The Sisterhood

by Helen Bryan

  “Look!” cried Marisol. “The Torre del Oro!” We craned our necks to see the great watchtower that guarded the docks, an astonishing sight, dazzling gold in the afternoon sunshine. Marisol said it was called the “Tower of Gold” because a lady with golden hair had been imprisoned there by King Pedro the Cruel when she would not love him. Sor Emmanuela said nonsense—it was called the tower of gold because its yellow tiles reflected the light. Behind her back, Marisol made a face.

  Sor Emmanuela shooed us up the gangplank between the sailors so quickly that Marisol stumbled and nearly slipped into the river. She muttered an oath. Down below, where it was very hot, we saw the captain had curtained off a section of the dark hold for us, with five small bunks that someone had attempted to make comfortable with cushions. The bunks were only a plank in width and the cushions left no room for our persons. Sanchia scrambled onto the highest one and giggled as she tumbled off. Soon we were all laughing, even Sor Emmanuela, pondering the best way to step over and around each other in such a small quarters and lamenting the lack of space for a chamber pot.

  Then the porters brought our trunks and bundles. It appeared impossible that space could be found anywhere for our small trunks. But finally they were wedged in and we piled our bundles containing a change of linen for the voyage and our prayer books on top. Sor Emmanuela hung a crucifix on a nail protruding from the wall. On deck above our heads we heard the sailors shouting, then footsteps, and a great thump that Sor Emmanuela said was the gangplank. We could feel the ship begin moving down the river. We were away! And very hot, though a little fresh air comes from the open hatch. Marisol was longing to go up on deck, but Sor Emmanuela forbids it. Marisol is sulking.

  We have said our evening prayers together, eaten some hard bread and dried meat, and shifted about to find enough space to lie down. But excitement keeps us all awake. That and the suffocating heat.

  In the hot, light evenings at sea, I took the Chronicle from its wrapping of oiled wool and read the Latin Gospel. Now I have a new burden of dangerous knowledge that, considered logically, undoes any justification for Christian persecution of Jews and Muslims, and testifies to what we believe in common. And I cannot unknow it. It burns in my brain like the fire the Inquisition would throw me into, the fire I watched consume those poor people long ago.

  The ship has begun to move continually with the swell of the sea, and Sor Emmanuela and Pia are violently ill. The hold smells of vomit, and water has leaked into the corners to make it damp as well as smelly. Sor Emmanuela was too sick to forbid Marisol to go on deck, and Sanchia and I followed her, desperate for fresh air. The salt breeze revived us and the endless sea is a marvelous sight, a world made of water. Stretching to the sky! It seems impossible that land lies beyond it.

  At first the sailors eyed us warily, but grew friendlier as the days passed. They promised it would be an easy passage, and described the place we were bound. They said it was crossed by all the peoples of the world; Levantine and Genoese merchants, turbaned men with skins black as night, silk-clad Chinese, and grandees in cloaks worked with gold. In the markets we would find strange fruit, silks, spices, and fish with rainbow scales. We would know the grandees’ ladies because they went veiled in black, attended by unveiled mestiza servants in bright clothes.

  The sea air agreed with Marisol. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were pink, and she unbraided her hair to let it blow in the wind. The sailors vied with each other to make her laugh. After a few days Sor Emmanuela came to sit on deck, too, to let the sun ease a bad cough and a chill caught from lying in the damp hold. Pia sat silently by her side, ignoring the sailors who gazed stupefied at her moonlight hair.

  The floor of our quarters grew wetter and the bottoms of our trunks were soaked, but on deck the air was delightful, and the warm wind filled the sails. We spent as little time below as possible, saying our prayers and eating our meals on deck. Our hard bread, baked from salted flour, was dipped in a little olive oil to soften it, and we had olives and dried figs and sour wine from the barrels on board. The seagulls swooped and cried overhead and the world was an endless vista of water and light. How I wished my father could have seen it.

