by Sean Ellis
Kismet frowned. “You said a serpent devoured it.”
“Indeed. But in this instance, the serpent was actually a metaphor for the priesthood of the cult of serpent worshippers. They seized the seed by violence, perhaps even slaying Nimrod, and fled.”
Kismet nodded slowly. “So that is what you are after: the Seed that belonged to Japheth.”
“The Japhetic Seed is still out there somewhere. There are too many legends of men who have discovered the power of eternal life for me to believe otherwise.”
“Everyone wants to live forever,” Kismet argued. “That’s why the quest for immortality is central to religions and folklore. Some people are desperate enough to try crazy things to find the Garden of Eden, the Philosopher’s Stone, or the Fountain of Youth.”
“Curious you should mention that.” Leeds flipped to the back of the Bible and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. “The Fountain of Youth is rather a pet hobby of mine. There are in fact several legends of such a place on nearly every continent, though the quest of Ponce de Leon is perhaps the one with which people are most familiar. Did you know that most scholars reject the idea that Juan Ponce de Leon, the first Spanish governor of Puerto Rico, was actually looking for such a fountain?”
“I had a professor who maintained that Ponce de Leon was really looking for a cure for impotence, and not a true source of eternal life. Sixteenth-century Viagra.”
If Leeds even heard him, he gave no indication. “There are of course contemporary accounts that verify his interest in finding a rejuvenatory pool, though in most, we find him looking for an island in the Caribbean. It is only in the memoir of a man named Hernando D’Escalante Fontaneda, written in 1575, that we find mention of Ponce De Leon searching for the Fountain of Youth in Florida. He wrote: ‘Juan Ponz de Leon, giving heed to the tale of the Indians of Cuba and Santo Domingo, went to Florida in search of the River Jordan...that he might become young from bathing in such a stream.’
“Fontaneda was a remarkable man. He was, as a youth, shipwrecked on the Florida coast in the year 1549, and captured by Calusa Indians. The Calusa sacrificed all the other survivors of the wreck, but Fontaneda survived, and lived with them in captivity for nearly twenty years. He was eventually freed, and for several years thereafter, served as a guide and translator for Pedro Menéndez de Avilés, the Spanish governor of Florida. During that time, he spoke often of a great treasure pit in a Calusa village—gold and silver plundered from wrecked Spanish ships. Fontaneda boasted that, with a hundred men, he could seize the wealth of the Calusa leader, but just three years after winning his freedom, he returned to Spain to reclaim his ancestral lands. A few years later, he recorded the account of his time in captivity. On the subject of Ponce De Leon’s River Jordan, he wrote: ‘I can say, that while I was a captive there, I bathed in many streams, but to my misfortune I never came upon the river.’”
Leeds paused and Kismet wondered if that had been his cue to applaud. To fill the uncomfortable silence, he nodded and said, “Interesting.”
“Even more interesting is this letter.” Leeds removed a folded sheet of paper from between the pages of his Bible. “It was written by Andrés Rodríguez de Villegas, the colonial governor of Florida from 1630-32, to King Philip IV of Spain. Evidently, the letter was handed over to the Inquisition and eventually found its way into the Vatican’s secret archives, which given its nature, comes as little surprise.”
Kismet again noted how precisely Leeds spoke, as if reading from a teleprompter. He expected the silver-haired man to start reading the missive aloud, but to his surprise, Leeds proffered the document.
It was obviously a photocopy, printed on a crisp sheet of twenty pound bond paper. Someone had scrawled an English translation under each line of quill pen written Castilian Spanish. Kismet scanned the first few lines verifying that the translator had stayed true to the original text, and then focused his attention on the English translation:
“Most Powerful Lord,
“In my last letter to you, I wrote of the man Henrique De Moresco Fortunato, who has been residing in Saint Augustine for more than a year. I was suspicious of Fortunato since he could give no account of how he came by his extraordinary wealth. It was said by some that Fortunato might perhaps secretly be a descendant of Hernan Fontaneda, who as a boy was captured by Indians and later served my predecessor some sixty years past. Fontaneda often spoke of an Indian treasure hoard the location of which only he knew. It was my belief that Fortunato had learned of its location, and procured the treasure for himself, so I took it upon myself to investigate. Little did I imagine what Fortunato, drunk on wine, would reveal to me.”
