<h3 style="text-align: center">Chapter 2
The Mule and the Waystation
Ariano wandered the backlands alone for an entire year. Sometimes he begged on the outskirts of villages and towns; other times, when he had no other choice, he stole (not that he was proud of it). But he was quick and light on his feet, and he had to survive. He knew he could make a fortune selling the gold he carried, but he had other plans for the little saint. He wasn’t about to let go of it.
He still remembered the moment he unwrapped the bundle and found the golden saint nestled inside. It was a beautiful thing to look at—its tiny face carefully carved, almost smiling at him, eyes shut as if waiting to whisper something. The robe, molded from gold veins, was so detailed it looked almost real.
Some said it had been a gift from the Pope himself when he visited the backlands long ago. Others called that a lie, claiming it had been made by a devout colonel from Chorrochó, a man who once built a church covered in gold—crosses, statues, even chairs so richly adorned they could blind a man. That church had been looted at some point, and the golden saint was all that remained of its former glory.
And then there were those who believed it was truly sacred, that it could heal any illness with a single touch. Ariano doubted that, but he knew he could be rich if he ever sold it. That’s when an idea first began to take root in his mind. The golden saint fascinated him—not because of its holiness, but because of what it was making him think. It would take him a while to figure out exactly what he wanted to do. But for now, he knew one thing: he wanted revenge on the men who had killed his parents. He often imagined their deaths at his hands. A terrible thing for a child to dwell on, but Ariano was filled with rage, and rage was powerful enough to keep a boy alive in the backlands.
It was during one of his wanderings that his idea finally took shape—the second time he came face to face with death (or the fear of it).
Ariano had headed north. He had no living relatives, at least none that he knew of. Everything he had ever known was gone, wiped out by Herculano’s gang.
The heat was unbearable, the sky utterly still—not even the birds dared to leave their nests. A pair of vultures circled something in the distance, waiting. The land was dry, nearly lifeless, save for a few scattered cacti, mandacarus, and scraggly catingueiras barely clinging to the earth. The ground was cracked, a reddish-orange stretch of scorched dirt littered with thorny underbrush sharp enough to tear at a man’s legs if he wasn’t careful.
He followed an old hunting trail up a plateau dotted with dead trees and clusters of xique-xique leaves. To his right lay what must have once been a lake, now nothing but a dry, blackened marsh. The soil was cracked open in deep fissures, like broken pieces of rapadura candy. A cow’s skull grinned at him from the ground, its hollow sockets laughing at eternity.
Ariano carried a worn-out shotgun on his back, so big that its stock dragged along the dirt, forcing him to tie it up higher with a tight knot—not that it helped much.
On his head, he wore a wide leather hat, rough and sun-bleached, with a makeshift brim to block out the sun. A chinstrap, braided from carnauba leaves, kept it in place. It wasn’t the prettiest thing, but it gave him shade.
He carried a small bundle of belongings: a few clothes, some old food—dried meat, manioc cakes, avoante bird jerky, and black rapadura—along with a handful of coins he tried to save for emergencies. That was all that remained of what hadn’t been stolen by the cangaceiros that day. He also had a clay canteen slung over his shoulder. Oh, and the golden saint. That, we must never forget.
By now, the boy was nine, no longer eight, because time always moves forward.
The year following his escape from Santo Milagre had been brutal. He had nearly died more times than he could count. The backlands were unforgiving, and they spared no one. Still, he kept moving forward. Twice, he had nearly starved to death. There were nights when he had nothing to eat, forcing him to chew on macaúba leaves or whatever insects he could find when the hunger became unbearable. But he endured, because even as small and young as he was, he had a purpose.
People say vengeance is what keeps the desperate going. In the dry lands, that tends to be true. Vengeance lingers and burns through the veins like a slow, distilled poison.
A green-tailed lizard hissed from atop a sunbaked rock. Its head bobbed under the scorching light, trying to ward off the heat. It never saw the shotgun’s stock coming down in a precise strike, crushing its skull. Death was instant—Ariano made sure of that. He picked up the small body and gave it one last tap against the rock, just to be certain. Not that it was necessary.
Reaching into his bundle, he pulled out a knife—thin, its blade curved inward from wear, sharpened countless times on smooth stone. It had belonged to Madalena, his mother. Ariano had taken it before leaving the village, along with other things he thought might be useful on the journey.
