by Lisa Mangum
I knew I had to find the Seven Cities. I had been infected.
When I told my parents I intended to set off for the Seven Cities of Gold, they forbade me in the strongest possible terms—which is a very good way to inspire a teenager. In secret, Fernando told me everything he remembered about his route, about the intervening mountains, and the Redrock Desert. His stories painted a jumble of spectacular images in my head.
I secretly packed supplies, food, rope, packets of alchemical firestarter … and a great deal of encouragement from the old man with one foot. I could see the mountains on the horizon, and I knew the Redrock Desert lay beyond them. I would find the Seven Cities of Gold—and the Fountain of Lamneth, too, for good measure.
I sneaked away from home one night and trudged off into the dark, following the constellations, which seemed to lead me directly where I needed to go. By the next morning, though, my confidence had already begun to flag, but I knew that a quest is not something one undertakes lightly. Reaching my goal would require more than a half day of effort, so I stuck it out. Sore feet would be the least of my concerns.
But sore feet became sore legs and a sore back. My pack weighed as much as a boulder and I discarded all the luxuries I no longer considered necessary, bit by bit along the way. It took me five days to cross through the foothills up into the mountains—and I had not even begun the real journey through unexplored territory.
In two weeks, I saw not a single soul. At first, the solitude was exhilarating, then frightening, then simply oppressive.
As I wandered, occasionally I would look up in the sky and see a chugging steamliner plowing across the winds, delivering cargo to the mountain villages or scattered lake towns. But the airship captain flew too high to see me even if I tried to signal him. I walked onward, climbing and descending, following the fading vapor trails of steam the airships left in the sky.
I ran out of food. Since I had grown up in a comfortable village, I had few survival skills. I didn’t really know how to hunt, and I certainly couldn’t defend myself if I should come upon a giant bear.
I ran out of firestarter on the night of the first snowfall, and I huddled under my thin blanket, shivering against the bone-breaking cold. I cursed my poor planning and my gullibility. And I hadn’t even reached the Redrock Desert yet! I was a fool.
The next day, trudging onward with numb feet and doubled vision, I topped a ridge and looked down into a cleft of rock, saw sheer cliffs with stairstepped quarries, mine shafts, even the terminus of a steamliner supply rail. A mining town built into the cliffs!
I nearly collapsed at the sight. I had not eaten in days. My throat was parched, my clothes tattered, and my satchel of belongings nearly empty. I reeled like a drunken man toward the quarry and the cottages built of stone. Three miners hurried out to catch me as I fell. “You look as if you’ve been chewed up by the world,” said one.
“And then spat back out,” said another.
They carried me to an inn where they gave me water and hot broth and bread that tasted like ambrosia—not that I’ve ever tasted ambrosia. The miners gathered around, all of them intent. They gave me a mug of mountain spirits, which made me dizzy.
“Where are you from, lad?”
“What are you doing out here?”
“What’s your name?”
I lifted my large head, which was shaggier than usual after my tribulations. “I am Cabeza de Vaca from Opal Lake, and I am on a quest to find the Seven Cities of Gold.”
The miners drew back, some chuckling, others amazed. “You’ve been out there, then? You’ve been to the Redrock Desert and come back?”
I hesitated only a moment, unwilling to admit my dismal failure. “Yes! Months of staggering around lost, but searching. All the things I’ve seen.” I shook my head. “I can’t even describe.”
“Try,” said one of the miners, and they all leaned close to listen.
So I told them what they wanted to hear. Remembering Fernando’s descriptions, I talked about fantastic rock formations, stone windows, petroglyphs, and a mysterious grotto high in a canyon wall that held the Fountain of Lamneth.
“The Fountain?” one of the miners cried. “Haven’t heard that one in a long time!”
Seeing the enthusiastic reception to my words, I told them even more.
The mining village was called Endoline, and the men and women worked a rich vein of alchemical minerals, extracting sunstone, bloodstone, dreamstone, green sulfur, fire opals, and many other rare substances, all of which were shipped by steamliner to Poseidon City for trade, mostly to Albion.
The Endoline miners tended me, cleaned me up, gave me fresh clothes, and let me rest there until I was more than recovered. When I regained my strength, the people were eager to re-supply me, stuffing my pack with a far more practical inventory of survival goods.
“Will you be going out again to find the Seven Cities?” they asked. It seemed important to them that somebody continue the search. “And when you find them, will you come back here and tell us?”
“Of course,” I said. “I promise.”
They advised me about the mountains and the desert, definitely more accurate directions than old Fernando had been able to provide. And so, with more caution than the first time, I set off toward the great mysterious expanse beyond the mountains.
I lasted five days.
The desert was an inhospitable place, but I forced myself to go into the canyons that Fernando had talked about. Towering walls of rust-colored rock were marked with dark stains that I could not decipher. My feet were sore and my spirits were low. I was tired of being alone, but I had not yet found what I was looking for. I made up my mind to continue for one more day, because my food would not last longer than that. Then I would have to make it back to the mountains, or I’d perish out there, lost and alone.
