitably appear two hours hence. Joana Carda and Maria Guavaira have been weeping since they set out. Out of compassion they had given their bodies to this man whose corpse they all now escort, with their own hands they had drawn him to them, shown him what to do, and perhaps the unborn children forming inside their wombs and being made to tremble by their sobs are his offspring, dear God, how all things in this world are linked together, and here we are thinking that we have the power to separate or join them at will, how sadly mistaken we are, having been proved wrong time and time again, a line traced on the ground, a flock of starlings, a stone thrown into the sea, a blue woolen sock, but we are showing them to the blind, preaching to the deaf with hearts of stone.
The sky was still covered in darkness as they reached Venta Micena. Not a soul had they met along the entire route, almost thirty leagues, and slumbering Orce was a ghost, its houses like the walls of a labyrinth, their windows and doors firmly closed. Rising above the rooftops, the Castle of the Seven Towers was like a mirage. The street- lamps flickered like stars about to disappear, the trees in the square, reduced to trunks and thick boughs, might well have been the remnants of a petrified forest. The travelers passed in front of the pharmacy, this time there was no need to stop, the details of the route were still fresh in their memories, Go straight in the direction of Maria, continue for three kilometers after the last houses, you'll come to a little bridge there with an olive tree nearby, I'll catch up with you shortly. He has already arrived. After the last bend they saw the cemetery with its whitewashed walls and enormous cross. The gate was locked, they had to force it open. José Anaiço went in search of a crowbar, pushed the claw between the gate and the post, but Maria Guavaira grabbed him by the arm, We're not going to bury him here. She pointed toward the white hills in the direction of the Cueva de los Rosales where the skull of the most ancient man in Europe had been excavated, the one who had lived more than a million years ago, and she said, The body will rest over there, that's the spot Pedro Orce himself might have chosen. They took the wagon as far as possible, the horses could scarcely walk, their hooves dragging in the loose dust. There is no one living in Venta Micena to attend the funeral, all the houses have been abandoned, nearly all of them are in ruins. On the horizon the shadowy outline of the mountains can scarcely be seen, those same mountains that Orce Man must have watched as he lay dying. It is still night, Pedro Orce is dead, in his eyes only a dark cloud remains and nothing more.
When the wagon could go no farther, the three men removed the corpse. Maria Guavaira helps them while Joana Carda carries the elm branch in one hand. They climb a flat-topped hill, and the dry soil crumbles under their feet, scattering down the slope. The corpse of Pedro Orce sways, comes close to slipping and taking its bearers with it, but they manage to hoist it to the top, where they rest it on the ground. They are bathed in sweat, covered in white dust. Roque Lozano starts digging the grave, having asked the others to leave the job to him. The soil comes away easily, the crowbar serves as a spade and their hands as shovels. Light begins to dawn to the east, the blurred form of the sierra has turned black. Roque Lozano emerges from the hole, shakes the soil from his hands, kneels and starts to lift the corpse with the help of José Anaiço, who takes it by the arms. They lower the body slowly into the ground, the grave is not deep, should anthropologists ever return to these parts they would have no difficulty in finding it. Maria Dolores will say, Here's a skull, and the leader of the expedition will take a quick look, It's of no interest, we have plenty of those. They covered the body and smoothed out the ground until it merged with the rest of the terrain, but they had to remove the dog, which was trying to scratch at the grave with its claws. Then Joana Carda stuck the elm branch into the ground where Pedro Orce's head lay buried. It is not a cross, as one can see, nor a sign of mourning, it is only a branch that has lost any value it ever had, yet it can still be put to this simple use, a sundial in a fossilized wilderness, perhaps a resuscitated tree, if a piece of dry wood stuck in the ground is capable of working miracles, of creating roots, of ridding Pedro Orce's eyes of that dark cloud. Tomorrow the rain will fall over these fields.
The peninsula has stopped. The travelers will rest here until tomorrow. It is raining as they are about to leave, they have called the dog, which has not left the grave all this time, but it will not come. It's only to be expected, observed José Anaiço, dogs cannot bear to be separated from their master, sometimes they actually pine away. He was mistaken. The dog Ardent looked at José Anaiço, then moved off slowly, head lowered. They would never see it again. The journey continues. Roque Lozano will remain in Zufre, he will knock on the door of his house saying, I've come back, that's his story and perhaps someone will tell it one day. As for the others, they will travel on their way, who knows what future awaits them, how much time, what destiny. The elm branch is green. Perhaps it will flower again next year.