Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  “They must have been quite primitive.”

  “Well, just building those mounds indicates they were fairly sophisticated.”

  Emily’s interest is piqued. She leans closer to the table.

  “What kind of social structure did they have?”

  “They had what the Spanish called a cacique, obviously a chief. Hereditary position as far as I can make out. Only allowed to marry his sisters or cousins.”

  “Like the pharaohs.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did they have a similar religion?”

  “They were animists. I’ll show you the pictures of masks they made; wooden masks representing spirits.”

  “But how did they live?”

  “Hunter-gatherers: lived off the land and sea. No agriculture other than harvesting what grew wild. There’s no mention yet but I’m sure they must have traded with other tribes.”

  “They must have been ripe picking for the Spanish.”

  “From what I’ve read they caused the first explorers real trouble.”

  “And the library girl said we could see where they lived?”

  “Some remains. There’s a place called Mound Key and apparently some kind of bird sanctuary near here. You can canoe through the swamps and come across ancient mounds they built from shells. I’d like to go.”

  “What about mosquitoes? It is a swamp.”

  “This is winter. There won’t be any mosquitoes.”

  “I’ll take some repellent anyway.”

  “You mean you’ll go?”

  “Of course. I’d like to see the birds. This Ding Darling reserve has quite a reputation.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I did a little reading myself.”

  “Always ahead of me, aren’t you,” he says, chuckling, feeling a touch foolish.

  “More coffee?” Emily smiles demurely.

  As he drinks his coffee Ross ruminates for an instant on the two of them shopping at the supermarket not far from their house. Emily would have her list and send him to gather a dozen eggs, some milk, and some cheese while she shopped the produce department. This was not drudgery, not when they did it together. It was one of those little things so insignificant at the time, so important in retrospect. It was the way two people, in a long love, lived together.

  At the cash register they would wait in line and look over the covers of fan magazines with their escapades of celebrities behaving badly. Emily would assume a quiet innocence, all starry eyed and blinking as she played at believing their silliness. Ross has always loved her sarcasm: funny and ever so slightly cunning yet gentle enough to laugh off.

  She is not a mean spirit. She could never be.

  The canoe is yellow fibreglass. Ross takes the stern, Emily the bow as they cast off from the little dock set within the green of the mangrove. They round a point and steer southwest down a wide channel. They paddle slowly and easily, knowing they will be out all day. Not far down the channel Emily sights an anhinga balancing on a mangrove branch, its wings spread at odd angles out from its black body, open to the air. It is a strange, beautiful bird. It peers past them from its delicate perch as if they were not even there. The wings flutter a little then expand again like a cape. It notices them, offers up a bewildering call to the air, then settles back as they pass.

  “Why does it do that, spread its wings?” Ross asks. Emily has her ornithological book in her lap, binoculars on a cord around her neck.

  “It says here” — she lowers the binoculars — “anhinga swim underwater to feed so they have no oil glands like other birds; it would increase their buoyancy, so they have to dry their feathers before they can fly.”

  “Odd bird,” he says.

  “Like you,” she says, laughing.

  It has been like this always, this sharing. With three of us then.

  On canoe trips in Algonquin Park young Robbie squirming amidships, constantly questioning. Emily answering. Ross, in the stern steering their course through the cold, clear waters. Robbie was always searching for bears on the rocks at the water’s edge. At night in the tent he would sleep between his parents and worry about a bear attack. Emily would soothe him to sleep with stories of gentle animals in the forest.

  Now there are only the two of them. Ross wonders what it will be like when he is alone. Has Emily presaged the future with her humour? Will he talk to himself, be one of those strange mutterers avoided by others? Will he become like that rare bird perched precariously in a world which does not comprehend? People will pass him by. He will be something for table talk later on in their evenings. They will not understand.

  “Oh Ross,” Emily exclaims, “look out at the water!”

  Her voice brings him out of his sad reverie. He did not think it would happen again so soon. The history was to have smothered those doubts.

  “Why can’t it?” he mutters, too loud.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.” Emily turns back toward him.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Out there. The water. See the way it ripples!”

  The channel has widened to form a big bay. In the distance are low lying islands. The morning sun reflects off the water. In some places it is placid and smooth as a mirror. In others the wind has caught it and wavelets tremble and dance making quick sparkles of the sun’s rays. It constantly changes.

  This is one thing, Ross knows, which is ageless. A Calusa warrior might have looked on this scene five hundred years past. He would have gazed out across the bay and seen the same backdrop of mangrove and sky. Would he have considered things changing? Only the water transforming in wind, only that changed, and then only fleetingly. The sea makes Ross feel insignificant. It makes even history seem small.

  And yet, that same Calusa might have been the first of his people to glimpse Spanish ships drifting in from the open sea with their big white sails; floating islands to the native, moving clouds across the water. The water might ever remain the same, but never those things upon its surface. Ross cannot imagine what a primitive man would have thought. For that man life would have changed abruptly. All he knew would have altered with that first glimpse of a civilization he’d never conceived or even dreamed of.

