THE INEXPLICABLE JOURNEY OF GONZALO SÁENZ QUEVEDO
Translated by Arturo Mantecón

Translator's Note:
In the fall of 1987, I took a vacation in Europe. I was touring Scotland when the opportunity arose to satisfy a long-standing curiosity concerning the Orkney Islands.
I crossed the Pentland Firth and visited the island of Pomona and the main town, Kirkwall. The day after my arrival, a strong north wind blew, so, not feeling equal to the wool-piercing cold, I spent the better part of a Sunday afternoon in St. Magnus Cathedral. It was in the sacristy, among glass-enclosed relics and the old vestments of by-gone bishops, that I encountered the leaves of the testament which is the subject of this present translation.
To find a document in Spanish in such a place surprised me. My eye wandered over the first page and fastened on the word "Acapulco", and I was surprised and intrigued all the more.
I found the sacristan and begged to have a copy. Father Antony McGawain, a tall, carroty-haired, courtly cleric, agreed to let me have one of several facsimiles in his archives.
"It's a tale worth telling, and there's few outside these islands that know it." Father McGawain went on to explain that there was a local legend connected with the letter, that of "The Gast o' the Ootlin Skriever".
The story goes that on April 2, 1595 ,during matutinal mass, a man materialized before the church altar seated at a small writing desk. He and the congregation regarded each other with astonishment for several seconds; he let out a horrible wail and vanished, leaving behind his chair, the writing desk, and a letter atop it.
For two and one-half centuries, the letter was kept as evidence of a miracle without anyone knowing its meaning. (It was only when I returned home that it occurred to me that I never thought to ask what became of the chair and writing desk.) Some time in the 1870's, the Argentine Consul of Edinburgh was in Kirkwall and provided a paraphrastic oral translation.
My skills as a translator, admittedly, are not great, but I feel I have done an adequate job at least. I will leave it to future translators of the document to determine my specific weaknesses. I make no apologies. I am satisfied by the fact that I am the very first to render this letter into written English.
I attempted to translate specific terms as literally as possible while trying to preserve the flavor of the formality and orotundity of the original. Some words and phrases I did not translate at all, but rather copied whole, using the author's spelling, because in some instances I thought they might be of interest to linguists and historians; in other instances it was because I simply liked the sound of them. One word, "gatana", I could find no translation for at all. (I am not an academician and do not have access to the more arcane reference books that I suppose I would need.) I assume it was or is a sharp-edged weapon, a sword probably. Perhaps some expert or other can shed some light on the word's exact meaning.
The last few words are in Spanish because the sentence is a fragment. The last word, unfinished in mid-stroke, has a debatable identity.

Saturday, 1st of April, 1595.
Over a year has passed, and yet my hand is still tremulous from the fright I have undergone and from the dread of the nameless fate that awaits me. I do not know whether I write to confess to having been the medium of malignant deviltry or whether I write to testify to being touched by the terrible finger of God. For truly, I know not the author of my sufferings. I only know that no mortal could have caused me to be transported across the face of the great ocean sea, from one corner of the globe to another, in no more time than it takes a man to draw a thoughtless breath.
And now I am sent back to Manila in a manner appropriate to ordinary men, slowly over the heaving green waves in a vessel tacking into a steady wind, one laborious league after another. We are two days out of Acapulco harbor. I have been given a cabin below decks for my use alone. I eat my meals alone. The words the crew crosses with me are short and not friendly. All shun my company for fear of succumbing to the same rapture that took me.
I have related the essence of my story to the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition in México, but I left out certain particulars--May Our Lady help me!--for I had reason to believe I might be burnt alive for revealing them.
I wish to tell my story in complete detail and in good faith, not only for the sake of my imperiled soul, but also for my sons, Ramiro and Gomo, that they may know the man who was their father and know that he endeavoured always to live a righteous, honorable, and manly life. For who knows if I shall ever reach my home?
The name I gave the Inquisitors, the name my family, friends and fellow soldiers call me by, Gil Péres, is not mine.
My true name is Gonzalo Sáenz. I was born in the green, wet lands of la Vega de Pas in the province of Santander in 1561. I am the son of Pedro Sáenz and Ximena Quevedo. Both sides of my family have inhabited la Montaña for centuries, and my antecedents, no matter how penniless, have always been recognized as hijos de algo.
When I was 16, a canker consumed my father's grain. He had to dismiss our menservants, and I was faced with the prospect of having to mow hay for the milkcows. I did the only honorable thing open to me and abandoned my father's house for the town of Santander. At that time, I had literary ambitions and was a good if seldom inspired poet. I was proud indeed when a volume of my verse was published.
