Hammer of Witches

by Shana Mlawski

Jinniyah shot a glance in their direction. “Bal, can you hear them? Those two blond men.”

  “Well, sure, but —”

  “What are they saying?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t really understand why Jinniyah couldn’t hear them — or why she cared. “They’re talking about some other sea voyage, down to the Horn of Africa. Why?”

  A cunning grin surfaced on Jinniyah’s boyish face. And before I could understand what she was doing, I found myself being dragged through the crowds over to the Pinta. Martín Pinzón stood before it, rubbing his eyes as a sailor holding a heavy-looking barrel wasted his precious time.

  Jinniyah burst in between them. “Captain Pinzón!”

  Martín removed his fingers from his eyelids. “You two? Didn’t I just send you away?”

  Jinniyah nodded up at him. “Captain Pinzón, I know you don’t need a cabin boy, but do you need an interpreter?”

  At first I thought nothing of the question. Then I snapped my attention to Jinniyah.

  An interpreter? What in God’s name was she doing?

  “We have one,” Martín said, but Vicente, who must have overheard, slipped in front of him.

  “Yes, and he’s awful. Why? Can you translate?”

  Jinniyah shoved her hands proudly against her hips. “Bal . . . Lui . . . My friend here is able to read at least ten different languages.”

  “Really?” Martín appeared skeptical, a look that fit him well.

  “Don’t pay any attention to her — him!” I said, jumping in front of Jinniyah. “He’s exaggerating about my, er, abilities.”

  Jinniyah nuzzled her boyish face on my arm. “Oh, Luis is so humble. Humble and handsome.” I pushed her away. This wasn’t helping!

  Martín pinched the bridge of his nose with two bony fingers. “Enough. If you must waste my time.” He thrust the pile of yellowed papers he was carrying forward and jammed a finger toward it. “Read this.”

  I took a hold of the top sheet, wondering if I should risk another lie. Then I exhaled, relieved. “It’s Latin.” As an apprentice bookmaker and scribe, I had known the language most of my life. “It’s a list of supplies: fresh water, vinegar, cod, wine. Cheese, honey, and lentils —”

  “Yes, yes, that’s enough.” Martín whisked the paper away and substituted it with another. “Now this one.”

  My confidence growing, I meditated over the second paper. Hmm. Although I couldn’t speak the language sprawled across this page, I definitely could recognize it. Portuguese. It was funny, but the more I pored over the text, the more I thought I could read it all the same. And why not? It wasn’t that far off from Latin or my own Castilian tongue.

  “It’s a contract,” I said to Martín with conviction. “It says you will pay the undersigned a salary of a thousand maravedíes per month for his services on the Pinta, the first half of which shall be paid before the voyage and the remainder to be paid upon our return.”

  “Hmm,” Martín said, but his disappointed tone told me I had read it correctly. Unsurprisingly Martín Pinzón was a hard man to impress, and he demanded that I read passages in Italian, French, Arabic, and even Ottoman Turkish. To my shock and his rising chagrin, I could read them all. It was impossible, but . . .

  But . . .

  By then Antonio de Cuellar had returned to see what all the fuss was about, since it seemed half the crew had gathered around to watch the show. Antonio, I gathered, had not found his admiral. “Luis,” he said, a mix of worry and awe infusing his voice. “How are you doing that?”

  I would have liked to know that myself.

  “He is splendid,” Vicente agreed. “Just perfect for the expedition.”

  “Mmm,” was Martín’s answer. He tapped his quill against his palm. And then, for no reason at all, he vanished into the crowd. Jinniyah and I exchanged glances but didn’t say a word.

  A minute later: “Make way! The admiral approaches!”

  The waves of men standing before me parted, revealing Martín Pinzón and a sturdy gray-haired man with a navy cape draped over his shoulders. Admiral Colón. He looked down his Roman nose at me, his blue eyes piercing right through mine.

  “Is this what you wanted me to see about, Martín?” The admiral’s voice was very deep, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent.

  “Yes.” Martín stepped in front of me, holding a cover-worn book in his hands. Without ceremony he tossed it open to a random page. “Read this.”

