A wind picks up and blows the fine sand away. I shield myself with my arms to keep it from blurring my vision. All I can hear is the rush of the air and the sound of the waves dying on the shore. It would be something very relaxing if it weren't for the nervousness coursing through my blood and the increasingly rapid beating of my heart. Paris is still underwater, and it's been three or four minutes. I try to look beyond the surface of the ocean, calm and dark, illuminated only by the moon's rays. I admire the huge cliffs and rocks that have fallen to the beach over the years. When I turn around, I can see the lights of the city in the distance and the airplanes coming and going along the airways.

I remain silent for a moment, trying not to breathe to sharpen my sense of hearing. I take off my cap, T-shirt, and sneakers and bury them in the sand, along with my Parisian blouse. It was time to face the immensity of the sea. I don't even think about it. It is enough for me to know that Paris is in real danger to understand that I must act as soon as possible. That's why he bought me. That's why I'm his slave. And I know that those guys who also went into the water, if they are followers of the goddess, can be as dangerous as the provincial police. I walk to the edge of dry land and slowly wade into unfamiliar territory. The cold water caresses my whole body as I sink deeper and deeper. When I decide to dive, my head sinks, and I notice the salty taste of the water. I dive as far as I can, moving my arms quickly. The ocean is pulling me down, and I try to push myself to the surface because I need to breathe. But my joints don't respond. I feel something pushing me upwards, and finally, I exaggeratedly inhale the much-desired oxygen, opening my mouth and making a noise.

—Didn't I tell you to wait? —she whispers. It's Paris.

I still can't see her because the water droplets prevent me from opening my eyes and because I'm more concerned with getting air into my lungs.

—You were there for more than...ten...minutes. I thought...you were drowning...—I manage to say, my words broken by my breathing.

Paris approaches me and helps me to hold myself in the water. He teaches me that I have to keep moving my legs and arms with sharp strokes so as not to sink. Her lips are bruised, her hair wet. The water crashes against her skin.

—We can't stay here. I found out where those people were going.

I don't ask because I'm still breathing. We swim toward the cliff, which rises mighty from here, up to what looks like the sky. Paris is helping me.

—Now you have to hold your breath as long as you can. You can't let go, understand?

I nod, shy and shivering. I have to admit I'm scared. I've rarely felt it in my life. I haven't felt it even when I was held at gunpoint with bullets or when Luke was beating me up. I thought nothing frightened me, but the force of the sea does.

Paris catches her breath and dives. I mimic her, and her hand pulls me into the depths. I move my body as she does. We descend meters and meters. The cliff projects practically to the bottom of the ocean, which, although I can't see it, is far away from us. We cross cliffs and crags through a natural opening in the rocks. We have crossed the cliff. Paris does not let go of me. She keeps holding on to me tightly, and I cling to her. We climb until, once again, I breathe the blessed air, opening my mouth insistently again.

—The city of New America does not end at the cliff. —She says to me.

—What? —I can barely get my voice out of my throat.

I take a glance and don't understand what she said. Despite the night, I can still see how the rocky mountain stretches to what seems to be the end of the firmament.

—Come on, don't make too much noise.

I follow Paris across the surface of the water, swimming gently, and we come to a tiny beach. It barely has room for sand, much coarser than that of the market and the promenade because the cliff owns it all. I crawl ashore and let myself fall among the pebbles. I sigh in relief. I feel cold. My skin bristles. I sit up a little and glimpse the silhouette of Paris. Her chest, her back. She's feeling the rock. I don't know what she's doing. She's moving along the narrow beach, looking for something.

—Haven't you discovered something? —I ask her. And as I do, Paris disappears behind the rocks.

—Paris! —I whisper to her. I get up to look for her when the darkness allows me to see her silhouette in what seems to be the entrance to a cave.

—Come on, Eric! It's this way. —She harangues me in a low voice.

Walking doesn't agree with me. I'm a little dizzy. The sea, its texture. Its risks. Paris' skin. Her wrinkled fingers. The cold. The humidity and the smell of saltpeter from my half-naked body mixed like sticky cream on my back. I can barely take two straight steps. My sense of balance is impaired.

—Are you all right, Eric? —Paris puts a hand on my cheek as if trying to slap me gently. I squint. —Eric! —I nod as best I can. —We're close. —She takes my hand.

I discover, as we progress that it is not a cave but a huge tunnel that branches off into smaller, narrower ones. Night has fallen completely. We can hardly see anything. We continue slowly, despite groping, until we manage to make out a small yellowish light that, little by little, is getting bigger.

—This place... is not natural. It is excavated in the rock. —Paris analyzes.

It is an oil lamp that lights our way. Now, the main tunnel splits into three. The warmth of the mountain's interior makes me recover a little. Paris lets go of my hand and inspects the terrain. Suddenly, she steps back and pulls me back, stumbling.

