“HOW CAN I DESCRIBE IT? GOD, IN HIS MOST SACRED HUMANITY, WAS represented to me.”
“You mean, you saw Jesus.”
“No, that’s not exactly what I mean. If I say, ‘I saw Jesus,’ you’ll think I saw Him standing there, the way I see you and you see me. It’s true God’s humanity was represented to me as it is in paintings—think of that canvas in the cathedral of the marriage at Cana—but with such exquisite beauty and majesty that it defies description.”
“You mean, you saw Jesus as He looks in paintings, only more magnificent.”
“It’s that I can’t describe this vision without ruining it, Angélica. I wish I’d seen it with my eyes, my bodily eyes, so I could explain it to you in a way you could understand. I saw … experienced … such splendor, but not a splendor that dazzles. It’s like something … a light infused with a soft whiteness. It produces a shivering delight. It’s a light that doesn’t tire the eyes, a light so different from earthly light that the sun’s brightness appears tarnished in comparison, and we perceive it in a way that makes ordinary seeing seem deficient. It’s like the difference between sparkling, clear water flowing over crystal, reflecting the sun, and cloudy, muddy water flowing along the ground. That doesn’t mean that the sun is merely ‘represented’ and isn’t there, or that the light in the water merely ‘resembles’ sunlight. How can I put it into words, Angélica? It seems like natural light, and yet, in comparison, the light that fills our everyday world is artificial, fake. Divine light is light that has no night; nothing detracts from it. It’s a light you could never imagine, no matter how hard you tried. Am I making any sense at all, Angélica?”
“No.”
“It’s that I’m so ignorant, I just don’t have the words.”
“How do you know you didn’t just imagine it, Teresa?”
“Because something you just make up, after a while you forget it. But this I’ll never forget. It will stay with me forever.”
“What did you feel?”
“At first, I felt a terrible fear. I didn’t know what was happening. But then, I became completely serene, as though I were floating in a calm, warm pool, buoyed by the weight of the water.”
I’m writing these words just as she spoke them. Or at least, as I remember she spoke them. But of course, this happened a long time ago, in 1558. Almost twenty years ago. Still, I’m trying to be as accurate as I can so I can tell them what Teresa said about seeing Jesus when I’m called to testify at her beatification, provided I’m still alive when that day comes. I’ll read this over right before I testify so that I have it all fresh in my mind and won’t waver.
To be honest, at the time I didn’t know what to think. This was the friend I’d grown up with, played with, helped make dresses for. This was the sister I’d dressed for death and nursed back to health, the sister I shared confidences with my whole life. And now I looked at her and didn’t recognize her. She was speaking a language I didn’t understand. What was she? God’s creature? An angel? A fraud? Or just a befuddled woman?
Teresa had gone through a lot that past year. Her darling younger brother Rodrigo, the playmate of her childhood, had died fighting Indians in Chile. When someone you love dies, it’s worse when you’re not there. She had nightmares. Rodrigo’s head bashed open, blood and brains seeping into the rocks. Rodrigo’s limp body lying on the sand, pierced by an Araucanian arrow. Rodrigo, Rodrigo … There was no comforting her.
And then Father Juan de Prádanos, who had guided her spiritually for over a year, fell ill and had to leave San Gil. It was his heart, they said. Doña Guiomar begged the Jesuits to send him to one of her nearby estates, and, thank God, they acceded. Doña Guiomar herself went to care for him. “Oh, God, what will become of me without Father Juan?” wailed Teresa.
It was all too much for her, I thought. That’s why it occurred to me—God forgive me—that perhaps this last rapture, or vision, or hallucination, was simply the consequence of all the strain, all the heartbreak she’d gone through. Perhaps it wasn’t a mystical experience at all. Sometimes when terrible things happen one after the other, you become disoriented, you see things that aren’t there. Anyway, to me it didn’t matter whether she was a visionary or a madwoman. She was my best friend, my sister. I had to stick with her.
