The Sound of Many Waters

by Sean Bloomfield

  “Oh, she’s got it bad for you,” said Shady. “I’m gonna buy you a lap dance!”

  Zane shook his head. “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s not your type. I saw the way you was lookin at her.”

  Without waiting for a response, Shady jumped up and hurried to the bar. Zane cringed when he saw him hand over a hundred dollar bill. Moments later, Destiny walked into the crowd and took Zane by the hand.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  “Where?” asked Zane.

  She smiled. “In the back, silly. Don’t be scared. I don’t bite.” She bent down and whispered in his ear. “Unless you want me to.”

  …………………………

  Zane and Shady had spent that entire day on the road, stopping only at a Daytona pawn shop, Hock Your Socks Off, to sell one of the doubloons. Shady said he wanted to be sure that the coins were worth something before he continued transporting a fugitive in his sidecar. Zane did not object; he was eager to know their value, too.

  “Three hundred,” said the bearded man behind the pawn shop counter.

  “Three thousand,” said Zane.

  The man rolled the coin in his hand. “Fine, three thousand.” He counted out the money in hundreds, fifties and twenties.

  Shady gazed at the cash as they left the shop. “He didn’t even counter offer.”

  “Which means he would have paid a lot more,” said Zane.

  Cruising west on Highway 40, they came to a pack of other bikers. Shady gave them a hand signal that, in road code, must have indicated he was on the run because the bikers encircled him and Zane. They escorted them through the Ocala National Forest up until Shady left the pack to head north on I-75. For the next thirty miles, Shady kept the bike just above the speed limit and stayed between two semi-trucks. They passed a rancid landfill obscured by seagulls and smoke, but otherwise all Zane saw were billboards and woods.

  Twenty minutes outside of Gainesville, Shady spotted a billboard for Café Risque with its tagline We Bare All and insisted that it was “bad mojo” for bikers to pass by such a legendary establishment without stopping. Zane protested, but he changed his mind when Shady told him that the Café had free trucker showers they could use. Despite his initial trepidation about bathing in something prefaced with the word trucker, Zane could not remember ever enjoying—or needing—a shower so much.

  …………………………

  “Relax,” whispered Destiny. She led him into the dim, cavernous Paradise Room and pushed him down on the couch. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she straddled him and pressed her chest against his face. It felt nice, and, for a moment, he closed his eyes, but then he thought about Lucia.

  “Destiny,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I pay you not to do this?”

  Destiny leaned back and looked at him. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “I have a girlfriend.”

  Destiny’s eyes swelled with tears. She lifted herself off and sat beside him on the couch.

  “I’m sorry,” said Zane. “It’s not that I don’t like you. I think you’re real pretty—”

  “That’s not why I’m crying, baby.” She took his hand in hers. “It’s just that after working here for a few years, I was starting to think there were no good men left in the world. I’m happy there’s still one.”

  Zane shook his head and looked down. “I’m not a good man.”

  “Yes you are. And your girlfriend, whoever she is, is a lucky girl. I bet the two of you were high school sweethearts.”

  “We were.”

  “I knew it. That’s so cute. Will you get married?”

  “No.” His voice became raspy. “She’s…”

  Destiny looked at him with angelic compassion. “She’s what, baby?”

  “She’s…”

  Loud yelling erupted from the main room of the strip club. Destiny jumped up and peered through the curtain. “It’s the cops,” she whispered, wrapping a silk robe around her body.

  Zane went cold with fear. He peeked through the curtain and saw Shady struggling beneath several police officers. The Law and The Taxman walked through the front door, scanning the crowd as they approached Shady.

  “I thought you’d outgrown your penchant for crime, Shady,” said The Law. “Where’s Fisher?”

  Shady strained to break free of the cuffs. “Where’s who?”

  The Taxman stomped his boot on Shady’s neck and said, “He killed my partner. Tell me where he is, or I will break your spine, right here, right now.”

  Zane picked up the duffel bag and retreated to the far corner of the Paradise Room. He looked at Destiny. “How can I get out of here?”

