Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more

by David V. Barrett

  The Sky Weeps, the Earth Quakes

  Jaine Fenn

  1 August 1541

  Such irony: whilst most natives are simple rustics, and embrace the True Faith with childlike ease, it is those who once held high rank who show the greatest reluctance to accept the Word of God. The mission is increasingly forced to resort to the techniques of the Inquisition to save them, much to my unease.

  Even so, some still resist. Their fortitude might be admirable were it not so misguided. Perhaps it stems from the assumption of power; if they believe their faith to be right, they can continue to believe themselves wronged. But their world is ours now, and their resistance only causes unnecessary pain – and in the end, Damnation.

  *

  Luisa reaches out to the tiny bird. So intent is the jewelled creature on the scarlet bell-flower it sips from, it gives no sign of knowing she is there. She thinks to touch it. Then, as though called by a voice she cannot hear, it darts away, silent and smooth.

  Is that how angels fly? She wonders, hand still outstretched. Do the heathens of New Castile have such beings as angels in their twisted faith? Her brother might know. But she has no intention of asking him.

  *

  3 August 1541

  We have a new arrival.

  He was brought to the garrison five days after my brethren left to take the message of salvation farther up the valley. The soldiers accompanying the prisoner were impatient to release their burden to me and be gone themselves, in their case to further plunder and pillage.

  The man showed signs of harsh treatment: old bruises and brands and a dislocated shoulder – no doubt a result of an encounter with the strappado. He was perhaps two decades older than me and had, I think, already been thin before his current privations were visited upon him. Yet his gaze was not downcast. He regarded me only for a moment, as the letter authorising his transfer was handed over, then turned his eyes to the shining terraces that skirt the peaks around us.

  When I looked for one of our interpreters the captain said, ‘He speaks passable Spanish, Brother.’ Then he added, ‘He is quite the talker, when you get him going. Full of wisdom.’ He spat to show what he thought of the natives’ wisdom. ‘My men dubbed him Solomon.’

  ‘Why has he been brought back down the valley to me?’ I asked. The prisoner’s gaze was still raised, as though his rags and wounds and shackles meant nothing to him. It recalled the arrogant stance of my father.

  The soldier nodded to the letter in my hand, sealed, I now saw, with the crest of Father de la Cruz himself. ‘These are your orders.’ Then he appeared to remember himself. ‘I am sorry, Brother, I meant these are the instructions from your fellow missionaries.’

  I had the guards take the prisoner to a cell; we have several empty ones now. With the comparison to my earthly father and the guard captain’s comments fresh in my mind, I chose one of the more odious of our windowless holes.

  The letter stated my charge was a noble, named Apac Kunya in the heathen tongue, and that he knew of riches hidden to all but the highest and most privileged of his people. Attempts had been made to gain knowledge from him by ‘all the usual methods’ to no avail.

  I heard the voice of my superior in the next phrase. ‘He is happy enough to talk, but insists on picking the subject. It seemed appropriate to send him to one who prizes all knowledge indiscriminately.’ The letter concluded, ‘This man is of value: we give him to your care in the hope that your softer methods may succeed where firmer ones have failed. By the time we return to the garrison on our way back to Cuzco we hope that you will have gained the knowledge we require. Brother Ruiz, as you appear immune to the subtleties of politics and diplomacy, let me make the situation clear: this is your last chance to redeem yourself.’

  *

  ‘Is it true?’

  The garrison commander does not look up when Luisa walks in. His shoulders twitch, then he puts down his quill slowly. Finally he meets her eyes. ‘Is what true, señorita?’ Captain Rodriguez does not much like her, but she does not much care, provided he shows her the respect due her gender and status. It was not as though she asked to come to this godforsaken place.

  She steps closer to his desk. ‘The rumours brought by those soldiers. About Senora de Salazar.’

  ‘Those soldiers being the men escorting the prisoner?’

  ‘Of course.’ As though they have had any other visitors this week. ‘I heard one of them telling Corporal Moreno that Commissar de Salazar’s wife died in childbirth.’

