The Seven Serpents Trilogy
Page 1
The Seven Serpents Trilogy
Scott O’Dell
The Captive:
Copyright © 1979, 2009 by Scott O’Dell
The Feathered Serpent:
Copyright © 1981, 2009 by Scott O’Dell
The Amethyst Ring:
Copyright © 1983, 2009 by Scott O’Dell
Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
O’Dell, Scott.
The seven serpents trilogy / Scott O’Dell.
v. cm.
Previously pub. separately: The captive, 1979; The feathered serpent, 1981; The amethyst ring, 1983.
Summary: Follows Jesuit seminarian Julian Escobar in the New World as he witnesses the enslavement and exploitation of the Mayas, Aztecs, and Incas by Spanish conquerors.
Contents: The captive —The feathered serpent —The amethyst ring.
[1. Mayas—Fiction. 2. Aztecs—Fiction. 3. Incas—Fiction. 4. Indians of Mexico—Fiction. 5. Indians of South America—Fiction. 6. Mexico—History—Conquest, 1519–1540—Fiction. 7. Peru—History—Conquest, 1522–1548—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.O237Sev 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008041318
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
The Captive
The Feathered Serpent
The Amethyst Ring
About the Author
The Captive
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THIS STORY IS BASED ON THE LEGEND OF THE MAYAN GOD KUKULCÁN, who mysteriously appeared out of the north some time around the sixth century. He was not born a deity, it seems; he was a humble young man who, because of his compassionate nature, became a god.
Kukulcán lived among the Maya in what is now southeastern Mexico until about the ninth century, which was the flowering time of the culture. Grieving over a misdeed, he disappeared into the east, saying, “I leave you now but I shall come again. I shall come from the east. You will find me in the body of a young man, much younger than I, a tall youth with golden hair.”
Among the Aztecs, Kukulcán was known as the god Quetzalcóatl. When fair-haired Cortés marched upon Mexico, the Aztec emperor, Moctezuma, thought that the Spanish conquistador was the returning god. He therefore delayed his defenses, received Cortés as Quetzalcóatl, and, in consequence, lost his kingdom.
Each chapter of The Captive is headed with a Mayan number. Because the Maya had invented the zero, they could add, subtract, multiply, and divide faster and far more accurately than the Egyptians, the Greeks, or the Romans, who lacked a zero. The Maya used only three symbols: the dot, which stood for one; the bar, which stood for five; and the mollusk shell, which stood for zero. They combined these symbols in a base-twenty system (the numbers of fingers and toes; we use a base-ten system, the numbers of fingers only).
Mayan numbers read from top to bottom instead of from left to right. By combining dots and bars, the Maya could count up to nineteen before they had to jump to the next row. Each row could consist of up to four lines of symbols, as in the sign for nineteen. Each row had twenty times the value of the row beneath it. Our system of numbering, reading from the right, marks units, tens, hundreds, thousands. The Mayan system, reading from the bottom, marks units, twenties, four hundreds, and eight thousands.
—The Author
CHAPTER 1
BY THE COCK THAT CREW FOR OUR HOLY APOSTLE ST. PETER, BY THE bronze horse of Toledo and the six bishops of Valladolid, I swear that all I put down here is the truth. There is nothing else but the truth in this fateful story.
On an April morning of bright skies, after days of gentle rain, I was rousted from dreams with the point of a Toledo blade. It was a friendly jab Don Luis gave me, but meaningful nonetheless.
“Father Medina,” said Don Luis, “has broken two of his legs. Had he more than two, the good father would have broken them also.”
“How?” I blurted out. “Where?”
“No matter how and where. The legs are broken and I need two more to take their place. Sturdy legs. Yours, Julián Escobar. I need them today.”
Dazed, I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
“Why me?” I stammered. “There are others. Father Expoleta, for one.”
“Father Expoleta is old and, like the old, very set in his thoughts.”
“But, sir,” I said.
“Everything is arranged.”
“But, sir,” I repeated, staggering into my woolen shortclothes. “How can I take the place of Father Me dina? He is a priest, while I am only a seminarian. I am ignorant of God’s ways. I have barely begun my studies.”
“Your studies can continue in the New World. On the island of Buenaventura.”
“But my teachers are here,” I protested. “My books are here. My friends. My mother. The cathedral of Se ville, where I was baptized. The village of Arroyo, where I was born and wish to serve God. All are here, sir.”
“God resides everywhere. Not here alone, but in the New World also. Even among the savages, who have never heard of Him. Among them especially. It will be your privilege to bring them His love.”
“Privilege?”
“Your duty as a Christian, I should say.”
“Duty?”
“Yes, because you will have power over them. These dark people will stand in awe of you, tall and fair haired as you are. Your voice will charm them as well. And your words, though they do lean toward the Latinate, will cast a spell upon them.”
“But the words I speak are Spanish.”
“Words are words. It is the sound of words that alerts the mind and soothes the heart. Not so much the words themselves.”
