Hammer of Witches

by Shana Mlawski

  Instead I said, “Fine, Jinni. Believe what you want. But if there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s this. Someone has to stop Amir al-Katib before he kills any more people. I’ll try to talk to him, but if he tries to kill me — if he gives me no other choice — I’m not going to just stand there. I’m going to fight. And if the time comes, if it comes down to me or him —”

  Jinniyah looked up at me and cried, “Then I’m going to stop you!”

  For a few seconds we stared at each other, letting the rain fall down on us. Finally I raised my arms and let them flop against my sides. “Why, Jinni? Why do you keep protecting him? You keep saying he’s a good man, but he’s not. This is a man who turned his back on his country and mutilated my people. A man who this morning ripped the Santa María to pieces. And, oh yes, Jinni — don’t forget, Jinni! This is a man who abandoned you! You protect him, you vouch for him, but what did he ever do for you? Nothing! He left you alone in a necklace for the last — oh, I don’t know — how about fourteen years, Jinni! Fourteen years! You act like he loved you, but guess what? He didn’t!”

  Silence. Just the sound of the rain’s last downpour before it reduced itself to a drizzle.

  I heard a tiny whimper as Jinniyah’s body wilted. With those hollow eyes and huddled, blackened shoulders, she looked as though I’d punched her right in the stomach.

  And then she vanished.

  At first I didn’t completely understand what had happened. “Jinni?”

  I took a few splashing steps forward through the mud. “Jinni.”

  Then I understood.

  She was gone.

  Alone with my words, I sat in the forest.

  I don’t know how long I walked — maybe a few hours, maybe all night. I wandered through the jungle, through the rain and the heat, not caring where I was headed or why. When I couldn’t move anymore I stopped. I fell to the earth and let sleep overtake me.

  I awoke the next day with leaves in my hair that I didn’t care to remove. Around me the jungle was alive with the chirps and hoots of unknown tropical beasts. It was raining lightly. Dawn.

  Abandoned you —

  I lay back in my leafy bower and closed my eyes.

  Oh. Right.

  She was gone.

  Well, it was her fault. I had been right, after all. Her emotions got the best of her, that was all. Clouded her interpretations.

  But what was it Catalina said, back on the beach? “The truth doesn’t matter. It’s the interpretation that’s important.”

  Didn’t I know it. One bad interpretation after another — that’s what got me into this mess.

  I closed my eyes. Back on the ship, things made sense. Right and wrong — what were those? Right: the knot held. Wrong: it didn’t. Right: the floors sparkled. Wrong: more work and no dinner.

  Or back in Spain. Father Joaquin said: Here’s the Bible. The Bible is the word of God. God is right. Spain fought for God. Spain is right.

  I threw an arm over my head and said to no one, “I can’t believe I’m homesick for church.” At least back there things were easy. At least I knew what I was doing. I felt an awful burning in my heart and closed my eyes against the pain. “Dear God,” I thought, “I know how much I’ve sinned. I don’t know if you’ll forgive me. But I’m begging you: Tell me what to do. I’m sick of figuring all this out on my own. Please. Please, give me a sign.”

  To the north of me, leaves rustled in the forest. I raised my head and squinted against the sunlight. “Jinni?”

  But a tall figure crossed over a log into my leafy enclave. “Hi! It’s me. Rodrigo Sanchez.”

  “Rodrigo?” I pushed myself upright in my nest. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you. You left quite a path in the forest.” Rodrigo sat on the log behind him and picked up a fruit from the forest floor. “Where’s your friend? Juan.”

  “Jinniyah,” I said. My throat was so dry. “Her name is Jinniyah. And she’s gone.”

  “Oh.” Rodrigo struggled against the rind of his fruit with his fingernails. “Do you want some? These things are delicious. The trouble is opening them. Where did I put that thing?” He swiveled his head to and fro, searching for something on his belt. From his side he unsheathed a dagger and held out its shining edge to peel his breakfast. He pressed the knife with his thumb into the papaya’s flesh. Then he brought the knife and the piece of papaya to his mouth.

