The Cortés Trilogy: Enigma Revenge Revelation

by John Paul Davis

  “Since when?”

  “Early 1909, I think it was. Much of the land subsided as a result of awful storms. Being furthest south of all the islands, it’s usually the first to know when the wind changes. There’s a coastguard cottage on the north side, but that’s about it.”

  Ben decided to accept the answer.

  Kernow wiped his hands with a cloth. “You say your ancestor was looking for his ancestors?”

  “That’s right.”

  Kernow raised his eyebrows. “That’d be one hell of a mission back then. I’m guessing he must’ve had a good reason?”

  “I’m guessing he must’ve had one, too,” Ben tried to speak but stuttered. “Listen, friend.” He used Kernow’s word. “Sometime in the last week you ventured to the place where I want to go. I’d very much like to see it.”

  “If it helps you out, I can show you the boat right now.”

  “You have it here?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  6

  Ben followed Kernow through a small passageway that intercepted the grey walls of surrounding buildings. After twenty metres they came to a small private area of the harbour, constructed specifically for use by the local fishermen. Several boats, ranging from schooners to rowing boats, floated alongside wooden jetties, thick ropes attached to nearby poles. The vessels were clearly well maintained, the sunlight bringing out the best in the paintwork.

  “These your boats?”

  “Mostly.”

  Kernow walked along the main jetty past four boats, all of which were pristine and seaworthy. He followed the boardwalk to the right and entered a boathouse, this one much larger than the garage.

  Ben stopped at the entrance, taking in the scene. Three large boats were undergoing maintenance, all attached to heavy metal railings, which kept them off the ground. It was like entering a mechanic’s workshop.

  Only for boats.

  Kernow gestured to the nearest of the three. “That’s the Dunster.”

  Ben didn’t feel how he expected to feel. Growing up in the shadow of TF’s memory, he had been captivated by stories of great sea voyages, lost worlds, lost treasures, ancient crafts capable of surviving even the deadliest storms, but what he saw was something of an anti-climax. The wooden hull had almost completely caved in at the front, suggesting to Ben that much of the boat had been destroyed.

  He walked along the port side, inspecting the damage. Unlike the other two boats present, this one was clearly a wreck. Rotting wood, a smashed up stern, and two broken masts had left it severely disfigured. Despite significant damage to the forward port side, which indicated past heavy contact with jagged rocks, the upper part of the boat was in better condition.

  The same was true of the starboard side.

  That was when he saw it. A large wooden sign located near the bow, confirming the name. It struck him like a thunderbolt, confirmation of what he had once believed to be impossible.

  The Dunster had indeed been found.

  Ben looked at Kernow. “What type of model is this?”

  “Schooner,” Kernow replied. “Fairly typical one at that, although small enough to be sailed singlehanded. You can tell from the long, narrow hull and the shape of the masts – both are gaff-rigged. Back in your ancestor’s day, things like this would’ve been choice vessels among the merchants because of their speed and agility.”

  “So it was fast?”

  “Back in his day, boats like this used to dominate the America’s Cup. No better vessel in shallow waters either. And can pack a punch with a few cannons.”

  Ben walked around the boat a second time, taking in every feature. While much of what he saw agreed with what he had seen from the photographs he had been emailed by the local museum, what struck him most was the smell. During his career, he had become accustomed to the stench of silt. It was a natural smell, one difficult to explain without having experienced it. It was a smell he associated with the sea. Familiar, but powerful.

  “I’ve never known silt to smell so bad.”

  “That’s the lack of oxygen,” Kernow answered. “Hundred years in a dark cocoon, and there’s your result.”

  “What happened?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you could tell me,” the sailor replied, taking a seat at a wooden table by one of the walls. Like the nearby garage, it had grey concrete walls and smelled, silt aside, like a tool shed. “Takes a brave man to sail down to Hell’s Bay – even in this day and age.”

  “What’s Hell’s Bay?”

  “Only the worst area for shipwrecks on any of the islands.”

  “Where is it?”

  Kernow pointed to his left, the nearest wall. Posters and charts covered much of the wall, including a four-inches-to-the-mile scale map of the Isles of Scilly. “Here. That’s Hell’s Bay.”

  Ben followed Kernow’s finger and examined the area up close. From a bird’s-eye view, the island was basically a horseshoe, its near-perfect shape distorted only by coastal erosion on the south-east side. He saw the name Old Town located on the north-west side of the island, north of another former settlement called New Town. He found Hell’s Bay overlooking the coast on the south-east side.

  “A prime area for shipwrecks, you say?”

  “You know how long I’ve been sailing these waters, friend? All my life, that’s how long. You ever considered how dangerous it is – taking the long route round Tresco when a storm’s brewing? Taking in a fresh batch of cod around Land’s End with a riptide imminent?” He shook his head and laughed, a long low drone. “In his own way your grandfather was lucky. See, as far as we know, he was alone. It’s a different game when you’re playing with the lives of your crew.”