We’d just returned to Encarnación from Doña Guiomar’s. I remember it was on the feast of Saint Paul, January 25, because I’d sewn a pretty little pincushion for Sister Paulina, a gift for her saint’s day. We were at Mass, when without warning, Teresa moved away from the other nuns and glided like a ghost toward the back of the chapel. She turned to face the altar, then fell to her knees, arms outstretched, palms upward, before the crucifix. Her pupils rolled back into her head, leaving only the whites of her eyes visible. She reminded me of one of those statues of martyrs with their gaze turned toward heaven, except that her face wasn’t lifeless and dull like a statue’s, but glowing, ethereal. Her whole body quivered. Then she sank back backwards onto the ground as if in a state of utter surrender. The sisters gasped and stared.
Sister Caridad hissed, “I thought her stay with Doña Guiomar was supposed to cure her of these antics.” Caridad was a dark, corpulent nun who was friends with Ramona.
Some of the other women shrugged or shook their heads in disgust.
The rapture lasted a minute or two. Afterward, Teresa blinked and slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position, as if exhausted. Mother Josefa approached her cautiously, then reached out and helped her up. Teresa seemed confused. Slowly, she regained her equilibrium, drawing her breath in gradually deepening inhalations. “Oh, sisters,” she murmured. “I saw something so wondrous, so extraordinary. I saw Jesus!” Caridad moaned out loud.
“Sister Caridad,” snapped Mother Josefa, “bow your head and confess to your sisters that you’ve committed the sin of unkindness.”
Caridad bowed her head and recited mechanically, “I confess to almighty God, and to you my sisters, that I have been unkind to Sister Teresa.” No one was paying attention.
I helped Teresa back to her cell and sat by the window embroidering in the winter gloom while she rested. “Let’s go for a walk in the garden,” she said suddenly.
“It’s freezing, Teresa,” I said without budging. “And your health is still delicate.”
She put on her mantle. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand. “Just a short walk.”
We followed the path to the dovecote. It had snowed, but the fluffy, white flakes hadn’t iced the path. Teresa stepped gingerly, like a convalescent.
Suddenly, at a distance, a swarm of nuns materialized. They approached slowly, like fat, black flies. Where had they come from? Had they been waiting in the dovecote? Had they been hiding behind the skeletal trees that dotted the shivering garden? Teresa thought they were coming to greet her. She waved and scuttled toward them, then halted abruptly. Even at a distance, it was clear to me that the intentions of these women were not friendly.
As they drew nearer, they seemed to swell in size, their bodies made bulkier by heavy, black, hooded mantles. Finally, they positioned themselves in front of us. They’d metamorphosed from flies to an army of gigantic, black crows. Teresa blinked, her eyes runny from the cold.
“Sisters, good afternoon.”
The women pressed around us, forming a semicircle and penning us in. I can’t remember everyone who was there. Sister Ana Martínez, Sister Brígida, Sister Elena, Sister Lucía, and Sister Caridad … Who else? Sister Ramona. Teresa’s detractors, the faction that pooh-poohed her raptures. It’s true I had doubts, too, but I wasn’t going to let them push her around.
Sister Caridad was the leader. A large-bosomed woman of Andalusian peasant stock, she was foul mouthed and tough. She’d entered Encarnación as a charity case and earned her keep scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots. She enjoyed intimidating the novices. A small, scarlet scar underneath her left eye—the kind that would have kept her out of the convent if Mother Francisca were still in charge—created a perpetual squint. She stood directly in front of Teresa, her dark, square-jawed face threateningly close. Her wide stance and hands on hips gave her the appearance of a crow with outstretched wings. She stared at Teresa as if ready to peck out her eyes. She was breathing heavily, and when she exhaled, puffs of vapor burst from her mouth.
“Teresa de Ahumada,” she hissed. Like all southerners, she pronounced the s with too much sibilance.
