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PUNISHED BY THE PRIEST ON PARADISE ISLAND

by W. Arthur


Chapter One

When Rodrigo Cantrell opened his bloodshot eyes, the first thing he saw was the clear blue sky yawning above him like an immense and empty canyon, like Heaven was opening its pearl-studded gates just for him. Then, when a gush of cold sea water washed over his face, stinging his cracked skin, he knew he was still alive, that he wasn't gazing upward at Heaven. Slowly and painfully, he raised himself up into a sitting position and shifted his gaze to the horizon, now wondering what had awakened him and, more importantly, where exactly he was. The makeshift raft upon which he had been drifting was now banging against some rocks on a jagged, deserted coastline. He had been saved from the sea.

However, his jubilation over being alive was tempered as he realized he had no idea where he was or how long he had been drifting. He remembered that he had been a passenger aboard the Spanish barque, La Clava, out of Barcelona bound for Minorca in the Balearic Islands. He remembered that the small sailing vessel floundered in a sudden storm. He was washed overboard just as the ship was breaking apart and managed to climb onto a piece of the deck. He remembered very little after that.

Rodrigo gathered what little strength he had left and slid away from the planking that had served as his lifeboat. He staggered for a moment as his legs, already very weak, tried to remember what solid ground felt like. In the distance, perhaps fifty feet away was a stream bubbling over rocks - fresh water. His thirst was overwhelming and, like a desperate horse nearing a pool in the desert, he stumbled toward the stream, now oblivious to anything else around him. When he reached it, he kneeled down and stuck his whole face in the cool, running water. He drank steadily for nearly a minute.

Once his thirst was momentarily satisfied, his still disjointed thoughts turned again to where he was. They had been too far from the Spanish coast for him to have drifted back. Therefore, he reasoned, he must be on one of the many islands in the Balearic chain. But which one? It didn't look big enough to be Ibiza. To the north were only trees and small hills; to the south was the brilliant Mediterranean. A few birds flew overhead. He didn't recognize the species. Only one way to find out where I am, he told himself as he turned toward the north.

He walked slowly and wearily along the stream, heading progressively more inland; however, after less than fifty yards, fatigue and hunger began to overtake him. He stumbled over several rocks along the bank and fell on his side into a small grassy meadow. There he lost consciousness.

Rodrigo awoke to low voices around him and a soft hand upon his face. He opened his eyes and was immediately confronted by the sight of four young women clothed in ragged ankle length dresses standing over him, concerned looks etched on their unmarked faces.

"Look, he's waking up," the one nearest to him exclaimed in English.

He shook his head to make sure he wasn't dreaming. To find four unblemished young women who spoke English on what appeared to be a deserted island exceeded his wildest imagination. He raised his head and looked around him. "Where am I?" he managed to ask.

All four women jumped back at once, as if frightened suddenly by the sound of his voice. A moment later, the one who had spoken inched a little closer and dared a small smile. "You're... English?" she inquired cautiously.

Rodrigo tried to think. He had been born in England. His father was a marquis; however, his mother was descended from Spanish nobility - hence the name Rodrigo, given to him to honor her father. As the fourth son, he was destined to enter the priesthood and had been dutifully sent to Spain in 1535 to study. Then, King Henry the Eighth declared the First Act of the Supremacy in 1536, and he knew he could never return to his native land, at least not as a servant of the Catholic Church.

However, he wasn't exactly suited for the priesthood and had gotten into more and more trouble the longer he stayed in Spain. In fact, the reason he had been on the La Clava in the first place was because he had been exiled for lewd behavior - one step ahead of the Inquisition, such as it was in Spain in 1542. He gazed into the concerned and innocent face of the young woman now kneeling next to him. "I... was from England," he said.

The one kneeling blushed very slightly and stood up. "We better get him back to the monastery," she said to her companions. "Sister Margaret will know what to do." Then she turned back to Rodrigo, being careful to avoid his piercing dark eyes. "Come along with us, please. Can you walk?"

He pushed himself up into an awkward standing position. His legs held his weight, but he wasn't sure how long that would last. On the other hand, looking at these remarkable young women, he had a sudden thought that he just might be able to follow them anywhere. Women had always been his passion and his undoing. "How far?"

The young woman pointed to a thick stand of fruit trees dissected by a narrow path. "Not far," she said. "Just beyond those trees." Then she rotated her lithe body and moved toward the path, just behind her companions.

