The Monster Of The Belfry

'I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.'—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act V, Scene III

I am Omar Benamir, a tormented soul, who once feared the long, caliginous nights that eclipsed the fond days of yore I often fancied anew. The night had become both my refuge and my affliction, ever since I was burdened by an ineffable curse. I was not always the hideous creature into which I was later transformed. Once, I was a graceful and handsome man, a renowned violinist and composer. My home, you may wonder, was a village in the remote and mountainous region of Aragón, Spain.

It all began in the year 1600, when I met the woman who condemned me to eternal nights of shadow. Her name was Magdalena Guimet, an alluring young countess who conquered my heart—and sentenced my soul to a disconsolate, solitary belfry.

It was on a festive night in Teruel that I first encountered the captivating countess, following a performance in the courtyard of a nobleman. I had met many fascinating individuals from across the country and Europe, including numerous beautiful women—but none as arresting as Magdalena Guimet.

She was unique, enigmatic. Her charm was bewitching. The graceful contours of her splendid figure embodied beauty itself, and the symmetry of her high cheekbones and sculpted nose lent her countenance an unforgettable distinction.

Her mien was impeccable and irresistible. Her presence commanded prestige and dominion—an air I had never before known in any lady. Her fashionable dress and refined accessories were befitting a noblewoman of her stature. She was the absolute cynosure of Teruel’s nightlife and had been courted by numerous distinguished men of Aragón. That evening, she was escorted to the hall by a certain gentleman named Lorent Fonz.

He was a dapper connoisseur of the arts, admired for his debonair disposition by those who truly knew him. He flaunted his supposed perfection at every opportunity, ever eager to assert his lofty superiority. Our acquaintance was austere and rooted only in the coincidence of shared patrimony. We were Aragonese first—orgulous and proud—then Spaniards. The Benamir name, like the Fonz name, had been deeply embedded in the history of Aragón ever since the Moorish conquest of Spain and the time of the Moriscos.

There had been a contention between our families dating back to the fifteenth century. We had competed in every sphere of high society in Aragón until, at last, he challenged me to a daring duel. It was not a challenge I could easily dismiss—for his hauteur had far exceeded my tolerance. I could not allow his effrontery to go unpunished, not without a proper redress. Our courtship of the vivacious countess had turned us into ruthless foes.

Upon an otherwise ordinary spring day, we stood in the open meadow of the countryside, just outside Teruel. His stare was profound and stern, yet mine was equally resolute. His conviction was passionate, but mine more so. We gazed at one another with bitter disdain, halting our slow advance as our rapiers stood poised for combat. Thenceforth, we began the duel simultaneously, our pointed blades colliding as we moved back and forth in a frenzied movement of death. His rapier grazed my shirt multiple times, leaving sharp marks upon my body, but I, in turn, struck a mortal blow to his heart.

The blade pierced his chest with deadly precision. He collapsed to the ground, lifeless and motionless. The duel ended as swiftly as it had begun, and I was left the victor. Yet a strange sense of commensuration accompanied the death of my irksome foe, Lorent Fonz. I was finally rid of the man who had been my impetuous rival since the beginning. And yet, if I believed that killing Lorent Fonz would win me the love of the countess, I was gravely mistaken.

The unscrupulous whims of seduction and indulgence in her company had blinded me with ceaseless madness. We revelled in fine wine and depraved orgies, surrendering ourselves to temptation and the sinful delights of lasciviousness. We were lovers in ecstatic abandon, and in time we became engaged. Still, the stigma of having slain the son of the wealthy Don Artur Fonz of the Catalonian Fonç lineage would haunt me and bring grave repercussions.

Night after night, I was tormented by vivid nightmares of that fateful duel. I could not escape the ghastly image of Lorent’s wide, staring eyes—his corpse sprawled upon the ground like a grisly apparition.

One day in Huesca, whilst I was in the company of the countess at the manor, I was confronted by the younger brother of the late Lorent Fonz. He had apparently come to exact revenge for the death of his esteemed brother. He challenged me to a duel, but I already bore enough blood on my conscience; I did not wish to stain my name further. Thus, I declined his challenge—and that rejection would ultimately cost me dearly, as he sought unkind retribution. Feeling scorned, he questioned my honour. I had him thrown out of the manor, whereupon he swore I would pay for my 'blatant presumption'.