“Yes, Sister?” Teresa looked into Sister Caridad’s eyes without flinching.
“This bullshit has to stop, Teresa de Ahumada. You’re jeopardizing the entire convent.”
“Sí, sí,” squawked the others. “You’re going to get us all in trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” A stray snowflake settled on Teresa’s high cheekbone.
“Don’t play dumb, Teresa de Ahumada. Everybody in Ávila is talking about your fits, and it won’t be long before the grand inquisitor swoops down and flings us all into the dungeon. I know a fraud when I see one. Do you have to practice making your eyeballs all white like that, or does it come easily?”
Teresa stood looking at her a long time, so long, in fact, that the other women began to grow nervous. They fidgeted and adjusted their capes.
“How could I bring the wrath of God down on you?” Teresa said calmly. “Do you think I have so much power?” She made her voice sweet and innocent, like a schoolgirl’s.
“Don’t play games, you bitch. You’re just out for attention. Or else, you’re in bed with the Devil. Either way, you’re attracting the notice of the authorities, and when they come to interrogate you, they’ll make life miserable for the rest of us as well.” Swirls of vapor spewed from Sister Caridad’s mouth.
“It’s not my fault Jesus chose to appear to me, Sister. It’s not a favor I asked for.”
“Jesus didn’t appear to you, you pampered little lapdog. I say the same prayers you do, and I never saw Christ in the bedsheets.”
The other women snickered. “Jesus came to me, Jesus came to me, Jesus came all over me,” chanted Sister Ramona in a sing-song voice. She looked right at me.
“I’m sorry,” said Teresa. She took a step forward, as though to push through the line and continue down the path.
“Not so fast, lapdog,” hissed Sister Caridad. With her left hand she grabbed Teresa’s wrist. Then she raised her muscular, cape-covered right arm and sent her hand flying against Teresa’s jaw. Blood trickled from the corner of Teresa’s lip toward the bottom of her chin. I pulled a remnant of cloth I used as a handkerchief from my sleeve and patted her face.
“Leave her alone,” I snapped.
But Sister Caridad didn’t even look at me. She grabbed Teresa’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed it tight. She was a farm girl, and she had a grip like a wrench.
“I want this to stop,” she snarled.
“It’s not in my power to make it stop,” said Teresa firmly. She showed no sign of fear.
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, nonsense.”
She looked at the other women. “This bitch is making fun of me!”
“Better not do that,” said Sister Lucía. It was a threat.
“I said ‘nonsense,’” said Teresa, “because this is something you can’t make sense out of. It’s non-sense. What I mean is, it’s beyond our ability to understand or control. Now, please let us continue on our way.”
Sister Caridad looked confused. She loosened her grip slightly. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Teresa de Ahumada.”
With a quick twist of the arm Teresa snapped free and pushed her way through the line. She took off briskly in the direction of the dovecote. I followed her.
“These phony visions better not happen again,” yelled Sister Caridad. But she didn’t chase after us.
Teresa kept on walking without quickening her pace. I heard someone scampering to catch up with us. It was Ramona. She ran around in front of me and stood there, arms crossed. “I can get you into big trouble,” she whispered. “Braulio told me all about you. I know everything.”
I froze in my tracks. I felt as though someone had thrown snow in my face. My lips went cold, and I began to tremble.
“So does Mother Josefa,” said Teresa evenly. “You won’t be telling her anything she doesn’t already know. Now, go back home, little girl.”
It was a command. Bewilderment replaced hostility on Ramona’s face. She turned on her heels and hurried to catch up with the other women. I didn’t bother to watch them disappear into the house, but soon their squawking ceased and I knew they were gone.
