Fray Cipriano, who had been fondling the sheets of paper before him, took advantage of Felipe’s pause to ask his colleague, “Well, Don Julian, what is your opinion? Do we need to call in the fiscal and go through the whole rigmarole in Don Felipe’s case?”
“It is my humble opinion,” Don Julian replied gravely, also looking over the written leaves, “that this case has already consumed more time than it ought to have done, and other business presses heavily upon us.”
“Agreed.” Nodding again, Fray Cipriano proceeded to end the audience.
It was on Don Felipe’s tongue to protest the irregularity. Was he not to have a sight of the new fiscal? Where was the formal accusation, where his own advocate? He had not so much as named those whom he suspected Fray Junípero of suborning, let alone been asked to name witnesses for his defense. Yet, with an effort, he kept silent, hoping that the very abruptness of his treatment, coupled with its geniality, told in his favor.
His patience had its reward. A single week passed before he walked out of the secret cells an honorably acquitted man. Eleven years, one hundred sixty-two days, and a single week.
* * * *
The story to which he had sworn was that he had at last, after long delays, come home from the edge of the civilized world, arriving during the hour of siesta. If no one could swear to have seen him enter town, neither could any swear that no one else had seen him. All papers in his case, if not already irretrievably lost in the confusion of the secret records, would—he suspected—be destroyed, for it must never become public scandal that the Inquisition had tried one of its own inquisitors. Outside the tribunal (for he doubted that the Suprema itself had ever been notified of his arrest), only Junípero’s corrupted witnesses would know; and, if ever they dared blab, what would their word weigh against that of the inquisitors?
So changeless, so immutable had Don Felipe’s life seemed for so many days, months, and years in the secret cells, that he was bewildered for a time, blinking at the transformations in his suddenly enlarged world like that man born blind who, healed by Ihesu, had at the outset seen his fellow human beings as though they were trees walking about.
That Fray Junípero was dead came as little surprise. Neither did the manner and hour of his death—a blood vessel bursting in his brain during a Council of Faith, scarcely a month before Don Felipe’s own trial. That both Queen Isabel and her first inquisitor general, Tómas de Torquemada, had likewise passed from this world into the next caused the newly freed man some surprise but less secret grief than he found it prudent to show in public. Far more painful was the news that his patron, the good Pope Alexander VI, had gone to his heavenly reward in the year of Grace 1503, and no doubt found his bliss marred, in so far as enjoyment of the Beatific Vision could be marred, by the spectacle of his old enemy Giuliano Della Rovere reigning in his place, as Pope Julius the Second of that name.
Several years before his death—very soon, in fact, after Felipe’s own imprisonment, and on the eve of the new century, in the same year that saw Spain’s release from her first inquisitor general, 1498, Pope Alexander had finally been driven, as even the best-meaning must sometimes be driven by the pure force of events, to purge the world of that violent reformer Fra Girolamo Savonarola of Florence. Much more commendable than the fiery Italian monk was another young reformer, Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam, whose Handbook of the Christian Soldier was sweeping Spain, along with the rest of Europe. Don Felipe made it one of his earliest acts of freedom to purchase a copy.
Neither Gubbio nor any other of Felipe’s servants had ever been either arrested or personally inconvenienced by the Inquisition in any way beyond the quiet necessity of inventorying the household goods, which burden had fallen chiefly on Felipe’s personal secretary Don Martin de Villaréal. The Italian proved to have been managing his master’s properties with considerable worldly wisdom: maintaining regular employment in various fetch-and-carry capacities for the Holy Office, Gubbio had regularly used its pack trains, with their inquisitorial immunity from the customs, to smuggle valuable goods back and forth between the various kingdoms of Spain; and, should other markets temporarily fail him for various of these goods, he was not above selling them himself in the Inquisition’s own shop, quietly bringing them in on such days as he manned the place, to stock alongside the items legitimately confiscated from condemned heretics, pocketing the price of his smuggled goods when they found buyers and calmly carrying them home again when they did not.