—There are three people! There! They've seen me, and they're coming this way!

—Are you sure? —I look where she's pointing and see nothing.

I walk down the corridor that opens to the right, and there are indeed three shadows reflected on the walls. But they don't move. I beckon Paris to come closer without fear. I go for the shadows, and they are just three black cloaks hanging on a plastic coat rack.

—It has to be this way.

—Get dressed. —She says, looking at my naked torso.

Paris and I put on the black cloaks and protect our heads with the hood. It's made of a very soft and thick fabric, which finally keeps us warm and will help us to camouflage ourselves in this strange place. When I see Paris dressed like this, I remember my dream about the Priestess, and I also remember the figure of the New America of 168 AC. It's her. And I get it. I get it at last. We have found the Goddess and her community. Paris has understood it, too. We look into each other's eyes directly. Her eyes, as gray as ever, sparkle with emotion.

We continue through the galleries and rocky passages, through what are real catacombs. We leave behind us endless corridors, left and right, and I think about how we are going to get out of here because it is a labyrinth. We would need a map to know the exact point where we are. We are guided, of course, by the light. By the oil lamps that seem to be pointing to a safe path. Someone is coming towards us. He hides behind the same cloak as us. I grab Paris' fingers, and we continue as if nothing had happened.

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—Cheers—He says. It's a male voice. He walks past us, straight ahead. We don't answer. He walks away. We breathe.

A distant hissing sound now serves as a beacon. We follow those voices, and they lead us into a narrow hallway that ends in a huge circular room where the entire Goddess community has congregated, given the number of people and their attire. Paris and I stand frozen for a few seconds, looking closely at the temple carved into the rock. There are about twenty people dressed in the costume of the Goddess, just like us, sitting in several rows of wooden seats corroded by time. They direct their gazes towards the front, towards the altar, which is nothing more than a stone dais where a Priestess, with her reddish scarf with six-pointed stars knotted at the nape of her neck and perfectly placed, speaks. Behind her, on the wall, is a huge painting of a Priestess preaching in a small village. In the background, the desert. Above, the blue sky. On it is painted the symbol of the Goddess: a cross escorted by two crescent moons.

—It's oil paint—. Paris says quietly.

At the threshold, I sense that it is a sacred place not only because of where it is but because of the magic it conveys and the peace in which I let myself be carried away.

—Take a seat, please—. The Priestess has addressed us, who fascinated, continue to admire everything from one of the passages.

Quickly and without wanting to draw too much attention to ourselves, we head towards some seats at the end. Excited, probably as much or more than Paris, I can't help but think of all the slaves in the United Provinces. Of the rebellions, of the Halls, and, above all, of my mother. If she could see me right now...

—...in her magnificence, she continues to allow us fraternal gatherings in her almighty name and, especially, she obliges us, while granting us honor, to spread her deepest and most just ideals, which will come to fulfill us: Peace—the faithful to the Goddess repeat in unison that word, after the Priestess—Iguality, Freedom—. Paris and I, on this occasion, unite.

The Priestess continues in her monologue, full of beautiful words and questions of common sense for someone who has only been a slave. I am spellbound, nodding at such accurate and correct language. I feel within me a current that clears my mind and frees my soul. I believe in the Goddess. I believe in the Priestess. I believe in my mother and all the slaves. And I believe because I believe in her ideas: Peace, Equality, Freedom. Perhaps because they give me hope that I have lost a multitude of times, that of achieving freedom, not only for me but for all people who are under the yoke of slavery.

I look sideways at Paris, enraptured as well. I admire the Priestess again, her gestures, her movement as she walks down the aisle. How she raises her voice at times, how she whispers at others. We are all in deep silence.

—The strength of the Goddess guided the first Priestess in a world of war, plague, and famine. She was vigorous forceful, in past, decadent times. She kept her composure always and everywhere, bequeathing to us what only a mother can pass on to her children: ideas. Ideas that do not die, that cannot die. Those that are at the basis of a prosperous, solidary, and egalitarian life among all human beings, regardless of gender, race, or social class. The ideas of peace, regeneration, and progress. May that strength be with us in such tumultuous times as the ones we have been living through lately. Let us remember our oath of fidelity to the Goddess and our recognition of the work of the anonymous Priestesses in the prayer that she taught us and embodied in the Holy Bible.

Everyone stands up and begins to recite a prayer unanimously that I remember reading in my mother's Bible but that neither I nor Paris know by heart enough to join in the prayer. So, what we do is open and close our mouths, murmuring, moving our lips, and emitting a faint sound.

