Then the monsignor said, “Do you agree, sire, that the sword should not brandish the soldier?”
It was such a funny notion that Afonso laughed.
“No, sire? Then should the butter chum the milkmaid, or the hammer swing the carpenter?”
Afonso laughed until his sides ached, and was confused as to why the fat monsignor did not join him.
“Then, as all tools serve their masters, so the sun goes round the earth.”
Afonso, overcome by laughter, looked up into the heights of the tent.
“Even Galileo Galilei himself, Your Highness, saw the error of his logic in time to save his soul.”
Sun climbed the pole supports. Through the painted canvas came filtered a scattering of brilliance. “Fog has weight.” he said, for that was what the acorn had taught him.
“Sire?”
“I don’t know how, but it comes together in Heaven, the fog, and is set aflame.” He tugged at his tunic. He looked at the sun with one eye, then the other. “That is what the sun is—just burning fog.”
There came a great rumble of throat clearing, then: “Interesting theory, Your Majesty, but—”
“And I do not know why the earth and the moon and the other planets did not join the sun’s fog, but God tells me that they were spread too far out, and were not large enough—although one of them came near. Anyway, instead of becoming hot and fiery, they became thick and cold. That’s all.”
“Sire?”
“That’s all there is to sun and earth.”
“Your Majesty, God created Heaven and earth in six days. The Bible does not teach of fog.”
Afonso rocked and blinked. The sun dazzled him. “The fog spun, and so the sun spins, too, although we don’t see it. That’s what makes things go round—the planets remember being fog.”
After a while he lowered his eyes and rubbed them. When he was no longer sun-blinded, he saw that everyone was staring.
Father de Melo emitted a lunatic squeal. “O! His Highness makes a joke! Very good, Your Majesty. Amusing stories of fogs and spinnings.”
Cook and soldiers laughed, then fell silent. Everyone waited.
The monsignor belched. He brushed crumbs from his robes and stood. Afonso, mindful of his manners, stood up with him.
“By the time I return tomorrow, I would suggest that His Majesty achieve a more solemn turn of mind. The Inquisition is not fond of jests, if Your Majesty gets my meaning.”
Afonso did not. He nodded.
Father manoel asked Bernardo to pray with him before they went to see the angels. They left Father Soares and walked together to the church, heads lowered, hands clasped on their missals. The company was fitting, just the two of them; for at the seventeenth hour there would be noise and bureaucratic mandates. Father Manoel told Bernardo that if he waited to see the angels, wonder would be broken. And Father Manoel, more than any other priest Bernardo had known, cherished wonder. They trod the narrow streets, and unlike Monsignor, the Jesuit did not taint the silence with words.
At the church they lit candles. They knelt before the altar. Father Manoel unobtrusively left his side. When Bernardo’s prayer was ended, he searched for the Jesuit and found him prostrated on a niche’s stone floor.
He waited until the father’s prayer was done, then they walked past the confessional to the nave. At the door, Father Manoel put out a hand to stay him.
“Do not be disappointed, my son. They are not what you imagine.”
Bernardo felt the Jesuit’s gaze on him. “I dare to imagine nothing, father.”
“They are not beautiful, nor do they speak.”
He lifted his head and in the dim light of the nave saw beauty in Father Manoel’s face—the sort of beauty which could only be bought with sorrow.
“Bernardo, I must confess to you—they speak only to those of pure heart, and so they do not speak to me.”
“O, but—”
“Luis speaks with them. I know that from their own lips came the command to put them in prison, for they wished to share the arrested women’s pain. And they will not be freed until the women, too, are let go.”
“We must free them all!”
“Shhh. I can’t, for the women speak of angels, and you understand, Bernardo—that we have odd beings, surely, but no proof of miracle.”
“But—”
“The angels will not help themselves. They will not converse, except through their eyes, and few can interpret. I know prison hurts them. Their fall to us nearly outdid them. It seems that one has died from his pain. This may sound overly ardent, but so few understand that glorious sort of anguish—not a destructiveness, you see? But such a fearless transforming agony that it flings open the windows of spirit.”