  The commander purses his lips. ‘It is possible. I understand the poor lady has not been blessed with good fortune in such matters.’

  Luisa schools her expression. She is sure the commander knows the truth, even if he would never say it to her face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘She has not. So I take it you have had no official word regarding this unfortunate possibility?’

  ‘I have not. And to be honest, Señorita Ruiz, news of such nature is unlikely to cross my desk.’

  She smiles, though it is an effort. ‘If it does, I would appreciate it if you let me know. We receive so little news of interest here.’

  ‘Such is the nature of living in recently conquered lands.’ The commander’s words are brusque, but his tone soft. ‘I will endeavour to keep you informed, should I hear more.’

  *

  3 August 1541 cont’d

  When Father de la Cruz oversaw interrogations, he insisted on having a guard present, even with prisoners barely capable of lifting their heads. Now that I alone enforce the will of God in the garrison, perhaps I should continue the tradition. Yet this new native was sent to me for my ‘softer methods’, so I chose to exclude the corporal from the cell, although he insisted on waiting outside in case the prisoner, shackled and quiescent though he was, tried to make trouble. In truth, I hold out little hope that I may succeed where others failed; yet the final words of my superior’s letter hang over me.

  Away from the burning sun, in the rush-lit gloom, the prisoner finally looked up at me from his place on the floor. I found his gaze unnerving, and began to speak before I had fully gathered my thoughts. ‘Are you Inca?’

  He did not answer at once, so I opened my mouth to repeat my question, in case he had not understood.

  ‘Not a ruler, no. My role was amautas.’ His voice was hoarse, his pronunciation erratic.

  I asked him to repeat that last word.

  ‘Amautas.’ He spoke slowly. ‘In your tongue, is no match. Perhaps nearest is seeker of knowledge. Like you.’

  ‘I am a priest, a servant of the One True God.’

  He nodded, then winced as the motion set off some injury. ‘And a seeker of knowledge. It is good to meet you, at the last.’

  ‘You have heard of me?’ This was not possible; no doubt his incomplete knowledge of our language had let him down.

  ‘I knew I was to meet you.’

  ‘I doubt that. But if it is true, then you know why you were sent here.’

  ‘To tell you secrets I would not tell by torture.’ His odd tone unnerved me; for a moment I thought I heard mockery in it.

  ‘Quite so. Reason may persuade men where force fails, if they have the wit and intellect to appreciate it.’

  ‘This is . . . flattery, yes?’

  He was mocking me! I wished I had a guard after all, to strike him for his insolence. ‘Not flattery, heathen: logic. Do you know the word?’

  ‘I have heard it.’

  ‘Then you also know that you are doomed, as things stand.’

  ‘Such is true.’ The thought did not appear to concern him.

  ‘Yet you may save yourself, if you cooperate.’

  ‘As my Emperor did, then?’

  I cursed myself for giving him that opening. Here, my private journal, I may confess that the elder Pizarro’s treachery against the last free Inca ruler still disturbs me. But I could not admit that before this man. ‘I am not here to discuss the past. Nor am I a soldier, who sees force as the only way.’


  ‘Yet you serve the soldiers’ cause, to take from us the tears of the Sun.’

  ‘What I serve is a higher power, the highest power in the universe!’ I was angry, yet shamed too. This was not the way things should go. ‘We will continue our discussion later.’

  With that I left, taking the light with me.

  *

  ‘So Father de la Cruz believes you will succeed where he failed?’

  Luisa does not mean to sound disparaging, but Gabriel was never the most favoured member of the mission. And now he is stuck here, away from the action, sent down the valley from the frontier as she was sent up from Cuzco. Perhaps he is being punished too.

  Her brother speaks tightly, looking up at the ridge of the Cordilleras, black and featureless now the sun has dipped behind them. ‘Yes. Sometimes the head and heart may triumph over baser instincts.’

