The Eternal World

by Christopher Farnsworth

  She had explained, slowly, several times, until he finally understood. Her family was the Water Clan. They had been guardians of what he called Bimini as long as they had been here, generation after generation. While other chiefs of the Uzita were known for their strength, or their skill at war, or hunting, or fishing, the Water Clan was always the protector of the secret. They held the tribe’s knowledge, and they kept the legend safe.

  The Water was a gift, to be used only sparingly, only on certain occasions. To use it too often, to violate the natural order of birth and life and death, was—she used the Spanish words here—the greatest possible sin known to man.

  He could not imagine how that could be, and he could not get her to understand his bewilderment. This was a miracle, not a sin, he told her. He used the Spanish as well, since Uzita didn’t have either word.

  She shook her head, and he felt the distance between them grow, even though she didn’t move. The Water was never supposed to be used selfishly. It gave too much, she said. Those who drank it and lived past their natural lives became corrupt, their souls rotting long before their bodies died. Corpses on the inside, wrapped in fresh skin and flawless beauty.

  Simón pitied Shako then. Despite her greater-than-average intelligence, despite her obvious gift with languages, she was still a savage, mired in folklore and superstition. He tried to explain it to her as he would a child. The Water could preserve life, could end suffering and illness. It could be used by the right men, honorable men, to ensure that peace and justice reigned for everyone. A good king would not have to pass his empire on to a wayward or selfish son. Without the fear of death, wars would no longer need to be fought to protect territories and property. The best men could take this gift and use it to forge a new and better world. Surely she had to see that. Surely that was better than letting the Water stew in some forgotten cave next to a primitive swamp.

  She did not see that. “You do not know,” she told him. “You have never seen it.” There were Uzita who’d fallen prey to the same vanity Simón was preaching. Even one of her ancestors, a great chief of the Water Clan, had not been able to resist the temptation. He lived for years past his natural lifespan. He did not grow wiser, even though he was stronger than any of the men and women who came after him. He didn’t make the clans any safer, even though he accumulated great wealth and power. He grew only more distant as the sons and daughters he’d had aged and died ahead of him. He severed himself from everything that made him who he was. Death became little more than a joke to him, and he spent the lives of the Uzita on foolish wars against other tribes and clans. Finally, he was exiled. He became a sinister figure, forever lurking near the tribe but no longer of it.

  “A story told to children to get them to behave,” Simón said.

  Her eyes grew cold. She stopped talking to him and went away to find someplace else to sleep. That was the last time they discussed it.

  Simón considered begging for her forgiveness several times, but he didn’t believe he’d actually broken her faith. She could have told him about the Bimini waters. She didn’t have to keep it a secret from him. And he still believed he could convince her to let him use the Water for the greater good. She could lead him back to the expedition, and with the help of the other men, they could collect and bottle this marvelous resource and make a better world with it.

  He didn’t want to leave her, however. Even if he lived a thousand years, Simón couldn’t imagine living it without her.

  He would have to make her see the truth. It would take time. But that was not a problem.

  They had nothing but time.

  Until, one day, their time ran out.

  SIMÓN WAS HUNTING A raccoon—they made a surprisingly filling meal—when he heard a crashing in the brush. He hid behind a tree.

  Shako had told him what to do if he ever saw another one of the Uzita, or any other Indian, without her: run.

  He put his ego aside and listened, for once. Simón had never been a coward, but he remembered how swiftly his men were destroyed by the Uzita. He remembered almost dying. He didn’t want to repeat the experience. He had no armor and no weapon, save the makeshift knife Shako had given him. He could not expect to win if discovered by the Uzita warriors, and there was no guarantee Shako would use the Water to save him.

  It wasn’t in him to run from a fight, however. So he watched from behind the tree, silently waiting.

  Maximillian came stumbling out of the jungle, face red with exertion, boiling in his armor like a shrimp tossed into a pot.

  For a moment, Simón was shocked. Did I ever look that sick, that pale? His skin was a deep brown now, tanned by the constant sun. He wore nothing but a breechcloth and sometimes his old tunic. His stomach was always full these days. And he hadn’t been sick since Shako gave him the Water.

  Maximillian stood there, gasping and squinting at the sun, desperately trying to get his bearings.

  For an instant, Simón considered letting Max go crashing and stumbling on his way, his armor rattling with every step. He was happy here. He could die here, and no one would ever know.

  Something about that stuck in his throat, however. No one would ever know. He had traveled across the globe and it would not make a bit of difference. He might as well have died on his family’s bankrupt estate or at the hands of some Moor. The world would not be changed one bit by his passing. For some reason, he could not live with that.

  Simón stepped from behind the tree. He almost laughed as Maximillian’s eyes went wide with shock and he fumbled to pull his sword from its sheath again.

  “Max,” Simón said. “Don’t be afraid. It’s me.”

  Recognition dawned slowly on Max’s face. His jaw dropped. And then Simón saw sheer joy overcome his stupor.

  “Simón,” he said. “Mother of God. Look at you. I can’t believe it. We found you. We found you!”

  He began yelling, and the others came crashing through the grass a few moments later. They grabbed him and embraced him, their armor hot and sharp against his bare skin, clapped him on the back, and laughed with joy.

  His friends. They had never given up on him. They’d finally found him.

  MAX. FRANCISCO. PEDRO. SEBASTIAN. Antonio. Carlos. Even Juan Aznar, the shy little priest that they had befriended on the long ocean journey from Spain. They all came for him.

  They’d gone to war against the Moors, as Simón had, and like him, they were too late to have acquired lands or titles from it. They were young and hungry for glory, and they became inseparable after they joined Narváez.

  Until Narváez separated them. Simón had wanted to bring all of them along on his initial foray. Narváez had refused the request, saying that he needed experienced men to lead the fresh recruits. They had all seen battle before, even Aznar, who had served as a priest ministering to soldiers. Narváez would not risk them all on a single errand. In hindsight, Simón had to agree. If they’d come with him, they’d likely be as dead as every other man he’d led.

  “We decided it was time to come looking for you,” Max said that night, as they sat around the campfire, eating the deer that Shako had killed earlier to feed them.

  Simón’s friends tore into it as if they hadn’t seen meat for weeks. As it turned out, they had not.

  The past several months had seen many changes in Narváez’s expedition, none of them good. Food was still scarce. The grueling heat made overland marching a slow, painful chore. The native tribes abandoned their villages before the conquistadors could arrive, and they took their food with them. Worst of all, there was no gold to be found anywhere.

  “Narváez was probably glad to see us go,” Francisco said. “Fewer mouths to feed.”

  They had not exactly asked permission for their search, either. They had simply left after another long day of fruitless foraging led them to the spot where Simón’s troops had been killed.

 
“I believe you dropped this,” Max said, holding up his helmet, now badly rusted and dented. “We followed the pieces of armor as far as we could.”

  Shako had been watching silently, away from the men and the campfire. She did not share in their laughter, and for the most part, Simón’s friends simply ignored her or ordered her around. It seemed completely natural to them that Simón should have found a willing and obedient savage to cook and care for him.

  To all of them except Aznar, anyway. When they returned to Simón and Shako’s camp, his eyes had gone wide with shock when he saw Shako there. He crossed himself repeatedly and hissed to Simón, “Who is that?” He muttered darkly to himself and gave her suspicious glances, sullen eyes darting back to her repeatedly, running up and down her bare legs. Now Shako wore the cloth that covered her breasts for the first time in several months. Aznar still glared.

  The others were less obvious about it, but it clearly bothered them, too. Max was the one to finally bring up the question.

  “So, Simón. When you come back with us, are you planning on bringing your new little wife?”

  Everyone laughed but Aznar. And Shako.

  They thought Shako did not understand Spanish. Neither Simón nor Shako had corrected them.

  Simón didn’t know what to say. Until that moment, he had not even been sure he would return with the others. But he had to, didn’t he? He swore an oath to serve the crown and Narváez. He’d had a pleasant interlude. But it had to end sometime, didn’t it?

  Simón wondered if he could really stay here. If he could send his friends away and spend the rest of his life with Shako. It might be a very long life, with the Water.

  But that was insane, if he really thought it through. He couldn’t live here, any more than she could live with him in Spain. They were of two completely different worlds.

  Simón looked at her. She was watching him carefully, to see what he’d say.

  Before he could answer, Pedro spoke up. “What I want to know is, can she lead us to anything worth having in this godforsaken swamp?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a good question, Simón,” Max said. “Do her people have treasure? Food? At this point, anything would help.”

  “I don’t know,” Simón said.

  “You don’t know?” Max was incredulous. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  Sebastian laughed. “Oh, I know what he’s been doing,” he said, and leered at Shako. “Perhaps she has sisters waiting for us.”

  Shako turned sharply toward him, her sudden anger plain on her face.

  Sebastian laughed. “My God, it’s almost as if she understands me. You’ve got her well trained, Simón.”

  Pedro reached for Shako’s arm. “Will she do whatever you say? I’ve got a couple tricks I could teach her.”

  Shako slapped his hand away. Simón saw her reach for her knife.

  He couldn’t let this happen. “Stop,” he said.

  But Pedro kept on laughing. He still thought it was a joke. Simón knew that Shako could gut him in an instant and then turn on the others. She might even get Max or Francisco, who were nearest after that, but then, certainly, one of the others would find his pistol. “Stop!” he said again, wondering who he was really trying to protect.

  Before anything else could happen, however, the grasses shook and men came leaping forward.

  They tackled the Spaniards, knocking them all to the ground and wrestling them down in a matter of moments.

  Simón felt his hands yanked up behind his back and felt ropes being tied around him. He was lifted like a child and then kicked in the stomach to take any fight out of him.

  He was still watching Shako’s eyes. They were wide with surprise. She had not expected this tonight, either.

  But they both knew it had to happen sometime.

  The Uzita had found them.

  THE BONFIRE AT THE center of the Uzita village was so hot that Simón smelled his own hair burning.

