The Sound of Many Waters (25 page)

He picked up the helmet and turned it over—the top half of a man’s skull was still inside, skewered to the helmet with the sword. A black widow spider had made a nest inside the brain cavity, and her offspring scurried out in a cloud. Dominic dropped the helmet; it clinked to the ground and the skull rolled out, coming to rest on its front teeth. It lay there gaw
k
ing at him, seething with miniature spiders.

I, too, am you,
said the skull.
As are we
, said the spiderlings. Dominic shivered and hurried down the trail.

After he had walked half a mile or so, the trail became so narrow that the foliage on each side and above him brushed against his arms, sometimes as a gentle caress, other times as a harsh scratch. One sharp twig scraped against his arrow wound and he cringed. He startled some foraging animal and sent it crashing through the undergrowth, but he was certain that the unseen creature scared him more than he scared it.

Just as Zane began to fear he was lost, he noticed a subtle glow in the distance and his ears caught an enchanting song warbling through the woods. The trail broadened and then opened into a clearing in the middle of which a fire roared. Candles placed on tree limbs formed a perimeter of softer light around the clearing.

“Mela,” whispered Dominic. She kneeled before a wooden table, singing. Her sweet voice fit perfectly with her appearance. She wore a gown of oak moss dyed white and a garland of beige flowers around her head. Her eyes danced in the fir
e
light. She looked exquisite. She looked pure.

Francisco walked up behind the table and placed a freestanding cross upon it. “Kneel with your bride,” he said.

Dominic knelt beside Mela. She glanced at him sideways but otherwise kept her eyes locked on the altar. Francisco held out his arms as if to embrace the entire night and said, “This is why a man leaves his father and mother, and the two become one flesh.”

Francisco came out from behind the altar and extended his hand to Dominic. “Take this,” he said, “and plant it together as a symbol of your union.” He dropped an acorn into Dominic’s hand and continued, “Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they may have the right to the tree of life.”

Mela dug a small hole and Dominic dropped the seed into it. Together they covered it with soil.

“Dominic, do you take Mela as your wife, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Dominic nodded.

“Say, I do,” said Francisco.

“I do.”

Francisco looked at Mela. “And Mela, do you take Dominic—”

“I do,” she interrupted. “Until death.”

Francisco traced an invisible cross over them with a broad sweep of his arm. “So then, what God has united, let no man divide. You are man and wife.”

Mela kissed Dominic’s cheek. He turned to her.

“It may be futile for me to ask now,” he said. “But did you want this because you love me, or so that Utina cannot have you?”

She touched the side of his face but did not answer.

“I am usually not the one being used,” said Dominic. “But as I walked here, I realized that it does not matter why you want to marry me. Damn me for my weakness, but I think I would do anything for you.”

“There is another reason,” said Mela.

“Tell me.”

“When my father came back to us last night, he asked me to help you on your next journey.”

“Where am I to go?”

“It is not that kind of journey.” She gazed into the darkness. “It is only steps away.”

“No, Mela,” said Francisco. “He is not ready.”

“Ready for what?” said Dominic.

A shrill birdlike sound blared out of the forest. They all turned toward it. The sound grew louder and soon another cry accompanied it. “What is that?” asked Dominic.

Francisco’s eyes widened. “Screaming!”

“The village!” Mela jumped to her feet. Flowers and moss streamed from her body as she sprinted down the trail. Dominic followed and caught up to her. At the intersection of the trails, they almost collided with Itori and two warriors. Hurr
y
ing toward the river, the frantic natives carried a post they had dislodged from the village wall, its end sharpened to a point.

“Come!” shouted Itori.

Mela and Dominic followed Itori to the riverbank where several other Timucuan men had surrounded a massive alligator; longer than two canoes put end to end, it was the lar
g
est alligator Dominic had seen in La Florida. Each time the n
a
tives prodded the beast with their spears, it opened its mouth and hissed, but their spears could not penetrate the thick hide.

“Alligator…eat…boy,” said Itori.

Mela put her hand over her mouth, and then she hurried to the crowd of onlookers where one woman among them wailed with particular intensity. Mela put her arm around the woman and wiped tears off her face.

Itori looked at Dominic. “We hold!” he said.

Dominic grabbed the dull end of the post behind the other natives. Did they plan to spear the alligator? The thought seemed absurd; the end of the post did not look sharp enough to impale such a well-armored creature.

Itori shouted something and the natives surrounding the alligator jabbed it again with their spears. The animal opened its mouth wide in fury.

“Now!” shouted Itori, and the natives rushed toward the alligator and pushed the end of the post into its mouth. Dominic suddenly understood. “Push!” screamed Itori, and Dom
i
nic and the natives thrust the post down the alligator’s milky-white throat. The alligator twisted around it and the natives rotated the pole until the beast flopped onto its back, e
x
posing its soft, white underbelly. Almost instantly the natives with spears jabbed the alligator’s abdomen; their spearheads pierced the supple skin and soon the creature stopped stru
g
gling altogether. It released a long exhale that sounded like a growl.

“Dead,” said Itori. He straddled the alligator and carved open its belly with an adze. Mela shielded the crying woman’s eyes, but the woman pushed her hands away. Itori stuck both arms deep into the alligator’s chest cavity and grabbed hold of something. His muscles strained as he tried to pull it out. Dominic stepped closer. His stomach roiled when Itori pulled out the boy. Covered in fluids and viscera, limp and broken but still intact, the boy looked like he was being born anew as he slid out of the greasy cleft. His face, although partially digested, was familiar even in its grayness.

Dominic recalled that this was the same boy who was sitting on the log in the river when he first arrived at Many W
a
ters. He had also seen him the previous night, in the chapel.

