Immortal Water

by Norman Brian Van

  And the man whom he contemplated sat below in his quarters alone with his thoughts, pen once more in hand.

  This morning I go in search of the fountain. The woman has said it is deep in this land. She says the travel will be difficult and complains I bring too many men. We have decided as we close on our destination only Sotomayor will accompany us into the sacred ground. She says she fears the spirits there. They are powerful, she says, and will not accept easily our invasion. I do not question this. She is, after all, a simple woman. Her superstitions are her truth.

  But truth is mutable. We all have our lies for each other. Sometimes our lies are prevarications and sometimes they are our truths at the time. This evening I spoke my truth to pilot Sotil. I evaded him, for candour would have set him against me. What I offered was enough. It troubled him, I could tell. He is a young man and practical. Once I too laughed at legends, considered them folk tales and superstitions, but I have lived a long time in this world. I have lived long enough to know there are realms beyond us. For Sotil nothing is so important as power and riches, so I gave him half-truth in the hope he will fear me enough to accept what I offer. Only fear is real. Fear makes truth from lies. My life is proof of that.

  So I go now to face my truth, and my fear. Oh, these thoughts are too much for a simple soldier. When I took up this pen it was to journey into myself. These pages are the log of that inner voyage. And yet, after all, as I recall them, they have hardly scratched the surface.

  A knock ended his labour. He set his pen down and turned on his stool to face the doorway. Sotomayor entered, his armour glimmering in the candlelight. He looked fearsome, gigantic. He carried his helmet beneath one arm. At the crest of his morion floated an ostrich plume, its softness at odds with the steel which enclosed his body. A woollen cape was draped over his shoulders, dark like the night, rough like the man. Juan Ponce de Leon closed his book, locking it away in his sea chest.

  “It’s almost time,” Sotomayor said quietly.

  “As I thought,” Juan Ponce de Leon answered. “Where is the woman?”

  “Already in the boat. She has been there, just sitting, for half an hour. La Vieja is a peculiar creature. I still don’t understand what you see in her.”

  “We have time to talk?”

  “A little. Shall I help you with your armour?”

  “Of course. You are a good friend, Cristoval.”

  “My thanks, Don Juan, but it’s my pleasure to serve you.”

  “Help me dress. I have something to tell you; something unusual ...”

  24

  Thou Greybeard, old Wisdom, mayst boast of thy treasures; Give me with young Folly to live:

  I grant thee thy calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures; But Folly has raptures to give.

  —BURNS

  Spring — The Present

  Happy Hills is the shell of what was. In a way it is worse than the house up north for here, left just as they were, are the final artefacts of Emily. They are ornaments on the mantle, the box of playing cards for her bridge club, or her clothes hanging in the bedroom closet and he hasn’t the nerve to remove them. Even the mirage of her aroma remains and the chair she preferred and the Swedish biscuits she liked before bed and the memory, each time he turns around, of having seen her coming through a door. And the other thing is the silence. As he eats he hears the hollow clink of his knife and fork on the plate in front of him. Portion for one.

  Night is the worst. In that long hour just before bed after he has turned off the TV, when he sits for a while, then comes the lonely silence. Alcohol helps. A couple of brandies before bed sedate him enough to ease reminiscence. And after a while he begins to look forward to those quiet moments with glass in hand and the silence. A few times he has a drink with Jimmy White. But Jimmy’s stories and little platitudes begin to intrude and he finds more pleasure in drinking alone. He discovers it makes his thoughts somehow softer. He can examine them, particularly those most troubling, without the lump in his throat if he goes too deep or stays too long.

  Heart attack.

  Or the dream?

  I had those symptoms. But there’s been no recurrence.

  Have a drink.

  Better.

  Why does it have to happen like this? My body breaks down like some second hand car? Do I admit to a heart attack?

  Have a drink.

  Yes.

  As I will one day quaff the water.

  Be drunk on the water of life.

  A knock on the door disturbs him. He looks at his watch: eleven-thirty. It can be no one he knows. He has cut his ties with the tennis group. It could not be Jimmy, for Jimmy is always in bed by now. There is no one else. No one has reason. He heaves himself up from the chair, loses balance and grasps at the chair arm, then weaves an unsteady path to the door. Knowing he is drunk, he composes himself before opening it. There will be no gossip tomorrow about the widower in number fifty nine, drinking to forget.

  “How do, Mr. Porter.” Darlene Skanes stands in the doorway. “I come down to pick up this month’s rent check for my daddy.”

