Some day in 2000.

THE STILLBORN IS NAMELESS. Its resurrection will not grant it the dignity to be named. In hot and dull hours, only the squalor of the air invades, with a painful trail of sunlight, the dirty pantry where it has been born. It is the cruelty's crown: the pregnant wife murdered her husband, gave birth, then committed suicide. The couple’s families will refuse to care for the baby. It is a boy.

Days of 2011.

Casa Central was the oldest institution in the Noramic continent, responsible for the care of the orphans, the sick and the poor of the Santos Empire. This particular Casa was located in White Waters – a small town of rice fAields high up in the Captaincy of Corisco, in the upper north-east – and was overseen by Monsignor Iamar, a priest of cold stature and voice of placid love. During the novena in which the nameless boy arrived, an arid cold gnawed at the surfaces as the two moons opposed each other and waned.

This climate, strange for the time, did not influence Monsignor Iamar's worn schedule. In the morning, Iamar confined himself to his room, reading the Era Divina and writing his confessions. As the sun flew warmer, he would stop at the garden: a clearing of roses in the centre of the old building. He would spend no more than ten minutes of his time here. Then he drank coffee, only coffee, rooting off from his mind any weakness. He received and sent off the kitchen ladies, the plumber, the gardener, the mural painter, and all the others, and it would already be half past noon by now. He had rice, beans, and a single boiled egg for lunch. His routine remained the same as it had been when he was but an apprentice, twenty years ago.

Iamar never made importance of naming any of the children, and he should not worry about doing it so, because the new boy was looked at, loved by, and quickly named. Soon enough Monsignor Iamar also called him Áureo, because of his golden skin and blond curly hair.

After lunch, Monsignor Iamar returns to his room, on the third and last floor; from there, the man stares at the boy. Through the cracks of a broken fence, Áureo seemed to envy the other children who could play. At eleven years old, Áureo just began to talk; he also enjoyed locking himself up in the library early in the morning, and then, after his first classes and last chores, he would stop to watch the other children play in the courtyard. That day, one of the boys exercised his imposition of fire, and another one, his opponent, was frightened to block a quick blow, and triggering a tuft of blue petals in the middle of his chest, he would quickly cover his body to harmonise his juvenile Uso. Finding breath for a counterattack, he expelled the fire away in a gust of blue flowers and red flames.

Áureo watched.

“To be born like this,” Monsignor Iamar thought to himself, drinking his second coffee of the day, “with no advantage at all… Even animals that cannot fly, can run; toothless skulls can mystify us and, maybe with sorrow, sing a frantic melody; and men without money can believe in the worldly light of an ill smile, and entrust themselves in the salvation of a common abjection…” He dared to wipe his lips. In front of the Saints’ eyes, he could not help but whisper to himself: — Watching is enough. — Monsignor Iamar felt the dregs dirty his afternoon. Looking at the bottom of the porcelain, he remembered when Áureo dug a hole in the wall of one of the bathrooms with a spoon, so he could steal packets of cookies from the pantry. That time, the discipline was to rewrite the entirety of the first book of the Era Divina; every time Monsignor Iamar asked Áureo about his frivolity, Áureo hid his hands in his pockets and looked away. “I want more,” the boy would think. “Enough”, Mons. Iamar prayed.

It started to rain heavily.

Later that day, Mother Malva arrived for a visit, with the intent of reworking, beside Iamar, the evening classes. Mother Malva was a little older than Monsignor Iamar, and was always accompanied by the smell of melting candles. A Young Ymadema accompanied her; ná¹ wore the sury’anga² up to throat ná¹, made of thick, rich, wine-red fabric, abiding by the classical custom. In the presence of the Ymadema, Iamar almost let a quick, brash expression take form, however he kept his plastered expression of disgust, a disgust of someone who sees the sun coming out too ready, too sunny, but nevertheless endures it and does not force contentment, “for countering does not wreaks it”. The three of them were having coffee in the back room on the first floor. It was a room without opulence, where a statuette of the Holy Stillness stood on the coffee table (it was made of moulded stone, with its removed lips resting on its intersected hands). The two large glass windows were dull with age, a black wooden cabinet bared books and carried rosaries in the corner, the table – of the same colour and twin character – was adorned with various foliation: a lamp, the nine volumes of the Era Divina, a rosary made of common seeds, cowries on a plate, a spiral symbol engraved in its centre, a dry chair behind it – Monsignor’s seat. There were two armchairs in front of it.

— High virtue is what is lacking, I see. — Sister Malva said, standing up. — Today I intend for you to introduce sharp discipline to the children, for they need it. — She spoke to the Ymadema. The Ymadema looked back at her, appreciating her confidence, but wondering why she did not sit like ná. In front of her, Monsignor Iamar interlaced his fingers on the table, while the rain thundered behind him against a mango tree. — And I beg of you, Monsignor Iamar, make it a habit to review the lessons, they need it.

— Another captaincy’s demand? — Mons. Iamar asked her.

— Empire’s. — She answered. The imposition of her thin figure was unshakable; the skirt of her gray dress reached her heels, the simplicity of her aura reached up to her dark eyes. — Since the fire in Santos, they have been demanding a changed mind from us, a firmer grasp.

— And since Santos — The Ymadema interpolated. — they have provided us with dwindling support, with countless bureaucracies, with closed doors and yellow phrases on the phone; and paleness face to face. — Ná concluded, pressing lips ná as if in shame.

— Doing more with less proves greater virtue. — Malva answered.

— Doing more with less no longer requires virtue. — Mons. Iamar retorted. — It requires perfection, or denial. We are honest sinners, us here.

This Iamar’s remark ailed the Ymadema’s delicacy, as it was its intention.

Sister Malva waited a second to get closer to them both. She placed her hands on the back of the chair, immediately feeling the rainy climate on the fabric. A lock of her hair came loose from her bun.

— Measures must be taken. Perhaps all that we can; see — She stopped again. — See, I do not want to hide the truth: it is a public demand, mavya³, we’re in a glass’ hell, and there are too many eyes out from paradise looking in. — And she hit harder: — Firmer grasp.

It was five o’clock when the rain stopped. The blue eye of dusk fell like a madid blessing, and Monsignor Iamar went under the big mango tree to collect the fallen leaves and put them in a basket, which he covered with a white flannel. Later that Imai, he led the first grade class. Áureo was not there, and none of his classmates could tell where he was. At eight, he served soup to the poor. At midnight, between lights out, he caught Áureo entering the Casa through a hole in the wall (the hole, veiled by thick bushes, led directly to the avenue behind).

Monsignor Iamar pulled Áureo by the arm along the corridors, leading him from bedrooms to living rooms, passing through the kitchen and the garden.

— St-till awake? — The boy repeated three times as he was dragged, smiling wrongly to pretend normalcy.

— Where were you? Why is your forehead scratched?

— At the chapel.

— Liar. — They were in front of the Monsignor's chamber. As they entered, the boy began to recite immediately, standing in the middle of the room, looking straight ahead, with his little hands clasped behind his back:

— Evil-less land, pointless point with Uso,

The Holy Shadow-

— In Língua Divina!

— I do not know, Monsignor!

— You do, you do! — Monsignor Iamar searched for a volume in Língua Divina in the many drawers. Áureo was desperate; he had not seen Monsignor this ruined since he caught the boy spying on the Ymadema’s room. That time, he had to memorise a thousand useless lessons in Uso, and then he went to sew all the other boys’ uniforms. — In Orama, then!

Iamar could not find the volume in Língua Divina; he stopped in front of the boy. With his thumb nail piercing the palm of his hand, his breathing quickening and his eyes aching, Áureo ended up blurting out again by reflex:

— Evil-less land, pointless-

— Don't you dare, Áureo! Yazó, yazó⁴! — Iamar said. — You weren't in today's Uso class. Where-

— I can't study Uso any more! Evil…

— Well, here comes Caos⁵! — Iamar smiled sarcastically. — Do you seriously think you could become a man? An orphan and a delinquent!

— I'm a dralvo⁶! — Áureo said, crying. — What for?

Monsignor Iamar could not answer. Áureo stayed up all night reciting the Era Divina.

Two days later, Áureo fixed the broken fence, gathered three pieces of clothing, and would never recall if he cried when he run away from Casa Central.