He turned then. His head dropped toward mine and he rested his cheek against my hair, the lightest pressure, so brief I might’ve imagined it, and then he stepped back. Once, he would’ve withdrawn completely, hidden his pain, but we’d shared so much in a short time, bonded in blood. We were not the same as we’d been when he first walked through my door.
“Yes,” he said, ignoring my reassurance. “Bad.”
“Tell me?”
He closed his eyes, sinking down against the stone. It scraped the amputation scars I had identified when he shared his blood. Copper scented the air, but he would heal, though that did not stop the pain.
“I dreamt of lost days,” he said at length. “Of when the Romans took my wings. It was a time of martyrs, when it pleased the archangels to see holy blood spilled to unite the faithful. In the hidden chamber deep within the coliseum, I told Emperor Commodus I would not kneel to him, and thereafter, they made a spectacle of me.”
“You fought?” I knew little of those days. My mother hadn’t believed in religious education, and what I’d learned in school had been sketchy at best. I doubted it would have prepared me for him in any case; he seemed so weary in the moonlight . . . and utterly alone.
Kel nodded, his expression distant. “When they saw I could not die, they hunted me for sport, and the archangels saw fit I should be punished. But once my persecutors fell to dust, I stood in the broken stones of that coliseum, saw how the mosaics are ruined and faded. The timeless work of mankind means nothing.”
“ ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair,’”I quoted, mostly because I couldn’t think what else to say. I had no context for comforting someone so old. I must seem like a veritable speck of dust.
As if voicing my thoughts, he went on. “To me, eternity means only time that does not end, but runs on and on like a dark river that feeds the sea. As they did then, witches and warlocks still crave my blood, so I hide my nature. Time has ground me down. . . . I am less than I was, and yet the work must be done.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Stupid question. If nothing else, I’d make him laugh at my presumption.
But he didn’t. Instead, he pushed out a slow breath, and when he spoke, he offered a faint, cryptic smile. “It helps that you asked. Rest a little before the sun comes up. I will not sleep again this night.”
I listened to him breathing for the longest time, and even though I should be sleeping now that he was awake, I couldn’t still my mind. Considering what he’d shared, I didn’t think I’d drift off, but I must have.
At first light he roused me. His face offered no evidence of the night before, quiet and composed as ever. He took off his shirt and wound it around his head like an Arab headdress. We ate in silence and shared the last of the water. If we didn’t find some soon, we’d be in trouble. Well, more than we were already.
The sky shone blue as the sun rose, and I followed him down into the valley. From this point, I didn’t know what we were looking for. Unearth her bones wasn’t as specific as one might prefer for relic hunting. My gait reflected the soreness in my muscles, but I kept moving over uneven ground.
Eventually I glimpsed a goat path and I hurried toward it. Surely that meant something. If nothing else, it was the first sign of civilization we’d seen in days. I could take learning we were offtrack, if it also meant a bath and clean clothes.
The trail led down into a village, smaller even than the one near where Escobar’s men had dropped us off. Squat adobe brick houses clustered together in the greensward. There were few vehicles and nothing like what I’d call a road. From the looks of those eyeing Kel, indigenous people lived here. I saw little Spanish blood reflected in the faces we passed on our way to the market in the center square, a glorified widening of the dirt.
We passed chickens and goats rummaging outside the houses. In every respect but one, this was a humble settlement. I paused outside the church. The crumbling stonework showed it to be ancient, older than anything else in this place; it dated to the time of the conquistadores and it carried Aymara symbols similar to those we’d found on the clay statue. Graven letters on the cornerstone told me its name: Nuestra Señora de la Peña. Our Lady of the Sorrows.
Right then, the way I felt, the name seemed ominous. Even Kel paused, gazing up at the relic of times dead and gone. I could hear people passing behind us, speculating, but I didn’t turn. I continued around the side of the churchyard littered with fallen stones and weeds. Behind it lay a cemetery.
Unearth her bones.