  He has seen her one or two times since his return. She has smiled at him. He hasn’t responded, his despair and fear and unanswered dreams so deep they become the sole element in his life. He has forgotten everything else since Emily’s death: the fight with Robert, Dr. Bush’s joke and the night in the hotel room in Orlando. He does not want to die. He has seen Emily die and he does not want it. He is desperate to somehow be young again. Why would his heart stop now? He has always been moderate and healthy. Perhaps too much so, he thinks. How much more he could have experienced in those decades of change, the sixties and seventies. But what had he done? Got married and became a teacher. His friends had travelled to Europe or romped through rock festivals while he became stodgy and far too conservative.

  Yet here, now, standing in the doorway is a budding taste of those forbidden fruits. He knows she is not here for the rent.

  “Hello, Darlene,” Ross says, trying to be nonchalant. “I’m not late on it, am I? I thought it was due on Monday.”

  “Oh, it is,” she says, giggling. “I just thought I’d save y’all a little time.”

  “I haven’t written the cheque yet. I’ll just drop it off at the office.”

  “Oh, I kin wait. No trouble at all. You got company, Mr. Porter?”

  “No, I ...”

  “Well, why don’t I just come on in a bit while y’all write it out.”

  She is past him before he can plan his next move. The alcohol has slowed his reactions. She wears her usual halter top and skimpy shorts showing plump, young flesh along with what must be at least four-inch heels. And tonight she is wearing more makeup than usual and has teased her hair. Her fingernails are painted alternate red and blue to match the halter top. It has an American flag on it with “Love It Or Leave It” in big blue letters. Her breasts swell beneath the thin material. This girl has beautiful breasts and for the first time Ross notices the sensuous pout of her mouth.

  “You wouldn’t have any bourbon at all?” She titters again. “I been down to Calhoon’s tonight with the girls. Go every Saturday. Real good band tonight.”

  “That’s why you’re dressed up.”

  “You like it?” She turns in the middle of the floor trying to pose like a model. She slips a little in her high heels and Ross knows now what has brought her here. She is drunk, too.

  “Yes, you look very nice, Darlene. I’ll write the cheque.”

  She picks up his glass, swishes the remains, and holds it out to him.

  “How ’bout a drink, Mr. Porter.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he says.

  “Better’n drinkin’ alone. Y’all have another one, too.”

  “Alright.”

  She stays. He cannot help himself. She is company in the lonely hour. She is youth in his longing for youth. They share the bottle. They talk about inconsequential things. Mostly she talks. Park gossip at first, then her friends. Sh
e tells him right now she has no boyfriend. The sucker left her behind and went out to Texas last year. She tells him how bored she is here. As she says this she leans forward reaching for the bottle and her breasts swell invitingly. She crosses her legs with those heels as she sits back and the shorts ride up her thighs.

  “Y’all seem kinda lonely down here, Mr. Porter.”

  “Call me Ross, please,” he mutters distractedly. He is not accustomed to seduction.

  “Ross. Yeah. I kinda like that name. Everybody says y’all a strange bird, Ross. Say you keep to yourself too much. I kinda like that in a man though. Private like.”

  She swims before him in the alcohol haze. He can’t seem to focus on anything but her legs, her breasts, her lips. He stammers something about enjoying his privacy, the chance to contemplate, wanting her to be impressed. A woman, a young woman, is interested in him. It is almost impossible to believe.

  “Goddamn, look at the time,” she says a little too loud. “I’d best be goin’. I been keepin’ you up.”

  She stands, unfolding from the chair: heels, legs, high riding shorts, peek-a-boo halter, fingernails, arms, shoulders, mouth, black-lined eyes, teased hair.

  “You don’t really have to go yet, do you?” He struggles out of his chair, misses his grip and falls back in a humiliating tumble. And then she is there, weaving in front of his eyes, on her knees between his legs smiling. He laughs at his own drunken folly. They laugh together. She leans forward. Her breasts push tight against the halter. Then her mouth comes to his and her tongue slips inside and his arms encircle and the kiss turns hot.

  He feels her hand on his crotch.

  “I thought I could see somethin’ growin’ down there,” she says, breaking the kiss and unzipping his fly.

  And soon they are on the floor and his hands are on those young breasts and his lips lick at them. They tear off their clothes heedless of buttons or zippers. The alcohol removes all inhibitions. And then he is in her, her legs around his back, heels floating somewhere above them and his hands run crazily over her and her fingernails scratch his back. He rams himself into her not trying for gentle. The sex and drink have taken him over. It is all that exists now. He has never done this; never had another woman. Then she is on top of him gyrating with him inside her. He feels himself pulsating, throbbing, amazed. When he ejaculates she screams and the release is overpowering, almost rejuvenating.

  She shivers, then curls around and lies beside him telling him he is good, such a man, and he feels young again. New things. Wild things. Giving him life. What would Emily think?

