To the Edge of the World (2 page)

II

August 2, 1519

The inn reeked of smoke. Thick and acrid, it belched from the corner chimney, blackening the long central table, the benches, the walls, even the face of the woman who asked me what I wanted.

“A bed for the night,” I replied.

“One real.” She thrust out a grimy hand for the coin. When she saw my hesitation, her eyes narrowed. “No beggars. Get out.” She turned and left me standing while the customers of the inn stared.

My face burned. Though I knew he was dead, it was as if my father watched me yet, his mouth set in a grim line, angry and ashamed. “I am not a beggar,” I called after her. She appeared not to have heard me, instead bending over the fire and stirring it with a poker. “I will play my guitar. I will sing. Perhaps someone will give me money.” She said nothing and I continued, trying to keep my voice low. “If I do not earn enough for a bed, I will leave.”

She stood from the fire and faced me, her cheeks blackened with a fresh layer of soot. “Very well, but I pray you can carry a tune better than the last fellow. He bellowed like a sow in labor, and my husband had to throw him into the street in two pieces. It was very messy. Now get out from under my feet and leave me alone. I have work to do.”

I mumbled my thanks and sat in the corner farthest from the fire. It was evening, and more men piled through the greasy doorway to sit at the one table stretching through the center of the room. Wine flowed freely.

I tuned my guitar to gales of spluttering, half-drunken laughter. Praying for mercy from the Blessed Virgin, I began to sing. I sang of El Cid—of his battles, his adventures, his heroism. It was a beautiful ballad and one of my father’s favorites. When I finished, my voice trailed into silence. The laughter continued.

I sang again. I sang until my voice clogged with smoke and my tongue stumbled. I sang until men drooped under the table, drunk with wine, their spaces on the bench quickly filled by others, others who laughed and sang their own songs. I sang until the food smells made my stomach clench with hunger. No one had yet given me a coin. Again I would be forced to sleep on the streets of Málaga with Ugly. Then as my voice cracked and my fingers turned numb, I noticed what I should have noticed before.

A man. Watching me.

He was perhaps twice my age, maybe more. His face was strong, sun-browned, and chiseled like a soldier’s. “Are you hungry?” he asked after I finished singing.

I slung my guitar over my back and prepared to leave. “No.”

“Come. Sit with me. I have brought too much food and need someone to share it with.”

I looked to see if he mocked me, but he only smiled. I shrugged, propped the guitar against the wall, and sat next to him on the bench.

He motioned to the woman. “Wine and a pallet for the boy. And cook this with onion and garlic.” Out of a saddlebag he pulled a rabbit, freshly dead by the look of it.

The woman grabbed the rabbit by the ears, held out her hand for the onions and garlic, and then stormed away.

I tried not to lick my lips when he withdrew bread and cheese, a handful of figs, and two oranges, so fragrant I smelled them despite the smoke. He set them on the splintered table and, without saying a word, tore off a chunk of bread and shoved the rest of the round loaf at me. He did the same with the cheese.

I stuffed bread and cheese in my mouth while I peeled an orange. A cup of wine appeared as if by magic before me, and I drank deeply, not caring that it stank of hide and pitch and tasted of goatskin.

As I chewed a mouthful of figs, I realized the man was talking to me, but hunger had clogged my ears.

“You are from Málaga?”

“Ávila.”

“Ávila! That is in the heart of Castile. My friend, you are far from home.”

“I have traveled for two months.”

“You walked?”

“Walked, rode on the backs of carts.” I lowered my voice. “Once I stole a donkey and rode him, but an hour out of the village, the donkey dropped dead. He must have been sick.”

“Very unlucky, my friend. Even so, to walk such a distance at a time when even the stones are made to melt is a true measure of any man. What is your name?”

I swallowed my figs and puffed out my chest. “Mateo Macías de Ávila.”

“Well met, Mateo. And I am Gonzalo Gómez de Espinosa, born in the Cantabrian Mountains of Old Castile. You may call me Espinosa.”

Old Castile? Indeed, he had the blue eyes of a Basque, eyes like my mother’s, and he appeared strong, broad-shouldered, as rugged as my father. But there was something else about him that intrigued me more—the way he carried himself.

I remembered one day when I was very young, I stood outside the walls of Ávila and gaped while mounted soldiers, each wearing a scallop shell around his neck, rode through the city gates and disappeared into the heat beyond. “They are the Knights of the Order of Santiago,” my father said. “They have defended our castles against the Moors. They ransomed Christian captives and liberated those of the true faith from the infidels.” And although I did not understand, I remembered the way the knights sat in the saddles— their pride, their discipline. Espinosa reminded me of these men.

