On the other side of the port, Francisco and the servants went straight to the church. The afternoon sun was fading, casting long golden bars through the narrow streets. When they reached the stone steps, a nun stood near the entrance, speaking softly with a group of visitors.
Francisco approached and bowed his head. "Sister, forgive us for troubling you, but we found ourselves in a rather dark situation last night."
The nun turned toward them, her veil catching the light like a pale flame. "Do not worry, sir. We are here to guide our flock," she said, her smile gentle but knowing.
Francisco exhaled slowly. "It's like this—last night, near the river, something happened. We're not sure if it was witchcraft or something darker."He then recounted everything: the campfire, the cries, the house on the hill, the voice of the woman calling for her children. Finally, he gestured toward Mario."What troubles us most is him. He was screaming, terrified, trying to run into the dark. We had to restrain him. But when he awoke this morning, he remembered nothing."
The nun's expression hardened slightly. "It isn't the first time I've heard of such things. Father Mauricio once followed the river's path to uncover the truth, but found nothing. The central church calls it a folktale… yet some truths resist scripture."
Francisco frowned. "With all respect, Sister, my entire group can swear to what we saw. But our concern now is Mario. We fear he might be possessed—or marked by something unholy."
She nodded. "Then come. Father Mauricio is in the garden, tending to the children."
For a moment, Francisco hesitated. His father's old warnings about priests and children whispered in his memory. Still, he followed. They had come for help, not suspicion.
Inside, the church was smaller than those in the cities. The stone floor chilled their boots; the air carried the heavy perfume of incense and wax. Beyond the nave, laughter of children drifted through the courtyard.
In the garden, Father Mauricio—a white-haired man with kind eyes—was teaching the little ones about God's mercy. The nun whispered to him; he excused himself and approached.
"Forgive the delay," he said warmly. "I am Father Mauricio. I've been told what happened." His gaze settled on Mario. "You are the one who suffered, my son?"
Mario nodded faintly.
"Come. Let us speak inside."
They sat in a small chapel filled with candlelight. A nun brought steaming coffee; the roasted scent mingled with beeswax and smoke. Francisco retold the story.
The priest listened intently, then asked, "Has he spoken clearly since? Any strange behavior? Memory loss?"
One of the servants replied, "He's been normal, Father. Just tired."
The priest turned to Mario. "Tell me what you remember."
Mario frowned. "Only that I was ordered to carry the torches back to camp. I stared into the dark—and then… I woke up tied, with something in my mouth. That's all."
Father Mauricio nodded gravely. "Hold him steady. I'll use holy water to be certain."
He sprinkled the water. Mario only flinched at the cold.
"Good," said the priest softly. "No sign of possession. If there were a demon, the water would burn or provoke rage. This is different—a Fright, as the elders called it. A wound of the soul."
He leaned back, folding his hands. "Demons devour reason. Fear, however, only blinds it. He is not possessed—but scarred by something he could not understand."
Mario's voice trembled. "So… I'm not cursed?"
The Father smiled faintly. "No. But your spirit is weak. I'll bless you, and you'll pray Psalm 90 for nine nights. Sleep beside a blessed candle—and stay away from the river until the next full moon."
Francisco hesitated. "Father, we must sail to Cartagena in two days."
The priest's eyes darkened. "Then postpone it. Whatever lingers by that river feeds on memory and sorrow. If he returns too soon, she may seek him again—or follow your ship."
A shudder passed through the servants.
Francisco bowed. "We'll do as you say. Thank you, Father."
The priest placed his hand upon Mario's head. "Wait for me outside," he murmured. Turning toward the altar, he whispered, "Dominus illuminatio mea et salus mea; quem timebo…"
The group withdrew quietly.
Francisco lingered. His thoughts drifted—to Catalina, to her frightened eyes after hearing the tale, to the guilt that had since taken root. He sat alone on a pew, staring at the crucifix. Candlelight trembled across the figure's bronze wounds.
A soft voice spoke behind him. "You seem burdened, my child."
He turned. A nun sat nearby, her rosary glinting in the dim light.
He sighed. "That's true, Sister. I've been doubting myself."
She smiled gently. "Then speak, and perhaps the Lord will listen through me."
Francisco hesitated, then whispered, "I've always believed my choices were right. But lately I wonder—what if I've confused righteousness with comfort? What if my sense of duty is only pride in disguise?"
The nun tilted her head. "Have you heard of the prophet Hosea?"
He shook his head.
"Hosea obeyed when God commanded him to love a woman despised by her people," she said. "But when he sought power, he abandoned her. When he returned, she was broken. And God said, 'Love her again, as I love my people—even in their unfaithfulness.'"
She turned her calm gaze upon him. "Do you know why God commanded that?"
Francisco stayed silent.
"Because true love cannot be measured by convenience," she said softly. "A soul that calculates its love has already surrendered to pride—and pride demands more sacrifice than the heart can bear."
She rose, the candlelight painting her veil gold. "Goodness is not born of fear, Francisco. Even God chose to be wounded rather than absent."
He looked up. "Sister—your name?"
She smiled. "Sister Hines."
As she disappeared into the corridor, the candles flickered. Francisco remained seated, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. The scent of wax and smoke filled the silence.
And as the last echo of prayer faded, a new calm took root within him—quiet, but firm.He would no longer fear the darkness, within or without.