It was a miracle we all didn't die, the night they killed the soothsayer. The darkness was like a tomb, and not even the crickets chirped. No one heard the trumpet that every day, when the mountain turned black, signaled the silence. It was as if everything had ended right there, as if the war were over.

Sadness had settled in my stomach, churning inside, spilling out through my eyes and the mucus in my nose. Even General Gómez was a wreck, and we soldiers felt sorry because they had killed him and because the General was like a dead man.

That night he didn't eat anything. After we returned from trying to recover the body of the diviner, whom the Spaniards had taken tied to a mule, the General gave him a tight hug, as if in farewell. He ordered the hammock to be hung up for him and threw himself into it, face up, his eyes wide open and shining in the light of the candle burning in the camp. And every now and then, a deep sigh escaped him, a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul, like the sighs of the diviner who seemed to feel a pain in his soul.

And all night the General stared at who knows what. And I believe—but these are just my suppositions—that the General was experiencing the same thing I was, his eyes averted, and no matter how much he wanted to look ahead, he could only see behind him, like the things in life that one loses sight of, each passing day, along the way.

But even so, I too had my visions of that little man with the broad forehead and thick mustache. When I first saw him, I thought he was too weak to be involved in such brawling. Back then, I was a guide for the trips to Santo Domingo from Cayo Hondo. The expedition the Cubans had prepared for Cayo Hondo had just fallen apart, like ripe fruit, and I had gone to Mojarra with some of the men from that planned voyage. It was during those days in Mojarra that the Cuban Betancourt appeared, seeking three men for the expedition on behalf of Martí, and I didn't hesitate for a second to saddle General Mayía's horse and jump on another beast.

Four days later, under cover of darkness, we arrived at General Gómez's house. He wasn't there because he was busy sorting things out for the war. And the next day, when the sun plowed its golden furrows of light across the sky, General Mayía introduced me to Martí, saying, "This is a trustworthy man." And he extended his delicate, white hand, like a lady's, which was lost for a moment in my large, black hand: "Marcos del Rosario, at your service."

When General Gómez arrived, Martí himself introduced us, using the same words Mayía had used. And I immediately realized, at first glance, that the General didn't like me. And it wasn't just a matter of appearance, because right away the old white man in jail, the one everyone in Santo Domingo had heard about, began to say to me: "What are you looking for in Cuba? Have you lost something there? But you're a vagabond who leaves his family." And I, with all due respect, because I could have asked him the same questions, since he was Dominican like me, said: "No, General, I'm not a vagabond... my people are doing well, on the battlefields... a vagabond is someone who hangs out at gambling houses... but I'm with these people. They seek me out to fight for their land, because the Spaniards won't let them say: Long live Cuba, and even if they break both my legs, I'll still say: Long live Cuba." And the old man wouldn't budge. And it was surely Mayía and Martí who convinced him to let me go on board because Mayía knew that with me, with Marcos del Rosario, he could count on me for anything.

I had proven it to him when I worked for him in Jaynamosa. If we had to find a stray pig, I'd go... if we had to tie up a bull, if we had to find two brave men who wouldn't sell out... I told Mayía: I'm good for that too...

And Martí was surely the one who finally convinced the old man, because that man's eyes were made for that, for convincing and helping. At first, I hadn't noticed him closely, but when I heard him talk at length about the preparations, I realized that all those words flying around like startled doves were a matter of mystery. A good mystery, of course.

That's why one afternoon he put a quill between my fingers and, with his hand on mine, began to arrange, in drawings he called letters, the flocks of doves that flew from his mouth. And one of those afternoons, when we had already filled the paper, he said to me: "I'm going to be your friend, because friends are sometimes more important than parents." I discovered then that that little man had the real truth hidden behind his mustache. And that was nothing more than a fortune-teller's flaw.

Anyway, the thing was, the day we boarded the schooner, the old man was at the bow. As soon as he saw me, he took a little silver cup, which I later kept for him, opened a small one, poured me some rum, and said, "Here, black man..." And I, just in case, stayed right next to him the whole time, barely separated, because I still had that nagging doubt inside, and I thought he might still shoot me. But no, the old man was calm by then. I was careful because he's a fearsome old man, strong as a caguairán tree, and sometimes he'd climb up, start yelling, and try to swallow you whole. And in truth, deep down, he was a good guy.

