To the Edge of the World (12 page)

On a misty day in August, as a light snow drifted from the sky, Espinosa and I marooned Cartagena and his two dogs on an islet. The islet was nothing more than a pile of boulders jutting from the harbor waters, barren, white with snow. There we left him a supply of biscuit and wine.

Cartagena brushed the snow off a rock, sat down, and arranged his cloak around him. He said nothing, instead staring out across the vast waters as if he could see through the mists all the way to Spain.

I wanted to tell him I did not wish to see him left behind. That no one deserved such a fate. “Cartagena, I—I—”

He held up his hand to stop me, still not looking at me, staring only across the ocean. “Please, say nothing.”

“But I—I . . .” My voice trailed away. How stupid I sounded.

The dogs whined. One of them licked Cartagena’s hand, and steam rose from the dog’s breath.

And then, before I could stop myself, I blurted, “If you would promise upon your life not to mutiny again, maybe Magallanes would reconsider. He has never wished you ill. Only that you would stop trying to—”

At this, Cartagena threw back his head and laughed. It was a shrill laughter, a needle in the ear. It pierced my bones and shattered my words. On and on he laughed. Tears slid down his cheeks. The dogs cocked their heads. Finally, the laughter faded, and gasping for breath, Cartagena looked at me. A chill spread through my spine like a disease, for in his eyes I saw death.

“Is life really so simple for you, Mateo?” Still breathing hard, Cartagena studied me. “Ah, yes, I see that it is. Do you know that sometimes I envy you? With nothing to think about except eating, sleeping, and breathing? Seems funny, does it not? That I would envy you?”

I did not answer.

“Will you trade places with me now?” He stared at me, his eyes deadened in their sockets. “I will be Mateo, and you, the young, dashing captain? No?” He returned his gaze toward the sea. “Pity.”

A gust of wind rippled the water. Snow swirled at our feet like white dust. Nearby a seabird floated in the air, caught in a current of wind, motionless. A hand pressed my shoulder. It was Espinosa. “Come,” he said, pulling me gently away.

“Wait,” I said, facing Cartagena for what would be the last time. “Is that all? You will not even try?”

He did not look at me again. “Tell my mother not to grieve,” he said finally. “Tell my father I’m sorry I failed him. That is all.”

I stumbled into the boat. As we rowed away, my heart pinched and heavy, I knew. As long as Cartagena had breath within him, strength to raise a dagger even, he would forever rise against the captain-general. It was a bitter understanding.

The weather detained us for another thirteen days, but finally, on the twenty-fourth day of August, in the year of our Lord 1520, the fleet sailed from Port San Julián, leaving Cartagena behind.

XVI

August 24-November 28, 1520

We wintered for two more months in the harbor where the
Santiago
was lost. In mid-October the weather improved enough to strike winter camp. It was what we had waited for, and we bustled about like ants, bumping into one another in our rush to leave. For myself, I felt a lightness in my heart I had not felt for many months. It was the warmer weather, yes, but also a longing to quit this whole land, to forget that the soil seeped with blood and betrayal.

We sailed south in search of
el paso
.

On the twenty-first day of October, we entered a bay where the water was the color of a light blue gemstone and the beaches gleamed of white sand. When the mists parted, I glimpsed snowcapped mountains stretching far inland. There would be no passage here. The water was too shallow and no passage could cross such mountains.

“A mission of stupidity,” whispered Rodrigo when Magallanes ordered the
San Antonio
and
Concepción
to explore the bay. Even from where I stood, I saw the dark looks cast toward the captain-general.

As the two ships sailed deep into the bay, the sky suddenly blackened. The wind whipped the caps from our heads, and the heavens opened with a violent storm. Those of us aboard the
Trinidad
and
Victoria
watched in horror as the
San Antonio
and
Concepción
careened toward a gigantic rock that jutted over both land and water.

They vanished in a confusion of spray and waves.

Monstrous waves towered over us, crashing over the decks. Men were swept overboard. Thunder roared in our ears and lightning rattled our teeth. The sea swept through the Trinidad’s hatches, poured through her gun ports. We manned the pumps, desperate, praying. To do anything else was death. Through the spray and blinding wind and flashes of lightning I glimpsed the
Victoria,
dismasted.

Two days later, when finally the storm ended, the
Trinidad
and
Victoria,
wounded and bleeding, limped their way back into the bay. There were no signs of the other ships. We had surely lost them. The shores were bare. There were no survivors. No wreckage. A chill ran through me as I remembered the words of Rodrigo spoken so long ago, more than a year prior.
If we are lucky, half of
us will return. It is the way of the sea.