He crouched down and severed the lizard’s head—or what was left of it—then slit its belly open, just as he had seen his mother do to chickens countless times. He gutted the creature and bit into its flesh, tearing off a piece that wasn’t much to chew on. He took another bite, then another, until the fibrous meat stretched, forcing him to yank it free.
It tasted awful, but he ate most of it anyway, blood dripping down his chin.
Ariano was about to get up when he heard a strange sound—an animal braying. The noise echoed through the vast sert?o, carried by the wind, reaching his ears like a distant call. Alarmed, he scanned his surroundings, trying to pinpoint its source.
He climbed a rocky slope, stepping carefully among jagged stones that gave way to clusters of cacti and spiny plants sharp as knitting needles. A place like this demanded caution—one wrong step and he could twist an ankle or, worse, step on a snake. That’d be a “so long, friend.”
The braying continued for a while until he finally spotted the source—trapped in a patch of dry brush stood a mule. Whether it was male or female, Ariano couldn’t tell. It was a pitiful-looking creature, its brownish-gray coat stretched tight over a bony frame, ribs poking out beneath its hide. Its head resembled a horse’s—long and slender—except for the ears, which pointed skyward like a donkey’s.
The mule was chewing on a dry shrub beside a tree, its muzzle scratched from trying to push past the thorns, while its tongue pulled in brittle branches, snapping them in its jaws.
Despite its sorry state, Ariano was captivated. After days wandering alone, it felt good to see something alive. He moved toward the animal slowly, his bare feet skirting around a massive anthill that looked like a mound of couscous.
“Hey there, friend,” he called in his child’s voice. “Where’s your owner?” He took another step, setting his bundle down. “Did you get lost?” Ariano glanced around, checking for signs of people, but there was no one. “You ran away, didn’t you?”
That’s when he noticed the mule’s hind legs were bound with wire.
“What the hell… Who would do this to you?” he muttered, edging closer. He lowered his shotgun so the animal wouldn’t spook. By now, the mule had fixed its full attention on him.
“No need to be scared. Let me get that off you.”
He crept forward, but the mule shied away, ears flicking nervously.
“Easy now, I’m not bad, and I won’t hurt you.” Ariano extended his hand, clicking his tongue like he had seen his father do with the village animals. “Come on, calm down… Ohhh, easy now.”
The mule hesitated but eventually stopped retreating. Its tail flicked, its restless braying faded.
Ariano crouched and carefully began to untangle the twisted wire. At first, he thought the animal wouldn’t let him, but soon it seemed to understand he meant no harm.
After a long struggle, he finally freed its legs and tossed the wire far away.
“There, now you can walk better, huh?” he said, half-expecting the mule to answer.
The animal eyed him warily but seemed to change its mind when Ariano stroked its mane and offered it some food. He poured water into a tin cup he carried, and the mule drank eagerly.
“I don’t think you have an owner, huh, boy? How about coming with me? I’d sure like the company.”
The mule balked a couple of times as Ariano led it by an old, filthy rope tied around its neck. But eventually, it seemed to accept its new companion.
Ariano walked ahead, leading the way. The animal had no saddle, and its bony back bore a few wounds, so he decided not to ride it, not wanting to worsen the injuries. Instead, he placed his meager belongings on its back. The mule didn’t seem to mind.
“My name’s Ariano,” the boy said cheerfully as they crossed a low hill covered in dry grass. “Ariano da Silva Silvino, at your service,” he added, mimicking the fancy way he had once heard a man speak at the village store.
He looked ahead, where a red dirt road stretched into the endless sert?o. To every side, only blue sky, leafless trees, and the vast, empty land.
— I bet you don’t have a name. I think I should give you one. Do you want one?
In response, the mule brayed.
— Well, let me think for a bit. — And for the first time in a year, the boy became a boy again. Ariano was beyond happy with the mule’s company. It didn’t matter if she was skinny, with thin legs and sun-scorched fur—she was wonderful. Because that’s how it is in the backlands: every gift is a reason for joy. And make no mistake, the mule was a great gift, even if she was small and scraggly.
