The Sound of Many Waters

by Sean Bloomfield

  “I am a friend of the admiral’s.”

  “Then why do you look like one of them?”

  Dominic looked down at himself. Wearing a muddy deerskin shirt, what was left of his old leather trousers, and moccasins that Mela had made for him, he did indeed look like one of them. Dominic glanced at Itori and feigned disgust. “You compare me to this filth? How dare you. Have you never seen a Spanish slaver dressed in a native disguise? Waste one more second of my time and the admiral will hear about it.”

  The soldier eyed Dominic for a moment. “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “You have a name, don’t you?”

  “My name—is Captain Dominic Cabeza de Vaca.”

  The soldier gasped. “Cabeza de Vaca.” He lowered his lance and the tip of it clanked against the cobblestone, throwing off sparks. “Forgive me, sir.”

  “Do I know you?” asked Dominic.

  “No, sir,” said the soldier, “but I know you. Everyone knows you.”

  Spanish settlers stared at Dominic and Itori as the two made their way deeper into the heart of town. They soon came upon a large church. A procession flowed out of it into the street. Dominic and Itori stopped along a stone wall to let the people pass. The priest in front held a large crucifix and the four well-dressed men behind him carried a statue of Our Lady of La Leche on a litter covered in flowers. Each worshipper that followed had ash smudged on his or her forehead in the shape of a cross. The Salve Regina hymn lilted up from the procession and instigated a memory in Dominic of his father kneeling in a church, crying as he recited the same prayer.

  Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. The afternoon sun bore down on the procession and the ashen crosses mixed with sweat, melting down the faces of the people. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. Itori stared with wonder at the churchgoers, and Dominic studied their faces as they passed. Women he might have considered beautiful in days past now looked far too pale and plump. He saw one of them holding a rosary and his heart ached for Francisco. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Dominic spotted a familiar face. Ash obscured the man’s brow and cheeks, but his eyes—as black as Dominic remembered—were unmistakable. It was his former superior, the person he had come to find. The admiral’s face puckered in shock when he noticed Dominic. He stepped out of the procession. “Dominic?”

  “Miguel,” said Dominic.

  “Good God!” Miguel grabbed Dominic by both shoulders. “I was told you were dead, that your ship was lost in a storm!”

  “It was, but I survived.”

  “Then where have you been?”

  “I was taken captive. By naturals.”

  “Well that explains your ridiculous attire.” Miguel looked at Itori with disgust. “Is this one of them?”

  “No,” said Dominic. “He is my guide.”

  “His hair is long. He has not yet converted.” Miguel then smiled at Dominic. “Come, come. Let us go to my office and reinstate you, and get you into some respectable clothes.”

  Dominic and Itori followed Miguel toward the waterfront where hundreds of native workers were busy constructing a massive wooden fort. Dominic could tell by the workers’ circular tattoos that they were Timucuans from a different village, but otherwise their bodies looked uncharacteristically gaunt and sickly. Most striking of all, their hair had been cut short. One native lay beside a woodpile beneath a cloud of flies. It was obvious from the man’s sallowness and sunken cheeks that he had been dead for hours.

  “We lose a few builders every day,” said Miguel. “I may need to commandeer your slave. He looks quite strong.”

  “He is not for the taking,” said Dominic.

  Miguel’s brow furrowed. “No?”

  As they approached the finished section of the fort, Miguel opened a door guarded by two soldiers holding lances. One of the soldiers, glistening with sweat, coughed harshly. Dominic walked through the door but Miguel put his hand in front of Itori. “He stays outside, where he belongs.”

  Dominic looked into Itori’s eyes. Itori nodded and stepped back.

  The inner chamber of the fort was dark and grim and smelled of tar and sunbaked timber. Nautical charts and town maps hung on the walls. Miguel sat in a plush, velvety chair behind a desk. Dominic looked around but saw nowhere else to sit.

  “So, my old friend,” said Miguel. “I am sure you are anxious to return home to Spain. I have good news for you. A ship leaves tomorrow.”

