Shady Lady

The water came from a cistern outside and the shower was primitive, but it did the job. I washed quickly, knowing Kel still needed to take his turn and we shouldn’t use all the water the elderly gentleman had stored. We thanked the señor again for the privilege and for his generosity, then said farewell. He didn’t budge from his chair, merely watched our progress with raisin-dark eyes.



Clean and wearing fresh clothes, I felt better, though I had only battered walking boots and my sneakers. I wore the latter because they were lighter and cooler, at least. I’d worn those boots enough to last a lifetime and put countless miles on the soles.



In the village center, with the market closing up around us, we made a picnic out of the fruit: mangoes, prickly pears, guanabana, bananas, passion fruit, and papaya. After endless days of protein bars, this tasted wonderful. Some of it was messy, but I wiped my fingers on the grass. Nobody would object if we camped here for the night.



This must be the last leg of the journey. Whatever we were looking for had to be here.



Glancing at Kel, who was skinning a mango with juice dripping from his fingers, I thought aloud. “There’s nothing unusual about this place except the church. It’s old, old as that statue looked . . . and I saw Aymara markings.”



“As did I.”



“Then that’s where we should start.”



Since we’d purchased only a little food, we left the remnants—skin and sweet pulp—for the birds. I pushed to my feet and walked back down the dirt track. The church doors stood open as we approached, but I couldn’t see within, where shadows pooled. Bolstering my strength because I always felt weird in consecrated places—the whole witch’s-daughter thing—I led the way.



Kel followed, a comforting presence at my back. It was funny how used to him I’d become. He was like a wellplaced rock; you could climb on it to escape floodwaters, use it for self-defense, to prop something up, or simply to rest against when you were weary. But unlike that rock, he had feelings. I suspected it had been a long-ass time since anyone asked him how he felt, or what he wanted.



Letting my eyes adjust, I took stock of the place. There were no pews. If one knelt here, it was on the floor. Flowers had been left at various shrines along the wall. The silence felt cool and soothing, like a weight had lifted when I stepped inside. Whitewashed walls bore traces of rust; likely the roof leaked and there was no money for repairs. Except for one, I didn’t know the names of the saints depicted on the walls, but I recognized Saint Martin de Perres from his dark skin. The altar was a heavy block of stone, etched with ornate patterns that didn’t always look wholly Christian to my eyes.



As we stood there, a thin man in black stepped out of the back room. “Buenas tardes. ¿Puedo ayudarles?”



To his credit, he didn’t react to the picture we made. On his own, Kel offered a hundred reasons to be wary, and I was obviously a redheaded güera. But if we were to unearth any bones, the priest might be able to tell us about a woman buried in the graveyard. It wasn’t enormous, so I hoped for luck. If cleansing the bad karma offered any benefit, I was due a break.



“Sí. Estamos buscando . . .” What were we looking for? I couldn’t say a woman’s bones—and maybe it wasn’t so literal anyway. So perhaps I should start with the man who’d sent us here: “. . . información acerca de la familia Escobar.”



Surprise slipped across his face before he schooled himself. He answered in Spanish, “I have not heard that name in a long time.”



I had been shooting blind, so elation raced through me. “¿Qué?”



“Escobar. Come,” he said, gesturing to us. “You will be historians, yes, or writers, maybe?”



Nodding, because his conclusion sounded more credible than the truth, I trailed behind him through the cool, dim church and into his private rooms accessible through a narrow corridor. He had a small sitting room with a niche for his cot. We took our seats while he fetched three brown glass bottles with gold and red labels that read CUZQUEÑA; it looked like beer. The priest cracked them open and the cold air smoked a little in the heat. As soon as I took the bottle, it tried to feed me images of what it had been doing, nothing traumatic, but I shut it down. I took a sip and judged it delicious, a nice, light lager.



“Thank you,” I murmured.



He indulged in a long drink and then said, “Forgive me; I have been rude. I am Father de León.”



“Mucho gusto.” I extended my hand, since I had to be on my best behavior.



He returned my greeting with the limp grip of a man more devoted to heavenly pursuits than earthly ones. But his manner remained friendly enough. Maybe we offered a welcome break in the killing boredom of his daily routine.



“The story,” Kel prompted.



Clearly there was one, or the man wouldn’t have escorted us back here. He would’ve simply said, I don’t know, and shown us out. I seconded with an inclination of my head, Cuzqueña in hand. God’s Hand didn’t touch his drink.



“The Church sent him to found the mission here. He was the only Spaniard for a very long time, but he related well to the people, and gradually, they came to his ways.”



“But something went wrong,” I guessed.



