The Hand of Fatima

by Falcones, Ildefonso

  Before leaving Jarafuel he promised the goldsmith that either he or his friends in Granada would make sure they took all the remaining plaques. Throughout the four days of his ride, he boasted to all and sundry of the work he was doing for the Archbishop of Granada, showing the signed permit that allowed him freedom of movement, and telling everyone that he was carrying documents referring to what he called the atrocious crimes committed in the Alpujarra in his saddlebags. In this way he hoped to keep the lead plaques safe: who would search in the bags if they contained documents about the Alpujarra martyrs?

  To make doubly sure, he never let the saddlebags out of his sight, and even used them as a pillow when he went to sleep in the inns along the route.

  He wasted a whole day in Huéscar, which he reached on a Saturday evening. On Sunday morning he attended high mass and had to wait around for the rest of the morning so that the priest could sign the document saying he had fulfilled his religious obligations, which he would need to present to the Santa María parish on his return to Córdoba. While he was waiting inside the church, three barefoot Franciscan friars sought out his company after hearing from the priest that like them he was headed for Granada.

  ‘As you will no doubt understand,’ he said, when he explained that his trip was related to the martyrs of the Alpujarra and the friars asked to see the documents he had collected, ‘they are confidential. Until the archbishop has given his blessing, no one is to read them.’

  So Hernando completed the final part of his journey accompanied by the three Franciscans. Despite the intense cold, all they wore was the coarse brown woollen habit that was the colour of earth and a symbol of humility. On the way they showed him the special dispensation they had received from the provincial of their order that allowed them to wear special open sandals instead of going barefoot. In the two days he spent in their company, Hernando was amazed at the austerity and extreme poverty these ‘barefoot’ friars demonstrated, although they asked for alms from anyone they met. He admired the frugality of their meals and their stoic attitude towards life, which even meant they slept directly on the ground.

  Hernando bade farewell to the Franciscans once they had reached the outskirts of Granada and gone through the Guadix gate above the Albaicín. From there he rode down Carrera del Darro, the road that ran alongside the river towards the Plaza Nueva and the Casa de los Tiros. On the hillside to his right he could see the houses and gardens of the Albaicín, shrouded in mist on this winter’s day. What could have become of Isabel? He had not seen her for seven years. On the rare occasions he had travelled to Granada during that time to see Don Pedro, Miguel de Luna or Alonso del Castillo, or to hand over a report about the Alpujarra martyrs, he had not wanted to insist, but had respected the tearful refusal she had given him when she had said goodbye the last time they had met, on the steps of the church.

  He spurred Estudiante on so that he would go faster. Seven years! Yes, he enjoyed the redhead in the bawdy house, and several other women too, and yet he had never managed to forget the last night he had spent with Isabel when the two of them had seemed to touch the heavens. He thought he could see the terrace of her garden up on the hillside above the river Darro. Staring up at it, he suddenly felt his whole body go weak. He leant back and rested his hands on Estudiante’s withers. The horse took advantage of him relaxing his grip to nibble at the grass growing at the roadside. Hernando had worked hard on behalf of his God, but what had he got out of it? Only memories . . . of Isabel, and how beautiful and sensuous she was; of his loved ones who had died: his mother, Hamid . . . Fátima and the children. His life had been focused on a dream: to reconcile two religions that were opposed to each other, and to demonstrate the supremacy of the Prophet. What for? Who for? Who would thank him for his efforts? The community that rejected him? The next step after the Turpian tower had been taken: what now? What if he did not succeed? Fátima! Her black almond eyes came alive in his memory; her smile; her determined nature; the golden necklace between her breasts, and the nights of love he had lived with her. Hernando felt a tear running down his cheek and did nothing to stop it as his thoughts flew back to Francisco and Inés playing in the courtyard of their house in Córdoba, studying with Hamid, learning, laughing, or gazing at him in silence, attentive and happy.

  He had to say it out loud. He had to hear himself admitting the truth.

  ‘Alone. I’m alone,’ he murmured, his voice choking with emotion. He took hold of the reins once more, obliging Estudiante to stop eating the grass and start on his way again.

