Brother Crown headed for the tractor, whistling jubilantly through the gap between his two front teeth. He had seen the new convert’s car, and oh, what a beauty it was, and how the engine’s purr grew into a deep, powerful roar. He pictured himself behind the wheel, foot hard on the accelerator, taking the curves of the mountain road with a shrieking of tires. Zoom, zoom, here I come. Zoom, zoom, zoom.
Brother Steady Heart and Brother Tongue resumed hoeing weeds in the vegetable garden.
“Does he have a strong back, that’s the important thing,” Brother Heart said. “Arms, legs, hands, these you can strengthen by work and exercise, but a strong back is a gift of God. Isn’t that so?”
Brother Tongue nodded agreeably, wishing that Brother Heart would shut up, he was becoming a terrible old bore.
“Yes sir, a strong back in a man, and fine, delicate limbs in a woman, these are the gifts of God, eh, Brother Tongue? Oh, the ladies, I miss them. Shall I tell you a secret? I was never much to look at, but I used to be a great hit with the ladies, would you believe it?”
Brother Tongue nodded again. Somebody shut this bastard up before I kill him.
“You appear a mite peaked today, Brother Tongue. Are you feeling all right? Your pleurisy may be acting up again, maybe you’d better take a rest. Sister Blessing says you must not overdo. Go on now and have yourself a nice little nap.”
The Master climbed the stairs to the top of the Tower and looked down at the blue lake in the green valley, and up at the green mountains in the blue sky. Ordinarily, the view inspired him, but now he felt old and tired. It had been a difficult period, testing Brother Faith of Angels and being tested in return, and at the same time trying to handle Mother Pureza, to keep her quiet and contented. Her flights into the past were becoming wilder as her body grew feebler. She gave orders to her servant, Capirote, who had been dead for thirty years, and became violent when her orders were not obeyed. She called out to her parents and her sisters and wept bitterly when they did not answer. Sometimes she fingered the rosary no one had ever been able to take from her, and in spite of the Master’s efforts to stop her she said the Hail Marys she had learned as a child. She had disliked the new Brother on sight, cursed him in Spanish, accused him of trying to rob her and threatened him with a flogging. The Master knew the time was approaching when he would have to send her away. He hoped she would die before it became necessary.
He had left her resting in her room when he went down to make the announcement. Now he knocked softly on her door, and, pressing his lips against the crack, whispered, “Dear love, are you asleep?”
There was no answer.
“Pureza?”
When there was still no answer, he thought, She is asleep, God be merciful and grant she dies before she wakes.
He bolted her door so she couldn’t get out, and went back to his own room to pray.
Mother Pureza, hiding behind the stone shrine in the inner court below, watched the futile bolting of her door and giggled until she was out of breath and her eyes watered.
She stayed there a long time. It was cool and quiet. Her chin tipped forward on her scrawny breast and her eyelids drooped, and with a great rush of air Capirote flew down at her from the sky.
Seventeen
Quinn found her wandering up the dirt lane. She was walking stiffly, holding her hands straight out from her sides, like a little girl who had disobeyed orders and got herself dirty. Even from a distance Quinn could see that the dirt was blood. Her robe was covered with it.
He stopped the car and got out and ran over to her. “Mother Pureza, what are you doing?”
Although she didn’t recognize him, she seemed neither frightened nor curious. “I am looking for the washroom. My hands are soiled. They feel sticky, it’s quite unpleasant.”
“Where did they get sticky?”
“Oh, back there. Away back there.”
“The washroom’s in the opposite direction.”
“Fancy that. I’m turned around again.” She peered up at him, her head on one side like an inquisitive bird. “How do you know where the washroom is?”
“I’ve been here before. You and I talked, you promised you’d send me an engraved invitation through Capirote.”
“I shall have to cancel that. Capirote is no longer in my employ. He’s carried his play-acting too far this time. I have ordered him off the premises by nightfall... I suppose you think this is real blood?”
“Yes,” Quinn said gravely. “Yes, I think it is.”
“Nonsense. It’s juice. It’s some kind of juice Capirote thickened with cornstarch to play a trick on me. I wasn’t fooled for a minute, of course. But it was a cruel joke, wasn’t it?”
“Where is he now?”
“Oh, back there.”
“Where?”
“If you shout at me, young man, I shall have you flogged.”
“This is very important, Mother Pureza,” Quinn said, trying to keep his voice under control. “It’s not a joke. The blood’s real.”
“I’m onto him and his tricks—real?” She looked down at the stains on her robe, already darkening and stiffening. “Real blood? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, dear me, I didn’t think he’d go so far as to collect real blood and pour it all over himself. One must really admire such thoroughness. Where do you suppose he got it, from a goat or a chicken? Ah, now I have it, he’s pretending that he sacrificed himself in front of the shrine—young man, where are you going? Don’t run away. You promised to show me where the washroom is.”
She stood and watched him until he disappeared among the trees. The sun beat down on her withered face. She closed her eyes and thought of the vast old house of her youth, with its thick adobe walls and heavy tiled roof to keep out the sun and the noises of the street. How orderly everything had been, how quiet and clean, there had been no need to think of dirt or blood. She had never even seen blood until Capirote — “You must prepare yourself for a shock, Isabella. Capirote has been thrown from his horse and he is dead.”
She opened her eyes and cried out in despair, “Capirote? Capirote, you are dead?”
She saw the Master coming toward her, and the fat, cranky little woman who brought her meals, and Brother Crown with his cruel eyes. They were calling out to her, “Pureza!” which wasn’t her name. She had many names, Pureza was not one of them.
“I am Dona Isabella Constancia Querida Felicia de la Guerra. I wish to be correctly addressed.”
“Isabella,” the Master said, “you must come with me.”
“You are giving me orders, Harry? Aren’t you forgetting you were nothing but a grocery clerk? Where did you get all your fine visions, Harry, from hauling around cans of soup and baked beans?”
“Please be quiet, Pur—Isabella.”
“I have nothing further to say.” She drew herself up, glanced haughtily around. “Now if you will kindly direct me to the washroom? I have somebody’s blood on my hands. I wish to be rid of it.”
“Did you see it happen, Isabella?”
“See what happen?”
“Brother Faith of Angels has killed himself.”
“Of course he killed himself. Did the silly idiot think he could fly by flapping his arms?”
The body lay where Mother Pureza had indicated, in front of the shrine like a sacrifice. The man’s face had struck one of the protruding stones of the shrine, and it was crushed and bloodied beyond recognition. But Quinn had seen the car parked beside the barn, a green Pontiac station wagon, and he knew he was looking at the body of George Haywood. His throat thickened with grief, both for Haywood and for the two women who had fought over him and lost, and would never forgive each other either the fight or the loss.