The Mission

By John Turnure

Lost and broken souls are lured by a supernatural force to a mysterious jungle sanctuary. Will they find safety at The Mission or die lonely deaths?

 

For over 200 years, missionaries, adventurers, slaves, scientists, guerrillas, and narcos encounter natural and supernatural wonders on their separate journeys through an unforgiving, sometimes surreal, and often deadly landscape as they flee brutal persecutors and their own demons. 

 

Hidden deep in Colombia's Amazon jungle lies The Mission, a paradisical refuge for the lost established by outlaw Jesuit missionaries in the 18th century. The Mission has thrived over the centuries, and all are welcome there. But not everyone will find the path.

 

Who will discover the secret that leads to The Mission?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jota Press
• Release date: May 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201791162

Book preview

The Mission

John Turnure

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Jota Press

Copyright © 2021, John Turnure; All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

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Contents

1. JUAN

2. TERESA

3. CHICO

4. NIKOLAS

5. CRISTINA

6. JOHNNY

7. EPILOGUE

8. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JUAN

His Excellency Pedro Messia Corea de la Cerda, Viceroy of Nueva Granada under orders from His Majesty Carlos III, hereby declares the expulsion of the Society of Jesus from all territories of the Viceroyalty of Nueva Granada on this seventeenth day of July in the year of our Lord 1767. Father Cristóbal looked up from the rolled manuscript and frowned. That’s what it says, Father Juan. What are we going to do?

I knew this was coming, sighed Father Juan, I thought we had more time. But I don’t blame the Viceroy. He quite literally faced execution if he disobeyed this order. We need to meet at once with the Father Superior and all the brothers.

* * *

It was about ten o’clock at night in August, which in the equatorial Andes is a month of clear skies, dry air, and starry nights. The moon shone brilliantly, casting shadows as Juan, Cristóbal and Beto rode out of the gateway, an old adobe brick structure, capped with a slanted roof of red-clay tiles. This was the gateway of San Ignacio, the renowned seminary founded by the Jesuits on the eastern edge of Bogotá more than 150 years ago.

They turned their horses onto the road bordered on either side by low-lying stone walls. The ground was a hard, baked clay. No rain had fallen for weeks, and the dust was thick. The riders let the reins hang loose, and the horses, knowing their way, broke into a brisk trot. Wrapped in thought and thick, wool ponchos, the three men began their uncertain journey.

Roadside meadows, black beneath the moon, contrasted with the dim white line of the road. Now and then, solitary houses loomed in the moonlight, their whitewashed walls standing like ghostly gravestones in the darkness. A cow would occasionally extend its head across the stone wall and watch the riders with moist eyes, two tiny clouds of breath rising from its snout. Off in the distance, the black and foreboding outlines of the Andes rose in an irregular circle.

* * *

Father Juan Tenorio was the antithesis of the demonic rake of Spanish legend with whom he shared a name. Born in the Catalán village of Verdu, he decided as a young adolescent to dedicate his life to Jesus, inspired by Pedro Claver, another son of Verdu who became the first Jesuit missionary to Colombia. After receiving his commission to serve at San Ignacio Seminary, he travelled to Cádiz to begin his journey across the Atlantic to Cartagena de las Indias, the main port for trade between Spain and its overseas empire. From there he would make his way overland to Bogotá. The day before he was to set sail on the Almansa, he met with another young Jesuit headed for San Ignacio, Father Cristóbal Tovar y Ferrer, a native of Seville. Over many glasses of local Manzanilla wine, the two young missionaries talked excitedly into the night about their new life in far-off Colombia.

San Ignacio Seminary had four beautiful courtyards surrounded by wide colonnades, into which opened one hundred chambers. Besides the sitting room and bedroom, each chamber had a snug, Moorish-style kitchen with an open hearth for a charcoal fire over which meats were roasted, and earthenware saucepans simmered all day long with beef, mutton, plantains, manioc, green corn, potatoes, and the many other vegetables that grew year round in the Bogotá savannah. This hearty stew was daily fare for students and teachers alike, and was consumed with a copious supply of heady chicha beer brewed from molasses and corn.

The seminary owned croplands and herds that were looked after by lay brothers who supplied the seminary with its daily rations, and sold the rest to the profane multitudes outside the seminary walls. With the lay brothers looking after all these worldly interests, the seminarians could devote all their time and attention to studying the Scriptures, and honing their hermeneutical and homiletical skills.

Besides his keen spiritual insight and Scriptural mastery, Father Juan was known to have a few worldly accomplishments. Skilled in playing the guitar and not averse to a song or two, he was also fond of a friendly card game with the Father Superior, Father Cristóbal and two or three other stout and kind-hearted brethren, where small sums were staked to spice up the game. It was whispered that the Evil One, possibly thinking of Juan’s namesake, had decided to tempt his virtue, and appeared in his chamber in the guise of a beautiful maiden. Holy water was poured upon him, and the cross over the bed was seized by the Father Superior, driving Beelzebub out of the window, who landed so forcefully that his cloven foot left its imprint on the granite slab outside Juan’s room. Father Juan denied this preposterous rumor, but the hoofprint was there for all to see.