—Goddess of the world and life, woman mistress of time and death. You, who gave power to the Priestess and in your name sowed the seeds that today germinate here. Mother of the new mirror, of all heaven. Here below, we await the second coming of your soul, impregnated in each Priestess. To remove the evils that scourge us, as you did with those who scourged us. To preserve the life of nature, as you did when wormwood killed it. To lead us to peace and hope, to fill us with faith and abundance. I believe in you: goddess, mother, life, soul. Peace, Equality, Freedom.

—Peace, Equality, Freedom—. We say, merging with the community of the Goddess.

There is an uncomfortable silence. One of the seated believers stands up and walks to the altar. His face is not visible. The cloak and hood cover him completely. Once up there, he begins to read the Bible. It is the passage of the Priestess in the town of Monroe. The one I read only a few days ago at Paris' house. When he finishes reading, he returns to his place.

—The passage from the town of Monroe—the Priestess takes the floor again—what does she want to convey to us? The idea of justice and injustice. The Goddess, through her envoy, the Priestess, confronts the tyrant Alecsander Reed because injustice is the pillar of the political, economic, and social system of Monroe. There are no honorable jobs but criminal ones. Usurers. They make a society prosperous by crushing the other, the others. By exploiting its inhabitants. It is an unfair social mechanism, but it is repeated and reproduced over and over again. The Goddess, through her envoy, imposes her justice in Monroe: she gives food to those who have nothing to eat, and she gives drink to those who have nothing to drink but who, nevertheless, work from sunrise to sunset. She takes from those who have, who only have because they exploit, steal, and plunder. She does justice in an unjust world. What about Paul of Monroe? A skeptic who, in time, will become the most fervent follower of the Priestess and the Goddess. But he did not believe until he saw the miracle with his own eyes. We should not test the Goddess, and in her name, the dedicated Priestesses, because miracles only happen when they are meant to happen, when the time is right. Right. So, we have to believe first and thank later when the Goddess deems it so. And we will all see her. Her coming. The coming of her just world and the rigor of her just world.

It is impossible not to be mesmerized by the analysis and explanations of a story that I have now fully understood. Its echoes keep going round and round in my head and do not allow me to think only of expressions so passionately pronounced.

—But today, here, at the gates of the very city of New America, we can only celebrate. To celebrate the love that the Goddess has for us, as her legitimate daughters, and to celebrate the love among the community, which every day is uniting and cohesive. That wants to grow and expand. Today, the souls of Marianetta and Lucio will be united by the mark of the Goddess and by the blessing of the Priestess on their wedding day.

Two figures, holding hands, walk up to the altar. There, the Priestess removes their hoods, revealing their faces. They must be no more than thirty years old. She has her hair tied back, and she wears a flowing mane that reaches her shoulder. They wear wide smiles, a sign of happiness and excitement.

—Marianetta, in the name of the Goddess and the Priestess, always following her designs, her path, and her example, do you wish to take Lucius as your husband to love him until the Goddess takes you to the world to which we all belong?

—Yes, I do, in the name of the Goddess and the Priestess.

—And you, Lucius, in the name of the Goddess and the Priestess, always following their designs, their way, and their example, do you wish to take Marianetta as your wife to love him until the Goddess takes you to the world to which we all belong?

—Yes, I do, in the name of the Goddess and the Priestess.

—By the power of the Goddess, which was transferred to me when I swore allegiance to Her by becoming Priestess, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other and join your marks as a sign of communion.

Lucio lightly kisses Marianetta's lips, and, addressing both of them to the audience, they raise their left arms, clenching their fist. They show, on their wrist, the symbol of the religion of the Goddess: two crescent moons enclosing a cross. They join their marks and their symbols, and all the attendants, standing up, raise their fists, showing off the symbol. Paris and I do not have them, but we raise our arms anyway, making sure that the sleeves of the cloak hide our wrists.

—Congratulations—. The Priestess says as the newly married couple takes their seats again. —. Now, as peace and equality are values of the Goddess, who bestows us in her utmost benevolence, wish each other peace, remember that you are equal in your difference in the eyes of the Goddess and the Priestess. Greet each other as equals, for equal we are and equal we shall be.

Again, a murmur fills the room. The Goddess believers attending the rite turn to each other, holding out their hands and shaking them. Paris and I look at each other, unsure of what to do, and shake hands. The people in the row in front of us turn and shake hands with both of us. We keep our heads down.

—By the Goddess, peace and equality—. A man says to me as he shakes my hand firmly.

—For the Goddess, peace and equality—. I repeat. I raise my head for a second, looking into the eyes of my interlocutor. I know him. I don't know who he is, but I know him. It is he who recognizes me.

—Intruders! —he shouts. It's Diego Marquez—. Arrest them!

We are trapped in the depths of catacombs that do not appear on the maps of New America, in the last believing community of the Goddess.