#i still like to believe that his silence in regards to pablo asking if he had seen valerie was out of sympathy

[angryborzois]

I feel like auto-battle failing me is a sign to actually do my battles manually

[elenaescribe]

Why I write (an essay)

Picture me as a small 11-year-old girl, a tiny hurricane with glasses and braided hair. I always slumped in my seat because the world seemed so incredibly uninterested in whatever I tried to communicate. Smoke puffed from my flaring nostrils as something ignited within me. Back at my house, my childish hands hovered over a keyboard and furiously began to type. The filter restraining me in front of my classmates was slowly vanishing as I dissected my surroundings like a passionate critic. It made sense to spill my mind onto a piece of paper, it played a tune in my heart that somehow made it clear I was… different. Nevertheless, my views were private and muzzled by my preteen shyness.

At the end of the school year, my class was assigned a project where we’d have to do extensive research on a topic of our choosing and give an oral presentation. Picture me beaming with enthusiasm as I realized this was an opportunity to unveil the fire in my mind. It was obvious for me to pick a subject close to my reality, so I decided to talk about childhood depression. This was the same year I started taking antidepressants and began to regularly attend therapy. It was also the first time my parents were called in to talk about a talent my teachers saw in my writing. I was not the usual depiction of a fifth grader. My classmates bullied me mercilessly for the markings on my wrists and my lack of conventionality; it would be less than a year before my first hospitalization.

That oral presentation would go on to define a large part of my identity: the need to open a conversation about important subjects that somehow fly under the radar. I found confidence in fighting for a cause many try to silence. It wouldn’t be long before these themes would take over my writing, dominating pages with sharp sentences about a decaying psyche. The more isolated I felt from reality, the more I found myself coming to life in the lines I wrote. The sentences spilling from my fingertips were a clear report on my state of mind and it quickly took on a new meaning: I was no longer dissecting those around me, instead, I was analyzing my inner monologue and taking endless notes on it.

Picture me as a rotting 14-year-old girl clad in oversized sweaters and tight leggings to give off the appearance of a thinner version of myself. Imagine counting calories and lying down in an empty bathtub as if trying to drown out the melody in your head telling you to carve lines into your skin with sharp objects. I was the ghost of the girl with fuel and purpose, my strong voice became a mere whisper and all I could think about was dying. There was no vision of the future, my body ached from fighting with therapists and shrinks and my family. I spiraled into a cycle of fear and neglect. The only place I felt remotely comfortable was in front of a computer with my hands on a keyboard. “This is my legacy” I thought. “A collection of personal writings in the style of Go Ask Alice”.

It came as no surprise that I was hospitalized a second time. The nurses were manipulative and abusive, it shocked me that there could be such a large loss of humanity in a place where people were supposed to feel safe and cared for. Hospitalizations are meant to serve as a time of rest and recovery, not as a suspenseful game of survival. This period also became the first time I could not bring myself to write. It was as if the bleak walls of the clinic had consumed my identity and swallowed my voice. I felt abandoned, weak, paranoid and terrified. The physical and psychological aggression I experienced in that prison-like environment wounded me deeply. Something was visibly wrong with me when I left that place and I knew things were changing; I was not the same person. This would be my first encounter with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It wasn’t until we moved to Costa Rica that I fell back into the habit of writing. I wrote as a mean of endurance, the ink bleeding from my pen became my oxygen supply. Desperate pieces describing the multiple shadows that followed me from Chile became my life’s backdrop. Something about being in my parents’ native land gave me the warmth and trust required to tell such overwhelming stories. Tales came out of me like a stream of never-ending memories; my body felt cleansed and slightly purified. The muck stuck to my lungs was plastered across word documents, loose pages, napkins, anywhere it would stay long enough for me to document it. I clawed my way out from the void and left a trail of evidence.

For a couple of years, I felt free- my attention was drawn to self-help and beautiful music. It was time to get rid of anything that reminded me of the catatonic girl in the bathtub. The only concrete evidence of her existence was in boxes stored safely in my room; the numerous things she wrote continued to live in their own habitat. As I found myself balanced and stronger, so did my art. I returned to my origins, my essays were detailed notes on the various scenarios taking place in a young life. They weren’t hurried or out of breath, in fact, they were… joyous. The inner monologue became about adjusting to a happier state of mind.

