The Demon Pool

by Richard B. Dwyer

  The Demon Pool

  Richard B. Dwyer

  Great Words Press

  AUSTIN, TEXAS

  Copyright © 2016 by Richard B. Dwyer.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Cover Design – Richard Dwyer

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  The Demon Pool, Richard B. Dwyer. -- 1st ed.

  ASIN B01GN1PVIU

  To my wife, Ivonne, who daily puts on the full armor of God.

  “What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’ Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine?’”

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  “The days of our years are three score years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”

  Psalm 90:10, The Bible, King James Version 1611

  PROLOGUE

  Southwest Florida 1521 AD

  Three Spanish soldiers, accompanied by a Dominican priest, struggled through thick brush, following a thin trail. Captain Juan Carlos de la Viña led the group as they fought through the tangled vegetation. A cloud of insects swarmed around the men. Their torn, sour-smelling flesh provided the little beasts with a feast of fresh blood.

  The soldiers cursed the insects, cursed the vines and shrubs, and cursed the hot, steamy air that sucked the strength from their weakened bodies. But, mostly they cursed the adelantado, the frontier governor, Ponce de León. He had brought them here. He had enticed them with promises of wealth and immortality. Gold and eternal youth. Now they baked in the subtropical heat of La Florida.

  Juan Carlos pushed through a wall of thick foliage and stumbled into a clearing. The other soldiers and the priest followed, popping into the open space as if propelled by some unseen force. The brush wall closed behind them.

  The clearing resembled an oasis. Near the center, a large pool of clear water enticed them. At the east end, the water bubbled and danced, but made no sound. The men stood still. They stared at the water’s silent ballet. The insect sounds were gone. Unnatural.

  “There is evil here,” the priest proclaimed.

  “You see evil everywhere,” Juan Carlos replied “Here in La Florida, I am less concerned with evil than I am with dying of thirst.”

  Juan Carlos removed his war helmet. He stood almost a full head above the Dominican. The priest used his hand to shield his gaze from the sun as he stared up at the soldier. Two black orbs, set deep in a hard, gaunt face, stared back.

  The priest’s eyes traced an ugly scar that started above the soldier’s left temple and tracked a jagged line across a leather cheek, before losing it in a coarse, heavy beard.

  “You need to be concerned with the souls of these men in this evil place,” the priest said. “God will judge you for your pride, Juan Carlos.”

  The soldier stared into the Dominican’s too-small eyes. Yes, Juan Carlos thought, the priest spoke the truth. He was a proud man, a man of authority and war.

  A faint smile crossed his lips. After all, Ponce de León himself had appointed him a caudillo, Captain. He felt comfortable, even satisfied, in spite of his ragged appearance and soiled clothing.

  His padded linen vest protected an equally dirty linen shirt. One-inch by two-inch riveted metal plates, covered by stained and faded velvet, topped the vest. Together, the ensemble, in spite of its filth, reflected his position, and contrasted with the simple robes of the priest. When he spoke again, he spoke quietly, but with unmistakable authority.

  “Then we will share in the same judgment, Priest.”

  The other soldiers removed their helmets. Juan Carlos took a linen handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

  The priest opened his mouth and Juan Carlos waited for his standard lecture on how they were holy warriors, destined to serve God’s appointed rulers here on earth and His divine purposes through His church — the only sermon the priest seemed capable of preaching.

  Before the words tumbled from the priest’s mouth, his eyes shifted toward movement at the far side of the clearing. Juan Carlos’ gaze followed the priest’s. A woman appeared at the woods’ edge. The other soldiers dropped their water bags and readied their weapons. Juan Carlos had trained and armed his men well.

  Each soldier had a sword. Juan Carlos carried a crossbow, as did one other man. The third soldier gripped a six-foot long halberd. With its ax-like head and sharp, extended point, the halberd proved ideal for thrusting into the unprotected bellies of La Florida’s natives.

  Juan Carlos raised his crossbow. His fingers rested against its trigger.

  The woman seemed to stare right at them. For a moment, no one moved. If the presence of the Europeans bothered her, she gave no indication. Midnight black hair flowed down across her shoulders and past her breasts. She could have been seventeen, or twenty-seven.

  A few seconds passed and she moved toward the Spaniards on long legs that, even from a distance, made her appear tall. Almost as tall as Juan Carlos. As she walked closer, he identified her as one of the Calos, the fierce people of Southwest Florida that the soldiers often encountered and just as often fought.

  She walked to the edge of the pool, close enough now that he could distinguish her dark, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Close enough to see beauty so great as to be both breathtaking and almost unnatural. She stopped next to the water and removed her clothing, a single garment of tightly woven moss and leaves. She stood at the water’s edge, alone and naked.