The boy thought for a long time, and as he did, he remembered a story his mother had told him. He didn’t quite recall the details, but it was about a man who lived far beyond the sea, in other lands. A gentleman—or maybe a knight. Well, he was never really sure of the difference, couldn’t tell where one’s snout began or the other’s tail ended. He only knew it was one of those men in shining armor who saved princesses and all that. His name was Don Quixote, and he had a squire (though Ariano had no idea what that even meant). This Don Quixote fought giants—or at least, that’s what he thought. Because, in truth, they were just windmills. And Don Quixote might have been a bit off his rocker, but Ariano suspected he only pretended to be crazier than he really was. He once told his mother that, and she laughed.
— You might be right. I’d never thought about it that way, but it makes sense. — His mother smiled, running a hand over the boy’s head. — Now go to sleep, my clever little one.
— Will you tell me the rest tomorrow, Mama? — Ariano asked.
— I promise. Now go to sleep. — Madalena blew out the oil lamp.
It was that memory that came to Ariano’s mind when he named the mule. His heart ached at the thought of his mother—a deep pain right in his gut.
— You’ll be called Don Quixote, just like that man from the other side of the sea. — And that was that.
Ariano expected the mule to bray in approval, as if to accept the name. But the stubborn animal just kept trudging along the road, flicking its tail to swat away the flies buzzing around its rear. The boy waited for a response, and when he realized none was coming, he just shrugged and let it go.
— Whatever — he muttered.
<hr>
Ariano reached the roadside stop at the hottest hour of the day. He had passed an old wooden sign along the road, pointing to the place a kilometer ahead.
He had no idea what a roadside stop was, nor did he know how far a kilometer was.
The relentless sun loomed overhead, spinning mockingly in the sky. The pale, washed-out blue stretched above him like a tattered old blanket. The boy shielded himself with his hat. Behind him, Don Quixote, the mule, trudged along with slow steps, its thin legs kicking up small swirls of red dust.
When he got closer, he saw that the place was nothing more than a large, unremarkable wooden structure, its roof covered in dirty red clay tiles. A weathered fence of wooden posts and barbed wire surrounded the area, cluttered with all sorts of things. Near the entrance, a stretched-out tegu lizard hide was drying in the sun, nailed to a makeshift wooden frame. Lining the palisade, there were dozens of birdcages, all crammed with birds—curiós, red-capped cardinals, goldfinches, and others he didn’t recognize.
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As he reached the entrance, the door swung open, and a squat countryman stepped out. He was a thin man with a sun-worn face, pockmarked from old measles scars, probably in his mid-thirties. A hand-rolled cigarette, as crooked as an arthritic finger, hung from his lips.
— Afternoon — the man greeted with a nod. Ariano just lifted his chin in response, leading the mule closer to the fence under the man’s watchful gaze.
— You looking for someone, boy? — the man asked, taking a drag from his rough cigarette. He exhaled a plume of smoke and glanced up at the sky before adding, — Damn, this sun’s a real bastard today. Hot enough to fry your ass. — He chuckled. — Had an uncle who died in heat like this once, you believe that? Got dizzy while he was—
— That so? — Ariano cut in, then quickly asked, — You got any water, mister?
The man pursed his lips and scratched his beard. The boy took that as a yes.
— What is a roadside stop, anyway? — Ariano asked suddenly, the question itching in his mind since he saw the sign.
The man looked taken aback, then spat to the side and hitched up his pants.
— Well, it’s this, ain''t it? — He gestured behind him, as if that explained everything. The boy followed his hand with his eyes but didn’t see anything particularly impressive. He felt disappointed.
The two stood in silence for a moment, until Don Quixote brayed loudly, startling some birds from the rooftop.
— You got anything to eat? — Ariano asked, adjusting the leather strap of his shotgun, which was starting to chafe his shoulder.
— Sure do. — The man squinted, studying the boy, his lips pressing into a thoughtful pout. — If you got money, that is. Now come on, let’s get outta this sun.
Ariano tied the mule to the fence near a patch of dry grass, a good spot under the shade of the roof where Don wouldn’t complain. There was also a bucket of murky water, filled with leaves and a few mosquitoes. But it was better than nothing.
The man gave the boy a curious look, then gazed off in the direction he had come from. Something about the kid made him uneasy. If someone had asked him why, he wouldn’t have been able to say.
— Did your father send you to buy something?
— No, he didn’t — the boy simply replied before handing the man one of his precious coins, large and misshapen. The owner of the roadside stop examined the coin and placed it in his shirt pocket.