At first, I dismissed his bold threat, thinking nothing of the encounter. That night, I had imbibed far too much liquor and was unaware of the craven plot he had devised. Whilst I was again with the countess inside the manor, he set the house ablaze. The fire spread rapidly to the chamber where I sat. Oblivious to the approaching danger, I remained seated at the table, unaware of the peril at hand.

By the time I realised the manor was engulfed in flames, thick smoke had already begun to obscure my vision and choke my lungs. The door was locked—from the outside. Someone, unknown to me at that moment, had barred my escape. I struggled fiercely to break free, kicking the handle repeatedly, but to no avail.

The smoke thickened and the fire raged on. It overwhelmed me as flames began to consume my clothing and flesh. I attempted to reach the window, but the inferno and smoke blocked my path. I coughed and gasped, inhaling the noxious air. And yet—by some miracle—I managed to escape through the window and collapsed beside the grove, unconscious.

When I awoke, I heard the chirping of birds in the stillness of nature. A terrible realisation dawned upon me—I was completely covered in burns, from head to toe, and worse still, I was dying. The burns were excruciating and numerous, restricting my movement entirely. I was dishabille, exposed to the elements and barely conscious.

I do not know how I managed to survive, save for the benevolence of a monk from the monastery outside Teruel. He wrapped me in thick cloths and placed me in his waggon, then took me to the monastery, where I was tended to without delay. The quaint monastery, a serene haven for the monks, became my sanctuary as well.

For years, I lived in the company of those generous monks who permitted me to remain. I became the bell-ringer of the belfry and dwelt amongst the bells I rang each day. I shunned the outside world and remained within the confines of the monastery, venturing out only on occasion, and only under the cloak of the illumined nights.

I was gripped by fear and shame at the thought of being seen by the villagers, who would surely recoil in horror at the sight of my grotesque appearance. Thus, I was compelled to accept my lamentable and repulsive condition. Though I was still a young and able man, I was imprisoned in a shell of a body, disfigured by scars and lesions. The scabbed tissue that marked my skin was too severe to heal and far too conspicuous to conceal.

My life had become an infandous Hades—its misery the conclusion of an incurable fate I no longer resisted. I had withered in the depths of an inimitable sequence of unmitigated circumstances, which seemed cruelly invariable. Thus, my days of leisure were reduced to wistful memories before the onset of despair.

Upon a gloomy eventide, I received distressing tidings: an engagement had been announced between Vitor Fonz—the brother of the man I had slain in that senseless duel—and my beloved Magdalena Guimet. The news shattered my heart, and a sudden, uncontrollable rage overtook me. I could not endure the thought of the only woman I had ever loved marrying another man.

That he bore the name Fonz was irrelevant—utterly trivial. What tormented me was the bitter betrayal of Magdalena Guimet. I waited for the veil of night to shield me from the eyes of onlookers, and I concealed my disfigurement beneath a vizard and a top hat, determined to walk unseen to the Guimet Estate.

In my heart, despite my inexplicable disappearance, I believed she had never stopped loving me—or so I thought. The barking of hounds echoed across the grounds, guarding the estate with vigilance. But I knew the layout well. I made my way towards the hall, through a window often left partially ajar. It was never my intention to frighten her with my presence.

‘Magdalena, it is I—Omar, my dear,' I said.

She stared at me in disbelief. ‘Omar? Where have you been? Why are you wearing a vizard and so terribly dishevelled?’

‘Do not be afraid, my darling. Tell me it isn’t true—you are not truly going to marry Vitor Fonz?’

She paused before replying, 'Yes…I thought you were dead—or that you had gone off with another woman'.

'Yes, I understand that. But I am not dead. I am alive!'

She told me to remove the vizard, and I did so hesitantly. I had always feared that anyone who saw my face would recoil in horror. But not my beautiful Magdalena—or so I believed. I was mistaken.