Then came my first year of college. Film seemed like a great career choice, since I could take up screenwriting and tell inclusive stories about mental illness to fight social stigma. I was buzzing. Unfortunately, at the end of my second week there, I was sexually assaulted by an older film student. Picture me frozen, bruised, bitten, eating my skin in my sleep because the guilt was overwhelming. The reactions people gave me when I trusted them with my experience was devastating. I deserved it. It wasn’t rape. I was overreacting. I needed to get over it. There was nothing to be upset about. So, what if he kept trying to talk to me? That didn’t count as harassment. I couldn’t take legal action because there wasn’t a case to begin with. I would only humiliate myself. I would have to apologize to him. He was an artistic genius. His documentary won awards. People wouldn’t believe me. It was all in my head. My assaulter went as far as saying I had a penis phobia.

What happened blew out my light for a while and I refused to write about it. It was an experience too painful to revisit, all I wanted was to erase it and the damage it left behind. Thankfully, the event took place at the beginning of the Me Too era and I felt strong enough to share my story online. Motivated to continue to speak up, I wrote through tears and panic attacks; I murdered the stillness within me and set the fire ablaze. There had to be a way to let the agony out, a way to achieve total justice and open everybody’s eyes. Especially those that basked in the fake glory of keeping their blindfolds on.

I write because it is my way of making a difference. I feel it’s my purpose to expose the horrible things taking place in the darkest corners of humanity. The abuse in mental hospitals, the misconceptions regarding mental illness, our antiquated views on sexual assault, self-harm, eating disorders, trauma and so much more. It’s a never-ending list of cruel realities being swept under a rug so people can feel comfortable and safe. I want to be the guidance and safety I needed when I was a child. Art can and will shape the world and I desire to be a part of that movement. It is our time to inherit the earth and transcend hatred with wisdom.

Here is an extract (roughly translated to English) from Ode to Envy by Pablo Neruda, a poem that captures this idea perfectly:

"I will write not only

so as not to die,

but to help

others live,

because it seems that someone

needs my singing."

[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2019, Part IV

Part III, Part II, Part I PRETTY PRETTY GOOD MOVIES

62. Shazam! (David F. Sandberg)- One of the most comic-booky movies to come around in a while in the sense that it seems to be in fast forward for the first third, using shorthands because it has too much story to tell. I am sad to report that Shazam! has no Movie Stars in it, and I didn't realize how essential those were to the superhero genre. There is a cagey standalone quality to its modest bets though. I like that it's anchored in a real place and isn't afraid to be a little too scary for kids. I would see it mostly as a product of potential though, for a funny Jack Dylan Grazer, for the filmmakers, and for the studio. As a student of weird billing, I have so many questions about Adam Brody getting awarded fifth lead for a bit part.

61. Fighting with My Family (Stephen Merchant)- Dwayne Johnson as producer feels like the auteur here, since the formulaic story has more to do with his combed-over, please-everyone persona than with Stephen Merchant's more messy, improvisatory style. I couldn't care less about the time spent on Jack Lowden's brother character, but I was impressed with the physical part of Florence Pugh's performance. This is a movie you've seen a hundred times, but it hits most of its marks skillfully. 60. Spider-Man: Far From Home (Jon Watts)- This is a movie in which a spurned tech innovator uses drone projectors to stage a battle in which he defeats an elemental water monster to save Venice. The best sequence is one in which a boy tries to trick his friends into letting him sit next to the girl he likes on a flight.  59. John Wick: Chapter 3- Parabellum (Chad Stahelski)- What a criticism it is to claim that the filmmakers give in too much to fanservice, especially since I don't know what that word means anymore if something like this is the monoculture. So they gave us, the audience, what we wanted, and I was upset that it was two hours and ten minutes? Seriously though, have you ever eaten too much ice cream? 58. Fyre (Chris Smith)- An interesting yarn that gets at the foolishness of Internet influencing better than anything else that I've seen. I was surprised by how distant many of the subjects seemed, as if only the Big Bad Billy was responsible for any misleading. And I was grateful that, despite the level of criminality on display, it was still as funny as the tweets were at the time. The film lacks shape though, and it would be nice to have somebody smart on hand to answer questions. Can someone explain to me why it's so important that the island used to be Pablo Escobar's? Why should I want to be like Pablo Escobar? 57. Leaving Neverland (Dan Reed)- Part 1 works because of the striking similarities in the parallel stories, as well as the subjects' perspicacious understanding of their own emotions and childhood psychology. So Part 2 gets extremely frustrating when these men, who have already proven how articulate they are, seem puzzled by the obvious psychological problems they have as adults. 56. Diane (Kent Jones)- This movie is kind of good when it's purely slice-of-life, before it declares what it is. It's very good once it declares itself as a routine of self-flagellation, a sort of Raging Bull for women with multiple recipes for tater tot hotdish. It's a little less good when it speeds up and goes back on that thesis near the end. For the record, I think Mary Kay Place is fine. I don't get the critical adoration.

