The beat of hooves jolted Zane awake. It took him a moment to remember where he was and to recall why such a sound should even concern him, but his mind ignited and he jumped off the bed. He put his ear to the boarded-up window. Despite the roar of the storm outside, he could hear the clacking of a horse.
It’s him, he thought. Miguel.
The room felt cold. He shivered. He hurried out of the room.
“Dominic?” he whispered as he walked down the dim hallway. “Dominic?”
No one answered. Zane stopped when he came to the door that Dominic had forbidden him to open. It was ajar. He stood there looking at it for a moment. Then he put his ear against it and listened. Despite the wind heaving outside, he could hear someone whistling a sad melody.
“Hello?” he said. “Dominic?”
The whistling stopped. Zane pushed on the door and the hinges creaked as it opened. All the air left his lungs when he saw a shadowy figure standing in the corner of the dark room. It was the woman. She wore the robe, but the hood was lowered and Zane could see her long hair and dark eyes. She put her index finger over her mouth as if it to say shhh.
“Who are you?” said Zane.
“Get out of there!” Zane spun around and saw Dominic approaching from the other end of the hallway.
“The door was open,” said Zane.
Dominic seemed confused. “Open?”
“Yes, and the lady…” Zane spun back to the room, his finger ready to point at her, but she was gone. “Where’d she go?”
Dominic reached the doorway and looked inside. “Where did who go?”
Zane rubbed his brow. “The woman, the one I saw by the spring, she was in here!”
Dominic put his hand on Zane’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive!” Zane scanned the dark room. A wooden owl carving sat on the windowsill. A panther sculpture, and some kind of bone, lay on an antique dresser.
“It’s okay. I believe you.”
“You do?”
Dominic nodded. “I need to tell you what happened when I got back to the village.”
A chilling scream—shrill and high-pitched—came from somewhere outside. Dominic turned toward the back door with a look of terror on his face. “Good God,” he said, and he bolted to the door and unbarred it.
Zane followed. “Wait! I heard a horse—”
Dominic flung the door open and stepped into the full tumult of the hurricane. His shirt flapped on his body and his hair thrashed. Zane stepped outside, too, and the driving rain pummeled his body and numbed his skin. Dominic put his hand on his forehead to shield his eyes from the rain. He squinted. His jaw dropped open.
“He knows you’re here,” said Dominic.
Zane followed his gaze and was overcome with nausea. There, hanging from a rope tied to the oak tree and twitching as it spun in the wind, was the goat, its stomach cut open and its entrails piled on the ground like a plateful of spaghetti. Tiny round puddles were scattered about in the mud. Dominic knelt and splashed the water out of one of the puddles. The shape was clear—it was a horseshoe track.
Dominic grabbed Zane’s arm. “Come inside! Now!”
Chapter Thirty Five
Hope and fear filled Dominic when he heard drums throbbing through the forest like a low heartbeat. The landscape became increasingly familiar as he and Itori trudged west. They soon came to the little brook where Dominic had killed his first deer and where he had touched Mela for the first time. He and Itori leapt across and paused to listen for the Spaniards. With their clanking armor and hacking coughs and loud curses, it was easy to tell that the soldiers were keeping pace.
As the light faded, Dominic feared that the moon might rise out of the woods at any moment. Would they reach Many Waters in time? He made sure to put all of his weight into each step in order to leave deep and noticeable tracks.
Dominic and Itori soon reached the entrance to the village. They stopped and waited. The drumbeats from within the walls were jarring and Dominic could hear Yaba’s distinctive shrieking. His anger seethed. He yearned to storm into the village and save his family, but he knew he had to be patient.
Moments later, Miguel emerged from the woods on horseback, followed by ten armored soldiers carrying lances and swords. Miguel looked at Dominic and mouthed the word “morir.” Die.
Dominic took a deep breath and looked at Itori. “Ready?”
Itori nodded, and they headed into the village side by side. Two native watchmen sitting along the inner part of the entryway jumped up. One of them ran into the village, shouting. The other stepped in front of Dominic and put his hand up.