The moment I removed the mask, she let out a piercing scream, stricken by the horror of my disfigured visage. Again and again, she cried out, 'A monster!' before fainting onto the floor. I wanted to rush to her, to cradle her in my arms, to console her—but panic overtook me. The noise had already alerted one of the servants.

I fled the house and the estate, returning to the shelter of the monastery, distraught and broken. I never saw nor spoke to Magdalena Guimet again. She married Vitor Fonz and left for France.

From a villager who occasionally visited the monastery, I later learnt that Vitor Fonz had inherited an estate and established a prosperous business in Perpignan. By then, the year was 1610, and Spain had fallen beneath the ever-watchful gaze of the Inquisition.

Vitor, unwilling to live under the inquisitors’ rigid authority, chose exile and opportunity. I, on the other hand, had no such choice.

Where could I go, now that I was presumed dead? My heart was shattered by the revelation of Magdalena Guimet’s departure. Though she knew I still lived, she chose to marry another man. Her love for me, it seemed, had been conditional. With Vitor Fonz, she could carouse freely, indulging in the pleasures I once believed were ours alone. I had become nothing more than a distant, fading memory to her.

I could not forget her. Her image lingered in my mind, tormenting me. Each night I rang the bells of the belfry with furious intensity, hoping their deafening toll would drown out the echoes of her laughter and voice, which returned unbidden. I could not repress the relentless memory of Magdalena Guimet. Her renunciation of our love had cast me into seclusion—a life of shadow, in the high silence of the belfry. I believed it was God’s punishment for the manifold sins I had committed.

Though the monastery was a place of sanctuary, it was also an isolated prison. I grew bitter and renounced the thought of seeing another woman again. But fate, ever mocking, would change that. One ordinary day, something stirred within me.

As I walked beneath the colonnades of the abbey, I heard a familiar sound that arrested my steps—a melody, delicate and haunting, drifting through the air. It was the sound of an instrument, a violin, whose tender notes stirred a forgotten rhapsody deep within me.

The cloister, where once only the sounds of nature echoed, had become the chamber of my soul’s revival. It was nightfall. The doves had nestled quietly in the niches of the abbey’s ancient walls. Enchanted by the music’s harmony, I felt compelled to follow it, to find its source.

I left the confines of the monastery and pursued the melody into the night, uncaring of the curfew imposed by the inquisitors' watchful eyes. I had to know—who played this song that awakened the embers of a heart I thought long extinguished?

When I discovered the source of the music, I found myself standing before the window of a solitary manor. There, in the glow of lamplight, a young woman played the violin with remarkable grace. Her back was turned to me, and I could not clearly see her face, but her presence captivated me nonetheless.

A sudden storm began to gather, and the first drops of rain pattered against my hat. I took shelter beneath the eave of a nearby roof, though I remained transfixed by the scene before me. I was drawn to the haunting beauty of the piece she played—each note was a thread weaving through the silence of the night, stitching together something broken in me.

Her delicate fingers moved with masterful ease, and her slender form seemed almost divine, like that of a celestial cherub lost in reverie. Her long, flowing locks cascaded down her back, partly veiling the nightgown she wore. The polished wood of the violin shimmered in the chamber’s variegated light, reflecting a quiet splendor. Even as the wind rose and the rain thickened, the storm did not rattle her—it merely danced around her music, unable to disrupt her ethereal performance.

Her passion was a ghostly reminder of how I once played the violin, in the sundry courtyards and grand homes of the nobility. As I listened, I contemplated the splendour of each note she drew from her instrument, and for the briefest of moments, I caught a glimpse of her hazel eyes—eyes full of life and melancholy, a fleeting token of beauty that stirred something buried deep within me.

A sudden flash of lightning startled her, and the music ceased. At that same moment, a stray dove from the rooftop caused a commotion near the window, catching her attention. She rose from her seat and moved towards the window where I stood. Quickly, I withdrew into the shadows, hiding behind the trees as she peered into the storm from the sill.

The rain had intensified; the storm surged with a restless fury. I turned away and made my return to the dreary refuge of the monastery.

On my way back, a soldier caught sight of me and ordered me to stop. He demanded my identification, wanting to determine whether I was a Morisco. I paused, deliberating carefully on what to do. He approached from behind and commanded me to face him. I still wore my vizard and anticipated he would question it.

