The King's Armada

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The trio, Guy, Roberto and Doria, were set to depart when Bob Crawford showed up and said the prosecutor had offered him a contract to accompany Guy to Spain and locate Ed Kellerman.

  “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Guy questioned. “You represent me.”

  “Shaft pushed for a resolution. He’s minus a department head and can’t fill the spot while this thing is hanging. Kellerman’s still on the payroll. If he’s in Spain and wants to remain there, I think Shaft will offer you the job. Meanwhile the prosecutor wants someone who’s on good terms with you to find the missing man. It’s not just to clear your name.”

  “OK. We’ll go. But Doria Queveda and my son, Roberto, will go with us. It will take a day or two to get their papers in order. They lack passports, but there are special travel papers that can be issued.”

  This was the chance Guy wanted. There was something he wanted to check out, although it had given him a few sleepless hours. Just how far could this time travel go? He knew his life and Kellerman’s life would be as long and happy, or unhappy, in ancient Spain as in modern America, barring some vengeful illness, such as the plague, but just how far could he tempt fate?

  The weather was glorious when the four of them reached Madrid and checked into a downtown hotel, blue Spanish skies, and a caressing breeze. Outside tables, well-dressed men ordering strong coffee laced with brandy. Guy insisted they visit the Prado, that best of all Spanish art museums. They lazed away a full day after their flight, easing through jet lag into the haze of a Spanish evening, then a late night dinner with Roberto cared for by a hired sitter at the hotel.

  Then came the day. Guy showed up at breakfast wearing his captain’s uniform, Doria in 16th Century attire carrying Roberto.

  “Why the outfit?” Bob asked.

  “I am Captain Don Pedro Gracia, a soldier of King Felipe II and a veteran of the Spanish Armada.”

  Crawford noted the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his boot. “You seem to be authentic. I heard your little show drew high praise.”

  “It seemed authentic because it was authentic,” Don Pedro said. “Please call me Don Pedro on this day.”

  Bob shrugged. “If you like. You seem to be drawing a bit of attention to yourself. And you, Doria, also in costume.”

  “In the garb of my era,” Mr. Crawford. “Be patient and all things will be revealed.”

  After breakfast the foursome found a cab to take them to the nearby town of Avila and Don Pedro asked the driver to locate Santa María Church.”

  “I know it well,” the driver replied. “But it is more of a museum, not used for many years, supplanted by a much larger, modern structure.”

  The church was a picture with its ivied stone, aged brick, wrought iron fencing, and a huge oak door with spider-like black hinges. A lay brother was tending the garden.

  “May we see the cemetery?” Don Pedro inquired. “A friend of mine is buried there.”

  “You may,” the brother smiled. “But the cemetery has been totally occupied for at least two hundred years. I doubt if you will find your friend.”

  “Perhaps not, but we shall have a look.” Bob Crawford was truly puzzled. The four, Roberto in Doria’s arms, wandered through the stone orchard for more than half an hour until Don Pedro stopped before a stone and beckoned Bob.

  The inscription: Ed Kellerman, then in Spanish, beloved husband and father, Died December 1626 at the Age of 66.

  “There’s your Ed Kellerman,” Don Pedro said.

  “Really, Guy.”

  “Call me Don Pedro.”

  “OK, Don Pedro, but what sort of a joke is this.” Crawford’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Patience,” Doria counseled. “There is more to come.”

  When they were back in the cab and Don Pedro had directed it to the Botella Villa, which was well known, he told Crawford, “My wife’s name is Doña María Botella García. My son’s name is Roberto María Botella García. Keep those names in mind.”

  “Well do tell me what some of these people are saying in Spanish,” Bob said. “I’m no linguist.” The rest of the trip was made in silence, except for Doria humming to the slumbering Roberto.

  To Don Pedro’s delight the old villa remained, but it was the core of a revitalized splendid dwelling. They stepped down from the cab and told the driver to wait. Don Pedro rapped on the large door made of wormy chestnut and brought to a high shine. A youngish man answered and eyed his uniform with wonder.

