The Satanic Cult of Mafra (A Portuguese Tale of Incest)

The Satanic Cult of Mafra
(A Portuguese Tale of Incest)
© 2005
(Deposit in Register of Copyrights
Library of Congress, Washington D.C. USA) By
Ronald Charles Wolf
Mafra, Portugal





























Dedicated to

Homens sapiens sexus










Prologue








1.      The education of D. João V.

 There are events that alter the course of history but whose occurrence is seldom recorded. They are occasions which we are tempted to denominate “fortuitous” or “by chance” but this may not be true.
Such an incident was the arrival of a meek-appearing  monk in Lisbon,
early in the evening in the year 1703. The war ships docked at the main commercial  square rocked gently with the slow, but even, descent of the river Tejo out to the Atlantic.
 Sea gulls whirled  above the sloping roof tops and swooped  over the walls of the St. George Castle from which sentinels could see across the river,  over  the  plains,  and  in the  distant  horizon,  the  dust  from  any horse   cavalry   which   might   signal   a   hostile   approach   from   the belligerent Spaniards to the east.
The  monk,  friar Espada,  was a false  cleric,  but a messenger  with a
mission.  As he was demented,  he was the eternal impostor,  who had appeared  one day in his thin,  almost  transparent,  frock  at the Royal Palace near Commerce Plaza. There, in the silence of the night and to the astonishment of the guards, he had beseeched an audience with the learned Jesuit Francisco.
The  Jesuit  Francisco  da  Cruz  was  a tutor  of the  Portuguese  Prince
Regent João V since his infancy days. Were the wise Cruz permitted to speak freely he would have confessed his daily irritations. The apparent mental  irreverence  of  his  arrogant,  adolescent,  noble  ward  at  times caused  his austere,  thin frame  to convulse  with inner distaste  for his





task. But, of course, he would not shirk the obligations imposed upon him by his order.
 To be a Jesuit was an imperious calling and pious duty to Christ, to be given with devotion no matter how arduous the service. Moreover, he had to admit, to educate a future King of Portugal was prestigious, even though  such  an  inner  acknowledgement   was  frowned  upon  by  his religious  brothers.  Yet, whatever  vainglory  he permitted  himself  was normally  bruised  by the often  impetuous,  impudent  behaviour  of his student for whom the world was shaped to his pleasures.
This fatuous, but haughty, young man was João V., born on 22 October
1689 and destined to be coronated King of Portugal on 11 January 1707, when he was only 17 years of age. Of course in 1703 this future event could not have been known.
Or  was  it, to at  least  one?  Had  friar  Espada  been  informed  by the
possessor of eternal knowledge? For the friar was not to be deterred. He believed  his  sinister  assignment  had  been  entrusted  to  him  by  none other than the determined Immortal Tempter, the Emperor of Darkness, the Mocker of False Morality, also known as Lucifer or Satan.
He spoke, congealed, squirmed, and squealed but he was not the idle
chatterer of life but the anti-Christ, the perennial presence of dementia who  stalks  among  humanity,  destroying  its  cohesion,  impaling  its denizens upon their false pride and wretched greed, but above all, their uncontrollable sexuality.
He was the incarnation of the occult side of humanity, suppressed but
vibrant,  the sensuous  instincts  which  are never  dominated  and  drive social life along its incoherent paths. Behind his sycophantic grimaces lay the foul motives of a mad man.
 At first the Jesuit Cruz was reluctant to receive his unknown caller so late in the day; but constant messages by the guards and persistency by an ostensibly religious figure at the gates of the Palace was eventually rewarded by the Jesuit Francisco descending the stone stairs and approaching the large, wooden door which was held ajar by two palace sentinels.
 Before him, the Prince Regent scholar beheld a portly, parched face, with skin tightly drawn over prominent cheekbones,  while large eyes, seemingly without depth, stared at him with a glazed, stone-like stare.





His frock was not of an order known to the Jesuit. The strangeness of his dress was further emphasized by his hood that covered most of his face and cast shadows over an inscrutable visage.
Still the visitor’s gaze prevented the Jesuit Francisco from turning his
back  and retiring  to his lodgings.  The intensity  of his visitor’s  glare caused  the Jesuit  Cruz discomfort  and he was about  to return  to his palace quarters  when his caller stretched  out a hand, his long fingers lurching forward from a frayed cuff.

“A word, my master,” were his words of introduction.

“We do not know each other. How can I be your master?” the Jesuit
Francisco asked with incredulity bordering on disdain.

Without responding to the question directly, the friar continued, “I have travelled  so  far  and  long  to  be  able  to  serve  the  commands  of  the learned scholar Francisco da Cruz. There is so much I wish to know of the  morals  and  wisdom  of  our  Saviour.  All  we  friars  who  are  not schooled  in the church  canons  with such perspicuity  as Master  Cruz know  your  name.  Still,  our  humility  serves  us  as  bread  the  hungry peasant and a starved servant is a faithful labourer. For this reason, my order sent me here so that I might one day return, to my country in the East, with the knowledge needed to spread our gospel.”

All the time he spoke, he held his head cast downwards, as if reciting a liturgy. Then he spoke again, with more fervour, but still with his head inclined.

“When I was in Jerusalem, our Lord came to me and charged me with the undertaking of seeking out those blessed with His knowledge and to kneel before their robe so that I, too, might be holy, at least in spirit. I follow  the  prophet  Elijah  and  it  was  he  who  wandered  through  the streets of Jerusalem and held out his hands to gather the coins I needed to seek you and then return with the precious knowledge of our Jehovah. I am, as you see me, tired, but under an oath to complete my service.





One day I shall return to where the rivers run through olive groves and the staff of the prophet is the rule of law.”

While the words of the friar were but guile, he was sure his Lord had indeed extracted from him a vow. The enemy of Christ, the Master of Darkness, had duly entrusted him with the most pernicious of sins. He was to serve the godly so as to destroy  their works.  On a mountain surging forth from a distant plain he had let the rain splash over his face as he shouted  out in the  night  for the  Great  Prince  of Treachery  to welcome him to His tabernacle and let him serve.
The answer was given. There was no necessity for a confrontation with
his  archenemy.  Victories  are  often  won  from  within  the  adversary’s camp and Satan had a grand design which he was pleased to entrust to the wily friar.
 When the Jesuit Cruz heard the words “Jerusalem,” they conjured up in the mind of the learned holy man the home where his Master had been born. The biblical  prose of his visitor  impressed  him. His references stirred  in the Jesuit an epoch in which  he yearned  to be present.  He suddenly saw before him a true apostle, one who had travelled with zeal and belief to sit at his feet. A sense of importance suffused his body and he had to admit that his fame as a teacher was well implanted.
 Thus  the  most  fragile  of the  human  spirit,  pride,  succumbed  to the hidden mockery of the friar.  Nodding at first reluctantly, but as soon as the decision was taken, with sufficient conviction, the ascetic Cruz signalled for the friar to enter, and with relief, the guards stood aside. There was, about the friar, something  ominous to these ordinary  men but which escaped the refined senses of the Jesuit.
 And  so  it  came  to  be  that  the  scholastic,   abstemious   Cruz  was frequently accompanied by the simpering, accommodating friar Espada as he went  about  his  academic  obligations  to teach  and  educate  the Prince Regent João V. What for the Jesuit appeared  to be a hopeless endeavour became for friar Espada an untold opportunity, a unique moment   in   the   ongoing   conflict   between   good   and   evil   when malevolence and wickedness could and would triumph in the small kingdom of Portugal.





 Friar Espada saw before him embodied in the physique of D. João V., their  charge,  the  perennial  frailty  of  royal  lineage,  the  sharp  eyes peering over an aquiline nose which gave his face the astuteness of the hunter  but not the intelligence  of the scholar;  the round,  full  visage emboldened  by thick sensuous lips which craved to be satisfied being stirred by unbridled desire: a crop of foppish curls more proper to the destitute nobles which frequented the royal court than to a future King, however impoverished.
 As they were both ostensibly religious servants, the time friar Espada spent with the Prince Regent in the company of the Jesuit was naturally confined to canonical matters. This was the purpose and sole objective of the Jesuit Cruz. But when, from fatigue, the Jesuit Cruz retired for some  hours  to rest,  and  friar  Espada  was  alone  with  his  charge,  he frequently  subtly  shifted  the adolescent’s  interest  into what  he knew was his real interest.
The friar warned him against the perfumed charm and pleasures of the
young  ladies  obligingly  present  in  the  court;  the  friar  described  the obscene delights bodily intercourse conferred, and cautioned prudence; and he stimulated and fomented the latent, explosive masculinity in his adolescent  tutor  so  that  his  body  ached  and  wracked  with  confined passion which the friar teased and tortured without ever acknowledging its presence. The Prince of Hades had chosen well his envoy.
One afternoon in the spring of 1706, before the death of his father, the
King, D. João V and friar Espada were conversing in the Prince’s study where he liked to indulge in card playing. Jesuit Cruz was frail and he was often absent. D. João V. had invited the friar to be his opponent for the friar was a most congenial companion. The rays of the sun infused the room with its still, stealthy warmth that caused both men to lapse into long periods of silence.
The handsome, effete face of the Prince Regent, enshrined by his long,
immense curly hairs which fell gracefully about his neck, cast a certain melancholy about the room. The friar dared to ask, for His master had instructed him the night before that the moment was propitious.

“My Prince is sad this afternoon?” he asked demurely.





For a moment the Prince did not reply. Eventually he did. “It is obvious, I suppose.”
“May I ask why?” the friar responded softly.

The Prince stood up suddenly. His high forehead became taut. “You are a religious man. Of course, I am deeply devout. But I am also destined one day to rule a kingdom and for this I must do so with firmness and strength. In short, I must prepare myself to be a man. I shall soon be seventeen. Am I not ready for, shall we say, the carnal knowledge all men crave? But those pleasures are denied to me by my counsellors.”

He  paused  and  then  the  Prince  Regent  turned  towards  him.  “Friar Espada,  for a while I have observed  you. When I asked Father Cruz about you he did not seem to know much. You have come from far. Have you fled from anything?”

“Nothing, your Excellency,” was the immediate reply.

But the haughty Prince was not to be so easily thwarted. For some time he had found the friar to be different, though he was hard put to define exactly why. There was his speech, as he noticed the friar had a slight accent, though it was not recognizable. The sincerity of the friar never convinced the Prince. There was also a fleshy aspect to his bearing that his frock barely concealed. The Prince pursued his instincts.

“Come,  come,  friar  Espada,  I shall  not chide  you  if you  are only  a recent convert. Whatever your past, you have obviously redeemed yourself.  In any event...”  and  the Prince  paused,  for this is what  he really wished to say, “perhaps your, shall we say, earlier period, can be put at my service.”

The Prince paused  and looked  steadfastly  at the friar. Of course,  the pursuer did not realize he was the hunted, but, then, our future King was still very young.






“Yes, your Excellency,”  the friar blurted out in a tone of repentance. “At one time, I was a sinner. A terrible reprobate if the truth be known. But that was very long ago.”

“Of course,” the Prince replied cheerfully. “A man is born to sin, is he not? And what were your offences?” the Prince asked happily.

Friar Espada waited some moments before replying. The shadows cast by  the  afternoon  sun  appeared  to  darken  and  the  friar  realized  his Master was now present. He was being instructed to proceed as quickly as he could, for the Prince was now ready to be used as his wild desires would   render   him   one   of  the   most   arrogant   debauchers   of  the Portuguese royal line.

The  friar  blurted  it  out,  “The  soft  skin  of  the  young  woman,  her throbbing, hot thighs grasping us in their mad desire for our pulsating bodies. My lord, your Excellency, what was I to do? I was young, not yet learned in the ways of Christianity. I fell, I was tempted, I could not resist. Even now, although I know better, wild thoughts still enter my head.”

All the time he spoke, the Prince observed his pliant, docile face now full with such emotion. “So!” he thought. “The man is a reformed scoundrel. Exactly what I want.” He then turned towards the friar.

“You wish to sin again?” the Prince asked quietly. The friar hesitated, but then being commanded by Him, unseen but present in the chambers, he replied, slowly, “Yes. I cannot relieve myself of this terrible physical craving that is always present with me. Forgive me, my lord.”

“Will I be expelled?”  the friar wondered  to himself.  The answer was not long in coming. The future King approached him slowly and then bent ever so slightly towards the now, kneeling figure, prostrate before him.





“In a week’s time,” he whispered. And then when the room was only full of silence he repeated it as if a command, “Soon, friar Espada. We shall sally forth in the evening. You may sin again but then I expect you will one day resume your vows. As I shall,” he added as an afterthought.

 As the friar rose to his feet, he knew his quarry had been caught. There thus  began  the  nightly  sojourns  of  them  both,  the  friar  leading  his consort to the brothels which filled the capital, Lisbon. They were sprawled all over the lower part of the city, near the waterfront. In accordance with the suggestion of the friar, the Prince Regent dressed simply, covering the abundant tresses about his head with a beret and exchanging  his royal clothes for the garments  of the country peasant. The friar assumed his role with great relish, casting aside his frock for attire suitable to a masculine consort.
 Prior  to  their  first  escapade  together,  the  friar  visited  one  of  the brothels he well knew and made it clear to the reigning mistress that his friend was naïve and therefore to be initiated into the secret of love with firmness but comprehension.
Their  first sojourn  was immensely  successful  and quite  quickly,  the
future King became vitiated. It was all so easy. The cost was so meagre. The  pleasures  were  frankly  substantial,  titillating,  so  that  our  Prince could hardly wait for the next day and all the time he expressed his debt and gratitude to the friar.

“Yes, my dear friar,” he mumbled  more than once, “you sinned as a young  man,  as  I  do,  but  as  you  reformed,  one  day  I  shall,  too, accompanied by your good self,” a remark which appeared to cause him a great deal of mirth.

With  the  carelessness  of  youth,  blended  with  the  undiscriminating eruption  of  his  manhood,  the  future  King  seemed  relentless  in  his pursuit of the most varied of bodily pleasures and he became, with friar Espada, a frequenter of the slovenly brothels strung alongside the waterfront.  If any one suspected the identity of the handsome,  young, virulent visitor, the friar ensured their silence with the necessary coins.





 Spring  became  summer,  seasons  passed,  and  the soft  warm  breezes which chided the river water along its course into the Atlantic began to chill. Then, the King, D. Pedro II, began to complain of his health. He called his son. D. João V. repeatedly to his bedchamber. He discussed with him what the responsibilities of administering a kingdom meant. If he suspected anything, he held his silence. He had a premonition. It was fulfilled.
On 9 December 1706, the King, D. Pedro II, died, writhing in his bed,
calling out futilely for his salvation. As the Jesuit Cruz was not present at the last moments, the last rites were given by friar Espada. When the friar approached the death bed, the King opened his eyes wide, and, as if seeing a different person wearing the clothes of the friar, he struggled to ward him off, crying out, “No, no!”
 Of course his words were mistaken as to their intent, and the King died while  the  friar  held  his  hand,  congratulating  himself  on  this  most fortunate of circumstances.  The King’s last rites were administered  by the Devil’s  faithful  servant,  friar Espada,  and on 1 January  1707, D. João V was proclaimed King.

2.      The infertility of D. João V.

D. João V. sat glumly  in his favourite,  large poltroon,  observing  the stout figure of friar Espada move methodically about the spacious card room. Wracked with physical agony, the King shouted out, “Where is the  precious  medicine  you  promised  me?  And  where  is  the  damn doctor?”

The friar threw up his hands. He feared the temper of his impetuous master. And, in truth, he longed for the appearance of the foreign physician from England who had been sent to cure the secret illness of the King. It was known to a few trusted members of the court that the King  had  syphilis  and  for  this  reason,  apparently,   was  unable  to produce an heir.

“He  is  expected   momentarily,”   the  friar  murmured   with  concern. “Surely, this discomfort of your Highness shall find a simple solution.





It is only a passing sickness.”  No sooner had he uttered these words, then the friar regretted his identifying the source of the King’s problems.

 Upon hearing this unintended  dismissal,  the King rose and stumbled towards the friar, shouting as he did, “You stupid man! It is because of you I am impotent. Those filthy houses we visited at your suggestion have made it impossible for my wife, Maria Ana, to bear a child. She will not even let me into her bed. Find a solution for me or I shall order your throat cut!”

 In a rage, the King staggered  out the card room and headed  for his private chamber. Distraught, he lay upon his bed and his youthful frame shook with despair and pain. He was frightened. The permanence of his reign demanded he have an heir. The harsh winter winds swept about the palace as he stared up towards the ceiling. He could hear the steps of his wife  above  him,  as she  moved  about  her bedroom,  while  her maids attended to her wishes.
 It was February 1710, and almost two years had passed since he wed his Austrian bride by proxy on 9 July 1708, the treaty of marriage with its clauses as to dowries and rents having been previously negotiated by his emissary, Count Vilar-Maior.
 Nor did the then Arch Duchess of Austria intend to leave her native country without already having conferred upon her the title of Queen of Portugal. It was therefore agreed that the King would send his power of attorney to the Queen’s brother, the Emperor Joseph I of Austria.
When,  then,  he first  saw her disembark  onto  the main  royal  square
aside the river Tejo on 26 October 1708, he sighed with relief, for he was a married man who had not seen his wife until she set foot upon his kingdom. He saw immediately  she would be suitable for the practical reasons which had induced him to marry a mere name, however royal. What she apparently lacked in physical beauty was compensated for by cash   from   her   brother,   the   marriage   dowry,   a   substantial   sum desperately  needed  for  the  royal  coffers;  moreover,  his  bride  was endowed  with  a  plump  physique,  an  outward  confirmation  of  her potential fertility.





 Her   capacity   for   procreating   was   far   more   important   than   her melancholy eyes, complemented with a strong, protruding nose and ungraceful  lips, and her ungainly, feminine stride which caused much suppressed mirth among the court attendees.
After  her  arrival,  his  acts  of  intimacy  with  her  had  been,  at  best,
tolerable,  for  she  was  innocent  in  all  the  ways  of  love  and  he  was already, although almost 20 years of age, satiated and debauched. But this  was  not  the  reason  why  the  Queen  was  unable  to  produce  the needed heir.
It was the pain the King felt all the time, the throbbing of his masculine
organ, infected from the escapades to which friar Espada had led him. He rose from his bed and fell to his knees. His wrath at his frustrated purpose, the need to have an heir, could find no immediate answer.
All he wanted was to feel a coolness sweep over his body and soothe
his affliction.   His position required him to be strong and determined, yet his spirit was broken and he saw no solution easily at hand.
 The  last  time  he had  approached  his bridal  bed,  the Queen  had  sat upright upon hearing his steps, and held her sheet close to her body. The warning in her face stopped him and he was unable to demand his conjugal rights. Nor did he want to. He had no need of her except as a confirmation  of the royal lineage and in this aspect, he was, himself, frightened. He did not want a sick descendant.
As he knelt in despair,  he heard his chamber  door open slowly.  His
faithful tutor, the Jesuit Cruz stood hesitantly in the frame of the royal entrance. D. João V. stared at him with surprise.

“And what brings you to my chambers, my learned scholar?” the King asked with irritation.

There was a prolonged pause before the Jesuit Cruz replied, “My King, and my ward, for I was entrusted with your education, you are indeed in distress. May I not enter?”

Rising  to his  feet,  the  King  nodded  his  assent.  As the  scholar  Cruz entered, he did not notice the still body of friar Espada who had now concealed  himself  nearby  the  shadowed  pillars  of  the  Palace  which





supported the beams of the King’s chambers. Nor did the Jesuit close the door behind  him entirely  for that might  alarm the King. A chair being indicated by the King, the Jesuit sat down.

“Well, then, my scholar?” the King muttered, sitting in a chair facing his mentor.

Jesuit Cruz was not one to delay. He knew the patience of his charge was not great. “You are concerned the Queen can not bear a child?” he asked gently.

With   this   piercing   remark,   the   King’s   composure   disappeared. Throwing himself into a mild rage, he thundered, “By God, you are a Jesuit, what can I do with this cursed affliction my wife has?”

Grasping one of the hands of the young King, Jesuit Cruz responded, “Seek the help of God!”

“And how do I do this?” shouted the King.

“You must make a promise,” replied Jesuit Cruz.

“What is the pledge?” the King asked curtly but in anguish.

“The Lord shall grant you a child and you shall erect  a magnificent monument  in return for his beneficence.”  It was a thought which had been with the erudite Cruz for some time.

For a moment the King was silent, and then he inquired, in exasperation, throwing up his hands, “Where?” thinking the topic would end for lack of any clear response. The King was mistaken.

“For so long, it has circulated among my colleagues, that our beloved Christ should be celebrated by homage, such as a splendid convent, and also Palace for the royal family, and certainly your forthcoming child.”





As  the  King  did  not  respond  and  sat  glumly  listening,  the  Jesuit continued,  “I  suggest  it  be  in  Mafra,  to  the  North,  where  ancient prophets roamed and chapels lie within the ken of all the people, from the sea to the mountains.  Yes, Mafra, the land of those clerics of the past that walked with their staffs through the hills preaching to the peasants.  This  is  the  vow  you  must  undertake  and  fulfil.  All  of  us Jesuits believe in this miracle and power of Christ.”

Upon hearing these words, the young King looked in stupefaction at his mentor. Finally standing up, he stared fixedly at Jesuit Cruz and nodded his head in agreement.

Slowly, but with deliberation,  the King spoke, as if in a dream, “Very well, scholar Cruz, I take this vow. Now let us see if my plea is heard so that I may complete my promise. I have no other solution.”

3.      The Devil’s Grand Design.

Friar Espada  heard the entire conversation  between  the King and his superior, the Jesuit Cruz. He realized immediately the desperate state to which the King had arrived.  Yet he also knew that the erection  of a monumental   symbol  to  the  power  and  glory  of  Christ  would  be considered  by his Prince a failure of mission. He would be castigated and punished in the cruellest of ways.
 Weary  and  resigned,  he wound  his way  to his cell  which  was  in a remote corner of the Palace, there to lie on his narrow bed and resolve his dilemma. Outside, through the narrow slits of the wall which let in a breeze, he heard the soft slap of the river as it slithered along the sides of the main Plaza. The light from his oil lamp flickered intermittently with the passage of a slow-moving breeze.
 He was lying for some time when he was suddenly startled when the faint glow emanating from the oil lamp was abruptly snuffed out. His cell was plunged into a thick darkness for there was no moon to afford any light.  A slight  shuffle  was heard  from a corner  of his miniature room.
Immediately, the friar sat upright. “Is it you, Master?” he asked.





Quietly,  so  no  one  could  hear,  the  friar  listened  attentively,  as  the
Prince of Hades explained what he must do.
 The next day friar Espada waited till the afternoon and then sought the King in his chambers.  After knocking  dutifully,  he waited,  and then, hesitantly, gently pushed the door open and stood in the doorframe. The King looked at him in bewilderment.  “You enter, without knocking?” he asked imperiously.
The friar bowed his head. “The anguish of my lord weighs on me in all aspects. I am, also, in despair.” There was a pause, and then the friar offered his services, an arrangement, which his Master, the eternal, smirking, clown of Hades, had secured.
 Continuing, he murmured, “As improbable as it sounds, there is a wise healer, a woman,  in the town of Mafra, who is reputed to be able to succeed  where  the  learned  physicians  fail.  Perhaps  my  lord  would consider a trip with me to this small village, not far from the coast line and blessed with moderate winds and good vineyards.”

There was no immediate  reply from D. João V. Besides  his intimate adviser, the learned Cruz, this wretched friar was also suggesting he go to Mafra. The coincidence seemed to him to be a divine signal. He was torn between rendering the man asunder and clasping him to his chest in relief. For some time he remained silent. “Mafra, you say?” the King asked astonished.

“Yes, your Grace, more specifically  a locale known as the “Casal do Abade”. She lives in a humble house on the lands that rise to the North of the village, where there is a view to the sea. As far as you can see, the hills rise and dip and the wild life live in harmony, hidden from the eyes of the villagers.”
“And how did you hear about her, my good friar?” the King inquired. “During  the  hour  of  confession,  many  stories  are  told,”  the  friar
responded  softly.  “Of course,  you need not reveal  your identity.  She
treats anyone who seeks her counsel.”





The King approached  him slowly.  He stared  at the face of the friar, immobile, but the friar was experiencing  fear. He had obeyed without question  his  Master  and  he  could  only  hope  His  plans  were  well thought out.

For a moment the King said nothing, then, he snapped his commands, coupled  with a promise  to himself.  “We shall leave tomorrow  and if your prophecy fails to secure my needs, you shall, at best be banished from  my  Kingdom.  Now,  make  the  arrangements  and  we  leave  by coach for Mafra, tomorrow.”

 Scuffling  off,  the  friar  hastily  spoke  with  the  necessary  servants, ordered them not to have any royal flag displayed on the coach, and the next day, on a chilly February morning, D. João V and friar Espada set off for Mafra.  The  voyage  by coach  was  long  and  tedious,  winding through the valleys to the North of Lisbon.
 At first the King had wanted to travel through the hill town of Sintra, as he always  enjoyed  seeing  its varied  flora, but the Friar persuaded him  it  would  be  shorter  to  take  the  less  travelled  road  through  the smaller villages, cross by Cheleiros,  where the river Lizandro ambled towards the ocean, and then climb the long road upwards to Mafra.
 As the coach lurched forward at a slow, but steady pace, the King said nothing. He vacillated between hope and revenge. Were his trip to be successful,  he would  show  his  magnificence  to the friar.  Were  their excursion  to come to naught, he would demonstrate  without  mercy a just penalty for the abominable discomfort caused by his coach ride. They reached Mafra by early evening.  When the coach driver drew to a  halt, not knowing what direction to take, the friar leaped out of the carriage  and  pointed  to an animal  track  which  snaked  up towards  a large expanse, only to be lost among the thick pine trees which were crowded on the crest before them.
Deliberately,   the   coach   lunged   forward   while   the   King   stared
inquisitively  about him. The silence  of the forest now enveloped  the carriage   making   sight   impossible.   The   two   horses,   dragging   its occupants, stepped gingerly, as if unsure of what lie before them.





 Thick, still clouds caused darkness  to be everywhere.  Unease settled upon the King but he said nothing. His youth rendered  him unafraid, but of course  he was suspicious.  It was possible  there  was to be an assassination  attempt  on  his  life.  Although  young,  he  knew  he  had many enemies, a King always does.
 Then,  in  the  distance,  he  saw  a  flickering  light.  The  friar  smiled. Although he had never been here before, he knew from his confessions the exact location of Casal do Abade. The cabal was always a plague among his flock. Magic and rituals were as common as priestly orations. In some minutes, they arrived at a humble abode, whose door was open, while a scantily dressed woman stood beneath its frame. For sometime she  had  been  expecting  her  guests,  although  she  did  not  know  the precise day nor time. But, then, this did not matter for she had lived for longer than she could remember. Her life was measured in epochs and by the great social upheavals which intermittently swept humanity.
When the coach had stopped, the friar leapt out, and greeted her, “You
are Maria do Abade?” inquired the friar.
 Before him he beheld a woman of porcelain beauty, without age. She might have been a young bride but whose skin belied her real age. Her cold, bright, blue eyes lighted the darkness about them. It was as if they were  lanterns  intended  to serve  as beacons  for the seekers,  those  in desperation for salvation from their own misdeeds.
 Although her appearance did not cast any maternal, bodily comfort, her face,  marked  by  red  glowing  lips,  hinted  at  sensual  pleasure  and mystical dreams where candles are lit and sacrifices made to the pagan gods, where blood runs and intestines are gutted.
Maria do Abade did not reply but instead she beckoned her visitors to
cross  the threshold.  Entering  the simple  room,  oil lamps  affording  a pale light, our guests stood silently while Maria do Abade shut the door and  proceeded  to close  the  shutters  of  her  windows.  The  King  said nothing, prepared for any eventuality.
After a moment, the hostess approached slowly her callers.  She was a
wise student as to the nature of her clients. She knew immediately who the customer was and who was fawning upon him so as to earn a living.





“I wish to speak to this young man alone,” she snapped at friar Espada. “We shall both converse in the privacy of my quarters, and you, friar, may retire outside to guard this humble home.” When the friar did not answer she snapped, “Go,” and then, pointing to the King, she ordered him, “Come with me.” The King obediently followed her.
 Once inside her bedroom she opened her only window. She motioned for the King  to come  near her, and gently  taking  his hand,  they sat down beneath the black gap through which could be heard the forest sounds.
“Speak, “she whispered. The King looked at her with doubt. “Do not
be afraid. Why are you here? How can I help unless you talk? You must tell me what you want.”
And,  as  if  in  a  reverie,  spurred  by  the  tree  breezes,  lulled  into
confidence by the proximity of nature, the young King told his hostess that he was newly wed but could not conceive.
Stumbling  on  and  murmuring  without  pause,  he  told  how  he  had
visited too often the company of women and now he was concerned he might be sick. His wife would leave him were he rendered impotent; he would have to return rents he received as a dowry.
Maria  do  Abade  appeared  to  be  listening  with  attention.  When  the
King  was  finished,  a  heavy  silence  fell  across  the  room.  The  King waited. Finally she spoke. “What will you pay me to cure you?” she asked.

Hastily, the King replied, “Whatever you wish.”

 For some moments, Maria do Abade did not answer. Then, slowly she looked  steadfastly  at the King. “I can restore  you to health. But you must render unto me only that which a noble man can do. If you do not you shall not have the heir you wish.”

“What? Speak,” the King whispered.

 “Here, in this site, where we now talk, one day you shall build a monument.  It shall be a glorious edifice which shall be elaborate and





resplendent  and  which  shall  house  the orders  of this Kingdom.  You have made such a promise, have you not?”

Now the King was truly marvelled. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Is that important?” She replied. When there was no response, she continued.  “I, too, want an heir. You must bed with me after I have cured you.”

The King stared at her in stupefaction. For some time he said nothing. “What if she knows who I am?” he wondered, “and then I shall have an heir to my throne, even if illegitimate. It is a danger,” he mused.

Maria do Abade stared at him and a wry grin crossed her lips. “You are worried about an illegitimate heir and you are frightened of the consequences this means to you.”

“Yes, yes,” the King murmured softly. “Yes, of course I am”.

Her response was swift. “We each wish an heir. I know you can do that. I know I am dealing with a powerful man, although I do not know who you are. I am prepared to take my vow.”

“What is your promise?” the King retorted.

“If a child is born, you shall never hear from either of us again. Nor shall you ever see the child. It shall be gone, with me, to a distant land. After all, what is one more escapade to a gentleman?  And when I am gone, you may have my lands. Thus I cannot return and you shall have this large tract of land upon which to complete your vows.”

In his wretched physical condition, the King believed he had no option. “In any event,” he pondered, “if she breaks her promises I can always have recourse to violence.”





He stared at length at strange figure of the woman before him. He could not say he was attracted to her nor could he either affirm she was repugnant. Her charm hung in balance, weighed by the centuries of her life, never to be young nor to be old. Finally, the hopeless situation of his  physical  condition  left  him  little  moral  force  to  argue.  What  he wanted was peace, a refuge from his daily ordeals and a solution to his dilemma.
He stared fixedly at Maria do Abade, and nodded his consent.
 And thus it came  to be that in the month  of March,  1710,  D. João began frequent trips to Mafra where, in the silence and solitude of the woods  north  of  the  town,  he  was  given  special  baths  by  Maria  do Abade. One evening, Maria do Abade was waiting for her ward outside the house. As soon as he stood abreast of her, she seized the King by his  sleeve.  “To  night,”  she  whispered.   “I  know  this  is  the  right moment.”

Trembling  and  slowly,  the  King  entered  her  home.  Her  brews  and potions had indeed helped him. He felt well, easily excited, replete with sexual energy, anxious as a stallion to mount his mare. Striding forth with a swagger,  the witch touched  him lightly on his arm. “A drink, first,  a  sip,  to  calm  your  anxiety,  to  give  you  the  strength  a  virgin requires.”

“You are a virgin?” the King asked incredulously.

Without replying, Maria do Abade pointed to her bedroom, where the door was ajar. “There, but first we must, together, drink my infusion.”

Reluctantly the King sat down, casting onto a chair his cloak. As he felt the still, cool liquid slither into his throat, he wondered at his good luck in  finding  this  woman  who  had  cured  him.  And  then,  suddenly,  he became  dizzy, his head began to reel; he was going to reach for his knife to protect himself, when he crashed onto the floor.

Maria do Abade stood over him. She shut tightly the windows.  Then she  kneeled  onto  the floor  next  to the fallen  King.  A silence  strode





through the woods. The occasional evening sounds disappeared. All creatures  hid  themselves.  A  stranger  was  stalking  the  forest.  Their senses picked up His presence. He entered the house of Maria de Abade. She was stooped in a trance, saliva sputtering out of her mouth as she mumbled words of black magic over the unconscious King.
 Hastily, unseen, the Monster of morality beheld his virgin bride. Her eyes were shut. He cast her onto the floor and raised up her long skirt. Without movement, but with deliberation, slowly but with pleasure, the Destroyer of life allowed his seed to slither into the womb of the virgin and bewitch her so that any child the King should bequeath her would also be his child.
 As her body trembled and rocked, in rhythm to his crazed, evil desire, He clasped her tightly by her buttocks and held her still until He knew she was captive to his eternal evil soul. Withdrawing gently, so as not to awake her, He picked up, one by one, the prostate figures of Maria de Abade and the King, lying on the floor near each other, and lay them together on the bed in the adjoining room.
 The King was the first to awake and when he did, he found himself in the arms of a virgin, so he believed, and when, awake, she said she was ready, he bedded her frequently on what was now a crisp, clear, moon- lit night.
 And  he  returned  and  he  knew  she  was  pregnant  after  his  third encounter, for, no longer a virgin, her passion clasped him violently to her breast and he exploded within her as does any beast. As he lay on her chest, his organ now pliant but not burning, within her soft, humid body, he understood she was expecting and he felt content he had kept one part of his vows.
 In November  of 1710, Maria de Abade gave birth to a girl. She was given the name of Joana and true to her word, Maria de Abade, and the child,  Joana,  went  to England.  Before  she left, she sent word  to the King that on the eve of her departure  she wished to deed to him her lands, Casal do Abade, which she hoped, would serve as the site of the future Palace Convent of Mafra.
 With coins given to her by the great Mocker  of Morality,  Maria do Abade secured passage to England, taking her child, Joana. The child was brought up in the English village of Haworth.





 In 1738 Joana was wed to Henry Sullivan, for her mother was able to provide her with a modest dowry. Shortly after the marriage, Maria do Abade died. From this wedlock there were born two children, Robert Sullivan in 1739, and Mary Sullivan in 1740.
Thus,  the  Portuguese  hag,  Maria  do  Abade,  secured  her  lineage  of
charms and cabalism through the female line. Before she expired, it was revealed  to her that one day one of her descendants  would  return  to Mafra, for this was the design of her Master, the Dark Prince she served all her life.
The   Portuguese   Queen   Maria   Ana   became   pregnant   and   on   4
December  1711  the  Queen  gave  birth  to  a  girl,  Maria  Barbara,  the future Queen of Spain by marriage. Amidst the rejoicing of the entire nation, the story was widely circulated  among the population  that the Queen  successfully  gave birth because  the King had made a vow to construct  a magnificent  edifice in accordance  with the suggestions  of his religious counsellors as a tribute to the Saviour upon lands deeded to him in Mafra.
 True to his vow, the construction of the Palace Convent was officially begun  in  1717  and  was  considered  completed  by  1750,  the  year  in which D. João V. died.
 The Jesuit Cruz was given lifetime tenure with which to continue his studies into the teachings of Christ. As for friar Espada, he returned to the East, having been handsomely paid by D. João V. Casting his frock aside, he became a successful merchant who dealt in slaves and camels and was well-known for his insatiable appetite for young girls just emerging into puberty.
The plans  of Satan  are well  contemplated  and time  is a marvellous
healer.  It only  took  eighty-eight  years  for a descendant  of Maria  do Abade, her great granddaughter, to return to Portugal. By then, the King D. João V. was dead. The Palace- Convent of Mafra was complete, its huge marble façade adorned with the revered Saints of Christianity. The huge  round  Basilica  jutting  forth  between  the  wings  of the  building pointed towards the blue sky and heralded the rising of the sun every morning.





 A few miles from the Palace-Convent,  on a hillside with a wide, open view towards both the Basilica and the distant ocean, stood the farms of the Cabral family.
This was the family chosen by the Black Prince for his great design and
which became the home of the granddaughter, Emily Sullivan.






Part One

Chapter 1

1.0    In which we learn of the hanging of the witch, Mary Sullivan, by the   gentle    folk   of   Haworth;    and   how   her   daughter,    Emily, granddaughter of Joana, returned to Portugal.

It was 1788 and the soft, spring dawn had not yet broken the horizon circling  the  English  village  of Haworth.  The  mist  was  slowly  rising from the moors of Yorkshire  when they came, the women  with their faces twisted with hate, anger, relish, revenge, while the men plodded forth impelled by a pulsating sexual excitement.
They  were  the women  who feared  their dullard  husbands  would  fall victim to her scent, the bitch, baptized Mary Sullivan. They were the men  she  had  scorned,  whirling  her  long  black  skirt  in  their  faces defiantly; others she had seduced; allowed their bloated organ to fill her with  excitement  and  then,  afterwards,  rejected  them  with  a  mirthful gesture   as   she   writhed   on   the   ground   unsatisfied,   her   primal, reproductive needs not fulfilled.
She was cursed and bewitched with desire for men, a perfumed harlot, but innocent in her designs. Nature cast her upon the earth inebriated with the need for love coupled with a fertile imagination and a frenetic vision of the future. She was a soothsayer with no audience and prone to hallucinations.  Sometimes  for days she would wander the low hills near her remote home, on the edge of the moors where she lived alone with  her  mute  brother,   murmuring   to  herself  or  conversing   with invisible  companions.  Visions  and prophecies  crowded  her mind and blurred reality while her mysticism left her susceptible to waves of dementia.
About her body hovered the heavy scent of passion and few men could
deny  themselves  the  heat  and  relief  of  her  surging,  heavy  buttocks. There was no conscious decision on her part to be either profligate or wanton. In another epoch when coupling was seen as the survival of the species she would have been a goddess, draped in white, holding the





flame of the temple in her trembling hands as the tribesmen awaited her apparition, her glazed eyes the symbol of the survival of the clan. But the passage of millenniums rendered her an outcast.
As  the  murmur  and  mumblings  of  their  voices  stirred  her  from  a
restless sleep, she was abruptly awakened by her daughter, Emily, then aged  16,  a  retiring  child  that  hardly  ever  spoke  and  guarded  her thoughts for the moments when others were asleep. She carried within her the same disturbing psychological elements as her mother although their nature and content was not yet formed.
Being  younger,   undisciplined   desire  had  not  yet  seized  her,  and
perpetual   fright   willed   her   into   a   submissive,   taciturn,   obedient adolescent. Her body was a shell encapsulating a foreign spirit, a port of call of a dark soul whose presence is seldom visible but whose seed was prompt to germinate.

“Mum, mum,” she cried, “run, run, they are a’coming to take thee away. O’ mum dearest, thee must flee.”

Springing from her bed, Mary stared wide-eyed from the window of her country cottage at the crowd surging over the hillside, the heather on the hillocks barely stirring from the thumping on the earth. She knew, then,  she  would  never  again  see  her  English  fields,  smell  the  wild flowers filling her with delirium as her incessant passion was abated for the moment. They said she was a vile sorceress. Witches were hanged; they could not escape. She stared at her daughter; saw the terror in her face. Would they lynch her also, a young girl only recently a woman? Or would they defile her, because she was still a virgin, the men in a rage with their wild lust?
Her  maternal   instincts   surged   forth  and  caused   her  to  make   an
immediate  decision.   She rushed to the cupboard  where she kept her meager savings.

“Away with thee, Emily, gather thy things and make thee for Plymouth, the sailor’s port. Ye’ll find harbor there. Ye’ll find thee a safe haven. Seek a house of charity where the young girls are given shelter. I shall guard over thee, always.”






With the voices carried nearer and closer by the morning breeze, Emily fell in terror on her knees before her mother. “I can’t mum, I can’t leave thee, my mother, my benefactress.”

Shuddering,  Mary  stuttered  through  her  tears,  “Run,  run,  I am  lost. Thee have no one else. Thou are a child of sundry men. I do not even know thy father.”

