The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  Eduardo smiled, equally amazed. It seemed incredible he was looking at something so legendary yet so real. The wording, though written in stone, improvised, a last resort, told the story of a desperate crew whose ship had run aground. Two had died, more had fallen ill. They had come from a great place, discovered a dream.

  Now they were dying in anonymity.

  Eduardo noticed Juan’s mood had soured. The words were not those of joy. But sorrow.

  It wasn’t an instruction. But an epilogue.

  Juan made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes, forlorn. He knew from the text he had discovered the sanctuary of his great ancestor and her crew.

  Eduardo moved away, heading back towards the boat. Not for the first time, the dreadful smell hit him hard.

  He detected it was coming from the nearby tunnel.

  “What is that smell?”

  Cortés offered no response. His attention remained on the engravings; the, till now, untold story. Moving on from the Spanish wording, once again he became transfixed by the Mesoamerican drawings. Each was extremely precise: galleons, figures, Aztec, conquistador. There were other markings too: forests, mangroves, marshes, rivers. Other symbols, dates, distances.

  He realised he was looking at some form of map.

  *

  Eduardo couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. As much as he hated the smell, he hated the unknown source even more.

  His nostrils guided him to the nearby tunnel, a winding pathway cut precisely into the rock. He found himself moving upwards and left; coupled with the smell, the slope made him feel nauseous.

  There were no decorations marking the passageway, no evidence of Mesoamerican culture nor the recordings of a famous hermit. He noticed that the incline was becoming steeper, possibly providing a way out from the lake to the surface.

  Higher he climbed, breathing slowly. The smell was becoming stronger, more pronounced, defined. As the seconds passed, he sensed the tunnel was beginning to widen, the light improving. The surface was drier, craggy, with further evidence of alterations by man. There were arches cut into the rock, primitive rooms, no doubt once home to early man. The foul stench of rotting meat was now overpowering, making his eyes water. He feared continuing, but couldn’t resist doing so.

  He had already come too far.

  The rooms were largely bare. There were fragments of pottery everywhere; Ben Maloney would have loved it, he mused. Moving on, his nose guiding him, he stopped where the smell was strongest. Another room had been cut into the rock, this one sealed shut.

  He stood before a blocked arched doorway.

  The area was unsafe in every way. Despite the heavy use of flagstones in the blocking of the door, it was obvious that it had been done in haste, the foundations unsecure. Illuminating it with his torch, Eduardo gazed in confusion at the structure, wondering what its purpose was. If it was load-bearing, he feared to move it in case it triggered a collapse.

  Even walking close by caused the heavy stonework to wobble.

  Chancing removing one stone, he attempted to gaze inside. A sudden feeling of dread overcame him as he realised a terrible mistake had been made. His legs wobbled. So did the wall. The foundations were coming away. Stones fell. In the blink of an eye the wall disappeared.

  Leaving him no choice but to look in terror at the sight beyond.

  *

  Even by the lake, Cortés could hear the screaming. It came through so loudly he guessed it would have been audible underwater. Another sound seemed to be accompanying it, quieter but with greater impact. He sensed it was rubble falling.

  “Eduardo!”

  Cortés set off like a sprinter from the blocks, fearing the worst. He navigated the thin passageway, paying no heed to the slippery floor. Up ahead, he saw the passage widening, a figure standing beyond. Eduardo was alive.

  The smell of decay was now overwhelming.

  Eduardo’s face was frozen, unblinking, his eyes fixed on the open doorway. A cloudy mist filled the air, infiltrating his mouth, causing an instant coughing fit. Backing away, Cortés choked, spitting out the crusty material. As the dust settled, he realised the smell had become even worse, sharp, pungent, as if an animal carcass had been left to rot in the sun. Tentatively, he approached the doorway.

  What he saw shocked him.

  Eduardo was trembling, his expression both shocked and terrified. Passing him by, Cortés crossed the divide, holding his nose to combat the smell. He took shallow breaths, taking his own advice.

