The next day was Christmas.
I heard the hymns. Heard the padre. Felt the movement of men around me. I endured their stares, heard their whispers.
A blackness deeper than I’d ever known suffocated me, greater even than the pain of my flogging. It was as if I were buried alive, dirt seeping into my ears, my eyes, my nostrils, my mouth. Weight crushing my chest.
Aysó was gone.
I was gone.
I knew I would never see her again, for the armada would move out to sea as soon as Christmas ended. Yet there was one bright spot I clung to, a golden lantern in a storm of blackness. Even though I would never see Aysó again, I had rescued her from Minchaca.
Aysó was safe.
I would cling to this forever, through all the storms to come, perhaps even death at the hands of monsters or cannibals, perhaps even dropping off the edge of the world. Aysó was safe.
Then, like the ocean at the change of tide, my thoughts turned again and my blackness deepened. I remembered both Espinosa and Magallanes. Their probing stares, their disappointment in me. The captain-general still thought me a liar and a spy, and yet this time I had done nothing wrong. It was not fair! Nothing was fair! I would have pounded my fist in frustration and rage, but the stocks held me tight, pinning me like a rat in a trap. And Espinosa? He had trusted me, brought me on this journey when I had nowhere to go, nothing to eat. Now I had sorely disappointed him.
I vowed to kill Minchaca. It was my right. My honor. He would be sorry for the day he laid a fist on Mateo Macías de Ávila!
Lost in my ocean of thoughts, I did not realize at first that someone was talking to me. “Mateo,” the voice repeated, “I must speak with you.” It was Espinosa. He squatted in front of me so I had no choice but to see him, then reached up with a muscular arm and brushed my hair from my eyes. I turned my face away. It was he who had flogged me the day before, afterward walking away without a word. I could not bear to look at him. What more was there to say? Were not a flogging and punishment in the stocks enough? Could he not see my shame? My rage? Did he not hate me now for disappointing him?
Then, before I could stop myself, I said, “I’m thirsty.”
He returned with a cup of water. He held my head while I drank. It was difficult to drink, to throw my head back far enough. I could not use my arms, for they were locked in the stockade along with my neck. Water dribbled down my chin. Waves of pain pulsed through my back.
“I must know,” whispered Espinosa. “Is it true? What you have said?”
I nodded. “Aye.”
“You were defending a woman?”
“Aye. They beat me when I helped her to escape.” I spoke through gritted teeth. “No matter what you think, I am not a liar.”
“Mateo, you are too quick to judgment. The truth is, I believe you. I have always believed you.”
I blinked, unsure of what I’d heard. “You believe me? Then why—”
“You must understand we had no choice. Punishing you was not a matter of friendship, but of duty and regulation. My opinion of you is beyond that.”
Tears stung my eyes. “And the captain-general? Does he believe I am a liar?”
“Perhaps someday you should ask him.”
“Then what about Minchaca?”
“What about him?”
“He violated the order not to molest native women—or at least he was going to violate it. Someday, in the name of honor, I will kill Minchaca. I promise you, he will beg for mercy.”
Espinosa sighed. “Mateo, listen to me. I am your friend, right?”
I nodded.
“I am also master-at-arms, and Minchaca is under my command. You are to do nothing. Do you understand?”
Again tears stung my eyes. “But I must have my revenge.”
“There is much of this voyage yet to come, Mateo. To have enemies is a terrible burden, especially for one as young as you. Trust me, and promise you’ll do nothing.”
I hung my head, torn. “I don’t know.”
“Promise me.”
Then, like a dam that breaks, releasing the flood, relief washed through me and the darkness in my heart ebbed away. “I promise. I promise.”
Espinosa squeezed my hand and left.
Rodrigo came to see me many times. He filled my ears with warnings, with rumors, with anything that crossed his mind. “Everyone is talking about you. Is it true that you were sleeping with ten native women? That when the marines tried to take you back, you attacked five of them with a sword? Is what they are saying true, Mateo? If it is true, then you are very brave. Very stupid, but very brave.”