  Dominic glanced at the globe on Miguel’s desk. “I do not want to go back to Spain.”

  “I hoped you would say that. I could use an extra man around here, one with your—how should I say it—drive. Now tell me, Dominic, for my records, where exactly did you wreck your ship?”

  Dominic bit his lip, trying to quell his anger. “I did not wreck my ship. A hurricane did.”

  Miguel smiled. “I know. I just wanted to elicit some emotion from that boring old face of yours.” Miguel unrolled a chart showing the coast of Florida. “Your cargo was mostly gold, was it not?”

  “It was.”

  “Show me, here on the map, where your ship met her end.”

  “Why?”

  Miguel’s face reddened and the muscles in his neck went taut. “Why? Dominic, brother, that treasure belongs to the crown. We may be able to recover some of it with our native salvors.” Miguel’s face relaxed and he smiled. “You should see those rodents swim. Just do me this favor, and I will be at your service for anything you need.”

  Dominic looked at Miguel for a moment, and then he bent over and ran his finger along the chart, up past the Florida Straits, over a drawing of a sea monster, and around the curve of the southern coastline. His finger stopped just north of a small inlet labeled Jaega. “It was somewhere around here.”

  Miguel studied Dominic through squinted eyes. “Can you not tell me the exact location?”

  “It was during a hurricane!”

  “Alright, alright.” Miguel drew a black circle over the area with a quill pen. “Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Go on.”

  “I want you to arrest the chief of a native village. A rebel.”

  “A rebel chief? Where?”

  “Two day’s march from here. I need a unit.”

  Miguel chortled. “Oh, is that all you need? Dominic, old friend, you must know that San Agustín is under constant threat from the British. We are undermanned as it is. I cannot spare a unit. I cannot even spare one man.”

  “You said you would do anything.”

  “Did I?”

  Blood-red rage boiled inside Dominic, but he knew that one outburst would ruin his chances of procuring help. He thought about Mela and the twins and his anger morphed into anguish. The moon would be full in two days; even if he left San Agustín at that moment, he would have to trek nonstop to arrive at Many Waters in time to stop the sacrifice.

  “You speak of looking for treasure,” said Dominic. “I know the location of a treasure, one more valuable than all the gold in the world—”

  “Allow me to guess. It’s in the native village.”

  Dominic sighed. “Yes.”

  “Dominic, I know your tricks. You learned them all from me!”

  “I implore you,” said Dominic, leaning on the desk toward Miguel. “Give me some men, just for a few days.”

  Miguel rubbed the end of the quill pen between his fingers. “Why do you care so much about this so-called rebel chief? What benefit do you get from his capture?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do not misunderstand me—I want to eradicate these rats off our land more than anyone else. But I know you, Dominic. You stand to gain something, and I want to know what. Do not forget that I taught you everything you know about the New World. I know how you think. We are alike.”

  Dominic glared at Miguel. “I am nothing like you.”

  “No?
Your victims might disagree. If the king ever gave an award for the highest number of natives killed—and I have often wished he would—then you, Dominic Cabeza de Vaca, would be the clear winner. I am sure of it. Our soldiers still boast of your exploits; our priests still atone for them. So perhaps you are right, you are not like me. You are far worse.”

  Rage filled Dominic’s face. “You made me like this!” he screamed. He knocked the globe off the desk and, as he did, his deerskin sleeve parted at the seam and revealed his tattoo. Miguel’s eyes darted to it.

  “Oh, I see,” said Miguel, smiling. “You are a rat now. Did I not warn you about becoming their equal? I should hang you for treason.” Miguel stood, put his hands on the desk, and leaned toward Dominic. “But because you were once my friend, and because I loathe all the paperwork that accompanies an execution, I will pretend that I never saw you today. You and your rodent friend will march out of town and never return. Now get out. You no longer exist.”

  Dominic ushered Itori down the path and glanced back at the fort. Miguel stood outside the door between the two guards, smiling. Miguel’s words ricocheted through Dominic’s mind. You are a rat now. You no longer exist. Dominic imagined running back and sticking one of Itori’s arrows into Miguel’s neck, but then he remembered the vow he had made after killing Francisco. For once, he intended to keep his promise.

