Chapter 82: The Legend of the Nun Hines

After some time, the full moon passed, and everyone prepared to travel down the Magdalena River toward Cartagena. The luggage was ready, the servants loaded the goods, and even the boatman waited by the dock. Yet Francisco had one last thing to do before leaving — to say goodbye to the nun who had helped him.

He hadn’t seen her at the wedding, which he found strange. So, the day before their departure, he took a few pesos with the intention of making a donation as thanks. As he said goodbye to his father, Catalina interrupted with a smile.

“Wait — I’m coming with you,” she said. “I want to thank the nun who made our wedding possible. Give me a moment; I need to prepare something.”

She ran upstairs, and after a short while, returned holding a rosary made of nacre and sandalwood, with a delicate silver cross at its center. Francisco raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

They mounted their horses and rode toward the church. It was Sunday, and the streets were busier than usual — women in shawls hurried toward Mass, children followed behind with wooden crosses, and the scent of incense and river breeze mixed in the air.

Inside, the church was full. The echo of the priest’s voice carried beneath the vaulted ceiling as sunlight filtered through colored glass, scattering warm hues across the floor. Francisco and Catalina quietly took their seats and listened to the sermon. It lasted nearly two hours.

When the service ended, they approached the priest.

“Father, forgive me for interrupting,” Francisco said politely.

The priest recognized him and smiled. “I’m glad to see you again. After the wedding, I feared you had forgotten the church.”

Francisco scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Ah, yes… we’ve been preparing for our trip to Cartagena, so things have been a bit busy.”

The priest gave him a mild frown. “One must never be too busy for God, my son. His time should always come first.” Then, glancing at Catalina, he added in a reproachful tone, “As his wife, you should encourage him to attend more often.”

Catalina blushed. “I will, Father, don’t worry.”

Francisco cleared his throat to change the subject. “Actually, Father, we came to thank a nun. She was the one who inspired me to confess my feelings to Catalina and to arrange the wedding.”

“Oh?” The priest’s expression brightened. “That’s wonderful. May I know her name? I’d like to remember the sister who helped love bloom.”

“She told me her name was Hines,” Francisco replied. “I was surprised not to see her at the wedding.”

The priest’s smile faltered. “Hines?” He frowned. “I don’t recall a nun by that name.”

A nearby sister, overhearing the name, stiffened and hurried to whisper something in the priest’s ear. His face grew serious. After a moment, he looked at Francisco with a complicated expression.

“When did you say this happened?”

“The day we first arrived in Mompox,” Francisco answered, puzzled by his reaction. “We had come to ask for help For my servant Mario — you know, that whole situation with the ’La Llorona’ curse.”

“I knew it…” the priest murmured under his breath. Then, more firmly: “Please, follow me. I’ll take you to her.”

He led them through a small side door at the back of the church. The smell of wax and damp stone lingered as they stepped outside, following him toward the old cemetery. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and orchids. Finally, they stopped before a simple stone tomb.

Francisco frowned. “Father, what is this? Weren’t we looking for a nun?”

The priest sighed, his eyes softening. “That’s right. Sister Hines was one of the earliest sisters to serve this church. Her story is… both sad and beautiful.”

Francisco and Catalina exchanged confused looks.

The priest folded his hands. “The Church and the Empire seldom speak of her, but her tale is remembered by the people. During the founding of Mompox, these lands belonged to the Malibúes tribe — from their cacique, Mompoj, came the name of this town. Unlike other tribes, they didn’t resist colonization openly. They were exploited, yes, but too weakened by disease and hunger to fight for long. Still, there were uprisings now and then.”

He glanced briefly at Catalina, as if acknowledging her ancestry, then continued.

“As you may have noticed, there are no true convents in Mompox. Most of the women you see serving here belong to cofradías — lay sisterhoods — not official convents. That’s why they don’t wear the traditional habits. Sister Hines was part of one of these groups. She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, deeply devout. Her father even planned to fund a convent so she could take proper vows, but it never happened. When tragedy struck, she was only seventeen.”

The priest paused, his voice heavy. “She often preached to the local tribes, braver than most priests I know. But one night, as she was returning from a village, she was attacked by drunken soldiers. They… violated her. When they sobered, fearing discovery, they killed her and threw her body into the swamp, hoping the crocodiles would erase all trace. Yet even the beasts of God refused their evil — her body was found untouched days later.”

Catalina covered her mouth, horrified.

“The people loved her,” the priest continued quietly. “She cared for the sick, the poor, the orphans. She was like a living saint. When her body was found, the outrage in Mompox was immense. The cabildo tried to blame the natives, as always, but a doctor proved the wounds came from iron swords — weapons the Malibúes never had. The truth spread, and the soldiers were secretly recalled to Spain, escaping punishment. Still, her memory remained. Over the years, people began claiming they’d been helped by a young nun named Hines, offering comfort or guidance in times of doubt. The Church eventually recognized her devotion, consecrating her posthumously. She was buried here.”

The priest looked at them kindly. “You are not the first to have met her. May her spirit continue to guide the faithful.”

Francisco bowed his head. “Thank you, Father. If you could leave us alone with her for a moment, I’d appreciate it.”

The priest and the sister exchanged a glance, then quietly returned to the church.

Francisco sighed and knelt before the tomb. “I don’t know if you were truly a ghost or something else,” he said softly, “but I’m grateful for your advice. Because of you, I found the courage to marry Catalina. I only wish I could have introduced her to you.” He lowered his head in prayer.

Catalina knelt beside him, holding the rosary. “Thank you for helping my husband find peace,” she whispered. “This rosary is my gift to you — a small token of our gratitude.” She placed it gently atop the tomb and crossed herself.

They prayed in silence for a while before standing, brushing the dust from their knees, and walking away.

Neither noticed the faint shimmer that lingered by the grave. A nun stood there, smiling softly, the rosary cradled in her hands. Then, like a candle’s flame flickering out, she vanished — becoming once more a legend of this old continent.

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