by Daniel Braum
Juan Haberno trudges into his field. Strong morning sun bakes the fresh earth of the grave. A myna bird swoops down and grabs a brown lizard. After school, Marco and the other town kids line up at the church doors to receive the ash on their heads.
What Mayan day or ritual this coincides with I don’t know. Some god of smoke, maybe. The children accept the ash uncaring of any symbolism or my religious explanation. Saint or smoke god, they just want to be done with it and play ball.
With sweat-slicked ash on their foreheads, the bunch of them run from the church, kicking a ball back and forth. A wild kick sends the ball into the graveyard. When Marco catches up with it he lets out a cheer. “Come look, everybody!”
I run.
He is pointing to a healthy, foot-high, three-inch thick, green sprout poking its way out of the soft earth where we buried the mummy yesterday. Is it a weed? A sign? Whatever it is, it has risen unnaturally fast. Faster than anything I have ever seen.
The kids look at each other with confusion and joy. Then they let out a unified cheer, and Marco kicks the ball high into the air.
****
“Please, please don’t step on the graves,” I say to the people gathered to see the bulbous cornstalk that has shot up in the graveyard.
It has only been two days, and already the stalk growing from the fresh grave is higher than the wooden crosses and stone slabs marking the resting places of those who have died since my arrival, mostly rebels. Visitors have come from nearby Mechalu and Saint Cristobol. The Haberno family gladly sells them tamales, proudly pointing out it was their son who found the man buried beneath the stalk.
“Wish all my corn grew that fast,” Juan Haberno says. “It is a miracle.”
“It truly is a miracle,” an old lady in the crowd echoes. Is this the Lord’s apology for the quake? A reward for their faith? Surely it is a form meaningful to them. I want to hush her, but looking at the pile of offerings surrounding the stalk, I realize it won’t do any good.
“A miracle.” The words fly from every mouth.
“Please, please,” I say. “This is holy ground. All altars must be outside the graveyard.”
****
In my dream, vines and tubers snake from the stalk and bury themselves in Haberno’s field. They pulse, carrying dark ichors away from the rows of corn to the mummy, who is sitting atop one of the gravestones. Black dribble runs from its mouth and nose. I move closer and realize beneath the fresh earth and green fungus its face is mine. I wake with a start to the resonant bark of a gecko chirping on the tin roof.
****
Visitors have come from Chiapas, Guadalajara, Mexico City, the small towns of Guatemala, and everywhere in between. The sick, the dying, the blind, the crippled, the old, and the religious pilgrims all want to touch and pray at the miraculous corn stalk. I roped off the graveyard with twine and fishing wire to keep them from knocking over the grave markers.
Ignacio Rivera sits in front of the palapa, self-appointed caretaker of the now six-foot plant. He shows visitors in one at a time, pointing out the face of Jesus he and the people of Punta Cabre have seen in the bulge in the stalk’s center.
“See, there,” he says to an old woman clad in traditional bright orange Guatemalan garb. The husk is dark green and thick like a palm frond. Raised veins run through it.
“Like the Sacred Twins present at the dawn of the first world, the Green Man is gonna come through into our world,” Ignacio Rivera says. “He’s gonna make the corn okay again.”
“The white-faces up North want one kind of corn,” a farmer in the crowd says. “They’ll try and stop him. They’ll send men in suits, with big trucks, guns, fancy poisons, and even demons.”
“They’ll have to come through me first. I’m gonna sit right here till the Green Man comes and when he does, I’ll be here to greet him. I’ll watch over him as he sucks out all the bad from the fields and praise him when he brings it back up North where it belongs. Look, you can see his face now.”
I sometimes think I see things in the patterns in the wood grain of the pews. Faces maybe, but never that of the Lord.
No look of recognition dawns on the old woman’s leathery face. I have not seen the face in the plant either, no matter how hard I try. Perhaps the face they see is really one of the Mayan Chacs I will never recognize or am I precluded from seeing because I doubt?
