DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
She took the pulpit promptly at nine the next morning, a Bible under one arm and a stack of papers under the other. Her face showed no expression as she looked out at the uneasy congregation, but her eyes were glinting.
"Do you know," Valeria said, "which book of the Bible I have studied most closely?"
No one spoke up, although a few nuns muttered something about Leviticus.
A smile crept across Valeria's mouth, lingering at the corners. "Revelation."
Manolo couldn't remember much of the details from that one, only half-remembered images from childhood nightmares. Now they returned to his mind, clear and sharp and magnified by the woman's words: falling stars that darkened the world, locusts with human faces and wings like a million hoofbeats, horsemen bringing death and pestilence. Even the general began to squirm as she took nearly half an hour to describe exactly what went on in the lake of fire.
"And," Valeria said as the sermon neared its end, "we mustn't forget the Beast. The Anti-Christ, some call it. That which came from the abyss below to crown itself our ruler and infect us with its mark." Opening her Bible, she flipped to a page near the end. "'And he causes all, the small and the great, and the rich and the poor, and the free men and the slaves, to be given a mark on their right hand or on their forehead,'" she read aloud, "'and he provides that no one will be able to buy or to sell, except the one who has the mark, either the name of the beast or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for the number is that of a man; and his number is six hundred and sixty-six.' Or so they say."
She set down her book and leaned forward to address her audience, gripping the sides of the pulpit. "It is near impossible to find the truth in this day and age, with the word of God corrupted so. How can we truly know what the Mark of the Beast is? It could be a number, or a word, or a symbol. The emblem of death disguised as that of love."
At his side, Manolo felt Ofelia shudder and grab his arm.
"Perhaps we cannot know until it is too late," Valeria finished quietly. "Perhaps."
Manolo did not linger after the service - as soon as he was on his feet, he was hurrying for the door. Greetings from friends were answered only with a quick nod, and he turned around every few seconds to reassure himself that Ofelia was keeping up with him. "Stay close," he said, taking her hand. "We're going straight home. Maria!"
Looking around, he resisted the urge to fume when he saw where she was. Valeria had her locked in some conversation back near the pulpit, along with Ixa and Joaquin. When Maria saw him, she merely motioned for him to go on ahead.
Not while you're alone with her. "Just a little longer, mija," he said, walking towards the group. "I need to take care of this."
Valeria eyed him as he approached. "And what did you think of my sermon, Señor Sanchez?"
"Truly thought-provoking," he said, forcing a smile. "I'd love to discuss it further, but Maria and I really ought to be getting home…"
"Actually," his wife said, "Ixa and I were gonna stick around here for a while longer."
He looked at her, surprised. "Really?"
"She asked if we might help her prepare some herbs for Father Domingo," Ixa said.
"Oh…"
Valeria seemed to smirk at him. "I'm afraid they're mine for the afternoon."
"Then why don't I join you?"
The older woman frowned before quickly resuming her neutral expression. "Hmmm?"
"You'll get more work done. And we might be able to learn more about each other." He turned to Joaquin. "You could watch Ofelia for a while, couldn't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose," he answered, casting a glance at the girl's concerned face.
Ofelia was backing away from the group as she looked up at Valeria. "Papa…"
Manolo motioned for the women to leave without him, then knelt down and took his daughter's hands in his. "We won't be long, Ofelia." When he had determined that they were out of earshot, he lowered his voice. "I need to keep Mama and Aunt Ixa safe from Miss Valeria. You can understand that, can't you?"
The girl hesitated, but then nodded.
"Gracias. Now don't worry about us. Play with your friends, read something you like, get your mind off this morning. We'll come back for you. I promise." He hugged her, then stood and hurried away.
She watched him leave as though she would never see him again.
In the back of the church, its oldest section, a narrow stone staircase that was cracked and smoothed with age wound upwards in a tight spiral. It ended in a heavy wooden door and a set of cramped, drafty rooms which had been formed from spare attic space and promptly abandoned. These, Valeria explained, she had found suitable for her study and living quarters.
It's good if you want to be left alone, Manolo thought as he made his way through the labyrinth spread out on the floor. There were no shelves in the tiny front room, so books, chests and glass jars spread out wherever there was room. In the smaller room where Valeria kept her desk and cot, there were more shelves but even more clutter.
"How do you manage to carry this stuff around?" Maria asked incredulously when she saw it all.
"Meticulously."
"I bet I could help you organize it," she said, starting to rummage through the papers on the desk. A long sheet of words crossed out in red ink slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. "What's this?"
Valeria snatched it from her hands and stowed it away before she could finish the sentence. "A personal matter."
They were sitting around a square table now, grinding down plants with brightly colored flowers and spiky leaves. A metal teapot whistled atop a little iron stove in the corner. The rafters creaked, and cold air seeped in through the cracks in and around the window.
Manolo shivered, unsure of whether it was the chill or the woman's presence. "So, that sermon. You…seem very interested in that sort of thing."
"As we should all be," Valeria answered sharply, crushing a blossom under her pestle. "The end of days is inevitable. All that people of my sort can do is merely delay its arrival."
"What do you mean?"
"There are those in this world," she continued, "that would see it sooner rather than later."
"May I ask you something?"
They all looked at Ixa, who was holding up some plants by the tips of her fingers: one was a vine-like thing covered in red leaves, and the other had bulbous flowers colored an acidic green. "Where did you find these?" the young woman asked, staring at Valeria with hints of suspicion and fear.
"Simple herbs, nothing more."
"They are very rare where I come from," Ixa said, setting them down. "We call them fire lace and snakebell. My sisters showed them to me."
At this, Manolo and Maria both stiffened. "Should someone go check on Father Domingo?" the former asked.
Valeria stared at them. "Go on, then."
Father Domingo was still much too ill to return to his own house, Valeria said, so they had cleared out enough room in his study to place down a cot and a side table. A single candle burned in the small, swept room, casting light on his face. His features were sunken, his skin almost yellowed. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as he tossed and turned, muttering.
The two Sanchezes stared down at him in horror. Maria touched his forehead and quickly drew her hand back. "He's burning up."
Manolo could only shake his head. This wasn't right - an ordinary sickness as bad as this would have spread beyond just one man.
Father Domingo's eyes gradually fluttered open. He stared at his visitors with glazed eyes for a moment, then nodded a greeting. "On my desk," he managed to croak out as he lifted a trembling hand and pointed. "For Manolo…"
A stack of letters, folders and newspaper clippings sat bound with a length of cord. "Thank you," Manolo said as his wife retrieved it.
"A word, boy. In private."
Maria nodded and backed out of the room. Manolo waited until she was gone to lean closer to the old man. "Is there anything I can…"
Father Domingo suddenly grabbed the front of his shirt. "Leave," he wheezed. "Take your family and leave San Angel. Go as far as you can and never come back. Don't ever let her find you."
Manolo was still shaking when he found his way back to Valeria's rooms. "Are you alright?" Maria asked, springing to her feet and hurrying towards him.
"We need to go," he answered, grabbing her hand.
"But there's still a bunch of - "
"I can manage by myself," Valeria said, waving away her protest. "Your husband needs tending to. Will you see them home safely, Señora Mondragon?"
"Oh, yes," Ixa said, clearly glad to be leaving.
"Keep your wits about you, Maria. Perhaps I shall call on you later."
The trio fumbled down the staircase, Maria guiding Manolo and Ixa steadying him from behind. The slight itch that came from the bundle of twigs tied like a triangle, deftly slipped between the red-haired woman's corset and the back of her dress, went unnoticed.