Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  “We have, captain-general,” the young man responded earnestly. “We’re two days at most off our course. Once the mizzen is mended we should have little trouble regaining our position, provided this breeze continues.”

  “And no calms and no storms and no sea sirens,” Sotomayor said. “Well, perhaps one or two mermaids could prove pleasant.”

  “Let us eat, gentlemen” — Juan Ponce interrupted the big man’s melodramatic sigh — “it seems the cook has been especially good to us tonight; no worms in the biscuit and this stew smells almost edible.”

  “A true feast,” Sotomayor said, “when I remember those days in Higuey when all there was to eat was lizard meat. Bad enough without Indians hanging from the trees stinking up everything.”

  “Pleasant conversation for a meal,” Sotil muttered.

  “I recall when I first arrived in these Indies,” Juan Ponce said, changing the topic, quaffing his wine, “and my first meal here was that breadroot of the natives.”

  “Cassava!” Miruello looked up from his stew.

  “Indeed. This was a much different land then, full of promise. We all felt a sense of wonder. Columbus had affected us all.”

  “You came here with Admiral Colon?” Miruello’s attention altered quickly from the stew to Juan Ponce. Until now he had known no one who had sailed with the legend.

  “These gray hairs tell that tale,” Juan Ponce responded. “But I wasn’t part of the first voyage. I was at Granada then.”

  “You were there when it fell?” Miruello seemed not to believe his ears. Another legend.

  “I was. And shortly after that, I was here.” The old man’s voice softened and he took some more wine. “Each island was a new discovery. I tell you Columbus kept us hopping. He could never get enough of it, roaming from place to place, always searching. At that time we were sure we had reached the east. Columbus refused to believe otherwise.”

  “It has always amazed me,” Sotil said, “that the old Admiral would look at the evidence and still not see the truth.”

  “But that was before Balboa’s Pacific and the map maker Vespucci,” Miruello said. “There was no real proof until then.”

  “That’s true,” Juan Ponce answered. “Columbus was obsessed with Cathay and its riches. Suffice to say he died believing himself a failure.”

  “Had he lived six more years and seen Vespucci’s maps he would not have thought so,” Sotil said. He spoke with near devout fervour when he mentioned the name of yet a third legendary character.

  “Ah, the Florentine,” Juan Ponce muttered. “To be sure he wrote his letters and drew his maps for the Casa de la Contratacion; still, he worked for the Medicis. Then the German, Waldseemuller, got hold of them and put them together and named the continent America. No, Columbus would have mourned that effort.”

  “But that was the proof of his theory.”

  “Not at all, Sotil. His theory was Cathay, not America.”

  “Still, it could have placed him in power again.”

  “His theory did not lose him his powers. Bobadilla did that on orders from the Crown: shipped him home in chains. The Queen and the King and those bastard clerks of theirs in Spain ... it was they who continued demanding riches.”

  “But Diego Colon, his son, is now Viceroy,” Miruello said, not heeding the warning glance from Sotil.

  “That was not accomplished through Colon’s worth or royal gratitude, my young friend.” The old man’s voice was rising, his words sharp and bitter. “But by conspiracy. His father was a much different man. Diego Colon is nothing in comparison: a cunning courtier, a dandy who has ruined men’s lives by lifting his codpiece to the King’s cousin, marrying her, then claiming his father’s rights!”

  His words boomed out flatly in the small chamber. For a moment there was silence. Miruello looked down at his stew; Sotil studied his goblet; only Sotomayor looked at Juan Ponce with the deep concern born of a knowledge the others could only guess.

  “But we were talking of you, Don Juan, and your beginnings here,” he said calmly.

  “You know all that,” the old man muttered.

  “But I do not, sir,” Sotil said, glancing toward Sotomayor for approval and, receiving his nod, he continued. “And neither does Diego. We have heard the stories, of course, your exploits are legend, but I would enjoy hearing the truth from its source.”