  That’s when I noticed the ring on Rodrigo’s finger, a ring he hadn’t previously been wearing. It was gold and branded with a familiar mark: a circle enclosing the shape of a hammer.

  The world swam around me. Holding onto a nearby tree I pulled myself to my feet and backed away from Rodrigo. “You’re from the Malleus Maleficarum. That’s why you followed me.”

  Laughing, Rodrigo slurped up the fruit juice that had seeped down onto his chin. “Guilty as charged.”

  Feverishly, I pushed my fingers through my bangs. “I should have known. From the beginning I should have known you were a spy! The way you kept falling over, the way you kept bumping into things. It was all an act.”

  Rodrigo burst into laughter. “If only!” He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a long red scratch. “This one’s from one of the creepers.” Next he pointed to a nick right above his eyebrow. “And this one’s from bumping into a tree. I’d strip down and show you the bruises I got from slipping down that hill, but it’s a bit early in the morning for that!”

  Faking a chuckle, I sneaked a glance over my shoulder. The forest path was clear. I could make it, if I ran.

  With all my might I launched a stone at Rodrigo’s head and made a run for it. I tore through the vines, not caring where I was headed. But I didn’t get far. I felt shivery and weak, and in a few steps my legs gave out beneath me.

  I bent over the forest floor and panted into it. “Dios,” Rodrigo said. He rubbed his head where my rock had hit him. “You know, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I thought I did,” I muttered.

  “Come on, Baltasar! I’m not going to kill you! Listen, we’re on the same side!”

  I closed my eyes, trying my hardest to keep the trees around me from spinning. “What are you talking about, Rodrigo?”

  The bookkeeper knelt beside me and offered me a piece of papaya balanced on his knife. When I shook my head he sat on the ground next to me and stuffed the piece of papaya into his mouth. With his mouth full he said, “I was back in court earlier this year when the queen suggested that the Malleus Maleficarum send a man to spy on this voyage around the world. I was there because my father’s the liaison between the Malleus Maleficarum and the throne, and let me tell you, he wasn’t too keen on this idea. My father said the organization had no men to spare, that it had its hands full trying to track down Amir al-Katib. The queen doesn’t care; she’s insistent. Then my father gets an idea. He volunteers me to be the inspector on the voyage! He gives me this look and says, ‘Rodrigo won’t come back until he’s done something useful for once.’ Something useful! I think. How am I supposed to do something useful on a ship in the middle of nowhere? It was hopeless.”

  A smile spread across Rodrigo’s face, and he shook a finger at me. “Ah, but then I saw you translating those documents back in Palos! And on the ship, you were always telling stories. Every day another story out of the mouth of Luis de Torres! I didn’t want to get my hopes up — it was possible, after all, that you were just a good translator who liked telling tales. But I began to think there might be a Storyteller aboard the Santa María.”

  I buried my sweaty head in my hands. “So you searched my bag and found the parchment.” I should have known, I should have known!

  Rodrigo dug in the pouch on his belt, took out the document, and unfolded it with the tips of his fingers. “‘Baltasar Infante, the only living relative of Amir al-Katib the Moor.’ I could hardly believe my luck! I thought, If I bring the queen al-Katib’s son, I’ll be a hero! Even my father would be impressed by that. But before I could arr
est you, you were attacked by that black bird, that demon. I wondered where it came from and why it would attack Amir al-Katib’s son. It was a mystery, and I decided to wait and see where it led me.

  “And it led me here to this island! To al-Katib himself! He was the one who sent that bird, and that sea monster — and he sent them both to kill you! That was when I realized — you didn’t sail to the Indies to join your father. You came here to kill him!” The smile between Rodrigo’s two large ears spread wider. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  I kept my mouth shut, concentrating on recovering my energy. But Rodrigo didn’t mind the quiet. He continued the conversation by himself. “That’s what I was trying to say before, Baltasar. I’m not here to kill you! We’re on the same side! You want to kill al-Katib; I want to kill al-Katib. We can work together! The two of us will be unstoppable! What do you say?”