  Luisa can’t help herself: she snorts. But maybe it is time to speak of matters left unsaid too long, alone in the pure, fragrant evening. If God prompted them both to come out to the courtyard as evening fell – their first time alone outside the confessional in the two weeks since she arrived – then she should use the chance to mend things between them.

  As she opens her mouth, a wisp of smoke drifts up from the ridge to the north. It thickens quickly, tarnishing the gold and turquoise sky. Luisa shivers, knowing what the smoke signifies.

  Out of the corner of her eye she sees Gabriel’s head turn. ‘Luisa . . .’ he begins, and she hears sympathy in his tone when, suddenly, she wants condemnation, something to fight.

  ‘It’s getting cold.’ She turns to go, cutting across his words.

  ‘Luisa, you should not be here.’ His gentleness burns her.

  As she hurries away one hand goes to her belly. ‘No,’ she mutters, ‘I should not.’

  *

  4 August 1541

  I should have heeded the warnings about this prisoner, and been less hasty. But, reviewing our first conversation as I arose this morning, I recalled his expression when the light was removed from his cell. Uncertainty crossed that haughty, swarthy face as darkness fell. Perhaps base bargaining might work after all. I left him alone, in the dark, for most of the day, only visiting his cell as evening approached.

  Apac Kunya blinked when I opened the door, looking beyond me to the slender thread of golden daylight as though returning from some deep meditation. I ordered the corporal to wait outside once he had put the rush light on its shelf, and placed myself in front of the door. The cell was taking on that vile and familiar smell of occupation, a mixture of ordure and festering wounds.

  For a while neither of us spoke. When I felt there had been enough silence, I asked, ‘Can you conceive of any method by which we might extract from you the information we seek?’

  I had given my opening sally much thought, and the prisoner now returned the favour. While I waited for his answer I heard distant male laughter, and the cry of a bird overhead. Finally he said, ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Then I wonder why you are here.’

  He lifted his hands, making his shackles clink. ‘No other choice.’

  I sighed, striving to keep the sound light and natural. ‘Then it appears we have nothing to say to each other.’ I reached for the light, and began to turn.

  ‘Wait.’ It did not sound like an entreaty, nor an order; more a suggestion.

  I paused. ‘So you think we may converse meaningfully?’

  ‘All choice is yours. All power is yours. But yes, I think we may.’

  I put the light back and turned to face him again. Then, on impulse, I squatted, with my back against the door, so I was no longer looking down on him. ‘What should we discuss?’

  ‘Instead of information, knowledge. If I see the difference right.’

  ‘What do you believe it to be?’

  ‘Information serves purposes, is a way to reach an end. Knowledge is its own value.’

  I nodded. It was an accurate summation, however poorly phrased. ‘And where does faith fit in?’ I had questioned the servants about his claim to be an ‘amautas’ without getting a satisfactory answer, but the heathen religion is intertwined with their society to an alarming extent so perhaps he thought himself a priest.

  ‘That is a hard question. Maybe not a good question, given our differences.’

  He was right about that. But there was one question I wanted answered. ‘True, but I would like to know why your people worship gold.’

  ‘I may ask the same of you.’

  It took me a moment to realise what he meant. Then I was angry. ‘How dare you! We worship God, not Mammon!’

  ‘Yet your love of gold brings us to this.’ He raised a manacled hand to indicate the dingy cell.

  I could feel heat rising, a passion to defend my Faith. I took a breath before replying. ‘I will not deny the avarice of those who first discovered your land, nor the brutality of some of their actions. But we – my brothers in Christ – see the hand of God in this, for our actions have allowed your people to receive His message.’

  He nodded, as though I gave the answer he expected. This annoyed me, so I asked, ‘What power do you see at work here? If your gods were so mighty, how come they are now thrown down?’

  ‘It is . . . fate. The rightness of all.’

  ‘You agree with what is happening to your land?’

  ‘No. But it is as it was foretold.’

  My heart sank. ‘By your priests presumably?’ And so the Pagan justifies their defeat!