How can they think something holy would manifest here, like this? The only divine aspect I can see in the stalk is that it is a test. A test to see if I have the will to take away this false idol. It gives them such hope.
“Out of the way! Water for the Green Man!” Juan Haberno calls, weaving his wheelbarrow through the crowd of waiting pilgrims.
He dumps a barrel full of water on the mound of earth around the stalk and goes back for more, pushing past Eduardo and some other rebels I recognize. I see a familiar face, Padre Christopher, making his way toward the front. He parts the crowd, walks past Ignacio Rivera with a nod, and hands me a letter.
“From the Cardinal. Arrived yesterday,” he says. “They’re sending an Inquisitor from Mexico City to investigate your miracle.”
****
The Inquisitor’s blond-haired, blue-eyed angelic face regards me coldly, like a cherub all grown up and weathered from too much time in harsh, earth-bound places. His heavy black boots shine impossibly, as if he stopped in the jungle just outside of town to polish them. An ivory cross, white and pure, hangs around his neck, the only white accent on his perfectly pressed black garb besides the starched collar. I see no sweat stains under his arms.
He looks at my simple cloth poncho and my wooden cross. “Why do you not wear your collar, Father?” he asks.
“The heat,” I say with a smile. “Besides, everyone knows me.”
I extend my hand. He doesn’t take it.
“I’m Inquisitor Morgan.”
“I was expecting you, just not so soon,” I say.
“With the urgency of the matter, I made haste.”
“What urgency?”
He mutters to himself and looks at the altars ringing the graveyard. “What are these?” he asks.
“Altars. To the plant,” I say.
“And you permit it?”
“How am I to stop them?”
“You could begin by wearing your collar. Perhaps you have lived too long around these pagans.”
Is this what has happened? Have I sailed too far from one shore and not close enough to the other?
“You don’t believe it is a miracle?” I ask. I want to believe. But I see nothing. Only a strange, unsettling jungle plant.
“We’ll see,” he says.
“What if it is the face of the Lord?” I ask.
“We’ll know.”
“But what will happen?”
“I’ll have the child document his experiences, begin the long path to Sainthood. The Cardinal will designate funds to build a church here. A real one. He might take interest and want to see it.”
“The Cardinal, here? In my church?”
“Of course not. We’d take the plant to him.”
Why would he want a miracle destroyed? Ignacio Rivera would never permit it. But at least the responsibility will be off my shoulders.
“What if it’s not a miracle?” I ask.
“An abomination, then. Most are,” he says, his eyes lingering on my simple cross. “We’d have to cut it down. Salt the ground. Cleanse your church. Either way, whatever it is, it’s coming with me.”
“They won’t let you,” I blurt, surprising myself.
A brief laugh escapes his lips. The hollow sound is the first emotion he has shown. I am convinced he doesn’t care if he is right or wrong, he just wants his prize.
“They always try, and always fail,” he says.
****
I lead the Inquisitor through the maze of crosses, altars, and piles of offerings to the palapa, its sides now curtained off with bright, striped blankets.
Ignacio Riv
era stands in front, a stern sentinel in contrast to young Marco excited by the crowds.
“Just because you’re from Italy doesn’t mean we gotta let you in,” the old brujo says.
“The Vatican is not part of Italy, and I am from Mexico City. If your claims are true, the plant is clearly the responsibility of the Pope. Today, I am his sole representative here,” the Inquisitor says.
“So what,” Ignacio says. “You’re still not going near it.”
I gently usher the Inquisitor away to defuse the situation, then hurry back to the old brujo.
“If the Lord chose to reveal himself to us, then cooperating is going to make it easier to bring his message to the world,” I say.
“This town doesn’t care about the will of your Pope,” he says. “They just want to plant their corn in peace. Like their families have always done, and they can barely do that anymore. Now the Green Man has come and he’s going to make it right, so I’m going to protect him.”
“I won’t let anything happen to it. Just let him look, for a minute. Marco brought the man to me. I put him in the ground. That has to count for something.”