— Well then... There''s some beans on the stove and a bit of pumpkin if you want some. — That’s when he noticed the shotgun on the boy’s back.
— Stay here, Don Quixote — Ariano said as he stepped inside.
The store was cramped on all sides, packed with knickknacks and bartering goods—fishing rods, empty cages, sacks of potatoes, flour, and onions. In one corner, he saw leather and straw hats, two saddles, several bags of dried cassava, and in the center, three tables with chairs. At the back, there was a counter with an iron scale, and beyond it, more merchandise, ranging from food to soap and sewing supplies. He also couldn’t ignore the strong smell of onions stinging his eyes.
Ariano hesitated, scanning the dimly lit place before sitting in one of the chairs, resting his shotgun with the stock on the floor. In the middle of the table, he noticed a bottle filled with snakes and a crab submerged in a yellowish liquid with a faint spicy aroma.
— Wait here — the owner said before disappearing through a door at the back. About five minutes later, he returned with a steaming plate in one hand and an aluminum mug in the other, setting both on the table.
Ariano saw that the slightly dented mug contained water, and the plate held a portion of cowpea beans, some manioc flour, two pieces of pumpkin, and a soft-yolked egg.
The boy didn’t hesitate; he grabbed the spoon and started shoveling the food into his stomach. The meal wasn’t great—the pumpkin was tough, and the beans were somewhat undercooked—but it was hot, and Ariano didn’t care.
— Easy there, kid, the food ain’t gonna run away! You’re gonna choke eating like that — the man said, hands on his hips. He seemed like the type his father used to call "ill-tempered," like his uncle Zacarias, his mother’s brother—a thick-mustached man who complained every single time he spoke and, unfortunately, had died two years before the attack on Santo Milagre. He had died of what people called "a heart thing."
— If you don’t mind me asking, boy, where are you from?
Ariano lifted his eyes from the plate, ignored the question, and simply kept eating.
— Never seen you around here. You from S?o Tomé? — the man guessed.
— No, sir — Ariano replied.
— Ah! Then from Brejo? — he insisted.
The boy didn’t answer right away, took two more spoonfuls, and only then responded.
— I’m from Santo Milagre.
— Oxê! Santo Milagre! — The man paled, dropped his hands from his waist, and made the sign of the cross. — Damn, you really came from that place?
Ariano nodded, making the man scratch his head.
— I heard what happened there… A terrible thing. Folks say what Herculano’s gang did, how they killed everybody. — He made the sign of the cross again, just to be sure. — Damn, that was the devil’s work. Lord have mercy.
"Herculano."
It wasn’t the first time the boy had heard that name since wandering the backlands. He’d heard all sorts of stories about the gang—some said it was made up of the worst kind of men, murderers, rapists, and sons of the devil. Not even the soldiers dared to mess with them. Ariano had been tracking the gang for almost a year but with no success.
— You’re really from there, kid? — the man asked, skeptical. — They say no one was left alive, that the cangaceiros slaughtered everyone.
Ariano didn’t answer, just kept eating. Outside, Don Quixote whined softly.
— So, where are you headed now? — The store owner eyed the shotgun leaning against the table.
— North — Ariano said with his mouth full.
The man fell silent. The boy was a pitiful sight—just skin and bones, scrawny and small for his age. His chest was sunken, his legs slightly bowed, and his hair was dirty and somewhat long. He couldn’t have been older than ten, yet something about him was unsettling—maybe his gaze, determined and sorrowful, an odd combination for a child.
— The drought’s coming quicker this year — the store owner suddenly said, and Ariano looked at him, confused. — The rains will be late, if they come at all, ''cause it hasn’t rained in these parts for two years — he added before walking behind the counter. — Hm, Santo Milagre…
Silence followed.
— How far is it from here to Rio Fundo? — Ariano finally asked, looking at the man.
— Deep River? — The man scratched his head. — I’d say about 75 kilometers, quite a long walk if you ask me.
Ariano lowered his head, and the man saw the boy considering the distance before resuming his meal.
— If you don’t mind me asking, kid — the man said — are you really traveling these roads alone all the way from Santo Milagre? And heading to Deep River?
