B01AOKY60K

by Dennis Santaniello

  For the time being, my mind was still in the jungle.

  And back I went.”

  VIII

  “So was the river. We slashed through the vines and kept moving through the swamps. We toiled and trekked for miles on end, but finally, we knew Manco and the Incas were close. We could feel it. We could smell them. Later, we found clues of the Incas, mostly clay pots and bone necklaces. Many of our guides confirmed that they had seen several Incas in canoes pass through the sharp bending rocks and the densest part of the canopy, so we headed north by northwest and continued to search.

  We saw the river, and momentarily, I was pulled back. It was enormous. It didn’t feel real at first, and again I drifted, but as the tide pulled me in I regained my senses. The river surged and purged and stirred, then became calm as the day progressed. I thought of Cura, Manco’s wife. It was near the river that I saw her last. I thought of the stare that we shared and the calm in her eyes. It was probably the last happy moment of her life. That peaceful, restful minute. I wanted to stay in that memory as long as I could, but I knew I had to get back.

  I stared again at the river and tried not to think. It wasn’t the endless ocean and that’s why I think I smiled. There was an end point to the river. At least, I thought so. And it would lead to the sea. But for the moment, all my men could see was the river, and all they could taste was blood.

  The guides informed us that the Incas were about five miles away if we followed the trail north, which meant we had to cross the river. It had also meant that we had to build rafts. It would probably take a day or more, but we had no other option. Amid the horrid heat, we took to our axes and chopped the tallest, most thin trees we could find. The men worked fast, and by morning’s end, they managed to cut twenty-four trees. Though it did seem we were progressing at a good rate, I knew we would have to wait until the next morning, for we had missed the tide.

  I hardly spoke to the men. I merely gave them their orders. They on their end didn’t attempt to speak to me either, and I was grateful. The heat only got worse as the midday sun arrived. But it did not deter us from our focus. We needed to finish these rafts and we worked and raced until sunset. We took off all our armor and worked in our rags. Mosquitoes bit at our faces and they made their way down to our boots. Throughout the day, I heard a constant ticking sound that I thought came from a bird. I lost track of it from time to time, but the ticking sound remained throughout the day and it proved to be a useful cadence when the silence and the sounds of hacks and grunts were too much to bear. By then our faces were red and smeared with dirt and sweat. Our concentration was tested as was our exhaustion, but we managed to cut ten more trees.

  When the planks were ready we measured them and set them across. The rest of the men went to work tying the planks together. They stripped the wood with their swords, and from there they bounded rope, which they made from strips of wreaths and palm branches, and wrapped the planks together as tightly as they could At the end of the day, we managed to construct three small sailing rafts, which could fit five men apiece. We tested all of the rafts and to our incredulity, they all worked. They were crude and laughably assembled, but they worked, and, for the men and myself, that’s all that mattered.

  At night, we made a grand fire and slept until the next morning. I dreamt of nothing and tried to pray, but I was too exhausted and to my relief my mind was void of all thought. At first light, I felt the river surge about and the wind shifted off and the clouds hurried and grayed, and I could tell a storm was approaching.

  In the morning, we drew straws and the five men with the shortest straws were left to go about on foot. There was simply no room and I ordered those men to catch up with us by staying five miles north. The five dejected men took their orders, and as I saw the glum look on their faces, I knew for sure that I would never see those men again.

  We took to the rafts and all the men huddled together, and we set our course aloft. The river grew in momentum, and at the height of the tide, we huddled together and sailed forward.

  I manned the center raft and the other two rafts acted as wings. We used sticks of bamboo and rowed our rafts closer to one another. At first, it was rather difficult to steer, but the longer we sailed the more comfortable I became. All three of the rafts floated as if one unit.

  As the tide arrived, the river took us in a rapid pace. The speed pleased the men very much, and they kept their eyes open as they stared up into the tall trees of the lands ahead.

  However, our pace slowed down considerably as the afternoon went by. We traveled rather far and I felt content at our progress. Though I knew deep down it was a moot point, I was still concerned that the men left on shore wouldn’t keep up. We simply went too far and sailed too fast.

  Then the currents stopped and the winds suddenly atrophied and died. The sails caught no drift and all of the rafts stopped. And for two hours we were caught in the river’s stillness.

  During the stillness, many of the men were restless and spiteful of each other. The heat was stifling and a steady stream of mosquitoes bit at our faces. We swatted and scratched our arms. Our skin peeled off and our welts only got larger.

  But again the silence overwhelmed and I was pulled in a heavy trance, but then the winds switched, and the river became alive again. We took no hesitation and immediately adjusted our sails. About five minutes later, the rafts were back to steady motion and we pulled ourselves out of the doldrums. The men cheered in excitement, but as time passed it got harder and harder to steer.

  Some time had passed, and we came to the broad turn of the river. The wind was at our backs and the tide pushed us beyond in a rapid, unforgiving pace, and soon we were at the will of the river. I could hear the commotion from the men on my raft and the swears and cries from the others. We barked on like dogs, trying to stay within sight, but there was no way to slow down, less we steered in the opposite direction, so we kept barking at each other in constant rhythm.