  They passed a Spanish woman and her little boy and Dominic’s mind went to Mela, and to the infants. A sickening helplessness pressed down on him. Time was stealing by and he could do nothing to impede it. His son would soon be taken from him, again. He had to do something—something drastic, something radical. He saw a group of native workers slathering hot tar on a piece of timber, and then he looked at the bow slung over Itori’s shoulder.

  “Give me an arrow,” said Dominic.

  Itori looked at Dominic for a moment and then handed him an arrow. Dominic dipped the arrowhead into a barrel of tar, and then he grabbed an iron spike from a pile of rusty hardware. He could see Miguel in the distance, watching him.

  Keep looking, thought Dominic. You’re not the only person who taught me something.

  Dominic knelt on the path and, holding the arrow close to it, hit the iron spike against the cobblestone. Sparks shot out and ignited the arrow. He handed it to Itori.

  “Burn it down,” said Dominic, gesturing toward the fort.

  Itori nodded. He straightened his body, aimed, drew back and released. The flaming arrow made a whistling sound as it soared through the sky. Dominic watched Miguel’s face twist into a look of disbelief as the arrow landed on top of the fort. The tar covering the structure burst into a towering wall of flame. Dominic could feel the heat on his face. It felt delightful. He watched Miguel and the guards scamper away.

  Aaay-yeee! The native workers erupted with cheers and war cries. They danced around the burning fort and lifted their arms to the sky, rapt. Itori joined in with his own whooping shout, and then he yelled, “Burn it down! Burn it down!”

  Reaching the summit of a nearby rise, Miguel put his hands on his head and rocked back and forth as he watched the fort burn, and then he turned and pointed at Dominic and Itori. “Kill them!” he screamed to the guards, his face as severe as the fire.

  Dominic put his hand on Itori’s shoulder. “I assume you know how to get back to the village without leaving tracks for anyone to follow.”

  Itori nodded. “Yes.”

  “We must do the opposite.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Dominic’s eyes filled with tears and he stopped telling his story. Zane had been so entranced that he only now noticed the wail of the hurricane outside. Fear sank in as he listened to the gutters rattling and debris pelting the roof and gusts of wind ebbing and flowing as if some hulking beast were trying to blow down the walls. How much could the old house withstand?

  Dominic wiped his eyes, looked at Zane and said, “If I could have foreseen the great evil I was bringing to the village, I would have stopped right there and given up. But saving my son was all that mattered, as if his life was worth more than anyone else’s. I was a selfish man. I don’t think there’s any amount of penance—not four hundred years of it or even four thousand—that can ever compensate for the suffering I’ve caused.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Zane.

  “Do you?”

  Zane tried to think of a way to change the subject. “What happened when you got back to the village?”

  Dominic looked at the floor. “Pestilence. And death.”

  The whole house suddenly shook. Zane suspected thunder, but as the shaking continued, he realized it was someone’s heavy footsteps on the porch. Both he and Dominic turned toward the door just as someone on the other side kicked it open. Wind and rainwater streamed in. The animals scurried into the darkest corners of the house. The preacher stood wet and disheveled in the doorway, looking like a drowned person pulled from a lake. His eyes locked onto Zane. “You!” he said.

  Dominic sprang to his feet. “Be calm. He’s a friend.”

  “A friend? He called the police!”

  “You were trying to kill me!” said Zane.

  The preacher stepped inside. “No! I was trying to save your soul!”

  “Enough,” said Dominic. He stepped toward the preacher. “Why are you here?”

  The preacher’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Why am I here? Why am I here? Can you not see? The end of days is upon us!”

  “It’s only a hurricane. We’ve been through hundreds.”

  “No, not this one! The signs are clear! And I saw him—”

  “Who?”

  “The horseman!”

  Fear pressed in on Zane. “You saw someone on a horse?”

