by Luz Gabás
Esteban intervened. “The name is pure coincidence. The important thing is that such an important case of executions for witchcraft has come to light! I’d love to read the Spanish Inquisition trial records. Sounds like we have a new Salem on our hands, eh, Colau?”
But Colau did not answer. His eyes were glued to the ground.
Isolina went over to him, rested a hand on his arm, and asked gently, “Do you have any information on Inquisition trials?”
Colau shook his head. “It wasn’t the Inquisition,” he whispered.
“I don’t understand.” Isolina leaned toward him.
“I need more time,” he pleaded through clenched teeth. “Just a little more.”
A somber silence followed, broken by Neli.
“In the treasurer’s register, the extra costs of the bell-ringer, hangman, and tavern on the days of execution are recorded. And it says that the executions took place here in Tiles, but not where exactly. I think that’s everything”—she partially closed her eyes—“oh, except that all the entries related to the executions are signed by the same man, whose name was—”
She started searching among the yellowed pages, but Colau placed his huge hands over them possessively.
“That’s enough for today.”
“Why?” Neli objected loudly. “I believe you know something about this, Colau. If there’s anyone who knows the secrets of this valley, the way houses were lost or gained, their division or enlargement, if they sank or triumphed, it’s you.”
“I didn’t know about these executions!” Colau snarled.
“I don’t understand!” Neli insisted in frustration. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Neli!” Isolina snapped.
But Neli wasn’t going to give up so easily.
“Fine, then. I’ll retrace your steps, Colau. I’ll start in the Besalduch monastery archive.”
“A waste of time,” said Colau between gritted teeth. “There’s nothing there.”
“We’ll see,” responded Neli. “I’ll call Petra early tomorrow morning. Her niece is in charge of the place. I’ll let you know when I head over in case you’d like to come help me.”
Colau shook his head obstinately.
“And what about the papers?” Esteban interjected. “I suppose you’d better hand them over to the authorities right away.”
Colau glared at him. “After being hidden for four hundred years, I think they can wait a few more days, Mr. Lawyer. If Neli doesn’t mind, I’ll keep them here until I’ve studied them in depth.”
“Of course she doesn’t mind,” Isolina said soothingly. “You’ll have time to scan them for your collection. Isn’t that right, Neli?”
Brianda appreciated her aunt’s mediation. She was used to Colau’s bad manners, but tonight he was more disagreeable and evasive than ever. He obviously wanted the unexpected meeting to be over as soon as possible. Maybe he wanted to savor this missive from the past alone. Or maybe there was something else.
Colau had interrupted Neli just when she was about to say someone’s name. Who cared about a name from the sixteenth century? Brianda wondered. But she had to admit that a bolt of lightning had gone through her when she heard about poor Brianda of Anels, hanged for being a witch. She wondered if Brianda was young or old, single or married, if she’d had children. She wondered what it would have been like to live through those terrible times in the valley.
Brianda shook her head. Maybe everything was much simpler. Maybe the valuable research Colau kept locked away in his office was the reason for his sour moods. How sad that he hadn’t had children to pass his great knowledge on to.
“Until tomorrow then,” Neli said as she stood.
Brianda walked her to the front door, where Neli stopped for a second, her hand resting on the handle. After a long moment, she said, “When I first started reading the papers, I was very disappointed, because they were very repetitive. I was searching for something special. A little voice told me that discovering them at just this time of year had to mean something.” She lowered her voice. “Remember when you saw me the other day?”
Brianda frowned. “Mm hm.”
“The ritual I performed was in remembrance of our ancestors. In this time of Samhain, the laws of time and space are suspended temporarily, and the barrier between worlds disappears. It’s the perfect time to communicate with the dead. I felt like it wasn’t by accident that I found the documents, but that I’d somehow been chosen, as if the gods wanted to warn me of something.”
“Well, they sure did, didn’t they?” said Brianda, immediately regretting her sarcastic tone. Neli had trusted her, confided in her. And a few minutes earlier, she herself had understood the woman’s pain over the executions. Then again, it was a completely different thing to believe that some “gods” had handpicked this self-proclaimed witch to find out about the deaths of others.
Neli stared at her coolly. Outside, the wind howled.
“I know that finding it now means something, Brianda. Samhain is the Wiccan new year, the end of the cycle of life, when everything dies and begins again. I can’t stop wondering what it is that’s about to begin again, but I guess we’ll find out.”
Neli turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the darkness. Brianda heard the sound of her car engine and returned to the sitting room. Esteban had already gone to bed. She said good night and headed up the stairs slowly. Neli’s visit had interrupted Esteban’s amorous plans, but she was sure he hadn’t forgotten about them.
She went into the dark bedroom. In silence, she got undressed and slipped into bed. Immediately, Esteban began to caress her. Brianda felt guilty for not being able to respond as he wished; she didn’t want to reject him. She climbed on top of him and began to kiss the length of his body.
Esteban understood and let her continue. And Brianda satisfied him without allowing him to enter her.
10.