Sister Caridad wasn’t the only one who wanted Teresa to put an end to her visions. Teresa’s new confessor, Baltasar Álvarez (the same Father Baltasar who confessed Maridíaz), nagged her constantly, and it’s not hard to figure out why. If his penitent turned out to be a fraud or, worse yet, a dupe of the Devil, his neck would be on the line. Until then, the Jesuits had been supportive of Teresa, but Álvarez was an insecure little man who was terrified of making a mistake. He had faith in her, he kept insisting, but others were urging caution. To make matters worse, Salcedo was back in the picture, and he wanted to have her exorcized. Álvarez said he was concerned. He was just being vigilant. With his concern and vigilance, he was making a wreck out of her.
“Imagine,” Teresa told me, “Salcedo told Father Baltasar that the safest thing was to put me through the exorcism ritual. That way, they’d be sure I was clean.”
“And will he?”
“I hope not.” She shuddered. “But maybe they’ll have to. Jesus cured demoniacs.”
“And Jesus said to the demon, ‘Be quiet! Come out of him! And the unclean spirit threw the man into convulsions and with a loud cry went flying out of him. Mark 1:25-26.”
“I’m terrified of convulsions,” whispered Teresa. “I’ve heard that during exorcisms, people sometimes foam at the mouth or bite like rabid dogs. That’s because they have demons in them, and those demons have to come out. What if I really do have demons in me?”
“Your visions don’t come from Satan, Teresa.”
“I believe they come from God. But what if I’m wrong? Being certain you’re right is the sin of pride!”
Álvarez ordered Teresa to stifle her visions. “When you see an image,” he said, “give it the fig!” (Boys “give the fig” to other boys who cut them off on the road or say nasty things about their sisters. It’s a vulgar gesture made by pressing the thumb between the middle and the index fingers.)
For a while she seemed to see Jesus everywhere—in the chapel, in the garden, in the soup. No, no, I shouldn’t be making jokes. There was nothing funny about the way she suddenly lost control of herself, sometimes slumping over and hitting her head against a cabinet or the foot of a table. She would lie there seemingly lifeless for a moment or two, then open her eyes. Later, she would tell me what she’d experienced. It was always different, yet always the same. Sometimes she would see Jesus, and sometimes she wouldn’t, but she still knew He was there. When she did see Him, it wasn’t with her corporeal eyes, but with her spiritual eyes. I know it sounds crazy, but I can only write what I saw with my eyes and heard from Teresa.
One gloomy All Souls Eve Doña Guiomar sent her carriage for us. It was snowing hard, and icy winds pierced your chest. We were glad to arrive at Doña Guiomar’s palace and warm ourselves at her hearth. Doña Guiomar called for Maridíaz, and the four of us retired to the palace chapel, where we knelt at prie-dieus and prayed silently for the souls in Purgatory. I prayed for my mother, Tía Cati, Don Alonso, and Teresa’s brothers Antonio and Rodrigo. I thought about Braulio and wondered if he had died in the violence in the north, and if so, if by some wily ruse he had wormed himself into Purgatory, instead of staying in Hell, where he belonged.
Suddenly, Teresa shrieked. Then she jumped up, ran to the font, and started splashing holy water at the place where she had been kneeling.
“Doña Teresa!” cried Doña Guiomar. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
But Teresa seemed oblivious to everything except that one spot on her prie-dieu. “Go!” she hissed. “Vade Retro!”
Doña Guiomar stood up, but I signaled her to stay where she was. “She sees something,” I said softly. “Leave her alone.”
“Go, go, go away!” At last Teresa stopped and stood still. Her sleeves were soaking. So were the breviary and the stone floor around the prie-dieu. She looked at us curiously. “Didn’t you see him?” she asked. “It was the Devil. He was perched right there on top of my prayer book, then he jumped down and stood at my left side. Didn’t anyone else see him? He spoke to me. ‘Teresa,’ he said. ‘Teressssa!’ His mouth was like an ink blob, with tiny little pointed teeth—many more than a person has—all over his gums in uneven rows. A huge flame, as bright as the sun and without a shadow, burned all over his body. ‘Teresssssa,’ he said. ‘You escaped from me once, but you won’t get away again!’ ‘Oh Holy Jesus,’ I prayed, ‘make him go away!’ And I ran to fling holy water at him. Didn’t you see him?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she said softly, her eyes still fixed on the place where she had knelt. “You must think I’m mad. But … but I saw him. I really saw him. You have to believe me, Angélica! Do you? Do you believe me?”