55. Rocketman (Dexter Fletcher)- If the choice is Bohemian Rhapsody or this, then I'll take this every time. Unlike the former, Elton John's life doesn't present an obvious high point in the second half or easy conflict for the first half. As a result, the relationships within John's family seem broad with manufactured conflict. (His birth father's hardness isn't that far off from Walk Hard's "wrong kid died.") But there's an authenticity here that's refreshing, a respect to the unique friendship between Elton and Bernie and a respect for the transformative power of the music. That sincerity extends to Egerton's generous performance, which nails the self-effacing Elton John smile. So there are some biopic structural problems that can't be helped, but if only to admire the '80s fits that Elton gets off, attention must be paid. 54. Triple Frontier (J.C. Chandor)- A useful example for differentiating between tropes and cliches of the action drama genre. For someone who gets less amped than I do for dudes meeting in a shipping container to have a conversation about how "now is the time to get out," it's probably full of cliches. For fans of hyper-masculine parables about getting a team together (that are also sort of meta-commentaries on their lead actor's fallen star), it's full of tropes. 53. The Lego Movie 2: The Second Part (Mike Mitchell)- The plot is nearly incoherent, and the sequel isn't really satirizing anything like the first one was. But the jokes come at a Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker clip. A character in a car chase saying, "It's like she knows my every move" before a cut reveals he's been using turn signals? That's some Frank Drebin stuff. 52. Long Shot (Jonathan Levine)- Jonathan Levine has carved out an interesting directorial space for himself, with a career far different from what I imagined when I saw and loved The Wackness, a film to which I'm a little afraid to return. Levine is making, at the highest level possible ($40 million budget?), the types of movies that we claim don't get made anymore. A one-crazy-night Christmas comedy, an adventure comedy, and now a political romantic comedy, all with top flight Movie Stars. Long Shot seems like a rare opportunity to put Seth Rogen and Charlize Theron together and do something special, and what we come out with is...cute. For every good decision the film makes--what a supporting cast, all playing rounded characters--it makes a bad one--leaning too heavily into Rogen's patented "I don't really know what we're yelling about" delivery. The music is uninspired, but the presidential satire is pretty clever. The rhythm of the film is jagged and doesn't really cut together, but the script is very fair to the Theron character. Even in the general tone of the film's politics, it declares a few ideals, but those positions are still too neutral and obvious. I had a good time, but in a more capable director's hands, this experience wouldn't feel like math. 51. Isn’t It Romantic (Todd Strauss-Schulson)- So frothy that it almost doesn't believe in itself, especially near the end, but I found myself laughing a lot. Regarding the gay best friend, I'm very interested in the space of politically incorrect humor that is acceptable only because the work has built up self-awareness in other areas. That's a difficult negotiation, but this movie balances it. 50. Yesterday (Danny Boyle)- There's one twist that stretches the moral center of the film, and two minutes later there's a twist that's probably just a bridge too far in good taste. Other than that, this is a really cute Richard Curtis script, and it's nice to hear "Hey Jude" on movie speakers. 49. Ready or Not (Radio Silence)- Short and spicy, despite one or two too many twists. I'm in the front row of the Adam Brody Revival, but I appreciated the movie more as an exercise in the paranoid misery built into wealth. I wish I could have written the line down, but Alex says something like, "I didn't realize how much you could do just because your family said that it was okay," and that's the whole film. If you can, see it without watching the trailer first.

48. The Laundromat (Steven Soderbergh)- Mary Ann Bernard is a Steven Soderbergh pseudonym, but what if he did hire an outside editor? What if someone saved him from himself? It's hard to believe that Meryl Streep is the heart of the film--if the film's thesis is "The meek will inherit the Earth?"--if we go on a twenty-minute detour to an African family and a ten-minute detour to China. I laughed quite a bit, and I admire the audacity of the ending. But this is a movie that knows what it's about without knowing how to be about it.