Dutifully, Rodrigo followed, his brain still not fully convinced that he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating - the mind-altering effects of dehydration or starvation, perhaps. Still, somehow he found the energy to keep pace with the mysterious young women, especially as he noted how their firm bottoms seemed to swagger and sway ever so slightly under their thin, nearly threadbare dresses. And as soon as they cleared the trees, he could see a gigantic stone fortress standing like a monolith on a cliff overlooking the sea. But except for a few other weather beaten wood and stone outbuildings, there was nothing else around the fortress that even remotely resembled civilization.

The women stopped in front of an open gate that led into the fortress. The first young woman turned to Rodrigo. "You will wait here, please. We will fetch Sister Margaret. Someone will bring you some fruit and water." Then she disappeared inside. He felt tired and achy, and his face stung when the sun hit it. However, he wanted to follow the women inside, see if there were more of them, see if there were any men. In spite of his obvious discomfort and general infirmity, he could actually feel the old lust - the insatiable lust that had gotten him into so much trouble back in Spain - rise up within him. He understood completely that he could no more become a priest than a lion could become a gazelle. Wearily, he sat down on a large flat stone to wait.

About five minutes later, two figures emerged from within the fortress. The first was one of the young women who had found him. She was carrying a bowl of some kind of fruit - grapes perhaps - and a jug. The second woman appeared to be in early middle age. She was shapely and clothed in a formless dress that was a little less ragged than the ones he had seen so far. She gave Rodrigo a tight little smile as she approached. "I am Sister Margaret," she announced stiffly. "How have you come to be on Cabrera?"

Rodrigo regarded her for a few seconds, thinking that she was a bit seasoned perhaps, but not altogether bad looking, especially for a nun. "Shipwrecked," he replied.

Sister Margaret studied him carefully while her younger companion set the fruit and jug down on a stone next to him and took several steps back. "Where did you come from and where were you headed?"

Rodrigo put the opening of the jug to his lips and took a long swallow of water. "I was on La Clava out of Barcelona en route to Minorca."

"Why were you going to Minorca?" Sister Margaret asked in a tone that was less than polite. In fact, he thought that she was beginning to sound much like an inquisitor.

But he didn't answer right away. He had enough of his senses intact to realize that he couldn't just blurt out that he was being exiled because he had defiled one seņorita too many and had been deemed a potential threat and a corrupting influence. He tried to reason out the situation. So far he had only seen women, and they appeared to be living in an old fortress on a small island. Where were the men? He realized that perhaps he had stumbled onto a cloistered nunnery. He had heard of such places - sanctuaries for troubled women who wished to live their lives in solitary prayer. However, these women were English living on an island in the Mediterranean.

Then it hit him - perhaps they too were exiles, victims of the dissolution of the Catholic Church in England two years before. He thought fast. "I am a priest," he lied. "I fled from England to Spain four years ago. I was on my way to a monastery on Minorca when the ship floundered in a storm. I'm not sure how long I drifted before I landed here."

Sister Margaret studied him again, obviously incredulous, although his ragged appearance had to be at least a little convincing. "You are a priest?"

"Yes... I am Father Cantrell," he answered, thinking that this was not so totally far from the truth - certainly if he had suppressed his urges and stayed true to the church he would have been a priest by now. "And who are you, if I might ask?"

"I am a sister of the Carmelite Order from a house near York," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on him. "And the others here were studying to be tertiary sisters. We came here to Cabrera nearly two years ago from Ibiza. We left England four years ago when the king began to strip us of our land and property. We were placed here by the Spanish with a few of the monks to establish a monastery. This island was once a sanctuary for pirates operating in the area. They built this fortress to use as a staging area, so we were told."

Rodrigo tried to remember his church history. "I thought the Carmelites were cloistered."

Sister Margaret gave him a half smile. "Not all of us. Besides, we came here out of necessity. It simply was not possible to follow the entire Rule of Albert, especially in England."

"So what happened to the monks? Are they still here?"

Sister Margaret shook her head. "The four that came with us were not young and have since died."

"How do you live?"

"We have a good life here," she said quickly. "There is plenty to eat, as we can fish and harvest fruit. We even have a large garden and a few sheep and goats that we brought with us. And the climate is favorable, not at all like England."

He looked at her once again and let his brain go into overdrive. He had stumbled into what could possibly be a paradise - an island filled with young women and he was the only male. Plus, most of the women (if not all), it appeared, had not taken the dreaded vows of chastity. No wonder they were blushing, he thought. He had already forgotten about the narrow escape from death that he had just endured. There was great opportunity here. Still, he would have to get past Sister Margaret, and he realized immediately that would not be easy.

Then he remembered the rule of absolution by discipline that was fairly common among the younger Carmelites, at least in the eastern part of Spain in the sixteenth century.



© W. Arthur
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.