We conducted our repairs ashore in silence, speaking only to ask for a tool or to give instructions. No one looked at anyone else. Our grief was too enormous, unspeakable—so many men lost. Had they come this far only to perish? I wondered. To drown in an instant, before they could even make confession, their sins unforgiven? Perhaps Rodrigo had cursed us with such a pronouncement. I slipped behind a tree and prayed the rosary—once, twice, three times. And as I gazed into a sky of lead, cold and distant, I vowed, curse or not, to return to Spain. The sea shall not claim Mateo Macías de Ávila.

After repairs, we continued our search and began to edge past the rock where the ships had disappeared. Perhaps the wreckage lay behind it.

“Smoke!” cried the lookout.

We peered around the rock and, indeed, a thin column of smoke snaked like a scar into the sky. Maybe there were survivors! We sailed farther, and when we passed the rock, we caught our breath in amazement.

Before us, through the snowcapped mountains, lay a deep-water passageway, stretching for many leagues, that had been hidden from sight by the rock. While each of us yet stared, there came the cry “Two sail! Closing fast!” We scrambled up the shrouds to see. There! There in the distance, with every scrap of canvas to their yards, the
Concepción
and
San Antonio
sailed toward us, cannon blasting, flags waving.

“God be praised!” cried our lookout. And, hanging from the shrouds, our voices joined his, each of us grinning and shouting with joy, hailing our shipmates as they approached.

The
San Antonio
hove to alongside the flagship. Her captain stepped aboard and bowed before Magallanes. He was breathing heavily and his eyes danced with an excitement we had not seen for many months. “My captain-general, I have the honor to report the discovery of
el paso
. It is a narrow, deep strait, with a heavy tidal flow, and we penetrated many leagues before turning back.” He outlined the route they had taken, the succession of bays, the presence of salt in the water. “It is
el paso,
I tell you. We have found it!”

Magallanes smiled, and we cheered as the gunners fired salutes. What a glorious day! Not only had we found our lost shipmates, but also the passage!

“El paso! El paso!”

“A few short days and we will be in the South Sea!”

“Perhaps in no more than a week we shall arrive at the Spice Islands!”

“God be praised that the worst is behind us!”

On the first day into the strait, excitement surged through the crew of the
Trinidad
. Since the end of March we had lived in the gut of winter. Now it was time to sail to warmer seas, to paradise. Stories of Magallanes circled the deck—stories of his past heroism, stories of honor, of courage. Gutiérrez never tired of the telling, and Magallanes grew like a god in the eyes of the crew, even, I believe, in the eyes of Rodrigo. “Through this man’s madness,” he said, “I will become rich. It was a good day I signed for this voyage.”

I brought out my guitar. Though the weather was brisk, it was springtime in the south. In honor of the season I sang a song of maidens, of young love. I composed another song about Aysó. As I sang, the clouds parted, the sun shone bright, and the breeze snatched white clouds of breath from my mouth.

Come nightfall, fires dotted the land to the south. They were far away and silent. The next day we saw what appeared to be a village on an inland hill to the northwest, less than half a league from shore.

I approached Espinosa as he prepared an armed party to investigate. Always before, I had scouted for wood, or food, or water. Never a village. “Let me come with you,” I said.

“For what purpose?”

“None,” I stammered. “I—I just want to go.”

“No.” He slid his polished sword into his scabbard, turned, and left me.

Upon sudden inspiration, I ran after him. “Espinosa, wait. Our court-appointed artist was washed overboard in the last storm, and now there is no one to draw pictures of our voyage.” I puffed out my chest and held my head high. “Therefore, in addition to my regular duties, I will draw sketches of what I see, including the village. It will be official. I am the best there is. You have no choice.”

He regarded me. “Such fine words, Mateo. Let’s hope you live up to them. Fetch your things, for we leave now.”

The men from the ships watched as we picked our way past bleached bones, past the rotting carcass of a great whale whose ribs jutted upward, exploding with stink and hundreds of screaming seabirds. Out of the corner of my eye I saw cabin boys lining the rails. I pretended not to notice that they gaped at me as I marched with the marines. I threw back my shoulders and held my head high, thinking, I am now the official artist of the voyage. If all goes well, I will someday be famous. Invited to court to show the king the miraculous things I have seen and done. I will be given money. And land. All shall clamor for my attention. It is a far cry from a poor shepherd’s son.

The forest closed around us as I followed Espinosa and ten heavily armed marines. I heard nothing but the tramp of boots upon the path as we wound through the trees, upward toward the village. As the trees loomed over me, quiet and vast, an odd thing happened. An unsettled feeling began to follow me, as if someone breathed on the back of my neck. I kept glancing behind me but saw no one.