As I brushed my hair, glancing in the mirror that hung beside my bunk, I was astonished to see my openmouthed face.
“Not to mention your talents as a musician,” Don Luis said. “The gittern, which you play sweetly, like an archangel. Like Gabriel himself.”
I began to quibble. “Gabriel does not play the gittern. He plays a horn.”
“I see you standing there in the jungle, surrounded by savage hundreds.” From the tone of his voice, I think he did see me standing in the jungle surrounded by savages.
“I hear your voice. I hear the sweet notes of your git tern dropping like honey. You will save many souls. Hundreds, thousands, far more than you ever will save here.”
I continued my quibbling, meanwhile summoning the courage to face him down. “I lack clothes for the expe dition. Where do I get them?” I said.
“Use those of Father Medina, he of the two broken legs, who fell into an open cesspool while walking along in broad daylight, reading. Reading causes many misfortunes.”
“He is half my size.”
“We are not going to a fiesta.”
“But, sir, I am awkward on a horse.”
“I become seasick,” I said.
“How do you know? In all your sixteen years, you have never set foot upon the deck of a ship.”
“Just standing on the shore and watching the waves come and go makes my stomach churn.”
Don Luis squinted his eyes. It was his manner of smiling. He smiled easily. He could squint his eyes as he stuck a sword smack into your gizzard. Then he surprised me by touching my shoulder. Although he was only twenty-seven, it was a fatherly hand he laid upon me.
“You are so absorbed in your studies,” he said, “I doubt you have heard about the island granted to me by my cousin.”
“I have heard.”
“Do you know that it is twenty leagues in length and a full nine leagues in width?”
I nodded. For the past ten months, since the day the grant was made, there had been much talk about it in our village. In the last month, since Don Luis bought the caravel Santa Margarita, the countryside talked of little else. And the people of Seville knew about it, too. Carts and mules loaded with dried peas, salted fish and beef, oatmeal, firkins of flour, brown biscuits, white bis cuits, and casks of wine left the Arroyo farms every week and clattered through the streets on their way to the river dock.
“You know,” Don Luis continued, “that the island of Buenaventura has thousands of hectares of rich land, where, it is said, anything will grow. You only need to drop a seed on the earth and jump out of the way. Also, trees filled with all kinds of fabulous fruit never served here in Spain.”
I nodded.
“And gold. The Indians pluck it with their fingers from the common ground they tread upon.”
“Yes, I have heard this. Likewise that these savages make necklaces of gold so heavy it takes a strong man to wear one.”
“And bowls of gold they eat gruel from.”
“You will be a rich man,” I said, without envy. “Richer than you are now. You will rival the king in riches.”
I walked to the door and looked out. It was a beauti ful morning. A silvery mist lay over the new-plowed fields. Far off, the spires of Seville caught the first rays of the sun. Birds were singing. I turned around to face Don Luis.
He slipped his sword in its sheath. He smiled. “We leave Arroyo at noon,” he said. “We sail from Seville tomorrow at dawn.”
I was silent, summoning the courage to speak my mind. It was not easy. Don Luis was a young man accustomed to being obeyed. He had done much for me. When my father had fallen mortally ill, he had forgiven my mother the family debts. Though she was in poor health and could work but little, he kept her on as a servant in his household. It was he who had made it pos sible for me to attend the seminary of St. Jude.
“I am honored that you wish me to go to the New World, but my ties are here,” I said, repeating myself. “My companions, my school, and the people I hope to serve someday.”
Don Luis smiled. “The village of Arroyo,” he said, “which you wish to serve, possesses 192 inhabitants. Added to this number are the 107 who work for me, making a to tal of 299. In New Spain, on the island of Buenaventura, according to what I am told, there are more than two thousand Indians. These are savages who have never heard of God. Who are fated to die without ever knowing Him.” A very devout Christian, Don Luis paused to cross himself. “The people of our village need you,” he went on, “but the savages of Buenaventura need you more. It is clear to me where your duty lies.”
“But I’m not a priest. I still have two years of study.”
“You can continue your studies in New Spain. The bishop of Burgos is my close friend. It was through his influence that I was granted the encomienda. He will arrange this through the church in Hispaniola. What is more, once he takes you under his wing, once you have established yourself as a powerful saver of souls, op portunities you never dreamed of will come your way. You will not be stuck in the village of Arroyo for the rest of your life—baptizing babies, marrying the young, burying the old. This I promise you: one day you your self will become a bishop. As powerful as the bishop of Burgos.”
Looking back now, years after that spring morning, I realize it was then, at the very moment when Don Luis spoke these words and I clearly saw before me a world of service I had never dreamed of before, that I made my decision.
“Again, may I remind you,” said Don Luis, “we leave here at noon. We sail from Seville at dawn.”
“Are you certain,” I said, “that I will have a chance to pursue my studies there on the island?”
“Certain,” said Don Luis. “Do not trouble yourself. Come, a new world beckons. You were never meant to be a village priest.”