  The priest again spoke first, his voice barely above a rasping whisper.

  “Only a whore or a witch would take off her garments in front of these men,” he said.

  Juan Carlos glanced at the priest, who appeared suddenly uncomfortable in his own garments. His right hand clutched the coarse material just below his round waist. The fingers of his left hand stroked the crucifix at the end of the rosary he carried. His voice grew louder as he commanded the soldiers.

  “She is a witch. In the name of God, you must kill her.”

  Juan Carlos’ eyes returned to the woman. He had not seen such beauty since coming to the New World. Beauty so arousing, it apparently discomfited even the priest. Juan Carlos had not been with a woman in mont
hs. None of his men had. They struggled daily just to find food and water. There had been no gold. No treasure. No immortality. But now, after months of deprivation, he saw a treasure worth taking. It would be the one lust he could satisfy in this miserable land.

  He looked toward his soldiers. They glanced nervously between him and the woman. He lowered his crossbow and nodded at his men. The other bowman then lowered his.

  The priest spoke again, this time shouting, his voice a mix of excitement and agitation.

  “You must kill her,” he demanded. “Kill the witch. Kill her now.”

  No one moved.

  Except the priest.

  He rushed the young bowman, crashing into him as he snatched the crossbow from his hands. Before the soldier could recover, the priest raised the crossbow to his shoulder.

  Juan Carlos did not have time to think. He spun toward the priest and fired from the waist. His iron-tipped bolt pierced the priest below his Adam’s apple and pushed out the other side.

  The impact spun the priest toward the soldier carrying the halberd. His knees buckled and smashed into the ground. The priest’s finger involuntarily squeezed the trigger on the underside of the crossbow, sending its projectile into the soldier’s back, just below his armor. The point of the bolt slammed into the soldier’s spine. Falling forward, his legs useless, the soldier screamed. He dropped the halberd and clawed at his back.

  The priest, on his knees, tore at the bolt in his throat. Blood spurted from his mouth as his jaw moved up and down, his words reduced to an agonizing gurgle. Blood streamed down his chin like thick, red syrup. His bloody fingers danced around his throat as he too fell forward into the lush grass of the clearing.

  The surviving bowman, armed now with only his sword, backed away. His wide eyes telegraphed confusion and fear. Juan Carlos loaded another bolt and cocked his crossbow. The girl would be his. His alone.

  The bowman backed away from Juan Carlos and reached for his sword. As Juan Carlos swung the crossbow toward him, the soldier yanked his sword free. He brought his arm up in a high arc and turned away as if to escape. Watching the soldier turn, Juan Carlos forced himself to relax as he aimed his crossbow.

  The soldier suddenly spun back toward Juan Carlos. His arm whipped around completing the arc. With a guttural yell, he heaved the heavy sword underhanded toward his captain. A second later the bolt shot free. The projectiles crossed in flight. The faster bolt hit first. It pierced the soldier’s left eye and lodged itself in the back of his skull. He died instantly.

  Juan Carlos twisted away from the sword a moment too late. The blade’s tip sliced off a chunk of his left earlobe. The edge slid along his jaw line and cut him almost to the bone. He dropped the crossbow and slapped his hand against the wound. Blood oozed out from under his palm. He slid his hand further up his face exploring the damage. More blood ran down the tips of his fingers from the severed lobe.

  With his right hand, he pulled the dirt and sweat-fouled cloth from his back pocket, and held it to his face to slow the bleeding. With his left hand, he drew his sword and walked to where the soldier, wounded by the priest, moaned and flailed on the ground. He put a boot between the soldier’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground. He thrust the sword into the back of the soldier’s neck. Quiet returned to the clearing.

  ***

  At the pool’s edge, the young woman watched Juan Carlos as he dropped his sword and walked weaponless toward the pool. From behind the woman’s eyes, a malevolent spirit also watched the soldier. The woman, under the spirit’s control, took a step into the pool. Her body trembled as the spirit fought to maintain her outward youth and beauty. Every cell strained against the spirit’s power.

  Baalzaric wondered at his good fortune even as he cursed his power’s limitations. This woman had been his host for one hundred and fifty years. If the Spaniard entered the pool, the demon parasite would not have to wait dozens more years, or maybe even hundreds more, lurking alone beneath the pool’s sparkling waters. He could have his new host today.

  Baalzaric’s effort to maintain control of the woman and her body took all of his power. He felt what the woman felt, and she felt excruciating, soul-numbing pain as her body struggled to tear itself loose from his control. Outside she remained young and beautiful. But inside, every cell, every organ, struggled toward its long overdue demise.