I had to devise a plausible excuse. Knowing my noble lineage and former service as a soldier across the continent, I was confident in my ability to present myself convincingly. I claimed I had come from a masquerade ball and named a prominent nobleman I once knew, hoping it would affirm my aristocratic bearing. To my relief, he accepted my word and let me pass without further scrutiny.

Once I returned to the abbey, I dried myself in my cold chamber within the tower, beside the great bells of the belfry. The ancient church of the abbey, a marvel of Mudéjar architecture preserved in the Romanesque tradition, loomed in solemn beauty. The bell tower had been completed in 1257, and the dome above the nave erected in 1538—a testament to the enduring legacy of sacred design.

The octagonal exterior, adorned with double mullioned windows, displayed elegant Plateresque decorations. Its façade was embellished with glazed tiles and a fine ceramic sheen. Above, the octagonal lantern cast its light beneath the vaulted ceiling of the nave, where colorful coffers bore Gothic figures in silent reverence. Within my chamber stood a small altar—an austere gift from the abbots. From the tower, I could see the Escalinata in the distance, descending in quiet majesty.

That night, my thoughts returned to the young woman and the sweet music she played. Though I had once forsaken the violin and vowed never to draw its bow again, her artistry rekindled in me a long-dormant yearning. Each Saturday henceforth, I ventured from the abbey to the manor of the mysterious musician. I had overheard from a patrolling soldier that the Saturday curfew was lifted, allowing for limited movement. I took a hidden path, a secret passage unknown to the guards, granting me a discreet route free from their suspicion.

There, beneath her window, I listened to the liberating strains of the violin echo from her chamber. She was once again at her instrument, playing with elegant finesse; her music floated through the air like a gentle lilt. No storm threatened the peace of that evening. Only her mellifluous tones filled the night, as though each note were a whisper from the divine.

I stood in sheer rapture, lost in the enchantment of her performance—so distinct and melodic, like an angelic serenade. She appeared to me as a goddess, worthy of admiration and sacred affection. I lingered there for an hour, utterly captivated, as though I were attending a splendid matinee in the courtly gardens of Madrid.

When I returned to the abbey that night, I fell into slumber with her music lingering in my dreams. Yet on another evening, I discovered her chamber silent and vacant—no sound of the violin, no sign of her graceful silhouette. I knew nothing of her sudden absence and presumed she had either left for a time or was resting in another room. Her silence, however, left a lingering disquietude in my soul.

A compulsive desire had impelled me to investigate. Thus, I entered the chamber where she had so often played the violin. The candlelight was dim, casting a soft, flickering glow that did not wholly illuminate the room. I saw the violin resting gently upon a stand and sat down in a nearby chair. As I touched the strings, I caught the fresh trace of her perfume, still lingering in the air like an invisible presence.

Believing I was alone, I began to play. It had been many years since last I performed. I was drawn to the instrument as a painter is drawn to his canvas, or a sculptor to his marble. The sensation of playing once more stirred within me a rapture so profound, I was overcome by elation and delight. It seemed almost surreal, after all these years, that I could summon such passion again through music.

But then, someone heard me. A presence entered the chamber—it was the young lady of the house. I remained seated, startled and silent, as she became aware of my presence. I feared that if I were discovered, I would surely be arrested. A sudden apprehension made me restless, and I attempted to remain still and taciturn.

She asked me to identify myself at once. Naturally, I hesitated—until I realised that she was blind, though she concealed it with remarkable poise. As she stood before me, I observed the true beauty she possessed, untouched by sight. Her demure expression betrayed a brief moment of confusion, but she quickly regained composure, unwilling to appear timid. When I understood this, I finally replied.

'I am a stranger, and I shall not harm you. I too play the violin, though I am but a poor wretch who once performed in the grandest courtyards of Europe,’ I replied.

‘Who are you truly? What is your name, stranger?’ she enquired.

‘My name is of no importance, but know that I am an admirer of your music, my lady.’

‘Then what shall I call you, stranger?’

‘Call me Omar.’

