Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  The Arawak feared the Calusa warnings. They advised me to leave. But one does not win new lands through timidity. And with those reports of treasure every man was prepared to stay. I sent out ships’ boats to survey the coastline. One boat found a river mouth and when its crew tried moving upstream was showered with stones from the shoreline. These Calusa were protecting something. At the time I thought it was mere territory. I know better now. For in retrospect, I do not recall having seen a single old person among them.

  I should have stayed then despite the resistance. At the place I called Mantanca afterwards, the anchorage where we had careened our ships, Calos’ warriors finally appeared. They had not come to parley. A swarm of them appeared from the forest and flung themselves at the men on the beach. Our gunfire did not stop them. The captain on shore formed a phalanx and it was broken by the savages throwing their atlatls with uncanny accuracy, even plunging themselves into the armoured wall of my men. These Calusa were too much like the Carib: fierce, fearless, painted: screaming their strange incantations.

  Then as quickly as they had come, they departed.

  Too late for my men ashore: they’d been massacred; their heads hacked off and carried away as trophies. The beach was littered with headless corpses. Volunteers went ashore to bury our dead. I paid each one in gold for his bravery. We kept firing our bombards until the burial party returned. As they did, a single canoe emerged from the mangrove. In it was a girl sent as a sacrifice to the thunder, as I was told by my Arawak translators. She murmured something about great armies gathering on the shore. We had not the strength to engage them.

  We have now.

  Cortez, the mutinous bastard, has shown me the way. In Darien he conquered a nation. He used horses. The Aztec feared them. He used other tribes as allies. He cracked the fragile egg of the natives with the hammer of his killing. I have done that — the killing. I am the better general. I have brought with me this time two hundred trained men, and horses and big guns, and I am ready.

  The prize is so much more than gold.

  Nine years have passed. In one voyage all those years ago I discovered the great northern current which led back to Spain, then I found Florida and then Darien. All great discoveries. And what have I to show for this? How often does one examine his life and find in it missed opportunities? All the should-have-dones, mighthave-dones, would-have-dones gather themselves like doors unopened.

  I hear shouts from above.

  Land.

  Sotil has brought us to Florida. It is time to set this pen down. Time to seek my destiny.

  This I will be sure of.

  This — is mine.

  20

  Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten of the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?

  —SHAKESPEARE

  Spring — The Present

  The airport is cluttered with business travellers, tourists and one single-minded explorer. Ross Porter stands alone in the crowd preoccupied with his embarkation. His bags are checked but he carries two briefcases stuffed with papers. There is no one there to see him off. He has made hard choices. For in choosing this new direction he has stepped beyond the pale and in so doing has lost the comforts of friends and family. He is past them now. He is the explorer.

  The boarding announcement comes over the P.A. Ross gathers his cases and, in his charcoal suit and wingtip shoes, a kind of armour he uses now to fend people away, he treads down the ramp to the waiting plane. The planning is done. The resources are gathered. This is his second expedition. The first had been accident, and fortunate discovery. His founding of a new kind of Florida enticing him through his learning of the Calusa, Juan Ponce de Leon and the still wild and untamed parts of the state became coupled with Emily’s final message. This present voyage is his return. Just like the Spaniard’s return late in life. He’s read little about the second voyage as very little remains of its record. The logs were lost, or might be somewhere in some dusty room, buried beneath the detritus of history. He knows a little, mostly from Herrera’s third-hand account and Peter Martyr’s speculations. Still, he moves like a man who knows where he is going, like a man stepping into history.

  The past two months had been a tumult. A week after the funeral Ross made it clear he would sell the house. This announcement, coming as it did on the heels of Emily’s passing, that he would be departing, adding loss to loss, created dismay in his family. There were conversations, cajoling, then actual confrontation. The worst was when Robert had turned on him. At first he had been patronising. He’d explained how liquefying his assets would increase Ross’ taxes. He had said the house price would be reduced if Ross insisted on selling it quickly. And when Ross had refused to listen, his son had begun to attack him directly. He’d threatened to seek power of attorney over Ross’ financial matters and then insisted Ross visit the doctor for a checkup, and went with him.

  On the way home from that appointment, in Robert’s car, the forces of father and son burst in a storm more furious than either had planned.

  “Turn left here! Where are you going?” Ross muttered, irate from the doctor’s probing.

  “The drugstore, dad, to get your prescription.”

  “I told him and I’m telling you, I don’t need any medicine.”

  “Look dad, your blood pressure is up.”

  “I’ll start running again.”

  “That’s not what it’s about and you know it.”

  “So now I’m supposed to take tranquillisers?”

  “Along with the counselling.”

  “I’m to sit in a room with some stranger and pour out my privacy! The hell with that.”

  “Dad,” Robert said, sounding exasperated, “that’s the whole point. Can’t you see you’re not being rational? I understand why and I’m sorry. Don’t you think I feel her loss, too? But we have to get on with living.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “You’re selling the house!”