“Gubbio, my Gubbio!” Don Felipe repeated, shaking his head. “How I rejoice that I am not your confessor!”
The Italian replied, “Would your Severity have preferred your prison bill to rest unpaid? But here is an opportunity you may prefer for your glory and our increased profit, all sanctified in the sight of God.”
What the servant held out to him was a letter from King Fernando himself, now ruling his dead wife’s kingdom of Castile as regent for their widowed daughter Juana, called “La Loca” on account of her increasingly obvious madness. Fernando offered Felipe de Alhama de Granada the post of chief inquisitor of Córdoba. Although to all appearances the king himself believed, along with the multitude, that Don Felipe had simply been long delayed on his journey, the former prisoner could not but suspect that Fernando’s desire to appoint him to this post might have worked along with Fray Junípero’s timely decease to hasten his own release.
But why this pressing search for a new inquisitor in Córdoba? How could laborers be found lacking for this particular part of the field?
Shrewd questioning of Gubbio, Don Martin, and others eventually revealed to Don Felipe that Córdoba’s last chief inquisitor had been a monster—Diego Rodrigues Lucero, called “El Tenebroso” in ironical wordplay. Under Spain’s second inquisitor general, one Diego Deza, whose term of office Don Felipe had entirely missed but whom many hinted had been even more to be dreaded than his glorious predecessor Fray Tómas, El Tenebroso had held Córdoba for years in a grip of terror and torture, actually going so far as to make a public spectacle of arresting and imprisoning that saintly archbishop, Fernando de Talavera, whom Isabel had given Granada as if in an effort to heal the wounds she had herself inflicted.
Now the king had found a third inquisitor general in Cardinal Gonzalo Ximenes de Cisneros, whose desire for just reform had manifested itself by forcing El Tenebroso into retirement on half pay. Hence, both King Fernando’s need for a replacement, and his difficulty in finding one.
Don Felipe spent as long as he dared in pondering the problem. But, as he considered what temper unhappy Córdoba must be in after suffering so long under a man scarcely worthy to have been a Nero, let alone a holy inquisitor; what humors must predominate at present in her long-suffering people; and what wounds must fester there, he felt himself unequal to the task, and joined the list of those who respectfully, and with many polite expressions of regret, declined his Majesty’s appointment.
Indeed, Felipe asked himself, as he had asked himself over and over during the days and nights of his imprisonment, ought he not of his own volition request retirement on half pay? The Holy Office was but one aspect of a generous Church who held out vocations almost without number to her clerical members. Might he not take up residence in that parish of his own, which he had never yet seen? Might he not, now that his old Spanish-born patron was gone, return to Italy and fulfill his youthful dream of a pastoral office in that country? Might he not even conquer his prejudices and turn monk, now that so many of the monastic houses were being returned to their original purity?
Even as he began his first letter of the new century to his boyhood friend Gamito, searching for phrases to explain his long lapse without violating the further vow of silence imposed on him, the question hammered at Felipe’s thoughts of why he should remain bound to that same Inquisition which had so treated its own faithful servant.
Chapter 20
The Dream of the Starwalker
It seemed to be night, yet such a night as he had
never known. Great, stark cylinders stood at regular intervals, like huge candles, along the broad thoroughfare, each silver cylinder capped with a light brighter than twenty full moons. It was the length of two Aves before he saw how steadily these lights shone forth in their greenish glow, for mist or smoke wove about them constantly in ever-changing swirls. He coughed—the swirls were acrid.
Beyond the cylinder lights, above them, below them, and all around, windows seemed quietly ablaze, as if the city were illuminated, but with lamps far brighter than any of his own time. And what a city it was! The windows stretched above his head in many banks and rows, until the buildings themselves, which he finally made out in their dark outlines, seemed each one taller than the Tower of Babel. Not immediately around him, but somewhat in the distance, he saw lights along the lower levels that flashed softly dark and bright again with curious figures limned in many pale colors.