But these were false words. With the forlorn child prostrate at her feet, her life’s history  swirled  before  her with clarity  and nearness.  Mary would never tell her Emily that she was the child of an incestuous afternoon  with  her  brother  Robert,  the two  of them  living  alone  for many years, since the death of their parents, Joana and Henry Sullivan. Her  parents  she  hardly  remembered,  for  they  died  when  she  and Robert were still youngsters.  She remembered  fitfully that her mother was  reticent,  withdrawn,  timid,  given  to  spells  of  trances  while  her father was a surly, stocky man who went about his tasks with few words. They  both  died  from  a pest  which  swept  the village.  Apparently  her mother came from another land because she was always referred to as “The Portuguese one”, or, “that strange foreigner”.
 Neighbors saw to it that while they were youngsters they were fed and lived  in  a  small  cottage  on  the  fringe  of  the  town.  Eventually  they reached adulthood, he to become a barefoot, speechless, pastor and she an occasional  domestic,  a garrulous,  displaced  seer, like her mother, whose mumblings were misunderstood by all.
 One afternoon, housebound by snow, when solitude gripped them both, they struggled  towards  each other in the stillness  of a winter silence and the heat of physical love momentarily drove away their fears.
The villagers  suspected  as much. That is why they believed  the poor
fool had left their village in the middle of night, to find a ship to take him far from his native land, never to be seen again. The truth was not to be spoken. Upon awakening, he had fled from his unpardonable sin, his body trembling from his breach of society’s most stern edict.
Leaving Mary still undressed in their bridal bed, but asleep from the
exhaustion of her moral crime, he gathered his paltry belongings and





silently  disappeared,  forever,  to  be  plagued  all  his  life  with  fits  of madness  and eventually  die a rejected,  despised,  beggar  on the foul streets of an Asian village, having been left behind by his ship’s crew. But was Emily, in truth, the child of this forbidden, fraternal lust? For the Devil is never far away. Our primal thoughts, propelled by instinct are  wrapped  in  the  rules  and  regulations  of  a  community,  but  the inherent  nature  of  mankind  surges  forth  to  capture  us  when  the circumstances  are  propitious.  At  such  moments,  Satan  appears  and whether He is induced fantasy or a deduced fact remains unanswered. This, then, is the occult  meaning  of the Master  of Darkness,  who is nothing other then a vision of our wild, barely controllable  eroticism which once saved our species but which is now its principal impediment. He, the demon  feared  and despised  in every religion,  is a necessary artifice. He appears  and seduces throughout  the history of humanity, for our dual nature requires good and evil to be personified and Satan, therefore, exists.
Shortly after the departure  of her brother, when she awoke after her
fraternal  incest,  she realized  was alone;  that  she would  forever  live without a permanent  male companion.  She fell on her knees, a naked penitent  and  a distressed  creature.    Eventually  dressing  herself,  she stumbled out of the house only to encounter the same melody of silence. Dismayed with her breach of that most rigorous of taboos, Mary went bawling  through  the woods and bathed herself in dry leaves beneath moon-lit clouds as she chanted silver-toned gibberish.
And when she returned to her bed in the early hours of the dawn, exhausted and delirious with her instinctual relief, the poor hapless creature, how she welcomed the Master of the Occult to her bosom in her unmanageable fantasies for she was determined to forget her transgression and believe it was someone else who deflowered her.
She called out in the seclusion of her cottage for the Prince of Darkness to come to her and save her, not the Christ of charity and peace, but the Lord of passion and fecundity. She wanted to be a mother not a virgin goddess.  And  when  she  believed  his  presence  in the  solitude  of her room, as she willed him to lie down beside her, she could easily conjure up the firm look of pleasure in his bright, steely eyes. She moaned with delight   as  he  caressed   and  impregnated   her  with   his  seed.   He





whispered  in Mary’s ears, when she lay still with satisfaction,  “Your children and theirs by descent shall forever be part of my court. Before they are born, I shall touch their souls as I have yours. They shall be mine, implement  my kingdom. I, too, have sensuous  needs. I, too, am the father of a multitude of children.” She had found her spiritual companion. His carnal thoughts were hers.
Bending his face over her exposed, throbbing chest, he gently kissed the
cleavage  between  her  vibrating  breasts  but  the  mark  he  left  would never be seen until she was dead when only, then, his possession of her in defiance  of  morality  would  be  revealed  in  its  sarcastic,  sardonic cross.  But  these  words  and  his labial  caress,  Mary  did not hear  or remember.
Yet Mary believed in her most guarded thoughts, those which even to
herself she only let surface from time to time, that Emily was the child of her infernal embrace. It never occurred to her to question this conclusion for she was an ardent believer in the arcane, that aspect of life which is felt and sensed, and seen, if infrequently, only in her fertile imagination. Had she been schooled, she might have been a poet of the woods, celebrating the rhythms of nature. But her well of bountifulness was confined  to her rudimentary  thoughts  and expressed  itself in the thoughts  of her  epoch,  when  good  and  evil  were  seen  as  a conflict between the Prince of darkness and the Christ of our sufferings.
When Emily was born Mary did not bring her to the Church for baptism.
The priest would have refused. She might have been stoned by the villagers. The absence of her brother was well-known  and the reason circulated  in whispers,  although  with  doubts.  The  birth  of her  child attributed was at times to him, the renegade brother, at other times to her  alley  behavior.  Rather,  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  warm,  she carried  Emily  out and laid her gently  on a hillside  where  the warm spring sun could caress her face. Then she knelt on her knees and cried out beneath the moving branches above her head.

“Oh, my lovely Warrior, star of the night and white filament, tell me you approve of our lovely child, this creature of our frantic needs. Tell me you will always protect her. I labored grievous hours for her to see the pale light you cast.”






In  answer  to  her  pleas,  a  lone  raven  screeched  across  the  valley. Raging inside for the need of a consort, she shattered the country calm with her wailing, “Did I sin? What matters it with whom we lie?” When no  response  was  forthcoming,  she  knelt  over  her  newly-born  and draped her body across its tiny silhouette, shuddering with her mixture of love for the child and horror at her act. Her mind swirled with the confrontation between instinct and custom, rendering her susceptible to her flights of fancy.
It was then she became aware of the presence of someone behind her.
Afraid to look, she cried out, “You embraced  my virginity.  You have made  me your bride  forever.  Tell me you will shield  our child  from harm  forever  and  be  with  her  when  she  is  in  need.  Tell  me,”  she screamed.
Slithering to the warm earth beneath her body, she clasped Emily to her breast and smothered her face with kisses. On her back, the rays from the orange star stirring her passions, she slowly opened her legs and allowed her Master to satisfy her needs. With each imagined movement of her dark spouse,  she groaned  with delight  and clasped  ever more tightly her beloved Emily.
This scene of tormented  passion by her mother, and its abatement  by the  Prince  was  to  repeat  itself  through  all  the  years  of  Emily’s childhood, even into adolescence, so that it can not be said the damned cottage where Mary and Emily lived had no male presence. Whenever Mary believed the presence of Emily’s father was necessary she would call upon her progenitor to fulfill his physical obligations, to Mary as his wife, and for moral guidance to Emily, his daughter. Her daughter, Emily, eventually grew accustomed to her mother’s frequent retirement to her chambers and the unintelligible sounds inside which often lasted hours.
Sometimes  at  night,  Mary  would  like  candles  and  burn  wild  plants which grew on the moors, mumbling her riddles and incantations, while the fearful child stared at her through her wide, clear eyes. For she, Mary, was the bride of the Devil and she reveled in this privilege. Her constant  infidelities  with  the  male  mongrels  and  scrounges  of  her





village were encouraged by her husband. His wife had intense corporal wants. The book of damnation contains no prohibitions.

Mary’s remembrances were rudely shattered by the shaking Emily who had wrapped  her arms  around  the trembling  legs of her mother,  and brought her back to the reality of the screams and shouts outside.  Mary suddenly pushed her violently away.

“Begone, begone! They will kill thee. He will protect me. I shall watch out for thee. My spirit shall be with thou. Go, flee.”

Not understanding, Emily sobbed, “I can not, Mum, I can not leave thee bereft,” Emily wailed.

Hearing the approaching tumult, knowing this wretched day would see her swinging from a tree, dangling as a puppet whose strings are taut but  whose  limbs  are  limp,  Mary  willed  in  her  mind  the  aid  of  her consort, He, who in her conviction, was Emily’s father. She called upon him to save their child.  Her mouth  gathered  froth and spittle  seeped from her lips. A trance seized her and from her growing madness there surged forth a howl so deep and foreign that the nearing crowd stopped and fell silent.
Simultaneously,  the creatures of the heath halted their daily rustlings. No birds took flight. The usual winds died to an imperceptible  stir. It was  as  if  a  visitor  was  expected.  Jostled  by  an  unseen  hand,  Mary stirred from her hallucinations and pushed Emily away.

“Run, child, run, He will guide thee!” she cried out.

Again there was heard the outside disturbances. Seized with panic, the confused child kissed her mother feverishly about the feet, and then fled, through the backdoor, into the mixture of dark and light, haze and moor, across  the fields,  her face wet with  scalding  tears, clutching  the few savings her mother gave her, stumbling  over stones and fallen limbs, but never stopping.





He, the Lord of iniquity, the universal evil, watched her from a distance and ensured she would have a safe passage. He caused the trees to sway and the wind to stir so as to hide the noise from her frequent falls. He retarded the natural light so as to obscure her figure on the hillside. He was the Prince of Darkness and He invoked all his powers.

“Flee, my child,” He chanted, “for you are of my seed. And I shall have many more children. My kingdom shall flourish.”

As He watched her sturdy legs carry her over the last knoll, a wry smile crossed his lips. He had triumphed. Where was his arch rival Christ? He laughed at the helplessness of good and right before the supremacy of corporal pleasure,  and unbridled  desire. He watched in amusement  as Emily awkwardly made her way through the hedges and prickly shrubs, the sharp undergrowth  causing her legs to drip with small rivulets of blood until in exhaustion  she fell upon a small hillock of heather and began to snivel.
It was then her protector made his evil scheme. It would have been easy to seduce this timid, unsuspecting child and what a conquest, a victory for the primitive forces latent in our souls, the taking of a daughter by her father, the most gross of all deeds, the vanquishing of morality and the supremacy of our evolutionary origins. But then her youth and his deflowering  might propel her into a life of debauchery  and His plans would end in a dark alley with her throat slithered from side to side.
Far  more  clever,  devious,  and  even  morally  profitable,  to guide  her destiny so that she, with His unseen collaboration,  might found what was His innermost  desire: a fraternal,  incestuous  cult; to see the cult inaugurated  by Mary  continued  so that  it would  persist  for decades, perhaps forever, a counterpoint to the insipid, false morality of customs. Social  despair  and depravity  would  dominate  the abominable  human society. “Yes,” he thought, “I shall aid her and we shall see the paths and ways of men and their foolish lust.”
Stretching  forth His unseen  hand, He lifted  Emily  up and whispered into her ears, “Rise, child, there is strength in your young limbs. There is still time. I must return to gather your mother and carry her with me. Now, you must continue your flight and you will be safe. The distance





is long but the winds shall aid you.” As He watched  her scampering over the banks of undergrowth,  with small, wild orchids edging their way  through  the  stone  crevices,  knowing  she  would  be  safe,  His immediate  thought was Mary, to retrieve her before she was buried , and He had the distasteful labor of digging her up, and so He returned to her.
When they came, Mary was on her knees, dressed in her nightgown,
head bowed, while her wild, black hair cascaded about her neck in long sensuous  folds. Screaming  like piglets  the women  dragged  her down the stairs, as the men kicked and beat her in the face and thighs. By the time they reached the tree overlooking the dales, the monument which for time immemorial  served as the hanging post for witches, she was already moribund.
They were about to hang her from the thick oak limb when her body
went limp and her lips fell open. A hush fell about the crowd. Then the thin one, the scraggly  spinster  who  had never  known  physical  bliss, ripped open the nightgown covering her bodice.
A  gasp  emerged  from  those  who  could  see.  A  small  red  cross  was etched in the cleavage between her bosoms.

“Lord, forgive us,” murmured Nelly, the fat one with the cudgel in her hand. Then Ned stammered, “Is it the sign of our Lord, or is it the mark of the devil?”

Ted,  the  village  buffoon  started  to  whimper,  “It’s  just  a  birthmark, that’s all.” Silence reigned for some moments until a voice cried out, “The daughter, Emily, where is she?”

The crowd rushed back to the house but Emily was gone, vacant rooms was their welcome, the silent walls and empty chambers mocked their anxiety. In despair they searched the closets, the attic, the cupboards; but Emily had escaped.

Desolate they returned to the place of their heinous crime, where Mary had been left in a slumped,  motionless  heap. Two hangings had been denied the raging crowd. Their thirst would be partially quenched  by





seeing Mary rot underground in the pauper’s graveyard. But this was to be denied the harbingers of justice. Although the ripped, blood-soaked nightgown lay beneath the tree, the body was gone.
Simpering, Betsy Pierce stammered, “Our Lord took mercy on her and
carried her away.” No sooner had she mumbled her words, when Ted shook his head and replied, as he often did when others were afraid to speak  the obvious,  “Maybe  it was the devil!   Who  else would  want her?” A harsh guffaw was suddenly heard from someone in the crowd. But no one could say for sure who it was.
All those present sank to their knees and the brilliant light of the day
being born turned into a grey shadow. Rain clouds blotted out the sun and the fields turned wet with a thunderous  downpour.  Those present prayed, but sins are not washed away. They become part of us; gnaw at our psyche until the monster we want to destroy becomes our master. Emily made her way to Plymouth where she was given refuge in one of the many homes for young ladies in distress which were the delight of a society founded on manners and the export trade. The sisters of “Our Refuge  for  Blessed  Souls”  were  impressed  with  the  silent,  serene demean of Emily who could pass days without speaking other then the common  courtesies,  confusing  her mysticism  and occult  origins  with innate  manners,  and  they  tutored  her  to  become  a  governess.  Upon leaving  the  Blessed  Souls  she  secured  work  as  an  educator  to  the children of Lord Sommerfeld whose fortune was built on the port wine trade with Portugal.
In  1798  when  his  children   no  longer  needed  her  services,   Lord Sommerfeld,  in deference  to his Christian  sense of duty, utilized  his vast  contacts  with  the  entrenched  Portuguese  feudal  owners  of  the vineyards  bordering  the  Douro  River.  This  river  flows  from  Spain, passing by Oporto as it spills into the Atlantic Ocean, and in the city of Oporto Lord Sommerfeld had many contacts with port wine exporters. He  secured  work  for  Emily  as  a  teacher  of  English  in  the  small Portuguese village of Mafra where one of the Port wine growers along the sinuous Douro valley had a first cousin. She readily accepted  her work for, as she said, “Portugal is not that distant to me.” Of course no one understood her remark.






Chapter 2

2.0    A short family history

It was August, 1830, a torpid, Portuguese summer with the wind barely discernible.  No one was in the main square in the village of Mafra, a small Portuguese hamlet approximately 30 miles North from the capital of Portugal, Lisbon. A few stray dogs ambled about, without the energy to bark their presence.  Although  it was the end of the day, the cool, ocean breeze from the nearby coast was still to stir and bathe the town with its fresh, gentle evening winds.
The setting sun caused the distant Mafra Palace-Convent to cast a long,
silent  shadow  across  the  dwellings  and  vineyards  within  its  orbit. Behind the large, towering stone structure, designed by Italians and implanted on Portuguese soil, sprawled the immense preserve denominated the “tapada”, the private domain of the royalty of Portugal with it exclusive hunting privileges agglomerating  800 hectares (2,000 acres).  Silence  hovered  over  the  tapada  where  not  even  the  orange- beaked crows screeched their occasional welcome.
Within  sight  of  the  Palace-Convent  was  the  farm  of  Jorge  Sullivan
Cabral, son of Emily Sullivan, deceased in 1818, and Henrique Cabral, buried  in  1825,  and  grandson  of  Mary  Sullivan.  Jorge  was  leaning against  a  tree,  his  face  turned  towards  the  fields  cultivated  by  his paternal ancestors, his body in repose, weary from his daily tasks, his face   in  deep   thought,   but  there   was   absent   in  his  features   the momentary harmony of body and spirit which is induced by toiling the land.
He had hopes the wine harvest would be an excellent one this year. The
rain had fallen, although not too much. Because Mafra was so near the Atlantic  coastline  of Portugal,  the sun’s stellar appearance  was often erratic.  Normally  it  was  habitually  shrouded  by  a  slow,  thick  haze which hung in the valleys, ominously, as if the summer heat prevented it from any movement.
But not this year. Not too much sunlight,  nor too little. The frequent
Spring  fogs  which  usually  drifted  through  the  vales  of  Mafra  were





intermittent.  Even  the  bathers  flocking  to  the  beaches  of  Ericeira, known   for  its  summer   mists,   10  miles  east  of  Mafra,   had  few complaints.
“Yes”, Jorge thought to himself, “it is a good year, this hallowed epoch
of  1830”.  The  holy  presence  of  the  Palace-Convent  reinforced  the religious aura suggested by tilled meadows and pruned orchards. With many reasons to feel content, still Jorge found himself restless in spirit. Staring at the distant Palace, its twin bell towers silhouetted against the blue sky, partially hiding the glistening white Basilica, the approaching evening  reminded  Jorge  his nights  were  becoming  agitated  episodes, interludes  when  his  tired,  but  firm  body,  seethed  with  a  throbbing energy, so that he was forced to roam after sunset the streets of Mafra in search of frequent physical comfort.  “I am, as was my father,” Jorge mumbled to himself. “Let a woman pass me by and I immediately want to seduce her. If she does not cross my path, I will seek her out.”
A gush of loneliness and solitude suddenly swept over him, almost in
tandem with the distant ocean breeze now moving towards Mafra. For a moment the listless face of his mother appeared before him, with her habitual  curious  expression,  hovering  amongst  the leafed branches  of the olive trees where he reclined to rest his tired muscles. Jorge’s memories of his mother were of a silent woman who saw to his welfare but who would stare for hours out of a kitchen window, as if waiting for a visitor. Of course the guest came, but no one knew of that. He came to visit Emily at night as He had done with her mother, Mary.
Jorge had no knowledge of his English family. The few times he asked his mother about his grandmother he was greeted with a vacant stare or intermittently  with a few unintelligible  words making clear her refusal to discuss anything about the subject.
Questions  about his grandfather  were aborted  with responses  such as
“he died while I was an infant,” or “my father was carried away early from a local pest.” He quickly surmised his English ancestry was obliterated in the memories of Emily, his mother. The family past was not to be discussed. With time, Jorge ceased thinking about his English origins.
The  constant  melancholy  of his  mother,  the  loud,  boisterous,  coarse
personality of his Portuguese father, the geographical isolation of their





farm, the fact of being an only child, all conspired to mould Jorge into a pensive, brooding  young man whose thoughts  were constantly  turned inwards towards self-examination and self-doubts.
A  lanky,  brooding  man,  at  times  bordering  on  permanent  sulkiness,
with  a strong  physique  and  piercing  eyes,  complemented  by  a high forehead, locks of black hair falling in grace onto his neck, Jorge was a solitary neighbor who frequented with few people.
Moreover, he had reasons to feel he was different from the other village
lads. He had been born with a red birthmark on his chest, a small design, which  at times  appeared  to  have  a shape,  and  at others  was  almost unnoticeable. If his mother, Emily, ever noticed this blemish, she made no comments and in any event, it was not a very serious physical disfigurement.  But sometimes,  when he had no fear of being seen, he would examine this mark and strive to know if it had any special significance.
“I  must  not  think  too  much  of  my  family.  They  are  all  gone,”  he
thought to himself as he stretched his arms out and forward to sooth his aching  muscles.  Soon  the  night  sky  would  be ablaze  with  stars  and fleeing comets. The screech owl would begin his nightly hunt while the foxes scoured the barnyards for the open door which would give them access to the chicken coups. Guard dogs were beginning to bark as they raced  wildly  about  the  courtyards,  smelling  their  country  enemies hiding in the undergrowth but seeing their glistening eyes in the shrubs and bushes.
Feeling indolent and reminiscing, he stared at the sky. He could easily recall his mother’s serious yet puzzled stare, that of a child confronting an alien, hostile world. Closing his eyes, the modest part of the family history was easily recalled, although some of it was obscured from his knowledge.
He was sixteen when his mother had died. The people in Mafra referred to her as “the English lady”, for she barely learned to speak Portuguese and thus always remained on the fringes of community life.
For Emily, there was no reason to master the Portuguese language. Slim,
quiet, her wide brown eyes holding you steadfastly in their gaze, perennially withdrawn and muted, Emily Sullivan had been summoned





from  England  to  teach  English  to  the  landed  gentry  of  Mafra  and therefore they had to speak English to her and not she, Portuguese. When she arrived in Mafra in 1798, she easily captured the hearts of the Mafra townsmen, and in particular, the hearty, sturdy, robust Henrique Cabral, known for his womanizing and his constant nightly sorties but who in a drunken fit had a wish: he had to found a family before his whoring buried him and his assets passed to the collateral (and to him obnoxious) members of his family, in particular his avaricious brother Dom  João.  Emily’s  arrival  spawned  in him the  vision  of  creating  a family molded on the habits of the Portuguese royalty: seek a wife from another land.
Momentarily  reforming  himself,  so  much  so  that  he  even  took  to bathing at least twice a week, Henrique Cabral wooed Emily according to  the  etiquette  of  Portuguese   monarchs.  Flowers  and  long  bows preceded  his appearance  in the salas where Emily was summoned  to teach English to the heir of Count and Countess Pinto or the Duke and Duchess of Gradil or the boisterous Julia and Edmundo Macieira who controlled the wheat trade and dictated their terms to the millers from Lisbon to the wine district of Torres Vedras.
With  his large  clear  blue eyes and sturdy  physique  trembling  before what Emily surely assumed was her feminine charms, but what was in reality Henrique’s  impatience  to produce  an heir so that his detested family would not benefit from his eventual demise, she eventually succumbed to his mumblings in broken English and rudimentary Portuguese for her hand.
It was what she had to do. She was ordered to do so by her mother who
came to her one night, in her dreams, her arms beckoning her child to come to her bosom. As Emily rose and rushed to her mother, she fell into her arms sobbing with relief at once again being joined to the only love she had known. Caressing her hair, her mother told her she had to marry,  to bring  forth  into the world  a child,  a male  infant,  to be of comfort to Emily.
As she listened to her mother, she saw behind her mother another figure,
a grinning orangutan staring over the shoulder of Mary and baring its long teeth at her, Emily, while with his hands he swayed his genitals from side to side, as squeals  and shrieks  burst forth from his throat.





Then, in amazement, Emily saw her mother grab a branch and run after the orangutan with her buttocks swinging in an exaggerated pendulum movement.
With relief, Emily awoke with a start. Without thinking, she made up
her mind. To the distress  of the Cabral  family and his brother,  Dom João, Emily Sullivan and Henrique Cabral were married in 1801 in the august cavern of the basilica of the Palace-Convent of Mafra.
Emily  did  not  fare  well  under  the  roaring  love-making  of Henrique
Cabral  for  to  Henrique,  the  more  noise  you  made,  the  more  it was enjoyable.  Whereas  he had initially  been conquered  by her imagined natural aristocratic bearing, he quickly grew bored with her timid love responses, her fear of his manly prowess and country passion, and no doubt, an understandable desire to avoid going deaf.
Once  Jorge  was  born,  Emily  requested  Henrique  to inhabit  his  own bedroom and, with gratitude, Henrique returned to his bawdry, bachelor behavior, although discretion was required of him. With an heir secured, he could now pass his many family members  in the streets and sense contentment with their loss of lands, his properties, those bequeathed to him by his father who in turn received  them from his father and the ancestral line was indeed lengthy.
Unknown to Henrique, Emily’s bed was now occasionally occupied by
the screeching orangutan in a more acceptable guise and his passionate caresses  on  the  limbs  of  Emily  produced  the  desired  effect.  She murmured  with  delight  and  trembled  with  multiple  spasms  which encircled her thighs.
To the relief of Henrique, Emily died in 1818 when she was 46, weary
from  a  world  in  which  she  had  no  natural  place.  The  event  was memorable for the fact that the village priest congratulated Henrique on the holiness of his wife. To the perplexed look of Henrique, the priest murmured, “She has a small red cross on her chest, no doubt the sign of her vigilant faith but a rather extreme case of self-flagellation.  Such is the  faith  of  our  flock.”  Although  Henrique  did  not  remember  this physical   mark,   he   merely   shrugged   his   shoulders   in   agreement, attributing  his  lack  of  memory  to  his  infrequent  love-making  with Emily.





Henrique  was  able  to  openly  resume  his  unbridled  masculine  hunts until his heart gave out in the year 1825 when he was 65 years of age. And then, he only collapsed because the chosen object of his ardor was as constantly  unsatisfied  as Henrique  was  incessant  in his  demands. One had to forebear  and since  Henrique  was considerably  older,  his heart just stopped, “a gift from the Saints to the village tarts,” a friend quipped.
Most of the preceding past was within the cognition of Jorge. He shook
his head as if to reproach himself.   He wondered why his family recollections  were  occupying  so  much  of his  mind  when  instead  he should be working. Yet he had to admit that today he felt keenly the sadness  from remembrances  which  overcome  a young  man in whom nature has stirred and spurred his blood to race with the daily warm sun, merely cooled by his own sweat from his toil in the vineyards.
To further complement his anguished memories, exacerbated by his tormented desires and incessant masculine stirrings, was a recent suggestion by his father’s brother, the detested uncle Dom João. Their meeting   had  taken  place  some  days  before.  His  uncle  was  now proposing that, he, Jorge, should take a wife and marry Rosa, his first cousin. In this way, two adjoining estates, the largest vineyards in the region of Mafra would be joined. “After all,” thought the contemptible Dom João, “what escaped me by inheritance could now be regained by holy matrimony.”
At the time of this proposal, Dom João was a widower who had extinguished the will of his wife, Sofia Monteiro, to live rather early in her   life.   The   Cabral   brothers   were   notorious,   insensitive   brutes concerning women. Sofia merely expired from watching D. João eating, belching,   defecating,   working,  sweating,   and  retiring  to  bed  with sonorous operas as the sun set, never stirring until sunrise.
Yet Dom João was a responsible  father and for many years after his
wife’s death he had the sole responsibility for the education of his only child, Rosa. It was so sensible, Dom João had explained to Jorge when they had talking in the local tavern, its cool interior in marked contrast to the bright, clear but searing temperature reigning outside.
“Jorge,”   Dom   João   murmured,   lowering   his   head   so   that   their
conversation should remain for the moment confidential, “the dear son





of my late brother,”  Uncle João made the sign of the cross, and then continued, “cousin Rosa has the necessary virtues, as your mother did.” To the blank look of Jorge, Jorge confided, “Your father told me she was a virgin. Bravo, a rare quality in a woman, and so is Rosa. Not like your trollops wandering around the streets of Mafra, their bosoms thrust forward as the heads of our country mules and their buttocks as wide as the  cows  in  our  pastures.”  Dom  João  paused,  the  images  of  his language  stirring  his  masculine  vitality  and  he took  another  gulp  of fresh red wine to calm his wild desires. “Moreover,  Jorge,” he added with apparent concern, “a young man needs a female companion and I need a robust, sturdy, dedicated manager. What better choice then my beloved nephew?”
“You see”, Uncle João suddenly mumbled, although in a now grave,
somber tone, “our two estates will make you the richest wine producer in the great Lisbon area. Markets, my nephew, are near, as the citizens of Lisbon are a drunken lot. They like their wine raw and rough, just as we grow it here in Mafra. Markets and money, my dear nephew. What more is there to life? Put the only virgin I know into your kitchen, give us an heir, and go about your manly business.” Then he added, “With a certain amount of prudence, my cherished nephew, as did your father, my beloved brother.”
 Uncle João was well aware of Jorge’s profligate reputation but where as he initially saw this as a detriment to a marriage with his only child, his beloved Rosa, he later believed this to be an asset for what did it matter if Jorge sallied forth out of the house every night leaving Rosa alone? By nature she was a domestic, cherishing  her kitchen utensils, and with heirs to occupy her, it was just as well Jorge took his whoring out of his house and left Rosa in peace. Mothers are usually bad lovers. He, Dom João knew that, as did his brother. In honor to his filial remembrance,  he again made the sign of the cross before gulping the remnants of wine left in his glass.
The  enticements  of  Uncle  João  were  well  calculated.  Jorge  did  not
know what Uncle João knew. Cousin Rosa was becoming fanciful for a certain Rui Rias, a young man, the son of a local fabric merchant who owned  a  small  shop  where  cloths  and  textiles  from  the  North  of





Portugal  could  be  bought.  Yet  the  family  of  Rui,  no  matter  how promising their future, at present were landless.
All this Uncle João learned from his many vassals who made daily trips to the town centre. It was intolerable to Uncle João that the estates left by their father should fall into the hands of other people. At night it tormented him, thinking that his estate of 35 hectares (87.5 acres) might be broken up when it could so easily, by the time-honored  habit of a convenient  marriage,  be  augmented  to  include  a further  25  hectares (62.5 acres), the lands of his beloved nephew.
The  two  cousins  together  would  have  vineyards  and  pasture  lands
totaling 60 hectares (150 acres), a magnificent  size for rural Portugal with its Neolithic methods of farming. He resolved to speak to his daughter.
Some weeks prior to his meeting with Jorge, he had found Rosa in the
kitchen, where she usually was, explaining to the servants how a table should  be set for important  guests.  As he strode into the large, open space, with its ample chimney where the soup pots were hanging from thick, iron chains waiting to be warmed from the soft pine embers smoldering beneath them, he hesitated.
Being a father, Dom João was proud of his Rosa, for she was a farm girl in spite of her privileged position in the social life of Mafra. She was not afraid of daily chores, the routine of farm life; she relished in the  pride  of good  crops,  flocks  brought  home  safely,  and  vineyards manicured so as to ensure a productive harvest.
Yet  as  a  man  he  had  to  admit   Rosa  was  probably   doomed   to spinsterhood unless someone, determined to upgrade themselves, submitted their hearts to the calculation of their minds. Rosa was plain looking,  stout,  of  medium  stature,  with  a  ruddy  complexion  from assisting in the country tariffs. Her thick legs, so necessary for carrying buckets of water or pails of fruit were not the sensuous limbs to entice the available  gentry of Mafra. Added to her physical plainness  was a spirit of spite which disturbed and irritated the male companions which infrequently entered into her life.
However, D. João understood that she was capable of great moments of emotion, outbursts of sentiment, for he witnessed it himself. Had he not seen the flush to her face when they went to the Rias fabric store and





Rui himself waited upon the family, the stares he gave Rosa, how her cheeks burned a crimson which revealed the ardor she was undergoing. Once home, Dom João rebuked her gently for her “overly coquettish” behavior  unbecoming  to “gentry”  and  she  had  exploded  in a wrath, called  her  father  “an  insensitive  brute”  before  she  rushed  off  to her room and refused to come down for dinner in the evening. Dom João was perhaps  slow in movement  and deliberate  in speech,  but he was quick to note the distress of his daughter and its implications.
Watching her quietly as she went about her womanly chores, Dom João had come  to an immediate  conclusion.  He would  arrange  the proper marriage for her and what more natural than her first cousin, Jorge, a neighbor and a prosperous landowner.
Yet, even while whispering  and conspiring with Jorge, Dom João felt
both satisfaction and remorse. An only daughter was to be given away but was Jorge going to be as intolerable  and indifferent  as his father, Dom João’s brother?   On the other hand, Jorge hardly said anything, merely nodding his head from time to time. Of course Jorge knew his cousin, Rosa, well. There was hardly a day when then their paths did not cross, as is often the case with family who are neighbors.
Still the thought of bedding Rosa had never crossed his mind. She was
the pudgy school girl whom he accompanied to school when they were children. She was the tearful cousin whom he had to rescue every so often  when  the  boys  began  their  teasing.  He  could  not  even  recall holding her hand in a sign of intimacy as distinguished from help.
Now resting against the bark of one of his sturdy olive trees, thoughts of his mother again with him, Jorge recalled those words of Dom João and decided perhaps he ought to go and call upon Rosa to see if there were any female  virtues  he had overlooked.  After all, the dowry she brought was not to be demeaned nor rapidly spurned. A man with land was a man with power. And he needed a woman. He could not continue with  his  physical  torment  which  only  obtained  relief  with  nightly sorties.  Moreover,  the village  sluts that giggled  and shook  their hips when his eyes savored their bodies were not suitable alternatives for his manly requirements.  He knew of one or two men of his age who had succumbed  to awful diseases, well beyond treatment by local doctors, and who now suffered abominable injuries, if not imminent death.





The need for a spouse only further clouded his normally rational mind. While   he  had  a  romantic   side,  and  indeed   often  found   himself daydreaming about some of the village girls in a serious vein, his forced loneliness on his estate heightened his sensual needs while diminishing his  possibilities.  While  at  first  an  uninspiring  objective,  the  words proffered by Uncle João conferred on Rosa, as cosmetics will often do to a comely  face, a fragile allure,  possibly  a solution  to his complex male personality, a duality whose composition was unknown to him. More  land  through  marriage  was not to be despised,  cast aside,  and after all, he knew Rosa was a hardworking daughter, wise in the ways of  the  land.  Perhaps  there  lie  dormant  within  her  brawny  body  a naturalness   which   would   satisfy   the  maddening   craving   coursing through his blood as his browned arms tended his crops.
A few days later, the conversation with his uncle still fresh in his mind,
he found, of course purposefully, cousin Rosa in the fruit orchard which adjoined their property line. Jorge was almost ten years her senior, for Rosa was then a strapping 19 years of age. At that age her limbs were firm,  her  bosom  full  and  bursting  with  the  vitality  of  life  which nourishes  children  waiting  to be  born.  As  the  afternoon  sun  danced around  her  waist,  Jorge’s  eyes  fixed  on  the  sensuous  thighs  which bulged  with warmth.  He noticed  the moisture  on her skirt caused  by sweat  and  physical  movement.  Her  plain  face,  square  and  flat  in country  fashion,  barely  showed  any  emotion  or  physical  stress.  His body stirred and called him unashamedly to the warmth and pleasure of her muscular abdomen.
“What is it, Jorge?” Rosa asked as she continued her gathering of ripe lemons. “Are you taking off the afternoon?”
Jorge merely nodded and sat down nearby her. Their long association produced an intimacy between them which needed few formalities.
After a few moments, Jorge pronounced, “I’m hot.”
Something in his voice caused Rosa to turn and face him directly. She had never really looked seriously at her older cousin. Quiet, moody, his tall, lean body strode forward and backward in jerky movements as if a straight  line did not exist, could not, for the universe  was round and rotating. He always appeared not to be aware of her presence, his deep- set eyes frequently fixed on a distant, unseen image.





All the same, today she saw his languid face, his long eyelashes,  his motionless arms crossed on his chest. For a moment, unexpectedly, she imagined his arms circling her waist and his body pressed hard against her buttocks in desire. Immediately casting aside such thoughts as improbable  and born  of her own country  nature,  she returned  to her tasks of lemon gathering.
Jorge continued to watch her, observed her body turning and twisting,
and finally  he closed  his eyes.  He resolved  to speak  to Uncle  João. Raising slowly from the ground, he thought of kissing Rosa goodbye but instead  nodded  his head slowly  towards  her inquisitive  eyes and hastened to return to his own tasks.
A few  days  later  he encountered  his uncle  in the same  tavern,  as a message  had  been  delivered  to  him,  asking  for  the  meeting  “with urgency”. By then, Dom João understood  the situation to be pressing. Gossip from his faithful servants, particularly the cooking staff, made it clear to him Rui Rias was pressing forward as steadfastly  as possible with  his  claim  to  Rosa.  The  young  girl  in the  scullery,  Branca,  the daughter of the first cook Adelaide, had seen the two of them, Rosa and Rui, walking together towards the end of the day, in the village park, within  the  shadows  of  the  Palace-Convent.  They  obviously  lingered longer together than was thought proper.
 After some preliminary  drinks Dom João came to the subject matter with alacrity. Reclining  backwards  in his chair, he inhaled slowly his hand-rolled cigarette and then asked, “Well, Jorge, are we going to do a deal?”
Jorge stared at his uncle impassively. He wasn’t sure if he was on the
right  course.  He  had  his  father’s   uncontrollable   temperament   for women, although he genuinely believed he could keep it under control. Moreover, he did find Rosa attractive with her coarse country manners which belied certainly a passionate nature.
 Additionally, so much land was to be gained. His thoughts raced back and forth with no consistency to the conclusion. Finally he blurted out, “My dear uncle, I do find Rosa attractive. Yes, damn it, she has a fine body and a willing spirit. But marriage, I just don’t know.” He paused, hoping for some direction to his thoughts.





 His uncle had already raced to the steps he knew he had to take. If there was a strong possibility, he would make it a reality. Crushing his cigarette on the wooden floor of the tavern, he stated matter-of-factly, “Never make a hasty decision, Jorge. We shall talk again.” When they paid their departing comments, Jorge ambled onto the dirt road leading to the gates of his farm.
A mild ocean breeze stirred the panoply of tree leaves lining his path.
In the distant he heard a dove pigeon cowing. The enveloping pine trees sprawled  throughout  the valleys  gave off an intoxicating  smell, resin mixing with the pungent odor of sea salt brought by the sea winds. Gazing backwards, he saw the smoke of chimneys spiraling upwards towards the bright blue sky of Mafra. A rivulet passed by the edge of his  walk,  the  water  slowing  drifting  downwards  towards  the  lower, original part of the village where it would eventually join other streams and then a steady current of water would later find its way into the river Lizandro  which snaked  towards  the Atlantic  ocean, bordered  by lush and fertile fields. Reaching his destination, he paused and stared at the distant  hills,  small  in  stature  yet  well-groomed   and  tendered  with husbandry learnt through the millenniums.
“It is all land”, Jorge thought. “Without properties, a man is useless, a
burden to himself, his family, his community, a vagabond cur, worse, a despised  mongrel  with no claim on any man or woman.”  Continuing with his thoughts, he addressed himself, “Estates define the man. I am nothing, a foolish man if I have no land to till. No one will heed me. Nor  can  I continue  with  these  bitches  to satisfy  me.  I shall  catch  a sickness, for sure.”
Forcing his tired feet to continue their march towards his homestead,
the ancient site of his forbearers whose land had been accumulated by work, some by bitter fights among heirs, and even some by treachery upon neighbors whose land frontiers were not well defined, he entered his home, sought the comfort of his room and fell asleep on his bed, still dressed, with the sound of the dove pigeon fixed in his ear and the image of his mother staring at him from a faded photograph,  her lips partially open as if she was going to tell him a thought but her soul had been suddenly clamped down, the blood system plugged, and her heart had burst with a searing pain.





 Dom João lost no time. Some days later he appeared at the shop of the Rias  family  and  announced  he wanted  to speak  to Miguel  Rias,  the owner and presumably  head of the family. He was obsequiously  and immediately received in the austere living room of the Rias family for the very bearing of Dom João Cabral demanded  no less. Waiting  for him was the father,  Miguel,  his panting  wife Ana, and the son, Rui. After initial pleasantries  and courtesies, which only served to increase the breathing of Ana, and even induced sweat to gather on her forehead, Dom João came quickly to the point.
“I have  a distant  cousin  in Lisbon  who  is in dire  need  of a young
apprentice.  He is, as you are, my dear landless  Miguel,  in the fabric business. He has quite a nice establishment in downtown Lisbon.”
A silence reigned in the room. Dom João’s allusion to “landless” only
heightened the fear which silently bonded the three family members in a pact of anxiety. As a member of the landed gentry, Dom João Cabral had connections to the Lisbon royal families and more seriously to the banking establishments which governed the lives of merchants. Miguel expected the worst as he had an overdraft with a Lisbon bank owned by the  prominent  Castro  family,  distant  relatives  of  Dom  João  Cabral. Miguel  worried  the  apparent  concern  with  Rui’s  future  was  but  a diversion for the financial catastrophe about to be announced by Dom João.
Dom João Cabral knew of the overdraft. His cousin Albino Castro had
sent him a message about the situation and Dom João had delayed in answering, hoping to juggle this casual set of events in his favor.
“Rui,” Dom João suddenly thundered, “have you thought of seizing an
opportunity   to  earn  your  way  in  life  in  the  corridors   of  Lisbon commerce. Your father may need whatever mercantile experience you gain.”  He paused and waited. He saw the terror instilled in the eyes of Miguel Rias. He watched Ana’s body begin to tremble as her fingers rushed over the rosary beads which miraculously appeared in her hand. Only Rui appeared impassive, but then he was too young, like Rosa, to understand flight. He suddenly saw the corpulent and seductive body of Rosa receding from his present reserved but hopefully, one day, ardent embraces.





