The voices receded. “O! Lovely spot.”
Bernardo held his breath as the woman emerged. He followed her and sat downwind. He took out a quill, uncorked the ink, and opened his journal. Beneath the tree, she made a great show of straightening her skirts, and looked so flirtatiously at Scarecrow that his gaze sought refuge in the branches.
“Randy angels,” she said. “That’s what it’s all about. Had congress with that Castanheda girl, and she giving them potions. Lifted up that Teixeira girl’s skirts, too. Wasn’t any virgin birth about it. Was those angels, who should have known better. Lifted even my skirts and poked it right up inside me, big as you please. That’s why God threw them out of Heaven.”
Bernardo paused his scribbling and peered through his lashes. The lawyers sat, blank-faced models of the perfect inquisitor.
Then: “Would there be anything else you care to tell us?”
She pulled on her lower lip. “Well, not as I liked it, myself. But those girls all agiggle. If angels decide to put it in you, I figure you have no way to stop it. But you don’t have to enjoy it, all the same.”
Bernardo had culled the interrogatory wheat from its chaff. He looked at his most recent finished product: Sra Inez: did not enjoy the congress. Question women.
Scarecrow: “Were there any corroborating witnesses?”
“Eh?”
Goatee: “Was anyone else with you at the time of the…”
“Lying with,” Scarecrow suggested.
Bernardo put down his quill. He watched an ant bumble its way down the side of the box and over a white feather.
“Quite right.” Goatee nodded. “The lying with the angels.”
She sniffed. “Not as I would gather a crowd.”
The two lawyers observed a moment of silence. Then Goatee asked, “Anyone else you wish to accuse?”
“Just that Jesuit priest who can’t keep his pants buttoned, either.”
Bernardo’s quill halted mid-stroke.
“And him with those angels, all plotting together, I warrant.”
His fingers cramped. The muscles of his hand twitched, and he lifted his arm so as not to ruin the page. He heard Scarecrow say, “We are talking of fornication?”
“Hah! And a master of dipping his pan, he is.”
“Please use his name. Let us be exact.”
“That Father Manoel High-and-Mighty Pessoa.”
“And you accuse Father Manoel Pessoa of fornication with whom?”
“That Jew witch.”
“A name please.”
“Berenice Jew Witch Pinheiro. Her of the evil eye. O, pretty enough, like Lucifer is pretty. And he must think so, too, for putting it in her is the first thing he does when he arrives in town and the last thing he does before leaving.”
Father Manoel’s stem mouth sampling strawberry-ripe lips. Father Manoel’s keen eyes, that sad gaze, feasting upon rose-tipped nakedness. Those hands wantonly fondling places swollen and moist.
Bernardo could see Scarecrow watching him, watching his hand. He could not bring the quill tip down to the paper, could not make his hand move. Such outrage swept him that it was all he could do not to knock the lying hag down. He lifted his head. She met his indignant glare.
“My notes,” Bernardo said. “In my notes it states that we are to question this witness concerning a heresy which was spoken of by one Guilherme Castanheda, and what he said about Spain.”
“Spain?” she said, “I know as how he didn’t like it.”
They waited.
“Wife died as he came back.”
Scarecrow slapped his knees. “Well. The Holy Office thanks you for your cooperation, Dona…”
“Inez Rodrigues,” she said.
Bernardo corked his ink. He packed his quills.
She nodded, satisfied. “Ask me anything. Anything at all. I’ll tell you.”
The lawyers clambered to their feet and dusted their pants. Bernardo collected his box and tucked it under his arm.
“You go ahead and have me before that tribunal,” she told them. “I’ll look those wanton angels right in their black evil eyes, and tell everyone how they can’t keep their trousers buttoned.”
She was still prattling when the lawyers started down the road, Bernardo at their heels.
Beyond the first turning, just out of sight of the cottage, Goatee halted in his tracks and stooped over double, as if he would vomit. He grabbed frantically, blindly, for Scarecrow. In a strangled voice he said, “ ‘They stuck it in me, big as you please.’ ”
Scarecrow held on, helpless as a drowning man, to Goatee’s sleeve. He lifted his face to the sky and howled, “ ‘Not as I enjoyed it, myself.’ ”
They laughed so heartily that they were forced to sit down in the road.