  While he was absent, Miguel continued to meet Rafaela every night. Now, though, the stories he told her were no longer about fantastic beings, but always had the same protagonist: Hernando, his lord and master. Rafaela listened to him entranced: Hernando had been a hero; he had saved countless young girls during the war; he had fought and survived many dangers. She was almost reduced to tears when she heard about the death of his wife and children at the hands of cruel bandits. Miguel’s smile was tinged with sadness when he saw how without her realizing it she was slowly coming under the spell of the hero of his tales.

  60

  HERNANDO HAD decided not to stay in Granada any longer than necessary after handing over the lead plaques. Following seven years of work, at the very moment when he entrusted them to Don Pedro, Luna and Castillo, who were waiting for him in the Casa de los Tiros, he was suddenly assailed by doubts as to the effectiveness of what he had done.

  The three men took the plaques solemnly and passed them from hand to hand, studying the inscriptions closely. Hernando left them to it, and walked away until he was by one of the windows in the Golden Stable. He became absorbed in contemplation of the Franciscan monastery that stood opposite. Is it all a fantasy? he asked himself. The entire country was full of legends, myths and fables. Not only had he read and studied them, but had himself copied hundreds of Morisco prophecies. Yet they only influenced the credulous minds of ignorant people, both Christian and Muslim, who liked to believe in all kinds of magic and witchcraft.

  Only a few days earlier in Jarafuel, with the Muela de Cortes mountain in view on the far side of the valley, Munir had told him a prophecy Hernando had not heard before, even though it was widely believed by the local Moriscos. The prophecy said that they would one day be rescued by the Moorish knight al-Fatimi, who had been hiding in the mountain since the days of James I the Conqueror, three hundred years before.

  ‘What no one here can agree on,’ the young holy man complained, ‘is whether the Moorish knight is green, or if it is his horse. Some even say that both horse and rider are green.’

  A three-hundred-year-old green knight who would come riding to their rescue . . . How naive!

  Hernando turned back to look at his companions in the Golden Stable, who were still examining the lead plaques. He shook his head and looked out of the window once more. This was something very different. The lead books were not simple prophecies. They were intended to change the entire religious world by undermining the foundations of the Christian Church. Bishops, priests and friars, as well as intellectuals, doctors of the Church and other learned men, would scrutinize them. News of them would be bound to reach Rome! This was something he had not even contemplated while he was at work. He had allowed his imagination to soar, thinking he could unite traditions, stories and legends around the figure of the Virgin, weaving in the lives of saints and apostles, exploiting the ambiguities inherent in both religions, making deliberate mistakes here and there. Who was he to change the course of history? Had he received inspiration from God? Him? An apprentice muleteer from a poor village in the Alpujarra? How pretentious! How arrogant of him! He thought of all that he had written on these plaques, and it seemed to him crass, vulgar, over-simplified, too ambiguous . . .

  ‘Magnificent!’

  Startled, Hernando turned back to face the others.

  Don Pedro, Luna and Castillo were smiling. ‘Magnificent!’ Alonso del Castillo repeated. The other two men joine
d in the congratulations. Why could he not share in their enthusiasm? He told them they should go and fetch the remaining lead books that were still in Binilit’s workshop. He also told them that the plaques would need to be accompanied by bones and ashes that he had not been able to bring from Córdoba. He begged them to hand over to the cathedral council on his behalf the documents on the Alpujarra martyrs that he had collected. When Castillo again asked him for his transcription of the gospel of Barnabas he had to tell him he did not have one. He had destroyed it when he was thrown out of the duke’s palace, and had not bothered to make another one because it had not seemed that important. Studying and writing the texts for the lead plaques had taken up all his time.

  ‘We have to send the gospel to the Sublime Porte. Why don’t we use the original? The Sultan is the obvious person to make it known,’ Don Pedro argued, as if this were an urgent matter.

  Luna calmed him down: ‘It will be years before that is necessary. For now, we must simply make sure it is kept in a safe place. And you, Hernando, now you have finished your magnificent work with the lead plates, you could devote your time to copying the gospel again so that we can all study it. I have a burning desire to read it.’

