“No more surprised than I was at seeing you and Barto. It was rather a shock to have my past so suddenly become my present.”
Francisco chuckled. He gestured with a slight wave of his hand. “You look good. Healthy.” He motioned towards the book Diego held. “Studying, I see. That’s good. Don Ricardo says you’ve been a fine priest.”
Diego shrugged. “Ricardo’s a good man and a faithful friend. He makes sure I have all I need. This land is primitive, but there are many opportunities to serve. The native people here knew nothing of the Lord Jesus, and nothing of Spanish ways. Sad to say, they’ve suffered at the hands of some of our countrymen. The friars and priests here try to mitigate the evil. Perhaps it’s helped. I hope so. I long to give something of value back to the world.”
Francisco was quiet for a moment. “Is that why you entered the priesthood? Do you serve God to undo the deeds of the past?”
“What do you mean?”
Francisco studied the younger man’s face. His expression was compassionate. “Diego, my son. For ten long years you’ve wandered in the wilderness.”
The words—so quiet, so gently spoken. Yet they sliced Diego’s heart. He closed his eyes.
“All the service you render, all the masses you say, all the good you do… It won’t bring her back.”
“I know, Padre,” Diego answered, his voice sounding odd. He raised a hand to cover his eyes.
There was a long silence. Francisco leaned near, his voice not much more than a whisper. “Diego, listen to me. All have sinned. All men fall far, far short of God’s standard. And we can’t any of us make it up by our deeds.”
“I know. I preach this to the people. I know these things.” Diego drew a deep breath and looked away. “I know them.”
“Yet you’ve not trusted in them.”
Diego’s head jerked round. “I’ve not trusted in them? Good Lord—I’ve given my life to them!”
Francisco shook his head. “Youpreachthegraceof God. You teach of his compassion towards repentant sinners. Yet you…you walk in the guilt of the past. This is not trusting, Diego.”
“You don’t know this. You don’t know me. For ten years, ten long years, I’ve been as one dead. You didn’t know where I was or how I fared or even if I yet lived.”
“I didn’t know where you were, that’s true. Yet in my heart I knew you lived, that you prospered. I believed in my own answered prayers, perhaps.”
“You knew a boy of eighteen years, Padre. You don’t know the man he became. You’ve not seen me, haven’t spoken with me. Yet you come here, sit beside me now, and tell me I don’t belong in the priesthood?”
“Aye. Though it sounds strange to your ears, Diego, I don’t think you do.” Francisco rubbed the tension from the back of his neck with a large hand. “You wanted to be an artist. Do you not remember that? You had the talent. No one had the same eye as you, the same hand as you, the same ability to put ink to paper and create a world of feeling that never existed before.”
“That was long ago. My life changed. It had to.”
“Aye, some things had to change. But, Diego, God never meant you to live with unresolved guilt. I told you this when you came to me, when you confessed your sin.”
“Leonora was dead.”
“Aye, she was.”
“And my child with her.”
“I know, Diego.”
“And all my tears and a few Pater Nosters wouldn’t undo the evil I’d done.”
“Diego, their deaths were not your fault.”
“Oh, the hell you say!” Diego stood abruptly, his fists clenched. “I didn’t kill them, no. Not directly, not with this—mine own hand!” He wheeled and faced away, struggling to breathe, struggling to think, struggling not to race down the aisle and slam his palms against the weighty oak door on his way to somewhere else, anywhere else.
After a moment of deep breathing, he managed to sound calmer. “No, I didn’t kill them outright. But it was my sin, Padre. My sin!” He turned and crumpled into the seat. “How could I have done it?”
“You were young, Diego. She was young.”
“I loved her.”
“Aye, and she loved you.”
“She was betrothed to Damian.”
“But she loved you.”
“I took what was not mine to take.”
“The sin wasn’t yours alone. She gave you the right to take it.”
“And she paid for it, Padre. How completely and utterly she paid for it.”
“And you didn’t?” Francisco’s brow creased with such compassion that he was nearly in tears. “Diego, what have you been doing for ten long years if not paying? Sweet merciful Jesus, what are you doing now if not paying?” He waved his hand towards the robe Diego wore, towards the cross on the wall. “What is all this if you aren’t still paying, paying for a sin that’s already been forgiven?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do, Diego. I do. More than you know.” Francisco looked off, as if his thoughts travelled far beyond the walls of the small sanctuary. “Do you remember the night you came to me?”
Diego swallowed hard. He’d tried to forget Leonora’s message, the wild ride that had followed, the realization that he’d come too late. He’d tried to forget the blood, the sight of Leonora lying still and lifeless, the silence—and, in it, the rending of his heart.
How he’d got back to the chapel… He could never remember that part, only the strong arms of the priest catching him as he fell, the truth tumbling out over shuddering lips, the violence of sobbing, both his and the Padre’s. The rest, a blur. His parents, their faces pale. Their hands trembling as they placed the purse of gold into his and their voices telling him to go, to ride, to wait until they knew Damian would not kill him.
He’d tried, tried to forget that night. And for ten years it had haunted his dreams, had breathed the poison of sadness into every moment of joy. Oh, how he’d tried to forget.
And now, sitting here so quietly with the Padre, all he could say was, “Aye, I remember.”
“I told you my story, that I knew your pain. For in my youth I also sinned. I have a son, Diego. Unlike your child, mine was born, but he was not whole. He was…is…crippled. Helpless, his mind feeble. The child of my lust.” He turned a look of patient understanding towards the younger man. “And it’s taken me years to realize the truth, that I joined the priesthood to ease my guilt because my son, my poor son, carried in his marred body the penalty of my sin. In some deep part of my soul I needed to do penance, I wanted to suffer.” He held out his arms. “This robe, this crucifix of silver about my neck, my vow of chastity—these were my self-imposed punishments, although I didn’t see that at the time. Nor has it helped, Diego. It hasn’t helped.”
He reached out and plucked at Diego’s garment. “I see the same struggle now within you, and I must tell you, before you get too far down this road, that this is not the way.”
“Leave me alone, Padre.”
“Guilt is a brutal gatekeeper, my son. I know.”
Diego looked away, his jaw tightening. “Leave me alone, Padre.”
“There’s a better way, Diego.”
Diego’s head jerked upward; his eyes narrowed. “What do you know about