Let us clarify, Your Majesty. The earth what?” In the quiet of the tent, the fat priest leaned forward, his bulk pressing against the sweet-burdened table. His mouth fascinated Afonso. It reminded him of the backside part on a dog which is tight and pink and puckered.
“Sire? Are you listening? The earth what?”
“I forget your name,” Afonso said.
Those lips constricted even more, so much so that Afonso thought neither turds nor words could pass. But then the fat priest slipped a chocolate almond between them, smooth as the royal physician with a suppository.
“Once more: I am Monsignor Gomes,” he said. “The Inquisitor-General of Lisbon, Your Majesty. Given charge over banishing heresy from your kingdom, and given that mission by the Holy Father in Rome himself.” The pudgy fingers plucked up another almond, inserted it. “Do you understand what ‘heresy’ is, sire?” Suddenly that fat priest turned to a waiting cook. “I’ll have half a bushel of these made up to be sent back with me, please.”
The cook bowed and left.
The fat priest ate another almond. “So. Heresy. Do you know what heresy is, Your Majesty?”
Behind where the fat priest sat at table, Father de Melo was making hand motions. There was something he wanted Afonso to remember. Afonso nodded.
“What, then?” the fat priest asked. “Tell me. Please define heresy for me, sire.”
Father de Melo was beside himself. Afonso nodded again.
“No? Heresy, sire, may be said to be all those statements which go against Holy Mother Church and the word of God. Statements such that there is no Hell, for example. That God may be whatever the whimsies of each and every individual decide Him to be. That the earth revolves about the sun. This is heresy.”
Afonso waited for an almond to slide out of those lips like a tiny brown turd. When it did not, Afonso lost interest. He got to his feet. “Thank you for coming.” It was important to thank petitioners. His father and his advisers had taught him that.
The fat priest looked up in surprise. Would he not stand? That is what petitioners were supposed to do. Yet not one of them stood: not the fat priest nor the guard who had come with him nor Father de Melo.
Another almond disappeared. Three of the fat priest’s chins quivered. “Sit down, Your Majesty. It is essential that we end this here.”
“God is waiting. I need to go into the acorn now.”
Father de Melo was making snatching motions at the air as if he would, by force of will, pull Afonso into his seat.
“No, sire,” the fat priest said. “I do not think His Highness will quit an audience with the inquisitor-general unless the Pope himself gives him leave.”
Afonso looked around the tent. The footmen had been caught between rising and sitting, and seemed unable to decide. The king’s guards stood at attention, but looked ill at ease.
“Sit down,” the fat priest said.
“No. I will go into the acorn and talk to God now.”
Father de Melo began, “O please, Your Majesty, if you would be so kind, I think perhaps—”
“Sit down!” The fat priest’s voice was harsh with rage.
“No!” Afonso was angry now, too. “You stand up! You are fat, and you
have a mouth like an asshole, and you will stand when I stand, and you will sit when I tell you to.”
Father de Melo seemed to be near a faint.
“My father, King João, said…” Afonso pointed his finger into the center of the fat priest’s scowl. Ideas and words tumbled so fast that he could scarcely sort them. “My father said I am firstborn Bragança. That means king. And all must obey me. So you will stand now. You will even kneel if I want, or I have soldiers who will make you.”
The fat priest came to his feet so fast that he jarred the table. The platter of almonds flew. “You rule only by the grace of God, sire, and by the consent of Castelo Melhor. I warn you. I have the count’s ear.”
“Well…” Sentences fell apart. Words spun away so fast that Afonso could barely catch them. “Well… but I have God’s ear. And He tells me of Earth around sun and no Hell and such. And I would believe Him over Castelo Melhor, who thinks he is clever and speaks in riddles and sometimes even lies. Why don’t you believe me when I say God is in the acorn? I never lie, and when I do I always confess it. Why don’t you come see for yourself? God probably wouldn’t mind. I can introduce you.”
