Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  “Yet that was so long ago. This Calos could have changed his mind. There may be another tribal leader. Why not let me take the boats upriver, scout and observe, then report my findings? It is not necessary to expose yourself.”

  “Ah, my friend, this time it is. If that sacred water exists then I will be first to drink it. If it is poisonous then you can return with the men. You can treat with the Calusa, set up a colony, take on the leadership of this expedition. I trust you as no other to accomplish these things. But this is my destiny. Somehow I feel it has always been. I have erred before. My regrets are too many to count. If this is another, then I must suffer it. But you shall profit from this. Your loyalty and love shall be repaid you whatever my outcome. Something good must come of this voyage outside of myself.”

  “Is that why you’ve been so taken up writing in that peculiar book? Not the ship’s log, the other.”

  “You know of it?”

  “Everyone does, Don Juan. Some speculate it is plans for the colony, others say a list of tactics against these Calusa, a few call it your last testament. It is a mystery to us all.”

  “It is less than that, Cristoval,” Juan Ponce said, “and perhaps more.”

  He sat down for a moment at his desk, withdrawing the tattered book, soft now in his gloved hand, much used and drooping. He held it up for Sotomayor to see.

  “It is my thoughts mostly. My chronicle, though not in the way others think of a history. It possesses little order for it has become interludes from my life written in self appraisal. It contains no real plan other than the water, some comment on this voyage and many of my memories as well. I neither know why I began it nor why I’ve continued, but it has been a respite for me. Though it tells some hard truths it contains softer reminiscence as well. In this desperate voyage near the end of my life I have written my life; tried to understand what has driven me. No one will read it for if I return with a cask of immortal water then it will not matter for I will have found every human’s dream. Who I am will be subsumed in my success. And if I fail... well, no one desires to read a man’s book of catastrophe.”

  “If you have failed in any way, Don Juan,” Sotomayor said, “it has never been noticed until Colon and the audencia, and that was conspiracy; never your fault. You are not the kind of man who fails.”

  “You forget the Carib.”

  “You were not given the chance to go at them again. If you had ...”

  “I had a different war by then.”

  “That of Colon. He fears you, Don Juan. He knows your abilities. These new arrivals, these dandies of his, fear you deeply.”

  “Perhaps I have lived too long,” Juan Ponce whispered.

  “Not at all, my captain!” Sotomayor tried to haul his friend from the dark of self doubt. We’ve all heard the stories. And la Vieja is a wonder in her own strange way. I have no doubt she will lead you to your destiny.”

  “Yes,” Juan Ponce responded, cheering a little, “and when we have drunk of it we shall return and make a colony of immortals. The woman has said there is much, much more to this land than Florida. She says she knows little but what she does know she has told me. She said it stretches beyond imagination; that her tribe trades with others far across this sea. I have no idea what she means but can only assume there are lands to the west and north. With a colony such as we will build, we will have the time and the will and the strength to explore so much further.”

  “Now you speak of El Dorado,” Sotomayor said, laughing. He was joined by his friend.

  “You are right, Cristoval!” Juan Ponce responded. “I am dreaming. Scheming as I always have. I’ve discovered that much about myself through this journal.”

  He stood, walked toward the door, and opened it for his companion.

  “But now it is time for another dream. One at a time, eh, my friend?”

  “I look forward to this,” Sotomayor said. “I look forward to what this land holds for our futures and what we will make of it. And you have not lived too long, my captain. Just long enough to become even more legendary than you are now.”

  “Legends are often fictions, Cristoval. It is why, just before we depart, I begin to so doubt myself. I wish not to be wrong in this.”

  “Only one way to know,” Sotomayor said, passing through the doorway then climbing up to the deck. Juan Ponce de Leon, having been more open with his friend than any other person in his life, felt a weight lift from him. Come what may, this huge warrior would be at his side. That thought gave him comfort, and courage, in the midst of his mysterious quest.

  26

  What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door.

  —DICKINSON

  Spring — The Present

  It is Sunday evening. Still with a hangover Ross answers the door. It is Willis Skanes, the park manager and, more significantly, Darlene’s father. He is a tall, thin man. He wears a white shirt with a black tie and trousers; strange garb for evening. Ross thinks he must have come from his church, or a meeting. His Adam’s apple is so prominent it is hard for Ross not to look at it. Each time he swallows the black knot of the tie pushes down. When he speaks his voice is hard. He knows, Ross thinks immediately.

  “How do, Mr, Portuh.”

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Ross remains in the doorway, filling it; thoughts of Andy Taylor and interference.

  “It’s late, Mr. Skanes. What do you want?”

  “I unnerstan’ you bin drinkin’ a bit. Some folks’re troubled about it. They say you bin havin’ girls come by.”

  “That’s not true. I just lost my wife, for God’s sake!”

  “No need t’ take the name of the Lord in vain, Mr. Portuh. I can smell the drink on you.”

  “Yes, I’ve had a drink! But there’s been no one here! It’s just cheap gossip!”

  “So what would you call this?” Skanes pulls his daughter’s bra from his pocket brandishing it like a weapon.

  “I ... I have no idea,” Ross says lamely.

