“I live alone; thieves won’t let me sleep… I need a man to protect me,” said the widow.

“I live alone; thieves won’t let me sleep... I need a man to protect me,” said the widow.

The glass trembled in her hand as she passed through the gate’s railing.  The man on horseback nodded in thanks.  She looked at the corral where three head of cattle were missing, and remembered that she had already given them water like that once before .  That water cost him everything. Catherine of Aragon did not know the man’s name .

  I didn’t know where he came from, nor where he was going.  He only knew what he had to lose.  70-odd head of cattle, a plot of land two leagues in size, and a time limit running.  The big lamp auction was just around the corner.  If she didn’t deliver 40 head of cattle, the gameleiro ranch would cease to belong to her, and the cattle would disappear two by two, three by three, on moonless nights, without a cut fence, without a broken gate, without a barking dog.

  That man standing at the gate was going to find in one afternoon what the entire village hadn’t found in months, and he was going to charge her a price she couldn’t even imagine. But the story of that day had begun long before sunrise.  Catarina woke up in the dark because she hadn’t slept.  She hadn’t slept properly in a long time.

  She put on her skirt, slipped on her boots, and went out with the lamp in her hand.  The yard was cold.  The dog followed her slowly, wagging its tail, calm as if it had spent the whole night lying down.  That’s what tightened her chest first.  The calm dog.  She opened the gate to the handling corral and called out.

  The cattle came slowly from the back of the pasture, pushing each other in front of the trough.  Catarina told the story. He told the story again.  He counted a third time, walking among the animals, touching the back of each one.  Three were missing.  He sat on the fence post and watched the light that began to appear behind the hill.

  The fog descended low above the pasture. He got up and went to check the wire fence, step by step, from the edge of the swamp to the road.  Nothing.  Wire stretched, staple in place, post firm. The large gate was locked with the chain on the inside, just as she herself had left it.

  The scraped, savior’s trough was too clean for just one night. Catarina rested her hand on the wooden trough, feeling the smooth spot where the cattle’s tongues had worn down the board over years of salting.  “You came in here,” she whispered, “for no one. You came in here and fed salt to my cattle.” It was the first time she had spoken aloud.

 And it was the first time she had felt fear within her own land.  He saddled the mare early in the morning and went down to the village. Candeias was just one street.  with the little church upstairs and Dona Genoveva’s shop downstairs.  In the middle, the Breeders’ Association shed , with its door always ajar.

  In front of the shop there was a long wooden bench, and the same men always sat on it.  Catarina tied up the mare and climbed the two steps. She felt everyone’s eyes glued to her back.  Dona Genoveva dropped the cloth on the counter.  Girl, you look terrible .  Three more were missing, Mrs. Genoveva.  The sale went quiet.  The radio inside continued talking by itself.  This week?  Mrs.

Genoveva asked.  Tonight one of the men from the bank whistled softly.  Another spat toward the street and said nothing.  Catherine turned to them.  She had come all that way for that reason and wasn’t going to leave without saying anything. “I need a man to sleep in the tree,” she said.  I pay what is paid, food and a bed in the shack.

  And we’ll settle up later with whatever is left over from the harvest. No one answered.  “Mr. Policarpo,” she called.  You have two grown children.  Mr. Policarpo took off his hat, twirled it in his hand, and put it back on .  Mrs. Catarina, my boys have jobs.  Employees where?  He did n’t answer.  It wasn’t necessary.

  Everyone on that street knew where the only job that paid on time was in that area.  “Your Nicanor from the Swamp,” she insisted.  “Your friend,” one of them laughed. It wasn’t a malicious laugh, it was worse. It was an awkward laugh, the kind you give when you don’t want to say no to someone’s face.

  Catarina felt her face grow hot.  She was young, she was a widow, and she was alone in front of seven seated men.  And she spoke just like that, loudly, with the voice she had.  I live alone.  The thieves won’t let me sleep.  I need a man to protect me.  The silence that followed was deafening.  Then came the joke.

  It came from the corner of the bench, from a mustachioed man she barely knew.  A man to protect Mrs. Catarina.  It’s easy.  It’s hard to find one who doesn’t want the land as well.  The others laughed.  Did they really laugh this time? Someone hit my thigh.  Dona Genoveva slammed her hand on the counter.  Look at the respect shown in my sale.

  Catherine didn’t cry.  He stared at the wooden floor and waited for it to pass.  Then he raised his head and said the phrase that the village repeated for a long time.  I didn’t come looking for a husband, I came looking for sleep. It was at that moment that the door to the association’s warehouse opened.

  Seu Orestes Bandeira was a large man, wearing a white shirt and a light-colored hat, the owner of the Sete Voltas farm and president of the ranchers since long before it arrived in that region.  He crossed the street slowly. Everyone settled into their seats.  “No one laughs at a widow in front of me,” he said without raising his voice.

 The men at the bank looked at the floor. The one with the mustache turned red to his ears. Mr. Orestes tipped his hat to her. “Mrs. Catarina, I heard about your cattle. You found out quickly. In this region, everything gets out quickly, except what matters.” He smiled. He had a nice way of smiling, and that’s what made him who he was.

 “ I’ll send you two of my men. They’ll sleep in your shed, they’ll take turns at night, and you can sleep.” Mrs. Genoveva looked at Catarina over the counter. It was a quick glance, and Catarina didn’t understand at that moment what that look meant. “What do I pay with, Mr. Orestes?” “With nothing. It’s neighborly.

” He rested his hat on his leg. “Now, if you’ll let me talk business, there’s something else. Speak, your husband’s account with the Pontal firm is due at auction. 40 head of cattle for slaughter or the money from them.” He spoke softly, like someone reading a cake recipe. “You don’t have 40 head of cattle for slaughter, you have…”  30, if you count the weaned calf.

 She didn’t answer because it was true. I’ll pay the rest in advance . Will you sign a down payment? If you pay before the auction, the paper is worthless and I’ll tear it up in front of you. If you don’t pay, the horse breeder will come to me for the fair price. You set the fair price . Mr. Orestes laughed heartily, as if she had said the best thing in the world.

 That’s why I like you. Catarina looked at the street, looked at the men on the bench, looked at the association’s sign , looked at her own crooked reflection in the shop window. I accept the men, she said. Not the paper. Stand up until the auction. Not the paper, Mr. Orestes. He put on his hat and shrugged very calmly.

 Stand up until the auction, he repeated and went back to the shed. Dona Genoveva approached and spoke softly, looking at the street. Listen to something, girl. When a man offers you protection and money at the same time, choose one of the two. Never both. Catarina mounted the mare without quite understanding.

 She would understand later and  It was going to hurt. The way back climbed a red dirt road between two old fences. She was thinking about Antero. Antero Aragão had been born in that land, and his father before him, and his grandfather even before that. The Aragão horseshoe was registered in the association’s book of horseshoes since before there was a road in Candeias.

 Everyone knew that mark. A horseshoe open downwards with both ends loose. The brand of old people. Antero would say it with silly pride. The buyer doesn’t even ask, just looks and pays. She had come from elsewhere, from a mountain village, without any land. She married young and learned everything there, in the rough way, getting beaten by calves and laughing afterwards.

 It was Antero who taught her the salt trough. He would scrape the trough board with the tip of the old iron in a rhythm that was all his own. Two short scrapes, one long. Two short, one long. The cattle learned that like a child learns a school bell. They could be at the bottom of the ravine and still come.

 Well-treated cattle aren’t called with shouts, they  He used to say, “It’s called with salt.” And he had another rule, the rule of the gate. Never deny water or shade to anyone who passes by, neither to those you know nor those you don’t. Antero left during a rainy season, and Catarina was left with the land, the cattle, the Pontal company account, and the branding iron hanging cold on the kitchen wall beside the stove.

 She had never taken that iron down again . She arrived at the gameleiro tree near midday, with the sun high in the sky, and that’s when she saw the horse standing in the shade of the anjico tree outside the gate. A tired horse, with worn-out harness, a raincoat tied behind the saddle. And on the horse, a man in a hat waiting without haste, like someone who had waited for much in life.

 Catarina stopped the mare about 20 paces away. Her hand searched for the whip handle on its own in the saddle, and she was ashamed of her own gesture. “What do you want, sir?” “Water.” He said, “If you can.” His voice was low, not that of a man of that caliph.  region. She went down, went to the fountain next to the kitchen, filled a glass and returned.

 She didn’t open the gate, she passed the glass through the bars. And it was at that moment that her hand trembled, because the last time she gave water like that, in the middle of a hot afternoon, it was to a nice fellow who spent half an hour in the shade of the tree chatting. That fellow asked how many head of cattle she had, asked if there were men living in the house.

 He even asked if the dog was fierce, and she answered everything, smiling, because that was the rule of the pasture. A few nights later the cattle began to disappear. Now she was there again, passing a glass of water through the bars to a man she did n’t know, and her throat was constricted.

 The man took the glass with both hands, nodded in thanks, and then did the thing that changed everything. He took off his hat, turned the hat upside down , poured half the water into the crown of the hat and offered it to the horse. The animal drank it all at once. Then he drank the rest in one gulp, and gave it back.  The empty glass was thrown through the grate.

 Catarina held the glass in her hand, unable to speak, because that was exactly what Antero did. In the same way, with the same order. “Who taught you that?” she asked. The man looked at her from under the brim of his hat and hesitated before answering. “An old man,” he said. “A long time ago?” “What old man!”  “An old man who is no longer around.

”  He adjusted the reins.  “Do you need people?” “Why?”  Because your gate has a new chain and your fence is too clean for someone who’s losing cattle.  Catarina gripped the glass tightly. Who told you I’m losing cattle?  Nobody.  He pointed with his chin towards the road, towards the dust it had kicked up.  The woman went down to the village in the morning and came back looking like she had n’t gotten what she was looking for.

  And the gate to their handling pen is open in the middle of the day, which is typical of someone who counted the animals three times and didn’t have the courage to close it.  She did n’t like it.  He didn’t like it at all.  “I ‘m not hiring her,” she said.  And her voice came out harsher than she intended.  I already have two men coming today.