No, it couldn’t be literal. Could it? Dead man’s hands slid down my spine, icy cold and full of whispers of darkness to come.
Unearthing Her Bones
There were no hostels in the unnamed village, nor even a proper store. In the market, we bought fresh fruit. To my vast relief, one stall sold clothing. I doubted the vendor made much from the other villagers, so I didn’t haggle. By standards set elsewhere in the world, I still got a bargain, even if she’d refashioned old garments into new: fifty for the set, a yellow peasant blouse and a gaily patterned skirt.
I knew we looked disreputable and dirty. It wasn’t just Kel’s tats or the color of our skin that made people give us a wide berth. We also reeked of the jungle and hard living. It was time to do something about that, or nobody would talk to us.
“Disculpe, por favor . . .” More than one person ignored my polite overture.
At last, I offered a woman a couple of coins to answer a few questions and she pointed me to an old man willing to rent the use of his bathroom. Lines seamed his brown face, his snowy hair in contrast, and he didn’t say much, other than gracias when Kel paid him. But he stepped out of his four-room home to let us bathe in relative privacy. God’s Hand stood guard outside the bathroom.
The water came from a cistern outside and the shower was primitive, but it did the job. I washed quickly, knowing Kel still needed to take his turn and we shouldn’t use all the water the elderly gentleman had stored. We thanked the señor again for the privilege and for his generosity, then said farewell. He didn’t budge from his chair, merely watched our progress with raisin-dark eyes.
Clean and wearing fresh clothes, I felt better, though I had only battered walking boots and my sneakers. I wore the latter because they were lighter and cooler, at least. I’d worn those boots enough to last a lifetime and put countless miles on the soles.
In the village center, with the market closing up around us, we made a picnic out of the fruit: mangoes, prickly pears, guanabana, bananas, passion fruit, and papaya. After endless days of protein bars, this tasted wonderful. Some of it was messy, but I wiped my fingers on the grass. Nobody would object if we camped here for the night.
This must be the last leg of the journey. Whatever we were looking for had to be here.
Glancing at Kel, who was skinning a mango with juice dripping from his fingers, I thought aloud. “There’s nothing unusual about this place except the church. It’s old, old as that statue looked . . . and I saw Aymara markings.”
“As did I.”
“Then that’s where we should start.”
Since we’d purchased only a little food, we left the remnants—skin and sweet pulp—for the birds. I pushed to my feet and walked back down the dirt track. The church doors stood open as we approached, but I couldn’t see within, where shadows pooled. Bolstering my strength because I always felt weird in consecrated places—the whole witch’s-daughter thing—I led the way.
Kel followed, a comforting presence at my back. It was funny how used to him I’d become. He was like a wellplaced rock; you could climb on it to escape floodwaters, use it for self-defense, to prop something up, or simply to rest against when you were weary. But unlike that rock, he had feelings. I suspected it had been a long-ass time since anyone asked him how he felt, or what he wanted.
Letting my eyes adjust, I took stock of the place. There were no pews. If one knelt here, it was on the floor. Flowers had been left at various shrines
along the wall. The silence felt cool and soothing, like a weight had lifted when I stepped inside. Whitewashed walls bore traces of rust; likely the roof leaked and there was no money for repairs. Except for one, I didn’t know the names of the saints depicted on the walls, but I recognized Saint Martin de Perres from his dark skin. The altar was a heavy block of stone, etched with ornate patterns that didn’t always look wholly Christian to my eyes.
As we stood there, a thin man in black stepped out of the back room. “Buenas tardes. ¿Puedo ayudarles?”
To his credit, he didn’t react to the picture we made. On his own, Kel offered a hundred reasons to be wary, and I was obviously a redheaded güera. But if we were to unearth any bones, the priest might be able to tell us about a woman buried in the graveyard. It wasn’t enormous, so I hoped for luck. If cleansing the bad karma offered any benefit, I was due a break.
