In the Garden of Iden (3 page)

Writing this down, I can still feel the howl of disappointment rising in me. I tiptoed into the room—God knows why I tiptoed, I could never wake him—and looked very closely to be sure.

A big straw dolly was all he was, like the play figures folk put up to decorate their houses at harvest time and burned later. I remembered seeing them. I remembered the priest scowling and telling us these were things of the Devil.

I had been crying quietly but clapped my hands over my mouth as Light Dawned on me.

Crash of cymbals for dramatic emphasis here. Actually, there had to have been quite a lot of crashing and other commotion going on downstairs at this point, but all I heard was my own heart pounding. These people were witches. The Devil gave them powers and that was where all the gold came from and of course all witches dressed in splendid clothes. No, wait, wasn’t that secret Jews? Was it Jews who sacrificed little children to idols and witches who ate them, or the other way around? Whichever, I had to find the Holy Inquisition as fast as I could.

I turned and scurried down the stairs, arriving at the bottom landing to behold the hallway full of big men, booted and spurred. Two of them were dragging the young man out of the kitchen. He had puked all over his doublet in terror, and hung limp between them. A grim-looking fellow leaned down and said:

“Señor, the Holy Inquisition is waiting for you. It seems they wish to discuss a matter of faith.”

“Are you Inquisidors?” I inquired, peering through the stair railings. All their heads swung up in astonishment.

“Yes,” said the grim man.

With a cry of relief I ran down and hugged him around the legs. He stared at me in shock. I can’t imagine he got that kind of reaction from people very often.

“Thank you, Holy Inquisidor!” I babbled. “These people are witches and they were going to kill me and there’s a big scary devil-thing upstairs, I saw it, and I didn’t know how to find you but here you are! Please save me, señor!”

There was a moment’s silence before he turned to his men and said:

“Seize this child also. And search the house.”

Well, I didn’t think anything was wrong, even when they hauled me out and set me on a horse and bound my hands to the pommel. After all, everyone knew the Holy Office played a little rough. I was so grateful to be saved, I didn’t mind in the least. All I had to do (I thought) was explain everything to the Inquisidors and they would understand the danger I had been in. All would be well. Of course.

They brought out the young man—he was crying now—and tied him to a horse too. They brought out a big bundle containing everything they had found in the house; I could see the trailing ribbons of the wheat man.

“See, señor?” I pointed as well as I could with my hands bound. “There’s the bad devil-thing. Are you going to burn this bad man, señor? Are you going to tell my mama and papa?”

But they wouldn’t answer me. They all mounted; a man vaulted up behind me, and away we rode at a gallop. Just as before, my heart was bright and light. I was rescued! I was safe! Goodbye, dark house under the oak trees!

Well.

We came to the great city of Santiago in broad morning, by country lanes and by narrow city streets where not a soul moved, even in the light of day. I remember a city white with dust and blazing in all its stone ways: no people, I suppose because of the heat, but also because the Holy Office was secretive and came and went on near-deserted streets. The streets glared all the brighter for their emptiness. It hurt my eyes to look.

But soon enough we went under a big archway, the horses’ hooves echoing back, and down steep stairs into darkness. And that was the last I had to worry about the sun hurting my eyes for a long time.

I was locked in a tiny dark room. There was a sort of wooden tray on the floor, filled with straw, to lie down in; there was a crockery pot to do something else in. No other thing in that room at all; no windows. The only light came from the grated window in the door.

So there I was, in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

I
T REALLY WASN’T
so bad at first. I was full of optimism; I sat there in the straw rehearsing all the things I would say to the Inquisidors when they sent for me—any minute now, I was sure—with a particularly dramatic rendering of how I found the wheat man at the top of the stairs. And at least I still had a bed to myself, though this one had a moldy smell.