I watched as he turned away and crossed the courtyard, walking stiffly, as if he were marching to a drum. On his long bony face was the arrogance of a young no bleman who felt that the waiting world was a toothsome peach to be plucked.
He was not tall, but his feathered hat and the extra lifts he wore on his boots gave the impression of height. He looked like one of the court dandies, but he was not. He was a man of unusual courage. As an instance, he once made a wager with King Ferdinand, his cousin, that he could swim the Guadalquivir, not in summer, mind you, at a time when the river runs shallow, but in the midst of a spring torrent.
He swam the river, all right, but he was pulled out on the far bank, a half league from where he started, more dead than alive. Once again I saw him, on a dare, leap astride the neck of a young bull and ride the beast, holding to its horns, until blood spurted from his ears.
He was a fit match for the dangers of the New World, which I had heard about many times—for its wild ani mals, its deadly insects and fatal fevers, vipers that killed with a single bite, its fierce storms that could wreck a dozen ships and drown a thousand men, its savage Indians who shot poisonous arrows and lived upon human flesh. But would I, an untried village youth, be a match for this strange new world that lay far across the ocean sea?
I took down the three-stringed gittern and wrapped it carefully in the folds of my cloak. With it I placed my Bible and a small parcel of books. I had little else to carry.
CHAPTER 2
WE RODE OUT OF THE COURTYARD AT NOON. BEYOND THE SPIRES OF Seville, the winding Guadalquivir glittered. A drum beat. Someone blew a horn. The flag-bearer held the pennon aloft, three Spanish lancers in pursuit of a band of fleeing Moors.
We were a small army marching forth. Don Luis rode behind the flag-bearer, astride Bravo, a black stallion with a single white star on its forehead. He was followed by six musketeers, six bowmen, four cannoneers, eight soldiers, all on mules, and five horses. Then came his in terpreter and servant, Esteban, a slave from the New World whom Don Luis had bought from a trader two years before, and Juan Pacheco, his barber, surgeon, and astrologer, riding a dappled mare.
On foot, carrying my sandals because I owned only one pair, trailed by two gray mastiffs, I brought up the rear. I carried the bundle of small clothes and a parcel of books on my back, the gittern and the Holy Bible in my hands. My mother’s tearful blessings rang in my ears. My heart beat loud against my ribs. Not knowing whether to weep or shout with joy, I commended myself to God.
Our little army passed through the iron gates and down the winding road. When we reached the city, storekeepers came out to cheer us on. Some shouted advice. Women waved handkerchiefs. Urchins ran along beside the cavalcade, pretending that they too were sail ing for the New World.
By midafternoon we reached the caravel, moored at the river’s bank a stone’s throw from the watchtower, and, to the squealing of fifes, gaily filed aboard. But no sooner were we settled and the livestock bedded down than an argument arose between Don Luis and Captain Roa.
Three other caravels moored nearby, which belonged to the Duke of Salamanca, were making ready to sail for Hispaniola within the week. Captain Roa advised Don Luis to wait and join them, since it would be safer, he said, than if we sailed alone.
&n
bsp; Don Luis, however, was eager to depart, the stars be ing in favorable conjunction, according to Pacheco. Furthermore, he disliked the Duke of Salamanca, a dis tant cousin. Since Don Luis owned the caravel and had financed the expedition, he could do what he wished. The argument was brief, despite the fact that Captain Roa was an experienced seaman, having sailed with Co lumbus on the admiral’s third voyage.
At sunrise, Santa Margarita left on an April freshet and swiftly made the open sea. Before she was out of sight of the river mouth, I fell sick and remained in that condition until we reached Grand Canary, seven days later. By this time the ship’s routine had been well es tablished—the various stints handed out and the watches set.
At sunrise on the first day that I was again on my feet, I was sent to the sterncastle, and Captain Roa introduced me to the reloj de arena, a sand clock. I was instructed to turn it as soon as the sand ran from the upper to the lower section. This measured exactly thirty minutes, a figure I entered in the log. The captain cautioned me not to daydream or to read the books which I carried around with me, for the ship’s direction and the knowledge of where it was on the vast ocean sea depended upon accurate time.
After giving the sand clock eight turns, thus spanning the four hours of the first watch, and handing it over to the young man who followed me, I was sent to the hold, there to help feed and water the horses and mules. This took me until past noon, when I was allowed to scavenge for something to eat—a handful of olives, a clove of garlic, a few sardines, and a biscuit—since the only cook aboard cooked solely for Don Luis and Captain Roa.
The rest of the afternoon I was set to work splicing rope until my fingers bled. After supper, which was a matter of grabbing what I could, I was free to find a quiet place to settle down for the night.
The caravel was of average dimensions—twenty-seven strides from stern to bow and seven long strides in width. Much like Columbus’s Santa María in appear ance and, like her, carrying three masts, but with lookouts on two of them. The galley was located amidships and ran from port to starboard. She was painted black, with gold carvings on her bow and around the stern window.