Whose men?  That’s none of your business, is it?  He touched the brim of his hat. Thank you for the water.  And he pulled the reins toward the road.  Catarina went inside, closed the kitchen door, and stood with her back against the wood, still holding the empty glass. He looked at the nail in the wall where the Aragonese branding iron hung, covered in dust.

  “I ‘m not hiring,” she repeated to the iron.  That afternoon, the two men from the southeast arrived in a pickup truck with a mattress and a suitcase.  One was older, quiet, and named Heraldo.  The other was a skinny boy with a sparse mustache, who introduced himself as Tito and smiled broadly. Catarina showed the shack, showed the kitchen, showed where the water fountain was.

Tito walked around the yard with his hands in his pockets, looking at everything, praising everything. “That’s a beautiful mango tree,” he said.  “The lady did it, or it was already during her husband’s time.”  And it was then, with that voice, that Catarina felt something cold run down her spine.

  She had heard that voice before.  In the late afternoon, when the sun had set behind the thicket and the pasture had turned fiery red, Catarina went out to close the large gate and stopped.  Far away, outside the fence, walking slowly with his horse by the reins, was the man with the hat.  He would stop, bend down, and look at the ground.

  He would stand up, walk another 10 steps, then bend down again.  Catarina went out the gate and walked over there, stomping her feet , angry from the whole day.  What are you doing on my border?  He was n’t scared.  He pointed to the ground, to a deep mark in the dry earth, and to a stone he had placed beside it.  “The lady wasn’t robbed on the road,” he said, “Nor by the gate.

”  “Like this?”  The man stood up, wiped his hand on his trousers, and pointed to the other side, toward the dense thicket of the woods, where there was no path , no gate, no trail, nothing.  “Your cattle wandered off,” he said softly, without running, in front of a horse, and walked away that way. Catarina looked at the thicket of bushes and then at the man, and her anger turned into something else.

 “There’s no gate there,” she said. “There isn’t even a wild boar’s trail there .”  “That’s vine with thorns all the way up.” “I know, when have I been there before?” Today, while the lady was in the village, he showed her his forearm. The sleeve was torn in three places. I came back without getting anywhere. She bent down near the stone he had placed.

 The ground there was hard, compacted, and she had never in her life stopped to look at that ground up close. “I’m not seeing anything.”   ” Put your hand here.” Catarina hesitated. Then she lowered herself further and touched the mark with her fingers. “Feel the edge?” he said, crouching beside her.

 “It’s deep on one side only. That’s what kings do. Walking slowly, with their bodies crooked, looking at something ahead. If they were running, the earth would be thrown back. Isn’t it? So what? So nobody touched your cattle from out here. Your cattle were called. The sun was almost at the end of the hill.

 The pasture had turned orange and the thicket seemed darker than it was. He took a few steps and pointed to another mark and then another and then a fourth that took her a while to see. Three head of cattle, one behind the other, he said. And in front of them a horse. How do you know it was in front? Because the horse’s mark is underneath.

 It passed first. Catarina stood up slowly. Her knees were dirty with red earth and she didn’t care. “You saw this today. This has been here for weeks, ma’am. It’s trampled on top of…” Footsteps. He twirled his hat in his hand. His cattle come out here from time to time, always in the same place, always at the same pace. That’s not a highway robbery.

Highway robberies run. Then what is it? He hesitated to answer. It’s people with time, he said. And people with time are worse. She looked at him, a man in worn trousers, with his horse by the reins, who had arrived that afternoon asking for water. Do you have a name? Bento. Bento what? Bento will do. No, it won’t.

 He smiled slightly. And it was the first time she had seen that man almost laugh. He’s good for work, ma’am. If he’s not, I’ll mount and leave now. Catarina looked at the yard, where the old man’s truck had left tire marks. She looked at the light on in the shed. She had said in the village, in front of everyone, that she needed a man and one had appeared without her calling.

 Food three times a day. She said: “I don’t have a bed to give you.”  The shed is occupied.  I sleep in the barn.  The barn has rats.  I’ve slept with worse.  She took a deep breath.  And payment is made after the auction.  If you leave. It is good.  You didn’t even ask how much.   ” The lady didn’t even ask my last name,” he said.  We’re tied.

  Catarina turned towards the house before he could see the face she made.  Bento tied the horse to the barn fence and removed the saddle by himself.  He didn’t ask for help, he didn’t ask for a flashlight, he didn’t ask for anything.  When she brought him the plate of food, he had already swept half the barn and made a canvas bed on top of the straw.

  The two men from Orestes’ group came to look from the door of the shack.  “Did the lady hire her?”, asked Heraldo, the oldest, without greeting her.  I hired him.  The seestes sent us precisely so that you would n’t have this expense.  I know what he sent.  Tito appeared behind the other, chewing something with that ready smile.

  Where are you from, young man?  Bento looked up from his plate. It took a long time to reply. From afar.  Far away is great.  AND.  Tito laughed and patted his teammate on the shoulder.  A silent man is a good man at his job.  They went back to the shed.  The door slammed shut. Catarina stood still at the barn door with the lamp in her hand.

  “You didn’t like them,” she said.  I don’t know them.  But he didn’t like it.  Bento scraped the plate clean and returned it to her with both hands.  Ma’am, I’m going to ask you something, and you don’t have to answer today.  Ask.  When did he start raising cattle in this land?  Catherine thought.  It hurt to think about it.

  After my husband left, a few months later.  And when her neighbor first offered her help, she opened her mouth and no sound came out. Bento lay down on his side in the straw, put his hat over his face, and said nothing more .  That night, no cattle disappeared , nor the following night, nor any of the nights after that .

  The cattle remained there, fat and quiet, and the salt trough was left just as it had been found in the morning.  In the village, the news spread quickly, the way news usually does in a village.  It saw?  They said so at the sales counter.   All it took was one man at home.  Dona Genoveva told Catarina this one afternoon, and she told it angrily, banging the cloth on the counter.

  Are they saying that the west saved their crops?  It’s not farming, Mrs. Genoveva, it’s cattle.  I know what it is. I’m saying what they say.  And his Orestes was coming.  He would come by pickup truck once in a while, always in the middle of the afternoon, always with something in his hand. A bag of coarse salt, a roll of wire. Once, she had a new straw hat that she refused.  He never went inside the house.

He would stand in the yard, leaning against the pickup truck with his hat pushed backward.  On one of those occasions, the one driving was a slumped-shouldered boy, his middle son , the beloved.  The young man didn’t get out of the car; he stayed inside with his hands on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, and didn’t even look at her when she said good afternoon.  Are you sleeping, Mrs.

 Catarina? I am.  See?  All you need is a man at the gate.  He looked at the barn from afar, where Bento worked. Where is that guy from?  It’s far away.  Far away is great. She looked at him.  It was the same phrase as Tito.  In the same vein.  Mr. Orestes.  You know every farmer from here all the way to the mountains.  I know.

  And you don’t know this one? He laughed, threw his hat onto the truck bed, and rested his elbows on the back of the truck.  Mrs.  A man riding a horse alone in this weather is one of two things.  Either he’s running away from someone or he’s chasing someone.  Which of the two do you think?  “I think you should sign that paper,” he said, smiling.

  That way I’ll stop worrying.  Meanwhile, Bento was working.  He worked in a way that Catarina hadn’t seen him work since Antero, without rushing and without stopping.  He straightened the crooked cattle pen, replaced the rotten posts of the corral, made a new salt trough and left the old one in place.  Why do n’t you remove the old man?  Because the cattle recognize the old man.

  He patiently tended to a heifer’s injured hoof, talking to the animal softly, without restraining, squeezing, or hurting it, and he taught Miro how to do it.  Miro was a skinny boy, the son of the woman who lived on the other side of the stream, who would show up every morning and stay until lunch in the afternoon in exchange for food and a pair of boots per harvest.

  Bento positioned the boy crouching at the edge of the corral with his hand on the ground.  “This is a king’s stomp, with the calf by his side,” he used to say.  This is a king’s stomp with the calf behind him.  It’s not the same thing and it doesn’t mean the same thing.  How do you know? Because the ground doesn’t lie, boy.

  Those who lie are the ones who sweep the floor.  Catarina heard this from inside the kitchen, with her hands in the bread dough, and stood there for a moment .  Every afternoon, when work was over, Bento would disappear.  He would grab his machete, a canteen, and nothing else, and head into the thicket.

  He would return in the dark, his face scarred with thorns, and he never told anyone what he had seen.  One night, she waited for him at the barn door.  What’s in that bush?  If you’re not dust, don’t mess with me.  Bento stopped.  His shirt was torn at the shoulder and he had a thin thorn mark on his face.  “There’s a path in there ,” he said.  It has to be there.

  But the vine closed in on top of him, and I can’t find his mouth.  It’s like looking for a door in a whitewashed wall.  What if I don’t have it?  Then your cattle flew away, ma’am.  He leaned the machete against the wall.  And I don’t believe in flying kings.  Catherine laughed.  It was a short, almost silent laugh that escaped her before she could hold it back.

  It was the first laugh in that house in a long time, and they both noticed.  She straightened her face immediately.  Good evening, Mr. Bento. Good evening, ma’am.  The next morning, the little thing happened that turned everything upside down.  It had rained in the early morning, a fine rain, the kind that settles the dust and leaves the ground as smooth as bread dough.

  Bento was standing in front of the shed, with the halter in his hand, when he stopped mid-way.  He stared at the ground in the yard, then crouched down.  He remained crouched for a long time. Catarina approached slowly.  What it was?  He didn’t reply right away.  He ran the tip of his finger around a hoof mark, tracing its outline and measuring it with the space between his hands.  “Madam, come here,” he said.

  And his voice was different.  “Come here and look at this.”  She crouched down to the side.  “That’s a horseshoe,” he said.  And a horseshoe made by a good farrier, by hand.  “Can you see the holes from the nails?”  “I am.”  “Account.” She counted on her finger, squinting her eyes.  Three.