  Ignoring him, Ben continued to concentrate on St Lide’s. According to the map, there were other things on the island. At the north-western tip was a former Roman fort overlooking the coast towards the island of St Agnes. On the east side, the island consisted of several acres of greenery, the main feature of which was something named the Giants’ Table: three standing stones that reminded him of the ones at Stonehenge. A winding pathway led south to a ruined castle surrounded by an isolated and rockier area. Hell’s Bay.

  “Why’s it called Hell’s Bay?”

  The question amused the local. “Tradition tells that when making his hermitage on the island, St Lide was tormented for months and months by some large and unscrupulous creature. Kind of like a leviathan only bigger and more real.”

  “Bigger and more real?”

  “People on the nearby islands feared the place. Fishermen refused to go anywhere near it.”

  Ben remained sceptical, at least of the monster. In theory the shipwreck part of the story made more sense. Judging by the geography, it seemed reasonable to believe Hell’s Bay would be one of the first areas of land a boat would encounter when sailing towards England from the Atlantic.

  “In your opinion, why would someone living a hundred years ago take a boat there?”

  The man shrugged. “Your ancestor have an interest in wrecks?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You say he was an explorer?”

  “Yes.” Ben decided against mentioning anything about TF’s interest in the local legend of Aztec treasure. “Show me where he was found, and there’s £200 in it for you.”

  Kernow watched Ben remove his wallet and show him the contents. Though he doubted it amounted to £200, it confirmed he was being serious.

  “All right. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it now before the wind picks up.”

  7

  Chris stayed in the dining room after finishing his breakfast. The other guests had all vacated their tables, many of them heading out to explore the island’s sights and scenery while the sun was out, leaving their white plates – littered with the remains of full English breakfasts, toast crusts and empty bowls of cereal – to be cleared away by the staff.

  With the morning rush over, the room took on a different feel. Like many esta
blishments on the island, part of the dining room was also open to non-guests. At 9:30, breakfast was officially over, at which point the café section opened, its appealing aroma of fresh tea and coffee, cakes and warm buns attracting couples in off the streets, tourists from England or further afield, enjoying a relaxing morning in the salty air.

  Chris moved from his two-seater table by the lobby, through the archway of a partitioning wall that split the dining room in two, and took a seat at a table by the window. He ordered an espresso from Valeria, who smiled warmly at him when she delivered it. He added brown sugar from two sachets as she departed, walking across the cream-coloured carpet in her usual white blouse and black skirt, complementing her long, tight stockings. He smiled to himself.

  A perfect morning complete.

  With the waitress gone, he took the first sip from his coffee, placed it down on a coaster, and turned his thoughts to TF’s diary that was lying open in front of him.

  I was walking through the graveyard when I first caught sight of a splendid stone Romanesque structure, the like of which never before in my sixty-one years had I ever imagined could exist in such a remote area.

  A gravedigger was present at the time, tending the graves and repairing damage that had been caused by extreme weather that had plagued these rugged isles since the winter. I addressed him in the most jovial voice I could muster; I must confess during my two days on the nearby island I had lost much of my spirit to the cold, and asked him if he knew about Wilcox.

  Chris skimmed through the next two pages, both of which concerned TF’s original visit. TF had clearly visited a graveyard in the hope of finding the grave of an ancestor, apparently named Wilcox, whom he found, along with two others, located on the south side of the nearby church. Chris’s interest picked up as TF spoke again with the gravedigger, at first about some kind of monument dedicated to lost sailors, and then something different altogether.

  It was at this moment that my attention, which for so long had been focused solely on the finding of my dear relative, being suddenly relieved of its previous engagement, became taken by an area of unkempt graves on a hill bordering the lines of the churchyard. At this moment I found myself intrigued – who were these forgotten blighters, and what names covered their places of rest?

  As I found myself battling through the thick vegetation, the like of which was unique to this part of the graveyard, I caught sight of six rugged tombstones, each one smaller and less defined than any other I had so far seen. On my subsequent visit, a few hours later, I thought it wise to make diagrams, but at this moment I found myself transfixed by the surprisingly rare symbols I had previously seen only across the sea in Spain, and many others only in the land of the Americas. While the first five contained only one symbol, of which I was aware, the last, and loosest, contained not only the familiar shape of a two-headed eagle, but a great many other things.

  Chris sipped his coffee again as he followed the story of TF and the mysterious gravestones. Based on the entry, TF had clearly understood that the double-headed eagle symbol was potentially ambiguous, but he was particularly intrigued by the markings on the sixth stone. After Chris had read the story of TF’s strange encounter with the parish vicar and then the locals at the tavern that was open on Sunday, the diary contained a report of how he became acquainted with the tale of a Spanish shipwreck, apparently told by a fifteen-year-old boy, the son of the tavern owner.

  On our return to the church, the young boy, whose name was Sam, pointed out to me things that in my great haste and apparent sloppiness I had failed to take in properly on my previous visits.