 He impulsively  burst forth. “Thank  you, Dom João”,  he murmured, addressing his benefactor with the most regal of titles reserved for the landed gentry. “Thank you, indeed, but my father no doubt needs me here.”
Dom João’s sonorous reply was to be expected, having been carefully
planned. “How can a defaulting, bankrupt, penniless merchant employ a son gainfully?  Do you know  my gabbing  adolescent  that the Lisbon Bank Commercial  and Agricultural  Deposits, owned by the family of the aunt of my beloved grandfather, is impatient to receive the proceeds of  your   father’s   impudent   overdraft   and   have   charged   me  with explaining the procedures to follow to your enterprising father? Answer me, do you?”
Ana dropped  her rosary onto the sole table modestly  decorating  her
living room and excused herself profusely from the august presence of her guest explaining she was suddenly smitten with a severe headache. She stumbled out of the living room and burst into tears in the solace of her bedroom whose only window faced a narrow alley which seemed to attract garbage and paper as honey draws flies.
Rui remained silent, gazing at his father from the corner of his eyes.
He saw his father had his head hung downwards. Miguel Rias was not a man to stand up to commercial forces more powerful than he and in all events, what Dom João Cabral said was true. He was in debt. He was about to be ruined.
Then Dom João revealed his true purpose in more acceptable language.
“Now, Rui, it has been brought to my attention how your graces demonstrated to my beloved Rosa are causing effect.” He paused, watching  Rui’s  immobile  face.  “What  father  would  cause  distress  to your family under such circumstances? Cousin Castro can be persuaded to renew the overdraft and grant your father a further period to rectify his  misfortunes  which  are  no  doubt  but  temporary.  Even  if  he  is convinced of your father’s imminent failure, I can buy up the overdraft and deal  with  your  father  on a more  friendly  basis.  Yes,  we are all members   of   a   tightly-knit,   unified,   Mafra   family,   although   not necessarily  with the same economic virtues, and we all must help one another, in spite of ill-conceived commercial plans by others.”





 Dom João paused, rather pleased with his momentary verbosity. Continuing  he lowered  his voice,  “You must go to Lisbon,  Rui, and quite frankly, never return. By doing so, you shall rescue your father. Your father will explain to you why you are not a suitable suitor for Rosa, financially speaking of course. You are an attractive young man and Rosa has good taste. As did her mother. But I am a man of affairs. Rosa is reserved for another and if you mention any of our conversation to her I shall destroy your father. Such is the code of men.”
 Inclining  forward,  in  a  artificial  pose  of  respect,  Dom  João  turned around  and as he neared  the exit,  he whispered,  “I shall  await  your news.” He was gone although his keen ears did hear a long wail emerge from the back of the house,  partially  muffled  by the narrow  passage which served as an airshaft for the bathrooms, yet still discernible as the anguish of a woman who fears her son’s primitive instincts shall wreck havoc on the family fortunes, or lack of them.

2.1    The rejection of Rosa

The searing afternoon  sun, yet with its summer force although it was the  first  week  of  September,  brought  a  languid  listlessness  to  the kitchen domestics  as they lazily drifted through their Sunday scullery chores. The culinary apprentices Rita and Joana were peeling potatoes, gazing  mournfully  out  one  of  the  windows,  hoping  a  Prince  would capture  their young  hearts  and save them from the endless  drudgery which life would bring them, as it had brought their mothers and grandmothers.
Still, the small, open crevice, crossed with thick iron, permitted them to see the resplendent bougainvillea  which caroused throughout the stone walls  separating   the  Cabral  house  from  the  expansive,   rich  soil, stretching for miles across the hills, where sheep and cows grazed contentedly as intermittent clouds slowly crossed the limitless expanse of blue.
The estates of Dom João Cabral burst forth in bountiful grace wherever
the eyes came to rest. The tall umbrella pine trees, scattered in clusters throughout  the  acres  of  fields,  afforded  shade  for  the  animals  and tempered  the  harsh  winds  which  blew  in  a  fury  from  the  coastline





during  the  winter.  Now,  a  sultry  summer  breeze  barely  stirred  the meadows of oats and wheat.
Rosa was in the kitchen, observing Rita and Joana, a certain maternal empathy  rising in her as she watched them murmuring  and gossiping together.  She  had  come  to  prepare  some  thick  brown  bread  for  her father.  Yet her father’s  remarks  earlier  in the day hovered  about her imagination   and,  no  matter  how  absorbing  her  tasks,  his  offhand remarks demanded clarification.
She  had  been  in  the  dinning  room,  where  she  and  her  father  took breakfast,  when, as he was leaving,  he had said to her, casually,  but then her father never stated a sentence, or even a phrase, which was not premeditated,  words to the effect, “I saw Jorge Cabral some days ago. A fine young man. He asked about you. I think he takes a fancy to you. I wouldn’t  be  surprised,  Rosa  …,”  and  he  let  his  words  end  in  an inaudible murmur.
Dom João crossed himself thanking God for having given him a wife
whose  only  interest  in  life  had  been  tending  to  his  culinary  needs, before  continuing,  his trend  of thought  broken,  “Your  mother,  Rosa, how healthy,  shall we say bursting  with love she was when she was your age. Remember, my child, you are a country girl, brought up with the fresh air, our delicious fruits, meat everyday on the table, the cakes of our local pastry shops delivered right to our doors. Life is sweet my precious child, my only heir…” He strode out of the room, enchanted with his matinee eloquence.
Rosa did not reply but the words left their impression. She remembered the way Jorge looked at her when he paid his last visit to her in the orchard. At that time, an involuntary flush rose to her cheeks when their eyes met. But she resolved not to think any further about Jorge. He was her cousin,  almost  a decade  her senior,  morose  and moody,  and she, Rosa, was young, vibrant, enchanted with the brightness of the day and the green foliage cascading about her in every direction.
Noting the sun was nearing its midday summer height, she slipped out
of  the  kitchen  door  and  headed  for  the  grove  where  she  and  Rui invariably met. A narrow dirt pathway led from the back of the kitchen to a small lemon grove, and then wound its way through gentle hills and twisting vales until the sound of gurgling water was heard. There,





surrounded  by a ring of polished black rocks and lemon grass, was a small pond, a favorite refuge for foxes, large enough for them to drink from in the secrecy of the night, and the water, crystal clear, reflected the sun in all its stellar splendor.
Rui was  waiting  for her,  as he did every  Sunday  noontime.  At first
Rosa’s heart gave a sudden jump when she saw his fresh, eager face looking  at her earnestly.  But, then,  she immediately  noticed  a slight frown to his features and her instinctual  knowledge  of men, a gift to women  from  nature,  raised  an  apprehension   within  her.  Still,  she decided not to voice her doubts and instead wait.
Rui greeted  her with a warm embrace.  They had yet to be intimate. Such a step was impossible for a young woman such as Rosa, brought up in the strict, intimate Catholic atmosphere  of Mafra. Although she was infused with the warmth of Rui’s body when he was near her, their love signals were confined to sporadic touches and compassionate embraces of greeting and withdrawal.
Upon seeing her, Rui, who had been sitting,  stood up, as if he were
going to make a speech. Rosa stopped and looked at him, his still adolescent features barely concealed by the emergence of the first signs of maturity encircling his lower chin, a steady gaze to his eyes which would   later   demark   him   as   an   embittered   adult.   He   had   been commanded  to leave the first love of his unfolding life, but he would forever  remember  Rosa,  never  to  be  his,  because  his  family  were landless and his father, luckless, a poor merchant.
That Rui later, decades after this rendezvous, amassed one of the great fortunes  of Lisbon  would  not be sufficient  to assuage  the permanent wound which he carried with him all his life so that he died without any heirs, never marring but roaming from one consort to another.
At this moment in his life he had come to say his farewell to Rosa. His
father gave him no choice when he had shouted over the sobbing gasps of his mother, “Is that why we had a son, to destroy our family?”
Rui  watched   her  approach   their   watery   recluse   where   they   had
exchanged  many private thoughts. At the sight of her thick, corpulent body supported by stubby, muscular thighs his masculinity stirred and coursed through his blood. The pulsating sun did little to soften his now racing heart and trembling lips.





She came to him and now realized what suffering he was undergoing. “What is it, Rui?” she whispered to him.
His father had instructed under no circumstances  was he to reveal the true motives of his departure.  Such a disclosure would be worse then remaining  in Mafra  for  the  breach  of a confidence  would  bring  the wrath of Dom João upon the whole family. He was to tell Rosa he was going to Lisbon to have a career with a distant relative. He, Rui, was too young to think of any serious engagement  with a young girl, like himself.
In  a trance,  Rui  went  through  his  rehearsed  speech.  Years  later,  he
could not even recall what he said, nor what Rosa replied. The image he carried with him, often surging forth in his imagination  at the oddest moments, when he was addressing a bankers’ conference, or sealing the purchase of a large tract of land, or even visiting the factory floor of one of his many enterprises, was that of Rosa, crumpled on her knees, by  the  edge  of  the  pond,  silently  crying,  never  looking  up  at  Rui, thrashing  her hair from side to side as if in a ritual ordained  by the forest gods.
He  finally  fled,  tears  washing  his  hot,  torrid  face,  the  white  clouds
soaring  above  his  dampened  head,  the  bright  blue  of  an  ocean  sky blotting out the darkness gathering in his mind, down the dirt path he raced, past the copses of umbrella pine, scraping his thighs against the wild thorns which sprung up wherever the hand of the hoe was absent, till he saw in the distance  the small village square of Mafra, the oak trees conceding shade to the mules tied up outside the taverns and commercial shops.
He saw the sign of his father’s establishment,  “Rias and Son” and his
anguish burst forth in unbridled frenzy so that he stopped and pounded his fists against a dying poplar where the water had been diverted and its source  of life extinguished.  The crows screeching  above his head paid scant attention  to his howling which only reminded  them of the wild, homeless dogs which ran through the night, their stomachs empty and their eyes a cold, clear green.
Rosa did not stir for some time. Finally she stood up and straightened out her skirt. Slowly she climbed the path upwards which would lead her to her home.  As she walked,  her only thought  was that she was





homely, a discarded cloth not suitable to drape the lovely bodies of the society ladies. The explanation given to her by Rui appeared baseless, for surely  he knew  that  if they  went  together  to Lisbon,  her family fortunes would protect them and ensure a future. The sensible feminine conclusion  was  that  he  had  found  someone  else  and  wished  to  use Lisbon as an excuse to break off their incipient intimacy. “I am ugly”, she whispered  to herself, “not even my youth is attractive.  I shall be barren and die slowly as the autumn leaves.”
Struggling against the rising slope of the path, Rosa thought her chest would burst and cleave through the middle, exposing her bleeding heart wrenched unwillingly from her body. The searing pain enveloping her bodice became unsupportable. Stumbling, she sank to the dirt floor and reclined against an outcropping of granite. Some moments passed. The slow, steady movement  of the white billowing  clouds helped to calm her. The fluttering of partridge wings hidden beneath bushes hastened her return to inward silence and a certain calmness gained control of her racing, confused thoughts.
Then, Rosa came to a decision which would forever mark her and the family eventually to be impelled forth from her thighs and permitted to see the light. Never would she allow a man again to deceive her. For deceit, there was only one remedy. She was a country girl and knew well the law of animals. The weak, wither, and die, and the strong live off the carrion of others. She, Rosa, would arise and survive. The others, the cravers and the ambitious, such as Rui, would be cast aside with a vengeance. Retaliation was to be the motif of her life. To whomever she allowed to caress her firm, but willing, flesh would, must, be allied to her spirit and be chaste with all others. She was to be the sole object of male lust and its satisfaction to her mate. Infidelity would be cut at the root. Never would she allow betrayal to pass unpunished.
Standing  up, she clenched  her teeth and let her hands  run along  her sweating  thighs.  She  noticed  the faint  smell  from  between  the  thick flesh  holding  her  torso  rising  to her  nostrils  and  she  knew  she  was yearning to have a lover and be a mother. Under the laws of her land, this required her to be married. Her rejection by Rui cleaved her pride and the image of her womanhood, shattering her spiritual integrity and exposing her to the shadows and desires of other times, other epochs,





other passions, other stages in the human cycle now prohibited but ever latent.  Standing up, she started the walk towards her home.
Exhausted, she eventually reached the courtyard of her residence. In the distance she saw her father watching her. Of course he knew where she had gone and what had transpired. This had been combined with Rui’s father the day before. He said nothing as she neared him but he smiled tenderly  at her  as soon  as he  saw  her  distressed  face.  For  the  grief displayed in her countenance  was mixed with resolution and he knew his  daughter  was  as  he  was,  unbreakable   in  spirit,  undaunted  by adversity.  He  had  succeeded,  the  estates  would  be  joined,  and  the ensuing heirs would add glory to the name of Dom João Cabral.

2.2    A devilish decision.

As soon as the burning, summer sun rose less austere in the horizon, the fresh, late September winds from the nearby Atlantic coast swept into the village of Mafra, bringing with them a welcome respite. The grain harvests were almost over and now it was the hour of gathering grapes and the making of wine. Village festivals were in course throughout the towns  surrounding  Mafra.  The  various  patron  Saints  of  the  laborers were called upon them to assist in making the precious,  bodied wine which would ensure another year’s income. No family who had grape orchards could afford to be idle.
By tradition, originally founded on necessity, neighbors helped one another in the cutting of the vines, the storage of grapes into baskets, the carrying  of them to the large  wooden  vats  where  the process  of stepping   on  them   and   waiting   for   the   natural   fermentation   was inaugurated.  Although the steps were simple-gather,  carry, and crush- many hands were required. So it was quite natural Jorge, Dom João and their hired  hands  would  spend  considerable  time  together  during  the month of September.
The evening before Jorge was to bring his laborers over to the estates of
Dom João, a strange incident occurred to him. In a moment of forced relaxation, for he well knew tomorrow would begin the arduous tasks of gathering the grapes of his uncle, he strolled over to the large wheel behind his home which was used to draw up the water.





Anyone leaning over the short, stone embankment surrounding the waterhole  would  be awed at the deepness  of the hole which bore its way out of sight into the granite laden soil. Although the well was dug by hand centuries before his birth, oral tradition borne by the families recounted the deaths of the poor beggars, by land slides, forced to work by hand in the bowels of the earth carving out the earth so the precious liquid could be raised by the landed gentry.
But such thoughts were not with Jorge. He simply felt the need to be
alone  and  hearken  to  the  country  sounds.  His  forced  patience  was rewarded as he heard the low wooing of the night owls as they called to one another in hopes of a courtship. September in the countryside is the moment  when  the  absence  of a mate  is  most  keenly  felt.  The  wine festivals are in harmony with the rites of the ancients, for coupling in September in the human species produces the yearlings in the Spring. Sitting on the edge of the stone guard, Jorge stared  moodily into the darkness of the night, illuminated, but barely, by the glittering sparkle of  the  heavenly  firmament.  An  ominous  silence  gathered  about  the courtyard. Normally, Jorge was never concerned with intruders for the rural laws were self-enacted.  Any trespass  was met with a shot gun. Still, this evening he confessed to a certain uneasiness. He attributed his disposition   to  the  loneliness   which  was  more  often  his  constant companion. He was about to retire to his home when he heard a rustling in the bushes near his tool shed. At first he believed it to be the noise of a small animal.
One of his many dogs began to growl and this worried Jorge. He was too far from his house to think of retrieving his weapon. It was not wise to turn his back if there were a trespasser nearby. He decided to take a bold step, as he shouted out, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The ensuing silence of the autumn night only served to hasten his fears.
There could be more then one person and he was without arms. Some of the  jerky,  whimpering  mongrels  began  barking,  one  or two  were even howling in tribute to their carnivorous ancestors from the steppes of East Europe who came South into all of Europe in search of easy prey, the deer and the sheep. Their baying only served to heighten the tension infusing Jorge.





“Who is it, I say?” he called out. Still, there was no response. Kneeling, Jorge picked up a fallen, dead limb from a pine tree and held it firmly in his moist palm. A clear movement of feet could be heard within the rim of cork trees which initiated  the peach orchard.  He stood motionless, waiting  for  the  appearance  of a face.  To his  left  he  suddenly  felt  a brusque movement and he wheeled around swinging his weapon with all  the  strength  he  could  muster.  But  his  bludgeon  cleaved  through empty air. No one was in sight.
A dog yelped, “ Was it the small one?” he thought, the one he called “little fox” because she was so good at hunting rabbits, “Yes, it must be her” he rummaged, before remembering she had died the winter before, “Then  which  cur  was  it?”  he  asked  himself,  and  he  would  have continued  perplexed  when,  without  warning,  a sudden  gust  of  wind gathered and the heretofore sky, lit with infinite beacons, sparkling and vibrating in the black dome, was swamped out of sight by rolling thunderous clouds which swept in from the coastline of Ericeira and a violent downpour of rain burst out of the sky.
Forgetting  his former  hesitations,  Jorge  turned  around  and started  to dash towards his home. As he did so, he slipped over one of his farm tools which had slithered to the ground and he fell downwards. He was sure he felt a blow to the back of his head but he lost consciousness.
He must have lain there for hours for when he awoke he was drenched. His clothes clung to him, mixed with mud and water. His head hurt. His legs were heavy. Raising himself up, he saw the storm had passed. Instinctively he touched the back of his head in remembrance of his fall, but there were no signs of an injury.
Once again, the thick, milk-band of stellar light was visible. Eventually gathering  all  his  forces,  he  struggled  towards  his  home  and  threw himself upon his bed in exhaustion. For reasons he could not fathom the thick,  sensuous  body  of  Rosa  rose  before  him.  Scenes  of  her  ruby- colored cheeks and bright brown eyes mingled with remembrances  of his mother bending over him as a child and looking apprehensively  at him.
Unable  to  achieve  the  degree  of  inner  harmony  to  fall  sleep,  he eventually rose and went into his bathroom to clean up. Stripping off all his clothes he began to wash himself thoroughly, with cold water, since





he had not the energy to warm the water over the dying wood stove smoldering in his kitchen. As he started his ritual, he examined himself carefully to ensure he had suffered no serious wounds. It was then he noticed  that his birthmark  was more visible,  clear in outline,  and he murmured to himself, “I must be a holy man, having been born with a cross.”
Almost in response  to his words, the sky burst into a loud, crackling
flashing sear of light and in the distance he heard the approach of thunderous clouds, once again announcing their return. “So,” Jorge thought, “I escaped just in time.”
Clean and lying in his bed, listening  to the heavy downpour  of rain,
Jorge stared at the wooden rafters lining his room. His eyes wandered over his sparsely furnished dwelling and the realization of its drab masculinity  impelled  him towards  a thought  which,  at first had been dim in his consciousness, but now leaped forward with more clarity, as if impelled by an outside force. The large, still eyes of Rosa appeared to him with all clarity, as if brought before his vision by an invisible hand. With his head still throbbing, he became susceptible to the thoughts and advice of unseen companions. Living alone was not advisable. What if he  had  fallen  from  a blow  and  not  just  slipped  as  he  believed?  He needed to take a wife and commence a family. It was then he was sure he heard his mother’s voice, or an utterance so similar, urging him to court Rosa. He imagined he saw his mother sitting in the corner of his room,  staring  at him with a forlorn,  anxious  gaze which  molded  her face into a hollow round ball.
Her mouth struggled to articulate words and for some moments Jorge wondered if his head blow had not done permanent damage. Yet he was sure he saw her and her words cascaded finally in an illogical syntax, but what Jorge understood was that she was urging him to accept Rosa as  his  wife,  reminding  him  that  it  was  important  the  Sullivan  line continue and how she longed to have heirs beyond the generation of her son.
The more he listened to his mother, the more logical it appeared to him
he had to marry Rosa, for then he would gain not only a woman, but lands and a worker. On the other hand, he knew of his father’s lasciviousness  and  wondered  if  he  could  dominate  his  equally  wild





spirit. He explained this to his mother but she waved away this thought wildly with her hands, shaking them and he watched in amazement as they danced in the air. How could she be with him, he pondered, and he lay still for fear her apparition would disappear.
Jorge did not forget the personality  of his father and his debauchery,
well-known to Jorge, was a counterpoint to his mother’s passivity and sensual  reticence.  Jorge  oscillated  between  the  two  stages  of human emotion. His spiritual repose Jorge appeared to have inherited from his mother for he was normally shy in the presence of fine, young women and the many available brides in the village.
Yet, akin with his father, only with the Mafra trollops did he feel at ease and able to indulge his sexual fantasies. Rosa was clearly a novice in the art of love-making. If her sensual needs were subdued, Jorge would be forced to repeat the infidelities of his father.
Were the temperament  of his father to reach out and claim him as his manly  heir,  successor  to  his  myriad  conquests,  then  it was  best  he, Jorge, remain a bachelor. To suffer with Rosa what his father endured with  his mother,  convinced  Jorge  it was best  to avoid  such  a moral impasse  with  its  physical  suffering.  He  tried  to  explain  this  to  his mother but she kept shaking her head. It was then he noticed her eyes had no color and a fright seized him. From where had she come?
In response to his unspoken question, with a sudden, jerky movement, walking on unseen stilts, his mother approached  his bed and held his pounding head in her cool, firm hands. As her frosty hands stroked his forehead, he wanted to bring her face close to his and feel her lips, as he did when he was young, and then he became drowsy with his mother murmuring to him that he must go and join Rosa as soon as possible. Thinking  he would  go and  visit  Rosa  the  next  day,  he felt  slumber overtake him and at the thought of her voluptuous  flesh lying next to him, his eyes closed and the rain stopped. The winds calmed down. The nightly silence returned. But the dogs continued to snivel and cringe for they  could   see  what   human   eyes  do  not,  their  olfactory   senses confirmed their fears, their instincts caused them to curl up against one another in anticipation of the evil lurking around their lair.
They  knew  they  were  defenseless  against  that  part  of  life  normally
hidden from our senses and which often twists apparently  reasonable





conclusions into sinister events. For our dreams and thoughts are often inspired by the suggestions of others rendered plausible by an induced exhaustion. When Jorge’s mother slipped out from his bedroom door to resume her eternal wandering,  the dogs began to howl without cease. From behind a tree, the one who had struck the blow watched silently the  passage   of  events   and  He  felt  comfortable   that  His  desired conclusion would become a reality. It was imperative that Jorge marry and His sinister lineage be continued.

2.3    The courtship by Jorge

The next day commenced  with a clear sky, the smell of the wet earth perfuming  the orchards  and droplets  infusing  the leaves, soon to fall, now  reinvigorated  with  the  false  hope  of  a  past  Spring.  As  he  cut himself a piece of coarse, thick wheat bread, he speared a slice of dry goat cheese to accompany it and decided to freshen himself up, in deference to the thought of meeting Rosa. He had awaken thinking of her animalistic thighs and a diffuse heat surrounded his face
His workers would already be at the estate of his uncle João. He had
issued  these  orders  the  day  before  for  Jorge  did  not  intend  to  do anything other then supervise and in any event uncle João, an early riser, would be afoot to ensure the necessary organization.
After  a  respectable  amount  of  awkward  toiletry,  which  essentially
consisted  in shaving and grooming  his hair, Jorge set off on the path towards  the  lands  of  his  uncle.  As  it  was  late  September,  harvest festivals were in preparation throughout the district. In deference to the ancient human rites of birth and death, the sun cast its force upon all life, the grass fields swayed to the gentle ocean winds, while from the gathering of clusters of people could be heard laughter and the sounds of tools striking metal or wood. Voices shouted across the valleys while the baying of donkeys rose in harmony as they called to one another from their forced labor.
Nearing the vineyards, he saw in the distance Rosa carrying a basket of
grapes, full to the brim, some of the cuttings tumbling over the edge. Although it was still early in the day, he noticed the rivulets of sweat moistening  her forehead as she struggled with her cargo. “A worker,”





he thought, and as his eyes gleaned her firm, sturdy thighs, he added to his words, “a fine body in bed to calm my passions.”
Hastening towards her, he greeted her with a soft smile and lifted the basket from her shoulders. As he did so, he allowed his rising arms to gracefully graze her shoulder, a gentle movement, yet calculated to establish a physical intimacy between them.
Although  only  some  weeks  had  passed  since  the  departure  of  Rui,
Rosa’s will in not succumbing  to self-pity had taken a firm hold. By nature  she was resolute,  with a rigid character  which  rarely  diverted from its objectives. When her passions were aroused, logic, even reasonableness  were cast from her as if a pestilence  and she allowed only emotional currents to dictate her course of action.
A fine line existed between her capacity to be practical and the surge of
revenge  which  imparts  a calm determination.  In this case, she easily exercised control because her involvement with Rui had not been complete. She had not been shed but merely refused, an important difference  for a woman. Had she been appropriated  in body and then put aside, her reaction  would  surely  have been violent.  Such are the natural codes of conduct of country people. Treachery in morals in the provinces normally meant physical violence. Fortunately,  this was not necessary  for Rui  had  merely  declared  he was  leaving  without  ever having, so to speak, arrived.
From despair  she had passed  to abandonment,  then to bewilderment,
only to conclude she had been deceived by a foolish young man who she would no longer think about. There were chores to be done and she, Rosa, would not waste her time anymore with frivolous episodes. She regained confidence  in herself as a woman, so when Jorge’s physical presence  became  a reality  their eyes crossed  and once again a blush seized her cheeks. She recognized immediately the desire for her which sequestered him and she deferred to it.
Nature had intended her to be a homely woman of the country, a worker and mother who would bear the seeds of a man. Other thoughts did not hover about her daily imagination. She went from task to task and her future child-bearing was but one more. Unlike Jorge, the property advantages  of their joined estates did not enter into her thoughts as a monetary unit but rather, as they were family, she understood a possible





alliance with Jorge meant the Cabral clan would be more vigorous, prosperous,  with  the  lineage  continued  uninterrupted  by  extraneous blood.
In small ways, Jorge was attentive to her presence, sometimes picking
up her basket and putting it on her shoulders; other times walking with her down the path between the grapes, engaging in idle chatter. When finally they sat down for lunch under the shade of the hanging grape vines,  it  was  as  if  they  had  always  been  a  family,  busy  with  their domestic chores, for in truth they were, first cousins, united by remote, ancestral ties, and many episodes of family triumphs and tragedies.
As he drank his glass of wine from last year’s crop, and slowly stirred
the  hot  bean  soap  which  had  been  given  to  him,  he  observed  with attention the high cheek bones of Rosa, her broad, bulky nose, the firm look with which she captured all details of her tasks and then his eyes glanced furtively at her blouse which hung loosely about her waist. He saw the white, delicate skin which rippled from her muscles circling her waist  and he understood  the intense  passion  of which  her body  was capable. He resolved to declare himself at the earliest opportunity. But first he would speak to his uncle João.
When there was a lull in the early afternoon,  a brief interval  for the workers  to  enjoin  a  brief  respite  and  chat  about  their  own  farming chores, Jorge sought out D. João in his office, a small room dominated by a desk upon which there were heaped scores of papers all scribbled over  with  numbers.  These  were  the  accounts  of  D.  João  and  he reviewed them daily. As Jorge strode into the room, D. João signaled for him to sit down on the stiff, linear wooden chair which served as the sole object of comfort for a visitor. D. João was hoping for good news as his attentive eyes followed constantly the activities of his daughter. “Sit down, young man, and rest your weary arms. These damned wine harvests  sap our strength.  Good thing we take a profit for it. But of course,  as  I  have  remarked,  if  our  estates  were  joined,  we  might improve the return on our produce.” He paused, waiting for the effect of his words.
Jorge hesitated for some moments and then blurted out, “She’s a fine woman,  Rosa,  my cousin.  It is natural  and right  we should  join our families. I would like to ask for her hand, from you, my dear uncle.”





D. João rose from behind his desk and signaled for Jorge to  approach him.  As  Jorge  neared  him,  D.  João  grasped  him  firmly  about  the shoulders  and  whispered  in his  ear,  “She’s  a strapping,  hot  blooded creature, even if she is my daughter, you’ll treat her well, Jorge, eh?, your father was a incurable skirt chaser, I hope this doesn’t run in the family.” Dom João paused, before continuing, “Well, it probably does, Jorge,  but you must keep yourself  in check,  at least for some years, until Rosa is, shall we say, captive to your children and domestic chores. It’s not a scene Rosa will tolerate very easily.” He gently pushed Jorge away from him and stared at him steadfastly. “Eh?” he repeated.
Having  made  up  his  mind  the  night  before,  Jorge  barely  heard  his
uncle’s advice. He responded  with conviction,  and assurance,  “I have been foolish not to have seen earlier the fine, exceptional spouse Rosa would make. I admit, uncle João, your words some weeks ago about the proprietary  advantages  to a marriage  with Rosa stimulated  my initial interest. But, no, uncle João, I declare my passion for Rosa, today, it is genuine.  Who can deny the appeal  of her strapping  arms and honest capacity   for  work?   And  other   women?   That  surely   will  not  be necessary.”
D. João listened with a mixture of pleasure and stupefaction. While he understood the domestic qualities of his only child, yet as a man he also understood  her  simple  presence  and  lack  of female  guiles.  Still,  his objective was to be achieved and had not he himself suggested to Jorge that  once  an  heir  was  produced,  the  marriage  could  run  its  normal course.  Why should  he, D. João, expect  more from his nephew  then others gave?
“Good man,” he burst out, before continuing, “but I shall remain silent
until Rosa comes to me. A conspiracy between uncle and nephew, eh, my fine, can I say, soon to be son-in-law?” As he watched the retreating form of Jorge stride out of his office, displaying confidence and perhaps satisfaction,  D.  João,  for  a  moment,  wished  his  late  wife  had  been present to give him counsel. Even if she were an insipid, uninspiring bed  companion,  unable  to satisfy  his  minimum  needs,  still,  she  had been a gentle  lass with a commonsense  approach  to life. “Well,”  he thought, “men do what they can. At least the future of Rosa and my grandchildren shall be ensured. Eh, Sofia?” and he then startled himself





with the pronouncement of her name, she who died when she was only
39 and left D. João to carry on the parental duties.
“Nonsense, nonsense, “he muttered to himself, “it shall be alright. Too much chatter about love. Animals fornicate and they aren’t in love, so why should this be required of Jorge?”

2.4    The Priest has a vision.

In the month of December, 1830, when the cold winds roar across the valleys surrounding Mafra, Jorge and Rosa were married in the private chapel of the Cabral estates. At the time of the wedding, the chapel was near the land limits of both properties. By family agreement, no claim of  ownership  was  ever  asserted  by  either  Henrique  or  João  Cabral. Mass was held for both the brothers and any member of the family was free to utilize the chapel. Now, with the two estates being joined, the ownership of the chapel would never be placed in controversy.
The massive holdings of the Cabral family lay to the north east of the convent,   commencing   near   the   stone   barrier   circumventing   the extensive private hunting grounds of the King. At first there was a precipitous  valley which delineated the wall and public road from the lands but then, in a sharp incline, was the private path of the Cabral family culminating in the chapel, homes, and outlying buildings which settled on top of the crest of the hills, and then sprawled out through the dips and rises of the many hillocks with their views to the ocean on the west and the distant convent to the north.
As the moving white clouds rose in majestic flight, stirred by the ocean
winds,  they  sprinkled  the  Cabral  lands  with  precious  water  so  that swaying pine trees and fertile lands were interlaced, at times providing shelter to the shepherds and animals, other times breaking the force of the winter temporal.
From this vantage point, the town of Mafra was seen as dominated by the Arabesque convent with its turrets modeled after the North African mosques.   Such   architectural   heritage   was   a   result   of   Portugal’s occupation  for hundreds  of years  by the North  African  tribes  which swarmed  over the ocean to the south bringing their desert horses and their houses built around inner courtyards.  The victory of Christianity





over Islam did little to change the normally secretive, withdrawn habits of the townspeople.
Chapels and mass now celebrated another God but the substitution was a  mere  custom.    On  a winter  afternoon,  when  there  was  no  sun  to brighten the spirits, one could imagine the trotting of horses mounted by their desert warriors, ambling about the village square in front of the convent  site,  at  that  distant  time,  just  gentle  slopping  hills  which afforded  views  to  the  distant  coastline  South  of  Ericeira  and  the undulating ocean.
The  wedding  was  attended  by  all  the  relatives  of  both  sides  of  the
Cabral  family  as well as by any one who had any dealings  with the Cabral family. Dom João Cabral went to the bride’s dressing room a few moments before he was to accompany her to the chapel. Knocking on the door,  he entered  and  saw  Rosa,  dressed  in a long,  flowering white brocaded dress, staring at herself in front of a mirror. With the entry of her father into the privacy of her room, her face became tense and she gave a start.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked gently.

Rosa rushed to him and threw her hands around his shoulders. “Tell me, my child,” he urged again.
But  no  reply  was  forthcoming.   She  remained  in  his  embrace  for sometime  until  she  sensed  the  embarrassment  she  was  causing  her father.   Slowly   she  withdrew   her  limp  body  from  his  chest  and straightened herself up. Taking his hand, together they started the short walk from the house to the chapel. In a distance, Dom João could see the crowds of people waiting for him. Then, by agreement, the sound of a guitar was heard as well as a young melodious voice rose above the murmuring of people.
The  hymn  by the Portuguese  church  organ  composer,  Carlos  Seixas (1704-1742), drifted melodiously from within the chapel and both Dom João and Rosa realized  the gravity  of the day. The solemnity  of the music  contrasted   harmoniously   with  the  staunch,  rising  oak  trees





surrounding the chapel so that the natural beauty of two bodies uniting in wedlock was given its due homage by the forces of nature.
Within,  Rosa  was  trembling,  an  apprehension   gripping  her  whose reason she could not determine. Her courtship by Jorge had been traditional,   respectful,   the  glances,   the  holding   of  hands,  yet  his physical possession of her had been confined to his dark, recessed eyes which often held her for prolonged  moments, as if he were following the contours of her body and imaging her as his bride, coupled together in his arms, an act isolated from the embrace of her soul.
It had been agreed between them they would spend their honeymoon at
the Convent of Our Lady of Ó, a small recluse situated on the banks of the River Lizandro, some few miles from the ocean and only about a two hour drive by mule. Here, within the safety of the convent walls, they could walk along the banks of the river, which snaked lazily from its distant source into the Atlantic ocean. At this time, there were still frequent  highway  robbers which roamed the roads and isolated  horse paths. But the site of the Convent of Our Lady of Ó was at the foot of the village Carvoeira, a short wooden bridge separating it from the townspeople that mingled constantly along the banks of the river to do their washing.
Moreover,  the  Convent  of  Our  Lady  of  Ó  was  dependent  on  the
donations  from the nearby, country aristocracy  to support their order. Dom João was one of the largest estate holders, and it was well-known in the history  of the order that Dom João had sent his wife to them when she was sick for a cure and he had been generous in his payments. When she died, he ordered a special mass for her and gave the order a respectable  sum to ensure  she would be remembered  forever  in their holy prayers.
Thus, the site of the Convent of Our Lady of Ó afforded both security,
privacy,  and its connection  with the family  of Dom João meant  that Rosa  and  Jorge  would  be  graciously  received.  If  they  wished,  they could amble inwards towards other villages scattered along the hillside, or alternatively, it was a short distance to the estuary of the river where it spilled into the vast sea.
The wedding ceremony was presided over by the Priest Lobato, a small,
fragile man descended from one of the Italian artists which had come to





Mafra to assist in the design of the Convent Palace. As he recited the religious words which would unite Rosa and Jorge, his furtive eyes kept glancing  at Dom  João  who  he  hoped  would  reward  him  with  some badly needed coins, for Father Lobato had served loyally for decades the Cabral family. They were his principal source of sustenance. Although 	he    was    deeply    religious,    Father    Lobato    was    also exceptionally superstitious. During the night preceding the wedding, he had  gone  to  the  family  chapel  to  rehearse  the  ceremony  he  would perform and to offer his personal prayers for the happiness of the union. It had not been a pleasant event for Father Lobato. When he arrived at the chapel, a mild storm had been gathering  in the distant coast line. Even being 15 miles away, he believed he could hear the crash of the waves as they beat against the cliffs of Ericeira.
Then he had considerable trouble in opening the large, oak doors to the
chapel.  The iron lock was stiff with its ancient  age and he struggled with the cumbersome key he carried around his waist. Finally managing to open the door, a sudden gale arose and whipped the door from his hand with such violence that it swung in swiftly only to rebound and knock Father Lobato down.
He  must  have  lain  there  on  the  steps  of  the  chapel  for  sometime, slightly dazed, until he believed the hand of Christ lifted him up. “Yes,” he thought,  “who  else could  it be?”  He stumbled  hesitantly  into the chapel, still weak from his fall, and fell on his knees before the large picture of Christ which had been commissioned centuries ago to a local artist. Crude in its conception,  yet nevertheless  with sufficient skill to convey the acute physical suffering being endured, Father Lobato often came to the chapel to stare at the painting. The wounds of Christ always held  him spellbound.  It was  as if, at any  moment,  the  blood  would again  spill  forth,  and  drip  downwards,  robbing  the world  of its true savior.
So that evening before the wedding, Father Lobato again found himself before the sacrificial scene, his hands clasped in fervid faith, his words of grace and protection  tumbling forth from his thin lips. Outside the storm  gathered  force.  The  mystic  faith  of  Father  Lobato  rose  in intensity with the vigor of the temporal swirling about the small chapel.





“O  lord,”  he  beseeched,  “with  your  grace  bless  this  union  I  shall officiate tomorrow. Grant this couple fecundity and prosperity.”
With  his  head  bowed,  Father  Lobato  suffered  within  his  chest  the anguish  of his Lord  for their  flock.  As if in answer  to his words,  a strong  downpour  beat  on  the  ceramic  tiles  of  the  roof  and  then,  as Father Lobato gazed upwards towards Him, the large oak door swung open violently. Father Lobato remained paralyzed with fear. It seemed impossible for him that anyone would enter the church at this late hour. Nor did he dare to turn around and look, his fragile heart preferring to seek refuge in the unknown and unseen.
Yet, he knew someone  was in the Church with him. Was it a robber who came to steal the silver of the Cabral family? He was defenseless to  defend  their  property.  He  was  a  frail,  weak  man,  without  any physical force. Overcome he lay prostate before the painting of Christ calmly  awaiting  any  misfortune  which  might  occur  to  him.  A  large shadow  cast  its  contour  across  his  body.  He  trembled,  awaiting  the worst,  his  death  perhaps.  But  this  did  not  occur.  Rather,  moments passed, the wind died down, the rain stopped, and silence returned to the chapel. Rising slowly, Father Lobato finally risked to look behind him. Yes, the door was open.   He saw no one. Surely it was the wild winds.
Then he turned to thank his Lord for his safety. His face hardened with astonishment. Christ was bleeding. He, Father Lobato, was sure of that. Drops of blood surged forth from His wounds. Glancing at the face of his savior, he was frozen with fear for he was convinced  he saw the mouth, heretofore  fixed in the perennial sadness so familiar to artists, was now open, struggling to say something.
The  head  of  Father  Lobato  swirled  with  confusion   and  his  eyes suddenly  began  to see only colors,  streaks  of green and blue mixing with black. Beneath him, the floor of the church, thin strips of oak, now weak with the centuries, began to shake as if someone were jumping up and down  on the boards.  There  then emerged  from the confusion  of colors swarming before his eyes a countenance, a dark visage, vaguely familiar  to him,  whose  mouth  was clasped  firmly  in defiance  of the beatitude  which  infused  his  soul,  a  thin  smirk  from  which  there emerged silent laughter.





In the few seconds remaining to him he struggled to recognize the face he saw but colors  and images  intermixed  so that his perception  was faulty. Then abruptly his eyes cleared, he could see all, but what he now saw was the silhouette of Christ, His mouth moving up and down as a child does when suckling at the breast of its mother.
In panic, Father Lobato fled from the chapel, to the safety of his humble quarters in one of the wings of the Cabral house, and prayed for mercy upon all those who inhabit the earth. He vowed to return to the chapel in the morning; to ensure what he had seen was true before announcing his visions to his flock. A miracle had been granted to him as a reward for his decades of unquestionable faith.
As soon as he awoke, the day of the wedding, he hastened to the chapel and lurched forward towards the painting of Christ. Gazing at the floor he  now  saw  no  blood,  nor  were  there  any  signs  of  the  holy  sap remaining  on the gold wooden  frame.  He examined  the floor boards both in front of the altar and behind where he had lain prostate. It was then he noticed what he thought was a footprint but examining it more closely he could not be sure. Father Lobato rubbed his eyes. “Perhaps,” he thought,  “my faith is overcoming  my reason.  I am getting  senile. This life of penance has affected my senses. I was too tired last night.” He  resolved  to  say  nothing  for  fear  of  being  considered  a  fool,  no longer competent to officiate. But his memories of the night before did not easily leave him and they returned in detail as he stood before the couple he was blessing.
Nearing the end of his official duties he nodded to the altar girl who was to carry the rings to the couple to approach him. A distant niece of Rosa carried the two rings with great pomposity to the altar. Smiling at her,  Father  Lobato  then  began  the  litany  of  questions  and  answers which  would  culminate  in  the  blessed  union.  The  faces  of  the  two cousins  were staring  at him. He saw in Rosa’s  features  a mixture  of hope  and  fear.  Her  clear,  open  eyes  stared  at  him  as  if,  he,  Father Lobato,  were  to pronounce  the  magic  words  which  would  bring  her permanent happiness.
He first handed the ring to Jorge, as this was the custom. Without hesitation,  Jorge  firmly  inserted  the  ring  on  Rosa’s  finger.  Then  he made the same request of the bride, who reciprocated. He was about to





pronounce the words of union, when he glanced at Jorge’s face. It was then his head exploded with the vision which penetrated his memory.
It was the mouth of Jorge he had seen last night. The smirk seen the evening before was stretched as a rubber band in burlesque  from one ear to another, a harlequin grin bent on evil. He was sure of it. While he mechanically pronounced the nuptial words, his mind swirled with confusion. He wanted to shout out, to warn Rosa, to withdraw the ring she was now wearing, but before he could say anything the confusion broke forth as the couple rushed down the chapel corridor towards the carriage waiting for them.
In haste, Father Lobato followed them to caution Rosa, but what could he relate,  and in any event,  he was fatigued  with his former  night’s sojourn.  He  stood  on  the  chapel  steps,  helpless,  as  he  watched  the carriage, pulled by two stout mules, pulled away from the crowd. Dom João put his hand on the shoulder of Father Lobato.

