Fr. Juan Antonio Carasco y Echeverria knew every thing. Born to a line of a
noble family, the cream of Toledo society, although they could trace their
ancestry to the Basque region, did not plan to become a priest. He was as
carefree as all the rest of the pleasure seeking young men in the social circle
of the royal European families. At the age of twenty years, during the more
turbulent period of Spanish political bickering, his whole family left Toledo
and moved to Sevilla, further to the south, where his father became a
successful rancher. His friend, Arnulfo came to visit with him often.
One wintry day, they went on a camping trip down to Granada, when, during a
difficult climb to the Sierra Nevada, his horse faltered. He fell to the
ground. Thank God, he did not break his neck. But he was in a coma for a week.
Arnulfo cried, thinking he had lost his friend, and literally carried him on
his back down to the village. When Juan Antonio finally woke up, he was somehow
different. He claimed he had visions of faraway islands in the Pacific, that
he would spend the rest of his young life in the service of God, that he kept
on hearing a name in his head, over and over again, Maria Elena, Maria Elena.
Although he did not believe in predestination, he believed his fate had been
sealed. He shared all this with his friend who was like a brother to him.
When he got back to Sevilla, he told his overjoyed mother he was going to be a
priest, that he wanted to join the Augustinian order.
That is only right, his mother said flippantly. A priest in our family will
make it easier for your father and me to go through the gates of heaven. She
was not so overjoyed when he said he planned to go on an assignment to the
Philippine Islands and cater to the spiritual needs of the indios there. At
that time, the Augustinians were still clinging to the last vestiges of their
influence in the King's court.. So when he finished his studies, he got his
wish, at first as a neophyte in the island of Cebu, later transferred as the
only priest for all of Surigao and Agusan.
He asked the local people as soon as he got off the boat in Masao where
Magellan first landed three hundred or so years before.. No ! This cannot be.
There has to be someone here by that name. There was no one.
He could not believe that his visions were wrong. It must just be a question of
time, he thought. And so he patiently went about setting up shop. He lived in
the convent that was occupied by the old priest who had been sent back home to
Spain, and Juan Antonio started administering to the natives. He was amazed at
the kind of devotion the people had to the religion, a devotion so sincere, it
was bordering on fanaticism. They walked on their knees to the altar,
memorized the prayers and songs by rote, He knew they really did not
understand Latin. Not even Spanish. He was sure that the Almighty has a special
place in his kingdom for the innocent and the ignorant One night, he almost
broke a cerebral blood vessel trying to keep from laughing during a solemn
prayer for the dead when Mana Tikay, the old woman leading the prayer,
exclaimed in a most oratorical voice so every one within the block could
hear," Tuwarum, tuwarum, tsokolati si colorum".
He also knew that they retained their pagan beliefs in the anitos, the wakwaks,
their engkantos, and their anting-antings. They confessed weekly, specially the
women and they confessed everything, even the most venial of offenses, like
coming late for mass or saying a dirty word.. He suspected that they may even
have invented some sins to confess so that they may appear to be more devout.
Sunday mass was a social event, with the society people strutting around,
showing off their finest imported clothes and their most glittery jewelry,
their superficiality inversely proportional to their spirituality. He vowed to
change all this.
A month after he arrived, he gathered all the Christians to Butuan. That was
when he met this childless couple from Banza, a real indio couple. Tomas had
an easy smile and a kind, gentle manner. Josefina, the wife, held her head
high, almost challenging, unlike the rest of the natives who walked with their
heads bowed in drilled submission. Her patadyong, wrapped around her waist,
accentuated her statuesque figure. She was barefoot. She seemed intelligent,
quick to absorb instructions. She did not chew buyo and mah-ma, nor did she
spit out that terrible red stuff like the other native women did. Her smile was
perfect, teeth complete, lips supple. He felt drawn to her, felt an
inexplicable attraction to her. He did not know why. He decided to have her
come to work twice a week to help out in the church and the convent. Was he
flirting with temptation? Why this compulsion?
Once in a while, she would come alone from Bansa, Manoy Tomas having to care
for the animals. The couple and Padre Itsi became close, their relationship
uncommon among Spaniards and indios at that time. Padre Itsi would invite them
over for dinner and go on picnics with them to the beach. Every Thursday, he
would have lunch with them in Bansa when he did his weekly pastoral visits. The
people made no comment about it although some older women would cast a knowing
look at the woman. Poor Manoy Tomas, they whispered among themselves.
One unforgettable Wednesday afternoon in August, the time Tomas was on an
errand to Manila, Josefina, after her work cleaning up after the exposition of
the Holy Eucharist, approached the priest. The only light in the church was
from the remnant of the last flickering candle by the holy water font. She
appeared distraught.
Padre, may I go to confession?
Of course, as he led her to a confessional box. He seated himself in the box
while Josefina knelt and placed her face just behind the curtain, where Padre
Itsi positioned his ear so he could hear the confession even if she whispered
of which there was no need since they were all alone. Even with the small
curtain between them Padre Itsi could feel her femininity. He could also sense
her state of agitation.
Padre, bless me for I have sinned. My last confession was four days ago. Padre,
I am so ashamed to tell you. She proceeded to tell him. He held on to the
posts of the confessional box with both hands as he listened and almost fainted
as she told him. He could not believe it. The air in the confessional was
stifling. He was gasping for air. He rushed out of the confessional box and as
he did so, Josefina grabbed his legs, fell on the floor, and buried her face in
the fold of his cassock between his ankles, and cried out, Please, please help
me. I can't control myself. I am cursed !
Eight and a half months later the girl was born. And Josefina died. Fr. Juan
Antonio Carasco y Echeverria felt responsible.
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