  “Not just someone,” said the preacher, and his voice deepened. “Behold a pale horse, and he that sat upon him, his name was Death, and hell followed with him!” The preacher’s voice eased as he continued. “Can you believe it? The fourth horseman of the apocalypse, riding through these very woods! The end, my brothers, is nigh.”

  “I want you to leave,” said Dominic.

  “Leave? You would deny me refuge in a tempest?”

  “I don’t care where you go, but I don’t want you here. We both know why.”

  The preacher’s face flushed and inflated. “Oh, I know why. Yes I do. The love of money, my friend, is the root of all evil!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The preacher pulled the doubloon out of his pocket and stuck it in Dominic’s face. “I know what your ship was called. You told me! Where are the rest of these? I’ve been starving out here, doing your dirty work, while you sit around and horde your gold and share it with the likes of this little pagan!” He glared at Zane.

  Dominic grabbed the preacher by the collar and shoved him out the door. “Get out!”

  The big man tumbled down the steps and crashed into a mud puddle. “Woe to you, my friend!” he bellowed, his voice barely audible over the roaring wind. “For tonight the Lord separates the wheat from the chaff!”

  Dominic slammed the door and locked it.

  Zane sat wide-eyed. “Who is that guy?”

  Dominic eased into his chair. “That guy,” he said, “was the first stranger to ever stumble upon the spring after I became its protector. The civil war had just begun. He showed up one day, seething with gangrene. Said he was a confederate deserter. I pitied the poor man and used the water to heal him, but when he discovered my secret, I was faced with a decision. Let him stay, or silence him forever.”

  “You mean kill him?”

  “I was tempted. But, as I said, I made an oath to never kill another person, with my own hands at least. I have kept that oath, and I will continue to. But as for that man, I did not have to kill him. I found a use for him. You see, although my killing days were over, I knew that as the population of La Florida grew, more people would start finding the spring. Yes, his methods are a little disturbing—he insists on baptizing his victims before he
dispatches them—but he’s prevented the secret from getting out on numerous occasions. In exchange for his services, I provide him with water from the spring and plenty of food. Unfortunately, though, I think the loneliness of eternity is eating away at his mind, as you can see.”

  Zane had a look of disgust on his face. “You let him kill people if they find the spring?”

  “What else am I supposed to do? I am not proud of it. And I have, on several occasions, insisted that he let certain ones go free. But imagine if this thing got into the wrong hands. The entire balance of the world would be destroyed. Think about it. Knowing he is destined to die, man still fears that his actions might one day be judged. Give him immortality, on the other hand, and he will have nothing left to fear.”

  Zane felt exhausted from the many directions his mind was being pulled. He rubbed his eyes. “I need to lie down.”

  “Of course. I have a room prepared for you.”

  Dominic led him down a long hallway. They passed an open door and Dominic motioned toward it. “That is where I sleep, in case you need anything.”

  They came upon another door, this one shut tight. “What’s in there?” said Zane.

  “It’s private.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I said okay.”

  Dominic led Zane to a small, damp room decorated with a hodgepodge of antiques and curiosities. A bedpan sat on a wicker chair. A deerskin rug lay in the middle of the floor. A carved wooden paddle hung on the wall. Zane collapsed onto the four-poster bed and gazed at the frilly hand-knitted canopy above.

  I have to get out of here, he thought. But no part of his body willed to move. He felt his motivation drain away. He watched the walls tremble and listened to the wind rustling outside but he was too exhausted to worry about the storm anymore. Sleep took him within minutes.

  He dreamt about the part of Lucia’s body that he cherished the most—her smile. Perched on the edge of his skiff, her hair whipping all around, she reached out to touch a porpoise as it surfed the bow wake and when her fingers met its slick, shining skin her mouth opened in the most vibrant smile Zane had ever seen and that was how he always wanted to remember her—not splayed out on a gurney with paramedics peeling off her clothes and strangers looking at parts of her body even he had not yet seen and the loud god-awful sirens jarring the gossipers out of bed and the flashing lights turning the inlet parking lot into a nightclub in which no one wanted to dance.