  We were enjoying our meal on deck as usual one day, watching the horizon rise and fall, trying to imagine what sort of husbands we would find, when Sanchia cried, “Look.” She pointed to the sky where little puffy clouds on the horizon were spreading across the sky with great speed. At first a thin haze dimmed the sun, and then became a dark canopy of cloud. The wind suddenly blew harder and colder. The sails snapped over our heads and the sea turned from blue green to black and the waves grew rougher. We watched this transformation anxiously, as did the sailors. The captain snapped orders that the men moved very quickly to obey. A sailor shoved us unceremoniously through the open hatch and down the ladder back into the hold as more orders were shouted and other sailors rushed about pulling in the sails and tightening ropes.

  We could never have imagined anything so terrible as the storm that struck like a blow from the hand of the Almighty. Soon our ship was rocking, then heaving and plunging up and down through great waves and a half light through which nothing could be seen. A cold wave washed over the deck and poured down into our hold. The sailors cried out that we must not be afraid, and slammed the hatch shut.

  The storm seemed to grow worse and worse. We were frightened and in the hours and days that followed, lost track of time as we clung together in the dark, bruised, dizzy, and sick with the pitching of the ship, unable to keep down dry biscuits or the brackish water, praying continually, sleeping fitfully to wake again to fear and cold…

  Water sloshed ankle-deep around us. Our habits were soaked through and Sor Emmanuela could not stop coughing and complained of pain in her chest. A day or two later she was feverish. We took it in turns to sit by her side as we tossed, bracing ourselves upright to support her and sponging her hot face as best we could. Marisol managed to unpack some medicine, but it did Sor Emmanuela no good and she began gasping, saying she could not breathe. She grew worse, unable to talk, until finally, with great racking breaths, poor Sor Emmanuela died. On our knees, shivering and clutching each other for support in the rolling and shuddering hold, we commended her soul to God. We folded her rosary around her stiffening fingers and, having no winding sheet, wrapped her body in her beata’s cloak. I managed to retrieve the Abbess’s medal and for safety put it around my own neck.

  Marisol crawled to the curtain that separates our quarters from the rest of the ship and called that it had pleased God to take Sor Emmanuela. Two sailors, whose turn it was to snatch a few moments of rest, struggled from their hammocks and, bracing themselves against the motion of the ship, swung the body up between them and staggered out. We knew Sor Emmanuela would be dropped into the sea. “We shall soon follow!” exclaimed Marisol through chattering teeth.

  We all strained to hear the splash the body made when it went overboard. Just when we thought it must have done so, the wind howled ferociously and a great wave struck the ship so hard that it went onto its side, slamming us against the wall. Then we felt it carried up and up to a terrifying height and, as we clutched each other, plunged sickeningly down with such force it threw us apart and must surely have broken the ship in pieces. Sanchia screamed for her mother. I saw my father’s face, and Pia and Marisol had buried their faces in each other’s shoulders. Above the wind there was shouting on the deck above and a great crack and screams. There was a cry of “man overboard.” We said a prayer for him and for ourselves, and Sanchia began reciting in Hebrew the same phrase over and over again. We looked at each other and whispered “farewell,” as death approached in every groan, in every creak of the ship’s straining, weakening timbers.

  “They say drowning is quick,” whispered Pia. Marisol whimpered.

  Then there was another presence in the room.

  “Can you see her?” gasped Sanchia and pointed.

  Pia opened her eyes with an effort. “Yes!”

&nbs
p; Marisol stared, past speech for once.

  I thought it an apparition of the sea, like the half-woman half-fish creatures that lure sailors to their death on the rocks. But it was a lady in a cloak, just as the Chronicle described her, and I knew—as the others did not—who it was. The Foundress had come to succor us in the hour of our deaths, to speak words of comfort as I joined my father and mother in paradise.