Then we set sail for Cuba, and the damned captain of the schooner, a fellow named Bastián, dumped us in Nassau. I was scared... We landed in Haiti... General Gómez pretended to be sick; but he was fine. We went to the house of Dr. Dellundé, a friend of the Cubans. Meanwhile, Martí and the others were hiding. Finally, we left. We stayed in Inagua and finally found a ship that took us near the coast of Cuba, near Baracoa. When the ship dropped us off at sea, there was a hell of a swell and the night was as black as a conga line. You couldn't see a thing. Martí had the boat's compass and the General the rudder. A wave ripped the rudder off and a wave carried away something the General was carrying in a bundle. The sea was terrible, fierce, like a wounded boar. And when night began to obscure our eyes, we saw a light in the distance and thought it was Spanish troops. But they were fishermen. And we continued fighting the sea that wanted to swallow us whole and wouldn't let us reach Cuban shore. And finally, like that... on the journey, I saw some cliffs and jumped. I climbed ashore and continued, I gave my arm and pulled the fortune teller aboard, then General Gómez, then the other one, and the other one. And when General Gómez saw solid ground, on the journey, he kissed the earth and crowed like a rooster! And the fortune teller, who had stayed behind bailing water from the boat, gazed into the darkness with the eyes of a lover, as if he had seen a naked woman. And in the dark night, his childlike joy was clearly visible.

And when I saw the General crowing like a rooster and the fortune teller with his body so big it wouldn't fit inside his blue jacket, I said to myself, "We're saved!" And since I knew nothing about war, I thought that was all we'd come to do.

And I knew we weren't going to turn back when we took a mountain trail and started climbing the hill. And then I realized that Martí wasn't as weak as I'd initially thought, and I saw that he was a lively little man who could leap here and fall there. And we were all loaded down with backpacks, machetes, and rifles. And the man held on like no other, even like Gómez, who took root in the mountains. And the times night knocked him to the ground, I approached the fortune teller to try to help him up, and he would say to me, "No, thank you, no, that's ok..."

The rest of the time, I crossed the mountain with the fortune teller because he saw better than anyone. It was as if I were blind and he was the only one who could see. And I think the fortune teller saw so well because he had grown up in schools and read many books that he always carried with him. And every so often, when the troop stopped—a troop that had grown like a snake, like a boa—the fortune teller would take out the quill he had given me at General Gómez's house and spend all his time writing. He would say two or three words and stare at the mountain with the face of a groom about to get married. And that's how it was the whole trip.

And that's why I always tried to stay behind him. To see everything better. And it was as if the fortune teller's body were transparent, like water in a gourd, everything except his thin little man's silhouette. And I could see the mountain inside him as if I were looking into his guts. All of it together, because despite how small he was, everything fit inside him, even his Cuban peasant ways. And I would look behind the fortune teller and see the path the machete was clearing; and I would see General and everyone else; and I would see the straight, thin trunk of the yaya tree moving its smooth leaves and its white flowers; the thick trunk of the juniper; and the curejeyal tree stealing the life from the tall ceiba tree, on its way to the clouds; and the white flower of the dagame tree where the bee hides; and the ateje tree that tries to look like a coffee plant; And the júcaro, the guásima, and the jagua, and all the trees of the forest. And all the stones and the rivers. And all the birds that fluttered and sang within, along with the flock of doves he already had with him, which occasionally flew away to the sky. And one couldn't tell then, amidst all that flapping, what word one saw.

That's how the two days passed, talking with the American journalist who had come from Havana to the bush, after the Spaniards had frightened him by telling him that the Mambises were going to kill him, just to hear the fortune teller, because the fortune teller was, as everyone said, the Delegate, the president of the war against Spain, and he was even a General, because Gómez had given him his rank with a hug.

It was already night when the reporter arrived, but even so, the fortune teller, who had already gone to bed, got out of his hammock, took some blank papers, and started talking to the man who didn't speak Spanish very well. And Martí's doves sometimes took flight in a different way, and I, who was nearby in case the fortune teller wanted some coffee, often didn't understand a thing. But something always got into my head.