— Yes, sir — the boy affirmed with conviction, and the man felt uneasy. It was strange to see a child barely out of diapers wandering alone, but, truth be told, it wasn’t his business.
— You don’t have any family in Deep River? — The man picked at his ear and flicked the dirt away with a snap of his fingers.
— No, I don’t. I’m looking for someone, that’s all. — Ariano took a sip from the tin cup. — I heard about a man.
— A man, huh? — The man sighed, weary. — And does this man have anything to do with what happened in Santo Milagre?
The boy only nodded, neither confirming nor denying.
— Is it something that requires a shotgun? — The man glanced at the weapon resting on the table.
The boy let out a burp, and the man shrugged, giving up on the matter.
At some point in their talk, the mule brayed outside, and the birds in their cages stirred. The man turned abruptly and rushed to the window. Three riders were approaching, galloping down the same road the boy had come from.
— Damn! — he muttered.
The storekeeper watched as the three men slowed to a trot and stopped at the roadside. One of them spat on the ground, and another chuckled. They didn’t dismount from their horses—thin animals with sharp muzzles.
— We know there’s someone inside, so let’s not waste time — called the man in the middle. — Best come on out right now.
— Son of a bitch — the storekeeper cursed under his breath. Ariano, on the other hand, looked slightly alarmed. He stood up, grabbing the shotgun, but his small hands trembled faintly.
— What’s going on out there? — he asked, trying to mask the fear in his boyish voice.
— Shh! — The man gestured for silence. — Stay inside, kid, and don’t come out for anything.
Saying that, the storekeeper reached behind the shelf for a shotgun and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked loudly, like a widow mourning her husband’s funeral.
— What do you want? — he asked, not yet raising the weapon.
— Oh, no need to fret — said the man in the middle. — We mean no harm. We’re the Guaraci brothers, at your service. And you are?
— My name’s Virgílio. Now, what do you want? — the storekeeper questioned, noticing that all three carried rifles and revolvers. — Food? Or something else?
— Well, a hot meal in the belly ain’t something we’d turn down, and I do appreciate the invitation. My name’s Otto — he said.
Otto was a pale man, almost yellowish, with a mocking smile—whether fake or real was hard to tell. A syphilis sore, deep red, marred the corner of his mouth. His reddish-brown hair peeked from under a wide-brimmed hat.
— But we come from Bahia, me and my brothers here.
He gestured to the other two men, who looked nothing like his kin. One was dark-skinned like Ariano, wore a large hat, and had cold, bloodshot eyes. He chewed tobacco, its juice dribbling down his square chin. The other was a Northeastern caboclo with straight, wedge-cut hair, narrow eyes hinting at indigenous ancestry. He wore a leather hat and carried a shotgun resting against his shoulder. His eyes darted around, ensuring there was no one else nearby.
— We inherited the business from the late Mané d’Boi, God rest his soul — Otto announced as if it were common knowledge.
— Mané d’Boi? He’s dead? — Virgílio asked.
— I believe so. — Otto turned to the man chewing tobacco. — He’s dead, right, Ezequiel?
— Dead as can be, Otto — the man replied. — At least he was when we threw his sorry carcass onto the rocks.
— Oh, that’s right — Otto said nonchalantly. The other two chuckled.
— So, with Mané d’Boi’s sudden demise — Otto continued, adjusting himself in the saddle. He took off his hat and pressed it against his chest in a mock gesture of mourning. — The three of us now handle his business, which includes collecting security fees around these parts. You know how it is—lots of outlaws out there, bandits crawling all over the roads, not to mention the cangaceiros.
Saying that, Otto spat on the ground.
— So, for the good of merchants like yourself, we’re here to collect our dues.
— What the hell is this here? — Ezequiel shouted, trying to draw his gun from the holster, but he seemed to fumble. The indigenous man pointed the rifle at Virgílio, who, in reflex, pointed his shotgun right back.
Virgílio thought they were pointing at him, but that wasn’t the case. He turned his face slightly and came face to face with the barrel of a shotgun, and on the other side of the gun, the boy barely managed to keep the weapon raised. The barrel swayed, yet the boy pulled the bolt back until it clicked.
— Get out of here. — The boy tried to sound brave, but his voice faltered. The man seemed alarmed, but quickly regained his composure and lowered the weapon.
— Damn, who is this kid? Your son, is he?
— No! — Virgílio answered.
