09-29-2008, 06:46 AM
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“She has his eyes,” said Maria Santos Medina to her father, Padre Vincente Medina Huertas.
The old priest took his gaze off the stars and looked at his daughter. “She has your grace.”
But Maria Medina Santos was not paying attention to her father, the old priest of a little town called Doslobos. Of the seventy-odd years he had lived, rarely was he unable to hold the attention of the small congregation that attended Mass even end of the week, Sundays, if one went by Earth-Years. Padre Vincente glanced at his daughter and attempted to find what she was looking at. He could not understand his daughter sometimes.
In his seventy-odd years, he never could understand her. Instead, Vincente did what every good father would do for his child. He doted on her. Whenever there was good food to eat, Maria was the first of the family to receive it. The only child in a family of two, Maria received not only material goods, but all the unconditional love and attention a father in Padre Vincente’s position could give. Regardless of what it was, Maria grew to be the beauty of Doslobos. Dons and their family traveled miles to pay their respects, leaving trinkets, flowers, and money in hopes of wooing her.
But Maria was never interested in men.
At first, Vincente thought that Maria may have wanted to enter the convent, but his beliefs were soon dispelled when he found her glazing into the night sky at the cruising Titans above. One night, she traced one of the magnificent hulks through the sky with her finger, and looking at Vincente, said, “That’s where I want to be.”
Vincente wished that Dora could have lived to see Maria grow up. She would have been proud to see her all grown up. Perhaps then, he could have understood his daughter.
Dora Santos Almueros tried to fight the good fight, but her greatest gift to her family became her end. Suffering from malnutrition and various other ailments that result from the harsh lifestyle on Crete, she only lived long enough to name her child.
“Maria,” she had said to Vincente. “Maria, Madre de Dios. We shall name her…Maria.”
And then, she closed her eyes.
That night, Padre Vincente was tempted by the devil. Cloak in hand, he wrapped up his daughter – his wife’s murderer – and carried her out of the dingy maternity ward of the tiny hospital that served the small town of Doslobos. He walked for miles upon miles, each step accompanied by a tear and a word of a holy prayer. Finally, when he came upon the cliffs and stared into the rising sun across the horizon, Vincente spoke aloud.
“Justice!” he cried.
And the infant cried as well.
Blinded by the sunlight, Vincente lifted the child up to block out the piercing beams of light, and saw the infant’s eyes.
Dora, he thought. She has her eyes.
Later that day, Padre Vincente carried his daughter – the killer of his one love – to a warm, snug crib, and kept vigil over it. Never again, he thought. Never again. He would protect his daughter – the last living remnants that reminded him of Dora.
Tracing his daughter’s glaze into a crowd of carousing youngsters, Padre Vincente felt a mist come to his eyes. Never again, he had promised. Yet at the end, he had failed.
The Legend of Doslobos
“She has his eyes,” said Maria Santos Medina to her father, Padre Vincente Medina Huertas.
The old priest took his gaze off the stars and looked at his daughter. “She has your grace.”
But Maria Medina Santos was not paying attention to her father, the old priest of a little town called Doslobos. Of the seventy-odd years he had lived, rarely was he unable to hold the attention of the small congregation that attended Mass even end of the week, Sundays, if one went by Earth-Years. Padre Vincente glanced at his daughter and attempted to find what she was looking at. He could not understand his daughter sometimes.
In his seventy-odd years, he never could understand her. Instead, Vincente did what every good father would do for his child. He doted on her. Whenever there was good food to eat, Maria was the first of the family to receive it. The only child in a family of two, Maria received not only material goods, but all the unconditional love and attention a father in Padre Vincente’s position could give. Regardless of what it was, Maria grew to be the beauty of Doslobos. Dons and their family traveled miles to pay their respects, leaving trinkets, flowers, and money in hopes of wooing her.
But Maria was never interested in men.
At first, Vincente thought that Maria may have wanted to enter the convent, but his beliefs were soon dispelled when he found her glazing into the night sky at the cruising Titans above. One night, she traced one of the magnificent hulks through the sky with her finger, and looking at Vincente, said, “That’s where I want to be.”
Vincente wished that Dora could have lived to see Maria grow up. She would have been proud to see her all grown up. Perhaps then, he could have understood his daughter.
Dora Santos Almueros tried to fight the good fight, but her greatest gift to her family became her end. Suffering from malnutrition and various other ailments that result from the harsh lifestyle on Crete, she only lived long enough to name her child.
“Maria,” she had said to Vincente. “Maria, Madre de Dios. We shall name her…Maria.”
And then, she closed her eyes.
That night, Padre Vincente was tempted by the devil. Cloak in hand, he wrapped up his daughter – his wife’s murderer – and carried her out of the dingy maternity ward of the tiny hospital that served the small town of Doslobos. He walked for miles upon miles, each step accompanied by a tear and a word of a holy prayer. Finally, when he came upon the cliffs and stared into the rising sun across the horizon, Vincente spoke aloud.
“Justice!” he cried.
And the infant cried as well.
Blinded by the sunlight, Vincente lifted the child up to block out the piercing beams of light, and saw the infant’s eyes.
Dora, he thought. She has her eyes.
Later that day, Padre Vincente carried his daughter – the killer of his one love – to a warm, snug crib, and kept vigil over it. Never again, he thought. Never again. He would protect his daughter – the last living remnants that reminded him of Dora.
Tracing his daughter’s glaze into a crowd of carousing youngsters, Padre Vincente felt a mist come to his eyes. Never again, he had promised. Yet at the end, he had failed.