  “The truth is brutal,” came the answer, again an introverted mutter. “I was a soldier. I did a soldier’s work.”

  “You are too humble,” Sotomayor said, trying to lighten the mood. He turned to face the young pilots. “I tell you, gentlemen, with you at this modest table sits a true conquistador! In those days rebellion was rampant on Hispaniola. That bastard Bobadilla was Viceroy then, but his rule was corrupt. Colonists murdered, natives refusing to work ... finally Ovando was sent to replace him. Now there was a man who knew what he was about! I came over with his fleet. Oh, I was but a green boy then, and fortunate to be assigned to Santo Domingo under Don Juan. I tell you, gentlemen, it was the best thing that could have happened to me, for it was Don Juan who ended the native rebellion in a single campaign. Ovando’s gratitude was such he awarded the province to our captain, and double shares to each of his men.”

  “Sotomayor embellishes, gentlemen, just like all the others,” Juan Ponce said, but his mood had lifted a little in amusement.

  “Not so, my captain, not so!” Sotomayor insisted.

  “But how did you manage to end the rebellion in just one campaign?” Miruello asked.

  “The Viceroy’s orders were specific,” Juan Ponce responded. “The natives were to be given the chance to recant. I visited their chief’s village to negotiate this. Of course they refused. But unknown to them I’d placed a cavalry troop at the ready just outside their encampment. It was Sotomayor’s gunshot, I believe, which was the signal to advance.”

  “It was indeed!” Sotomayor said. “Even then Don Juan recognised talent!”

  “What happened?” Miruello questioned.

  “Quite simply,” Juan Ponce answered evenly, “the natives were taken by surprise. The men with me in the village formed a phalanx withstanding them while our cavalry swooped in. When we finished there were no survivors.”

  “A brilliant tactic, wouldn’t you say?” Sotomayor said.

  “You mean you killed everyone?” Sotil asked.

  “Every native within a league,” Sotomayor responded. “We set the war dogs loose to track them and at the end there was not one left.”

  “Women and children, too?”

  “Everyone,” Sotomayor said boastfully.

  “Jesu,” Miruello whispered.

  “Exterminated, as Viceroy Ovando had directed,” Juan Ponce said flatly. He dipped a biscuit into his stew and took a bite.

  “Please excuse me.” Miruello rose from the table unsteadily, his voice tremulous, and left the cabin. Sotomayor watched him then turned to the others and chuckled.

  “It seems our young pilot has no stomach for good caldereta. See, he has hardly touched his food!”

  “This kind of thing,” Sotil spoke softly, “was common?”

  “It still is,” Juan Ponce answered. “Your hero, Cortez, slaughtered thousands in that Aztec city. I take it you don’t approve.”

  “No sir, it isn’t that.” The young man groped for words. “It just seems excessive.”

  “It is war, Alonzo,” Juan Ponce placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “To conquer you must use the means to conquer. At times those means are terrible, but necessary. I would rather have my enemy capitulate. But if he fights he accepts the consequence.”

  “Did the natives know that?”

  “When I became governor what was left of the other tribes worked for me. I treated them well. Ensured they had food and lodging. I allowed no landowner to mistreat them. They never rebelled again.”

  “And Don Juan went on to conquer the entire island of San Juan Bautista!” Sotomayor boomed proudly.


  “Did you use the same methods?” Sotil asked.

  “It was called Boriquen then, the name given it by the natives. Had I been given the proper chance I would have settled that island peacefully.”

  “What prevented you?”

  “Colon! Diego Colon. His machinations at court in Spain, in addition to his marriage, had secured for him the appointment as Viceroy. He’d claimed it was his right, given him by his father, Columbus. Diego Colon had Ovando removed. And when he arrived he replaced the good men who had fought for this land with his own lackeys. And without those experienced men we lost order. Nearly a hundred Spaniards were killed that year. Even Sotomayor almost died.”

  “How?” Sotil said, staring at the giant across the table.

  “I was cocky,” Sotomayor muttered. “We were tracking natives. I came to a stream and rather than let the dogs go first, I waded through to the other side; got an arrow in my neck for my stupidity. Were it not for blessed Becerillo protecting me, those warriors would have had me too. But he crossed the stream and stood over me until I could be rescued.”

  “Becerillo?”

  “My hound,” Juan Ponce answered, and to Sotil’s surprise the old man’s voice seemed to catch with emotion. He lifted the tumbler of wine to his lips and took a long swallow.

  “A wondrous animal,” Sotomayor said softly.

  “In two years my colony on San Juan was secure,” Juan Ponce said. “In two more I’d amassed a fortune. Gone now. Swindled from me. For you see I’d fought the wrong enemy. The Boriquenos were nothing compared to Diego Colon.”

  The door opening interrupted them. It was the woman back from her visit with friar Bartolome. She was silent as she entered. She had bruises on her face and a little blood dribbled from her mouth. She took her place on the bunk, curled her legs to her chin and stared at the men.

  Thoughts of further conversation ended.

  Mayaimi was furious. The stinking monk had harangued her since she’d been sent to him by the big Spaniard. At first the monk had been kindly, telling her little stories from the black book of scribbles he carried; little parables of meekness and mercy, stories of the nobody he called god. She had followed her usual pretence of listening but allowed her thoughts to take her outward, beyond the dusky deck where the monk had met her, above the sailors swilling their wine, into that world she knew she was ever closer to reaching.

  And with that proximity she had begun to doubt herself. She wondered if, after so long, she would be accepted. She thought longingly of a boy she’d known, a boy with whom she’d explored their bodies, that boy a noble and a good match who’d told her he’d cared for her and would ask for her as a wife. But would he now? Too much time had passed. He would have found another by now. Even with her return she could never re-capture that careless liberty she had once known with a boy, with her tribe, with the other girls among whom she’d been considered most beautiful and accomplished.

  For despite her recalcitrance toward the Spanish she knew she had changed. She was no longer a fresh, nubile being laughing easily, or running like a deer through the pathways between villages. She was a woman now, an old woman in so many ways, far past marital age, despoiled by the Spaniard, tainted from her long banishment which had seemed so important to Calos at the time.

  She recalled, as she glanced past the monk and over the water, other dusky evenings returning home from the sea aboard the huge log canoe of Calos, often in his arms at the prow as they approached the shore. She had loved those voyages with her father as he’d travelled the coast maintaining his realm, each village or town dressed up to meet him with feasts and tribute and fealty. She’d had no idea why he took her along with her brothers, yet without her sisters, on those wonderful excursions. Perhaps her father had truly loved her. But why then send her away? Why did it have to be her? What had been in his mind to tell her to do this, how to do this, knowing he was ruining a life he’d spent so much time cultivating?

  Then the stinking monk was shaking her, hands on her shoulders, pulling her back to his sermon. Angry now, he shouted she must seek salvation; that she was the one to make her tribe placid and pliable for him to preach. But how do you tell a god about god? Calos was a god. And how could anyone think the Calusa pliable?

  She decided then she would lead this priest into Calos’ hands and the priest would be stripped, skinned and roasted. What would his nobody god do then? And Calusa warriors would gather from all across Calos’ realm and become the claws which would tear at these Spanish until they were ripped to shreds. They had fought before, that first time when Calos had sent her on her mission. But that time there had been only one tribe, not the host from across his realm which could be brought to war by her father.

  These thoughts comforted her and she allowed herself a dream for a while of the tribe called Timucua, of the lake called Mayaimi, from which her name had been derived. A peaceful tribe, they’d lived deep in the interior of her land, the fresh water lake by their village so clear it shimmered like crystals. She would spend time there when she was a child, enfolded within the warm clasp of her mother, learning the ways of the inland people so distinct from the Calusa.