  “Why, are they looking for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Destiny backed away from him. “Tell me you’re not the guy they were talking about on the news.”

  “Yes, I mean no, but—”

  Destiny pulled the robe tight around her body. “You stay back!”

  “Shhhh! I mean yes I’m the guy they’re after, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear it. They think I did, though, and if they catch me, they’ll kill me.”

  Destiny scrutinized his face. “You promise?”

  “I won’t tell you I’m a good person. I’m not. But I’m no murderer.”

  She grabbed his hand and led him through a hidden door on the far side of the room which looked like part of the wall. “Our escape hatch from perverts.”

  They entered a long hallway lit by buzzing fluorescent bulbs and then burst into a dressing room packed with lingerie, wigs and skimpy costumes.

  Destiny cracked open a door in the back of the room. Afternoon light shone in as blindingly as a searchlight. She peeked out but shut the door quickly.

  “Cops’re outside, too,” she said, and then she looked around the room. “I have an idea. Blonde or brunette?”

  “What?” asked Zane.

  “I think blonde.” She grabbed a wig off the rack and put it on his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “No!”

  “I’m trying to help you! Take them off.”

  Zane pulled off his jacket and pants and stood there holding himself. She looked at him and smiled. “See how we feel?”

  Next, Destiny dug through a bin and pulled out a padded bra. “Hold still,” she said, and she moved behind him and put it over his chest and fastened the clip. Then she hunted through the rack of dresses until she found a long sequin gown. “Marilyn Monroe was blonde,” she said, and she yanked out the dress and pulled it over him.

  She pushed him to a lighted makeup mirror and opened a box filled with brushes, pencils, creams, and all sorts of womanly things he had seen many times but could not name. “Be still,” she said, and she swept his face with a soft brush.

  “This is the police,” said a voice from the other side of the door.

  “Hold on!” yelled Destiny. “I don’t have any clothes on!”

  “Please get dressed, ma’am. We have to come in.”

  Destiny applied mascara to Zane’s eyelashes. With his face only inches from hers, he looked at her autumn eyes and watched her pupils track the mascara wand. He felt an intimate, electrifying sensation—one he hadn’t felt since Lucia. Sure, Destiny was a stripper and there were cops lurking outside the door and he was wearing women’s clothes, but, in that moment, none of that mattered. He leaned toward her. Lost in her work, however, she turned and plucked a lipstick tube from the makeup box without noticing.

  “Wait a minute,” said the voice on the other side of the door. “She’s a stripper. Who cares if she’s dressed?”

  And then another voice, “Ma’am, we’re coming in now.”

  The door cracked open just as Destiny finished applying Zane’s lipstick. “You look beautiful,” she whispered. Then, turning to face the door, she ripped open her robe. The Law stepped into the doorway with two polic
e officers behind him. Their eyes locked onto Destiny’s breasts which shone pink under the fluorescent lights.

  “Pardon me, ladies,” said The Law. “But we’re looking for someone. Have you seen a young man round here?”

  Destiny crossed her arms over her chest. “Men aren’t allowed back here. Just me and Marilyn in here.”

  Zane trembled with fear. Destiny took his hand and, whether she knew it or not, stroked the back of it with her thumb. A soothing warmness came over him. The Law glanced at Zane but his eyes went back to Destiny. She pulled her robe around herself and said, “Seriously, do you guys mind? Like I said, men aren’t allowed back here.”

  “We’re sorry, ladies. Pardon our intrusion.” They backed into the hallway and shut the door.

  Destiny’s face filled with excitement. “It worked!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper, jumping up and down and wrapping her arms around Zane in a hug he hoped would never end. She released him and grabbed a set of car keys out of a drawer. “We’ve gotta go before the other dancers see you. Come on.” She led him through the back door and out into the sticky Florida heat.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Vast plumes of smoke impeded the morning sunlight and cast undulating shadows across the charred and smoldering blight. More than half the huts in Many Waters had burnt to the ground. Others were only partially scorched, while, somehow, a few looked untouched by flame.

