The agent thumbed his radio mike. “Be advised, we have a package on the move. Raft retrieval is now raft search and rescue. Repeat, we are search and rescue again.”
I watched the strange craft as it floated farther and farther away, growing more minuscule with each second. “Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any stranger,” I said.
Agent Ebert brought a hand to his jaw and rubbed it, his fingers stroking the shadow of daily stubble as he studied my face. “Do you have any idea what this whole thing might be about?”
“Why would I know anything about this? I just happened to be running on the rim when it came down.”
“When I told you it looked like that was a black bag over his head, you said, ‘Oh, no,’ like that meant something to you.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, that… that does. I mean, not to me, but I know who… it couldn’t be them, but it looks like someone is trying to make this appear as if it was done by Penitentes.”
“Penitentes? The guys who whip themselves?”
I sighed. “That’s not all they do, but yes, Los Penitentes. They used to do ritual reenactment of the crucifixion, too, around this time of year, although the last confirmed one was decades ago. But some people say they still do it in the dark of night in some of the more remote mountain villages. When they did, the man playing Christ wore a breechcloth and they would put a black bag called a venga over his head before tying him to the cross.”
Ebert drew in a breath. “Wow. I had heard some stories, but I didn’t know all the particulars. I thought they were a secret sect. How do you know so much about them?”
“I’ve sort of been studying Los Penitentes. I’ve been drawing some of their shrines-I see a lot of them in the high country where I work. After I had done a number of sketches, I wanted to know more about them. I started doing research and taking notes.”
The agent pursed his lips. “So you’re a resource protection agent? What got you interested in doing this sketchbook thing about the Penitentes?”
“It started last year when I saw a procession over by the Chama. I was really intrigued. But it’s hard to get any information about them, other than what’s written, and that’s not much.”
He nodded. “Well, good luck getting the facts about those guys. I hear they don’t talk too much about it.”
“That’s true, they don’t. It’s taken me months, but I’ve finally found a pretty good source. I just met with him last week. It’s the first breakthrough I’ve had in a while.”
“Okay, well, from what you know, maybe you can tell me a little something about it-like, why do they do this stuff? Why would anyone flagellate himself or volunteer to get crucified?”
“It’s penance. To emulate the suffering they believe Christ endured. Penance is the main sacrament of their faith.”
Agent Ebert raised his binoculars and looked down the gorge at the diminutive dark dot that was quickly disappearing into the rapids. “Man, if that’s what this is, it’s some wild penance.”
3
When I first talked to him several months ago, his voice on the other end of the phone had been barely more than a whisper. “Father Ignacio Medina,” he uttered so softly that it took me a moment to realize what he had said. His rolling Hispanic accent was as smooth and rich as Ibarra chocolate.
“Father Medina? My name is Jamaica Wild. I’ve been working on a sort of sketchbook about the Penitentes. I’ve been trying to learn more about them. I was wondering if I could come to see you for some information?”
“Who did you say you are?”
“My name is Jamaica Wild.”
“And who do you work for?”
“I work for the Bureau of Land Management, in the Taos region. But I wanted to talk with you about the sketchbook I’m doing.”
“You work for the BLM?” He was still whispering. “What do they have to do with Los Penitentes?”
“No, the BLM doesn’t have anything to do with this. I’m doing these drawings on my own. I’ve done some research, made a few notes, and written a few things about what I’ve learned and seen. I would like to talk with you about it.”
“I am very sorry, I cannot help you. There is really nothing I could tell you.” He hung up.
A week later I tried again. And again and again. For months.
Father Ignacio Medina finally agreed to meet me one evening at a coffeehouse in Santa Fe. I was there early, sipping tea, sitting at a banco-an adobe shelf along the wall that was covered with cushions-in the back corner of the small room, near a fireplace exuding a comforting dry warmth and the spicy smell of piñon. I had opened my notebook on the table, and I was working with some colored pencils on a sketch of a shrine.
I recognized him by his collar when he came in. He scanned the few occupied tables. I held up a hand and waved. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes, his brow folding into furrows, then made his way through the narrow, irregular spaces between the chairs. “Miss Wild?” he asked.
I stood, extended my hand, and leaned across the table, looking directly into his stare. “Father Medina, I am so honored to meet you. I read your book The Passion and the Light. In fact, I practically know parts of it by heart. Thank you so much for giving me some of your valuable time.”
His grip was surprisingly fierce. He studied me carefully. “How could I resist? When I stopped taking your phone calls, you started sending me letters.” Then he looked down at the banco. “Do you mind if we change places?” he asked, pointing to the spot where I’d been sitting, watching for him to come in.
In fact, I did mind. I hate sitting with my back to a room.
He stood over me, unbuttoning his coat, waiting for me to move.
“Okay, I guess.” I closed my notebook and scooted it around to the other side. I took a seat in the chair opposite him.
He ordered black coffee. His gaze panned the room, came back to me, zoomed in. “I have studied all the things you sent to me. I will admit, I was very impressed. You have done some interesting drawings of some very old and little-known shrines, and you have apparently done a lot of research about them for this sketchbook of yours. It is good.” His eyes narrowed. “But when I look at you, I cannot help thinking-you will forgive me, I hope-that you are a very lovely young woman, Miss Wild. Why does a young lady like yourself have such an interest in Los Penitentes?”
“You mean an Anglo?”
He smiled. “Yes, that. And-well, perhaps I was expecting someone… older. Perhaps someone from an academic background. You don’t look like someone who spends all her spare time doing research, drawing, writing.”
“Well, you know what they say about judging a book by its cover.”
He laughed. “I know. I know. But when I saw the drawings and read the essay you sent to me, I guess I pictured you… well, it is different now that I see you. You seem to look at these things with a wisdom beyond your years.” He looked up abruptly and focused his attention on the door of the coffeehouse.
I turned and looked over my shoulder. A man had just come in. He stood at the counter, his back to the room, waiting to give his order. I turned back to Father Medina, who tasted his coffee, looked at the door, then at me, and within a moment, at the door again.
I took a drink from my cup and studied the old priest who sat before me. He was a small man with a beautiful, thick head of blue-black hair streaked near a prominent widow’s peak with a wave of pure white. His caramel skin bore deep grooves across the forehead and at the corners of his dark eyes. He continued to look past me at the door.