Travellers in Magic

by Lisa Goldstein

  The men came up behind him and stood without speaking. The city shone like a beacon. At the feet of the proud towers lay the lake he had heard of, Manoa. In the glow of setting sun the lake seemed on fire.

  The men needed no encouragement now to press on. They came to the lake and found boats lying at the docks, as if they were expected. Did these people fear no one, then? The city would be easier to take than he had thought: he could do it with the few men he had.

  The company divided into two parts and rowed toward the towers. Francis had followed him onto his boat. Suddenly he understood Francis’s behavior: the boy worshiped him as a hero. He had seen this from men he had commanded before, but it had been so long ago he had forgotten.

  The boats rowed smoothly toward the towers. In the sky the sun began to set, taking the color from the lake. He heard no sound but the creak and splash of oars.

  Docks waited for them on the other side too. Walter disembarked first. He stood and rubbed his bad leg, which had stiffened in the chill from the water. Then he said, “I claim this, the city of El Dorado, in the name of James, king of England by grace of God.”

  Someone placed cold steel at his throat. He tried to turn but the man held him deftly. “Did you think the king would allow you to get this far?” Francis said. His breath was hot in Walter’s ear. “He knows your plans, how you would set yourself up as king of El Dorado and return with your wealth to challenge his throne.”

  “I—” Walter said.

  “Do not speak, traitor. He cautioned me against your honeyed words, told me you could make a man swear black was white if suited your purposes. He said I was to thank you for your services, and then make certain you died once we reached El Dorado.”

  Walter twisted but could not get away. Francis was in his twenties, young and strong. Walter had only his cunning to get himself free, and it had not served him well so far.

  The company stood by the boats, unmoving. He had chosen them poorly indeed: these men were the scum of the earth. Then, to his great surprise, he felt the arm holding the dagger grow lax. Francis slumped to the ground.

  He turned and saw a man as tall as himself move softly out of the shadows. The man held a blow-tube of the kind he had seen before among the native tribes. “Welcome to El Dorado, Sir Walter Raleigh,” he said in perfect English. “We were expecting you. Do not be alarmed—he is not dead. Come—we have planned a great feast.”

  Moving as if in a dream, he followed the man away from the lake. Other men came out of the shadows, lifted Francis and carried him away. Behind him he could hear his company arguing fiercely among themselves but he did not look back; he could not bring himself to care if they came or stayed. Finally the arguments stopped and he heard them follow.

  The sand surrounding the lake gave way to grass. The tall man—the chief, Walter supposed—led them onto a small winding path. Trees grew on both sides of them. Night had fallen, and he could see very little, but he smelled lemon and some kind of perfumed flower. The air around them was still warm.

  The path broadened, became smoother. He wondered if it was paved with silver or gold, as in the stories. Certainly it felt more level than the London streets he knew.

  Towers rose up above them: in the night he felt their bulk rather than saw them. Light spilled from windows directly in front of him. The chief led them inside.

  They passed through several rooms. Fires burned in the hearths, and by their lights he could see intricate tapestries, vases of colored glass, golden figurines. Men and women passing through looked up from their tasks and nodded to them graciously. Finally they came to a room which held nothing but benches and a long table. Each of his men was led to a place set with silver plates and goblets of fragile colored glass. He heard the men murmuring among themselves, exclaiming softly over the finery.

  Six men and women brought out a huge platter, nearly staggering under the weight of it. “The peccary—you would call it a small boar,” the chief said, sitting beside Walter. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  He did. They hadn’t eaten anything in the Amazons’ territory, and he saw his men fall on the food as if they had been starving for weeks. More courses appeared after the peccary: fish and birds and fruit, each more delicious than the last. Servants came and poured wine in the goblets, filling each glass before it became empty.

  The men grew quiet, sated. Even the wine failed to rouse them. For the first time Walter considered poison, and cursed himself for a fool. These people had proven they knew how to manufacture sleeping draughts. What had been in the potion that had felled Francis Molyneux?

  Walter turned and studied the chief carefully. He was an old man, but time had sharpened rather than dulled his features, so that his face looked carved out of stone. He wore a long flowing skirt and nothing else; the skin of his chest and arms and face seemed to glow with rich health. Was that how the rumors of the Golden One had started?

  “Are you enjoying our hospitality, Sir Walter?”

  “I don’t know,” Walter said. “The food, at least, is excellent. But does your hospitality extend to answering a few questions?”

  The chief laughed. “Of course.”

  “Well, then, how do you know my name? What did you mean when you said that you were expecting me? Are you the chief of these people?”

  “I am the king, yes. My name is Tuala. I—”

  “Where is Francis? What have you done with the rest of my men?”

  “I’ll explain everything, I promise you. But first I have to tell you a story. Will you listen?”

  Walter nodded grudgingly.

  “We are an old people,” Tuala said. “Many, many years ago we travelled the world and saw strange sights, as strange as anything you have seen here. After we had mapped the globe we realized that nowhere in the world had we come across anything as fair as the country you see around you. We had found nothing so fertile, so rich, so pleasant. And so we made the decision, which some have criticized, to turn inward, to contemplate philosophy. We have not gone travelling in a very long time.”