“Did he go away?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He went away.”
I bit my lip and looked at the puddles. “Dear God,” I prayed, “help her.” I felt as though she were slipping away from me, as though she were drifting off into some other dimension.
She didn’t say anything more about visions for the next couple of weeks. Perhaps she was having them but was afraid to tell anyone. Then, one night she woke up writhing in her bed. Silvia, her maid, came running to get me.
“Be careful what you say to her,” Silvia cautioned me. “She’s very sick. She’s in terrible pain, and she thinks she might be possessed. Salcedo’s still talking about having her exorcized. She’s terrified.” Silvia’s candle flickered.
“Slow down!” I whispered. “I can hardly see where I’m going. What do you think?”
“About what? About the exorcism?”
“Yes. Would it be better to get it over with once and for all?”
“She’s not possessed. There’s something wrong with her. Something physical. Heart problems or some kind of infection. I’ve known her since she was born, and she’s always been sickly. If you ask me, Salcedo’s the one who’s possessed.”
Teresa was thrashing around in bed. “Oh, God,” she wailed. “Is all this pain serving you in some way? If so, please, I beg of you, give me the strength to endure it.”
I placed my hand on her forehead. It was scorching. “Teresa,” I said, “you have a fever. It’s too dark to go out for ice, but I’ll make you an infusion.”
“No,” she whispered. “Let me suffer. Let me suffer until the end of the world. It’s my way of serving Jesus.”
“Jesus doesn’t want you to suffer,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “He wants you to be well.”
“How do you know?”
“I know because He told me,” I lied. “He said, ‘I have great plans for Teresa, but first she has to feel better.’”
“But you didn’t know I was sick tonight.”
“Yes, I did. Jesus told me.”
“Silvia told you.”
“Jesus told me before Silvia even came to my cell. In fact, I was waiting for her.”
“That’s right,” muttered Silvia. “She was waiting for me.”
“I have terrible pains in my uterus and in my lower back,” stammered Teresa. She spoke with enormous difficulty, as if she were tearing each word out of her flesh with her nails. Awkwardly, she rolled over on her side, searching for a more comfortable position. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Thank you for this …” A surge of pain cut short the sentence. “Oh, God, it hurts.”
I took her hand in mine. “When it hurts again, squeeze. Silvia,” I turned to the maid, “run and get me a cold, wet cloth.”
“Oh, my heavenly Father,” whispered Teresa. “Thank you for this sign.”
“What sign, Teresa? You think these horrible cramps are a sign from God? I’m scared to death they’re a sign you’ve got a uterine infection.”
She lay there, grasping my hand. In the candlelight, her eyelids appeared raw, but her cheeks had cooled. I placed my hand on her forehead again. The fever was breaking up.
“There! That sign there!” she whispered. “That little creature.” Suddenly, she started to giggle. “Don’t you see him? That nasty little black creature!” She was laughing almost hysterically now, hiccoughing through her pain. “It hurts!” She crossed her hands over her uterus as though to hold in her insides, but still she kept laughing, gulping the air and trembling. Tears dripped into the bedclothes. She’s hysterical, I thought.
“It’s … it’s the Devil.” She could hardly get the words out. She was panting, struggling to catch her breath. “I’m not afraid,” she said finally. “It’s a sign God is sending me so that I’ll know this agony doesn’t come from Him, but from the forces of darkness. But he’s gone now. The little Devil, I mean. He’s disappeared. When you laugh, it makes the Devil go away. It’s not as good as holy water, but it works. I’ll bet he’s angry he lost me!”