My more voluptuous poems must have attracted the attention of the ladies, for I received several amorous letters. One letter in particular was exciting in its fire, and the woman, who signed herself "Sorgin", promised me a night of love such that I would never forget. What could a young man do but agree to meet her?
We met in secrecy in Laredo. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Her hair was like golden silk. She was milk-white like an unblemished lily. She was clothed all in white so that she seemed more like a gleaming goddess of light than a mere woman. An accomplice of hers, an old hag, provided us with a room. That night was everything she promised it would be. Afterward she begged me to save her from shame and marry her. But, she had thrown herself at me with no thought to her honor. What obligation had I to her? I told her I could not marry her, for my writings put barely enough bread on my table for a mouse, let alone a matrimony. Besides, I had decided to remove to Toledo, the better to pursue a life of letters. She was livid. She became crazy with anger. She clawed at her own beautiful face until the blood ran and spewed forth a torrent of curses the likes of which I have not heard since. Then the old hag came up to the room, and the both of them started shrieking at me and babbling in the Basque tongue, which I understand not a word, until I could put up with it no more. I left that lady and tried to forget her. It was not to be so simple.
Four months later, a scowling White Friar called on me and told me that a Carmelite nun was big with my child. I was either to marry her or he would have la Santa Hermandad deal with me. I would be locked up, and she would be cast into the street, my child a virtual orphan and she an inevitable whore.
I fled to the countryside and hid in my father's hórreos for several weeks. I decided to assume the name that all know me by, to take up arms for His Majesty, and volunteer for service in the New World.
So it was that, at the age of 20, I found myself with pistol and sword, plying across the surface of Santander Bay, heading for the blue expanse of western sea just beyond the Punta Magdalena. The bay seemed to mirror my agitated soul. The waters churned with the crowded writhings of a multitude of dark, grey mullet.
I took a last look at the lofty snowcaps of the Picos Cantábricos above the clouds and wept, for I was certain I would never again hear the cowherds whistle nor hear the bells of their bullocks at dusk. It was certain that I would never again taste the sweet moras de zarza in fall, nor again feel the touch of my mother's gentle, loving hand.
I besought San Emeterio and San Celedonio for courage and protection. I had heard that the New World held not only fabulous riches but vicious hordes of savage cannibals as well.
I was to encounter neither but had a wealth of signal adventures, nonetheless.
We sailed south down the coast of Portugal and reached the mouth of the Guadalquivir near Cádiz. We went upriver to Sanlúcar where we stayed several weeks before going to sea again.
We landed and disembarked at the port of Santo Domingo, relieving men at the large fort that fronts the sea. My senses were dulled by two long years of daily drills, long night watches, vain boasting by my fellows, and the damp heat of the barracks until I thought I'd be driven to desert to avoid dying slowly of boredom and frustration.
My deliverance came in 1584 when I and 500 others were given orders to sail for Peru. It was a hard voyage, accomplished by ship and a back-breaking trip overland to reach the Pacific. Many died of the black vomit.
Lima was more to my liking. I loved the country and its curious beasts and fowl. The Quechua were a sweet, graceful and courteous race. When we conquered them and their Inca we must have been like a sharp sickle ripping through the wheat. But, God has certainly forgiven us Spaniards on account of the host of new Christian souls we won for him. My own pretty wife is one of them. I met my Encarnación when she was but a girl of 14. A more modest and devoted wife does not exist, and I would kill any man who would slight her, Indian though she is.
In due time, my wife presented me with twins, two little cholitos. She has raised them well. I know they will be fine men, with or without me.
I received orders to sail for the Philippines in 1591. I was loath to leave Peru, a land where I had become a firmly planted tree for my family, a husband and a father, but I was bound by duty to go. Luckily, my marriage had not been a casual one as it was with many other soldiers. Since our union had been sacramental, I was allowed to take my wife and children with me.
It was in the Philippines that I got my first taste of battle. There is constant war, and the skirmishes outside Manila are many. There are many races in that mysterious and violent land and many factions within each people, some loyal to us Spaniards, others who want to drive us from the islands.
There were some 2,500 Spanish soldiers in Manila when I landed, though, if the truth be known, many that are so called are not peninsulares or criollos at all but are mestizos from México. These men join the service to try to better their station in life. They are a quarrelsome lot, quick to take offense, but they are extremely brave soldiers.
When I first reported to the barracks in the Fuerte de Santiago, I received not a few insults from some of these Mexicanos and had to pay them back in kind to preserve my honor. My hand would go to my sword, though it remained in the scabbard, and they would back down, seeing that I was not to be taken lightly. One day Encarnación brought my two boys to visit me at the fort, and the Mexicanos, upon seeing my wife and my morenitos, relented in their animosity and became my friends.
Don Gómes Péres Dasmariñas had become Governor of the Philippines about a year before I arrived in Manila. He was a sagacious, vigorous man who never gave a thought to his own advantage and enrichment, but strove tirelessly to improve the government and welfare of the islands. He was the author of numerous public works. His project to wall the city was well under way when I arrived.
I had ample opportunity to observe His Excellency and the comings and goings of his notable visitors, for I was made a member of the palace guards.
It came to pass that one day a delegation of ambassadors sent by the King of Camboxa arrived at the palace, bringing two elephants with them, the first that I had ever seen. The elephants were a gift of the King to Governor Gómes Péres. Two Christians in the delegation, a Portuguese called Veloso and a Spaniard named Barrientos, explained that the King of Camboxa desired the Governor's friendship, in exchange for which he would open up generous trade relations with Manila. Apparently, the King of Siam was threatening to invade Camboxa, prompting the King of the latter country to seek allies.
His Excellency sent the King of Camboxa a magnificent, white Andalusian stallion as well a golden box filled with 200 emeralds. He wrote an avowal of friendship but lamented not being able to send soldiers, saying that he could not endanger Manila by the diversion of so many men to foreign parts.
However, not long after, His Excellency decided to use this visitation by the ambassadors to his advantage.
Don Gómes Péres, an otherwise kind and pacific man, was a great, relentless foe of Islam. The Moros maintain a troublesome redoubt in Maluco called Terrenate. The Governor's predecessors, desirous of seizing the rich trade in cloves, had vainly attempted subdue this stronghold of the Moros, and Gómes Péres wanted above all to succeed where those before him had failed. A large war fleet was assembled for the attack and blockade, it being publicly stated that the Governor had changed his mind and had decided to give assistance to his friend, the Lord of Camboxa.
With all but a few men thinking we intended to invade Siam, the ships set sail for Maluco. The Governor himself departed for battle in a galera of 28 benches manned by 250 paid Chinese rowers. Only God knows why he employed those scheming heathens! I feared the worst when I heard how many Chinese were aboard, and with only 40 Spaniards at that. The Chinese are, for the most part, untrustworthy and treacherous, motivated by the basest concerns for personal gain. In my opinion, they all should be expelled from the Philippines, and if we are left for a time without small merchants to provide us with some necessities, so be it! I blame the priests of the islands for the practice of using Chinese in the galleys. They coddle the Filipinos too much. They insist that we would demean our subjects, the Filipinos by putting them to such service (and, I admit the Filipinos are loyal, good Christians and deserve some respect), but to employ instead cutthroats who owe allegiance only to money is lunacy.
In the Governor's absence, Manila was left in the charge of Diego Ronquillo, my Captain.
We soldiers left behind to defend the city stood on a promontory overlooking the harbor and watched His Excellency's galera catch the wind. Thousands of gulls followed the vessel out to sea, more birds than can be easily imagined. They swirled around the masts and sails in broad, ascending and descending spirals, voicing their loud keening cry that at times sounds like laughter, at others like weeping. As the ship and gulls went farther out, we could no longer distinguish any individual fowl, so that the great flock looked like a flowing, snow-white mantle or shroud about the dark form of the boat.
Four nights later, at about three hours past midnight, the earth shook, and a loud, roaring groan from the depths was heard, as though there were a huge beast in mortal pain in the netherworld. The violent shaking subsided into nervous trembling, then stopped in an instant with several moments of heavy silence. Then dogs began to howl and roosters to crow.
At daybreak, Friar Gaspar, the Augustinian, came running up to me. That past night, I had my watch near the marketplace. He begged me to follow him back to the monastery. Once there, he led me into the dark entryway or salón, one wall of which had cracked from top to half-way to bottom. Hanging on that wall was a portrait of Gómes Péres Dasmariñas split down the middle, so that the Governor's head was cloven to the chin. No other part of the monastery had been damaged, nor was even one drop of water in the jugs displaced. This event caused a big commotion among the people. It was universally believed that this was a sign that His Excellency had been killed. The rumor went about that he had been murdered with an axe.
We were so certain that the Governor had died, that we took extra measures to protect the city's perimeter, especially in those areas where the wall was unfinished, for we feared an uprising of the people of the surrounding villages.
That night I took my solitary watch outside the wall. Strangely enough, I became calmer the blacker the night became. The moonless night was hot and wet, and no sounds were to heard except for the throbbing song of the crickets and the rattling squeaks of the bats.
