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Several years ago at twilight of a November day, a group of Capuchin missionaries arrived in Osorno on a religious crusade.

There were six of these monks, all bearded, with ruddy complexions, energetic faces and confident gestures.

The errant life they led had distinguished them profoundly from seminarians from the other religious orders. In constant contact with the untamed wilderness of the southern regions, their bodies had become accustomed to long marches through the jungles. Always exposed to the lashing of the wind and rain, these six bearded monks had lost that air of inflexible religiosity possessed by those who live secluded in the protective warmth of the courtyards of a monastery.

They had met informally in Valdivia, some having arrived from the Indian settlements in Angel, others from La Imperial, others from Temuco. They made the trip together to Osorno, the city in which they would carry out a week of missionary work and from which they would later split up to travel alone the jungle roads, in obedience to their evangelizing mission.

They were, in manner and dress, six deeply committed priests.

Father Espinoza stood out among them. He was already a veteran of these crusades in the south, a man of about forty-five years of age, tall, vigorous, with the bearing of a man of action and an air of charity and refinement.

He had a sober head of jet black hair, so black it threw off tints of blue at times like the plumage of a blackbird. The skin of his face was dark olive, covered profusely by his Capuchin beard and his moustache. His nose was a bit wide; his mouth, fresh; his eyes, black and bright. Beneath his habit one could imagine his agile and muscular body.

The life of Father Espinoza was as interesting as that of any man of action; like that of a conquistador, like that of a captain of highway bandits, like that of a warrior. And he seemed to have a little of each of them in his bearing. The armor of the first would not have suited him badly, nor the cloak and fine steed of the second and the light clothing and deadly weapons of the last. But looking like and being each one of those men was something else again. He was a simple man, understanding, sharp-witted with a burning, dynamic faith and an enthusiastic, engaging religious spirit, devoid of any frivolous traits.

For fifteen years he had been roaming that Araucanian region. The Indians who had been converted by Father Espinoza adored him. He smiled when he was asked questions and when he answered. He seemed to be always speaking with souls as simple as his own.

Such was the man, Father Espinoza, a dedicated priest, who looked and acted like one.

The following day, after the missionary week was announced, a heterogeneous crowd of catechumens filled the front courtyard of the monastery in which the crusade would take place.

Natives from Chiloe, workers from the fields and factories, Indians, layabouts and lumber mill workers were slowly congregating there, seeking and hoping for the gospel from the missionaries. They were poorly dressed, most of them barefoot or shod in rough sandals, some wearing nothing more than a shirt and trousers, both garments dirty and ragged from long use, their features coarsened by alcohol and ignorance. They formed a motley group of humankind, having come from the nearby forests and the slums of the city.

The missionaries were already accustomed to this audience and were not unaware of the fact that many of those unfortunate creatures came there not so much in search of some truth, but rather demanding their generosity, for the holy men, during the crusades, usually distributed food and clothing to the hungriest and most ill-clothed.

All day the Capuchins worked. Under the trees or in the comers of the courtyards the men crowded together answering as best they could or as they were taught, the simple questions of the catechism.

“Where is God?”

“In heaven, on earth and everywhere,” they answered in a chorus, with an annoying monotony.

Father Espinoza, who was the one who best spoke the Indian language, converted the Indians. It was a terrible task, capable of exhausting any strong man; for the Indian, in addition to presenting great intellectual problems, also has difficulties with the language.

But everything was moving along smoothly, and at the end of three days, the learning of the basic ideas of Christian doctrine having been accomplished, the confessions began. By this time the group of catechumens was reduced considerably, especially by those who had received clothing or food and left; but the number still continued to be quite large.

At nine in the morning of a day of bright sunshine and a clear sky, the parade of penitents began, from the courtyard to the confessionals, in a steady and silent line.

After most of the faithful had been attended to, around the middle of the afternoon, Father Espinoza, during a moment of rest, took a walk around the courtyard. He was returning to his post when a man stopped him and said:

“Father, I would like to say my confession to you.”

“To me, in particular?” asked the holy man.

“Yes, to you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know; perhaps because you are the oldest of the missionaries, and perhaps, for that reason, the kindliest.”

Father Espinoza smiled.

“Well, my son, if that is your desire and you truly believe that, so be it. Let’s go.”

The priest had the man go first and then followed behind, observing him.

