The Eternal World (19 page)

Sebastian laughed. “My God, it’s almost as if she understands me. You’ve got her well trained, Simón.”

Pedro reached for Shako’s arm. “Will she do whatever you say? I’ve got a couple tricks I could teach her.”

Shako slapped his hand away. Simón saw her reach for her knife.

He couldn’t let this happen. “Stop,” he said.

But Pedro kept on laughing. He still thought it was a joke. Simón knew that Shako could gut him in an instant and then turn on the others. She might even get Max or Francisco, who were nearest after that, but then, certainly, one of the others would find his pistol. “Stop!” he said again, wondering who he was really trying to protect.

Before anything else could happen, however, the grasses shook and men came leaping forward.

They tackled the Spaniards, knocking them all to the ground and wrestling them down in a matter of moments.

Simón felt his hands yanked up behind his back and felt ropes being tied around him. He was lifted like a child and then kicked in the stomach to take any fight out of him.

He was still watching Shako’s eyes. They were wide with surprise. She had not expected this tonight, either.

But they both knew it had to happen sometime.

The Uzita had found them.

THE BONFIRE AT THE
center of the Uzita village was so hot that Simón smelled his own hair burning.

They’d been dumped next to the fire by the Uzita, and the whole tribe gathered around them. It was like being in some portrait of Hell. The Spaniards were stripped down to their underclothes. The Uzita jeered at them and threw stones. Little children rushed forward to poke and prod at their strangely colored flesh. A wooden spit was hefted up and over the fire. More dry logs were thrown into the pit, and the heat grew even more intense. The Spaniards were given a good view of the preparations. The Uzita planned to roast them alive.

Aznar was gibbering to himself in panic. The others winced or occasionally cursed as a stone or a blow landed on their heads. They all looked terrified.

Simón had not seen Shako since they’d been carried from the swamp. He wondered, for a brief, absurd moment, if she was safe.

Then the chief arrived, and the Uzita fell silent.

Hirrihigua. Simón had heard his name from Shako, but now he understood the slight tone of awe she used when she spoke of her father. He was a tall, powerful man, his hair still black, his skin as smooth and dark as old leather. The Uzita all made way for him.

He walked to where they lay on the ground. If he felt the burning heat, he gave no indication. Instead, he peered down at each of them, as if weighing and measuring every man.

He did not appear to like what he saw.

He said a few words in Uzita. The warriors grabbed the Spaniards and hauled them up on their feet.

Hirrihigua walked close to Simón and stared deeply into his face. The chief’s eyes were unreadable. Simón knew that his life had already been decided. He wondered what the chief was looking for.

“You drank the Water,” he said, so quietly that Simón could barely hear him over the roar of the flames.

Simón found he couldn’t lie. “Yes,” he admitted.

Hirrihigua shook his head a fraction of an inch. Simón saw something in his eyes, then. He saw pain.

“Into the fire,” Hirrihigua said, and turned away abruptly.

Simón did not even have time to let that sink in when he heard a shriek of protest from the crowd.

“No,” Shako screamed. She shoved her way through the Uzita and ran to Hirrihigua. He barked at her in Uzita, something so rapid and angry that Simón couldn’t understand. She screamed back at him, slapping her hands against his arms when he tried to push her away.

One of the warriors, a man even taller and thicker than Hirrihigua, tried to pull her back into the crowd. Shako turned and kicked him in the gut, and he went gray and staggered.

She shouted at her father again. She did not plead. She demanded.

He looked shocked, and then furious. He lifted his hand as if to strike her.

“No,” Simón shouted, and somehow found the speed and strength to push past his guards and lunge for Hirrihigua.

He didn’t get far. The butt end of a spear smacked his legs and then cracked him hard on the back of the head. He fell facedown into the dirt.

When he looked up, Shako was beside him. She pulled him up, cradling his body, arms around him as if she would never let him go.

Hirrihigua watched them both. He looked as if he’d tasted something foul.

Shako’s eyes were filled with tears. She said, “Please.”

Hirrihigua sagged. The anger was gone, Simón could see, replaced by a deep and bitter sadness.

“Your knife,” he said to one of the warriors. He took the blade when it was offered. He kneeled down to them.

With a quick slash, he cut Simón’s bonds.

Then he crossed to the others and did the same for them.

He handed the blade back to the warrior and walked away.