“A fine service, Father,” Dom João muttered, “one of your best. Take these coins as a sign of my respect for your great holiness.”

Father Lobato nodded his gratification although his body was limp with despair. That evening, he returned to the chapel and kneeled in devotion before  his  Holiness.  His  heart  shook  with  the  general  dread  which suffused his entire body. The cold winter night heightened his sense of loneliness  and  fear.  His  parched  skin,  which  hung  limp  over  his diminutive bones, had never lain next to the corpulent body of a woman yet he instinctively understood that the one true comfort in life was to be united physically with another human being. Christ was his bed mate, a choice he made early in his life while an adolescent. Still, the scent of a woman often stirred his fantasy.
He prayed for the happiness of Rosa, for her future, her family that her
union with Jorge would bring. He sought the protection  of Christ for her welfare, and lowered his head in devout respect. Eventually, he fell asleep, exhausted from the events of the day.
As his eyes closed, a faint smile crossed his lips. He was sure that, He, had listened to his words and that the marriage of Rosa and Jorge was





blessed. But to another, ever present, the adversary of Christ, it was just the joyous continuation of the curse of Mary Sullivan.



Chapter 3

3.0    It was in the autumn of the year 1837, my dear, that Rosa watched her once erstwhile, beloved husband, Jorge, being savagely assassinated,   and  poor  Rosa,  you  should  know,  never  quite recovered from the shock.

It was as if a hand stretched out and hauled her into an upright posture. She was sure of it. Initially, she remembered the firm grasp of fingers pulling her into a sitting position. Then the memory blurred, she now wasn’t certain, but how she awoke seemed less important than the fact that she was alert and the sinister silence invading her home shook her into a frozen state of anxiety.
The  only  consoling  sounds  were  the  slumber  stirrings  of  her  two children, Susana and Benjamin, sifting from their nearby bedroom, through  the corridor,  and reminding  her they  were  well.  When  your offspring are, respectively, six and four, the sounds of their repose are indeed  comforting.  Susana  had  been  born  in 1831  and  Benjamin  in
1833, and each birth brought her into touch with her inherent, natural state  of spirit,  a robust  woman  bursting  with  the vitality  of life  and whose physical strength ensured she would have healthy, vigorous children.
But the other was gone, she was sure of that. Although she and Jorge
now occupied separate bedrooms, a response to her repugnance  at his present dissolute behavior, she still rebelled against her circumstances. Sleeping alone did not calm her wrath nor still her anger. Being only twenty six, a young, strapping female, her forced celibate life served to increase  the  daily  tension  tempering  her  spirit  so  that  she  was  as  a coiled spring, easily sprung with the smallest provocation.
Yet  Jorge’s  absence  was  not  just  an  incitement.  It  was  a deliberate defiance;  still, she was, to a degree,  helpless  to stem the degradation invading  her life. At times, she attributed  the present state of marital





disgrace  to what had been a turbulent,  disturbed,  brief interlude  with Jorge during their honeymoon  at the Convent of Our Lady of Ó. The unhappy, it could even be called ominous, episode was never resolved, to  be  followed   by  years   of  brooding   on  his  part,  an  unwilling companion    who   bedded   her   with   little   enthusiasm,    masculine aggression bordering on cruelty, and soon permanently  abandoned his interest in her after the birth of their second child, a son, Benjamin. To Rosa’s disgust, he pursued the prostitutes of Mafra with a determination, frightening and malignant in its passion, as if to replace memories with sordid pleasures.
Sometimes, Rosa tried to broach with Jorge why she had behaved the
way  she  did,  but  he  would  never  listen,  turning  his  face  away,  or walking out of the room and not returning for hours.
His masculine  pride had been permanently  wounded  and his physical craving for Rosa inhibited. What should have been a misunderstanding became a permanent obstacle to their conjugal life.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, their wedding night in the winter of 1830
returned to her with all its graphic intensity…

Upon arriving at the Convent of Our Lady of Ó, Rosa and Jorge were greeted with the bustle and fuss normally conferred upon personages of the landed gentry. Fatigued  from the two hour journey by mule from Mafra  and  the  preceding  festivities,  they  both  were  relieved  to  be served  an early supper  of hot broth and roasted  chicken.  There  was also   present   a   vibrant   sexual   excitement   which,   unspoken,   not articulated, yet coursed between them as they held hands on the peregrination to the Convent.
They retired early, as was expected of them. Being winter, December, the  month  of the  birth  of Christ,  there  was  present  at the  Convent, reflected  in  the  spirit  of  the  nuns,  a  holiness  which  permeated  the chambers and cells of all the inhabitants.
The Convent was more than a complex of buildings huddled by a river.
Its  thick  moss-covered   walls  impeded   the  winter  winds  sweeping through  the Lizandro  valley from entering  the halls and corridors  of Convent  while  they  served  to  contain,  within,  the  warmth  springing forth from the various open hearth fires blazing on each floor, centrally





situated  so the nuns could conduct  their solemn  prayers  in apparent cheer.
The bridal suite of Rosa and Jorge was the room of the mother superior, but this she abdicated temporarily  in favor of her honored guests. To the  delight  of  Rosa  and  Jorge,  the  room  contained  a  large,  open chimney which was put to fire early in the day so that by evening, the large chamber was warm, comforting, and conducive to the rest of the recently married couple.
As it was late, it was agreed they would retire early, and with certain nervousness,  Rosa  now  lay  expectantly  in  the  bridal  bed,  her  heart racing, her body taut. This to be expected in a young woman who had not yet encountered that most physical intimacy which unites man and woman, although there was also sweeping through her body the natural desire of a country miss.
Rosa  had spent  some  time combing  her fine, flaxen  hairs  which  she usually tied up behind her head, secured  with a velvet ribbon before resting to await Jorge. She had decided  to let her hair fall in all its luster to her shoulder and she waited..
Washing himself with the tepid water which the nuns had arranged for
him in a baked-clay basin, Jorge contemplated his future. He had done well. Dom João made it clear to him he was very pleased. He, Dom João,  would  start  to work  less  and  allow  Jorge  to manage  the  two estates. There was no need to take any legal procedures, since, Rosa, as his sole heir, would automatically  inherit the entire farm. Nor did he see any reason to merge the two homesteads into one as this would only give the local authorities reason to levy taxes.
“What is needed,  Jorge” he whispered,  “are heirs. Secure the blood
line.”
“Yes,” thought Jorge, “that is what I shall do tonight. I must gratify the wishes of Dom João. With succession secured, he will give me free rein of the properties and I shall be, de facto, the lord of these pastures.” Rather  satisfied  with  himself,  he  entered  the  room  where  Rosa  was resting, her eyes fixed upon him, a certain tenderness suffusing her so that   she   willingly   awaited   his   gentle   embraces.   But   as   Jorge approached  her,  the  previous  winter  winds  roaring  up the  Lizandro valley immediately died down, a stillness stole into the corridors of the





convent   until   there   was   a   complete   calm   ,   and   then   with   an unanticipated  force there raced through all the cells and chambers  a bluster of wind extinguishing the candles and oil lamps illuminating the quarters.
Rosa and Jorge were plunged into total darkness, except for a sliver of
moon light which caressed the iron bars of their room, and cast its pale light above.  As Jorge  approached  the bed, Rosa  suddenly  froze,  her body now unyielding with fright. Jorge’s face appeared to her entirely different.  His heretofore  rich brown eyes appeared  to have lost their color  only  to be replaced  by round,  hollow,  holes.  His  body  visibly tremored from the force which inhabited him.
She  imagined  his  face  was  drawn  even  more  thin,  a  determination crossed  his cheeks  to end in a sinister,  thin, sarcastic  leer, as if, he Jorge, were satisfied  to have last captured  the one prey necessary,  a victim to be seized and violated.
And this is what, uncontrollably  gripped Jorge. He saw Rosa, not as a
timid, although willing mate, but rather a body to be torn asunder with his masculine  needs  regardless  of her responses  or wishes  and such thoughts surged forth for no apparent reason.
In spit of her protestations  and physical struggles, he harshly grasped
her  legs  and  spread  them  apart,  mindless  of  the  obvious  terror  on Rosa’s face. He lunged at her breasts with strong hands which hurt her and wounded her dignity. He grasped her by the shoulders and rolled her from side to side immersing  himself  in the massive  flesh heaped upon the bed.
Rosa  cried  out  and  tried  to  hinder  his  brusque  movements  which
wounded  and  bruised  her  in  their  cruelty  but  Jorge  was  not  to  be stymied. He did not want to seduce but violate her. He must destroy the true vestiges of her integrity so that she would serve his uncontrollable sexual needs. Grunting and swinging his hips as if he was mounting a horse, he rocked her savagely from one side to the other, panting and wheezing in rhythm to his movements while the red mark on his chest glowed vividly.
Yet, were Jorge to examine his behavior on that evening he would have responded  that it was not he, Jorge, who was the lover, but another spirit   who   had   invaded   his   body   and   took   possession   of   him,





manipulating   his  physical   structure,   seizing   and  sequestering   his emotions, bending his inflamed body to another’s malevolent will.
What confronted Rosa, which in her imagination prior to the wedding was  to  be  a  romantic,  gentle,  introduction  to  the  manners  of  love, became  a  sordid,  bestial  violent  rape  of  a  frightened  child.  As  the grinning, smirking, speechless lips of Jorge parted in obvious ecstasy- for the carnal  needs  of the dark world  need  to be satisfied  with the living-she  silently  wept  to  herself  with  every  painful  thrust  which pierced her body and whose pain seared through her head, blotting out all thought, turning her into a receptacle for sperm.
Nor was it a short interlude. Our hapless Jorge, having been invaded by an evil spirit,  was captured  for sometime  until  Rosa  fainted.  But even, then, our interloper was not satiated until, Jorge, exhausted, and no longer able to respond, fell on his side and collapsed  into a deep abyss of slumber.
When Rosa eventually opened her eyes, she knew a dreadful injustice
had been done to her. But its reason, she could not determine. Yet her feminine instincts, the maternal wisdom which nature has bestowed generously on women, warned her of the tragic circumstances  her life would confront.  The details  were blurred.  There was not revealed  to her the details. She was part of a grandiose scheme whose pattern she would never discern.  What was critical, but this she could not know, was that she was to be the conduit of His seed.
Lying next to Jorge, the slow movement of the river Lizandro reached
her ears as it lapped lazily against the banks. She listened to his soft breathing. The gentle sounds contrasted with his lurid actions on their nuptial encounter. She wondered if her virginity had not perhaps exaggerated the violence which she felt from Jorge’s body. She prayed that  it  was  she  who  was  overly  timid  and  not  Jorge  who  was  so possessed.
But such thoughts were only wishful thinking. No matter how subdued or  even  gentle  Jorge  was  with  her  in  the  day,  at  night  he  became another person, haunted by a force unknown to them both, abusing her in  the  most  manner,  requiring  her  to  submit  to  distasteful  sexual demands. Her honeymoon intimacy quickly became an anticipated nightmare,  a dream that she banished  from her mind as soon as his





body slumped onto her chest, he, exhausted with his feats mandated by another.
The end of the honeymoon brought no relief. Through the ensuing years, Jorge  lavished  his dark,  carnal  needs  upon  her  flesh  as soon  as he invaded  their  bed. There  seemed  no respite  for her.  Her personality began to undergone a profound change, which she managed to conceal from  even  herself  but  which  inevitably  tore  asunder  all  her  pysche, leaving in its place a void waiting to be filled.
There followed the birth of her two children; the joys of D. João; his sudden death from a cerebral stroke while he sat at his favorite desk pouring over his accounts; the destruction of Rosa’s sensual spirit with the cycle of seasons,  until, with Jorge, she merely lay still, while his body ravished her with violent relish; until, one day, with the passage of  time,  she  gathered  up  her  intimate  clothes  and  moved  into  her father’s bedroom where she sought spiritual refuge and physical safety; but it was too late. Rosa was on the road to an insanity concealed  from the  world  but  which  had  destroyed   her  so  that  she  became  the necessary conduit for His grand scheme.
Stunned by her open rebellion, Jorge said nothing, and, perhaps with
relief, returned to roaming the streets of Mafra, at night, in search of prey  to  unleash  his  gnawing  need.  Tthe  wives  of  Mafra  noted  his actions  from their windows,  with curtains  partially  drawn,  while  the maids gossiped so that the antics of Jorge ensured moral disgrace enveloped the Cabral family. All this Rosa knew for the scullery maids were only to happy to let their sly asides fall as crumbs onto the dinner plates of the family.

Putting her feet squarely on the floor, Rosa’s spirit hardened, as it had done that day many years ago with Rui. She dressed, slowly and methodically, as her thoughts sought a course of action from within the occult wells of her spirit. Walking steadfastly  to Jorge’s room, it was not even necessary to open the door. From the hall, she saw his bed, sheets drawn back in random order, the absence of his body, the boots normally lying on the floor, now gone.
Outside, the moon was in all its full splendor, and a pale, lustrous light
turned the evening into a day of shades of grey. Her faithful dog, Castro,





normally  asleep in a corner of the patio, began to whimper  and race around the house, circumvented  by thick stone walls which had been laid centuries ago to hinder the assaults by wandering marauders.
Any movement  by Rosa was immediately  sensed  by Castro.  He had
been found by one of the grape harvesters two years ago, an abandoned, starving male mongrel, and brought to the kitchen. Rosa immediately adopted him. To everyone’s surprise, he grew from a listless, moribund puppy  into  a  strong,  full-bodied  canine  who  fiercely  defended  his mistress.  The farm hands claimed  he was still part wolf, and he was given  a  deference  not  normally  accorded  to  domestic  animals.  His natural wildness never seemed far from the surface.
Following Rosa around all day, he tolerated the presence of others but any  suggestion  of  verbal  aggression  towards  her,  whether  from  her husband or between the lady of the manor and the servants, was immediately  silenced  by his rising  and  standing  in front  of her.  His green, bright shimmering eyes would hold the interloper in a fixed stare, his lips slightly curled upwards, baring his sharp teeth.
Now, as Rosa stood in thought before the living room window, gazing listlessly towards the distant hills, the moonlight bathing the copses and footpaths, the whimpering of Castro grew into anxiety until there burst forth from him a long and mournful howling, piercing the stillness of the late twilight.
As she listened to him, a resolve seized Rosa. Her physical humiliation and moral insults suffered through the years rose in all its fury, gurgling upwards from within her entrails, and she stormed out of her home. She was  decided  to  put  an  end  to  the  slatternly  behavior  of  Jorge,  his debased conduct which had stained the House of Cabral and blemished the memory of her family. She would confront Jorge, shame him into proper  comportment,  and insist he fulfill the role of a manor lord in accordance with local customs.
As soon as she was out onto the cobble stone patio which then led to the dirt path trailing in the olive grove, Castro, the moonlight dancing among his short hairs, came up to her and rubbed his head against her thigh.  Without much thought, she patted him gently on the head and set off through the iron door into the fields, Castro trailing behind her. She seemed unaware of the solitude about her, the danger of prodding forth





into valleys  and hills where strangers  to the community  wandered  at will, their thoughts on plunder and profit. She was unaware of the cold breezes stirring her hair as she strode through underbrush and hedges. The  curtain  of  darkness  enveloping  the  undergrowth  and  drooping branches  hindered  her  progress  until  she  reached  the  first  clearing normally reserved for the grazing of sheep. The nearer they were able to pasture to the manor house, the safer they were from the occasional wolves which came down from the distant summits. She was unsure in which direction to proceed, so she stood for a while, hearing in the far distant the roar of the ocean waves as they pounded the stone cliffs of Ericeira.  Her  heart  was  racing.  The  years  of  ill  treatment  by  Jorge swirled through her images and deep resentment, long held in bay, now dominated her thoughts.
Castro began to whine and pace nervously back and forth, pawing at the
ground, his piercing  green eyes staring fixedly in all directions  as he turned  his  head  from  side  to  side.  Rosa  felt  her  heart  pulsating;  its sound crashed and rumbled through her consciousness; her body began to tremble slightly. She debated whether or not her nightly sojourn was not a foolish episode which should be quickly ended and she ought to return to the safety of her home.
She then heard some movements  in nearby scrub and she stood still, wondering what would emerge into the small clearing where moonlight now  capered  between  leaves  as a slight  draft  stirred  the olive  trees. Castro began to growl, a guttural sound which did not rise in pitch but was more a murmur of warning, as if he were saying to what he could see, not to come any closer.
The shuffling of feet against dry leaves caused her to pull Castro next to
her. She knelt down beside him, her eyes cast upwards,  as a warrior who  has lost a battle  and waits  for the death  blow,  urging  the final thrust be done quickly. Castro began to lick her face and tears slowly welled  forth, her distraught  condition  rendering  all imaginable  things possible. Overcome with emotion she clasped the head of Castro to her bosom.
Jorge was betraying her. She knew that. He was somewhere nearby laughing  at her and her family,  his moral  impurity  a curse  upon the Cabral clan. Now he was threatening her and her children. Rather than





be caught  in his sexual  exploits,  he would  rather  injure  Rosa  and it would be attributed  to a wandering  robber or desperate  criminal.  She was sure of her presentments.
Castro  suddenly  leaped  forward,  breaking  forth  from  his  mistress’s
grasp and rushed  into a cluster  of shrubs.  A loud scuffle  was heard. Castro’s   growling   and   snarls   mingled   with   the   country   sounds enveloping her in all directions. Without thinking, Rosa rushed towards the site to find Castro snapping at what appeared to her to be shadows dancing among a medley of branches.

“Castro, what is it,” she cried out, “we must abandon this unholy site. Come with me.”

In response  to her pleading,  Castro  did just the opposite  and dashed forth from the undergrowth  in which he was engaged, looking at her, almost as a human would nod, and started to trot forward, guided by an invisible   hand,  someone   who  wanted  Castro  to  go  forward  to  a destination which for sometime had been planned.
The  ocean  winds  now  began  to  stir  until  they  reached  a  velocity
sufficient to rustle and sweep away all fallen vegetal debris in her path. The more she ran after Castro, the stronger the gale rose in intensity until a roar caused by the passage of air currents through the valley of pines  and  eucalyptus  dimmed  her senses  and  sight.  She  was  blindly chasing Castro who loped as if he were following someone, an indiscernible  guide  who  wanted  him  to  bring  Rosa,  quickly,  to  the tragedy which had been premeditated for many decades.
Of a sudden, Castro stopped and his body became taut and still, his leg
muscles stiff and rigid. Rosa arrived at the same spot and stared with Castro. On a hillside near them, was a shepherd’s stone hut, centuries old, which had served as a refuge for the pastors when they were gazing their animals.
It  was  then  that  Rosa  heard  laughter,  a  light,  lilting  sound  which
blended  with the now bright,  unwavering  moonlight  illuminating  the cabin. This was followed  by the murmurs  of a deep sound and Rosa recognized  immediately  the voice  of her husband.  She hesitated,  not knowing  what to do, anger impelling  her forward,  fear shackling  her





feet, anxiety rendering her immobile. Yet hate was the stronger emotion and  it  leaped  in  fore,  dictating  her  thoughts,  demanding  she  seek revenge for Jorge’s abominable behavior.
But Castro’s commands from others were not to be avoided. He dashed
towards the opening in the shelter, snapping and snarling, whip lashed by another master.   The voice and laughter were no longer discerned. For a moment,  a wavering  second, when choices are made, but often the wrong alternative chosen, time hovered in abeyance above the stone refuge,  and  then  a  decision  was  taken,  ill-advised,  prodded  by  a malevolent will. Jorge appeared at the door, with a shot gun in his hand. Whether or not he saw Rosa is in doubt as she stood shielded under the limbs  of a thick  oak  tree,  but  his  dark  eyes,  upon  seeing  a savage, snarling  animal  threatening  him,  became  fiery  as anger  pounded  the blood  in  its  upward  course  through  the  arteries  behind  his  eyes. Suddenly   the  moon,   previously   clear  and  bestowing   light  in  all directions, was blotted out by clouds racing across the night, chased by sea   winds.   Jorge’s   view   was   hindered.   He   raised   his   gun,   not recognizing  Castro,  thinking  he  was  a  wild  dog,  or  if  he  did,  in retribution for interrupting his tryst, and pointed the two barrels at the snapping head near him; but he never fired a shot.
Instead, Castro leaped and grabbed him by the throat, dragged him to
the ground, and within a matter of seconds, his jugular vein was pierced as his voice shrieked and squawked, thick red blood spurting forth from his neck as if it were spring water burbling  from within a crevice of rocks. Rosa watched horrified as Jorge writhed and struggled to regain his life which fled from him, his blood seeping into the soft humid earth. All was muffled, a silver silence which held the participants in a frozen profile.  She, the unknown,  unseen  sexual companion,  was within the shelter, her frightened heart racing with the terror instilled in her. Not an outcry  was  heard  from  within  the love  asylum.  The  other,  Rosa, leaned against the tree, unable to stir. Castro sniffed around the face of Jorge, an expression  of horror on the fallen man’s features,  and then Castro  put back his head and began  his long, wolverine  howl which sifted  up  from  his  throat  and  pierced  the  night  with  its  clan  rite  of calling across the snow bound steppes of distant lands.





Eventually prodded into movement by the evening cold penetrating her limbs  and causing  her to shiver  uncontrollably,  Rosa  took a hesitant step  towards  her  fallen  husband  when  she  stopped,  still  within  the shadow of the trees. There emerged slowly from the opening to the hut a young village tart known to her by the name of Marta Silva. Rosa recognized her immediately.  She lived in the lower part of the village and earned  her livelihood  by washing  clothes  for the merchants  and landed gentry.
She was also known for being covetous of married men. She was well- known for her sexual escapades once she was introduced into a family. Many a Mafra wife had been seen chasing her down the street because of her flirtatious  attitudes  with their husbands,  bordering  on nymphomaniac propensities.
Marta stared at the fallen figure of Jorge. Her face was frozen into fear and her wide eyes bulged from her inner terror and panic. Rosa held her voice, her natural inclination to call out to Marta. A resolution overtook her.  A  surge  of  relief  invaded  her  and  she  believed  she  had  been rescued,  she  and  her  children  saved  from  a  life  of  debauchery  and lechery by her debased husband.
Staring  at the  silhouette  of Castro,  with  his  mouth  pointed  upwards
towards the stellar panoply, the foolish expression on the countenance of Marta, it occurred to Rosa there was no need for her to intervene. There  was no help she could now render  to Jorge. Indeed,  his death freed her and she saw a benefit in letting him lie there until discovered. His bones would rot in harmony  with his soul. This would be a just punishment  for his lover who would  face a dilemma  when the local authorities demanded an explanation.
She was about to call Castro when, to her astonishment, she saw he was gone. His departure had been as sudden as his aggression towards Jorge. She turned her head in all directions and strained to hear any noises, but none were forthcoming. Until she did hear a wail, a sobbing of hysteria issuing forth from within the stone prison, what once had been a lover’s hermitage.
During   all   this   time,   floating   clouds   had   rendered   obscure   the participants in this nightly drama. Of a moment, the passing clouds did not return  and again  a brilliant  gleam  illuminated  the stone  hut,  the





fallen body of Jorge, the figure of Rosa. Alone in the clearing, the light dancing about her hair, Rosa was seized with an hysteria and began to leap wildly, dashing from the edge of the clearing to the trees and back again, the dance of the virgins, for Rosa had never known the delights of love. A primitive emotion enveloped  her entire spirit as an ancient ritual  began  to take  place,  purification  achieved  through  madness  in order for a new being to emerge.
She, Rosa, was now a prophet, a nymph of the woods, her repressed,
sexual  energy  bursting  into  her  veins  so that  she  longed  for a male companion,  someone  who would  caress and love her the way nature intended. Her frigid body, which had never known the sweet sleep of love, was hard and rigid. Back and forth she raced, a crazed creature, stifled  libido  coursing  through  her body,  demanding  satisfaction,  the passionate  embrace  of  a  masculine  body,  pulsating  with  desire  but tender in its clasp.
Eventually,   she  fell  sobbing   onto  the  forest  ground,   writing  and
wriggling  in all directions,  her limbs careening  from one side of her face to another, her mouth twisted to one side as in a minor cerebral vascular accident. Finally, from exhaustion, calm took possession. Her lips hardened. She lay quietly for some time, oblivious to the sobbing coming from within the refuge. She was alone, but she would never be rejected again.
Struggling to her feet, Rosa stared about the clearing, the fallen corpse
of Jorge; she heard the wails and moans from within the sanctuary now turned a prison. Rosa’s eyes bulged wide and an expression seized her face  rendering  her  unrecognizable  for  some  moments.  An  uninvited spirit possessed her.
She  walked  slowly  back  to her  manor  house,  reveling  in her newly found strength and confident Castro would be waiting for her. But she never  saw  Castro  again.  He  disappeared.  Perhaps  he returned  to his ancestors who struggled in the upper hills to survive the continual destruction  of their  habitat.  He  might  have  even  gone  over  the hills down to the sea at Ericeira and stood for hours on the cliffs, waiting for the sun to rise, only to leap in grandeur from one of the precipices. If he did, his body was never found and the sea took him away to the grave





of all humanity, the mother water which first brought life to the planet
Earth.
When Rosa awoke the next morning, stirring in her bed still dressed, she wondered if she had been dreaming about a sordid tragedy which was only imaginary. But the noises coming from the outside garden, the voices sifting upwards to her bedroom window confirmed the reality of her  recollections.  The  authorities  had  been  to the  site  of the  savage attack and Rosa was informed of Jorge’s death.
She greeted the news with an impassive stare and to the satisfaction of the town  people  ordered  him to be buried  in the family  chapel,  laid under a stone which occupied the center aisle directing the pious to the altar.  There  was  no ceremony  which  was  attributed  to Rosa’s  grief. When the priest informed  her that there had been noted a miniature, flaming, red cross on the chest of Jorge as he was put to rest, Rosa did not reply. To her, it was a birthmark which her children also bore. She nodded  her acknowledgement  to the priest,  nothing  more.  Informing her children, who were very young, she merely told them their father had  been   injured;   called   to  serve   the  Holy  Christ   she  devoutly murmured; and he would never return again.
As  for  the  harlot  Marta  who  had  the  misfortune  and  obligation  to inform the authorities, she was too incoherent to give a comprehensible account. Yet every one knew why the two of them were up in the hills together and it was God’s justice what happened to Jorge.
One or two villagers even went so far as to suggest it might be the work
of the devil who, it was believed,  roamed  the country  hills at night, driven  from paradise  and who sought  to inflict  his curse upon those who  defied  the laws  of the land.  Some  sceptics  voiced  the contrary opinion. Precisely the customs of the country were being followed, the ancient  rules,  the  primitive  commandments,  the consequences  of the human spirit, cruel and lascivious in origin.

3.1    The creation of the cult and the riddle of the first two

For some days Rosa brooded about the house, at times cross with her servants, at other moments withdrawing to a corner of her home, alone, musing over what had happened, a mute fury dominating her entire will





and reason. The betrayal of Jorge demanded retribution. Her family and assets had been put into jeopardy.  Her head pounded  and ached. She noticed  she  dropped  things  more  frequently.  Her  coordination  was lacking  in  the  mundane  labor  of  the  kitchen.  Her  memory  seemed blurred, not as perfect as she had believed. She informed her staff she was  retiring  to  her  room  for  a  few  days.  Her  children  were  not  to disturb her.
Within  the  confines  of  her  sanctuary,   remembrances   of  her  brief
interlude  with Rui returned.  Tears swelled  in the corner  of her eyes. Neglected,  cast  off,  abused,  deprecated,   Jorge,  the  interloper,  had inserted  himself  into her family.  His birthmark  was on the chests  of their children. This meant nothing to her except that it was as if Jorge was not dead and would always claim his dominion over them.
The ugliness of her honeymoon returned in all its imagery to her as she lay on her bed, remorse and self-pity in reign. One night, when the sky was clear and streaking stars crossed the dark firmament, dazzling with distant flickering lights, she decided to go the family chapel. She was distraught. Dizziness possessed her. A light pain crossed her forehead and she sensed a minor tremble gripping her limbs.
Entering the ancient chapel, built on the site of a Moorish mosque, long
since  buried  beneath  its own  ruins,  she  tumbled  down  the aisle  and stood before the altar. She knelt on her knees before the dimly candle- lit figure of an oil painting of Christ, entitled, “Lamentation Over Christ, Dead”, by the 16th  Century  Portuguese  artist Diogo de Contreiras.  In
apparent peace, she bent her head.
But it was not a repose  of the spirit.  The flickering  lights of the oil torches waved their shadows on the ceiling of the chapel. She sensed she was in a cavern and she was to be introduced to the rules of a secret society.  The Master,  the Lord  of Darkness,  the Judge  of all iniquity would  instruct  her as to what  her future  life should  be. Silently  she prayed  for  instructions.  Her  tame  personality,  that  aspect  nurtured within  the shelter  of a family  and  society,  was  pushed  aside  by the constellation of instincts and emotions which are carried forth into the world by the emerging fetus, only to be held in abeyance by customs. She pleaded for guidance and rules. They were given. The moment had arrived. The time was propitious for evil and it was seized.





After some moments, frenzy took hold of her and she rose in a trance before  the  sorrowful  Christ.  She  began  to  spit  at  the  holy  figure, frothing with saliva spinning from her mouth. Rushing into the sacristy, she  took  off  her  clothes  and  donned  the  frock  of  the  chapel  priest. Naked underneath, she threw her discarded garments into a corner.
 She then returned to the altar, dressed properly for her nuptial night. Falling  upon  the  cold,  damp  granite  floor,  her  body  shaking  and heaving  with  repulsion  at  her  lost  life  and  debauched  husband,  she asked for assistance from the occult powers. Christ was dead. He would not return to grant her grace as she presided over a family dinner. It was then words were whispered to her which took form in her mind as to what  was  demanded  in  order  to  be  admitted  to  the  cabal  society obscured from normal human observation. The cancer of rejection followed by hate instilled its destructive logic.
 From this day henceforth the two Cabral estates would never be separated. Love was to be replaced with power and dominion. Fortunes accumulated in lands ensured that the Cabral descendants would be the kings  of  their  local  domain.  But  there  was  always  the  unknown influence of the others, not part of the clan, those that arrived, bringing flowers which were soon cast aside when the torrid heat of the harlots was sensed.
 The family  to continue  needed  to have  heirs.  From  her grave  Rosa would  rule  the  destiny  of  her  family  but  this  required  the  ordinary canons  of marriage  to be avoided.  Marital  unions  would  debase  her future descendants. Wringing her hands and swaying from side to side, she heeded His mandates, the original customs of wandering tribes who had to submit to necessity and unquestioned affinity to survive.
Her children would mate. There was no other solution. Strangers to the clan would only bring evil and lewdness.  To ensure pure and proper descent of the estates, heirs would be secured through the family so that her  two  children  must  now  in  carnal  wedlock  produce  at  least  two siblings of the opposite sex, a daughter and a son.
Complacent  strangers  would  be  arranged  to  marry  the  children  to conceal  the  true  origin  of  the  incestuous  offspring  but  each  spouse would  be  sworn  to secrecy  in return  for  the  handsome  incomes  the estates produced.





 These were the rules of the Cabral clan and each generation must do the same. Only two siblings  were required.  All other children,  either born to the siblings, or as a result of the arranged marriage, no matter from whom, were to be assassinated. The Cabral family was to be structured as if it were a commercial enterprise. Sentiment and morality were banished.
As  her  dark,  maniacal  thoughts  gathered  force,  the  windows  of  the
chapel were blown open and a long, dark shadow was thrown across her body. With the wind blowing wildly, Rosa shouted, “The House of Cabral  shall  forever  be  protected.  The  blasphemous  blood  of  others shall  not  dirty  our  future  generations.  I  shall  rule  for  eternity.  Oh, Master, you have guided me well.”
The windows slammed shut with a deafening thud and a silence reigned.
Suddenly  there was heard a sharp noise and Rosa looked up at Him, nailed to the canvas.  The oil painting of Christ had fallen from the altar and lay on the ground. As she approached  the painting she saw there was blood seeping forth from the imagined wounds. With a laugh and loud gasps of breath, she snatched from her pocket a handkerchief and smeared  the face of Christ  with his own blood,  shuddering  with her blasphemy but seized with an uncontrollable pleasure at her defilement. Her  lower  abdomen  became  slightly  swelled  and  she  pulsated  with desire.
It was then she heard loud rumblings of thunder although the sky was
clear.  This  she  saw  through  the  few  slits  in the  chapel  walls  which served as windows. Again and again the clamor of the sky roared and boomed  as Rosa sat on her haunches,  her hair now falling about her shoulders, revealing a distraught, crazed face struggling to cope with a world now disorganized; where fantasy was confused with reality.
Rosa waited patiently,  shaking her head in an ecstasy, praying to the
forces of evil, calling forth the Master of Darkness,  until a door was heard opening and a light was cast upon the chapel floor. Rosa never lifted  up  her  head.  She  threw  herself  back  on  the  floor  and  in  the position of a woman copulating shrieked with pleasure, screaming with delight and clasping her arms around the humid air hovering over her body. Eventually,  a sound of relief escaped from her lips and she lay





still,  until  she  fell  asleep,  only  to  awake  a  demented  mother  and possessed with evil.
The  next  day  she  ordered  the village  mason  to chisel  an inscription upon Jorge’s tombstone in the chapel. To his perplexity she instructed there be carved in the granite the following words:
“Each shall marry, but neither father nor mother the other shall be!” When the stone craftsman asked her what the words meant, she smirked
and  laughed  hysterically  without  pause  so  that  in  fright  the  humble
workman fled from the cemetery to tell his tale of the strange woman who was now the owner of the largest tract of tillable lands north of Lisbon.

Chapter 4

4.0    You might describe it as a proper education.

Shortly  after the death  of her husband,  Jorge,  in 1837,  Rosa,  now a prisoner   to  another  spirit,  bereft  of  reason  and  possessed   by  an insurgent, exigent, libidinous personality, conceived her plans and meticulously  completed  them.  Her  heart  was  turned  against  her son, Benjamin. He was the creation of his father. He bore the same red mark on his chest. His bodily movements and facial expressions were faithful imitations of his deceased father. His face constantly reminded Rosa of Jorge  and an uncontrollable  revulsion  towards  Benjamin  gripped  her spirit.
With  Susana,  she  had  the  opposite  reaction.  She  saw  in Susana  the betrayed female whipped and lashed by the erotic manners of all men. Susana was like her, a gentle creature who craved love but who would ultimately be betrayed. Susana was to be protected and Benjamin was to be cast off. But she concealed her emotions. She never displayed any act  which  would  betray  her true  feelings  for  she  was  determined  to move towards her goal.
She saw the inauguration of an incestuous cult between Susana, then 6
years old and Benjamin, a mere 4 year toddler, as a tabernacle where





her disturbed psyche would find peace, one might even say harmony, with the forces of passion and affection which underpin the universe. Physical  love  would  be  blended  and  integrated  into  the  love  of  the family.
Ardor would not destroy the Cabral clan. It would unite it and render it
unsullied and chaste. What social evolution strived to eliminate would be cast aside by instinctual needs channeled into fraternal intimacy. The copulation  by sister and brother would be the purest form of love as covetousness and family would no longer be separate.
With these  basic  thoughts  in mind,  Rosa  methodically  took over the
functions  of  managing   the  huge  Cabral  lands  while  the  villagers marveled at her organization and dedication to husbandry. The income from   the   estates   augmented   considerably.   Rosa   introduced   new varieties  of wine from France which survived  better the winter frosts and were abundant in their flowering. The warm, costal winds drifting in from Ericeira were particularly beneficial in the years following 1837 and excellent wine harvests followed in succession.
With determination,  she went about ensuring the vines, the crops, and the  timber  were  cultivated  and  treated  in accordance  with  the  latest methods of husbandry.  She often had professors  from the agricultural school in Lisbon come to her estates for their opinions and suggestions. Their  technical  advice  was  usually  accepted  and  implemented.  Her wide eyes and silent expression conveyed, apparently,  her devotion to her lands. Yet all this activity was a superficial distraction to her darker needs,
Rosa  attended  to  the  tutoring  in  accordance  with  her  plot.  Whereas Susana and Benjamin had previously separate rooms, she now put them into the same chamber, advising the servants that with the death of their father, the infants needed to feel secure and protected.  Children  have their  own  language  and  so,  by  living  in  the  same  room,  their  grief would sooner be forgotten in the babble and games of youngsters.  Of course, the maids murmured in the corridors, it was sensible. One more example of the clear determination of the mistress of the mansion. For this was what had become of the simple, austere, country manor of João Cabral, a monument was now being erected.





In conformity with the complexity of her thoughts, and the labyrinths of her  emotions,  Rosa  proceeded  to  add  turrets  and  balustrades  to  the house so that gradually the country home began to resemble in spirit the distant, baroque silhouette of the Mafra convent easily seen from any window. Large formal gardens were planted around the nearby ground, with  cedar  trees  lining  the paths  all of which  guided  the eye  to the Mafra basilica.
Shaped in a circle wrapping around the homestead, the gardens took the
shape   of   a  sundial   whose   epicenter   was   the   Mafra   palace,   the construction of a visible pledge of a Portuguese king who needed God’s assistance  to produce  an heir. And this is what Rosa wished,  proper heirs descended uniquely and purely from her children.
Whereas for centuries there had been a cobblestone path leading to the
main door, Rosa now had built a wide, marble ascent of stairs which, beginning from a wide, convex, arc, rose in narrowing splendor towards the thick, oak door, with its brass handles, above which Rosa ordered made and hung a coat of arms with the sign of the Cabral family.
The design for the heraldry came to her in a dream one night. In the traditional  form of a shield, she conceived  of the heads of two dogs, their teeth bared, separated  by a moon (it had to be this as there was missing  the  usual  rays  signifying  the  sun).  In  Latin,  following  the format  of the shield,  was  the cryptic  inscription  on the tomb  of her husband, an academic achievement graciously made possible by the erudition of the local priest:



be!”