Later, “I have heard the most incredible thing, Mateo. I have heard that you stabbed Minchaca. Is that true? If it is, then you are a fool. You should know not to stab marines. Even so, I will finish the job for you. Just say the word, and it is done. You can trust me, my friend.”
Then in the middle of the night I heard a rustling near me, and again, Rodrigo. “You see?” he whispered, slipping some fruit between my lips. “What did I tell you? You are a double fool, Mateo. A triple, double fool. Never, never fall in love with native women. That is the rule of sailors. You would not be in this position if you had taken my advice.”
On the morning of the twenty-seventh, as the sun warmed my face, the crew of the Trinidad sang a chantey, circling the capstan. Muscles gleamed to the rattle of anchor chain. From the fo’c’sle came the cry “Heave and pawl! Get all you can!”
From the quarterdeck, “Lay out and loose!”
We were setting sail. Soon Brazil would be nothing but a memory. Rodrigo stood beside me, coiling a line, glancing over the gunwale. “Do you hear them, Mateo? The natives are crying for us. They have surrounded our ship with their canoes. I wish you could see it.”
Indeed, there were many cries—men, women, even dogs barking and the wail of a baby. I strained my ears for the sound of Aysó’s voice. Once more, just once more, I prayed.
Again from the quarterdeck, “Lay in and down from aloft!”
“You see, Mateo,” continued Rodrigo, “the native men cannot compete with us Spaniards. The native women, they love us. We are the greatest lovers in the world. They don’t want us to leave. The native men like us, too, because we give them things for their women. Nails, buckets, hatchets, things they cannot get otherwise. It is a fine situation all around. Everyone is saying we should stay. Everyone but the captain-general that is, and, well, you know how he is. Not even God could sway him otherwise.” Rodrigo spat and hurried off.
“Man topsail sheets and halliards! Tend the braces!”
“Sheet home and hoist away topsails!”
The wind filled our sails, carrying us to sea. The cries of the natives grew dimmer . . . dimmer . . . finally scattering into the sounds of the sea. Nothing but the sea.
X
December 30, 1519-January 13, 1520
Each day the same. Scrub. Polish. Cook. Scrape. Sweep. It made no difference what I was doing, for each task seemed the same. Day after day. Watch after watch. I could not keep my mind on my chores, for I had no mind to keep.
“Always look sharp, Mateo,” said Magallanes when I tripped over my broom, sprawling onto the floor of his cabin, stinging my chin.
“Aye, Captain-General.”
Once when I accidentally kicked over a bucket of water, Magallanes said nothing, only shook his head and returned to his silent study of his charts.
Air his bedding. Wash his clothes. Roll up his charts and stow them when not in use. Fetch more candles. Turn the sandglasses. Swab the deck.
I was thinking of nothing one day when, again, I stumbled. A storm railed around us, and the Trinidad lurched through the swells like a drunkard. This time I had my hands full. I carried a wooden platter of food for the captain-general—dried fish, pickled meats, cheese, biscuit with marmalade—when I fell full into Magallanes, who sat at his table waiting for dinner. The platter landed on the captain-general’s chest, while I stumbled against him, register
ing his look of shock before I bounced onto the floor, bits of biscuit and marmalade and pickled meats on my cheeks.
I lay there for a moment, stunned, my head reeling. “Sorry, Captain-General,” I mumbled.
Even through the noise of the storm, I heard him sigh. “Clean it up, Mateo, and after this, have a mind for yourself. You’ve become a nuisance.”
“Aye.”
It took me an hour to clean it up. I helped Magallanes out of his soiled clothes and into clean ones. He noticed a stain on his clean tunic, scratched at it, and asked me if I hadn’t just washed this a few days ago. “I can wash it again, sir,” I replied.
“Never mind, Mateo.” Again the sigh.
I scrubbed the table and the floor, tossing food scraps into the bucket. I fetched the captain-general another platter of food. I set the platter in front of Magallanes, placed the napkin on his lap, and poured him a goblet of wine. “Anything else, sir?” I asked, anxious to eat my own dinner.
