1790, July Viceroyalty of New Granada, Province of Antioquia
Francisco Antonio Goz awakes in a luxurious but rustic room. Two stizas in their forties at his side, with a worried look on their faces. One was preparing so kind of concoction with a strong sll, while the other was gently wiping his brow. When she saw his eyes flickering open,
she scread in surprise: "Young master, you are awake! Quick—I’ll go tell the Patrón!"
Francisco, still dazed and with his head throbbing and limbs heavy, tried to stand up with difficulty. The other woman, seeing this, rushed to him and, with gentle firmness, pressed him back into the bed.
"Young master, you cannot stand yet. You were in a deep slumber for days—almost since we left Santa Fe de Bogotá. The Patrón was worried sick for you, even wondering if he was too extre..."
She trailed off, more like talking to herself and lost in her own thoughts. Then, catching herself, she turned back to her young master, her expression softening and recovering her sanity.
"Forget it, young master, those are things of adults. Here, drink this. My grandma learned the recipe from my grandpa—he was a Pijao. They were a tribe of warriors, so they used to have various redies for situations like this. Most of that knowledge has been lost during Juan Borja’s expeditions, but so still survived, and she passed it down to —"
Francisco tried to drink the concoction with difficulty. He wasn’t sure of many things, but he trusted Grandma María with all his heart. She had been with him since he was a baby, teaching him to speak, to read, and even passing down so strange knowledge—probably from the Pijao.
"Ugh, Grandma María, this tastes awful," Francisco muttered after swallowing with difficulty.
"Eat it all, young master, there is still so left at the bottom," Grandma María said, her posture that of a mother gently instructing her son.
While he was trying hard to swallow the concoction, hurried footsteps ca behind the door, and in a mont it was opened wide.
"Francisco!" scread a burly but slightly fat man of above average height, with a mustache typical of Colombia, wearing a white linen shirt, relatively wide trousers, leather boots mostly used for riding horses, and a traditional ruana of Antioquia, a garnt inherited from the old Muiscas into New Granada culture.
"Dad." Francisco tried to get up again, but this ti Grandma María said nothing, though she still helped him to stand.
His father, with tears in his eyes, crossed the door and gave Francisco a deep hug. "I’m sorry. If I wasn’t so stubborn, maybe none of this would have happened. But it’s alright, you are now sane and that’s the important part. Co, sit on the bed. I’m going to talk with Grandma María and Grandma Rosa for a while. Your sister and Catalina were worried sick—they are waiting outside. Look, here they are."
"Brother!" A girl of about ten years ran in and leaped onto Francisco with such strength that she almost sent him into slumber for another day.
Isabella, his little sister, had beautiful blue eyes like himself, inherited from their mother, a German who escaped the Holy Roman Empire during the famine of 1772. Her own mother had brought her to New Granada through the Cádiz Company, where his grandfather worked. His mission was to bring whatever the Viceroyalty needed, and at the ti they were looking for textile workers.
Francisco’s maternal grandmother used to be a textile worker, so she and her daughter of four years (Francisco’s mother) were brought through his grandfather’s company. Mom and Dad beca close, most likely because of his father’s influence. In those days, it was difficult for a pure-blood Spaniard to marry in New Granada if he chose an Indian or a stiza. Even if no one dared say anything to him during his lifeti, once he died, the bloodline—in the eyes of the viceroy and the Spanish elite—would be considered polluted and wouldn’t be able to continue his legacy.
Sadly, his mother died giving birth to his sister. dicine was imperfect, and after giving birth to him at only fifteen, her body was weakened; probably so ailnts remained hidden, impossible to find at the ti. Five years later, when she gave birth again, her body could not resist and she died. His father, being a good Catholic, decided never to marry again, staying loyal to his wife. After all, religion in South Arica had a big influence on people.
"Francisco," Catalina, with so tears in her eyes, was also there. She was the granddaughter of María. Both were poor. Being a stiza, María’s life was never easy, and sadly her daughter and two sons had died, leaving poor María alone with only a child. One day, his father went to the province of Ibagué to buy tobacci and indigol to send to the Crown, and there he found them in the streets. As a good Catholic, and also looking for soone to take care of Francisco, he chose her to work as a servant in his house. Catalina grew up with Francisco, and they beca very close.
"Don’t worry, I’m fine," said Francisco with difficulty after having a little tick suffocating him.
"I’m happy that you are fine," said Catalina, with so reservation.
They smiled at each other, when suddenly the sound of horses ca from outside the finca. His father went out for a while and then ca back with Rodrigo, a doctor he had brought from Bogotá to look after the people in the finca, his servants, and slaves. It wasn’t cheap, but at least Rodrigo did not try to bleed Francisco.
The doctor put his palm on Francisco’s head, took his pulse, looked at his skin color, and slled him, which made him a little uncomfortable, the process continued for so minutes.
"It seems he is better, just a little dehydrated, but Grandma María’s concoction should have helped. He should rest for a couple of days, and he should be fine," said Rodrigo, after looking at Francisco. Then his father thanked him and followed him outside.
Francisco watched, feeling a little guilty but also amused by the situation. The reality was that Francisco had just recovered so mories, but not from himself—rather from another him, one from the future.
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