Msgr. Gomes ordered the Franciscan to fervently tell the creature, then, that it was charged with a heresy. He ordered the Franciscan to advise the prisoner to abjure that heresy, using sorrow or dread if he could not use words. He said to tell it to repent, lest it and the fellow it had arrived with be relaxed to the state for burning, at which time the Franciscan asked what heresy, and Msgr. Gomes said the heresy of pretending to be angel.
The Franciscan said that he imagined the creature to be angelic, that he heard no speech when he looked at the creature, but did hear the whisper of God. He said that the body of the dead creature had proved saintly, for it leaked a honeyed fluid that the guards had stolen betimes to use in healing their wounds. Msgr. Gomes replied that true angels do not die.
Fr. Pessoa said that he himself was not so acquainted with Heaven that he knew the true nature of angels. Msgr. Gomes swore again, and asked if Fr. Pessoa would care to become so acquainted, for Msgr. Gomes could make certain that he was. Fr. Pessoa said that he was glad Msgr. Gomes could be so sure of his salvation. Fr. Pessoa said that, although faith had promised him deliverance, he was not one to take Heaven for granted.
Then Msgr. Gomes made a great shout and got to his feet and rushed from the room. The questioning was halted, and the remaining members of the tribunal decided among themselves to partake of an hour’s rest.
The day was too gray for God to move in it. It smelled of mildew and damp and wet earth. Rain made a noise against the tent roof like muffled drums. Afonso ordered that the banners flown, but the merry flags hung on their poles, sodden and dark.
He wrapped himself in his cloak and went through the wet grass and mud to the acorn. There he begged God to heal Jandira. He promised that he would be good, and said that he would apologize to the fat priest if that had caused her sickness. He said that he would do anything, for he could not stand to lose her the way he had lost his nanny, who had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. He said that he could bear losing Jandira far less than he stood the death of his father, who never played games. He told God that it had taken his father many priests to die, and that Jandira was of little means, and had no retinue for death.
Afonso told God how his favorite hunting dog had died in his arms, struck by his own wayward arrow. He told God that he had never gone hunting after that, never owned another living thing, even though courtiers brought him hounds, and ambassadors brought him parrots.
Afonso told God that he himself liked happily-ever-afters and did not understand why God created such cruel endings.
God was quiet for a long time. Then in bleak lilac He said, I cannot remember.
So Afonso went back through the cold and the rain. His tent was close and much too warm. It stank. The smell stung Afonso’s eyes, it made him feel sick. Not even Father de Melo’s incense could banish it. The basin was full of blood and onions. A guard was holding Jandira’s arms, and the midwife was calling for poppy.
“Jandira is angry,” Afonso told the guard. “You should not hold her down so, for she has a temper.”
Father de Melo wrapped his arm around Afonso’s shoulder and tried to entice him to leave.
“She is angry,” Afonso said. And indeed, her cheeks were bright red, her scars white. Her hair was matted. “You must let her up.”
“Are you all deaf?” The midwife was in a temper. “Do you not have tincture of poppy?”
The company surgeon was sent for, and he came running in from the rain, asking, “What?” When the midwife asked for poppy, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “For this one? She is a barbarian and a black-assed slave, and an ungrateful whore at that, who would kill the royal baby inside her.”
The surgeon would have left, but the captain seized his arm. “You will give the poppy, sir, or else the blood from out your neck.”
Jandira’s lips were drawn back, her teeth bared like an angry dog. Her eyes were wide and wet and shiny, and even though she stared very hard, it seemed that she saw nothing. Her skin was as thin as brown paper; the bones of her skull showed under her face. She was panting. Under the blankets her legs went up and down, up and down.
“Look. She pretends that she is running,” Afonso told the father.
Father de Melo patted Afonso’s hand and asked if he would not care to leave.
Afonso sat in his chair and watched Jandira’s legs. She ran, she ran so hard and yet went no place, like she had run after Castelo Melhor’s horses.
“Will she live?” the captain asked.
The midwife wiped Jandira’s face with chamomile water. She wet her mouth with white willow. “The baby needs to come, but she lacks the strength to expel it.”
