Children of the Fountain

by Richard Murphy

  He waited to see if either spoke again. Neither did. Finally, Sophie started to discuss their options. She was the calmest and most clinical. Her ideas flowed freely and she even started to draw some simple diagrams. The three sat up late into the night hatching their plan. They all agreed poison was not a possibility if Matthias wanted the kill himself and the only person who could get close enough to even try would be Harry.

  He decided he wanted Harry and Sophie to get him inside the cells. After all, he reasoned, they were designed to keep people from getting out, not in. They talked for many hours and subjected each plan to close scrutiny. Eventually Sophie tired and they agreed to sleep on it. She bid the boys farewell and left for her dormitory. Harry said he too was tired and blew out the candle before curling up on his bed.

  Matthias remained upright in his seat. The moon was the only source of light now and it spilt into the room from a starless sky coating everything with a pale blue. “I can’t sleep,” he whispered to Harry, who was already snoring. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  He got out of his chair, pulled on his coat and slipped away. Shadows danced across the mustering hall as he made his way toward the chapel. Somehow, even though he was not a pious boy, he felt he might find some peace there.

  Making his way through the murky corridors he encountered not a soul. The castle was so quiet, deep inside he couldn’t even hear the wind. As he came to the chapel and walked through the doors he looked up. Here, the moon streamed through the stained glass and the colours spread out before him like flowerbeds. It was beautiful. In front of him was Jesus on the cross, the disciples and several saints all in prayer. The images that he had seen a hundredfold in daylight looked different. It was something about the moonlight. Its colour, its coldness and its clarity.

  As he sat down on a pew he thought perhaps this clarity could somehow give him the answer he needed. He toyed with the dagger and long into the night he sat in front of the altar, but not at prayer.

  To murder even an evil man, was beyond forgiveness in the eyes of the Lord. His uncle had told him this much only yesterday in another one of his talks. The old man had even offered Matthias a place at his side, here in the chapel after his training, but he had refused.

  He looked to the monk’s door and could just make out the faint flickering yellow light of a candle. Surely his uncle wasn’t awake at this hour? He eased himself up and softly walked over to the corridor that took him down to the small gloomy study. The old man was nowhere to be seen but he had left a candle burning on the table. Matthias sat down and started to glance through some of the books. It looked like his uncle had been reading through the works of his predecessor Father Morant again.

  What had he called him? A historian, of sorts. He’d disappeared in mysterious circumstances, Matthias was sure of that. He picked up one of the books, “A Short History of Miguel López de Legazpi.” On the front cover was a crest with black and yellow stripes; much like a honey bee.

  He continued browsing and found more books; each one a history of someone. There were many names – Pizarro, de Ojeda and Nunez! He froze and looked at the book in his hand. “Vasco Nunez,” it read. The crest on the cover featured a dragon underneath what looked like a seahorse. He opened the book and on the first page found a family tree. His finger traced downwards until he came to the name he knew would be there – Balthazar. He said the word under his breath.

  That’s when he noticed something that puzzled him. Vasco Nunez was born in 1475. Balthazar, his son, was born in 1550. Matthias blinked and looked again. There were no grandchildren, and all of Vasco's other children were born around the same time.

  How could this be? The year was 1817. Impossible. He looked at the rest of the family tree but it stopped there. No more children, no marriages and no deaths. Vasco Nunez and his family were still alive if this book was to be believed, but it was clearly out of date. Balthazar must have had a great grandfather with the same name. Thumbing through the pages he found even more details on Vasco’s life; his ascension to titles, battles and triumphs.

  He picked up another one: “A History of the Pizarro Family.” The crest was faint and worn but Matthias could make out two bears either side of a tree. He opened the pages and looked inside at the diagram showing the lifelines of Francisco Pizarro and his sons and daughters – all eight of them.

  Matthias searched until he could find another candle and lit it. Francisco was born in 1476. His children were born around 1500 onwards; so were their children and their children’s children. The family tree was enormous and complex, but only a few of the names had dates of death.

  Matthias regarded the book. Of course, he thought, Father Morant must not have finished his work. These were ancient histories that were incomplete and missing all the relevant deaths.

  “History interests you does it?” said a voice from the shadows.

  Matthias turned with his hand already on his dagger. Stood in the doorway was Alonso; his great hulk blocking the old stone exit and his single eye reflecting the candlelight.

  “My uncle doesn’t mind me being here,” said Matthias.

  “I have no doubt,” said the mystic. “Although I imagine he would prefer you were accompanied at this hour. But you haven’t answered my question.”

  He looked at the books scattered on the table and the names with their fanciful crests and shields stared back at him.

  “These books make no sense. The family trees are only half complete.”

  Alonso stepped forward and walked to the table. He picked up one of the books and Matthias couldn’t help noticing it was that of Vasco Nunez.

  “Interesting you should use that exact phrase,” he said softly. “Some might say that these men’s lives were only half complete.”

  “What happened to them?” said Matthias.

