The Sisterhood

Chapter 27


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the Mission Convent of Las Golondrinas de Los Andes, October 1553





They said the smallpox had abated. But when we entered the gate, a funeral procession was gathered around a bier in the courtyard. The last victim, said the portress, one of the ladies waiting for her divorce.

“Which lady?” faltered Pia.

“A young one,” said the portress. “The epidemic had slowed. There had been no new cases, then suddenly she contracted the disease and it pleased God to take her from the hands of men. Now neither her brother nor her husband nor her would-be husband may have her.”

“No! Not Zarita!” Pia stifled a scream and before we could stop her, jumped down from the carriage and ran toward the bier. Like a madwoman she pushed the startled priest and sisters around it away and tore off the shrouds, crying “Who is it? Who?” Then a great scream echoed around the courtyard. “Zarita! Zarita! No, no, no! I was not here…I did not know…come back! Do not leave me! Live again, Zarita! Oh, Zarita!”

Sanchia and I caught hold of a frenzied Pia to drag her away, but could not help seeing the horrible dead thing on the bier. Poor Zarita, so beautiful in life, was hideously swollen and disfigured in death and, most grotesquely, was beginning to putrefy.

It took all our strength together with two strong beatas to pull Pia away and get her to our chamber, where she collapsed in hysterics. Sanchia and I sat and tried to comfort her all night, but Pia sobbed and moaned and shrieked “Zarita!” like one possessed. Sometime in the night Sanchia and then I fell asleep, worn out from the journey, sorrow for Zarita, and for poor Pia.

The next morning Sanchia and I woke to the sound of scissors. We rubbed the sleep from our eyes to see Pia standing naked, her silvery hair covering her feet. She had cut it as close to the scalp as she could and her head was bloody in places. Her eyes had sunk into their sockets and blazed with a strange light. “All flesh decays, all beauty, even Zarita. Only the spirit remains and things of the spirit. God has opened my eyes and my vocation has been revealed to me. I must go to Mother at once and tell her.”

Sanchia and I exchanged frightened glances. “Yes, we should go to Mother at once,” agreed Sanchia, thrusting her feet into her shoes while I quickly hid the scissors. “But please, put on your shift first.”

Mother insisted we leave Pia alone with her. We hovered outside the door, listening to Mother’s measured tones and Pia’s keening response, an unearthly sound that grew louder and louder, then turned to deranged shrieking. Sanchia rushed to summon help and four strong beatas came running from the infirmary. Mother called them to enter, and between them they held a struggling, kicking, snarling Pia and took her away. Pia’s high-pitched screams of anguish followed us until we put our hands over our ears and ran, in tears, for our room.


Afterward we learned that Pia somehow managed to snatch the golondrina medal from Mother. No one can find it. Sanchia and I visit her each day. She presses her face against the grille and whispers hoarsely that she is an anchorite and will pray for us all. The infirmary sisters say Pia stays on her knees and will take no food, only a little water. In this convent the nuns never wear the cilice—it is discouraged as excessive, but she has somehow procured one and wears it around her waist under her shift, which is now spotted with blood. Pia insists that when she wears it she is visited by angels who look like Zarita. Other times she says demons enter her cell and torment her. She screams her prayers and has bitten the sisters who nurse her.

In our distress over Pia I had forgotten Salome. A servant arrived with a note inviting Sanchia and me to visit her. Don Miguel’s doing, no doubt. I was reluctant to accept but Mother said we must go, that Salome is a great benefactress of the convent and having sought the invitation it would be ungracious not to accept. I confess it will be a relief to be away. The convent is a sad place, in mourning for all who died in the epidemic, while those who caught the smallpox and survived are badly scarred—a constant reminder, Mother says, to guard against vanity.

A carriage pulled by beautiful white mules and emblazoned with the Aguilar arms came for us, with a coachman, two footmen, a maid, an armed guard and a Spanish captain’s widow to act as chaperone. Sanchia and I again packed our dresses, though our hearts were too heavy to take any pleasure in our finery.