The Sound of Many Waters (32 page)

The road’s uneven stones caused Itori to stagger like a drunkard. “Crazy…path,” said Itori, his eyes wide with terror.

Dominic realized that Itori had likely never walked on anything so solid or experienced such a foreign place. To Dom
i
nic, however, coming into San Agustín was like walking through a memory, as if a little chunk of Europe had been transported to the New World. Pockets of fresh air competed with the smells of roast pork, horse manure and spilled rum. The two-story timber and coquina buildings included a tavern, a sundry shop, a schoolhouse and a barbershop. They passed a group of Spanish ladies wearing dresses with puffy sleeves and high-necked bodices. Dominic laughed. He had become so accustomed to women going around naked that seeing them covered in lavish garments was almost bizarre.

“Women…cold?” said Itori. Dominic smiled, but when he and Itori turned the corner and found themselves in the shadow of a soldier on horseback, his smile faded. The horse snorted and Itori cowered. “Giant…devil…deer,” Itori whispered.

The soldier pointed his iron lance at Itori and said, “Why aren’t you working?”

Dominic stepped between Itori and the soldier. “He’s mine.”

“Yours?” said the soldier.

“Yes, my slave. He carries my supplies.”

“And who are you?”

“I am a friend of the admiral’s.”

“Then why do you look like one of
them
?”

Dominic looked down at himself. Wearing a muddy deerskin shirt, what was left of his old leather trousers, and mo
c
casins that Mela had made for him, he did indeed look like one of
them
. Dominic glanced at Itori and feigned disgust. “You compare me to this
filth
? How dare you. Have you never seen a Spanish slaver dressed in a native disguise? Waste one more second of my time and the admiral will hear about it.”

The soldier eyed Dominic for a moment. “What’s your name?”

“My name?”

“You have a name, don’t you?”

“My name—is Captain Dominic Cabeza de Vaca.”

The soldier gasped. “
Cabeza de Vaca
.” He lowered his lance and the tip of it clanked against the cobblestone, throwing off sparks. “Forgive me, sir.”

“Do I know you?” asked Dominic.

“No, sir,” said the soldier, “but I know you.
Everyone
knows you.”

Spanish settlers stared at Dominic and Itori as the two made their way deeper into the heart of town. They soon came upon a large church. A procession flowed out of it into the street. Dominic and Itori stopped along a stone wall to let the people pass. The priest in front held a large crucifix and the four well-dressed men behind him carried a statue of
Our Lady of La Leche
on a litter covered in flowers. Each worshipper that followed had ash smudged on his or her forehead in the shape of a cross. The
Salve Regina
hymn lilted up from the procession and instigated a memory in Dominic of his father kneeling in a church, crying as he recited the same prayer.

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.
The afternoon sun bore down on the procession and the ashen crosses mixed with sweat, melting down the faces of the people.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.
Itori stared with wonder at the churchgoers, and Dominic studied their faces as they passed. Women he might have considered beautiful in days past now looked far too pale and plump. He saw one of them holding a rosary and his heart ached for Francisco.
To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.
Dominic spotted a familiar face. Ash obscured the man’s brow and cheeks, but his eyes—as black as Dominic remembered—were unmistakable. It was his former superior, the person he had come to find. The admiral’s face puckered in shock when he noticed Dominic. He stepped out of the procession. “Dominic?”

“Miguel,” said Dominic.

“Good God!” Miguel grabbed Dominic by both shoulders. “I was told you were dead, that your ship was lost in a storm!”

“It was, but I survived.”

“Then where have you been?”

“I was taken captive. By naturals.”

“Well that explains your ridiculous attire.” Miguel looked at Itori with disgust. “Is this one of them?”

“No,” said Dominic. “He is my guide.”

“His hair is long. He has not yet converted.” Miguel then smiled at Dominic. “Come, come. Let us go to my office and reinstate you, and get you into some respectable clothes.”

Dominic and Itori followed Miguel toward the waterfront where hundreds of native workers were busy constructing a massive wooden fort. Dominic could tell by the workers’ circular tattoos that they were Timucuans from a different village, but otherwise their bodies looked uncharacteristically gaunt and sickly. Most striking of all, their hair had been cut short. One native lay beside a woodpile beneath a cloud of flies. It was obvious from the man’s sallowness and sunken cheeks that he had been dead for hours.

“We lose a few builders every day,” said Miguel. “I may need to commandeer your slave. He looks quite strong.”

“He is not for the taking,” said Dominic.

Miguel’s brow furrowed. “No?”

As they approached the finished section of the fort, Miguel opened a door guarded by two soldiers holding lances. One of the soldiers, glistening with sweat, coughed harshly. Dominic walked through the door but Miguel put his hand in front of Itori. “He stays outside, where he belongs.”

Dominic looked into Itori’s eyes. Itori nodded and stepped back.

The inner chamber of the fort was dark and grim and smelled of tar and sunbaked timber. Nautical charts and town maps hung on the walls. Miguel sat in a plush, velvety chair behind a desk. Dominic looked around but saw nowhere else to sit.

“So, my old friend,” said Miguel. “I am sure you are anxious to return home to Spain. I have good news for you. A ship leaves tomorrow.”

Dominic glanced at the globe on Miguel’s desk. “I do not want to go back to Spain.”

“I hoped you would say that. I could use an extra man around here, one with your—how should I say it—drive. Now tell me, Dominic, for my records, where exactly did you wreck your ship?”

Dominic bit his lip, trying to quell his anger. “I did not wreck my ship. A hurricane did.”

Miguel smiled. “I know. I just wanted to elicit some emotion from that boring old face of yours.” Miguel unrolled a chart showing the coast of Florida. “Your cargo was mostly gold, was it not?”