Magallanes motioned to one of the chairs. “Please, sit.”
“Sir?”
“That is, if you can do it without falling.”
I flushed and sat as commanded.
For a while he said nothing, his beard wagging up and down as he chewed. A fierce gust of wind hit the ship, and she heeled heavily. With an automatic movement, Magallanes picked up the goblet, wine slopping, while the platter of food slid to his left, stopped from falling over the edge by wooden runners along the table’s surface. “When I was a boy, younger than you, twelve I think, my family sent me to live in the court of the queen of Portugal. It was there I received my training as a page.” The platter of food now slid to his right. Magallanes seemed not to notice and kept eating, moving from left to right with his food.
“The queen of Portugal?”
“I’m afraid I was a clumsy boy, always knocking something over, stepping on the ladies’ toes, falling off my horse. Once I even spilled a pitcher of milk down the front of the queen’s dress. It seemed I could do nothing right. I was always getting my ears boxed.”
I tried to imagine someone boxing the captain-general’s ears but couldn’t. Such an image seemed as impossible as the Virgin Mary scrubbing out the bilges.
“All that changed when I went to sea.”
“Sir?”
“You see, Mateo, sometimes a boy needs a vision. A dream. Hope. Something more than just what others tell him to do. For me, it was the sea.” The wind gusted, howling like a pack of wild dogs. The timbers groaned and the Trinidad shuddered. Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, the captain-general said, “Come, Mateo, let me show you something.”
I followed him across the cabin, my curiosity rising.
He opened one of the lockers and handed something to me.
“What is it?”
“It’s an astrolabe. A friend of mine made it from wood.”
It was flat and round, with intricate carvings and movable pieces. Even knowing nothing of such things, I saw it was beautiful and felt honored he would let me hold it. “What is it for?”
“It tells me the altitude of the sun so I can calculate our latitude. On the next clear day, I will show you how it works.”
“Aye, sir.” I handed it back to him.
“Now, fetch your guitar and sing to me. After you’ve had your dinner, of course. That is all. And, Mateo—”
“Sir?”
“Please stay on your feet.”
“Aye, sir.”
As I opened the door to leave the cabin, one of the shadows breathed. Enrique, the slave. For some reason, I shivered. I had not even known he was there.
On every clear day after that, I held the captain-general’s instruments as he measured the noon sun while explaining to me how they worked. I nodded, pretending to understand. Maybe, someday, I would know as much. Maybe, someday, I would also be captain of a ship. I then followed him to the poop, where he scanned the coastline of the southern continent as we journeyed ever southward.
Searching . . . always searching for the secret passage— el paso.
Each evening after dinner now, I played my guitar and sang for the captain-general—songs of battle, serenades of love, hymns of glory, ballads of sorrow. He seemed to want them all. He tapped his foot, closed his eyes. He wept, unashamed. He limped about the cabin, conducting an invisible symphony. He lay upon his bed, staring at the ceiling, his face sagging and blank.
Sometimes after my evening singing, we again climbed to the poop, where I unrolled his charts, holding them as his forehead creased in thought. He would point to a part of the chart, saying, “Bring the lantern closer, Mateo. See? According to my calculations, we are almost there. I feel it. Any day.” Then he would gaze into the darkness as if he could see our destination if only he looked long enough.
One day in mid-January, I was polishing the wood walls and dreaming of Aysó when Magallanes burst into his cabin. “Quick,” he cried. “My charts!”
A moment later, he pounded the chart with his fist. “I have done it!” His dark eyes danced. “We are here! Mateo, do you hear me? We have made it!”
Caught up in his excitement, a smile stretched across my face, I helped him into his armor and his helmet with plumed feathers. “I must call a conference aboard the Trinidad,” he was saying as he fastened his sword to his side. “This is a day of triumph! Do you hear me? Triumph! Praise be to God Almighty!” Then out he rushed like a brisk wind on a stormy day, leaving me with my silly grin and my rag still in my hand.
