The Lady in Blue

by Javier Sierra

  “The truth is, my friend, I can’t picture you hiding behind a nun’s skirts!” José Luis Martín chuckled.

  José Luis was the first person Carlos had met up with after the strange series of events in the province of Soria, and was the only person to whom he could tell such an absurd tale. His friend had studied psychology at the University of Navarra and then worked as a military chaplain for twenty years at the Cuatro Vientos barracks, until he hung up his habit for Marta, who became his wife. His new office was located in Division 12 of the Police Information Squad, on Tacona Street. Martín, the priest-turned-police-officer, was a meticulous, methodical man who worked for the police bureau as an expert in matters of religious crimes, sects, and esoteric movements with suspected ties to judges and politicians. A small detail that, let it be said in passing, did much to cement their friendship over the years. Carlos called him because he wanted to talk to him about his spiritual state.

  “Have you perhaps given any thought to the idea that it was you who attracted the nun?”

  José Luis decided to move in for the kill as soon as he had heard the story. He had yet to recover from the surprise of seeing his friend, the journalist and unbeliever, wrapped up in religious themes.

  “That’s exactly what I like about you, José Luis: your ideas are even stranger than mine.” Carlos was pleasantly amused. “What are you insinuating?”

  “It is very simple, Carlitos. You already know that conventional psychology holds no appeal for me. I’d rather read Jung than the behaviorists.”

  “Sure, sure. Which is why you work for the police instead of having a private practice.”

  “No laughing at an old priest! You know what? Jung calls what you went through ‘synchronicity.’ That you already know: it’s a lovely way of saying chance does not exist and everything that happens to a person always has a hidden cause. He never used the word ‘God’; he danced around the idea. In your case”—he paused to take a sip of beer before launching into the part with the most relevance for his friend—“Jung would argue that the article you published about teleportations, the one from a few months ago in which you mentioned the nun, as well as your obsession with the theme, predisposed you to live through a synchronicity.”

  Carlos didn’t have a chance to respond.

  “You know better than anyone that instances of extrasensory perception cannot be limited to ridiculous experiments in telepathy with Zener cards, with their waves, their crosses, and all the rest of it. Extrasensory perception is much more complex, and manifests itself with far greater force when emotions are involved. Didn’t you ever dream of someone close to you and the next morning receive a letter from that person? Or hear the phone ring and when you answer it, it’s the person you were just thinking about?”

  Carlos nodded.

  “Well, the emotions intervened in each of these phenomena. And according to Jung, they are the motor of psychic episodes.”

  “I follow, even though I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” Carlos replied, smiling.

  “It’s actually very simple, Carlitos: when you made your wrong turn onto the highway that contained a road sign for Ágreda, you were most likely in a disassociated frame of mind. On the one hand, everything was running smoothly in your normal or everyday state of mind; on the other, you were in a critical state that you were completely unaware of, but which had to do with your obsession with teleportations. And it was precisely that state, that sort of other you, that, on its own account, noticed the existence of that geographic marker, and it carried you there, leading your normal state of mind to believe that everything was the fruit of an unusual series of events.”

  “That critical state later guided me to the monastery at Ágreda?”

  “Exactly.”

  José Luis finished off his third beer with a satisfied look on his face. He was sure he’d hit the bull’s-eye. The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung had never disappointed him. And yet his innate pragmatism would not be long in tumbling down.

  Carlos was finally able to put what he wanted to say into words. “Let us accept your hypothesis for a moment and agree that the whole experience was the outcome of tremendous self-deception, that no such guided journey existed. In that case, whoever or whatever dropped several tons of snow onto the mountains of the Cameros, leaving only the road going to Ágreda open? Because I remind you that that is what happened. And another thing. Was it also my spiritual condition that led me, without asking anyone, to the monastery? And how could my ‘other I’ have known how to get around Ágreda if I had never even seen a map of the city?”

  José Luis Martín had taken his empty glass and was rolling it back and forth between his hands. He looked up at the journalist.

  “Listen to me, Carlos. Apart from everything about synchronicities, there was a time when I believed in miracles. You know that. And if what happened to you doesn’t follow a series of Jungian chance occurrences, or have anything to do with extrasensory perception, then . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Then it’s a matter of higher causes. Look for other proof. Investigate.”

  “You talk just like my old mathematics professor! What kind of evidence am I supposed to look for?”

  “I have no idea. It’s different every time, trust me. If it fails to manifest itself, then take your case to heaven! In the police station I get an eyeful of shit every day. I take part in interrogations and evaluate the psychological profiles of the worst delinquents. And that, day after day, makes you lose faith in the transcendent, in someone being up there. . . . So, all right then, should you manage to prove that what happened to you in Ágreda was an incident arranged by some sort of superhuman intelligence, and that same intelligence can respond to your requests . . .”

  “Then?”

  “I’ll give some thought to putting my robes back on. I’d love to recover my faith! And yours, too!”

  “Is that the psychologist or the ex-priest talking?” Carlos asked maliciously.