Father de Melo asked if he should give extreme unction, and she said to stand ready with the oil, for oftentimes with the dying there comes a moment of lucidity, and then she would want comfort.
“What she needs now is the poppy,” she said.
The poppy was brought. The midwife dipped her finger in it, and put drop after slow drop on Jandira’s tongue, until her breathing slowed and her eyes rolled back and, exhausted, she stopped running.
Bernardo stood at the top of the stairs. Below, in a wash of silvered light in the men’s cell. Father Manoel was talking to Guilherme Castanheda. The Jesuit’s back was straight as a warrior’s, his gaze so fierce that the sight made Bernardo’s heart flutter in his throat. And behind them, in the same cage as his father, was the dark-eyed, milk-skinned dove who sang so sweetly.
Today. As God was just, Bernardo would see the boy freed today.
Castanheda caught sight of Bernardo, and pointed him out to Father Manoel. “We are summoned back to the judgment,” Bernardo called.
Father Manoel took his leave and mounted the stair; as he passed Bernardo, Bernardo whispered. “Tread lightly.”
As if no words had been spoken, Father Manoel walked on, pausing to nod and bid good day to one of his own guards. Bernardo followed, saying a silent gratia Dei when he saw the almonds he had ordered being put by Monsignor’s right hand.
Monsignor looked ill—not just from the king’s chocolate, but from dream. He had awakened in the dark of early morning, calling for light and again more light, and Bernardo could not tell which pained him more, the agony in his stomach, or the one in his mind.
Bernardo sat down, gathered his journal to him, dipped his quill. Monsignor’s hand plunged into the bowl, brought up a handful of chocolate-dipped almonds, and shoved them wholesale into his mouth.
“Who next?” Monsignor asked, chewing.
Bernardo consulted his list.
BROUGHT before the tribunal, Marta Castanheda, who had been asked to search her heart. She was asked again concerning the apparition of the Virgin Mary, and she said that the Virgin appeared to her because she no longer spoke to men. She said that the Blessed Mother tired of men never listening, as men were wont to do.
Msgr. Gomes then exhorted the prisoner to answer the question lest she be put to torture. The prisoner lifted her eyes to Heaven and said that if they wrapped her with rope, the Blessed Mother would loosen her; that if they hanged her by her wrists backward, Mary would bear her up. She said that if she was brought to the fire, the Mother of God would douse the flames.
Fr. Pessoa entreated the prisoner not to be foolish, that no one wished to hurt her, but only to find the truth. The prisoner said that the truth of blessed chastity could not be seen by Fr. Pessoa since he was a fornicator, to which Fr. Pessoa replied very sharply, asking if she was still of the opinion that the creatures in the cell were not angels, and if so, why the Teixeira women and a pious cleric such as Fr. Soares thought they were. The prisoner had no answer. Fr. Pessoa then asked if it was not likely that the angels in the cell below were true, while her tall, winged, and beautiful beings were a pubescent fiction spawned by a childish mind. She said Mary told her that it was men who were wrongheaded, and at that Msgr. Gomes said he was weary of her stubbornness and ordered a state executioner to take her away.
&nb
sp; Fr. Pessoa told the executioner to wait, and begged Marta to answer, that he could not stay the hand of the tribunal, and did she wish to injure her father and brother so, since the place of torment was in the jail itself, and they would bear witness to her suffering. She said that she would not suffer, and at that, the executioner took her from the room.
She lay quietly while the coals were prepared, a promising sign. Bernardo would watch her face as he did all of the tortured. He must bear witness when fire was put to her feet. If God was kind, he might share in her transformation.
From the jail windows beyond came the ceaseless drumming of the rain. In the room of torment, the blind stone was damp and moisture-beaded. He peeked around the corner and saw the dove peeking back. Bernardo smiled at him and wriggled his fingers in greeting.
Then he heard the executioner say, ‘‘Hold her ankles.”
Bernardo left the corner and walked deeper into the lamplit windowless room. He sat down at the small table they had set for him, and took his quill in hand.
