The Sound of Many Waters (9 page)

When he pierced through the last sheet of plastic skin and was breaking apart the inner layer of Styrofoam, a bright light shone down from above. God’s searchlight, he thought, but with Jupiter more than a hundred miles away, he knew that was impossible. He followed the beam. It did indeed originate at a lighthouse, but this one looked different from the one he knew from home. It stood on the coast like a lonely watchman, its lamp slowly scanning the sea. He realized that he had seen it from the water but from that vantage it looked like another launch pad. Only from the beach could he now see its features. Unlike the Jupiter Lighthouse which always gave Zane a feeling of security, this one—painted white with black stripes like a convict—was foreboding.

He continued ripping into the bale. When he had broken through the Styrofoam he came to a black duffel bag stuffed with a mystery. His hands quivered. He found the zipper. As he pulled it open, a strange sheen emanated from inside. What exotic delight awaited him? He would know soon. Movement, however, caught his eye; he glanced toward the beach and saw Miguel standing in the surf, bent over with his hands on his knees. Something in Miguel’s hand glinted.

“No,” whispered Zane.

He watched Miguel look down the beach in both directions and then at the ground in front of him. Zane’s heart sank when he saw what Miguel was looking at—there, preserved in the sand, were Zane’s footprints and, between them, the line left behind where he had dragged the bale. Miguel set off following them.

Zane smacked himself in the forehead. How could he have been so stupid? He looked down at the bale and, aware that only seconds remained, ripped open the zipper. Yellow luster bathed his face.

“Holy—” he said. The beam of the lighthouse crept across the dune and in the radiance he saw the full glory of what lay inside the bag: stacks upon stacks of gold rounds. There had to be a thousand coins, all shrink-wrapped together in stacks of ten. Someone had taken great care in their preparation. He sat there mesmerized. It was too dark to see the features of the coins, but he assumed them to be rounds of bullion. Gold bullion, he knew, was the latest trend in trafficking b
e
cause—unlike currency—it was anonymous and untraceable. Now he understood Miguel’s determination, and it made him even more afraid. But despite the riches that lay before him, he felt an ache of disappointment. He would have preferred drugs. He hated himself for thinking that way.

Zane rubbed his eyes and peered through the sea oats. Miguel had almost reached the dunes. The thing in Miguel’s hand, he could now see, was a dive knife, typically carried by scuba divers as a safety precaution but certainly sharp enough to be a weapon. If Zane tried to run now, he would undoubtedly be seen. He felt angry at himself for not fleeing when he had the chance, but his curiosity about the contents of the bale—or, more accurately, his hunger for narcotics—had been too great.

“Where are you, boy?” Miguel’s voice was eerily singsong.

Something in Zane urged him to jump out and surrender. If he gave up, maybe Miguel would be merciful. But then he remembered the insane look in Miguel’s eyes when the IRS boat had approached, and he crouched lower.

“I know you’re up there,” Miguel said from the other side of the dune. Zane could hear the shuffle of his feet in the sand, but the sound stopped.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Miguel. “A damn turtle?”

Miguel stormed away down the beach. Zane looked at the tracks in the sand again and realized that they were not even his. What he had mistaken for his own footprints were actually made by the turtle’s flippers as it scuttled up the beach; the drag mark was from the turtle’s shell, not the bale. Still, M
i
guel would soon find his real tracks, which were only a little farther down the beach.

Zane looked at the coins. What should he do with them? With this kind of fortune he’d be set for life—a new boat, a new truck, and a big mansion on the water. This was, he figured, the only chance at serious wealth he’d ever get. He had to at least try.

He strained to lift the bag but realized that he would not get far with so much weight. He looked around; his eyes came to the turtle. An idea struck him—he was not sure if it was ludicrous or ingenious but he could think of nothing better.

This is it, Zane thought. Make it happen, captain.

He flung himself over the peak of the dune and rolled down its steep face, dragging the duffel with him. He landed right where he wanted—just behind the turtle. She had finished digging her nest and was now dropping eggs from a pink, fleshy orifice protruding from beneath her tail. Zane had hoped that the eggs would not yet be coming; to prevent crushing them, he would have to improvise. He scooped out the half dozen she had already laid, but they kept coming and he could not clear them fast enough. He looked at their source. There was only one way to stop them—one appalling, disgusting way—and so he stuffed his hand into her chute.

It was slimy and hot inside her and he could feel more eggs pressing down on his knuckles but the turtle did not seem to notice the intrusion. With his free hand he tipped the duffel bag and dumped the stacks of coins into the nest. They fit nicely and left plenty of room. He reached in and pulled out two stacks of coins, hesitated, and pulled out one more. He then pushed a pile of sand into the nest and replaced the eggs he had removed. When he pulled his hand out of the turtle, a large globule of mucous and eggs surged out. Moments later, she continued laying them one by one.

“Sorry, girl.” Zane shook his head. He could hardly believe he had just violated a turtle.

He jumped to his feet and tossed the three stacks of coins into the duffel bag. Then he flung the bag over his back, scaled the dune and, crouching on its summit, reached over and stuffed pieces of Styrofoam into the bag until it looked full. He scanned the beach for a landmark—to his left, rising out of the dunes, stood a solitary coconut palm, and to his west he saw a massive structure silhouetted against the stars.