  Dominic, catatonic, sat on the ground with an arrow sticking out of his arm and a severed head on his lap. Dozens of bodies lay around him. Some of them had succumbed to the smoke and flames, but most of the victims were bludgeoned, speared or hit with arrows when the Ais warriors overran the village walls and went to work slaughtering every person they found. In their cruelty, they had targeted the women and children first.

  …………………………

  “Give me my sword!” Dominic had yelled as soon as he realized they were under attack.

  Francisco and Mela emerged from the chapel, the deluge of flaming arrows reflected in their eyes.

  “God be with us,” whispered Francisco.

  Mela gasped. “The Ais—they must have followed my father.”

  Francisco backed into the chapel doorway. “We know what they have really come for, and we cannot let them have it.”

  Dominic marched toward Francisco and screamed in his face. “My sword!”

  Francisco looked again at the fires erupting in the village, drew a pensive breath, and hurried into the chapel. Dominic followed and watched him remove a carved wooden crucifix from the wall. Behind it, hanging over a cross-shaped patch where the wall was unstained by candle smoke, was his sword. Francisco reached for it but Dominic pushed him aside and ripped it off the wall. When he wrapped his fingers around the grip, his body shuddered. He lifted the sword over Francisco.

  “If you ever touch it again,” he said, “I will butcher you.”

  Dominic heard a cough and spun around, ready to swing the blade. His face, however, contorted in shock and he lowered his arm. There, sitting on the pew in a stupor, was Ona.

  “How?” said Dominic.

  “God’s grace,” said Francisco.

  Dominic shook his head. “Impossible.”

  Ona rubbed his eyes, stood shakily, and stumbled to the doorway. His wounds no longer looked infected. His face burst into concern when he saw the flames. He turned to Francisco and uttered a flurry of brusque words, and then he hurried out of the chapel.

  “What did he say?” asked Dominic.

  Francisco looked stunned. “He asked why I brought him back…from all the beauty.”

  Dominic rushed out of the chapel and into the burning village. A shout caught his attention—his eyes darted toward the village entrance where Ais warriors were spilling in over the bodies of slain Timucuan guards. A chill of terror washed over him. Where was Mela? He scanned the village. Terrified women and children stood huddled against the opposite wall. Ona ran to them, scooping up crying toddlers with his one arm and rolling them through a narrow passageway in the wall.

  “Angry Squirrel!” Dominic spun toward Itori’s familiar voice and saw him huddled with a group of Timucuan warriors in the center of the village, near the meeting circle, holding their weapons high. The Ais, having stopped to assess the Timucuan warriors, paced back and forth just inside the village entrance, their dark faces dripping with vitriol. Dominic ran up and took a stand beside Itori.

  “Brother,” said Itori.

  Dominic did not respond. He lifted his sword but its rustiness troubled him—the metal gave off no sheen whatsoever. How could he go into battle with something so unsightly? He bent down and grabbed a handful of ashes from the edge of the central fire and rubbed them over the blade, and then he spit on his hand and wiped the blade again. The metal sparkled, and everything felt right.

  A savage yell rang out from the Ais. They broke into a charge. Dominic turned to face them. There looked to be about twenty attackers compared to the ten Timucuans beside him. The three Timucuan archers drew their bowstrings; the others reared back with their spears and clubs.

  “Wait,” said Dominic, and Itori repeated it in Timucuan.

  The approaching Ais, lit by the hellish glow of the burning village, resembled demons pouring out of the netherworld in some apocalyptic church painting. Dominic caught a whiff of their sweat and knew it was time. “Now!” he said, and Itori translated it with equal ferocity.

  The Timucuan archers released their arrows, hitting two Ais and hurling them onto their backs. “Again!” yelled Dominic, but at that moment, a voice rang out and the oncoming attackers split into three groups. One cluster of Ais warriors maintained their course toward Dominic, while two groups on each side broke away and took an outside track.

  Dominic saw that the source of the order was a little native strutting in the distance. It was Urribia, warrior chief of the Ais.

