The Sound of Many Waters

by Sean Bloomfield

  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. Hurrying 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 largest alligator Dominic had seen in La Florida. Each time the natives 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 Dominic 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, exposing 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 struggling 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 Waters. 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 released 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.

  As his feet left the floorboard, he caught a glance of Miguel waking with a start and lunging toward him, but Zane was away and soaring through the air. He slammed into the grassy ground and flipped several times before landing on his back. The surrounding woods glowed red from the truck’s brake lights, and he heard the truck shift into park and its door squeak open. He froze in the darkness, hopeful that Miguel would not see him if he kept still and silent.

  “You think you can outrun me?” Miguel shouted, and then he let loose a harsh, hacking cough. “I will find you! You cannot hide—you don’t know the wilderness like I do!” Miguel coughed again, and then the door slammed shut and the truck pulled away.

  Zane exhaled with relief, but in the ensuing quietude of the woods, his fear mounted. Judging by how far they had driven—and by the total lack of civilization along the way—it was not like he could just walk to a town to get help. They had not even passed another vehicle at any point during the last thirty miles of dirt roads.

  What now? Zane remembered the other arrow-shaped sign at the intersection, the one that indicated a church. What better place to find help? And so, he started down the road, back the way they had come. The stars emitted enough light to help him spot the low branches before any could whack him in the face. He felt thankful for that.

  He came to the intersection. As he turned to head toward the church, a dark figure stepped onto the roadway in the distance. Zane froze. He could see only a silhouette, but it had the shape and stature of a human, wearing some sort of cape or robe that came up over its head and hung to its feet.

  “I need help!” shouted Zane.

  The figure stopped in the middle of the track, crouched for a moment, and then bounded into the woods on the other side. “Hello?” said Zane, but he heard no response. As he came to the place in the road where the figure had stopped, he found a large arrow drawn in the gravel, pointing toward the woods. He gazed into the darkness, and then shook his head and hurried down the road. What had just happened?

  He shivered as he walked, both from fear and due to the occasional pockets of cold air that hovered over the road in random places. His eyes caught a white glow in the trees and he hoped it came from a house where he could find help, but soon the light breached the treetops. It was the moon rising. He was grateful, however, for the light it provided, and he quickened his pace.

  He came to a gravel driveway and noticed a sign engulfed in foliage. He pushed away the branches and wiped the dirt and dust off the lettering. Church of the Living Waters, it read. The poor state of the sign and the overgrowth that choked the driveway made him doubtful that the church was still in use, but it was likely his only chance to find help within many miles. He crept down the driveway. The hollow of surrounding vegetation blocked out most of the moonlight. He held his hands in front of him to feel for any stray branches in the darkness.

  Soon, however, another light appeared in the distance. This one looked warm—the distinct yellow glow of an electric bulb. Walking farther, he came to the source of the light: a tiny church. Zane doubted the narrow building was capable of holding a congregation any bigger than a few families—but out here, he guessed, overcrowding was not a problem. As he drew closer, he realized that the structure was an old mobile home trailer, converted into a church with the addition of a plywood spire. Bordered on all sides by thick woods and covered in mold and vines, the church looked like some dreary woodland animal just roused from its slumber; the two rectangular windows in the front were its gleaming eyes and the vertical spire a great horn, like that of a rhinoceros or unicorn.

  Zane heard a deep, muffled voice from inside the church—so loud that it shook the walls. If he were high on weed or tripping on acid, he thought, he would have feared that the church itself was speaking to him. For once, he was happy to be sober. The voice increased in volume as Zane walked up the creaky steps. He opened the plastic door.

  “I am the Alpha and Omega!” boomed a man behind the pulpit. “The beginning and the end! It is written—to him that thirsteth, I will give of the fountain of the water of life!”

  The preacher glanced at Zane but did not seem surprised or distracted by the presence of a stranger, nor did he appear to care that all the pews were empty. Dressed in a skintight collared shirt and a black tie that seemed to be strangling him, the man’s plump, sweaty face shone hellfire red. His body bulged several feet past both sides of the pulpit, and his hair flowed up in a vintage pompadour shimmering with pomade.

  “And he showed me the water of life, says the Book of Revelation,” continued the preacher, “clear as crystal, proceeding from the throne of God!” His arms flapped as he spoke, spraying beads of perspiration into the church like a lawn sprinkler.

  “Sir?” said Zane
.

  “And the Lord said, whosoever drinketh of the water that I will give him, he shall never thirst again!”

  Zane stepped forward and raised his voice. “Sir, I need help.”

  The volume of the man’s preaching increased to a shout. “The water that I will give him shall become in him a fountain, springing up into life everlasting!”

  Zane cupped his hands over his mouth. “Sir!” he yelled. The preacher stopped and glared down at him.

  “Where are your manners, son?” the man said in an effeminate Southern accent that sounded nothing like the commanding voice he had been using.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I really am, but I’m in trouble and I need some help.”

  The man scanned Zane from bottom to top. “No trouble is too much for the Lord. Have you been baptized, son?”

  Zane thought about the preacher’s question for a moment. He did not know the answer. “I can find out for you, but first I really need help. Do you have a phone?”

  The preacher stepped out from behind the pulpit and put his hands on his hips. His rotund body eclipsed the lamplight behind him. “Of course I have a phone, but it’s only for members of this church—”

  “But, sir—”

  “Do not interrupt me, son. As I said, it’s only for members of this church, my church, and therein lies your solution. Tell me, son, do you wish to join the congregation?”

  Zane felt uneasy. Something was askew. Florida had plenty of so-called rednecks and crackers—the most extreme of them might be called hill people in states with more hills—but the preacher seemed different from the many countrified Floridians Zane had known through the years, the ones who almost unanimously hunted feral hogs, stuffed Copenhagen into their lower lips, and raced airboats on the weekends. This man seemed more genteel but far less trustworthy. Even his accent sounded unusual—it had a pluckier drawl and somewhat of a melodic tone—and Zane guessed that the man was not even a Floridian at all. A transplanted Georgian, maybe, or a South Carolinian. But what was he doing in a trailer church out in the boonies?