  “There are many tales associated with the names you see in these books. Each family has its histories and tragedies. Each name brings with it a story. Father Morant documented these stories, as far as he could. You see, the stories themselves are not yet finished.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Alonso opened the book and started to flick through the pages. “One name, one book in particular, I imagine caught your eye. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You seek revenge on this man?”

  “Yes.”

  The mystic appeared to consider this and after some thought he nodded. “It is a difficult thing to take a man’s life. Only at the very last second will you know for sure if you can complete the undertaking. A king can send an army to their deaths without blinking an eye; but to kill a man in cold blood…”

  Alonso stepped forward, his tall frame blocking the light from the candle. “You need to be up close.”

  Matthias looked at the floor and imagined himself for a moment holding a knife to the throat of Balthazar Nunez.

  “Before you begin this journey though, I would suggest you look for something.” Alonso placed the volume he held on the table amongst the others.

  “Another book?”

  Alonso smiled, “Yes, the one book missing from that pile.” Matthias looked down at the names. They seemed to form a pattern in his mind.

  “Cortés,” said Matthias, softly his lips barely moving. “My family. Where is it?”

  “I do not know. But perhaps your uncle does.”

  He looked down again at the pile. When he looked up Alonso had vanished.

  Chapter 15

  Father Morant’s handwriting was delicate and Matthias could read it well enough. But he didn’t understand the meaning.

  Michael Cortés - born 1502

  “I was going to wait until you were old enough to explain this,” said a voice from behind him, instantly recognisable as that of his uncle.

  “Until I was old enough?”

  The old man sat down on a pew at the end of the bed. Matthias kept looking at the pages in his hand going over each word and number again and again. He’d gon
e to his uncle’s room, to find out what Alonso had meant. The monk had been sleeping, but the book was there on the shelf with others. It had been easy to spot; it was the only one with dust on the shelf in front of it where it had laid undisturbed.

  “You are very special. You are a child of The Fountain.” Matthias turned to stare at the old man. He was smiling, wanting to let Matthias know how much he cared.

  “My father, your grandfather, was a conquistador. He and six other men ruled vast areas of what we now know as the Americas. They were adventurers, soldiers and their undertakings brought them much wealth; most of which found its way back to Spain. But one treasure they kept for themselves.”

  Matthias made his way to the pew and sat next to his uncle. Eyes focused and mouth slightly open he listened as his uncle continued.

  “It was Vasco Nunez who first heard the tale. Deep in the jungle he’d come across a tribe of natives who told him of a fountain that granted great powers of life to any that drank from its waters. At first he believed it to be nothing more than a story.

  “But the more time he and his party spent with the tribe the more he noticed how they seemed somewhat different. They were all exceptionally fit and healthy, even the elders. Some were able to leap up trees like apes and others run as fast as leopards. Slowly, he came to the conclusion they were a miracle race of what he referred to as ‘God’s Children.’ You see he theorised that whatever had done this to them was a gift from the almighty.

  “And so, the young Vasco studied them; indeed some of his work is in these books. From their life stories and descriptions he was able to piece together the history of the tribe. He was able to make educated guesses at their ages from what they could tell him about the seasons. Many looked younger than him but he deduced some were several hundred years old.”

  Matthias straightened, his head popping back on his shoulders.

  “When Vasco shared this knowledge with his six fellow conquistadors they organised an expedition to find the fountain, although unknown to them at the time, they all had different views on what they would do when they found it.”

  “When was all this?” said Matthias.

  “It was the year of our Lord 1498. Over three hundred years ago.”

  Matthias gazed at the old man. Here, in his simple room, illuminated by only moonlight he looked frail and somehow older. His own father was born in 1502; it said so in the book in his hand. James was younger, but by how much?

  “May I ask a question?” said Matthias.

  Father James laughed and looked down at his robes in embarrassment, “You want to know how old I am don’t you?”

  The monk’s eyes shone with mischief. His hand took Matthias’s and he clenched it tight as he spoke. “This October I will be three hundred and four years old. I too am a child of the fountain Matthias, but different from yourself.”

  “How?” asked Matthias.

  “I will come to that.” The old man paused to collect his thoughts before continuing. “So, the men set off into the jungle. Deep and far they travelled until they discovered an ancient and long abandoned city. There, they found the fountain. And they drank from it.”

  Matthias thought he saw pain cross the old man's face and the monk looked solemn as he continued his story.

  “They found themselves rejuvenated. Sickness cured, their strength grew and they became convinced they had a gift from God. Then, they argued.

  “The seven men were split on what to do with their discovery. Vasco was the most vocal; he said they must take as much of the water as they could and return to Spain. They would be kings. Raise an army of soldiers; each with the strength of ten men and the speed of cheetahs. They would create a force of such power and fortitude as to be unstoppable. Spain could conquer Europe; defeat the Ottoman Empire; take back the holy lands. A Crusade.”

  Matthias looked at his uncle, “What happened next?”