And at first, they started talking about countries and people I didn't even know existed, and I, more than through words, wanted to understand through gestures. And about three people asleep, I stood watching the fortune teller, my face glowing in the candlelight, and he never stood still for a moment in his delicate movements. The man would stop, put his hands behind his back, and bite the hairs of his mustache, as if searching for the truth. He'd pace back and forth a few times and then return to the palm-leaf bench where the journalist continued writing. And from the fortune teller's eyes, I knew whether what he was saying was good or bad. I truly understood that language.

That's why I knew it was a bad thing for the Spaniards to hand the island over to the men from the North if the war turned against them. And the fortune teller spoke, with sad eyes, of the Cubans who, like a broken horse, couldn't live without a master. He also spoke of the virtue of the union of black and white people, which produced intelligent people who would move the country forward when the war was over. And when he said that, with shining eyes, it was as if he were speaking of the future, of what only he, with his fortune-teller's gaze, was capable of seeing.

And he said the same thing the morning before he died. And that's why, when he finished speaking, with that phrase that was like another riddle: "For the freedom of Cuba I will let myself be nailed to the cross," I started shouting with all my might, along with the others: "President, President!" despite what Gómez had said about it the day before: "He's got me all worked up about calling Martí president... Martí won't be president while I live; because I don't know what happens to presidents, as soon as they arrive, they go astray, except for Juárez, and even then, a little bit, and Washington..." and that the soothsayer's body was filled with sighs, and no one knew why he'd been panting ever since the feast with Maceo in La Mejorana.

And that same afternoon was when the tragedy occurred. Martí, Gómez, and Masó were talking about the trip we were going to take to Camagüey, to Las Vueltas camp, when we heard gunfire coming from behind a rancher and his horse. I immediately thought of the convoy we had been waiting for all day outside Remanganagua until Gómez received Martí's letter announcing Masó's arrival.

On the way, we all mounted our horses. And that's when I saw General Gómez, after placing a hand on Martí's shoulder, say, "Martí, you're not going..." and I also saw the look of anguish on the prophet's face as he mounted his white horse.

A league and a half later, we were hacking and shooting at them, Spanish-style, but the Spaniards were well protected, and we had to retreat. And then I felt the shock that brought silence. Not another shot, not another bird, not the river's song, nothing. And I thought then that I had gone deaf because I saw the Spaniards' rifles firing there was smoke rising, and some Cubans were still making the last machete blows among the undergrowth and the fence where the enemy had taken refuge.

And my deafness was cured when, on the way back to camp, we ran into Ángel de la Guardia, and General Gómez asked him, "Young man, where is Martí?" And the young man, covered in blood, replied, "General, as soon as you left with the force, Martí went into battle. I think he's either dead or wounded. I tried to save him, but I couldn't do anything with so many enemy bullets..."

And General Gómez didn't want to hear any more, turned his horse around, and we went out to recover Martí's body. But we hadn't gone far when the river, which was swollen, raging, yes sir, came right in front of us and wouldn't let us pass to the side where the Spaniards were moving quickly. There I knew at once why the river, with all its fury, didn't make a sound against the stones.

Then, when the sun had finished descending from the sky, Ángel de la Guardia recounted everything the soothsayer had done when the cavalry set out. When the old man's figure had barely disappeared into the dust cloud of the threshing floor, the President ordered that his dark horse, a gentle mare given to him by José Maceo and easily tamed by anyone, be saddled. But Martí didn't take the route Gómez had taken; instead, he went to fight on the right, and before he knew it, he and the troops accompanying him were caught in the crossfire of the Spanish. That was when the volley rang out, silencing the mountain.

The little mare fell headfirst to the ground between a thorn bush and a dagame tree covered in blossoms, and Ángel de la Guardia's horse followed her. Martí's body bled from his mouth and chest.

And when Ángel de la Guardia's voice turned to weeping, I stayed that night, which seemed like the last, with my ear pricked to the mountain, which remained silent and as if dead. And that's why I thought that we were all going to die that night, because man has always lived off the mountain.

And the next morning, when the sun had already climbed high in the forest, General Gómez, who was still saddened, said to me: "Marcos, now for two things: against the Spaniards... for the freedom of Cuba and for the blood of Martí." Then the first rooster crowed...

Translated by Amilkal Labañino / CubaSí Translation Staff