Brianda and Esteban left the land of Beles Peak and headed down a narrow road through woods of beech, oak, pine, and elm trees. Shortly afterward, it led into a narrow gorge that traced the undulating boundary between Tiles and Besalduch, the next town to the east, where the monastery was. Neli had called early that morning to tell them she would be at the archive around ten. Since Brianda was curious and had nothing better to do, she’d agreed to go. At the last minute, Esteban had also decided to come, even though he’d have to catch up on work later.
As they drove, Brianda noticed that the walls of the canyon acted as a guide for the river that could barely be seen below. The limestone rock face had been eroded by water, molded into a grotesque sculpture accustomed to the absence of sunlight. A little farther on, a sign told them they had to leave the car and continue on foot, so they parked in a small clearing where Neli, her nose and cheeks red, was waiting for them beside her dilapidated 4x4. When they joined her, Neli blew on her knuckles while complaining about how the weather had turned so fast. There was no wind that morning, but frost stuck to the hard earth.
Neli led them single file down a damp, untended path toward the river. After a while, the path grew wider, ending at a steep stone bridge.
Brianda was awestruck. In an area no bigger than a couple of acres, there were two beautiful buildings and a third in ruins. It seemed like time had stopped, like she’d walked into a scene from a movie about the Middle Ages. The only thing missing was a line of peaceful monks huddled at the foot of the high, misty mountains.
“I must admit I wasn’t expecting this,” Esteban said. “It’s magnificent.”
Brianda nodded but couldn’t really agree. The place was stunning, but she found its beauty cold and soulless.
They crossed to the other side of the bridge and Neli quickly showed them around the buildings. To the south, there was a small twelfth-century hermitage, partially hidden by the bare trees. To the north, the ruins of the old abbot’s palace and, in the center, their destination: the main church, a small basilica with a high central nave and two small la
teral ones ending in curved apses decorated with lattice friezes. Between the arched windows, several small blind arches formed niches in the walls.
They went into the church and toward a table in the corner that served as an information booth. A tall young woman with brown hair greeted them. Neli introduced her as Elsa, Petra’s niece. Elsa had been kind enough to open the monastery just for them; it was usually closed between October and April since no tourists visited during the winter.
“But today we’re open just for you, and later some friends of my mother’s,” she said with a smile. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Neli, but there’s not much here.”
Elsa signaled them to follow her through a door. As soon as she went in, Neli sighed in disappointment. The archive was nothing more than a small room with four or five shelves, a few boxes perfectly ordered by date, and a pine table in the center.
“The important stuff was moved to the diocesan archive years ago for security reasons,” Elsa explained. “There’s nothing left here but birth and marriage certificates, wills, and funerals up to the beginning of the twentieth century.”
“Any records of trials?” asked Neli.
Elsa shook her head. “Not as far as I know.” She spoke to someone behind them. “Good morning! You’ve been here lots of times. You can confirm what I’m saying.”
The three turned in unison.
“Colau!” Brianda said in surprise. He seemed to have aged overnight. More stooped than ever and with his forehead furrowed with lines, he leaned against the doorjamb as if steadying himself. She wondered if he’d come out of curiosity or to spy on their advances.
“I told you already, but you didn’t want to believe me,” said Colau in a hoarse voice.
“Of course, it depends what you’re interested in,” Elsa added. “I remember the last time you were here and found that will from Anels House. It was from the end of the sixteenth century, if memory serves. A lucky find! Papers from before the seventeenth century aren’t supposed to be in this archive.”
A shadow crossed Colau’s face.
“A will from Anels House? Whose was it?” Brianda asked.
“No one important,” he replied laconically.
“But, like I said, that was a fluke,” continued Elsa. “What kind of trials are you wondering about, Neli?”
Neli hesitated. Brianda figured she must agree with Colau about keeping quiet about the documents from the sacristy.
“I am interested in finding out if, like in other mountain places, there have been any trials here … for witchcraft.”
Elsa raised her eyes to the heavens.
“If you’d said that when you called, I would have been able to save you the trip! A while ago, a doctoral student came looking for information on the subject and found nothing. Besides, as far as I know, the archives of the Inquisition have been closely studied and there’s no record of any witchcraft trials in this area.” She giggled. “Either nothing survived or in this valley we were all sweetness and light.”
“I’d still like to take a look,” Neli insisted.
“As you wish.” Elsa opened her arms. “If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”
When she had gone, Neli went over to the boxes, chose the oldest ones, and placed them on the table.
“Want to give me a hand?”
“Of course,” Brianda answered, sitting down beside her.
Esteban joined in and the three set about poring over the old documents under the attentive gaze of Colau, who was still leaning against the door.
An hour later, Neli slammed shut her last file.
“I give up,” she declared. “There’s nothing here. Just like Elsa said, baptisms and marriages. Have you got much left?”
Brianda shook her head. She finished reading a final page, piled it on top of the others, and rubbed her eyes.
“At least we tried. Did you find anything, Esteban?”
“What year were the executions again?” he asked pensively.
“In 1592,” answered Neli, rapidly approaching him. “Why?”
“It’s probably nothing, but …”
Brianda noticed Colau straightening up.