  Three on one side and three on the other side.  Look, three isn’t an option either.  On the other side there are four.  He raised his head. This horse has a cracked hoof.  The farrier saved the hoof by nailing it in less on that side.  This isn’t a repair job for just anyone, this is a master repair job.  And there aren’t many masters around .

  Catarina didn’t understand immediately.  So what?  Bento stood up, wiped his hand on his leg, and pointed with his chin toward the thicket of Capão, far away, where he had placed a stone in the ground weeks before.  That’s why the brand that was in front of his cattle that night is this one here.  He said, “Three nails on one side, four on the other.

 I tell myself… it’s the same horse.” The yard floor was covered with marks just like that one, fresh from the day before, the day before that. They went from the shed to the water fountain, from the fountain to the gate, from the gate to the kitchen. Catarina slowly raised her eyes and looked at the shed door, where Tito’s harness was hanging .

 The man who took her cattle into the woods had been sleeping inside her house for weeks. And what Catarina didn’t yet know that morning in the wet yard was that that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the reason. Catarina got up and walked towards the shed, her jaw stiff. Bento grabbed her arm. He held it lightly, but he held it.

 “Don’t let go, ma’am. Listen. If you go in there now and scream, what will happen? He ‘ll leave. He will, and he’ll take everything he knows.” He let go of her arm. “You’ll be right, but you’ll lose the cattle. Being right doesn’t pay the bills.” She stayed.  She stood in the middle of the yard, breathing through her mouth.

 “Are you asking me to serve him coffee?” “Yes.” “Are you asking me to iron his clothes and ask if he wants some more beans?” “Yes.” Catarina closed her eyes. When she opened them, the two men were leaving the shack, stretching, and Tito waved from afar with that ready smile. She raised her hand and waved back.

 It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. And she was going to do even harder things. The following days were like that. She served, she smiled, she asked if they had slept well, and at night she lay with her face in the pillow, biting the cloth to avoid making noise, while the man who was robbing her snored 20 steps from her kitchen.

 Bento did his work without mentioning the matter in front of them, not once. He worked, ate, taught Miro, and went into the thicket in the late afternoon and came back exhausted. Until one morning he said in front of the stove, loud enough for the shack to hear. “Madam,”  I’m going to the village to get the salt. I’ll be back tonight.

 Are you going on horseback? Yes. Is your mare limping? That wasn’t true. The mare was fine. Bento set off down the dirt road, turned at the first gate, and disappeared. He didn’t go to the village; he circled the seven turns on the outside, climbed the ridge at the head of the swamp, and descended into the thicket from the upper side, which was the side no one enters because there’s no road, no fence, no reason to go. It took him all day.

 He returned after dark with his horse covered in mud up to its belly, his shirt sleeve tied in a knot because the rest had gotten caught in a thorn. Catarina was waiting at the kitchen door with the lamp, and then he dismounted. He had something wrapped in his tight raincoat under his arm. “I found it,” he said.

 “Found what?” “I found the whitewashed door.” They went to the back of the barn, far from the shed, and he lit the lamp on the ground. “Your thicket isn’t a…”  “It’s just scrubland,” he began. “There are two [parts], there’s a strip of low scrubland in the middle that runs parallel to the boundary.

”  You can see it from above, but not from below.  So what?  “So this tongue comes out of its lower wintering ground and goes straight to the boundary of the seven turns?” Catarina felt her stomach churn . And at the boundary he continued. “Is there a gate? There’s no gate. There’s an owner, there’s a gate made of old, terribly old wood , the kind the old folks used to make with forked branches.

” He looked up . “And its hinges are covered in grease.” She put her hand to her mouth. “And next to each gate inside the woods, there’s a trough.” “A what?” “A salt trough made of new wood.” He spoke slowly because he knew what he was saying, his voice filled to the brim. Catarina didn’t understand at first, then she understood all at once, the way one understands something bad, with the body before the head. “They put salt in there, they do.

And my cattle go alone. They go alone.” Bento took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “They’ve been doing this for months. First the cattle get used to it, then they get used to it. Then it’s the cattle that go looking for it. Cattle go after salt, like children go after sweets.”  “And not even a thorn can hold it.

 That’s why the dog doesn’t bark. Nobody comes in here. And the fence is still intact because nobody needs to cut their own fence. They just have to call.” Catarina crouched down on the barn floor, sat on the straw, and stared at the oil lamp. “And the horse? The horse comes from the other side, waiting only to herd the ones that stay behind and then close the gate.

” He crouched in front of her. “It’s a two-person job and takes half a night. You can do it and come back before the rooster crows. And nobody ever saw. Nobody ever saw because nobody looks into their own woods.” She remained silent for a long time. “Bento. Madam, the one who came here asking for water months ago, in the middle of the afternoon, was Tito. He looked up.

 He stayed half an hour in the shade of the Angico tree,” she said.  And her voice began to crack. He asked how many heads I had. He asked if there was a man living in the house.  He asked if the dog was aggressive. And the lady replied: “I answered everything, smiling. The tears came and she didn’t even try to hold them back.

 I served him coffee, Bento. I filled his canteen. Ma’am.”  I opened my gate for the man who was counting my cattle. She sat there crying on the straw, her hands covering her face, trying not to make a sound, because in that house even crying had to be quiet.  Bento didn’t touch her, didn’t say everything would be alright, didn’t say any of those things people say when they don’t know what to say.

  He crouched down in front of her with his hat in his hand, waiting for her to finish.  “Your husband had a rule,” he said when she calmed down. “You gave me water before you knew my name.”  Water and shade are indispensable.  And look what happened.   ” It turned out the way it did because some people take advantage of it.” He spoke softly, firmly.

 “The rule isn’t wrong, ma’am.”  “Wrong is he who drinks the water and then returns at night.” Catarina wiped her face with the hem of her skirt. “You said you found the door.” She said. “What did you bring there?” Bento looked at the bundle beside him in the straw, and she saw something she hadn’t seen in that man any day until then. He was afraid to open it.

Before I showed it to him, he said, “I want you to answer a question for me.”  Ask: what is the mark for seven laps?  A closed, round circle.  She drew the shape in the air with her finger.  Everyone knows it, hence the name of the farm.  And the mark here is a horseshoe opened downwards with both ends loose.  Bento said nothing.

He slowly untied his raincoat and pulled a plank out from inside.  It was a piece of old peroba wood, about the size of a tray, darkened by time and rain, torn from a tree deep in the woods, next to the gate of Aoeira. Catherine pulled the lamp closer and looked.  The iron on the board was completely burnt .  It wasn’t just one burn.

  There were many, one on top of the other, some deeper, others almost erased, like a boy’s notebook where he was learning to read.  At the top end there was a horseshoe that was open downwards with both ends loose, the horseshoe of the axe.  Next to her, the same identical horseshoe, with a line underneath connecting the two ends.

  And the risk closed the horseshoe.  And the closed horseshoe turned into a circle.  Catarina stared at it with her mouth open, and even then it took her a while to believe it, because there are things you see before you accept them.  Then there was another drawing, lower down, older, almost gone, a crescent moon.

  And next to it, the same half-moon shape with two lines, also turning into a circle.  Bento wasn’t looking at the horseshoe, he was looking at the crescent moon, and his hand on the board was trembling.  Bento?  He didn’t answer.  Bento, whose half-moon is this?  The man suddenly stood up, left the barn and went outside into the darkness of the yard, and stood there with his hands on the fence, his back to the man, breathing deeply.

  Catarina followed behind with the lamp in her hand.  Are you familiar with this brand?  I know.  From where? He took so long to answer that the lamp started to hiss.  “Do you know what’s going on?” he finally said, without turning around.  When a buyer sees a cow marked with a circle in a pen with 300 cows marked with the same circle, he buys it.

  He buys without asking, because the brand is right, the paper is right, and the owner is a respectable man.  And the horseshoe underneath?  The horseshoe underneath is inside the leather, ma’am.  Bento turned around.  His face was stiff.  No one bends down to look for what they’re not looking for. Catarina hugged her own body.

  The night had grown colder.  So they ‘re not just robbing me, no.  They are robbing me and selling my cattle right in front of me, in front of the entire region.  He looked at the house, at the kitchen window, at the nail where she knew Antero’s iron was hanging. And that’s why I need to see your husband’s iron today.

  Catarina hadn’t removed that iron from the nail since she’d been left alone.  She went into the kitchen, turned on the wall lamp, and stood looking at it.  It was a long, well-used iron tool with a smooth wooden handle, and a horseshoe at the end.  A spiderweb connected the cable to the wall.  “You can take it off,” she said.

  Bento took it out, held it with both hands, felt the weight, and turned the iron against the light.  “Good iron,” he said.  “It was made on an anvil, it wasn’t bought ready-made. My husband’s father had it made. He said it was the same design as his grandfather’s.”  Bento placed the iron on the table and sat down.  She sat in the front.  Mrs.

  Now I’m going to explain something to you, and you’re not going to like hearing it.  I haven’t liked anything for a long time.  Speak.  He took a piece of coal from the stove and drew an open horseshoe on the tabletop.  This here is your iron.  Two loose ends.  Then he drew a line connecting the two ends.  And this is seven laps.

  The drawing turned into a crooked circle, but it was still a circle.  Catarina ran her finger over the charcoal.  “A risk,” she said. “A risk.”  Bento dropped the coal.  “That’s why nobody steals their neighbor’s cattle to sell far away. That’s hard work and lands you in jail. The finer work is different. You don’t take the cattle far away.

You brand them and put them in your own pasture, by the roadside, in plain sight . And nobody suspects anything. Suspect what? The cattle are there with the right brand, with the right owner, with the right paperwork. Nobody’s going to steal the hide of the most respected man in the region.” Catarina stared at the circle drawn on the table.