Oh, God, I thought. What’s happening to her? “Teresa,” I said softly. “Drink something.” Silvia had returned with the wet cloth and some almond water.
But instead of taking the cup Silvia held out to her, Teresa picked up a disciplina, a small switch she kept by the side of her bed.
“Teresa,” I snapped, trying to wrest it away from her, “what are you doing?” I thought she really was losing her mind.
In spite of her illness, she had a strong grip. I couldn’t yank it away. She began to strike herself on her head, bare back, and shaking arms.
“Stop, Teresa!” Silvia and I both tried to get the switch away from her “This is no time for mortifications.” The welts left by the switch were visible on her feverish skin.
“Yes it is,” she gasped. “I need to keep the Devil away. I have to!”
“Fling some holy water on him.”
“I don’t have any left.”
“Silvia will go for holy water. Go, Silvia, go to the chapel.”
“No,” whispered Teresa. “No, no. I don’t want the others to know. Especially Caridad.”
What could I do? At last she tired herself out. She let the disciplina drop and dozed off. Light was filtering in through the window, and I could hear the other sisters filing past the door on their way to the chapel, but I decided to let her sleep. I went to tell Mother Josefa that Teresa would miss Lauds.
But the next time it happened, there was no keeping it secret. We were gathered in the refectory for the midday meal. It was a long, rectangular room, with short, wooden seats attached to the wall, each with a small table in front of it. On each table were a plate, a glass for almond water or ale, and a skull to remind us that even as we fed the body, the flesh withered. Sister Radegunda was sitting at one end of the hall reading from Fray Luis de Granada’s Book of Prayer and Meditation. Her voice droned on.
Suddenly, Teresa, who was sitting next to me, fell sideward against my shoulder. Then she rose, took a step or two, and slid to the ground, in front of my table. Sister Caridad, who was sitting across the room from me, crossed her arms and rested them on the shelf of her bosom. She shot me a look that said, “Not again!” and shook her head. I looked away.
I knew better than to touch Teresa, so I sat there, watching her. Her face was tilted upward, all aglow, as if illuminated by a celestial beam. I searched the room for the source of the light, but the rays from the window landed on Radegunda’s reading table, on the other side of the room. Teresa’s eyes were shut lightly—sometimes they blinked—and her mouth was slightly open, as though she slept. The folds of her habit fell softly around her, discretely covering her feet, as if arranged by an artist. Her hands lay inert by her sides. Then, after a while, she lifted her arm and with her right index finger pointed to some invisible being. I looked in the direction she pointed, but saw nothing. A moment later, she clutched her heart. She moaned as though in agony—not … how can I explain this? … not the kind of agony … I’d better start over. She didn’t look as though she felt pain, at least, not hurtful pain, but the exquisite pain of love.
She saw an angel. Afterward, she described him to us, but there’s no need for me to try to remember what she said because she wrote it all down in her Life.
The angel was not large, but small; he was very beautiful, and his face was so aflame that he seemed to be one of those very sublime angels that appear to be all afire. I saw in his hands a large golden dart and at the end of the iron tip there appeared to be a little fire. It seemed to me this angel plunged the dart several times into my heart and that it reached deep within me. When he drew it out, I thought he was carrying off with him the deepest part of me; and he left me all on fire with great love of God. The pain was so great that it made me moan, and the sweetness this great pain caused me was so superabundant that there is no desire capable of taking it away; nor is the soul content with less than God.
I’m glad she put down this vision in writing because I would never be able to describe it. I think you have to have experienced something like this in order to tell about it, and me, I don’t see angels standing over me with fiery darts in their hands. All I see are baskets of cloth to be cut into albs or soutanes or chasubles, then hemmed and embroidered. Or containers of charcoal to be ground into powder for diarrhea.
