Authors: Christopher Farnsworth
H
E’D NEVER BEEN
happier. He should have been dead.
Those two thoughts battled in his mind constantly, always pushing their way to the forefront of Simón’s thoughts. He was bathing in a creek with Shako, the cool water flowing over both their naked bodies, until he could not hold back any longer, and he took her in his arms as she laughed and smiled at him—and then he remembered, he should have been dead.
Or he would sit, brooding, in front of the fire they made each night, at the end of their foraging and hunting. His belly was full, but his thoughts were troubled, as he wondered what had happened to Narváez’s expedition, to the other soldiers, to his friends—and despite all that, Shako would look at him and a grin would break across his face.
She gave him a knife.
It was a small thing but a huge gesture of trust. She had found the broken point of his sword, sharpened it against a stone, and then mounted it in a bone handle for him.
He could finally help with the hunting and the cleaning and dressing of the game. He could defend himself if one of the panthers or bobcats came too close.
And he could slit her throat while she slept.
But she trusted him with it anyway.
It was the first gift he’d ever received that did not feel somehow paid for, either by humiliation or fealty or obligation. His father had given him bruises as a child, and repeated lessons in never trusting a drunk. His mother had died behind her eyes, and had nothing to give him. He had bought his first armor and weaponry himself when he went to war against the Moors, and everything he received since then he’d paid for with an oath to Narváez.
It was the most unselfish thing he had ever seen.
She did not seem to understand why he became so still, so reverent, when she handed it to him. But she looked into his eyes, and seemed to see something there.
They kissed for the first time.
He had been with a woman before. A whore in a brothel the night before his first battle. The older men in his company had taken him, and it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. They did not want to follow a beardless virgin into battle. He wanted to convince them he was a man. It didn’t hurt that he was also very drunk.
Fortunately, it didn’t last long. She lifted her skirts and he pumped and was done in what seemed like seconds. He felt soiled and angry with himself as he paid her.
The next day he killed for the first time. That didn’t make him feel like any more of a man, either, but it felt more honest.
With Shako, it was different.
He’d had nothing but wanton thoughts from the moment he saw her, naked and free in the open air. Guilt kicked at him over and over as he tried to remember his vows as a knight in the king’s service and as a saved child of Christ.
It didn’t help much.
When they finally fell into each other’s arms, he thought he would shatter from how much he wanted her.
But he held back, forced himself to be gentle. There was no hurry. They had nothing but time and each other.
She put him on his back in the soft grass and straddled him. He ran his hands up and down her naked body, unable to look away. She smiled at him and took one hand and guided it, gently, down, helping him find the right place, and moving his fingers for him.
He held on, somehow, as she rocked back and forth, her skin closer and then farther, swaying over him. Then they locked eyes again, he saw her losing herself, and he could not take it anymore, he exploded, arms and legs shaking violently, spasming like a drowning man.
He was gone, far gone, from all the familiar landmarks and signs, lost in an unknown country, and his entire being was filled with happiness.
SIMÓN HAD KNOWN PRECIOUS
little happiness in his life so far. He had a noble’s name, but a peasant’s upbringing.
His family had been given lands in southern Spain by a long-dead king that were overrun and abandoned when the Moors conquered most of the country. By the time Simón came along, the Oliveras were little more than a forgotten coat of arms and a few people living as impoverished guests on the land of another lord in the north.
Perhaps it was this constant reminder of their lack of wealth that made Simón’s father a drunk. Or perhaps it had been beaten into him by Simón’s grandfather, by all accounts a cruel man. But when Simón came of age, he found there was nothing to his inheritance but debts and empty wine barrels.
All that was left was the name, and whatever talent he possessed.
His talent, fortunately, was in war. He joined King Charles’s forces against the rebel Moors still living in Spain after the Reconquista, the long struggle to return the land to Catholic rule. His gift for strategy and an innate charisma inspired men to follow him and trust his judgment, despite his youth.
When the fighting was done, like thousands of other soldiers, Simón wanted to seek his fortune. He wanted to go to the New World, where explorers like Columbus and Cortés reported that gold lay on the ground for anyone to see, and the natives were docile enough to pick it up when ordered.
His record and reputation were enough to win him a command position under Pánfilo de Narváez, who had been granted the right to declare himself
adelantado
of all of the new land of Florida, to govern and collect tribute in the name of the king.
It seemed like destiny to Simón.
Destiny didn’t seem to agree, however. Narváez, a rigid, one-eyed man with a strong notion of his own importance, had not met with much success on his first trip to the Americas. He had been sent to rein in Hernán Cortés, who had overthrown the native Aztecs. The crown feared Cortés was setting himself up as a rebel lord half a world away from Spain.
Cortés defeated and humiliated Narváez, meeting him at the shore and forcing his surrender. He kept him prisoner for two years. Cortés then made his own peace with Spain—helped considerably by the vast amounts of Aztec gold he was now shipping back to the king—and was never punished for his treason. Narváez was eventually sent back to Spain in disgrace.
The expedition to Florida, and the wealth that was supposed to be there, was his reward for his suffering and his loyalty.
Things went wrong from the beginning of the journey, however. The king did not offer to pay for the expedition, and Narváez had to call in debts and spend his own fortune. They set sail with eight hundred men in four ships.
A storm in Trinidad sank two of the ships as they stopped for supplies. They were delayed again in Cuba as Narváez was forced to raise money to purchase two more. While trapped in port, the remaining soldiers and sailors ate their way through all of the expedition’s food before roughly half of them deserted the expedition entirely. Narváez was in a constantly foul mood, spitting about treachery and lack of honor.