  I squinted down at the unfamiliar text. The letters were angular, and their points and serifs were decorated with inkblots. My gaze trailed along the lines. And barely aware of what I was saying, I recited, “‘Consider three things, and thou wilt not fall into transgression: know whence thou comest, whither thou art going, and before whom thou art about to give account and reckoning —’”

  “That’s enough.” Martín stole the text away before I could finish and clapped the book closed with the force of judgment. “It’s as I suspected.”

  “As I suspected as well, Brother,” said Vicente. “He’s perfect! With talent like this, we’d be able to speak with the Grand Khan!”

  Admiral Colón peered down at me. “I’m wondering if you could tell me something, Señor . . . ?”

  “Luis de Torres,” I said.

  “I was wondering, Señor de Torres, if you could tell me where you became so skillful in reading these languages?”

  Always ready to unsheathe a new story, I said, “Oh, here and there. I’ve done a lot of traveling over the years —”

  “And where would you say you picked up this particular language?” Colón took the book from Martín Pinzón’s hands and held it up in front of me.

  “That one? From my uncle. He was a bookmaker.”

  I thought that answer was as good as any, and it was very nearly true. At any rate Colón seemed placated as he handed the book back to Martín. But the look on Martín’s face, a look of distrust and scorn, told me my lie had not worked on him.

  “Don’t listen to a word this boy says, Admiral,” Martín said, taking a menacing step closer to me. Was he always this tall and commanding? Was his face always so ghoulish and gray?

  “You, Señor de Torres, are a liar. And I do not like being lied to. I think de Torres isn’t your real name at all.”

  I could hardly believe anyone could be so perceptive. Where had I gone wrong? Did my voice waver? Did I leave a hole in my story that Martín worked his way through? Or maybe Martín was an agent of the Malleus Maleficarum who knew my true identity.

  “He’s a Jew.”

  The statement stopped sailors in their tracks. The admiral said, “What are you talking about, Martín?”

  Martín slapped the fateful book against Colón’s chest. “I’m talking about this. It’s in Aramaic. A Jewish text. Not something any boy off the street is going to understand. That is, unless he’s a Jewish converso — a Marrano, as people so rudely call them. Am I right, de Torres?”

  I bowed my head as low as it could go. “That’s right, sir.”

  “I knew it!” It was amazing what an effect being right had on Martín. A light kindled his features, transforming him in an instant from a sallow, sad-looking man into a being vibrant with youth.

  Antonio de Cuellar scowled. “So he’s a Jew! What difference does that make? He could out-translate the Pope. God as my witness, he could!” For a moment I wondered if Antonio would hit the captain even if it meant losing his job.

  Fortunately the carpenter failed to faze the captain. “If you were paying attention,” Martín said, “you would realize that I borrowed this copy of the Talmud from a sailor on the Pinta who happens to be Jewish. And there are three converted Jews on this voyage, as well, including your friend Sanchez over there. It makes no difference to me if this boy is Jewish, pagan, or one of the Mohammedan peoples. If the boy can help us find gold in the Indies, he can be Moses, for all I care. Gold is the only religion to me, Carpenter.”

  “So he’s got the job?” Antonio looked up a
t Colón expectantly.

  “Yes,” the admiral said. “He and the other boy will be coming with me on the Santa María. The rest of you ready yourselves. We will depart in a half an hour.”

  And all of a sudden the show was over. The crowd around me dispersed, and Antonio ran after Martín, ready to collect his bonus.

  As for me? I just stood there, completely and utterly bewildered.

  What had happened just now? What did I just do?

  Lost in these thoughts, I barely noticed when Admiral Colón stepped up next to me. “You will see me later, in my cabin,” he said in a very low voice. “You and I need to talk.” And he swept past, leaving me to wonder what in the world he wanted.

  I needed Jinniyah. She had wandered off near the base of the Santa María, probably to get a better look at the ships. I tramped up to her and said, “How did you do it?”

  Jinniyah was busy twirling locks of her frizzy black hair around her fingers, clearly entertained by the novelty of appearing human. “Do what?”