Kismet paused. His eyes flashed over the name that kept repeating. “Henrique Fortunato,” he muttered. “Henry Fortune?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Kismet?”
He looked at Leeds, jarred out of his reverie. “Sorry.” He looked down the letter reading silently until his eyes caught the place where he had left off.
“‘I am not a son of Fontaneda,’ he told me. ‘I am the very man.
“‘I, Hernando Fontaneda, was a captive of the Indians for seventeen years, and in that time I learned of many things, the mundane and the profane, which I dared not share with my fellow Spaniards. The treasure of Carlos, the Indian King, was the least of my discoveries.
“‘You have heard of the pool of life, and the River Jordan, sought by Ponz de Leon but never found. It exists. I have seen it with my own eyes. There is a cavern where fire dances upon the surface of the water, as if at the very mouth of Hell. The water, if you dare touch it, will impart renewed vigor. An old man will grow young and vital. Do you not believe me? How many years do you think I have? Thirty? I was born nearly one hundred years ago.’
“All this and more, Fortunato revealed to me. I know not if he spoke the truth. If he is not Fontaneda, then how do I explain his great wealth? But if he is the man he claims to be, then he has committed the gravest of sins, seeking life eternal apart from the grace of our Lord. Worse, he has found it.
“I ordered his arrest, intending that this was a matter to be investigated by the Holy Inquisition, but he fled, overpowering all who stood in his path with uncanny strength. He has since fled the city, escaping into the lands of the Indian. His property has been seized, yet the goods taken represent the barest fraction of the wealth I believe he possesses still.
“'With an additional five hundred arquebusiers, I may be able to hunt the man down; send me a thousand, and I assure you it will be done.”
Kismet glanced back up to the middle of the letter and reread Fortunato’s statements.
“What do you think of that?” inquired Leeds, his icy gaze probing.
Kismet shrugged. “You said that was in the Vatican archives? How’d it end up there?”
“I would surmise that the Church wanted to suppress any mention of the Fountain, for the very reason Rodriguez wrote in the first place. Eternal life, apart from the grace of God, would have been a most egregious sin.”
Kismet handed back the letter. “So what are you doing here, chasing after Gilgamesh?”
“The letter is but one piece of a greater puzzle. I do not know if Fortunato was in fact Hernando Fontaneda kept unnaturally young by some mysterious pool. He may simply have been a drunkard, spinning a tall tale. I cannot stake my search upon a single questionable account. Nor can I entirely dismiss such an account out of hand.
“I do sincerely believe that the first step in my journey lies in understanding what became of the Seed after it was taken from Nimrod. Those who worshipped Nimrod would have pursued the priests of the serpent cult to the ends of the earth. They might have ended up in the Americas, but they could just as easily have taken their prize to Asia or deepest Africa. Serpent gods exist in almost every ancient culture and are universally viewed as a symbol of eternal life, except in the Judeo-Christian mythos, where they are associated with evil.”
Kismet picked up his glass and took a meaningful st
ep backward. “I would say you have a lifetime of searching ahead of you.”
“Perhaps an eternal lifetime,” replied Leeds without a trace of a smile.
“Well good luck to you. Thank you for a stimulating conversation. I hope you find what you seek.”
Leeds inclined his head, and then returned to copying the prism as if the exchange had never occurred. Grateful for the tacit dismissal, Kismet hastened back to lounge where a plate of food and the key card to his room waited. Strangely however, hunger and fatigue had fled away, replaced by a poorly defined memory of a name that was uncomfortably similar to that of the ‘drunken’ braggart in Leeds’ letter.
* * *
The taciturn occult scholar watched Kismet go without saying a word, but as the other man departed, a new arrival to the exhibit hall came over to join Leeds. Without preamble that latter spoke: “I just had a conversation with Nick Kismet.”
