Gabriel opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was not the light, but the smell. It was a rancid mixture of burnt tallow candle, the sharp acidity of cat urine lingering somewhere in the room, and the dense, almost solid scent of damp wool drying poorly. Before, those smells had simply been the background of his life, now his mind separated them, catalogued them, and identified their origins.
He tried to move. His body felt as heavy as if his bones were made of lead, but his mind… his mind was a freshly sharpened blade. The fever, those cursed tertian fevers that had taken half the peasants the previous winter, was gone. And with it, the perpetual fog of childhood had lifted.
"Gabriel?" The voice came from the corner beside the dead brazier. Ana de Azpeitia. His mother. Gabriel turned his head on the straw stuffed pillow. The crackling of the dry stalks sounded thunderously loud in his ears.
He saw his mother rise from the stool.
He saw her hands, red and swollen from the icy stream, the skin on her knuckles cracked like the dry valley soil in summer.
He saw the hem of her skirt, patched three times, dragging dust.
He saw the fear in her slumped shoulders, a posture learned after years of making herself small so as not to take up space or be a bother.
"I'm awake". Gabriel said. His own voice sounded strange to him, low and rough from dehydration.
Ana covered her mouth, stifling a sob, and rushed to the narrow bed. She placed her hand on his forehead. Her palm was coarse and calloused, yet radiated a warmth that clashed violently with the freezing air of the adobe room. Adobe, is a type of sun dried mudbrick used across the Spanish colonies, similar to earthen construction but more fragile if poorly mixed.
"The fever has gone down" she whispered, crossing herself quickly. "Thanks to the Virgin. Thanks to God. I thought… Gabriel, I thought you wouldn't survive the night".
Gabriel sat up. Dizziness struck him, but he clenched his teeth and waited for the world to stop spinning. He looked at the wall in front of him. Poorly cured adobe again. The mix had too much straw and too little clay; that was why it crumbled at the base. The ceiling beam, a rough oak trunk, sagged dangerously. If a strong tremor struck, that beam would give way and the roof would crush them.
"I'm thirsty". he said.
Ana hurried to the cántaro, a clay water jug traditional in rural households and roughly equivalent to an earthenware pitcher. As she poured water into a fired-clay cup, a noise erupted in the patio. The heavy gallop of a horse, the distressed neigh of an overworked animal, and then the thud of boots hitting the packed-earth corridor.
Ana's back stiffened. The change was immediate: from relieved mother to cornered animal.
"It's him". she murmured, handing him the water with trembling hands. "Drink quickly. Pretend to be asleep if he comes in. He lost at cards last night, I know it from the way he dismounted".
Don Rodrigo de Quiroga. The stepfather.
The wooden door burst open, slamming against the mud wall. Rodrigo entered bringing with him a gust of freezing air and the unmistakable stench of cheap aguardiente and the sweat of an old horse. He was a thin man, consumed by bile and resentment, with a patchy beard that failed to hide the weakness of his chin.
Gabriel watched him over the rim of the cup as he drank. The water was cool and clean. He felt it travel down his throat, hydrating the tissues.
"He's still alive, the little bastard?" Rodrigo slurred. He removed his cape, soaked with morning dew, and threw it on the floor. "Three weeks drinking without working, while I break my back managing this ruin".
Gabriel lowered the cup. In the past, Rodrigo's presence had sparked visceral terror in him, a need to hide under the blankets. Now, when he looked at him, he saw only a man with an inflamed liver, he saw the uneven wear on the soles of his boots caused by poor posture, he saw the rusted sword hilt the man never cleaned.
"The boy just woke up, Rodrigo". Ana said, placing herself between Gabriel and the man. Her voice trembled, but she remained firm. "He's in no condition to-".
"Don't you tell me what he is or isn't!" Rodrigo raised his hand.
Gabriel did not scream. He did not flinch. He simply placed the cup on the floor with controlled precision and stood up. His legs trembled, but he forced his knees to lock. He was nearly as tall as his stepfather, though much thinner from the illness.
"Don't touch her". Gabriel said.
He didn't shout it. He said it in a flat tone, devoid of emotion, like someone stating that water boils at one hundred degrees or that the sun rises in the east. It was the absolute lack of fear in his voice that stopped Rodrigo.