“Yes! I know of it!”
“Do you? Excellent. For I know of it, too. And that, Bernardo, is the pain in which these angels live. Their souls still blaze from Heaven.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ve never dared speak of it before—but, father, I myself have felt such pain.”
Father Manoel seized his wrist, and Bernardo could feel faith surge through him. The shock nearly sent him to his knees. “The Inquisition’s guards stand just inside. It is best that we not appear friendly. We must pretend that I have merely come to show you the prisoners. No one must know what was said between us. I put my life in your hands. Swear you will tell no one, Bernardo.” He hissed, “Swear.”
Bernardo crossed himself. “I swear.”
“Then come.” Father Manoel pulled him through the door. Once outside, he dropped his arm. Together they walked to the place where the tribulation was to be held.
The Marquis de Paredes’s men eyed them as they entered. Bernardo dipped his head in greeting as they passed.
He and Father Manoel arrived at the stairs which led to jail—which led to miracle—and on the first step, Bernardo lost courage. He became light-headed and faint. O Jesu dulcis. So long a trip—an entire lifetime—but at the end of it, a wise man and angels.
His eyes filled with gratitude. The air below seemed glazed with light. But just this morning he had been guilty of terrible sin. It was too soon. He could not yet be cleansed. Bernardo groped for the wall, and encountered Father Manoel’s hand.
“Come,” the Jesuit whispered. “Come see the wonder. Angels below… beata Seraphim…”
Bernardo quoted the rest… exsultatione concelebrant.”
Father Manoel led him, blinded by awe, down one step, then another, saying, “Osanna in excelsis.”
Bernardo shivered and could not stop. He felt Father Manoel’s arm about his shoulders. His feet fumbled for treads. “Osanna,” he breathed.
“Look!” The Jesuit’s voice was as commanding as God’s.
Bernardo wiped his eyes. First he saw only a smear of sunlight; then he blinked and the room below resolved into form and shape, brilliance and shadow. In the straw beneath, a pair of cherubs stood beside their fallen brother. They looked up, those two ancient children, and their black flat gazes acquired depth. There, inside those eyes, he found it. Peace washed him—the profound comfort of “Fear nots.”
He did not know that his legs had failed until Father Manoel caught him. Bernardo sat on the steps, able to go no farther, able to see naught else. When the quiver in his belly began, he thought it was a quake of weeping; but it climbed his throat as mirth.
He heard a guard’s query from above. “Anything amiss?”
And Father Manoel’s answer. “He slipped, but I believe he is not hurt.”
Bernardo held his sides and laughed as he had not since childhood, laughed until his lungs were empty and his insides trembled and his eyes ran tears. Divine merriment rang in his head. And in the end, it purged him.
Pessoa returned to the rectory just past midday to find Soares seated at table. On its top sat an open missal, a Bible, and a bowl of figs above which circled an indolent quartet of flies. Soares shooed them just as indolently. His focus was inward, his brow grooved by thought. The fingers
of his right hand and the places he had touched on his right cheek, were ink-stained.
Checking to see that he did not shut out Soares’s light, Pessoa closed the rectory door. “Wrestling with the Sunday sermon?”
Soares put his quill down, plucked a fig from the bowl, and peeled it. “Twenty-third Sunday, Ordinary. The homily of the Watchman.”
“Um.” Pessoa poured himself a mug of wine, then sat at the table with his head in his hands, wearied by the morning’s passions.
Around him flies buzzed. He heard the dry scrape of quill against page and Soares’s “If you love your brother, you will correct him.”
“Um.” Pessoa was uncommonly weary, so exhausted that his eyes refused focus, that his mind resisted thought.
Pessoa sat back, thinking of the young Dominican’s wounds. He noticed the wrinkled skin at his own thumb, the knotted blue veins of his hands. When had old age come on him? He thought he remembered that only the year before his hands had looked strong, his skin sun-browned. He recognized what browned him now, for he knew a liver spot by sight. It was simply difficult to recognize the speckle on himself.