  ‘I don’t think it is a good idea to send it to the Sultan at the moment,’ Hernando agreed. ‘We should do it only when we hear that he is willing to back our plan. Up to now, the Turks have not exactly distinguished themselves in their support for our people.’

  Then, as the other three were busy speculating about the best moment to reveal the existence of the lead plaques to the Christians, Hernando announced that he was returning to Córdoba.

  ‘You’ve been distracted all day,’ Castillo said. ‘You don’t seem to share our enthusiasm. All this’, the translator added, sweeping his hand towards the lead plates on a table, ‘is the fruit of your labours, Hernando, work that has taken you many years. An exceptional effort. What’s wrong?’

  Hernando made no reply. He hesitated. Stroking his chin with his hand, he looked his companions up and down. ‘I can’t help having doubts. I need . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what I need. But perhaps it would be best if I don’t interfere in the work you have to do now . . .’

  ‘Our work?’ Don Pedro protested. ‘But you’re the one who—’

  Hernando lowered his hand to calm the nobleman. ‘It’s true. Of course I’m not going back on everything I’ve done, but I have the feeling that I would not be of much use to you at this stage—’

  ‘Empty,’ Miguel de Luna suddenly said. Hernando fixed his blue eyes on him. ‘You must feel completely empty. You’ve worked so hard it’s only natural that’s how you feel. Have a rest. It will do you good. We’ll see to everything.’

  ‘My mother went to her grave because of this plan of ours,’ Hernando said, taking them by surprise. The three men saw his features grow taut and that he was struggling not to cry in their presence. Don Pedro looked down at the floor; the other two exchanged glances. ‘She could not bear to think her son had gone over to the Christians, and I had sworn not to reveal anything about our idea.’

  Taking a deep breath, he finished in a quavering voice: ‘For now, my friends, that is all I have achieved with these lead plaques.’

  Hernando clicked his tongue to speed Estudiante up on the way back to Córdoba. He had left Granada at dawn, without seeking any company for the long journey. As he rode through the plains beyond the city, he stood up in the stirrups and looked back towards the snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada he was leaving behind. Juviles: that was where he had lived his childhood, with his mother . . . and Hamid. He almost had to duck as a flock of starlings flew close by his head. He watched them soar into the sky, as though they wanted to reach the mountaintops, but then suddenly they all wheeled and swooped down on the cultivated fields. He sat back in the saddle and let the reins drop on Estudiante’s back. He rubbed his hands vigorously, cupped them and blew his warm breath into them. Houses and farms were dotted about the fertile plains, with here and there people working out in the fields. In the distance, he could see some of them straightening up to get a look at him as he rode by. Hernando peered at the horizon and sighed at the thought of the long, lonely journey ahead of him. The steady clip-clop of Estudiante’s hooves on the earth hardened by the cold seemed to be his only companion.

  As soon as he saw him, Miguel could tell how sad and distressed his master felt. He had been anxiously awaiting his return so that he could talk to him about Rafaela, as they had agreed before his departure, but when he saw the state he was in, he could not bring himself to broach the subject. Instead, for the next few days he tried to awaken his interest in all that had happened during his absence in the house, on his lands and at the stud. He had argued with Toribio over the violent way he was treating one of the colts, he explained angrily to Hernando on one occasion.

  ‘He was punishing it for no reason!’ he shouted. ‘Jabbing it with spurs when the poor horse had no idea what he wanted from it.’

  Not even news of this argument seemed to interest Hernando, who remained immersed in melancholic nostalgia despite his horse riding and several night-time visits to the bawdy house.

  ‘Do you know the story of the cat that wanted to ride on a horse?’ Miguel asked him another time, hopping up to him on his crutches in the gallery beside the courtyard. Hernando came to a halt, and the sound of the crutches also ceased abruptly. ‘It was a grey cat—’

  ‘Yes, I know the story,’ Hernando said, interrupting him. ‘I heard you tell it to my mother at the Potro inn. It’s about a noble knight who’s turned into a cat by some wicked witches and who can only reverse the spell if he succeeds in mounting and controlling a warhorse. But I don’t remember the ending.’