When she opened her eyes, a smile illuminated her face. I’d never seen her look so beautiful. Her eyes were glowing and her face was radiant, blissful. The women gathered around her.
“What did you see, Teresa?” “What did you feel?” There must have been ten or fifteen sisters groping at her.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said with a sigh. She looked a little disoriented, as though she were still elsewhere. “I felt myself rising, I felt myself … I don’t know … almost flying, but not the way a bird flies. I was surrounded by angels, those very sublime angels they call cherubim. The angel with the dart … he must have been one of them. I don’t know if I’m making any sense at all. Maybe … maybe I’m … maybe I’m crazy, but I saw an angel, an angel all ablaze, a cherubim. I can’t explain it any other way. That’s what I saw.”
“Come, Teresa,” said Sister Josefa, leading her away. “You need to rest.”
I knew she wasn’t making it up. She was too timid about describing her experiences. This was not a Magdalena de la Cruz, avid for notoriety. But what was going on?
“She felt herself rising,” whispered Sister Lucía. “Did you hear her?”
“Bullshit,” snapped Sister Caridad.
“I saw her rising,” whispered Sister Lucía, even more softly than before. “I’m sure of it.”
“So did I,” confirmed Sister Remedios.
“She levitates!” said Sister Escolástica.
I looked from one to the other, amazed. “Did you see her levitate?” I asked.
“Just a tiny bit,” said Sister Escolástica. She looked around at the others for reassurance.
“Once I saw her levitate a full vara off the floor,” piped up Sister Ramona.
“You did not,” growled Sister Caridad. “You never said anything to me about it.”
“I was afraid to tell anyone, but I saw her.”
“So did I,” said Sister Ana Martínez.
“This is rot!” snarled Sister Caridad. But she didn’t look so sure. Her dark, Andalusian face had paled, and she was rubbing her hands together nervously. She turned to me. “Did you ever see her levitate?” Her pinched eyebrows produced a ragged gash above her nose.
“No,” I said truthfully.
I sat down to finish my meal: cold duck with carrots and parsnips. I used bread to maneuver a piece of fowl off the plate and into my mouth. I chewed slowly, without looking at them.
“Well, I have,” insisted Sister Escolástica.
“She levitates all right!” confirmed Sister Ramona.
“She’s not of this world,” murmured Sister Brígida. “She’s one of God’s chosen.”
“She’s a saint,” whispered Sister Lucía. “Una santa.”
An echo filled the hall. “A saint! A saint!” Sister Caridad’s eyes darted around the room, doubt and trepidation clouding her gaze. She stepped back, perhaps considering what to do in the face of her disappearing power base.
Mother Josefa returned and ordered the nuns back to their places. Sister Radegunda took her seat by the window and began to read. “What madness it is that Adam’s children build their grandiose towers on such fragile foundations, unaware that they’re building on sand, and that any moment the wind will knock down what is inadequately anchored!”
By the end of the day the convent was buzzing with news of Teresa’s levitations.
“Have you heard?” Sister Brígida asked Father Baltasar, who had come to the convent to say Mass. “Sister Teresa levitates!”
The priest took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I think not, Sister,” he said matter-of-factly. He sniffled and shuffled off toward the chapel.
“Yes, she does,” Brígida called after him.
Father Baltasar stopped and pivoted on his heel. His nose was crimson and his eyes, drippy. “Have you seen her?” He sounded like a bullfrog.
She paused. “Others have seen her.”
“How many?”
“Several.” She paused again. “A few.” She turned to Sister Remedios. “Did you see her?”
“Escolástica did. She says she looked beautiful floating up there all aglow by the ceiling.”
Father Baltasar cleared his throat and shook his head, but didn’t contradict her.
“With all due respect, Your Reverend,” I said cautiously. “I think you’re too hoarse to say Mass. Would you like me to prepare you some cherry bark tea?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there looking at the ground, then turned and disappeared into the chapel.