“Each shall marry, but neither father nor mother the other shall

The passages of the years were, to the casual visitor, imprinted by the incessant  toil  and  designs  of  Rosa.  But  of  course  her  real  life  and ambitions were elsewhere. She thought of little else other than her plans for Susana and Benjamin. Sometimes at night, when she was tired from the monotonous routine of labor supervision, she would lie in her large, bed, with a print of Christ above the headboard, this in smug defiance to her devotion to the occult, and also a ploy to the other inhabitants of her home, and wait for Him to come. Her body might be aflame with





unreciprocated  desire and provoked by her torturing need for physical relief she would call out to Him in the night and wait patiently.
Of course He came always. Her door was always slightly ajar, so that she could hear any calls from the chamber of her children. But in reality it served a dual purpose. He could enter freely. There would be no noise. Effortlessly, He could slip into her bridal bed and embrace her with His firm,  warm  arms,  His  gentle  hands  ran along  her thighs  as she  was lulled into a passionate response, which increased in intensity until the taut tension gripping her body exploded into relief and she could again fail into her reverie.
 Her sensuality  drove her to shape and mould the imaginative  minds still captive to their mother. She missed no opportunity.  At night she would come into their room and suggest the two children sleep together so as to ward off the winter winds. At times she would slip out of her bed at night to see what they were doing and she was always satisfied with  her  progress.  Often  Susana  and  Benjamin  were  still  clasped together, in infantile sleep.
 When the warm weather returned, she would suggest they take baths together so as to be able to play in the water. This she would only do when the maids  were  out of the house  on farming  chores.  Then she would draw hot water from the wood-burning stove and suggest that the two of them take off their clothes, and wait for her while she carted the inviting, comforting  warm liquid. Those moments alone, together, the two  of  them,  patiently  waiting,  were  to  her  crucial,  for  then  the nakedness of each would be natural to them.
After  the  bath,  she  often  ordered  Benjamin  to dry  his  sister,  or she might  command  the  same  of  Susana.  Sometimes  Susana  appeared hesitant when she was wiping the genitals of Benjamin but Rosa would shout out, “hurry child, before you both get a cold.” The forbidden soon becomes the normal, the sin becomes the need, as morality is inverted. The mind of Rosa, where love in its genuine form was twice betrayed, now exchanged virtue for evil. Desire became the mantra and affection was born as perverted passion,
 If she found herself alone with one of them, she never failed to talk about  the other,  how beautiful  he or she was, the importance  of the family, how necessary it was that they always be together, the grandeur





of the Cabral clan and its eminence in the local community. She never mentioned their father Jorge, and with time, the children learned it was a distant, remote fact in the Cabral history. They had a father. He died. The past was buried. The future was paramount.  Rosa often spoke of the “destiny  of the family which time would unfold.”  To Benjamin’s questions as to what this meant, she merely smiled knowingly and told him his destiny was yet “to come” but it would, surely.
It was the future unmercifully  becoming  a reality which calmed  the
agitated spirit of Rosa. As the children became older, passing into their early teens, Rosa noticed a growing reluctance on the part of Susana to share her bed with Benjamin. The first opportunity she had, when they were gathering  lemons together in the orchard, Rosa spoke to Susana about what it meant to be a woman. The maternal spirit, she explained, was to give, to devout yourself to another being, to nourish and animate the male psyche, by its nature fragile and brittle.
She talked to Susana how the female body was structured  to receive
and  birth  was  the  continuation  of  the  spirit  of  nature  present  in  all things.  Life  was  not  the  apparent,  nor  the  visible.  The  human  mind could  not grasp  the significance  of the universe  as it was concealed from our perception. When Susana asked about the meaning of honor and sin, a thought often on her mind as she grew into adolescence, Rosa replied there was no distinction.
Right and wrong  were human  concepts  not to be confused  with the
function  of  animals,  which  was  to  procreate  and  thus  ensure  the continuity  of  life.  The  preservation  of  the  clan  was  imperative  and women were the center of this process. Their bodies were the conduit for the next generation. Marriage was a custom imposed on society for this purpose but the reality of a union between a man and a woman was the transfer of the human spirit to succeeding cycles.
It  was  necessary  to  transcend  the  normal  thought  patterns  of  the
community   and  utilize  the  female  capacity  for  birth  for  a  noble purpose-the  preservation  of the family- not by reaching out to others, but searching within the family. Rosa did not go further in her explanations,   rather  allowing  her  words  to  course  their  own  way through the reflections of Susana.





As for Benjamin, she noticed as he grew older that the firm set to his face, superficially an outward sign of strength, in reality belied his basic, furtive  personality,  which was akin to a forest animal.  Similar  to his father, his real thoughts were submerged from others, and his eyes restlessly  darted  from  object  to  object,  person  to  person,  always  in search  of  what  was  not  present.  He  sought  refuge  in  his  somber thoughts  while  revealing  to others  an apparent  interest  by his silent, dedicated attention.
Gradually  it became clear to Rosa, insight granted to her through the cunning  often  conferred  by dementia,  that  she  must  pursue  different courses  of education  with  Benjamin  and  Susana.  The  more  difficult would be Susana as her mind and soul thrived on symbolism  and an incipient  maternal  affection.  She,  Rosa,  must  shape  such  virtuous qualities to enable Susana to confuse her generous spirit of love with ritual  and  desire.  This  could  be  done  through  the  teachings  of  the mystics which roamed the alleys of Mafra or occasionally  came over the hills from nearby towns.
They were tattered, incoherent beggars schooled in the language of cabalism, landless and orphans to employment, living off the generosity of the peasantry. They spoke of the “divine spirit” guiding the world of nature. The stars and planets at our birth determined  our destiny. The human being was a mere tool in the great design of life. One particular prophet, called Jaime-Jaime by the Mafra villagers as he frequently stuttered  when  he  became  excited,  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  Rosa’s kitchen. There, seated before a hearty meal of soup, brown bread, and goat cheese, he would ramble on to Rosa and Susana.
Stooped over from a life of walking aimlessly from town to town, he had spent his entire existence sleeping in the fields and forests scattered along the coastline. His mind had been nourished by the fleeing streaks of white which dazzled the Mafra sky on clear evenings. At night, watching the speckled flashing firmament rotate on an invisible axis, he wondered if life was not merely a pulsating reflection of another, larger spirit whose grace strove to appear in all forms possible.
When  weather  permitted,  they  all,  Rosa,  Susana,  and  Jaime-Jaime might wander over to a vale where some of the sheep would be grazing. Jaime-Jaime  stumbling  with his staff to support him, would tell Rosa





and Susana  tales from his fertile  imagination.  The world was full of spirits who hid from human society but they had a master who taught them the art of sorcery  in order to escape  the savage  cunning  of the human.
These spirits had no physical form; rather they dwelt in the bodies of
humans and carried on their separate lives so that each human was a transporter  of many essences. Jaime-Jaime  said this was the origin of the world; that each creature was built out of material substances  but the real core of every person was a mixture of many wood spirits that fought for ascendancy.  Only during the daily, human repose did they dare  to venture  forth  and prance  about  in the solitude  of the groves where they could laugh and love with one another.
Sleeping in the woods in the evenings, he, Jaime-Jaime, would hear the
voices of the spirits who had escaped during slumber from their mortal prisons. They exchanged stories. Their master taught them that the customs and rules of society had nothing to do with the forces of life and nature. Their king was the lord of darkness who was expelled from paradise for having asked questions, daring to challenge edict and ordinances.
The gods of the churches and other places of worship were false refuges
from the one true impulse of all living matter. The origin of all life was the ego of love and passion.  These instincts  were the foundations  of new consciousness. This is what mother earth demanded from each soul and  the  spirits  were  in  constant  struggle  with  social  artifice  which chocked and clogged the regenerative spirit of mortals.
With the winds gently rustling  his grey locks, his long, ragged frock
affording scant protection against the ocean chills, while his blue eyes darted stealthily from hedge to hedge in search of the spirits of which he spoke, Jaime-Jaime  was the impoverished  prophet of the dales and hills, striking the ground with his staff as if to waken up the goblins and dryads of the glens and lowlands.
With   time,   the   country   seer   Jaime-Jaime   created   the   intended
impression  on Susana, leading her to believe the visible world was a mere reflection of the redemptive  spirit inhabiting  each human being. She  saw  herself  as growing  towards  woman,  the stage  at which  her





body would blossom and burst forth with its fruit, while she, Susana, was only the temporary haven for new life.
Rosa noticed the changes overtaking Susana and encouraged her set of mind whenever she could. She prayed at night to her Master to help her in her task. Her goal was to found what would be the sublime proof of real love, passion inspired by knowledge of two people who share the same thoughts and ideals and this had to be her children, Susana and Benjamin.
As she continued with her plan and as her children crossed adolescence in  their  journey  towards  adulthood,   Rosa  cultivated  the  emerging mysticism  of  Susana  with  frequent  visits  to  astrologers  and  local oracles who were only to happy to offer their services to the now undisputed mistress of Mafra, with her vast fortune increasing everyday. It was the widow Jula, an outcast aristocrat and astrologer from Lisbon, now living in the lower part of the village, who conspired with Rosa to ensure the final commitment of Susana to the cult of the damned.
During their frequent visits to Jula, the soothsayer observed the torment which silently moved beneath the placid stare of Rosa; she perceived the agony and sensed the martyrdom in command of Rosa’s personality. Jula had much experience with the neurotic dispositions of the wealthy as well  as the local  gentry.  Marriages  arranged  between  the affluent families limited the scope of nature’s natural disposition to experiment so   that   a   tendency   to   sickness   and   emotional   disorders   was   a characteristic of the provincial landed class.
At first she attributed Rosa’s strangeness to the Dom João Cabral line, all   of   whom   within   her   memory   had   married   within   the   local community.  Yet  from  Rosa’s  trembling  lips  at times  escaped  words which led Jula to believe she could profit from Rosa in an unexpected fashion.
Rosa  would  speak  of “chaste  love”,  of “virginal  sacrifices”,  refer  to “unsullied passion” or “uncontaminated desire”. While Jula did not understand  the  underlying  convulsions  which  caused  these  words  to burst  forth,  she  recognized  Rosa  was  emotionally  distraught  and  it surely it had to do with her daughter for why else would she come with her. No doubt, she erroneously  concluded,  Rosa was worried  Susana





would not marry for her plainness and lack of sensuality was equal to her future inheritance, evident and considerable.
At this time Susana had just turned 22 and she had become a passive reflection  of  her  mother’s  restless  mysticism.  Youth  enabled  her  to contain and conceal any outward signs but in harmony with her mother she  lived  within  a  world  of  fantasy  which  her  privileged,  moneyed position fostered and permitted.
Jula had an illegitimate nephew, Bruno Pinheiro, the result of an affair between a sister of Jula, Serenela, and a Lisbon bachelor merchant, José Pinheiro, wealthy and cultured, who received his diversions in life by frequenting the nightly private clubs of Lisbon and having affairs with the courtesans.
Returning in the evening with his body sullied with the corporal sweat
of paid lovers, but to a home replete with the art treasures of Portugal, ancient saints and virgins covering the many corridors and walls of his pretentious palace, the silence of beauty was not sufficient to calm his anguished   spirits.   Physical   exertion   does   not   always   soothe   the tormented soul and Pinheiro was alone, frightened, without any companions.
During  one  of  his  many  dinner  expeditions  to  the  home  of  Lisbon
nobles, he had met Serenela, Jula’s sister, a woman with an excellent lineage, for the family of Jula and Serenela could boast various coat-of- arms, but, similar to Jula, Serenela was a fanciful spirit with little understanding of the commercial world. Her inherited rents barely supported  her. José Pinheiro took a fancy to her and even considered her as a possible  permanent  mate, a thought which lingered,  but was never realized.
The  affair  with  Jula’s  sister  lasted  longer  than  others,  and,  from  an excess of passion by Pinheiro, much to the annoyance of Serenela she became  pregnant.  As abortion  was severely  punished  and universally condemned at that epoch, Bruno was born to a frail woman who saw no prospect of a pleasant life remaining to her. During her entire gestation, she whimpered and wailed and beseeched José Pinheiro to relieve her of an eternal burden for she was in no condition to raise a child.
Having an excess of servants, alarmed of being alone, recognizing  his
approaching  infirmity,  he decided to recognize  Bruno as his son, and





educate  him properly.  What José Pinheiro  conceived  as being proper was naturally entirely contrary to the spirit of an emerging person.
He relegated Serenela to a modest apartment for which he paid the rent, afforded her a minimum monthly stipend as her public disgrace ensured she  would  never  marry,  and  undertook  the education  of Bruno.  The child’s education would be as important to him as was his art collection. The  results   were   similar   with  Bruno   developing   into  an  esthete endowed with a mystical imagination which dwelt upon distant castles and Christ crucified in various fashions. At first the sight of dried blood in various painting techniques  held some interest for the growing boy but eventually  the art became  replaced  with  a morbid  preoccupation with death. The demise of the soul became his dominant characteristic, a thought he carefully guarded to himself.
Growing   up  in  an  atmosphere   of  ingratiating   lackeys,   where  an abundance  of  food  and  art  replaced  the  normal  maternal  presence, Bruno matured into a frail young man, tall and slim, given to few words, the normal masculine  signs of strength and bone absent in his feeble, debilitated frame. Bruno, similar in spirit to his father, was a dandy who delighted  in the museum  galleries  of Lisbon, London,  and Paris, and whose course of life would never have led him to contract marriage.
He made a visit once a month to his mother, who lived now a life of
indolence  and  indifference,  supported  by her pension  from  Pinheiro, and these encounters with his mother further strengthened Bruno’s inherent aversion to women. His mother’s slovenly appearance, an act of revenge for the fact she was made to understand she was not part of the Pinheiro family, inculcated in Bruno an indifference to women, and his attitude only aggravated his mother’s detachment from his life. She was civil merely in order to receive her pension. The visits of her son were an annoyance and a disagreeable necessity.
The female, sensuous, corporal presence was hardly noticed by Bruno, who  often,  for  hours,  would  stare  at  the  magnificent  medieval  oil paintings  of  the  dying  Christ  imagined  by  the  talented  masters  of medieval Portugal and marvel at the suffering depicted in all its color and stylish grandeur. No doubt Bruno would have been quite content to pass  his life,  as his father,  alone,  and  enjoying  his wealth.  Between Bruno and his father there was a natural affinity and Pinheiro’s decision





to recognize Bruno as his son was rewarded with masculine company. The two were in harmony with the decay and death of the human cycle. Yet  Serenela  was  disturbed.   She  saw  the  course  of  Bruno’s  life unfolding  before  her.  The  rejected  maternal  guidance  imposed  by Pinheiro nagged at her. The monthly visits through the years permitted her to have knowledge of her son. Eventually he would pass the stage when bachelorhood becomes permanent and Bruno would never marry. While  Bruno’s  celibate  state held no emotional  content  for Serenela, she realized  that  eventually  her benefactor  might  decide  her pension was no longer necessary as Bruno was now an independent adult. Furthermore, Bruno himself, as heir, might not honor his father’s obligations. But as a grandmother,  the future of Serenela was assured. All children need a grandparent and Serenela was the only possibility.
A wife for Bruno was, then, the obvious solution, a gateway to security
for Serenela. When, then, as Bruno was approaching full manhood and had already celebrated his 22nd  birthday, Serenela made a surprise visit to Pinheiro at his sumptuous Lisbon office in Rua Augusta.
For   this   occasion   she   dressed   herself   properly   and   appearing unannounced  at his office, Pinheiro, unprepared, consented to see her. Serenela came quickly to the point. Bruno was at the age for marrying. Surely his father, the eminent merchant Pinheiro, wanted to see his son established properly with a family and an heir. A young bachelor was not a suitable successor to the commercial empire of Pinheiro.
The father waited patiently. His trade astuteness permitted him to listen when he heard reason. The decrepit figure of Serenela merely made him marvel at his own strength of blood which was evident in Bruno. As she talked, his body relaxed in the large, leather maple supporting him, he marveled how wisdom was often found in the strangest places and none other then Serenela, who he always considered a fool. The more she spoke the more sensible her words appeared.
Not a man to prolong the moment when it arrived, and being equally anxious to be rid of Serenela before foolish, romantic thoughts  might erupt from her, he quickly agreed and Serenela returned to her despised chambers  satisfied  her once lover Pinheiro,  was at heart a gentleman and  proper  father  and  above  all,  her  old  age  was  secure  from  the ravages of society.





All this was known to Jula with whom Serenela often stayed to escape the suffocating  life  of Lisbon.  One  afternoon,  Jula  met  Rosa  on the streets of Mafra. Inviting her to a café, they passed some time together in idle conversation until Jula remarked that she seldom saw Susana in the company of a young man, in fact she never had seen Susana with anyone but her mother.
From  the  beginning  of  their  encounter,  Rosa  surmised  Jula  had  a
motive  for her causal reference  to Susana.  The unexpected  invitation meant that Jula wanted to profit from Rosa being alone. Hearing and understanding immediately the unspoken thoughts meandering through Jula’s  mind,  the  possibility  of  presenting  a  suitor  for  Susana,  Rosa stifled any objections for she was also ready to take steps to further her designs for Susana.
While  Jula  was  describing  Bruno  and  his  life  with  his  father,  Rosa
began to form an image of what this young man must be like. The more Jula spoke of the Pinheiro  family, the more the distasteful  aspects of Bruno’s  character,  evident  from  Jula’s  meticulous  recitation  of  the stories told to her by her sister, emerged in her mind clearly.
The  Pinheiro  household  subsisted  in  splendor  but  its  essence  was
morally  perverse.  Under usual circumstances,  she, Rosa, should have been  insulted  by Jula’s  scarcely  concealed  insinuations  of a meeting between the Cabral and Pinheiro family. Yet she held her silence, meditating  as  the  words  of  Jula  tumbled  without  shame  from  lips shaped  by avarice.  Serenela  had  promised  Jula  a modest  sum if the meeting with Rosa bore fruit. The meeting came to an end with Rosa thanking Dona Jula profusely for, “as you observed well, Dona Jula, it is time my daughter married and the young man you describe seems an excellent choice.” How Jula marveled at her triumphal stroke of good luck!
As she returned  to her home  later  in the day,  Rosa  mused  over  the
contents of her conversation with Jula. Rosa saw that Susana was ready for marriage but for her plans to materialize it had to be a union which, in essence, was a farce. Yet she could not speak openly to Susana about her designs.  Rather  it had  to come  about  through  events  due  to the personalities  involved.  In other  words,  the proper  spouse  for Susana was a bridegroom who was a phantom to the bridal bed.





The next day, her mind clear as to her course, she paid a visit to Jula and obtained  the address  of Pinheiro.  She explained  to Jula that she would visit Pinheiro  and speak to him about his son meeting  Susana and  in the  meantime,  Jula  should  review  the  matter  with  her  sister, Serenela, who would explain in more detail who the Cabral family were. She then wrote a letter to Pinheiro and requested a meeting with him. Some weeks later, a carriage stopped outside her home and a serious looking young man, a bookkeeper in apprenticeship at one of the shops of Pinheiro, arrived with a reply for Rosa. Pinheiro wrote he would be pleased to meet “the owner of the Cabral domain” and suggested  the day, place, and time in Lisbon. At the appointed hour and proper rendezvous,  Rosa  arrived,  dressed  simply,  but  with  enough  jewelry draped   about   her   neck   and   pinned   to   her   bosom   to   announce ostentatiously her wealth.
As she entered  the office,  the afternoon  sun was in all its splendor, turning an autumn day of 1852 into homage to the creative powers of nature faced with the circle of death and birth. Harvest time would be followed  by the mournful  demise  of foliage,  the long slumber  of the earth,  the  hushed  repose  of  regeneration,  the  lull  of  consciousness before it once again awoke from a temporary sleep and burst forth in beauty  and color,  inviting  the denizens  of the world  to celebrate  the forces of life and light.
From the window of Pinheiro’s office, Rosa saw the sloping red tiled roofs cascading towards the estuary of the Tejo River. Slim spirals of smoke  drifted  lazily  upwards  towards  the distant  blue  horizon  while sporadically  Rosa heard the mournful  cries of the ferry boats as they lazily plowed across the watery strip, back and forth, in an incessant rhythm obedient to an unseen logic.
Pinheiro  observed  before  him  a  stout,  determined  woman,  her  eyes
revealing  an unspoken  objective  to be achieved  while  her rigid  face reflected  an inner indomitable  spirit which would not deviate  from a conceived  plan.  From  the  plainness  of  her  dress  and  lack  of  visual female  sensuality,  Pinheiro  concluded  that her daughter,  Susana,  was also a drab shadow  of the many vibrant,  passionate  women  Pinheiro had known in his life time.





Still,  while  engaging   in  idle  chatter   with  Rosa,   Pinheiro’s   mind ruminated  over the future course of his son, Bruno, and he had little doubt what it would be. With every day that passed,  Bruno assumed more the role of a dandy,  preferring  the male company  of the many wealthy aristocrats who collected rents to that of constructing a family and taking over the commercial empire Pinheiro had created.
“It will all crumble when I die,” Pinheiro thought. “Bruno shall spend
his life wandering from brothel to brothel and only repeat the pattern of my life.” He was suddenly jostled into the moment when Rosa paused and then blurted out her invitation.

“May I suggest you and your son come and have lunch with us on a Sunday, after the usual mass? Mafra afternoons on the day of weekly rest tend to be a peaceful and reflective time,” murmured Rosa.

Pinheiro  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  his  usual  cynical  expression softening a bit. In fact he had been thinking of what it would be like to have a family life and even become  a grandfather.  Such a possibility had not really entered into his conscious thoughts.

“Yes,” he replied impulsively  and even managed a smile, “that would be delightful. Shall we say, not this Sunday, but the following?”

With  their  business  concluded,  Rosa  left  the  sumptuous  offices  of Pinheiro. As he watched her staunchly walk away, Pinheiro felt rather satisfied. It was time for Bruno to marry and assume his paternal and employer obligations. “No doubt,” he mumbled to himself, “there will be little resistance to this obviously sensible union between commerce and farming.” Turning around in his chair and watching the ferry boats slide and slither  their choppy  ride across  the river stirred  by restless autumn  winds,  Pinheiro  decided  he  would  broach  the  subject  with Bruno this very evening.
During  the  long  mule  ride  back  to  Mafra,  Rosa  realized  she  must
prepare Susana immediately for the forthcoming holy lunch, for that is what  it was.  In Rosa’s  mind,  the purpose  of the probable  sanctified union with Bruno was the essential step towards her final objective. To





achieve  her  corrupt  goal  she  would  need  the  assistance  of  her  dark Master, the resources of her spirit now weakened and submerged within their fragile frontier when she dwelt upon her goal.
While  her  driver  was  whipping  the  mule  through  the  valleys  and
miniature hills lying to the north of Lisbon, she suddenly ordered the coachman  to take the road along the river Lizandro  which ran lazily towards the ocean south of Ericeira. Along its banks she could watch the fields being ploughed by the oxen and hear the sharp, shrill twang of axes as they felled the trees which would serve for firewood, heating the hearths and providing heat for the iron cast stoves.
Eventually they neared a bend in the road from which she could see a
dirt path snaking into where she knew there was a grove of olive trees encircling an unused chapel, in disrepair, moss clinging to its walls and where the altar of Christ was bare and bereft. She ordered the handler to stop  and  suggested  he  rest  the  mule  for  some  minutes.  The  poor creature appeared on the point of collapse and the freshness of the river water would revive him.
Leaving her handler to rest alongside his mute companion, Rosa walked slowly up the small, dirt path, hard and unyielding from the countless steps which had trodden over it through the centuries. Now, there was only the silence of the ghosts of ancient pilgrims long since buried in distant cemeteries.  Far away she heard the screech of the Ericeira sea gulls  as  they  plowed  the  valley  sky  in  search  of  debris  or  rotten carcasses.
Where  formerly  there  had  been  a  heavy,  solid  oak  door  gracefully opened by a humble apostle to the devout visitors, there now appeared a large gap beneath the granite frame, a simple passageway for sparrows and pigeons. The door, rotten and permanently soaked from decades of winter rains, lie on its side on the small, arched corridor snaking around the chapel.
Rosa  stumbled  forth  for  an  inner  voice  was  calling  her.  Whispers seeped  through  the  leaves  of  the  pine  trees  and  poplars  urging  her forward.  Entering  the shadowed  tabernacle,  the autumn  sun impeded from casting  any interior  light,  she walked  towards  where  there  had been an ornate altar, a barren stone slab instead in its place, and she knelt, defiantly. Her normally stern face crumbled into furrows molding





her young  face  into a patchwork  of crevices  and grooves  much  like corrugated iron. She sensed a minor tremor in her lips.
An excited female sparrow flittered wildly above her head in defense of her  unborn  chicks.  Rosa  paid  no  attention.  Seized  by  an  emotional surge of abandonment, she pounded the floor with her hands as hysteria gradually  enveloped  her. Driven by doubt, the last flickering  trace of maternal protection  still hovered about her reason, casting misgivings to her plans. She was not sure. Scruples still existed. Yet she must push them aside. Proof, she wanted confirmation  that her chosen path was correct and certain.
Sobbing, she clutched at her precious pendants hanging listlessly about her neck and cried out, “Is your will this? Is this the sacrifice demanded of me before you shall love me as your eternal bride?”

Warm, salty tears flowed down her cheeks, as self-pity and rage against the  barrenness  of her  life  swelled  forth  and  cast  her  into  the  turgid currents of her obscure thoughts.

“Where  are  you?”  she  called  out  plaintively.  “Have  you  no  pity  on those you love? I am creating  this monument  of blood and family in your honor. Your realm shall triumph! You must return. Give me your instructions!” she demanded.

Abruptly, she heard a door open. She would have turned around but she froze with fright, her body rigid and taut. She remembered clearly the sight of the decayed door now sprung loose from its iron hinges and lying on the floor. Frightened  to verify if it was her imagination  or a mistaken  remembrance  and there  was a door,  she remained  still and waited.
Stooped,  her bare knees  cold and bruised  from the large  stone  slabs
serving  as the chapel  floor,  she lifted  her eyes  upwards  towards  the wooden  ceiling.  Light  illuminated  the  room.  She  felt  an  enveloping fever possess her. It was then she heard her words of encouragement, the whispered  instructions  of her companion,  urging her not to falter, nor waver for the revelations granted to her were certain and eternal.





The  voice  repeated  to her what  she wanted  to believe.  Her  children were to found the permanent cult of the House of Cabral whose lineage would be secured through the secret ordinances she, Rosa, was about to establish. Nothing should deter her. Her strength must come from her sureness of her beliefs.
A  hand  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder.  She  shuddered  with excitement and desire. As she slumped to the floor in anticipation, the kisses   and   caresses   she   sensed   lulled   her   into   a   dream   where consciousness was abated and fantasy stifled her fear and anxiety.
The Master of the Night took her passionately  and loved her mightily
so that his seed would never become dissipated and wasted among the lost and damned. For some lingering, splendorous  moments the forces of evil proclaimed  their victim, the triumph of malediction  over those deserted and cast away. Without comfort, the soul withers, transformed and twisted into a hideous reflection of the human condition. The void her arms embraced as night fell each day filled her with the hate and revenge which dominated her psyche. She was betrayed, a crippled ego whose salvation was the destruction  of others. This universal fragility He would take profit as He always does.
Convulsion  after convulsion  contracted  her body until eventually  she
dozed, sprawled out on the chapel floor, with the cold winds stirring her long  skirt,  the seizure  diminishing  in frequency  and  allowing  her to recuperate.  When she awoke, she was calm, her thoughts certain, her course of action obvious. She was no longer afraid.
Arising, she turned slowly and stared towards where she heard the door swinging on its ancient hinges. There was none. She saw only the dying light  of the  day.  She  hurried  down  the  hill  in time  to see  the  mule prancing nervously in its reins, anxious to return home for its evening meal.
She was planning what to tell Susana when the mule dragged the cart up the long entrance  leading  to the back door of the kitchen.  In the distance  she saw Susana waving to her and for a moment,  she had a tinge of regret but this quickly passed. There were generations to secure, descendants to curse and imprison.”

Chapter 5






5.0    Some marriages are made in hell.

Bruno lurched  out of the squalid room, the hysterical  laughter  of the courtesan  Marisa  resounding  in his ears. As he tripped  over his own feet and lay sprawled on the platform of the first floor, the door swung open violently  and Marisa  stood there, naked  from the waist up, her hands  grasping  her  hips  as  a  matador  does  when  in  the  arena.  She looked at him with disdain, before she blurted out, “I’m not giving back your money. It’s not my fault you’re an impotent, useless lover. Don’t you know what men do? Do you or don’t you know? What’s the matter? You never saw a woman naked? You don’t know what to do? Well, the money is mine, I was ready, and you’d better go and get some lessons.” She slammed the door in a disgusted temper.
For some moments, Bruno lay still, his eye sockets burning with heat, his  heart  beating  irregularly.  Disgusted  with  himself,  he  knew  well what possessed him to seek the company of Marisa, a known slut and a brazen one at that. His friends had taunted him with his virginity.
Having  passed  his  22nd    birthday,  he  still  could  not  boast  of  any
conquests.  Edged on by wagers and bets, as well as smug, masculine jokes,  he finally  agreed  to seek  the  flesh  of Marisa.  And  there  was another reason; the imperative of knowing if he were capable of what his father was soon to demand from him, hints given by his father when they occasionally  dined together, that there was approaching a time to form a new Pinheiro  family,  a branch,  as it were,  of the prosperous main office.
His ineptness was only matched by his agony. Seeing Marisa lying on
her back, her legs spread wide open, while he stood haplessly in front of her, his trousers on the floor, made him only want to flee and erase the  horrible   sight  from  his  mind.   Her  grossness   and  animalistic vulgarity before his timidity aggravated his natural shyness and buried his masculinity under her avalanche of empty phrases and meaningless caresses.
At times he wondered  if it was his disinterest  or his fright. He could never  make  up  his  mind.  The  titled  girls,  daughters  of  his  father’s friends,  made  their  willingness  to  consider  him  as  a  husband  quite





obvious, for he was heir to a fortune. Yet his solitude meant more to him than the company of even the most vivacious of the smiling, hypocritical, sly maidens.
The  world  of  scents  and  perfumes,  flowers  and  carefully  groomed
coiffeurs  held  little  enchantment  for  his  solitary  habits.  He,  Bruno, much preferred the company of men, the drinks, the smoking, and the recount  of  the  daily  profits  made  in  trading.  Like  his  father,  the sensibility necessary for genuine affection was dormant, probably never meant to awaken.
With the early darkness of the day enveloping his crumpled body and
shamed   spirit,   Bruno   debated   his   course   of   action.   Marisa   had humiliated  him. But he was at fault. The normal sensual pleasures  of his male companions  he had not experienced.  Were he to return with his tale about Marisa they would ridicule him for ever. Struggling to his feet,  he  stumbled  towards  the  door  and  knocked  on  it  gently.  The furious face of Marisa confronted him.

“What now?” she screamed.

Summoning   up  his  courage   he  stood   ashamedly   before   her  and whimpered,  “Teach  me, please,  teach  me,  I don’t  know  what  to do. Please. I’ll pay again. It’s not the money. It is me. I need to know.”

The wretched look in his face recalled to her other times when she had felt her own humiliation. Stepping back she beckoned him to enter. She then pushed him gently towards her bed and lay on top on him before he could protest. It was foul to Bruno. He hated every moment of it. Later, in his life, he would attribute his perversities to that evening with Marisa when the beauty of love was forever destroyed by these gross rites of initiation.
Her grunting and heaving, compounded by the stench her body emitted, infused his first memories  so profoundly  that he became permanently impotent,  unable  ever again  to physically  desire  or crave.  Rather  he wanted to run, to hide, and to escape to where there were no demands made upon him as a man.





As she forcibly impelled him to reach a climax, he felt his masculinity permanently draining from him. Never again would he be able to covet. The flash of pain which seared through his limbs as his anxious sperm sprawled into a wasted womb caused him to fall onto his side, where he sobbed, uncontrollably, without cease and without knowing why.
Marisa  misunderstood  his  emotion  and  attributed  his  reaction  to the awakening   of  his  sensual  needs.  She  did  not  realize  Bruno  was condemned, never to love other then in his imagination, never to touch, other  then  with  fright  and  hesitation,  never  to  reproduce,  to  be  an onlooker to families of other people.
Finally he roused himself, and hardly looking at Marisa, he placed more money  on  her  dingy  night  table,  and  hastily  left.  Marisa  scarcely noticed. She heard the bells of the church strike 11 pm and she remembered she was expecting another customer soon. She hoped this one would be more to her liking. The novitiates were always a disappointment to her. She didn’t even bother to wash herself.
On the way home, Bruno decided to stroll over to Rossio Square, the
main plaza of lower Lisbon, dominated by a fountain whose splashing, clear water sprinkled the flower vendors during the day. At night, it was a meeting place for the homeless, the drifters, the outcasts, the sellers of body and spirit, united and comforted by the tepid breezes sifting up the streets from the river front.
 Leaning against the statute of angels supporting a large bronze sprout, Bruno held his face in his hands for some seconds. He was trembling. Not only did he feel ashamed but the future before him was terrifying. His father had mentioned to him an imminent journey to Mafra, where Bruno was to be presented to a young lady of marriageable age, and the only daughter of a rich widow.
The knowledge of this forthcoming visit, and its purpose, he, Bruno, to
be considered a candidate for her hand, had also driven him to the arms of Marisa, not merely the visible snickers of his male companions, but the necessity to understand  his capacities.  He had his doubts. Was he simply to obey his father’s commands? Why did they need more money? His father had not married  and he saw no reasons  for him to have a different life.





 He resolved to have at least words demanding an explanation with his father.  Near  him  he  saw  an  elderly  man  talking  anxiously  to  an adolescent,  dressed  poorly  and  in  dire  need  of  bodily  comforts,  his tattered   sweater   falling   loosely   over   an   emaciated   frame.   The desperation  in the youngster’s  face contrasted  vilely with the lust and desire flushing the face of the other. Bruno wanted to go over and offer the young man some money, not for anything in return but simply to save him, to rescue the lad from the perdition awaiting him that evening. But he knew he was incapable of such an aggressive act and in disgust with his own diffidence he strolled briskly away from the mélange of people  and  headed  towards  the  river  front.  There,  he  thought,  the emptiness  of the large,  open plaza,  with its arches  facing  the distant villages across the river, there he might find repose, a pause from the harshness of the evening’s memories.
In a few moments he reached the large, open square, ringed by a series of spans and corridors which formed a rectangle with three sides, the fourth  being  the  river  front.  This  was  Commerce  Plaza,  where  the trading ships docked and disgorged their merchandise  from the Orient and Africa.
He  was  dizzy,  from  the  stress  his  personality   was  suffering,  the episodes to which he had been subjected, the confusion reigning in his mind as to who he was. He wanted to sleep, to awake a new person, and be born again.
Sitting  down,  he rested  his head in his arms and fell into a troubled
slumber. When he awoke, or so he believed, he at first thought he was alone, but then he became aware of another solitary figure, near him, in the shadows, observing him quietly.
Frightened, not knowing if his unsolicited evening companion meant ill or harm, he quickly stood up thinking to cross the square in search of a café, when the stranger started to walk towards him. Bruno remained still.  “Best  not  to  show  fear,”  he  thought  to  himself.  When  the interloper  was near Bruno,  within  conversation  range,  the pedestrian stopped,  although  Bruno still could not see the person who was now leaning against the wall under the vaults.

“You come here often?” the visitor asked.






Bruno was surprised;  it was the voice of a woman.  He hesitated  and then decided not to be rude as such an attitude could be interpreted as a provocation  which  he  wanted  to  avoid.  He  was  still  cautious.  “Not often,” Bruno replied, then falling silent.

“It is natural to have secrets,” the intruder remarked.

The intimacy created by these words, their truth in so far as Bruno was concerned,  left him startled, but pleasantly.  “No doubt,” he mused to himself, “she is a frequenter  of night streets and has learned to judge people  just  by  their  appearance.  People  who  wander  about  at  dusk always have confidences and women know well the enigmas of men.” Bruno forced himself to respond, “Exactly my thoughts.”

The newcomer  gave a short laugh. “You are going home soon. What will you do when you get there?”

“What shall I do?” he murmured to himself. “I don’t know,” he stated out loud curtly.

An awkward  moment  hovered  between  the two. The presence  of the foreigner began to intimidate Bruno. He wanted his guest to leave but, then, the streets were not his.

“You are uncomfortable with me,” was the unexpected pronouncement from the visitor.

“Who are you?” Bruno blurted out suddenly. “What do you want from me?”  Sweat  began  to gather  on Bruno’s  forehead.  He  was  debating whether  or not he should  not leave  this woman  immediately  and go about his business.

For some minutes,  it seemed  an eternity,  only the distant  rumbles  of carriage wheels and the thump of horse hooves were heard. The lapping of the river against the bank of the open square calmed a bit Bruno’s





spirits  but he was  nervously  wringing  his hands  together  behind  his back.

The uninvited guest began to speak, “Once, when I was very young, I committed  what others called a sin. It was in a land far away. I was drawn  to this transgression  and I could  not resist.  Since  then I have wandered  for a long time.” She paused as if overcome  with a strong surge  of emotion  but then  continued.  “But  love  has many  forms,  so different. We must accept the form of love granted to us. I did.”

As he listened to her soliloquy, Bruno pondered to himself, “A traveler lonely and desperate  for conversation,”  his trepidations  diminishing  a bit.

Again the voice carried on, “You will never be comforted the way other men are. You will be asked to do things you do not want. You must roam as I do. Such will be your life.”

Weakly,  drowsy  from the phrases  now pounding  in his head,  Bruno replied, “What is my nature, my destiny?”

It was then the stranger stepped forth from beneath the shadows and as she  did,  the  previously  concealed  moonlight  suddenly  burst  forward with its shimmering  illumination,  revealing  her features.  What Bruno saw was not what he expected.
Before  him  stood  a  tall,  thin  form,  in  clothes  of  another  epoch,  a
woman’s  head with a shawl wrapped  around her body which slipped into a long skirt touching the ground. Her eyes held Bruno in a steady gaze. But it was her face which gripped Bruno. It was pale yet glowed with an inner yellow light which made her eyes appear red and hollow. Bruno trembled with awe, a cold sweat sweeping through him.

“Why have you brought  me this message?”  Bruno asked. “Who sent you?”





The visitor responded  tersely, “And why is that important?  You must do what others ask of you. Can you do this?”

Bruno responded hotly, “I do not know what you are referring to. And if I refuse?” he added.

“You will not,” his companion whispered, “you can not. I am certain of this. You can not deny what is your fate.”

Bruno felt himself slipping again on to the pavement where he had been resting. “Your words make no sense,” Bruno mumbled. “I am so tired, so fatigued.”

Suddenly his companion’s voice snapped through the cold night air. It was  sharp  and  shrill.  “Go  to  your  home,  now.  Seek  your  father’s approval. You were nothing until he gave you a home. Your mother did not want you. You are ungrateful. You are not to disobey. You would be trash in the gutter had not your father extended his hand. Listen, ye, to his counsel.”

Faced with his mute response, the visitor exploded, “Thy damnation is near,  if ye be stubborn.”  With  these  words,  she  swirled  her skirt  in anger, and vanished among the arches. Bruno sat for some time, in a stupor, and then he became aware of where he was. Stillness pervaded the square. No one was to be seen. Slowly, Bruno struggled to his feet. He waited for his guest to return. The streets and arches remained silent, with  the  occasional  drip  of  water  falling  from  the  domes  of  the corridors.
He decided to walk home, through the narrow streets and cobblestones
so as to clear his head. Some moments  passed before he recalled his meeting with the strange woman. Her words were incomprehensible  to him. The more he thought about her, the odder it all seemed, and the most peculiar were her last words. He suddenly remembered  she had lapsed into a form of language he did not understand well, the “ye” and “thy”, they were no longer words in use. “From where did she come?” he wondered to himself as he wandered towards his dwelling.





It  was  well  near  midnight  when  Bruno  arrived  to  his  home.  His destination  was a town  palace  facing  the Estrela  Park.  To get there, Bruno walked  along the river front and then climbed  the hills which brought him to the gentile parish of Lapa. From this aristocratic neighborhood,  it was  an  easy  stroll  to his  father’s  splendid,  opulent residence, a two storied building surrounded  by gardens and imported statuary.
As he walked,  he tried to clear his thoughts.  He was not sure if had
dreamt  of  the  lady’s  presence,  or,  if  it  were  a  fact.  But  then,  he concluded, it made no difference. Reality and fantasy are both imagined and what is truth is what we believe. She had told him to obey others and accept his father’s counsel. But this admonition, whether it was his own consciousness or the advice of a stranger, in both cases who was to be obeyed was not explained.
With this perplexity  still to be resolved,  he reached  his quarters  and entered with the purpose of retiring  for the night. He was distraught. There  were  no other  words  for his condition.  He saw  a light  in the library off the hall. “My father is waiting for me,” he said to himself as he ambled  towards  the door. Standing  before a blazing  fire was José Pinheiro, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Good evening, father,” Bruno stated respectfully, “you are up late.” “Waiting for you, my son,” José Pinheiro responded, coughing slightly.
“Do sit down.”

Bruno headed for a small, leather sofa and resigned himself to listening to his father. José Pinheiro cleared his throat and began. Bruno was of the marrying age. He, José Pinheiro, was getting older. His commercial empire  was  a network  of important  contacts  which  would  evaporate with  his  death.  Bruno  was  intelligent  but  also  sensitive  and,  even, aesthetic, a lover of art as his father. It made more sense for Bruno to avoid a commercial  life which was perhaps not suitable to his tastes. Better to think of living the life of a gentleman  farmer, the lord of a country  manor,  where  rents  from  his  inheritance  would  guarantee  a





steady  income  and  the  results  of  the  farm  would  only  add  to  this largesse.
José Pinheiro drew an idyllic picture of the life Bruno would have if he found the proper companion.  After a slight pause and twisting  of his fingers, José Pinheiro reminded Bruno of the young maiden from Mafra of whom he had already spoken and, then, abruptly, he stopped talking and looked earnestly at Bruno.

“Yes, father,” Bruno asked politely, “what is it?”

José Pinheiro shook slightly; an imperceptible tremor grasped his chest. It was as if he had a vision and he saw the details, the future for his son, the desolation to which his son was being led, and yet, simultaneously, he   questioned   if   he   were   not   confounding   his   own   fears   with predictions.   He   was   not,  after   all,  a  soothsayer.   He  spoke,   not addressing  Bruno, but his past, his own life. He told Bruno not to be afraid, to raise a family was good and correct, he himself was proud and content to have Bruno as his son, so Bruno should not hesitate. Again he paused.   Bruno sat quietly for some moments.  They stared at each other.
Bruno saw the desperation  in his father’s face but the origin he could
not know, for even José Pinheiro could not explain the chill sweeping over him.