47. High Flying Bird (Steven Soderbergh)- As a person who can cite most NBA players' cap figures off the top of my head, I should love High Flying Bird, a movie about a sports agent who tries to topple the system during an NBA lockout. Instead I liked it okay. It takes an hour to kick into high gear, but once it does, some self-contained scenes are powerhouses, and the writer of Moonlight was always going to provide an emotional kick that is sometimes absent from Soderbergh's work. Like Soderbergh's Unsane from last year, High Flying Bird is shot on an iPhone, an appropriate form given that the execution is a do-it-yourself parable that takes place mostly inside. Soderbergh is a man who has always tried to trade the ossified system of moviemaking for experimentation, so most reviews have pointed toward the meta quality of capturing a character doing that same thing in another medium. Like most of his post-retirement work, however, I find myself asking one question: "Would anyone care if this were made by another director?" 46. Piercing (Nicolas Pesce)- Good sick fun with a taste for the theatrical. I saw twist one and twist three coming, but twist two was ingenious. It ends the only way it can, which is okay. 45. Booksmart (Olivia Wilde)- At first the film is hard to acclimate to, stylized as it is into a very specific but absurd setting, counteracted by a very specific and realistic relationship. The music cues are all awful until the Perfume Genius one, which is so perfect that it erases the half-dozen clunkers.But it's smartly funny, funnily warm, and warmly smart. The screenplay does some clever things with swapping the protagonists' wants and needs at crucial times. Molly will have an obvious drive that overrides Amy's fear, and then a few scenes later, there will be an organic reversal. 44. Joker (Todd Phillips)- Joker presents more ideas than it cogently lands. I don't disagree with Amanda Dobbins's burn that it feels more like a vision board than a coherent story. Still, its success kind of fascinates me. This dark provocation, shot on real locations, has way more in common with Phoenix entries like You Were Never Really Here than it does with the DCEU. In fact, the comic book shoehorns feel like intrusions into a story about a guy who likes to Jame Gumb skinny-dance. Dunk on me if you want, but I think it's most eerie and affecting as a portrait of mental illness. Whereas Joker is a criminal mastermind in Batman lore, this is a guy helpless enough to scrawl into a notebook, "The worst part about having a mental illness is pretending to people that you don't." And that idea gets borne out in a scene in which he's pausing and rewinding a tape to study how a talk show guest sits and waves like a regular person. It's rare enough to see a person this mentally ill depicted on screen; it's even rarer to see someone this aware of his own isolation and otherness.

[ricandhaiz]

The Rose of Castile, Part 11 (Bad Omen)

“Where could he be?” Inés asked as she paced back and forth in her bedchamber. It had been hours since she and Don Corto had returned from San Zoilo. “He should be here by now.”

“Be patient,” Don Corto replied. “He’ll arrive when the time is right.”

Inés frowned. “What if he decides not to come at all?”

Don Corto shook his head. “For pity’s sake, why must you always assume the worst? He’s just learned of the deaths of his two niños (children). He’s likely in shock and deeply distressed. Perhaps he’s gone to a chapel to pray or taken his horse for a ride around Carrión to clear his head.”

“Do you think I should I wait for him in the courtyard?” Inés asked and then wrung her hands, adding, “Oh Papá, what should I…”

But before Inés could finish her train of thought, the sight of a hooded figure clad in black standing in the doorway behind Don Corto stopped her short. She put a hand to her mouth and gasped. Alarmed, her papá quickly turned to face the source of Inés’ apparent astonishment.

Raul stepped into the room with a weary gate and stooped shoulders. He looked pale and gaunt with blood shot eyes that were glued to Inés’ face.

Sensing Raul and Inés’ need to be alone, Don Corto bowed and said, “I will take my leave.”

Inés’ stomach was twisted in knots as watched her padre exit the room. As her eyes flitted back and forth between Don Corto’s receding figure and the haunted expression on Raul’s face, she found herself having to squelch the impulse to retreat or run away. Don’t be a coward, she scolded herself. Stay where you are and hear him out.

When Raul stepped toward her, she closed her eyes and braced herself for an impending blow, a sharp reprimand, or maybe even both. But to her surprise, he instead wrapped his arms around her in a fierce and impassioned embrace that nearly took her breath away.

“Inés,” Raul groaned again and again as he buried his face in her hair and wept. “I was so worried about you. I don’t know what would have become of me if I’d lost you too.”