  The Timucua, unlike the Calusa, farmed their land; grew gourds which they traded for shell instruments. She had worked those little glades where cultivation was possible, learning the patience which farming can bring, learning that time could bring forth achievement. It was a lesson which had stood her well during the long years of her exile. She had grown up headstrong. It had been allowed by Calos until one day she had been returned to her mother. Calos had said she needed further instruction if she was to become his best daughter. Then her mother had taught her the meaning of prudence, to conceal her unruliness beneath discretion, to learn female ways of empowerment. She was a quick study. She had returned to Calos after a time with apologies. He had smiled as he’d accepted her. She was to have made a good marriage but during her time with her mother something had happened. So Calos had told her what she must do for him.

  Be a spy. Live with the stinking Spanish.

  She so missed her mother’s embrace. Missed a boy. Missed royal Calos. Her life.

  Then the monk grabbed her once again snapping her from her reverie to focus upon his ugly face. And the anger aroused by the stinking monk’s treatment burst to the surface. Despite herself she could not hold back and she spit on him. He slapped her, several times, shouting while he beat her. She took it as she had with the big Spaniard when he’d thought he was gaining control of her: without a response, with that restraint taught her by her mother, with the strength that came from Calos. For to kill this monk, which she could easily do, meant she would in turn be murdered by the Spaniards. The stinking monk was inviolate. So she held her temper yet again as the monk sent her back to the cabin where she found the three men in conversation, and overheard as she entered the big Spaniard’s words: “The Boriquenos were nothing compared to Diego Colon.”

  He might have known the Boriquenos of whom he’d made slaves but he knew nothing of the Calusa. They would never submit. And this Diego Colon who had ruined him did not possess the incredible powers of Calos, the god.

  And none had the power of water.

  She knew then she would take the big Spaniard through water.

  10

  I heard the old men say, “All that’s beautiful drifts away Like the waters.”

  —YEATS

  Autumn — The Present

  At the end of the week they leave Sanibel. They drive north to Tampa through its outskirts taking Route 60 going east to a suburb called Brandon. After the island’s beauty the interior is a disappointment. It is a long strip of plazas, malls and franchise restaurants. They come to the place where Ross has arranged their rental.

  Happy Hills Retirement Community.

  It is pleasant enough. It has palm trees along its roadways and quaint streetlights outside each mobile home. It has a pool and shuffleboard courts and a large hall for entertainments. The mobil
e homes seem well kept and have signs on their lawns, little wooden signs with names burnt into them: The Watson’s, Marg and Bill’s, Shangri-La. People wave or nod as they drive by. Old people. Wrinkled flesh. Grey thatch. Bifocals. Bandy legs. No one is young here. Ross Porter stares straight ahead as he drives; his thoughts a mayhem of confusions.

  What am I doing in this place? I am not old. I am not old!

  In this place they carefully cut their lawns and hang out wind chimes on their carports. They have cocktail hours where they reminisce about the old days when things were better. They take long, slow walks in the mornings. They go to bed after the nightly news. They arise with the birds. They sleep little. Sleep is too close to death. They are waiting for death; putting it off day by day, never sure if the next will be their last. People die here often. They get suntans and then they die.

  Purgatory.

  Emily looks at him. She is smiling. She says something about such sweet people. He marvels that she cannot see they are walking ghosts.

  I forget. She is too.

  They park at a building marked “Office”. It is attached to the manager’s home. The office and the home form an L shape of beige stucco. At the corner of the L stands a little garden with a fountain in its midst. It is a plaster, Italianate thing with cherubs pissing into a pool. They walk around it to get to the office door.

  “My Lord, that’s ugly,” Emily says.

  Ross does not answer.

  “The neighbourhood’s nice though, isn’t it ...?”

  “What’s the address of our place?” he asks.

  “You should remember,” Emily says, smiling. “Fifty nine.”

  Ironic.

  “The street name,” he says too harshly.

  “What’s the matter, Ross?”