Three stray almonds rolled off the table and dropped, hitting the silver platter and striking brief music.
The priest said, “I believe that God and I have been introduced.”
“Well, then! He would be glad of seeing you. For God is lonely and forgetful. And He is scared sometimes. I feel sorry for Him, mostly.” Afonso walked out of the tent and toward the acorn. At the camp’s perimeter, he stopped and looked back. The fat priest stood frowning in the sunlight, Father de Melo and the Church’s guard behind.
“Don’t be afraid,” Afonso said. “God’s really very nice.”
The priest called loudly for a large crucifix and for his vial of holy water and he said that, with Holy Mother Church at his side, he was willing to confront Satan himself.
Afonso walked on, hearing the fat priest trample the grass behind. At the door to the acorn, Afonso stopped and waited. The fat priest came huffing and puffing, and at the acorn, he drew himself up. He held the crucifix high.
“Moneantur, diaboli! Dominus Deus Sabaoth! I put myself into Thy hands.”
Just before the lip of the hill of captain of the guard and Father de Melo and all the servants had gathered to watch. Afonso remembered that he had once been frightened of the acorn, too. And he felt badly for the fat priest.
He remembered the dagger that Mario had loaned him, the one which he had not yet given back. He took it from his belt and held it out. “If you’re scared, you can borrow this. It’s a good dagger. I got it from a boy who was given it by his father. And his father was a soldier who killed many Spaniards. I bet there is Spanish blood on it yet. That’s what Mario told me.”
The fat priest muttered under his breath, “Spawn of a mutinous, murderous traitor. Yes. Exactly like your father.”
Afonso was not sure what the priest meant. He nodded. “All right, then. Stay right behind me. God talks in lots and lots of colors, and when He gets excited, He talks fast and He makes you dizzy.”
He tucked Mario’s dagger into his belt and led the way. At his heels he could hear the fat priest wheezing. Amid the confines of the narrowing corridor, Afonso could smell the priest, too: a mix of onions and old incense and red pepper.
One turn and then another, the road now so familiar. Afonso felt the first touch of blue comfort coil about him, then a brush of welcoming flaxen.
And then he heard the scream.
Afonso whirled. Drops of holy water splattered his cheek. The fat priest was flinging the vial madly.
“It’s all right,” Afonso said. “God is just saying hello.”
With a cry of horror, the priest bolted down the corridor, crucifix hoisted. Afonso apologized to God and followed.
Outside in the meadow, the fat priest was shouting at the soldiers, “Bury it! Hide this blasphemy from God’s face. Put it in the earth with the other demons, where it belongs.” He flailed the vial. Holy water splashed the air, the grass, the acorn, Afonso’s tunic.
The soldiers looked to where Afonso stood. The captain of the guard shrugged his shoulders in unspoken question.
“Bury it!” the fat priest shrieked. “Lest all of you be brought before the Holy Office. Lest you join this insurgent Bragança excuse for a king when Satan drags him down to Hell.”
The meadow became very still and quiet. The fat priest looked around at the soldiers. He looked at Jandira and at Father de Melo. He turned to Afonso.
“Thank you for coming,” Afonso said.
Pessoa opened the door to find her kneeling at her cold hearth, tying bundles of marigolds. The wash of sunlight from the doorway struck gilt from the flowers, copper from her hair. As she turned, light glowed in her face. His eyes held her, and for one flawless instant that was embrace enough.
“Since your own foolishness has enticed you to stay, I thought I should bring you food.” He put the basket down on the table. “Burn you must for your own stupidity, but while I have breath I will not see you starve.”
He picked up the rabbit by its still-oozing haunches and laid it on the tabletop. “Skinned and gutted. And there are apples and honey and salt.”
She rose and went to the door. He grabbed her wrist to stay her. “From now on, we must leave it open.”
She twisted her arm free. They were so close that he could see the reflection of the window in her eyes. So close that he was made a drunkard by her smell. He looked away. “And cheese, too. And this.” He took the crucifix from his pocket. The chain twisted, a rich slick eel, on the tabletop. “From now on, you must wear it.”