Then I heard it.

A whisper.

. . . Go away . . .

Again, no one.

Again, the breath against my neck.

. . . Go away . . .

It is a ghost, I thought, my heart hammering wildly. An evil spirit. It wishes me ill and will cast a spell on me if I do not leave. If I do not flee. Now.

Gooseflesh prickled my skin and I resisted the urge to run to the safety of the ships. Instead I coaxed my feet forward. I refused to look backward anymore. I decided I would not give the ghosts the satisfaction of seeing me frightened. Ghosts! Pah! I marched in rhythm, our footsteps as one.

We left the forest of ghosts and marched up the barren hill, our pikes thrust upward into the gray sky. A wind blew, hollow and bleak. When we reached the top, instead of the village we expected, strange platforms circled the hill like a crown. We entered the circle, armed, breathing hard. Where were the people? Except for the wind that swirled over the ground and moaned between the platforms, it was eerily silent.

“Spread out,” said Espinosa, his voice unnaturally loud. “See if we can find anything of use to us.”

The platforms rose on irregular sticks, ending above my head in a bed of thatch. I settled beside a platform and began to draw. After all, that was my job now, was it not? The sketch was bold and vivid, but even so, it was inaccurate. For how does one draw the wind? The emptiness? The fear on the face of each marine? The whispers against the back of our necks, shouting louder, louder.

. . . Go away . . .

Then it happened.

With a heave-ho, one of the marines hoisted another marine atop a platform. The platform swayed and toppled in a clatter of weapons, curses, and sticks. A corpse tumbled from the platform, decapitating upon impact. The skull rolled and bounced onto my legs. Blackened skin stretched over the skull like leather, exposing the teeth in a grin of death. And beneath a headdress of seabirds’ feathers, shriveled eyes stared at me.

A mummy.

Horrified, I screamed and kicked the skull. It soared out of the circle and bounced down the hill.

. . . Go away! . . .

My blood boiled with terror. Without waiting for anyone, I fled down the hill and along the forest path, hair flying.

. . . Go away! . . .

Ghosts swarmed over me. I screamed as I ran, reckless, tripping over stones, leaping over streams and logs, my lungs afire.
God in heaven! Help me!
Finally, I reached the beach of bones and flew into the longboat to hide.

“Mother Mary, have mercy!” I crossed myself again and again.

Seconds later the longboat filled with marines, their faces white as candle wax. I saw many arms making the sign of the cross.

“God save us!”

“Holy Mother of God!”

“Blessed Virgin, save us!”

Only Espinosa took his time coming from the village. The men cursed having to wait for him, and as soon as he entered the longboat, we flew like a bird across the waters, our oars like wings.

“It was a burial ground,” Espinosa told Magallanes once we’d boarded the
Trinidad
. “Nothing but thatched mounds that held the bodies of giant natives, their skin not even rotted but stretched and dried atop their bones. It was unholy. Let us leave—and quickly.”

The cabin boys gathered around me as we left our anchorage.

“There he is,” mocked Rodrigo, grinning. “Mateo, the big bad warrior. Afraid of nothing.”

Blood rushed to my face and I shoved him. “Try holding a mummy’s head while spirits scream in your ears and tell me you would not run as well!”

“Was she pretty?” Gutiérrez asked.

“Did you get lucky?” asked Rodrigo as he and the other cabin boys collapsed into laughter. I turned away.

That evening, Magallanes called me to his cabin. “Espinosa tells me you wish to be the official artist of the voyage.”

I hung my head. “I cannot.”

“Tell me why.”

Again my face burned. “I left all my drawing supplies at the burial site. All I have is my sketchbook.”

“An error I trust will not happen again. Use the supplies of the last artist and draw the burial site from memory. I must have a visual record. If it is good, then you will be the official artist, and the supplies are yours to keep. Do you understand?”

I spent a number of days on the sketch, scanning my mind for details, pleased with the quality of the materials I now had to work with. A fine inkhorn. A velvet-lined box of inks and sharpened goose quills. A pounce pot filled with powder for absorbing excess ink.

During this time, the passageway gradually veered south and then forked. The ships hove to and the pilots and captains conferred. Then again we sailed forward. The
San Antonio
sailed the left fork while the other three ships sailed the right fork. Already we were many leagues into the strait, farther than the
Concepción
and
San Antonio
had gone before.

As we continued southward, I showed Magallanes my sketch.

For a long time he studied it, his brow wrinkled, saying nothing. Finally he gave it back to me. “What else do you have?”

I retrieved my sketchbook.

He cocked his eyebrow, studying first one sketch, then another. A chronicle of the voyage. “Where did you learn to draw?” he finally asked.