The Sound of Many Waters (6 page)

Somewhere, a man moaned.

Chapter Five

The oaks shivered as a breeze whispered through them. Their spindly fingers permitted only the slightest streaks of dawn sunlight to trickle through and one beam found Dominic’s face. Still bound, he slept beside the waning fire. The light danced across his mouth, crawled up his cheek, and wiggled over his eyes. He woke with a gasp.

“Juan,” he said. His face filled with alarm, but despair soon took its place.

Francisco still sat on the stump. “The fear of the Lord leads to life,” he said, “so that one may sleep satisfied, untouched by evil.”

Dominic tried to scratch his nose on an exposed root. “I am growing weary of your preaching, old man.”

“Weariness will be of no help on our journey.”

“Journey? You are mistaken if you believe that I would undertake a journey of any sort with some wild man from the woods.”

“Would you, then, with a dozen of us?”

“Please, retain some dignity, old man. We both know you’re the only person crazy enough to be out here, if you can even be called a person anymore.”

“Do you not feel their eyes on your skin?” Francisco looked into the distance where the woods melded into darkness. “Have no doubt they are there, observing from the frin
g
es like spirits in wait.”

“I am sorry for you. Senility clearly has its grasp.”

Francisco stood. “Perhaps.” In the soft morning light he looked sickly. His head sat no higher on his body than his hunched shoulders and his lower back leaned askew, yet he moved with surprising agility when he reached down and picked up a sheathed sword. Dominic stirred. “My—”

“I took it off you before you woke on the beach. For your own safety.”

Dominic envisioned grabbing the sword from Francisco and dispatching the old man with one swing. If only he were not bound. Francisco studied the brown leather sheath and ran his fingers over it. To Dominic, it was like watching another man caress one of his lovers. Fiery anger scorched his insides. The old man ran his hand over an etched scene of Spanish countryside near the handle and, farther on, across a long row of crosses carved into the leather.

“Are these your victims?” asked Francisco.

“The memorable ones. I see room for one more.”

Francisco extracted the sword from its casing and, with all the precision and swiftness of a skilled swordsman, swung it down between Dominic’s ankles. The severed twine coiled back like a snake chopped in two. “Let us hope it’s not for you,” said Francisco. “On your feet.”

The old man plucked his robe from the crux of a nearby tree and cocooned himself inside of it. The hood of the robe created a dark void around his face.

“And what am I to wear?” asked Dominic. He stood shakily, his hands still bound.

“It already adorns you, my friend,” Francisco said. “I dressed you last night.”

Dominic looked down; his face hardened when he saw the dry mud caked on his body. His shirt was gone and his pants had been rolled up to the knee, yet no part of his skin was visible below the muck. He turned and saw the nearby pond in which he had almost drowned the night before, but it was smaller and dirtier than he envisioned during his blindness. More like a pit filled with sludge and algae, it was dark and stagnant and reeking of moist detritus. Insects flitted about the surface and a filthy turtle basked on the edge. A gloppy crater marked the place where Dominic had gone in and out.

“You’re making a mockery of me,” said Dominic.

“On the contrary, commander. We will be venturing through mosquito-infested wilderness. They cannot smell your blood through such grime.”

As they walked, Dominic studied the twine that bound his wrists, trying to follow the course of the knot and decipher its type. But he had never seen a knot so complex before. He tried to twist his hands free but the knot only tightened.

He could have used such a knot for the slaves; a few always managed to escape during the chaotic auctions and disorderly transfers to merchant ships. The girl never struggled, though. Standing alongside dozens of her brethren while me
r
chants and landowners inspected her, she held a look of grace and resignation, as if she welcomed the humiliation. When she noticed ten-year-old Juan in the crowd of onlookers, however, her expression changed. Tears pooled in her eyes and she let out a long exhale, as if releasing her soul.

Juan
, she mouthed.
Juan
. She quivered. She beckoned him with her eyes.

Dominic, sitting at a nearby desk with the auction records and treasury box, watched his son react with indifference. He had taught him well. But then Juan bit his lip. His mouth trembled and a tear seeped from his eye.

Oh, you stupid boy, Dominic thought. Do not dare.

Juan bolted toward her through the crowd. “Mama!”

Dominic erupted from his chair and flipped the desk over, sending papers scattering and coins clinking across the rocky ground. “Juan!” he shouted. “Stop!”

Juan collapsed at her feet when he reached her. He wrapped his arms around her shackled ankles. “Mama, why are you up here?”

“Oh, Juan.” She ran her hand across his hair. “I must go with our people.”

“Do not leave me, Mama. Take me with you.”

“Your father needs you, Juanito. You’re his last chance.”

“But I hate him, Mama.”

“Hatred only wounds the one who harbors it. Fight his anger with your love.”

“Silence, woman!” Dominic grabbed the chains from behind her and yanked them; her head whipped back and she fell away from Juan, wincing. “Remember who you are, Juanito. The Spaniards say we are not human. They are right. We are gods and they can never destroy what we have inside.”

Dominic backhanded her. Blood gushed from her nose. Later that day, she sold for half of her appraised value because of her battered face. But at least she was gone.