The man's jaw dropped, revealing a single silver incisor in an uneven row of natural, but yellowed teeth. “Kismet,” he rasped, as though the name were an oath.
“Patience, Ian. I doubt he suspects what we know.” Leeds caught a final glimpse of Kismet collecting his dinner from the bartender. “But he knows something about the Fountain; I’m sure of it. And I think he will lead us to it.”
* * *
Kismet exited the lounge and moved onto an open-air balcony overlooking the starboard flank of the ship. He clutched the deck railing and closed his eyes, as if in the grip of vertigo.
He kicked himself for having visibly reacted to the letter Leeds had showed him; the mention of the cavern had caught him totally by surprise. He racked his brain to remember where he had heard the name Henry Fortune, and if it had been in connection with a cavern featuring some extraordinary natural phenomenon. He couldn’t think of anything specific, but the feeling that there was something more going on persisted.
The deck and number of his stateroom had been handwritten on the paper sleeve which contained his key card, and a consultation of the escape route map helped him navigate to his lodgings where, with a little luck, his luggage would be waiting. Nestled inside one suitcase was a rugged laptop computer with a satellite telephone modem that would enable him to access the GHC archives; if Fortune’s name had appeared in any document received by his agency, it would be revealed through the miracle of modern technology.
He moved through the ship on auto-pilot, his mind still turning over the bizarre encounter with Dr. John Leeds. He instinctively disliked the man; perhaps that was the driving force behind his sudden compulsion to trump Leeds in his search. But beneath that lay a lingering suspicion that Leeds’ admitted obsession with the legend recorded on the cuneiform prism was a little too coincidental when viewed in the light of recent events. The connection was too tenuous to even be considered circumstantial evidence, but it was enough to fuel Kismet’s suspicions. As he slid the key card into the electronic lock and entered the stateroom, he decided he was going to have to do a little research on Dr. Leeds as well.
Abruptly his consciousness was jerked like a yoyo back into the moment. Someone was in the room. A figure shrouded in shadow sat opposite the open door and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air between them.
“Pardon me,” he said quickly, retreating backward. “Must have the wrong room.”
He knew better of course; the key cards made such an error virtually impossible. There could be only one explanation: the trap he had feared had finally sprung. The Sultan’s security forces had caught up to him. Before he could escape however, the table lamp near the seated figure flicked on, illuminating the grinning visitor. “Took your sweet time getting here, mate.”
Kismet nearly dropped his untouched dinner plate as he recognized the speaker. He had only gotten a glimpse of the man the night previously, and in the intervening hours had not really considered the possibility of a further reunion. “Sergeant Higgins?”
Then his voice fell as he caught sight of the other person in the room. He worked his mouth, trying to articulate his thoughts, but nothing came out. He gaped a moment longer as Higgins’ companion drew closer.
“Hello again, Nick Kismet.”
“Elisabeth.” It was all he could say. Bile rose in his throat, choking off his utterance. He opened his mouth to speak again, but no curse he could muster seemed adequate to the moment. Failing that, he turned and stalked away.
FOUR
Higgins caught up to him a few steps from the door, leaving the treacherous actress alone in the stateroom. “Wait. You don't understand—”
“What the hell is she doing here?” Kismet rasped. He turned to face the former Gurkha, getting his first real look at the man who had once stood with him in a battle they both thought would be their last. The burly Kiwi was a couple inches taller than he and built like a rugby player. His curly brown mop was longer now than when he had been in the regiment. Kismet saw no gray hairs, but the leathery creases in his countenance betrayed his age. Even under the best of circumstances, he would have avoided this reunion; he had no desire to relive the events of that night with his one time comrade in arms.
“You don't understand. She wasn't trying to betray you. If you would let her—”
“I can't even look at her. She nearly got me killed. Twice.”
