Free Mr. Eternity by Aaron Thier Page A

night.
    “But it’s such a nice day, though,” I said.
    “That’s the spirit.”

1560
----
    I sit with the alcalde on the little bench at the back of the house. The pincha palms wave in the hot dusty air. The sound of an oxcart fills the street. He is telling me how miserable and sinful he is. He says that he only wants to live well and honor God, and yet he cannot. He hears the whispering of the devil. He sins and sins. He confesses but then he sins fresh sins. He tells me that he awoke this morning in the slime and muck of the pigpen, which I already know. He remembers nothing and he fears he has committed a terrible sin. He tells me that he awoke whispering the “Miserere Mei, Deus,” but what was the use? His eyes are watering, his hair is slick on his round head, his cheeks are like the inflamed rump of a kogai monkey. He asks me if I think he is beyond salvation. He asks me if it is possible, as some heretics have claimed, that every soul is predestined for heaven or hell, and what we do on earth is only the enactment of that destiny, which we can do nothing to change. Then he says that he would like to kill himself, but that too is against God, so his only hope is to apply for a papal dispensation authorizing this course of action.
    These are the problems of Christians, who are persecuted by God as they themselves persecute their animals. I am grateful that I am not expected to respond. I am grateful that I am not yet Christian enough to feel haunted by these spirits myself. For now it is easier to live in Pirahao, although the Pirahao will be haunted too, as soon as God learns of their existence.
    Late in the morning, when the sun is high enough that it draws the color from the world, Daniel de Fo arrives with an escort of two soldiers. He wears his Toledo cap. There is a notary present as well. There is always a notary present.
    Daniel de Fo begs the alcalde’s pardon. There has been a terrible misunderstanding, he says, caused by his own confusion and negligence. He should have come at once and given his account of the Lopez y Barra expedition, but he went mad in the forest and forgot his duty.
    The alcalde is delighted by this courtesy and apologizes in his turn for the rough treatment Daniel de Fo has received. He suspects that it is a blessing to be the auditor of any truth or clarification, because in that case he is privileged to become the medium by which Daniel de Fo begins to make an atonement for his crimes. Could it be that the role of medium, or of auditor, will redound to his credit in the ledger books of heaven, assuming of course that our terrible fates are not predestined after all? Both men apologize once again. There is no way to say “I’m sorry” in Pirahao.
    “Now tell me, friend,” says the alcalde. “The Lopez y Barra expedition.”
    So Daniel de Fo begins to tell his story. They departed from Quito, he says, but before they could descend into the lowland forest they had a mutiny. Neither he nor Diego Paez de Sotelo had any part in it, of course. They had a mutiny and Pedro Avila killed the captain general Diego Lopez y Barra.
    “This happened just after you left Quito,” says the alcalde.
    “Within a fortnight. But we forgot about that very soon because the Indian porters died in the mountains, every one of them, so many that the men were simply striking the heads off the bodies so that they didn’t have to waste time opening the fetters.”
    Without porters, they had to jettison some things. They chose to jettison their food. They thought they would be able to hunt jungle creatures, but the jungle creatures were too clever for them and soon they began to starve. For Christmas they ate a thin gruel of boiled saddle leather and girth straps. At the Feast of Saint Renard they cooked their belts and the soles of their shoes.
    “But now Esteban Zancas had the clever idea to draw off some of the horses’ blood and boil it in his helmet. For a moment we thought thistrick would