The hidalgo blinked, confused. Hidalgo: a minor nobleman in Spanish society, roughly comparable to a lower-ranking gentleman. His bloodshot eyes swept Gabriel from head to toe. He searched for the frightened child and found someone looking at him with the indifference of a bored judge.
"You challenging me, pup?" Rodrigo growled, reaching for the hilt of his sword.
"I'm saying that if you touch her, you'll have to explain to the Father why his favourite student has a broken face before the Bishop's visit". Gabriel lied smoothly. There was no Bishop coming, but he knew Rodrigo feared the Church more than hunger. The Church controlled the debts of the haciendas, the rural estates that functioned as agricultural and economic centers, similar to large manors or plantations.
Rodrigo hesitated. The mention of the Jesuit was a calculated blow. He released the sword, spat on the dirt floor, and turned away.
"He can get up and work". he muttered as he left the room. "If he's well enough to talk, he's well enough to clean the stables".
When the door closed, Ana collapsed onto the stool, exhaling the breath she had been holding. She looked at her son as if he were a stranger.
"You had never spoken to him like that". she whispered.
"Things are going to change, Mother". Gabriel said. He looked at his hands. They were pale, thin, but the tendons moved beneath the skin. "I need clothes. And I need to speak with the Father".
. . . . . . .
The outside air cut like a blade. The hacienda stood on the lower slopes of the precordillera, where the valley of Santiago began to wrinkle into the Andes. It was cold, the dry, mineral cold of the mountains.
Gabriel wrapped himself in the coarse wool poncho, a traditional cloak similar to a blanket-like shawl, and walked toward the edge of the property. He ignored the pain in his atrophied muscles. He needed to see.
Below, roughly hundred meters (328 feet) from the main house, ran the Mapocho River. At this altitude, it was not the dirty trickle crossing the city of Santiago, here it was a furious torrent of meltwater, grey and foaming, smashing against the granite rocks.
Gabriel stopped at the ravine. He looked at the water.
Any other inhabitant of the area saw water to drink, or perhaps a flood risk. Gabriel saw something else.
Millions of liters rushing downward at great speed, wasting their force against the stones. An obscene waste… About four meters (13 feet) of drop at the bend.
If he diverted a branch of the stream… if he built a paddle wheel, not a small one to grind maize by hand, but one three meters (10 feet) in diameter, with a reinforced oak axle, he could generate the force of twenty horses. He could power a martinete for forging, a type of heavy trip-hammer. He could drive saws.
"You've returned from the dead, I see". Gabriel turned. The Father stood by the vineyards, his black sotana spotless despite the dusty road. He carried his breviary under one arm and watched Gabriel with that unreadable expression, a blend of scientific curiosity and political calculation.
"Death didn't want me yet, Father". Gabriel replied.
"God has strange purposes". Lorenzo said as he approached, studying the boy's face. "Your mother says the fever burned your brain. I see it cleared your eyes. You have a different look… less bovine".
"I need money, Father".
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. An almost invisible smile curved his thin lips.
"For what? To run away?".
"For iron". Gabriel said, nodding toward the river. "And for good-quality wood. I'm going to build something that will stop this land from being a hole of misery".
"Pride is a cardinal sin, Gabriel".
"And poverty is inefficiency". Gabriel replied instantly.
The Jesuit fell silent for a long moment, studying him. There was something in Gabriel's posture, in the way he ignored the cold, in the natural authority with which he asked, that reminded Lorenzo of the portraits hanging in that place.
'Blood', Lorenzo thought. 'Blood always speaks'.
He reached into the folds of his sotana and withdrew a small but heavy leather pouch.
"It's from the alms box". Lorenzo said, tossing him the pouch. Gabriel caught it in the air. The clinking of silver was solid music. "Consider it a loan with divine interest. If you spend it on wine like your stepfather, I will make sure you wish you had died in that bed".
Gabriel weighed the pouch. It was enough to begin.
"I don't drink wine, Father". he said, turning back to the river, his mind already drawing the plans of gears, calculating friction, designing the future. "I only drink water".