Against the Inquisition

by Marcos Aguinis

  The rooms became empty and bleak. Francisco spoke to the echo, that new invisible presence that had taken his family’s place. A few scattered candles illuminated their last night, during which no one slept because nothing was left, not even the rush mats. Their father extinguished the candles one by one, as if ending a ritual. The house was a dead being they were leaving respectfully, and with an unnamable oppressiveness.

  When he thought everyone was asleep, Don Diego went out to the courtyard. A tenuous light poured through the foliage. He stayed still in his beloved orange grove, taking in its branches, its hidden fruit, its slow verdant breath. The trees formed an enigmatic awning, a weave through which the stars blinked. He focused on a very bright one. And he confided his fears. Then, in a very low voice, he recited psalms that praised the beauty of the night and the scent of plants. Finally, he confided in a listening star that he still hoped to return; he had dreamed of settling in this place forever. This did not appear to be the will of the Lord. He walked closer to one of the trees and leaned against it. He stayed still, feeling its dampness. He made it his—the leaves and branches, the scent and freshness, as though he could transfer a physical temple into his spirit, transform it into something portable. He prayed to God for them not to be caught on the dangerous road.

  They had to leave before dawn. The moon was still dusting salt over the rooftops. Don Diego returned to the naked rooms and started gently calling his family member’s names: Aldonza, Diego, Isabel, Felipa, Francisco. The enslaved Luis and Catalina did not need to be summoned: they were ready, with the last bundles on their heads.

  There was a last, terrible attempt at resistance from Isabel and Felipa: they clung to a doorjamb, crying, crouching, demanding to stay. Finally they entered the dark womb of another wagon, climbing the ladder attached to the back opening. Francisco followed them, full of curiosity, his way barely lit by a hanging lantern. Several straw mattresses were spread throughout the vast tube. A lattice, held in place by wooden stakes on both sides, was covered in leather. The roof was held up by arches made of flexible wood shaped into an oval structure, from which rain would likely run off. The enormous cylinder resembled a chapel, reduced in size and suspended in air. He looked for a place to sit between the soft bundles and people. He preferred to be near the front, where he could see the road. He tripped over a pile of blankets and a pair of legs.

  Astonishment and joy ran through him: a man sat leaning against a stake. Despite the darkness, Francisco recognized him as the lantern glowed across one side of the man’s face.

  “Brother Isidro! What are you doing here?”

  The old priest gathered his legs in so the boy could keep going forward. But Francisco decided to stay by his side.

  Don Diego checked to ensure that his whole family was present, calling each person by name and straining to see them in the dark. He included the slaves’ names. Aldonza distributed blankets. The wagon lurched into motion.

  The axle squeaked and the ropes groaned. The wagon swayed spasmodically, until it settled into a rhythm, slow, unique, like that of a fantastic boat. They crossed the main plaza, which was deserted. The church and town hall gleamed like ghosts. The Spanish cherry tree where a thief had recently been hung was almost impossible to see. The oxen kept on, eastward, and then they turned toward the south. The wagon crossed the neighborhood of the artisan workshops, which were silent as tombs. They could not see the foliage of the walnut trees that marked the start of Don Graneros’s property, with its prosperous wagon factory. Francisco hadn’t managed to say goodbye to Lucas, though Diego had.

  The long adobe walls grew distant. They arrived at the southern terrace, where the shapes of many other wagons could be made out, already in line. Herds of mules, donkeys, and horses held close to the caravan. A few armed officials were examining documents. Don Diego ordered his family to stay quiet inside the vehicle, covered in shadows. Happily, the officials had no interest in the passengers, only in the baggage and goods. They paid more attention to the second wagon, the one that held the family’s trunks and furniture.

  After half an hour the wagon shook again. The real journey was beginning. The caravan crossed Ibatín’s fenced border through the great southern gate. A fine layer of silver covered the countryside. A breeze shuddered through the open space, carrying the scent of freedom. Don Diego touched the monk’s hand, a gesture of understanding: for now, they were escaping the long arm of the Inquisition.