  Walter stirred impatiently. His bad leg hurt from the walking he had done that day.

  “One of the places we saw on our journeys was London,” Tuala said. “But it was a London you would not recognize, a collection of huts by the river. Many years later we heard rumors of you, Sir Walter, and of the inquiries you made about us, and we remembered the tiny village on the banks of the Thames. We were amazed that you had come so far in so short a time.”

  Was he being patronized? Angrily he said, “I don’t see what—”

  The chief continued as though Walter had said nothing. His voice was low, sonorous, and he spoke English well, though with a slight musical accent. “We knew then that nothing would stop your people, the English, that you would not rest until you found us. And we felt certain that it would be you, Sir Walter, who would return and make the discovery. We were only surprised that it took you so long to do it.”

  He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I was in prison,” Walter said. “For twelve years.”

  A look of disgust passed over the chief’s face. “Ah,” he said. For a moment it seemed he could not go on. He gazed at Walter with something like pity. “Well,” he said, “we planned for your return. We learned all we could about your people. We found a Spaniard who would teach us English.”

  That was the slight accent he heard, then—not the chief’s own language but Spanish. “Did you wonder, Sir Walter,” Tuala said, “why it was so easy for you to find us? Why the Spanish, who have been here for decades, have never conquered us?”

  Suddenly Walter understood. It had been a trap—they would kill him here. They had already killed Francis, probably, and poisoned his other men. He had been a fool, he had allowed these men to gull him with their fine food and wine. He rose from the bench. “What—”

  “Sit, Sir Walter, please. We have done nothing to your men, you have my word on that. Would you be surprised if I told you that many people have found
us, that we have played host to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Spaniards?”

  “No more riddles, please. Tell me what you plan to do with me.”

  “You are our guest—tell me first what you planned to do with us.”

  “We wanted to—to trade with you.”

  “Nay, it does not become you to lie. I have been honest with you in all things so far, and I hope you will do the same for me. We heard you claim our city for your king.”

  “Very well. We intended to conquer you.” It sounded foolish, a child’s boast. “We did not understand—I did not know what you were like. We thought you were barbarians.”

  “Ah. So you have given over your plans of conquest?”

  Walter nodded.

  “Can I believe that? It was just a moment before that you lied to me. Or should I believe that you will return to your King James and lead his army to our city?”

  Walter said nothing. He could not lie to this man—he knew that now. But the chief did not know about the bargain he had made with James. He could not return without the location of the mine.

  “You see that we cannot allow you to leave,” Tuala said.

  “Ah. And so I am to be your prisoner.”

  The chief’s look of distaste returned. “We do not like to imprison people. There is another way. We can make you forget everything you have seen here. You will leave without ever knowing you have discovered the city you sought.”

  “Nay—”

  “Aye. How else do you think we have kept our location a secret for so long? We made the Spaniard who taught us English forget. And the Amazons we trade with, and the Ewaipanoma.”

  “And if I refuse to forget?”

  “Then, my friend, we will have to keep you here.”

  Walter looked up in surprise. He had guessed from Tuala’s reaction to his talk of prison that the chief would not hold anyone against his will.

  “Oh, yes, Sir Walter. But we will not put you in prison. You’ll be allowed to go anywhere you like, anywhere but back to your country and King James. And who knows? Perhaps you’ll come to like it here.”

  Walter said nothing. “We will give you leisure to think,” the chief said.

  “To think! How am I to think—what am I to think in this place? Everything I thought I knew has proven false. How do I know I didn’t meet you twenty years ago, on my first voyage?”

  The chief laughed. “Nay, we did not meet. I have looked forward to this moment for a long time. You have proven yourself every bit as clever as I had heard.”

  Walter rubbed his forehead. “I don’t feel very clever. And I don’t like the idea of you doing something to my memories. I have nothing in the world, nothing. I sold everything I owned to raise the money for this voyage. My mind and what is in it are all I have left.”

  “We have no choice. We must have you return to King James and tell him—tell him honestly—that there is no such land as El Dorado.”

  And lose my head, Walter thought. What would this man say if he knew all that is at stake here?

  “Think about what I have said,” the chief said. “You are free to explore any part of the city, but you will not be allowed to go beyond our borders.”

  Music began to play in another room. “You are tired, Sir Walter,” Tuala said. “You and your men must rest. We will talk later.”

  He fought against sleepiness. What had been in the wine? Would all his long journey end here, sometime in the night, as he finally succumbed to slow-acting poison?

  Servants came to lead them to their rooms. He tried to hold to coherent thought, to ask an intelligent question. He must have said something, because he heard a servant laugh. Then, somehow, he was in the bed, drifting off to sleep.

  He awoke feeling refreshed, clear-headed. The servants had provided him with a wash-basin, and he cleaned himself as best he could. When he was done he saw that clothes had been set out on a chest at the foot of the bed. He dressed himself slowly, marveling at the textures of the doublet and hose. And how did they know the kinds of clothes he was accustomed to wear? The men here wore—what did they wear? He couldn’t remember. Had it all been a dream?

