Chapter 2: Memories

That’s right, memories of another life or another time, I’m not exactly sure where they come from or why, I only know that some of those memories are fragments of a different world. They come as short visions, maybe this is what a prophet feels when they claim to know the future, I cannot be certain.

What I do know is that the world I glimpse seemed peaceful, full of food and good medicine, iron carts that drive by themselves, tall buildings, even a bird of metal that flies in the sky. It is almost like a different world, but I am almost certain that it is not, because I can also glimpse other moments in their books of history: Columbus and Amerigo reaching America, the far eastern country shrouded in mysteries today, but without the veil, even the independence of the United States of America. There were also other things, like a short man who nearly conquered Europe, the independence of South America, two wars deemed “the wars to end all wars.” Those are supposed to be things from the future.

Now I’m confused. I can’t say anything about it; it could backfire. Even if witchcraft isn’t persecuted like it was in the past, exorcisms are still common here in Antioquia. If I speak up, I’m afraid that tomorrow the priest will come with holy water to try to drive the demon out, or worse, lock me in a room in the church to await death.

“Well, nothing to do, for now better to rest. What I will do tomorrow will be decided tomorrow,” said Francisco to himself while closing his eyes.

In the next two days Francisco spent most of his time sleeping and reading. The doctor had been clear: no running around, and Grandma María stayed with him constantly to keep him from getting up.

By the third day Francisco was much better and was allowed to go out for a walk. They had been expelled from Bogotá because his father’s opinions were considered too “liberal” for the monarchy. Yet as a member of the Cádiz Company, an enterprise linked to the royal family, the viceroy and the bishop could not simply kill him or imprison him. Instead, he was sent to a kind of exile in Antioquia, to the small town of Villa de Medellín, which at the time had no more than 12,000 to 15,000 inhabitants.

Walking around the estate, Francisco noted its size: vast and beautiful lands stretching across six to eight hundred hectares, worked by twenty slaves. Another five served as militias, tasked with protecting the plantation from anyone who might cause damage.

It felt unsettling. After seeing those strange visions of a world without slavery, it was strange to realize that here, in his own property, slavery was part of daily life. At least in South America slavery wasn’t as rigid or dehumanizing as in North America. Slaves could sometimes buy their freedom, learn trades, and even marry and have families. After all, Catholicism recognized them as having souls, making them, at least in theory, more human in the eyes of the law than in the Protestant colonies in the north.

But what worried Francisco the most was the possibility of independence. His father, though considered “liberal” in the eyes of the Church and the viceroy, was still a monarchist. He was not truly against the Crown, only against some of its policies. Yet once rebellion arose, it would be dangerous for the family if they sided with the monarchy during the wars of independence. Even if his father were to die before then, the insurgents would still see them as royalists. Considering what had happened to Pasto in those history books, Francisco could not even imagine the suffering his family might face if they maintained the status quo.

While Francisco was sighing, a girl of fourteen was observing him. Catalina was worried because she had begun to feel something for him, but she knew his father would never approve of them being together. The policies of bloodline were too strict. She had been suppressing her feelings, but it was hard to live and spend time with him knowing they could never be together.

“Still looking at that boy?” sighed Grandma María. “You know you can’t be with him. The viceroyalty is strict about bloodlines. You know that I love you and I would love to see you happy with him, but unless you want him to sacrifice his family for you and risk ending up like me, it’s better to let him go.”

“But Grandma, I don’t want to. I want to be with him,” tears streaming down her face.

“I know, my girl, but this world is not fair.”

Grandma María gave Catalina a hug while calming her. She looked at Francisco in the distance.

On the other side of the estate, his father was busy working with the servants. Even if he had been expelled from Bogotá, his position as a member of the Cádiz Company still stood and he had to continue serving the Crown. But here in Medellín the situation was more complex: most families were conservatives with strong ties to the Church, and he, as the representative of the Crown, was going to inevitably clash with them, even if he did not wish to. That’s why he had begun gathering information on the families of Antioquia—their affiliation, their loyalties, and which of them could be won over.

“Patrón, I obtained the information. There are nine important families around here,” said Hugo, a merchant dressed in a slightly dirty cotton shirt, a straw hat, and a ruana. “We have the Gómez de Castro—they own gold mines and deal with the Crown. The Villegas also own some mines and an estate, and they are quite close to the viceroy. Then the Cisneros, tied to the government and with allies in the Peninsula, they are worth securing. The Restrepo are closely tied to the clergy, as are the Santamaría and the Córdoba, both with strong relations with the Church. Finally, there are the Parias, whom the viceroyalty views with suspicion, much like the Ospina, the Arango, and the Montoya.”

“Thank you, Hugo. Here is your pay, and this—” Carlos Gómez de la Serna, father of Francisco, handed him a small pouch of gold along with a few coins set aside, “—is for your children.”

“Should we start with the preparation for the banquet, Patrón?” asked his mayordomo Tomás, the shadow of Don Carlos, having served the Gómez family for at least three generations.

“Yeah, it’s time to show our strength. This place is a little too chaotic,” Carlos said with a sigh as he walked back toward the estate.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep