Chapter 31

“Iriomé, Iriomé!” cried Hermana Guadalupe. Panting, she stopped in front of the hermitage where Iriomé nursed little Tamanca in the last rays of the evening sun. He had Joaquín’s dark hair and Iriomé’s bright, blue-green eyes.

“You must leave!” gasped the young nun. “They’re here and want to search the whole convent.”

“Who?”

“Frai Lorenzo de la Huerta. He’s in charge of the Inquisition Tribunal for this area now. He’s been informed that the abbess wants to build a chapel in honor of the Virgin Mary to thank God for her miraculous recovery.”

“And this reminded him of me?”

Guadalupe nodded. “You have to go right now and hide in the forest, you know where. Once the danger has passed, I’ll let you know.”

Iriomé took Tamanca, who began to cry immediately, off her breast and wrapped him hastily into a cloth. The two young women embraced briefly, and Iriomé could not help wondering whether it might be the last time.

With the child pressed close to her, she ran as fast as she could across the meadow up the hill to the forest to go into hiding in the protection of the trees. In the distance she could already hear male voices and dogs barking.

To confuse the dogs, she waded across a stream, jumping from stone to stone. Breathless and soaked, she reached the rock face in which there was the entrance to a tunnel she had discovered gathering herbs, which had once served as a smugglers’ hiding place. With the cloth she tied Tamanca firmly to her chest, pushed the bushes aside, and squeezed on all fours through the narrow entrance. The narrowness and the shape of the tunnel dampened all noises, but now and then a howl reached her ears. Yet she could not distinguish whether it was the wind or the pack of hounds.

Trembling with cold, she crouched on the hard rock holding her child close to her to offer him any warmth her body was capable of giving. After she had nursed Tamanca again, she sank to the ground and fell into a restless sleep, exhausted.

Only the crying of her son woke her up again. In the darkness of the cave it was impossible to discern how long she had slept and whether it was day or night. While she breastfed her child, she realized how thirsty she was. She remembered that Tichiname taught her to put a small pebble into her mouth when she had no water and to suck on it to stimulate salivation. She groped her surroundings in the dark until she found a stone of the right size, cleaned it, and put it into her mouth.

Thus hours, probably days, passed between dozing and waking. She was plagued by gnawing hunger, thirst, and increasing weakness. Eventually she believed she could neither sit nor lie any longer. She knew that she and her baby would die of thirst if she stayed here any longer waiting for Guadalupe. Her limbs stiff, she crawled out of the hole.

The glaring sunlight hit her like a blow. It took her a while to get accustomed to it. From the position of the sun she was able to tell that it was early afternoon. Except for the chirping of the birds, nothing could be heard. Carefully and always in the cover of a tree or shrub, she crept down the hill slope toward the monastery. Its valley lay peacefully, and from her location she could clearly see that no horse was tethered in the courtyard in front of the church. The danger seemed over. At least for the time being.

After she had assuaged her burning thirst drinking water from the brook, she crept cautiously along the back of the monastery and then took the path past the barns to the main building. There was no one to be seen, nothing unusual for this time of day in midsummer. Most of the nuns took a siesta until vespers.

Iriomé entered the entrance hall and walked into the office of the abbess. She knocked on the door, which was slightly larger than the others, and entered the room after having heard the familiar, “Entra por favor.”

Madre Teresa looked at her in astonishment; then her eyes filled with tears. She did not need to speak. Iriomé knew that something terrible had happened. Wordlessly the abbess rose behind her desk and signaled Iriomé to follow. They set out for the church. Iriomé pressed her son closer as if to calm her pounding heart.

Inside the church it was pleasantly cool. The sunbeams looking in through the colored windows spread a flickering light. The abbess went to one of the side altars with dragging feet, took two of the burning altar candles, and handed Iriomé one. Then she opened a narrow wooden door and climbed down a steep stone staircase. Iriomé had to bend to follow her. It smelled damp and musty, as if no one had been here for years.

In a sort of cave with a circular vault, Guadalupe was laid out on a pedestal of white stone. The abbess held the candle so that Iriomé could see the oval face, framed by the black veil of her habit. Her lips were burst, her left eye was only a blue-violet lump of flesh.

“We found her in the forest. She has been tortured to death,” said the abbess in a flat voice, which echoed dully from the rough-hewn stone walls of the tomb. “She didn’t want to reveal your secret.”

Iriomé trembled, and the little boy in her arms began to whimper faintly. “Cold Eye?” she whispered. “De Lugo?”

“This bears his signature,” the abbess said bitterly. “But we probably will never be able to prove it. His connections to Lorenzo de la Huerta will always prevent his being found guilty.”

Iriomé felt helpless and guilty. As when Inés de Perreira had stolen the amulet from her, an irrepressible wrath welled up in her, and she felt the desire to kill.

“Let’s go back upstairs. This is no place for an infant.”

Iriomé handed her the bundle with the child. “‘l would like to stay with her for a moment,” she said softly.

The abbess looked at her, grieved. She took the child from her and left the tomb without another word.

Iriomé knelt down. She pressed her forehead against the stone pedestal, took Guadalupe’s cold hand, and closed her eyes. Revenge and retribution always provoked new misfortune. Even the Christian god said that. But at the sight of her dead friend, she found it difficult to stay in love.

Guadalupe had given her life for her. Iriomé let the time since she and Guadalupe had become friends pass in her mind. They had realized how similar they were to each other. Both were outcasts; both were special children of Mother Earth with the gift to heal people. But in this country this gift brought only suffering and death.

Over the body of her sister-at-heart, Iriomé swore to never use amakuna again for medicinal purposes. She would pass the amulet down to her son and no longer make use of it herself, no matter what happened. She decided to gather all her strength to return to Benahoare. There it would be possible to bring her son up far away from intrigues and violence.

She didn’t realize how much time she had spent in the tomb; she heard her name being called from above. Slowly she rose, took one last look at the battered face of her dead friend, then turned away for good. The abbess awaited her at the altar in the church above, took the dripping candle from her, and laid her son into her arms.

“You have visitors from Trujillo. The conde and his companion are waiting in my office for you. I’ll go for a walk in the meantime. You know the way.”

Joaquín! He had come despite it all. This shot through Iriomé, triggering a mixture of fear and anger. Guadalupe had broken to her gently that he had married Inés one day after the birth of his son. And since that day he had never returned to the monastery.

When she opened the door to the office of the abbess, she saw, however, not Joaquín but two friendly old men who rose immediately. Iriomé recognized both at once. One was Joaquín’s father, the other the thin man with the big nose, who could allegedly eat no pork due to his upset stomach.

“Sit down, my child,” said Joaquín’s father. “I am the Conde Ernesto de Alba y Santa Barbara, and this is my treasurer and friend Aaron Soreon, who has found out by incredible serendipity what’s happening here in this monastery.”

Alarmed by the rumbling voice of the old count, Tamanca started screaming.

“I suppose that’s the powerful voice of my grandson,” he continued in a friendly manner. “Unmistakably an offspring of the de Albas.”

Iriomé nodded shyly. What did they want from her? The old conde rose to take a closer look at the little screamer.

“He’s hungry,” said Iriomé, unbuttoning her heavily soiled linen shirt and giving the baby a breast without shame. The two men remained in respectful silence for a moment.

“I’m old and have been suffering from a war injury for many years, a stab wound that will not heal. And I don’t know how much time I have left,” interrupted the conde over the faint smacking noise of the infant. “That is why I want to make a suggestion. I want to give your son a name. My name. He shall be baptized and live together with you in Trujillo. There you’ll be safe.”

Tamanca seemed to have had enough, and Iriomé patted his back a couple of times, so that the air he had swallowed could escape and not cause a bellyache. Then she arranged her clothes and gave the old conde a sad look.

“Your offer honors me. But I can’t accept it. I want to return to my home island. My son shall grow to a man there.”

The old man shook his head slowly. She recognized compassion in his eyes. “I understand that well,” he said. “But it’s a long and arduous journey to your island, which would put you and especially the child at great risk, especially when he’s so small. I can only ask you, also on behalf of my grandson, to accept my protection, at least for the time being. You can’t stay here. De Lugo will not stop looking for you, and he has the Inquisition on his side.” He snorted.

Iriomé knew he was right. “And in Trujillo, we’ll be safe? As far as I know, the conquistador’s a well-liked guest at your castle.”

“Well liked he was never with me. Rest assured, this lunatic will never set foot in my castillo again.”

“But what will your son think about it?” she asked with a hint of resentment in her voice. “Or his wife?”

“Let me worry about that,” the conde replied calmly. “I’m still the lord of Trujillo and decide what happens there.”

When Tamanca was shaken by a violent coughing fit and she felt his hot head, Iriomé realized that she had to accept this offer. Her son had caught a cold in the damp tunnel and was feverish. What he needed was rest and warmth. “All right,” she said softly. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’m glad, my child!” The conde stroked his grandson’s head lovingly. “You’ll see, he’ll get well soon. And when he’s a bit older, you can still follow your plans to go home.” He nodded to his treasurer, who rose and helped the conde to get up also. He held out his hand to Iriomé as if they had made a pact. “Everything will be fine, my child.”

Thoughtfully Iriomé went back to her hermitage to put on the green dress she had worn on the day of her arrival at the monastery many moons ago and to pack the little she possessed.

The abbess sat on the bench in front of the stone house looking at her sadly. “My daughter, I don’t want you to leave, but in Trujillo you’ll be safer than here, at least at the moment. Since the marriage of the young conde the castle is under the personal protection of the Queen.”

Iriomé sat next to the abbess and took her hand. “Why’s he doing this, the old conde? Tell me! Out of love for his grandson?”

Maria Teresa de Angelis shook her head sorrowfully. “I don’t think so. Rather for the continuance of his lineage.”

Iriomé looked at her blankly.

“I told you that only a few children of the de Alba family have managed to survive their birth. This is because noble families intermarry repeatedly in order to not only preserve their lands and their property for their offspring, but to increase it if possible. The de Albas need fresh blood!”

Iriomé understood. On Benahoare the women often married men from other tribes, which sometimes was not easy but was unavoidable.

The abbess sighed. “These men know no love. What the young de Alba has felt for you only lasted a short time. Eternal love you will ultimately only find in the Almighty. Of course there is nothing wrong with searching for it here on earth, but it’s fatal to fall for its caricature, infatuation. The art of looking behind people’s masks has a lot to do with experience. And it’s especially difficult to look behind the mask of a man who comes from a foreign country and grew up with a different religion.”

Iriomé knelt before the abbess. “You’re a woman, tell me: Have you never met a man whom you loved with every fiber of your body?”

“No, I haven’t. Maybe I missed something on the other side; I have thus spared myself much suffering. “

“I want to thank you for your honesty and for all that you have braved for me and taken upon yourself.”

The abbess had tears in her eyes, and her face was a little redder than usual. “And I want to thank you for what you have set at risk for me.”

Iriomé stood up and laid her hand on Madre Teresa’s back. “Only love can defeat the fear of any kind of power,” she said quietly and stepped into the hermitage, her son in her arms.

The abbess followed. Iriomé opened a chest in which she kept the green dress.

When Madre Teresa tied the bodice, she again felt nearly suffocated. “You’ll get used to it,” said the abbess, smiling.

“I don’t think so,” Iriomé replied, “but it will constantly remind me that I’m a prisoner and maintain my desire for freedom.” For the last time, she looked around the hermitage where she had lived so long and which held so many memories, especially of Guadalupe. She wondered if she should take something with her to remind her of this time of her life. Then she decided against it. There were two people who had become valuable to her in this place, and she would always keep them in her heart.

One last time Iriomé ran her fingertip over the lines of the spiral she had carved in the rock above her resting place. “The sign of infinity and eternal recurrence! It will give me the strength to return to my home island.”

The abbess smiled. “I wish you all the very best. May God be with you.”

Iriomé insisted on riding on Karima’s back to Trujillo. The mare had become a true friend to her and would always remind her of Ibn Said. She had been a long time without news from him and did not know if he was still in Spain or had been forced to leave the country to save his life. The abbess had told her that both Moors and Jews were now persecuted fiercely by the Christians. It was not about the different gods but about power. About suppressing the weak and taking everything from them without their having the right to protest, a thought that was foreign to Iriomé. On her home island those who fared better cared for those who had less and did not take the little they had from them, too.

She took her mare behind the church where the two men were already waiting for them in a carriage. The conde insisted that the sick infant travel with him in the carriage, and Iriomé agreed after some hesitation. It was Aaron who especially reassured her and whom she finally trusted. He was a fugitive like her and the médico. This united them in a sad way.

After she handed him the bundle with the infant, she sat on the horse, clicked her tongue softly, and guided Karima with slight leg pressure in the right direction. Her hair came down to her shoulders by now and was blowing red and golden in the wind. The carriage with the arms of de Alba, crossed swords before the rising sun, also started to move and followed her.

They took a much shorter route than on the way there and passed through a village that Joaquín had then avoided for safety’s sake.

Even from afar Iriomé perceived a strange mood coming from the village square, as if there was a kind of folk festival taking place. She smelled fire. The closer they came, the louder the voices of the people gathered around a blazing fire were. When she heard the first piercing screams of women and men and the smell of burning flesh rose to her nose, her heart cramped with horror. She made Karima gallop in the opposite direction. Until that moment, she could not have imagined that the stories of Guadalupe about the auto-da-fé, the burning of non-Christians at the stake, was reality. But now she had seen it with her own eyes.

Although she had put some distance between herself and this horrible place, she could still hear the agony of the dying. The disgusting smell almost turned her stomach. She felt like riding in the direction of the coast in a flash, in order to find a ship to take her back to her island. But without her son she neither could nor wanted to leave the country.

So she made Karima break into a full gallop and reached Trujillo at the same time as the carriage. As at her first arrival, the drawbridge was lowered and the gates opened with a squealing noise. Karima seemed to remember and trotted fearlessly onto the roughly cobbled patio.

First they were met by the castellan Roberto de la Torre, who took her horse by the bridle and helped her dismount. He looked into her face a moment longer than necessary but did not show whether he recognized her.

But Iriomé took his hand. “I’d like to thank you again for saving me from the stable lads last time I was here.”

He smiled almost imperceptibly. “I’d do it again. And not only from stable lads.”

The carriage had also driven into the courtyard. Two attendants came running, tore open the doors, and placed small pedestals in front of them. Aaron Soreon smilingly handed Iriomé her sleeping son, who seemed to have recovered from his high temperature. The old conde offered her his arm and led her into the inner rooms of the castle. This time she felt welcome and respected. Yet the high entrance hall, from the ceiling of which a mighty iron chandelier was hanging, still gave her the feeling of being small and insignificant. Gloomy oil paintings with stern-looking men in full armor adorned the walls. The old conde sensed her discomfort and gave Iriomé an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, they look more grim than they were. Besides, they’re deader than they look.”

Aaron bid farewell respectfully by bowing deep before Iriomé. “Whenever there’s something that I can do for you, do me the honor to consult me.”

Iriomé thanked the friendly Jew and followed the conde up stone stairs to the side wing with his personal chambers. Twice clapping his hands made two young maids appear dressed in simple brown clothes, white aprons, and tight-fitting hoods.

He ordered them to immediately prepare two rooms for Iriomé and her son. Both threw her a deprecatory look that turned into hostility and fear. However, this did not keep the conde from hurrying them along even more. “Go, go! Are you asleep on your feet? The Señora has had an exhausting journey.”

Heavy brocade curtains were opened, pillows fluffed, and blankets, tablecloths, and toiletries fetched. One of the women the conde called Ana brought a brightly painted wooden cradle, which she placed beside a bed with a massive canopy. After she had also equipped the cradle with a pillow and blanket, the conde told Iriomé to settle his grandson therein.

“This was once Joaquín’s cradle,” he said softly. “It was manufactured especially for him. Since then, never again has a child slept in it,” he continued with deep sadness in his voice. The other servant had lit the fireplace and now retired discreetly.

Awestruck, Iriomé ran her hand over the white pillows and bedding made of fine, shiny fabric, which felt pleasantly cool. The fire soon gave the room pleasant warmth. The conde looked at her benevolently. Iriomé felt that he respected her and would not harm her. It could have been a beautiful moment if she had not foreseen the raven black clouds that promised no bright future.

