Verse Four – Coming and Going
The sun was already setting by the time Robert Locke finally finished checking in his horse at the Royal Stables on the west side of Cordoba. He asked for and received directions to the Royal Palace from the stable-master.
“But you might wish to set up your tent somewhere nearby for the night and head for the Palace in the morning,” the stable-master suggested. “The directions I gave you will take you through a pretty rough neighborhood. It’s not the kind of place you want to be after dark.”
“I shall be all right,” Locke said with a wink, tapping his finger on the end of his musket. “Beside that, I would not want to keep the Queen waiting.”
“Suit your self,” the stable-master shook his head as he watched the Englishman walk away into the shadowy dusk.
*
Miguel waited for nightfall to make his escape from the Barrio. His afternoon prayer session, though agonizing at the time, afterward had left him with a deep feeling of peace.
He was optimistic about his prospects for the future, and planned at least to begin his journey by traveling in the dark and sleeping during the day to reduce his odds of encountering trouble.
After coming down to street level, he looked up and said a silent goodbye to his rooftop home.
He moved slowly and cautiously through the empty streets, his eyes and ears alert to every sound and movement. Even so, he was surprised by the four thugs that seemed to materialize out of thin air.
“Well look what we have here, boys!” the leader snarled. “What are you doing out here, you little Jew-rat?”
Miguel spun around to run, but two more gang members were suddenly standing there, blocking his escape. He ducked as they lunged for him and darted down a dark and unfamiliar alleyway.
The attackers followed at a leisurely pace, howling and laughing. Miguel realized why when the alley dead-ended.
“No escape this time rat-boy,” one of the others gloated.
“Now I asked you a question,” the leader said as he shoved Miguel hard against the wall, making him hit his head and see stars. “What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing,” Miguel groaned, still clutching his bedroll and food bundle tightly, “please let me go.”
“Nothing, you say?” the leader began punctuating his words with nasty punches to Miguel’s shoulder. “I bet you’re out here looking for things to steal. Isn’t that right you thieving Jew?”
Miguel’s legs gave out under the pressure of the repeated blows, and he slid down along the wall until he was sitting on the ground cowering in pain and fear.
The other thugs laughed and congratulated the leader on his accomplishment.
“What’s he holding there?” another of the bullies shouted.
“Yes, what do you have there?” the leader leaned in for a look.
“It’s just some food. Here, take it.” Miguel could barely lift his arms to hold out the bundle.
The leader grabbed it away and tossed it to one of his comrades. After unfolding the cloth, the thug commented, “This is the meal of a king!”
“So you have been stealing!” the leader shouted triumphantly. “How else would a rat like you get so much food? And now you’re caught, you rat!”
“No,” Miguel shook his head, “I did not steal. It was a gift.”
“A gift?” the leader snorted. “Who would give you anything? Now you’re a liar, too!” He kicked Miguel hard in the stomach with his boot.
Miguel crumbled from his sitting position and lay curled in a ball on the street. He gasped to regain his breath, while struggling not to vomit. He still clung to his bedroll as if it were his only connection to the world of the living.
The thugs chuckled and passed the bundle of food around to each other, while Miguel writhed on the filthy ground in total agony.
“Should we kill him?” one of the thugs wondered aloud through a mouthful of food.
The gang mumbled their vague enthusiasm for the plan.
“No, that’s too good for him,” the leader decided. “Let’s do what the Moors used to do with thieves. Let’s cut of his hand!”
The gang was much more excited by that idea.
The leader lifted the right leg of his trousers and pulled out a small knife. The blade was jagged and dull.
“Hold him!” the leader shouted, and the others gleefully gathered around.
Miguel struggled with all his might, but could not overcome their greater strength and numbers.
“Anything to say for yourself, before we get started, boy?” the leader’s eyes were glowing with insane rage.
“I say that six against one is not quite fair.”
The voice was not Miguel’s.
The thugs spun around to see a tall figure standing in the shadows at the entrance to the alley.
“Go away!” the leader barked. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Six cowardly men trying to torture a child; this concerns me very much,” the man replied as he took a few steps forward into the light.
The gang members stared at Robert Locke with hatred.
“You’re not even from around here!” one of the thugs protested.
“You’ll leave our neighborhood right now if you want to live!” the leader was shaking in his anger.
“I am not going anywhere.” Locke replied, as he drew his musket. “Now put down your knife and walk away from here.”
Instead the leader raised his blade up high and charged straight at Robert Locke.
The musket’s report was nearly deafening in the narrow alley, but still not loud enough to drown out the gang leader’s high-pitched shriek of terror and pain as the slug blew off the tip of his middle finger. The knife went spinning away and disappeared into a mud puddle.
The other thugs fell over one another racing to get past Locke and run off into the night. The leader staggered slowly after them, cradling his wounded hand against his chest and spitting all manner of curses and threats against the stranger who had ruined his fun.
