“Precisely,” Abu Rashid offered, turning his eyes toward the window with a sad expression.

“What do you know specifically about the place we’re going?”

“I know everything I have to know.” The old Muslim stroked his beard.

“Can you be more explicit?”

“Do you know what happened the thirty-third day after the death of the former pope?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “But, according to my contacts with my superiors, I don’t think you know, either.”

“Maybe it would be better for me not to know anything,” Abu Rashid confessed.

“Does that mean we are coming to an agreement? You can forget everything you believe you know?”

“My friend, you’re a politician and work for politicians. I can’t trust you. You’re capable of selling the Mother of Heaven herself.”

The foreigner got up and rolled up his sleeves. There were still a few hours of flight remaining.

LÚCIA

August 31, 1941

Lúcia was not a pretty girl. The only thing attractive about her face, which was not repellent, were her two black eyes below thick eyebrows. Her hair, thick and black, was parted in the center and fell over her shoulders. She had a snub nose, thick lips, and a large mouth.

– FATHER JOHN DE MARCHI, The True Story of Fátima

There was a certain urgency in the writing. The words surged forth, under pressure, hurled out by the ink of the pen, sliding in a precise, correct form, without unacceptable blots. These weren’t characters written with pleasure, elaborated or adorned in execution. It was work, a duty, an obligation. A copy of something already written by someone else. It lacked the spirit of her own creativity. The pages were white, unlined, some written on, others about to be. Those filled with the mother tongue, Portuguese, were separated into two piles, set on the left side. The reason for this separation was unknown, but it had an intrinsic curiosity that would call the attention of more perceptive persons, if there were any in the room. The pile on the right presented a beautiful handwriting, innocent, nothing scratched out, born of a pure hand, perhaps ingenuous, young. The other was like this page that was now being written, under pressure, captive to a vague obligation, as if she knew she shouldn’t transcribe those words that weren’t hers. The two stacks of manuscript pages were written in the same hand, but the difference between them stood out.

Why?

The same woman was writing them, seated in a dark wooden chair, bent over a small table, by the light of a candle, her head looking at the sheet of paper from a few inches away, though she didn’t see it clearly. Not that this was the reason for the difference in handwriting. The page at her right side was what needed to be copied in her hand.

The emissary in a black cassock came into the narrow cell, silently, with quiet steps toward the woman and deposited another pile of pages on the right side.

“These are the last, my daughter,” he said in a low voice to avoid disturbing her.

“You can leave them.” The young woman stopped writing and gave the man a worried look. “Are you sure about this? It doesn’t seem right to me.”

“Don’t worry, Lúcia. You are doing the right thing under God’s direction, through His intermediary, His Eminence Don Alves Correia da Silva.”

“But I don’t understand this secrecy. Our Lady-”

“Calm yourself,” the emissary interrupted. “The faithful have to be led. We have to be very careful how we pass on the information so that we don’t risk ridicule, while we reach the most people.”

“I don’t understand. You speak of secrets. Our Lady has never spoken of secrets.”

“I am going to explain it to you again. The pope has decided to divide the revelations into three secrets. First, the vision of Inferno. Second, the end of World War One and the prophecy of World War Two, if we continue to offend God and Russia does not convert. Third, the secret we haven’t succeeded in interpreting. I ask you not to write about that one now.”

“I understand. But Our Lady has never shown me any vision of Inferno, nor spoken about the World War Two, nor of Russia’s reconversion…”

“As I have told you, it is necessary to prepare the faithful. Trust the Holy Father. He knows what to do.”

“I trust him,” Lúcia declared.

The emissary settled into a chair.

“Has Our Lady appeared to you?” he asked timidly.

“Every month.”

“Don’t forget to put down everything she tells you. It could be important.”

“Everything Our Lady says is important,” Lúcia muttered.

“Of course… That’s what I meant to say,” the man mumbled. “But the way the message is communicated to the world has to obey the orders of the pope. Only he knows how to divulge it to the faithful.”

Lúcia agreed with a nod.

“I shall follow the instructions of the Holy Father and the bishop. Please, tell them that which…” She reflected. “That which they call the third part of the secret should be revealed no later than 1960.”

“I’ll share that with the bishop,” the emissary continued. “Everything Our Lady communicates should be put on paper and sent through me to the Bishop of Leira, who will decide how to proceed.”

Lúcia listened attentively. She understood nothing of the rules that regulated the Church. Things should be simpler. When Our Lady appeared to her, wrapped in an aura of peace and happiness, simplicity reigned. She didn’t ask for secrecy. In truth she didn’t ask for the Church’s direction. This happened on its own, since it was natural the clergy would want to be cautious. Still, she’d never thought the control would be so intense, guarding her from public life, alleging she needed protection, instructing her what she should say about herself and the Virgin. She had nothing against that, no criticism. She even liked the obsequious attention she was shown by the Church. They treated her like a fragile glass bubble that might break with the slightest touch. There were days, though, when she couldn’t avoid the feeling of being a prisoner, suffocated. It was the destiny God reserved for her and couldn’t be attained without sacrifice.

What bothered her wasn’t the control the Holy Father and Bishop exerted over her visions, but the fictitious elements they attributed to Our Lady, which she never mentioned in her apparitions. The emissary’s explanation was satisfactory. They knew better than anyone how to spread Our Lady’s message.

“Don’t forget. Never talk about this with anyone whatsoever. You’ll return to Portugal soon and enter the order of the Carmelite sisters. That’s the will of God and Our Lady.”

She would obey the vow of silence. Meanwhile, she’d write what they asked her with the certainty that soon Our Lady would appear again, and she’d be able to put on paper the felicitous words the Virgin offered. Those were the happiest moments in her life.