Father Espinoza had not noticed him before. He was a tall man, slender, with nervous movements, of dark complexion, with a short-cropped pointed black beard, black and penetrating eyes, a sharp nose and thin lips. He spoke correctly and his clothes were clean. He wore sandals like the others, but his bare feet seemed well cared for.

Having arrived at the confessional, the man kneeled before Father Espinoza and said to him:

“I have asked you to hear my confession, because I am sure you are a man of great wisdom and much understanding. I do not have any grave sins; relatively speaking, I am a man of clear conscience. But in my heart and in my head I hold a terrible secret, an enormous weight. I need you to help me get rid of it. Believe what I am going to confide to you, and please, I beg of you, do not laugh at me. I have suffered a great deal because of this. This will be the last attempt I’ll make. If the same thing happens to me now, I will be convinced there is no salvation for me and I’ll resign myself to my hell.”

The man spoke nervously, but with confidence. Rarely had Father Espinoza heard a man speak like that. Most of those who took confession during the crusades were ordinary, coarse, without special attributes, who only expressed commonplace, ordinary sins, uncouth or trivial, without interest in spiritual involvement. He answered, in the tone they used to speak to him:

“Tell me what you need to say and I will do everything possible to help you… Trust me as a brother.”

The man hesitated a few moments before beginning his confession; he seemed to be afraid to confess the great secret he said he had in his heart.

“Speak.”

The man paled and looked fixedly at Father Espinoza. In the dark, his black eyes shone like those of a criminal or a madman. At last, lowering his head, he muttered:

“I know intimately and I practice the secrets of black magic.”

Upon hearing those extraordinary words, Father Espinoza made a gesture of surprise, looking curiously and fearfully at the man; but the man had raised his head and was eyeing the face of the cleric, searching in it for the effect which his words might have produced. The missionary’s surprise lasted for the briefest time. He regained his composure immediately. It was not the first time he had listened to identical or similar words. At that time the plains of Osorno and the islands of Chiloe were overrun with witch doctors, “machis” and shamans. He answered:

“My son, it is not strange that the priests who have heard what you just said have taken you for a madman and have refused to hear any more. Our religion flatly condemns such practices and such beliefs. I, as a priest, should tell you that is a grave sin; but as a man, I’ll tell you that it is a stupid thing and a lie. There is no such thing as black magic, nor is there any man who can do anything outside the laws of nature and divine will. Many men have confessed the same thing to me, but, when insisted upon to show proof of their occult science, they end up as crude and ignorant impostors. Only an unbalanced person or fool can believe such a hoax.”

His little speech was persuasive and would have been enough for any man of good intentions to desist in his endeavor but, to Father Espinoza’s great surprise his speech excited the man, who stood up and exclaimed in a controlled voice:

“I only ask that you allow me to demonstrate what I have told you! By showing you, you will be convinced and I will be saved. If I should offer to show you some proof, would you accept, Father?” asked the man.

“I know I would waste my time sadly, but I would accept.”

“Very well,” said the man. “What do you want me to do?”

“My son, I do not know your magic abilities. You decide.”

The man remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he said:

“Ask me to bring you something that’s far away; so far that it would be impossible to go there and return in the space of one or two days. I will bring it to you in an hour, without moving from here.”

A smile of great disbelief broke on the moist mouth of Father Espinoza.

“Let me think about it,” he replied, “and may God pardon the sin and stupid act I am about to commit.”

The holy man took a long time to decide on what was being proposed to him. It wasn’t an easy task. First he settled on Santiago as the place for what he was going to ask and then he thought about what he would choose. Many things rushed to his mind and his imagination, but none was useful for this occasion. Some were too commonplace and others childish and others too out of the way, and it was necessary to select one which, being unique, would be obtainable. He recalled his distant monastery and made his mind roam around it; he walked in its courtyard, through the cells along its corridors and in its garden; but he did not find anything special. Next he tried to remember places he knew in Santiago. What should he ask for? And when he tired of that and was about to decide on one of the objects his mind dwelled on, there sprang forth in his mind, like the flower it was, fresh, pure, with its beautiful red color, a rose in the garden of the nuns of Saint Clair.

Once, a short while back, in a corner of that garden he saw a rosebush that grew roses of a very special color. Nowhere else had he seen identical or similar roses, and it wasn’t likely there would be any in Osorno. In addition, the man assured him that he would bring whatever he asked for, without moving from there. It was the same to ask for one thing as another. He wouldn’t bring anything, anyway.