Locke approached Miguel and knelt over him.
“Thank you,” Miguel whispered with the little breath he had regained. “Who are you?”
“Someone with little patience for injustice,” Locke eluded. “Can you stand and walk?”
“I think so,” Miguel nodded, and after finally gaining his feet with some assistance added, “We must leave here. They will likely return with greater numbers and weapons.”
“I am looking for the Royal Palace,” Locke explained, “but these dark and winding streets have confounded me. Can you tell me the way?”
“I can, and I will, but they will not open the gates to you at this late hour,” Miguel answered. “I do know a safe place where we can sleep. You saved my life, so at least let me offer you that, and I will show you the way to the Palace in the morning.”
Too tired from his long horse ride and other adventures to argue, Locke gathered his possessions from where he had dropped them in the shadows at the entrance to the alley and followed Miguel.
So soon after thinking he had left it for good, Miguel returned to his rooftop. For the very first time though, he did not arrive there alone.
*
Miguel laid out his bedroll in its usual place, and insisted that his rescuer sleep upon it. Again, too tired to argue, he thanked Miguel and stretched out with a long sigh.
“So, why were those men attacking you?” Locke asked as he shifted to get comfortable.
“How should I know?” Miguel sounded defensive. “They hate anyone that is…”
“That is what?” Locke turned and took his first good look at the boy by the star and moon light. He was struck by how young and thin the lad was, so thin that his clothes looked almost ridiculously baggy.
“Anyone that is different than they are,” Miguel answered angrily. He put his hand on his cap as if to take it off, but changed his mind and adjusted it more tightly into place.
Locke continued staring at the boy, while Miguel gave his own feet a thorough examination.
“Are you a Jew?” Locke guessed.
“Would you still have helped me if I was?” Miguel retorted, turning his face away.
“It would make no difference to me,” Locke answered. “Why should I care if you are?”
“Are you a Christian?” Miguel asked.
“Yes.”
“They say the Jews killed your Lord,” Miguel explained quietly. “They say we are still guilty for it, even though it happened a long time ago.”
“They say a lot of things,” Locke closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“So you really do not care if I am?” Miguel was still wary.
“No.”
“Where are you from?” Miguel wondered, increasingly fascinated by his rescuer.
“The island of the mighty,” Locke exhaled, sounding a bit sarcastic. “Some call it England.”
Miguel sat quietly for a moment, trying to remember what, if anything, he had heard about the distant island.
“England is to the north, right?” Miguel asked, but grew nervous when Locke did not reply. “I… I have heard that it is a beautiful island,” he rambled on, “but I have never met anyone from there before. Do you have any family there?”
Miguel nearly panicked when there was still no reply, afraid that he had probed too far with his questions or somehow offended the man. He felt a wave of relief when he heard light snoring coming from Locke’s direction.
After a time, Miguel realized that the night was growing cooler. He walked over and used his own cloak to cover the sleeping Englishman.
Returning to his spot beneath the overhang, Miguel shivered and watched Locke sleep for awhile.
“I still do not even know your name,” he whispered before finally falling asleep himself.
*
“Good morning,” Miguel said when he saw Locke finally open his eyes.
Locke just grunted in reply, squinting against the sun.
“I wish I had some food to share so we could break fast,” Miguel continued, “but my attackers ruined all I had. Anyway, thank you again for what you did for me last night. You saved my life.”
Locke nodded, stood and stretched.
“So, I suppose you want to reach the Palace. I will show you the way, just as I said I would,” Miguel came over and started packing up the bedroll.
“Why don’t you show me the way to a tavern first? I shall purchase some food for us both,” Locke checked his musket before holstering it.
“No, I am sorry,” Miguel looked up at him, “I cannot ask that of you. You have done too much for me already!”
“You did not ask,” Locke was already moving toward the staircase, “and anyway, you let me use your bed, so we are even.”
Rather than argue against a meal, Miguel raced to put on his cloak and gather up the bedroll. Once down on street-level, he pointed out a tavern several blocks away and then scrambled to keep up with the long strides of his benefactor.
“May I ask your name?” Miguel panted.
“Yes.”
“What is it?” Miguel played along, after no more was said for nearly a block.
“Locke…Robert Locke.”
“That is a good name,” Miguel instantly felt foolish, but did not know what else to say. “I…I am Miguel…just Miguel.”
They exchanged no more words until they were sitting next to each other at the tavern’s table board, where Locke ordered bread plates with fried eggs and cups of honey mead for them both.
The tavern master, along with the smattering of other customers, gave Locke cold and angry glares for bringing in an outcast like Miguel and treating him to such sumptuous fare. Locke ignored them, and the sight of his sword and musket prevented anyone from complaining too loudly.