I slowly became aware of a powerful, attractive fragrance, sweeter smelling than any perfume I knew. At first I thought a woman had approached my post and must be now nearby. I unshouldered my musket and held it ready. As stealthily as I could, I stepped slowly along the curve of the wall toward the apparent source of this wonderful, seductive scent.
At last I spied an immense white orchid, growing from a tangle of vines that clung to the rocky wall. The orchid was so white that it seemed to pulsate and radiate a light of its own in a night otherwise illuminated only by feeble stars.
And the aroma! It was so strong and so sweet and so wonderful that it permeated my clothes and hair for days afterward. I could not help but draw nearer to the obscenely folded flower the better to inhale its beauty. It was situated upon the wall at about the height of a man. The blossom was larger than a man's head. I buried my face deep within the petals which felt like human skin bathed with some fine unguent. I breathed deeply and filled my lungs with the essence of the divine orchid. I remember feeling a soft, warm, damp breath upon my cheek.
All of a sudden, I was engulfed in an astounding explosion of light. I was so blinded that I had to shade my eyes for some time before I could see clearly.
My eyes focused on several men approaching me. One was on horseback. I aimed my musket at them and demanded their names and their business. They took fright at my words, and the horseman rode off toward a large, palatial building to my right. I was by then aware that I was in the center of a huge plaza, the biggest I had ever seen. Three sides of the plaza were bordered by fine, handsome buildings and arcades. Directly before me, completing the square, was what appeared to be a large church under construction with a smaller church beside it on the right. All about me were Indians (There was no mistaking what these people were.) selling wares of many kinds, some at wooden booths in the shade of trees and others upon cotton blankets.
The bells of the church struck four. How could that be? Four in the afternoon?
I stood there, eyes downcast, lost in confusion. I looked up to see five soldiers with pistols and sabers. One drew his sword and commanded me to lay down my weapons. This I did without hesitation. I thought that at last I could have an explanation as to what the devil had happened to me.
They asked me with much indignation what kind of idiot I thought I was, going about threatening decent folk with firearms. I asked them where I was. "In the Zócalo, you fool," was their crude reply. Where was that? I asked. I was told I was in México. I laughed and told them that was impossible, that only a quarter hour before I was standing guard outside the walls of Manila.
They roared with laughter until they coughed and choked on their hilarity. They then forced me to my knees and tied my hands behind my back. They led me toward a large building on the plaza, slapping my face and calling me "un gachupín loco". This peculiar insult, which I had heard before, along with the distinctive manners and speech of these men, caused me to realize the truth of what they were saying, I was in México.
I was put into a cell with filthy drunkards and petty thieves. My presence in jail was noted by a guard who had served overseas. He informed his superiors that a probable deserter was being held.
I was taken before an impromptu military court and was asked how I came to be in possession of a uniform of a soldier of the Philippines. I replied that I came about it in the usual fashion, that I had not stolen it, if that was what they meant to say, that I was in fact presently a soldier of His Majesty's in service in Manila.
I was asked why and how it was that I was in México and making a public nuisance of myself. I told them that I did not know how I entered their country, but that it seemed to me to have been some miracle or marvelous enchantment, since I was never conscious of ever having stepped five paces away from my assigned post. I did not desert. Upon that I swore by God, His Mother, and all Their attendant angels.
I insisted upon this story so vehemently and consistently that they despaired of what they should do with me and decided to throw me into the manicomio. This caused me great torment because I could not persuade anyone there of my sanity. I thought I was in bad straits but did not appreciate my relative good fortune until I was informed the Holy Office of the Inquisition was interested in my case.
There was no doubt in my mind that my life would be taken if the Inquisition concluded that I had participated in witchcraft or willingly consented to have it practiced on me. An indescribable loathing had made the 21 days after my sudden appearance in the Zócalo unbearable. Now, added to that, was the fear that I would be tortured or executed if I could not convince the judges of my innocence.
I was brought before the tribunal, and, with much trepidation, I told the truth, not the whole truth, perhaps, but the truth, nonetheless. The judges told me that they did not believe me! They said that if I was lying, I was guilty of either imposture or desertion. If my fantastic story were true, they would be forced to consider witchcraft on my part. What proof, I was asked, could I provide that I was indeed spirited away from the Philippines in the blink of an eye?
I suggested, perhaps it is more honest to say that I pleaded, that they write to the authorities in Manila. They were bound to have noticed my absence in the garrison.
After some hesitation, they agreed it would do no harm to wait for Manila's reply before passing judgment on me. To make my case stronger, I related to the tribunal events (which I have described beforehand in this testament) that occurred in Manila in the week prior to finding myself in Mexico. I prayed them to include these things in their letter to the Governor, (assuming he was still alive) the better to test the veracity of my story. They agreed. The letter was penned in my presence and read back to me. I was then locked up in jail to await Manila's response. I was to wait for more than a year.