“Look,” he said finally, “in the garden of the convent of the nuns of Saint Clair, in Santiago, planted next to the wall that faces Alameda Avenue, there is a rosebush which grows of a very beautiful pomegranate red color. It is the only rosebush of that kind around there… One of those roses is what I want you to bring me.”

The so-called shaman did not object in the least, neither on the point of the place in which the rose was found, nor on the distance at which it was found. He only asked:

“By climbing the wall, is it easy to pick?”

“Very easy. Stretch out your hand and you’ll get it.”

“Very well. Now tell me, is there a room in this monastery which has just a single door?”

“There are many.”

“Take me to one of them.”

Father Espinoza got up from his seat. He smiled. This adventure was now a strange and amusing game, and, in a certain way, it reminded him of those of his childhood. He left accompanied by the man and led him toward the second courtyard, where the cells of the priests were located. He took the man to the one in which he was staying. It was a room of average size, solid walls; it had one window and one door. The window was secured by a thick grating of forged iron and the door had a very strong lock. There were a bed, a large table, two statues and a crucifix, clothing and other objects.

“Go in.”

The man entered. He moved confidently and with case; he seemed very sure of himself.

“Would this room do?”

“It would.”

“I will tell you what you have to do.”

“First of all, what time is it?”

“Three-thirty.”

The man thought for a moment, then said:

“You have asked me to bring you a rose from the garden of the nuns of Saint Clair in Santiago and I will bring it in the space of one hour. In order to do so, it is necessary for me to be left alone here and that you leave, locking the door and taking the key. Don’t return until exactly one hour is up. At four-thirty when you open the door, I will give you what you have requested.”

Father Espinoza agreed silently, nodding his head. He was beginning to get worried. The game was becoming interesting and mysterious, and the assurance with which that man spoke and acted made him experience a certain intimidation and respect.

Before leaving, he slowly looked about the room. If he locked the door, it would be difficult to leave, and even if the man were able to leave, what would he achieve by that? One cannot make, artificially, a rose whose color and shape had not been seen before. And, on the other hand, he would be walking around during that entire hour near his cell. Any trickery was impossible. The man, standing before the door and smiling, waited for the priest to leave.

Father Espinoza went out, locked the door, made sure that it was indeed locked and, putting the key in his pocket, began to walk away quietly.

He strolled around the patio, again and again. The minutes began to pass slowly, very slowly; never before had the sixty minutes of an hour taken so long to elapse. At first, Father Espinoza remained calm. Nothing would happen. When the time agreed upon had expired, he would open the door and find him just as he had left him. He would have in his hands neither the rose nor anything close to it. He would attempt to find an excuse with some futile pretext, and he, then, would hit him with a short speech, and the affair would end there. He was sure. But while he was walking, he suddenly asked himself:

“I wonder what he is doing?”

The question startled him. The man was probably doing something, he was probably attempting something. But what? His uneasiness increased. And what if the man had tricked him and really had other motives? He interrupted his walk and for a moment tried to clear things up, remembering the man and his words. What if he were a lunatic? The bright, burning eyes of that man, his free and easy manner, somewhat studied nonchalance, his motives…

He crossed the courtyard slowly and strolled the length of the corridor outside his cell. He passed in front of that closed door several times. What was the man doing? On one of his trips past the closed door he stopped, but he could hear nothing…neither voices, nor footsteps, not a sound. He approached the door and put his ear to the keyhole. Only silence. He continued his walks, but in a while his uneasiness and fear increased. The length of his walks was getting shorter and shorter and, finally, they hardly were five or six steps away from the door. Finally he stopped in front of it. He felt incapable of moving away from there. It was necessary for that nervous tension to cease soon. If the man wasn’t speaking, nor walking, it was a sign he wasn’t doing anything; and if he wasn’t doing anything, he would accomplish nothing. He decided to open the door before the time agreed upon. He would surprise the man and his triumph would be complete. He looked at his watch; it was still twenty-five minutes before four-thirty. Before opening the door, he again put his ear to the keyhole; not even a murmur. He searched for the key in his pockets and, placing it in the lock, turned it noiselessly. The door opened quietly.