“Hani,” said the guard. Stop.
Dominic slugged him in the face. The native fell back against the wall and rumpled to the ground.
“Pardon me,” said Dominic.
He and Itori approached the center of the village where a towering fire raged. Around it, natives romped to the pulse of drums. When the watchman attracted their attention with his screaming and pointing, however, the drums abated and the people stopped. Utina, standing on a platform with a shark tooth knife in his hand, turned his baneful gaze to Dominic. His eyes flickered in the firelight.
Yaba, standing beside Utina, also turned to look at Dominic. The old shaman’s face wrinkled up in a sinister smile and his chest quavered as if laughing. Red paint covered his skin and he wore a gaudy eagle feather headdress. He held something small and squirming in front of his body. Dominic heard a sharp wail—his heart dropped. It was his infant son in Yaba’s hands. He looked around and saw Mela tied to one of the seven columns, her tears spilling onto little Isa who lay sleeping in a papoose slung across her stomach. Mela’s eyes met Dominic’s.
Save him, she seemed to say.
Utina shouted something and pointed in the direction of the village wall.
Here comes my army, thought Dominic, but when he turned to look, orange light bathed his face. At first he did not recognize the bulbous glowing thing climbing over the village wall, but when he heard the drumbeats resume and the natives cheer, he realized that he was looking at the moon, vivid and glorious and wicked in its fullness.
Timucuan warriors—the same ones who had thrown him into the river—surrounded Dominic. One of them grabbed Itori by the hair and forced him to his knees. Itori cried out and the warrior kicked him to the dirt.
“Give us the rebels!” shouted Miguel. The natives all turned toward the entryway just in time to see Miguel entering the village on his horse, surrounded by his soldiers. The drumbeats went silent again.
Dominic jumped up and pointed at Utina and Yaba. “They are the rebels! They are performing a sacrifice!”
Miguel jerked the reigns and his horse trotted toward Dominic and Itori. The surrounding natives cowered, staring at the horse in fear and wonder.
“Their rituals are of no concern to me,” said Miguel. “I came for you and your rodent friend. Do you know how defenseless you’ve left the king’s interests? Do you?”
Dominic put his hands together to beg. “Kill me. I do not care. But do not be so stupid as to leave this place without ridding your land of those evil men up there.”
“The only evil man I see here is you.” Miguel looked at Dominic for a moment, and then he turned to his soldiers. “Bind these two criminals, and then kill the chief and that bird-man and whoever else stands in your way.”
“Thank you,” said Dominic.
Miguel spit on him. “I am not doing it for you.”
A soldier pulled Dominic’s arms behind his back and another did the same to Itori. The rest approached Utina and Yaba. Utina shouted something and all at once the Timucuan warriors surrounded the Spanish soldiers. The soldiers wielded their lances but the warriors lunged and a struggle ensued. Dominic jolted back and used his weight to knock down the soldier who was tying his hands. His eyes found Yaba scurrying off the platform with the baby under one arm.
“Stop!” screamed Dominic. Yaba spun around with a knife i
n his hand. He held the knife to the baby’s tiny chest and pushed it in. Blood formed around it.
Dominic heard a whirring sound and then a thwack and Yaba’s hand stiffened and the knife fell to the ground. Dominic looked into Yaba’s dazed eyes. The old shaman’s head tilted back and his mouth gaped open to reveal an arrowhead; an arrow had pierced the back of his head, straight into his throat. Dominic lunged forward and ripped the infant out of Yaba’s arms. Yaba buckled to the ground.
Dominic looked for the source of the arrow and found Itori standing in the distance, holding his bow with a look of satisfaction amid the melee of clashing soldiers and natives. Itori never saw or heard Miguel coming up behind him and when Dominic shouted it was too late—the lance was already sticking out of Itori’s chest. Itori looked at Dominic, and at the baby in Dominic’s hands, and his mouth quavered.
Brother, Itori seemed to say.