 “And the half-moon on that board?” Bento didn’t answer. “It’s the same thing, isn’t it? A half- moon with two lines also closes. It closes. And whose was it?” He clasped his hands on the table and looked at them. “From another place,” he said. “From another mountain range. A long time ago.” Catarina waited.

 He didn’t continue. “Bento, if you want me to trust you, you’ll have to tell me something.” “I will,” he said. ” But not today. Today you need something more than my story.” “I need what? You need to get your hands on the hide.”  They left before sunrise, the two of them on foot, skirting the lower pasture so as not to pass in front of the shed.

Miro followed behind without anyone calling him, and Bento let him. The boundary of the seven turns was a five-wire fence, stretched across a clearing in the middle of the scrubland. On the other side, a well-established, clean pasture, grass knee-high and cattle, lots of cattle. They crouched behind a sucupira tree and watched.

 There, Bento pointed to the heifer with the drooping ear near the termite mound. Catarina looked and felt something she couldn’t name. “That one’s mine. Are you sure? She was born in the middle of the swamp, in a rainy year, and I pulled her out of the mud with a rope.” Her voice became high-pitched.

 “I’ve known her since she was a calf, Bento.” “Then you go over there and pet her.” “What do you mean I’m going over there, ma’am? The heifer is 10 paces from the fence, and you have a handful of salt in your pocket.” Bento handed her the handful of salt. ” Behold.”  She didn’t suspect anyone who had salt. Catarina went under the wire with her heart pounding in her throat.

 She walked slowly with her hand open. The heifer raised its head, looked, twitched its drooping ear, then took a step and another and came closer. It pressed its wet snout against the palm of her hand and ate the salt with that rough tongue that Catarina had always known. And Catarina wept standing in the middle of the enemy’s pasture, with her hand under the chin of an animal that was hers.

 “Run your hand over its back,” Bento said softly from the other side of the fence, on the left side, at rib level, and she did. “Did you feel the smooth hide?” “I did.”  “Now run your hand against the fur from back to front.” Catarina ran her hand in the opposite direction, pushing the fur upwards, and her fingers locked.

 Underneath the fur was a hard path, a trail of thick leather, without fine hair, that made a wide curve and descended on both sides. And closing that newer, harder, rougher curve, a straight bar across it, two ages of burns in the same place. Catarina’s hand remained still on top of it, and her world turned upside down in silence. “What are you feeling?” asked Bento.

 The horseshoe, she said, Antero’s horseshoe is down here. It is, and there’s a stick stuck in it. It is, Bento. Tell me, does it hurt the animal? He hesitated. It’s gone now, he said. It’s been gone for a long time. Catarina emerged from under the wire, her hands dirty with salt and fur, and sat on the ground outside the fence, looking at the pasture on the other side.

 She counted one, two, five, nine. Nine animals she knew by name or by their quirks, grazing quietly.  with a burn mark on its back. And that was just the patch of pasture visible from the fence. Miro was crouched beside her, quiet, his eyes wide. “Mrs. Catarina,” the boy said. “Are you going to tell the village?” She opened her mouth to say yes.

 ” Tell what, boy?” Bento asked. “That she touched an ox and felt something? Do you know what Mr. Orestes will say? That she bought it for a fortune and didn’t pay? Or that she’s nervous about the bill? Or that widows see things. But the mark is there. The mark is there for whoever touches it, and nobody will let that woman touch anyone else’s cattle.

” Catarina stood up, brushing the dirt off her skirt. “Then we need more. We need more, and we need people watching.” Bento picked up his hat from the ground. ” One hand on the hide, in the middle of the woods, is worthless. No hands on the hide, in the middle of the town square, are worth everything.” They went back through the backwoods and didn’t speak again until they got home.

  Last week, Catarina went to the village twice. The first time, she sought out the sub-delegate, who met her on his porch with his shirt open. He listened to everything, wrote it down in a hardcover notebook , and even looked worried. “Do you have proof, ma’am?” “I have my hand.” He laughed. He did n’t laugh maliciously, he laughed with pity.

 And the pity was worse. “Mrs. Catarina, I’m going to put you here as a stray king. That’s all I can put. Stray into the neighbor’s fence. Cattle are lucky animals.” He closed the notebook. “If you show up with a witness and paperwork, then we can talk differently .” She left there with burning ears.

 The second time, she went to Master Horácio’s blacksmith shop at the end of the street, where there was always smoke and the smell of burnt hooves. Master Horácio was a hunched-over old man in a leather apron who had been shoeing horses in that village since before the association’s shed existed. She didn’t ask anything about cattle, she asked about horseshoes.

 “Master, would you put three on one side and four on the other?” ” Why?” The old man  He stopped the hammer in mid-air. ” Cracked hoof,” he said. “If you hammer near the crack, you open it up more. So you avoid the bad side. And have you done any of those?” “I do them every day. Lately.” The hammer hit the anvil once, twice.

 “I did one,” he said, without raising his head. “A while ago , the low-riding horse of the lad who rides with the seven-round crew.” Tito, Master Horácio, stopped, put the iron in the water, and the water hissed.  Mrs. Catarina, I have a married son and a young granddaughter.  I know.  I buy charcoal on credit at the association’s warehouse.

  I know, master.  So, you know I won’t repeat that in front of anyone. He raised his eyes from under his eyebrow.  But I also won’t deny it if asked at the right time.  Catarina left the blacksmith’s shop and stood in the middle of the dirt road with the sun on the back of her neck.

  On the other side, the door to the breeders’ shed was ajar, as always.  She crossed the street, pushed the door open, and went inside.  The shed was large, with a polished cement floor, wooden benches against the wall, and a platform at the back for finishing touches.  On a thick-topped table, next to the platform, lay the book, the iron book of the Association of Candle Makers.

  Hardcover, cracked leather spine , as thick as a church Bible. Catarina opened it.  Each sheet had a brand design, made in ink, with the owner’s name, the farm’s name, and the signature of the president of the time.  She slowly went through the book, found Zaragão’s horseshoe on a yellowed page in the middle , written in an old, neat script, and found the circle of seven turns almost at the end, on a much newer page .

  He stared at it with his finger on the paper.  If the circle was the Bandeira family’s symbol from the beginning, it’s because its leaf was one of the last in the book.   Are you looking for something, Mrs. Catarina? She was so startled that she hit her knee on the table.  Seu Orestes was standing in the back doorway with his hat in his hand, and she had no idea how long he had been staring at the book.

That’s a beautiful book.  He came walking slowly and closed the book without haste, with both hands, the way one closes something sacred.  It was my father who started organizing.  Is your circle new?   AND .  He smiled.  My family’s junkyard was a seven-turn spiral, which was the name of the farm.

  Beautiful, but complicated.  It would stain the leather and the buyer would complain.  He shrugged.  I had a simple, round one made.  You can’t go wrong.  There really isn’t one.  She said.  The lady looks different.  I am tired.  She’s angry.  He pulled up a stool and sat down, then pointed to the other one for her.

  She did n’t sit down.  Mrs. Catarina, how long until the auction?  She didn’t answer.   ” Two weeks barely counted,” he said.  And the lady doesn’t have 40 heads.  Where am I supposed to end up ?  There was no malice in his voice.  It was worse.  It was a matter of patience.  I like you, ma’am.  I liked Antero.

  That document is sitting in my drawer waiting, with no interest, no tight deadline, nothing.   All you have to do is wet the pen, ma’am.  Catarina looked at the closed book on the table.  Why do you want my land, you fools?  You are 10 times her size.  And for the first time in that whole story, he took a while to answer.

  Because good land shouldn’t be refused?  He finally spoke and put on his hat.  That was a lie.  And she sensed that it was a lie.  But Catarina still didn’t know what was behind that lie. And when she found out, she would understand why her cattle needed to disappear and couldn’t be stolen all at once.  Time began to pass more quickly after that day.

  Catarina started counting the cattle twice a day, morning and afternoon, and the count always came out the same .  30 cutting heads, no more.  She was 10 short of the Pontal company’s account and had nowhere to get the 10 from. She sold the cart.  It wasn’t much.  He offered the mare for sale, but nobody wanted it, because in the entire region nobody wanted to do business with her without first speaking to Seuestes.

One afternoon, Mr. Floriano, the buyer from the Pontal company, stopped his truck in front of the store, and she went to speak to him right there on the street, standing with her hat in her hand, like a beggar.  I need a deadline for harvesting, Mr. Floriano.  The man was polite; he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses on the hem of his shirt, and put them back on .

  Dona: The company can wait, but the company can’t wait alone.  Like this?  It needs approval from the name creator.  Someone to sign alongside and speak on your behalf.  And who is the name-maker in this region?  Mr. Floriano glanced to the side, at the shed with the door ajar across the street, and didn’t need to say anything.

  Catarina walked back up the road, her chin trembling with anger.  Every door in that valley led to the same man. That same night, she took Bento to the lair.  It was her idea.  It was dark, the entire pasture was silvery.  And she took the scraper scraper in her hand. Come here, I’ll show you something that only exists here.

  She pressed the tip of the iron against the trough board and scraped.  Two short shaves, one long one.  Two short films, one feature film.  The sound was low, dry, and faded into the darkness.  And from the back of the pasture came the sound of hooves.  “Look,” she said.  The cattle came slowly, one shadow after another, and at the front of them all came a cow with short horns that pushed the others with its shoulder and rested its head on Catarina’s hand.

“That’s Mimosa. She’s the godmother. She’s the ruler of the world, that’s for sure.”  Catarina scratched the cow’s forehead between its horns. Her mother didn’t give her milk.  I raised it in a baby bottle in the kitchen with Antero, telling him I was going to spoil the creature.  And it went wrong.  I messed up.

  She chuckled softly.  She’ll come onto the balcony if I let her.  Bento just stared at it.  The lame man, the cow, the woman.  Who invented rhythm?  It was Antero.  Two short films and one long film.  Always.  He used to say that well- treated cattle aren’t called with shouts, they’re called with salt.  He was right.