Father Espinoza looked inside and saw that the man was neither sitting nor standing; he was stretched out on the table, with his feet toward the door, motionless.

The unexpected posture surprised him. What would the man be doing in that position? He took a step forward, looking curiously and fearfully at the body stretched out on the table. Not any movement. Surely his presence could not possibly have been foreseen; perhaps the man was sleeping; perhaps he was dead… He took another step forward and then he saw something that left him as paralyzed as that body. The man had no head.

Pale, feeling himself overcome with anguish, feeling his entire body covered with cold sweat, Father Espinoza looked, without comprehending. He made an effort and advanced till he was facing the upper part of the man’s body. He looked at the floor, looking for the vanished head, but on the floor there was nothing, not even a spot of blood. He approached the severed neck. It had been cut effortlessly, without shredding, cleanly. He could see the arteries, and the muscles, pulsating, red; the white bones, clean; the blood was throbbing there, hot, and red, without spilling, held in place by some unknown force.

Father Espinoza drew himself erect. He quickly glanced about himself, looking for a clue, some indication, something that would let him figure out what had happened. But the room was as he had left it when he went out, everything the same, nothing disturbed, and nothing spotted with blood.

He looked at his watch. Only ten minutes to go till four-thirty. It was necessary to leave. But before doing so, he thought it was indispensable to leave there some evidence of his presence. But what? He had an idea; he searched in his clothing and took out a large pin, with a big black head, and as he passed by the body in order to leave, he drove the full length of the pin into the sole of one of the man’s feet.

Then he locked the door and went away.

During the next ten minutes the holy man nervously walked the length of the corridor, unsettled, nervous; he didn’t want anyone to know what was happening, he would wait the remaining ten minutes and, after that, he would again enter the cell and if the man were still in the same state, he would inform the other priests about what had happened.

Could he be dreaming or under the influence of a hallucination or a powerful suggestion? No, he wasn’t. What had happened up to this point was simple: a man had committed suicide in a mysterious manner… Yes, but where was this person’s head? This question disconcerted him. And why weren’t there traces of blood? He preferred not to think any more about it; afterwards everything would be cleared up.

Four-thirty. He waited another five minutes. He wanted to give the man time. But time for what? If he was dead? He did not quite know, but in those moments he almost wished that the man would demonstrate his magic powers. Otherwise, all that had happened would be so stupid, so sad….

When Father Espinoza opened the door, the man was no longer stretched out on the table, headless, as he had been fifteen minutes earlier. The man, standing in front of him, calm, with a faint smile on his lips, held his open, dark right hand out to Father Espinoza. In his palm, like a small and gentle flame, he had a freshly picked rose—the rose from the garden of the nuns of Saint Clair.

“Is this the rose you requested?”

Father Espinoza did not answer; he looked at the man. The latter was a little pale and emaciated. Around his neck could be seen a red line, like a recent scar.

“Surely the Lord wishes to play tricks with his servant,” he thought.

He extended his hand and took the rose. It was one of the same kind that he had seen growing in the small garden of the convent in Santiago. The same color, the same shape, the same fragrance.

They left the cell in silence, the man and the priest. The latter carried the rose clutched in his hand and he felt on his skin the freshness of the red petals. It was freshly cut. As for the priest, his thoughts, doubts and anguish had ended. Only a great impression possessed him and a feeling of confusion and dismay flooded his heart.

Suddenly he noticed the man was limping.

“Why are you limping?” he asked.

“The rose was a bit away from the wall. To pick it, I had to plant one foot on the rosebush and on doing so, my heel stepped on a thorn.

Father Espinoza let out a cry of triumph.

“Ah! It has all been a trick. You did not go to the garden of the nuns of Saint Clair nor did you hurt your foot on a thorn. The pain you feel was made by a pin which I stuck into your foot. Lift it up.”

The man lifted his foot and the priest, taking the pin by the head, pulled it out.

Don’t you see? There isn’t any thorn nor any rosebush! It has all been an illusion!”

But the man replied.

“And the rose that you have in your hand, is that also an illusion?”

Three days later, the missionary week over, the Capuchin monks left Osorno. They continued their journey through the jungle. They separated, embracing and kissing each other. Each one went his separate way.

Father Espinoza would return to Valdivia. But he was no longer alone. Beside him, seated on a dark horse, silent and pale, was a tall man, nervous, with black penetrating eyes.

It was the man with the rose.