Cut From The Earth

Chapter 6

Sketchbook in hand, Pêro Manuel Pires squinted at the sky, an ironed blue sheet without a crease of cloud. From the corner studio windows, he followed a carrion crow wheeling over the Atlantic, casting an ominous shadow. He drew the bird’s form as it cut inland to the outskirts of Lisbon, sailing aloft the Tagus River dotted with merchant ships. In the distance seven church-spired hills blessed the horizon. Pêro etched in the landscape as the bird circled above terracotta roofs, cork orchards, and tile factory smokestacks. It swooped before him, coming to rest on the kinked branch of an olive tree in the Fabrica Santa María’s geranium-lined courtyard.

The earth trembled and a shudder rippled up through the ancient tree, causing his hand to stutter across the paper.

With a caw of warning, the crow took flight.

Pêro stopped drawing and turned toward the busy tile making shop.

Diogo, a boy black as squid’s ink, burst through the entryway. “Pai! Padre! Help!”

Pai! Padre!Ebony faces looked up from their worktables pushed against whitewashed adobe. A worker slapped a ball of clay onto a gesso tabletop and halted. Another abandoned the pricking of holes into transfer paper.

Pêro stuffed his pencil behind his ear and swiped the charcoal from his olive-brown hands onto his smock. He sought Rafa, who stood, like an obsidian statue before a trimming pedestal.

Diogo, Rafa’s son dashed to his side. “They’ve come for Avo.” The boy’s lower lip trembled. “They said for Grandfather Bagamba to ready himself to be sold to another cork farm.”

AvoPêro hurried over, his cassock sweeping a path clean.

Rafa spun to Pêro. “It can’t be. They promised.”

Pêro coughed on an inhaled scent of loam.

“Padre, are you going to let them take him?” Tears coursed down little Diogo’s cheeks.

take“They’ve agreed to release him to me.” Pêro struck his thigh. “I’ve near enough for the final payments to the de Sousa family for his freedom.” He knelt to Diogo, offering welcoming arms. “Come here.”

“Please don’t let them take him, please…” Diogo pleaded.

pleaseThe boy clung to Pêro’s neck, staring up at him.

Pêro rocked Diogo and then set him down, turning to the boy’s father, taking Rafa’s hands into his. “Try not to worry. I’ll do all I can. Soon he’ll be as free as you and I. I must go now to see about your father. Finish this order, so that we receive our payment. It won’t be long now; we must be diligent in our efforts. And pray for God’s assistance.”

Rafa placed a hand on Diogo’s shoulder. “Go home and tell them Padre Pêro won’t let this happen.” He leaned in and whispered. “Tell your mother to send word to the Blacks of the Rosary.”

Pêro watched the boy scuttle out into the looming twilight. Above the shop’s doorframe their statue of Saint Anthony quivered on its shelf, as it had several times throughout the day.

Pêro hurried over to the ceramic saint, steadying it until the shaking subsided. He looked up to the rafters. “The earth is restless today. What more?” He made the sign of the cross.

Pêro brushed sweat from his forehead and strode into the Mocambo barrio. Lifting his coarse robe, he quickened his step. A white spotted guinea fowl scurried past, disappearing into the maze of earthen homes. Children with protruding bellies and spindly legs stood in open doorways and darted inside as he rushed by. Blue smoke streamed into the pathway, as women tended their evening pots over open fires. Hot pepper bit the inside of his nose. He dodged a woman with strong black arms, who steadied a basket of salted cod atop her head. “Peixe! Peixe! fish!”

Peixe! Peixe! fish!Rounding a corner in front of Rafa’s home, Pêro stopped, releasing his hold on his habit. Diogo sprinted to him, cheeks wet. Pêro embraced him and looked at Rafa’s family huddled before their home: Grandmother Gogo, Rafa’s wife Josepha, and his three oldest sons, ages seven to sixteen. Pêro’s stomach sank as he saw Rafa’s father, Bagamba, flanked by one of the de Sousa family’s transport men.

“Stop!” Pêro said.

The hired man prodded Bagamba with a polished stick.

Bagamba lifted his eyes, meeting Pêro’s in a silent plea. Light glinted off streaks of silver in Bagamba’s wiry hair and from the iron ring around his neck attached to a heavy chain weighing him down.

“Move, Benedito,” the man said, using Bagamba’s Christian name, pushing him forward.

“Wait.” Pêro blocked Bagamba. “He’s to come with me.”

The transport man’s arm tensed, as he swung the shiny stick in front of Pêro, blocking his way. “No! You defaulted on your payments, monk, and I have my orders.”

Pêro’s face flushed. “This man’s been promised to me. I’m a layman deacon, not a sworn friar.” He placed a hand on Bagamba’s shoulder. He shuddered at the long faces of the family before them. His blunder exposed, their disappointment radiating like scalding heat from a newly opened kiln.

“Go consult with Senhor de Sousa. I must carry out my duties.” The transport man grasped the chain and jerked the old man who stumbled towards the waiting cart.

Pêro gripped Bagamba’s shoulder, fingertips pressing, until he could hold on no longer. His hand slipped off. Bagamba tripped and peered back at him, eyes blazed with betrayal. Pêro glanced at his own right hand, to the stumped third and fourth finger, his mouth a tight white line. Yes, he’d go see Senhor de Sousa at once.