The Sound of Many Waters

by Sean Bloomfield

  “How much more of this?” said Dominic.

  “We are not far,” said Francisco. The old man looked frail in the morning sheen. The journey had taken an obvious toll.

  “And what is in store for me when we get to our mysterious destination?”

  “I cannot tell you yet, but trust me when I say that you are not in any danger.”

  “Trust you? Old man, I have yet to decide whether you are a liar or a lunatic.”

  “Why is it you think I am either?”

  “Do you remember the night of the hurricane? You told me your story about how you came to La Florida. On an expedition with Juan Ponce de Leon, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I might have believed you if Ponce de Leon did not die over a hundred years ago. It is simply not possible for you to have been on that voyage.”

  Francisco sighed. “Perhaps my story was not entirely true.”

  By midday they reached the mouth of a creek that flowed west into the lake. The water in the creek was much clearer, and the confluence looked like a swirl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, with neither fluid willing to mix with the other. Dominic wished he had a fresh barra gallega—Galician bread—to dip into it, even though he knew it would just get soggy and fall apart.

  The natives steered the canoe into the creek and paddled rigorously to make headway against the current. They stayed close to the wooded shoreline to reduce the water’s resistance and Dominic ducked away from a barrage of low-hanging tree limbs. One of the limbs brushed against the side of the canoe and a swarm of spiders clambered aboard. Dominic spent the next few minutes flicking the hideous things into the water where bream and mudfish quickly slurped them away.

  The creek constricted as they toiled on. By late afternoon it had become so narrow that the trees on either shore could reach across and stroke each other’s limbs. Soon, their branches conjoined to create a leafy canopy that blocked out most of the sunlight. Not even a gasp of wind stirred inside the dark tunnel and the only sound was of the paddles swishing against water. The natives did not speak, and Dominic had the sense that this was a place where words were not welcome.

  Minutes later, Francisco leaned toward Dominic and whispered, “Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The sound of many waters.”

  “Do you mean the river?”

  He smiled. “No, not the river.”

  Dominic leaned toward the primeval forest and listened. He thought he heard a child’s laugh but it could have just been the call of a bird or wild animal. The canoe came around a sharp curve in the river and before them, half submerged, lay a massive tree that had fallen out of the forest. A naked boy, the same color as the tree, jumped up from it. He looked terrified, but then his face exploded into vibrant joy. He ran up the trunk and bounded into the woods, screaming.

  “Ara Ibi,” said Francisco. “Many Waters—our village.”

  “I see no village.”

  “That is the intention.”

  The natives beached the canoe alongside the tree and hurried out. Dominic followed them up a narrow path. The trail meandered through the woods at several sharp angles so that no one passing by on the river could see what it led to. They came to a clearing in the middle of which stood an immense circular wall made of pine logs that had been sharpened into something resembling fence posts. Coils of smoke rose from behind the walls and the beguiling smell of roasted game wafted through the air.

  The only entryway was an opening where each end of the wall ran parallel to the other, as if the entire structure were a circle whose lines continued past one another a good distance without connecting. It created an entrance like a narrow hall which could be defended easily. The boy who had been on the log soon emerged from the opening, followed by a line of natives—mostly women and other children.

  The children were naked. The women—wearing girdles of oak moss that barely veiled the dark shadows of their laps—were tall and thin and had long, black hair that hung to their navels. Their bare breasts were the only parts of their coppery skin without tattoos; otherwise their bodies were adorned with ornate indigo bands and clusters of dots that all surely meant something but, to Dominic, were as indecipherable as the words that now poured out of their mouths.

  A young woman holding a little girl ran to Itori and wrapped her free arm around him. Itori nuzzled his face into her neck and then kissed her eyelids. A gaggle of children swarmed Utina and gawked at the shell around his neck, none of them daring to touch it. A sullen woman walked to Utina, regarded him sheepishly, and hugged him in an embrace so measured that only her forearms touched his skin.

  Another woman, slightly older than the rest, emerged from the narrow doorway and gazed out. Her eyes darted back and forth between the men and the trail. When she saw the shell necklace on Utina, she dropped to her knees and sobbed. “Ona,” she cried. “Onaaa.”

  “She is Ona’s primary wife,” said Francisco.

  Dominic turned to him, puzzled. “Primary?”

  “Chiefs are expected to have several wives, but she was his favorite.”

  Itori helped her stand. The other women surrounded her and took her into the village. Dominic followed everyone inside. What he saw astonished him. The huts were aligned as orderly as houses in a European town, and the roofs, woven from palm thatch, looked like the heads of monks. He assumed the large hut in the center of the village to be the chief’s residence, as that was the direction in which the women led Ona’s wife. To its side stood seven poles arranged in a circle around a fire pit—a meeting point, it seemed—and feathers, bones and antlers adorned each pole. On the opposite side of the village, a bed of coals smoldered in a large pit, producing a column of thick smoke that drifted across fish flanks and animal pieces arranged on a thatch mat. Nearby, stretched deerskins dried on timber frames.

  As the women approached Ona’s hut, a maiden more beautiful than any Dominic had ever seen in the New World came to the entryway. Her tawny skin, not yet spoiled by tattoos, still enjoyed the sleekness of youth, although she was clearly not a child. Her thick, black hair waved down across her chest all the way to her thighs and only the curves of her hips and the points of her small, acicular breasts peeked out. She did not wear any moss like the others—her hair was like a dress of its own. When she saw the older woman in tears, she, herself, collapsed. In the throes of grief, she looked primal, raw, and enticing, and in that instant Dominic wanted to both console and conquer her.

  “Is she another of Ona’s wives?” asked Dominic.

  “No, that is Mela,” said Francisco. “His daughter, whom he loved very much.”

  “She is certainly a striking creature.”

  “She is purity embodied. Many men hunger for Mela. Her fruits, however, are forbidden.”

  “Are they forbidden now that the tree has been cut down?”

  Dominic could feel Francisco’s eyes on him, so he turned and met the old man’s worried gaze with a look of nonchalance. Francisco relaxed, and then said, “I must tend to something. I will return soon.”

  Francisco hobbled out of the village and Dominic lowered himself onto a stump beside the central fire and looked around. The place exuded tranquility. The men had dispersed throughout the village to play with their children and enjoy the gentle caresses of their wives. Dominic watched Itori place his sleeping daughter in an outdoor bed of moss and then lead his young wife by the hand into their unlit hut. Next door, Utina’s children climbed all over him. His wife brought him a bowl of sliced fruit but he pushed it away and it spilled into the dirt. She stooped and collected the fruit and crept back into the hut.

  Dominic looked into the fire and lost himself for a long time watching the glowing embers fissure and crumble. He heard a faint giggle, so he whipped around and startled a pack of knee-high children who had gathered to study him. They scampered away. Moments later, however, they tiptoed back, staring at him in wonder.

  “Go away,” he said. They did
not seem to understand, so he tried to wave them off with his hand. The children laughed and mimicked his gesture, and then the oldest of them, a little girl of four or five years old, crept up to him.

  “Blanco,” she said. Francisco had obviously taught her some Spanish.

  “My skin?” said Dominic, but that did not incite a reply so he touched his bare forearm. “White skin.”

  “No.” The little girl touched Dominic’s hair just above his ear. “White.”

  “My hair is black.” And then he said, “Blaaack.”

  “No.” The little girl touched the top of his head and said, “Black.” Then she touched the hair above his ear again and said, “Whiiite.”

  Was there some dried mud in his hair, perhaps? He touched his scalp and felt nothing abnormal, so he grabbed a small tuft of hair above his ear and plucked it out. Sure enough, it was white. Damn it. When had he started going gray? Before long, he feared, he would look just like his father looked in his later years. He turned away from the children and slouched on the stump.