  “It’s mine to sell.”

  “You’re selling everything and for what? Some whim ...”

  “How would you know? Have I said anything about it?”

  “I wish you would. Maybe then I’d understand. Since the funeral you’ve spent all your time cooped up in that house reading research! You don’t go out; you don’t have the family over; your friends call you and you tell them you’re busy. What’s going on?”

  “You’re spying on me! I won’t have it.”

  “I care about you! For Chrissake, can’t you see that?”

  “That’s not care, that’s meddling!”

  “I’m not going to let you sell. Something happened to you in Florida. I noticed at Christmas. I asked mom about it. She was worried over you ...”

  “Well she can’t worry now!” he roared.

  “Jesus, look at you. You can’t run away from this. You’ve got to face the fact that mom’s dead. I remember once you could have done that. I respected you. I have all my life. Why the hell do you have to ruin it now?”

  “I have my life, you have yours. I want some time for myself.”

  “To do what? Destroy yourself? I have a responsibility ...”

  “You have no responsibility for me! Is that clear?”

  Robert pulled the car over. They sat by the curb on an empty street, the engine ticking slowly, the car heater breathing out dry warmth. The street was barren and brown with early spring and along its boulevard was a line of bare trees. A boy walked by delivering papers.

  “So enlighten me!” Robert said. “What happened that day in the funeral home? Something snapped, didn’t it? Something altered your mind to make you come up with these plans! Come on, dad, let your ignorant son in on it! What’s your secret?”

  “Why do you say that?” Ross answered sharply.

  He doesn’t know. He can’t know. I’ve not said a thing. I must be careful. Do I dare tell him? It’s mentioned only as passing rumour in Peter Martyr’s notes. Of course historians coul
d never consider it real. The infamy of believing a myth. It would end their careers. As my son would end this if he knew. I am only beginning this voyage. Later, when I am closer, I’ll tell him. But now, especially, I must be evasive. I am a man on the cusp of history, precarious, as others before me. I must be very careful.

  “Listen to me,” he said evenly. “When your mother and I went to Florida I started working on something there. Your mother helped me. When you were younger, I was working on that paper about Quebec, do you remember?”

  “Yes,” came the reply, with a note of suspicion.

  “Well, this theory I have is quite revolutionary. It’s about the Spanish in North America and those natives who seemed to have had no fear of them. I came up with the idea that others, I don’t know who yet exactly, had been there before Columbus arrived.”

  “You say mom was working on this with you? Why didn’t she mention it?”

  “I asked her not to.”

  “This is bullshit. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Your mother told me before she died that I had to have purpose to my life. I had to get on without her. I’m doing it, don’t you see? I’ve got something important that lets me move on constructively. I’m trying, Robert. And you’re trying to hold me back.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Robert looked at him, almost through him as Emily had, but he could tell his son had missed the mark.

  “I don’t care if you do or not.”

  “You’ve got to get help, dad.”

  “I’ll fight you. You turn against me, I’ll fight you.”

  “I’m going to buy the house.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You can’t afford it.”

  “I can easily afford it.”

  “What would you do with it? You’ve got a house.”

  “Keep it. Rent it. What do you expect? It’s hard enough with mom gone but now you’ve got to add to it with your hare-brained scheme. Historical theory, my ass! I don’t know what you’re doing but I’m not going to let you throw your future away!”

  “And if I won’t sell it to you?”

  “You won’t have a goddamned choice! I’ll match every offer. I’ll have you so tied up in litigation you’ll never sell the place! Do you want that? Do you?”

  Robert was crying. His son was crying. He had made this happen. He wanted to hold him, try to tell him the truth but even as he considered it Robert looked at him with both scorn and anguish and he knew if he said the wrong thing this powerful man would turn on him, using his power to confine him. Instead of reaching out for his son he grasped the door handle shouldering open the door letting the cold rush in. He stepped out of the car.

  “I’ll sell you the house. As far as I’m concerned this business is done. And so are we. I have things planned and as long as you try to prevent me then, by God, you’d better stay out of my life!”

  “Get in the car. Please.”

  “I’ll walk home.”

  “I love you, dad!”

  “You have an odd way of showing it.”

  The next night Andy Taylor came by. It was evening and Ross was deep in his research. He had discarded by this time the modern historians’ interpretations of the Spanish in their rough New World. They were tales told by analysts. What he sought would not be in the moderns. What he looked for he would find only in the words of the men who were there: in their diaries and log books, in letters and reports. So he was re-reading translations of Herrera, Oviedo and Peter Martyr and had found the beginnings of what he wanted.

  An account by Martyr read tellingly:

  Among the which there is an Island, about three hundred and twenty five leagues from Hispaniola, as they say which have searched the same, name Boiuca or Agnaneo, in the which is a continual spring of running water of such marvellous virtue, that the water thereof being drunk, perhaps with some diet, maketh old men young again. And here must I make protestation to your holiness, not to think this to be said lightly or rashly. For they have so spread this rumour for a truth throughout all the court, that not only all the people, but also many of them whom wisdom or fortune hath divided from the common sort, think it to be true.