  Further down they find a direction buoy bobbing just off the coast of the island. They paddle into a tidal canal and suddenly are submerged in silence. The breeze cannot reach through the thickness of mangrove. They find themselves in a leafy tunnel with grey branches interlacing above them. The water beneath is motionless. The air around them is tinged with green. The stillness is petrifying. There is only the sound of their paddles dipping softly into the water. The mangrove hangs lower as they float further in. They duck their heads as they pass beneath weaved branches. There is an odour of decay. This is the primordial. This is a place where even history is a child.

  The nightmare enters his mind for an instant. This mangrove canal possesses that same feeling, that same green silence and ominous monotony as the spectral dream path. He wants to know what it means and why it recurs and seems so real and who was with him if not Emily. The mangrove seems to close in on him making him feel claustrophobic. They round a bend then and he glimpses the end of the passage; beckoning sunlight a hundred yards down. He paddles more quickly, surprising Emily. She gasps at the sudden push of the canoe. When she turns to glance back at him, he forces a smile. It is like baring his teeth but she accepts it. Through the arch they come into a saltwater lake.

  Ross slows his pace welcoming the sunlight. It is very hot here, and humid, and there are mosquitoes. Emily produces the insect repellent. They spread it on their hands and faces. It has a rancid, chemical stench. Still, he is glad she has thought to bring it.

  Emily serving drinks; Jack and Alice Voight were over for supper. Jack was in the math department. He said he’d found some interesting stocks and was sure they would appreciate. He said the product was the coming thing. He wanted to know if Ross was interested. Emily was. They talked for an hour tog
ether while Ross sat with Alice and watched television.

  When they went home he and Emily had had a fight.

  “I think we can handle it financially.” Emily was excited.

  “What about the mortgage, and Robbie’s education? We need our money for that.”

  “This investment really looks good. Jack seems to know something about it.”

  “He’s a mathematician for heaven’s sake. What does he know about business?”

  “Just think, Ross, that’s all I’m asking. We have money in the bank ...”

  “We get interest from it, and it’s safe.”

  “But Jack thinks we could make more on this.”

  “Look, I work for that money. I’m not about to throw it away on some math teacher’s concept of the future. What if it doesn’t pan out? What then? If Jack Voight had studied a little more history he might recall 1929.”

  “My ever conservative Ross ...”

  “That’s right! And we’re doing alright despite it, aren’t we? The answer is no. Let Jack Voight take his flying leap. I’m not interested.”

  Jack bought the stock and made enough money to leave teaching and set up a business of his own. The stock was for a company called Research In Motion. Emily never said anything.

  Perhaps history isn’t always the answer.

  The memory has driven away the dream. He is thankful for that. Now he stays in the present, foregoing the past and the murky future. And then they are deeper into the swamp. A water snake passes ahead of them. The snake is jet black. It weaves through the water leaving a silky ripple in its wake. There are yellow leaves dotted here and there on the mangrove and fallen leaves grown old and brown floating on the water, and always the monotonous stillness of air.

  At first they do not recognise the mound. It is so old it is part of the landscape. Perhaps it has lain here five hundred years, perhaps longer. They see it first as a strange paleness in the vegetation. Then, in the flatness of swamp the chalky rise begins to stand out. In another environment it would be a mere nothing but here it possesses significance beyond its meagre size. It might be four feet tall but if one came across an oasis in the desert, or a lush valley between mountains, or a high rise in the midst of a small town ... it would be like that ... a marked difference from everything else around it.

  There is a break in the mangrove as they pass it, a kind of landing which marks its edge. People have been here before to see it. They have left their marks where they pushed their canoe prows upon it. It is mottled and opalescent with age. It is almost holy. For a long while they study it from the canoe, lying just far enough off the landing to observe its entirety. Finally, Emily speaks. Her voice is the lowest of whispers but seems to shatter the silence.

  “My God ...”

  “I know.”

  “Here. In this place.”

  “It’s a burial mound. The guidebook says ...”

  “Don’t tell me,” she murmurs.

  “No. Later.”

  When they leave, Ross takes a photo, feeling guilty about doing so, but wanting the memento. Emily remains quiet. She does not turn around. Her paddling is lethargic. Ross begins to think it was a mistake to have brought her here.

  I did not mean to test her.

  She says nothing on the way home. They have dinner at a small six table restaurant but Emily only picks at her food. When they get to the cottage, she goes to bed. For the first time since they have arrived she does not want to see the sunset.

  For a while Ross leaves her alone, not knowing what to say. He reads again. There is nothing more on the Calusa among his few books, so he picks up an edition of the Florida Historical Quarterly. There is an article on the first European to meet them; the Spaniard, Juan Ponce de Leon. He knows the myth: the man who sought the fountain of youth. He tells himself the concept is ridiculous. But his mind cannot focus properly. His wife is alone in the bedroom in some awful solitude and he hasn’t the strength to help her. Today he has witnessed timelessness. And Emily, the innocent bystander, has come face to face with death. It was all supposed to be so simple. History, his friend and companion, has turned on him just when he needed it most.

  He closes the book.

  Now I must try to do something well.