“ ‘I have appointed you Watchman for the house of Israel.’ ” Soares had stopped writing, and was watching him. “ ‘I have appointed you.’ ”
Pessoa wasn’t sure what was meant. “Ezekiel?”
“First reading, twenty-third Sunday, Year 4. ‘If you do not speak out to dissuade the wicked from his way, he shall die for his guilt. And I will hold you responsible.’ ”
“Well, Luis, I am trying to dissuade him. Did you see the stigmata that poor boy had made on himself? He hid it very cunningly, but…”
“I saw. I also saw how he is wrapped up in himself.”
“Good God. The boy’s a damnable mystic. Forgive him, please, his self-absorption. I imagine even your beloved Teresa d’ Avila bore little interest in the world. And did you note how suspicious the boy was? Comes of working with Gomes, I warrant. For I have heard stories, I tell you. Hah. Just think on it. What an odd pairing. A burgeoning mystic with a blustering political fool.”
“Ai, but you are thickheaded!” Soares clasped his missal closed. “I meant that I must dissuade you.”
Pessoa stared at the old Franciscan’s gnarled fingers, the smattering of dun spots. How long did he have before his hands were like that? “You can’t dissuade me. I have finally gained his trust.”
“And that is the sin of it, Manoel: that he has come to admire you. When you began your game this morning, I kept silent. But don’t you see? I must try to stop you now, or I imperil my own soul.”
Pessoa stiffened. “No. Listen to me. I can pry the boy’s loyalty away from Gomes. I know I can. We have been given a weapon with which to defend those women and your beloved creatures. You’re a compassionate man—God knows you are far more compassionate than I. You want no one to suffer.”
Soares crossed his arms and studied the table. The rectory smelled of the cats’ spilt milk and Soares’s figs. But for the drowsy hum of the flies, it was quiet. A sparrow alit on the windowsill, pecking for crumbs. Pessoa met its darting glance.
Soares crossed himself, startling the sparrow into flight. “You tempt me.” He shook his head and heaved a sigh. “All right. But understand that I cannot join in your lies.”
“I alone will bear the responsibility.”
“O Manoel.” Soares was grim-faced. “God will not let you.”
“Now, what are we to say, Your Majesty?” Father de Melo’s brow was so salted with sweat that in the late-morning sun, he sparkled. Afonso turned his head this way and that to catch his rainbows.
“Tomorrow…?” Father de Melo sat forward. The rainbows extinguished as he exited the light and entered the tent’s shade. “Sire. Please pay attention. When Monsignor Gomes returns tomorrow, what are we to say?”
“That we are sorry.”
“Very good, Your Highness. And?”
Afonso twisted in his chair. He looked to the pole supports. The sun was higher now. “What o’clock is it?” he asked.
“Sire? Please? What else are we to say? The matter of the earth and the sun?”
Afonso kicked the table again and again, kicked it until the crystal butter dish danced on its golden base.
Jandira touched his arm. “Tell the father, sire.”
He stuck his lip out. He kicked the table.
“Remember what we spoke of?” Father de Melo grabbed Afonso’s knee and stilled it. “Sire? Remember that? You were shown a vision—and I firmly believe that you believe you saw it, sire—but perhaps you misinterpreted. That could be. After all, you are not a saint—O, a very, very good boy to be sure, Your Highness, although not mentally strong for—”
“He is fat,” Afonso said.
Father de Melo sucked in a quick breath. His eyes were wide and still. “Sire, perhaps it’s best not to confront Monsignor Gomes again with such—”
“I want to go back to the acorn now. I promised God that I would visit each and every day. He is waiting for me.”
“Hell, Your Majesty. May we talk about Hell?”
“No. And I don’t know why I should tell that fat priest that I am sorry. He has a face like a pig. He brings me no presents. He eats all my food.”
Father de Melo squeezed Afonso’s knee so hard that it hurt. “Think of Hell, sire! Eternal damnation? Pain? Lakes of fire and never-ending sorrow, and—remember?—in Hell there will be no cooling plantain to wrap your wounds. May we just take a quiet moment here, sire, to imagine everlasting agony?”