“Speak, father,” Bruno murmured, “tell me.”

José Pinheiro  observed  morosely  his son’s features.  He saw his frail features and the debility in his face, the small chin supporting thin lips permanently  creased  in a frown.  His  son  had  a meager  frame  tilted slightly over narrow hips, the result of selected marriages formed from the  modest,  aristocratic  circle  of  Lisbon  nobility.  José  Pinheiro  was fond of his son, but knew well his limitations.

“We must go soon to Mafra and meet Rosa Cabral and her family,” he finally said resignedly.





“Of course,” Bruno replied immediately, “as you wish.”

Bruno retired to his room. His spirits were heavy as he sensed a circle being drawn about him but for what purpose he could not design. Lying in bed, Bruno listened to the thump of his father’s feet as he lurched about his bedroom across the hall. Under ordinary circumstances,  the echo from the steps would have comforted Bruno and reminded him he was not alone. But it was precisely his sense of isolation that prevented him from the desired slumber. The events of the night were a plague to rest. He tossed and turned, a distraught creature wrought to the plans of others.
He  only  wished  to  succumb  to  his  exhaustion.  The  act  of  yielding would  give  him  his  solace  and  preferred  peace.  Irritated  with  his turmoil,  he garnered  his strength  and slipped out of his large, cherry wood   berth.   He   strolled   slowly   towards   the   expansive   window overlooking  the gardens and knelt down on his knees. His posture of prayer was meant to demonstrate his piety, the inner grace he sincerely sought  but  which  continually  receded  from  his  grasp.  “Tonight,”  he thought,  “I shall  pray  for salvation  and  for the path  each  man  must walk.” Then he added, “Through reflection, there must be an answer.” With  his  hands  clasped,  he  implored  the  Christ  of  his  childhood  to instruct  him  and  grant  him  vision.  The  late  hours  of  the  evening conferred a solemnity to his act of contrition. The occasional rustle of a crow  in  the  nearby  trees  lulled  him  into  an  imagined  repose.  The fantasy natural to agitation overtook him as he murmured his prayers of succor.
To know the truth; to understand the nature of humanity and its purpose on  earth.   Surely   Christ   did  not  intend   his  flock   to  suffer.   Yet everywhere there was anguish and agony. His episode with Marisa still burned in his consciousness  and the shame of his reserve encumbered his spirit. There swelled  within  him the need to accept,  to submit  to others and not to assert his self. Perhaps this was the destiny to which his unsolicited night-time companion had alluded. His fate was to be an outcast. His mother did not want him. His father considered him incompetent.  Marisa could barely conceal her scorn. The pleasures of





the flesh appeared apparently  denied to him. Did not Christ yearn for his death in the ultimate sacrifice possible, to save others?
His call for deliverance could never be answered, he realized, as he was being shunted out of the current of life. His father wished him to retire to the country at an age when his contemporaries  were preparing their careers. “Very well,” he concluded,  “so shall it be.   I am not one for combat. The hills and lands shall be my monastery. I shall be the priest of the wild flowers and soaring birds.” He rose and stared morosely into the gardens.  He could  see the expansive  gardens  with their trimmed hedges and graveled paths. The moon was now fully exposed and its lunar light illuminated his view.
He stood paused for some moments, watching the occasional stirring of tree branches. Then he saw her. He was sure it was she. The lady of the square, the same tall figure with the long skirt. She was staring at him and smiling, while her burning-red eyes revealed with their inner glow her face, now held in a fixed smile. Her satisfaction was apparent.
Bruno  opened  the window  to call out to her, to demand  an account, when she vanished, as if swept away by the noise of the rising window. Bruno hesitated and then returned to his bed. “Again I dream,” he grumbled to himself. “I must leave this wretched city. Father is right. There I shall be happy. The corridors of business are not to my liking and never will be.” He wrapped the covers about him so as to construct a cocoon.
As he fell asleep, nimble fingers opened the large wooden door serving
as  entrance  to  the  back  of  the  garden.  A  silhouette  slipped  out, scurrying down the street and vanishing into the night air and into the arms of a companion waiting for her in a distant place beyond the ken of humans. The two lovers celebrated their eternal passion.

5.1    Benjamin, the prodigal son.

The languid winds of autumn barely heralded the storms brewing in the distant horizon off the coast of Ericeira, turbulence which would affect all the members  of the Cabral family. Rosa’s plans regarding  Susana were accompanied  by the explosion  of Benjamin’s  virility  and Rosa,





aware  of  this,  intended  to  profit  from  the  congruence  that  both  her children were ready to have sexual companions.
Benjamin,  gripped  by emotions  he never experienced  before, became the scandal of the local community. The news from the servants did not disturb  Rosa  at all. In fact,  she welcomed  the gossip.  In contrast  to Susana, enveloped  in a mysticism  carefully  cultivated  by her mother, Rosa realized it would only be a matter of time before Benjamin was completely corrupt.
With  his increasing  maturity,  he was  now  20, his physical  demands took over the direction of his mind and dragged him into the futility of night life. As his masculinity exploded and coursed through his blood, he became captive to nature’s imperatives without any exercise of will or containment  of morality.  Being an heir to the largest estate in the Mafra district, there were no lack of female pretenders.
He abused his social position and his requests for tavern credit, gladly extended   and  promptly   paid  by  his  mother,  hastened   the  steady, inexorable plunge of her son into the dismal abyss of pecuniary lust. He showed no interest in the local, albeit secondary, aristocrats who would have made excellent spouses. The past now possessed him as the mark of the red blotch on his chest asserted its claim.
After an easy conquest of a village tart which evidently was as unmemorable  as it was spiritless, Benjamin’s escapades entered into a spiral  of  sought  satiety  which  was  impossible  to  attain  for  youthful passion was confused with love. During the afternoon he would lounge around  his  bedroom,   day  dreaming   of  his  next  triumph   and  the imagined relief beckoning him. At night, he would bid his farewell to his mother with little explanation  and saunter out, his destination  the meeting places where the single girls congregated,  those willing for a modest sum to indulge the fantasies of the young men.
The intended victim easily became the pursuer, for the prize of having
seduced Benjamin, conferred on the harlot a modicum of fame. Nights of debauchery succeeded one another as water cascading from hills in winter.  But  Benjamin’s  capers  were  accompanied   by  a  necessary, vigilant guardian  who encouraged  his prowess.  The silent companion was an observer of the line of Mary Sullivan who, for so many decades,





was  watching  and  waiting.  Human  time  bears  no  resemblance   to destiny’s clock.
The visitor might appear to be a stranger he met at a tavern, or an escort who appeared  with the strumpet,  his presence  never questioned,  or a guest at one of the many houses which concealed their nocturne activity during the day with an innocuous commercial activity.
All  these  interlopers  greeted  Benjamin  with  the  camaraderie  which
masked  the dark motives  stirring  beneath  the grinning  teeth and soft spoken words of encouragement.  Benjamin was being nursed for more terrible acts whose finality demonstrates the monstrous falsity of human morality.
Benjamin was the chosen damned, the selected fool, a mixture of fluids and  chemicals  with  no  apparent  purpose  in  life  other  than  aimless sexual movement. Awakening in the morning, when the sounds of the countryside  drifted across the hills, intending to remind inhabitants  of the gentle sweetness of nature that nurtures all living matter, Benjamin was indifferent to the melody of songs bursting forth from the tree tops or the call of the wild geese as they flew on their southern journey to Northern Africa where the warm sun would ensure their survival. His body raked with the diffuse, hot temper of need. The egoistic demand of total satisfaction without regard to any particular companion uttered its commands and Benjamin was helpless and unable to refuse.
There was no one to guide him for no one was more determined as to his final destiny than his mother, Rosa. The sight of her lanky, swarthy son slipping  out of the kitchen  door at night, with an affected  air of nonchalance, filled her with loathing. Time and time again as she lie in her  bed,  the  terror  stricken  face  of  her  late  husband,  Jorge,  at  the moment of his death, would surge forth into her mental memories, and her revulsion  towards him continued  as intense as on that night, only modestly tempered by her satisfaction with his violent slaying.
As the spiritual heir of Jorge, Benjamin suffered the silent contempt of his mother and his presence was tolerated merely for the purposes being constructed   by   Rosa.   When   she   became   aware   of   Benjamin’s permanent  debauchery,  she resolved  to achieve a family justice. This was another revenge she would impose on her distasteful recollection of Jorge. She would deliver Benjamin into the hands of Marta Silva, the





tart who had gone to the hills with her husband, Jorge, so many years ago.
Approximately fifteen years had passed since Jorge’s death in 1837 and Marta,  now  45,  was  slowly  drifting  into  a permanent  dissolute  life, lying  with  any  man  who  could  gather  together  some  coins.  Rosa resolved  to go and see her, even though  the thought  was completely repugnant  to her nature.  “I am the judge  and the executioner,”  Rosa often muttered to herself as she trampled upon the cobblestones of the village when domestic tariffs called her into town.
When the daily winter winds and rain began to lash and drench Mafra,
Rosa took advantage of the first break in the weather and one afternoon when the sky was clear, she gathered her spirits together and went to see Marta. Her plans were quite simple. She would offer Marta employment  as a scullery maid and it would be only a matter of time before Benjamin fell into her arms. With a permanent bed mate at his disposal,  Benjamin  would  be  inexorably  dragged  into  the  limbo  of torment,  where  his sensual  needs  became  warped  and crazed  and no amount of pleasure could diminish his, by now, irrational desires. His plunge into the final debacle she was arranging was inevitable.
Since the dramatic happenings  when Jorge had been slain by the dog
Castro, Marta never spoke of that evening. Nor did she know Rosa was a witness to the events. The fifteen years which had passed since the terrible,  terrifying  moments  in which  she was swept  into a scene  of death and horror, impelled Marta towards a compulsive attitude where she sought refuge in the arms of anyone who was willing to pay for her bodily  services.  Demons  pursued  her continually  for she had been  a witness  to the physical  death of His son and there was a price to be extracted for this privilege.
When  Rosa  appeared  at her  miserable  hovel  one  afternoon  with  her
offer of work, a hysterical,  maniacal  laughter silently rose within the bowels of her body and shook her violently.  The hapless wife of her dead lover was offering  her employment.  What is more, she already knew  of  Benjamin’s  escapades  and  his  wild  pursuit  of  the  scent  of women. The fact that the scion of her former lover would now be cast into  her  presence,  his  immature  mind  an  easy  prey  to  the  lure  of physical desire, he, the son of her throbbing lover long since deceased,





all these emotions and cluttered thoughts made it clear to her that at last the good fortune, which occasionally  is granted to the wretched,  was within easy reach of her clinging, rotten limbs. It never occurred to her the manipulation in course was from the other woman.
So  she  accepted  the  offer  quickly,  muttering  her  thanks  through  a
clenched   mouth,  shuffling  her  feet  behind  her  in  some  awkward semblance to a courtesy while all the time her mind was infused with the glory soon to be conferred on her. It was agreed she would report for  work  as  soon  as  possible.  To  the  dismay  of  the  other  servants, whom she informed when she returned home, Rosa simply retorted that the weak needed assistance and the church was not the only place for charitable deeds.
Marta arrived and was shown her quarters which Rosa ensured were at
a  distant  wing  from  her  bedroom  so  that  the  expected  follies  of Benjamin  would  take  place  far  from  her  ears.  The  first  few  weeks Benjamin seemed indifferent to the presence of Marta in the kitchen for she was considerably older. He was the burning young adult in the full prime of his sensuality  while Marta offered the spectacle  of a weary, worn drudge, whose pallid face and permanent fatigue failed to stir him. Her futile coquetry irritated him.
The  nights  succeeded  one  another  as Benjamin  stumbled  home  late,
when the fields were silent, he soaked with drinks, and his body heavy with the aftermath of lust and depravity. He would stagger up the steps towards his room and throw himself upon his bed, not awakening  till late in the afternoon the next day, his fetid breath emitting sounds resonating through the corridors.
One evening  he came home when the late evening  was cool and the night  was  clear  with  the  sparkle  of distant  stars.  Across  the  nightly dome of intense black surrounding the village houses and gardens, the thick  band  of  distant   lights   circumvented   the  horizon.   Drops   of scattered  milk floated through the firmament  trailing off into eternity. He lurched into the kitchen in search of cool water. Marta was there. He saw her large thighs  and bulky  breasts  barely  concealed  beneath  her slovenly dress. He was exhausted but he was still full of need and he looked  into  her  eyes  and  saw  she  wanted  him.  The  thought  of  her common legs enveloping  him appealed to his spent taste in search of





another  flavor.  Her  obvious  experience  with  men  promised  acts  of physical love he had not experienced.
And so he bedded her that night. It was simple, it was without guile, and he became quickly habituated to her willingness no matter when or for what pretext. Above all, her proclivity to the unusual inebriated him beyond his imagination and his head would burst with the passion exploding  in his head and draining  his body until, soaked,  jaded,  he would fall onto her chest, his frail, adolescent bones trembling against her heart. Enough of his youth remained to shame him for his wanton behavior.
Days would pass and Marta would not even appear in the kitchen as she lay in her room with Benjamin.  She could not believe  her blessings. Benjamin seemed enthralled with the physical warmth she dispensed so willingly and she never asked for anything in return. In fact, Marta was quite happy. She had security. No one would threaten her. She saw the justice in sleeping with the son of the man who had been assassinated in her presence.
Her only thought was what more or what novelty she could introduce into her physical love with Benjamin to hold his interest and maintain his passion. Such is the nature of lust that one extreme quickly becomes the   commonplace    and   Benjamin’s    cravings   turned   urgent   and immediate.
Through  the weeks that passed,  with Marta occasionally  reporting  to the kitchen for appearance and some degree of employment, Rosa was silent and ostensibly satisfied. When the other kitchen servants would complain to her, she would snap at them and tell them they could leave, a threat which would never be challenged.  The stories of Benjamin’s complete  depravity  circulated  throughout  Mafra,  which  pleased  Rosa even more. She was waiting, watching when Benjamin would become the incarnation  of sex, a soulless phallic symbol in need of a destiny. She  would  prepare  it  although  its  precise  moment  she  could  not determine.
This  is what  her  night  visitor  told  her when  he sat  next  to her and
whispered in her ears the future, the consecration of the cult which must take place soon. He told her how much she satisfied Him, as His warm breath lapped invitingly against the crevices of her neck. She murmured





with delight and ecstasy as His fingers softened her maddening anxiety and lulled her into a reverie of dreams and desire. Whispering to her as she moved towards her needed climax, He told her of what was coming and how she should proceed and she understood.  When her body was seized with a convulsing  spasm, He explained  what would happen. It was forthcoming, shortly, He promised. For the moment, he advised her, the marriage of Susana and Bruno must be consummated. To this task, Rosa turned her attention,

5.2    The fated course of love

Susana  was aware of her brother’s  daily absences  from their domain although she did not know the full extent of Benjamin’s  degradation. Passing her in the corridors,  he would merely nod to his sister as he lurched about bent on satisfying his infernal needs and fantasying as to what new experience awaited him.
Nor did the presence of Marta loom significant to Susana. Although the sight  of  Marta  groping  about  the  large  open  hearth  kitchen  was distasteful  to her, she was hard  put to define  its reason,  and  merely granted her the necessary courtesies from the mistress of the manor.
The servants never discussed with Susana their whispered calumny for
there was a strict social hierarchy in the manor. As to the few questions Marta  posed  to  her  mother  about  the  “new  servant,  Marta,”  Rosa merely shrugged  her shoulders  with the laconic  reply, “The hirelings come and go,” and Susana thought no more about the topic. She was caught up in a diabolical scheme engendered by the great Designer of all things evil.
Of course, Susana was the key element and Rosa soon concluded  the moment had come for Susana to be married.  When she had first met Bruno Pinheiro, a day in November, when he and his father arrived for a lunch following the Sunday mass, she saw in his face the blank glaze of a condemned  soul whose journey through life was merely marking time of a useless passage. Jula’s description of Bruno was accurate and Rosa  needed  precious  little  time  to  know  her  choice  of  an  illusory husband was certain. Bruno would never be a satisfactory physical companion to Susana.





Prior to their advent, Rosa spent a great deal of time with Susana explaining the reason for the visit. She told Susana she had met a young man through an old family friend who was from a well-bred lineage. He was  a  quiet  gentleman,  not  yet  experienced  in  life,  but  Rosa  was impressed by his obvious depth of feeling, his sensibility to others, the beauty  in  the  world  obviously  revealed  to  him  by  his  withdrawn, retiring comportment.
Moreover, he appeared to Rosa to be lonely and in need of a companion
who would make a life for him and above all he was anxious to start a family. The young man, Bruno, was restless to leave Lisbon and set up home in the country. Susana listened but did not hear for her thoughts were immersed in the words of “love,”, “family”, “home”, “children”. The reality behind these words she could not visualize.
The first visit by Bruno and his father was uneventful although in her youthful reveries Susana did not discern the personality  of Bruno. He was attentive, for he could no longer bear the jeers of his colleagues, and he believed his only salvation was to flee from Lisbon and retreat to  the  country.  Naturally,  he  did  not  think  of  his  life  as  a  military campaign but he sensed that in Mafra he could build a fortress about his life which would permit him to maintain an orderly, calm existence.
His  confidence   was  further  fortified  by  the  sensory  pleasures   he
underwent  when  confronted  with  the  physical  beauty  of  the  Cabral estates. Wherever  his eyes turned, there were low, rolling hills, tilled with perfection, so that with the coming of spring, corridors of rye and oats would spring forth to feed the wandering  cattle, oblivious  to the savage death awaiting them. Nor did the harsh, winter winds dampen the vitality and force surging forth from the dormant orchards circling the  manor  house.  A  ring  of  fruit  waiting  to  bud  and  burst  forth enhanced his belief that peace, for him, could be achieved in the Cabral mansion.
Rosa guided him and his father through the many saloons of her home, with Susana dutifully following in her footsteps and occasionally exchanging  glances  with  Bruno.  While  the  décor  and  furniture  was hardly  resplendent  or  even  reminiscent  of  the  many  foreign  artists residing  in Lisbon  and  displaying  their  talents  for the  homes  of the city’s  aristocracy,  still  there  was  evident  everywhere,  in  the  large,





carved  wardrobes,  the  lavishly  sculptured  wooden  beds,  the  many, darkly  painted  still-life  of the chase  and fruit  solemnly  covering  the main  dinning  room,  and of course  the repeated  signs  of devotion  to Christ, the opulence of the Cabral family.
Rosa was always careful to demonstrate her devoutness and fidelity to
the image of the Lord and his messages.  For Rosa, the congregation was a farce. The thought of the church and its acolytes  repulsed  her. She saw no salvation in any of the commandments of the ministry. She had  once  been  mortally  betrayed.  Never  again  would  she  prostate herself in denial before the garish, hideous, smirking face of that Christ who dealt out justice in an arbitrary fashion.
Ambling through the corridors of her ostentatious country villa, with a thrust of her broad shoulders she flung open the French doors leading out onto the gardens,  trimmed  in accordance  with the latest fashions imported  from England.  She turned to Bruno and his father and with obvious  pride, waved  her hand towards  the distant  horizon.  “Beyond those hills, you are near the ocean. That is where my lands end. This is the inheritance  for my lovely Susana and my son, Benjamin,  naughty boy, off on one of his silly escapades. Well, he shall grow into his work as did his father.” A smile crossed her face which was misunderstood by all present.
Rosa  undertook  the  chaperon  of  the  romance  between  Susana  and Bruno with total dedication and astute reserve. She brought Susana into Lisbon  often  to  see  Bruno  and  suggested  they  visit  the  landmarks sprawled throughout the seven hills towering over the commercial heart of the city.
They walked,  Susana  and Bruno. They stopped  at the many cafés to take  tea  and  sweets.  Often  Bruno  would  take  Susana  into  the  old Moorish   part  of  Lisbon,   denominated   Alfama,   and  together   they strolled about in search of the ruins and relics left by the vanquished Moors,  once  the  caliphs  of  the  capital.  Remnants  of  ancient  walls cropped out between narrow streets, while at a corner near a dilapidated fountain   Bruno   might   encounter   an   inscription   written   in  Latin, attesting to the antiquity of the site.
Other times, Bruno would hire a carriage which would take him on the
long  trip  by  horse  to  Mafra.  His  father  was  amazed  at  Bruno’s





persistence,  his apparent  infatuation  with Mafra, the mansion,  and of course Susana. Yet Bruno hardly spoke of his thoughts to his father. As to Susana, he did escort her willingly through the part he knew he must assume. He asked for her health, he strolled with her among the gardens; he spoke to her of the enchanting solitude and inner allurement of the Cabral estate. “There is such a stunning enchantment here, in this rural paradise,” he whispered to Susana, and she was satisfied.
She did not examine beyond the content of the words. Nor did she find
it strange that Bruno never once addressed words of passion to her. “He is timid,” she answered to her infrequent doubts, “and he is inhibited by my presence.”  If she expressed  a hesitant  opinion  to Rosa about her future, her mother brushed it aside with a loud laugh and snapped, with a disdaining grimace. “He loves you, child, and is thus tongue twisted. To be shy is the most natural thing in the world. Do not let him escape you. It is youth which snares the mate.”
Autumn  was  succeeded  by  winter  and  the  courtship  of  Susana  and
Bruno continued in its natural rhythm. Although both Rosa and Susana attempted to draw Benjamin into the intimacy of a possible new family, the  prodigal  son  displayed  no  interest.  He  saw  the  attractiveness  of Susana for Bruno. He himself was well aware of her sensuous bodily graces. But his nightly forays dissipated his strength. His mental vigor had  long  ago  snapped.  His  wanton  interludes  with  Marta  broke  his sense of morality. He could not draw the line between the permitted and the fantasy.
When his mother hinted at an impending marriage between Bruno and Susana, Benjamin broke into unrestrained laughter. He could recall perfectly Susana’s developing body, the nights, when younger, they lay in each other’s arms. A surge of jealousy swept momentarily  through him, a touch of despair, for Susana had always appeared to him as ripe fruit on the family table, there, not necessarily  profited.  The fact she was  his sister  barely  managed  to stifle  his natural  lust,  but then  his rounds in Mafra sufficed as an outlet.
Once or twice he attended a Sunday lunch when Bruno was present but he found the Lisbon guest insipid, boring, and indifferent to the strong currents  of corporal  desire  dominating  Benjamin.  He resolved  not to have much to do with Bruno and if there was to be a marriage he would





simply shunt Bruno into some meaningless task which did not interfere with the life of the manor. In any event, it would be some time before Bruno  would  be asked  to assume  the  custodianship  of the  farm,  no doubt decades, for his mother was quite active.
The courtship proceeded to its natural climax until one afternoon, in a
response to an invitation from Rosa, Bruno and his father arrived for a sumptuous lunch preceding Christmas. D. José had suggested to Bruno that he should declare his intentions  to Susana and Rosa had advised Susana that Bruno was desperately in love with her and would probably propose to her the coming Sunday.
After  lunch,  with  the  connivance  of  the  parents,  Susana  and  Bruno found themselves  alone in the spacious library of the Cabral estate, a fire  roaring  with  its  power  and  bathing  the  guests  with  its  diffuse warmth. They exchanged pleasantries with one another. Bruno noticed her dark her eyelashes were and he felt a surge of deep wanting, for her, for the safety she represented, for the physical tenderness which only a woman can dispense.
He suddenly stopped talking and walked towards her. Taking her hand gently in his, he found himself telling her things he never uttered, of his loneliness,  his need for companionship,  the wastefulness  of his days. Before  Susana  could  reply,  Bruno  suddenly  threw  himself  onto  his knees, and grasping her by the ankles, begged her to accept him as her husband.
Startled, and at a loss for words, Susana hesitated, and then her mother walked  into  the  library.  Seeing  Bruno  in  a  prostate  position,  she correctly assumed his request and, observing the gaping appearance on Susana’s face, she grabbed Bruno by the shoulders and hoisted him up. “My dear boy,” she murmured  softly,  “how fortunate  we shall be to have you in our family. Another son has been granted to me by the wise divinity embracing us all.”
Without  waiting  for any reaction  on the part of Susana,  Rosa pulled Susana towards  her, onto her chest, and stroking  her hair, murmured words  of affection  and thoughts  of the great happiness  awaiting  her. “Dom  José,”  she  called  out  excitedly,  “come  and  congratulate  our children on their blessed union.”





Dom José reeled  into the library  and with a significant  demeanor  of pleasure and pride, grasped his son to his bosom. “Bravo, Bruno, you have chosen well.”
Rosa wanted to call Benjamin  to the intimate  celebration  now taking
place but he was nowhere to be found, although a short walk to Marta’s chamber  would  have  found  him panting  and sweating  as his sinewy limbs rocked to the rhythm of an infernal appetite.

5.3    My sister, Susana, deserves a nightly visit.

When Benjamin awoke, it was nearing midnight. Marta’s loud snoring stirred him from his reverie. Opening his eyes, he saw Marta sprawled out on the bed, her heavy,  flabby  breasts  dropping  without  elegance onto the sheets,  while her lower abdomen  heaved  and subsided  as if attempting  to  disgorge  an  exaggerated  repast.  His  thoughts  at  the moment toward Marta were a combination of revulsion and gratitude. Her frowzy appearance irritated him yet as she was a willing partner to all  his  jaded  desires,  and  they  were  many,  she  was  a  source  of satisfaction.  No  matter  what  degree  of  fulfillment  he  demanded  or craved, she was prepared to yield and to even evidence, whether true or simulated,  a joy in its perversity.  It did not matter, either to Marta or Benjamin,  the  sincerity  of  their  passion.  What  was  crucial  was  the satisfaction derived from compliance.
For Marta it was a circle in her life and at times she confused the wild
passion of Benjamin with that of his father, Jorge. And if Benjamin at times saw clearly the broken, humbled spirit of Marta it did not matter to him. It was her body, a receptacle for all his youthful flights of fancy, some indeed distorted,  which allowed him to momentarily  escape his bodily imprisonment and confused mental state.
Eventually  the heavy  silence  enveloping  the manor  stirred  him from Marta’s bed. With the smell of her spent ardor still about his body, he slowly dressed and quietly left the chamber so as not to awaken her. He began the walk to his room, tired in spirit and without hope. It was his lingering feeling of futility which drove him night after night to seek the comfort of another body. It never occurred to him that faith and the





future were intrinsically linked to a morality, no matter how constructed or what were the standards.
It was the lack of any rule of conduct which was destroying Benjamin. The  absence  of inner  regulations  meant  anything  was  permitted  and therefore he had to try all and experiment with every possible variant. He was young, adrift, without a spiritual rudder. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he was irremediably contaminated.
Passing his sister’s room, he saw a light from under the door and he decided to pay Susana a short visit. He knocked gently on her door and, receiving an affirmative response, pushed the heavy, wooden portal inwards. To his surprise, he saw Susana was lying in bed, in her nightgown, her full, budding breasts rising slowly with her breath, her eyes turned towards him with a tired expression.
With a nod of his head, but not at first speaking,  he dropped into an
armchair near her bed, where there was a night table with a lamp, and stared  moodily  at  her.  They  both  experienced  the  same  emotion,  a return to their infancies when they had been bed mates and shared the same reveries uncontaminated  by the senses of desire. Noting her soft, iridescent   hairs  spread  out  on  her  pillow,  Benjamin   was  harshly reminded of the contrast between Susana and the trollops with whom he cavorted.   He  was  particularly   anguished   by  the  obvious,   virginal softness of Susana and the ugly coarseness of Marta.
Finally, he spoke, “You will soon be marrying Bruno.”

“Yes,”  Susana  replied,  and  then  she  stopped  as if to stifle  a further thought, not bothering to ask how he knew.

Unable  to  understand  its  origin,  Benjamin  was  seized  by  an  anger which swept through him with a violence which caused him to stiffen his hands on the arms of the large, leather seat enveloping  him. And then, without explanation, there swept before him in his imagination the naked corporal outline of Susana being bedded by Benjamin and a wild, inner laughter began to seize him, racking his body so that he had to cross   him   arms   about   his   chest   to   stifle   the   offensive   noises overwhelming him. Her thick monastic flesh being stirred by the wimp





Benjamin was a garish incongruity which caused him contemptible disbelief.
Susana appeared oblivious to his emotions, as she kept her eyes focused on the ceiling, pensively contemplating the events of the day.
Against his will, Benjamin prodded her. “You are in love with him?” Susana  did  not  reply  but  kept  staring  at  the  roof  of  her  room,  a sanctuary  she realized she would soon be leaving. She was unable to reply  to  Benjamin.  When  the  silence  became  unbearable,  Benjamin lifted  himself  up  and  approached  Susana.  Between  them  there  had always been a comprehensive understanding not requiring many words. Under  ordinary  circumstances,  Benjamin  would  have  offered  some words  of  encouragement   or  support,  but  he  was  too  debased   to verbalize any solace. Instead, he gently lifted the hand of Susana which was lying on the cover of the flowered eiderdown covering her. He felt her warmth, the blood pulsating  in her soft limb, a call of tenderness and refuge,  a bulwark  of safety and encompassing  love which  is the icon of motherhood.
Benjamin  was  overcome  with  grief.  He  wanted  to  clasp  her  to  his bosom but he knew his masculinity  would explode  and he would be confronted with the most horrible of all family desires-incest-and  here Susana was soon to marry. His body began to tremble and while there was still the faintest tinge of will power remaining within him, he stood up quickly and fled from her room.
Lurching down the corridor towards his lodging he began to sob from the disgrace of his desires when he saw a man in the shadows at the turn  of  the  hall,  staring  at  him,  a  mixture  of  disappointment   and contempt  curled  about  his  lips.  Benjamin  knew  that  Bruno  and  his father had visited them that day, but he did not know whether they were staying for the evening or not. Nor did he know the figure of D. José very well,  having  been  only  once  introduced  to him,  but then never bothering to attend any of the afternoon lunches.
Moreover the darkness of the passageway made identification difficult.
He was about to call out, when the silhouette  vanished,  rounding  the corner towards his room. Rushing to the site, Benjamin stared down the corridor now leading directly to his room. But it was empty. Benjamin paused, a searing pain lapping at his groin. He knew what it was, the





return  of  unsatisfied  want,  a  demand  of  physical  satisfaction  which leaps  from  the  virility  of young  men.  He  glanced  back  towards  the chamber of Susana, debating whether to return-was it possible Susana was waiting for him?-then  he heard a shuffle and a door opened, the entrance to the stairs descending to the kitchen.
Again he believed he saw the same dark outline of a person staring at him. Overcome with fear, spent with stifled emotions, he was about to call  out  when  the  face  confronting  him  became  clear,  he  saw  dark, dazzling eyes holding him in their confrontation, and words passed through the air between them, not heard by others, sounds which were the combination of Benjamin’s innermost desires and fantasies, almost commands which ordered him to turn around and bed her, his sister, the true object of his desire, the only one which could satisfy his hopeless damnation.
He wavered, his legs shaking, now going backwards, now moving forwards, until a violent reaction seized his body and he collapsed onto the floor.  Lying  there,  he gasped  and struggled  to regain  his breath, which  he recovered  slowly.  When  there  returned  to him,  a sense  of mobility, he did not stand up but rather slowly crawled on his knees to his room.  And  then  he recalled  the nightly  apparition  which  he had witnessed. Where was his visitor?
But the silence of the hall and the encompassing  solitude everywhere present  convinced  him he was  a victim  of his  own  weary  thoughts, often  confounding  imagination  with  reality.  Darkness  and  shadows distort reality, making us believe events happen. With relief he reached his room and threw himself onto his bed. His last memory was hearing heavy iron hinges creak, the slow swinging of a door as it closed with deliberation.
In her room, Rosa was planning the consequences  to the forthcoming
union. Of course, the marriage should take place in the family chapel, and the honeymoon  would be consummated  in a cottage not far from the main manor which was used occasionally for special guests arriving from Lisbon. Reviewing the possible alternatives, Rosa concluded a wedding   in  January  would  confer  an  atmosphere   of  a  fresh  life coinciding with a new year.





But when she focused on the aftermath of the wedding, she realized the honeymoon might cause Susana anxiety and an unpredictable response so that the nearness  of the bridal lair important.  Rosa was convinced that  Bruno  would  not  make  a satisfactory  mate.  How  Susana  would react to the obvious inadequacies of Bruno, apparent to Rosa but not yet to Susana, was her concern. She decided the best was to have Susana and Bruno pass their first night together near her so that she, Rosa, was present for all contingencies.
It  was  essential   to  her  plan  that  the  marriage   be  consummated, maintained, and never disrupted. For Rosa’s cursed objective to be achieved, the sensual life of Susana was to be fomented elsewhere. The forthcoming cult of the House of Cabral demanded absolute obedience, an impenetrable secrecy, but also a social masquerade which would be a mockery of the touted paradise of conjugal life.
She was the planner, the schemer, the prophet, and, above all, the instigator. This is what He required. The descendants of Mary Sullivan to be  forever  cursed  and  Rosa  was  the  mere  female  conduit  of  His pleasures and His designs.
The events preceding  the marital decision had been carefully planned
by Rosa. This was the culmination of her dedication to the cult soon to be launched.  She  did  not  map  out  a particular  route.  Her  mind  and thoughts were invaded by inner counsel and fantasies which tormented her  at  night.  She  could  only  think  that  from  the  marriage  between Susana  and  Bruno  a  way  would  be  shown  to  her  but  of  course  its precise details she failed to articulate. It did not matter. She knew from the beginning  the marriage  was fated to fail and the two participants were hapless victims to her own schemes.”

Chapter 6

6.0 	The family records reveal the wedding night took place during the month of January, 1853. For good reasons, the precise date is not indicated.

The  month  of January  1853  was particularly  wet and cold, even  for
Mafra.  Winds  swept  off the coast  of Ericeira  in a fury,  lashing  and





soaking all vegetation in its path. The ground became heavy and soaked with running water, while the village fountains sprouted forth their overflow of underground streams.
Bruno  remained  longer  then  he  should  have  in  the  bathroom.  He
glanced at his face in the crude mirror, a mere piece of metal highly polished.  Although  the  reflection  was  faulty,  the  candle  light  still managed to reveal his features. He knew his appearance displayed inner turmoil. How he was to fulfill his masculine obligations to Susana appeared beyond his capacities. He knew she was waiting for him, and he wanted  to realize  his  conjugal  promises,  but  a fear  he could  not define  rendered  him hopeless.  Shame  invaded  him as water  steadily invading a deserted beach during an incoming tide.
On the other side of the door, Susana was staring out of the window,
wondering what Bruno was doing in the bathroom as no sounds were heard. The guest cottage they were occupying was a one story building, near the large manor, with large windows which allowed its occupants an expansive view over the countryside.
Lying on her side, she could see the twisted trunks of the various olive trees.  It  was  late  evening  as  the  wedding  had  been  a  long,  festive occasion; but the pale moonlight illuminated the olive groove and even permitted  a glimpse of distant hills. Susana, partly in a drowsy state, allowed  her thoughts  to course through  the events of the wedding.  It had been an awkward affair.
Guests  from Lisbon  appeared  in abundance,  for even if they did not know  Susana  personally,  they  came  to  homage  D.  José.  From  the village of Mafra, all the merchants  dependent  on Rosa for sustenance arrived with their gifts. It was an investment they were making in their future. Through all the constant chatter and confusion,  the ceremony, the  meals,  the  procession  to  congratulate  Susana  and  Bruno,  in  the midst  of  the  flurry  of  servants  carrying  the  varied  dishes,  a  few memories stood out in the mind of Susana.
Her  mother  had  moved  awkwardly  among  the  guests,  an  anxiety
evident in her face. More than once, Susana saw her mother staring at her apprehensively. D. José kept tapping his fingers on a table, glancing furtively continually at his son. Her brother, Benjamin, was seen for a few minutes, but then she did not see him for the rest of the day. She





did not even know if Benjamin had been present in the chapel for the ceremony.
As for herself,  her courtship  had been  so strange  that she could  not fathom  how  the  marriage  had  materialized.  Bruno  had  never  once kissed her and she could not recall Bruno even having exhibited  any physical affection towards her. She mentioned this once to her mother who  exploded  in  anger  and  told  her  Bruno  was  a  young  man  of impeccable manners.
What she did not know was her mother later that day rejoiced in what she understood to be her excellent fortune, her perspicuity in selecting Bruno, the ideal impotent mate for her daughter, he who would never be a bed companion  to Susana and who would impel Susana towards the damnation awaiting her.
While  the  nuptial  night  should  have  been  an  episode  of  effusive tenderness  and  an  explosion  of  physical  passion,  a  silence  hovered about  their  bridal  chamber  which  heightened  the  tension  circulating within Susana. Many instances, while Bruno was ostensibly engaged in his toiletry, she longed to return to her protected and pampered status of mistress  of the Cabral  estates,  a single girl still not initiated  into the world of conjugal demands.
The quietude of the early evening, the infrequent country sounds which
filtered  through  the  window,  the  vexatious  hooting  of  a  barn  owl seeking  companionship,  even  the groaning  of the branches  from  the force of the ocean winds charging  in off the coast, caused  her to be restless and impatient for her imagined night of initiation. She, alone, was to be the object of Bruno’s desire.
But Susana was not alone. They were all there, the expectant, invisible companions who understood the importance of the events which would come  to  fruition   this  evening.   Rosa  hovered   about  her  window, glancing   frequently   towards   the   country   cottage   serving   as   the honeymoon  suite.  She  was  waiting  for  a  signal.  There  were  others, Rosa  was  sure.  She  did not see them,  but she  heard  noises  and  the mumbling of whispers borne by the winds.
It might have been Benjamin prowling as he often did at night when his uncontrollable  desires sent him off towards the village. Also, she had





implored upon D. José to stay overnight and yet he was too nervous a man to retire early. Others she could conjure.
Her visions had gathered in intensity as the days shortened towards the family  ceremony.  The  day  before  the  wedding  she  had  gone  to  the family chapel and knelt for hours before the Christ she despised. She saw the smirk on his face, the cunning look in his eyes telling her what a farce were the community morals.
Bowed beneath his scarred, blood-mired face, her hate and rage for the barrenness of her life had swelled up within her and she felt a pounding seize her head and push her towards the floor. But she was determined to punish the fool who preposterously  deceived  the world and in her determined  wrath  she  had  snatched  from  the  altar  an  empty  silver goblet and rushed to a fountain from which water dripped slowly.
As she watched the cup fill to its brim, a wail rose within her and she
cried  out beneath  the arched  roof,  as if relief  were  possible  through crazed utterances, or even that salvation could be secured through confessions  of guilt,  “From  whence  come  the laws  that regulate  our lives? How can they be just if there is so much suffering?”
Turning her face towards the Savior she picked up the receptacle, now
replete  with  cool,  fresh  water,  and  hurried  towards  the  painting.  As soon as she was near enough she turned the goblet upside down and let the water run across her forehead and splash downwards onto the floor. “Are you ready to receive me now? Have I not baptized myself as you demand?”
She saw the lips of Christ began to tremble as words strived to escape from his lips, as if He wanted to answer her, but a swirling darkness started  to envelop  her and there  thundered  in her ears  another  spirit telling her that her daughter would soon be ready for the carnal sacrifice. This  was the culmination  of the first  sin, the passion  that spluttered fitfully one afternoon in Haworth, for the Master of Darkness does not allow  his  victims  to  escape  with  protestations  of  grace.  They  must render homage throughout  eternity. The basic laws of the community once broken can not be mended. The accursed bear their mark and the blood  of  the  condemned  flow  unaltered  throughout  the  generations leaving the sign of their contaminated blood upon the flesh of the heirs.