The old conde got up groaning, leaning on his crane, and said goodbye for the day. “I’ll have you sent something to eat. It’s certainly in your interest not to spend the first night in the circle of the family, especially since they’ve only just heard of your arrival,” he winked at her. “You are beautiful. We should marry as soon as possible to give the boy a legitimate father. There’s not much time left for me. After that you and your son would be without protection. I’ll organize his and your christening for tomorrow.”

“What’s this I hear? Do I perhaps get a say in this?” It came from the door. It was Joaquín.

He wore a white ruff, a tight doublet of leather, short greenand red-striped bloomers, and beneath them tight-fitting bright trousers. Iriomé had never before seen him in such finery. During her stay in the convent she had met only a few men, and they were farmers in plain, mostly grubby work garments. But what seemed strangest to her was the smell that came from Joaquín. It was the same that had caused her such nausea when the disbelievers on the marketplace had been burned.

The old conde looked at him coldly. “While you’re cozying up to this fat Dominican, the greatest sycophant the church has, and even attend these hideous executions, I have performed a real act of humanity.”

Her nose had not fooled her. Iriomé was stabbed through the heart. What had happened to him? Why was his heart closed? Although they had not seen each other in such a long time, he did not deign to look at her and pretended she was nonexistent.

“I’ve only done my duty,” Joaquín said.

“And I’ve made sure that your son will get our name. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” Joaquín laughed. “You just want to get a young woman into your bed. You should be ashamed of this at your age.”

“Are you tormented by jealousy now?” replied the conde. “After you left this wonderful creature of nature at a monastery months ago?”

“Of course not!” snorted Joaquín. Finally he looked at Iriomé, who at that moment could see right into his soul. She realized that behind his anger and his new mercilessness a great shame was hidden. He would never admit that he had betrayed their love and instead had allied with power. He thought he could show opposition and strength to his father in this way. However, it was a strength that was not marked by responsibility and benevolence but by cruelty and violence. All this triggered a deep sadness in her.

“If I marry Iriomé and adopt her son, he’s your little brother of whom you can officially take care. Don’t you understand what possibilities this opens up for you?”

“And my heritage?”

“Keep silent!” The old conde barked at him, looking him up and down as if he were a stupid little boy. “As my second son,” he said, “he’ll get a mere trifle after my death, so your inheritance, and also that of your unborn son is not in danger.”

Iriomé winced. So they were expecting a child. A legitimate child.

Joaquín turned away.

“That’s best for us all, believe me, my son.” The conde patted him on the shoulder and was about to leave the room. “At least have a look at your offspring. A beautiful boy. I hope he doesn’t have too much of his father in him,” he chuckled, walking into the hall.

“Oh and by the way,” he came back again. “What do you think of the name Enrique? Enrique de Alba y Santa Barbara. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”

For the family de Alba everything seemed to be settled, yet not for Iriomé. But at the moment they had her in their grip so she could not do anything. In addition, her son was half de Alba. Could she deny him this name and growing up under the protection of the Christian god? Here in this country this would probably help him more than anything else. Who knew when she would ever be able to return to her island?

Joaquín hesitantly approached the cradle, as if Iriomé were a wild animal and would pounce on him at any moment. Iriomé took the sleeping Tamanca carefully from the cradle and laid him in Joaquín’s arms. He held the baby a bit awkwardly, yet the hint of a smile showed on his face. Iriomé realized that loving feelings were trying to come to the fore, but he did not allow it and handed back the infant hastily.

“I named him Tamanca,” she said softly.

Joaquín stood ramrod straight.

“Your father is a wise man. Only as his wife will Tamanca and I be safe from your friend de Lugo.”

“He would never hurt you. He only wants your magic remedy. Why don’t you just let him have it?” Restlessly, he walked up and down the room. “I don’t know what spirits or demons you’re connected with, but I know one thing: I want nothing to do with it.”

That was clear enough! Iriomé’s last ray of hope for protecting amakuna together with him was extinguished forever. Tichiname’s forecast that the mushroom would eventually meet its destiny only by the true love between a man and a woman would not prove true. She must have been mistaken. Until now, the relationship with Joaquín had only caused trouble.

“Your friend has tortured a young nun to death,” she said in a low voice.

“These are only rumors, Iriomé.”

“I saw her. She was found in the woods, and she was battered.”

“Wild dogs,” he muttered. “I have to go now; I’ll see you tomorrow at the christening.”