Authors: Paulo Coelho
Everyone here knows her father, knows how powerful he is and what harm he can do to anyone who touches his daughter. She looks at me, and I do not turn away. The others are scattered about the great subterranean room, hidden in the shadows, afraid that she might emerge from this alive and denounce them all. Cowards. They were summoned here to serve a great cause, to help purify the world. Why are they hiding from a defenseless young girl?
“Take off your other clothes, too.”
She is still gazing fixedly at me. She raises her hands and unties the ribbon on her blue slip, which is all that is covering her body now, and lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes plead with me to stop what is happening, and I respond with a slight nod, indicating that she need not worry, everything will be all right.
“Look for the mark of Satan,” the Inquisitor tells me.
Picking up a candle, I go over to her. The nipples of her small breasts are hard, although I cannot tell whether this is because she is cold or involuntarily aroused by the fact of standing naked before all these men. Her skin is covered in goose pimples. The tall windows with their thick glass let in little light, but the light that does enter glows on her immaculately white skin. I do not need to look very hard. On her pubis—which, when I was most sorely tempted, I often used to imagine kissing—I can see the mark of Satan hidden among her pubic hair, at the top left-hand side. This frightens me. Perhaps the Inquisitor is right, for here is irrefutable proof that she has had sexual relations with the Devil. I feel a mixture of disgust, sadness, and rage.
I need to be sure. I kneel down beside her naked body and look at the mark again: a crescent-shaped mole.
“It’s been there since I was born.”
Like her parents, she thinks she can establish a dialogue and persuade everyone of her innocence. I have been praying hard ever since I came into the room, desperately asking God to give me strength. There will be some pain, but it should all be over in less than half an hour. Even if that mark is irrefutable proof of her crimes, I loved her before I gave myself, body and soul, to the service of God, knowing that her parents would never allow a noblewoman to marry a peasant.
And that love is still too strong for me to master. I do not want to see her suffer.
“I have never called up the Devil. You know me, and
you know my friends as well. Tell him”—she points to my Superior—“that I’m innocent.”
The Inquisitor then speaks with surprising tenderness, which can only have its source in divine mercy.
“I, too, know your family, but the Church is aware that the Devil does not choose his subjects on the basis of social class but for their capacity to seduce with words or with false beauty. Jesus said that evil comes out of the mouths of men. If the evil is within, it will be exorcised by screams and will become the confession we all hope for. If there is no evil there, then you will be able to withstand the pain.”
“I’m cold. Do you think—”
“Do not speak unless spoken to,” he responds gently but firmly. “Merely nod or shake your head. Your four friends have already told you what happens, haven’t they?”
She nods.
“Take your seats, gentlemen.”
Now the cowards will have to show their faces. Judges, scribes, and noblemen take their places around the large table at which the Inquisitor has been sitting alone until now. Only myself, the guards, and the girl remain standing.
I would prefer this rabble not to be here. If it were only the three of us, I know that he would be moved. Most denunciations are made anonymously, because people fear what their fellow townspeople will say; had this denunciation not been made in public, then perhaps none of this would be happening. But destiny has determined that things should take a different course, and the Church needs the rabble. The legal process must be followed. Having
been accused of excesses in the past, it was decreed that everything should be set down in the appropriate civil documents. Thus, in the future, everyone will know that the ecclesiastical authorities acted with dignity and in legitimate defense of the faith. The sentence is handed down by the state; the Inquisitors have only to indicate the guilty party.
“Don’t be afraid. I have just spoken to your parents and promised to do all I can to establish that you never took part in the rituals of which you have been accused. That you did not invoke the spirits of the dead or try to discover what lies in the future, that you never tried to visit the past, that you do not worship nature, that the disciples of Satan never touched your body, despite the mark that is clearly there.”
“You know that—”
Everyone present, their faces now visible to the prisoner, turn indignantly to the Inquisitor, expecting a justifiably stern response. However, he merely raises his finger to his lips, asking her once again to respect the court.