— Calm down, folks — Otto said to his men.
— I told you to leave — Ariano said.
— Lower the gun, kid — Otto ordered.
— No.
— Damn, what a stubborn boy — Otto laughed, entertained. — What’s your name, kid?
— None of your business — Ariano said, nervously, not lowering the gun.
— Shoot the kid, Otto — the indigenous man said.
— Shh, calm down, I’m not gonna shoot him, are you crazy? Do you think I just go around shooting kids, damn it! — Otto turned to Ariano — Right, kid?
— Are you bandits? — Ariano asked.
— Why do you wanna know? — Otto narrowed his eyes. — Are you really gonna shoot us, kid? With that thing? There are three of us, and even if you shoot one of us, which I think you’d miss, there’d still be two left. You think you can get all of us?
— I can try — Ariano answered, lacking confidence.
Otto stared at the boy for a moment.
— Look kid, from where I’m standing, I don’t think you can. — Otto laughed, not seeming worried about having a gun pointed at him. — So I’ll give you a chance. You lower that gun, and then we’ll give you a beating, a real good one with a quixaba stick, just so you learn. It won’t cripple you, but it’s gonna hurt a lot. But you’ll live, what do you think?
Ariano didn’t answer. Otto sighed, seemingly losing patience, and with a swift motion, he dismounted from his horse and approached the boy, his face now inches from the barrel of the gun.
— So kid, you gonna shoot, or do you not have the guts for it?
Ariano hesitated, and Otto quickly grabbed the barrel of the shotgun, taking the gun from him. The boy knew he should have shot, but he chickened out, and now they were going to kill him.
Otto then delivered a blow with the gun''s stock so fast that it was almost inhuman, hitting the boy squarely on the head, knocking him to the ground. In that instant, he tasted blood in his mouth, and everything spun before his eyes. When he came to, he was crying softly, lying on the dirt, though he didn’t want to show weakness.
Otto thought about kicking the boy. From where he stood, it would be easy, and he had to admit it would be a good lesson. However, he didn’t. Not because he felt sorry for the kid (God knew he wasn’t one of those types), but because he thought it was already good enough as it was.
— I’m just asking for one thing, the share of our protection, so I don’t want anyone playing tough, unless they want a bullet in the middle of their eyes. We just want the same amount that Mané D’Boi used to collect, and it’s not even a high amount. Is it a high amount, Ezequiel?
— No — answered the black man.
— See? So, just pay it.
Ariano now cried loudly on the ground, his nose covered in mucus, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, a pitiful sight. His things had scattered on the ground.
Otto crouched down and took the revolver from his belt, then pressed the gun against the boy’s face. Ariano felt the cold steel touch his skin and continued crying, but he stared at the man.
— Look here, kid, you need to understand how life works. — Otto almost whispered. — If you want to live in this world, you need to understand that life’s a bitch, and it won’t show mercy just because you’re a kid. If you point a gun at a man, you’d better have the guts to pull the trigger, because if not, you’d better not do it at all. — Otto pressed the barrel against Ariano’s cheek. — Got it?
— Damn, Otto — said the indigenous man. — The kid pissed himself.
Otto looked down and saw that it was true, but didn’t laugh, just moved the revolver away and tucked it back into his pants.
— Listen, kid, you got lucky today. Go back to your parents — saying this, he stood up and looked at his comrades. — Get our share inside. If there’s anyone else, shoot them.
The men dismounted from their horses and entered the store, shouting.
— Got a problem with that, friend? — Otto looked at Virgílio, who shook his head. — Great, but next time, we don’t want any surprises, got it?
— Yes — Virgílio answered.
The boy stayed on the ground until the bandits were gone, but he didn’t cry anymore; he just stared at the road. Behind him, the mule snorted lazily as if nothing had happened.
Ariano got up, dusting off his clothes. His chin hurt terribly, and the blood in his mouth made him feel dizzy. He gathered his things.
— Are you okay, kid? — Virgílio said, feeling sorry for him. — Do you have somewhere to go? Anyone you know? — Virgílio already knew the answer, but asking was something he could only do at that moment.
But Ariano didn’t answer, he just stood there, looking at the road, thinking about the bandits who had now disappeared from sight, realizing he had been lucky, not only because he didn’t die, but because the men hadn’t found the gold of the little saint.