Overwhelmed with love, remorse and pity, Inés kissed Raul’s tear-strewn cheeks and cried with him as they fell to their knees.  For a long while, they simply held each other close until the worst of their outpouring of grief had passed.

At that point, Inés had worked up the nerve to ask, “So you’re not angry with me then?”

“Why would you think that?” Raul asked with a bemused look.

“For refusing to leave Cuéllar,” Inés said with downcast eyes. “If I’d only listened to you and Papá maybe Estela and Gonzalo would be with us now.”

Grabbing hold of Inés’ face, Raul replied, “Then I am just as much at fault as you are. You and Estela were in Cuéllar because that is where I wished for you to be.”

Inés furrowed her brow and sighed. “I’ve borne you three children in the five years we’ve been married. Our two hijos died at or near birth, and the only one that lived past her infancy just succumbed to an attack of the fever. You need an heir to pass your patrimonial lands and wealth to. What if I’m no longer capable of doing that?”

“If I am unable to have a hijo with you, then my line will end with me,” Raul replied, matter-of-factly.

“But why should you be penalized for my failures? That wouldn’t be right or fair. I could go away to a convent. You could marry again and have the hijos and hijas I couldn’t give you.”

Raul grasped her upper arms with an exasperated look and shook her as he said, “Hear me well and then we’ll speak of this no more. I love you. I always have, and I always will. You’re the one I want at my side and in my bed. If I can’t have you, then I will have no one.”  

Inés nodded as she took his hand in hers and led him to the bed. A long interval of silence ensued as she cradled his head to her breast and gently stroked his back and arms. Finally, Raul spoke again. “I made for Cuéllar as soon as your padre’s messenger arrived. It had taken him a little more than a week to find me. The king’s army was en route to Coria from Toledo at the time. He told me of Gonzalo’s death and Estela’s illness. I immediately went to the king and asked him for leave to depart. He said yes and told me that the situation with the taifa king of Badajoz, al-Mutawakkil, was well in hand and that he himself was going to depart for the Rioja soon. He wished me well asked me to give you his regards.”

After a brief pause, Raul continued. “You and your padre had already left by the time my men and I arrived in Cuéllar. I spoke to Mencia at length about what had happened to our hijos. She told me how you refused to let go of Gonzalo after his passing and how you stayed by Estela’s side until the end.”

“She asked for you,” Inés replied, her voice quivering. “I told her over and over again how much you loved her and that you would’ve been there for her too if the king hadn’t called you away.”

“Did she suffer much?”

Inés nodded and squeezed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to keep her tears from falling. “She fought it as long and as hard as she could. I prayed for a miracle but as the days wore on, it became clear to me that that cursed fever had no intention of loosening its stranglehold on her until she was dead.”

At that point, their conversation abated for a little while, each lost in thought. Finally, Inés asked, “Who else did you speak to while you were there?”

“I spoke at length with Ramiro. He told me of his efforts to keep the fever from spreading further and his attempts to assuage the concerns of the townspeople.”

“Did he tell you about what happened to innkeeper’s granddaughter, Maria?”

Raul nodded. “He said that credible accusations of witchcraft had been made against her.”

“She was no witch.” Inés was adamant. “What else did he say?”

“He said that she killed herself shortly after escaping from jail.”

“Do you believe him?”

Raul’s eyes narrowed. He looked up at her with a quizzical expression and said, “Do you have reason to doubt him?”

“The story of her escape makes no sense. Maria was slight and nearly a foot shorter than the jailer and the bars to her cell were thick.”

“How would you know that?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Inés confessed, “I went to see her after I heard what happened.”

Raul’s eyes widened in shock and surprise. “Inés…”  

Inés placed a finger on his lips to stop him from saying more. “You were gone and… and I couldn’t just stand by and let an innocent girl be crucified by the Abbot and his angry disciples. She seemed frightened but not at all inclined to take her own life.”

“Well then, you will likely be pleased to hear that Abbot Pablo’s days of fearmongering and demagoguery are now at an end.”

“Has he been reassigned?” Inés asked hopefully.

“No. He’s dead.” Inés gasped. Raul continued. “From what I was able to gather, it appears that his death occurred under rather unusual circumstances.”

“How so?”

“I’m told that one of his servants heard him screaming in the night. And then, when she went to his bedchamber to check on him, she found his body curled up in one corner of the room. She claims that he looked as though he had died of fright.”