‘Omar, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Isabel Salavert. How do I know you have not come to steal—or worse, to kill me?’

‘I can only show my intentions through my actions and give you my word. It is for you to choose whether to trust me, my lady.’

I removed my vizard, knowing she could neither see me nor recoil in horror at my disfigurement. Then I sat down once more and began to play the violin as I had done in years past, when I was a renowned virtuoso. Though the candle cast a dim and mournful light, it did not disturb my unwavering concentration.

The flowing movement of my fingers was as agile as the electric bolts of lightning. The luminous orbs of the night scintillated wonderfully, and the gentle cooing of the nearby doves became my accompaniment. Tears of profound emotion streamed from my eyes as I played note after note, and time itself seemed to pause.

For a brief moment, I was Omar Benamir once more—the famed violinist of Aragón. Life had granted me a fleeting reprieve, returning me to the sublime joy and reverence for the elegance of music. For that moment, it erased the grotesque shadow of my affliction and the loathsome burden of my curse.

Soon the jubilant spell faded, and a tempest loomed in the distance. It was a stark reminder of my grievous reality. I ceased playing and rose, offering my excuse to the young lady. I could not indulge the beauty of the night—for the cruelty of my condition awaited me at every turn, save for within the violin.

‘Forgive me, I must go now, before the tempest surges, my lady'.

‘Wait! Are you Omar Benamir? If so, why did you not admit it?’

‘Omar Benamir?’

‘People say you are dead'.

‘Omar Benamir died years ago', I replied soberly.

‘No. I have only ever heard one person play the violin like that—and it is the great maestro, Omar Benamir'.

‘I must go!’

I left her house at once and returned safely to the monastery, where I languished in the desolate tower of the belfry, steeped in plaintive reflection. The sombre reality of my existence had eclipsed the enchanting encounter with the young lady, Miss Isabel Salavert. It had been so long since I had felt any meaningful sign of affection or gratitude from a woman. The only true gratitude I had known was that of the monks who had sheltered me and cared for me, despite my monstrous disfigurement.

From the outside world, I had received nothing but cold indifference. Yet in Isabel Salavert, I sensed no such unfeeling attitude. On the contrary, she had been gentle and hospitable. Soon, I would once again have my old violin to play in the chamber of the tower. It had been brought to me from my abandoned estate. With the help of one of the kind monks, I had retrieved it, and there in my quiet solitude, I could play beautiful notes once more. The instrument was covered in dust and cobwebs, and the years of neglect had left rust and mould upon its roughened surface and strings.

I cleaned and polished the violin carefully with cloths, then began to play. The melodies resounded with passion, stirring memories of the enthusiastic applause I had once known from admiring audiences. Afterwards, I rang the bells at the customary hour, uplifted by a sudden wave of elation.

The next morning, my thoughts were entirely consumed by the Lady Salavert. Though blind and an orphan, she seemed angelic—radiant as a luminary, or a virginal maiden from a bygone tale. Her beauty and compassion had deeply impressed themselves upon my soul. Yet I feared the inevitability of rejection, should she ever come to know the grotesque truth of my appearance.

For that month, I was a welcome guest in her home, and together we shared the violin, performing superb renditions of my compositions and others. She became my devoted pupil, and in time, an accomplished violinist. She not only captured my attention but, above all, won my heart.

One day, she grew weary of not being able to touch me. She wished to feel my eyes, my ears, my nose, my cheeks, and my lips. I resisted—reluctant, apprehensive. I feared unsettling her, feared the inevitable recoil at the grotesqueness of my visage. I tried to delay that moment, but it was in vain.

She was resolute. She insisted, and in the end, I acquiesced. Gently, she traced the scarred tissue of my face with her fingers. At first, she was visibly nervous, but as her touch lingered, she began to understand my disfigurement.

At that very moment, a servant, having heard a noise within the chamber, entered unannounced. She let out a scream upon witnessing the scene—Miss Isabel Salavert with her hand resting upon my forehead, and my exposed face visible.

My reaction was impulsive. Desperation seized me, and I fled the house in haste. The Lady Salavert fainted to the floor as I disappeared into the shadows. I ran towards the secret passage I had used to reach the abbey, but a soldier, catching sight of my flight from the estate, raised an alarm.