…………………………

“Do you not want God’s forgiveness?” asked Francisco.

“I want nothing from God,” said Dominic.

“Not even to be pure for your wedding day? You made a promise. If Ona lived, you agreed, you would confess your sins and be made anew.”

“And tell me, old man, is Ona alive now?”

Francisco sighed. “Let us start another way. Just tell me, commander, the worst thing you have ever done, and allow me to give you absolution for it.”

“Does it count if I have not yet done it?”

“I do not understand.”

“Well, if I hereby confess that I want to kill you, and then I do kill you, will I be forgiven in advance?”

Francisco sighed again. “I cannot let you marry her.”

A snivel drew their eyes to the chapel doorway. The boy was standing there. “Yes?” said Francisco.

Fear coursed through the boy’s eyes. He looked at Francisco, and then at Dominic.

“What is it?” demanded Francisco.

The boy crept to Francisco and whispered something into his ear. Then he turned quickly and scurried out. Francisco sat staring at the dirt floor for a long time.

“What did he say?” asked Dominic.

“He said he saw who killed Ona.”

Rage filled Dominic’s face. “Who? Tell me!”

Francisco hesitated. “No. Not yet. I must confirm it first.” Francisco stood. “Tell Mela that I agree to officiate the wedding. We must do it with haste.”

At that moment Dominic knew. Utina had killed Ona, or at least that was what the boy must have told Francisco. There could be no other explanation as to why Francisco changed his mind so quickly about the wedding. Avenging Ona’s death, Dominic mused, would feel as nourishing as a royal feast, and he fantasized about how he would do it. He was always at his most creative when plotting
venganza
.

…………………………

“
Nihi
,” Itori said sadly. “Dead.” The boy’s mother slipped like liquid through Mela’s arms. Other village women surrounded the grieving mother. Their hair, like hers and Mela’s, was cut short. Nearly one-third of the village—about seventy souls—had been slaughtered by the Ais during the attack. Every survivor had someone to grieve for.

Dominic gazed at the dead boy. “How did this happen?”

“Yaba…see,” said Itori.

Dominic searched the crowd of onlookers for Yaba but did not find him, so he walked down to the riverbank. The belly imprint and claw marks in the mud indicated where the alligator had lunged out of the black water to snare the boy.

What price?

…a great dragon rising out of the sea…

A foul, familiar whiff caught Dominic’s nose. It was the unmistakable odor of rotting flesh. He traced it to an oily sheen on the water’s surface, shimmering around a twine tied to a cypress stump. A few bullfrogs hopped away as he bent down and grabbed the twine. When he pulled it, the severed leg of an adult man rose to the surface.

Chapter Twenty Six

They had taken dirt road after dirt road through the night, each narrower and more potholed than the previous. The one they now traversed had been used so little that grass grew in the center, and its two tracks were scarred with such deep washboard ruts that Zane thought the truck might lose a wheel or rattle apart at the joints. It would not be such a bad thing, he figured.

Holding a blood-soaked t-shirt over his wound, Miguel flinched at each bump. “Slow down,” he said. His other hand held the gun pointed at Zane. Three rags lay on the floorboard near his feet, all of them red.

Zane brought the truck down to twenty miles per hour, but the roughness of the road seemed worse at the lower speed; instead of zooming over the bumps, the tires now caught each one and caused the entire frame to quake. Zane’s teeth rattled.

“Slower,” said Miguel. His lips were blue, his skin pale. He had nodded off several times in the past hour and, each time, Zane watched in hopes that sleep or unconsciousness would grab hold. Every time, however, Miguel jerked awake in seconds.

They had been driving for over an hour through parts of Florida that few Floridians had likely ever seen. Dense woods bordered both sides of the road. Red eyes would appear out of the darkness and, as the headlights approached, materialize into deer, wild pigs or bobcats. The animals did not flee from the oncoming truck as Zane expected; instead, they stood there transfixed, staring into the headlights like zombies.

Miguel glanced at a crinkled yellow map on the dashboard. He had been looking at it throughout their drive. “It should be near,” he said.

Where was Miguel taking him? Zane was certain there were no clinics or doctors out in such wilderness. He wished he had surrendered to the cops at the strip club. But then, he realized, he never would have gotten to know Destiny.

They came to a side road marked by an old wooden signpost with two arrow-shaped signs. Zane squinted to read them. The first arrow, pointing in the direction they were going, read
Church – 2 miles
. The other arrow aimed down the side road.
Cowhead Ranch – 4 miles
, it read.

“Turn here,” said Miguel. “If you see anyone, stop the truck and let me deal with it.”

The woods encroached on the new road and branches screeched against the sides of the truck. This road felt smoother than the previous, save for the occasional judder from an exposed root or coquina rock. They passed an old, weathered sign nailed to a pine tree that read
No Trespassing
, and then, moments later, another.
Turn Back Now
, it said.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” asked Zane.

When he did not get a response, he looked over. Miguel had fallen asleep.

This is it, thought Zane. Do or die.

Zane’s heart raced.
He eyed the pistol in Miguel’s hand. With one hand on the steering wheel, he leaned over and pinched the barrel of the gun between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged gently, hoping to pull it away undetected, but Miguel’s grip tightened and his snoring stopped. Zane r
e
leased the gun and the snoring resumed.

Plan B, thought Zane.

His fingernails dug into the rubber steering wheel as he tried to envision his escape. Could he pull it off? What if Miguel woke up too soon? It did not matter. This might be his only chance to flee. He spotted a clearing in the trees ahead. He pulled the doubloon out of his shirt and rubbed it between his fingers, and then, easing his foot off the accelerator, threw open the truck door and vaulted into the blackness.