  The spirit himself was thousands of years old. Yet he never aged. At least not in the way these human fleshpots did. He had been there with Lucifer at the very beginning, and along with him and an uncountable multitude, had been cast down from the high places by a jealous and unjust God. A God who claimed to have created them. After their fall, Lucifer had given the former angel a new name — Baalzaric.

  For all his great strength, Baalzaric could not keep his host alive forever. Once he released the woman, she would immediately age and die. The Europeans had come along at just the right time.

  In spite of the pain, he dared not release the woman yet. He needed more time. Enough time enough for the Spaniard to enter the pool.

  The girl turned and faced Juan Carlos as he walked toward her. Baalzaric used her to draw the man into the pool. She backed into the water until it swirled around her nipples.

  ***

  Juan Carlos stood at the pool’s edge. His right hand remained pressed against the bloody gash along his jaw, holding the dirty handkerchief in place. He sat down and tossed the cloth aside. He removed his boots, vest, and linen shirt. He stood again and stripped off his pants. Naked, face painted with blood, he stepped into the pool.

  The girl did not move and stared straight into his eyes. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen. Beautiful and compelling, they drew him to her. The captain lost himself in their bottomless blackness. He moved closer until his chest brushed hers. His hands reached down below her back. He lifted her slightly as he drew her to him. He felt her body tremble. Her legs came up and encircled his waist and her arms snaked around his neck. He was ready for her.

  Without warning, her eyes turned slate gray. The skin on her face suddenly wrinkled and sagged. Juan Carlos jerked his head back. The woman aged over a hundred years in seconds.

  His heart pounded against his ribs. Before he could pull away, she thrust herself down on him.

  Every muscle in his body locked up at once. His vision dimmed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He could still feel her body pressed against his, but something had cut the connection between mind and muscle. The girl’s face, inches from his, faded to hideous shadows. Her grey lips parted and her breath stunk of a tomb filled with rotting corpses. Her body shriveled and he felt it become bone-thin. Her breasts, now flat and wrinkled, pressed hard against his chest. He wanted to move, to push her off. But he could not.

  ***

  Baalzaric smiled to himself. The tension in the Spaniard’s muscles indicated great physical strength. He probed Juan Carlos’ mind. Darkness, cunning, and ambition lurked there. Satisfied with his prize, he knew he would not have this one as long as he had had the woman, but the Spaniard promised pleasure and power. Baalzaric withdrew to a dark corner of Juan Carlos’ mind and allowed his new host to regain control.

  ***

  Juan Carlos found himself able to move again. He tore at the girl, pulling her off and then pushed her shriveled corpse away. The girl’s body slipped under the water. He stumbled back toward the pool’s grassy edge and collapsed. His legs and feet remained in the spring. After a moment, he sat up and used handfuls of water to wash away layers of grime and filth from his body. He splashed his face and scrubbed his skin and beard with his palms. He stopped as he realized he no longer felt pain from the gashes to his face and earlobe. He carefully probed the wounds with his fingertips. No blood.

  He gazed out at the water and remembered the dead priest’s words. The priest had called her a witch. Juan Carlos nodded in agreement. Not only a witch, but a witch who had tried to steal his soul.

  He sat for a moment. Naked and alone.
Yet, somehow, he did not feel alone. He looked down at the water. Was it a trick of the late afternoon light?

  He stared at his reflection. He looked younger. The wound to his jaw had already closed. Only a faint pink line remained. His earlobe appeared whole. He touched it, surprised to find nothing missing.

  He closed his eyes and slid down into the water until it enveloped him like a warm cocoon. Weeks of fatigue floated away. He felt revived, changed. When he sat up again, he wiped the water from his face with his hand and waited until the pool became still. He looked at his reflection again. He saw no wounds, no scars.

  He gazed at the east end of the spring where the water continued to bubble and dance. The play of sunlight and water reminded him of a fountain. Once again, he stared down at the liquid mirror where his younger, more handsome reflection smiled back at him. Had he done what the adelantado had failed to do? Had he found the fabled Fountain of Youth?

  CHAPTER ONE

  A silver Corvette Z06 rocketed south on Interstate 75 when it set off the radar inside of Corporal Jim Demore’s patrol car. The black Florida Highway Patrol Charger, with its white roof trim and tail stripe, sat tucked away in the median of I-75 between oleander bushes. Jim held his cell phone to his ear as his girlfriend’s voice droned on as the Corvette raced past.

  “I’m tired of you spending all of your damn time at work and school,” she said.

  Anger, weariness, and resignation peppered her words. “Relationship fatigue,” she had once called it.

  He held onto the phone and reached forward to activate his siren. He glanced to the right, put the Charger in drive and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The rear tires spun out until they gained traction against the crushed seashells and plant matter that covered the median.

  He steered the Charger with his free hand as he put the phone back up to his ear.