  When the middle group of warriors was nearly upon them, Dominic reared back. “Send them to hell!” he screamed.

  He swung his sword and cut a long gash across the chest of the closest Ais. The warrior collapsed to the ground. Blood bubbled out of his wound and quickly formed a puddle around him. Itori swung a club against the face of another warrior and pieces of the man’s head splattered out. To Dominic’s side, an Ais drove a spear into a Timucuan; Dominic swung his sword across the Ais warrior’s calves, severing bones and tendons, and the man collapsed to the ground and writhed. Dominic stood over him and drove the sword into his chest. He turned to look for Urribia, but the wicked little man was gone.

  A woman screamed behind them. Dominic and the Timucuans spun around. The other two groups of Ais had surrounded the remaining villagers. Itori gasped—an Ais warrior held his wife by the hair. Urribia, standing in front of her, plucked the little girl from her arms and held her up by her legs and pressed a conch shell knife to her neck.

  “No!” screamed Itori. He bolted toward them. Dominic followed.

  The little girl screamed and Urribia smiled sickly as he pressed the knife into her neck but his eyes suddenly widened and blood gushed out of his mouth. He looked down at the spearhead protruding from the middle of his chest. The spear retracted back into his body and he tumbled to the ground. The girl fell with him, her landing cushioned by his torso. Mela dropped the spear and embraced the girl, who was now slick and shimmering with Urribia’s fluids, and carried her past several stunned Ais warriors before disappearing through the passageway in the wall.

  Blind chaos ensued when Itori, Dominic and the other Timucuan warriors reached the remaining Ais. An arrow hit Dominic’s arm but in his fury it felt like nothing worse than a wasp sting. Amid the fray, Itori clubbed the warrior who held his wife and continued clubbing the man until his head was like a trodden gourd.

  Two Ais warriors approached Dominic. He wielded his sword. Reflecting the surrounding fires, the blade was like a shaft of flame.

  “You like to kill women and children?” said Dominic, but the Ais did
not respond and continued approaching with their spears held high. The native on the left lunged forward and in one motion Dominic swung and sliced off the spearhead and whirled around and cut a deep gash across the native’s thighs. The native collapsed, screaming. The other warrior looked at his fallen friend and then dropped his spear and retreated toward the village entrance.

  “To…hell,” said Itori, and he sent an arrow into the fleeing native’s back. The man folded to the ground and a cloud of ash rose up like his spirit leaving.

  Dominic looked around. All the Ais lay in the dirt, scattered among the bodies of Timucuan children, women, and warriors. A voice caught his attention and his eyes found Ona cradling his primary wife. Someone had clubbed the back of her neck and her head dangled to one side. She breathed laboriously. Ona stroked her hair and spoke into her ear.

  “She…go…beauty,” translated Itori. “She…no…afraid.”

  Ona suddenly looked up at something behind Dominic. Dominic heard the sound of an impact and Itori crumpled to the ground beside him. He started to spin around but something struck the back of his head and he glimpsed blood-soaked dirt rushing toward him and then his world went dark. In that darkness he heard hushed voices, and then silence.

  “Dominic! What have you done!?”

  Dominic’s mind clawed out of the gloom. The first thing he saw was Francisco screaming in his face. Dominic’s head pounded and he struggled to think. Why was Francisco so frantic?

  “You killed him!” bellowed Francisco, sobbing.

  Dominic felt something heavy and spherical in his hands. He rolled it around and felt hair and teeth and a fleshy nub with a sharp bone sticking out of it. He looked down. His eyes saw the disconnected head in his lap but his foggy mind strained to identify it.

  “He loved you, Dominic,” cried Francisco. “Ona loved you and you…you....”

  Dominic’s brain snapped into coherence. He threw Ona’s head off his lap and jumped to his feet. “It was not my doing!” he screamed.

  Francisco bent down and held the head by both cheeks. The rest of Ona’s body lay on the ground nearby, his wife’s limp body beside it. Dominic’s sword lay between them. “Then who?” pleaded Francisco.