Memories of San Ignacio drifted languidly in the backgrounds of their minds as they traveled through this silent panorama. Their minds flooded with thoughts of men and cities they had known, mountains and rivers they had traveled, and music they had sung. Pausing for a moment like a bird perching on the mast of a ship before flying off again over the vast ocean, Juan’s mind rested on the old cemetery where his brothers in Christ slumbered, some of them surely lost for eternity. He did not know if he would ever again kneel by those graves.

* * *

We cannot go back to Spain, said the Father Superior. The Society of Jesus has been expelled from all parts of the Spanish Empire, and Pope Clement has shamefully acquiesced. Seminarians, you must leave San Ignacio and return to your homes. As for the brothers… perhaps North America? My friend, John Carroll of Maryland, has been talking about starting a college there. The Father Superior looked around the room with chagrin. These young men were his responsibility, yet he felt powerless. Let us pray for direction, for wisdom and for courage. We can do all things through Christ who gives us strength.

That evening after vespers, Beto went to Father Juan’s room. He stopped outside the door, hearing muffled voices inside. Beto turned to leave but overcame his trepidation and knocked timidly. Father Juan opened the door a crack. Beto? he said with surprise.

Pardon me, Father. Might I have a word?

Come in, then. Father Cristóbal is with me.

May I speak my mind?

Yes, yes, said Father Cristóbal with some impatience.

You may know that I was sent to San Ignacio by my village, far to the east where the Upia and Metica Rivers meet, said Beto.

Yes, Beto. When are you leaving for home? asked Father Juan.

Soon, Father. The thing is… I was sent here to learn about the God of the Bible and bring back these teachings to my village. Our elders won’t understand that I can’t finish my studies because of problems in Spain, and the pope or any of that. How can I go back? But if you came with me…

Juan and Cristóbal stared at each other and then turned to look at Beto. The ways of God truly are mysterious, young friend. Can this be the answer to our prayers?

* * *

The road narrowed and the villages surrounding Bogotá became fewer as the three men rode on. The first rays of dawn began to peek over the mountain peaks to the east, allowing the riders to increase their pace. Cristóbal felt a pang of sorrow at leaving Bogotá, his home for the last fifteen years. He recalled reading about the founding of Bogotá in a manuscript held in the seminary library. More of a legend than a historical account, Bishop Lucas Fernández de Soto Piedrahita wrote how the Bogotá savannah was populated by stray European fortune hunters barely eking out a living after failing to find the fabled El Dorado. Then a man came from the east, from the low plains where mighty rivers flow down into the Orinoco. His name was Bochica, and he resembled the Europeans who invaded the country under Gonzalo Jimenez de Quesada, the Spanish explorer and conquistador.

Bochica taught the people peaceful ways, the cultivation of the soil, and the raising of livestock. He established precepts to guide their lives and taught them about the all-conquering power of love. The bishop asserted that Bochica was none other than the Apostle Bartholomew, whose final whereabouts remain obscure. His description of Bochica could have fit any white man with a long brown beard, but his decisive evidence that Bartholomew must have visited the Andean region is a stone on one of the mountains between the plateau of Bogotá and the eastern plains, which bears the footprints of the apostle. Cristóbal had been quite unable to find these footprints on his many treks through the mountains, but had to admit that the legend served two purposes. It explained Bartholomew’s final whereabouts and put a definite end to all doubts concerning Bochica’s identity.

Cristóbal’s mind wandered back to his native land and the story of the Apostle James, the patron saint of Spain. Upon being admitted into God’s presence, James asked for and received all sorts of blessings for Spain and its people—fertile soil, natural wealth in the mountains and the forests, an abundance of fish in the rivers, multitudes of birds in the air; courage, seriousness, and manly virtues for men; beauty, grace, and tenderness for the women. The Lord granted all of this, but as he was leaving, James asked God to also grant Spain a good government. As legend has it, this final request was denied because the Lord said that if He did so, the angels would abandon heaven and flock to Spain. Surely this must be true, thought Cristóbal, as he pondered the political turmoil back home that had driven them from the seminary.

Chilled to the bone after the night’s ride, the three men arrived at a wayside inn to warm up. It was a square, thatch-roofed hut that stood by the roadside quite close to the mountain range that they had reached after crossing the whole breadth of the plateau. Outside stood several pack-horses and mules, tied to the hitching posts. The inn was divided into three rooms; one had a counter and shelves running along the walls displaying bottles of various sizes and contents. Most thirsty travelers opted for the cheap and plentiful chicha. The middle room was what might be called the all-purpose sitting, waiting, sleeping, and dining room, and the last room was the kitchen. The fire was right on the ground and several logs burned brightly in the open air, filling the room with smoke and heat. In the first room were several laborers from the highlands on their way to the coffee estates to help with the harvest. Behind the counter, the barmaid was filling a large gourd bowl with chicha.

The three new arrivals entered the middle room, envying the men who slept deeply on the bare ground. Beto brought a saddlebag with a copper kettle used for making chocolate, and the paste for the preparation of that delicious drink. Within twenty minutes, the three cold and hungry men had steaming cups of chocolate that had been boiled and whipped three times in accordance with local custom. Never was a frothy cup of hot chocolate more welcome. The men rested for an hour next to the fire and sleeping laborers while the horses ate their fodder. Then they started again towards the mountains, leaving the plateau behind. Unaccustomed to the rough terrain, the horses slowly picked their way along the tortuous mountain