“Tell me, Angélica,” Teresa said one day. We were in the infirmary with María de Ocampo, Teresa’s niece, who was recovering from a soar throat. “Did you ever see me levitate?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Absolutely sure.” I thought she looked a little disappointed.
“Lots of other people have seen it,” croaked María de Ocampo.
I ignored her. “I’m not saying it didn’t happen, Teresa. I’m just saying I didn’t see it.”
Teresa picked up a small, squat, white vessel with the word “Laudanum” printed on the label hanging from its neck. She squinted, and the tiny lines around her eyes deepened. Her chin was growing spongy, less defined. Minuscule crevices feathered out from her lips. Fissures descended from her nose to the corners of her mouth and from there, downward, giving her a slightly marionette-like appearance. They weren’t deep yet, but even in the soft light of the late afternoon, they were visible. Teresa was forty-five. She was still beautiful, but she was aging.
“This is awful, Angélica. It has to stop.”
“I know.”
“What has to stop?” whispered María. She was an impulsive, spontaneous girl, an orphan whom Teresa had taken under her wing to educate.
“This craziness … this nonsense about me being a saint … about my levitating.” María stared at Teresa, wide-eyed. “I can’t stay here, Angélica,” Teresa went on. “There’s too much chatter. There’s no time for mental prayer. No place to be alone with God.”
I sighed. “Where would you go, Teresa? Another convent? It would be the same as here.”
“You could start your own convent!” piped up María.
Teresa looked at her, startled, as though María had read her thoughts. “Angélica,” said Teresa, her voice quivering with a sense of urgency. “Do you think my visions are real?”
“I do, Teresa.”
“And do you think they come from God?”
“I do.” And at that moment, I did.
“Well … if I told you that God asked me to do something for Him, would you help me?”
“How do I know He wants me in on the project?”
“What María just suggested … I was thinking about it myself. What if we started a new convent, one where women could really devote themselves to God, living in silence and poverty, with no distractions? A place where, once you entered, you’d never leave. When you wed God, you’d be His alone. No salon full of gossips, just a tiny locutorium for meeting with relatives and holy people. No babble. No noise. In a house like that, you could really feel God’s love.”
“I don’t know, Teresa. Has God given you a floor plan?”
She was silent for a long moment, and then she began to speak softly. “To the world, what is a woman, Angélica? Poets sing about her beauty, her golden hair, her emerald eyes. But do they ever talk about her soul or her mind? To them, a woman is nothing but an empty casing, a beautiful shell that inspires and excites. What I’m thinking of is a new kind of convent, where women could divorce themselves from everything worldly. There would be no titles, not even doña and señora. A woman would just be herself, her soul, her heart. Status wouldn’t matter. Money wouldn’t matter. No woman would be turned away because she didn’t have a dowry.” Teresa’s eyes shone like jet. María stared at her in awe.
“A woman would be appreciated for her spirit, not for her father’s name and wealth. We’d return to the primitive rule of Carmel. We’d live like the desert hermits who founded the order—poor and barefoot. Remember what Maridíaz said: ‘It’s not just how you pray, but how you live.’” She paused again. “We’d call ourselves discalced Carmelites. Being discalced—barefoot—would be a sign of our detachment from the comforts of the material world. God wants me to do this, Angélica.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me. Not with words you can hear with your bodily ears, Angélica. He communicated the message directly to my mind. He infused my intellect with His will.”
“I can help!” rasped María. “I have my inheritance. It’s not much, but it’s yours!”
I put down the apothecary jar and looked from one to the other. “You’re a madwoman,” I said to Teresa. “Either that or a saint.” She put her arms around me and kissed my cheek, then went over to María de Ocampo and squeezed her shoulders.
“You’ll help me, won’t you Angélica?” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll help you.” How was I to know that this particular piece of madness would change not only my own life, but also the history of Spain and of our holy Catholic faith?
Angélica del Sagrado Corazón
Toledo, 20 August 1576