  “It was found jus’ behind your place here. This mornin’.”

  “That doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it!” Ross says. It is a weak lie. Skanes presses his advantage.

  “It’s this way, Mr. Portuh. Happy Hills has got a Committee as you know. They had some sessions over you the past while. Had another one jus’ an hour ago. They all’d like to see you tomorrow.

  Skanes pulls out a page of foolscap typed in large letters to make it appear legal and significant.

  SUMMONS

  BY THE COMMITTEE FOR THE BETTERMENT OF OUR PARK

  The presence of MR. ROSS PORTER is ordered by the Committee

  MONDAY, 10 AM,

  At HAPPY HILLS COMMUNITY CENTRE LIBRARY ROOM

  To answer charges of corrupt behavior contrary to the Residents’ Rules

  Signed: Willis W. Skanes, Park Manager

  GOD BLESS AMERICA

  Despite the tension of the situation Ross Porter stifles a laugh. The thing is ridiculous. It was obviously written by Skanes himself and likely typed very slowly and carefully by Darlene with her father hanging over her shoulder. The paper is smudged and damp where Skanes’ fingers have touched it. The situation is so absurd Ross cannot find the words to respond.

  “Ten in the mornin’, Mr. Portuh. The Committee’s responsible to all the residents. I’m askin’ you to bring your rental papers, Sir.”

  The threat in Skanes’ words brings Ross back from the absurd. Comic or not, this is an attempt to humiliate him. He knows the decision has already been made; the rest is simply theatrics. He responds roughly to match his accuser.

  “Look, Mr. Skanes, if you think I’ll agree to appear in front of some kangaroo court, you’re out of your mind!”

  “A what?”

  “Kangaroo court. Special Committee. Arrogant old farts controlled by you!”

  “No need for shoutin’. It’s la
te.”

  “Too damned late for you to be summoning me to your pitiful little Inquisition!”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. This summons is not legal. It’s the work of a fool!”

  “I don’t like that kinda talk. If you ain’t there tomorrow, I’ll have you evicted.”

  “You don’t have the right!”

  “I guess you all didn’t read the contract, Mr. Portuh. We got rules here. Public drunkenness’d be one of ‘em.”

  “This is not in public! This is my place!”

  “Not yours at all, Sir. Belongs t’ the park. And as I said, there’s been talk of girls ...”

  “Another lie!”

  “I got proof!” The bra.

  “Of consenting adults!”

  “She’s on a bus home t’ Tennessee. You won’t be seein’ her again.”

  “She has the right to do as she wishes! She’s an adult, Skanes!”

  “We don’t put up with no trash here.”

  “You dare call me ...” Ross steps forward, fists furled.

  “I wouldn’t move off that stoop.”

  “You think your little summons can scare me?”

  “That’s up to the Committee. You all can have a lawyer present.”

  “And how would I get one by tomorrow morning? It’s Sunday night!”

  “Ain’t my problem.”

  “You son of a bitch ... you timed this!”

  “That langridge ain’t suitable.”

  “Get out of here! Get out now!”

  Skanes leaves quickly, frightened of Ross’ show of temper. Ross knows he has made a mistake, defeated by his own desperation, this piece of paper and some inquisition he knew nothing of. The Committee, and Willis Skanes, will evict him, of that he is certain. He wonders how long they have plotted their scheme. He retrieves his rental papers and reads them but he cannot focus. The liquor has done that. He cannot defend himself because he has left himself defenceless. And so it is shame which launches him. A raging guilt empties the last of his liquor down the sink drain. He is packing his car at midnight when Jimmy White appears, his cigarette smoke curls white in the darkness. He looks worried. He picks up a box from the carport deck and hands it to Ross. It takes a moment for him to work toward words.

  “What’s goin’ on, Ross? You goin’ home?”

  “No. I’m going south, back to Sanibel.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea? Weren’t you and ... Weren’t you there before you came here?”

  “That’s right. Can you hand me that bag?”

  Jimmy glances at the luggage, takes a drag on the cigarette, then does nothing.

  “I just think this is wrong for you. You’ve changed since you came back. People can’t make head nor tail of it. Then there was last night with Darlene. Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t makin’ a judgement. I like to think of myself as your friend. A friend tells a friend the truth.”

  “They want to evict me. Apparently there’s something in the rental contract ...”

  “I noticed Willis Skanes came to visit earlier. Park Committee, right?

  “That’s right. Busybodies. They’ve set me up. Summoned for tomorrow morning.”

  “I seen it before. Curtain twitchers. Always lookin’ but hidin’ themselves behind their rules and their drapes. I don’t think they can just throw you out though.”

  “What I’m looking for isn’t here anyway,” Ross mutters.

  “Just what are you lookin’ for, Ross?”

  “Right now I don’t know. They want me out. Fine. I’m getting out. I won’t allow them the chance to humiliate me.”

  “Don’t think you’ll find much of whatever you’re lookin’ for outside yourself, Ross. Hope you don’t mind my sayin’.”