  “Vasco had supporters; two men Balboa and de Soto agreed. Your grandfather and the others disagreed. They thought it too great a power to bestow upon men and they were right. They suggested the fountain be kept a secret and they all take counsel. A fight broke out. Swords were drawn and one man, Legazpi, fell. Vasco and his two supporters fled. Your grandfather and his two comrades Pizarro and de Ojeda made their way back. Thus began the ‘War of the Fountain.’

  “Over the years the families grew in power and wealth. Some attributed this to the fountain itself, but in truth the men used their gains from the Americas to buy favour and the longevity of their lives helped them assail to positions of power.

  “Every so often they would fake their death and re-surface again years later when nobody could recognise them. The treachery continued though. You see, Cortés’s have a great history of cartography and your grandfather was the only one in the group making a map. He was and still is the only person who knows where the fountain lies.

  “Over the years he has kept it hidden from the world. Some say within a great tomb others say it was buried under a mountain. My father has never told anyone. To this day Vasco and his ‘Legion’ seek the fountain to unleash its power on the world for God’s glory, or so they say.”

  Matthias found himself leaning back, slightly shaking his head, unable to digest much of what he had been told. He looked out of the window into the courtyard. The first trickles of sunrise were beginning to spill over the battlements and into the castle. Soon the other students would be waking, but he felt as if time had frozen.

  “You mentioned I am special,” he said finally. “Why?”

  Father James looked to the books Matthias had brought with him. “Each of the men bore children who, like them, had certain powers of life and strength. My father had two sons; myself and your father, Michael. Look through these books and you will see generation after generation. As each child was born, married and had children of their own, so the powers were slowly diluted.”

  Matthias stared, “But–” he started to say.

  “You, are the exception. Your father married another child of the fountain. Your mother was Margaret Pizarro. Nobody else was born of such stock.” As he said this Father James casually waved his hand at the walls.

  “The castle?” said Matthias.

  “Precisely. The children here are all, in some way, offspring of the houses of Cortez, Pizarro or de Ojeda although the bloodlines are very diluted by now. Several hundred years have passed and many generations have been born and died. But they are the descendants and each can, usually, trace their bloodline back to one of the families.”

  “Usually?” said Matthias.

  “Some,” replied his uncle, “your friend Harry for instance, were born out of wedlock. The daughter of a lady who made a mistake? A young master sowing his seed? We will never know how some of these children got their powers, but Alonso does his best to seek them out and bring them here where they can be trained and schooled.”

  “And me?”

  The old man turned to look at him. “You must understand Michael felt you were too valuable to lose. You are a direct descendant of Hernan Cortez and Francisco Pizzao. The bloodline will be most strong with you.”

  Strangely, he found his thoughts drifting to his days at the abbey. The long summers which he’d never much counted before. “Can I expect to live so long a life?”

  “I think so.”

  One final piece of all this fell into place.

  “Rebecca, the other children at the abbey? Balthazar, was looking for us wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Undoubtedly Vasco has heard of you and sees you as a threat. At least, that is Mr Hardy’s theory.”

  Father James’s eyes glistened. “It was not your fault Matthias.” He held him at arm’s length and looked into his eyes.

  “They found Nunez,” he said. “They are going to bring him to justice. As a man of faith I cannot condone their actions but I will not pray for his soul after such evil.”

  They stood together for some time until sunrise turned
into morning. Matthias didn’t share the fact that he knew Nunez was being kept in the castle. Nor did he share his intentions. In need of some sleep, he bid his uncle farewell and headed back to his room.

  On his way back he decided to take the long way around the outskirts of the castle and get some fresh air. The icy morning breeze was sharp and he brought his collar up around his exposed neck.

  In the courtyard, something caused him to squint against the low sunbeams and it made him stop in his tracks. Two men were moving a large coach into the stables. They grunted and groaned as they guided it through the giant doors. Matthias picked up his pace and headed back to the mustering hall.

  Chapter 16

  At breakfast Matthias sought out his friends and found both huddled over their meals in a corner. Sophie was studying a book but somehow noticed Matthias approach and looked up at him with a smile.

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “Where did you get to last night?” he said, as Sophie looked on.

  Matthias sat down. “I went for a walk. I needed to think.” He picked up some bread and poured a cup of milk from a jug. All around them the hall was busy with children taking their breakfast and gossiping away in pockets. Somehow, in their corner, it seemed silent and darker than the rest of the room. Perhaps a portent of the subject they were certain to turn their attentions to, thought Matthias, and indeed it was Harry who first broached it.

  “So,” he said, looking around to see if anyone was in earshot, “did you come up with a plan?”

  Matthias smiled. Sophie put down her book. “Well?”

  He turned to Harry. “Do you still have to clean the stables on Sunday mornings?”

  Harry frowned. “Of course, you know I do. I’ve got two more weeks of it!”

  Sophie looked across the table and raised her eyebrows in confusion. Harry sighed, “I tried to borrow a pony to go out trekking a couple of weeks ago and the stable master caught me. He said I had to clean the stables for a month or he’d tell Mr Hardy.”

  Sophie gave a little chuckle. “How did you get caught?” she asked.