  They’d been dumped next to the fire by the Uzita, and the whole tribe gathered around them. It was like being in some portrait of Hell. The Spaniards were stripped down to their underclothes. The Uzita jeered at them and threw stones. Little children rushed forward to poke and prod at their strangely colored flesh. A wooden spit was hefted up and over the fire. More dry logs were thrown into the pit, and the heat grew even more intense. The Spaniards were given a good view of the preparations. The Uzita planned to roast them alive.

  Aznar was gibbering to himself in panic. The others winced or occasionally cursed as a stone or a blow landed on their heads. They all looked terrified.

  Simón had not seen Shako since they’d been carried from the swamp. He wondered, for a brief, absurd moment, if she was safe.

  Then the chief arrived, and the Uzita fell silent.

  Hirrihigua. Simón had heard his name from Shako, but now he understood the slight tone of awe she used when she spoke of her father. He was a tall, powerful man, his hair still black, his skin as smooth and dark as old leather. The Uzita all made way for him.

  He walked to where they lay on the ground. If he felt the burning heat, he gave no indication. Instead, he peered down at each of them, as if weighing and measuring every man.

  He did not appear to like what he saw.

  He said a few words in Uzita. The warriors grabbed the Spaniards and hauled them up on their feet.

  Hirrihigua walked close to Simón and stared deeply into his face. The chief’s eyes were unreadable. Simón knew that his life had already been decided. He wondered what the chief was looking for.

  “You drank the Water,” he said, so quietly that Simón could barely hear him over the roar of the flames.

  Simón found he couldn’t lie. “Yes,” he admitted.

  Hirrihigua shook his head a fraction of an inch. Simón saw something in his eyes, then. He saw pain.

  “Into the fire,” Hirrihigua said, and turned away abruptly.

  Simón did not even have time to let that sink in when he heard a shriek of protest from the crowd.

  “No,” Shako screamed. She shoved her way through the Uzita and ran to Hirrihigua. He barked at her in Uzita, something so rapid and angry that Simón couldn’t understand. She screamed back at him, slapping her hands against his arms when he tried to push her away.

  One of the warriors, a man even taller and thicker than Hirrihigua, tried to pull her back into the crowd. Shako turned and kicked him in the gut, and he went gray and staggered.

  She shouted at her father again. She did not plead. She demanded.

  He looked shocked, and then furious. He lifted his hand as if to strike her.

  “No,” Simón shouted, and somehow found the speed and strength to push past his guards and lunge for Hirrihigua.

  He didn’t get far. The butt end of a spear smacked his legs and then cracked him hard on the back of the head. He fell facedown into the dirt.

  When he looked up, Shako was beside him. She pulled him up, cradling his body, arms around him as if she would never let him go.

  Hirrihigua watched them both. He looked as if he’d tasted something foul.

  Shako’s eyes were filled with tears. She said, “Please.”

  Hirrihigua sagged. The anger was gone, Simón could see, replaced by a deep and bitter sadness.

  “Your knife,” he said to one of the warriors. He took the blade when it was offered. He kneeled down to them.

  With a quick slash, he cut Simón’s bonds.

  Then he crossed to the others and did the same for them.

  He handed the blade back to the warrior and walked away.

  The Uzita stood there, confused, uncertain.

  Shako was not. She pulled Simón upright and began pushing him away from the fire. The others followed as quickly as they could.

  Muttering and grum
bling began as soon as Shako hurried them through the crowd. She didn’t stop. She kept moving them past the Uzita’s houses, off into the darkness at the edge of the village.

  None of them spoke. She kept hustling them along until they found a trail, barely visible in the dark. They could still see the flames and shadows dancing from the center of the village. The muttering of the Uzita had turned to loud argument now.

  Shako shoved Simón. Hard. “Run,” she said. “Keep running along this trail. Follow the flow of the river when you reach it. It will take you back to your people. Now run.”

  He clasped her hand and tried to pull her along.

  She drew back as if scalded.

  “Shako,” he said.

  “Run,” she said again, pain in her voice and on her face. “And don’t ever come back.”

  The shouts of the Uzita grew closer, and Simón heard some of the men moving into the brush after them.

  “Simón, we must go now,” Max said. He and the others were ready to bolt, but they had no idea where they were going.

  Simón nodded. He leaned forward and kissed Shako.

  Then he turned and ran.

  CHAPTER 21

  THERE WERE A few mutters of “traitor” and “deserter” when Narváez took him back into the fold. His friends put a stop to that talk with their own bluster and threats. Simón was surprisingly indifferent. He was back where he was supposed to be, but he felt lost.

  Despite this, Narváez gave him used armor and another sword. Perhaps he felt a sense of obligation to Simón after bringing him across the ocean. More likely, it was an acknowledgment that Narváez needed every able-bodied man he had left.

  The expedition was now down to about 250. Illness and hunger had killed a couple of dozen while Simón was gone. Raids by the native tribes as the conquistadors blundered through the wilderness had taken the rest. The remaining Spaniards were pale and wormy as something found under a rock.