  Catarina shaved again, unnecessarily, just to listen.  Bento, do you think I’m going to lose this land?  He didn’t reply right away .  That was something she had already learned from him.  He never replied right away.  “I think you’re going to make a bad choice in the next few days,” he said.

 “And I think it’s going to be my fault, because I won’t have been able to give you something better in time.” What a horrible way to answer. Is that all I have? She stared at his profile in the dark. “You’re not a hired cowboy?” she said. “No, you came for that brand.”  “I came. Why?” Bento placed his hand on the board of the crib, on the smooth, worn spot, slender from tongues.

 ” Because she took everything my family had,” he said, “including the name,” and said nothing more. “And she didn’t ask anymore, because sometimes you feel like the door only opened a hand’s breadth and that forcing it closes it again.” Two days later, she signed. It was in the morning at the association’s shed, with the closed iron book on the table and Orestes in his starched white shirt.

Ilídio, the notary of Candeias, was called to authenticate the signatures, and he stood beside the table, sleeves rolled up, briefcase under his arm. The paper was short: a down payment received, a promise of sale, a deadline until the auction. If she paid, the paper became nothing.

 If she didn’t pay, the sale of the Gameleiro tree would go to seven rounds for the agreed price, and she wouldn’t be able to undo it without returning double the down payment . “You’re doing the right thing,” he said.  Catarina held the pen with her hand closed, like a child learning to write their first letter.  Bento was outside, leaning against the doorframe, looking out at the street.

  He had told her not to sign.  He had said it three times on the road, and on the fourth time she had asked what he had to give in return. He had no answer.  She signed it.  The down payment went directly to the Pontal company, into the hands of Mr. Floriano, who gave him a receipt and expressed his gratitude.  And nobody on that street thought anything serious had happened.

  When they left the shed, their Orestes came after them and spoke in the kindest voice in the world.  Mrs. Catarina, now that we understand each other, I’m going to need my men back.  She stopped in the middle of the street.  Like Heraldo and Tito.  It’s almost time for a break in the seven laps and I’m short on people.  He opened his hands.

  The lady will not be left unprotected.  The lady has this young man now.  And so it was, in front of the entire village, that Orestes withdrew the guards from the widow’s house.  On the way back, Catarina walked ahead and Bento followed behind, and neither of them spoke.  At the gate, she stopped the mare and said without looking back, “Are they coming today?”  “They go?”  He took the men away because he wants them to come.

  “He wants?”  And I signed it.  Her voice broke at the end.  I signed it today.  The woman signed because she had no other choice.  “Don’t console me.”  “I’m not offering any comfort,” he said.  “I’m saying that tonight is the only night I know they’re coming.”  She turned around in the cell and looked at him.

  You’re going to stay awake.  I go.  You wake me up. Bento took a long time.  “I’ll wake the lady up,” he said.  It was the only lie he told in that whole story, and it cost them both dearly.  Night fell without a moon, just the way they liked it. Catherine lay down fully clothed, with her boot beside the bed and the lamp lit on the floor.

  He listened to the world, the cricket, the swamp frog, the rustling of a loose sheet of zinc on the barn roof.  At some point, exhaustion became stronger than fear, and she passed out.  Bento didn’t lie down.  He took his tarp and hat to the lower pasture, where the thicket of scrubland touched the thicket, and sat in the dark with his back against a termite mound.

   It did n’t catch fire, it didn’t smoke, it didn’t move. He heard when they arrived.  It was a small noise from the other side of the bushes, a hinge, well greased, making that short, soft groan that only a greased hinge makes.  Then came the calm, soft gait of the horse on the ground, and then the sound that tightened in his chest.  The cattle getting up on their own.

  A cow getting up at night makes a long, bellowing noise.  One stood up, then another, then five.  And they walked towards the woods, like someone going to the morning trough.  Bento was 30 steps away.  30 steps.  If he yelled, the cattle would stampede in the opposite direction and they wouldn’t catch anything that night.

  If he ran to the house, he would have time to wake Catarina and leave with the lamp. If he did either of those two things, the men would disappear into the woods and never return that way.  They were going to change the place, change the time, change the way.  And the brand continued to close in another pasture, in another valley, under another name, just as had happened with his father.  Bento closed his eyes.

  It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.  He let it go.  He let the cattle pass by his side, at shoulder height, inhaling the warm scent of the hides in the dark.  She counted one, two, three, and the fourth came walking ahead of the others, pushing with her shoulder in a bossy way.  Mimosa.

  Bento put his hand to his mouth and bit his own finger to avoid making a sound.  Then he got up and went after them.  He walked along the outside of the woods, running crouched from bush to bush, and passed under the fence wire into an armadillo burrow.  He walked almost a league in the dark and found the place. It was a small, deep-lying pasture at the bottom of a ravine, with a corral made of aroeira wood surrounded by woods on all four sides, with no house and no road, just a beaten track used by pickup trucks.  There was a low campfire in the

middle of the corral, there were two men and a third who arrived in a pickup truck, fat and wearing boots, whom the others called their friend.  Bento, who had the irons lying on the embers with the handle sticking out, didn’t go near them; he lay face down on a grassy bank about 50 paces away, biting his anger.

  He saw when Tito pulled the iron from the embers and it came out red-hot at the tip.  He saw the pattern of the iron against the glare.  It wasn’t a circle, it was a bar, a straight, short bar, the size of the palm of your hand, an iron bar made only for closing things.  Bento pressed his forehead to the ground and remained like that for a while.  Then he returned.

  She arrived at the wooded area as the sky was already brightening behind the hill, and Catarina was standing barefoot in the middle of the yard, with her unlit lamp in her hand.  She had already gone to the corral.  She had already told me. Four matrices were missing.  None of the cuts, none that would reduce the company’s account.

  They took precisely the ones she was never going to sell.  They looked at each other from afar, and he saw in her face that she knew.  How many?  He asked because he did n’t have the courage to say anything else.   Do you know how many?  Her voice came out without any tremor.  And that was worse than screaming.  You were there.  He was.  You were there in the pasture, under the bushes.  He was.

  And did you hear?  Bento did not respond.  Did you hear?  She repeated it.   I heard .  Catarina walked slowly until she was standing in front of him.  Did you promise you’d wake me up?  I promised.  Why?  The first hiccup came and she pushed the hiccup down.  Why didn’t you wake me up ?  Because if I woke the lady up, they wouldn’t come back.

  They took the mimosa.  I know.  They took the mimosa and you were 30 steps away.  She screamed.  He shouted with all his might, and his voice startled the birds from the Angico tree.  She walked past you, Bento. She walked past him.  It happened. And you told me.  Catarina struck him on the chest with both hands.

  You were counting my cattle leaving my gate like someone counting eggs in a nest. He didn’t defend himself, he didn’t grab her arms, he didn’t back away.  “I needed to see where they locked the iron,” he said. Catarina stopped, placed her hands on his chest, taking a deep breath, then slowly removed her hands and said the phrase he would carry with him for a long time.

 “I asked for a man to protect me,” she said. “I didn’t ask for a man to study me.” Bento lowered his head. “Take your horse,” she said, “Madam, take your horse and leave my land.” Bento saddled his horse without speaking. Before mounting, he stopped beside her and said only one thing: “Don’t sign anything else.

” And he rode away down the dirt road, and his dust took a long time to settle. Catarina went inside, closed the door, and worked all day without stopping, because stopping meant thinking. She swept what had already been swept, washed what had already been washed. When night fell, she sat on the kitchen threshold and stared at the empty trough far away, in the middle of the dark pasture.

 She didn’t have the courage to scrape the board. If she scraped it and the mimosa didn’t come, it would shatter into pieces.  And it couldn’t break that week. In the village the next day, the story was already complete. Catarina went down to buy kerosene and felt the silence in the shop even before she climbed the step.

 Dona Genoveva came to the front of the counter, which she never did. ” Girl, what’s wrong with your cowboy? They’re talking all over the street.” The old woman looked at the men at the bank and spoke softly. ” They’re saying he’s Honório Seixas’s son .” Catarina didn’t know that name. “And who is Honório Seixas?” It was the mustachioed man in the corner of the bank who answered: “Everyone can hear.

” “He’s the cattle thief from Serra do Cedro, Dona Catarina, who would brand other people’s cattle and put their brands on his own.” He laughed to his companions. “You hired your son. After he arrived, you lost more cattle than in the whole year. Do the math.” Someone at the bank laughed. Another shook their head in pity.

 Seu Policarpo got up from the bank, put on his hat, and walked away without looking at her. Catarina stood in the middle of the shop with the  A bottle of kerosene in her hand, and the ground seemed thin beneath her. “Who told this story in the village?” she asked. No one answered. I asked who had.

 Dona Genoveva wiped her hand on the cloth and said: ” Yesterday afternoon, right here, sitting on that bench, Catarina left the store and didn’t go home; she went to the end of the street, where the houses got lower and the pavement ended at the last door, a little house with a blue window and a large jatobá tree in the yard.

” Eufrázio lived there.  The old man had been a ranch hand for Antero’s father and Antero’s grandfather before that.  I hadn’t ridden in years.  He spent his days in a chair under the jatobá tree, braiding rope that no one ordered.  Miss Catarina, Mr. Eufrásio, I need to ask you something.  Sit down.  She didn’t sit down.

Did you know a man named Hório Seixas? The old man’s hands stopped braiding. I knew.  And he was a thief.  Seu Eufrázio slowly raised his head.  His eyes were tired, but they were bright. Honório Seixas, he said, was the most upright man who ever set foot in those mountains. And I taught them both.

  The two of them? Honório and your Antero.  The old man dropped the rope into his lap.  I was a ranch hand in Serra do Cedro when Honório was a boy. Then I came down here and got your husband, who was the same size.  What did he teach? Everything, including giving the horse water in its hat before drinking.

  He made the gesture in the air with his open hand.  That’s not customary in this region, young lady.  This is a custom of mountain drovers.  In this village, the only man who did that was your Antero, and Honório taught his son.  Catarina leaned against the trunk of the Jatobá tree because her legs had gone weak.