“All right, Padre. I don’t trust your church, but you’ve always been good to my town.”
I wave the Inquisitor over, and Ignacio reluctantly lets us pass.
The stalk is several feet taller than yesterday. It brushes against the top of the palapa and bulges midway, as if pregnant with a giant cob.
The Inquisitor bends down and collects some of the moist, brown soil in a round plastic container. Ignacio grumbles under his breath. The Inquisitor moves his hand along the bulge, examining it as he might a woman with child. Then, he produces a syringe from the front pocket of his robe.
“No,” Ignacio yells, but Morgan jabs for the stalk—a viscous fluid dribbles from the tip of the needle.
Ignacio pushes him, causing the strike to miss. The Inquisitor quickly gains his footing and slams the brujo in the chest with his open palm. The movement is clean and graceful. Efficient and precise. Ignacio stumbles back and falls hard on his behind, rasping for air.
I feel the force of the strike against his chest reverberating in my own. I have seen the aftermath of violence in the corpses of the rebels buried here, but never so close.
“Stop this!” I yell. “At once! These are church grounds!”
What kind of a priest resorts to such violence? How is he capable?
Marco, followed by a horde of pilgrims, rushes inside to the fallen brujo. “Somebody help!” he calls over the commotion. “He can’t breathe!”
The Inquisitor pushes his way toward the plant but the sheer number of bodies keeps him away. He weaves among them stepping closer to the plant, his eyes like a wolf among sheep, deciding which ones to cut down. I fear for them.
Ignacio sits up with a roar, a seed bag in his hand. He throws the open pouch at the Inquisitor’s face. A cloud of seeds and dust hangs in the air around him. For a moment, the Inquisitor’s pristine face becomes twisted and ugly. He rasps for air then holds his neck, coughing violently.
Ignacio falls back down, the fire leaving his eyes. The Inquisitor drops the syringe. It breaks and the liquid bubbles on the ground with a hiss. The Inquisitor backs out of the palapa, against the current of people rushing in.
****
In my dream, lines of raised earth move from the stalk toward my church. Everything changes and I am in a modern farmhouse far away. The thick vines tunneling beneath burst from the ground, each tipped with a razor sharp thorn. They slither through the windows, push up the floorboards, creep into my room, and wrap slowly up the bed. They pause above me before forcing their way into my ears and down my throat. The tendrils converge in my heart. I wake, coughing and clutching my chest.
****
The town has come to my church again, this time to pay their last respects to the old brujo. Eduardo and some of the rebels have brought food and money for his weeping family.
I think of the white can of paint seeping into the ground, the syringe of some unknown, but certainly potent, poison meant for the stalk. Such bad things have come to this town, the rebels and the soldiers that pursue them, the bad corn, and now this. He was their protector and sadly was more of their spiritual leader than I have ever been. Why can’t these people have peace?
An old Mexican priest enters and totters over to the coffin in front of the altar. He leaves a bundle of flowers, drops some cash into the box, and regards me with a kind smile.
“Sorry for your loss,” he says. His hair is matted with sweat. Deep lines run in the leathery skin of his face. His moustache, full of yellowing hair, not quite gray, hangs beneath his nose like the whiskers of a manatee.
“Samuel Morgan, Inquisitor from Mexico City,” he says extending his hand. “I take it I’m expected.”
His eyes are clear and truthful. Why would he pretend?
“Yes,” I say. “It’s just that you’ve already arrived. Or a man claiming to be you.”
His face crumples into a frown, making his wrinkles look even deeper.
“I was afraid of that,” he says.
“Father Samuel,” a woman cries. “You’ve come to see the miracle.” Her recognition confirms my instincts. It is he, not the other, who is the real representative of the church.
“We need to talk, Padre. Privately,” Samuel says. “Where is this Imposter?”
“Eduardo spotted him at Senor Rolon’s abandoned farmhouse at the edge of town,” I tell him. “He killed this man, our local healer.”
“He is capable of far worse.”
