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help?” If she answered yes,
     he would find them and urge them to take custody of her health. If she answered no, then he would become her family. “Come
     with me, sister, and we will find a place for you.” She would be poor, but she would be cared for.
    A large man with an indistinct shape and hidden face asks him from a dark corner, “Is avenging a grievous wrong a sin?”
    Xabier would say, “If it is a matter of pride, deny yourself; if it is a matter of honor and true belief, then ask, ‘What
     is the cost of this honor?’ I believe you’ll find your own answer.”
    Xabier knew he had romanticized himself as compellingly noble in these imagined situations (as well as slightly taller and
     considerably more handsome), but when he repeatedly arrived at compassionate responses, he felt certain there was nothing
     else he could do with his life that would have an equal impact. He also realized that his answers frequently had little or
     nothing to do with faith, religion, doctrine, catechism, or papal decree.

CHAPTER 3
    The midwives convened at Errotabarri devoted as much attention to Justo Ansotegui as to his wife, Mariangeles, whose imminent
     birthing already was being ably managed by her mother and five sisters.
    Relegated to the main room, the surplus caretakers brewed cups of hot tea from mint and sorrel leaves for Justo. They applied
     cool, moist cloths to the back of his neck, while others rubbed the meaty webbing between his thumb and first finger. It had
     no curative value, but he didn’t know that and it kept him distracted. All had theories on the care and handling of distraught
     first-time fathers. But their main function was to keep him focused while, in the bedroom, Mariangeles did all the work. Two
     of the midwives had attended to Justo’s mother, Angeles, and in other rooms they whispered sad recollections. “Poor thing.
     No wonder the father here is so upset. He saw her, don’t you know?”
    It had been not quite a year since Justo Ansotegui and Mariangeles Oñati had married. They were imperfectly matched in some
     ways, but they were mutually respectful and so enamored of being married to each other that they thought of little else. They
     delighted in assuming their roles—dutiful husband, loving wife—as much as they enjoyed defying them. He acted the prankster
     husband (putting a lamb under the covers of the bed one night) and she the playful wife (riding cows, leaping wildly into
     the haystacks from off the roof of the shed). Farming and marriage progressed smoothly, and it was an ideal environment for
     the production of balanced and happy children. Yet that was the source of their first disagreement.
    Mariangeles never doubted that Justo would protect her, care for her, keep her fed and safe, and give her a house filled with
     strong, healthy children. Coming from a large, mostly happy family, Mariangeles had envisioned a similar life for herself.
     But when her prolonged delivery extended more than a day, leaving Justo limp from imagined possibilities, he made his first
     demand.
    “That’s it; no more,” he said when baby Miren was three days old.
    “No more what?”
    “Babies.”
    Mariangeles was nursing and still raw from the delivery and the lack of sleep, and she was not prepared for a debate.
    “This is the one thing that puts you at risk,” Justo said. “I don’t want you to go through this ten times, or five times .
     . . or even twice. Maybe you can survive it, but I never will.”
    “Justo, my mother had no troubles, and I’m sure I won’t, either,” Mariangeles offered.
    “Yes, your mother had no troubles,” he said, raising his voice. “And mine didn’t either until she died in that bed.”
    They passed a day drifting separately inside Errotabarri without speaking.
    They met at the cradle when baby Miren awoke from a nap. Justo handed her to Mariangeles, who lay back on the bed to nurse.
     For the first time, he told her the details of standing