He turned and looked in the opposite direction. Miguel had reached the other tracks in the sand; his head slowly turned as he followed them up the beach with his eyes. For Zane, it was like watching a fuse burn rapidly toward him, with no time to get away. As Miguel’s gaze reached the dune, the lighthouse beam found Zane and set him aglow. He felt like a stage performer blinded by a spotlight. When the beam left, he saw Miguel sprinting at him.

“Drop that bag!” screamed Miguel.

Zane bounded across the ridge of the first dune and then turned away from the beach and barreled into the sea oats. Sharp reeds sliced his limbs as he ran. The dunes, and the rhythm of loping over them, reminded him of ocean swells. Each time he reached the top of one he would glance back and, each time, Miguel was a few steps closer.

“You’re dead!” shouted Miguel.

The dunes ended at a thick wall of forest. As he approached, Zane scanned it for the clearest entry point. There did not, however, seem to be one—the entire thing looked like an impenetrable tangle of oaks and vines and cabbage palms. He buried his fear and raced headlong into the blackness with one hand outstretched as a probe. Once inside, he could not even see his arm in front of him. Disoriented, he staggered through the dark jumble, tripping over logs, squeezing through bushes, and bouncing off tree trunks like a running back.

The duffel bag jerked backward; he held tight and tugged on it but something with great strength pulled back. He reached around with his other hand and discovered that the bag was entangled in a web of vines. He wrenched on it with all of his strength, grunting and twisting, and the vines snapped all at once. Surging forward, his face smashed into a branch and the force of it flipped him onto his back. Every thought and impulse vanished and an insistent sleep took over against his will.

Chapter Nine

“His name is Ixasatoriona.” Francisco gestured to the tall native who had now saved Dominic twice. “But you can call him ‘Ona.”

“Ona,” the native affirmed with a bemused smile. He nodded at Dominic as if to say
hello
and Dominic reciprocated.

In the days following the berry incident, the natives had stayed close to Dominic, like overprotective parents afraid to let their child of out sight. Dominic’s stomach was still swollen but he had managed to ingest a few fruits without regurgitating them, the nicest of which resembled plums and had been gathered by the natives from a tall tree they seemed excited to discover. Meat, however, still shot back out undigested, and merely thinking about the black drink made him queasy.

They had hiked across a broad expanse of waist-high grass for most of the day. Scattered cypress stands rose out of the plain like hackles on a boar, but otherwise the land was drearily flat. As they approached the edge of the next cypress stand, Dominic studied his captors. What was their motivation for keeping him alive? Where were they taking him? None of it made sense.

He watched Ona march through the grass in the lead. With every step, the native’s long legs ate twice as much distance as Dominic’s. His black hair sat tied in a tight bun atop his head and, like his companions, he carried a large bow under one arm and a bundle of arrows slung over his back. Small fish bladders—inflated, dried, and painted red—dangled from his ea
r
lobes alongside numerous bone piercings. Most striking, though, were his long, claw-like fingernails which had been sharpened into points. Such grotesque hands seemed out of place on what was otherwise a beautiful physical specimen. The other natives shared these features but Ona possessed one distinction—the pearly spire of a conch shell which he wore on a twine around his neck.

Dominic looked at Francisco. “Who do these men worship?” he asked.

“They worship one god,” said Francisco. “The sun.”

“Why the sun?”

“Why
not
the sun? It makes things grow. It illuminates all. And its power is so great that one cannot even look at it without injury.”

“So they are pagans.”

“They pray and they fast and, up until recently, they sacrificed the firstborn son from each family because they believed it gratified the spirits. Call them what you will, but the Timucua have profound faith.”

As they reached the far side of the cypress stand, a crashing sound arose out of the palmetto undergrowth and a whit
e
tail buck sprang forth. It staggered and skidded and tried to rise again but could not. Its hide was stained by a splotch of blood above its hind leg where the shaft of an arrow jutted out. The natives raised their bows and drew their arrows but they did not aim at the deer—they turned instead toward the cypress stand.

Fifteen other natives with bows and arrows rushed out of the palmettos. They stopped all at once. The shock on their faces made it clear to Dominic that they had been in pursuit of the wounded deer and were not expecting to come upon another group of men with weapons already drawn.

“Who are they?” whispered Dominic.

“Ais,” said Francisco. “Our adversary.”

With their short, squat stature and narrow eyes, the Ais looked distinct from the Timucuans. Each wore the feathers of some large bird on his head which shook with every movement. Instead of tattoos, their skin was marked by deep scars that looked to have been made deliberately. They wore nothing but loin coverings made of woven palmetto. Hiding their genitals, however, did not seem to be a priority; bits of scrotum hung out all over the place.

The natives exchanged no words as they stood aiming their arrows at each other. Ona’s shaky hand struggled to hold his arrow back. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and his nervous breathing sounded like spray bursting forth from the bow of a ship.

A wiry young man emerged from the woods and the Timucuans collectively gasped. He walked langui
d
ly—effeminately almost—into the group of Ais and scowled at the Timucuans. His eyes met Dominic’s and sent an eerie chill into him. “Who is that?” asked Dominic.

“Urribia,” whispered Ona.

“Urribia,” repeated Francisco. “Warrior chief of the Ais.”

Urribia’s eyes were as black as the bear pelt around his shoulders and his hair hung down in one bulky clump as if it were a separate animal. Loose skin drooped off his bones and wiggled when he stepped. He said something harshly to the Timucuans but they did not offer a reply. To Dominic, though, it sounded like the type of statement that probably did not require one.