‘Stop!’ He ordered—and I did. I wore a cowl over my face and the robes of a monk, which I had adopted as a modest disguise. He commanded me to lift the cowl. I hesitated, dreading what would follow—for I was not wearing the vizard. But I knew, if I did not comply, he would surely tear the cowl from me himself.

Thus, I removed my cowl, and he recoiled in horror at the sight of my disfigured face. He was stunned—frozen in place. In that instant, he attempted to apprehend me, but instinct overtook reason, and I fled. Before escaping, I seized his sword and struck him on the head, rendering him unconscious. It was an impulsive and defiant act. I could not be certain whether I had killed the man.

I reached the safety of the monastery—my only haven—hoping that the soldiers would not suspect it to be my place of refuge, especially if I had not been seen.

The thought of the Inquisition arriving at the abbey to arrest me loomed as a genuine and pressing threat, not easily dismissed, for I was a Morisco. A heightened anxiety consumed me, and I remained within the belfry, peering below to observe any activity. I had always used the rear passage to enter and exit the tower in secrecy.

Soon, I heard the sound of soldiers approaching—their voices clear and unmistakably Castilian. They were drawing near, and from my vantage point, I watched them come. A grim premonition gripped me—they had been informed of the events at the Salavert estate, and of the altercation with the soldier.

Had he died? Were they now searching for me as the culprit? Had something grave occurred, for which I would be held to account? My thoughts turned to the monks—those faithful men who had shown me nothing but kindness and refuge. They knew nothing of what had taken place.

What would they think of me, if I had indeed killed the soldier? If I had brought harm, however unintentionally, to the Lady Salavert?

There came a firm knock upon the front door—stern, deliberate. Outside stood several soldiers and a pair of inquisitors, their presence casting a grim shadow upon the abbey. A harrowing panic seized me in that instant, for I knew they had come for me, though they did not yet know my name. The only information they possessed was that a monk—supposedly—had assaulted a soldier enforcing the curfew. The incident at the Salavert Estate had likewise been reported.

One of the monks answered the door. When asked about the whereabouts of a monk seen entering the abbey earlier, he stood confounded, unable to give an answer. Without delay, the soldiers forced their way in and ordered all monks present to gather in the hall. One by one, we stood in a line, the cold points of swords grazing the air as they sought to identify the culprit. Then, a soldier heard a noise from the tower above.

An inquisitor turned to the senior monk and demanded to know who was in the tower. The monk replied that only the pigeons stirred up there—no man. The inquisitor, unconvinced, commanded his men to ascend the tower and investigate.

The ordeal was tense—alarming and unpredictable. I faced a choice: to appear before them, or to vanish. But I could not remain hidden like a coward. For the sake of the abbots, whom I esteemed dearly, I had to act. I made an impromptu decision—to confront them, not in word, but through disruption. I knew the pigeons would startle them if I rang the bells of the belfry.

And so I did. I seized the rope and rang the bells with all the might I could muster. The metallic clang resounded through the tower, deafening and sudden. The pigeons erupted in a frenzy of wings. Still cloaked in my monk’s attire, the cowl drawn low, I used the confusion to make my escape—cloaked in noise, shadow, and the wild flurry of feathers.

I had planned to reach the stairway unnoticed, but one of the soldiers stationed below, near one of the siles, heard the clamour of the bells and began his ascent. He caught sight of me descending and shouted for me to halt. I did not. Instead, I turned and fled upwards. As I did, he thrust his sword into my back. Pain surged through me, but I pressed on, dragging myself up the final steps until I staggered into the belfry.

There, I rang the bell again, clinging to the last strength in my limbs. Below, I saw her—Lady Salavert—standing before the abbey gates, a servant at her side. She called out my name, Omar Benamir, her voice desperate, imploring the soldiers not to kill me.

But I was dying. The wound in my back had drained the life from me. My footing faltered, and my feet became entangled in the bell rope. The weight of my body and the tangle of the rope caused the great bells of the belfry to ring with violent, obstreperous force. I hung there, unmercifully, my cowl torn from my head, my face turned downward to the earth below.

