Chapter 35: the “Sage” Jose Celestino Mutis

1791 July

After a couple of weeks, they reached Honda. By then, most of the caiman meat had been eaten—only the hide, skull, and teeth remained. Francisco fashioned five necklaces from the teeth and gave one to each of them, including Catalina and Grandma María.

In Honda, they rented mules for the rest of the journey. The road was still harsh; Francisco ended up with back pain.

“Are you tired, kid?” Carlos teased, mocking his son.

“Of course I’m tired. I don’t remember traveling being this hard,” Francisco answered, his face full of grievance.

“You’re still weak. When I started with the Cádiz Company, I was once forced to take the Quindío road. It’s known as one of the most dangerous in New Granada. You have to cross the central Andes, with the risk of falling to your death—or of being mauled by wild animals. And we couldn’t use mules back then, so we carried the cargo on our own shoulders. That was truly gruesome.” Carlos’s eyes gleamed as he reminisced.

Francisco muttered under his breath, “Why do you look so happy talking about that terrifying road?”

Eventually, they reached Bogotá. At the time, the city was considered the cradle of intellectual life. It was here that the first sparks of independence had taken root. The viceroy’s preference for Cartagena over Bogotá only fueled this; without his constant oversight, the city became fertile ground for new ideas. Conservative heirs, liberal thinkers, radicals—all kinds of intellectuals flourished, each envisioning a brighter future for the colony. In many ways, it was the intellectual peak of New Granada.

Once in Bogotá, Francisco and Carlos went to their estate. Although Carlos was technically in exile, it wasn’t official; he could still come and go, especially in matters involving Cádiz. Many disapproved of how the viceroy had treated him. “Suppressing a man’s ideas in the heart of intellectual life,” they said, “is like exiling a soldier to his own military camp.”

Francisco turned to Catalina. “It looks just like when we were exiled for the first time.”

Catalina pointed to a tree and smiled. “I remember—you used to cry under that tree whenever those spoiled brats mocked you. I always came to console you, and the next day I’d punch those useless boys in the face.”

Francisco chuckled. “You were my guardian angel back then.”

Catalina flushed slightly but went inside with him.

To Francisco’s surprise, the estate looked as if it had been freshly cared for. “Did you leave servants behind to watch over it?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Carlos replied. “And I rented out the farmland to other landlords. I thought it wasn’t worth selling, and it would’ve been a shame to abandon it. Only the buildings and immediate grounds are under our direct control. If you ever want to move some industries to Bogotá, you can use those lands.”

Francisco thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’d rather send industry to Antioquia. I prefer Bogotá to remain a cultural center. Industry causes too much damage to a city like this.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “As if farming does less damage.”

“Maybe,” Francisco mumbled.

After a few days of rest, Carlos was summoned by the Cádiz Company’s general manager to finalize his “retirement.” Meanwhile, Francisco arranged a meeting with Catalina. He was especially excited to visit the site where a botanical garden was being planned under the guidance of José Celestino Mutis—the Sage.

As they rode into the city, Catalina asked, “I’ve heard of José Celestino Mutis, but why are you so excited to see him?”

Mutis was a giant of New Granada’s intellectual life. He had first arrived as the personal doctor of Viceroy Pedro Messía de la Cerda, but upon seeing the region’s astonishing biodiversity, he proposed a scientific expedition to the Spanish Crown. The court rejected him again and again. Fortune only changed when Archbishop Antonio Caballero y Góngora became viceroy. Unlike his predecessors, he accepted—and even funded—Mutis’s expedition, though ironically with the very taxes that had sparked the Comuneros Rebellion.

Francisco explained, “I admire him deeply. He waited twenty years before he could begin his expedition. I want to learn from him before I go to Hanover. And I have another dream—I’d like to invite him to Antioquia one day, to open a new botanical garden there.” Seeing Catalina’s fierce look, he quickly added, “Not now, of course. I don’t have the means yet, but perhaps in the future. I’ve also heard that his philosophy matches mine—he believes every race has the same capacity for intellectual growth. Those bloodline policies waste too much potential talent in the mud.”

Despite being the largest city in New Granada, Bogotá held only about 20,000 inhabitants, most of them slaves and servants. The city, ringed by mountains like natural walls, was perpetually cold; even under the sun, the chill lingered. Proper clothing was essential to survive, and even slaves were dressed decently—without it, they would have perished.

The streets were narrow, paved with stone, winding like a labyrinth. The architecture was beautiful but chaotic, the roads crowded with people, horses, and mules in constant disorder. Francisco stopped a passerby.

“Excuse me, where can I find the Sage, José Celestino Mutis?”

“The Sage?” The man frowned, then nodded. “Ah, you mean Doctor Mutis. His house is on Fifth Street, near the Archbishop-Viceroy’s residence, close to the observatory.”

Francisco thanked him, pressed a few coins into his hand, and followed the directions. The houses on Fifth Street were nearly identical—high white walls enclosing their gardens. Unsure, Francisco asked again and was pointed to the right door. He knocked, and a disciple answered.

“Who are you?” the young man asked.

“My name is Francisco Gómez, son of Carlos Gómez. I came in hopes of meeting Master Mutis and hearing his advice,” Francisco said humbly.

The disciple raised his brows. “You are the son of that royal merchant who scolded the viceroy?” He suddenly laughed. “I remember the viceroy’s face after that debate! Your father tore apart his bloodline policies in front of everyone. My master didn’t stop mocking the viceroy for ignoring such wisdom. Wait here—I’ll see if he’ll receive you.”

He ran off, then returned a while later and led Francisco and Catalina into a lush courtyard, unlike any other in the city. It was alive with trees and plants of every kind. Catalina admired a bush of white, bell-shaped flowers. Francisco, seeing her interest, stepped closer.

“May I take a flower for my assistant?” he asked.

The disciple’s face turned pale. “Stop! Don’t touch it!”

Francisco froze. “What is it? Is it so dangerous?”

The disciple pulled him back. “That flower may look beautiful, but it’s borrachero. Touch its nectar, bring your fingers to your mouth, or let a drop touch your skin—you’ll suffer terrifying visions, frenzy, and even fall into a deadly sleep. Shamans of the Andes once used it to speak with spirits. During the conquest, the Spanish stumbled upon such a ritual. The natives warned them not to touch it, but one arrogant soldier mocked them, eating the flower whole. He went mad, killed three comrades and ten natives, until the captain shot him dead. Since then, soldiers have been wary of shamanic plants. Even my master once fell ill for days after touching its nectar by accident. Now he keeps it here as a warning for his disciples.”

A chill ran down Francisco’s spine. Sweat pricked his back. Catalina looked pale as well. What he had thought a small romantic gesture could have cost him his sanity—or worse.

“Thank you,” Francisco said sincerely.

“Don’t worry,” the disciple replied. “Many have made the same mistake. That’s why Master always posts someone to guard the bush and warn visitors. Today, that’s me.”

Chastened, Francisco followed him without daring to touch another bloom. The experience had made him wary of every flower in the garden. Finally, they reached a room where José Celestino Mutis was studying a plant. Francisco and Catalina waited in silence until the old man looked up.

“So, you are the son of Carlos Gómez?” he said at last. His face was kind, but his eyes were as deep as nature itself.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep