Keeper of the Promise

By Harvey Stanbrough

His prophets promised a king who would restore justice on Earth. But it's a tall order, and prophecy can be interpreted in many ways.

When the 13th daughter of a 13th daughter meets the 13th son of a 13th son, she is ecstatic. Their union will break the curse that has plagued both their families for generations.

But over time the line blurs. Is the child a cursed remnant of a prophecy gone awry? Or is he the fulfillment of that prophecy? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Feb 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386859758

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

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The Keeper of the Promise

Part I: The Coming of Maldito

Chapter 1: José Dominguez de Silva

The eventual father of Maldito Dominguez de Orosco—José Dominguez de Silva—was orphaned only a few weeks after his birth.

José’s father was a good man, a fisherman by trade. He was home most nights after a long day on the sea. Sometimes, as the fish migrated, he would be gone overnight or over two nights. Seldom, but occasionally, he would be gone for up to a week.

His mother was not a bad woman, but one who was overburdened to a degree that few ever are. Still, she endeavored to persevere even in the worst of circumstances. At least until those circumstances took a final, fateful turn.

That turn was an event. One of which she was not immediately aware, but one that had been the subject of recent, feverish nightmares during her long nights alone. The nightmares led to headaches, and the headaches led to bed rest. Still, all would be well when her husband returned safely once again.

He had been away for two days of a planned four-day excursion when the event occurred.

Two days after the event, on the day when her husband should have arrived home in only a few more hours, a lone survivor stood at señora Silva’s bedside, his head bowed. His black, tousled hair and the knotted muscles of his forearms expressed his youth. His loose black trousers and white tunic were dingy but dry except where they met at the sisal rope tied around his waist. Tears rolled down his cheeks without shame, and he clutched his sea cap tightly in his fists at his chest.

He hesitated before he began, and took an audible breath. I am sorry to have to report, señora Silva, that the boat turned over in heavy seas. Your husband and all others washed overboard.

He paused, not for effect but to clear a sudden lump in his throat. I— somehow I was the only survivor. The beginning of a twinge of disbelief etched a comma into one corner of his mouth, and he paused again, squeezed his cap with his fingers. When his voice returned, it remained quiet but rushed out in a surge of remorseful urgency. I wish it were not so.

Her eyes wide but dry, her full attention on the man’s mournful face, the señora only nodded, then waited.

The man adjusted his feet. He squeezed the cap again. Señora, if there is anything I can do to help mitigate—

No, she said, her voice soft and sympathetic. Her infant son lay in the crook of her right arm, suckling. Her right hand moved without her knowledge, cupped her son’s soft feet. She rubbed over the top of them with her thumb.

She knew much about comforting the aggrieved, and she reached with the fingers of her left hand to touch the man’s broad, tanned forearm. The hairs there, fine with his youth, were still crusted with salt crystals. No, she said, but thank you for coming. Please, go now. She returned her hand to the blanket that covered her, turned her head away to look at the top of her infant son’s head.

The young man studied her face. Surely there should be some tears. But then, we all grieve in our own ways and in our own time. Still, he wanted to say something else, something comforting. But men of the sea are not well-practiced at providing comfort. Having long since accepted that life is difficult at best, they don’t think of it.

He nodded slightly, bowed slightly at the waist. When he straightened again, his lips parted, again only slightly, then closed. And he turned and let himself out.

As he passed through the small front door of the house, he brushed his fingers through his hair. Well, women know more ways than men to grieve. That is no surprise. Women are stronger than we. She will work it out. She will be fine. He placed his cap on his head, then hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks with his palms. He turned toward the docks. He would have to find a position on another boat.

Less than one hour after the man left, señora Silva settled her earthly affairs with a gentle kiss to the place where the thin wisps of Jose’s hair met his wrinkled little forehead. She whispered, I am sorry, José. It is too much. It is beyond my abilities. Your siblings will care for you.

She reached beneath her pillow for the small revolver her husband had given her to defend against any intruders. With her right hand she cupped José’s little feet again and cuddled him against her side.

With her left, she pressed the barrel of the revolver against the roof of her mouth and pulled the trigger.

*

Before she became acquainted with God and subsequently took her vows, Sister Bartolome was familiar with the four sacred directions, and with rituals much older and more deeply rooted than Catholicism. Still, she was serious about her vows, and greeting the sunrise each morning was the only holdover she practiced.

The front door of the orphanage opened to the east. She took it as a sign that surely the Most High sanctioned her practice. Or at least allowed it. After all, it was her only secular custom, and all humans must have at least one flaw.

She stifled a giggle but smiled at the thought, then worked the old iron latch and swung open the door.

The sun lay half-above and half-below the horizon. The day was already beginning to heat up. The rays illuminated a thin cloud of dust. That was odd. This time of the morning, the air was usually clean as a freshly washed kitten.

With her right hand she grasped the door jamb and moved as if to step over the threshold. But a barely audible mewling cry stopped her.

She looked down.

There on the limestone stoop was a small brown corrugated cardboard box. Someone had taken the time to tear the four parts of the in-folding cover off, though they did a ragged job of it. On the east side of the box, an arrow tip formed from a bit of the former cover pointed toward the rising sun.

As Sister Bartolome gaped, inside the box, a lumpy, threadbare old dish towel wriggled slightly. She grinned. She’d only just thought of a kitten. Surely it wasn’t. She released the door jamb and knelt to the box, then reached down and cautiously lifted one corner of the dish towel.

It was not a kitten.

Below raven hair so fine it might have been down, a large pair of beautiful brown eyes blinked open. A semblance of a smile followed. Then a tiny left elbow curled, and it pulled a tiny fist to its mouth.

Are you telling me you’re hungry? I wouldn’t doubt it. How long have you been out here?

The infant’s cheeks worked as it suckled on the thumb side of its fist. The whole time, the legs and right arm were in constant motion, jerking and kicking as it attempted to rid itself of the dish towel.

The full import of her discovery washed over her. A child. It’s a child. Someone has abandoned a child. An infant.

With a final kick the baby pressed the dish towel into the bottom right corner of the box.

And it’s a boy. A tiny baby boy.

She leaned forward to pick up the box.

As she got her legs under her and straightened, from behind her Sister Francis said, What do you have there, Sister? Have you been keeping stray pups and kittens again? Really, Sister Bartolome, we’ve talked about this and—

Sister Bartolome turned to face her, the box between her hands. No. It’s a baby. An infant. A boy.

A baby? the much older woman said. Are you quite sure?

Sister Bartolome giggled. Yes, I’m sure.

Well, bring it here, Sister Francis said as if put out. She huffed and turned toward a small table nestled along one wall. Over here, and we’ll have a look.

Sister Bartolome obeyed. As she set the box down, she had her first really good look at the child. She frowned and pointed. I’m not familiar with that.

Sister Francis said quietly, Unfortunately, I am.

On the center of the infant’s forehead, in a mixture of ash and black mud, someone had smeared the mark that was universally recognized to mean Accursed. It was a circle, filled in, a little over two centimeters in diameter. How or why the child was accursed would be revealed later, when much of the mark was removed.

Sister Francis picked up the dish towel, wet one corner with spittle from the tip of her tongue, and began wiping at the mark. As she did, a slip of paper fell away from the towel and drifted back into the corner of the box.

Sister Bartolome was focused on the child’s forehead and how hard the other woman was scrubbing. Her eyes grew wide. Careful!

Sister Francis stopped and looked up at her sharply. The look said Sister Bartolome was the one who should consider being careful.

Quietly, Sister Bartolome said, Sorry, Mother. I’m— I’m only concerned for—

They’re tougher than they look, these little ones. And I’m not rubbing as hard as you think I am. We have to erase this mark before anyone else sees it.

Oh. Yes, the other children. Children can be cruel.

Sister Francis glanced at her again, then wet another corner of the towel and went back to the task at hand. Yes, children. And others. You don’t imagine you’re the only one here who’s held onto some of the old ways you were taught, do you? Before you were enlightened?

Sister Bartolome took a half-step back as if slapped. Her eyebrows arched. How did the administrator know?

Without looking up, Sister Francis said, Oh, it’s all right that you welcome the sun as it blesses us each morning. It’s only another representation for the Father, after all. She canted her head one way, then the other, inspecting the child. I think that has most of it off. Bring the box to my room and I’ll finish in there.

She looked up at the younger woman again, and a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. She didn’t allow it to develop, but with the slightest hint of humor she said, I’m only glad for the child’s sake you didn’t recognize the mark. You might have raced out back with him and done something you’d regret.

Oh, but by the Holy Mother, I would never—

Sister Francis turned away quickly before Sister Bartolome saw that the smile had broken through. I know, I know. Come along. And she led the way to the intersection and down the hallway on the right. All the younger sisters thought themselves worldly because they brought a bit of their past with them. How could they be so naïve?

Each personal room in the orphanage was identical. Each had a solid wooden door with a non-locking iron latch. It opened on the left front corner of the room. Inside the door along the front wall on the right was a small wooden table and two chairs. One set at the desk, the other alongside. On the desk were a pad of paper, an assortment of pens and pencils, a candle in a holder and a few lying alongside. Beyond that in the corner was a wooden wash stand complete with a basin. A small towel hung over a dowel suspended between two slim uprights at the back.