  ‘Yes. You do not believe in foretelling?’

  ‘In prophecy, you mean? Of course not.’ But I spoke without thought, without the knowledge I pride myself on, for the Bible is full of prophecy. ‘You still have not answered my question. If you do not worship gold, you do at least revere it?’

  ‘We revere it, yes. That is the word.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  I will not record our entire conversation, for it became esoteric. This native grasps concepts quickly, and understands distinctions only an educated man can. Our talk brought pleasure to me, a pleasure of the intellect which has been lacking since we came to this place. What the conversation did not do was bring me any closer to those secret hoards my countrymen are so set on finding.

  *

  My dearest E,

  I do not know if this letter will reach you, for it relies on the promises of low men – and though those I entrust with it cannot read or write, it is still best we avoid names. Firstly, I forgive you. I understand why I could not stay in Cuzco and I know you were bowing to pressure from your superiors when you sent me away. But you know that, you said as much at our parting.

  The reason I write now is that I have heard news of your wife, that she has passed away. Tell me please, is it true? She never gave you the son you craved. Nor did she love you as you deserve to be loved.

  We sinned, may the Lord forgive us for that, but I can give you those children, many sons, healthy and strong.

  You know that we should be together, you know this in your heart.

  My fate is in your hands,

  L

  *

  5 August 1541

  Today’s conversations with Apac Kunya followed on from yesterday’s. He spoke freely of the learning of his people, which took on the learning of those tribes they conquered before they themselves fell to our conquest. He also hinted at older wisdom. His people tell of a great flood, and while we know that this catastrophe was the will of the Lord, and washed away iniquity, Apac Kunya says the deluge also washed away knowledge, knowledge he and others like him have worked hard to regain since.

  Perhaps this talk should make me uneasy, yet we in the civilised world revere the knowledge of the Greeks and Romans, who were Heathen peoples.

  We touched upon religion, and he expressed interest in the nature of the Trinity, how one God can be three entities, and how the Holy Virgin fits into our beliefs. I did my best to enlighten him.

  When I departed his cell this evening I
left a fresh rush light.

  Still, I must be wary, and not let his words distract me from the task I have been set, for I find myself admiring this man. Not in the way I have confessed of elsewhere in this journal, not that. It is more that he reminds me of the kind of father I would wish to have.

  *

  It first occurs in the garrison chapel, as she is about to pray. For a moment Luisa thinks she is being struck down, punished for her sin. Her heart races and weakness shoots through her limbs. Then pain, like a kick in the guts. She reaches for the altar rail, gasping in the thin cold air. But her mind is turned to the divine, and in her head she remains calm, as her lips forms the words Blessed Virgin, take pity on me, repeating them over and over.

  The pain abates. She is kneeling now, and her knuckles on the rail are white, but the spasm has passed. Already warmth flows back into her body.

  Then, so gentle she is not sure at first, there is movement within, and she knows all will be well. She smiles, and changes her prayer, even as her baby kicks again. Let my son be born healthy and strong, and into the house of his father.

  *

  12 August 1541

  I was right to cultivate this native’s friendship!

  For the last week we have talked of many matters: history, natural philosophy, medicine and the transmission of knowledge. I cannot remember such enjoyable discourse; sometimes I almost forget that this man is a proud and damned Heathen.

  But in less than a month the mission is due to return, and Father de La Cruz will be unimpressed with treatises on the natives’ learning.

  Today we finally reached materially fruitful ground. We had been discussing faith, a subject I feel compelled to return to, for I truly wish to save Apac Kunya’s soul: it grieves me that such an intellect remains impervious to the highest wisdom. I made what I thought to be a conclusive case for the current situation being God’s will, but he shook his head – with less pain now, for I have procured medicine for him – and said again that we overthrew his people because it was foretold and, knowing it to be the will of their heathen gods, they acted against sense and welcomed the Pizarro brothers when they should have killed them. I was about to rebuff this argument when he said, ‘Do you know of the Man of Gold?’