And it really didn’t bother me (at first anyway) when hours and more hours went by and nobody brought me anything to eat. I was used to that, I could manage. Sometimes at my mama’s and papa’s we went a day or two without eating. But after I had slept and woken three or four times, I was very thirsty, so I went to the door and yelled up at the little window.

Eventually there came a clumping of boots, and a big nose poked through the grate. I could just see a scowl behind it.

“I’m hungry and I want some water,” I told the nose.

“You shut up,” it said, “or I’ll bring the gag in here.”

“But I want something to eat.” I backed away from the door a little.

“Got any money?”

“No.” I blinked. Was he serious? I’d never held so much as a maravedi in my hand in my whole life.

“Then you may ask San Fructuoso to bring you some,” he said, and clumped away. I sat down and cried. After a while I went back to sleep in the straw and was awakened by the sound of the cell door opening. A hand thrust through the blinding crack of light and set a pitcher of water on the floor; then it withdrew, and the door bumped shut. I scrambled to the water and drank greedily, until I got sick and spilled half of it on the floor.

After that I wasn’t doing so well. I slept and woke and still got no food; I was beginning to feel very strange, very bad. The next time I woke to see the hand putting water in, I cried at it:

“Please, I need to have some bread!”

It hesitated, and a voice replied: “Your mother is supposed to pay for your food.”

“My mama!” I was so excited. “Is she here?”

“Well, yes,” said the voice.

“Tell her to come get me! Right away!”

The voice laughed and the door shut.

I got through the next few sleeps in happy anticipation of my mama coming for me, until once again the truth began to insinuate itself, whispering nastily behind its hand like the Devil in the paintings. I don’t know how long I was a prisoner there. I couldn’t see the sun; time had altered its pace with me. The Holy Office, I was to discover, had a whole different perception of time from the rest of the world.

Time had a few more tricks to play on me, as will be seen. That old devil Chronos.

At some point my door crashed open and brilliant light streamed in. I rubbed my eyes and tried to sit up. The figure of a man appeared in the light and looked at me.

“Little girl? Get up and come with me.”

“You get me some food first,” I croaked, glaring at him. He took a step or two into the room and crouched down to look at me. And though I know he had to be speaking Galician, because of course I couldn’t speak Cinema Standard yet, I swear to God I remember him saying:

“Wow. You’re in bad shape, aren’t you?”

“Nobody has given me anything to eat since I’ve been in here!” I tried to yell.

He looked at another man, who was standing just outside the door. “Why is this?” he asked.

“Her mother, the woman Mendoza, has not made any provision for her keeping.”

“She’s not my mama!” I exclaimed. “She
bought
me from my mama! I don’t have anything to do with her and she’s a witch.”

“Well, she says she’s your mother,” said the first man.

“She isn’t either! She is Bad. I am Good. She’s a witch and I told you all and you mean I’ve been stuck in here because nobody listened?” In my rage and frustration I beat my fist against the floor.

The man regarded me with interest. He was short, stocky, and dark, like a Biscayan, with a close neat beard. His clothes were good but rather sober and nondescript.

“Days and days down here without any food and you’re pretty mad about that, huh?” he observed. I was so angry, I just stared at him in disbelief.

He gave a wry sort of smile and glanced over his shoulder at the other man. He gestured. The other man ostentatiously turned his back and stared at the opposite wall. From inside his doublet the Biscayan took a thing like a little book, and from its leaves he extracted something small. With great deftness he slapped it behind my ear before I could see what it was. I reached up to feel it, but he struck my hand away and said:

“Don’t touch it. Maybe later you’ll get some food, but right now the Holy Inquisition wants to talk to you.”

“Good,” I said sullenly as he picked me up.

“You think that’s good?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Yes. I have a lot to tell them.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said nothing for a while as he carried me through endless stone passageways. Finally we came into a high room, very fine, with paneled walls and a distant ceiling. I felt swell and feared nothing.

There were three other men in this room, older than the Biscayan. One was a priest. One was dressed all in red. The other was mousy plain and I couldn’t see much of him behind the lectern where his pen scratched. I was put down in a chair, and the others sat at a table to face me.

“So,” said the priest. “You are the child Mendoza.”

“No, I’m not,” I said.

Raised eyebrows. “May we ask who you are, then?” asked the man in red.

“I got kidnapped by that bad lady, and
her
name is Mendoza,” I said. “She’s a wicked, terrible, evil lady. And a witch.” The man in red looked interested. The other two exchanged glances. The priest leaned forward and said:

“Little girl, tell us the truth.” And, that first time, there was nothing terrible in the phrase, no ominous reverberation.

Well, I told them the truth, the whole story, just as I’d rehearsed it so often in the dark. I enjoyed the attention. They only interrupted me once or twice, to ask questions. I finished quite cheerfully and concluded:

“Can I go home now, señors?”

There was no reply. The man in red was flipping through some papers on the table in front of him. “This seems very clear to me,” he said. “Look here, at the inventory of goods taken from the house. A straw image of Satan. Various tools of witchcraft. Stars chalked on the floor.”

“But how many points on the stars?” asked the priest.

“Some had five and some had six,” conceded the man in red. The priest smiled tightly. The man in red went on, “Therefore, in my opinion, this is genuine witchcraft. The woman and her confederates were courting the powers of the Prince of Darkness and intended to sacrifice this child at a Sabbat.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“I think otherwise,” said the priest, ignoring me. “With respect to his Grace, the Holy Office does not concern itself with superstitions. These are modern times, señor. Peasants believe in witchcraft; the odd corrupt nobleman plays at it; but it is not a thing to be feared.”

“Surely you don’t deny the evidence of the
Malleus Malificorum
?” demanded the man in red. His face was red too, and his eyes were bugging out a little.

“We disregard it entirely, señor,” said the priest. “I mean, really. Women flying through the air on brooms. Toads that speak. What intelligent person credits such nonsense?”

“The Bishop, for one,” said the man in red hotly. The Biscayan’s smile twisted deeper into his beard, and the priest sighed and rested his chin in his palm. The man in red went on: “Do you deny that demons can be raised to give powers to those who worship Satan? The German, Paracelsus, was carried off by just such, as all men know. These things have been witnessed and proved, worthy Inquisidor.”

“You are treading on very shaky theological ground, señor.” The priest placed his hands flat on the table. “I would not, if I were you, assert that the Devil has powers equal to God’s.”

“I never said that.” Now the man in red went white.

“Good.” The priest nodded. “So, to the matter in hand.”

“Nevertheless, we should remember that certain deluded souls do form cults to
attempt
to practice witchcraft,” said the Biscayan diplomatically. I lifted my head to stare at him. This time he had spoken in flawless, erudite Castilian, with just a little Biscayan accent. “And the evidence found in the house resembles such things as these cults use.”

“That is possible, that they were cult objects,” admitted the priest. “But there are other dark rites that involve, for example, stars.” He rounded on me. “I believe this child is a secret Jew.”

Well, my hair stood on end. I couldn’t get a word out, I was so terrified.

“Now, how have you arrived at such a conclusion, worthy señor?” the Biscayan was asking in an intrigued voice.

“I think that house was a nest of secret Jews,” said the priest. “Look, in all this inventory you will find not one Christian object of worship. Those that dabble in sorcery keep inverted crucifixes, defiled hosts, and such trash. All their cult is based on Christian belief. But the secret enclaves of Judaism find such things abhorrent. Then, too, the woman Mendoza has consistently testified that this child
is
her child. I point out to you that they both have hair as red as Judas’s beard. I think the child is lying, to disassociate herself from the others in hopes of escape. And you may depend upon it, she is our best hope of getting at the truth.”

I shook my head numbly. I didn’t understand, they didn’t understand, and what did all those big words mean? The man in red was looking considerably deflated, but he rallied enough to say (yes, I swear he did):

“She doesn’t look Jewish.”