  “Pardon the way I’m dressed, but I’m a historian from the United States. If you don’t mind I and my companions would like a quick look at the family burial grounds here.”

  “I see no harm in that,” the young man said. “My wife and I live here and are descended from those sleeping out back.”

  “And what might your name be?”

  “Andrew. Andrew García. And you?”

  “I am dressed as Don Pedro García, one of your forebears.”

  The younger man smiled. “Yes, you will find yourself buried with a very ornate headstone. You were in fact a grandee.”

  “That makes me proud. Don Pedro introduced the others, and his direct descendent led them around the large villa to the family plot. “Here is where you are buried, Don Pedro.” He pointed to a grave marked by a pylon, guarded by two angels. “And your wife Doña María Botella García is at your side.”

  “And my son, Roberto Doña María García? Where might he be?”

  “Across the way there, with his wife and children. You had a very large family. There are other children.”

  Don Pedro held up his hand. “I have seen enough. I would like to have a few surprises. But he had noted that he had lived to be 73 and that his wife achieved her 80th year. That was a blessing to have Doña María survive him.

  Don Pedro shook hands with his descendent and gave him a quick hug “Now we go. Thankful for your help.”

  “You are in some sort of drama?” Andrew asked. “For an American your Spanish is excellent, though a trifle old fashioned.”

  Don Pedro gave him a close, knowing look. “You may not believe this, Andrew, but I am Don Pedro García. I and Doria Queveda and little Roberto Doña María García, we are time travelers. If you tell someone this they will think you crazy, or they will think you have taken up with lunatics. But it is a fact. Now we must go.”

  Andrew García said nothing, but watched the four disappear around the side of the villa.

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Crawford said when they were heading back to the hotel.”

  “It is difficult to grasp in such a short space of time. Do you have a family, Bob?”

  “I am engaged.”

  “Too bad. If you were free we could take you with us to the 16th Century. There you would meet the living Ed Kellerman and my wife, Doña María. But very likely you prefer Chapel Hill.”

  “Extremely likely. But I would like to get to the bottom of this.”

  “If you will give us one hour, you will know for certain.”

  Crawford shrugged. “One hour. Why not? One hour to be convinced that I have come to Spain and seen the grave of an old man named Ed Kellerman who a few days ago was a professor at UNC. One fruitful hour. Of course.”

  “The concept of time travel is difficult to grasp, but there is a way. It can be compared to philosophy, or Zen. You must think of the infinite, of infinity. You must consider how large or small infinity might be. When you have that in your mind, and it will take some time, you must think of the where and the when. Then if your thinking is not disturbed by exterior conflicts, you will have it.”

  At his hotel room, Don Pedro showed Crawford around. The tenth floor, the windows sealed. No exit except the door to the hall. He carried the straight chair into the hall, set it across from the door and asked Crawford to be seated. Then he brought him a drinking glass full of red wine.

  “You may sip if you wish while you observe the hands of your watch ticking off sixty minutes. Doria
, Roberto and myself will be in the room.”

  “And how should this convince me?”

  “Patience. Patience. You will see. And while you are sitting with your wine, think on the infinite.”

  In the room, candles were lit, more wine opened. The two of them drank and managed to give Roberto a small portion. Don Pedro stuffed his pockets with envelops of aspirin, antibiotics, a diagram for a flush toilet and other sundry items. Inside his shirt he placed a series of maps of the world and an Old Farmer’s Almanac. Doria had several high quality wind-up watches on her arm and a Barbie doll stuffed in her bosom.

  Fifteen minutes passed and Bob Crawford, seated in the hall on his straight chair, had noticed people coming and going from their rooms down the corridor who had given him odd glances. He began to feel uncomfortable. At the half hour mark a hotel employee he recognized as one who delivered room service approached and asked in broken English if he could be of assistance.