Watching the droplets fall slowly from her face, Rosa listened to Him and agreed it was right and good. She was to be patient. She had chosen her victim carefully. He told her Bruno would not fail her. Her justice would be perpetuated. Such were the whispers He breathed into her ear as she rocked in frenzy in the early mornings in her chamber. She understood and laughing without reason she had rushed from the chapel to rest for the wedding soon to take place.
Now,  poised  before  the  window,  observing  the  slow  drift  of clouds
across the dark horizon,  an occasional  sliver of light bathing the still fields,  she bowed  her head in homage  to her masters,  for they were many.  Her  stock,  muscular  body  firmed  with  the  contained  energy which  could  not  find  release.  She  waited,  for  a  signal,  a  sign,  a beckoning, and an instruction.
Within the cottage, the same inertia was seizing Bruno, trembling with anxiety  in the bathroom.  He had  to leave  his sanctuary,  but he was unable  to  give  the  command   to  his  feet.  A  damp,  heavy  sweat enveloped his body. On the other side of the door, Susana was waiting for  him.  There  was  an  unseen,  ancient  feud  underway,  a  chorus  of spirits  in  the  undergrowth.   Rosa  imagined   it  dimly.  Susana   was unaware. Bruno was the prize.
Now the woman with the long dress told him to flee, to return to the
comfort of his home and art objects whence nothing would be required of him. The other, the father, D. José urged him to grasp his destiny and give life to others. Christ once again cried out for salvation while the putrid  mouths  shouted  for their trophy.  The battle of course  was not heard but when the invisible arms clashed with such furor that a loud, strident crackling was heard, assumed by the terrified villagers to be a phenomenon  of nature,  lightening  without  rain, and the sign of evil, Bruno  was  propelled  from  his  chosen  hideaway  and  stood  before Susana.
A pleasant smile greeted him. She was waiting for him. She lifted her arms to call him to her. Yet, madness seized his thoughts. The spiritual struggle was reaching its culmination. The source of darkness played its trump. The crackling voice of Marisa and the stench of her flaccid flesh appeared  before  his  eyes  in  an  apparition.  He  saw  her,  Susana,  a virginal halo of peace and love, then Marisa, a lump of wasted, fetid





flesh, while a searing pain crossed his chest. He was implored to seek the true path of feminine solace, but he was an error, a human mistake, wisely chosen by Rosa.
Staggering  towards  Susana,  he stared  wildly  at her and  then,  seeing
now the fear in her face, when he wanted tenderness, he turned around, scoped up his overcoat lying on a chair, and fled, running, out into the night,  not  knowing  where  to  go,  the  hills  calling  him,  the  wind dispersing  the tears flowing  in abundance  in their downward  course, while the solitary owl screeched with crazed loneliness.
The flight was the glorious march towards the altar of sacrifice. Now
the lightening struck again and again. He could not turn back. The infrequent clouds gathered in intensity and while light struggled to hold back the obscurity  of evil, it was too late. Bruno was lost, stumbling about the hillocks, while the drones gathered in intensity until he fell to the ground, sniveling, but never asking for guidance. The quietness of the night was cleaved with his hysterical weeping.
Left alone, Susana remained immobile for some minutes. The gathering
storm outside began to shake the modest structure and she was gripped in  a  fear.  Her  astonishment,  then  her  abandonment  on  her  wedding night, burst forth from her in a childlike wail and she sprung from the unused nuptial bed. He had fled from her! Her body, in preparation for its initiation, was aflame with desire and bursting with readiness. Running to the door, she flung it open and stared into the blackness of the heavens  which  were now unleashing  a steady downpour.  Reason drained from her as the rivulets of water dribbling from the roof of the porch. A voice began to call her. She could not identify it but it was surely her mother. There was no one else to comfort her. She could not remain in her bridal chamber which was now defiled by Bruno’s crazed behavior. Wet and cold, her body trembled with fright and despair; yet the anticipated male passion still persisted with her.
The return to her mother’s manor seemed the only alternative and in a dazed determination she lumbered towards the large, stone structure drenched in water yet offering a haven to her desolate spirits. From the vantage of her window, Rosa had seen the flight of Bruno and now she saw Susana lurching towards her, at time slipping onto her knees, other times standing straight and allowing the coolness of the bursting night





shower to temper the unsatisfied  desire which had taken dominion  of her.
Rushing from her room, Rosa hastened to the main door and threw it open to greet Susana. As soon as Susana saw her mother, she rushed into  her  arms.  Murmuring  to  her,  Susana  grasped  her  in  apparent concern, and issued her foul suggestion, “To the chapel, my love, to the chapel my dear, we must pray together. Go, go, I shall join you immediately.”
Not  understanding  but  obedient  by nature,  Susana  hesitated  slightly, and then, oblivious to her appearance, her nightgown soaked with water, and barely  concealing  the contours  of her youthful  body, turned  and fled towards the nearby sanctuary to await her mother. As soon as she was heading towards the site of Susana’s  planned ritual, Rosa turned around  and  raced  up  the  stairs  towards  the  chamber  of  Benjamin. Flinging open the door, she saw he was not there.
In desperation, she raced down the corridor towards the far wing of the
manor, towards Marta’s room, mumbling to herself that Benjamin must be there; it was ordained so and could not be otherwise. He did not fail her. Approaching  the door to Marta’s  chamber,  she heard the sexual groaning   of  her  son.  Revulsion   swirled   within   her  but  she  was unwavering. The moment had to be seized.
As soon as Benjamin heard the door swinging open he released Marta from his arms, who in any event was already limp from his excessive appetite,  and  he  stared  in  stupefaction  at  his  mother.  “Hurry,”  she shouted, “Susana has been defiled. Come quickly to the chapel.” With those enigmatic  words, she slammed  the door and waited impatiently for the noises signaling Benjamin was obeying her. When she heard no rustle or stir, she began to bang violently on the heavy wood with the heel  of  her  shoe,  screaming  hysterically,  “Leave  that  foul  bed  and assume your obligations or I shall cast you penniless onto the streets of Mafra.”
In a matter of moments,  Benjamin  appeared  and stared mutely at his
mother.  He had hastily  dressed  and  his shirt  hung  loosely  about  his frame, revealing his muscular,  sinewy physique. The pale light of the hall caused  him to resemble  his father,  a steel-cold  look in his eyes while, before the tragic events, his lips were curled in disdain.





“What is it, mother?” Benjamin asked softly.
In reply, Rosa grabbed  his hanging,  motionless  hand and pulled him down  the  long  passageway.  Benjamin  stumbled  after  her,  his  ears suddenly penetrated with garbled sounds while the rising storm shook the timbers  of the house. As soon as the main door was thrust open, Benjamin  beheld  a  sight  of  unnatural  dread.  Torrents  of  rain  raced down the pathway leading to the garden but what riveted Rosa and her son were the howling  wild dogs gathered  in a horde near the garden wall racing back and forth, saliva and froth emerging from their mouths as they howled and barked.
“No,  mother,  we  can  not  go  outside.  These  are  wild  dogs  that  will
attack us. Please, let us return.”
In reply to his plea, Rosa dragged him onto the large, stone patio and thrust  her  face  upwards  towards  the  sky.  “What  do  these  creatures want?” she cried out.
Snapping and displaying their long fangs, the savage curs raced toward
them,  but  stopped  short  of  the  patio,  as  if  in  a ritual  invested  with spiritual  significance.   Rosa  held  her  face  tilted  towards  the  dark firmament  unleashing  buckets  of water which drenched  both her and Benjamin.  For  the  forthcoming  ritual,  she  wished  for  the  heavenly floods to purify her and Benjamin.
But to reach the chapel where she had sent Susana, meant to traverse the thick, barking packs which were clearly impeding her intentions. It was then Rosa understood  the turmoil confronting  her to be unnatural obstacles  bearing  a  message.  The  howls  and  elements  were  the  last attempt  to test her courage  and commitment  to the cult. Had not her night-time companion and lover warned her that she would have many obstacles  to overcome?  The  rain  and  savagery  confronting  her were purification  and  courage,  the  two  elements  she  would  need  as  she pushed Benjamin towards her intended goal.
With her characteristic boldness, she stepped forward pulling Benjamin with her. She saw the barbarous creatures staring at her with their heads lowered,  and as she advanced  they slowly  retreated.  Gathering  more conviction with each step, she and Benjamin slowly started the walk to the chapel.





From behind the tree trunks the canines wailed in harmony to the ceremony about to unfold but they did not attempt to deter Rosa or her son. Their  master  was not the dark visitor  to Rosa’s  chamber.  They were sent by the angels who in their simplicity  thought physical  fear would  deter  Rosa.  Once  again,  the  malign  spirits  rejoiced  in  their triumph, as the warped mind of Rosa distorted reality into visions.
In  the  distance,  Rosa  saw  the  flickering  lights  of  the  tabernacle.  A
momentary lull in the storm, interlaced with the shimmering  gleam of the moon, silhouetted the chapel on the crest. The place of worship was soon to become the altar of her conceived passion and the inauguration of the most pure love, sprung from desire which does not pollute.
As soon as they reached the chapel door, Rosa, swung it open to behold the magnificent scene now displayed to her, which in her wildest imagination  exceeded  her hopes and aspirations.  Susana lay sprawled out on the stone floor of the primitive church, her wet clothes clinging to her so that her luxurious body revealed all its loveliness as yet untouched by gentle, sensuous caresses. She was in a daze.
Rosa turned towards  Benjamin.  She saw the lust in his eyes burning with a frightening brightness, stirred by the fallen creature, his sister, at once  he sensed  pity,  at once  he was  swept  with  an unconsummated passion. He walked slowly towards her, his mother whispering behind him, “comfort her, touch her, awaken her spirit, bring her to the only ecstasy permitted humans.”
Kneeling  next to Susana, his heart was stricken with compassion  and desire.  He  touched  lightly  her  hand.  In  her  dream-like  stance,  she grasped it firmly, believing in her mind that Bruno had returned. The eyes of Christ moved and looked imploringly  upwards. Susana rolled gently onto her back, her eyes closed, yearning for her bridal passion to be satiated and Benjamin overcome with a profound, instinctual desire, raised  the  wet  gown  of Susana  and  clasped  her to him with  a wild craving.
The wildness of his desire impelled him towards the craved penetration
but he was abruptly halted by the strong hand of his mother grasping his shoulder.  Before  he could  utter a word, she struck  him from the prostrate body of Susana and he fell with a heavy thud to the floor.





For a moment the panting of brother and sister reverberated throughout the stillness of their haven. Rosa’s eyes glowered  at them both. Then her voice rang out, “Your father’s grave is nearby. Stand up! There is a pledge  to be made,  a sacrifice  to be enacted.  The cult of the family Cabral shall be established  this virginal night when we are all united, mother, daughter and son, the original family which customs and time have destroyed through the foolish laws of men.”

6.1    Hail, Satan, for Christ is impotent.

They stood with their mother as she stared down at the slab of black granite, beneath which rested the bones of Jorge. The curt epitaph was still clearly visible:
“Each shall marry, but neither father nor mother the other shall be!” Turning towards her daughter, she spoke and commanded  in a trance,
“Lie upon the grave of your beloved father.”
Susana  slithered  upon  the cold  stone,  exhausted  from  her flight  and feverish with the dampness now invading her body, consumed with tingling  desire.  Her  frail  spirit  was  broken  and  shattered   by  the imperious utterances issuing from her mother. Standing over her, seized with uncontrollable ardour, Benjamin stared at the splendor and beauty of the fallen Susana.
At first, Susana just lay there, twisting and turning with the mounting fever possessing her. Until, her mother, impatient with the limp posture of Susana,  grabbed  the  edge  of her soaked  nightgown  and  savagely ripped it off of her. The white and pink of her flesh glowered in the dim candle light of the chapel.
Benjamin was not able to control himself. His nights in their adolescent beds together  returned  to him with all the sweetness  and warmth  he remembered. His body swayed with the heat suffusing him. Glancing at his face, Rosa saw the lust and physical pain roaring through his limbs. “Take her,” she whispered.  “She is not your sister. She is the eternal woman who shall bear our seed forever through the generations.”





Wailing as a wild animal, Benjamin fell upon her and his masculinity sprung  to  life.  With  his  every  frantic  movement  the  eyes  of  Christ widened  until when Benjamin  reached  his climax  and screamed  with released  grief  onto  the  chest  of  Susana,  the  eyeballs  froze.  He,  the Savior, was obliged to witness the vilest of all acts before him while the others, in the shadows, silently congratulated themselves with their glorious victory.
After  their  frenzied   embraces,   terminating   with  the  explosion   of
Benjamin’s   masculinity,  Susana  began  to  sob  softly  as  her  hands caressed the locks of her fraternal lover until exhaustion overtook her. A silence reigned in the oratory. A prelude to their spiritual death, an induced  sleep  seized  Benjamin  and  Susana.  Rosa  had  witnessed  the whole scene as she stood in the shadows  under the arches where the pillars spiraled upwards towards the curvatures of the ceiling.
The  naked  body  of  Benjamin  arching  and  falling  in  rhythm  to  his crazed, debauched sexual energy impelled Rosa towards her own excitement   which   rose,  at  first,  slowly,   but  with  the  accelerated movements  of Benjamin,  increased  in intensity  until, in a trance, she approached the bodies of Benjamin and Susana, now still, and only the twitching movement  of their eyelashes stirred the cloistered repose of the sacrificial altar.
Gently, Rosa moved the collapsed figures of Susana and Benjamin so that she could see their chests. The red cross of each was bright and incandescent.  Picking up Susana’s discarded nightgown, Rosa covered the naked bodies of her children. She then turned around and walking slowly  to the  granite  slab  covering  the  tomb  of her husband,  Jorge. Suddenly, a mouse scampered out from beneath a pew and made a dash for the vestry door. Rosa did not notice its frantic haste.
She knelt down and stared dazedly in front of her; yet her eyes revealed
only  the  dark  space  of  the  sanctuary  as  her  mind  was  captive  to fantasies and demons. The occult powers which long had dominated her spirit sprung forth from her mouth as she began her litany. They were the rules of Satan as erected through the Cult of the House of Cabral which would regulate descendants forever. From her frothy mouth she blurted her prophecies  and visions wrapped in hate and contempt, the result of the wretchedness of her life. As she mumbled her commands,





the youthful face of Rui appeared to her as in a dream, and tears gushed forward over her face:

“It  shall  be  as  written  on  this  slab.  From  this  blessed  union  of  my children shall issue forth their descendants and mine. But this shall be concealed  from  the  knowledge  of  all  others.  The  silence  of  their spouses shall be bought with the produce and wine the Cabral estates germinate.  Each  shall  marry,  but neither  father  nor mother  the other shall be!”

The  missing  words  were  “to  each  other”  for  the  marriage  of  each sibling  would  not produce  offspring  from such  a union.  Mother  and father each sibling would be but it would be their children and not issue of their matrimony. Slowly Rosa stood up, trembling from the cold and heavy, humid air enveloping her body. Her children were still sleeping. As she approached them, she felt a convulsion seize her limbs, causing her to gasp and struggle for air. Putting her hands to her head she began to scream and laugh intermittently,  stumbling and falling, then raising herself  again, until, overcome,  she fell upon the naked bodies  of her children.  The  smell  of  their  sweat  was  her  last  sensory  impression before she fainted.
For  some  moments  the  only  sound  heard  was  the  scratching  of  the mouse endeavoring to enter the vestry so as to escape. Finally, the noise ceased. Eventually,  soft footsteps  were heard and a woman in a long skirt  emerged  from  the  shadows.  Her  wide,  glowing  eyes  stared  for some time at the scene before her.
Then, with a determination  shaped by her damned eternal wandering, she approached the body of Benjamin and turned him towards her. She stared for some time at his bare chest, marked by the pulsating red cross. Kneeling  down  she lifted  him gently up and held him tightly  in her arms,  murmuring   words  of  endearment,   “My  son,  my  son,  how peaceful he seems.”
A burst of approval was heard from beneath the arches and together, the
benefactress  and  Master  of darkness  danced  to the madness  of their designs  and celebrated  the continuation  of the first mortal  sin, those days long ago in Haworth.





The  irrational,  insane,  inherent  nature  of  humanity  was  confirmed visibly.

6.2    The fraternal embrace.

The mist was slowly rising from the vales surrounding Mafra. Occasionally, the country silence of dawn was broken by the stirring of the ravens as they prepared  to commence  their daily search for food. Starting  their  early  morning   journey  to  the  local  market,  drivers muttered curses under their breath for the wet fields from the evening moisture impeded the oxen. The first to stir was Susana. Opening her eyes, a chill swept over her ardent body. She saw her mother sitting in one of the pews, staring at her.
Slowly rising, she then glanced at the body of her brother, still in a deep repose. The events of the night swept before her and she was about to cry out when her mother signaled for her to be silent. Initially overcome with shame,  Susana  rushed  into her mother’s  arms and began  to cry uncontrollably.
Rosa said nothing. The collapsed frame of her daughter, the destruction
of her personality, complete and now without any moral references, left her an empty vase which Rosa would fill according to her designs. She guided her gently to the tomb of her father and explained to her what was  to be, all the while  holding  her tightly,  with  apparent  motherly concern, and with time Susana’s sobs began to subside.
Susana mumbled her dishonor and mortification  before the possession of her by Benjamin. She was a destroyed woman who could not return to her husband’s bed. She would have to leave Mafra and seek refuge in a convent, if she could find an order to accept her.
Her mother scoffed at her, chided her for her over reaction and haste in
reaching conclusions. The love her brother felt for her was genuine and sincere. It was redemption  for Benjamin.  The three of them were the sacred family and outsiders had no place in their circumscribed circle. The  passion  Benjamin  suffered  for  Susana  was  more  genuine  and forceful than could ever be proffered  by another. Rather than casting aside this fury of ardor seizing Benjamin, she, Susana, should profit and allow the seed of Benjamin to impregnate  her so that her body would





burst  with  the fullness  of his masculinity.  Heirs,  and the line of the
Cabral, would continue uncontaminated.
Moreover,   she  whispered,   Bruno  was  incapable   of  providing   her physical  comfort,  nor  was  his  virility  sufficient  to  produce  a  child. Susana would be condemned  to a life of bareness and she would die, childless,   and   still   a   virgin.   All   the   while   she   spoke,   Susana remembered the stricken face of Bruno, the fright and terror reflected in his  expression   as  he  stared  at  Susana.  His  twisted  grimaces  had wounded her fragile confidence as a woman and contrasted vilely with the pounding, fervor of Benjamin.
She  kept  her  head  bowed  as  her  mother  recited  the  customs  which would  now  be the family  conventions.  Bruno  would  be coaxed  into returning to his bride. In return for his silence, he would receive a home, an apparent  family,  a monthly  stipend.  The future issue of Benjamin and Susana would be claimed to be the child of Bruno and Susana. Benjamin would also marry but she, Rosa, would choose a spouse for him who would be bound to mute complicity for the same reasons as Bruno. She would be a simpering, aristocratic lackey who had no hope of ever marrying a robust, vigorous land owner.
Benjamin  and  Susana  would  ensure  the  continuation  of  the  Cabral
lineage and they would, together,  bring forth a male and female.  All others  were  to be destroyed,  their infant  bodies  buried  in the family estates so that their existence was never to be known. Each female born would eventually be taught the rules of the Cabral cult and ensure the continuation of its tenets.
It  would   be   an   oral   tradition   which   remained   with   the   female
descendants.  Those  coming,  the  female  children  of  fraternal  incest would possess the seductive charms necessary to ensure their brothers were drawn into the sacred mores of the Cabral sect.
With adherence to these rites, the Cabral family and lands would thrive
and prosper. In the midst of this plenty, the fraternal  love which is a normal constant in families would find its natural expression and not be inhibited by threats. The cult of the family Cabral, the worship of incest, was the primal, natural state of the family and its suppression and condemnation  by others was a result of imagined  prohibitions  whose only purpose was to expand and acquire lands.





As  Susana   sat  motionless   while   her  mother   purled   her  counsel, Benjamin  awoke  from  the  murmur  of  voices  and  glanced  over  at Susana and his mother. His remembrances were dim of what had transpired  the night before.  Yet, from his position  he saw the naked back of Susana  and his unbridled  desires  again  rose with a violence within him. The sensations  of the night before,  when her voluptuous body exploded  with desire, blurred visions raced through his ravaged senses and he started to drag himself towards his mother and sister. The most exquisite sensuality he had encountered  could not be allowed to escape.
Rosa heard his scuffling and turned to see him crawling towards them
both. She saw the wild voracity in his eyes and she glanced at the face of Susana. There, also, she noted a blush overcoming her cheeks as the remembrances of her brother’s embraces were still fresh with her. Rosa hastily slithered away from the tomb of her husband. It is doubtful if Benjamin was even conscious of her presence.
As he rose to his knees and clambered towards Susana, his only thought was to once again grasp her thighs and descend deeply into her body. Rosa retired to the dark arches and leaned against one, her back to the lovers, now embraced in crazed desire. Listening to their wild chants of passion and relief, Rosa thought briefly of Rui, wondered what it would have been like to have been his lover, and as she heard the screams of mutual  anxiety  rise to a screeching  pitch, only to be silenced  by the spasms of release, her body trembled with remorse at her blighted life. With her back securely supported by a wooden pillar, Rosa watched the sun’s rays filter through the crevice in the chapel wall facing east. No sounds were heard from the bodies of Susana and Benjamin enveloped in  one  another.  Eventually  she  closed  her  eyes.  She  would  have  to speak to Bruno, placate him with some monetary offer, even have D. José threaten him. As for Benjamin, there were local fools in abundance who would  gladly  exchange  a life of chastity  for the appearances  of children and sustenance.
“The laws of men are hollow of moral content,” she thought to herself.
“They serve commerce and nothing more. It is desire and passion which brings forth life. Rules and regulations are useless artifices.”





 She thought of leaving but then she decided to wait until her children, now lovers, locked in unison, should arise, and as a family they would all return, together.








Part Two

Chapter 7

7.0    The incestuous genealogy of the Family Cabral.

The complete genealogy of the Cabral family until the present can be consulted in detail in the appendix to this Part II. For our purposes, it is sufficient to emphasize  that it did come to pass that Benjamin Cabral married  Ana  Pereira,  a  young,  aristocratic  widow  from  the  nearby village of Igreja Nova, a frail, frightened  creature who had a child to rear and was only too happy to accept Rosa’s proposal.
She was offered a life blessed with security, comfort, and above all, a safe future for her child. Nothing was expected from her; she received nothing; she gave nothing; she passed her life being as unobtrusive as possible. On her death bed, she did not call for the Priest. Her sins, in the form of her silence for decades in the midst of gross misdeeds occurring  at  the  Cabral  estates,  were  too  large  to  be  spoken.  Death arrived as a kindly gesture from a stranger.
Rosa  died  in  1857  but  from  the  incestuous  unions  of  Susana  and Benjamin there were born Diana in 1853 and Antonio in 1855 so that Rosa was able to see the living proof of the continuation of the Cult of the House of Cabral. Children  issued from the marriage  of Benjamin and Ana but in accordance with the instructions of their mother, Susana and  Benjamin  had  them  assassinated  on  the  day  of  their  birth  and buried as soon as nightfall permitted the necessary discretion.
Ana spent days in bed following each murder but she thought of her son,
the child of her former, true lover, and said nothing. Eventually he grew into adulthood and went to Africa, leaving his mother to die, a useless but convenient ornament to the Cabral family.
Bruno   remained   a  celibate   while   Susana’s   passion   for  Benjamin
became  an obsession.  Benjamin  was her husband,  not the shadow  of Bruno  who  spent  his  life  going  to Lisbon,  testing  his  prowess  with prostitutes, and of course failing.





With  the  continuation  of  his  incestuous  love  for  his  sister  and  its immediate  gratification,  Benjamin  gradually  ceased his nightly escapades in Mafra and settled down to running the Cabral estates and ensuring their prosperity. When Susana died in 1876 at the age of 45, Benjamin had her buried in the family chapel. He kept vigil over her every evening for weeks.
Finally, he returned to his incessant forays with other woman and died
one year later, at the age of 44, dissipated in body and devoid of any will to live. Near the end of his life he spoke incoherently. The family doctor said it was a mental illness but the villagers spoke of syphilis. Substantially  prior to her death,  when Diana  was still an adolescent, Susana  fomented  in  Diana  an  earnest  carnal  love  for  her  brother, Antonio, with the same words and whispers her mother had used with her.  Eventually   possessed  with  the  knowledge   of  her  obligations, charged by her mother, Susana, with the continuation of the cult and its true mission, Diana seduced her brother.
They  spent  their  nuptial  evening  in  the  family  chapel,  with  their
grandfather’s   tomb  as  their  bridal  bed,  as  they  fornicated.  Christ, enshrined in a painting, rendered immobile from the nails piercing him, and further hanging from the wall, was obliged to watch in horror the destruction  of virginity by the embraces of the siblings. Yet, this was only the initial stages of the cult.
Through the generations, the female descendants adhered to their duties conferred on them by oral tradition and the brothers were willing accomplices. From each fraternal fit of passion, other infants were born. Husbands and wives of various sorts were purchased with ease, for the life of the nation was difficult and dire.
Poverty always threatened a family and the Cabral manor was a refuge from  penury  and  strife,  even  if  its  grounds  were  fertilized  with  the bones of unwanted  children.  Mothers  and fathers grieved to see their offspring strangled at birth, but the Cabral estates were sufficiently far from the village for its inhabitants to construct their own laws. Passionate sisters and anxious brothers feasted in their fraternal lust for when  enforcement  of  social  custom  is  weak,  the  original  nature  of humanity arises in all its sexual fury. In six generations there were born
24 siblings but six generations wrests many changes in human lives so





that when Liliana  (b. 1937) and Duarte (b. 1938) were brought  froth into the world, an atmosphere from family conspiracy had rendered the inhabitants of the Cabral lands mentally disordered, and on the brink of dementia  from  the  multiple  homicides  committed  in  the  name  of fraternal love which knew no limits.
It  was  Rute  Neves,  married  to  the  fifth  generation  brother,  Ricardo Cabral, who attempted to escape from the cursed cult of the House of Cabral, and leave Mafra with her husband and their adopted son, Duarte, whose real mother was Paula, Ricardo’s sister.

Annex

Part Two

Complete Genealogy of the Family Cabral

Emily Sullivan (1772-1818), a Yorkshire lady from Haworth, England, came to Portugal in 1798. She married Henrique Cabral (1760-1825) in the year 1801, when Emily was 29 and Henrique was 40. They had one son,  Jorge  Sullivan  Cabral  (1802-1837).   In  1830,  Jorge,  aged  28, married Rosa Monteiro Cabral (1811-1857), aged 19, who was the daughter of João Cabral (1758-1835), brother of Henrique Cabral, and Sofia Monteiro (1786-1815).

Rosa and Jorge had two children which initiated the incestuous lineage in Mafra:

3. Susana Monteiro Cabral
Pinheiro                                              1831-1876

4. Benjamin Cabral                                1833-1877

During their incestuous union, Susana is married to Bruno Pinheiro and Benjamin is married to Ana Pereira. From the fraternal coupling there were born:






5. Diana Monteiro Cabral
Pinheiro Fernandes                            1853-1899

6. António Cabral                                  1855-1902

Thereafter,  Diana  marries  to Alfredo  Fernandes  and António  marries
Francisca Leite. From this sister/brother liason, there were born:

7. Clara Monteiro Cabral
Pinheiro Fernandes Conde                1874-1922

8. Pedro Cabral                                      1875-1921

Prior to the birth of their children, Clara marries João Conde and Pedro marries Maria Fonte. Clara and Pedro are the parents of:

9. Célia Monteiro Cabral Pinheiro
Fernandes Conde Miranda                 1895-1950

10. Paulo Cabral                                    1897-1953

Célia thereafter marries Samuel Miranda and Paulo marries Cristina Borges. From the ensuing illicit affair between two siblings there were born:

11. Paula Monteiro Cabral
Pinheiro Fernandes Conde

Miranda Prado
1916-196212. Ricardo Cabral1917-1963Paula was then given in wedlock  to José Prado and Ricardo  marries
Rute Neves.  Ricardo and Paula were the progenitors of:

13. Liliana Rosa Monteiro Cabral





Pinheiro Fernandes
Conde Miranda Prado
1937-14. Duarte Jorge Cabral1938-Liliana and Duarte had two children:
15. Lucia Cabral1969-16. Salvador Cabral1970-All  descendants  of Emily  Sullivan  were  easily  identified  by the  red blotch on their chests, at times with no shape, at other times resembling a cross.








Part Three

Chapter 8

8.0    The flight.

It  was  a chilly  January  morning  in  the  year  1939.  Rute  stood  by  a window clutching in her hand a letter from her elder brother, Manuel, now living in New York City. Remembering  his serious nature, Rute was not surprised to observe how neat and orderly his handwritten sentences were. “His life is well organized,” she thought, “and mine is not.”
From the chambers  she and Ricardo Cabral occupied,  Rute could see the choppy ocean waves as they rolled towards the distant shoreline of Ericeira.  The  last  few  days  had  been  replete  with  rain  and  now  the water-laden  earth slowly absorbed  its precious  gift from the heavens. With so much precipitation,  the spring crops would be strong, sturdy, with plenty of feed to store for the livestock during the ensuing winter. This was the life of the country, planning for the future, but dependent on the caprices of weather. Opening her window slightly, the pungent smell of richly fertilized soil wafted towards her. A
stir from the bed where Duarte Cabral was sleeping caused her to walk over  and  ensure  he  was  well.  Staring  at his  closed  eyes,  his  mouth tightly clasped with a determined set, she felt her maternal instincts rise in defense  of his protection  even  though  she  was  not the  biological mother.
He had been born a year earlier. One of the maids found him on the
kitchen doorsteps, an abandoned infant, newly arrived. Ricardo had insisted with Rute that they adopt the child as theirs since he and Rute were still childless. It was a paltry ruse. Rute believed she knew well from where the child issued.
It was not possible to live in the Cabral household  without becoming familiar with, or suspecting,  the occult history of all that passed. The corridors  were always  abounding  with maids whispering  and holding





their  hands  to  their  mouths  in  an  effort  to  stifle  any  scandalous information from bursting forth in torrents.
A tall, plain, religious woman, with a silent, morose expression emphasized by her long, flowing black hair, Rute quietly raged against the circumstances of her life. She was living on the Cabral lands, a wife to the heir Ricardo, but a spouse in name only.
It was  her  father  who  had  insisted  she  accept  the  frank  proposal  of
Ricardo’s  mother,  Célia, the formidable  matron of the Cabral  manor. Célia  had suggested  to Rute’s  father,  that Rute  become  betrothed  to Ricardo  and  assume  the  privileges  as  wife  to  an  affluent  country property owner.
Rute never would have accepted such a suggestion under ordinary circumstances  but the years were passing and she had no hope of any suitor. Although her parents were part of the aristocracy of Mafra, and this was the reason which brought forth Célia, their land holdings were modest, mostly olive groves. But the condiment market was poor as the nearby sea air stunted their growth and rendered them bitter.
Her  father’s  business,  an  olive  oil  warehouse,  was  in  decline.  The financial   prospects   emanating   from  a  marriage   with  her  was  not sufficient to overcome  her homely appearance  and attract any suitors. This  Rute  knew,  for she  was,  above  all, a perceptive  person  with  a substantial capacity for grasping the essential of life. And while she was not prone to verbalizing with ease her thoughts, they existed and were often carefully constructed.
Moreover,  her brother,  Manuel,  had emigrated  to New  York  City in
1930. As the only other child, the entire burden of caring for her elderly parents was her future. Not having any viable alternatives, and in moral desperation,  she accepted Célia’s proposal to her family, thinking she would construct a new future for herself.
Ricardo made the frequent, necessary courtship visits. The first time she
met him, she was pleasantly affected. Before her stood a heavy, thick- boned,  but  muscular  man,  with  a gentle  face  and  an  awkward  gait. Shocks of curly brown hair fell about his forehead while his hazel eyes held  you  in  a  steady  gaze.  For  some  time,  she  thought  her  fortune would take an agreeable turn.





Yet, it always struck her as odd that never once did Ricardo invite her for a walk alone, or do any of the small, romantic  gestures  expected from a future husband. In fact, he spoke very little, being inclined to an introspective  manner  and  distrustful  of  conversation.  His  time  with Rute was usually characterized by his sitting awkwardly in front of her, staring blankly in front of him, and occasionally commenting on a particular   farming   chore   which   was   still   uncompleted.   His   eyes frequently strayed towards a distant horizon which lay beyond the ken of his companion.
Sometimes, when he was with her, his eyes cast inward on an unknown
image, she would study his features. His face bore the lines of a person burdened with words, captive to other voices and different lives. With his hand resting on his forehead, she believed she witnessed an ongoing struggle within the mind of Ricardo, as if another Ricardo struggled to assert himself but was, by edict, forbidden to do so.
She wanted to say something  and once she had actually stretched her
hand towards him so that her fingers touched his. He raised his head slowly and she watched his trembling lips struggle to find words. But he was unable to articulate what he felt and merely clasped his hands together in despair.
With  time,  a  certain  apprehension  began  to  grow  within  her  as  the
wedding  day neared  but of course  it was  too late  to retreat.  To  her surprise, the local tradition of a large wedding was eschewed in favor of a small,  modest  family  ceremony.  Nor was it the local village  priest who administered  the necessary  oaths. Instead, Célia retained a priest from a community  to the North, where, she stated,  was the ancestral home of their ascendants.
Finally, a modest amount of romantic hope was squashed when Ricardo advised Rute they would spend their honeymoon  at the guest cottage which was within sight of the family manor. Attributing Rute’s startled look,  but inner  dismay,  to genuine  surprise,  Ricardo  told  her it was better to confine their lives to the Cabral lands, where everything they could possibly need was available. “In any event,” he murmured, “the life of a farmer means conserving money for the difficult times ahead,” a remark Rute assumed to refer to climatic instability.





Her anguish and misgivings were dramatically heightened when her wedding evening proved to be an adolescent affair, with Ricardo barely able to complete coitus, a distasteful episode which left Rute awake the whole evening. Still, the shaking body of Ricardo, as he lay next to her, softened her disappointment  towards him. She stroked his head gently and she heard his silent sobs as he buried his tormented face within his pillow.
Following their unsuccessful  physical union, the ensuing months only
worsened the situation as Ricardo hardly ever made any passionate overtures,  and  when  he  did,  it  always  seemed  to  Rute  they  were mentally prepared and the culmination was always the same: coitus interruptus.
After these episodes, he would arise and sit, for an interminable period,
in  a  maple  near  their  window,  and  watch,  as  if  in  communion,  the evening passage of time. With the moonlight  illuminating  his profile, Rute stared at him, unable to sleep, awaiting his return to their bridal bed. When he did, he invariably threw himself onto the mattress, and with a brusque turn, fell asleep with his back towards Rute.
Of  course,  Ricardo’s  withdrawals  made  it  impossible  to  have  any
children and yet any mention of this by Rute to him was always met with sullen hostility. He would stare at her with a mournful gaze and then  slump  angrily  away.  The real  reason  for his surliness  surprised even Ricardo. Unexpectedly, Ricardo had grown fond of Rute, in spite of his adherence  to the Cabral cult. Her natural grace confronting  the sinister undercurrents at the Cabral mansion made her appear regal and sturdy.
He understood  she  was  a woman  of strength  and  character.  Ricardo
admired  those qualities  although  he kept his thoughts  to himself  and cursed his inability to truly take her as a wife. He even felt a certain physical attraction to Rute but these momentary impulses were usually cast aside before the torrential passion his sister displayed towards him. Torn between  a growing  fondness  for Rute and a commitment  to the cult, Ricardo wavered daily between despair and fraternal lust.
Paula,  Ricardo’s  sister,  treated  Rute  with  a  courtesy  bordering  on disdain. Buxom, robust, sensuality bursting from her limbs and thighs, she was constantly  with her brother, accompanying  him to the fields,





assisting   him   in   his   managerial   chores,   frequently   and   openly embracing  him for his examples of good husbandry.  Once Rute made this observation  to Paula’s husband, José, but he merely stared at her for sometime, as if she should possess knowledge he had.
José  had  a  heavy,  sluggish,  posture,  and  was  the  son  of  the  local
pharmacist.    Rute  was surprised  Paula  consented  to marry  him. José was   not   entirely   well,   subject   to   epileptic   fits,   and   bursts   of uncontrollable  rage, both of which increased  with frequency  in direct proportion with the journey of the seasons.
No  doubt  his  physical  ailments  and  mental  quirks  justified  Paula
publicly  ignoring  her  husband  and  treating  him  little  better  than  a hunting  dog,  called  when  needed,  but otherwise  forgotten.  The  only difference was that José did not have a physical chain about his neck. With time he slowly drifted into a state of permanent silence, when not interrupted  by  fits  of  nervous  apoplexy,  appearing  for  his  monthly stipend at Célia’s cabinet and then withdrawing. His refuge was a room in the attic replete with foreign postcards he purchased at the monthly Mafra  fairs. He was cataloguing  them.  He became  a cast-off,  left to drift away among the unlimited tasks of a meaningless life.
And then there was Célia, Paula’s mother. She was civil to Rute, treated
her with diffidence, but never with interest or compassion.  Rather her attitude was one of contained contempt. Reference was never made to the fact that it was Célia who had sought out Rute’s family. It was as if Rute were a guest at the Cabral manor, to be tolerated and fed, nothing more. Any initial attempts by Rute to have an intimate relationship with her mother-in-law were greeted with indifference, and Rute’s engaging attitude confronted with haughty silences.
Paula’s father, Paulo, Célia’s husband, was even more absent. He spent his entire day in Mafra,  allegedly  on family  business,  but eventually Rute learned he had a gentleman friend, a military in the local barracks, with whom he spent his days and only returned to the Cabral lands at night. The daily visits eventually became absences for weeks at a time away  from  the  estates.  Their  private  liaison  was  soon  public  and  a Mafra scandal.
When the sordid contours of the Cabral family became clearer to her,
Rute was sufficiently immersed in the daily routine so that a return to





Mafra  was realistically  not possible.  She would  have to regress  as a married   woman,   for   divorce   was   not   practical   in   the   Catholic atmosphere   of   Mafra,   and   remain   a   wedded   spinster,   indeed   a distasteful and contradictory situation. Yet, as Rute’s suspicions began to grow and her insights became more acute, she was on the verge of speaking  to the village priest, when the infant Duarte appeared  and a return to the past was closed to her.
Ricardo’s   jubilant   welcome   was   indeed   exuberant   and   seemed
consistent  with the lavish  attention  he gave Paula’s  daughter,  born a year earlier, baptized Liliana. Although at first Rute hesitated to adopt the child, christened Duarte, as her son, her innate emotions overcame her initial reluctance.  Moreover,  both Ricardo  and his mother,  Célia, insisted on the adoption and the entire process was handled in the local court with great alacrity. To be accurate, Rute was a mere bystander.
In spite, therefore, of the apparent tranquility  of her quarters, with its wide view of fields and hills, Rute was permanently agitated, and in a state of critical anxiety, troubled as to what course of action to pursue. The   behavior   of   Ricardo   and   Paula   was   reaching   unbearable proportions.
She seldom saw Ricardo.  Possessed  with a passion  whose origin she well  surmised,  he now  slept  by himself  in an ante  chamber  to their quarters. Often, Rute heard him steal quietly from his bed in the middle of the night and be gone for hours. She, Rute, was left with the shaking light of the moon as her companion.
Although her dark suspicions had never been verbally or visibly confirmed,  there  rested  little  doubt  as to whom  were  the  parents  of Duarte, her adopted son. Duarte, as did his cousin, Liliana, had a red blotch on his chest. When Rute confronted Ricardo with this uncanny coincidence,   he  merely   shrugged   his  shoulders,   muttering,   “It  is common for people to have birth marks,” although his cheeks blushed as he uttered those words. He then added quickly, “As I do, and so does Paula. The human body is imperfect in its design, is it not?” he asked Rute. To which question, she did not respond.
As of lately, with increasing frequency, Paula’s mother, Célia, fawned incessantly  upon Duarte and Liliana and was constantly  putting them





into the same bed. Any interference  by Rute spurred open aggression from Ricardo later in the day.
Faced with these responses, Rute began awakening each morning with a choking sensation in her throat. She wavered between a denunciation to the local priest-whose  consequences  were unimaginable-and  flight. She did not see how she could absorb anymore of the Cabral manor life. Still, there still remained within Rute, a residue of feeling for Ricardo. She saw him as a victim, encircled by his mother and sister. At times, when he picked up his son, Duarte, she saw a tender, apprehensive look cross  his  face  and  she  knew  anguish  and  sorrow  were  invading  his spirits as if a part of him was a critical observer of the larger Ricardo who was possessed by unidentifiable spirits. When he would shake his head while holding the small hand of Duarte, she imagined to herself he was trying to cast forth from his spirits alien guests whose origin he could not surmise.
He was hapless, and rather then condemning Ricardo for his imagined
breach of social taboos, Rute saw the conspiracy mounted against him by his mother and sister. His fitful behavior towards Rute did not antagonize  her but on the contrary  stirred  her so that she wanted  to confront Rute and Paula and demand her marriage be consummated as she intended.
Through the window where she was standing, Rute felt the coldness of the early morning. Her forced isolation and unwanted presence by the ladies  of the manor  contrasted  sharply  with the pleas of her brother, Manuel. Grasping his letter tightly in her fist, she felt as if he were next to hear, urging her to come with her family and join him in the new land.  War  was  on  the  march  in  Europe.  She  was  not  safe.  While Portugal was still a harbor of haven, fighting between nations tended to spill over.
Above all, Manuel wrote, her adopted son, Duarte, would grow up in the new world, free from any of the social restraints imposed by a small village. While Manuel did not fully understand all the implications  of life on the Cabral estates, the news reaching him from Mafra was disturbing. He saw Rute’s departure from Mafra and voyage to America, not as an exile, but as a journey to fresh horizons,  where everyone’s past could be reshaped.