Dominic nodded. Brother.
Miguel ripped out the lance and Itori collapsed. Miguel focused next on Dominic. Smiling wickedly, he flipped the reigns. Dominic grabbed Yaba’s knife and hurried to Mela.
“My love,” he said, and he used the knife to sever the twine that bound her.
“What have they done?” she said, plucking Yaraha from Dominic’s arms. The wound in the baby’s chest was deep. Thin, watery blood streamed out. She touched his tiny mouth and gasped when she pulled her hand away—her fingertip was bright red.
“Quickly,” said Dominic. “Take him to the spring.”
“You know I cannot. The balance—”
Dominic grabbed Mela by her shoulders. “He is half native, but he is also half mine. Do as I say. Take him there. Wash him.”
Mela looked at Dominic, and then at the whimpering baby in her arms. Her lips parted to say something but she stopped.
“Go!” shouted Dominic, and she hurried off.
Dominic heard Miguel’s horse bray. He whipped around, expecting to be slain, but instead he saw a group of native warriors scale the horse and rip Miguel off of it.
“Release me!” screamed Miguel, but they threw him down and stomped on him.
Dominic looked around and realized that none of the Spanish soldiers were left standing. Native warriors surrounded him and closed in. He dropped the knife and extended his hands, arms crossed at the wrist. He had done all he could to save his son. As much as he hated to think it, the rest was in God’s hands.
The worst part of that night and the following day was not the insatiable mosquitos or the biting gnats or the temperature that fluctuated from cold to sweltering; it was being tied next to Miguel that tortured Dominic the most. They sat bound to the columns in the village center. Five armed warriors kept watch.
Utina prepared an altar in front of them and placed his ceremonial club on it. Dominic knew that it would be used to execute him and he doubted he would live to see the next day. There was simply no way out. For the first time in many years, he thought a simple prayer. Forgive me.
Miguel, it seemed, was also pondering the hereafter. His face covered in blood and soil, he smiled at Dominic. “I imagine the demons in hell are preparing a banquet for us at this very moment. We shall soon meet the great deceiver himself!” He laughed.
The first sign of a problem in the village came that afternoon when one of the native guards collapsed. Dominic had watched the man throughout the day. It started with watery eyes and coughing, and then the man broke into a sweat. His knees buckled and he hit the dirt with a thud. The other natives stood over him and poked him, and then they dragged him away to a hut.
Within hours, the other native guards succumbed to the same mysterious ailment, as did their replacements. Dominic scanned the village. Men, women and children lay about the ground, trembling and crying out. Utina, coughing, stumbled out of his hut. The chief’s eyes were puffy and red, and his body gleamed with sweat. He lurched up to Dominic and knelt in front of him.
“Iqui na,” said Utina, but Dominic did not understand.
Utina pulled a knife from his waist belt and sliced the twine that bound Dominic, and then he held the blade up to Dominic’s neck. Dominic froze.
“When you get to hell,” sneered Miguel, “hold the gates open for me.”
Utina made a stabbing motion toward Dominic’s neck and Dominic closed his eyes. Nothing came, though—no gouging blow, no pain—and he opened his eyes, confused. Utina spun the knife around and offered it handle-first to Dominic. At once Dominic understood. Utina wanted to be put out of his misery. He was too much of a coward to do it himself.
Dominic took the knife. He stood and threw it as far as he could. Utina collapsed to the ground, sobbing.
“Suffer,” said Dominic. “Suffer well.”
Dominic looked around the village. No one was standing. Some of the natives writhed on the ground but most were not even breathing. An intense sadness overtook him. Was his family suffering, too? He turned toward the village entrance.
“You cannot leave me here!” said Miguel, struggling to break free. “I will die!”
Dominic turned. He had never seen the admiral so grimy and pitiful. Dominic sighed, and then he stooped and untied Miguel.
“Go back to San Agustín,” said Dominic, “and never come back.”
