Ten to Seven

He had to go....

Original Sin Excerpt

(Marc's newest novel coming soon)

Galicia. Spain

1905

The young girl sat on the rocky river bank staring at the meandering river in the fading light of the late Spanish summer.

She threw a pebble into the small pool of water beneath her bare feet and she kept her head tucked into her chest, hoping no one would see her.

Her jet black hair was tied back severely into a tight bun at the back of her head, which was held in place by a piece of black cord, borrowed from a dress she no longer wore.

The reflection of her face in the calm pool of water revealed her beauty. A beauty that many in the village had commented on, but only a very few knew from whom she had acquired it. She gazed at her reflection through her tears.

Her eyes, although tainted from the weeks of anguish, were almost pure green and her long black eyelashes accentuated her almost angelic features. Her face, although slightly tanned from her duties in the fields, was perfectly symmetrical with a strong noble nose, beneath which her expressive, cherry red lips hid the perfect set of brilliant white, perfectly formed teeth.

As the tears rolled down her cheeks, her slender neck and onto her lap, she wondered how it had all come to this.

Why her? Why did she have to be the one?

There were many other girls in the village, much prettier than her, she thought. Why her?

‘Francisca? Is that you?’

She quickly turned and saw a tall man looming over her. She didn’t recognise him at first and had to shield her eyes from the sun. But she knew the voice. That voice.

‘Go away! Just go away.’

She turned back to the river.

‘But it’s me Francisca. I have to see you…’

‘Just go away will you. Please?’

‘But I need to talk to you.’

‘I don’t want to talk. Now just go away. Leave me alone.’

‘But Francisca…..’

‘Look, if you don’t go now, you know what I’ll do don’t you?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

The man hadn’t moved. He still towered above her on the steep bank. The sun, although beginning to fall behind the rolling green hills, still made him hard to see.

Francisca turned and peered at him once again, her hand over her eyes.

‘I think you should believe me, because I meant every word I said. You know I’ll do it. Now go away.’

‘But Francisca, I love you!’

She turned back to the river and ignored him. More tears welled in her eyes and she squeezed her small delicate hands into fists on her lap, hoping he would just go away.

She heard him sigh, thought she heard him mumbling something and eventually his footsteps receded on the stony path into the coming night.

Francisca threw another pebble into the river and let her feet drop slightly into the cool water, where she bathed them gently.

She took one last look at the smooth flowing river, stood up, wiped her eyes and looked back towards the village for any sign that she may have been watched. When she felt safe she gathered up her small espadrilles, patted down her dark blue ankle length dress and climbed the bank.

In the gloom of the coming night, she managed to slip quietly into the small, stone built cottage situated a few streets from the village square. As she slowly closed the roughly hewn wooden door, she heard the first peels of the bells from the tiny village church, calling the villagers to evening mass.

‘Damn you! Damn you all!’ she cried.

Francisca knew she couldn’t hide forever. She would have to go to mass eventually. There was no other way.

She lit a candle and placed it over the small fireplace. The fire was still smouldering and a cooking pot hung over it. She looked at it and felt sick.

As she stood by the flickering light of the candle, she felt the slight bump of her tummy pushing against the tight fabric of her dress. She looked down. There was no mistake. She knew the signs. Her breasts felt very tender and seemed to be larger than before. She placed a hand on each, raised her head to the ceiling and knew it was true. She was nineteen years old and carrying her first child.

Francisca slipped quietly into the church and closed the huge wooden door behind her. She tried to make as little noise as possible, but the clunk of the rusting lock and handle aroused the attention of all before her. She stood motionless for a second or two, half turned towards the front of the church. It seemed that everyone had turned to look.

Her long jet black hair, hung down around her shoulders as she peered through her veil at the spectators. Their eyes were full of hatred. Even now, in the House of God she could feel the cold steel of their eyes boring into her. The silence was unbearable, but she would not allow them any luxury.

The luxury of seeing her beaten.

Raising her head defiantly, she walked slowly down the aisle and felt their eyes upon her, upon her every step. Half way down the aisle, she stopped, knelt on one knee, genuflected in front of the altar and mumbled a few words under her breath; but they were not words of prayer.

She took a seat at the very front row on the left hand side. The occupants quickly moved to the row behind, leaving her alone. She heard muttering behind her. She thought she heard someone snigger. She knew they were looking at her and her face began to flush. She wanted to be sick.

‘Mary, Mother of Christ, help me now if you can.’ She mumbled quietly.

The curate still had his back to the congregation as he was offering his thanks to the Lord, in the time honoured fashion of The Roman Catholic Church. His hands were outstretched as he offered his incantation, which seemed to go on for ever.

As he closed his hands together as if in prayer, he turned to face his congregation. He slowly and silently moved his head from side to side, looking intently at his flock of parishioners. He looked briefly at Francisca, returned his gaze to the aisle and lowered his outstretched hands to his side, palms up.

‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ He said gently with a voice full of passion.

The church fell even more silent. Many bowed their heads and the rattle of rosary beads could be heard. Francisca held her head high and stared at a point somewhere beyond the huge brass crucifix set high upon the altar before her.

As the service proceeded and Holy Communion was being prepared, Francisca realised what she was looking at beyond the altar. Or rather who was looking at her. The statue of Jesus Christ. On the cross. His hands and feet nailed to the cross, a crown of thorns upon his head. The blood dripping from his wounds. His head was hanging down slightly to his right and his eyes seemed to be looking directly at her.

She felt his love and goodness radiate through her. The love of an ordinary man. A man condemned to die on a cross, for what? A man who had given his life to save others. A man who loved all those around him and was crucified for his love.

Francisca knew then in that one moment who she was. She was no longer afraid.

As she took her communion, she peered into the eyes of the curate for a fleeting moment and realised her guilt. He moved on to the next villager, offering further incantations to those knelt before him. She stood up, genuflected whilst looking into the eyes of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross, turned raising her head defiantly and walked slowly down the aisle and out of the church, closing the door firmly behind her.

She would not return to the church for another ten years.