“Was he ill or had he been harmed in any way at the time of his death?”

Raul shook his head. “The servant swore that she neither heard nor saw anyone enter or exit the Abbot’s residence that evening. Ramiro also told me that his body showed no outward signs of violence.”

“That’s strange.”

“Ramiro also told me that there were those in the town who believe that Maria had come back from the dead to haunt him.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“No. But there are many things in this life that do defy explanation. As for the Abbot, we may never know what truly led to his demise.”

Inés nodded and was quiet for a moment before she speaking again. “I pray that the next abbot will adhere to the tenants of his faith and be a much more faithful practitioner then his predecessor.”

“We can only hope,” Raul replied with a yawn as he laid his head upon her breast once more.

“Sleep now,” Inés said as she kissed the top of his head and wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll talk again once you’ve had the chance to rest awhile.”

 Raul and Inés lived in seclusion in the Kingdom of Leon to mourn the passing of their children until December of 1079 when they attended the wedding of King Alfonso VI to Constance of Burgundy in Leon. They did not return to Cuéllar until the spring of 1080.

The sky was overcast and threatening rain when Raul and Inés arrived in town with a small contingent of knights and squires. Along the way, they were greeted by various town officials, including the town’s new merino, Gustavo García, and abbot, Carlos López, before retiring to their newly constructed living quarters in the citadel.

As Inés entered the courtyard, a great sadness fell upon her heart. She looked around and recalled how much Estela had enjoyed watching her “castle” being constructed.

“Are you all right?” Raul asked as he helped Inés dismount from her horse.

Inés bit her lip and didn’t answer at first. She took a moment to look around instead before she responded. “I think she would have approved, don’t you?”

Raul nodded. “There’s still years of work to be done on the fortress itself and the town’s defensive walls but it should suit our purposes well enough for the time being.” He then offered her his arm, adding, “Come, let’s go inside and get some rest before tonight’s festivities.”

“From what Gustavo said, it sounds like nearly every member of the town council and their esposas (wives) will be joining us for dinner,” Inés replied with a sigh.

Raul stopped in his tracks and furrowed his brow. “I can always arrange for them to come another day if you’re not up to entertaining anyone on your first night back in Cuéllar.”

“I’ll be fine,” Inés replied as she patted Raul’s arm. “I just need to discuss the menu with the cook and make sure that we have enough food and drink for all our guests.”

As expected, the Abbot and the town’s governing body arrived for dinner shortly after sunset. They were greeted by Raul and Inés at the entrance to the Great Hall. Each of them expressed their heartfelt condolences for the loss of the lord’s children as they entered the dining area. Once they were all seated, Abbot Carlos said grace after the servants finished setting dishes filled with roast chicken, fresh fruit, loaves of bread and pitchers of wine on the table.

Halfway through the meal, Gustavo, who was sitting to Raul’s immediate right said, “Your presence was greatly missed, my lord. And I’m sure that I speak for everyone here when I say that your impending return has been the talk of the town for weeks.”

“I’ve been very pleased with all the reports that I’ve received from you during my absence. You and the other members of the council have done an exceptional job of keeping the town moving in a forward despite the few setbacks it’s experienced in the last year or so.”

Gustavo took a sip of wine and smiled. “The fever killed nearly a quarter of the town’s population. Ramiro, God rest his soul, was one of the last to succumb to it. And that business with the innkeeper’s nieta (granddaughter)…”

Inés’ ears perked up at the sound of Maria’s name while the merino’s wife, Isabella, who was sitting to her left, crossed herself.

“Are you all right?” Inés asked.

“Yes, my lady,” Isabella replied. Her hands shook as she lifted a cup of wine to her lips. “I’m grateful that that whole ugly episode is now behind us. You were lucky to have missed all the hysterical gossip that spread about her for months after her death.”

“What were people saying? Please tell me. I’d like to know.”

Isabella glanced at Gustavo and then said, “Maria was rumored to have put a curse on the men who played a part in her arrest. For the most part, I try not pay attention to stories of that kind, but I must admit that the deaths of Abbot Pablo, Ramiro, and the jailer within weeks of Maria’s got me thinking that they might actually be true.”

“Or it could all just have been a coincidence,” Inés offered while masking her disdain of those men and the rumor mongers who had circulated what she believed had been an obvious lie. “Maria was never tried and convicted for the alleged crime of witchcraft.”