  The rhythmic sway lulled almost all of them to sleep.

  8

  The sunny morning undid the coolness of the night. Blankets, shawls, doublets, and jackets were cast off like hindrances. Sweat gathered and glistened on the oxen’s haunches. The laborer driving the wagon, seated under the front roof on a suitcase full of his own clothing, watched the animals move as if watching the movement of trees. Don Diego examined his gun and placed it between his legs. Then he said, “Near here is the road toward the City of Caesars.”

  He seemed about to say more, but then stopped to prick his ears toward the creaking of the stakes.

  “What’s the City of Caesars like?” asked Francisco, crossing his legs.

  “They say that its streets are paved in gold,” his father said, stretching, without disturbing the firearm. “All the homes are palaces. The residents have developed arts and agriculture, and they enjoy the best fruits and vegetables.”

  “Is it far away?”

  “Nobody has been able to get there,” Brother Isidro said.

  “It’s that far?”

  “It’s possible that the residents have been able to throw explorers off their scent,” Don Diego explained. “It’s possible that we’ve passed close by without realizing it. Who knows? Maybe certain tribes enjoy the city’s protection in exchange for leaving clues to confuse seekers, and then, if someone gets too close, they attack and kill him.”

  “I’d like to go to the City of Caesars,” Francisco admitted.

  “When will we stop to rest?” asked Felipa.

  “At ten o’clock.”

  The caravan was heading toward a small forest. They were now quite far from the mountain range, and from such a distance they could take in its majesty. In the foothills they could glimpse the blurry village of Ibatín. The jungle was a distant black strip with purple patches. There they crouched: the dangers of nature, the Calchaquí people, and the Inquisition.

  Every once in a while the doctor and the monk exchanged worried glances. The implacable Brother Antonio Luque would not be satisfied with the disappearance of his suspects. He had already hunted down and arrested, in small remote La Rioja, the alleged Jew Antonio Trelles. It was likely that he would do the same with them.

  The guides on horseback marked out a circumference, and the oxen left their path to obey this familiar prod. They were visibly tired. The guides pulled the wagons off the road, forming a great circle. While the travelers stretched their legs on the ground, a few laborers freed the oxen from their yokes so they could eat and drink. A few other laborers looked after the group of donkeys, mules, and horses. The break would last until four in the afternoon, waiting out the six hours of peak heat: the oxen could bear thirst, hunger, rain, darkness, and swollen rivers, but they could not endure heat.

  The Núñez da Silva family’s wagon was parked beside the one that held their possessions. Two laborers climbed up and placed a set of rungs from one wagon roof to the other. Over this makeshift frame they hung leathers to create a perfect hut under which they could enjoy drafty shade. There, they could eat and then take their siesta. At the center of their wagon circle, a campfire was lit to prepare the meal. The laborers who worked on these journeys—a mix of black people, Indians, mulattoes, and mestizos, some enslaved, some free—were well trained, and fulfilled their tasks efficiently. By the time the passengers had unwound, the laborers had already slaughtered a cow and butchered it. Soon the redolent smoke of grilling meat hovered over the wagons. Luis unpacked several stools with canvas seats and a small cam
ping table from the wagon, for serving lunch.

  Suddenly, the pack of mules strained in many directions, having clearly sensed a threat. The laborers struggled to contain them.

  “Pumas,” Don Diego confirmed, reaching for his gun.

  Brother Isidro called to Francisco and his siblings: “Stay close, don’t move.”

  The fragrance of cooking meat had excited the wild creatures. The mules’ terror spread to the rest of the animals. They had to be whipped, pushed, and surrounded to be kept together. Some of the passengers offered to explore the immediate surroundings. The pumas were likely hidden among the reeds, or behind the next copse, or perhaps in the grass. They wouldn’t dare attack unless they were very hungry.