  ‘If you already know that one, perhaps I should tell you about the knight who lived shut up in a tower, always alone . . .’ Miguel deliberately let the words float in the air.

  Hernando puffed his cheeks out. A few seconds elapsed. ‘I don’t think I would like that story, Miguel.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you should listen to it. The knight—’

  Hernando motioned to him to be quiet. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Miguel?’ he asked, looking grim.

  ‘That it’s not good for you to be on your own!’ Miguel replied, raising his voice. ‘You’ve finished the work you set yourself: what are you planning to do now? Spend the whole day in that library of yours, surrounded by papers? Wouldn’t you like to marry again? To have children?’

  Hernando did not reply. Waving his arm in an irritated fashion, Miguel turned his back on him and hobbled off.

  And Hernando did seek refuge again in his library. In the privacy of the room he contemplated the thirty or so books he had accumulated during his seven years’ work on the lead plaques, all neatly arranged on shelves. He tried to read one or another of them again, but soon gave up. He also tried calligraphy once more, but could not get the quill to trace any letters properly. It was as though he had lost the spiritual link that ought to bind him to God as he set out to write the characters praising Him. Hernando tenderly picked up the last quill he had prepared. He saw it was properly cut, with a curving nib . . . and, all at once, it came to him: his link with God. He thumped his fist on the desk. That was it!

  The very next morning, after performing the prescribed ablutions, he set off for the mosque. Had he been neglecting his God? he wondered during the short walk to the Perdón gate. He had spent seven years writing about the Virgin, Saint James the Apostle and countless other saints and martyrs of Spain. He had meant well, but could all that effort have undermined his own beliefs, or the purity of his convictions? He felt the need to stand in front of the mihrab, however badly the Christians had desecrated it, and to pray there, even if he had to stand upright and do it silently. If the taqiya permitted them to conceal their faith without it being seen as a sin or a renunciation of their beliefs, why should he not also pray secretly in the mosque? There, behind the sarcophagus to Don Alonso Fernánde
z de Montemayor, a past governor of the frontier provinces, was to be found one of the most splendid places of worship ever created by the followers of the Prophet. He entered through the Perdón gate and crossed the cathedral garden. The walls of the cloisters were still hung with hundreds of the penitential garments that those punished by the Inquisition had been forced to wear, with their names and sins written on them. The cloisters also offered shelter to many people who were trying to escape the biting cold of that leaden morning. The sight of the forest of marvellous arches of the original mosque calmed Hernando somewhat, and his step lightened as he walked through the cathedral. Priests and worshippers moved about the interior, while masses and holy offices were being celebrated in some of the side chapels. Work on the transept and the choir had been suspended for a number of years, awaiting the completion of the dome and the vaults around it. The Christians were miserly towards their God, thought Hernando as he wandered through the unfinished sections: bishops and kings lived opulently, but preferred to waste their money on luxuries rather than spend it on their places of worship.

  ‘O ye who believe!’ he thought he could read, when he reached the mihrab, the phrase just visible through the plaster moulding the Christians had added in order to hide the revealed word. These words were the start of the Kufic inscriptions from the fifth sura of the Koran engraved on the cornice leading to the holy of holies. He went on silently reciting: ‘When ye rise up to prayer . . .’

  As Hernando prayed, it came to him, as though God had rewarded his act of devotion. The truth, the word that had been revealed and was chiselled into hard, beautiful marble, had been concealed beneath a vulgar layer of plaster that would crumble at the slightest of blows. Was that not the same situation he was fighting against with his lead books? The unique truth, the supremacy of Islam, was concealed by the false words and trickery of popes and priests, a fiction that would collapse with the revelation of the Mute Book, just as the weak coating of plaster hiding the revealed word could do in the mihrab of the Córdoba mosque. Then he raised his eyes to the double arches built on top of single ones and ending in slender marble columns: the power of God descending with all its weight on the faithful, unlike the Christians, who sought firm foundations for their beliefs. The weight of divine will on simple believers like him. He filled his lungs with this incredible certainty, stifling the shouts of joy with which he would have liked to continue praying to the one God, forcing his lips closed so that not so much as a murmur could be heard.