The Uzita stood there, confused, uncertain.

Shako was not. She pulled Simón upright and began pushing him away from the fire. The others followed as quickly as they could.

Muttering and grumbling began as soon as Shako hurried them through the crowd. She didn’t stop. She kept moving them past the Uzita’s houses, off into the darkness at the edge of the village.

None of them spoke. She kept hustling them along until they found a trail, barely visible in the dark. They could still see the flames and shadows dancing from the center of the village. The muttering of the Uzita had turned to loud argument now.

Shako shoved Simón. Hard. “Run,” she said. “Keep running along this trail. Follow the flow of the river when you reach it. It will take you back to your people. Now run.”

He clasped her hand and tried to pull her along.

She drew back as if scalded.

“Shako,” he said.

“Run,” she said again, pain in her voice and on her face. “And don’t ever come back.”

The shouts of the Uzita grew closer, and Simón heard some of the men moving into the brush after them.

“Simón, we must go
now,
” Max said. He and the others were ready to bolt, but they had no idea where they were going.

Simón nodded. He leaned forward and kissed Shako.

Then he turned and ran.

CHAPTER 21

T
HERE WERE A
few mutters of “traitor” and “deserter” when Narváez took him back into the fold. His friends put a stop to that talk with their own bluster and threats. Simón was surprisingly indifferent. He was back where he was supposed to be, but he felt lost.

Despite this, Narváez gave him used armor and another sword. Perhaps he felt a sense of obligation to Simón after bringing him across the ocean. More likely, it was an acknowledgment that Narváez needed every able-bodied man he had left.

The expedition was now down to about 250. Illness and hunger had killed a couple of dozen while Simón was gone. Raids by the native tribes as the conquistadors blundered through the wilderness had taken the rest. The remaining Spaniards were pale and wormy as something found under a rock.

Simón was now the healthiest and strongest man among them. Narváez had even commented on it. “You look well for a man kidnapped by savages,” he said. Narváez still dreamed of conquering Florida, of taming the land granted him by the crown. And it was becoming increasingly clear he’d never do that without a fight. Simón supposed that made him an asset again.

He certainly had nothing else to offer. His friends could not tell Narváez where the Uzita were located, and Simón feigned ignorance as well. He said he’d seen no treasure in his time in the wilderness. He had betrayed Shako once already. He wouldn’t do it again. He knew Narváez would raid the Uzita for their food alone. And if Narváez learned of the Water, then he would stop at nothing to possess it. He would take the glory and become the most powerful man in Spain, perhaps in the world.

Simón would not allow that.

So he kept silent. And he waited for several weeks, until Narváez was distracted by the constant press of foraging for food and keeping his troops satisfied again.

In the meantime, he made a plan.

“WE HAVE TO GO
BACK
.”

“For your whore? For that animal?”

Simón resisted the urge to split Aznar’s face open along the lines of his sneer. He tamped his anger down.

He’d gathered his friends at a fire on the edge of the camp, late at night. He’d considered simply leaving without them, but they did not abandon him, and he wouldn’t abandon them now. The truth was, they all needed to escape. And he needed all of them if his plan was to work. But he couldn’t tell them the truth. They would think he wasn’t just smitten but infected, that he’d caught some kind of pox from Shako that was already destroying his brain.

So he gave them a half-truth.

“Because there is treasure there.”

They paid attention to that. Simón was reminded of dogs sitting up at the scent of meat.

“Gold?” Francisco asked.

“Where?” Aznar demanded. “Why didn’t you tell Narváez?”

“Why should Narváez be the only one who profits from this disaster? We can have it all for ourselves. And believe me: we will be richer than kings. All of us.”

“I didn’t see anything on your savage girl that looked like gold,” Pedro said.

“You were looking at her other charms,” Sebastian said.

Again, Simón had to bite down on his bile. He could endure a few insults to his honor if it meant getting Shako back, and getting to the Fountain.

“It’s there,” Simón said. “Why do you think I spent so long among the savages? I wanted them to trust me. They don’t even understand what they have. If you come with me, I can negotiate. I can convince them to let us take the treasure with us.”

“You’re talking about mutiny,” Aznar said. “You should tell Narváez.”

