Cathedral of the Sea

The lantern was still burning, the shadows still dancing. The village was completely quiet. Why did day not dawn?

He wrapped himself in the blankets and went over to the window.

Another village. Another night waiting for day to dawn.

Waiting for the next day...

THAT MORNING A line of villagers stood outside the house, guarded by the soldiers.

She said her name was Peregrina. Joan pretended not to be paying much attention to the blond woman who was fourth in line. He had got nothing out of the first three. Peregrina stood in front of the table where Joan and the scribe were sitting. The fire crackled in the hearth. Nobody else was inside the house: the soldiers were posted outside the front door. All of a sudden, Joan looked up. The woman began to tremble.

“You know something, don’t you, Peregrina? God sees everything,” Joan told her. Peregrina nodded, but did not raise her eyes from the beaten earth floor. “Look at me. I need you to look at me. Do you want to burn in everlasting flames? Look at me. Do you have children?”

Slowly, the woman looked up.

“Yes, but—” she stammered.

“But they are not the sinful ones, is that it?” Joan interrupted her. “Who is then, Peregrina?” The woman hesitated. “Who is it, Peregrina?”

“Blasphemy,” she said.

“Who is committing blasphemy, Peregrina?”

The scribe was poised to write.

“She is ...” Joan waited without saying anything. There was no going back now. “I’ve heard her blaspheme when she is angry ...” Peregrina’s gaze darted back to the floor. “My husband’s sister, Marta. She says terrible things when she is angry.”

The scratch of the scribe’s quill on the parchment drove out all other noises.

“Is there anything more, Peregrina?”

This time the woman raised her eyes and looked at him calmly. “No, nothing more.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear it. You have to believe me.”

Joan had been mistaken only about the man with the black belt. The barefoot man had denounced two shepherds who did not follow the rules of abstinence: he swore he had seen them eat meat during Lent. The girl with the baby, a young widow, denounced her neighbor. He was a married man who was continually making advances to her ... and had even stroked her breast.

“What about you? Did you allow him to do that?” Joan asked her. “Did you enjoy it?”

The girl burst into tears.

“Did it give you pleasure?” Joan insisted.

“We were hungry,” she sobbed, holding up her baby.

The scribe wrote down her name. Joan stared at her. “What did he give you?” he thought. “A crust of dry bread? Is that all your honor is worth?”

“Confess!” he shouted, pointing a finger at her.

Two more people denounced their neighbors, claiming they were heretics.

“Some nights I hear strange noises and see lights in their house,” one of them said. “They are Devil worshippers.”

“What could your neighbor have done for you to denounce him like this?” wondered Joan to himself. “You know he will never find out who betrayed him. What do you stand to gain if I condemn him? A strip of land perhaps?”

“What is your neighbor’s name?”

“Anton the baker.”

The scribe copied out the name.

By the time Joan had finished the interrogations, night was falling. He called the captain in, and the scribe read out the names of all those who were to present themselves to the Inquisition at first light the next day.

THEN AGAIN IT was the silence of the night, the cold, the flickering flame... and his memories. Joan got up once more.

A blasphemous woman, a lecherous man, and a Devil worshipper. “At dawn I shall have you,” he muttered. Could it be true about the Devil worshipper? He had heard similar accusations, but only one had borne fruit. Could it be true this time? How was he going to prove it?

He felt weary, and returned to the pallet to close his eyes. A Devil worshipper...

“Do YOU SWEAR on the four Gospels?” Joan asked as the light of dawn began to filter through the window on the ground floor of the house.

The man nodded.

“I know you have sinned,” said Joan.

Flanked by two tall soldiers, the man who had bought a moment’s pleasure from the young widow turned pale. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“What is your name?”

“Gaspar.”

“I know you have sinned, Gaspar,” said Joan.

The man stammered: “I ... I ...”

“Confess!” said Joan, raising his voice.

“I...”

“Flog him until he confesses!” shouted Joan, thumping the table with both fists.

One of the soldiers moved his hand to his belt, where a leather whip was hanging. The man fell to his knees in front of the table where Joan and the scribe were sitting.

“No. I beg you. Don’t flog me.”

“Confess.”

With the whip still rolled up in his hand, the soldier pushed him in the back.

“Confess!” cried Joan.

“It ... it isn’t my fault. It’s that woman. She has bewitched me,” the man said in a sudden rush. “Her husband no longer possesses her.” Joan did not react. “She seeks me out; she pursues me. We have done it only a few times, but... but I will never do it again. I will never see her again. I swear it.”

“Have you fornicated with her?”

“Ye ... yes.”

“How often?”

“I don’t know ...”