“Tell me, my young Mateo, do you steal often?”

Espinosa’s casual words caused the chunk of bread to stick in my throat. I tried to swallow but could not. A dozen thoughts plowed through my mind in an instant. Why does he ask you such a thing?
Because he is the donkey man! He asks you this because it was his donkey you
stole!
He has followed you from Castile, following your tracks in the muddy rivers. He will stick you in the ribs and never believe you when you say it was the only thing you have ever stolen. He will not care that your mother’s voice clanged in your ears for days afterward, ringing over and over
Thou shalt not steal! Thou shalt not steal!
until you clamped your hands over your ears and screamed for mercy!

Now I looked about me for a way to escape. A way to defend myself. Anchored by a chain in the middle of the table was a communal knife.

I lunged for the knife.

Espinosa’s hand crushed my wrist in a grip so strong it made me gasp with pain. I had not even seen him move.

“Put it down,” he said calmly.

I did so. I sat upon the bench and rubbed my wrist, feeling the gaze of everyone upon me. Each stare burned like a hot poker in my flesh. Thief! Thief! For the second time that evening, my face burned with shame.

Then to my surprise, Espinosa smiled. It was not a ruthless smile—the smile of a killer before he rips out your liver—it was instead a smile of friendship. “Forgive me, young Mateo. I did not mean to injure your fierce Castilian pride.”

A few around the table chuckled. Did they mock me? “Be careful,” one of them warned, a man with a cleft lip and a pate so bald it reflected the candlelight. “He seeks to recruit you for an ocean voyage.”

Another man with blackened teeth nodded. “Take my advice, boy, don’t go. They pay only enough to buy a few mouse turds at the end of it, that is if you make it back at all. You’d be better off to embark on a short voyage, a voyage whose destination is no secret. At least you’ll come back alive.”

The room resounded with grunts of agreement.

“Tell me,” said Espinosa, “how old are you?”

I opened my mouth to say seventeen, but instead the truth came out. “Fourteen.”

“Where are your parents?”

I opened my mouth to say I had no parents but told the truth once more. “They died of pestilence,” I said softly. Immediately upon my words, the room exploded with cursing, and all except Espinosa either left the inn or rushed to sit at the opposite end of the table.

Now we were quite alone.

The woman returned with a pot of rabbit stew, bubbling and fragrant.

As if loathe to come too close, she flung the pot on the table, along with bowls and utensils. We jumped back as stew slopped onto the planks. “Serve yourselves,” she snapped. “That’s six reals you owe me. I should charge you double, triple even. Thanks to you, I’ve lost my best customers.”

Espinosa tossed the coins at her, and she scooped them off the dirt floor, muttering curses under her breath.

The stew tasted delicious. I closed my eyes to savor its goodness. Food, I thought. I finally have food. Real food. Food like my mother used to prepare. For a moment I pretended I was home and that her voice danced as she read me poems.

Instead of my mother’s voice, I heard Espinosa’s. “I am sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” I opened my eyes.

“About your parents.”

A sudden lump formed in my throat, and I blinked back tears. That he should see me like this made me ashamed. My father never cried. Never. And I could not stop the grief inside my chest, bubbling like rabbit stew, hot and scalding.

“Have you no other relatives?”

I shook my head and tears fell like rain.

“Your father’s family?”

“They are dead, too.”

“Your mother’s family?”

“I do not know who they are.” I hesitated. “There is no one.”

With a square, scar-ridden hand he reached out and patted my shoulder. For a long while he said nothing and I began to eat again.

“You are hungry, and yet you grieve. It is a hard combination for any man. I am sorry life has dealt you such a cruel blow, Mateo. But perhaps I can help you. I do seek men for a voyage. Strong, courageous men like you, built hard and tough, able to raise sail if need be or row a boat through rough waters. It matters not that you have no experience, for I need you also for your music. For your guitar.”

I wiped my nose on my sleeve and looked at him.

“That will be your job. Cabin boy, yes, but also musician. During such a long voyage, the men need music.”

“How long a voyage?”

“Some recruiters tell the men four months. But, like you, I will be honest.” Espinosa took a deep drink of his wine, paused, and looked straight at me. “I require two years of your life, Mateo Macías de Ávila. Two years that I cannot say will be easy, for we go to a destination unknown. You will have no luxuries. No special privileges. But you will have food, companionship, and work, and that is more than you have now. Perhaps you will forget your sorrow. I leave in the morning for Seville, and by then you must decide.”

III

August
10,
1519

The heat rose in waves and sweat trickled down my chest and under my arms. The stench of sewage hung in the air. Five ships, their hulls freshly blackened with tar, creaked and swayed.