  “A man who once searched for God. Who spent twenty years among those he took to be His ministers, and never found Him. Which is why your work in this matter is important to me.”

  José Luis left the glass on the table, gave the journalist a hard look, and then continued the exchange with an uncomfortable question.

  “You aren’t a believer, are you?”

  Carlos was too surprised to answer at first.

  “You mean am I a practicing Catholic?”

  José Luis nodded.

  “No,” Carlos stammered. “And I stopped being one a long time ago. God cheated me.”

  “So perhaps you can find the Truth without being blinded.”

  “The truth in capital letters?”

  “Exactly. It is an overwhelming energy, always returning to its original brilliance, even when it takes centuries to do so. It comforts you and cleanses you when you find it. It has something”—he suddenly lowered his voice—“something to do with that God who forgot about you.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SAN ANTONIO MISSION

  Esteban de Perea and his party stayed in Isleta another three days. Following the Inquisitor’s instructions, the ten friars who had accompanied him left San Antonio’s fortress mission at dawn on the second day to install themselves among Isleta’s most humble families in an attempt to get the Indians to reveal any incident, no matter how insignificant, that would explain their peaceful conversion to Christianity.

  Perea’s suspicions were growing by the second.

  In Spain, he had learned that no one renounces his faith willingly. In that faraway world on the other side of the ocean, the Jews who had converted to Christianity after the edict of expulsion in 1492 went on practicing their faith behind closed doors in their homes. Those who did were given the name “Marranos” and found themselves implacably pursued by the Holy Office. Similarly, no one trusted the Moors. Even when they were baptized, those “sons of Allah” still bowed down to Mecca five times a da
y in secret. Why should these Indians be any different?

  Whether for supernatural reasons or not, Esteban de Perea needed to find out what had prompted them to supposedly change their beliefs.

  But his strategy was only partially successful.

  Not a single adult explained to the friars who or what had moved them to ask to be baptized. A few of the youngest children blurted out something about a powerful “blue spirit” who had visited them and had convinced their parents to leave their totems behind.

  The Inquisitor carefully noted this “clue.” He wrote it down in the white margins of his Bible, which was where he hid his personal account of the trip. Even so, regardless of his meticulous nature, none of the information they collected helped him to resolve the mystery. He would need a miracle, a sign, that would change the attitude of the adults in the Indian community; something that would let him inside their hearts.

  And the prodigy arrived; or to be more precise, Esteban de Perea provoked it.

  It occurred on his fourth day in Isleta, Sunday, the twenty-second of July 1692, just as the friars were making preparations to leave the mission. It was the feast of Mary Magdalene, and the friars who worked with Perea, accompanied by Friar Salas, called the congregation to a solemn Mass. Esteban intuited that the religious ceremonies would move some of the natives, and that that, seasoned with a strong sermon, might convince them to talk. In fact, he was giving thought to the idea of preaching about their children’s fear of the “voices” in the desert, and so wrote a homily that went straight to their souls. It was his final recourse.

  • • •

  With the last peal of the church bells resounding in the adobe towers, the church was filled to overflowing. Twelve friars were going to officiate at a service usually conducted by only one.

  “Do your utmost, Friar,” Juan de Salas said in a whisper as he pulled the chasuble over the priest’s head. “I have never seen so many people before at Mass.”

  “You needn’t worry. Everything is ready.”

  The Indians marveled at the power the place held. Hardly had they heard the first chords of the Introit when the atmosphere inside changed. Without understanding the words of the Latin rite, they perceived better than anyone a certain almost-forgotten bittersweet sensation, from the time when their kivas occupied the place where the church now sat.

  Father Esteban carried the ceremony. After the reading from the Gospel, the Inquisitor began his sermon. He appeared to be transfigured. His expression, which had been tense and watchful, gave way to a look of kindness and even docility.

  “On the third day after Jesus was crucified,” he began, “two of his disciples, traveling on the road to Emmaus, were marveling at the strange disappearance of the body of their ‘rabbi.’ They spoke of how Mary Magdalene and the other women had discovered his empty tomb, and of their encounter with an angel who told them the Lord was still alive.”

  The Indians listened intently. Esteban de Perea knew how they enjoyed stories abounding in marvels.

  “Suddenly,” he went on, “a man joined them on the road, a stranger to them. He asked who it was they were speaking about, and they, chagrined that this man had never heard of Jesus, told him his story in detail. After he had heard them out, this unknown man upbraided them for their lack of faith, but nonetheless invited them to his table and set out dinner. Only when they saw him breaking the bread did they realize who he was. It was their Lord, come back to life! The one they had been speaking of for hours! And yet before they could ask him a single question, Jesus vanished from their sight.”

  A few Indians exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Do you know why no one recognized him before?” Friar Esteban asked. “Because they trusted their eyes more than their hearts! Sometime later, the two disciples stated that, in the presence of the stranger, they felt their hearts quicken. In other words, deep inside they knew who he was, but they let themselves perceive through the physical senses and not those of the soul. Here is a lesson for all of us: if one day you meet someone who makes your heart quicken, do not doubt! He is a messenger from heaven!”

