Chapter One
Spiral Stairs
"You two ready?” asked the priest as he scooped a heaping spoonful of incense onto the glowing charcoal.
It was late July, 1926. Sunday Mass in the small town of Sahuayo in central México was about to get under way.
“Sí, Padre,” said the taller of the two altar boys, rubbing a hand through his mop of black hair. “This thing is so heavy.” He shut the incense-laden censer with a clang. Its thick bronze rings dangled ponderously from the boy’s fingers and the weight of the solid, heavily-filigreed censer made his hand droop slowly downwards. Smoke poured from its holes, wrapping the two boys and the priest in a heavy cloak.
“Ready when you are, Padre Ignacio,” said the shorter, chubbier of the two boys, clasping a large processional cross to his chest.
“Alright then,” said the priest, straightening his vestments. “José, keep that thing open so the incense can come out, and don’t let it touch the ground. Trino, make sure you don’t bang Jesus’ head on the doorway.” He smiled.
Together, they bowed to the cross and stepped from the sacristy into the main aisle. José walked in front with the incense, Trino followed with the cross, and Padre Ignacio took his place in the rear.
José kept his eyes glued to the smoking censer as it swung back and forth, letting out bursts of thick, perfumed smoke.
From behind he heard a whisper.
“Am I supposed to genuflect with this thing?” Trino asked.
“You just bow,” replied José, turning his head.
Distracted now, he didn’t notice the censer drooping precariously low. As they neared the altar, its metal base scraped the surface of the clay floor-tiles, releasing a high-pitched ring.
“Watch out for the step,” whispered Padre Ignacio from behind.
Still startled by the noise, José pulled up on the chain. He was too late. The censer rammed into the granite step at the foot of the sanctuary with a deafening crash.
José watched with dismay as burning charcoal spilled from the open censer and scattered across the floor. Most of it landed harmlessly on the tiles, but one piece bounced its way to the rug beneath the altar. From where it came to rest, smoke billowed up.
“Fire!” cried a voice in the front pew.
“José, I thought you were gonna burn the whole church down,” said Trino back in the sacristy, slipping the large cross into its holder.
The sound of chatter came from the back of church where a small crowd of women and children had gathered after Mass.
“Thank God for holy water,” said Padre Ignacio, laughing, as he placed his large white vestment on a hanger.
Laughter filled the little sacristy. The two boys started taking off their altar server robes.
José turned to Trino and gave him a jab in the side. “Remember you were gonna ask…” he whispered, raising his eyebrows.
“You ask, José—it was your idea,” snapped Trino. “Besides, he’s your uncle.”
“Oh, alright,” said José, sticking a hand in his pocket. “Uncle Ignacio, have you ever been up in the bell tower?”
“Of course, José,” the priest replied. “What makes you ask?”
“Well…um…you…see…uh…me and Trino— we’ve been wondering how far you can see from the top.”
Padre Ignacio chuckled. “Why on a clear day, you can see all the way to the Cathedral in Guadalajara. That’s over sixty miles away as the crow flies.” A wry smiled crossed the priest’s face. “Would you like to climb up?”
“Sí Padre, sí!” the boys blurted out eagerly in unison.
“Well then,” said the priest, planting his toe and quickly wheeling around, “follow me!”
The boys tossed their server robes onto a table and followed.
Turning down a small corridor, Padre Ignacio brought them to a gnarled wooden door fastened with an ancient padlock. “Knowing you two,” he said, fiddling with the keys, “there’s more to this than just the view.” He pulled the door open, revealing a spiral staircase.
José drew his hand from his pocket. Trino glanced at him, before speaking up. “Padre, there is a bet,” he admitted sheepishly.
José rolled his eyes.
“A bet?” asked Padre Ignacio, arching his eyebrows. “What’s at stake?”
“José says he can throw a rock from the top of the tower all the way to his house,” Trino replied. “I say he can’t. Whoever wins gets a pack of gum.”