Beside me, Ugly stretched and yawned, then sat on his haunches and looked at me, panting. I stood on the docks of Seville in a crush of men. I had been told there were Africans, Portuguese, Sicilians, French, Germans, Greeks, Flemings, English, Genoese, and Spanish—a crew more than two hundred and seventy strong.

All of us faced an altar, and upon its surface burned many candles. Black smoke disappeared into the cloudless sky. Wax melted and puddled. Before us stood the archbishop of Seville, dressed in his colorful vestments, waiting as we waited. It was the day decreed by King Carlos for the departure of the armada. The captains of the voyage had yet to arrive.

For a long time the only movements were the seabirds as they swooped overhead or strutted among our legs, screeching whenever Ugly growled.

Then, in the distance, I heard thunder. The thunder grew until it became the roar of many hooves pounding the streets.

“They come,” the man beside me whispered.

I made the sign of the cross.

Now they appeared. The glint of armor, of lances. The colorful banners whipping on the ends of long poles. The people of the streets pressed against the buildings to allow them passage. The darkened, foaming flanks of horses. Hard faces under helmets of steel.

In a hollow clatter of hooves, they wheeled to a stop on the docks. Dismounting, they handed the reins to servants who led the horses away. Each in full armor, the captains knelt before the altar. Those who had ridden with them now held the banners aloft, and upon each banner waved a coat of arms.

I recognized Espinosa, suited in dazzling armor that reflected the light of the sun. While at the inn, he had told me his position aboard the fleet. He was master-at-arms. It was he who was in charge of all the marines; it was he who would lead any attacks ordered by the commander. Today, lines of marines stood at attention behind him, and my chest swelled with pride. I knew this man.

“In nomine Patris,”
intoned the archbishop, making the sign of the cross,
“et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

With those words, the Mass began.

I glanced at the man next to me. He was, perhaps, only a couple of years older than I, trim and lean, with brown hair and a nose curved like a blade. As if feeling my gaze upon him, he hacked and spat and glanced at me, his eyes in a squint, penetrating and mean. But when he spoke, he sounded ordinary enough. “To what ship are you assigned?” he asked.

“The
San Antonio.
”

He grunted and spat again. “Likewise.”

Together we watched the Mass, murmuring our responses, kneeling when required.

“Your position?” he asked.

“Cabin boy and musician. Yours?”

“Servant to Captain Cartagena of Castile.”

We talked in hushed voices while the archbishop gave his sermon. The servant’s name was Rodrigo Nieto, and like me, he hailed from Castile. He had run away from home for an adventurous life at sea.

“Have you been to sea before?” I asked him.

“Just returned a week ago.”

“Someone told me yesterday that I am an idiot for going to sea. That I would have been better to stay home, pestilence or not.” I leaned toward him. “Is it true what he said, that every hour is spent swabbing decks? That it is backbreaking and boring? Is it true that it is not as adventurous as is told?”

Rodrigo regarded me. “Do you see all these men before you?”

I nodded.

“If we are lucky, half of us will return. It is the way of the sea. And that, my friend, is what I call adventure.”

A silver bell jangled. I turned from Rodrigo and focused on the wafer that the archbishop held high.
“Hoc est enim corpus
meum. . . .”

Rodrigo’s words rang in my head like the silver bell of Communion. Is this true? I wondered. Did I stand only half a chance of setting my feet once more upon the soil of Spain?

Again Rodrigo spoke, “It is whispered we sail to the Spice Islands through waters never before seen by civilized man. Dangerous waters where cannibals roast a sailor’s skin while he is yet alive, where two-headed monsters spit flame from their mouths and backsides.” In answer to my look of disbelief he added, “Why do you think so few Spaniards have signed for this voyage? And why do you think there are so many stupid foreigners?” He spat again, and his voice hardened. “Even the captain-general, the captain of all captains, is Portuguese.”

“Portuguese? How can that be? This is a Spanish expedition!”

“Hush. Keep your voice low. We do not want to draw attention.” Rodrigo paused as we both went forward and took Communion. Returning to our places, he continued quietly, “It is true. The captain-general is Portuguese. See? He is over there. Fernando de Magallanes is his name. Nothing but a petty nobleman.”

I watched as the man Rodrigo pointed to knelt before the altar and swore an oath of allegiance to King Carlos of Spain. The captain-general was suited in armor, and from a distance away, it was difficult for me to see what he looked like. I knew only that he was swarthy and seemed old—forty, perhaps. A Portuguese to lead the Spanish armada? A petty nobleman, only? And old, besides?

Rodrigo was whispering, “I tell you I would not have signed for the voyage were it not for the riches promised at the end.”

“Riches?”