  I was mistaken. The Foundress spoke sharply, saying that in our present condition we would make poor sport for the fish, and that we would not drown. The storm had nearly blown itself out; we must trust in God and all would be well. Then she bent over me and said that the medal I had saved was a precious thing, a gift from her brother long ago. I tried to answer that I knew, but she held a finger to my lips and told me firmly to have courage, and someday the medal and the Chronicle would have a role to play in bringing peace in a time of trouble when Christians, Jews, and Muslims were at war with one another again. Then she was gone.

  “They say that drowning people see strange sights in the moment before they die,” said Pia faintly. This was not the time for explanations about what we had seen. Instead I said with as much force as I could muster, “She said we will not drown yet. Have courage, we must only have courage.”

  That evening, the storm abated and we could feel the sea grow calmer. The winds subsided, and the captain shouted through our curtain, “The sky is clearing and the lookout has spotted a flock of birds in the distance. That means land ahead. Land! God is great!”

  “Deo gratias,” we answered him automatically, and fell into an exhausted sleep in each other’s arms.

  Stumbling onto the deck next morning, we saw a thin line on the horizon, and as we drew closer we saw the outline of masts against the sky, then finally the port itself. Around us the sailors hurried about their tasks, laughing and slapping each other on the backs, talking of rum and women. Natives rowed out to us in long narrow boats, bringing strange yellow fruits that tasted sweet as honey, and fresh water that was sweeter still. We looked at each other, pale and thin, blinking in the daylight like underground creatures. “We must look like sea witches,” said Marisol, tugging futilely at her soiled and crumpled gown. “These were hideous enough when clean. We’ll never find husbands like this!”

  My relief that we were not dead at the bottom of the sea became anxiety about more practical matters. What we would do once ashore? I climbed down to our cabin and calculated our resources. In Sor Emmanuela’s trunk were our dowries, four pouches of reales. There was also a purse of coins for our expenses. I was counting them when the others called me to come; the gangplank was nearly down. I cannot write again until we are a little settled. Somewhere.

  CHAPTER 21

  Of the Matter of the Holy Sisters of Jesus and of the Matter of an Examination of the Convent of Las Golondrinas for the Discovery of Heresy and Enemies of the True Faith among Them

  Under the Seal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition

  This is the record of an investigation of the convent of the order of nuns known as Las Sors Santas de Jesus, undertaken in the summer of 1552 Anno Domini, upon evidence presented by Count Jaime Defendor del Santo Sepulchre, who alleged that the convent in question shielded secret Jews and Muslims, and claimed the nuns were given over to heretical ideas, vice, and all manner of works inimical to the Faith.

  The evidence in support of his allegations were a few remnants, scraps of parchment badly damaged and full of holes. Our investigators traced them to the possession of a certain serving maid at the convent. Interrogated by the Inquisition during their investigation in 1552, the girl admitted she had sold them to the count’s servant. All the torturers could discover was that the women in the maid’s family had served the convent for many years, that her grandmother had taken the scraps after cleaning the scriptorium after a plague of rats. Neither the girl nor any of her family could read, but the girl insisted the scraps came from the “book” of the convent. Learning that an unknown party would pay for information about the convent, she sold the fragments. The girl died under questioning before more could be learned, if indeed there was anything more to be learned. The fragment makes little sense, talking of visions and missions, a miraculous medal and swallows. Though the scriptorium, the nuns, and the convent were rigorously searched and examined, we found no other evidence nor any such medal as supposedly exists. Though interrogated in the manner prescribed by Fr. Ramon Jimenez to elicit correct information and expose heresy, we concluded that the Abbess and the scribe did not deviate from their most holy oath and duty to answer our questions truthfully.

  There are special circumstances at work here that incline us to conclude the worthy count has been misled by the forces of darkness to cast suspicion and calumny upon a pious order of nuns. He is an elderly man. The Order of Las Sors Santas de Jesus found great favor with her late Catholic Majesty Queen Isabella for maintaining the convent as a beacon of Christian faith during the time of the Moors. It is common knowledge that Her Catholic Majesty made a pilgrimage to the convent in 1493 and the convent has been under the protection and patronage of the female members of the royal family ever since.