Turning to examine the other direction, he found Rosemary at his side.
“Welcome to Valparaiso,” she said dryly.
“Valparaiso?”
“Valparaiso, Indiana. Heartland of North America—the New World, to you. This is what it’ll be in 1924 C.E.—sorry, A.D.”
“How can mankind inhabit this place?” He coughed again. “The air itself is thick and tastes of some foul acid.”
She sniffed appraisingly. “Gasoline inside city limits.”
From this direction he saw in the distance, as if it stood on a low ridge, what he sensed must be some cathedral of the future, with a great, round tower at one end, rising in pleats of stained glass from the ground to twice as high as the rest of the building. Illuminated from within, it seemed athrob with enough holy beauty to compensate for the reeking squalor immediately about him. Lifting one arm, he pointed at the tower.
She nodded. “Big media evangelist there tonight. Holding what he calls an ‘ecumenical tent revival.’ Some tent, huh? Look in here.”
She led him into one of the buildings. They ascended two flights of stairs, soft with thick but frayed carpeting, drenched in some strange, all-encompassing, shadowless twilight that showed every cobweb, roll of dust, and chipping of the paint. At last they stood in a passageway of straight lines and sharp angles, before a plain brown door. Insubstantially, they passed through without opening it.
Eleven people sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, some cross-legged, others with legs folded beneath their bodies. They wore short and brightly colored tunics over trousers or long skirts. Many had scarves tied round their heads, and most wore at least one or two pieces of jewelry. All had their eyes gently closed, and expressions of peace on their faces. Many had scarves tied round their heads, and most wore at least one or two pieces of jewelry. All had their eyes gently closed, and expressions of peace on their faces.
In the center of the circle was a small mound, flat on top and entirely draped with pale cloth, on which a colorful pottery mug, filled with water, rested between two thick wax candles. They provided the room’s only light: to Don Felipe’s eyes, it looked far more natural than the false illuminations of town and stairway. Incense filled the air, some fragrance unfamiliar but grateful to his nostrils. To his eyes, the sides of the room appeared crowded with furniture and more cluttered than any alchemist’s study, but within the circle all was open and tranquil.
One of the men, lean and bareheaded, with some few white strands in his dark brown hair, began to chant. Low, calm, and resonant, his voice pervaded the room. First he himself, then several others, finally all of them swayed gently from side to side. Though no one came near it, the water in the mug rippled slightly. Don Felipe sensed some Power here; and, while part of his mind acknowledged that he ought perhaps to decry it as heretical, his awestruck soul could not recognize it as evil. Had not Ihesu Himself said, “He who is not against you, is with you,” “By their fruits ye shall know them,” and “If Satan were divided against himself, how could his house stand?”
Rosemary said, and even her voice was for once soft and tinged with brusque awe, “Starwalker Jones Silverstairs. Yes, I always heard he liked keeping it simple.”
Don Felipe whispered, “Who are these people?”
“Wiccans. Neo-Pagans. Witches, if you like.”
“But…I see no sign here of the Devil. This is surely no Black Mass…?”
“The Black Mass was a Christian invention. Shh! Listen.”
He became aware of low, rumbling sounds, vibrant in the floor beneath his feet.
Rosemary pointed out the window. He had not noticed it before. Now, he marveled at its expanse of clear glass, the length of a man’s arm across and twice as high. Still marveling, he peered out, and saw all the city lying like a vast, dark beast beneath its thousands of garish lights.
The building with the tower of stained glass rose above all the other lights, direct in his view. It seemed much nearer than it had outside. He sensed it pulsing, throbbing—almost, he could hear its preacher declaiming, its congregation responding. He asked, “What does the evangelist tell them?”
“Another Ferran Martínez,” Rosemary replied. “This one’s targeting witches.”
The bottom of the tower vomited forth many tiny figures, like ants or strange wasps bursting in one mass from their nest.