“I want to talk about something else.” Distressed, Afonso held himself between his legs.
“Sire? If you just tell the monsignor that you are sorry and that you were mistaken, you can have the Corpus Christi. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“I don’t need the Corpus Christi anymore.”
Father de Melo closed his eyes and clapped his hands to his cheeks. He rocked back and forth until he nearly made Afonso reel. “Say after me, sire: Ne reminiscaris, Domine, delicta nostra vel…”
“No,” Afonso said.
“Not no!” Father de Melo’s cheeks mottled with color. “Never no, sire! I will accept your willfulness, but God will not. I know of no other way to say this, Your Majesty, but time has come. You must recant now lest your soul be lost forever. The whole kingdom would be lost, too, don’t you see? Dire events. God turning his face away. Plagues—you know of plagues, Your Highness? Corpses rotting in the streets, ravens feasting on eyes? Or, or other calamities, ah… great tempests! Yes! Rains of frogs and snakes and such. Many, many bad things. So. You have a duty to your people, Your Highness. Besides, even if God does not send disaster, your people may follow your lead. They would, like you, reject God’s word. Think of it! A whole kingdom damned to Hell, just like the English and the Saxony Germans.”
“I can tell them.” Afonso held himself and rocked. He wanted to go back into the acorn. He wanted to ask God how He was, and if He still hurt, and if He knew that it was not Death that was about to greet Him, but change. God would like to know that. “I will tell them that they needn’t worry. That God is sweet. That there isn’t any Hell or flames or the like.”
Father de Melo seemed unable to catch his breath.
Then Jandira said, “A temporary lunacy, father. That is all.” She tugged Afonso’s hand loose from its moorings. He struggled and whimpered, but she would not let go. “Listen to me, sire. Listen! You must tell no one of what you learned in the acorn. See how stricken poor father looks? Pay attention! Don’t look at the wall. Now listen close and I will tell you a great truth: these things God tells you are meant to be secrets. For you are a king, and worthy of God’s instruction. The common people cannot receive God so directly. It would send them into the streets screaming and maddened.”
He looked at the carpet: the green wool trees and red velvet apples and white satin birds.
“It is a great responsibility that God has given you, sire, to keep His secrets.”
From beside him came Father de Melo’s persecuted sigh.
Jandira said, “Shall I walk you part of the way, then?”
He nodded, and she took him by the hand. They went over the hill together. “Tomorrow you will apologize to the fat priest, sire.”
He didn’t want to.
She tugged on his fingers. “And you will tell him lies, all about the sun turning about the earth, and the world in six days.”
Just over the lip of the hill, just within the sight of God, he halted. “But it is wrong to lie.”
“Is it, sweetling? Who tells you that?”
“Father de Melo.”
“And when Father de Melo says that the sun goes around the earth, is he right?”
Afonso rolled his head back and forth on his shoulders until his neck pinched. “No.”
“Always beware of priests, sire. When the Jesuits came to my mother’s people, they promised happiness, but gave the pox. And when I was orphaned and my mother’s people dead, the Jesuits stole me from the forest. They put shoes on me, and took God away. They taught me that knowledge is good, but when I did not learn their lessons fast enough, they beat me. They preached of peace, yet made Brazil pay gold for Portugal’s revolution. So I ask you—who is lying, then?”
Monsignor was already at the inn when Bernardo returned. “Where were you?” he demanded.
Bernardo dropped his eyes. From the other side of the room came a magnificent basso profundo belch, and at the end of it, a “Well?”
“I had to deliver your message, Monsignor.”
“Three hours? Did you crawl to the rectory on your hands and knees? Ah. Thinking on it, Bernardo, I would not put that excess of enthusiasm past you.”
Three hours? Had he been so long? It seemed that he had looked upon angels for a heartbeat. And what could he say that was neither outright lie nor dangerous truth? Bernardo sweated so, he was afraid it would cause Monsignor to wonder. “I went to the prison.” His admission was met by grim silence. He floundered on. “It seems clean enough, Monsignor, and the prisoners well cared for.”
God's Fires Page 17