In the distance I saw a large chiseled design on the side of a mesa, a pattern that looked like a flying owl clearly drawn by the hand of man, but so distant and so high that it had to have been carved there by the Elder Race. What mortal could have achieved something like that? I shaded my eyes and stared longingly at the distant cliffside and the rugged intervening terrain—and I knew it would take me several days to reach the base of the mesa. I did not have the food, or the stamina, to make it, and so with one last longing glance, I turned around and made my way back.…
Reaching the mountains, I followed the lines of roads until I found another mining village, this one named Broken Cliffs. Again, they welcomed me with astonishment. I staggered into their town. “I’ve been to find the Seven Cities!”
And the people gathered around me. “The Seven Cities of Gold? You come from the Redrock Desert?”
“Yes,” I said and told them how I’d wandered the uncharted landscape, the grand designs I had seen on the slickrock cliffs. “A message from the Elder Race for seekers like me. I didn’t reach the Seven Cities this time—but I will return.”
My story fired their imagination, and I began to realize the value of what I was providing. I rested in Broken Cliffs for weeks, waiting for a cold snap to pass. The villagers were happy to replenish my supplies, give me warm blankets and wool clothing, and they also offered me vague directions and advice.
I set off again.…
I repeated the same scheme, over and over—for years. I ventured deeper into the Redrock Desert, always searching, going as far as my supplies and my blisters would allow. I became familiar with the various mining towns, which were much easier to find than the Seven Cities.
When I eventually returned to Endoline, I was delighted to find that the villagers remembered me. They had continued talking my tribulations from the first time, and they had added fanciful perils, glorious visions, and remarkable discoveries that exceeded even my ability to describe. Then, as I returned to Broken Cliffs, Chalcedony Wells, and Quartzline, my own story preceded me. The fact of my quest had revitalized dreams in the Seven Cities, awakened curiosity and a sense of wonder in those who led
painfully uneventful lives. What was wrong with that? I felt proud to give them such inspiration.
At one point, five years into my quest, I realized it was more efficient just to wander the mountains from one mining town to the next, telling my story without the bothersome step of arduous desert explorations. By then, I was familiar enough with the landscape that I could describe my adventures convincingly without having to suffer further. It was far less taxing that way.
Eventually, I returned to my old home of Opal Lake, a grown and hardened man full of adventures, ready to be received as a hero. I was disappointed to learn that old Fernando had died years earlier, as if relieved to have passed on his dream to me. The people of Opal Lake remembered me as the boy who had run off and never come back. My parents were glad to know I was all right, but they had grown accustomed to life without me.
I spent nights in the village telling stories by a bonfire at the lakeshore. I described the Seven Cities of Gold, and I told them I had found the mystical Fountain of Lamneth, but declined to drink of the magical water, so as to maintain my hold on humanity. The people of Opal Lake needed the second-hand adventure, for they would never experience anything similar for themselves.
My mother tentatively asked if I intended to stay, and the crowd of listeners fell silent as the bonfire crackled. I looked at her and shook my shaggy head. By now I had grown a beard. “Someone has to find the Seven Cities of Gold, and I am determined that it’ll be me. Somebody has to explore the world.”
The villagers applauded me as a hero. They gave me the supplies I needed—food, fresh clothes, newly shod boots—and I departed, leaving only my stories behind.
At first I set off toward the mountains, but when I was out of sight, I circled back and headed instead toward the coast. I had more important things to do in Poseidon City.
After all my years of questing, I had built up a vivid imaginary picture of what the Seven Cities of Gold looked like, but I really had no comprehension of what a “city” was at all. Opal Lake barely qualified as a village, and even the mining towns of Broken Cliffs, Endoline, and Chalcedony Wells had no more than a few thousand souls.
Poseidon City, though, was a cacophony of people, vehicles, smells, shadows, and streets—and an expansive audience hungry to hear about my epic journey. These everyday people sorely needed a dream of lost marvels.
I had spent enough time in the Redrock Desert that my face was weathered, and people said that my gaze had an odd quality of distance. Remembering what I had seen in the eyes of old Fernando, I cultivated an edge of exotic wariness, a hint of driven madness.
Since I had been infected by the quest, pushed to the far fringes of nowhere in search of that splendid mirage, I wondered just how much truth there had been in Fernando’s tales. What if he hadn’t actually lost his foot from a fall after glimpsing the Fountain? Maybe his foot had been amputated after something as mundane as an infected cut? But who wanted to hear that story?
I’d suffered through enough starvation and thirst in my search for the Seven Cities, and I much preferred to spend an evening in a tavern with a drink and a friend—preferably many friends, and preferably friends who would buy the drinks.
Poseidon City had ale far superior to anything in Opal Lake or the mining towns. With its countless workers, weary men and women who rarely, if ever, set foot outside the city, there was an infinite landscape of taverns and listeners. Apart from the stream of sailors who frequented the dockside inns, most of the taverns had regular customers who did not visit other drinking establishments. Therefore, I could go just a few blocks away, pull up a new bench, call for a tankard of ale, and tell the very same adventures to an entirely different audience. No one would ever know the difference.
