Sor Juana Answers the Bishop
Sor Juana Answers the Bishop — a philosophy story. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy.
Page 1
The mule's hooves skidded on the wet stones, and with a frightened bray it went down sideways, its load-strap snapping. The crate of books burst open across the square, scattering leather-bound volumes into the puddles. Sor Juana dropped the basket she carried and ran forward, splashing through rainwater to grab at the drifting pages before the ink could bleed away. Inés dove after a rolling volume, skidding on her knees to trap it under her hands. Madre Catalina hauled on the mule's bridle, bracing her whole round body against its panic, while Don Carlos flung himself flat to scoop three books into his upturned hat before they sank. Amid the scramble, something small and purple-sealed skidded across the cobbles and came to rest squarely against Sor Juana's shoe. She bent, lifted it from the puddle, and turned it over in her ink-stained fingers, frowning at the bishop's wax seal pressed into the purple wax like a waiting question.
Page 2
The torno groaned as Madre Catalina spun it, hip-high and round as a cart wheel, sending another crate of books squealing out into the street beyond. Inés scrambled back and forth from the shelves, hauling armfuls of volumes nearly as tall as her own chest and stacking them into Don Carlos's waiting arms. He staggered under the weight, boots sliding on the tiled floor, and dropped the stack onto the last crate just as Madre Catalina slammed its lid and snapped a padlock shut with a clank. Then Sor Juana's painted wooden globe, round as a melon, tipped off the spinning hatch and bounced away down the long hall, rattling against the tiles. "Catch it, catch it!" cried Inés, already chasing after it on her huaraches. Don Carlos lunged, swept off his broad-brimmed hat, and slapped it down flat over the globe just as it reached the doorway. Silence, then laughter, as he lifted the hat to find the little painted world sitting dizzy but whole beneath it.
Page 3
The iron grille divided the parlour in two, and through its small square gap the tall scholar tried to push his long brass telescope, grunting as the metal caught fast on a twisted hinge. He shoved, he wriggled it, but it would not budge an inch. The small girl scrambled up onto the visitors' bench, her braids swinging, and reached both hands through the bars to tilt the brass tube sideways. She grabbed the hinge and twisted with all her strength, rocking the telescope until it slid loose with a clang. The sudden jolt sent her elbow knocking against a tray balanced on the sill, and a dozen candied limes went bouncing and rolling across the tiles in every direction. The round little nun dropped to her knees at once, scooping limes back onto the tray before they rolled under the furniture, while the tall nun in the white habit laughed behind her hand, steadying the freed telescope so it would not fall again.
Page 4
The wooden lattice screen of the upper choir rose taller than three men, and behind it Sor Juana knelt with a basket of written pages balanced on the rail, knotting a rope around its handle with ink-stained fingers. Below, far across the echoing nave, Don Carlos stood among the pews, tilted face upward, arms open. 'Lower away!' he called, his voice rolling up to the gilded altarpiece. Sor Juana fed the rope hand over hand, the basket swinging and dipping — until the knot slipped loose. The pages burst free and scattered downward like a flock of startled doves. Don Carlos broke into a run, dodging between pews, snatching sheets from the air with his dented hat held wide as a net, his coat flapping behind him. Inés, braids bouncing, threw herself onto the rope and hauled the empty basket back up hand over hand, bracing her sandaled feet against the choir rail. Madre Catalina leaned over the lattice, keys clanking, shouting directions down into the nave as the last page floated gently onto the altar steps.
Page 5
At the barred window set waist-high in the atrium wall, Sor Juana pressed the bundle of pages through the iron bars, each page wrapped in oilcloth, and let it drop into the open saddlebag slung on the waiting mule. Don Carlos cinched the buckle fast, but before he could step back, a gust tore through the marigold sellers' baskets by the gate and flung a storm of orange petals straight into the mule's face. The animal reared, braying, and bolted across the cobbled atrium, saddlebag flapping, scattering marigold sellers and knocking over a basket of flowers. Inés dropped her slate, which clacked hard against her chest, and sprinted after the beast, skirts and rebozo flying, huaraches slapping the stone. She flung herself forward and seized the bridle with both hands, digging her heels in and hauling the mule to a stamping, snorting stop beneath the old stone cross. Madre Catalina came waddling after, keys clanging, scolding the whole while, as Sor Juana gripped the window bars and called out instructions through the gap.