“That’s very true,” Isabella replied demurely. “Forgive me. I meant no offense by my words.”

“No apology is necessary. I was merely pointing out facts as they existed at the time of Maria’s death. Do you know what became of her family? Do they still live in town?”

Abbot Carlos, who was sitting across from Raul and Inés, said, “The innkeeper’s still running the Inn. I often see his sister, Cecilia, sitting by the front doors whenever I pass by. She arrived not long after Maria’s death.”

“That must have been the woman we saw when we passed the Inn,” Inés said and glanced at Raul.

“She keeps to herself for the most part,” Abbot Carlos said. “She’s barely said two words to me since I’ve been in Cuéllar.”

“Nor anyone else,” Isabella said with a snort. “Don’t you agree Gustavo?”

Rather than respond to Isabella’s question, Gustavo cleared his throat and said, “Speak no more of that woman and her family. Don Raul and Doña Inés have probably had their fill of this subject and are likely eager to move on to other topics. Let us oblige them and do so.”

With that said, the subject turned from Maria to issues such as the likelihood of incursions by Moorish forces into towns like Cuéllar and the state of its defenses at the present time. Gustavo, like his predecessor before him, assured Raul that everything humanly possibly had been done in his absence to fortify the town and train every able-bodied man for a possible attack. Raul, in turn, informed the members of the town council that he had received assurances from the king and Count Pedro that the fortresses at Tordesillas, Valladolid, and/or Peñafiel could be relied upon to reinforce Cuéllar’s militia if needed. Near the end of the evening, Raul invited Gustavo to meet with him in the coming days to go over his proposed plan to evacuate at least the women and children of the town if, in his estimation, the danger of being overrun ever reached a crisis point.

Once all the guests had departed, Raul took a horseback ride around town while Inés bathed and unpacked her things. Given the lateness of the hour, he encountered few people along the way. But as he passed the Inn, he came upon the old woman which his guests had alluded to at dinnertime. She was sitting alone in a chair beside the front doors.

“Good evening,” Raul said with a slight nod to the woman. At first, he wasn’t sure that she’d heard him. Thus, he moved a closer and repeated his greeting.

That time, the old woman looked up at him and smiled toothlessly as she said, “Same to you, my lord.”

“Do you know who I am?”

The woman cackled. “How could I not? There’s not a man or woman in town who wouldn’t know who you are. I saw you pass with your lady and your men-at-arms earlier today.”

“I’m afraid that I’m at a slight disadvantage since I don’t know your name.”

Again, she laughed. “My name’s Cecilia.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Is it now?” Cecilia replied slowly. “I’m sure that there are many others who would disagree with you.”

“Why so?”

“Because they’re small-minded and foolish. You must know about what these people did to my Maria. She was a good girl.”

“I did. My lady, Doña Inés, was quite distressed when she’d heard that Maria had died.”

“She’s a very pretty lady. You love her a lot...or so I’ve been told. You’re worried about her. I can tell. Maybe I can help.”

“And how would you do that?”

Cecilia motioned for him to come closer. “When the time comes, I will show you how.”

Just then, a gush of cold wind sprang up, nearly knocking him off Bandido while it neighed and pawed at the ground. He patted the horse’s neck to calm him down even though his own heart was now pounding in his chest. Who was this woman? And what, if anything, was she capable of?

“I should go now,” Raul said. “My lady is probably wondering where I am.”

“Good night then,” Cecilia replied with a knowing smile. “I’m sure that we will see each other again soon. Please give your lady my regards.”

“I will,” Raul said as he backed away. He then turned his horse in the direction of the citadel and galloped all the way home. Once there, he bounded up the stairs to his bedchamber and flung the door open. It was only upon seeing Inés kneeling by the bed in prayer that the irrational fear which had seized and propelled him to return with undue haste at last began to dissipate.

Raul swooped Inés up in his arms and held her tight. “Thank God you’re well.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Inés asked as she pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Did something happen to you while you were out? You look as white as a sheet.”

“Don’t mind me,” Raul replied slowly. “It’s nothing.”

Inés frowned. “Something’s amiss. What’s troubling you?”

Raul took a deep breath as he cupped her face with his hands and said, “I love you. There’s nothing more important to me in this world than you are. God help me, but I think that I might even make a deal with the devil himself to keep you safe from harm.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you or me,” Inés replied. “Have faith, mi amor, and rest easy. All will be well.”