And so I died.

The last vision to grace my eyes was her—Lady Salavert—ascending to the tower, her face luminous with sorrow, standing beside me in the moment of my death.

Below, the people had gathered in tumult, drawn by the ringing of the bells and the spectacle in the tower. Cries rose from the crowd. My name, Omar Benamir, echoed among the denizens, shouted with fervent intensity. To my countrymen, I was a martyr; to the inquisitors, a menace silenced. But the people did not forget.

Their voices rang out through the city:
'Long live Aragón!'
'Long live Omar Benamir!'
Their roars resounded with dauntless zeal, etching my name into the spirit of the land.

At first, I was denied burial within the sanctuary of the abbey—for the inquisitors refused me, even in death, that final meritorious grace. Instead, my body was laid to rest in an unremarkable and obscure cemetery beyond the abbey's reach, far from consecrated ground. After the inquisition had run its cruel course and the silence of history began to speak, my remains were exhumed and brought back to the sanctified soil of the abbey's graveyard. There, beside the resting places of the devout, a vault was prepared—vast, solemn, and undisturbed by desecration.

There, at last, I was truly laid to rest. In that hallowed space, the sanctuary of the abbey enshrined not only my body but also my name—preserved with reverence and closure. And upon my headstone, if you wonder what was etched in stone, it read thus:

'Here lieth the Maestro of the Violin and Morisco, Omar Benamir,
of the honourable lineage of the Benamir of Aragón'.

From the Diary of Lady Salavert
15th of October, Year of Our Lord 1523

It has been many years since the bells tolled for Omar Benamir. And yet, not a season passes in which I do not hear their resounding echo in the corners of my soul. Today, I returned to the abbey—no longer in fear, nor burdened by the weight of scandal, but led by something softer. A need for closure. A need for him.

The morning was grey and kind, draped in mist. How often I have thought of this place in silence—how often I have dreamt of walking these cloisters again without dread. The monks, aged like me, nodded in recognition, though none dared to speak. Perhaps they knew why I had come. Perhaps they remembered.

In my satchel I carried a single rose. Dried, brittle, and sacred. It was pressed between the pages of a book Omar once held. I had saved it all these years—from the morning he died.

His grave lies now within the sanctuary, as it always should have. The abbey finally claimed him as one of their own, long after the fire of the inquisition had burned out. His headstone is clean, solemn, eternal:

'Here lieth the Maestro of the violin and Morisco, Omar Benamir, from the honourable lineage of the Benamir of Aragón'.

As I approached, I heard the sound of a violin—low, reverent. A young boy was kneeling there, his bow guided by something beyond instruction. He played as if Omar had once whispered a melody into his dreams.

When he finished, I stepped forth, and he bowed his head respectfully. He knew me, I think—not by name, but by reverence of Omar. He stepped aside, and I knelt.

'My dear Omar', I whispered, laying the rose beneath the stone. 'I kept your name alive. In secret at first, in trembling speech. But later, with courage. They tried to erase you. They failed'.

The wind stirred the cypress trees. A single bell above us gave a low, ghostly chime—though no hand had touched it. I knew then that he was near.

'You heard me', I said. 'As you always did'.

I rose, slowly, and turned to leave. The boy resumed playing—but the music had changed. It was no longer lamentation. It was triumph. It was remembrance.

Omar’s name now lives in the mouths of the people, no longer cursed, but cherished. A martyr to some. A musician to many. A man to me.

As I stepped passed the abbey gates, I glanced back once more. The tower still stood, unwavering. A quiet monument to defiance and love. I touched the locket around my neck—inside, the faded sketch of his face—and felt his memory pulsing within me. Omar lives on, not only in stone or story, but in the hearts of those who dare to remember.

When I walked through the olive groves beyond the abbey, a gentle breeze moved through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of rosemary and earth. I closed my eyes and listened—not to the rustling leaves, but to the memory of Omar’s violin, echoing softly in the recesses of my heart. Though time wears away all things, love, once true, leaves behind an impression no wind, nor war, can ever erase.

And in that moment, I was no longer mourning. I was remembering.

— Isabel Salavert

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