  Crawford said no and the man departed. A few minutes later a police officer arrived with the same question. Crawford was aware his conduct was unusual, but the police officer had only a few words of English. The officer departed and returned minutes later with a man Crawford recognized as the hotel concierge who spoke perfect English.

  “Can I be of service, sir?”

  “I’m delighted to see you. The man in this room, Guy King, or Don Pedro as he likes to be called, asked me to sit out here for one hour. He and I are friends. Fellow Americans.”

  “I’ve seen both of you,” the concierge said. “Is Mr. King in that room?”

  “Yes. He and a woman and a baby. The three of them are in there doing some kind of an experiment.”

  The concierge turned to the policeman and said something in rapid Spanish. The officer hustled off down the hall. Then he asked Crawford if they might enter the room, or at least knock.

  Crawford glanced at his watch. “I promised them one hour. It will soon be up.” He smiled, happy for the company of the concierge. The hotel man lingered and they chatted about the fine weather and the Prado and various tourist attractions. Presently the police officer returned in the company of another man, this one balding, possibly in his late fifties, tall and with a hawk like nose.

  The new man introduced himself as Police Detective Lopez. He spoke perfect English. “There seems to be some question about what is happening here, he explained.

  Crawford reiterated his story, going over the names of the three parties in the room and why he was waiting outside.

  “And we can enter soon?” the detective asked with a glance at his watch.

  “Five minutes,” Crawford said, then turned to the concierge, “Did you see Don Pedro’s uniform?”

  The concierge shook his head no and the detective seemed puzzled. “Who is this Don Pedro,” he questioned.

  “Oh, that’s Guy King. He’s dressed up like a Spanish soldier, an ancient soldier. He said it fits the time of the Spanish Armada. Beautiful uniform, with a dagger in his boot! We had quite a tour today. He claimed to show me his tomb and that of his son.”

  “His son,” the detective said. “The infant in that room?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. And Doria is also there.”

  “This Doria,” the detective questioned, she is the wife of one of the two men?”

  Crawford smiled. “There is only one man. But Doria is not the wife. She is married to Jesus.”

  “I see,” the detective countered. “She is a nun.”

  “Oh, no. She is simply married to Jesus. He’s a good guy.”

  “I’ve always heard that. Tell me, when can we enter this room and meet this array of individuals?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but he promised a total answer if I would wait out here for one hour.”

  The detective glanced at the concierge and then at his watch. “It seems the hour is up, shall we knock?”

  “Oh, no,” Crawford said, “he gave me the key.” He produced the small card and slipped it into the door lock, then opened the door.

  Inside were empty wine glasses and three guttering candles.

  This is a surprise,” the detective asserted.

  Crawford was wide eyed. “I was outside all the time. Where could they be?”

  “Not in this room,” the concierge said. He had checked the bath and the closet. The police officer was peering under the bed.

  “Mr. Crawford,” the detective began, “you may think our Spanish police system is primitive. And possibly it is compared to New York or Los Angeles, but we even have access to psychiatric help. I’ll have to ask you to accompany me to what you might call a safe facility, and then you can tell your story to certain professional individuals.” He patted Crawford’s shoulder. “You will be protected at all times.”

  The realization of what might have happened and the difficulty in the explanation finally struck home. “I am a lawyer in the United States,” he said. “but not in Spain, nor do I speak Spanish. I would like to stand mute until I can contact a Spanish lawyer and possibly the United States Embassy. It seems my friends have played some sort of trick on me.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Crawford,” the detective said. “Now if you will accompany me I’ll ask the concierge to have your bags sent along. I’m certain when Don Pedro, Guy King, the wife of Jesus and small infant appear all will be explained. And this Don Pedro, I am eager to see him in his fine uniform, complete with dagger.”

  ***

  As Don Pedro walked up the lane to the Botella Villa he saw a smiling Doña María come to greet him. Beside her was a small Yorkie, yapping its head off and jumping in delirious circles.

  ###

  About the Author

  Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

  His first novel was “Murder on the French Broad,” available only in a print edition published in 2010.

  Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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