  I answered by climbing to my feet, teetering, and hobbling down the forest path. “Your people killed my family. I say you should go to Hell.”

  Rodrigo Sanchez ran in front of me. “Baltasar, wait, wait! That was a misunderstanding! Those soldiers had express orders not to hurt anyone. It was an accident!”

  Rodrigo blocked my way, so I paused in my trek and held myself up by a tree. “Listen, Baltasar,” Rodrigo went on. “I know it doesn’t seem that way right now, but I can help you. I understand you, Baltasar. You’re conflicted. You lost control of that dragon back there, and it attacked you. What does that tell me? It tells me you’re confused, and you could use some help. Trust me. I know.”

  “You don’t know anything,” I said, feeling guilt the weight of the Santa María bearing down on me.

  “That is absolutely, exactly, unequivocally wrong!” Rodrigo pointed at me like he was selling me something. “No, I understand you completely! I even understand how you messed up that spell with the dragon.”

  “How could you possibly understand?”

  “Because I’ve done it, Baltasar! Botch a summon? Done it a dozen times, maybe more.”

  “What? How could you?” I let Rodrigo’s words seep in. “Be honest. Was anyone on the Santa María not a Storyteller?”

  Rodrigo laughed. “Just you and me, I think. And the girl.”

  I let my head fall back against the tree trunk and thought about what he’d said. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. How can you be a Storyteller and a Malleus Maleficarum spy at the same time?”

  “I know. Surprising, isn’t it? But here’s the big secret, Baltasar. Half of the Malleus members are Storytellers. Or former ones, anyway.”

  I opened my mouth to call out this statement as another lie. But I stopped myself. What he said had a certain kind of logic.

  “When I was a boy, no one liked me,” Rodrigo said, swinging his arms as he walked around in front of me. “I was always knocking something down, making a mess. ‘Rodrigo the Fool,’ they used to call me. The only time I was ever happy was when the traveling performers would come to court. They’d juggle and mime and throw swords. Best of all was when they’d put on plays. There were tragedies and comedies, religious stories where the actors would dress up as things like Mercy and Gluttony and Wrath. I started thinking about the stories all the time, and eventually I was able to summon the characters from these stories. At first I was excited that I had all these new friends to play with, but then my family found out. My father was furious, of course. He was a high-ranking member the Malleus Maleficarum, and it wouldn’t do to have a witch for a son. So every day he would lock me in my room and tell me how much God hated me and how sinful I was. And it worked. From then on every time I tried to interpret a story, it would always be about my wickedness, and the spells backfired.”

  I dug my toes into the dirt. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew this story all too well.

  Rodrigo continued, “As I got older I realized that constantly trying to figure out on your own how to interpret the stories, interpret the world — it’s a waste of energy, when you come right down to it. I stopped using magic and begged God’s forgiveness, and Father pulled some strings so I could join him and work for the Malleus Maleficarum. And when I joined them I found I wasn’t confused anymore. Suddenly everything was simple again.”

  Simple. How I yearned for the days when life was simple. When I could count on Diego for a stupid joke or a story, stories that were flat and meaningless and fun.

  “Life can be simple for you, too, Baltasar. I can help you find Amir al-Katib. Together, we can bring justice to a man who has brought our people nothing but pain and fear. And when it’s done I’ll see to it that you’re initiated into the Malleus Maleficarum the minute we get back.”

  I lifted my head off my tree. “Get back? Back to where?”

  “To Palos, naturally! To Spain! Don’t you see, Baltasar? All we have to do is kill Amir al-Katib. Then we’ll be heroes, and we can both go home!”

  Home. I felt my breathing become more labored. For a moment I thought I could feel the earth of Europe under my feet. I could smell the smells of Palos — the stews, the perfumes, the spices. I could hear Palos’s birds, its insects, its people.

  But it was an illusion. “There’s no such thing as home,” I murmured. “My aunt and uncle are dead.”

  I pushed past him and hobbled south. Rodrigo raced in front of me to the log he had been sitting on earlier. “Don’t do this, Baltasar,” he said, pointing his dagger at my chest. “If you won’t join me, then I can’t let you leave.”

