When Fray Bartolomé Arrazola felt he was lost, he accepted that nothing could save him. The imposing Guatemala jungle had ruthlessly, definitely, caught him. Once his topographical ignorance was clear, he quietly sat down to wait for death. He just wanted to die there, hopeless, lonely, with his mind fixed on faraway Spain, more particularly on the Abrojos Convent, where Charles V once consented to step down from his royal aloofness to tell him that he was confident in the religious zeal of his redeeming work.

Waking up, he found himself surrounded by the impassive faces of a group of natives, ready to sacrifice him on an altar—an altar that to Bartolomé felt like the bed where he would finally rest from his fears, from his fate, and from himself.

Three years in the country had given him average skills in the native languages. He made a try. He uttered a few words that were understood.

(to be continued)

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Cuando fray Bartolomé Arrazola se sintió perdido aceptó que ya nada podría salvarlo. La selva poderosa de Guatemala lo había apresado, implacable y definitiva. Ante su ignorancia topográfica se sentó con tranquilidad a esperar la muerte. Quiso morir allí, sin ninguna esperanza, aislado, con el pensamiento fijo en la España distante, particularmente en el convento de los Abrojos, donde Carlos Quinto condescendiera una vez a bajar de su eminencia para decirle que confiaba en el celo religioso de su labor redentora.

Al despertar se encontró rodeado por un grupo de indígenas de rostro impasible que se disponían a sacrificarlo ante un altar, un altar que a Bartolomé le pareció como el lecho en que descansaría, al fin, de sus temores, de su destino, de sí mismo.

Tres años en el país le habían conferido un mediano dominio de las lenguas nativas. Intentó algo. Dijo algunas palabras que fueron comprendidas.