  The road of regret takes him south back to Sanibel. Filled now with self-doubt he cannot quell the thoughts of how close he’d come to the underside of his despair. Then he thinks of his son and what he has done to Robert, and Justin, and Anne. They must be worried about him. He has not called or written since he left. He resolves to phone his son as soon as he finds a place to stay. This he must do. To maintain any cohesion at all he must reach past the acrimony he has created and find a way back to his family.

  He recalls Andy Taylor and how unpleasant he’d been to the man, a friend who had simply wanted to help; then the sharp scepticism of Alice Bush once she’d learned his true motives; and finally Jimmy White with his sense of companionship and his doubt. Caught up in his terrific obsession he has not taken time to examine himself. Perhaps he has been wrong about this. Perhaps he is suffering Emily’s death by reeling from point to point, wanting an answer, helpless to find one.

  Yet there is the dream: so powerful in him; so malevolent yet so enticing. It returns and returns and there is something in it which lures him on in his bizarre search. A thing beyond the known world has beckoned and, just as he is powerless to know its answer, so too is he unable to stop. Not now. Not after all he has given away, given up, given in to.

  What could Emily have meant about water? He tries to recall the instant of her death and finds he cannot. He cannot evoke the most significant moment in his life. The monotonous hum of the tires on pavement permeates his thoughts. And he can’t think of the tune.

  Perhaps I should have listened more closely.

  27

  The language of truth is simple.

  —SENECA

  Spring — The Past

  Mayaimi sat in the prow of the boat. Behind her the stinking Spanish were loading supplies and weapons. Their metal skins clanked with their motions but she knew now they wore false skins, made to protect the flesh of ordinary men. The weapons too now no longer caused her fear: the long spears they called pikes and long knives they called swords and especially the booming, smoking stick which they called harquebus. Deep in the forest where they were going these weapons would do them no good. If Calos decided to attack it would not be on open ground and never when the stinking Spanish were ready. No, in the forest the shark-jaw club, the swift, short spear hurled from the atl-atl and the sharpness of shell knives would seek chinks in this armour they wore and rip at the flesh beneath. She quivered with anticipation.

  She knew she was right to do this: to bring these Spanish inside Calos’ kingdom, to bring the two big ones far into its depths. It was her work, she knew now, to get them out of the way, make a diversion, give Calos time to gather his forces. Just before dusk she had seen whiffs of smoke drifting up with the twilight, unseen by the Spanish but clear to her. Signals. Gathering signals. Something was happening in her land.

  The boat rocked as the big Spaniard stepped into it. He came forward and joined her. He was a shadow. He did not wear the thing he called a morion which would glimmer in the moonlight and give him away. This gave her pause. All the men were covered in dark blankets. She could tell that it would be dark this night. The stars would be covered by cloud. The moon would never appear. These stinking Spanish knew what they were about, she thought, best not underestimate them.

  “What are you thinking?” the big Spaniard asked softly.

  “I think on my land, its beauty and wonders,” she said, lying.

  “I as well,” he said. He was so simple.

  “You dream of the water,” she said.

  “And more than that, woman. I think on the things you have told me. I think of expanding our colony some day. I hope to meet these tribes you have spoken of, to trade with them, and visit their lands.”

  “Only to take them away from them,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps not. Not this time. If there is so much, as you say, beyond, then why can we not live side by side peacefully?”

  “Your stinking friar would not stand for that.”

  “Not so loud. He might be aboard now and hear you. He is coming with us.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “He will spoil every place he touches. He thinks he is god, or somehow god is in him. There is no god but Calos and Calos would never deign to
inhabit such rubbish as that.”

  “Have you never thought in all the time you were gone that this Calos might die? Never thought he would be replaced by someone who does not know you at all, who would think you a whore and no longer Calusa?

  “You think only of the things you can see, not what lies beneath. Calos mates with his sisters so Calos’ seed becomes him again. Calos can never die.”

  “Superstition,” Juan Ponce replied. He was growing tired of this witch. Once she had shown him the sacred water he would put her aside. Then he thought again. He could not afford to lose her for she, of any, would take him into the heart of the Calusa, translate his words and offer a chance of negotiation. She was significant, like it or not. She would provide the clues as to how to treat with these natives once they were defeated.

  “You call me superstitious. Yet your priest tells me of how your false god was killed and returned to life. You wear that symbol, all your men do, to show your belief. Why am I so wrong then? I do not claim someone dies then returns. I tell you only of life giving water. So why is it superstition? Just because it is not your belief? I don’t think you believe anything. I think you wear that cross to appease your stinking priest. You think I do not know you.”

  “I think you don’t understand me, nor the things that make civilization. If Calos is so powerful, if he is a god, then why aren’t his ships at my country’s shores and his armies invading my world?”

  “He chooses not to,” she said. “He has enough. Lands are not owned, they are lived upon. He knows that. He knows too he can never die. That is surely enough.”

  “After being with me for nine years you still think that? You’ve not seen how conquistadors claim and own land for ourselves? We call it property. You’ve not noticed how we subjugate natives? We call them slaves and servants.”

  “You have broken their spirits. That much I know. You can do that to men. But the lands you live on will exist long after the last of your properties are gone. How can you not know this?”