“Not all of them,” Rosemary commented. “Thank the Lady, it wasn’t all of them. Estimated twenty percent of the total attendance that night.”
How many, then, must have been gathered there, in that cathedral of the future? No more than one fifth of them spewing themselves out…he had seen many entire villages inhabited by fewer people than there were in this new mob. And it moved with paralyzing speed. Even as he guessed at its numbers, it had come halfway—and it was coming straight for the house of the witches.
Who were crowding at the window now, neither ignoring nor heeding himself and his guide…rather, treating them as merely two more bodies in the general alarm. “The Christians!” “They’re coming!” “The Fundos!” “Gods, what did he tell them this time?”
“Sisters and brothers!” cried the man whom Rosemary had called Starwalker. “Stand not on the order of your going, but go! Quickly and softly. Melt in. Go with the Lord and the Lady—blessed be, and may we gather again!”
They began leaving at his first words, and were entirely gone only heartbeats after he finished. Then he himself, after one glance around, went out, neither hurriedly nor slowly, and shut the door with care behind him. Last of all, Rosemary, having held Felipe back from the general rout, led him through the closed door, down the steps, and back out upon the hard, clean black street.
Wide though it was, the mob was choking it at one end. At the other, scant paces ahead of Felipe and his guide, two witches held back, one of them a young woman, staring with anxious eyes at their leader as if waiting for him.
“Go!” he told them, his voice low and urgent.
“Starwalker,” asked the young woman, “will you—”
“Go!” he repeated. “Split up! Melt in! Don’t worry about me.”
“There!” someone bawled from the mob, and another voice added, “That’s him! There’s the Right Arm of Anti-Christ!”
“Starwalker—” began the young man who had lingered.
Something small and hard—stone or brick?—hurtled out of the mob and struck the young woman’s forehead. She staggered. Her companion seized her arm and ran, all but dragging her along. As though to shield them, Starwalker sprang between them and the mob, half turning to face it. They were close, too close to outrun—
One of those dread explosions made by handguns of the future shook the street. Starwalker stood for an instant, eyes already glazed, and then fell. The back of his head was gone in a mass of blood and soft brains.
The explosion and sudden death stopped the mob, but for no more than a few atoms of time. Someone shouted, “Praise the Lord! Now let’s cleanse the whole damn nest!”
Screaming and frenzied, they surged through the street like maddened bulls. Most of the
m ran around or over the corpse, kicking and trampling but otherwise giving it little attention. When the greater part had passed on in pursuit of other victims, however, some few lingered as if eager to dishonor the body.
All this while, Rosemary had held Felipe back in a doorway. Now, without warning, she sprang forth and stood over the martyr’s corpse, glaring at those dregs of the mob. “No!” she screamed. “Lady God! Not this time!”
Don Felipe held his breath. In the usual pattern of these visions, he and his guides could only witness, without affecting events in any way. Yet, for once, the rabble held off. Whether they saw her or not, some sense of her seemed to cow them: they shrank away from their victim, leaving him alone as they pelted after their comrades like dragon scales trying to fix themselves once more to the monster’s body.
“They never caught the others,” Rosemary said. “Silverstairs was the only casualty this time.” Felipe saw tears rolling down her mannish face. They shocked him more, almost, than the violence. In silence, he watched her kneel, gather the corpse into her arms, and rock back and forth over it pieta-like, unconscious of self in her grief.
For some time, she seemed unable to speak further. At last she said, “One of my grandfathers was almost with Silverstairs that night. At the last minute, he decided to stay home with my grandmother, help her nurse a bad cold. My other grandparents were over there. They could’ve been in the mob. I don’t know. I never asked. Never will ask.”
Don Felipe laid one hand on her shoulder. The name “Great-granddaughter” almost came to his lips. Almost, not quite. He had no children. He was both celibate and, in his fifty-fifth year, still virginal, still faithful to his half-forgotten love. All his life, in dream after dream, this woman of the future had lied to him.
Inquisitor Dreams Page 20