Portugal—A Santa Companha [The Lisbon Earthquake, 1755]
It was a beautiful morning, the sun shone bright, there was not a cloud on sight and it was November the 1st, All Saints' Day. The Lord had granted them a beautiful day for them to honor His majesty.
Spain was in Cádiz, about to enter the church along with his royal family, when a sudden tremor made him stumble.
Morocco opened her eyes, woken up by her bed moving, just in time to see how a crack on the ceiling crossed the wall in front of her.
England was changing his clothes when he heard the window burst and saw that the wave had been able to get into his holidays home.
Even Finland saw that the milk cup he was having for breakfast trembled.
What was that? Where did that come from? They followed the trace of destruction, leading to...Lisbon!
Or where it should have been.
The King had attended mass at dawn and left the city just a few hours before. «I don't want to be in Lisbon today», one of his daughters had said (a prophetess!)—but the nation wanted to stay for the processions of that day!
Portugal!, they called for him among the debris and the flames, walking on the ground the sea had reclaimed, throughout streets which did not exist anymore. Portugal?, they asked, lifting every plank, every stone which once formed churches, houses, retrieving bodies never endlessly. Portugal!, they cried again, distracted by the opera house and its treasures destroyed, the palaces and the libraries crumbling before their eyes, the millions of candles inside the churches and the houses spreading fires which made it seem like the gates of hell.
And they were encountered by a ghostly committee.
White were their dresses, suits and chasubles, white the faces of all the macabre figures, remotely men and women, who walked past the destruction with vacant faces, muttering a prayer like they were breathing: Kyrie Eleyson...Christe Eleyson...Kyrie Eleyson..., addressing a God who had turned His face away from them, forsaken them, punished them...Souls which purged their faults on Earth.
And white was the one presiding this procession of souls; white was the dust coating his long brown hair, of the one who walked ahead, in his hands a bent golden cross he refused to let go of.
The vision was so dreadful no one dared to speak to them.
The King trembled when the leading figure, Portugal, but not quite, fixed his dead eyes on him and handed him the cross, only to walk away—where to?, no one knew.
And he was left to lead the ghostly committee.
Which he didn't want to do. Where was the Minister? He didn't want this. He was scared to be there, in the realm of death, with the risk of joining the casualties. He went to look for someone to pass this curse. And the procession followed him.