I hurried to finish the woodwork, anxious to learn why the captain-general was so excited. I ran out on deck. My breath caught. Slicing through the southern continent and disappearing into the horizon lay a vast westward passage. El paso!
Once all the officers had gathered on the quarterdeck, Magallanes cried, “Few men have stood where you stand now, on the brink of discovery. Have courage, my men, for what might lie ahead. We shall sail through this westward passage into a new ocean, into new waters never before sailed by man. Imagine being the first to reach the Spice Islands by traveling west!”
We glanced at each other as suddenly rumor became fact. It was true! We were headed for the Spice Islands! Another paradise of riches and women! Rodrigo clapped me on the back. “What did I tell you? It was a lucky day we signed for this voyage.”
“And in the name of King Carlos, I shall claim the Spice Islands for Spain!” cried the captain-general.
I could not stop grinning. As though I had led the armada myself. As though I stood before everyone, dazzling in a suit of armor, a shining sword at my side, as they honored my triumph. It is a good day, I thought. Soon we arrive at the Spice Islands and then we shall return to Spain with riches and glory.
By nightfall we had traveled more than seven leagues into the strait when we dropped anchor. Rodrigo and I stood at the bulwarks. Fires ringed the shores and the light of flames flickered on the dark faces of natives. There were hundreds of them— thousands even. The deep beat of drums pounded through my heart.
These were the natives who devoured the flesh of men.
Their screams pricked the night.
“You have heard the story?” whispered Rodrigo.
“What story?”
“About the foolish Spanish explorer who went ashore. The cannibals captured him and sixty of his men. They cooked and ate them while everyone aboard the ships watched. They could do nothing to save their shipmates.”
“Is this true?”
“As true as we are standing here. They say the natives spitted and roasted some of them over hot coals. That the flesh turned black as a raven and fell from the bones like chicken meat. Others they stuffed into cauldrons and made people stew with intestines for noodles and eyeballs for olives.”
Now the natives danced around their fires. They held up their weapons and screamed at us, as if daring us to come ashore. My scalp prickled. “I hope we reach the end of the strait soon,” I said, chewing nervously on a fingernail.
“Aye.” Rodrigo nodd
ed. “It is difficult to become rich if we are sitting in a cauldron staring at our eyeballs.”
The cabin was lit only by a sputtering candle. Magallanes lay on his bed, his eyes closed, his hands clasped across his chest. For a moment, he looked almost youthful.
He did not move when I began to sing.
It was my father’s favorite song, and I hoped it would please the captain-general.
I sang of the apostle Santiago, of his sword burning bright as he cut down the infidels. I sang of the conquests of the Knights of Santiago—righteous men who covenanted to follow the apostle. I sang of four thousand mounted knights and five thousand footmen, each wearing his scallop shell to glorious victory against the Moors.
I sang until the eleventh verse, when I found I could not continue. It was not the words that caused me to falter, but Magallanes himself. As he lay on his bed, his hands across his chest, his eyes closed, he reminded me so much of my father that my music trailed off like a wisp of smoke.
Magallanes opened his eyes and studied me. I hoped he could not see the tears poised in my eyes, threatening to fall. I blinked them back and wiped my face on my sleeve. I wished he would dismiss me with a wave of his hand the way he usually did.
He did not. Instead he asked in a voice that surprised me with its kindness, “How old are you, Mateo?”
“Fourteen.”
Magallanes sighed. “Espinosa told me about your parents. He said they are dead. I am sorry. You are young to be alone.”
“You—you know?”
“Even before we left on our voyage, he pointed you out. Do you know what else he told me?”
I shook my head.
Magallanes propped himself up on his elbow. “That you were a good lad and to keep my eye on you, for you would do well on this voyage. That not only were you strong in body, but strong in character. Indeed, you do well to look surprised. Those are high words of praise coming from a man such as Espinosa. He does not waste words.”
A question burned at my lips, one I had wanted to ask a dozen times. Nay, a hundred times. “Do you—do you really think me a liar and a spy?”
To the Edge of the World Page 7
