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your family.”
    “No, I don’t have any family.”
    He was quiet a moment. “You live alone, then?”
    “Yes.”
    Father Ignacio opened the book and began browsing through it. “Look! You have drawn maps and everything,” he said approvingly. “It is obvious that you are in love with your subject.” He studied one of my drawings. “I like the sketches you’ve done of the shrines. This one—it’s in Agua Azuela, no?”
    I nodded yes.
    “I remember that one, I know it.” He stopped to read a little of what I had written. Then he closed the book and placed it on the table between us. “But you have never answered my question. Why do you have such an interest in Los Hermanos? That is how Los Penitentes refer to themselves—the brothers, or La Hermandad—the brotherhood.” His eyes searched my face with intensity.
    “I’ve never really thought about why I’m interested in them. I just am.” I looked away from the intimacy of his stare.
    “I have a feeling you are afraid to tell me the truth, Miss Wild. What do you think will happen if you do?”
    “I don’t know how to say it, exactly.”
    We were both silent for a minute. He sipped his coffee. “Why don’t you try?” he suggested, setting his cup down.
    “Well . . .” I thought a moment. I looked directly into his eyes. “If I’m drawn to something, it usually has some kind of lesson for me. That’s been true since I was a kid.”
    “And what is the lesson you have gotten from your study of Los Penitentes?”
    “I don’t know yet.”
    He studied my face. “And you have had these kinds of experiences since you were a child?”
    “Yes.”
    “Give me an example.”
    “You’re going to think this is crazy, but it started with a possum hand I found when I was a kid. It had been left behind by a predator. It was completely dried and perfect, all the hair on it, even the little fingernails. And the possum’s palm was lined, and there were even fingerprints—just like a person’s.”
    His face sobered. He tilted his head to one side, regarding me carefully. He didn’t speak.
    “I couldn’t help myself, I picked it up and took it home. It was— don’t be offended by this, Father, please—but it was hideous. And fascinating. I finally sewed that paw on a little deerskin medicine bag I made. I still have it.”
    Father Ignacio’s eyes widened. “So Los Penitentes are like that for you? Just some kind of novelty? Some ‘hideous fascination,’ as you said?”
    “No! Oh, I didn’t think you’d understand it.”
    He held up his open palm. “Well, then, enlighten me.”
    I drew in a slow breath. “Maybe this won’t make any sense to you at all. But I think sometimes you have to embrace the things you are most frightened of. I could tell, even when I was just a child, that the possum hand was some kind of powerful medicine for me. Just the strength of my reaction told me that.”
    “And what was it that you learned from this ‘powerful medicine’ in the possum hand?”
    I leaned over the table toward him. “I learned not to be afraid of it. I let the possum speak to me and I learned that there is a kind of genius in his nature. I learned that what may look strange or foreign to you at first can prove to be amazing when you get over your fear of it. But you have to get over your fear, or your revulsion, to get to the lesson it is trying to teach you.”
    “And this is what you have found in Los Penitentes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me about that.”
    “It started last year when I saw a procession of novices.”
    “Yes,” he urged, leaning closer, his eyes drilling into me.
    “They were performing penance. Whipping themselves as they marched. I thought it was terrible. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.”
    “Yes, yes, go on!” He gestured with his hand for me to keep it rolling.
    “I just wanted to know what made them want to do that. Is that faith?”
    He looked directly at me, his eyes wide. “What kind of faith do