  He went outside. Tuala had given him the liberty of the city, and he decided to take the other man at his word. He strode the lawns with their riotous profusion of flowers, so different from a formal English garden. He walked by the canals that fed the lake, looking with interest at the boats drawn by horses on the towpath. He moved through the golden streets and saw children using markers of precious gems—ruby, sapphire, emerald—in their games.

  He entered the towers with their banners of silver and green, red and gold, and came finally to a library crowded with ancient volumes. Tuala and a younger man stood by a table weighted down with scrolls. They spoke in low, urgent voices. The younger man seemed to be arguing, demanding something from the chief. They had not yet noticed Walter.

  Finally Walter heard his name. What were they saying? But the two men had seen him, and the chief broke off to come over and greet him. The other man moved toward the door. Before he left he gave Walter a look that seemed heavy with malice.

  “Did I interrupt something?” Walter asked.

  “We were discussing matters of state, nothing more,” the chief said smoothly. “It is not your concern.”

  It was his concern, though; he had heard his name. That day and in the days that followed he continued his explorations, walking with a tireless intensity. He chose a different direction each time, hoping to make Tuala think his walks were aimless. But he had a purpose, a method. He wanted to find the mine, or, failing that, the storehouse where the gold was kept.

  And what then? Could he escape and return to England? He would have to cross the country of women, and the Amazons seemed to be allied in some way with Tuala’s people. And then he would have to pass by the Spanish fort, and somehow sail alone down the Orinoco, because he couldn’t trust the men he had brought with him. But these things seemed unimportant in the face of his urgency. All that mattered was finding the mine.

  One day he followed a road and found himself, to his surprise, in an English countryside. Men were hurrying to bring in the crops before the rainy season, which in this upside-down country started in April. Beyond the fields he saw a low weathered building. It looked out of place, and he realized with surprise that it was the first structure he had seen that reminded him of England. A barn, probably, he thought, but his heart beat faster as he approached it.

  The door opened to his touch. Surely they would not be so foolish as to keep their gold here, unprotected. But a shaft of light came through the cracks in the walls, and it illuminated all the riches he had sought, gold and silver and precious gems. He could not help reaching out his hand to touch, to hold. A sane part of his mind whispered, Are we turning thief, then? but he ignored it.

  Someone shouted. He turned, dropping the emerald he had taken. The man he had seen arguing with the chief stood behind him in the strange cathedral light, speaking angrily and moving toward him. Walter raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Did they all understand English, or only Tuala? “I was exploring, nothing more,” Walter said, backing away carefully.

  The man made a fist. Walter tried to block him but it was too late—the blow hit his face, cutting his lip. The man made as if to strike again, but this time Walter was ready, landing his own blow on the man’s stomach. The other man doubled over with a cry of pain and rage.

  Walter grinned. Age had not slowed him down, then—it had only made him more cunning, more capable of finding another man’s weaknesses. The young whelp remained bent over, more stunned than hurt, probably. Finally he stood and said through clenched teeth, “The king will be told about this.”

  “Certainly. I’ll tell him myself. What will he say about an unprovoked attack on one of his guests?”

  “Unprovoked! I caught you in the middle of committing a crime. He’ll put you on trial.”

  “What crime?”

  “We don’t have a wo
rd for it,” the man said. “But in your language I think it’s called theft.”

  “Is it true you were in the storehouse?” the chief asked Walter. The man who had attacked him stood at the chief’s side, smiling maliciously.

  “Aye. You said I could walk wherever I pleased.”

  “And is it true you stole an emerald?”

  “Nay. I stole nothing.”

  “Only because I stopped you,” the other man said. “He had the emerald in his hand—I saw it.”

  The chief sighed. “Nuad thinks we cannot trust you. He thinks you’ve come to rob us.”

  Walter said nothing.

  “He says our only choice is to kill you now.”

  “Nay, tell him all of it,” Nuad said angrily. “Kill him, aye—but that will solve the problem for only a little while. We must strike at the root.”

  “Do you understand, Sir Walter?” Tuala said.

  “We’ll attack England,” Nuad said. “We made a mistake all those years ago, when we decided to turn inward. We must wake up and look around us, see what is happening in the world. Sooner or later your people will come to destroy us. We must destroy them before that happens.”

  For the first time Walter thought the chief looked tired, defeated. “Do you understand?” Tuala said again. Walter nodded—he had seen struggles for power before. “You did not arrive at the best of times for us. Somehow we must resolve this question before you return home.”

  “Resolve the question?” the young man said scornfully. “Kill him now!”

  “Nay!” Tuala said. For the moment the chief seemed to grow, to gain stature.

  “Then put him on trial.”

  “For what? We have no laws against theft in this country. The children come to the storehouse to take gems for their games.”

  “But this man is not a child,” Nuad said, becoming angrier as he saw the chief about to decide against him. “He is not one of us. Sooner or later he will lead his king to our mine.”

  “Will he?” Tuala said.

  “Of course he will! Or do you place all your hopes in this man’s honor? I tell you he has none!”