Praise God, a reply finally reached the judges of the Holy Tribunal in January of 1595. It was a letter from Juan de Cuéllar, the personal secretary of Gómes Péres Dasmariñas. The contents of the letter amazed the Inquisitors and saved me from a shameful end.
Cuéllar confirmed that a soldier by the name of Gil Péres was absent without leave. He stated that it had been believed that I deserted. My absence was first made note of on the 25th of October, 1593, which was the very same day that I appeared in the Zócalo of México. Cuéllar said that, as incredible as it seemed, I must be who I said I was, for no one else would have been able to supply such a detailed account, and at such an early date, of late happenings in Manila.
In fact, he was not entirely surprised by my apparent enchantment. Many strange, marvelous things had happened in the Philippines in recent months.
There was a certain conbento de bruxas, in league with rebellious forces in the interior, casting disruptive, odious spells upon the legitimate authorities of the islands. These spiteful witches, who go about descalzas, not only wage devious warfare against the Spaniards but also do harm to those whom they feel have maligned or sullied the feminine sex. Many men have been sickened or killed as a result of their spells.
Cuéllar lamented that I was correct in my suspicions: Governor Gómes Péres was dead, foully murdered at sea by mutinous Chinese crew members. The Secretary related that he himself had been aboard the galley and had escaped death only by chance. He said rightly that heaven would reward our Governor's kindness and profound sympathy for his fellow men; this world would not. Gómes Péres had given orders that the Chinese not be chained to their benches nor have their weapons confiscated, so that they would not feel like slaves. He would walk among them, speaking kindly to them, taking their complaints, all the while trying to earn their trust. But, the Chinese took all this noble charity as a sign of weakness. They were recalcitrant rowers and did not honor their contractual agreements. They refused to pull on the oars during a dead calm on the second day out.
They were ordered to row, but to no avail. Finally, His Excellency, not wanting to have them whipped, threatened to have their long, braided cues cut off if they did not heave to the oars.
Row, then, they did, wrote Cuéllar, but after that the Chinese harbored murderous feelings toward the Spaniards on board. There was also a great treasure in goods, arms, and money on the ship, and this they coveted for their own. They resolved to mutiny.
The Chinese waited for a near-moonless night to accomplish their crime. They crept up upon the Spaniards while they slept and cut their throats. A few soldiers were awakened by the death rattles of their fellows and escaped by jumping overboard. The Governor was in his cabin below deck and was awakened by the noise. Incautious of his own safety, he bravely strode up the steps from his cabin door. Just before he reached the main deck, a Chinese struck him from behind with his gatana. The blow split the poor Governor's skull, and the two halves of his brains spilled out, sliding on the deck with a copious amount of blood and gore.
Cuéllar and a Father Montilla, a Franciscan who shared a cabin with him, slept through most of the horrible, bloody treachery. They were awakened by the victorious singing and cheers of the Chinese. Realizing what had happened, they barricaded themselves in their cabin. The Chinese discovered there were still Spaniards aboard but were too cowardly to go in after them, for the two desperate men were armed.
Meanwhile, the trailing ships of the fleet, having picked up those men who escaped by jumping overboard, gave chase but were unable to overtake the Governor's galley. The thieves intended to make for Cantón but realized they would need more water and other provisions. They sailed to the coast of Ylocos and exchanged the lives of Cuéllar and Padre Montilla for the provisions they needed. No one knows for certain what became of the murdering heathens, but Cuéllar wrote that rumor had it they were blown off course to Cochinchina, and that the Lord of Saygón captured them and took away all that they had thought to make their own.
Once this letter was read, it was admitted by my judges that I had told the truth. It was also obvious to all, however, that I had arrived in México through no earthly agency. One of the Inquisitors would have had me taken to the Quemadero. The others found they could prove no wrong-doing on my part. They passed this sentence on me: That I was to return to the Philippines as soon as possible, but without resorting to supernatural means. I was warned that I would be watched carefully for any future transgressions.
And so I was sent to Acapulco, troubled by the thought that perhaps some ill-willed witch had cast a spell on me and had more in store for me once I got home. May God judge me, but I do not know why anyone should wish me harm.
As we slipped away from the pier, I caught sight of a woman standing apart from those seeing the ship off, I could not see her face, for it was obscured by a white hood she wore upon her head. I could discern only her green eyes, glowing like a cat's in the night. Me fixé que no estava ca...


©Arturo Mantecón