by Nick Joaquin
For the anchored ship (which was also bound for Ternate) being stopped on that coast by contrary winds, the commander had sent ashore some soldiers to see if the island be inhabited and food available, but they now found only corpses utterly decayed among the rocks and murmurous with flies. But one of the soldiers, a certain Gonzalo Salgado, amazed to hear his name being called, sought out the voice and discovered, with great horror, what seemed another heap of ripe carrion save that its eyes moved and sounds rattled in its throat.
But its body was bloated, its face horribly mutilated, and the entire carcass, from head to foot, a single enormous, grayly gaping, hotly odorous wound, swarming with flies and oozing pus and a foul oil and so thickly matted with worms you could scoop them out by the fistful, as the moist flesh seemed to have been scooped out indeed, having fallen away from the bones in so many places the skeleton already glittered triumphant through the last decayed rags of mortality. But this pile of rot moved its eyes and opened its mouth, calling Salgado by name; proclaiming itself Currito Lopez; and asking did Salgado not know him?
And Salgado, indeed, had known Currito in Manila; both of them had sailed for Ternate on the same day but on different ships; and how (asked Salgado) had Currito come to this mishap? And when Currito had related how his ship had been wrecked on the same day it set forth, Salgado cried out in amazement. For the troops (said he) had sailed on the seventh day of October but it was now the twentieth day of the month, wherefore Currito had lain on this shore for thirteen days, mortally wounded and without food or drink, and at the mercy of the elements. It seemed incredible, it seemed a miracle that he lived! On hearing which, Currito fell silent, and wonder, like a faint echo of that wondrous music he had heard, swelled in him. But he told Salgado how those thirteen days had seemed but a moment to him, for the Holy Child and His Mother had come and smiled at him, and their faces were so beautiful he seemed to have gazed too briefly, only for a moment but, behold, the moment had lasted thirteen days. Then he begged Salgado to go and fetch a priest from the ship that he might properly confess himself and be absolved, since for this reason had the Holy Persons sustained him alive these many days, but now he felt his hour upon him.
The priest being fetched (and with him a curious concourse), he confessed and was shriven, and turning to the soldiers about him he begged them to forgive him the former scandal of his example, urging them also not to despair if life be painful. For a lifetime (said he) was barely enough to educate us to the beauties of this world, which are but finite—and to educate us for God, whose beauty is infinite: could a mere lifetime, however long and however arduous, be deemed sufficient? And they, not understanding him, stared at each other, wondering was this Currito? But though he spoke to them, he seemed but dimly aware of them; seemed to be gathered away already; lifting his eyes from their faces to stare, calm and unblinking, at the sun; dying thus indeed: his lips parted, as if the last breath were a cry of wonder, and his eyes arrested, his eyes fixed in wild rapture at the noon sun; the priest crouched at his side and intoning the litany; the soldiers grouped around in awed attitudes—the palms ascending, the sea shimmering, the ship tremulous behind and below them—their armor and helmets golden and bristling with lightnings as the sun clashed hotly with the proud steel, clashing as hotly, and in the same moment, with the proud steel of soldiers poised on the young walls of faraway Manila, clashing as hotly indeed with the spires and red roofs of that city and flooding with molten pearl its crooked cobbled streets, empty at this hour of the siesta save for a carriage stopping at the Dominicans and Doña Ana descending, Doña Ana moving slowly across the patio, her head bowed and her face very pale and her skirts and mantilla vividly black in the hot whiteness of that hour—and her mood as black as her veils.
For she had had a fearful dream, a terrifying dream of Currito, whom she had seen kneeling in a dirty place, helmeted and armored, a rosary dangling from his clasped hands, when a blast of lightning had dissolved armor and helmet away, revealing a horrible leprous body, crawling with worms, the rosary dangling from cankered fingers, but another blast of lightning had dissolved the corruption away too, leaving only the pure skeleton from whose fingerbones the rosary continued to dangle until, at a final blast of lightning, the poised bones had collapsed and crumbled, the rosary dropping on mud, whereupon a crowd of people (and herself among them) had appeared on the scene and had picked up the soiled rosary and had prayed and wept over it, their falling tears washing away the mud until the rosary shone clean in their hands and gleaming like a pearl necklace: at which point she had woken up and found her cheeks and pillow wet with tears.
And she was sure the dream meant that Currito had died indeed, but whether in God’s grace or in sin she could not tell—and the question tormented her. But it was a cruel world, cried Doña Ana as she entered the church, it was a horrid world if a single soul could perish in it. And there was no devotion in her heart as she ascended the altar and proceeded disrobing and attiring the Virgin in the fresh raiment she had brought. But she felt very bleak, she felt disconsolate. She would not lift her eyes, she would not lift her chin. But perhaps God would show her a sign, she thought suddenly, as she descended again, her arms full of the robes she had quitted from the Virgin and which she now spread out on a bench and was rolling into a bundle when, horrified, she noticed that the edges of the robes were stiff and stained with mud. And picking up the boots of the Child, she found them likewise covered with mud, and scraped and worn at the soles.