  After half an hour, calm returned to the improvised corral and people began to relax again. The danger seemed to have passed. Catalina and Luis chose succulent pieces of grilled beef with the tips of knives, arranged them on a pair of trays, and took them to the Núñez da Silva family’s table. Those who preferred could savor a stew of vegetables, potatoes, garbanzos, and meat. A small demijohn of wine sufficed for the whole family, with enough to share with the passengers of another wagon. Oranges were passed out for dessert.

  The adults folded their jackets as pillows and lay down on the grass. Francisco, for his part, was still restless from all the excitement and preferred to devote this first respite in the journey to satisfying his curiosity. He studied the undersides of the wagons, as if they were intimate areas of a body. Crouched and alert, he stared at and touched the floor that seemed so firm when one was traveling inside, but which was actually made of a rough material pulled over planks. The wagon’s body extended over a long beam that connected it to the yoke. He stroked the beam, which was smooth and stained with ox sweat and road dust. Then he walked to the circle of coals where the meat had cooked. The fire was going out. He went toward the group of oxen, near the stream. Nearby, the other livestock grazed.

  “Why can’t mules have babies?” he’d asked his brother Diego in Ibatín, as they watched a drove of them.

  “Because they’re born from a donkey and a horse. They’re artificial. They can’t propagate themselves. They weren’t part of Noah’s Ark.”

  “No?”

  “No. They’re an intrusive species. They didn’t appear on the fifth day of creation, like the rest of nature’s beasts. They appeared a long time after that, when a donkey, instead of coupling with a female of its own species, did it with a female horse.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  “I think it’s wrong.”

  “Then why does anyone raise mules? And sell them? And use them?”

  “For that very reason. They’re useful and strong. They’re ideal for transporting cargo at a good pace, and for moving across rocky terrain. They’re an invention that helps men get rich.”

  “And it’s not possible to have a male and female mule together? To ‘couple,’ as you put it?”

  “It almost never happens. And if it does, the female mule isn’t fertile.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s how it is. She’s sterile. As I said, a donkey and a horse can make a mule, but mules have no offspring. They can’t produce anything—not another mule, not a horse, not a donkey.”

  At that moment, Francisco’s thoughts were interrupted. A few laborers came running.

  “Over there! Over there!”

  They ran toward the campfire, which had already been covered with earth—“Over there, over there!”—and on to the corral, where they formed a ring around the agitated animals. Those traveling with guns aimed them at the reeds. Three terrified donkeys had separated from the herd; they were trotting off, chased by a copper-colored brightness.

  Out of the grass a puma shot up like an arrow.

  In that moment, Francisco witnessed an extraordinary thing.

  One of the three donkeys slowed down, while the other two kept on. It didn’t turn to charge at the puma, but, rather, offered its rump while twisting its head, as if calculating how long it had before being caught. The puma, several meters away, leapt in a bright arc and landed violently on its victim’s back. The donkey shook with the blow, but didn’t change its posture, as its two companions gained a great distance. It waited, with incredible fortitude, until its ferocious rider had settled into place. Then it threw itself suddenly to the ground, waved its legs in the air, and crushed the puma with its back. It brayed with pain and joy. The puma struggled to escape the lethal trap. It opened its blood-soaked claws and beat its tail against the ground in despair. The donkey kept rubbing its wounded back as if seized with an itch, until it broke the puma’s delicate spine. Then it flexed its legs, lifted its head, and rose clumsily.

  Don Diego gestured at the other men to lower their guns. There was no need to kill the puma. The donkey was already doing it, in formidable bites, chewing at it with grace. Blood pooled around the animals and smeared their hides. At last, the exhausted donkey stumbled away from what was left of the puma before falling to the ground.

  The laborers worked fast, exulting loudly. Shining knives cut the puma’s precious skin, which, still damp, was displayed like a flag.

  The donkey was gravely injured. Blood flowed rhythmically from its neck. Its jaws were covered in foam. It breathed rapidly.

  “It’ll have to be sacrificed.”