  But the river gave no mercy, and soon the rafts drifted far apart. I yelled at the boys in the first raft not to drift too far, but of course, they did just that. As we took the turn, I lost sight of the first raft. I screamed again at the men to keep together, but the wind carried us further, and we could neither stop nor steer. We caught up to the first raft moments later, but we were too late. The raft had toppled over and there were no men left aboard. We searched and search the waves to see if there were any survivors. But there were none.

  As the river grew still again, I commanded the men to head for dry land, and within a half hour, the two surviving rafts landed on shore. There were only ten men now, and the remaining hours of the afternoon were silent and solemn. We held a vigil for the five we lost and spent the last hours of daylight to collect wood for the night’s fire.

  The land looked all the same. I set two of the youngest men to scout out the area north, and I ordered the rest of the men to stay close. The men looked scared and confused. They looked like lost puppies, and it was then that I realized then that these men did not have minds of their own. They lived in the thought of the collective. They were sheep and I was their shepherd.

  The entire afternoon we took to the trees and branches and waited for the scouts to arrive, but they never did. I had two thoughts. The first thought was that I suspected the scouts either died or had gotten themselves lost. The other thought was that the scouts had planned to make their way back to Cusco. It might have been true. It might not have been. As sunset approach, I consulted with Céspedes, one of my main captains, and he advised that we’d wait out the night and then search for the scouts in the morning. It was a fine suggestion, but it was the only one that was viable and the state of the men the entire night was one of dejection.

  So we waited.

  During the night, I remember being terribly cold and I blew into my hands, trying to warm them. It seemed like every bone in my body was frozen. I was in great pain all throughout the night, and then I dreamed.

  I dreamed I t
raveled through canyons and deserts, and later swamp lands and endless marshes. I could hear a murmured prayer above a balcony. It was the Ave Maria, but all the words were wrong.

  And there I saw Soto, engaged in a mission of his own. His face was old, very old. I was with him. I saw his palace back in Spain. It was left abandoned. And I saw him praying for war.

  I was told to stay away from him from either a voice inside or out. My friend Soto was like all the rest. Dead and buried. Dead and forgotten. But from this distance, he appeared alive. Forlorn but alive. He hovered near the chessboard then he lit asunder and threw it into the flames. As I got closer, I managed to get a better view of him. But Soto didn’t say a word. We just looked at each other for what seemed like hours. His eyes were swollen. His hair was gray and withered. His beard was long and old. He grumbled something incoherent that I thought was a prayer, and the smell from his breath reminded me of the smell of rotted corpses. It was a foul smell. A horrid, wretched smell. Then in a flash, Soto’s flesh melted away from him and he became a skeleton, stripped of all but bone. Spiders crawled and spiraled down his rib cage, and rats crawled up his shoulders. And as he melted, he chased me down from the jungle up until the valley, and I ran and ran with heart pounding.

  I awoke and screamed, but the men were still asleep. I tried to keep awake but I failed, and the dreamed continued.

  In the background, I could hear the Incas praying loudly to their gods, and with it came the beating sounds of their drums, increasing in speed and the rhythm was in harmony with my heart. I ran faster and faster, and again I went through the canyon and deserts, through mountains and shores, but then I stopped and found myself in a horrible swamp. I made it to a stretch of muddy land that was surrounded by tall trees. The heat of that place reminded me of the jungle, but somehow it felt even more oppressive. Upon a raft, I steered and went down the waters. What I saw then were blood and rivers. Rivers and blood. And beneath the river, I saw all buried, forgotten souls. I saw the dead gray faces of Juan Pizarro, Balboa, and Escobar. Then I saw the rest of the Pizarros and Almagros screaming at each other as their heads bobbed up to the surface. Then I heard a yell and in an instant, Soto leaped out from the river and climbed aboard. Then he raised his sword and swung at my chest and my heart sliced open, and I watched it drop down, down onto the surging river.

  The dream ended, and I awoke in the pouring rain.

  I was back in the jungle. My skin was soaked. My eyes were wide and I was unable to blink for several minutes. But I was alive. I kept looking around. The rain kept falling. I stood up to check on the men. All of them were present. They were still asleep and snoring. My heart still pounded, and I tried to breathe through my mouth. I let the air out through my nose, but still I gasped and clutched my heart, thinking I could calm it.

  Then I remembered why I was there. My eyes widened and the revelation came in a single second. I remembered the reason I was in that jungle, suffering through all this hell. I was still on a mission. I was there to kill Manco and to find what he was hiding.

  We ate fish for breakfast, and there still no word of any of the scouts. But then our focus changed. The men started to shout with glee, and not too long after one of the men approached me with a small gold Incan statue of a puma and placed it in my hands.

  “We’re close, sir.” The man said.