  I lowered my voice so no one would hear. “Make me able to translate all that stuff! I mean, Latin’s all right. Italian, maybe. But Aramaic? I’ve never even seen it before, let alone read it! But you saw. I understood it. I . . . I . . .”

  The old-adult look resurfaced on the little boy’s face. “You’re scared, aren’t you?” Jinniyah said. “Well, don’t be! You’re a Storyteller. You take the stories and make them real. But first you have to read the stories. It only makes sense that you’d be able to understand other languages. I thought you knew that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That’s why Storytellers are called lukmani, after the sage Luqman. He was so wise, he was able to speak with anyone and anything — even the flowers and the trees and the earth!”

  “You’re saying I can speak with flowers and trees?”

  “No, silly! But you can speak with people! Remember those two men who were talking about the Horn of Africa before? They were speaking English, Bal! Do you speak English?”

  “No.” Not before today, anyway. Nearby, one of the two tow-headed men by the Santa Marías gangway was telling a joke to the other, something about the promiscuity of Andalusian women. But the real punchline was that I could understand every single word.

  “Anyway, Amir could do it, so I figured you could too,” Jinniyah said, and she gave me a warm smile.

  I returned it. “Thanks, Jinni.” While I didn’t always understand the girl, now I owed her big-time.

  “You’re very welcome! And remember this the next time I tell you to trust me.”

  “I do trust you.”

  “Then promise when we get to Cathay we’ll look for Amir.”

  I groaned. This again?

  The girl shoved her hands onto her hips. “No, Bal! This is important! We have to stop that evil being the Baba Yaga told us about, and we need to find Amir to do it. I don’t know why you hate him so much —”

  “I don’t,” I said, not really believing the words.

  “ — but when I say Amir’s a good person, I mean it! He’s a hero! When you were younger, you must have wanted to meet your father. Both your parents. Didn’t you?”

  I turned away from her. “More than anything. But I thought they were different people. I thought they were —”

  “No! No more buts! You said you trusted me. Now tell me the truth! Do you mean it or not?”

  So I considered her, the skinny sort-of-boy standing in front of me. It was hard not to think of her as a child, with that undeveloped body and those huge shiny eyes. But I did trust her, and she’d been around far longer than I had. If it weren’t for her, I would probably never get out of Spain alive. She was right about the Baba Yaga, and she was right about my being a translator.

  Maybe she was right about Amir al-Katib too. She said the man was a hero, and so did the Baba Yaga. And Diego. So what if . . .

  It was an uncomfortable thought, but it kept coming back no matter how hard I tried to shake it. What if they were right? What if Amir al-Katib wasn’t the bloodthirsty Moor I had taken him for? When I was a child, my friends always called him a villain. But what if they were wrong? What if my parents really were heroes, like my uncle said they were? And when Father Joaquin said the Moors were all devils, what if he was wrong about them, too?

  I took a breath, feeling the beginnings of something — maybe confidence, maybe destiny — burning within me. As I looked out over the mighty Atlantic I thought I could see the outlines of a new future forming on the horizon, a future where I was a hero like the Baba Yaga said, with my legendary father standing beside me. A shadowy figure, a monster bent on destroying the world, would rear up above us, baring its terrible claws. But we’d strike it down, my father and I, and start a new life on the other side of the world.

  “What do you say, Bal?” Jinniyah said. “We’ll find him, won’t we?”

  I took her hand. “Of course we will.”

  She leaped up and rung me around the neck with a hug. “Oh, Bal! You mean it?”

  I laughed. Oh, what had I gotten myself into?

  “And one more thing.” I opened my bag, pulled out Jinniyah’s necklace, and held it out to her. “You can have it.”

  Jinniyah bit her lip and said, “You mean you’re not going to trap me in there anymore?”

  “It means I trust you. From now on you only have to go in that necklace when you want to. We’re a team now. Equals.”

  Jinniyah’s growing smile could barely contain her joy. She put the necklace around her neck and tucked it into her shirt so no one could see it. “Of course we’re a team!” She hopped up and smothered me with another hug. “We’re the best team in the world!”