My prayers are being heard. I ask God to fill my Superior with patience and tolerance, and not to send her to the Wheel. No one can resist the Wheel, and so only those whose guilt is assured are placed on it. So far, none of the four girls who have appeared before the court has merited that extreme form of punishment, which involves being tied to the frame of the Wheel, studded with sharp nails and hot coals. When the Wheel is turned, the prisoner’s flesh is scorched and torn.
“Bring the bed.”
My prayers have been answered. One of the guards bawls out the order.
She tries to run away, even though she knows this is impossible. She runs from one side of the room to the other, hurls herself at the stone walls, rushes to the door, but is repelled. Despite the cold and damp, her body is covered in sweat and gleams in the dim light. She doesn’t scream like the other girls; she merely tries to escape. The guards finally manage to hold her down and, in the confusion, deliberately touch her small breasts and the tuft of hair covering her pubis.
Another two men arrive, carrying a wooden bed made specially in Holland for the Holy Office. Today its use is recommended in several countries. They place it very near to the table and bind the silently struggling girl. They open her legs and clamp her ankles with the two rings at one end of the bed. Then they stretch her arms above her head and tie them to ropes attached to a lever.
“I will work the lever,” I say.
The Inquisitor looks at me. Normally, this would be done by a soldier, but I know how easily these barbarians could tear her muscles, and, besides, he has already allowed me to take charge on the four previous occasions.
“All right.”
I go over to the bed and place my hands on the piece of wood that is now worn with use. The other men lean forward. The sight of this naked girl tied to a bed, her legs spread, could be seen as simultaneously hellish and heavenly. The Devil tempts and provokes me. Tonight I will whip him out of my body, and with him the thought that
right now I want to be here embracing and protecting her from all those leering eyes and smiles.
“Get behind me in the name of Jesus!” I cry out to the Devil, unwittingly pressing the lever so that her body is pulled taut. She barely groans when her spine arches upward. I ease the pressure, and her spine relaxes.
I am still praying ceaselessly, begging for God’s mercy. Once the pain threshold has been crossed, the spirit grows strong. Everyday desires become meaningless, and man is purified. Suffering comes from desire, not from pain.
My voice is calm and comforting.
“Your friends have told you about this, haven’t they? When I move this lever, your arms will be pulled backward, your shoulders will come out of joint, your spine will rupture, and your skin will tear. Don’t force me to go that far. Simply confess, as your friends did. My Superior will absolve you of your sins, you will be able to go home with only a penance, and everything will return to normal. The Holy Office will not revisit the town for a while.”
I glance to the side to make sure the scribe is noting my words correctly, that the record is there for the future.
“I confess,” she says. “Tell me what my sins are and I will confess.”
I touch the lever very gently, just enough to make her cry out in pain.
Please, don’t make me go any further. Help me, please, and confess at once
.
“I cannot tell you what your sins are. Even if I knew them, you are the one who must declare them to the court.”
She starts telling us everything we expected to hear, thus making torture unnecessary, but she is writing her
own death sentence, and I must prevent that. I pull the lever a little harder to try to silence her, but despite the pain, she continues. She speaks of premonitions, of sensing what will happen in the future, of how nature has revealed many medical secrets to her and her friends. I start to pull the lever harder, desperate to make her stop, but she continues, her words interspersed with cries of pain.
“Just a moment,” says the Inquisitor. “Let us hear what she has to say. Slacken the pressure.”
Then, turning to the other men, he says, “We are all witnesses. The Church calls for death by burning for this poor victim of the Devil.”
No!
I want to tell her to stay silent, but everyone is looking at me.
“The court agrees,” says one of the judges.
She hears this and is lost forever. For the first time since she entered the room, her eyes change and take on a determined look that can come only from the Evil One.
“I confess to having committed all the sins in the world. I confess to having dreamed of men coming to my bed and giving me intimate kisses. One of those men was you, and I confess that, in my dreams, I tempted you. I confess that I gathered together with my friends to conjure up the spirits of the dead because I wanted to know if I would one day marry the man I had always dreamed of having by my side.”