“Has anything on this expedition gone as Narváez planned?” Simón shot back. “I was the one who was lost in the wilderness for months, but you are the ones who are filthy and starving. We could be hundreds or thousands of miles away from our destination. It’s lucky an ocean separates us from Spain. If the king knew of this, he’d have Narváez beheaded simply to avoid the embarrassment.”

There was a grudging silence. Simón knew from experience: hungry men were always angry.

“Do you believe you could do better?” Aznar asked, sullen.

“I believe
we
can do better. History belongs to the man who takes it. If we bring the Uzita’s treasure back to the king, I guarantee he will give us anything we want.”

They all stood in silence for a moment, considering that.

For a moment, Simón feared they would turn against him. This was treason. But more than that, this was an admission that the power and glory of Spain had its limits. To leave Narváez now would be to concede that the king, in his wisdom, had committed all their lives to the wrong man and the wrong cause. It was far easier to follow along than to sever that last link, that last string of hope that everything would work as planned because God and Kingdom had decreed it would be so. This was more than abandoning the mission; this was taking responsibility for their own destiny.

Finally, Max broke the silence.

“We’ll need supplies,” he said. Pragmatic as ever.

Just like that, the decision was made. They would follow Simón. This was uncharted territory, and they were trusting him to lead them through it.

Of course, the greed in their eyes had something to do with it as well.

“Gather what you can without attracting too much attention,” he said. “We leave the camp tonight.”

HIRRIHIGUA STOOD AT THE
center of the Uzita village, flanked by nearly a hundred of his warriors. Each one of them looked ready to eat the hearts of Simón and his friends.

At this point, the only thing holding them back was the flag of truce and Hirrihigua’s tolerance.

“I’m starting to have doubts about your plan,” Max said in a low voice.

Simón tried not to show any fear. He and the others stood in the clearing at the middle of the Uzita’s village, circled by the wooden houses and their palm-thatched roofs, much as they had when Shako had begged for their lives.

The rest of the Uzita, all the old men, women, and children, crowded around the edges of the central ground, gawking at them.

Simón desperately hoped they looked more impressive this time. He wanted to negotiate from a position of strength, not beg for his life. They were all wearing armor and carrying their pistols and swords. Simón once more wondered if they’d made the right decision when they chose not to steal an harquebus, one of the cannonlike muskets that required two men to set up and fire. Narváez would have noticed that immediately, and even the lighter rifles would have slowed them down too much.

It was said that a handful of men with Spanish steel were worth a whole army in some battles. Simón hoped it would not be necessary to prove that.

Simón had argued against stealth, and instead walked right up to the village in the bright morning sunlight, carrying a once-white rag as a sign of peace. He spoke to the sentries in their own language, and asked—not demanded—to see Hirrihigua.

The chief must have been intrigued. He agreed to let Simón speak. But he had them face every warrior in the tribe to do so.

Simón had never lacked courage. He wouldn’t whimper. This was his chance.

And, to the audible gasps of his fellow soldiers, he kneeled.

“What are you doing?” Max hissed.

Simón ignored him.

“Great Chief,” he said, with as much humility as he could muster. “We are here to offer you our apologies.”

That caused a murmur among the Uzita. Hirrihigua looked around, and they went quiet again.

“What did you say?” Max asked.

“Quiet,” Simón growled, and continued to speak to the chief in Uzita. “We do not have to fight. I believe we can have peace. I believe we can work together. I come to you to ask for a chance to prove this.”

Simón searched through the limited vocabulary he’d learned from Shako. There were so few words, but each one had multiple meanings. The phrases seemed to slip away the harder he tried to grasp them.

“We have many things that can help the Uzita. Help with the food. Help with the tools. Medicine. Weapons.”

The chief finally spoke. “And what is it you want?”

Simón hesitated, then plunged ahead. “The Water.”

There was an audible gasp from the Uzita. Simón was aware he’d just committed the equivalent of blasphemy, so he hurried ahead.

“You know what a treasure this is. It would be worth much to our”—they had no word for king—“chief across the ocean. He would bring you much treasure for this. He would make your tribe stronger than any other.”

“From what I have seen of you,” Hirrihigua said calmly, “your people can barely feed themselves.”

A little of Simón’s pride reared up at that. He looked the chief directly in the eyes. “We have conquered greater warriors than yours,” he said. “And more of us are coming every day.”

The Uzita men bristled at that. There was a general muttering of anger, a readying of weapons.

The chief remained stoic. “Then perhaps we should kill you now, to save ourselves the trouble later.”