“Here’s part of a request by a man to have the body of his wife exhumed.” He brought the paper closer to his eyes. “I think the date is April 1592.”
“And the name?” asked Neli impatiently, standing behind him.
“It says Master of Anels,” Esteban answered, pointing with his finger. “That’s all. I wonder what he wanted the body for.” He pouted. “This historical research is fun, but it’s so frustrating!”
“I suppose you know nothing about this either, Colau,” said Neli drily, snapping a photo of the document with her phone.
Colau did not answer. Brianda looked at him. His face showed astonishment, as if trying to take in that piece of information.
They returned the boxes to the shelves and filed out.
“Anything?” Elsa asked them. She glanced at her watch. “If you’d like, I can show you the church and the exhibition. We are taking it down next week.”
They followed her as she put on a tour-guide voice and began to explain in monotone that the construction of the church followed the musical harmonies, the proportional architectural system popular in the Middle Ages.
“The numbers three and seven are repeated throughout the church. There are three naves in seven sections, three windows in the central apse and seven in the three other apses. Three is the most sacred of the numbers. It is associated with the Supreme Being in its three personalities—material, spiritual, and intellectual—and with its three attributes—infinite, eternal, and all-powerful. It is also the number of the Holy Trinity, as it represents God in His complete expression.”
“It’s also the number of the nocturnal planets: Moon, Diana, and Hecate,” commented Neli under her breath. “And the symbol of Earth, whose fertility is provided by three elements: water, air, and fire. And the perfect harmony among all things, which have a beginning, a middle, and an end; or a present, past, and future; or body, spirit, and soul.”
To each of Elsa’s lessons, Neli countered quietly. If Elsa explained that seven corresponded to the days of the creation of the world, to the words that Jesus Christ spoke on the cross, to the sacraments, mortal sins, theological virtues, the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and the seals in the Book of Revelation, Neli retorted in a low voice, explaining that there were also seven musical notes, arts, colors of the rainbow, celestial bodies that gave their names to the days of the week, and chakras in the human body.
Esteban leaned down and whispered in Brianda’s ear. “Neli’s pretty weird, huh?”
“What makes you say that? Is anything she’s said a lie?” The protective impulse surprised Brianda.
“No, but—” He shrugged. At that moment, his cell phone rang. “It’s work. I’ll be right back.”
Elsa briefly pointed out the objects in the exhibition, which was dedicated to the district’s religious history. Brianda tried to listen attentively, but she was unable to shake a vague sense of déjà vu. Elsa pointed to the final piece. It was the remains of a rudimentary wooden closet on a small rectangular pedestal, separated from the visitors by a burgundy-colored cord.
“The confessional,” Brianda stammered.
“That’s right,” Elsa confirmed. “It is one of the few valuable pieces of religious furniture that have been preserved in the area. Unfortunately, it suffered the devastating effects of a fire. As you can see, on the lower part of the door, there is a lattice with a decorative vegetable fan motif. It is from the middle of the seventeenth century.”
“No,” corrected Brianda. “It was made at the end of the sixteenth century.”
“The carved decorative motifs on the sides show—”
Brianda interrupted her again, ignoring the odd looks that the others were giving her.
“In a corner of the back panel, there are garlands and open flower buds carved in miniature.” She c
ould see the hands that hit the chisel with the hammer, the scattered shavings, hewn from the wood. The images surged before her eyes. “Underneath them is a sprig of boxwood and another of gorse in bloom.”
Colau stalked over to her.
“And how do you know that?” His voice trembled and there was mistrust in his eyes.
Brianda did not answer. Stunned, she bowed her head.
Colau spoke urgently to the guide. “Is it true?”
Elsa shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Could we check?” Neli asked anxiously. “We only have to move it a tiny bit.”
Before Elsa could answer, Colau said, “Pieces as old as this must not be touched. It’s too fragile.”
Neli came over to Brianda. “What’s wrong? Are you—?”
Brianda was incapable of defining what state she was in. She once again saw isolated images, but unlike the horrible visions provoked by the sight of the blood from her uncle’s wound, these were cheerful: a man dressed in dark colors with a look of restrained happiness giving directions, a young girl drawing flowers, a man carving, another young girl—or was it the same one?—kneeling down in front of the confessional door. She closed her eyes.
“The confessional was in Tiles, in a small church,” she said firmly. “It was the first one made.” She took a deep breath. “I need air. The rest of you go ahead.”
She went outside and leaned against the wall of the building. Esteban came over with a frown, tucking his phone into the pocket of his fleece jacket.
“I’m fine,” Brianda lied. “I just got tired of so much information.”
Esteban took her hand and squeezed tight.
“I thought you were getting better,” he said with affection and concern. “Last night—”
“All I had for breakfast was coffee,” she assured him. If she couldn’t make sense of these strange visions herself, she didn’t know how to share them. Not even with him. “I’m sure it’s just low blood sugar.”
A few minutes later, Neli and Elsa came out. They thanked Elsa for everything and she offered to walk with them to the bridge to wait for her mother’s friends.