  “His son is in my yard,” said Eufráo, pointing with his chin to the back, sleeping there since yesterday, under that orange tree like a stray dog. Bento was sitting on the ground, his back to the wall, his hat on his knee. He stood up when he saw her. The two remained silent for a while . “Is it true?” she asked. “Yes.”   ” Are you his son?” “Yes.

”  “And you didn’t tell me, did you?” He twirled his hat in his hand, because the moment I told her, she’d throw me out, just like what happened yesterday, only without me having found anything. On the first day, I asked who taught you how to make the hat. You said it was an old man. It was. Bento looked up. My father was already old when he taught me.

 Catarina swallowed hard. Tell me now. Bento went to his saddle, lying on the ground beside the wall, and took a cloth bundle out of the saddlebag. He untied it. It was a long branding iron with a worn handle and a half-moon shape at the end. This was my father’s branding iron. She picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.

 He raised cattle in Serra do Cedro. Bento started. Small land, few cattle, all his own. Then the cattle started disappearing, just like that. Exactly the same, two by two, three by three, without the fence being cut. He sat on the low wall. My father spent an entire harvest searching. When he found a heifer with  Inside the enclosed half-moon of a cattle rancher’s pasture, he did the worst thing he could have done.

 What? He went alone. He knocked on the man’s door and told him to his face. Catarina closed her eyes. A week later, Bento continued. People showed up at my father’s barn. They found a bar of iron there, under the corn , the kind used for closing things, which he had never seen in his life. They planted and planted.

 His voice was smooth, without any emotion. The way the voice of someone who has told that story a thousand times to themselves becomes. The local association hunted down his iron. The buyer cut it. The neighbor took the cattle from the half-moon and the whole mountain range started saying that Honório Seixas was closing other people’s brands.

 And he left with me on the back of a donkey. He worked as a contractor in three places. Bento looked at the ground. And that’s how he left, with his name tarnished, without ever having taken a calf from anyone. Catarina sat on the wall beside him. And the cattle rancher? The cattle rancher bought the  ” My father’s land for next to nothing.

 A year later. Bento raised his eyes and looked straight at her. And today he is president of the Association of Candeias Breeders. The Jatobá tree made a sound of wind above them. ‘I’ve been walking for years,’ he said. ‘ I arrive, I listen, I see the drawing on the board, and I arrive late. In two valleys I arrived after the family had already signed the sale.

 And here? Here I arrived on time and even so I made a terrible mistake.’ Catarina didn’t say anything for a long time. ‘I need to tell you something and you’re going to let me finish.’ She said: ‘What you did that night was wrong.'”  He was.  You took away my chance to choose.  You made the decision right in front of me, on my land, with my pet all alone.

Her voice hardened.  That’s what he does, Bento.  That’s what your Orestes has been doing to me ever since Antero left.  Decide for me, for my own good.  Bento lowered his head.  I know.  If you do it again, I won’t forgive you.  It is true.  And look at me when I talk to you.  She waited until he lifted his face.

  I don’t need a man to protect me.  I need a man who will look me in the eye when I ask him.  Bento looked.  Then ask, he said, do you have a plan? I have.  Then come back with me.  The two returned to the road with the horse and mare side by side and talked the whole way.  “Delegate, you’re no good,” said Bento.

  Paper won’t do because his paper is perfectly fine and mine doesn’t exist. So what’s the point, folks?  He pointed ahead, to the village light below.  It serves the day when the entire region is gathered together in the same corral, with the cattle in the middle and the book on the table.  Catarina stopped the mare.

  The auction, the auction, Bento.  He oversees the auction, and that’s what saves us.  He smiled with the corner of his mouth, that half-smile of his. He presides because he is the president.  And the president is obligated to follow the book. His father wrote the rules. Which rule?  The lady will read it tonight .

  That night, at the kitchen table, with the lamp in the middle, they opened something that Dona Genoveva had kept at the back of the cupboard for 30 years and that no one had ever asked for.  It was a thin notebook, printed in the city, containing the rules of the Association of Candle Makers.  Dona Genoveva’s husband had been the association’s secretary during the old flag-bearer’s time.

  And she kept it with his papers, because she never knew how to throw paper away.  Bento read aloud, slowly, with his finger on the line.  Any member may request, before the hammer falls, the verification of the brand of any animal being auctioned in the presence of all members assembled.  Before the hammer, he repeated, and if he says no, then he denies in front of everyone the rule that his father wrote.

  Bento closed the notebook.  And the people in this village are fools, ma’am.  But it’s not that much.  Catarina ran her hand over the cover of the notebook.  We’re going to need more people than just the two of us, that’s for sure .  She looked out the dark window toward the stream.  So, tomorrow I’m going to knock on the door of everyone who lost a pet in these past years.

  And he called them wayward kings.  She hit her.  He knocked on the door of the woman who took custody of the property, who had lost two cows and a heifer, and never said anything because she bought on credit at the store.  He knocked on Policarpo’s door, who lost seven, and remained silent because he had two sons employed in the seven rounds.

  He knocked on the door of old Nicanor from Brejo, old Bibiano, and old Terêncio from the bridge. Most listened with the door ajar, looking at the floor, saying they didn’t want any trouble.  Policarpo was the only one who cried.  “Mrs. Catarina, I am ashamed of myself,” he said from the balcony, twisting his hat.  “I knew.

 I touched the hide of one of my cows, on the other side of that fence, two harvests ago. I touched it and I went back home. And I didn’t say anything. Why? Because my children eat there. She didn’t argue with him, she just asked one thing. ‘Are you going to the auction? Everyone goes to the auction. So you’ll be there.’ She took the old man’s hand.

 ‘I’m not asking you to speak. I’m asking you to put your hand on the hide when I call you.’ Mr. Policarpo stared at her for a long time. ‘ Whose daughter are you, anyway? Nobody’s from here. That’s a shame.’ He said, ‘because you have more farmer in you than many men who inherited two acres.’ On the eve of the auction, Mr.

 Eufrázio sent a message through Miro. The message was short, and Catarina read it three times. ‘Ask him where the old road behind the fig tree goes.’ She called Bento, and the two of them rode on horseback to the back of her land, where there was a gate made of wood that no one had opened for years. On the other side, A cattle trail descended the ridge.

 A wide, grassy path. ” Where does this lead?” Bento asked. “It leads down there, to the dirt road that cuts across to the other side of the mountain.” Catarina understood as she spoke, her voice growing thinner. “Without passing through the village. Without passing through the village,” Bento repeated.

 “Without passing the guide post.” The two stood watching that grassy path descending the hill. “It ‘s not my land he wants,” she said. “No, it’s his back door.” Catarina returned home in silence. That night, she removed the iron rod from the kitchen nail, cleaned the handle with a cloth, and stuffed it into her saddlebag. She didn’t yet know she would need that iron the next day, in front of 300 people, and it wouldn’t be for branding any animals.

 The large auction of candlesticks took place in the back yard of the barn, once per harvest, and it was the day that village ceased to serve her. People came from the mountains, from the swamp, from…  On the other side of the river, high-backed trucks arrived, carrying buyers from out of town, their shirts pressed, briefcases under their arms.

 There was a food stall, children running between the men’s legs. There were dogs fighting over bones, and there was the corral, a large corral made of aroeira wood with a loading chute on one side and a long salt trough against the fence on the other, divided into pens through which the lots passed one by one. On the platform was the table, and on the table, open, was the book of branding irons.

Catarina arrived early, on horseback with Bento beside her and Miro on the back. She dismounted with her saddlebag on her shoulder. Inside was the branding iron, the rulebook, and the burnt board wrapped in her raincoat. The whole yard stopped to watch her pass. Everyone knew about the signature, everyone knew about the deadline, everyone knew who the young man behind her was.

 Seu Orestes was on the platform in his white shirt, greeting the buyer with both hands. When he saw Catarina, he smiled like an owner…  ” Home. Mrs. Catarina, how wonderful, I was just about to send for you. Good morning, Mr. Orestes. Your lot is the fourth one.” He consulted a sheet. “30 head. Good heads, you see? Not a single bad one. There are 30.

There are 30.” He repeated very gently. “And my down payment covers the other 10.” She didn’t answer. She walked to the corral fence and stood there, watching the cattle enter. The gavel began to fall in the middle of the morning. A small group of heifers from the swamp passed by. The cattle of old Terêncio from the bridge passed by, thin, who hardly made any bids. Then her lot entered.

 30 oxen in the middle of the corral with open horseshoes on their left backs, tame, fat from the gameleiro grass. Mr. Floriano made the bid for the Pontal firm and nobody topped it. The gavel fell. The Pontal firm’s account was paid. 30 head at the gavel, plus the advance that Mr. Orestes had put in.

”  In Floriano’s hand . But that money wasn’t hers. For the paper to become worthless, she needed to return the entire deposit in cash before the auction ended. And she had nothing left to sell. Then came the seven-round lot. They entered the chute, one after the other, and the whole yard made that sound of admiration that cowboys make.

Large steers of the same type, the same size, all with the branding mark on their left back. 120 head, the biggest lot of the day, as it was every year. 120 head from the farm, seven rounds, the auctioneer called out. Well-bred cattle, beautiful cattle, cattle from a known owner. Catarina tightened her grip on the saddlebag strap, looked at Bento on the other side of the fence.

 Bento nodded. She climbed onto the first fence post, cupped her hand to her mouth, and shouted with all her might . Before the gavel fell, the yard turned suddenly towards her. The auctioneer stopped mid-sentence. The buyer from outside lowered his hand.  folder. A woman pulled her son close to her leg.

 Seu Orestes, on the platform, stood still with a smile still on his face. Dona Catarina. She climbed down from the fence, crossed the courtyard amidst the people, and climbed the three steps of the platform with the notebook in her hand. “I am a member of this association,” she said loudly. “The brand of my farm has been in that book for three generations.

