Brasyl

“Come come,” Father Diego commanded, darting lightly down the perrilous rain-slick companionway. Qui

“Citizens of heaven, subjects of Christ the King,” Gonçalvesshouted to Qui

Qui

“There must be forty thousand souls here,” Qui

The leaping rain was easing, following the storm front into the north, set to flight by bells. To the south, beyond the masts and crowning angels of the floating basilica, shafts of yellow light broke through curdling clouds and moved across the white water.

“Souls, yes. Guabirú, Capueni, Surara nations — all one in the Cidade de Deus.”

Luis Qui

“The key that unlocks the Amazon.”

“I assume from its bitterness it is a most effective simple against some affliction. ”

“Against the ague, yes, yes; very good, Father. What is it holds us back from taking full stewardship of this land, as Our Lord grants us? Not the vile snakes or the heat, not even the animosity of the indios, though many of them display a childlike enthusiasm for violence. Sickness, disease, and espeecially the ague of the bad air, the shivering ague. A simple preparation from the bark of this tree affords complete cure and immunity, if taken as a reggular draft. Can you imagine such a boon to the development and exploitation of this God-granted land? A thousand cities like my City of God; the Amazon shall be the cornucopia of the Americas. The Spanish have souls only for gold and so dismissed it as desert, wilderness; they could not see the riches that grew on every branch and leaf, under their very steel boots! As well as my Jesuit’s Bark there are simples against many of the sicknesses that afflict us; I have potent analgesics against all aches and pains, herbal preparations that can treat the sepsis and even the gangrene if caught early enough; I can even cure disorders of the mind and spirit. We need not cast out with superstitious exorcism when a tincture, carefully administered, can take away the melancholy or the rage and quiet the demons.”

Luis Qui

As they returned along the foot-hardened walkways, the field workers bowing in deference to their Father, Qui

“So friend, is this the City of God you have been looking for?” Qui

“The City of God is paved with gold and needs neither sun nor moon, for Christ is her light,” Zemba said. “Nor soldiers, for the Lord himself is her spear and shield.”

The two-man patrols were ubiquitous; skins patterned in what Qui

“Your pardon, Father?”

“A poem in my own language, the Irish.

“There is truth in that.” Zemba moved close to Luis Qui

“Father!” Gonçalves called brightly. “Confidence in Our Lord is surely the mark of a Christian; having seen what I have shown you, are you with me? Will you help me in my great work?”

Zemba dropped his head and stepped back, but Luis Qui

“What is your work, Father?”

Gonçalves halted, smiling at the ignorance of a lumbering adult, his hands held our in unconscious mimicry of the great Christ-idol that dominated his city.