“But that is the one your brother gave you the year you took your vows.”
“I doubt he will ask where it is. I have seen him but half a dozen times since. You would not take my money. Is this not good enough for you, either?”
She took up an iron pot and put the carcass of the rabbit in it. She knelt, piled up kindling in the hearth, and sparked it alight.
“The cross is yours. I will not take it back. Do what you will with it.”
She added water to the pot, bunches of wild onion, and a pinch of salt from the bag.
“People are going to talk about the virgin conception, Berenice, and I imagine that Dona Teixeira has told people what you found during your examination. Were Maria Elena my daughter and so gravid, I imagine that I would tell the world. And if your name is mentioned, there is no way I can stop you from being called before a tribunal. For the Inquisitor-General of Lisbon himself has come to Quintas.”
She looked up, and the dread he saw rocked him.
“Berenice,” he whispered.
She ducked her head. Her hands flew so fast, like the vendor and the rabbit, like the executioner and the accused. The snap of a wild carrot from off its lacy green stalk came as sudden as the breaking of a neck.
“Berenice. I brought my purse. Take it and leave. Go to England or Saxony. Go to some place the Inquisition is not. And take the crucifix, for it is solid gold, and fine work. Even melted, it will buy you a journey.”
Another snap, but this time her hand trembled. “I can’t.”
“Because some fantasy tells you not?”
“Because he told me it matters not whether I go or stay. That I will die here or there. I know it is true, for he could hardly bring himself to say the words.” A crackling separation of root from stem, her hands so practiced. “When he speaks, I hear him in the draft down the chimney, in the breeze through the window. I ask him questions, and he answers, so close, and his breath so warm. And when he has a bad news to tell me, his voice is even softer. He speaks in words that would not stir a candle. He loves me in whispers.”
“Stop this,” he said.
Her furious hands moved, breaking a stem. “He loves me more than you do, you who must leave the door open, you who comes but once a season and always leaves before daybreak—”
“Stop!”
“You, who only visits me betimes. Who dares not laugh out loud for fear the neighbors will hear.”
He grabbed a handful of shawl and blouse. Wild carrots spilled from her fingers. She tried to pull away, but he held fistfuls of her. He shook her so hard that her hair flew free of her pins.
“Witch! You seduce me—all kisses and loose thighs—then you tear my heart out!”
He shook her and shook her, and only when he realized she was sobbing did he let her go. He stood back, helpless and ashamed. Then he remembered the open door and he looked to see if anyone had overheard.
Berenice noticed. When their eyes met again, hers were cool.
He said lamely, “Well. I shall leave the money. If you flee, Godspeed. For I will not be back.”
Kindling flamed. Worms of fire crawled the skin of a log. She gazed into the pot as if she would scry into its green-specked water. Pessoa caught glimpse of a pink body floating beneath the surface.
“If you are brought before the tribunal, I will do my best to save you.”
“You cannot save me.”
He said, “Not if you are determined to die.” And he left, not daring to look back, even though he might never see her again.
Bernardo searched the lawyers’ faces, but the cherubs merited only a slowing of the pair’s descent. Upon reaching the foot of the stairs, however, the lawyers turned not toward the women’s cell where they were due to go, but instead toward the angels’. When they reached the iron bars—Scarecrow all the time blowing through pursed lips and shaking his head; Goatee toying with the point of his beard—Goatee said, “This is very interesting.”
Before Scarecrow could put his hand to the unlocked chain and the open latch, one of Father Manoel’s armed field hands barred their way.
“I remember as I saw you.” The man jerked an ill-shaven chin toward Bernardo. “But I doubt as I’ve seen these others.”
The lawyers nodded affably. “We’re with the Inquisition, and come to take preliminary statements.”
The man bowed with the proper respect. “Good luck to you, then. This pair don’t talk much.”
Bernardo met the angels’ black eyes and the floor dropped from underneath him. The heartbeat of vertigo passed and the gaze left, the floor firmed. Bernardo realized that he was hearing prattle about funeral candles and silver basins.
God's Fires Page 20