“It was.”

“Show me, here on the map, where your ship met her end.”

“Why?”

Miguel’s face reddened and the muscles in his neck went taut. “
Why?
Dominic, brother, that treasure belongs to the crown. We may be able to recover some of it with our native salvors.” Miguel’s face relaxed and he smiled. “You should see those rodents swim. Just do me this favor, and I will be at your service for anything you need.”

Dominic looked at Miguel for a moment, and then he bent over and ran his finger along the chart, up past the Florida Straits, over a drawing of a sea monster, and around the curve of the southern coastline. His finger stopped just north of a small inlet labeled
Jaega
. “It was somewhere around here.”

Miguel studied Dominic through squinted eyes. “Can you not tell me the
exact
location?”

“It was during a hurricane!”

“Alright, alright.” Miguel drew a black circle over the area with a quill pen. “Now, tell me, what can I do for you?”

“I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to arrest the chief of a native village. A rebel.”

“A rebel chief? Where?”

“Two day’s march from here. I need a unit.”

Miguel chortled. “Oh, is that all you need? Dominic, old friend, you must know that San Agustín is under constant threat from the British. We are undermanned as it is. I cannot spare a unit. I cannot even spare one man.”

“You said you would do anything.”

“Did I?”

Blood-red rage boiled inside Dominic, but he knew that one outburst would ruin his chances of procuring help. He thought about Mela and the twins and his anger morphed into anguish. The moon would be full in two days; even if he left San Agustín at that moment, he would have to trek nonstop to arrive at Many Waters in time to stop the sacrifice.

“You speak of looking for treasure,” said Dominic. “I know the location of a treasure, one more valuable than all the gold in the world—”

“Allow me to guess. It’s in the native village.”

Dominic sighed. “Yes.”

“Dominic, I know your tricks. You learned them all from me!”

“I implore you,” said Dominic, leaning on the desk toward Miguel. “Give me some men, just for a few days.”

Miguel rubbed the end of the quill pen between his fingers. “Why do you care so much about this so-called rebel chief? What benefit do you get from his capture?”

“Pardon?”

“Do not misunderstand me—I want to eradicate these rats off our land more than anyone else. But I know you, Dominic. You stand to gain something, and I want to know what. Do not forget that I taught you everything you know about the New World. I know how you think. We are alike.”

Dominic glared at Miguel. “I am nothing like you.”

“No? Your victims might disagree. If the king ever gave an award for the highest number of natives killed—and I have often wished he would—then you, Dominic Cabeza de Vaca, would be the clear winner. I am sure of it. Our soldiers still boast of your exploits; our priests still atone for them. So perhaps you are right, you are not like me. You are far worse.”

Rage filled Dominic’s face. “You made me like this!” he screamed. He knocked the globe off the desk and, as he did, his deerskin sleeve parted at the seam and revealed his tattoo. Miguel’s eyes darted to it.

“Oh, I see,” said Miguel, smiling. “You are a rat now. Did I not warn you about becoming their equal? I should hang you for treason.” Miguel stood, put his hands on the desk, and leaned toward Dominic. “But because you were once my friend, and because I loathe all the paperwork that accompanies an execution, I will pretend that I never saw you today. You and your rodent friend will march out of town and never return. Now get out. You no longer exist.”

Dominic ushered Itori down the path and glanced back at the fort. Miguel stood outside the door between the two guards, smiling. Miguel’s words ricocheted through Dominic’s mind.
You are a rat now.
You no longer exist.
Dominic i
m
agined running back and sticking one of Itori’s arrows into Miguel’s neck, but then he remembered the vow he had made after killing Francisco. For once, he intended to keep his promise.

They passed a Spanish woman and her little boy and Dominic’s mind went to Mela, and to the infants. A sickening hel
p
lessness pressed down on him. Time was stealing by and he could do nothing to impede it. His son would soon be taken from him, again. He had to do something—something drastic, something radical. He saw a group of native workers slathe
r
ing hot tar on a piece of timber, and then he looked at the bow slung over Itori’s shoulder.

“Give me an arrow,” said Dominic.

Itori looked at Dominic for a moment and then handed him an arrow. Dominic dipped the arrowhead into a barrel of tar, and then he grabbed an iron spike from a pile of rusty hardware. He could see Miguel in the distance, watching him.

Keep looking, thought Dominic. You’re not the only person who taught me something.

Dominic knelt on the path and, holding the arrow close to it, hit the iron spike against the cobblestone. Sparks shot out and ignited the arrow. He handed it to Itori.

“Burn it down,” said Dominic, gesturing toward the fort.

Itori nodded. He straightened his body, aimed, drew back and released. The flaming arrow made a whistling sound as it soared through the sky. Dominic watched Miguel’s face twist into a look of disbelief as the arrow landed on top of the fort. The tar covering the structure burst into a towering wall of flame. Dominic could feel the heat on his face. It felt delightful. He watched Miguel and the guards scamper away.

Aaay-yeee!
The native workers erupted with cheers and war cries. They danced around the burning fort and lifted their arms to the sky, rapt. Itori joined in with his own whooping shout, and then he yelled, “Burn it down! Burn it down!”

Reaching the summit of a nearby rise, Miguel put his hands on his head and rocked back and forth as he watched the fort burn, and then he turned and pointed at Dominic and Itori. “Kill them!” he screamed to the guards, his face as severe as the fire.

Dominic put his hand on Itori’s shoulder. “I assume you know how to get back to the village without leaving tracks for anyone to follow.”

Itori nodded. “Yes.”

“We must do the opposite.”