  Nevertheless, the impact remained unbearable.

  Stopping inside, he gazed in horror at the scene before him. The decayed skeletons of at least twenty people occupied a variety of poses: standing, lying, leaning against the wall, their flesh long ago decomposed. Incredibly, the bone structures had been quite well preserved; Juan credited it to the lack of air caused by the blocked-off door.

  Whoever had been put there had been so for one reason.

  Metres behind him, he heard the sound of regurgitation, followed by straining and spitting. He didn’t blame Eduardo – secretly, he felt the same way. The fate of the islanders had been shrouded in uncertainty for over a century.

  Only now had their final location at last been revealed.

  40

  Colts looked through the lenses of his binoculars and saw land in the distance. Even beyond the rainbow, where the late-morning sun blazed brightly through faraway rain, the terrain had a strange tendency to gleam and glow like shimmering jewels.

  Even after thirty years of negotiating the familiar waters, there was still something special about making a trip back to the islands. Though the populations had grown, the impact on the environment had been minimal. There was no evidence of contamination of the sea, no smoke polluting the clean air, no high-rise buildings or disfiguring advanced industrialisation casting their shadows across the landscape, nor any high-cost transport system cutting its way through the green and pleasant land. Like the young maidens of the Middle Ages, the islands remained pure, chaste and faithful.

  Just as nature had intended.

  The memory of his first visit remained a sweet one. Like most events that had shaped his life, his education in the local ways had come from his mentor. Bavage had once told him there was something about the islands’ beauty that was capable of mystifying the romantics, luring them back as though summoned by a siren. Gazing on their features was like looking upon a fine piece of artwork or listening to a rare piece of poetry.

  Little had changed in a century. From the gold of the gorse to the pink of the sea thrift or the purple of the heather, there was seldom any shortage of varied and colourful plant life on the rugged downs. Tourists and visitors in the twenty-first century, walking through the shoulder-height bracken on the hills in late summer, were just as likely to be treated to the experience of walking in fields of gold as a poor fisherman had been a century earlier. Even those of a poetic turn of phrase struggled adequately to describe the majesty of the flowers in full bloom as they danced effortlessly on a summer’s breeze in colourful displays that transcended both art and the spectrum. It was strange. Unique. Like the story of the pot of gold, Colts couldn’t shake the feeling he had spent his life following his own rainbow. The search for Cortés’s gold had always brought him back to the same place, asking the same questions. But unlike the lost churches of Lyonesse or the forgotten passage of a mystical ship, he knew his journey would end somewhere altogether real. Rain or shine.

  Death or glory.

  Chris joined him at the stern of the vessel, his attention on the mainland. “I’d say we’re approaching the north coast.”

  Colts grinned at him. “You sure know your geography, you sailors.”

  “Well, someone sure has to. So where exactly are we headed?”

  Colts gestured towards the coastline, holding his hat as the wind attempted to dislodge it. “You see that house over there? The one with the white cladding?”

  “Yeah.”

  �
�Rumour has it when another former owner of the Gibbous Moon outdrank the devil, he was rewarded with his dream house overlooking the shoreline. A personal reminder of his victory.”

  “That a fact?”

  “No. I’d say the story is probably fictitious.”

  Chris laughed. “So where are we going?”

  “The house was most likely built by the man after winning so many card games he didn’t know what to do with his winnings. In later years, after the original owner died, Pryce took up residence himself. What you’re looking at was once a guesthouse called the Fox and Hound.”

  *

  Chris smiled politely at the maid as she let them in through the front door of the two-storey, white-clad mansion and accepted her request to remove his trainers. He left them on the mat and tried on a pair of clean black slippers, one of many on a shoe rack, that the maid suggested would be appropriate for his audience with the master.

  The entrance hall matched the exterior in character, reminding him of the lobby of the Gibbous Moon only without the reception desk. A thick oak door shut out the activities of what he guessed was the main reception room, any internal sounds drowned out by the mellow peal of a Victorian grandfather clock that had recently struck two.

  The woman knocked gently on the door, opening it without waiting for a reply. Once inside, Chris studied the room with circumspect eyes, espying a forlorn living area with dark antique furniture that failed to complement the intense exposure of light entering through bay windows to his right. A man was standing there, watching the waters of the north coast.

  No doubt he had seen Colts’s cabin cruiser arrive minutes earlier.

  “Sir, Dr Geoffrey Colts is here to see you.” The woman repeated the name Colts had given her on their arrival. She looked at Chris. “Also . . .”

  “Christopher Maloney. Former US Navy.”

  The man by the window turned slowly towards them, his gaze suspicious, unblinking. Like the maid, he possessed something of a stocky, rounded build that was out of keeping with his otherwise impressive stature and military bearing. His receding grey hairline appeared slightly dishevelled, perhaps from a recent walk in the wind, whereas his beard was neater, more in trim. What struck Chris most was how strangely the man was dressed. Despite his retirement, he wore his old uniform, the many colours of his former medals sewn neatly above his left breast.

  Chris sensed from his expression the man recognised Colts. Yet he offered no handshake.

  “Shall I serve tea, sir?” asked the maid.

  Colts beat him to a reply, “That’s okay. We won’t be staying long.” He addressed the strangely dressed host. “We made use of our crossing from England. I never leave land without a well-stocked galley.” He removed a cardboard cylinder from his pocket; the packaging confirmed it contained a bottle of whisky. “A little token of our respect. I recall from our previous meeting it’s your favourite brand.”

  The old man examined the label from a distance. He recognised the name, Laphroaig, single malt whisky. Aged ten years.

  “A connoisseur of spirits, I see.” He glanced at the maid. “That will be all, Izzy.”

  The woman smiled and departed quickly, leaving Colts by the couch and Chris by the door.

  “We really are most grateful for you sparing us your time, Colonel Weir,” Colts began. “As I’ve already mentioned, we’ve met before, though not recently. I’m afraid in recent years I’ve been unable to attend the Duke’s annual luncheon. Work commitments, you understand?”

  Weir nodded sombrely. “A man who appreciates good food also. I must say your coming here without appointment is highly irregular. I usually insist these days.”

  “Well, once again, I apologise for the inconvenience.”

  “That was your boat, I take it, that arrived just a short time ago?” the colonel replied. He walked tentatively towards the whisky, now placed on the coffee table, read the label and looked at Chris. “This gentleman, I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

  “No, sir. He is new among the islands.”

  “I should say he is,” the colonel returned. “I recall seeing your face in the local papers, along with your brother, I believe.”

  “Cousin, sir. Though I’ve been told we do look a lot alike. Apparently we both took after our grandfather.”

  “It’s the sign of good genes, they say. When the apple doesn’t fall too far.” He placed the whisky back down on the coffee table. “Well, don’t stand on ceremony. Be seated.”

  Chris obliged, whereas Colts dithered. “If it’s all the same with you, Colonel, I’ll stand. Like I say, we don’t plan on taking up much of your time.”

  “As you wish.” Weir dropped down into the nearest armchair, clearly his personal preference. “I don’t receive many visitors these days. I make no apologies, I’m an old man.” He monitored them as though they were his own men. “At the very least, take off your overcoats.”

  Chris and Colts exchanged glances, both agreeing. Seated opposite, Weir rang a small bell on the nearby table and the maid returned.

  “Izzy, hang up the gentlemen’s coats, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” She took the folded garments and left, closing the door.

  “As I’ve told you already, I’m an old man. I fear recent years without much company has made me uncivilised.”