To the left of the wash stand was a small fireplace. Above it, a large crucifix adorned the otherwise bare wall. Along the back, outer wall was a small, comfortable bed. Above it, two slender panes of frosted glass hinged at either side and latched in the middle. These could be opened into the room. From the corner past the foot of the bed along the wall that led back to the open door, a small wardrobe stood. Inside were an extra robe, two extra habits and undergarments. In the bottom were two pairs of shoes. In a shelf near the top was a neatly folded set of civilian clothes should the sister ever change her mind or be discharged.

Sister Francis’ quarters were similar to the others, but she had two rooms.

The first was furnished like the others, with a few exceptions. As in the other rooms, the desk and two chairs and the wash stand were positioned along the wall that faced the hallway. On the wall beyond, a crucifix was mounted. Where the fireplace had been in the other rooms, a door led to the second room. Under the windows in her front room was a large, ancient, rough-hewn but worn-smooth table. It was surrounded by four chairs on either side and one at each end. The wardrobe was in the same location as in the other rooms, but it was filled with shelves that held various administrative supplies.

In the second room was a second small desk with only one chair and the attendant paper, pens and candles. There was not a second wash stand, but the fireplace was centered on the far wall as in the other rooms. An identical, small bed reposed beneath the windows, and a second wardrobe filled the far corner. It contained three extra robes, several fresh habits, undergarments, and several pairs of shoes.

As she led the way into her outer room, Sister Francis gestured toward the long table. Put the box there. Then probably you should go prepare for the day ahead.

Sister Bartolome bowed her head slightly as she set the box down. Yes, Mother.

As she departed the room, Sister Francis reached into the box and felt beneath the towel for the slip of paper. When she found it, she held it up so the flickering light from the fireplace illuminated it: This is José Dominguez de Silva. He is stained and has no family.

She read the name again. Quietly, she said, Fools, and tossed the slip of paper into the fireplace.

Chapter 2: The Orphanage

Sister Francis wiped at the mark for awhile longer, using soap from her own wash basin. Then she scrubbed at it until the skin turned pink.

The whole time, the child didn’t make a sound. He only watched her with those large, warm eyes.

When she finally stopped, most of the mark was gone, but bits of it had descended into the pores of José’s skin. And there it remained the whole time he was at the orphanage. It was like a very dim tattoo.

It was the wispy, vague number 13 surrounded by an almost perfect circle of thirteen minuscule dots. Sister Francis recognized the mark. It meant José was the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child. She shook her head. It was a double curse at least, and who knew how far back it went?

The revealed mark was plainly visible to her and to Sister Bartolome, who had seen it in its original form. But she didn’t want any misunderstandings with the others. She thought it best to call a general meeting of her charges. Better to have things like this out in the open. In the meantime she would talk first with the nurse and the two who most often prepared the meals for the children. The child would have to be examined for disease, after all, and he would have to be fed.

She ordered a crib bought from a craftsman in Agua Idelfonso and had it installed in her back room along the wall between her bed and the wash stand. She was the only one who had room. With her own biological clock long since wound down, she also would not be tempted to motherhood by the wiles of the child.

The next afternoon, when the sisters had assembled around the table in her outer room, she spent almost an hour detailing the problem to prepare them. Any questions?

Around the table, the sisters all glanced at each other, but none of them said anything.

All right. She turned to Sister Bartolome. Sister, would you retrieve young José for us please?

Sister Bartolome nodded and started to rise. José?

That is his name.

Sister Bartolome went into the back room. When she returned with the child, Sister Francis said, Please take him to each of the sisters. She glanced at the others. Look upon the child. When you have seen the mark, see him without it. I suspect it will grow with him.

After they’d all seen the mark and Sister Bartolome had returned the infant to his crib, Sister Francis said, Now, do any of you harbor any particular superstitions or biases in this regard?

Again, they glanced at each other but held their silence.

Fine. Good, she said. But if you do, know that this child is in my personal care. As we of all people should know, infants bear whatever cross is thrust upon them. It isn’t this child’s fault that some ignorant person or persons stained him with this mark. His birthright is not his fault, but it might well be his burden. I will not abide him paying a price at our hands for someone else’s foolishness.

She paused, then clasped her hands before her on the table. A bit more quietly, she said, I suspect this child will be with us for several years. According to the sign, he has twelve siblings. If any of them wanted him, he wouldn’t be here. Questions?

She looked at the faces around the table and waited. When no responses came, she said, All right. You will treat him like all of the other children in every way, especially where discipline is involved. However, understand that any direct action, whether favorable or unfavorable, taken with regard to this child that is related specifically to the mark will result in your immediate dismissal.

The nuns all agreed, especially after the Reverend Mother had drawn a parallel of sorts with the