Straightway she forgot her gloom and bristled with spirit. For it was not she who had last attired the Virgin. She shared the privilege with another lady who, having a large family, was unfortunately not as devout at the task. And, obviously, this other lady had carelessly hung the robes in some muddy yard and they had fallen and been soiled. Or, more probably, she had left them lying around the house and the children had come upon and played with them, stamping the Child’s boots and trailing the Virgin’s skirts through the mud of some juvenile pageantry. And how impious, how sacrilegious a carelessness, cried Doña Ana. She would have to inform the prior, of course. She would go at once and show him the robes and the boots.
Wherefore, with eyes blazing and with chin thrust high, the soiled robes gathered up in her arms, Doña Ana departed in search of the prior.
THE MASS OF ST. SYLVESTRE
To open their doors to the New Year, the Romans invoked the God Janus, patron of doors and of beginnings, whose two faces (one staring forward, the other backward) caricature man’s ability to dwell in the past while speeding into the future.
In Christianity, the post of Janus has been taken over by another Roman: St. Sylvestre, pope and confessor, whose feast falls on the last day of the year. At midnight of that day, the papal saint appears on earth and, with the Keys of his Office, opens the gates of all the principal archiepiscopal cities and celebrates the first Mass of the year in their cathedrals.
Manila has been a cathedral city almost from its foundation; for centuries it was one of the only two cities in the orient (Goa being the other) to whose gates the New Year’s key-bearer made his annual visitation. For this purpose, St. Sylvestre always used the Puerta Postigo, which is—of the seven gates of our city—the one reserved for the private use of the viceroys and the archbishops. There he is met by the great St. Andrew, principal patron of Manila, accompanied by St. Potenciana, who is our minor patroness, and by St. Francis and St. Dominic, the guardians of our walls.
St. Sylvestre comes arrayed in cloth-of-gold and crowned with the tiara. Holy knights suspend a pallium above him; archangels swing censers and wave peacock fans; the Book, the Mitre, the Staff, and the Keys are borne before him by a company of seraphim; and cherubs flock ahead, blowing on trumpets. Below them swarm the Hours on fast wings. After them come the more sober Days—cryptic figures clad in silver above, in sable below—playing softly on viols. But behind the Pontiff himself, walking three by three, are the twelve splendid
angels of the Christian Year.
The first three of these angels are clothed in evergreen and are crowned with pearls, and in their hands they bear incense, gold, and myrrh—for these are the angels of the Christmas Season. And the next three angels are clothed in April violets and are crowned with rubies, and they bear the implements of the Passion—for these are the angels of the holy time of Lent. And the next three angels are clothed in lilies and are crowned with gold, and they bear triumphal banners—for these are the angels of Eastertide. But the last three angels are clothed in pure flame and are crowned with emeralds, and they bear the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost—Wisdom, Understanding, Knowledge, Counsel, Perseverance, Piety, and the Fear of God—for these are the angels of Pentecost.
At the Puerta Postigo the heavenly multitude kneels down as St. Sylvestre advances with the Keys to open the noble and ever loyal city of Manila to the New Year. The city’s bells ring out as the gate opens and St. Andrew and his companions come forth to greet the heavenly embassy. The two bishops embrace and exchange the kiss of peace, and proceed to the cathedral, where the Pontiff celebrates the Mass of the Circumcision. The bells continue pealing throughout the enchanted hour and break into a really glorious uproar as St. Sylvestre rises to bestow the final benediction. But when the clocks strike one o’clock, the bells instantly fall mute, the thundering music breaks off, the heavenly companies vanish—and in the cathedral, so lately glorious with lights and banners and solemn ceremonies, there is suddenly only the silence, only the chilly darkness of the empty naves; and at the altar, the single light burning before the Body of God.
Those who have been favored with glimpses of these ceremonies report that St. Sylvestre (like Janus) seems to have two faces—but these reports are too vague, too confused, and conflicting to be given credence. More respectable is the ancient belief that whoever sees and hears, in its entirety, this Mass of St. Sylvestre will see a thousand more New Years; and it is whispered that Messer Nostradamus succeeded (through black magic) in witnessing one such Mass, while most of Roger Bacon’s last experiments (according to Fray Albertus Magnus) were on a prism that should make visible to mortal eyes this Mass of Time’s key-bearer. They also speak of a certain magus of Manila who, like Nostradamus, intruded with black magic upon the sacred scene—and was punished for it.