  Her Majesty, our present queen, has been moved by the gift of an altar cloth worked by an orphan in the convent in token of gratitude to their royal patron. Her Majesty urges that the gift pleads most eloquently for the purity of the faith there, reminding us of the venerable nature of the order, its valiant adherence to Christianity despite seven hundred years of Moorish rule. Erroneous suspicions weaken the authority of the church. Her Majesty emphasized the girls in the convent orphanage are a delicate matter because of the circumstances of their birth, yet tainted with the stain of illegitimacy, they enter upon a holy life. On the strength of this good work and yielding to the persuasion of those who beg us to consider the spiritual welfare of the girls, considering the merit and faith of the nuns who guide young women onto the paths of righteousness away from the eyes of the world and with due respect for those who would keep all matters relating to Las Golondrinas private, we judge that no further examination of Las Golondrinas convent is necessary.

  Therefore we conclude that suggestions the Abbess experienced a “vision” may be ascribed to the weak and fanciful mind of our informant, who like all women are prone to folly at certain times of the month, being weak and inferior in mind as in all other things. There are other inaccuracies. There is no evidence a mission convent was established in Gran Canaria and, indeed, it is pure fantasy to imagine that a sequestered order of nuns in the mountains of Andalusia could undertake such a thing without our knowing of it.

  We find that the document we were given is a forgery and a vile slander devised by Jews to cast suspicion on Christian nuns. Their evil design against these holy women has been thwarted. We could find nothing of substance inimical to the Faith and were persuaded there was no need to examine the orphanage children.

  Although we do not discount the existence of an ancient heresy, we find no evidence of it in these papers or at Las Golondrinas. However, as our orders are to collect anything thought to be connected to the heresy, however insignificant, this fragment will now be delivered to the Papal archive for safekeeping.

  CHAPTER 22

  From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the New World, October 1552

  My heart is so heavy with grief that, were it not for my promise to the Abbess and Sor Beatriz, I would abandon the Chronicle. It feels a lifetime has passed since we arrived in this strange place, although it has been less than a month since tragedy struck. Were it not for my promise to keep a record, I would write no more.

  As the ship glided into the port, the air was heavy and damp, with sort of a gray mist over everything. The quay was teeming. Native men with broad dark faces were busy loading and unloading ships, jostled by slaves and porters, food vendors and merchants, Chinamen and black women in turbans, all shouting at the tops of their voices. There were native women with flat faces and
babies on their backs, water sellers with buckets on yokes, flower vendors, carriages and sedan chairs bearing ladies in muslin gowns that fluttered in the breeze, followed by servants trotting to keep up. Caged parrots and monkeys squawked, mules and horses struggled to make their way through the throng, and over it all hung a powerful smell of fish. Donkeys brayed, sailors shouted in a myriad of languages, native porters called for customers, and in the town church bells rang every minute.

  Marisol was smiling. How painful to remember that!

  As the gangplank was lowered the captain made his way through the sailors to us, beaming with relief the voyage was over, and I am sure, grayer in his beard than when we had left Seville. “Now young ladies, if you please, welcome to Spanish America!” With a flourish, as if he were master of the land ahead of us, he bowed and indicated we were to go ahead of him down the gangplank.

  We hesitated. Then Marisol tossed her head and said, “Come, then!” and led the way. We followed her. But how full of men the world is! And what an attraction four girls make among them! Men eyed us boldly, and as it was far too hot and sticky to wear our veils, we felt uncomfortably exposed. “Surely these ruffians cannot be the husbands we have come for?” Marisol muttered, as swarthy young men flashed her a smile or a wink or bowed. How Marisol contrives to look so pretty after our ordeal I do not know. One impudent fellow even kissed his fingertips in her direction and called something we did not understand, but must surely have been impertinent. Pia followed close in her footsteps, eyes down. Fortunately Pia had taken the precaution of covering her hair or there might have been a riot.