Santa Olaia de Esgos, with its San Pedro de Rocas, with its stones cut in the shape of a ditch for the rainwater and the reed beds and that served as human sepulchers, even very small ones, for a newborn boy or girl. They horrified her. The same shudder that people felt when they saw her hanging around the houses.

Go home, girl, what are you doing there? Then they’d cry fus! and ghachiquí! and shoo her off as if she were a wild animal. Not even a dog, or a wolf pup, or a fox. Something less than a cat. She would spit on the ground and disappear, nobody knew where she went. She never left a trail. Except for the spot on the grass where she’d spit – the color there disappeared, burned away.