“None of them do anymore.” The priest pointed at me with a sneer. “Insidiously they have married into our noblest families and polluted the most ancient racial stock of Spain. Even here in the north, where the Moors never conquered! She may well have fair skin; it’s only the more likely there’s polluted blood there. The Jews have no interest in honest Spanish yeomen. They want noble wives, with rich dowers.”

“No!” I yelled. “I’m very poor! But pure, señor, my mama says so, we’re descended from the Goths!” Whatever they were, I certainly didn’t know, but surely it was important.

“Tell us the truth,” said the priest.

“I am telling the truth!”

“Who is your mother, if not the woman Mendoza?” asked the Biscayan.

My downfall was coming, the consequence of spending my brief life as one of a swarming knot of children. “She lives with my papa and the others. Our house is made of stones. It has tiles on the roof,” I stammered.

“But what are your parents’ names?” pressed the Biscayan.

“Mama and Papa,” I said.

“What is your family name?”

I stared in confusion. The truth was, our house had been remote from the village and I had never heard anyone address my parents as Señor or Señora Anything. And my parents had been in the habit of addressing each other as Papacito or Mamacita or Mi Esposa. Very affectionate, I’m sure, but it sank me in deep waters. I sat there racking my brains.

The priest smote the table with his palm. “What is your name?” he said slowly.

“Hija?” I said at last. I had a long sonorous baptismal name, I knew I had, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

“What is the name of your village?” tried the man in red.

A memory floated by and desperately I grabbed at it. “It’s not Orense because Mama comes from there and she says it’s better and she wishes she could go back.”

“But where do you live?”

“I told you, in a little house. With a fence. And we have a goat.”

Well, it went on like that for what seemed hours, with the dry quiet scratching of the pen taking it all down, establishing only that I was a little girl of unknown origin and apparently no Christian name. The priest seemed very excited, very happy. The man in red fumed. The Biscayan just looked fascinated by it all and kept pressing me for details, which of course I didn’t have.

Then abruptly, in the middle of a question, he stopped and peered at me.

“Are you going to faint?”

“What?” I stared at him. But lights were dancing in front of my eyes.

“The child has had no food since the time of her arrest,” he explained to the others. “It was assumed that she was the child of the woman Mendoza and her food would be paid for accordingly. However, no arrangements were made.” He looked encouragingly at the man in red. “Which could be an argument for your point of view, señor. Surely, if the child was really her daughter, she’d have paid to send the child some food?”

“An oversight,” the priest objected. “The woman has been in continuous interrogation since she was arrested. It could easily have slipped her mind.”

“On the other hand, if the child’s story is true, then the Holy Tribunal has the responsibility of providing her meals, assuming that she is, as she says, a pauper.” The man in red tapped his finger on the documents in front of them.

The priest glared at him. “We have not yet established that her story is true in any respect.”

“Worthy señors,” the Biscayan started to say, at which point I swayed forward and threw up bile all over the floor. So the man in red, acting as the Bishop’s representative, was able to authorize a loan with the Tribunal that I might buy a supper of milk and broth. The Biscayan took me off to a little side room and watched me as I dined.

Before I drank, he took a flask of something from within his doublet and poured it into my milk. I grabbed it and gulped at it.

“That tastes funny,” I said suspiciously.

“What do you want, Rhenish wine?” he replied. “Drink. It’ll make you strong. And believe me, you’re going to need to be strong.”

I shrugged. He leaned there, watching me. The intensity of his watching made me angry. There was no malice there, nor any sympathy, nor any human reaction at all that I could identify.

“You know, they put the woman Mendoza on the rack today,” he remarked. “They’re torturing her. To make her confess she’s a secret Jew.”

Was he trying to make me cry? I’d show him. I shrugged.

He studied me. “Doesn’t upset you, eh?”