“Is he going to hurt the plant?” Marco asks.
“The plant, yes. Let’s have a look. Straight away,” Samuel says.
Eduardo sits on a stool outside the palapa with a rifle on his lap. He looks at us grimly, but lets us pass. The stalk almost reaches the thatched roof. The bulge is almost wide enough to hold a man. Samuel runs his hand along it. He places his face to it, as if listening for something within. He steps back, and after squinting for a moment his sad, tired expression changes to elation.
“Oh, I see. Right there,” he says.
So quick? So certain? Perhaps it is only I who can not see. Does the Lord refuse to show himself to me, or do the others see hope where I see only texture and lines?
“What?” I ask.
“A miracle. For certain,” he whispers.
“What are you going to do?”
“If it is not the work of God, the Cardinal wishes it destroyed.”
“But you said it was a miracle…”
“And it is. But corn doesn’t grow like that. Just what do you think is in that pod?”
The Green Man. Marco brought him to me. I put him in the ground. He is the hope for this town.
I search the lines of the plant for the face. My mind’s eye only delivers the cherubic visage of the Imposter. Cold and stern. Like a statue chiseled by one who never truly knew what a priest should be.
“Who is he Father?” I ask.
“Who, I am not certain. But I have seen those like him before. He seeks to do harm. Who sent him is easier. Those up North did. Those who tampered with the work of God by making the bad corn.”
“What will you have me do?”
“This is your church. These people are your charge and they are in need. Stand with me. Stand against him.”
“But you said the Cardinal’s wishes are to…”
“The Cardinal may get his wish soon enough.”
I picture a gaping hole in the graveyard and barren desolate fields.
“Ask yourself what these people want and what they need. I will ask only that you be strong and certain, because our enemy will return with the darkness. What relics do you have here?”
“Only what you see,” I say. “My predecessor kept all sorts of things, idols, dolls, trinkets in the church. I destroyed them and keep my church free of it.”
He does not look pleased.
“Your predecessor kept these things
in his church for a good reason.”
“Are you telling me there is power in their icons? Meaning in their ways?”
“They would say so. In these ways are where their beliefs are. And there is power in belief.”
“And you, Father? What do you believe?”
“I believe today we must deal in power.”
Perhaps there was good reason after all for Ignacio’s pestering me to follow the ways of old, and to let the church be the jungle shrine he desired.
“I have nothing. The nearest church is Mechalu,” I say.
“Mechalu. Yes. The Saints,” Samuel says. “We can call upon the Saints. If we hurry we can return by nightfall. We must.”
“Do we dare leave the plant unattended?”
He leads me outside. Marco stands at attention next to Eduardo. “If he returns we will fight,” the boy says and Eduardo nods, grimly.
I don’t like to see him near the gun. Samuel looks at the rifle and frowns. “I pray that it will be enough. Our hope is that our enemy is still licking wounds inflicting from your dear, departed brujo. But, he will return. Ready your horse, and a mule, we must ride right away.”
****
Soldiers stop us outside of town and ask about the rebels. I tell them we are men of the cloth, but they look at our mule suspiciously. They warn that if we aid the rebels there will be a price to pay. An attack to rid the town of rebels is coming, they say.
We ride till we reach the bustling market crowding the square in front of Mechalu’s church. Vendors in close quarters wrap meats, pack fruit, fold blankets, and handmade shirts. People just like the townsfolk I know purchase candies, flour, handmade dolls and trinkets, to sell to the crowds back in Punta Cabre.
Samuel buys a caged chicken and a single egg from a farmer unloading his rickety wagon. We clop through the market and tie the horses and mule. The smell of fresh pine greets us as we open the heavy hardwood doors.
There are no pews. No chairs. No altar. The floor is covered in a thick coat of fresh pine needles. Along the walls, encased in glass in their own alcoves, are the Saints. Two feet high, each wears traditional clothes and a small, round mirror hanging around the neck. Those along the east wall glow with the late afternoon sunlight streaming in from windows high above.