  Soon he heard someone whistling and looked up to see Francisco approaching. The old man’s face glowed with vitality. His hair looked damp.

  “Why do you look like you just bathed?” said Dominic.

  “Because I did.”

  “Perhaps you can get some of these filthy natives to do the same.”

  “They do not bathe. They swim in the river.”

  “Which is why they smell like catfish.”

  “Catfish smell good to them.”

  “Not to me. I would certainly like to enjoy the luxury of a bath, unless of course you are so selfish that you intend to keep it entirely to yourself.”

  “In time, but not now. There are important matters at hand.”

  “What could be so pressing?”

  “You must learn our ways.”

  “And then?”

  “And then you can have a bath.” Francisco turned and headed off in the opposite direction, his robe curling up in the wind of his walk. “Come with me.”

  Dominic trailed Francisco to a small, dilapidated hut on the far perimeter of the village. A crooked cross hewn from palmetto sticks jutted from the midpoint of the roof.

  Not a goddamn church, Dominic thought as he entered. When he saw the primitive altar made of stacked timber and the three pews fashioned out of cypress logs, his mood turned sour.

  “What the hell are we going to do here?”

  “First,” said Francisco, kneeling at the altar, “we will pray.”

  “No. I do not pray anymore.”

  “Then how do you intend to live?”

  “I live just fine.”

  “You are alive, yes, but you do not have life. Listen to me closely. The next chapter of your existence will require an ongoing conversation with the one who created what is perhaps the most dangerous and miraculous thing in the world.”

  Dominic sneered. “I thought I was the most dangerous and miraculous thing in the world.”

  “Do not take this so lightly. Dark forces will conspire against you. You must be prepared. You must put on your armor.”

  “Old man, my armor—along with my faith—is at the bottom of the sea. I can take care of myself without the help of some vengeful deity. I do not know what it is you speak of, but you cannot make me do something against my will. I answer to no one.”

  “What if I tell you that if you do everything I ask, you will be rewarded with a treasure more valuable than all the gold and silver in the known world?”

  “Of course I would agree, but no such treasure exists.”

  “On the contrary, commander, it does, and I can show you where it is.”

  Francisco made the sign of the cross over his body and stood. Dominic could see why the old man’s back was so hunched—the ceiling in the makeshift church was not high enough for anyone to stand up straight.

  “I suppose,” said Francisco, “you think it was mere coincidence that I found you on the beach. That just by chance you were the lone survivor.”

  “What else could it have been? Do not tell me fate or some nonsense.”

  “I have lived a long life, commander, and one thing I can tell you for certain is that there are no coincidences. The future unfolds according to a plan. Bizarre happenstances and convergences are supposed to happen. Life is a cosmic drama in which every being plays a part. Especially you.”

  “If you think you are so wise, then tell me, old man, without all the pious drivel, what the hell is the purpose?”

  “It is simple. To learn how to love.”

  Dominic’s eyes became fiery. His voice sharpened. “So what are you saying? That God wanted to teach me to love when he took my son?”

  Francisco looked at him with tender, knowing eyes. “No, commander. He wanted to teach you to love when he gave him to you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Who the hell you think you is?” said a deep but distinctly feminine voice.

  Zane opened his eyes and tried to discern his whereabouts. Concrete. Graffiti. Filth.

  “Why you in my bed? I know you ain’t been usin’ my junk!” said the voice, its pitch and volume increasing with every word.

  Zane pulled a deep breath through his nose. Urine. Rotten fish. Stale beer. He threw the blanket off and sat up. The shadowy gloom of dusk had painted the bridge embankment in soft grays and its gaps an impenetrable black, likewise masking the finer features of the African American woman towering over him. Her brow furrowed in distrust and she gripped an aluminum baseball bat with both hands.

  “I’m sorry,” said Zane. “I was tired. And cold.”