Miguel stumbled out of the village. Dominic followed. He watched Miguel disappear into the woods, and then he hurried down the forbidden trail. When he came to Francisco’s grave and saw the fresh wildflowers strewn on it, sorrow swept through him. He headed toward the spring and found Mela sitting on the bank, singing to the two infants as they suckled her breasts. She looked up, beaming.
Dominic picked up the boy. He looked as healthy as ever, the wound on his chest now nothing more than a faint scar.
“I am sorry,” said Dominic.
“Why?” asked Mela.
He gazed into the azure waters. “I killed Francisco.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
Mela smiled placidly. “It was part of the plan.”
“What are you talking about?” He sat on the ground beside her.
“Have you not pieced it together?”
“Pieced what together?”
Mela touched his face. “They chose you, Dominic. Francisco had been praying for someone to come and replace him for years. He was ready to go. And then the hurricane brought you right to him. They knew they had the right man.”
“Why?”
“Because you are selfish and you fear death. And they could see the fire in your eyes.”
Dominic rubbed his forehead. “What about Yaba’s predictions? They have all come true.”
“Yes, but he made some of it happen himself, like baiting the alligator.”
“To silence the boy and protect Utina?”
“Utina did not kill my father. Nor did Yaba.”
“Then who did?”
She hesitated. “After Francisco used the water to heal him, my father made me promise two things. He asked me to become your wife. And he asked me to send him back…back to the beauty.”
Dominic’s face twisted in shock. “You killed Ona?”
“He never wanted Francisco to bring him back.” She sobbed. “It was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do.”
Dominic put his arm around her and pulled her close. “What about marrying me?”
“I wanted to do that.” She smiled through her tears.
“That baby should be dead.” Miguel’s voice startled them.
They spun around. Mela gasped. Dominic stood and glared at Miguel.
“Be calm,” said Miguel. “There’s been enough death for one day, don’t you think?” He looked around at the spring, his eyes wild with wonder. “So, the rumors are true!”
“I told you to go away.”
“I started to, but then I remembered your tale of a treasure, and, I have to admit, curiosity got the best of me. I must say, if this is what I think this is, I am thoroughly impressed.”
“What do you want?
”
Miguel smiled. “I want to make a deal.”
Chapter Thirty Six
The wind outside came like throbs of pain that would surge and abate and then surge again. Zane and Dominic stood in the living room, gazing out at the storm through the front window, searching the inkiness for any sign of Miguel. Water trickled from leaks in the roof. A raccoon lapped at a dribble.
“Making a deal with Miguel,” said Dominic, “was like making a pact with the devil. I knew that. But all I cared about was protecting my family. The agreement we made seemed simple enough. I would live by the spring to guard it, and he would go back to the coast and carry on with his work. I supplied him with water whenever he ran out. Over the years, I have heard, he has amassed enormous wealth, but it’s never been enough for him.”
“What about the village?” asked Zane. “Didn’t the disease affect you?”
“It was nothing but a fever,” said Dominic. “My genetics, I guess, gave me immunity, and our children, being half-European, were also spared. Mela would have died from it like the rest of them, but she was saved, I think, when she got the water on herself while healing our son.”
“And you lived together near the spring?”
Dominic sighed. “We did, for some time. But not long enough. No matter how much I begged her, Mela refused to swim or drink the water, and I finally just had to accept it. We never talked about it. There was nothing to say. She had made her decision and I could not convince her otherwise. As the years flashed by, we just took on our roles according to her stage in life. I stayed the same, but soon her hair began to gray. She became like a mother to me. Time hurried on. Her body arced like a hook, her hair thinned to something like a white mist, and her eyes became so foggy that one day she could no longer see. But she never lost her happiness, never once complained. She would sit by the water and sing her native songs and tell me stories of her younger days, as if she forgot I was there for most of them. And then one day I found her out there leaning against that old oak tree—our tree—with her hands folded across her lap and her frail little heart pattering no longer.” Tears welled in Dominic’s eyes. “It all happened so fast.”
The Sound of Many Waters Page 24