“Sí. Estamos buscando . . .” What were we looking for? I couldn’t say a woman’s bones—and maybe it wasn’t so literal anyway. So perhaps I should start with the man who’d sent us here: “. . . información acerca de la familia Escobar.”
Surprise slipped across his face before he schooled himself. He answered in Spanish, “I have not heard that name in a long time.”
I had been shooting blind, so elation raced through me. “¿Qué?”
“Escobar. Come,” he said, gesturing to us. “You will be historians, yes, or writers, maybe?”
Nodding, because his conclusion sounded more credible than the truth, I trailed behind him through the cool, dim church and into his private rooms accessible through a narrow corridor. He had a small sitting room with a niche for his cot. We took our seats while he fetched three brown glass bottles with gold and red labels that read CUZQUEÑA; it looked like beer. The priest cracked them open and the cold air smoked a little in the heat. As soon as I took the bottle, it tried to feed me images of what it had been doing, nothing traumatic, but I shut it down. I took a sip and judged it delicious, a nice, light lager.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
He indulged in a long drink and then said, “Forgive me; I have been rude. I am Father de León.”
“Mucho gusto.” I extended my hand, since I had to be on my best behavior.
He returned my greeting with the limp grip of a man more devoted to heavenly pursuits than earthly ones. But his manner remained friendly enough. Maybe we offered a welcome break in the killing boredom of his daily routine.
“The story,” Kel prompted.
Clearly there was one, or the man wouldn’t have escorted us back here. He would’ve simply said, I don’t know, and shown us out. I seconded with an inclination of my head, Cuzqueña in hand. God’s Hand didn’t touch his drink.
“The Church sent him to found the mission here. He was the only Spaniard for a very long time, but he related well to the people, and gradually, they came to his ways.”
“But something went wrong,” I guessed.
De León wore a grave mien. “Yes. A girl accused Father Escobar of rape. Since she was, as they say, touched by angels, no one believed her. She saw things that weren’t there, and she often cried for no reason. But when her belly swelled, the villagers decided she must have been telling the truth. They would have killed him, but he fled into the jungle. I do not know what happened to him, but the villagers were superstitious. They thought either he must be innocent, and God had taken him, or he was guilty, and the devil had come to drag him to hell.”
With Kel sitting beside me, neither proposition seemed as far-fetched as it might have once. “What do you think?”
The priest lifted his shoulders. “It is an old story, nothing more. Those who came before me recorded the interesting tales. I will do the same.”
“And have you?”
“So far, no.”
I hoped we wouldn’t bring “interesting times” to this quiet place. “What happened to the girl?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The other priests did not find her plight intriguing enough to write about her fate.”
That rankled. I knew he wasn’t responsible for his predecessors’ decisions, but the Church had too often either dismissed women as insignificant or persecuted them as sinful. They were either madonnas or whores, no middle ground.
Regardless, dead end there, then. So perhaps I wouldn’t be digging up some woman’s bones. Thank all the gods and goddesses. If Father Escobar had any connection with the man who’d sent me, however distant, then I was sniffing in the right spot. This was a long shot, but: “Did he leave anything behind?”
He angled his head. “That, perhaps. In the journals, the priest who came after him said Father Escobar left all of his things behind.”
Kel and I followed the trajectory of his gaze. On the wall hung a tarnished crucifix—silver, but it needed polishing. I remembered there were silver mines in Peru and that the country had conflicted with Mexico over it, long ago. The object was crudely cast, not made by a master, but I saw the signs of handwork on it.
“May I see it?”
This was going to be tricky. If this was the object I was meant to retrieve, how could I get it out of the church? First things first, however: I leaned forward in anticipation as de León stood and crossed to the wall, where he took down the crucifix with reverent hands. He passed it to me with an expectant look, as if I ought to comment on its obvious age or weight.
I glanced at Kel, who took his cue. He began to question de León, drawing his eyes away from me. The sound faded to a low buzz as I curled my hand around it. Old things always carried layers, so I took the burn and watched the slow procession of years. Most came from faith and devotion, so I saw priests praying in procession. Such memories, though powerful, carried only the heat of a summer day.
