“You dreamed all this?”
“Yes.”
“And your dreams always come true?”
The Indian nodded a second time.
“And to what do you attribute this cowering before the arrival of new missionaries? You should be happy that—”
“Our life has already changed more than enough since you arrived. You understand that, do you not? We have seen how you punish anyone accused of being a witch or who believes in the old gods. You have burned the masks of our kachinas. Others among your brothers have even tortured women and grandfathers in Santa Fe and the lands to the south. All in the name of your new religion.”
A flash of anger flickered in Pentiwa’s eyes and the friar was moved by it.
“I can hear the hatred in your words. And I truly regret it. But I have never treated you in that manner.”
“And for that I am grateful. That is why I want you to know that when these men arrive, our people will not open their mouths. They will not be exposed to the danger that awaits those who do not believe in the white god.”
“If they arrive . . . ,” Salas added pensively.
“They will, Friar. And soon.”
TWENTY-SIX
VENICE BEACH
Jennifer fell asleep that evening with a picture of her great-grandmother in her arms. Ankti had written the year in the corner: 1920. It was an intriguing picture: Ankti, sunny and still a teenager, with dark eyes that seemed as if they were intent on leaping out of the picture, stood with her arms extended toward the photographer. She was wearing a pretty flower-print dress, her hair gathered into two long braids.
It was difficult to say where it had been taken. It looked like an Indian mission, perhaps in New Mexico. The white adobe building in the background seemed vaguely familiar. Nevertheless, something on the inside of her left forearm had caught Jennifer’s attention. Judging from appearances, it was a hematoma or bruise, except that it had the shape of a rose. It looked exactly the same as the birthmark that Jennifer had on her own arm.
“You have it, too,” she heard her grandmother’s voice say, a brief flash in her memory. “You are one of us.”
Shortly after midnight, with the vague intention of searching for answers to all that was on her mind, Jennifer stopped fighting the urge to fall asleep a second time. She flopped down on the big sofa on the back porch of her house, and there, caressed by the warm breeze wafting in from the beach, she let herself drift off to sleep. She wanted to travel to the land of her ancestors.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SAN ANTONIO MISSION
Never had the realization of an omen seemed to Friar Salas as threatening as this one. Not long after Pentiwa had left the sacristy, a group of young children burst into the room. Excited, they surrounded the friar and dragged him outside by his robes.
“We have visitors, we have visitors!” they shouted, dancing with joy.
The friar patted a few of the children on the head while trying to keep his balance. A good number of them were his students. He had taught them to read Spanish, and watched with satisfaction as they slowly crossed the frontiers of their new faith.
“A visitor? Who has come to visit us?” He was intrigued.
“There are many of them! And they are asking for you!” the oldest in the group responded.
Before he could formulate another question, Friar Salas was dragged out of the mission doorway. The strong contrast in light disoriented him. When his eyes at last adapted to the midday sun, he was frozen in his tracks. Lined up in front of the door to his church was a group of eleven Franciscan friars, their hair and beards whitened with desert sand. They stood in place, not saying a word, as if they had just arrived from the other side of the grave.
“Friar Salas?”
He did not reply. His voice, cracked with age, refused to emerge.
“My name is Friar Esteban de Perea.” So said the man who stood at the head of the group. “I am the future custodian general of these lands and, it follows, successor to Friar Alonso de Benavides. I want to ask . . .” Here he hesitated for a moment. “I ask you to lodge us in this, your house of God.”
Friar Juan, still in mute astonishment, looked him over from head to foot.
“Is anything wrong, Friar?”
“No, it’s nothing,” Salas said at last. “Only that I never expected to see so many friars at one time. It has been years since anyone visited me . . .”
“We realize that.” The Inquisitor smiled.
Shaking his head with incredulity, Friar Salas was at last able to get a word out.
“But what are Your Reverences doing here?”
“Three months ago I arrived at Sante Fe accompanied by twenty-nine Franciscan friars,” Friar Esteban confirmed with some pride. “King Philip the Fourth sent us personally. He is impressed by your good work and wants to continue the conversion of the indigenous people of New Mexico.”
His host watched the speaker closely.
“And why did no one tell me of your visit ahead of time?”
“Because it is not a question of a pastoral visit, Father. I have yet to assume my duties, and will not do so for some time.”
“Very well.” Salas was relieved. “Your Reverence and the friars who accompany you may stay in this mission as long as you wish. I can offer you few comforts, but your presence will be a source of happiness for the Christians in this village.”
“Are there many of you?”
“Many indeed. So many that I believe His Majesty will be wasting time and money if he desires to convert more Indians to the Christian faith. All are devoted to Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.” Friar Salas nodded, still uncertain as to the purpose of their visit. “But come in and refresh yourselves after such a long trip.”