“I have never been given a meal this big,” Miguel marveled at his companion’s largesse.
“I can tell,” Locke glanced at the thin lad before taking a long draught from his mead cup. “Tell me Miguel,” he continued after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what were you doing out on the street so late, if you knew there were dangerous rogues in the neighborhood?”
Miguel took a sip from his own cup, and used the moment to weigh his response. He could not think of any reason to withhold his plans from Locke, so he resolved to tell him the truth.
“I was trying to leave Cordoba,” he explained quietly, after a bite of egg, “because people like me are no longer wanted here.”
“I see.”
“I am hoping to reach Africa soon,” Miguel continued, thrilled to have someone to speak with. “Have you ever been there?”
“I have,” Locke nodded, and after chewing and swallowing a chunk of bread added, “one time.”
“Do you know if any other people like me live there?” Miguel asked hopefully.
“You mean Jews?” Locke said a bit too loudly, causing a slight murmur in the room.
“Yes,” Miguel whispered, feeling choked by the hate around him no less than if the tavern was filled with thick smoke.
“That I do not know,” Locke shrugged.
They ate in silence for awhile, and most of the other customers had left by the time they finished.
“Can I ask you something else?” Miguel looked over at Locke.
“Yes.”
Miguel smiled, already getting used to Locke’s aloof demeanor.
“I was just thinking,” Miguel struggled to choose his words, “that you must be very important to be going to the Palace.”
“What was your question?” Locke tipped back his cup until it was empty.
“Well,” Miguel turned red, but still burned with curiosity, “since you are from England, I just wondered what brought you all the way to Cordoba.”
“We should get going,” Locke stood and tossed a pair of coins onto the board.
The tavern master swept up the coins, but said nothing to the pair as they exited.
“The Palace is that way,” Miguel motioned with his hand, and they began walking again, though a little more slowly than before breaking fast.
Locke remained silent for another two blocks.
“Say,” Miguel spoke up when he could stand it no longer, “I understand if you do not want to tell me much about yourself. Who am I anyway, other than some stranger that you have been kind enough to help, twice? Thank you for the meal, by the way. It was wonderful.”
“You are welcome,” Locke offered the closest look to a smile that Miguel had yet seen from him.
“You do not need to tell me,” Miguel switched his bedroll to the other arm. “I can see you are someone important, just by the way you walk and speak. Obviously you have been to a lot of places and you know different tongues. So you probably have big things to think about, important things. And I just wondered if you ever considered having a squire, you know, someone who could look after some of the little details for you, not because you need that, but it might just be nice for you. And you could surely find someone a lot better than me, but I would not need to eat like we did this morning all the time, not ever really. I probably will not need to eat again today as a matter of fact! So, would that be something that you think you might ever find useful, having a helper, maybe even just for a little while?”
“How many summers have you seen, Miguel?” Locke stopped suddenly and stared down at him. “All of twelve?”
“Thirteen,” he sounded taken aback.
“Look,” Locke sighed, “you seem like a decent lad, and I am not sorry to have lent you a hand, but I travel alone.”
“Sure, I understand,” Miguel nodded, “but maybe just while you are staying in Cordoba, since I know the way around…”
“Is that the Palace?” Locke pointed at an enormous building set up on a hill in the distance.
“Yes.”
“Then we are even again,” Locke said. “You take care of yourself, Miguel.” He began quickly walking away.
“Can I just come with you as far as…?” Miguel shouted and started to follow.
“Goodbye.” Locke’s tone was clear.
Miguel stood there in silence on the outskirts of the Barrio, alone again.
Verse Five – Sanctuary
Brother Diego looked around at his new post, the dilapidated chapel on the outskirts of the Barrio, and he began to laugh. What he saw was far from amusing, but he had no other response within him.
The tiny church had appeared decent enough from the outside, with its sturdy stone foundation, pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
On the inside, however, it looked as if a small war had been fought in the sanctuary. The few intact pews were out of alignment. The rest were either badly cracked or shattered completely.
The altar was blackened, apparently burned. Though from what source of fire, Diego could not tell since there were no candlesticks or lanterns visible anywhere in the church.
Some of the light inside the room came through slit windows that may have once contained glass, but were now open air. By far the biggest source of light however, was also the greatest source of distress for Brother Diego.
The ceiling near the back and on the left side of the altar had caved in, and the late afternoon sun blazed down through a gaping hole about the diameter of the height of a man. A pool of water from the recent rainstorm glistened in the sunlight.
Diego fell to his knees and prayed for strength. When he rose up after a lengthy conversation with God, he immediately went to work.
He spent the rest of that first day foraging through debris, stacking small and otherwise useless scraps of wood in a pile to serve as fuel, and separating out the largest pieces of pew that might prove helpful in repairing the roof. Those chunks and boards of in-between sizes, he sorted off to the side into a variety of categories so they would be easy to find when a use for them could be determined.
Exhausted, he retired that night on the hard wood floor behind the charred altar, creatively using his own robe as both a pillow and a blanket.
Not very long after sundown, he heard a loud popping noise and screams. Apart from that though, the night was peaceful and considering the circumstances, he slept quite well.
In the morning, he broke fast by nibbling at the rations he had been given when leaving the Palace. Then he went immediately back to work, trying to make his new domain look at least decent enough for others to come inside without fear.
He began by using an abandoned priest’s robe he found in the back room to mop up the rest of the standing water. He squeezed out the robe as best as he could in the street and hung it up to dry by threading it through one of the glassless slit windows.
Only then did he finally think to inspect the confessional booth near the back and to the right of the altar. The door to one side seemed stuck, so he tried the other one and it flew open. An enormous rat scurried toward him.
Diego stumbled back in surprise, landing on one of the good pews. He shouted from the pain of landing on his still damaged back. The rat panicked and fled into the street through the open front door.
He pulled the soggy priest’s robe down from the window slit and spent the rest of the morning using it to clean rat droppings and other debris out of the booth. Brother Diego continually reminded himself that his present situation, despite the squalor and filth, was still preferable to the lies and hatred he had faced in the Royal Palace.
*
After leaving behind the street boy, Robert Locke marched swiftly uphill in the general direction of the Palace. At one intersection, he turned and saw a chapel with a pale brown stucco façade and iron cross steeple.
He paused for just a moment, considering the idea of going there to make confession for his sins before completing his journey to see the Queen. Instead though, he decided that he had already met with too much delay and kept walking.
After a few more blocks, a brief reflection of light from the midday sunshine caught his attention and he looked in through a street level window to see a sight that froze him in place.
A small sculpture of Christ crucified was set on the opposite wall. Locke sighed, hesitated, looked up at the sky, then back through the window. He sighed once more, turned on his heel and began retracing his steps to the intersection where he had seen the chapel. He felt a little foolish, but had learned over the years that it was usually better not to ignore obvious signs.
The chapel came back into view, and Locke quickstepped toward it. He walked up the steps and through the chapel’s open door.
“Good Lord,” he muttered, looking around the interior of the gutted building.
“Truer words are rarely spoken,” Brother Diego had removed his outer cloak due to the heat of exertion and emerged from the confessional booth in only his inner tunic. He bore a pile of filth bound up in the priestly robe he had converted into a mop, but tossed the entire bundle behind the confessional before approaching Locke.
“What happened here?” Locke frowned.
“I am afraid,” Brother Diego began as he wiped his sweaty and grimy hands on the hips of his tunic, “that this particular house of the Lord’s widespread estate has fallen into dire need of repair and renewal.”
“I should say so,” Locke said warily, “but this is a chapel?”
“Indeed,” Brother Diego bowed slightly. “And despite outward appearances, we should trust that the Lord’s presence shall still be felt here, for after all, did He not tell us that wherever two or three of his followers are gathered together in His name, there shall He also be?”
“Yes,” Locke agreed, “I suppose so.”
“How then may I be of service to you?” Brother Diego asked.
“Well,” Locke hesitated, “will you take my confession and grant me forgiveness?”
“You may certainly confess your sins to the Lord here and even before me as well if you desire,” Brother Diego explained.
“Thank you, Father,” Locke nodded and started toward the confessional booth.
“Actually,” Brother Diego stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, “you might find the relatively fresh air here in the room preferable to the booth. And I must also in fairness tell you that I am not actually a priest, but rather a humble friar. As such, I can hear your confession, pray with you and intercede for you; but I cannot grant you full absolution.”
“Will I be forgiven then?” Locke asked.
“The forgiveness that matters most, which is from God, will most certainly be granted,” Brother Diego answered.
“What about the full absolution?” Locke pressed him.
“That is a matter between you and the church,” Diego replied.
“What is the difference?” Locke was becoming confused.
“Your relationship with the church is one between you and other men,” Diego explained, “while true forgiveness can only come from God.”
“And that I can receive here and now, with you?” Locke sought to clarify.
“You could receive it even without me,” Brother Diego smiled, “for the Lord promised not to turn away anyone who approaches him in a spirit of contrition and repentance. You need only confess your sins to Him and accept His gift of forgiveness and restoration with a grateful heart. Then the relationship between you and God will be made right, and He will ask only that you go forth and sin no more, though He knows our frailty and He will be there to restore us again and again as long as we need Him to, provided we continue to do our best to live rightly in His eyes.”
“I have never heard a priest speak like you,” Locke stared at the young man in wonder.
“Again,” Diego smiled once more, “I am not a priest, but rather only a…”
“A friar, right,” Locke smiled back. “Well, perhaps in the future I shall seek out friars instead of priests, for your words ring true to me.”