Dominic and Francisco had walked several miles and now trudged ankle deep in the black water of a cypress stand. Francisco had taken the lead for the first time. He used the tip of Dominic’s sword to test the depth in their path.

“I demand to know where we are going,” said Dominic.

Francisco pointed ahead. “North.”

“I asked you where, old man, not in what direction.”

“I will tell you when they want me to.”

“Who? Your imaginary army?”

“Yes. My imaginary army.”

“How far do you intend to walk?”

“Ten days, perhaps eleven.”

“You know I will kill you before then.”

“And never reach your destination? Never fulfill God’s plan? He does have a plan for you, commander. I am certain of it.”

“If he does, it’s a cruel one.”

Dominic studied the surrounding swamp and then looked at Francisco’s back. There seemed to be enough distance between them that, if he moved fast enough, he might be able to flee before the old man could wield the sword. “Nothing in this hellhole is worth spending another day with you,” Dominic said, and he bolted away.

Francisco did not even turn to investigate the splashing. “That, my friend, is not your decision to make.”

Dominic tore through the swamp. Jagged cypress stumps protruded like the teeth of some fossilized beast. Bangs of moss hung from the branches above. Flying insects filled the air. It was hell on earth—a world unfit for humans and animals alike.

Where would he go? The coast could not be far. If he reached it, he could trek to San Agustín where his military superior would greet him as a hero and shower him with the hierarchal respect he deserved. As soon as he arrived, Dominic imagined, he would ask his superior to dispatch a unit that could track down and capture the old man. He smiled when he thought about getting his sword back and running it through Francisco’s bowels to ensure a slow, painful death, as every traitor deserved.

The water grew deeper as he slogged. It soon lapped against his stomach. He pushed a small log out of his path with his belly but something felt strange about it; he froze when he felt the log writhe. He looked down; his eyes grew large. What he mistook for a log was actually a water moccasin. Dominic shivered. The snake opened its mouth. A milky bead of venom dripped off one of its fangs.

“I will back up,” said Dominic, “and you will not bite me.”

Dominic twitched. The snake reared up and hissed. “You will
not
bite me.”

He jerked away but the snake puffed up and struck. A clawed hand shot out of the water and grabbed the snake’s neck, stopping its gaping mouth from within inches of Dominic’s skin.

“Good God.” Dominic’s mind could not grasp what was happening.

The hand, clasping the snake, continued rising from the black water and soon an elbow emerged and a shoulder and then an entire man. The man’s muscles stood erect on thin bones beneath dark, tattooed skin. Water and muck streamed off. His wet hair clung to his chest. His eyes shone as green and vivid as foliage after rain. He was clearly a native, but an extraordinarily large and formidable one. The native brought the moccasin to his mouth and bit into its neck; blood spurted out and the snake twisted into a ball and fell limp. The man looked down at Dominic and spit red saliva into the water.

“Stay where you are,” said Dominic. The man did not move. Dominic turned to flee but stopped. Ten more men, their features similar to the first, stood waist-deep in the water and glowered at him.

“Who are you?” Dominic said. “What do you want?”

“Can you see them now, too?” Francisco’s voice came from behind. “Behold, commander, my invisible army.”

Francisco waded up to the man who had captured the snake. Their eyes met. Francisco said something, his words jolting out with firm consonants and monotone vowels, and the man replied. Dominic could not understand either of them, but he knew that countless languages existed among the tribes of the Spanish Main. It had, after all, been his job to ensure they would all be replaced by one.

“Come, commander.” Francisco motioned for Dominic to follow him, which he did without hesitation. He looked back and saw the natives watching them leave.

“You must forgive their caution,” Francisco said. “They know all too well that an ordinary malady in a white man could be a deadly one for them. They will travel with us, but they will keep their distance.”

“What did you say to the tall one?” asked Dominic.

“I asked him if he could see the fire in your eyes. He said yes, more than he’d ever seen in any man, and that I had done very well to find you.”

Chapter Six

Debris swirled all around Zane and the sharp taste of gasoline burned foul in his mouth. The silence, at first, terrified him, but in the short time he had been treading water, a comforting rhythm had developed—the undulating swell would lift him high enough to glimpse the dark shoreline in the distance and then gently lower him into the trough where all he could see were the backs of waves and flotsam.

Each time he rose up he hoped he would see a boat coming to rescue him, but he soon realized there were no other boats on the water that night. It was a weekday, after all, and the conditions for night-fishing were clearly not ideal. Even if any fishermen had ventured out, it would have been a miracle for them to spot Zane amid such darkness.

Something bumped the back of his head and he whipped around—the bale, stained pink by fish blood, had drifted up behind him. It looked like the perfect flotation device so he grabbed hold and slid the upper part of his body onto it. The plastic still felt cold from being inside the icebox. In contrast, the ocean water was balmy.

All around him artifacts of his boat bobbed in the sea: chunks of foam, shattered fiberglass, bits of wood, an empty tackle box. To Zane, it was like seeing a loved one beaten beyond repair. He had worked hard to buy his boat and establish his charter business but now it all lay in pieces. He saw no signs of life in the area. Where was Miguel? And the two offi
c
ers? He was afraid to look too thoroughly for fear of seeing something he could never delete, like a mangled body or, worse still, only part of one.