IT WAS a cool spring morning in the year 1916 in which the three children, natives of the Portuguese village of Fatima, saw nothing unusual. As was their custom, they had arisen before dawn, eaten breakfast, then driven their parents’ sheep to pasture. There had been the usual chatter along the road, the usual plans for games once the sheep were dispersed. And now it was raining, the chill drizzle that was to be expected in early spring.
“We mustn’t get too wet,” said six-year-old Jacinta. “Lucia, maybe we should go to the cave today.”
“Of course we should!” cried her eight-year-old brother Francisco. “It would be easy to watch the sheep from there.”
Their cousin, aged nine, surveyed the dreary landscape with a critical eye. This pasture where they had brought the sheep belonged to her parents. It was only a small field with a few straggling rows of olive trees at one end, but there was also a little rise of ground nearby, surmounted by a windmill. In the side of this hill was the cave—assuredly the best shelter the place offered.
“All right,” she said finally. “You carry the lunch boxes, Francisco, and see that they don’t get wet. I guess the sheep will be all right by themselves for a while.”
A bit breathless, the three finally reached the cave. It was dark inside, and rather cramped, but the young shepherds gave no thought to this. They were used to the place, for they frequently played here even on sunny days. Besides, the cave was dry and commanded a good view of the pasture. It would be easy to notice if the sheep began to stray.