Max chose that moment to speak up again. “Simón, I can’t help but notice this doesn’t seem to be going well.”

Simón breathed in deeply to remain calm. All he wanted was a few barrels. That’s all it would take. He could take those and Shako and return to Spain an impossibly wealthy man. The king would give him anything if he returned with the Bimini waters. He could restore his family’s lands and then find a small place far away from everything, where they could live in peace.

He had to make the chief see. He stood up so he could be closer to eye to eye with the man.

“My words . . .” Simón hesitated again. “I need to find the right way to explain. It would help if your daughter was here. To talk for me again.”

If Hirrihigua was stone before, now he was ice. Simón realized he’d made a mistake, but he did not know what.

The chief looked at him and did not reply.

Simón tried again. “Where is Shako?”

There was finally something like an expression breaking through the stone of the chief’s face. It was barely a grimace, but to Simón it looked like contempt.

He spoke one word in Uzita: “Gone.”

Simón felt like the world had dropped out from under him. His head spun. Like most of the Uzita language, the single word had multiple meanings. But there was one he knew best from his lessons with Shako. “Gone” meant “dead.”

“You killed her?”

That broke the chief’s composure completely. He erupted in rage. “
You
killed her,” he shouted back. He lifted the war club above his head. Simón was still frozen and reeling. The others did not even know exactly what had been said. They were hesitant and confused.

The chief roared and the warriors of the Uzita roared with him. At that moment, Simón knew he’d brought his closest friends and allies with him only to die. A single thought filled his mind. Perhaps in Heaven, he would be reunited with Shako.

Then something burned Simón’s face. Smoke stung his eyes, and he could no longer hear the bellow of the chief or his warriors.

The chief looked down at his chest, which was a smoking ruin. A musket ball with a heavy charge of black powder had smashed into him, tearing a hole through his ribs and into his heart.

His eyes went dead as the blood began to flow, and his body hit the ground, lifeless.

But we didn’t bring the harquebus, Simón thought.

Then he turned and saw the conquistadors. Dozens of men from the expedition, pouring from the overgrown jungle in full armor, with Narváez, the one-eyed demon, leading the charge.

The big harquebus fired again, this time to Simón’s left. Someone tackled him to the ground before the next blast took his head off.

Max pulled him from the dirt and hurried him off to the side. “Get out of the way, you idiot,” he grunted. The other soldiers of their expedition were already preparing to fire again.

Impossible, Simón thought. How did they find us?

The soldiers came from everywhere. They had surrounded the village completely. The lines of men closed in like a knot being pulled tight.

The guns concentrated their shots on the warriors, who were conveniently lined up where the chief had been standing. They had been caught just as unaware as Simón. The musket balls hit them as they tried to cross the village ground, laying half of them down in the first few moments of the fight. The smoke and noise sent the Uzita scrambling for cover, their defenses broken in second. Then it was nothing but slaughter.

The conquistadors laid into the Uzita with their swords. Everyone in the circle was a target. He saw a woman with a baby at her breast stabbed in the throat. An old woman had her face smashed with a mailed fist. A man took a musket ball to the back of his head a few steps away, his skull shattering under the impact. Those who ran screaming were impaled on a relentlessly advancing wall of pikes. Narváez screamed, “No prisoners! No quarter!”

They followed us, Simón realized. One of his own had told them. They laid in wait, and they surrounded the village, and they took their moment.

Simón felt heat on his face and arms, and saw that someone had set the thatched palm of the roofs on fire. He watched an Uzita woman driven into the flames by two pikemen he’d eaten and drank with. He saw the baby torn from his dying mother’s breast.

He closed his eyes, because he did not want to see what happened next.

He wanted nothing more than to wake, screaming, from this nightmare.

THE SUN CLIMBED OVER
the scorched earth of the Uzita camp. The burned wooden houses. The plain unpainted pottery, now smashed into fragments everywhere. The bodies, which wore no jewelry or decoration of any kind.

Narváez surveyed it all. The other men were still stacking the corpses in a pile.

Simón and the others were not even given that humiliating duty. They were assembled, on their knees, in the center of the village. Guards had watched them since the battle—or, more accurately, the massacre—was done.

Simón had tried to speak once, and was beaten by the guards for his trouble. His face was now swelling with bruises. The others took the hint and remained silent.