To the Edge of the World

by Michele Torrey

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  I - June 1519-July 1519

  II - August 2, 1519

  III - August 10, 1519

  IV - September 20-October 2, 1519

  V - October 2-25, 1519

  VI - October 25-November 24, 1519

  VII - November 24-25, 1519

  VIII - November 25-December 22, 1519

  IX - December 22-27, 1519

  X - December 30, 1519-January 13, 1520

  XI - February 2-March 31, 1520

  XII - March 31-April 2, 1520

  XIII - April 2-3, 1520

  XIV - April 3-May 28, 1520

  XV - May 28–August 24, 1520

  XVI - August 24-November 28, 1520

  XVII - November 28, 1520-January 9, 1521

  XVIII - January 9-March 6, 1521

  XIX - March 6-29, 1521

  XX - March 30-April 26, 1521

  XXI - April 27, 1521

  XXII - April 28–May 1, 1521

  XXIII - May 1–28, 1521

  XXIV - May 29-August 27, 1521

  XXV - September 4-October 27, 1521

  XXVI - November 1-December 21, 1521

  EPILOGUE - September 1522

  AFTERWORD

  GLOSSARY

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  BIBLIOGRAPHY FOR YOUNG READERS

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  To Carl,

  my love, my dearest love, always.

  And to our sons,

  Ian, Aaron, and Ethan.

  May your lives be filled with adventure;

  may you know the joys of courage,

  of honor, and of love.

  I

  June 1519-July 1519

  On the first day of June, in the year of our Lord 1519, I, Mateo Macías de Ávila, a Spaniard by birth, buried my parents.

  An ugly dog watched. Spotted with mange, the dog lounged in the shadow of a nearby boulder, panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth while I piled stone after stone upon their bodies. It did not take long before the sweat glistened on my body. The sun was fierce and no breeze blew. But I did not stop. I could not stop. I refused to stop, and my chest burned from the exertion.

  I was determined. More determined than he. No dog would devour my parents. No dog would drag them through the city gates of Ávila like they dragged Juan Garcia, or young Catalina, to gnaw their flesh while the townspeople fled in horror. I threw a rock, but the dog dodged it deftly, ears flattened, returning quickly to his spot in the shade.

  For much of the morning I worked, until finally I fell to my knees before the finished graves. “Father, Mother,” I prayed. “Rest in peace.” I reached out and touched the wooden crosses, caressed the names etched beneath my fingertips. I crossed myself and asked God to be merciful to their souls.

  Afterward, I burned the farm.

  My home. Dry, parched land, strewn with rock. A dusty courtyard, surrounded by a fence of sticks. A house of mud and stone. One room. A table. A chair. One rug. Two beds. A curtain dividing.

  In spite of the heat, my eyes misted as I remembered. There beside the table, beside the planked surface where beeswax candles once burned, was where my mother read me poetry. To the pride of my father, she could read. “You will teach our son,” Tomás had commanded, drawing himself up to his full height, despite his bad leg. “My son is not a peasant. My son will be someone. Read, María, read.” My mother bent her head over her book, her only book, her voice soft as the flutter of birds’ wings. After, she always said, “Mateo, my son, sing me a song.” And I gladly fetched my guitar and sang while her eyes closed and my father tapped his good foot.

  Now the table wavered with heat, and orange flames snapped and curled, devouring the curtain, the beds, the roof above my head. Smoke filled my nostrils and I stumbled backward out the door. I lay on my back in the courtyard, ashamed of my crying, not caring that the dog now lay panting beside me.

  I lay like that until the fire drove me away. My possessions sat in a pile by the fence. I slung my guitar over my back and slipped my dagger into my waistband. I draped my mother’s rosary about my neck and picked up the book of poems, my sketchbook of drawings and box of inks (for my mother had also taught me to draw), and a goatskin filled with watered wine. Into my shirt pocket I dropped two pieces of bread, hoping they would not fall through the frayed hole. My father refused to allow my mother to sew patches on our clothing. “Only the poor do such things,” he said. And he was right. We were not poor.

  I whacked the ugly dog on the nose with a stick, sending him howling, and tossed the stick into the fire. I watched until the only home I had known was but a blackened, crumbling shell.

  By now the sun burned high in the sky. It was time to leave.

  It took a long time to gather my father’s sheep, frightened away by the dog and the fire. There were ten sheep, but I found only eight. I feared to stay longer lest the dreaded pestilence that consumed Ávila—devouring neighbors, friends, parents—also consume me.

  And so, with eight sheep and my few possessions, I turned my back on the town of Ávila, turned my back on the two mounds of stone beside the smoking ruin. I set my face to the south and began to walk.

