the square and the circle fernando arrojo-ramos At the little Templar church of Eunate, services begin very early —for the start of a pilgrim’s day resembles that of birds. At dawn, the church rises, austere, in the middle of wheat fields, and lessens their solitude. Inside, the first rays of light barely enter through the narrow apse windows, whose alabaster panels prevent birds from getting into the temple. Prayers buzz around, imprisoned by the tarantula legs of the ribbed vaults. A flickering light emanates from the candles. Bunched together, several pilgrims attend mass with more shudder than devotion: at such early hour, the lengthy road ahead looks uncertain. In an isolated corner, in the compassionate darkness of a confessional, a man of olive complexion, with a narrow beard, aquiline nose, and an intense gaze, enumerates in whispers his sins, while the confessor listens to him with his eyes closed and covered by the fingers of his right hand. The acolyte jingles the bell: prayers and the man’s confession stop; all heads are lowered; total silence imposes itself. The celebrant murmurs the mysterious words of consecration. From the far distance come the crow of a rooster, and the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer hitting the anvil. As in an apotheosis of celebrations, the officiating priest fervently raises the sacred host toward the severe and inscrutable image of the Almighty. The confessor has listened to all the man’s sins. He responds in a whispering voice, “The Enemy has taken hold of you. You have terribly offended Our Lord. Prostrate yourself before St James’s tomb and ask to be forgiven for your grave sins. I shall not give you my absolution unless you bring me proof that you made a vow of poverty, and walked all the way to Compostela. May this penitence fill the abyss you have created between God and your soul. If not, you will burn in hell for ever and ever.” Outside the church, a fine rain falls intermittently. The man wraps himself in his cape. His angular, deeply creased face shows no emotion; it is like a deep, black well. The Eunate confessor will be his reference, and the penitence his safe-conduct along the road. Making a pilgrimage could be dangerous, but it also could provide protection. The cloister surrounding the church —bare and octagonal— seems to augur for an intimate, liberating infinite. Oblivious to the rain, he walks around the cloister very slowly, filled with the sensation of experiencing the spiral movement of the heavens, the strength of the square —the earthly order—, and the perfection of the circle —the eternal order. The number eight identifies the church and corresponds to fixed stars in the firmament, reversing planetary influences that had been pernicious to him. In his cupped hands, the man collects rainwater and pours it over his head. On the road, his name will be Asur de Cirauqui. Close by, two gravediggers, bothered by the rain, toil to give underground shelter to a French pilgrim, for whom the trip has ended in Eunate. Stripped of his scant possessions, he makes the pilgrimage not to Compostela but to eternity. Under the hands, crossed over his chest, there are two sticks in the form a cross; by his side, his gourd—sad, empty. In the church’s lantern, the light for the dead has been set. Mounted on a star-marked roan horse, the man rides slowly away. In the nearby village of Puente la Reina, for his protection, he will wear the pilgrim’s attire —round hat, staff, knapsack, gourd, tabard—, and melt into the great mass of pilgrims. He will tighten the tabard round his waist, in the way of a man consecrated to the Christian god. Riding on horseback over the narrow pilgrims’ road, two miles away from Eunate, two bailiffs of the High Court in Pamplona are on their way to Puente la Reina. They bear orders for an arrest on charges of sorcery and blasphemy. They are looking for a man of medium height and olive complexion, with a black, narrow beard. The man and the horse slowly disappear in the distance, vanishing as if by magic. Translated, from the Spanish, by the Author