De León wore a grave mien. “Yes. A girl accused Father Escobar of rape. Since she was, as they say, touched by angels, no one believed her. She saw things that weren’t there, and she often cried for no reason. But when her belly swelled, the villagers decided she must have been telling the truth. They would have killed him, but he fled into the jungle. I do not know what happened to him, but the villagers were superstitious. They thought either he must be innocent, and God had taken him, or he was guilty, and the devil had come to drag him to hell.”



With Kel sitting beside me, neither proposition seemed as far-fetched as it might have once. “What do you think?”



The priest lifted his shoulders. “It is an old story, nothing more. Those who came before me recorded the interesting tales. I will do the same.”



“And have you?”



“So far, no.”



I hoped we wouldn’t bring “interesting times” to this quiet place. “What happened to the girl?”



“I don’t know,” he said. “The other priests did not find her plight intriguing enough to write about her fate.”



That rankled. I knew he wasn’t responsible for his predecessors’ decisions, but the Church had too often either dismissed women as insignificant or persecuted them as sinful. They were either madonnas or whores, no middle ground.



Regardless, dead end there, then. So perhaps I wouldn’t be digging up some woman’s bones. Thank all the gods and goddesses. If Father Escobar had any connection with the man who’d sent me, however distant, then I was sniffing in the right spot. This was a long shot, but: “Did he leave anything behind?”



He angled his head. “That, perhaps. In the journals, the priest who came after him said Father Escobar left all of his things behind.”



Kel and I followed the trajectory of his gaze. On the wall hung a tarnished crucifix—silver, but it needed polishing. I remembered there were silver mines in Peru and that the country had conflicted with Mexico over it, long ago. The object was crudely cast, not made by a master, but I saw the signs of handwork on it.



“May I see it?”



This was going to be tricky. If this was the object I was meant to retrieve, how could I get it out of the church? First things first, however: I leaned forward in anticipation as de León stood and crossed to the wall, where he took down the crucifix with reverent hands. He passed it to me with an expectant look, as if I ought to comment on its obvious age or weight.



I glanced at Kel, who took his cue. He began to question de León, drawing his eyes away from me. The sound faded to a low buzz as I curled my hand around it. Old things always carried layers, so I took the burn and watched the slow procession of years. Most came from faith and devotion, so I saw priests praying in procession. Such memories, though powerful, carried only the heat of a summer day.



At last I hit bottom, a charge so powerful it stayed in the silver, even as others added their own experiences. I saw a whisper of Ramiro Escobar in this priest’s lean build, though the resemblance came from stance and attitude. He had a proud face, even as he prayed, both hands wrapped around the cross. I fell into the reading as if the bottom had dropped out of my world.



Surprise surged through me. I had not expected to see her again so soon, though she had spent a great deal of time here in recent days. I noted her prettiness in an abstract way, as I strove to keep my manner paternal with every female parishioner. Bitterness laced the observation. First I had been sacrificed to the Church, and then I had been exiled from my home. I could not pronounce her name; it was something savage, so I called her Juana.



I showed none of that emotional turmoil as she genuflected. I had yet to explain the difference between kneeling to God and kneeling to me, and so the natives continued to do both. They seemed to think I merited such obeisance as part of my position, and it pleased me to receive it.



Thus, I smiled at her approach and bade her rise. Belatedly I noted the fear in her eyes. She wore bruises on her thin arms like matching bracelets. I started to ask what had happened, but she threw herself at me. I caught her because I thought she was about to faint, and then she pressed her mouth to mine fiercely, desperately. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, and then I put her away from me.



That life was not for me. My father had chosen my path, and I could not let the wiles of a half-mad native girl sway me. She fell to her knees and kissed the hem of my robe, my feet, and I cringed in horror and discomfort. Her weeping filled my ears with its shrill tenor. Soon her cries rose to a crescendo; they would draw others.



I begged her to be silent.



And then the villagers came.



I fell into my own body with a sense of queasy disorientation. My gift was not the same as it had always been. Ever since I’d touched the necklace that contained my mother’s power—and gods only knew what else—readings were irregular. In Kilmer, the power burned a piece of paper to ash. Before, I saw only what they saw, but this time I became the priest, thinking his thoughts while they soaked into the crucifix in his hand. I trembled a little, eyes closed.



A hand lit on my shoulder. Kel, I felt sure. The drone of conversation had ceased. Shit. I hated this part, where everyone treated me like a freak. When I opened my eyes, they were both staring at me.



“Estoy bien. No se preocupe,” I said, trying to convince all three of us.



“What were you doing?” the priest asked.



My hand shook when I reached for my beer to buy some time. I brought it to my lips and took a long swallow. Father de León watched me all the while.



Kel spoke for me. “Like the girl, she is angel-touched. She can see secrets left behind.”



Hm. Perhaps that was what the message meant. Unearth her bones. Learn her secrets. I didn’t know that I’d call what I did angel-touched, but that reply seemed more politic than the alternative when keeping company with a priest.