Padre Ignacio smiled. “How about we make a deal,” he said. “I’ll take you to the top of the tower… if,” he raised his index finger and looked at them sharply, “if you leave your rocks at the bottom.”
José cocked his head to the side, glumly. “Then who gets the bubble gum?”
“Look at the lake,” said Trino, puffing from the climb. “It’s all sparkling. I’ve never seen it from this high. Seems like it goes on forever.”
“Papá says Lake Chapala is the biggest lake in all of México,” said José, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun. “He says that it used to be even bigger. Sahuayo was a lake town.”
“I love Sahuayo just like it is,” said Padre Ignacio, sighing. “Red-roofed houses, big trees—small but not too small—it’s perfect.” His eyes fell lovingly on the town square just below them, with its rows of cedar trees and the large iron gazebo in the center. “Our two churches--Santiago and the Santuario,” he gazed across town to the other steeple, “—make Sahuayo something special. There aren’t many two-church towns around.”
The three figures gazed in silence. Swallows dipped and soared through the warm summer air. Higher still, fluffy clouds like wads of cotton candy drifted across the sky.
“Uncle Ignacio, is it true what they say?” asked José, breaking the silence.
“About what?” asked the priest.
“That President Calles wants to close all the churches?”
“I wish it wasn’t true,” Padre Ignacio said with a sigh. “Calles’s new law will make all churches government property—”
“But that’s not fair,” José broke in.
“—and I won’t be allowed to wear my cassock any more. I’ll also have to get my homilies approved by the government. Priests can either become employees of the state, or leave the country.”
“When’s all that supposed to happen?” asked Trino.
“Next Sunday, August first.”
“Why can’t they just leave the Church alone?” fumed José. “It’s like they want the Catholic Church to become a government business. Isn’t there anything we can do, Padre?”
“Not really—short of all-out war. But the bishops have their own plan. If President Calles goes through with his law on Sunday, they’ve asked all of us priests to suspend public worship until further notice. They will turn the whole country against Calles. They want to send him a signal that life can’t go on like this.”
"You two ready?” asked the priest as he scooped a heaping spoonful of incense onto the glowing charcoal.
It was late July, 1926. Sunday Mass in the small town of Sahuayo in central México was about to get under way.
“Sí, Padre,” said the taller of the two altar boys, rubbing a hand through his mop of black hair. “This thing is so heavy.” He shut the incense-laden censer with a clang. Its thick bronze rings dangled ponderously from the boy’s fingers and the weight of the solid, heavily-filigreed censer made his hand droop slowly downwards. Smoke poured from its holes, wrapping the two boys and the priest in a heavy cloak.
“Ready when you are, Padre Ignacio,” said the shorter, chubbier of the two boys, clasping a large processional cross to his chest.
“Alright then,” said the priest, straightening his vestments. “José, keep that thing open so the incense can come out, and don’t let it touch the ground. Trino, make sure you don’t bang Jesus’ head on the doorway.” He smiled.
Together, they bowed to the cross and stepped from the sacristy into the main aisle. José walked in front with the incense, Trino followed with the cross, and Padre Ignacio took his place in the rear.
José kept his eyes glued to the smoking censer as it swung back and forth, letting out bursts of thick, perfumed smoke.
From behind he heard a whisper.
“Am I supposed to genuflect with this thing?” Trino asked.
“You just bow,” replied José, turning his head.
Distracted now, he didn’t notice the censer drooping precariously low. As they neared the altar, its metal base scraped the surface of the clay floor-tiles, releasing a high-pitched ring.
“Watch out for the step,” whispered Padre Ignacio from behind.
Still startled by the noise, José pulled up on the chain. He was too late. The censer rammed into the granite step at the foot of the sanctuary with a deafening crash.
José watched with dismay as burning charcoal spilled from the open censer and scattered across the floor. Most of it landed harmlessly on the tiles, but one piece bounced its way to the rug beneath the altar. From where it came to rest, smoke billowed up.
“Fire!” cried a voice in the front pew.