  “Well, in that case, we’ll make sure we don’t disturb you long. We have a prior engagement in Hugh Town in a few hours in any case.” Colts finally relented and sat down, his tired body welcoming the comfort and support of the soft quilted couch. “Colonel, you may remember a few years ago, we both had the honour of sitting together at the Christmas luncheon. The meat on the menu was duck. Personally, I can still taste the orange sauce.”

  “Hmmm. My personal favourite has always been the partridge. We had a rather fine swan back in ’79, before the later troubles. I suspect you were too young to remember. Nevertheless, we digress. What brings you to my home?”

  “I’m pleased to see your memory still serves you well. Perhaps you spoke with my predecessor that night. Hopefully of clearer memory will be our conversation at the luncheon three years ago.”

  “Your antics in the Vietnam war, perhaps. I never did take that trip to Lincolnshire you advised.”

  “Again, you clearly remember more about the occasion than I. I do, however, remember a conversation we had about my predecessor Sir Arthur Bavage during the main course. It was thanks to him I became employed in the Duke’s service in the first place.”

  “Arthur. Hmmm.” The man cleared his throat. “Fine man. Good teacher. Didn’t really care for lawyers like me.”

  “Lawyers like you? Were you not a colonel?”

  “Indeed I was, but my training began as a lawyer. A common occurrence in my family.”

  “I forgot that.”

  “Well, it appears I might have reminded you. Tell me, you never were old enough to remember my father.”

  “No; however, that is partly the reason for our visit. Back in the mid-’80s, Arthur conscripted me to undertake some research on the legend of the lost Spanish galleon. As I later found out, the galleon had actually been discovered about eighty years earlier, yet, until then, nobody had taken past claims seriously. I know the claims never shocked you.”

  “When you experience the things I have, there is little room left for surprise.” The man leaned back in his chair, his attention now on Chris. “Your ancestor was found aboard a schooner, was he not?”

  Chris nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s correct.”

  “He was an Englishman, no?”

  “Yes, sir. Educated at Winchester College and then Pembroke College, Cambridge. Later taught there too. Lived and worked in Westminster.”

  “Hmmm.” The man stared at the walls, deep in thought. “But you’re an American?”

  “Chris is former US Navy, and, as of recently, an advisor to the Duke in his own right,” Colts extended the truth. “The man on the boat, his ancestor, h
as the distinction of being responsible for the creation of Project Estelle.”

  “Is the name supposed to mean something to me?”

  Chris smiled, whereas Colts’s expression had become more serious. “I’m not sure.” Colts resumed. “When I inherited Arthur’s estate, he left behind a room full of files, some of which have only recently been rediscovered and researched. Among them are letters written by Dr Maloney to a lawyer named Pryce; apparently he was also the landlord of the Gibbous Moon Inn in Hugh Town. Your grandfather, himself, was a lawyer, was he not?”

  The old man laughed, almost a grunt, a hint of his Scottish roots coming through strongly for the first time. “So what if he was? As I’ve told you before, it happens to be a family tradition.”

  Colts took a breath, choosing his words carefully. He knew the moments that followed would make or break the visit, possibly the entire mission. “If my understanding is correct, three generations of your family have been personally involved in Project Estelle. Before my time, but perhaps contemporary to Arthur.”

  “Of course. I see it clearly now. This is all about you, isn’t it?” Weir gestured to Chris, his face tightening, his sunken eyes becoming ever more serious. “They say he was discovered in a cave on the cursed island. The newspapers said he had been shot in the head.”

  “Why do you call it the cursed island?” Chris asked.

  “Because that’s precisely what it is. Always has been. Even in the Dark Ages there were stories. Deep-sea creatures. Malevolent spirits. Of course, I’m just an eccentric old man; who in this day and age would possibly believe the ravings of an eccentric old man?”

  “Personally, I’m willing to believe some of it might be true. If you heard the tales I’ve heard these last couple of weeks, it would probably make your blood run cold.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard them – you can bet your life on that. Question is, can you understand them?”