  When he enters the bedroom, he sees she has been crying. She does not, this time, try to conceal it. She looks small and hollow and the tracks of her tears have stained her face. She lies on the bed, her head on a pillow. Ross sits and gently places his hand on her forehead. She feels cold. For an instant he fights the urge to retreat. But her eyes are pleading. More than anything now he knows she needs him. He must offer her more than his fear.

  “Are you alright, Em?” he whispers, and instantly knows he has said the wrong thing.

  “I ... I don’t want to die.”

  Mutely, he takes her in his arms, hoping his closeness will make some difference.

  “I’m frightened.”

  “We’ll find something.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “There must be,” he answers. Her head is on his shoulder. She cannot see the glitter of tears in his eyes.

  Like glass. Like shattered glass.

  9

  Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant, There’s nothing serious in mortality ...

  —SHAKESPEARE

  Spring — The Past

  The caravels used sheet anchors while a yawl conveyed Sotomayor and Miruello, his pilot, across the sea to Juan Ponce de Leon. He squinted as he watched their approach, the strong sun making the water sparkle, the ship’s boat riding the waves like a cork bouncing up and down as its sailors strained at their oars. Sotomayor clambered aboard ship, heaving his great body over the railing into the warm greeting of Juan Ponce. But Sotomayor had brought bad news.

  “The mizzen has splintered, my captain,” Sotomayor said, speaking as if he were personally at fault. “The lateen is nearly useless. Even now it barely holds in place. I must have my men rig a spar and replace it.”

  “And just now the wind favours us,” Juan Ponce growled in return. “I wonder, Cristoval, if somehow I’m destined to failure on this voyage.”

  “You’ve seen worse circumstances, Don Juan.”

  “But none, it seems, as frustrating as this.”

  “Then, by God, you should go on without us! Miruello and Sotil could plot some course. We could meet again in a few days!”

  “In uncharted waters with a vague destination?”

  “Only a thought.”

  “It can’t be helped. Until your men complete the repairs we must wait, my friend.”

  The two made their way down the crowded deck, past barrels and sacks lashed to the railings, around gangs of sailors mending hemp or scrambling to Medel’s orders. They grinned when Sotomayor passed as they never would for their captain-general. Sotomayor was their familiar, Juan Ponce thought, as the hammer is to the nail. Still, the carpenter commands. He led his lieutenant up to the stern where the pilots were busy taking their sightings.

  “At least the time will give Miruello and Sotil a chance to discover where this whore of a storm has blown us,” Sotomayor muttered. “I gather we’re far off our course.”

  “So it appears. Well, we’ll have to make the best of it. This delay will affect the men. We must find some distraction for them.”

  “I have the very thing in mind,” Sotomayor said, his big face spreading in a winsome grin.

  “Let me guess,” Juan Ponce said, smiling as well.

  “If you like.”

  “You wish me to order the steward to break out the wine?”

  “And what better time, my captain? Are we not, after all, delivered from that God-cursed storm? Safe? Whole? Filled with well-being? I’m sure the men would accept a cup in celebration, as would I. If I recall, Don Juan, you possess a wondrous madeira. A splash of that would do this sea dog some good. I have nothing on my barque but ship’s stores wine. Disgusting,
but it does in a pinch.”

  “Thus, you invite yourself to supper and make yourself popular with my men.”

  “The sign of an intelligent leader, my captain! Does your cook still prepare his excellent Galician pork pie? And perhaps stuffed peppers and polvorones!”

  “Fish stew, my voracious friend, for you and the rest of us. When we reach landfall we’ll fill ourselves full but until then, caldereta for all.”

  “You are a hard man.”

  “And you a glutton. I’ll have the pilots join us. But now fray Bartolome will wish to conduct the mass.”

  “A pity he wasn’t called directly to God in the storm,” Sotomayor said, smiling.

  “Well, he will not be called to supper, I can assure you.”

  After Vespers and at the change of the watch, Juan Ponce ordered wine for all hands off duty. Below, in his cabin, a table was set for four. He sent the witch, complaining, to visit las Casas, at once keeping his promise to the monk while ridding the men of her company. The superstitions of sailors are multitudinous and a leader must defer to them, as the carpenter must care for his tools.

  The cabin was crowded with the four men. They hunched round a board and barrel table set for the occasion with earthenware goblets, wooden bowls and spoons and a leather flagon of the promised wine. There was hard biscuit to dip in the stew and olives and onions and salted beef. Evening light seeped through the transom panes as a dim, bronze ray catching dust motes floating in the air. The steward entered with candles and set them on the table. He served the stew from an iron pot. It steamed in their bowls and its fishy fragrance wafted into their nostrils. The only ceremony was concocted by Miruello who raised his goblet in a toast to their survival and to the wisdom of Anton de Alaminos, the great pilot who had taught both he and Alonzo Sotil.

  “I take it you’ve solved the puzzle of our location.” Juan Ponce smiled at the man. Quite unlike Sotil, Miruello was a studious individual who cared less for the worldly ambitions of his compatriot. Yet the two of them shared the knowledge. Without them even Juan Ponce, who had first sailed when these young men were but children, would have been helpless. These callow pups were his navigators, the best he could find, and worth their weight in gold.