At last I hit bottom, a charge so powerful it stayed in the silver, even as others added their own experiences. I saw a whisper of Ramiro Escobar in this priest’s lean build, though the resemblance came from stance and attitude. He had a proud face, even as he prayed, both hands wrapped around the cross. I fell into the reading as if the bottom had dropped out of my world.
Surprise surged through me. I had not expected to see her again so soon, though she had spent a great deal of time here in recent days. I noted her prettiness in an abstract way, as I strove to keep my manner paternal with every female parishioner. Bitterness laced the observation. First I had been sacrificed to the Church, and then I had been exiled from my home. I could not pronounce her name; it was something savage, so I called her Juana.
I showed none of that emotional turmoil as she genuflected. I had yet to explain the difference between kneeling to God and kneeling to me, and so the natives continued to do both. They seemed to think I merited such obeisance as part of my position, and it pleased me to receive it.
Thus, I smiled at her approach and bade her rise. Belatedly I noted the fear in her eyes. She wore bruises on her thin arms like matching bracelets. I started to ask what had happened, but she threw herself at me. I caught her because I thought she was about to faint, and then she pressed her mouth to mine fiercely, desperately. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, and then I put her away from me.
That life was not for me. My father had chosen my path, and I could not let the wiles of a half-mad native girl sway me. She fell to her knees and kissed the hem of my robe, my feet, and I cringed in horror and discomfort. Her weeping filled my ears with its shrill tenor. Soon her cries rose to a crescendo; they would draw others.
I begged her to be silent.
And then the villagers came.
I fell into my own body with a sense of queasy disorientation. My gift was not the same as it had always been. Ever since I’d touched the necklace that contained my mother’s power—and gods only knew what else—readings were irregular. In Kilmer, the power burned a piece of paper to ash. Before, I saw only what they saw, but this time I became the priest, thinking his thoughts while they soaked into the crucifix in his hand. I trembled a little, eyes clos
ed.
A hand lit on my shoulder. Kel, I felt sure. The drone of conversation had ceased. Shit. I hated this part, where everyone treated me like a freak. When I opened my eyes, they were both staring at me.
“Estoy bien. No se preocupe,” I said, trying to convince all three of us.
“What were you doing?” the priest asked.
My hand shook when I reached for my beer to buy some time. I brought it to my lips and took a long swallow. Father de León watched me all the while.
Kel spoke for me. “Like the girl, she is angel-touched. She can see secrets left behind.”
Hm. Perhaps that was what the message meant. Unearth her bones. Learn her secrets. I didn’t know that I’d call what I did angel-touched, but that reply seemed more politic than the alternative when keeping company with a priest.
“Did it belong to him, then?”
I finished my beer and nodded. “Yes. And others too.” But his charge had been strongest, such shock and shame at the accusations. “I’d like to buy it.”
Ridiculous—we didn’t have the cash to pay for such a relic. Though our expenditures had been low, we had only seven hundred nuevos soles left. Yet I had to try. I didn’t want to sneak here in the dark to steal the crucifix. Surely Kel wouldn’t go along with that, even if I was “important.”
“It is part of the history of this mission,” Father de León said. “One cannot put a price on such things.”
As a former pawnshop owner, I noticed one thing straightaway: He hadn’t said no. That meant he was open to haggling, and that was my forte. He started out by naming an absurd price, ten thousand.
“Ridículo,” I said, laughing. I half rose, as if to leave.
“Espere. Quizás . . .”
Kel touched my arm lightly and whispered in my ear. The news made me smile. In the end, we dickered for a quarter of an hour before I got de León to accept six hundred cash and a matching pair of silver salt and pepper shakers: Eros and Psyche, of course. He could tell they were valuable and would buy a much nicer, newer crucifix, as well as other things for the church, but he hid his satisfaction well. Instead he wore a grave expression, as if he let the old one go only with great reluctance.