  Laughing, I led her up the gangplank to the Santa María. “No time to dawdle, Luis!” Antonio said, coming up behind me. He was grinning like a fool — most likely he had received his bonus. “On the deck, sailor! Time for us to make history!”

  I stopped on the gangplank to take one last look at my home. Palos, the village by the sea. Palos, the place where I was born.

  Good-bye, Diego, I thought. Serena. I would make them proud. I took a deep breath of salty air and raised my head to the sky. Above me, pink clouds were flowering in the purpling dawn. Today would be a good day to sail.

  Before I knew it the anchors were raised and we were departing. Men shouted from ship to ship as gulls sang over their cries. Soon Palos was nothing more than a blurry apparition in the morning haze. The sea came up to greet us, a blanket of endless watery sky.

  A voice drifted up beside me. “Uqba,” it said, and it was a moment before I realized it was Jinniyah. Her voice sounded lower than usual, solemn. “He was a warrior who traveled farther than any living man, until finally he reached the seas on the western shore. He said, ‘Allah, if it were not for thine ocean, in thy holy name I would conquer the earth.’”

  Before us the seas spread themselves into the horizon, waiting to be conquered.

  The open sea. From my spot on the deck of the Santa María, I could see why people used to think you could sail off the edge of it. The way that sparkling blue seemed to go on forever, you had to convince yourself that it would end somewhere or you would quickly go insane.

  Taking a breath of sea air, I rested back against the starboard rail and held my gurgling stomach. Jinniyah and the other boys had gathered up on the forecastle next to me, waiting for Juan de la Cosa to assign them their duties. Six weeks, I thought. That’s what Antonio had told me. Six weeks of living on this ship and we would land in Cathay.

  All right. Six weeks I could handle. The heroes in the old stories always went on journeys, always endured some minor trials before they got their happy endings. I could deal with six weeks of that if it meant getting my own holy grail. In six weeks Jinniyah and I would build new lives in the Orient, far away from the Malleus Maleficarum. In six weeks we would be free again.

  I contemplated this happy future, letting the sounds of a nautical life wash over me. The
re was the creaking of the bow, the flaps of the sails, the ever-present swish of the ocean. Suddenly a gust of wind sent the deck pitching underneath me, and I heard a very different sound, a strangled voice braying, “Look out!”

  I raised my head just in time to see a gawky figure flying at me headfirst. The man crashed into me with about as much force as a cannonball, and I went stumbling backward into the rail. In fact, if I hadn’t shifted my weight just in time, I might have tumbled overboard. That sea, that sea, that infinite, sparkling sea . . .

  One wrong move, and it might have been my graveyard.

  “Ay, cielos. Are you all right?” said the man who had crashed into me. It was Rodrigo Sanchez, the accountant who had annoyed Martín Pinzón back in Palos. Rodrigo’s hands were currently half-hidden under his lank brown bangs. He held his heart-shaped head and waited for the world to settle around him. “I almost killed you there, didn’t I?”

  I gulped down another breath but said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  The accountant squeezed one of my hands tightly with both of his. “Well, you have my deepest apologies! I’m still very much the landlubber, I’m sorry to say. Walking across a deck isn’t easy, especially when the ship is swaying to and fro. And those rails! They’re here to make you feel safe, but it’s really easy to fall over one. I did it myself, back when we were still moored. Dislocated both of my shoulders.” The accountant fell silent for a moment, lost in the memory. I stood there awkwardly, unsure how to respond. “I’m Rodrigo Sanchez, by the way. Her Majesty’s inspector and controller.”

  “Luis de Torres,” I said, massaging the knuckles of my crushed hand.

  “Oh, I know! The new interpreter! Everyone’s been talking about you, how you translated those documents on the pier. They’re saying you’re a miracle, Luis. An absolute miracle!”

  An image of Diego and Serena flashed across my mind — eyes glassy and blood dripping from their sides. They wouldn’t say I was a miracle, if they were here now. A miracle? A curse was more like it.

  “Do you know what the men are calling you, Luis? ‘Martín Pinzón’s Miraculous Jew!’ Pretty nice, don’t you think?”