  As it happened he was contemplating this missive when Andy Taylor interrupted him. He appeared at the window outside Ross’ study when Ross had ignored the door chimes. He tapped on the window, grinning foolishly, holding up a bottle of scotch. Ross could not ignore him but the effrontery rankled. He went to the kitchen door.

  Andy’s cold hand offered a warm grip which Ross returned perfunctorily.

  “Ross,” he said.

  “I’m a little busy right now ...”

  “The Professor in his study, huh. Jesus, you’ve got a pile in your office.”

  “Research. As I said I’m ...”

  “I brought this,” Andy said, quickly proffering the bottle. “We haven’t talked since the funeral. I was wondering whether you’d left town or something.”

  “I’m planning to,” Ross said, barring the way into the kitchen, hoping to end the scene quickly.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Ross said nothing.

  “Damned cold out,” Andy said. “So, are you gonna ask me in? We don’t want this bottle going to waste.”

  “This isn’t really a good time, Andy.”

  “Nonsense. Can’t be working all the time,” he said, pushing by Ross into the kitchen and hustling directly to the cupboard where he knew the glasses were kept. He’d poured two tumblers of scotch before Ross could stop him, handed one over, and took a stiff swallow.

  “Ah, hits the spot. Now, what’s all this research you’re working on?” Andy moved uninvited into the study. He glanced at the papers strewn on the desk. “Spanish? When did you get interested in Spanish history?”

  “Florida,” Ross muttered, resignedly taking a chair and awaiting now the true cause of the visit. “I found some material when I was down there.”

  “You’re writing a paper?”

  “I’ve got a theory I’m working on about the natives and Spanish conquistadors.”

  “Ponce de Leon? How does he fit in?”

  He was getting too close. Ross felt him probing and moved to curtail it.

  “Look, why are you here? It isn’t to talk about my work.”

  “I just thought I’d drop by; see how you were holding up. It’s been a tough month.”

  “I miss her. I’m trying to keep busy.”

  “You really gonna sell the house?”

  “That’s the plan. I’m going to use some of the money to finance a research trip.”

  “So fast. After ...”

  “I just don’t want to live here. Too many memories.”

  “You’ll feel different in time. Why burn your bridges?”

  “Is that what this is about? You’ve seen Robert, haven’t you?”

  There was a pause as Andy tried to find the right words. When he spoke again his voice was timid, but the words were not.

  “Ross, you’re hurting your son. It’s bad enough he’s lost his mother.”

  “This isn’t your affair.”

  “I just don’t like to see it happen.”

  Ross swallowed his drink. It was harsh and chafing on his throat. He felt its heat pass into him. He set the glass down on the desk beside him.

  “What I do is my business. I’ll not have you, or anyone else, interfering. Now, as I said, I’m busy. Call next time before you drop over.”

  “It’s not what you think ...”

  “Give my best to Carol. Now, if you don’t mind ...”

  He stood up, forcing Andy up with him.

  “Sure. Uh, sure, Ross. Maybe you’d like to come for dinner Friday. We’re having a few friends and you’d be welcome.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Ross moved through the doorway into the kitchen compelling his friend to follow. In a few moments, unpleasant for both of them, filled with the clichés of distance
and Emily’s death, Andy was out the door. The bottle of whiskey remained on the kitchen counter, memorial of an old friendship. Ross Porter finished it, alone.

  This has to do with the pure self, unencumbered by ties and constraints. Now I am alone. I have a chance to begin again, to find what I haven’t had time, knowledge or inclination to seek until now; the time to learn what I was not taught.

  The plane thunders around him, rising into a mottled sky through the tumult of clouds, winging south like a ship under sail, buffeted by turbulence, pushing through air like some caravel carrying its explorer to his yet undiscovered destination.

  In his lap are maps. Geography now. He has studied the historical tomes which had offered a path. Now he is more direct. There are thousands of freshwater springs in Florida. There are huge areas of swamp. There must still be unexplored places.

  Ponce de Leon thought the land was an island. He met resistance from the Calusa when he first landed, and he’d retreated, but had not forgotten what he’d found. His career was momentous for any man: first as an explorer, then as captain-general of several fleets, and finally as the Governor of Puerto Rico. A powerful man, he knew everyone of importance in the New World at the time. But something had happened. Somehow as he’d aged he’d lost his powers. He’d been brought to trial and stripped of his titles, apparently due to corruption. It was then, for some reason, he’d gathered what remained of his wealth and outfitted a voyage. To the place he called la Florida. There had to be a reason. He had lost his wife, too.

  In search of a water.

  Into the unknown and into the future.

  On the chance there might be salvation.

  21

  Right now is wrong, and wrong that was is right, As all things else in time are changed quite.