  I backed away from him. I didn’t have the energy to attack him or run. “Rodrigo, don’t,” I said, but he stepped forward with his knife.

  “Don’t move! Put down your weapon.”

  Catalina Terreros swung her conjured sword Excalibur so its edge touched the side of Rodrigo’s neck. She had sneaked up behind Rodrigo so she could stand on the log he had been sitting on earlier. “Drop your weapon,” she said, “or I’ll kill you.”

  “Catalina, don’t,” I said tiredly. I opened my palm in front of Rodrigo. “Give me the knife, Rodrigo. Please.”

  The man gulped and glanced at Catalina. “As you wish,” he said, and he placed his weapon in my hand.

  I shoved the dagger into my belt. “Get out of here, Rodrigo. And don’t come back.”

  Catalina added, “Mark my words, Señor Sanchez, if I see you again, I shall kill you.”

  “I understand,” Rodrigo said. He stumbled over the log and clambered back into the forest.

  Catalina sheathed her sword and hopped off the log she was standing on. Simultaneously we dropped onto it without saying a word.

  Catalina was muddy, and she slouched so much that her head was almost against my shoulder. She looked so tired. She turned her head slightly and peered at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “Well, you look a mess,” she said.

  “So do you.”

  She put her hand on my cheek. “Why are you shivering? Do you have a fever?”

  “It’s possible.” The shoulder of my tunic was torn and covered with dried blood.

  “You’re lucky that hameh didn’t cut you all that deeply.” Catalina took a breath and said, “Well, go on. Take off your shirt.”

  I stared at her.

  “By all the saints! I’m going to change your bandages.”

  Wincing, I peeled off my tunic, allowing Catalina to unbind the old dressings. She touched my wounds lightly and looked at her fingers. “What a mess.” Although the holes the hameh made had finally stopped bleeding, they were now covered with layers of pink and yellow pus speckled brown with mud. I chewed on some of Arabuko’s leaves as Catalina removed some strips of cloth from her bag and wound them around my arm and back. When she was finished she washed her hands with some of her water, untied a pouch from her belt, and drew out a hunk of melting goat cheese with the tips of her fingers.

  “About Rodrigo,” she started.

  “Malleus spy,” I answered.

  “And where is Jinniyah?”

  The word cracked on its w
ay out. “Gone.”

  “I see.”

  I reached into her pouch to get at my own hunk of goat cheese. I chewed some silently before asking, “Why are you here? What happened?”

  “Nothing,” she said, far too quietly.

  “You can tell me. I promise, I won’t try to be your protector or your lover or whatever else it was you said. Please. I just want to be your friend.”

  The girl looked at me, carefully checking my eyes for honesty. When she found it, she folded her hands between her knees. “I was sleeping. Last night. We were on the beach, and the men had built a bonfire. And they drank. I should have been frightened of them, the way they carried on. I know what even noblemen are capable of, and these men were far from noble. But I was so tired from building the fortress. I ignored them and went to bed. Then in the middle of the night I woke up to see some of your friends stumbling out of the forest, dragging along five Taíno women. The men were laughing. The way they laugh when —”

  Catalina cut herself off and blinked up at the sky. “Go on,” I said, but I felt myself shaking on the inside.

  “If you had been there, Infante. If you had seen the way those women looked! There was no question of what your friends had done. And when the women tried to get away, the men laughed. The way they laughed, Infante. You knew they were going to do it again. Right in front of me. They didn’t care. Not one bit.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Antonio de Cuellar. Pérez, Bartolome, and Salcedo. On the ship we’d shared dirty jokes, lewd stories about women for fun. No matter what Catalina said, I knew in my heart they were good people. Not —

  I couldn’t even think the word. “But how?” I asked. “Where was Colón? He never would have —”

  “Colón!” Catalina scoffed. “He was off gallivanting with Vicente Pinzón in Guacanagarís village. He left his men to their own devices.”

  I rubbed my face, trying to accept this information. I didn’t want to believe my friends were capable of such horrors. But Catalina had no reason to lie.