The Relic
Juan Mendoza was a humble, pious, god-fearing man, a fisherman by trade like his father, grandfather and several generations of Mendoza men before him. He was an old man whose calloused hands were twisted with what we refer to today as arthritis, and they sometimes pained him so much that he could barely cast or haul in his fishing nets.
Life had not been kind to Juan. It had taken away two wives and two sons in childbirth and a third, more recent wife, at an early age, leaving him to raise an infant daughter alone. He had little money, just enough to keep his fishing boat afloat and put food on the table.
Yet despite his poverty, the old man sincerely believed he was blessed. He did not blame his heavenly father for the loss of his loved ones, for his lack of worldly goods or for the pain that was slowly robbing him of the use of his hands. On the contrary, he praised God for the fish in the sea that provided him with a livelihood, the lowly hovel that sheltered him and his daughter from the elements and the meager food that kept them alive.
More than anything else, though, Juan gave thanks for Isabella, his only surviving child. In her face and form was perfection only the divine hand of the Almighty could achieve, but it was not her physical magnificence that delighted her father. It was the beauty of her soul that made him love her more than his own life, for her virtues were many, her faults practically nonexistent.
Juan knew it was only a matter of time until a young man looked at her with an eye toward marriage. Given Isabella's exquisite countenance and gentle nature, matrimony was inevitable. As a father, he was prepared to place his daughter's life in another man's hands, providing that man would love her and treat her as she deserved to be treated, for the old fisherman could not bear the idea of his daughter being harmed in any way.
Sadly, Juan and Isabella Mendoza lived in the fifteenth century, a time when the Catholic Church in Spain had fallen under the hands of ruthless, ignorant men who had no tolerance or compassion for those whom they labeled heretics. It was the time of the Spanish Inquisition, and Isabella was soon to fall victim to its reign of terror.
* * *
While there were many charitable ecclesiastics throughout Spain—compassionate good shepherds who diligently tended their flocks—there were also those in the priesthood who were burning with greed, carnal lust or hunger for power. Such a man was Father Fernando Perez. Born of an old Spanish family that had acquired vast plots of land and great wealth, Fernando had nothing but contempt for the farmers, tradesmen and fishermen of the small villages that dotted the coastline along the Mediterranean.
The pompous priest believed that a man of his importance ought to be a cardinal, or at the very least a bishop, and have duties commensurate with his family's pedigree. Instead, Father Fernando had been assigned to assist Tomás de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor General of Spain, in examining suspected heretics.
Although such a lowly appointment left Father Fernando filled with anger, frustration and envy of lesser men who served in the Vatican, the position of Inquisitor was not without its rewards. Many a man and woman trembled in his presence. Instilling such fear in his fellow man gave the priest a heady feeling indeed.
One day while Father Fernando was passing through the village where the Mendozas lived, his eyes fell upon the lovely Isabella. At the sight of her fair face, the priest was instantly smitten. Had he never taken holy vows, he would have pursued her with the goal of making her his wife. The Church, however, forbade its priests to marry, and while there were many men at all levels of the Church who broke their vows of chastity in one way or another, Father Fernando was much too proud to sin and then humble himself before God to beg his forgiveness.
Rather, the Inquisitor's lust burned without respite. The priest's forbidden desire festered in his soul and manifested itself in cold, jealous rages whenever another man dared approach Isabella. The thought of some coarse, illiterate, lowly born oaf pawing her soft flesh infuriated him.
"There is only one way to ensure she remains chaste," the devious, spiteful prelate decided. "I will have her brought before the Inquisition and imprisoned so that no man will ever have her."
* * *
When his daughter was taken away, Juan Mendoza tearfully pleaded with Father Fernando for her release.
"My child is no heretic, Padre," he cried. "She is a devout Catholic."
"I have reason to believe otherwise, old man," the Inquisitor maintained, firmly refusing to release the girl.
Unsure of how to save Isabella, Juan journeyed to a monastery in Valencia and sought out a friar who sold indulgences.
"What sin have you committed?" the rotund friar inquired.
"I don't know, but I must have offended God in some way. Why else would he take my daughter from me?"
"Perhaps she is the sinner, not you."
"No, no. My Isabella has never committed a sinful act or done an unkind thing in her life," the distraught father swore. "She is a saint."
The friar's greedy eyes sized up Juan from head to toe.
"I see what the problem is," he announced. "You are guilty of pride."
The fisherman paused to consider the friar's suggestion. He loved Isabella dearly, and it was probably true that he was proud to be her father. Had such feelings displeased his deity?
"I can see I must pray to God to forgive my faults," Juan concluded, feeling the weight of guilt bear down on him.
"I know just the thing that will smooth the path toward your absolution," the wily friar declared.
He reached into the folds of his fine robe for a leather pouch he kept tied around his waist.
"Ah, here it is," he announced, removing a sliver of wood from the small bag.
"What is it?" Juan asked with awe.
"One of the holiest of relics," the friar lied. "This is a splinter from the cross on which Jesus Christ was crucified."
Juan stared agape at the sliver of wood. When he extended a trembling hand to touch it, though, the friar pulled it away.
"You can't handle it unless you buy it."
"How much does it cost?"
"I'm afraid a common fisherman like you could never afford it."
"I have saved some money, and I own my own boat," Juan asserted hopefully.
The friar's eyes sparkled with avarice.
"Perhaps you could sell your boat, and that money added to your savings would be enough to buy this relic."