  Francisco couldn’t bear to watch the crime. He ran back toward the wagon, but nevertheless heard someone say, “It’s not worth wasting munitions. Cut its throat.”

  The receiving lieutenant of the Holy Office pushes the chair that stands in his way. He walks for the door and, impatiently, orders, “Let’s go!”

  Once again, the officials close their fingers around Francisco’s strong arms. They pull him away from his wife. She tries to resist: she moans, shouts, begs. She holds out her daughter, who is bathed in tears—it’s all useless. They take Francisco out to the dark road.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  They push him and, after a few minutes, Lieutenant Minaya tells him, “We’re going to the Monastery of Santo Domingo.”

  9

  They resumed their journey after four o’clock. The wagon circle unwound into a long line of twenty laden wagons. In front, as always, the guiding horsemen rode on their agile horses, exploring the terrain ahead and riding back with information.

  The family began to talk about the heroic donkey. How it had defended its companions. How it bore the pain of claws and fangs. How it ended up killing the predator with its teeth. How it fought in spite of its own fear.

  “But they cut its throat!” Francisquito protested.

  His father shook his head and reminded him that the donkey was already dying, that it would have been crueler to abandon it in such a condition of suffering. But the boy couldn’t contain his sobbing. Aldonza reached for the earthen pitcher and, trembling, filled a small jug of water. She, too, thought what had happened was an injustice.

  The countryside became bereft of trees. The farther they got from the mountain and its seething jungle, the greater the emptiness around them. Grass carpeted the land, at times yellow, at times verdant, while the copses became ever sparser. A fox ran beneath the wagon. In a few stretches, ñandús approached, provoking the sudden flight of other birds. The wagon’s driver, swaying on his worn suitcase, pointed at crows circling in the sky: in an archaic rite, they were celebrating the death of an animal, and soon they would fall on the carcass to feast.

  After several hours of travel, the caravan resumed its wagon circle. Dinner had to be prepared before night fell.

  Isabel and Felipa found bushes of wild berries between the bay laurel trees. Their lips turned black as they sampled the fruits with gluttonous speed while also filling a cooking pot with them.

  Their dinner was frugal, lit by candles. The berries were served as dessert.

  Their stop was brief. The laborers put out the fire and soon the wagons were back in their line. Twenty swaying towers moved in the d
arkness along a route that had already been assessed by the guiding horsemen. Night was the best time for travel, as the oxen suffered less.

  Francisco lay between Don Diego and Brother Isidro. Through the front opening he could see the stooped driver on his old leather suitcase. From the ceiling, a lance-like cattle prod hung like a mythological finger. Through the back opening he saw the black cloth of the firmament stretched over everything, sparking with light. Francisco already knew a few of the constellations. There, for example, was a tail of the Milky Way. There, the Three Marias that formed Orion’s Belt. There, a planet. Yes, it was a planet, because it didn’t blink: it was round and large like one of Brother Isidro’s eyes. He’d been taught that astrologers could diagnose illnesses and predict the future by reading the stars. For them, it was like a kind of text. Why not? God could make a snail of stars one letter, and a snake of stars another. Was the terrestrial alphabet perhaps invented in the image and likeness of the celestial one? Francisco tried to shape an L, O, C, T, P, or M in the blanket of the stars.

  Before going to sleep, he sat up to drink some water. That’s when he noticed how the countryside mirrored the firmament. It was an incredible sight. Millions of insects had lit their lamps. They laughed and their lights winked. They laughed and sang. The dark grass was enchanted. It seemed full of diamonds. He reached his hand out, wanting to catch the fireflies, but his brother pulled him back by the belt.

  “You’re going to fall.”

  Francisco remained captivated by the feast of lights. It occurred to him that these myriad insects also formed an alphabet. They were the book that God had written into the countryside, just as He had written another one with the stars. Perhaps the one in the countryside was about simpler things. Out in the distance a cluster lit up in the shape of an A, and another in a T, quickly replaced by a V or an F. Only those with very good training could read such a book.