Historian’s Note: The following excerpts are from the journal of the nun Floriana de Olmedo as found within the library of St. Joséph’s Convent in Ávila, Spain. De Olmedo’s journal is the only surviving account of the 1568 massacre in the town of Deia by the Spanish Inquisition.
14 July, Year of our Lord 1568,
Today was the Sabbath, and the spirit of God was with us so strongly during Mass, that I find myself growing weak at the memory of it. When my mother entered the church, she was consumed by holy fire as soon as she crossed the threshold and she fell to the ground in convulsions. I personally do not know the exquisite agony of St. Anthony’s fire, but I understand the way it traces through the body as it burns away the original sin. My father went to go aid her, but his hands are so swollen that it hurt for him to prop her up. He called Alonso and I over, and we held mamá as she spasmed and screamed. Around us, the other parishioners lingered, smiles on their lips as they watched her be rewarded for her piety; for mamá to feel God’s touch as soon as she walked into the church was a blessing upon our family. My papá waved to them, the blackness of his flaking fingers stark in the light from all the candles that Father Benito had lit in preparation for today’s services. Our flickering shadows danced along the walls like hosts of angels, wings stretching up to the rafters in worship.
My head began to pound as God fully entered the Church—it is hard for me to behold Him in all His glory. Father Benito was like a prophet today. His voice kept trailing off during his sermon, his eyes becoming distant and unfocused as he quoted the gospels to us. When he was so overcome by Grace that the words stopped coming, we continued the chants and the calls without him. Old Maria was so eager in her devotion that she vomited several times, and lay curled on the ground of the church, her eyes rolling back in her head as she communed with the Holy Spirit.
Just when I felt I might faint, it was time for communion, which always strengthens me. As we stood shaking and filed up to the altar to receive Christ’s blood and flesh, I saw His spirit in the form of small black dots that danced before my eyes. As the other worshippers took the rye communion into their palms and placed it between their teeth, letting the holy spirit melt upon their tongues. I was so overcome that I fell prostrate to the ground, prayers pouring forth between my lips like water from a well. Father Benito knelt beside me and pressed the bread lovingly between my lips. It turned to flesh, filling my mouth up with blood. Behind me, my younger brother Alonso wept.
We stayed there, on holy ground, until the candles guttered out and the tide of ecstasy had retreated. I am back in my own bed now, next to a snoring Alonso. I can hear mamá weeping in her bed, the thrashing of papá’s limbs as he violently prays, trying to find solace in the temporary absence of God.
16 July, Year of our Lord 1568
Old Maria has gone to be with God. Mamá has not yet recovered from the Sabbath, and one of Father’s hands has burst open, gangrenous sin seeping out of it in the form of pus. His eyes are fevered. The farm work is beginning to go undone. Every night, we stagger to the church to kneel and pray before the altar.
18 July, Year of our Lord 1568
I have been considering traveling to a convent and taking my Holy Orders in service to the Lord. There is a nun I have heard mention of; Teresa of Ávila, who is apparently subject to the same ecstasies as we are. She has founded the Convento de San José. How wonderful it would be to meet her! However, I am afraid to leave this town where every scrap of land and every household has been transitioned to holy ground. Here, people wander down the street in sacred hazes, their eyes fixed unseeing on the face of God as they converse with Him. Even now, I can feel Him writhing underneath my skin, tracing His fingers behind my eyes. I can’t help but shiver endlessly at the feel of His touch, my stomach churning with warmth and excitement. We are God’s chosen people—how could anywhere else ever compare to this?
19 July, Year of our Lord 1568
Today the holy spasms finally blessed me. Father Benito was with me when I came back into myself. He asked me what I had seen. I told him I didn’t remember. He seemed disappointed, but he then invited me to the church. He asked that I aid in the creation of holy communion and make the wafers that would become the body of Christ during the ritual of transubstantiation. I have assisted Father Benito in many ways before—it was he who first noticed my aptitude with the written word—but not like this.
To say it was an honour was an understatement. I ground the rye by hand. I ran my fingers through the grains, removing any remaining chaff. Many of the grains were black and withered, and I picked out as many as I could. Many still remained, and I reminded myself that only God can truly sift and have it be complete. Once I had sufficiently ground the grain until it became flour, I was dismissed. I wish that I could have stayed for the entire process, but to be allowed to touch the holiest of holies, to aid in the creation of communion, is a gift enough.
24 July, Year of Our Lord 1568
A man came to town today. An inquisitor, from the Tribunal of The Holy Office of the Inquisition. Despite the rumors that have spread through Spain about the power they hold and the quickness of their accusations, I am not worried. Father Benito met with the inquisitor and the train of traveling companions he came with, shutting themselves up in the church. I did not have time to attend tonight’s prayers, and inquire further about the inquisitor. Both mamá and papá have weakened considerably. Alonso and I are tending entirely to the farm and it keeps us busy from dawn until dusk.
I have noticed that Alonso’s hands are beginning to tremble.
28 July, Year of Our Lord 1568
The inquisitor attended Mass today. He and his brethren stood in the back of the church, watching us closely with narrowed eyes. Papá’s hands have both burst open now, the over-stretched skin rupturing. I saw several of the inquisitor’s men recoil, and I had to hold in a derisive snort. Mamá walked unaided for now, but her skin was pale, sweat beading on her upper lip, her eyes bright with divinity.
We found our seats, and Father Benito called us to pray. The congregation swayed, several of them collapsing to the ground in holy visions, their limbs flailing as spasms shook them. I lifted my voice in song as dark spots grew in the corners of my eyes.
Father Benito’s sermon was quickly interrupted by a thundering voice, spewing hateful words about demons, devilry, and possession. The inquisitor was enraged, calling us cursed apostates engaged in devilry and blasphemy.
There were many raised voices at this, from both the townspeople and the inquisitor's cohort of men. I fell to the ground, my head pounding with the sudden noise. It was as if all the choirs of the angels of heaven and the legions of devil in hell were fighting one another, beating against the inside of my skull. I remember my mother crouching beside me, shoving communion in between my lips. It tasted mustier than usual, but I was glad for it as it strengthened my spirit enough that I was able to rise.
Alonso and mamá grabbed me by the arms, and we moved towards the exit. There was a stampede to get out of the church as the inquisitor’s men began to wade into the chaos, their weapons raised. Papá lingered behind us as we were caught up in the current of fleeing people. The last I saw of him, he was screaming at the men, reaching his mangled hands towards them. I saw one of the black robed men raise a club, and I heard the cracking of my papá’s skull before I fell into unconsciousness. I awoke alone in my home, curled in a ball on the hearth before a sputtering fire.
29 July, Year of Our Lord 1568
Papá is dead, his body burned with the others who were caught up in the incident at the church. Men in black cloaks are patrolling the streets, keeping us all inside. I do not know what to do, besides pray.
30 July, Year of Our Lord 1568
Under armed guard, Father Benito has been escorted to the doors of the village and allowed brief entry to each household. When he came, we all held each other for a long moment as Father Benito prayed with us. He spoke with mamá in hushed tones, and I could see her nodding her head emphatically. Afterwards, Father Benito took me aside. He asked if I still wanted to travel and take my Holy Orders. I told him that I had decided to stay and dedicate my life to God within the confines of my own community. He told me that our church was in peril, and that the inquisitor had told him that we were all to be put on trial tomorrow, our church to be burned down regardless of the outcome. We were required to repent of our blasphemy if we wished to live. Benito told us that all of the townsfolk thus far had refused, including mamá; they meant to burn with the church and become martyrs.
Father Benito told me that the previous night he had had a dream in which I was given a holy mission by God Himself. I was to leave tonight, and take the word of God with me to St. Joséph’s, keeping the spirit of our community alive and preserving it for future generations. I begged to stay and burn with them. He said that I could not deny God’s will. He pulled something from deep within his robe and shoved it into my arms, blessed me, and left.
I cannot stop weeping.
31 July, Year of Our Lord 1568
It is morning, and they are all dead. I tried to take Alonso with me. He is only eleven, but he refused; he felt called to burn. I waited until the very early hours of the morning, kissed my mamá and brother goodbye, and then slipped out through a hole in our roof, jumping down into the dust below and hurrying away. The town was crawling with the inquisitors' men, and it was only through the grace of God that I wasn’t spotted. I made my way to the woods that edge our borders, and there I sat and waited. If I could not be a martyr, I could at least be a witness.
Shortly before dawn, our people trickled out slowly, the villagers assembling in front of the church. Father Benito was at the head of them as they stood awaiting their judgment. The inquisitor ordered them to repent and return to Christendom, instead of the perversion they now served. He would spare the lives of all those who turned back to God and were re-baptized.
The townsfolk shuffled their feet and looked at one another. Alonso looked up at mamá, who lay a blackening hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. As one, the townsfolk turned and shuffled into the church, the strong aiding the weak. They had seen the face of God and had known the ecstasy of His holy fire, and they would not be turned from the truth.
Father Benito was the last one in, and he stood in the open door and looked out at the inquisitor and his men. Behind him our people sang a variety of hymns, swaying to their own beats. It was a harmony without harmony, and from my hidden spot I could feel tears begin to flood down my face at the sanctity of it all. How I wish I had been in there with them!
There was a long pause, and the inquisitor signaled to his men, and eight of them came forward bearing large barrels of pitch. They surrounded the church and began to paint and pour it on, darkening the building I held so dear. When they were finished, another eight men came forward with torches. There was a stern word from the inquisitor, and the men with the torches touched their flaming ends to the black-covered walls. It ignited almost immediately.
It did not take long before the church became a funeral pyre. Screams rang out through the crackle of the flames. Black smoke billowed, and there was a great noise as the roof collapsed down into the blazing inferno. The screaming quickly stopped.
I could see the inquisitor and his companions watch as my entire life burned. Their eyes sparked, embers smoldering in their depths. In those eyes I glimpsed hell itself—a parade of demons that leapt from person to person as they danced in victory. I looked away.
The church is still smoldering as I sit here, writing, my hands clutching the cross of Father Benito that now hangs around my neck. The sky is finally lightening, the sun painting the sky as red as blood. In my bags are our most holy relics, and several bags worth of communion that are glowing gold and speckled with black. I will take them to Teresa, and give them to her. I will take the words and wishes of our Lord to the convent, and reveal to them the truth that God has given us through the consumption of His Most Holy flesh.
This I swear.
Historian’s Note: Based on the physical and psychological symptoms present in the population , it is generally believed in historical circles that the townsfolk of Deia were suffering from severe levels of ergot poisoning. Ergot, a fungus found primarily on rye and transmitted via airborne spore, is known to cause schizophrenic-like delusions, hallucinations, sepsis and body degradation, Furthermore, its effects have been known to cause religious mania when ingested. Some academics have hypothesized that many of those killed during the inquisition and later witch trials were suffering from some form of ergot poisoning.
Hannah Birss is a writer and aspiring magpie based out of Ontario, Canada. She lives with her partner, children, and multiple animals. She can usually be found in a nest constructed of books, writing journals, and shiny trinkets. You can follow her on instagram @hannahbirsswrites for news on upcoming and current publications.