  I didn’t believe it at first, nor did any of the men. I stared at the statue for a very long time, and for a second, I thought that the statue stared at me. I asked the man where he found it, and the man merely pointed into the jungle.

  I gave the man a nod. Then I gathered up the men and stared at the jungle ahead. I turned to them and clenched my teeth, and with a booming shriek I yelled “Santiago!”, and the men cheered and punched the air with their fists. Then I unhinged my sword, led the men onward, and we marched through the swamp in the pouring rain.

  It rained throughout the morning and afternoon. It rained in spurts. It poured. It drenched. It drizzled then poured again. But no matter how much rain had fell, it did not deter us in the slightest. The men possessed a new spirit, and I saw it in their eyes. That little statue was all they needed.

  We found more statues scattered along a thicket of bushes. Each man wanted one for his own, and they fought each and bickered like children. They passed the statues to me and I examined them all. They were all of gold or silver, meticulously crafted, and distinctly Incan. The men were elated and I could see the excitement build the further up the jungle we marched. We paced faster and faster. We hacked through thick thorny bushes and passed through muddy creeks, and the men continued to shout and cry.

  “We’ve found it! We finally found it!”

  “El Dorado exists after all.”

  For the moment it did. For the moment, it all made sense. It was a familiar feeling and every time it happened, the feeling of utter disbelief came with it. This moment was no exception. We were delighted but also bewildered.

  And the men continued to scream.

  “El Dorado! It's here! It's here! El Dorado!”

  For the moment it was. I was unable to think. My eyes remained wide and my hands trembled. I used all my other senses and reacted. I saw the river and smelled it. I heard it rush and swoosh, and I heard the pelting rain pang off my helmet. As for the statues, I held them in my hand and traced my finger up and down, and I shook my head then wiped away the sweat and tears from my face. When I touched the statues, I held them hard, wanting to crush them to see if they would crumble, but no matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn’t break them. They were solid and real I stared at the statue’s faces. They were all pumas with opened eyes and mouths.

  Later, we found the waterfall. It was one of the most beautiful things I had seen. It seemed holy. The water flew and rushed, and when it fell it gushed and came back to the surface, the ripples looked soft as silk. The men pointed out further, and to their amazement beyond the stream were even more Inca statues and the men screamed with unbridled joy. Some of them prayed. Some of them jumped like children. But they all rushed over in a frantic possessed pace through the heavy rain.

  “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”

  “Finally!”

  “Thank you, God! God Almighty!”

  They screamed and swam, and I saw all of them rushed over down to the waterfall, but as the rain intensified I lost sight of them all. I screamed again and again, but everything became blurred, and the only sounds heard were the rushing water and the sounds of their clanging armor.

  The sounds dissipated and soon a queer silence came and took over. I was in knee-deep water and shouted for the men to answer my call, but I received no response. I looked all over, but there was no one in sight. Then I turned to see if there were any men behind me, and when I did, I felt an ungodly pain. I fell down and almost drowned, and when I got back up I saw that something had struck me square on my shoulder. My entire body felt like it was on fire. And I screamed and shouted and yelled for mercy. I was stabbed by a spear.

  I rushed to dry land and laid and shivered. It took me a full minute to get back up on my feet, and when I did I saw that the spear was still lodged into my shoulder and I could see the blood pour out from the hole. Though the spear did not penetrate deeply, my armor took the brunt of the blow, but the pain was excruciating and I fainted in and out. And the rain kept falling.

  The fog rolled on and still the silence was unnerving. Then the fog grew thick and heavy and covered the entire land and it soon became impossible to see anything. I forged ahead and continued to bleed. I swung my sword and screamed. I heard my voice echo, but no man answered my call.

  “Céspedes! Rodrigo! Speak man! Anyone!”

  I shouted again, but again it was to no avail. I looked up then down then left and right. But all was still gray. And there was nothing to see but fog.

  But then the silence stopped, and I heard sounds of screaming.

  Later, I heard footsteps. I looked all over to see what
direction the sounds were coming from. But still I couldn’t see a thing. I turned my head and heard some of the men scream again, but their tone was vastly different. They screams were screams of horror. Not joy. Then more sounds exploded in the air. The more I heard them the more the sounds seemed familiar. And soon I was convinced what they were. The sounds were of shrieks and grunts and smacks. The sounds were the slashes of spears and arrows cutting into flesh. Those sounds were of the Incas defending their land, and it was exclusively theirs to be heard.

  And from there, I knew exactly what was happening. It was a trap, and we fell into it beautifully. We simply forgot about the Incas. We were too enraptured by our findings, and the Incas saw us act as the fools we were. Our men were caught in the heavy fog and the swamp with nowhere to retreat. And the Incas took full advantage. All was set up in good time, and when the Incas had got close enough, they ambushed us from all sides.

  I heard more men scream, and I hobbled and swung my sword blindly through the fog. I squinted and forced myself not to blink. I searched for any semblance of anything. All I felt was rain and all I saw were clouds of endless fog.