Esteban de Perea and his friars followed behind Friar Salas, passing first into the enormous church that the Indians had constructed years before and then entering a small passageway next to the main altar. Friar Juan de Salas pointed out small rooms that had been used for grain storage during times of war, because the building was, in addition to a house of God, a functioning fortress. Its windowless walls were three meters thick, and its nave could shelter as many as five hundred people. As they were proceeding across a small patio that led to the church’s five private rooms, de Salas warned the friars to watch their steps, for beneath the spaced wooden boards underfoot was the village’s one source of potable water.
“The Indians prefer to take water directly from the river, but when they are restricted to the church, they can draw water from below, which enables them to resist an attack or siege.”
The second mention of the mission’s defensive character induced the friars to take an interest in the stability of the region.
“Do they attack here often, Father?” one of the friars in line asked him.
“You have no need to worry about that!” The old friar brusquely dismissed the subject, lifting his arms up toward heaven. “Can you not see what goodness the Lord has lavished upon me, here, all by myself?”
The friars smiled.
“It has been many years since the Apaches attacked us. Droughts have forced them to seek game and silos of grain farther west.”
“But they could return at any moment, couldn’t they?” interjected Friar Esteban, who was paying close attention to the structure of the fortress.
“Of course. Which is why the village maintains the church in a perfect state. It is our assurance against such hazards.”
Friar Salas pointed them toward the area where they could shake off the dust from their travels, and set a time for all to meet up later, when they would celebrate the evening prayers. He ceased his explanations, bowed, and left the church.
Salas needed time to reflect. How had Pentiwa done it? How could he have seen events beforehand? Had someone alerted him to Father Perea’s arrival? And would his fear, which he had communicated to the priest, that the new arrivals inte
nded to extract the secret of the unaccountable Daughter of the Sun’s visits, be borne out?
Friar Juan meandered beneath the shady boughs of the junipers for a long while. There, on the riverbank, it was his habit to rest during the stifling afternoons. He sometimes brought the New Testament with him to read, and at other times he finished writing his letters or his pastoral reports while taking in the fresh air. But this afternoon was different.
“Friar Juan! Are you here?”
The old man, deep in thought, ignored the Inquisitor, who was strolling around the mission grounds shouting his name.
“I like to come here to speak to God, Father Esteban. A tranquil place, a good place to resolve problems.” Friar Juan’s voice sounded beleaguered.
“Problems? Has our arrival proved inconvenient for you?”
“No, not at all. Please, it has been nothing of the sort. Would you like to take a walk?”
Esteban de Perea accepted. And the two men, passing beneath the shade fed by the waters of the Rio Grande, observed each other slyly as each one contemplated how best to open the discussion.
“I am only fulfilling the instructions of our Archbishop, Friar. Every day I ask Our Lady to let me discharge my responsibilities before winter comes.”
“So tell me,” the old friar went on in his sibylline voice, “are you staying at this mission for any special reason?”
The Inquisitor hesitated.
“You might say so, yes.”
“Is that so?”
“I had no plans to talk to you about it, but given that you are the only Christian of long standing who can help me here, I have no other choice. Archbishop Manso y Zúñiga charged me in Mexico with a task that I cannot begin to explain . . .”
“I will hear you out.”
Esteban de Perea assumed a confident air. As they walked along the banks of the river, he explained to Salas that, as regards the subject at hand, even the friars who traveled with him had been left largely in the dark.
“Before leaving,” he went on, “the Archbishop informed me about certain rumors making the rounds, rumors concerning the multitudes of Indians in this region who have converted to the faith. He explained to me that behind these outbursts of faith there seem to be hidden supernatural forces. Powers that have convinced the natives to let us guard their souls. Is that true?”
“And you, Friar, why are you interested in what are mere tales?”
“As you well know, in the Holy Office we closely watch any references to the supernatural. In Mexico City alone, His Excellency has had to take extreme precautions after the flood tide of Indians who were certain the Virgin of Guadalupe had appeared to them again.”
“And do you believe them?”
“I neither accept nor reject what they say, Friar.”
“Do you think that the same thing has happened here?”
“I cannot be sure. Although you will understand that this type of affirmation, on the lips of recent converts, is open to suspicion. My obligation is to investigate them.”
Friar Juan de Salas paused before responding.
“Life in the desert is hard and leaves little room for fantasies. I cannot tell you that I have seen any phenomenon of a supernatural nature, because I would be lying, but you must understand that I may be the last one among all the people living in Isleta to witness them.”
“What do you mean, Friar?”
“Just that, thanks to God, I already enjoy the gift of faith. But to the Indians this is something new. And so, if they saw or heard anything that moved them to ask to be baptized, blessed be the Holy of Holies! I limit myself to harvesting their souls, not to uncovering the reasons for their conversion. Do you understand me?”
The veteran friar paused for a moment to point out something to his guest. From the riverbank where they stood they enjoyed a fine view of the mission. A hundred or so adobe houses were spread out before them. Each one was crowned with small wooden crosses in imitation of the two iron crucifixes atop the towers of the church. To Friar Salas’s way of thinking, their presence was proof of just how Christian the people felt.