“Aye. Enough spices—cloves, nutmeg, pepper—to fill every pocket of every man, each grain worth more than life itself. Not only that, it is said there will be so much gold and rubies, diamonds and emeralds, that those of us who return will bathe in them each day as if they were water. That we will live in castles with many servants and eat spicy foods and never have to work again.”

My jaw dropped and I stared at Rodrigo. I tried to imagine such riches, gold and jewels, but could not. In my mind I saw only my mother’s faded dresses, trimmed with yellowed lace and stitched with dirty, knotted, golden threads. My tongue could not imagine spices either, for I had never tasted such things. Spices were for kings and princes. Even so, I thought, Today I am lucky. I leave on a voyage and shall return a wealthy man. I will bathe in diamonds, eat spices, and never work again.

Rodrigo caught me staring. “Remember, my friend, we must battle two-headed monsters and escape from cannibals before we live like kings in castles. It is said cannibals love the taste of the human tongue. And if you think you will just chop out your tongue and give it to them, sailing away mute but rich, let me tell you what else they love. . . .”

As Rodrigo filled my ears with a list of body parts, I turned back toward the altar. Magallanes stood proudly and received the silken royal standard. Steel clashed against steel as the four other captains and the officers of the fleet knelt before him. In one voice they swore obedience to him, their captain-general. To follow none but him. To Magallanes they gave the power of life and death. Power “of the knife and the rope.”

“. . . and finally,” whispered Rodrigo, “they will grind your bones to powder and drink the powder mixed with your blood. Bone soup, they call it. It is their favorite. A delicacy.”

“Ite, Missa est,”
said the archbishop, dismissing us.

“Deo gratias,”
I replied, shivering as if someone already drank my bones.

I was issued a sea chest and a roll of bedding, the cost of which would be taken from my pay. Into the sea chest I placed my belongings—my sketchbook and inks, my book of poems, my goatskin, my rosary—all I owned except my guitar, as it was too big.

My sea chest looked empty, but Rodrigo said to take heart. Soon it would fill with rubies and diamonds, pearls and emeralds, gold and silk. Already Rodrigo was hurrying up the gangplank of the
San Antonio,
urging me to follow. “Hurry. Before all the good spots are taken.”

I paused and knelt beside Ugly. “And you, my friend, shall have a new rib bone each day to chew. You will fatten with fresh meat, and we will never be hungry again.”

As if he understood, Ugly licked his lips and thumped his tail upon the dock.

“Come, boy,” I said, slinging my guitar across my back. “Before they leave without us.” Giddy with adventure, I followed Rodrigo up the gangplank. Ugly trotted behind me.

“Are you crazy?” Rodrigo hissed once I stepped aboard. “You can’t bring the dog! Get rid of him now before we’re both in trouble.”

I set down my things, blinking with surprise. “Who says I can’t bring him?”

“How should I know? Only that you can’t. No one has before.”

“Then I shall be the first,” I said, thumping my chest. “Besides, I cannot leave him behind. He’s my friend. He follows me everywhere.”

“That mangy thing? Your friend?” Rodrigo burst into laughter and slapped his knee.

I shifted my feet. Men from all over the ship now stared at me—and at Ugly. My ears burned with embarrassment. “Stop laughing, Rodrigo. Everyone stares.”

But it was too late. A marine approached us, and I could tell by the set of his jaw and the churning in my stomach that I was already in trouble.

“No dogs.” His voice was clipped and heavy with importance, his face pockmarked like a rutted road.

I faced the marine, drawing myself up to my tallest. Even so, the top of my head came no higher than his chin. “You do not understand,” I replied. “My dog is special. He is a very good hunter, and he—”

“No dogs.”

“—but—but he won’t be any trouble. He does everything I tell him, and he’s very smart—”

The marine drew his sword, lowered his face into mine, and barked, “Take him off the ship now or I will skewer him like a pig!” Flecks of spit landed on my face.

I stood, speechless. The world seemed to have stopped. Every sailor, every captain, every man in Seville, everyone in all of Spain, for that matter, stared at me, breathless, to see what I would do.

Into that silence, Ugly bared his teeth, growling. His hackles raised.

For a brief moment in which every muscle of my body tensed, I considered giving Ugly the signal to attack. To sink his fangs into that pockmarked throat. It would be so easy, so satisfying. But, angry as I was, I knew Ugly would only die for it. If the marine did not slay him, someone else would. Instead I clenched my jaw, turned, and marched down the gangplank, followed by the patter of dog paws, hot tears pressing against my eyes.

I left him on the dock, lost in a swirl of people. “Stay,” I told him. “Stay here. I have a different life now. Very different.” Then I walked away without looking back.