Since his family came from Cuba, Narváez prevailed on old friends to extend him credit for his adventure. He was able to find two more ships, as well as a pilot named Miruelo, who claimed to know of a harbor almost as big as a sea on the east coast of Florida. Perhaps thinking he’d finally gotten some luck, Narváez made Miruelo the captain of a ship and the expedition’s navigator.
They sailed from Havana nearly a year after they’d left Spain, now down to four hundred men.
They were within sight of the Florida coast when a hurricane swept them up, seemingly out of nowhere.
Those few hours were the most terrifying of Simón’s life. The winds tossed the ships around like a toddler playing in a puddle. Horses and men screamed below the decks as Miruelo blindly turned up and down the coast, looking for the safe harbor he’d promised.
By the time he finally found it, three of the ships were floating wreckage. Men leaped from the decks with their armor and horses, and swam to shore in the pelting rain. Many never made the sand.
When the storm blew over, Narváez’s expedition was down to one barely seaworthy ship, a few provisions, and three hundred hungry and angry men.
They made camp on the beach, where Narváez read a proclamation on parchment paper, signed by the king himself. Simón wondered how it had managed to stay dry through everything.
He read that these lands were claimed in the name of King Carlos of Spain, and that by the right of God and the king, everything and everyone within it were under his dominion.
He promised mercy to those who would convert to the one, true, and Catholic church, and protection and justice.
“But if you do not do this,” Narváez intoned, “then by God, we shall enter your country and make war against you in every way we can. We will take you and your women and your children and make you our slaves. We will take all your property, keep what we can use and what we desire, and destroy and burn the rest. If you refuse to obey us, we will show you no mercy, and any deaths that result are your fault, not our own, for we have given you fair warning, here in the sight of God.”
Narváez looked around, as if anyone would challenge him.
Most of the soldiers were still dripping wet in the sand. No one said a word.
THE NEXT DAY, HE
and his captains—including Simón—began to make their plans to conquer America.
Miruelo was ordered to repair the one remaining ship from the wreckage now floating in the bay and return to Cuba as fast as possible, to get more supplies and men.
Narváez would begin exploring the interior of the coast, sending men into the jungle to find the treasure they all knew was there.
Simón was given command of a squadron and a mostly blank map, with the order to march inland.
While his friends were still making camp on the shore, he set out with more than one hundred conquistadors, servants, and horses behind him. The trail into the jungle was easy and open, the weather clear and brilliant.
They walked a full day out of sight of the harbor without being assaulted by anything more than the insects that constantly buzzed around their exposed skin.
Then the savages came boiling out from between the trees, dozens of them, hundreds.
That’s where Simón knew he should have died.
There was no way around it. He had checked the skin where the arrow had pierced his thigh over and over, and there was not so much as a scar.
That wasn’t all. When he woke from his fever to find Shako tending him, he felt a lack of the aches and pains he’d previously thought were a constant part of life. A recurrent toothache that had plagued him for months on the journey across the ocean had disappeared. He’d been skin-and-bones thin when he went into the jungle. He had pains in his legs and a slight tremor in one arm where a Moorish arrow had punched through his armor back in Spain.
All of those old injuries and hurts were gone. He was fit and glowing with life.
And he was stronger. Faster. Better. He could bend the steel plate of his armor with his bare hands, leap a dozen feet from a standing start, and keep pace with the deer that ran through the swamp. He seemed to see and even think more clearly.
Shako would not explain. When he asked Shako about it, she would say only that she gave him medicine. In his limited understanding of the Uzita vocabulary, that could have meant anything from native herbs to sorcery.
She refused to say anything more. If he pressed the issue, it led to the only fights they would ever have. He would shout the only words he knew in her language, over and over. She would answer in monosyllables, in Spanish, which only infuriated him more, as if she was mocking him and his inability to make her obey, or even understand. Then she would simply walk away from him, sometimes for hours. At those times, he felt abandoned and lost in the wilderness.
Only once did she ever reply with more than a simple “No.” She said to him, “Isn’t it enough that you are alive?”
It should have been. She was right about that. But he wondered if it was true. At times he thought he was actually dead and this was Paradise, but it was nothing like the nuns and priests had described. It felt too real, and the pleasures were all pleasures of the flesh.
Somehow Shako had saved him. Remade him, better than ever.
And the happiness and the guilt were threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.
He had to know what she had done.
SIMÓN SCREAMED, AND SHAKO
came running.
When she found him, a short distance away from their camp, he’d already tied a strip of his tattered shirt around his leg.
He didn’t have to explain. She sucked in a deep breath when she saw the rock nearby, and the tail of the snake poking out from underneath, the diamond-shaped pattern of its scales running up and down its back.
He looked up at her, a mute pleading in his eyes.
The rattlesnakes in the swamps were huge and fat and entirely deadly. Simón could delay the poison racing toward his heart by binding the wound—Shako had taught him that—but he could not stop it. They both knew he was in for an agonizing death. It might take days, or even weeks, but there was no undoing this.
Not by natural means.
Shako bent to one knee and kissed him hard on the mouth. In their pidgin of Spanish and Uzita, she told him not to move, not to fear. She would save him again.
“I know you will,” he said, and kissed her back.
She stood and went racing off into the jungle.
For a moment, Simón admired the way she moved, the muscles under her smooth flesh, her incredible grace as she disappeared behind the trees.
He had to get going if he didn’t want to lose her.
He dropped the cloth on the ground. The skin underneath was unmarked. The rattlesnake was real, and dead enough, but it had never come close to him. He’d searched for hours before he found the fat snake sleeping in the sun, and smashed its head with the rock.
Then he’d arranged the scene for Shako, and screamed at the top of his lungs.
He followed her into the jungle.
SIMÓN DIDN’T HAVE TO
worry about losing her trail.
Shako ran in a panic, breaking branches and leaving footprints everywhere. He’d never seen her so careless.