  “Dint yo momma teach you no manners? You ain’t supposed to touch other peoples’ stuff, or sleep in other peoples’ beds, unless acourse they invite you in,” and she let out a booming laugh that did not seem to gel with her defensive stance.

  “Sorry. I’ll get up.”

  “Naw, don’t do that.” She sat down beside him and put the bat on the ground. “You’s little nuff I could kick yo ass, anyway.” She laughed again.

  Even now, Zane had to look up at her. The woman’s cocoa skin was mottled with tiny black flecks, most noticeable on her cadaverous cheeks. Black ringlets of hair hung down the sides of her face from beneath a Miami Dolphins beanie cap, and the rest of her clothes gave the impression that she had acquired them by scooping up a random pile from the back steps of a thrift shop. She wore men’s Nike Air sneakers that had opened up at each toe, purple sweatpants a few sizes too large, a neon-pink Cancun Spring Break 1997 T-shirt, and a stonewashed jean jacket with a Bon Jovi New Jersey button on the front pocket. On anyone else the ensemble would have looked ridiculous. Considering her personality, however, it seemed perfect.

  “I’m Mama Ethel,” she said, and then she looked up at the underside of the causeway. “Welcome to my wata-front home. Solid concrete construction and close to the highway for them long commutes.” She smiled.

  “You’re homeless?” asked Zane, but then he bit his lip. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It don’t bother me none. A dog don’t get mad when you say he’s a dog, do he? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Zane.” He immediately regretted not using an alias. But who would this lady talk to, anyway? And who would listen to her?

  “Pleasure,” said Mama Ethel, taking his hand in hers so fully that Zane could no longer see it. “You know, Mista Zany, when I saw you in my bed, the first thought I had was to growl at you.”

  Zane smiled. “Growl at me?”

  She leaned toward him with wild eyes and stooped on all fours. “Grrrr,” she growled, and then she sat back down. “Like a big ol bear. Dint yer momma never read you Goldilocks?”

  “I doubt it,” said Zane.

  Mama Ethel’s voice took on the whine of a child. “Summun’s been sleepin in my bed! Summun’s been eatin my porridge! Summun’s been shootin up my junk! Ring a bell?”

  Zane laughed. This woman was wonderful, if not absolute
ly nuts. She laughed, too, but then she stopped and the contours of her face drooped into a look of intense sadness.

  “Mikaela sho did love that story,” she said.

  Zane had not even known Mama Ethel for a minute, but he wanted to cheer her up. “With someone telling it like you just did, I can see why,” he said.

  “Ain’t you gonna ask me who Mikaela is?”

  “I think I can guess. Your daughter?”

  Mama Ethel nodded with slow, broad motions of her head and neck. “It was her birt-day last munf. Fifteen years ode. Prolly be learnin to drive a car soon. Where’s the time go?”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “Naw. I been on the streets since she was eight. I try to call her sometimes but she don’t want nuthin to do with a nappy old homeless woman. I keep on saying that one a these days I’m gonna get my life together and get her back, but like my auntie always said, talkin bout fire don’t boil the pot. Mikaela lives with her daddy’s momma now—her grandmomma.”

  “Where’s her father?”

  “Heaven, I hope, but I doubt it. He killed hisself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Life is short and full a thorns. The mo you cry the less you piss. You hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Most people under bridges is. Let’s see what Mama Ethel can rustle up.”

  She reached into one of the crevices of the bridge and pulled out a can. It had no label and was dented in at the middle like an anorexic. She shook the can by her ear. “You like beans?” she asked.

  “I could eat a rock right now.”

  “They’s lots of them round here, too, but I recommend the beans.” She laughed, and then used a can opener to open the can. “Sweet blessin a God!” she exclaimed. “She ain’t just beans, Mista Zany, she’s pork’n beans. Hal-le-lu-jah! Auntie always said, count yo blessins, not yo problems. Hope you don’t mind em cold.”

  “Not at all.”

  She handed him a Krispy Kreme coffee mug filled with beans and a plastic spoon. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Zane.