The executioner asked him if he was ready, and Bernardo said that he was. He dipped his quill, watching the play of the iron tongs among the coals. Disturbed, the fire flared red, spat sparks. Then the tongs plucked up an ember. The executioner brought the coal to her with practiced slowness so that she could watch its approach.
The first scream was a pure sound, sharp and startled. Bernardo saw Father Manoel flinch, saw that Monsignor did not. He saw the two seculars look away.
THE PRISONER WAS asked to confess, and she said that she had done no wrong, and to let her up lest evil befall us. The ember was applied a second time, and the prisoner cried out, “O Mother Mary, save me. O sirs, as you are merciful, let me go.” She was asked to confess, and she asked if loving God was a sin. The ember was applied, and the prisoner cried, “Help me. O Mother of God, can you not see how they hurt me? O God, she abandons me. Sirs, let me up.” She was asked to confess, and she said that Mary had visited her and said that she would show the world a sign. The prisoner was asked as to what sign, and the prisoner said that she did not know. The ember was applied, and the prisoner said, “I do not know. If I knew it I would tell you. Please, can you not take the coals away?” The ember was again applied and the prisoner said, “O please. I forgot what Mary said. She told me as in a dream. And when I awoke, all I can remember of it is Mary warning me: ‘Never tell. Never tell.’ ” The prisoner was asked to confess, and she said, “O but sirs, you see I do confess it. I pretended to remember what Mary told me, and made the rest up. God gave Maria Elena the baby, and her such a whining brat, and not nearly so devoted. It was only fair that I have something special, too. O please, sirs, this is now the truth.” She asked for water, and the questioning was halted.
Bernardo put his quill down. The girl was too tired to put voice to her weeping, but instead let tears roll unchecked. He studied her sweated face, how she fought for breath. Pain had made her beautiful. Exultate in Domino. He wanted to seize her hands in his, to pray and rejoice along with her, for he had seen the moment that God had taken pride. He had witnessed when God took self. He watched her soul become naked. Now the room rested in the aftermath of that hard-fought battle—a battle which she, in losing, had won. It smelled of hardwood fire, burned flesh, and rain.
He looked up and, to his surprise, saw that Father Manoel had covered his face.
Pessoa vomited in the chamber pot, this time bringing up only a deluge of stringy water. Weary and sickened he knelt, resting his forehead on his cot. He crossed himself once, twice—and upon further reflection—thrice. He muttered, “Et nuc, redemptor Domine, ad te solum confugio…”
Behind him came Soares’s laconic, “ ‘And now I take refuge in Thee,’ Manoel? Is that not a little late?”
Pessoa turned to see Soares standing in the rectory doorway. He thought of Marta’s cracked and blackened feet and his stomach heaved. He reached for the chamber pot just as bile stormed his gullet. It burned up his throat, stung the tender lining of his nose, and hit the pot with a force that sent ropy liquid spattering.
He felt a nudge at his shoulder. Soares was offering him a dampened towel. “I suppose it would be futile to suggest lunch.”
Pessoa blew his nose with an edge. With the rest, he wiped his sweated face. Under the warmth of his cassock, he was shivering. Soares brought him a blanket, and wrapped it around his shoulders.
“Lie down for a while,” Soares said.
Pessoa buried his head in the towel. The cloth muffled the distress in his voice. “I cannot.”
“I’ll call you when they are ready.”
“I cannot go back.”
He would pack his bags. He would steal away. He would hide himself in England, in France. He would strip off his cassock, discard rosary and missal: he would learn Protestant prayers.
Soares cleared his throat. Footsteps left, footsteps returned. A finger prodded his shoulder. The Franciscan had brought him a cup of brandy. Pessoa drank. Outside the rectory, rain fell. It pattered against the sill. It conjured from the damp hearth the memories of old fires.
“I have some fennel for your breath,” Soares said. “Nothing is more unpleasant than a mouth that tastes of vomit.”
Pessoa’s teeth chattered, and he pulled the blanket tight. The afternoon ran gray torrents. He took the fennel when it was handed him. He chewed the seeds and sipped the brandy. France. He would go to France.
“You have seen this before, Manoel.”