Page 6
The ladder stood tall against the shelves, twice the height of a grown woman, and Sor Juana climbed rung after rung until her white veil brushed the topmost books. She hauled down armful after armful, passing them to the open crate below. 'Steady now, there are four thousand of these and only two hands,' she called down, laughing, as Madre Catalina scrambled to catch the falling stacks. Then a whole tower on the third shelf tipped sideways, sliding free in a rush, and books tumbled down in a cloud of dust that made everyone cough and wave their arms. Madre Catalina scrambled through the mess, chalking numbers onto the last crate with her red stub. 'Forty-one, forty-two — mind your feet, child!' Inés darted between the fallen volumes, scooping them into neat piles, but as she knelt by a small leather-bound book she paused, glanced up at the ladder, and slid it quietly under her orange rebozo instead of into the crate, her face caught between guilt and delight.
Page 7
The wind came off the orchard wall all at once, grabbing the wet sheet Inés was hauling from the stone basin and filling it like a ship's sail. Her huaraches skidded across the flagstones as the sheet dragged her sideways toward the orange trees. "Hold your ground!" called Madre Catalina, dropping her washing paddle and lunging to grab a flapping corner. Sor Juana lunged for the other end, and together they wrestled the great sheet down, hauling it hand over hand until it collapsed in a soggy heap. In the scramble, a cake of soap shot loose from the basin's edge and skated across the wet stone, leaving a long white smear. Sor Juana crouched beside the puddle it left, snatched up a fallen twig, and began tracing spirals and sharp angles in the suds. "Look — the wind pushed in a curve, like this," she said, drawing the shape. Inés, catching her breath, knelt close to watch, braids dripping. "Like a seashell," she said. Madre Catalina, still panting, planted her hands on her hips. "Seashell or no seashell, that sheet nearly swam to Puebla."
Page 8
The rope creaked through the trapdoor as the three of them hauled, hand over hand, the brass telescope swinging like a pendulum among the great bronze bells, each one taller than Inés herself. Madre Catalina planted her feet wide and leaned back with all her round weight, grunting with the strain. Sor Juana guided the long barrel past a bell's lip with careful fingers, keeping it from clanging the metal. Just as the telescope cleared the trapdoor, the lantern hooked on the ledge tipped and fell — Inés lunged sideways, dropping the rope's slack end, and caught it hard against her chest before it hit the floor, chalk stub swinging wildly on its string. "Got it!" she gasped, steadying the flame. Sor Juana laughed, breathless, and knelt beside her, pointing up through the open archway at the sky scattered with stars. She spoke slowly, sentence by sentence, about distance and light, while Inés scratched the words onto her slate by the lantern's small glow, chalk squeaking, knees pressed to the cold stone floor of the tower.
Page 9
Sixty pages stretched end to end across the long tables, drying in neat rows beneath the painted ceiling, when the refectory door slammed open and a draught tore through the room. The pages leapt up together like startled birds. Inés dove across the hip-high table, grabbing a fistful before they scattered. Madre Catalina slammed her palm down on three more, flattening them, while Sor Juana lunged for the window-side stack, snatching sheets out of the air. Bread rolls, spoons, and pears came flying from the sideboard, slapped down as weights on fluttering corners. Madre Catalina even seized the small returned book from under her sash and dropped it onto a rebellious page, pinning it flat. When the draught finally died, the three stood panting over a battlefield of crusts and cutlery. Sor Juana laughed, breathless, and began gathering the rescued sheets into order. Needle and thread came out, and together they stitched page to page, binding the scattered Respuesta into a single proper volume at last.
Page 10
The roof stairs were steep, but the three of them climbed them together, Sor Juana hugging the stitched volume to her chest like a child while Madre Catalina shoved from below with both hands against her back. On the azotea, wind off the volcanoes snapped at their veils. Inés grabbed the laundry pulley's rope, looping it twice around the thick book's spine, and Madre Catalina knotted it fast with fingers quick despite their shortness. Together they heaved the bundle up onto the stone parapet, waist-high to Sor Juana, and lowered it hand over hand, the rope hissing through the pulley wheel as the book swung down the long wall toward the cart waiting below. Inés let go of the rope the instant it touched canvas and dashed to the pigeon loft, wrenching its little wooden door open. Wings exploded upward in a grey-white storm, scattering over the rooftops toward the brightening volcanoes. Sor Juana laughed, breathless, watching the birds climb into the pink morning sky.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder Philosophy
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