Two weeks later, on a Saturday afternoon, the bus from Salvador to Iramaia dropped a man off on the highway across from Zeca Grilo’s bar. The man was clearly sick – palsied, partially crippled – and the men loitering around the bus stop, always there on Saturday afternoons, saw him holding to the side of the bus while the conductor handed down crutches. The bus pulled away and the stranger started slowly, painfully across the highway. There wasn’t much traffic on this stretch, so it was more curiosity than concern that moved three of the loiterers to walk forward and assist him. By the time they reached the front of the bar, Zeca himself was standing in the doorway, and every man in the bar was looking their direction.

“Thank you, thank you, friends,” the stranger said to the loiterers. “Tell me, is this Santa Maria do Rosario?”

They confirmed that it was.

“Thank God!” The stranger’s face, so weary, suddenly radiated relief and joy. “I’ve been hoping…”

Residents of Santa Maria do Rosario were not used to people expressing joy – or even interest – upon arriving at their village. The loiterers, Zeca, and the patrons of the bar, were intrigued.

“Tell me….” The stranger lowered his voice so that only the three loiterers and Zeca could hear him. They leaned slightly toward him. “Is there a place…”

He paused in mid-sentence, clearly half reluctant, half afraid to continue.

“A place?” Zeca asked, his voice taking on the same low tone as the stranger’s.

“No – I should tell you my story…”

He was ushered into the bar, seated at a table, a glass of cachaça set before him – he could barely lift it with his shaking hand, but he managed and took a sip. He set the glass down and looked up at them.

“How old do you think I am?”

There was no answer.

“Fifty?” he asked looking around at the gathered men. A few heads nodded. “Yes – I look fifty – but what if I tell you I’m not yet forty… Five years ago, I was as healthy as any man here. I was successful in business, engaged to a beautiful woman, the toast of my friends… One night, two of my friends and I were out drinking – in the Pelourinho – you’ve heard of the Pelourinho?”

The men nodded. They’d heard of the low-life neighborhood in Salvador, though none had been there.

“We were going from one bar down the street to another. We were passing in front of the Church of Our Lady of Rosario when a girl came walking the other direction… a pretty girl – dark haired with a pert little walk…” He paused for a moment, smiling to himself, and the men smiled in empathy.

“Well, I reached out and grabbed her, and she screamed – told me to take my hands off her, that we were right there in front of the Church of Our Lady of Rosario, and I said…” Again, he paused, but this time his face flickered with pain. “I said, ‘Who cares about Our Lady of Rosario.  Damn Our Lady of Rosario!”

There was an appalled silence in the bar. Two or three men crossed themselves.
“Yes – that’s what I said. My friends pulled me away and took me home. The next morning, I woke up like this – shaking, half crippled, in constant pain.” He shook his head in sadness.

“Five years. The doctors have looked at me – they can’t explain it. There’s nothing they can do.  Five long years… Then, three weeks ago, I had a dream. I dreamt a lady – Our Lady – appeared to me and she said, ‘My son – you have suffered enough. Go to Our Lady of Rosario and repent your sin.’ The next morning, I rushed in a taxi down to the Church of Our Lady of Rosario. All day I sat in a pew, praying, begging forgiveness. Nothing happened. That night I hobbled home, heartbroken. Again, she appeared to me in a dream – but this time she showed me a hill – a hill in the country. Three nights more she appeared to me, and showed me that same hill. So, I understood that the ‘Our Lady of Rosario’ she was speaking of was not the church in the city, but someplace out in the country. And not a country chapel – there was no chapel on the hill – but a place by that name. I started looking, asking, checking every map of Bahia. Your village is not easy to find, but finally a friend of a friend told me of this place. I came here, hoping…”

He looked up and around at his intensely absorbed audience.

“This hill,” Zeca said. “What is it like?”

The stranger seemed to be looking with his mind’s eye. “It’s high up. There’s a gray rock with a small overhang – not a cave, but a carved-out area made by wind and rain. And in it there’s a tall, old wooden cross, planted in the ground…”

“Why, that’s on Luis Antonio’s farm!” One of the men said. “I’ve been there many times.”

Other voices chimed in, agreeing.

The stranger looked at them eagerly. “Is there a bus that goes near there? Or a car?”

A general shaking of heads. “Only a mule,” someone said.

By the time they reached the hillside, there were two dozen mules and horses, many of them bearing two riders, and a growing number of people walking alongside them. They’d had to help the stranger mount his mule – they went slowly, as it was clear that each bump was painful to him – but the men were impressed by his courage, his desire to press on. As the rock and cross came into site, his face lit with joy. “That’s it!” He cried. “That’s the rock Our Lady showed me!” They helped him down from the mule and he slumped to the ground in front of the cross, useless legs folding beneath him. But his eyes lifted, his lips moving in prayer, his face full of hope.

Ten minutes went by, twenty, half an hour, an hour. Still he sat in prayer. Usually his gaze was focused upward, but sometimes his eyes would shut as though intensifying his prayer, sometimes his head would fall forward as though in remorse. More and more people were arriving – women, young people, children – standing back silently, or softly whispering among themselves – waiting, intensely expectant.

Two hours passed, then three. The stranger at last turned to the men close to him, his face pained.

“It’s no good,” he said. “I must have misunderstood. She is not going to heal me.”

A sigh of disappointment rippled through the crowd.

“Please help me mount.”

They lifted him up onto the mule. They could feel the pain twitch through his body.

Slowly, sadly, they started back toward the village.

After only a few paces, the stranger paused his mule for a moment and lifted his eyes to heaven.

“Oh My Lady,” he cried out. “I am sorry to have offended thee. Forgive me.” He lowered his head and burst into tears.

Zé Nastacio, the son of old Zé Mano, was the first to notice it. Or so he always claimed – though others – some of whom nobody remembered having seen there – claimed it too. The stranger’s hand seemed to shake less. Minute by minute he seemed to be sitting straighter in his saddle. He looked up, still weeping – then his face transformed.

“Look!” he cried out. He held out his hand –it was firm and steady. His body seemed to straighten before their eyes, his face radiated happiness.

They left the crutches by the cross. The horses and mules were able to return at a trot to the village, leaving the walkers far behind. So, there was plenty of time for the stranger to buy a round of cachaça for his fellow riders before the bus for Salvador, on time, pulled up in front of Ze Grilo’s bar. The stranger, tall, radiant, and appearing at least ten years younger, boarded the bus and turned, smiling, to wave to them.

“Wait!” Ze Nastacio called out. “What is your name?”

“Ro…” The stranger started. Then – “No, no. She swore me to secrecy,” he shouted. “You too.  None of you are to say a word about this.”

He smiled and waved again. The bus started up, the door closing, and then he was gone.

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