My heart swelled when I saw their intent expressions, when they glanced toward the windows and considered mysteries that had never previously crossed their minds. I was doing a good service. Even though my stories were not true—well, very few of them at least—I didn’t consider what I was doing as lying. I was entertaining. I was inspiring. And if I could give these lackluster people a sense of wonder for the mere price of a tankard of ale—or two or three—then it was a good thing by far.
Once I learned which taverns were most lucrative, I began to dream aloud about my next expedition to the desert. I vowed that if I could just go farther, if I could just endure longer, I would find the object of my lifelong quest. Then, as my next step, I would forlornly look at my empty money purse and request funds for supplies so I could head out into the emptiness again and find that great dream of human history.…
I made a fair amount of money that way, and I could have purchased fine clothes and jewelry, but my dusty tattered clothes served my purpose well. Before entering any new tavern, I would find a safe place to stash my ever-growing hoard, so that I once again appeared penniless.
I wandered from place to place, talking about my goal, my tribulations, my need to find grand and mysterious places. By now my personal legend had grown. Tavern patrons talked about my quest even when I wasn’t there.
But I had completed the circuit of likely drinking establishments, and I could no longer stay in Poseidon City and remain convincing. So, I used some of the generous contributions to buy actual supplies and booked passage on a cargo steamliner that took me out to Endoline again (no use walking all that way). I spent another week in the mining town, telling the stories I had honed in Poseidon City before venturing out.
With a full belly, warm clothes, and plenty of supplies, I set off in a different direction, winding through a new set of canyons on an unpredictable course, going wherever the desert and my feet would take me. Maybe I was caught up in my own story. I found more cliffs, more slot canyons, even other petroglyphs, mysterious symbols of squiggles and arrows.
After a few weeks out there though, I’d had quite enough. During my year in the city I’d grown better at talking than walking. Muscular thighs had given way to a rounded gut, so I looped back into the mountains, found another mining village, one I had not visited for two years, and plied them with my stories, telling them how I’d seen the Seven Cities in the distance, but hadn’t been able to make it there before my supplies gave out.
My quest had become legendary, though it was clear some listeners had begun to consider me obsessed and mad. I stayed in the mining town for only a few days before heading off to another village in the foothills, where I told the same stories.
Eventually I returned to Poseidon City, having let the audiences lie fallow long enough. My most receptive crowds were in the dockside taverns because sailors were always new. Crews came and went, and most of the local listeners were tired of hearing about Albion or their absurd myths about angels beneath the sea. They had never heard my tales of the Seven Cities or the Fountain of Lamneth, though!
One day, before the taverns opened for the evening crowds, I came upon a place called Underworld Books. I wasn’t much of a reader, preferring stories told from one person to another without the intervention of written words. But the proprietor of the bookshop seemed to have explored more exotic worlds than I had. She knew exactly what I might be looking for, even though I didn’t know myself. She watched me from the door of her shop. “I know what you lack. You are a seeker.”
I smiled, scratched my shaggy beard. “Ah, you’ve heard my story, then.” I extended a large hand. “I am Cabeza de Vaca, the man who will find the Seven Cities of Gold.”
“That is your intent, but you lack a map. I have maps. I have exactly what you need.”
I was doubtful. “If maps existed to find the Seven Cities of Gold, then someone else would have found them by now.”
“There are maps from different worlds,” said the bookseller. “Some accurate, some not, but all could be useful, since the Redrock Desert doesn’t change much from universe to universe.”
I suspected she had cultivated this tantalizing tale to lure potential customers. Still, I realized that if I carried maps—as props—my own sto
ry might be more believable. I patted my tattered trousers. “I have little money. I’m a weary traveler who generally lives off the land.”
“I think not.” She frowned at me. “And I think you would be a much more effective seeker with my maps.”
Maybe she glimpsed the sack of coins I kept hidden under my shirt, but I knew she told the truth. So I purchased the maps at a price that I thought was too high, but the bookseller’s penetrating gaze seemed to peer right through me, and she would not lower her price.
I marveled at the maps she provided; they would indeed be quite beneficial, for not only did they sketch out the rough topography of the desert, they also showed the intervening mountains in greater detail, the roads, the mining villages, even some population clusters that I had not visited before, places that had never heard my stories. All in all, a good trade.
Eventually, I set off to the wilderness again, telling everyone I would continue my quest until I found the Seven Cities, and they all bought me another round of drinks.
With the maps I could travel deeper into the desert, go places I had never seen. This time, I felt the quest more strongly than I had experienced since I’d listened to old Fernando spin his tales on the muddy shore of Opal Lake.
The maps also showed me easier ways into the desert, and by now I had gotten more proficient at choosing my supplies, and I also knew how to locate rock potholes that held rainwater or hidden springs surrounded by tamarisks, so I could actually stay out there longer.
That time, I ventured deeper into the arid wasteland than I had ever gone before, and finally I saw a shimmering mirage, something I had never expected to find. A gleaming expanse of a distant lake that lay like a moonstone mirror at the base of an enormous mesa that rose from the desert like an island in the sky. Exactly as the legends had foretold! The Seven Cities must be up there, the Elder Race separated from base mankind in their high fortress.