“Would you just listen to me?” Higgins grabbed hold of Kismet's shoulders, shaking him as one might a wayward child. Though the Kiwi outweighed him by at least a good thirty pounds, Kismet tensed as if preparing to defend himself. Higgins dropped his hands and took a step back. “Just listen,” he continued, his tone more subdued. “There’s a lot more going on here than you realize. The Sultan believes Elisabeth betrayed him. He’s publicly divorced her—you know how easy that is to do in a Muslim country—and secretly put a price on her head. She’s on the run, mate.”
“Good.”
“Will you let me finish? You don't know what really happened. Not in Jin's fortress and not with the Sultan.”
Kismet leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. I'm listening, but this had better be good. I've already had a double helping of fantasy tonight.”
“It would be better if you let her tell you.”
“Humor me, Sergeant. And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to explain how you got mixed up this mess.”
“All right.” He drew in a breath. “I’ll answer the last bit first. And it’s just Al now; I gave up being Sergeant Higgins as soon as my hitch was up. Went into business for myself.”
“You’re a mercenary?”
Higgins shrugged. “We prefer the term ‘independent contractor.’ It’s a dangerous world, especially hereabouts. A wealthy bloke like the Sultan needs a lot of security. It’s been a decent paycheck. I’ve been working for the family for close to six years.”
“And Elisabeth?”
“Among other things, I was her bodyguard.”
“‘Among other things,’ Al? Is that a polite way of saying that you’re screwing her?”
The Gurkha’s intent expression cracked. “Don’t I wish? I’m a bit unrefined for her tastes, but all the same, I’ve been looking out for her for a while now.”
“I’d say you fell down on the job. Those pirates had help from someone on the inside. Come to think of it, Elisabeth looked pretty cozy with their leader.”
“It is true that maybe she wasn’t a hostage in the literal sense of the word, but there’s a lot more to it than that. The Sultan is a cruel bastard. Their marriage hasn’t exactly been ‘happily ever after.’ She wanted out; wanted to leave this whole bloody place behind. When Jin took her captive, she thought she’d fallen into some kind of damned romance novel. And then you showed up.
“She hoped to convince you to rescue her from both Jin and the Sultan, and thought that sapphire might help her start over. But after she left you, Jin's guards caught her, and she had no choice but to give the appearance of helping him.”
“You actually believe all this?” Kismet co
uld not control his ire. “You weren't there.”
“No I wasn't. But ask yourself this; what does she have to gain by trying to earn your trust?”
“I don't know, but I'm sure I'll find out.” Kismet ran a hand through his hair. “So what is she doing here? The Sultan came to his senses and threw her out. Why are you with her? What’s your stake in this?”
A guilty flush darkened Higgins’ already ruddy features. “He wants her dead. God help me, but I’ve been protecting her so long, I just can’t stand the thought of her getting hurt. But I can’t do it; I’d attract too much attention. That’s why I thought of you.”
“You knew I’d come here?”
Higgins grinned ruefully. “I figured you’d reckon this was the safest place to be. But to tell the truth, I had my...I’ve had one of my people following you from the moment you escaped.”
Kismet shook his head in weary disbelief. “Listen, Al. I'm sorry this has got me so upset. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I haven't slept in a bed in God only knows how long. This is just a bit much right now.”
“So you won’t help?” The Kiwi made no effort to hide his disappointment.
“Just leave me alone for now.” He tried to punctuate his request with an emphatic gesture, and only then realized that he was still holding the covered plate with his dinner. “Look, she’s welcome to use my stateroom. I’ll sleep in a deckchair or something. We can sort this out tomorrow.”
Higgins nodded slowly, the defeated expression still in evidence. “Right, then. I’ll let her know what you’ve decided.”
“Damn it,” Kismet muttered as he watched the big Kiwi disappear back down the companionway. “I was really looking forward to that bed.”
* * *
Dr. Leeds was gone, as was the steward in charge of the bar, but the contingent of security guards seemed to be a permanent fixture in the adjoining gallery. Kismet did not venture beyond the salon, but instead settled at a table near the exit and commenced his long overdue repast. The food was lukewarm and flavorless, but he barely noticed.