”  No one doubts that, ma’am.  “So I request the verification of the brand of the lot of seven turns.” It made a noise in the courtyard, like wind entering a bamboo grove. Mr. Orestes laughed. A light laugh, the way someone laughs at children. “That’s an old rule, Mrs. Catarina. Nobody’s asked for that in 20 years. Old, but it’s written down.

 It’s written in a notebook that nobody can find.” Catarina raised the notebook above her head. “I found it.” And she read aloud, slowly, with her finger on the line, as Bento had read to her the night before. “Any member can request, before the gavel, the verification of the brand of any animal announced in the presence of the assembled members.

” She lowered the notebook. “Your father, Mr. Orestes, wrote that.” His smile remained , but something behind the smile changed. Mrs. Genoveva shouted from the back, next to the food stall. ” I’ve kept this notebook in my cupboard since the time of the old flagman. Is this the right one? Is this the right one?” someone repeated. Mr.

Orestes looked at the courtyard. He counted the courtyard with his eyes, in the way…  That kind of man tells all. 300 people. He opened his arms and smiled even wider. “Well, let it be verified,” he said, “My house is made of glass.” The auctioneer stepped down from the platform, unsure what to do.

 Two cowboys from the seven turns looked at each other. Catarina went down the steps and to the corral gate. And then came the part she was afraid of. She opened the gate, went into the middle of the cattle, and stood there alone, among 120 animals, with the entire yard watching. “I need help,” she said. “Nobody moved.

”  “Don’t believe me, just touch it.” Her voice was hoarse against the hair on the left flank near the ribcage. Anyone who ‘s ever handled cattle knows what she’s feeling. Silence. The sun was high, and the corral smelled of dust and manure. Catarina looked at the people, and the people looked at the ground.

 Then her Policarpo dropped his hat on the fence. The old man slipped under the crossbar with difficulty, with his bad knee, and entered the corral. He went to the first ox, touched its back with his palm, and pulled his hand back against the hair. He stood still. He stood still for so long that his wife started crying before he could speak.

 “Is there something underneath?” he said. The yard erupted. Dona Custódia entered. Mestre Horácio entered in his leather apron. Seu Bibiano entered. Old Terêncio entered. Dona Genoveva’s son entered . Two buyers from outside who had never seen Catarina in their lives entered. People who didn’t even own cattle entered.

Without hands on the hide, on the  In the middle of the square, in front of everyone. Here it is. This one here also has a horseshoe. Look at the horseshoe underneath. This one here is an old half-moon, folks. Half-moon. Mr. Orestes raised both hands from the platform and his voice came out above everything.

 Calm, firm, without a crack. “I buy branded cattle all year round,” he shouted. “I buy small ones, I buy large ones, I buy from your old, wealthy tanker every year.”  Cattle that have been purchased are being re-branded, gentlemen.  That’s the law of the ranch, ever since the world began.  “Let he who has never remarked a purchased herd cast the first stone?” And it was good.

 It was so good that the yard hesitated. Some men took their hands off the hide. A buyer from outside nodded , because it was true. Purchased cattle are indeed remarked. Catarina felt the ground give way beneath her. Bento entered the corral and came close to her. ” Now?” he said softly. “Now what?” ” The salt.” She looked at him.

 “Ma’am, they can explain the branding iron.” He said, “No one can explain what an animal knows.” Catarina went to the long trough by the fence, took the branding iron from the saddlebag and climbed onto the crossbar for everyone to see what she was doing. “I’m going to call my cattle,” she said. Seu Orestes stopped talking.

 “If the cattle belong to him, he doesn’t know me,” she continued. “If he doesn’t come, I lose my land today and no one else ever needs to hear me again.” Everything became so quiet that you could hear the radio from the food stall in the distance. Catarina [cleaning the  [Throat] pressed the tip of the iron against the trough board and scraped.

 Two short scrapes, one long. The sound was small, dry, almost nothing inside that enormous yard. Two short scrapes, one long. At first nothing happened. A bull raised its head at the back of the corral. Then another. A heifer turned its ear, two short scrapes, one long, and the corral opened in the middle. It wasn’t a stampede, it was worse.

 It was more beautiful, it was harder to explain. The cattle split up. Some stayed where they were, chewing, staring into nothingness, the way a bull looks, and others began to walk in a line, pushing, passing between the bodies of those who remained, with that hurried and clumsy gait of an animal going to the salt lick.

 They came from all corners of the corral, about 40 or so, and gathered in front of that thin woman on top of the crossbar, and stood there tightly packed, with their heads raised. Waiting and in front of everyone, pushing with her shoulder, a cow with short horns, pressed her forehead against the hand of Catarina. The whole courtyard screamed.

 It screamed all at once , a long, spine- chilling scream, the kind you hear at a football game, not a cattle auction. Catarina hugged Mimosa’s neck and cried on the animal’s hide, without any shame, in front of 300 people. “That’s a trick,” shouted Mr. Orestes.  “That’s a circus trick. Cattle come at the slightest sound of salt.

 So call the gentleman,” shouted Dona Genoveva.  And the courtyard caught it.  “Call the gentleman! Scrape it up, Orestes. Call the cattle, man.”  Someone shoved a piece of iron into his hand.  Orestes stepped down from the platform.  I had to go down.  300 people watching won’t let a man that size stand on a platform.

  He went to the lame man, pressed the iron against the board, and scraped.  He shaved once, twice.  The cattle didn’t move.  He scraped harder, the noise became awful, and a frightened ox took a step back.  That’s when Amâncio spoke.  Amâncio Bandeira was the middle son of Seu Orestes, a stooped-shouldered boy who had been herding cattle in the corral since he was a child and who had never opened his mouth in public in his life.

  He was at the Bret gate with the stick in his hand, and it was he who was supposed to herd the lot back.  Dad, shut up, dad.  I’m not closing any more iron bars.  The courtyard fell silent once more.  Amâncio dropped the stick on the ground.  His hands were trembling.  “The iron bar is in the granary of the old tank corral, under the sack of corn,” he said in a loud, cracked voice.

  “There are three, and there’s a little ledger with the names of everyone we drew. Amâncio. I was a boy when you made me hold the tail of the first one,” shouted the boy.  And his voice broke in the middle.  I do n’t sleep, Dad.  I haven’t slept in years.   That’s when Bento climbed onto the platform. He didn’t scream.  He simply approached the table, took the burnt plank out of his raincoat, and placed it on top of the open iron book.

  “My name is Bento Seixas,” he said.  Son of Honório Seixas, from Serra do Cedro.  The murmur spread through the courtyard like wildfire in dry grass.  “My father was called a thief his entire life,” he continued.  And his voice was so low that the courtyard had to fall silent to hear it.  He never took a rez.

  I didn’t come here to prove that.  I came here to show you a plank.  He turned the board towards the people. This was nailed to a tree next to an old gate inside the grove of fig trees.  This is where the person trains with the iron before touching the animal.  He ran his finger across the black, weathered wood. And it’s an old board.

  Whoever started this service in this valley began there, long before there was a shortage of cattle at Dona Catarina’s gate.  And people started arriving, climbing onto the platform, pushing, craning their necks.  And then something happened that nobody had planned.  “That’s mine!” shouted his friend, pointing to the board. “This V is my brand, folks.

 Mine is right here,” said Mrs. Custody.  My God , mine is here.  The one on the bridge is there too .  Six marks, seven marks, all with the line across the top closing it off.  They all turned into circles.  The yard turned into a chaotic mess.  Man shouting, woman crying, people jumping over the corral fence, the auctioneer banging his gavel on the table without anyone paying attention.

  And in the midst of all that, Orestes Bandeira stood still beside the lame man, with the piece of iron still in his hand.  He didn’t shout, didn’t run, didn’t apologize,  carefully placed the iron on the cutting board, adjusted his hat, and spoke a single sentence to no one in particular, in that same gentle voice he always had.

  This is to be resolved in court, not in the yard.  And he walked to the pickup truck alone, amidst 300 people who made way for him to pass, without anyone laying a finger on him.  The sound of the pickup truck driving up the street was the quietest sound of the day.  The auction didn’t end that afternoon; it ended in the dark with a lantern hanging on the corral fence.

  They went through the entire lot by hand, animal by animal, with two partners on each side and their friend Ilídio writing it down in that small, cramped handwriting, without lifting his head for anything.  44 head of cattle from the Gameleiro ranch, seven from Mr. Policarpo, three from Mrs. Custódia, seven from Mr.

 Bibiano, two from Old Terêncio da Ponte, and a handful of animals that weren’t even there, which were noted and kept in the association’s corral until the owner appeared.  Mr. Floriano suspended the purchase of the seven-lap lot before the sun went down.  He stated, “He doesn’t carry cattle with disputed brands,” and put his glasses in his shirt pocket.

  It’s a house rule, it applies to everyone. That same afternoon, Catarina sold 10 of the recovered cattle right there in the yard to Mr. Floriano, for the day’s price .  He took the money, crossed the street with Bento by his side, and deposited it at the notary’s office before the deadline.  Seu Ilídio counted the bills twice, wet his pen, and wrote: “Deposit returned on time.

”  He said, “The promise to sell is void. He ‘s not here to sign,” said Catarina.  “He doesn’t need to be there. The deadline was his, and you met it. The notary pushed the book for her to sign. And now listen to this, ma’am. The paper has lost its power, but the rest is just beginning. This will still lead to assemblies, inquiries, and lawsuits.

 How long will it take? Years. I have years. Across the street, the association’s shed had all its lights on for the first time in a long time. And what Mr. Orestes did n’t know that night was that the thing that would bring him down wasn’t the lawsuit, it was the phone calls from the buyers from outside.

 The cattle went up to the gameleiro the next morning. It was the most beautiful thing the Candeias road had ever seen. 34 head of cattle driven slowly up the red dirt road, with Miro in front clearing the way and the dog running from one side to the other, not understanding the festivities. The other 10 had stayed in Mr. Floriano’s truck. Catarina didn’t look when the truck passed her on the road.