“José, I thought you were gonna burn the whole church down,” said Trino back in the sacristy, slipping the large cross into its holder.
The sound of chatter came from the back of church where a small crowd of women and children had gathered after Mass.
“Thank God for holy water,” said Padre Ignacio, laughing, as he placed his large white vestment on a hanger.
Laughter filled the little sacristy. The two boys started taking off their altar server robes.
José turned to Trino and gave him a jab in the side. “Remember you were gonna ask…” he whispered, raising his eyebrows.
“You ask, José—it was your idea,” snapped Trino. “Besides, he’s your uncle.”
“Oh, alright,” said José, sticking a hand in his pocket. “Uncle Ignacio, have you ever been up in the bell tower?”
“Of course, José,” the priest replied. “What makes you ask?”
“Well…um…you…see…uh…me and Trino— we’ve been wondering how far you can see from the top.”
Padre Ignacio chuckled. “Why on a clear day, you can see all the way to the Cathedral in Guadalajara. That’s over sixty miles away as the crow flies.” A wry smiled crossed the priest’s face. “Would you like to climb up?”
“Sí Padre, sí!” the boys blurted out eagerly in unison.
“Well then,” said the priest, planting his toe and quickly wheeling around, “follow me!”
The boys tossed their server robes onto a table and followed.
Turning down a small corridor, Padre Ignacio brought them to a gnarled wooden door fastened with an ancient padlock. “Knowing you two,” he said, fiddling with the keys, “there’s more to this than just the view.” He pulled the door open, revealing a spiral staircase.
José drew his hand from his pocket. Trino glanced at him, before speaking up. “Padre, there is a bet,” he admitted sheepishly.
José rolled his eyes.
“A bet?” asked Padre Ignacio, arching his eyebrows. “What’s at stake?”
“José says he can throw a rock from the top of the tower all the way to his house,” Trino replied. “I say he can’t. Whoever wins gets a pack of gum.”
Padre Ignacio smiled. “How about we make a deal,” he said. “I’ll take you to the top of the tower… if,” he raised his index finger and looked at them sharply, “if you leave your rocks at the bottom.”
José cocked his head to the side, glumly. “Then who gets the bubble gum?”
“Look at the lake,” said Trino, puffing from the climb. “It’s all sparkling. I’ve never seen it from this high. Seems like it goes on forever.”
“Papá says Lake Chapala is the biggest lake in all of México,” said José, holding a hand over his eyes to block the sun. “He says that it used to be even bigger. Sahuayo was a lake town.”
“I love Sahuayo just like it is,” said Padre Ignacio, sighing. “Red-roofed houses, big trees—small but not too small—it’s perfect.” His eyes fell lovingly on the town square just below them, with its rows of cedar trees and the large iron gazebo in the center. “Our two churches--Santiago and the Santuario,” he gazed across town to the other steeple, “—make Sahuayo something special. There aren’t many two-church towns around.”
The three figures gazed in silence. Swallows dipped and soared through the warm summer air. Higher still, fluffy clouds like wads of cotton candy drifted across the sky.
“Uncle Ignacio, is it true what they say?” asked José, breaking the silence.
“About what?” asked the priest.
“That President Calles wants to close all the churches?”
“I wish it wasn’t true,” Padre Ignacio said with a sigh. “Calles’s new law will make all churches government property—”
“But that’s not fair,” José broke in.
“—and I won’t be allowed to wear my cassock any more. I’ll also have to get my homilies approved by the government. Priests can either become employees of the state, or leave the country.”
“When’s all that supposed to happen?” asked Trino.
“Next Sunday, August first.”
“Why can’t they just leave the Church alone?” fumed José. “It’s like they want the Catholic Church to become a government business. Isn’t there anything we can do, Padre?”
“Not really—short of all-out war. But the bishops have their own plan. If President Calles goes through with his law on Sunday, they’ve asked all of us priests to suspend public worship until further notice. They will turn the whole country against Calles. They want to send him a signal that life can’t go on like this.”