The friar then put the splinter back in the pouch, which soon disappeared once again behind the folds of his robe.
The following day Juan Mendoza gave up both the source of his livelihood and his paltry life savings in exchange for a worthless piece of wood, one of many the dishonest friar had chipped from an old wooden beam in the stable of the monastery and then sold to gullible, desperate people who wanted to make peace with God.
* * *
With the holy relic grasped firmly in his hand, the fisherman went to seek an audience with Father Fernando Perez, to once more beg for his daughter's freedom. Unfortunately, during her father's absence, Isabella was examined and condemned by the Inquisition and afterward sentenced to burn at the stake. When the old man learned of his daughter's horrible fate, he fell to the ground and groveled in the dirt at the Inquisitor's feet.
There was no mercy to be found in that steely heart, however. During his tenure as Inquisitor, Father Fernando had watched innocent men and women broken on the rack, their bodies put through agonizing torture, and he never once wavered from his narrow course.
"Look what I have," the hysterical father cried, holding the relic in the palm of his outstretched hand. "It is a piece of the cross on which Christ was crucified. I gave everything I own in exchange for it. I will give it to you if you will spare my daughter's life."
"You fool!" the priest laughed. "Unscrupulous merchants love to pawn off useless junk as religious relics."
"No. It's not a fake. I bought this from a friar at the monastery in Valencia. It is truly a splinter of our lord's cross."
"Then use it when you pray for your daughter's soul, for it will not help you save her body. She will be taken out to the village square tomorrow and burned at the stake."
* * *
The following day was clear and sunny; not a single cloud darkened the blue sky. Although a good soaking rain would have postponed the execution, it would have been a brief reprieve only.
Midmorning the villagers stopped work to gather in the square where several of the Inquisitor's men piled dry kindling and logs around the base of the stake. A low grumbling came from the crowd. To say that the Inquisition was unpopular was putting it mildly. That the Church would subject such a well-liked and obviously innocent young woman to an agonizing and undeserved death instilled anger and resentment in every heart.
Once the stage was properly prepared, the key players made their entrance. Father Fernando arrived with a retinue of holy men, soldiers and servants and took his place under an elevated canopy, constructed not so much to shield him from the sun as to set him above the others, befitting someone of his importance. Next came the distressed fisherman, clutching the splinter of wood in his hands and fervently mumbling prayers, begging God to intervene on his daughter's behalf. Finally, the condemned heretic was escorted to the square by two soldiers and made to stand at the foot of the Inquisitor.
The crowd issued a collective gasp at Isabella's appearance. Her imprisonment had left her a ghost of her former self: pale, thin and broken in body and spirit. There were clear signs that she had been tortured.
Tears fell freely from Juan's eyes as he beheld his beloved child.
"God, you must save her," he cried aloud. "She is innocent of any wrongdoing. Please take pity on her."
Friends and neighbors took up his entreaty, calling for mercy. The well-meaning villagers might as well have tried to stop the sun from setting as to move Fernando Perez to compassion.
With facial features as hard as his heart, the Inquisitor ordered the fire to be lit.
"No," Juan wailed. "You cannot burn a blameless girl."
"Father," Isabella spoke in a strained, pain-filled voice, "please do not fret, for I go to join my mother in heaven."
Father Fernando smiled coldly as one of the soldiers touched a lit torch to the kindling, which ignited quickly. Although the villagers' cries for clemency grew louder, the callous Inquisitor remained resolute.
Isabella's face began to sweat as the heat from the fire grew hotter. Soon thereafter her body started to writhe in agony.
At that point Juan's faith faltered. Why had the lord failed him when he needed help the most? Was it because the holy relic in which he had put his faith was indeed nothing more than a common splinter of wood?
"I have been duped by man and forsaken by God!" he moaned and tossed the worthless splinter into the fire.
Suddenly, the flames died down, and within moments they were extinguished altogether. The crowd fell silent as a cool breeze blew and comforted the condemned young woman. By the time the wind was still, Isabella's youthful beauty was restored and her body mended.
Juan Mendoza fell to his knees, praising God and thanking the lord for sparing his daughter's life. The villagers soon followed suit.
Father Fernando demanded the fire be relit, but after half a dozen attempts were made, the soldier admitted the task was not possible. Enraged, the Inquisitor came down from his lofty position, grabbed the torch and tried to start the kindling himself but to no avail.
Against the pile of blackened wood, Juan Mendoza's splinter glowed like a piece of gold in the sun.
"What trick is this?" Father Fernando shouted as he shook the old man. "What did you put on the fire to extinguish it?"
"It was nothing more than a sign of God's love," the fisherman contended.
"It couldn't be a real piece of the cross," the Inquisitor screamed, but his certainty was fading.
Could this be a true miracle? he wondered.
Had the sliver of wood actually witnessed Christ's crucifixion? If so, he must possess it. Father Fernando pushed the old man aside, leaned forward and reached into the pile of kindling for the glowing relic. But as the Inquisitor's hand touched the splinter of wood, his robe ignited, and his body was engulfed in flames.
Several of the men from the village quickly ran forward and freed Isabella from the stake. No one—not even the soldiers or the holy men who were duty bound to serve the Church—tried to save the Inquisitor since all believed it was God's will that Father Fernando Perez pay with his life to atone for his cruelty and misuse of power.
You can put your food bowl back, Salem. I said "burned at the stake," not "burned steak"!