“All of that is very well, Friar Juan,” the Inquisitor said quietly. “But my objective is to determine the causes of such large-scale conversions. Please understand that this question has made a profound impression in Mexico City.”
“Naturally.”
Pentiwa was right, and his judgment sent a discomforting chill up Friar Salas’s spine. Should he mention what the medicine man had called the “Blue Flash of Lightning”? Then he thought better of it. Why should he, if, when the time came, none of the Indians would corroborate his story? No. It was more prudent to stay quiet.
“Very well,” Friar Esteban said forcefully. “Tell me about the rates of conversion in this area. Are they are high as people say?”
“I couldn’t state them precisely. I have not had sufficient time to bring the baptism books up-to-date. Approximately eight thousand souls converted in 1608, and since then, almost eighty thousand baptized.” Friar Salas moderated his tone. “Consider that in the last year the Archbishop of Mexico himself agreed to administer our region as part of the territories in the Protectorate of the Conversion of Saint Paul, so that we can better attend to the great number of new Christians.”
Esteban de Perea was familiar with the fact. He had heard about it due to the widespread and growing belief that the Rio Grande conversions, like that of Saint Paul himself, had been produced through some miraculous intervention.
“Indeed.” The Inquisitor nodded. “But the results you have achieved here, do they not strike you as exaggerated, given there was so little Christian labor involved?”
His cynical comment sounded almost mocking.
“Exaggerated? In no way, Friar Esteban! Something marvelous, something divine, is taking place here, even if I am ignorant of its causes. Who is conversant with God’s design? Ever since we built the mission and the news of our arrival spread, I have hardly had to expend any effort to spread the Gospel to these people; it was they who came to me, begging to learn the catechism. Look around you at the result!”
“So tell me, Friar Salas, to what do you attribute the Indian’s interest in our faith, while only a few hundred leagues to the west, other natives have threatened and even killed our brothers?”
If Esteban de Perea was trying to provoke him, he succeeded. The old man’s face grew red, and he took two deep breaths before answering.
“At first I thought the Indians came to the settlement in search of security. Right here, in the time before our arrival, sedentary tribes like the Tiwas and the Tompiros were decimated by the Apaches, which is why I believed, erroneously as it turned out, that if I let them live close to the church, they would feel safe. From time to time the passing caravans would leave us two or three soldiers with weapons to protect us.”
“Erroneously, you say?”
“Yes, it was a lamentable error. I was so busy instructing the first avalanche of Indians, I had no time to pay attention to their stories. They spoke of voices resounding in the canyons and lights on the banks of the rivers that ordered them to abandon their villages. Of miracles, Friar.”
“Voices? No more than that?” Friar Esteban tried to camouflage his interest.
“I told you before that I considered their stories of little importance.”
“And do you think that I could interrogate anyone who has heard these voices? It would help relieve us of our doubts.”
The old friar once again thought of what Pentiwa had told him.
“No, Friar. I don’t believe so.”
Friar Esteban was surprised by his answer.
“The Indians maintain great discretion when speaking about their beliefs. They fear we will pull them out by the roots, all in the name of Jesus Christ. At this juncture,” Friar Juan concluded, “you may perhaps get the information out of them if you apply a small measure of your strategy. Proceed slowly. In these parts, they have never even heard of the In
quisition.”
“I will do so, praise God.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
MADRID
By Monday, April 15, 1991, Carlos had practically recovered from his trek through the Cameros Mountains and Ágreda. Leaving the monastery behind, he had returned to Madrid at full speed. There had been too many emotions and too many coincidences during the past twenty-four hours. He had hurriedly dropped off Txema in front of his house in Carabanchel and then made a beeline for his “soldier’s barracks” near the Escorial, where he slept like a dormouse until well into the next morning.
Leaving Ágreda, he had been possessed by a strange and persistent feeling. Perhaps it was the complex image of Sister María Jesús that had so affected him. Before saying good-bye to Sister Ana María and Sister María Margarita, he had received a final, unexpected revelation. In the church, situated next to the main altar and only a few short steps from where their conversation had taken place, he discovered inside a glass case the uncorrupted body of the “voyaging nun.” She had lain there for three centuries, her face covered by a thin film of wax and her mummified hands hidden beneath the sleeves of her habit. She still wore the blue cloak that had made her famous. Carlos was stunned. He never expected to find himself face-to-face with a witness to the seventeenth century. But there she was, right before him.
This was too much for him; he needed to put his ideas in order.
One maddening thought continued to nag at him: the certainty that Txema had been right when he used the word “destiny.” What else had guided him through the hills from Cameros to Ágreda? What else had carried him to the entrance of the convent María Jesús de Ágreda had founded more than three hundred years before? Wasn’t this all the result of a careful plan, made by the “Programmer”?
For the first time in his life, Carlos was on uncertain ground. He was seated with a friend at the bar at Paparazzi’s, his favorite restaurant, which was decorated with old photos of Rome’s dolce vita and located near the Real Madrid stadium.
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