  On the afternoon of the next day, I realized I was being followed. Perhaps he smelled the one last piece of bread that had not been eaten. Perhaps he thought he could steal one of my father’s sheep. Or perhaps, and this at least I hoped was true, he despaired of digging at the graves of my parents. In any event, the ugly dog trotted behind me. Never close. But near enough so he shimmered in the heat, a speck of grime no bigger than a flea.

  I ate my last piece of bread and drank the last of my wine. Then I checked my armpits for pestilence, then the sides of my neck and my groin. Nothing. I said the rosary.

  The next day I turned fourteen years old. I lay in a ditch by a river, too hot, too weak to move. Never had I been so far from home. Never had I been so hungry.

  When I awoke the next morning, the sheep were gone. Footprints marred the mud next to the river, and they were not mine. I looked everywhere and found only Ugly, lapping water at the river’s edge. Anger grew within me like water coming to boil and I hurled a rock at him. “You could have warned me!” I cried, tears of frustration rising in my eyes. “Next time I will stab you with my dagger!”

  When Ugly disappeared in the distance, I lay in the ditch and waited for the pestilence to take me to my parents. Without my father’s sheep, I had nothing—nothing to sell, nothing to trade. I waited a long time to die. When the sun began to slide down in the sky, my stomach hurt worse than it had for days. Perhaps that was the first symptom. Again, I checked my armpits, my neck, my groin. Nothing. I did not say the rosary.

  In the morning, when I knew I was not dead, I dragged myself out of the ditch and continued to journey southward.

  At noon, I approached a monastery, nestled beneath the wing of a castle like a chick under a hen. From behind the monastery doors wafted a delicious aroma that made my stomach cramp with pain. I could stand it no more. To the ringing of the bell, I cast my glance to the ground and gathered in shame with others— ragged beggars, crippled children, one-legged soldiers—around a huge cauldron of soup. When my turn came, I dared to look into the face of the monk who handed me a bowl. Instead of the scowl I expected, I was met with a kindly look.

  “May God bless you,” he murmured as he ladled the steaming broth into my bowl. Into my other hand he thrust a hunk of bread. I sat upon a rock, devouring my food, not caring that the soup burned all the way down. Only when I finished and sat licking my fingers of every drop, every spare crumb, did I realize Ugly watched me. Under his accusing stare, the
soup suddenly turned sour, and I vomited.

  I was angry with myself and wondered blankly if I should eat the vomit, but when Ugly began to devour it, I returned to the monastery. The entrance was closed and I banged on the doors. The same monk who had served me my soup and bread answered, and there was a glint of recognition in his eye.

  “I have vomited my soup and bread.”

  He disappeared and returned to give me another hunk of bread. But when I asked for more soup, my mouth watering and my belly aching to think of it, he said, “I’m sorry, but there is no more. We have given it all away. Come back tomorrow at noon.”

  I did not argue, and when the door closed softly, I steeled my face and turned away. I will not wait until the morrow, I told myself. I will not allow him to serve me again. I shall move on to the next town.

  On the morrow I sat outside another monastery with bread and a bowl of soup in my hands. I forced myself to eat slowly.

  Ugly licked his lips and watched me with eyes I noticed were brown. Sad and brown. I let Ugly have a bite of bread and, after I finished the broth, set the bowl down and watched while Ugly licked it out. This time I did not vomit.

  The next day, when instead of a monastery there stretched a vast, empty plateau, Ugly caught a rabbit and left it at my feet. A bloody, furry mess that we ate together.

  And so we passed out of the plateau, out of the land of Castile, into the lower countries of which I had only heard tell. Many rivers we crossed. Shallow, starved rivers that dreamed of rain. Each time I fell beside the muddy water, drinking until my stomach tightened like a goatskin. Beside me, after drinking his fill, Ugly lay on his back, exposing his spotted belly to the heavens, a belly full and bloated like my own.

  In one of these rivers I lost my dagger. I waded into the river with all my possessions, but upon gaining the other side, I found that my dagger was gone. After searching for the better part of a day I admitted it was lost. I sat upon the muddy bank and cursed my life. What is a man without his dagger?

  The next morning, I entered a side pool and sat in its still waters. I checked my reflection for signs of pestilence, but no disease stared back at me. Instead I saw the image of a young man, swarthy like his father, stocky, with a mop of unruly hair and an undignified nose. After staring at myself, I decided I was not nearly so ugly as Ugly, and the thought made me smile, startling me when straight white teeth smiled back.

  After feasting on another rabbit, we waded across the river, the dog and I, and many rivers after, until we came to a land that slowly turned green, a land that smelled faintly of orange blossoms, of food, of the sea.

  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 plow
ed 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.