His neatly transcribed words that morning found a positive response in Rute and suddenly, as if inspired, she stuffed Manuel’s letter into her skirt  pocket.  Picking  up Duarte,  she hastily  dressed  him,  and  strode down  towards  the  main  part  of  the  house,  with  the  intention  of conferring with the local priest. No sooner had she reached the bottom of the stairs, when she was met by Célia, a frozen expression  on her face, her eyes bulging and fixing Rute with their glazed stare.

“Where are you going” Célia softly asked, baring Rute’s progress. Rute halted and clutched Duarte tightly. “I thought I would go to see father Nuno,” she replied curtly.

“With your son?” Rute snapped angrily. She always referred to Duarte as “your son” when addressing Rute in order to emphasize his origin.

Rute hesitated and then replied, “Well, I can not leave him alone,” then she added, as if speaking to herself, “no, not ever.”

Célia suddenly snatched Duarte from her embrace. “Father Nuno has no need to see Duarte and if you want to talk to the young fool you can walk to town. The carriage  is being repaired.”  Without  waiting  for a reply, Célia held Duarte securely in her arms and strode away.
Although   the  brisk,  sharp  January   winds  were  a  deterrent,   Rute
continued with her plan, seething with irritation from Rute’s harsh treatment of her. The path leading to the village sloped down towards the valley  before  rising  to reach the town of Mafra.  As she plodded along, her arms wrapped around her chest to create more warmth, she saw in the distance the Mafra palace convent.
For centuries  it had stood as a complement  to the Cabral estates, the
manorial house and the Basilica sharing the landscape. The manor was a symbol of wealth and power but so was the palace. Each housed a spirit, each claimed its acolytes. It did not matter the faith, for the difference between the sacred and the profane is often tenuous.
The sting and chill of the morning air hastened Rute’s pilgrimage and it was with both physical and mental comfort when she literally burst into the cabinet of Father Nuno. A kind, portly, observant man, he had been





assigned  to  the  Mafra  parish  upon  his  graduation  from  the  Sacred College of Lisbon Friars about two years prior to Rute’s visit. Through his confessions,  for many of the young maids from the Cabral estates trod  the  path  Sunday  morning  to  his  church,  he  had  knowledge,  if scanty, of the Cabral family events, those seen, and those imagined. “Father Nuno,” Rute stuttered as she entered his office, not bothering to knock.  Seeing  her  agitated  state,  he  motioned  for  her  to  sit  down, extending  his  hand  and  clasping  her  cold  fingers.  As  soon  as  she appeared relaxed, he inquired, “And what brings you to me so early this frosty morning. Not even the birds are stirring.”
Rute hesitated. She did not know where to begin. She could not even
state clearly or put into words her thoughts. They remained locked in her throat. It was then she realized  the hopelessness  of conversation. What words could she possibly utter which would be meaningful? Yet she must.
She started to speak but then her body began to tremor and she thought
she  was  being  appropriated  by  spirits  who  wanted  to  silence  her. Feeling  the  pains  crossing  her  chest  and  the  shortness  of  breath overtaking  her, she cried out, “No, no, be gone!” Throwing  her head back from the sharp cramps squeezing her chest, her tongue rolled languidly  from one side of her mouth to another,  as she struggled  to regain her breath.
Father Nuno sprung to his feet. Although heavy, he was agile. He was
also a believer in the purifying power of Christ. “Evil is everywhere,” he  often  thundered  to  his  flock.  Presently,  in  his  own  chamber,  his senses told him a Christian supplicant was in danger. He could not see anything  but  the  air  in  his  quarters  was  heavy  and  moist.  His  cat, Angela, who often sat on his lap while he prepared his sermons, sprang from her site and arched her back at the empty space.
“Who are you?” shouted Father Nuno, his chest thrust forward defiantly.
Again Rute called out, writhing in her chair, and overcome with fear, Father Nuno grabbed  a cross from the wall and laid it across Rute’s heaving  chest.  Some  moments  passed  and  while  Father  Nuno  was reciting in Latin from a passage of one of his favorite Old Testament psalms, Rute thrashed and gripped the arms of her chair.





Looking at Rute’s face, Father Nuno saw her gasping and gulping air to keep from choking. She was afflicted.  More, she was in dire need of intervention.  Father  Nuno  was  certain  of  that.  “Call  for  Christ,”  he shouted. “His name, mention it. He is our savior.”
Rute opened her eyes and saw the despair in Father Nuno’s face, while
hearing his commands.  With her last breath, on the point of expiring, she murmured, “Christ our Father in heaven…” and as she did so, she clasped tightly the cross lying across her chest.
Slowly her body relaxed. The spasm she felt seizing her subsided. As the cognizance  of her death receded,  she knew, she understood,  why she was infected  and by whom.  Her death  was desired.  She was an obstacle to the designs of those ruling the Cabral manor, present and others, of whom Rute had no knowledge.
After some moments, the attack was over and slowly she regained her composure.  With great reluctance  she loosened  her grip on the cross. She realized there was nothing she could tell Father Nuno. What dark secrets she might reveal would not provoke any response from Father Nuno other then the confirmation  that sin was rampant on the Cabral lands. Better to make her own plans and implement  them as soon as possible.
Standing  up, she approached  Father Nuno and spoke gently, obvious
gratitude in her yes, “I must be going. You have been a great help and you saved my life.” Without waiting for a reply, she left abruptly. Watching her totter down the church path, Father Nuno fell to his knees and raised his head heavenly, a serene smile on his face. He offered his thanks to his Savior. Momentarily,  virtue had triumphed  and evil had been banished. Father Nuno was a Christian by innate conviction.
Rute continued on her way and lingered somewhat about Mafra. She sat for  a  short  while  in  the  village  square  observing  the  Mafra  palace- convent.  In the distance,  atop the crest of a hill, she saw the Cabral manor. “There is still time,” she thought. Her hand fumbled about the letter in her pocket. Her son, Duarte, could be saved. Ricardo could be redeemed.  He was a mere ploy in the plans of Célia and Paula. “My brother  is  calling  me,  why  shouldn’t  we  go?”  was  the  echo  of  her muffled words. With these optimistic  thoughts,  she gathered  her skirt and started the long climb to her quarters.





On her arrival home, Rute resolved to speak to Ricardo. She intended to tell him if he loved his son, Duarte, their adopted son, for she would never articulate  what she believed  to be the truth, then they all, as a family, should break with the manor life and emigrate to America. But Ricardo was not to be found, and she made no conscious effort to find him. “He will eventually appear,” she thought.
But he did not. The hours passed without Rute seeing any of the family.
It was as if, on her return, a conspiracy of silence had seized everyone. “I shall be patient,” she murmured to herself. A solitary lunch was followed by a dreary somnolent afternoon. One of the maids, Ana, was attending  to Duarte’s  needs,  so Rute did not even have her maternal tasks to distract her.
Laying in her room, with the vacant corridors and empty saloons as as a
background,  the oppressiveness  of the Cabral  manor  encircled  her as will the fog embrace the trees as it stealthily invades the forest. With the passage of the silent afternoon, and the slithering, early presence of a  winter  evening,  the  pervasive  hushed  atmosphere  of  the  mansion became foreboding and ominous. She was confined to a building whose occupants were both seen and unseen.
There were those with whom she had daily contact but at all times she
sensed the vigilance  of others whom she would never know yet who were  masters  of her destiny.  Lives  were  unfolding,  being  lived  to a specific purpose, one from which she was excluded.
She must have dozed off, nor could she recall for what length of time,
when  she  suddenly  awoke  with  a  start.  For  a  moment  she  thought someone was in her chambers and she remained still, her eyes fixed and holding in their gaze all the objects in the room. No one was to be seen. Yet she heard a call, a cry, distant and faint. Sitting up, she peered out of her window. Darkness  lay as a black sheet over the meadows  and grove.  Still she discerned  a dim light casting  its faint light from the family chapel.
Slowly she straightened  her clothes on her body and fearful, but with
determination,  she  started  her  lonely  journey  to  the  tabernacle.  The night air was biting, cold, damp, and she realized she was not properly dressed. Unmindful,  she pressed on, driven by an unidentifiable  need. Upon reaching her destination, she stopped and gently pushed open the





heavy  oak  door.  Before  her,  the  feared  truth  in  all  its  horror  was illuminated by the dim flicker of the sole candle set upon the altar table. She saw the silhouettes of Ricardo and Paula, in a corner of the altar, their arms wrapped around each other. She was sure Paula was clasping Ricardo to her breast and her rage spat forth, incoherent and spiteful. “Stop it,” she screamed, “this is a place of worship and not defilement.” There was a momentary silence and then the bulky form of Paula rose, her naked chest wet with the sweat of passion, a wild look on her face, her eyes riveted into a rigid, penetrating glaze. Upon seeing Rute, she snatched a silver goblet from the altar table and rushed towards her in a fury, screaming utterances not known to Rute, gibberish and foul words, her arm arched  upwards  to deliver  a death  blow  to Rute  for having dared to interrupt her idyll.
“Paula,  wait,  please  wait,  she  doesn’t  understand,”  were  the  words
which  slithered  across  the  front-row   pew,  the  mournful  voice  of Ricardo,  a wail bursting  forth, wrenched  from his throat by fear and dread. With her arm poised above Rute’s head, Paula, her heavy breasts still  damp  from  her  frustrated  liaison,  wavered,  and  at  that  precise moment,  Rute,  confronted  with  the  gnarled,  tortured  face  of  Paula, terror and hysteria racing through her trembling body, fell to the floor and as Paula tripped over her, she immediately  rose and fled out into the dark, windless evening.
Fleeing down the dirt path she could only think of running, hiding, and saving  her  son,  Duarte,  for  he  was  her  son.  This  is  what  had  been ordained  for  her.  She  was  not  to  bear  children  but  she  would  save Duarte from the eternal damnation  awaiting him. She would interfere with fate. She would defy the malignant forces which had overpowered the Cabral  manor.  She  would  escape  and  take  Duarte  with  her.  She would turn their wretched, foolish lie into a moral triumph for she, Rute, was  a child  of Christ  while  the  others  were  the  followers  of Satan. Truth,  and  its  believed  power,  inhabited  her  soul  and  gave  her  the needed strength.
As soon as she reached the manor house, she flung open its door and
raced upstairs. Her one thought was to find Duarte and secure his safety. From the ground floor she ran up to the top floor of the  mansion where the maids lived. She was sure she would find Duarte in the chambers of





Ana. But as she reached her own floor, the door leading to the rooms of Célia were opened and she saw her standing before her, hatred and fury crossing her face in taut, fine lines.
“Where is he?” Rute shouted, “Where is my son?”
Célia hesitated and then retorted, with sarcasm, “Your son? The son of
Ricardo, but not yours.”
Before Rute could reply she heard the cry of Duarte, a soft, inquisitive sound, no doubt provoked by hearing Rute’s voice. He was in Célia´s room. She stumbled towards Célia, and demanded, “Give him to me.” When Célia did not respond, she pushed her aside and rushed into the chambers.  Seeing Duarte in his bed, his eyes open and watching  her, she lifted him up and turned around to leave. Célia bared her exit.
But Rute was determined.  She lunged forward  and knocked  Célia so
that she fell backwards, and as she did so, she cried out, “Stop her. She has lost her mind.”
No clear thoughts appeared  to Rute. All she knew was that she must
leave  as soon  as possible  and  all  she  needed  was  warm  clothes  for herself  and Duarte.  It was only a few steps to her own quarters  and within minutes she wrapped Duarte into a thick blanket and she threw a heavy overcoat over herself. “Father Nuno,” she thought. “I must get to him. He will save us. A carriage.  I shall take a carriage.  Surely it is fixed now.”
Above, she heard the sounds of running steps and the cries of Célia.
There was no time for elaborate plans. Instead of going down the main stairwell, she chose the back stairs used for servants and fled as quickly as  she  could  to  the  carriage  house.  As  soon  as  she  arrived,  she frantically looked for the usual driver, Pedro, the old man with the limp, who was the Cabral driver for decades.
Not  finding  him,  she  pushed  open  the  carriage  door,  seeing  in  the
distance  the  gas  lights  now  illuminating  the  rooms  of  the  manor. Suddenly she gave a start. Staring at her were a couple, a tall, slim, dark man,  a  scowl  on  his  face,  accompanied  by  a  woman  dressed  from another  epoch, her long skirt falling to the floor, while her long hair was tied neatly behind her neck.
“Who are you and where is Pedro?” Rute demanded. More shouts were
heard in the distance. “Who are you? I must leave at once.”





The two strangers stared at her until the man, speaking slowly, stated, “Pedro  is  very  sick.  I  have  been  hired  to  be  the  driver  and  my companion is assisting the seamstress. Where do you want to go? Summoning up her courage, Rute issued a command, “It doesn’t matter. The horses, harness them up, now, I shall tell you as we drive.” She paused and waited.
Finally, the man inquired, “And the child?”
Rute bristled as she replied, “I am the mother. You are not to be concerned.”
The  man  turned  around  and  stared  at the  horses  in  their  stalls.  The
noises coming  from the distance  were now subdued.  A hush reigned over the Cabral lands. As the both of them stood there, not obeying her orders, Rute decided to take charge herself. She opened first one stall and harnessed the horse and then the other stall. All the time, the couple stared at her without speaking. When she was finished and the horses were  secure,  she jumped  onto the board  and, as the door was open, shouted, “Stand clear!”
In response  the tall gentleman  leaped  up next to her and whispered, “Yes, we must part, we will take you. Hurry, into the carriage with your son. We shall whip the horses for you.”
Without  further  thought,  Rute  slipped  down,  holding  Duarte  tightly, and the other, the companion, jumped into the carriage to be with Rute. The  horses  whirled  around  and  with  a strong  snap  of the  whip,  the carriage  shot forward  and they all went  careening  down  the country road heading towards Mafra.
After some minutes,  as the manor  house receded  in the distance,  the
driver shouted out to her, “Where are we going?”
“To Mafra,” Rute answered back. “Quickly, to Mafra.”
No words passed between Rute and her companion. They both stared at Duarte. At moments, Rute thought her escort cast a tender look towards the child,  but Rute was too excited  to ask any questions.  “Where  in Mafra?” the driver asked again.
“Keep driving,” Rute retorted. “You must hurry.”
It  wasn’t  long  before  they  arrived  at  the  main  square.  The  carriage slowed  down.  Breathlessly,  Rute gave her final instructions.  “To the house of Father Nuno,” she ordered. Rute noticed a certain hesitation as





the horses did not move immediately, but then slowly, the driver turned them in the right direction and within moments the carriage arrived at the quarters  of Father Nuno. A pale illumination  was seen through  a window.
Before her companion  could speak, Rute leaped out with Duarte and
rushed  up  the  path  to  the  home  of  Father  Nuno.  One  knock  was sufficient for the door to open.
With relief she saw the kind, humane, concerned face of Father Nuno. “What is it, child?”  he asked, looking  with compassion  at Duarte  all bundled out. “Come in and tell me.”
In moments, Rute blurted out her story, omitting the scene in the chapel.
She must leave. The manor life was destructive. She could not explain. She wanted to go to Lisbon. She had no money. Father Nuno must help her. It was a plea of one Christian to her savior. All the time she spoke, Father Nuno retraced in his mind the various stories he had heard. He saw the stricken, desperate expression of Rute. He knew he could count on various local merchants  to advance any monies he might need for Rute.
“Why Lisbon?” he asked.
“I must join my brother in America. He will take care of me and Duarte. Please, I must escape. From Lisbon, I can get a boat.”
 Father Nuno did not hesitate.  His love for his flock was strong and committed. Without any further words, he snatched his coat from where it hung  and took her arm. “Come  my child,  I shall  accompany  you. Who brought you here?”
Rute  explained  as best  as she  could  for  in truth  she  did  not  know
anything about her driver and companion.  They were new, temporary help no doubt. Father Nuno listened attentively but said nothing. As he neared the carriage, he saw the face of the driver silhouetted against the clear sky and flickering lights of the night. Within the carriage he saw the strange face of the escort, her eyes burning and shimmering. A premonition overcame Father Nuno. Without any words he took out his cross he always carried around his neck and held it up.
 Directing  his words towards  the driver, he chanted  as he waved  his cross, “May God speed you well and safe on our journey  to Lisbon.





Now hasten. The night air is cold. The cross of Jesus shall be our illumination on the dark road before us.”
 The driver turned his face away and did not reply. Rute noticed the scowl  on  Father  Nuno’s  face.  She  was  about  to speak  when  Father Nuno  silenced  her  with  his  finger,  “Hush,  child.  We  are  in  mortal danger. Pray with me. He will protect us but you must get immediately into the carriage.”
 As they entered the interior, Father Nuno nodded to the visitor, but no words were exchanged. Father Nuno kept the cross in front of him, as he prayed silently, but motioning Rute to sit opposite him with the child Duarte. The horses started out rather slowly until Father Nuno opened his window  and cried out, “Hurry,  driver,  or I shall  whip the beasts myself.”
Lulled by the rocking of the carriage, the murmuring of Father Nuno
as he held tightly his cross, accompanied  by the morose, grim gaze of the  woman,  Rute  was  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  holding  Duarte tightly, she fell asleep not awakening until hours later they all arrived in Lisbon.

8.1    The members of the cult reach an agreement.

Some evenings  later, they were sitting around the dining room table, Célia,  Ricardo,  and  Paula,  a  heavy,  oppressive  silence  chaining  the three to their forced reunion. Dinner had been served and completed. Even the plates had been withdrawn. There seemed no reason to delay their  departure  yet  Ricardo  and  Paula  knew  their  mother  wished  to speak to them.
With  her large,  peasant  face  holding  them  in her stare,  Ricardo  and Paula waited for her to speak. Slowly, in between sips from a cup of herbal tea still warm, she explained how their cult was too strong to be terminated but that great sacrifices must now be endured.
As she  uttered  these  words,  she  gazed  for a long  time  at Paula.  At
length, she explained. She knew where Rute was lodging with the child Duarte. This information  had been given to her by her faithful driver and his companion, both now gone as Pedro, the former family driver, had recently returned. Their devoted efforts to aiding the Cabral family





would never be forgotten for without them, it would be impossible  to find Rute or little Duarte.
Knowing where they were, the family had two choices, either forcibly return Rute and Duarte to the mansion, or choose a more subtle route. But enforcing  Rute’s return to the manor would surely meet with the opposition of Father Nuno and this was not desirable.
If Rute wished to leave the manor with Duarte, and if she succeeded,
the cult would  end.  Therefore,  it was imperative  that the safety  and eventual  return  of  Duarte  be  secured.  This  could  only  be  done  by Ricardo  seeking  out Rute, declaring  his loyalty  to her and accompanying  her and Duarte, as the husband and father, to their final destination, a distant land.
What the next decades  would bring would be unimportant,  for Paula
would secure the education of Liliana and ensure the terms of the cult were imbedded in her development.  Ricardo, for his part, only had to extract from Duarte one day a promise he would return to the family lands  and  claim  his  inheritance.  Liliana  would  be  waiting  for  him. While Duarte would not know the terms of the cult, with time he and Liliana would succumb to the natural passion which was part of their heritage.
Of course, the ensuing years meant Paula would live a celibate life. As
for Ricardo, he would have to assume his matrimonial  obligations but then he could take solace in knowing  that his contribution  meant the cult would survive. She paused and waited for her words to have their effect.
Paula  glanced  furtively  at  Ricardo.  She  wanted  him  to  reject  their
mother’s words but she saw his obedient face gazing steadfastly at his mother. For herself, crazed with a gripping passion which would never abate, she held her words for fear of incurring her mother’s wrath. Finally,  Célia  beckoned  Ricardo  to approach  her.  As he did so, she motioned  for him to kneel  before  her, which  he did without  protest. Stroking  his head, she murmured,  “I expect  much from you. It is an enormous sacrifice. Yet you must undertake it with good will so it will succeed.  Educate  Duarte,  protect  him,  prior  to  your  death  you  will advise him of the lands he has inherited and he will return. No matter what he has been doing, the soil will call him. Liliana shall be waiting.”





She then tapped  Ricardo  lightly  on the shoulder  and directed  him to return to his chair.
No one spoke. Eventually Célia stood up and stared at her two children. She whispered her instructions,  “Go, my loved ones, you only have a few days together. And then Ricardo must part.” With no other words, she started the climb to her chambers.
That evening,  the chapel  was the tabernacle  of love as Paula’s  body
enveloped  Ricardo  in the  warmth  of her desperate  needs.  She  knew Ricardo would act upon his mother’s commands and within a short time she would be left, alone, with her mother and Liliana, charged with the obligation  of instructing  her daughter as to the tenets of the cult. But she, Paula, would be bereft of her physical release. Her bed would be cold.  She  could  take  no lovers.  The  cult  was  strict  in its principles. There was only one lover permitted to her and he was leaving.
So the few nights they had together were burned away in the fire and explosion of their bodies and each coupling took them to new heights until one time, Ricardo, exhausted, threw himself upon the granite slab of his ancestor and succumbed to sleep while Paula stroked his naked buttocks.
The next day Ricardo left. Paula retired to her room and did not appear for days. When she did, her face was taut and set and she never smiled until some moments  before she died in 1962 having  satisfied  herself that Liliana was properly prepared. Duarte would return. She was sure Ricardo would not fail.
Thus it came to be that in the year 1939 Ricardo  left with Rute and Duarte for New York where they were met by Rute’s brother, Manuel. Ricardo  found  work  in a trucking  company  owned  by a Portuguese family and he reared his family stoically but never forgetting his filial promise.
With the family flight from Portugal,  or more precisely,  Mafra, Rute undertook  her  maternal  obligations  with  total  dedication.  By  nature, Duarte was withdrawn but observant and Rute saw he was scholarly by inclination.  She encouraged  his academic interests and by the time he was  in  high  school  he  already  knew  he  wanted  to  specialize   in Portuguese literature.





Upon  graduation  from  high  school  in  1958,  he  was  sent  to  a  Mid- Western university where he continued his studies with great distinction. Receiving his bachelor’s degree in 1962, he then wrote his master thesis on  the  Portuguese  writer  Eça  de  Queiroz  for  which  he  earned  in master’s  degree  in  1963.  Two  years  later,  in  1965,  he  received  his doctorate   in  Portuguese   literature   for   his   thesis   on  “Realism   in
Portuguese   Literature  in  the  20th    Century:  A  Political  and  Social
Critique”, a work which received immediate academic acclaim.
During  this  period  of  his  life,  Ricardo  toiled  at  his  employment, provided   the   sustenance   his   family   required,   supported   his   son emotionally whenever the need arrived, but his presence was not accompanied  by his spirit. He daily thought of his mother and Paula, remembered  vividly her frantic embraces and many a night lay awake his body racked  with unsatisfied  desire. Yet he had an objective  and time would present him with the moment.
No visits were ever made to Portugal by the family. Neither Rute nor
Ricardo revealed any significant details of the Cabral family history or of Rute’s parents. They were facts wrapped in a family album whose contents were static and historic. Duarte always believed Rute was his natural mother and no one bothered to explain differently.
Rute  eventually  passed  away  in  1958,  the  year  Duarte  went  to  the
university so she did not survive to see his substantial academic credentials.  Ricardo was stricken by a grave illness in early 1963, the year in which Duarte earned his master’s degree, and he did not live to see the next year.
True to his sacred word, before he died, Ricardo explained  to Duarte
that  he  was  heir  to substantial  lands  in Portugal,  near  the  historical village of Mafra, and they were presently under the administration  of his cousin, Liliana. Fearing too many revelations  would cause him to tell more than he wished, he confined himself to the essentials. There was a cousin, there were lands and Duarte,  by inheritance,  would be independently wealthy. Before his mminent demise, he asked Duarte to promise  him he would  go and reclaim  his rightful  share of ancestral property.
Not knowing whether the onslaught of death was befuddling his father,
Duarte agreed and his father, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, when he was





alone,   closed   his   eyes   in  peace,   clutching   in  his  hand   a  letter postmarked 1962 from a relative in Mafra advising him his sister Paula had died.
In the years after their death, it occurred to Duarte that his parents being
buried  in a strange  land  was improper.  Following  some  inquiries  he learned  he could have his parents  returned  to their village.  By 1968, Duarte had completed  his doctorate  thesis for which he was awarded his Ph.D.  and in the same  year he decided  it was time  to fulfill  his promise to his father; make the journey to Mafra; claim his inheritance and  then  return  to begin  his  academic  life.  Accordingly,  he had  the remains of his mother and father shipped to Mafra, Portugal. Prior to departure,  he wrote a letter to his cousin, Liliana, introduced  himself, and informed her of his planned arrival.
When,  a  fortnight  later,  the  postman  brought  the  letter  to  Liliana’s
home, it was with an air of ceremony  that he presented  it to her for signature,  thinking  she  would  be  startled  to  receive  any  news  from abroad. But Liliana disappointed him while she gently closed the door on his inquiring  face. As soon as she saw the postmark,  she had no doubt that it was from Duarte.
His name and where he lived were well known to her. His name had been  mentioned  many  times  to  her  by  her  mother.  Being  carefully reared by her mother, Paula, as to her duties and the terms of the cult, she also knew that one day Duarte would come and claim her. Upon receipt of his letter she went to inform her mother, buried in the village graveyard,  of the truth of her mother’s prophecy for she had to share this momentous moment of family loyalty.
Standing over her tomb, still holding the flowers she had brought, she
told her mother Duarte was returning. No sooner had the words fallen from her lips when she noticed a tall stranger near her, smiling at her in approval. They were alone, for it was a workday and the peasants and laborers  could  not  dare  to  miss  their  daily  toil.  As  the  wind  stirred slightly,  a  soft,  ocean  breeze  coming  in  from  the  West  coast,  the stranger approached Liliana slowly. Near her, he stretched out his hand and for reasons she could not explain, she fell to her knees and bowed her head.





The stranger knelt beside her and his thin, rapine face glared fiercely towards the horizon.
“You knew my mother?” Liliana whispered.
The stranger did not reply. Instead, he turned his head towards Liliana and stared at her critically. Suddenly, before she could make a cry, with his long, thin finger nails, he ripped slightly  the blouse  covering  her bosom. Her birthmark glowed brightly in the dim light of the afternoon. “Remember, remember,” he hissed, “you are beholden to the faith and cult of your mother.”
As she remained on her knees, fearing the worse, but too far from the
village to cry out, the stranger laughed. “You fear for your virginity. It is reserved for someone else.”
And then he was gone. When she awoke from her fainting spell, Liliana
stared for some time about her. Eventually arising to return home, she pondered over the events of the afternoon. “Perhaps I dream too much,” she wondered, “Yet, it is true. My chastity awaits Duarte.”

8.2    The return to Mafra.

The priest in charge of the cemetery in Mafra had written Duarte that the plot for his parents was already assigned. With much inner comfort, Duarte gave instructions  to the Lisbon funeral home as to whom they were to contact. The name of the priest was Father Rui and they would have no trouble in finding him. Satisfying himself the agency was both competent  and  responsible,  Duarte  decided  to  linger  some  days  in Lisbon.
He wanted this initial interlude to become accustomed to Portugal and
then  he  would  go  to  Mafra.  Although  his  parents  often  spoke  of Portugal, and of course he was fluent in both Portuguese and English, still the new flavors of a strange country merited his tallying awhile and absorbing the local culture. He did not plan to stay long in Portugal, just the sufficient length to meet his cousin, discuss with her how the lands would  be  administered,  and  of  course  leave  her  in  charge  while  he returned to the USA to resume his career.
Prior  to leaving,  he had  received  a letter  from  a State  university  in
Michigan  offering  him an instructorship  in Portuguese  literature.  His





affirmative  response  was immediate.  He was to begin his lectures  in September  and  as it was  June  he anticipated  a quiet  summer  at the estate of his family where he could prepare his assignments as well as attend to any legal or administrative necessities.
By nature, Duarte was a quiet man, possessed of great physical strength.
Tall, muscular, with a large quantity of brown hair, he tended to walk with  his  head  down  as  if  it were  the  weight  of  his  thoughts  which bowed him, and not the heaviness of his bones.
Similar to his father, he spoke rarely, yet this was rather an enforced silence as he had strong emotions and reactions to events touching his life. While he respected his father, he had never been on intimate terms with him. It was as if his father always wanted to tell him something but never seemed to find the appropriate moment.
By contrast, his mother, although regal in appearance, and stoical as to the contours of her life, was capable of demonstrating  much affection. Duarte would often find her staring at him and if he prodded her with any questions, she often merely stroked his hair gently and murmured, “We did make a great voyage, didn’t we?” It never occurred to Duarte to ask her as to what was the voyage she referred to for they appeared to him words of endearment which needed no explanation.
“Our  family  history  conditions  our life”  thought  Duarte,  reminiscing
about his parents. Yet he had no regrets. If their origins were modest, he mused,   they  nevertheless   educated   him  well.  And  of  course   the unexpected inheritance of lands in Portugal was indeed a surprise. Brimming with satisfaction,  enchanted with the early summer weather of Lisbon, Duarte spent the next few days savoring the hum and hustle of the Portuguese capital. “June is a fine time in Portugal,” he thought, as he gazed at the ferry boats trudging across the Tagus River, bringing workers to and fro from the capital to the outlying provinces.
A dazzling  constant  blue light invaded the sky during the day and at times  Duarte  had  to  shield  his  eyes.  He  had  never  witnessed  such stunning clarity being a child of a large metropolitan city. It seemed to him the country was blessed with colors to delight the senses and he felt alive, responsive  to nature. It was as though for the first time he was emerging  into life and being  beckoned  to join the throngs  of people enjoying and laughing with the daily tariffs of their lives.





In reaction to the pageant of life and color now unfolding before him, Duarte could only wonder and be enthralled with the movement of commerce and pleasure, the cafés and their smells, the flowers ringing the sprouting fountains of the many plazas, the red tiled roof-tops reflecting the bright, shimmering sun while sea gulls squawked shrilly as they swooped and dived incessantly.
The  throbbing   energy  and  bursting  vitality  of  everything   he  saw
stunned him into more introspection  for whereas his previous life had been scholarly and ascetic now he beheld the frantic movement of life’s claim on all living creatures. There was light, the sensuous smiles men and women exchanged, the arms locked in quiet passion, eyes that held one  another  expressing  what  words  lacked  to  declare.  At  times  he thought he would be suffocated  with the beauty of love he saw in all things,  from  gracious  granite  stones  adorning  buildings  to the heads reclined against one another as the sun caressed their faces in repose, a tranquility and peace which only the sentiment of devotion can bring. Other moments he raged against the physical sterility of his life for at
30 years he still did not know the sweet comfort of a woman’s body. He was chaste in mind and body and for the first time he was aware of his masculinity.  Yet he was also a prisoner to his habits and the most he could muster was an admission that finally, he, too, needed to have a mate. Such an event, he pondered, would have to take place upon his return home when he took up his academic chores.
At night, with the mild weather inviting strolls, he ambled down to the main  plaza  facing  the river  and watched  the bobbing  lights  of boats which were obliged to criss-cross all night long as they bore their passengers from work to home or dwelling to factory. Families needed sustenance  and the men gave their labor without  complaint.  All they wanted was a hearth, a household, a warm embrace to greet them when finally, tired and fatigued, they returned.
Those few days Duarte spent in Lisbon were to be a tonic for his future life. He would not easily forget the Castle of St. George, towering over the  city  of Lisbon,  with  its  rampart  walls  encircling  it, as if at any moment the heathen Moors would return and lay claim once again to their rightful dwellings. Duarte had to remind himself that almost eight





hundred years had passed since the Moors were driven out of Portugal so real was his vision inspired by this ancient monument.
Sometimes  in the evenings, while strolling through the older parishes, tripping over the cobble stoned streets, observing the flowered gardens or listening  to voices sifting out from the patios, he felt a longing,  a sense that he was returning, once again, to his natural home but immediately he suppressed such thoughts.
No matter how intoxicating  was his acquaintance  with the land of his parents, he was committed, he must believe, that eventually the promise of his academic  life was supreme,  the one goal he must maintain.   It was  only  a  matter  of  days  when,  upon  awakening,  and  hearing  the sounds of voices from beneath his hotel room, when he decided he must now go to Mafra and begin his work.
The trip to Mafra was undertaken  by taxi and Duarte had almost two
hours to savor the countryside as the wheeled transportation  lumbered along country roads. Everywhere  he looked, he saw low, rolling hills covered  with  grape  vines.  The  road  snaked  through  valleys  and  the driver, thinking he was bringing a tourist, did not hesitate to describe all the historical monuments along the way.
“We  are  a religious  people,”  the  motorist  frequently  muttered  as he pointed  out the many chapels  evident  from the road, the small stone rosary boxes constructed alongside the highway to bless the passengers, the ancient stone crosses marking each village center from which the heathens  were hung, the humble  churches  which served as the social center  of each  parish,  the buildings  with  their  edges  painted  blue  to ward off the devil. “Oh, yes,” his guide snorted, “we are religious and we fear Satan. Don’t you?”
Duarte did not respond. He had never thought about it. His life, as short as it was, had been confined to study and thought, and the perplexities of the universe were never in his mind. Answering for him, the cabman retorted, “Of course you do, and with good reason.”
For a while they rode in silence and then the chauffeur quipped, “This
is Moorish country.” Duarte smiled to himself and asked, “But why do you say that?”
Yet no response was required for Duarte saw the vestiges of the former
North African conquerors of Portugal wherever his eyes cast. The low





houses  built  around  courtyards,  the  windows  closed  to keep  out  the light, the long black skirts worn by the women, while their faces were shrouded with heavy cloth skullcaps, the sullen faces of the men as they lingered around the tavern doors, all were a sharp contrast to the busy metropolitan life of Lisbon with its shrill gaiety, spirited throngs and its obvious European influence not yet implanted in the provinces. Lisbon was the exception. The ghosts of the Moors were a reality and a steady presence in the rural life of Portugal.
Before the driver could answer, the car veered around a sharp bend and there in the distance Duarte saw the sprawling grounds and building of the Mafra Palace-Convent. He was enthralled. Its splendor, graced with its age of over two hundred years, was evident in its entire design. The towers and Basilica lay shimmering in the June sun. To his left, he then saw a low, rambling,  rectangular  building,  surrounded  by olive trees and his heart thumped.  He knew it was the Cabral  manor, where his father had been born, where he too had first seen light, and in a few moments he would meet his cousin.
Instructing his guide to take the dirt road to their left, his heart began to beat erratically as the motor car began its long ascent. For reasons he could not articulate, he suddenly felt as if he had walked up this very road many times in his life. Yet he knew this was impossible.  Spread out  before  him  were  hills  and  valleys  cascading  towards  the  distant shore line. On his right was the Mafra Palace-Convent,  shimmering in the afternoon  sun. Behind  the building,  constructed  in a large square about  the  main  Basilica,  he  saw  the  royal  hunting  grounds  rising towards the horizon. All this was his heritage and he blessed himself that he had kept his promise to his father.
He ordered the taxi to stop some distance from the house as he wanted to walk the rest of the way. “There will not be,” he thought, “a day such as  this.”  After  discharging  his  debt  to  his  driver,  he  picked  up  his baggage and started the climb to the manor. On either side of the dirt road  were  olive  trees.  Beyond  them,  he  saw  the  lemon  and  orange groves. The pungent smell of their flowers reached his nostrils and intoxicated him.
The  beauty  and  sweetness  of his  homecoming  was  increased  by his
understanding  the  symbolism  of  his  return.  It  occurred  to  him  that





perhaps his father wanted him to reclaim more than just his inheritance. Yet he could not say what it was but the thought mulled about in his mind as he lumbered towards the stern and simple manor house at the top of the hill. Nearing the crest he paused, and at that moment the main door opened.
As he moved towards the steps of the ancient manor house, Duarte saw waiting  for him,  a large,  fleshy  woman,  whose  body  was  draped  in sensuous repose over a strong, muscular frame. Her heavy bosom rose and  settled  in  gentle  harmony  with  her  breath,  which  appeared  to quicken the nearer he approached her. Standing before her, the warmth of her thighs reached his nostrils and he found himself whispering  in the spell of her carnal perfume. He was not used to such feelings and he spoke in awe.
“I am Duarte Cabral,” he said softly.
Liliana merely smiled and approached him. Kissing him lightly on each cheek  in the local  tradition  she replied,  “I have been  expecting  you, cousin  Duarte.”  As  he  followed  her  into  the  manor,  her  haunches swayed in rhythm to his pulse. Once he crossed the threshold, he saw before him a long stairway rising towards the first floor.
He  was  sure  he  had  seen  the  staircase   before.   He  believed   he remembered his mother carrying him down those very steps. He turned towards Liliana and saw her lips pursed as she stared at him.
“This is your home, cousin Duarte,” she murmured.
Unexpectedly, he felt a surge of fear sweep over him. He had come too far. He was in alien country. The hot smell of his cousin burned into his flesh, sprung into life a throbbing he had not experienced before, and he stood there, helpless, waiting for instructions.
“Come,” Liliana spoke, “you are tired from your journey. Tonight over dinner you will tell me all about my dear uncle Ricardo and your life in America. I am afraid I have few stories to relate about our life here on the manor. Tomorrow I shall show you all the Cabral lands. After all, you are Duarte Cabral. We are a family.”
That evening, after dinner, lying in his bed, he recalled the day’s events. They  appeared  uneventful  yet they stirred  in him fresh and different emotions. As he closed his eyes, his last thought was an interruption to his repose.  He suddenly  remembered  that  not once  had Liliana  ever





mentioned  or asked about his mother. But then, he thought, no doubt
Liliana had no knowledge about her.
After  settling  him  in  his  chambers,  the  very  suite  occupied  by  his mother  and father,  Liliana  had left him alone.  He had retired  to bed early.  He  was  not hungry.  For  reasons  he could  not understand,  his heart was racing and a slight tremor overtook him. He must have dozed off, for when he awoke he heard the whispering  of voices outside his window.  The night was well in progress  and a dim light cast by the moon barely illuminated the gardens. He did not know if he were truly awake or if he was still in the throes of a dream.
The whispers in his mind became a call and he slowly arose from his bed, dressed lightly, for the evening was warm, and descended the stairs leading  to the  flowered  paths.  Once  outside  he ambled  slowly,  in a trance,  towards  the  nearby  olive  grove  and  stopped.  Beneath  the branches he saw some people; they were two women and a man. For a moment  he  was  frightened  but  then  the  woman,  the  one  who  was younger stretched out her hand and signaled for him to approach her. He  did  so,  hesitantly.  And  then  suddenly,  the  three  of  them  began dancing in a circle around him, holding hands, and laughing silently.
He was about to speak when he froze with alarm. The women and the
men were beginning  to undress  and before  he could  stop them, they were  all naked  and  circling  ever  faster,  the  sweat  from  their  bodies pouring forth and casting a dim reflection from the moonlight.
Wanting to flee, he turned around and stared at the front door.
It was open. Standing in the framework was Liliana. She was dressed in her  night  gown.  Ashamed  of  the  sudden  flush  of  heat  which  swept through his body, he stood still until the three companions  descended upon him and dragged him in protest to the doorsill, casting him at the feet of Liliana.
He lay there panting and trembling  until he felt a soft hand pull him gently  upwards.  He came face to face with Liliana.  Before  he could speak,  her  arms  embraced  him  and  he  fell  into  her  flesh  with  the softness of desire.
And they passed the night together, and the days and the heat of their bodies seared their fates so that Duarte was consumed  and possessed and he never returned to America. From their mounting and subsiding





union, they felt their bodies tremble in harmony with nature while pain seized their limbs only to be followed by an unfathomable peace.
 The once dull, pale red blotches on their breasts shone with a searing light, a cross when their lips silenced their cries, at other times a circle as they slept from physical fatigue.
The   surge   and   pounding   of   their   physical   passion   was   only   a manifestation  of a spiritual  holiness.  Their coupling  was not a sin as social morality can never affect the wellspring of true ardor, nourished and bred within the confines of the same home.
Social   laws  have  prohibited   the  union   of  brother   and  sister  for
proprietary  reasons  now  lost  to us  in history  but  its  expression  will never  be  vanquished.  The  underground,  occult  episodes  of  fraternal incest shall never be eliminated.
As long as humans maintain a social organization, fraternal incest shall
remain a cabal, social constant. From the union of Duarte and Liliana, there were born two children, carrying the Cabral birthmark, in homage to  Christ  and  Satan.  The  family  cult  was  honored  and,  of  course, continues to the present day.
Visitors to Mafra marvel at the imposing monument erected by D. João
V. in fulfillment of his vow. The façade decorated with greater-than-life sculptures shaped by the hands of Italian craftsmen are an illumination of 18th Century art.
 Yet there is another edifice, invisible, but as permanent as the Palace- Convent of Mafra. This is the cult of the family Cabral, the work none other  than of Satan,  determined  to defy the icon of Christ.  If Christ exists, so does Luther.
Social reality can not be obliterated by the propagation of moral laws,
no matter how sensible. The true nature of our species is Eros and it has many, varied forms. The cults of the occult shall always persist. Nature can not be duped by the icons of innocence.