  The Inquisitor, at the climax of his story, paused for an instant.

  “And if you encounter such a person, would you not share the news with your neighbor?”

  A murmuring began to grow in the back of the church.

  It took the friars several moments before they realized that the sound was caused by the arrival of a contingent of painted men who were opening a passage through the congregants. They had entered in silence, threading their way among the parishioners discreetly, and now stood nearly at the center of the church.

  Indifferent, Friar Esteban continued with his sermon.

  “Our Lord makes himself felt in many different ways. One way, which he uses frequently, is sending us his emissaries. And then again, as happened on the road to Emmaus, he tests our ability to recognize with the heart. To identify him, it is enough to be attentive to the signs. Have you never felt this fire deep down inside? Have your children not felt it? I”—and here he paused melodramatically—“I know that you have.”

  No one moved a muscle.

  The families of Tiwas, Chiyauwipkis, and Tompiros listened intently to the Franciscan’s challenge. Meanwhile, the newly arrived members of the congregation looked around them as if the sermon being preached was not directed at them. They remained silent as the rest of the congregation chanted the Deo Gratias and Pater Noster following the homily. Packed closely together in the middle of the crowd, they stood waiting for the ceremony to come to a close.

  Their presence, nevertheless, did not surprise anyone.

  The Isleta natives were familiar with the new arrivals, who were a group of peaceful Jumanos, much like those who frequently visited the region to exchange turquoise and salt for animal skins and meat. A friendly tribe from far away, but one with whom they had good relations.

  At the end of the Mass, the leader of the group, a young Indian with a shaved head and spirals painted on his chest, drew close to the altar and approached Friar Salas. He spoke urgently for almost a minute in a Tanoan dialect the old missionary half understood. But it was enough to change the look on his face.

  “What is happening, Friar?”

  The Inquisitor could sense that something unusual was happening.

  “The man speaking to me is a Jumano Indian, Friar Esteban. From the south.” Salas spoke in a soft voice as he wiped the silver chalice. “He just finished telling me that he has been several days crossing through the desert, with fifty of his best men, and that he wants to speak to us.”

  “If what they need is food and water, let us help them.”

  “That isn’t what they want, Friar. This Indian is certain that a sign, or something like it, has directed them here, where they would find God’s messengers. Do you know what he is referring to?”

  A mischievous smile played across the old man’s face as he observed the Inquisitor’s sudden interest in what was going on around him.

  “A sign? What sort of sign?”

  Indulging his curiosity, Esteban de Perea walked over and asked the Jumano for more details. The young leader, who stared at him defiantly, went along, gesturing as he spoke. Father Salas, who was adept in the language of signs, interpreted the movements as best he could.

  “He is telling us that a woman descends from the heavens toward his village. He says that she has a white face like ours, that she is as radiant as the light in the sky. She is wearing a blue robe that covers her from head to foot and told them about the friars’ arrival in Isleta.”

  “Did he use the word ‘friars’?” Perea stammered.

  “Yes.”

  “And he says that it is a woman?”

  The old priest nodded.

  “He also says that the Mother of the Corn has never spoken to them in that way before. And that is why they believe it is another goddess, and they ask you to tell them if you know who it is.”

  “A goddess?”

/>   “Indeed, this young man goes even further: he says it was this woman who ordered them to come here to seek you out, so that he could ask you to accompany him to his village to speak to the people there about our God.”

  The Jumano was speaking very rapidly, as if he were running out of time. His hand was nervously cradling the rough cross, made out of pine bark, which hung around his neck.

  “Have you seen this man before?”

  Perea’s question distracted the old man.

  “Him, no. But his father, yes. He is called the great Walpi and is chieftain of his tribe.”

  “And this one? What is his name?”

  “Sakmo, Friar.”

  “Ask Sakmo if he saw this Lady in Blue with his own eyes.” Perea was giving orders now.

  Through a series of guttural sounds, Friar Juan translated the question, and a few seconds later translated the Indian’s response into Spanish.

  “Yes. On several occasions, always after sunset.”

  “This is indeed fortunate.”

  Friar Juan would not let the Inquisitor be the one to end the conversation.

  “So you see?” he exclaimed joyfully. “This is another sign!”

  “Another sign?” Friar Esteban cringed.

  “Could it be any clearer, Friar? Even if no one in my parish wants to tell you what brought them to accept Jesus Christ, these people do. This young Jumano knows nothing of tribunals, has no fear of the Holy Office, and appears never even to have seen a Spaniard before, but still he recounts the history of a woman dressed in blue, a woman who encouraged him to come here to meet you. And he arrives just at this moment!”

  “Please calm yourself,” ordered Friar Esteban. “If things are as they seem, let us act cautiously. And if not, let us put a stop to this sort of deception once and for all.”

  “So what is it, according to you? One of Our Lady’s miracles? Another manifestation of Guadalupe?” Friar Juan let himself get carried away for a few moments. “Did not Juan Diego describe the Virgin of Guadalupe as a woman wearing a blue robe?”