She indicates me with a gesture of her head.
“That man was you. I was waiting until I was a little older before trying to lure you away from the monastic life. I confess that I wrote letters and diaries that I later burned
because they talked about the only person, apart from my parents, who showed any compassion for me and whom I loved for that reason. That person was you—”
I pull the lever harder. She cries out and faints. Her white body is covered in sweat. The guards are about to throw cold water on her face to bring her around so that we can extract further confessions from her, but the Inquisitor stops them.
“There’s no need. I think the court has heard enough. Cover her with her slip and take her back to the cell.”
They pick up her inanimate body along with the blue slip that was on the floor and carry her away. The Inquisitor turns to the hard-hearted men beside him.
“Gentlemen, I await confirmation of the verdict in writing, unless anyone here has something to say in defense of the accused. If so, we will reconsider the accusation.”
They all turn to look at me, some hoping I will say nothing, others that I will save her, for, as she herself said, I know her.
Why did she have to say those words here? Why did she bring up feelings that had been so difficult to overcome when I decided to serve God and leave the world behind? Why didn’t she allow me to defend her when I could have saved her life? If I speak out in her favor now, tomorrow the whole town will say that I saved her only because she said she had always loved me. My reputation and my career would be ruined forever.
“If just one voice is raised in her defense, I am prepared to demonstrate the leniency of the Holy Mother Church.”
I am not the only one here who knows her family. Some
owe them favors, others money; others still are motivated by envy. No one will say a word, only those who owe them nothing.
“Shall I declare the proceedings closed?”
The Inquisitor, despite being more learned and more devout than I, seems to be asking for my help. After all, she did tell everyone here that she loved me.
“Only speak a word and my servant will be healed,” the centurion said to Jesus. Just one word and my servant will be saved.
My lips do not open.
The Inquisitor does not show it, but I know that he despises me. He turns to the rest of the group.
“The Church, represented here by myself, her humble defender, awaits confirmation of the death penalty.”
The men gather in a corner, and I can hear the Devil shouting ever louder in my ears, trying to confuse me as he had earlier that day. However, I left no irreversible marks on the bodies of the four other girls. I have seen some brothers pull the lever as far as it will go, so that the prisoners die with all their organs destroyed, blood gushing from their mouths, their bodies a whole thirty centimeters longer.
The men return with a piece of paper signed by all. The verdict is the same as it was for the other four girls: death by burning.
The Inquisitor thanks everyone and leaves without addressing another word to me. The men who administer justice and the law leave, too, some already discussing the latest piece of local gossip, others with their heads bowed. I go over to the fire, pick up one of the red-hot coals, and
place it under my habit against my skin. I smell scorched flesh, my hands burn and my body contracts in pain, but I do not move.
“Lord,” I say, when the pain recedes, “may these marks remain forever on my body, so that I may never forget who I was today.”
A
HEAVILY MADE-UP WOMAN
in traditional dress—and who is somewhat, not to say grossly, overweight—is singing regional songs. I hope everyone is having a good time; this is a great party, and I am feeling more euphoric with every kilometer of railway track we cover.
There was a moment this afternoon when the person I used to be slumped into depression, but I soon recovered. Why feel guilty if Hilal has forgiven me? Going back into the past and reopening old wounds is neither easy nor particularly important. The only justification is that the knowledge acquired might help me to gain a better understanding of the present.
Ever since the last book signing, I’ve been trying to find the right words to lead Hilal toward the truth. The trouble with words is that they give us the illusory sense that we are making ourselves understood as well as understanding what others are saying. However, when we turn around and come face-to-face with our destiny, we discover that words are not enough. I know so many people who are
brilliant speakers but who are quite incapable of practicing what they preach. Besides, it’s one thing to describe a situation and quite another to experience it. I realized a long time ago that a warrior in search of his dream must take his inspiration from what he actually does and not from what he imagines himself doing. There’s no point in my telling Hilal what we went through together, because the kind of words I would have to use to describe it would be dead before they even left my mouth.