In the quiet between raindrops he thought he could hear a scream, faint and far away. “Always someone else’s sheep.” He leaned back against the cot’s wooden frame and watched the day weep, the world dissolve. “Never mine.”
In the afternoon, Jandira roused herself and asked for water. Afonso went to her side and said that, as she was feeling better, she should entertain him a little, since he had entertained her all day.
The midwife helped Jandira drink, but Jandira drank so much and so fast that water spilled from her lips and wet all her blankets. Father de Melo asked if it was time for the extreme unction, and the midwife said that it was. He went out into the rain.
Afonso took hold of Jandira’s fingers. Her hand was scalding. Her eyes closed, and he tugged on her. “No, don’t go to sleep. You have to talk to me, Jandira. You’ve been asleep, and I have been bored all the morning.”
Of a sudden she sat up, rigid. “Take off my shoes!” Her eyes were like polished amber. “Quick. Take off my shoes.”
The midwife took off Jandira’s sandals and rubbed her feet.
“No. Not that way,” Afonso said. “She wants to feel the dirt on her feet. She takes God that way. Don’t you, Jandira?”
The midwife peeled the carpet up, and let the grass poke though. “Like this, sire?”
“Yes! Just that! She likes that.” Afonso bent Jandira’s knee and put her bare foot to the earth. “I told God, Jandira. I told Him that He was not dying. You hurt so badly and you are so hot that I think that you are becoming, too. Your scars will heal. Your skin will blanch milk white, and your hair will burn to gold. Then I will wed you—would you like that?—and everyone will bow to their queen.”
Father de Melo came back. He took off his cloak, shook it, and knelt by Jandira’s head. He lifted his stole and kissed it. He asked if she cared to confess.
Jandira took hold of the stole as if she would strangle him. Her lungs wheezed like cracked bellows. “Send word…”
Father de Melo tried to pry her hand away, but she held on.
“Castelo Melhor…” She struggled up, up. She labored at rising. Her grimace was like a ogre’s. She nearly pulled father off his knees. “With my own hands. You tell him. I killed his black-assed bastard.” She loosed her grip, fell back to the pillows. She closed her eyes. Father de Melo asked if she would like to confess herself. He said she should not die with such a terrible sin on her soul. After a while he got up, sat in a chair, and waited, missal in hand.
With his sleeve, Afonso wip
ed spittle from Jandira’s open mouth. The midwife asked quietly if Jandira was awake, and Afonso said that he thought she was, but that she did not want to talk, and that she was stubborn like that sometimes. The midwife bathed Jandira’s cheeks and said that she herself had died once, and that Death was nothing to fear.
Afonso saw Jandira’s eyes open to slits. He saw the pupils move underneath the lids. He thought she watched him, but saw that she watched the rain.
“It is a blessing, really,” the midwife said. “For I remember that I hurt so, and I was angry at those who did not come to my aid when for years I had come to theirs. I hated God and all the town, because they had abandoned me. Is her foot planted well, sire? Are you certain? For, either with poppy or with prayer, we want to give her every comfort.”
He pressed cool grass blades between Jandira’s fevered toes. The midwife put cushions under Jandira’s knees.
“O’ How clever! God can come to both her feet now,” Afonso said.
The midwife smiled. “God comes to us, anyway.” She bent over Jandira and took her hand. “Listen. Can you hear me? We are taken in a dark humming rush. Are you listening, my lady? Don’t fear the journey. There is a kindly company at the end.”
Jandira whimpered and stirred under her blankets. The midwife stroked her forehead and shushed her. Rain beat itself against the tent. Sweet incense rose in wraith-white ribbons, collected in ghostly throngs under the roof. Afonso saw the captain by the door to the tent, regarding them. He saw Father de Melo watching.
“My lady,” the midwife said. “You are not alone. Feel my hand? Do you? Yes, good. Hold on tight as you will, for you do not hurt me. I will tell you of final secrets, for I have seen many die. Children hold out arms to the air. Men and women smile into corners. Someone is come for you, too. They are here in the tent, in this very moment—do you hear me, my lady? Look about. Do you see them?”
God's Fires Page 25