 People came out to the door to see. Mrs. Genoveva stayed in…”  She stepped onto the steps of the shop, cloth in hand, without wiping her face. Seu Policarpo came herding his cattle behind her, with his bad knee, and wouldn’t let anyone help. In front of everything, without anyone herding, went a cow with short horns that knew that path better than anyone.

 When they arrived at the gate of the gameleiro ranch, Catarina dismounted her mare and opened it herself. She held the gate leaf with both hands while her cattle passed. She counted, counted again. And this time the count was right. The heifer with the drooping ear passed last, pushing the others with the same audacious manner as always.

 That night, Catarina couldn’t stay inside. She went out barefoot, with her extinguished lamp in her hand, and walked to the trough in the middle of the pasture. She sat on the ground, leaning against the board, and stayed there. The cattle were lying nearby, ruminating in the dark, and the sound of it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

 After a while, a large shadow rose and came walking slowly. The mimosa  She lay down beside her, in the awkward way a cow lies with its legs bent to the side. Catarina rested her head on the animal’s neck and then, alone, with no one to see, she cried all that she hadn’t cried before.

 She cried for Antero, for whom she had never properly mourned because she hadn’t had time. She cried for the nights with the window open, listening to the world. She cried with shame for having served coffee, smiling at a man who was counting her cattle. She cried for the widow who climbed that step in the store and begged for help in front of seven seated men.

 Bento appeared after a long time, stopped about 10 steps away and didn’t come close. “Do you want company or peace and quiet?” “I want both.” He sat where he was, on the ground, at the distance she had left. They stayed like that until the sky began to lighten behind the hill, hardly saying anything, with an old cow snoring in the middle.

 That was the moment Catarina knew that man was going to stay. It wasn’t at the auction with 300 people shouting. It was there in the dark when he asked before arriving. Nearby. Bento wanted to leave about two weeks later. Catarina found him adjusting the harness in the barn early in the morning and stood at the door. ” Where are you going? Are there other valleys, ma’am?” ” Yes.

 If he made it here and made it in the cedar, he taught someone somewhere.” Bento tightened the girth without looking at her. “I know the design. I’m the only one who knows the design.” “Yes, then I need to go.” Catarina went into the barn and sat on top of the sack of corn. “I’m going to tell you something and you’re going to let me finish.” He stopped.

 “I said in front of the whole village that I needed a man to protect me,” she said. “It was the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life, and I didn’t know it was a lie when I said, ‘Ma’am, don’t call me ma’am today.'” Bento let go of the harness. “I didn’t need a guard,” she continued. “I had a guard. I had two men with lanterns sleeping in my shed, and they were the thieves.

” She stood up. “What I needed was someone who would look at the ground with me and who would…”  He told the truth, even when the truth was bad for him. I lied to you one night. You lied and I forgave you. Catarina came closer. And that’s why I have the right to ask you to stay. Bento stared at her. Stay as what? As a partner.

 A partner? Half the cattle, half the work, half the losses. She raised her chin. And if you want something else, you’ll have to ask, because I’ve already talked too much this week. Bento laughed. It was a real laugh, loud, the first that man had given in that land, and it startled the horse. Then he took off his hat, went to the fountain, filled the glass that was upside down on the stone and returned.

 He offered the glass to her. What would you like to drink? You’ve never drunk this water in front of me, he said. You always serve and watch. Catarina took the glass with both hands and drank. Then she handed it back and he downed the rest at once. And there was nothing left for the horse, because the horse had already drunk from the trough.

 And the  The two found it amusing in a way that no outsider would understand. They got married in the little church of Candeias on a foggy morning, without printed invitations and without lavish food. There were Dona Genoveva, Seu Eufráio in a chair that Miro carried, Seu Policarpo with his wife, Dona Custódia, Mestre Horácio de Avental Limpo, and a handful of people no one invited who showed up anyway.

Afterwards, there was coffee and cake at the store, and the long bench in front was full of the same men as always. None of them laughed that time. The fall of Seuestes Bandeira wasn’t all at once. A big man doesn’t fall all at once. He falls slowly, and it ‘s worse. The association’s assembly took three meetings to hunt down the circle.

 Some people voted against it because they owed favors. But the outside buyer doesn’t vote in the assembly. The outside buyer just stops calling. In one harvest, the seven rounds shipped less than half of what they used to. In another, the trucks stopped going up. The corral at the old tank was dismantled by order of the district and  The three iron bars from the corn sack became pieces of evidence in a drawer. His friend moved to another region.

Tito disappeared even before the first meeting, and nobody in Candeias ever heard from him again. Heraldo stayed. He worked as a day laborer on someone else’s farm and started crossing the street when he saw Catarina coming, and he sold his possessions. He sold the upper pasture, sold the machine, sold the pickup truck, and bought a smaller one.

 He was never arrested, never asked for forgiveness, never admitted anything. Until the end, he wore a starched white shirt, greeting everyone on the street with both hands. And there were people who still tipped their hats to him out of old custom. What he no longer had was the table on the platform. Amâncio stayed, stayed, and worked.

 He worked hard, from sunrise to sunset, on other people’s farms, and asked nothing of anyone. After a few harvests, he appeared at the gate of the farmyard on foot, pushing an old, skinny cow in front of him. “This one belongs to the lady,” he said without raising his eyes. It was in a  “The winter pasture is rented over there . I bought it with my own money.

” Catarina looked at the cow, ran her hand through its fur the way she now did with any animal, without even thinking. The horseshoe was down there under the circle. “Go in and eat something,” she said. “No, ma’am. Go in, Amâncio.” He went in, ate with his head down, thanked her, and left on foot, returning several times.

And over time, he became the man the small ranchers called when they needed trustworthy people to separate cattle. Some things can’t be fixed, but some things are paid for by working. At the third meeting, when the assembly finally closed the circle, Catarina asked for the floor. She took the iron from the half-moon wrapped in cloth and placed it on the table next to the book.

 ” This iron belongs to Honório Seixas from Serra do Cedro,” she said, standing with 30 or so members watching. “The association there hunted this iron for an iron planted in a barn. Did you see the board? Did you see the half-moon closed with the same line that closed the…”  My horseshoe. Nobody said anything.

 I know this book isn’t the book from there. She continued. And I know we can’t undo what they did to it, but this book is ours and we write whatever we want in it. They wrote on a blank sheet, at the end of the iron book of the Candeias Breeders Association, in the cramped handwriting of Ilídio, the drawing of the half-moon and a line underneath, the mark of an honest man, closed by someone else’s hand.

 Then they hung the iron on a peg in the shed wall, at eye level, where every breeder who entered would have to pass by it. Bento stayed at the back of the room the whole time, leaning against the doorframe, with his hat in his hand. He didn’t say anything. On the way out, Eufrágio grabbed his arm with that hand for braiding rope.

 “Your father gave me the first horse I tamed myself,” said the old man. “Did I tell these people that?” I didn’t. I let your father become a bad story in other people’s mouths and I kept quiet about mine. chair. You couldn’t do anything. I could have said he was good. Seu Eufráio pounded his chest. That I could have done.

Bento hugged the old man in the middle of the street, and it was there, in front of the little church in Candeias, that he cried for the first time in years. The thicket was opened at the end of that drought. It wasn’t Catarina’s idea, it was Miro’s, who was already older and more daring.

 If that path was good for stealing, why can’t it be good for walking? They cleared the vine with the whole neighborhood helping in a three-day communal effort, gathering food in the middle of the woods. The old Aroeira gate, the one with the greased hinges, was removed and no other was put in its place. It remained an open passage on both sides for anyone who wanted to cut across between one valley and the other.

 And the hidden salt trough , the one made of new wood that called to other people’s cattle in the dark, was dragged out of the woods and placed in the shade of the angjico tree next to the gate of the gameleiro tree. It became a bench. Miro, Dona Custódia, her Policarpo, and half the world sat on it. On many afternoons, while having coffee, the new iron came off Master Horácio’s anvil on a hot afternoon.

 It was Zaragão’s horseshoe , open downwards as it always had been. But inside it, in the middle of the gap, there was a nail, a short scratch, from top to bottom, that didn’t touch any point. “Close that one,” said Master Horácio, handing the iron to Catarina with his leather hand. “Close it and tell me what comes out.

”  A circle emerges with a stick inside.  “And is there any iron like that in any book in this world?” There isn’t. So, the old man spat on the ground and went back to the anvil. Now, any thief who wants to close his brand will have to invent a farm to carry it. They registered it in the book that same week.

 And the association approved, in the same assembly, the rule that Catarina had written on a piece of wrapping paper. Every new iron goes into the book, drawn next to the irons it is capable of closing. It’s an ugly rule to read, and everyone complains about it to this day. And no more cattle disappeared in that valley. One afternoon, many harvests later, a small, old car stopped on the road, in front of the gate of the fig tree.

Catarina was in the shade of the Angico tree with a basin of beans in her lap. The man who got out was wearing a starched white shirt and took off his hat before speaking: “Mrs. Catarina, Mr. Orestes, I would like some water, if you could.” She looked at him for a while, then got up, went to the spring, filled her glass, and returned.

 She passed the glass through the gate’s bars,  Just as she had done for so many people in that life. He drank it all, without haste, returned the glass, nodded in thanks, and went back to the car. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, and she didn’t forgive. The empty glass returned to the stone by the spring and remained there upside down, drying in the sun, waiting for the next person who passed by thirsty, because water and shade are never refused.

 And she never stopped believing in that. Only one thing changed. Now there are two people at the gate, and whoever arrives is looked in the eye. And whoever has work in the shade of the angico tree states their work and name before sitting down. The Capão gate remains leafless, open day and night, and people are constantly passing through it.

 Bento taught Miro to read the ground, and Miro taught Dona Custódia’s children. And today there are children in that valley who can tell just by looking at the earth whether a cow passed by alone or if someone called. Antero’s scrap metal hangs on the nail in the kitchen, clean, without any dust. She still gives water to those who pass by the gate, only now she sleeps.