  Firstly, the name of the original family who settled on the island, written on the grave markers as Slater, is, in fact, a far more recent creation and had only been adopted in the late 1700s. The original settlers, whose name in the minds of the wider community seems forgotten, was apparently engraved into the stonework of old; however, so worn are the faces I could no longer make sense of the lettering. Their very relevance, of which my new and energetic acquaintance attempted to emphasise, still made no sense to me, nor during the remainder of that day would I uncover it, but I am sure whatever the facts of the family’s long history it accounted for the strange symbols that brought me to that tavern and the interest of young Sam.

  Secondly, and aside from my attempts to discover that name which may, or may not, still be recorded among the annals of the local community, the Lady Chapel off the main altar is a most angelic place, the irony of my choice of words I have no hesitation in suggesting is lost on all who visit unless one knows precisely for what it is one is looking. While one might be easily forgiven for mistaking the identity of the two stone angels that lie near the tomb of the man revered as being the island’s founder – and after whom the island was named – I was most surprised when young Sam illustrated to me so vividly how much more there was to these stone faces than initially meets the eye.

  After taking the time to inspect what I had assumed to be two of the archangels, most likely Gabriel and Michael, I saw to my great surprise the face, not only of a man, but also a woman. While the man, to my eye, it cannot be proved or disproved, was of Spanish features, perhaps from the time of the great age of discovery, the woman’s appearance was far more difficult to comprehend. Her long hair, either golden or brown, the stone was unclear, appeared to belong to a woman of Mexican features, which I also thought curious as the local demographic suggests nothing of the sort should exist here. Furthermore, when I asked young Sam of her significance, he intimated, albeit as non-directly as his humour would muster, that her story was intrinsic to finding answers to this long-forgotten riddle.

  Chris raised his eyebrows, surprised by the inclusion that followed. If TF was correct, the statue was of a woman named Malinche, famed as both the lover and interpreter of Hernán Cortés on his visit to the New World.

  The next entry was clearer to read and also focused on TF’s visit to the church.

  The fine stained-glass window located above the western doors, the sight of which had originally filled the intrigue in me to the very limit of my being, I now saw with clear eyes and, thanks again to the help of Sam, at a distance far nearer than I had witnessed so far. The image, what I had initially assumed to be Noah and his animals, lined up two by two, I had already since identified displayed something of a Spanish flavour, but it was not until I managed to see it up close that I saw the true secrets hidden within the scene.

  This colourful window, both magnificent in appearance and bold in texture, was I am now quite sure a memory of past events, a trait shared with many such buildings on the island. Speaking it over with Sam, he assured me, although spoken in the strictest confidence, that a ship of such character and personnel had once run aground on the rocks sometime before the sailing of the great armada, and its survivors later took up residence among the local fields.

  The history of these people is recorded in no texts, but on inspecting the window further, I saw other things that, had I not done so that day, I might have never understood. The window, already a multitude of colour, appears green only in five places, each of rare shape. The inclusions were clear to me; examples of which confirmed beyond doubt I was following in old and, dare I say, not unimportant footsteps.

  “Would you like another drink?”

  The voice startled him. Dropping the diary, Chris looked to his left. Valeria was standing alongside him, an embarrassed smile crossing her pretty face.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Malone,” she said, nearly getting his name right. “I did not realise you were concentrating.”

  Chris grinned back, trying his hardest to conceal his own embarrassment. “It’s my fault, I assure you,” he said, finding himself exploring her blouse. “Em . . . sorry, what was the question?”

  “I asked if you would like more coffee.”

  He hesitated. “Sure.”

  Valeria left and returned moments later with the coffee, its gentle steam rising from within the rim.

>   “Thanks,” he said, watching her place the cup down on the coaster, replacing the one he had just finished. She was just about to depart when he asked her, “So, how well do you know the island?”

  She replaced the empty cup on the counter and returned to Chris’s table. “It was my home from the first time I arrived. I have been here over seven years. Why do you ask?”

  He smiled, finding himself once again taken with her cute pronunciation of English words. “Actually, I was wondering if you could help me out. Obviously I’m new here. There’s still so much that doesn’t make sense.”

  She smiled and moved towards him, for now neglecting her duties as a waitress. Fortunately it was still early, and the café was empty apart from them. “Of course, I’d be thrilled. What is it you need?”

  “Well.” Chris scratched his head, wondering how best to proceed. He knew Ben would kill him if he told her too much. “Apparently my long-lost relative had been looking for a graveyard. You see, apparently he thought there were relatives of ours buried somewhere nearby. Only I can’t find the graveyard. Are there many here?”

  “The main one is Old Town Church. It is about fifteen minutes from here.”

  “Would it have been around a hundred years ago?”

  “Why, yes, that is the reason for its name.”

  He smiled. “I don’t suppose you could show me on this map?”

  Chris had a guidebook on the table beside him, currently open to a map of the island.

  “Here,” she said, pointing to a small village east of Hugh Town. Judging from the map, it was probably no more than a hamlet. “Nearly everyone on St Mary’s who dies is buried there.”

  Chris nodded, convinced he was on to something. It wasn’t even 10 a.m., and he was making progress.