This magus, who was known as Mateo the Maestro, lived in Manila during the early part of the 18th century and was feared by many as a sorcerer. He was equally famed as musician, artist, doctor, philosopher, chemist, and scholar; and in his bodega on the street of the Recollets a crowd of apprentices labored day and night at various arts and crafts—carving wood or chiseling stone, or narrating lives of saints on canvas, or conjugating Latin, or choiring together in rehearsals of a solemn Mass or chanted Rosary. The Maestro—a small, very shriveled ancient with white hair flowing down to his shoulders and a thin white beard—might look as frail as a mummy, but his eyes—and his temper—were still as sharp as a child’s. Because no one could remember him young he was believed to be hundreds of years old, surviving (some said) from the days before Conquista, when, being a priest of the ancient cults, he wielded great power, wearing his hair long and affecting the clothes and the ways of women, but had hidden away from the Castilians in various animal disguises to plot a restoration of the old gods—those fierce and fearful old gods now living in exile on the mountaintops, and in dense forests, and out among the haunted islands of the south, but who steal abroad when the moon dies or when typhoons rage in the night, at which times you may invoke their presence by roasting a man’s liver, and by other unspeakable devices.
The truth, however, was that Mateo the Maestro was not yet eighty years old and could not be remembered as a young man because he had spent his youth in incessant wanderings all over the country, thus acquiring his mastery of the arts, his command of a dozen tongues, and his profound knowledge of herb-healing and witchcraft. Like all magians, he was obsessed by a fear of death and the idea of immortality; but all the lore he had accumulated he found powerless to wrest the secret from life, though he had labored over countless experiments involving molten gold and pearls, the guts of turtles, the organs of monkeys, and the blood of owls. And after each vain experiment he would bitterly gaze out the window and reflect how, a few steps down the street, in the cathedral, there was yearly said a Mass which—had he but power to behold it—could increase his life by a thousand years.
He had consulted the dark deities in exile but was informed that the holy mysteries (except by divine dispensation) could be observed only by the eyes of the dead. Whereupon a monstrous idea had grown; the grave of a holy man was profaned; the dead eyes plucked out—and one New Year’s eve Mateo the Maestro hid himself in the cathedral, having grafted into his eye-sockets a pair of eyeballs ravished from the dead.
Just before midnight, he saw the dark naves suddenly light up and a procession forming at the high altar. Garlanded boys bore torches; flower-crowned girls carried lamps; acolytes pressed forward with the cross, the standards, and the censers; and a glittering angel lifted the great Flag of the City, its Lions and Castles embroidered in jewels. Behind a company of heralds appeared the mighty St. Andrew, attired in apostolic red and wreathed with laurel. Beside him walked the virgin St. Potenciana, robed in bridal white and crowned with roses. Behind them came St. Francis and St. Dominic and a great crowd of Holy Souls who had been, in life, illustrious citizens and faithful lovers of Manila. Down the aisle advanced the concourse, the cathedral doors swung open, and the Maestro followed the procession down the street to the Puerta Postigo. There the crowd paused in its chanting and, in a moment of silence so infinite you could hear the clocks all over the world intoning twelve, a key clicked audibly in the lock and (as in Jerusalem and Rome and Antioch and Salamanca and Byzantium and Paris and Alexandria and Canterbury and all the great Sees of Christendom) the gates opened and St. Sylvestre entered the city as the wild bells greeted the New Year, the two processions merging and flowing together to the cathedral.
Now, there was a fine retablo in our cathedral, carved in stone and representing the Adoration of the Shepherds, which at Christmas time was lugged out from its side-chapel and placed upon the high altar. In this retablo, Mateo the Maestro now hid himself, since from behind the kneeling shepherds he commanded a superb view of the ceremonies commencing below. Having been warned that the Mass of St. Sylvestre cannot but prove unbearable to human senses, inducing (like the atmosphere of great heights) a coma in the mortal beholder, he had brought along a knife and a bag of limes, wounding his arms and steeping the wounds with the limes each time he felt sleep threatening to overcome him. But as the Mass progressed, it became more and more difficult, it became sheer agony to stay awake. His head swelled and swayed, the purloined eyes fought to squeeze loose from the sockets, slumber pressed down on him like an iron weight around his neck though he stabbed and stabbed his arms till both arms were bloody blobs of chopped flesh.
But at last the Mass drew to a close; the Pontiff rose for the final benediction. Writhing and sweating, bleeding and smarting, Mateo strained forward, leaning over the kneeling shepherds and forcing his agonized eyes open. St. Sylvestre was standing with his back to the altar—but had he turned his face or was that a second face that stared back at Mateo? Mateo retreated slowly but could not wrench his eyes away from those magnetic eyes below. He dropped down slowly, irresistibly, to his knees—still staring, still fascinated, his mouth agape. Then he ceased to move: his bones stiffened, his flesh froze. There he knelt moveless—one more kneeling and fascinated figure in a tableau of kneeling and fascinated figures.
Mateo the Maestro had turned into stone.
And there he has remained all these years—and, for generations, bad boys who drowse at Mass have had his crouching form pointed out as a warning. But every New Year’s eve, at midnight, he returns to life. His flesh unfreezes, his blood liquefies, his bones unlock, and he descends from the retablo to jo
in the procession to the Puerta Postigo; sees the New Year come in; hears the Mass of St. Sylvestre; and at the stroke of one o’clock turns into stone again. And so it will be with him until he has seen a thousand New Years.