  In that awful instant Ross evokes her image at a cottage where she lies sunning herself in the mid-summer heat. There are insects humming among the flowers and once in a while a blue jay cackles languidly from the tree shade. He looks down at her from his lawn chair. He notices things he hasn’t before: the slight sag of flesh in her upper arms, the grey touches in her hair. There are lines around her eyes. She shades her eyes with one hand as she looks up at him.

  “Ross, do you still think I’m pretty?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “If I died, do you think you’d find someone else?”

  “You’re not going to die. And no, I don’t think so.”

  “I think you should. If it happened ...”

  “Emily, what are you talking about?”

  “You don’t do well on your own.”

  “I do so!”

  “You can hardly cook hamburger.”

  “So I’ll eat TV dinners.”

  She closes her eyes and lies back.

  Ross Porter is suddenly sobbing. His despair flows from him in a flood of anguish while Darlene, astonished, picks up her clothing and quickly dresses. She cannot close her ripped halter top which exposes her breasts. Her bra has snapped too. She holds it in her hand like a broken doll. She is shocked at his tears. She is accustomed to pleasing men, not having them weeping in tearful heaps at her feet.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Porter?” she asks, her voice loud enough to be heard above his sobs. He does not answer. His body is shaking with his distress. He cannot answer her. He cannot stop crying.

  “Get up, Mr. Porter!” she shouts. “The windows are open. People can hear you! What’s the matter with you?

  She is panicked now. If her father hears of this episode there will be literal hell to pay. She does not comprehend the need and the lust and the desperation which have driven him to their act. She cannot stop a man crying when she has no idea what he’s crying about. He should be satiated. Strong. She has given him her body. She is twenty-two years old. This is not at all what she had expected. She gathers her top together with the hand holding her bra, opens the door, and runs into the night. She turns into the shadows behind the mobile home. She cannot show herself in streetlight. Porch lights come on. People have heard them. People look out past their curtains for the source of the commotion. Her high heels trip her up when she steps on the grass. She falls in a heap, but she is up quickly, shoes off, in her hands then, running down the dark passage of back yards. She has accidentally dropped her bra.

  When she is gone, Ross recovers slightly. He abhors himself realising what he has done: the lust, the recklessness, the unthinkable betrayal of Emily. Sweet Emily. Beautiful wife. She is gone only a month and what has he done? Become animal. And why? And why particularly with that girl in this place at this time in this drunken state. He is disgusted. He struggles up then pulls up his pants and then the shame takes him again.

  He leans over the sink and vomits.

  25

  Life is short, the art long, opportunities fleeting, experience treacherous, judgment difficult.

  —HIPPOCRATES

  Spring — The Past

  “And you trust la Vieja to lead you to this water?” Sotomayor asked as he had helped Juan Ponce don his armour. He’d heard a strange and peculiar story, particularly from a man so practical and hardened as his commander. A story of a sacred water, a life giving water, a water so pure it could bring immortality. He had heard of this before, of course, in the taverns and barracks of troops, passed on through native rumour. It was said to be somewhere west in a land undiscovered. He had heard too of El Dorado, the city of gold, also hidden far to the west. There were those who believed it. He himself did not. He had had no reason to think on these tales beyond the cup of wine he drank as he heard them recited. Sotomayor took what came as he found it. Too often others embellished their stories through superstition or too much wine. And yet here before him was Juan Ponce de Leon speaking, a serious man speaking seriously of a magical water and a witch who would lead them to it.

  “I can only share with you, Cristoval, what I know from her,” Juan Ponce said softly.

  “Now I understand your bond with her,” Sotomayor said. “None of us considered her more than a comfort woman to you. She is beautiful, I admit, though a trifle older than the girls I enjoy. Still, I thought there was always something more: just after Leonor’s death her rise in your household so quickly from slave to servant to mistress. I am glad you’ve told me. You’ve answered many questions.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “I believe she has told you something. That thing itself I find hard to believe.”

  “As did I, at first. Yet as I said to Sotil today: there are countless unexplained things beyond us we have yet to witness. Who would have believed a continent between us and Cathay. Yet Balboa found another ocean and Vespucci mapped what we know of this one.”

  “You told Sotil about this scouting party? It’s purpose?” Sotomayor asked.

  “Not exactly,” Juan Ponce replied. “He was curious about our advance upriver tonight. I had to give him something. I said we were going to find a suitable site.”

  “And the other men going with us?”

  “My veterans you mean? They will follow me as I command. Yet I hold none as close as you, Cristoval. You are the only man I truly trust. As I’ve said before, you are the son I wish I
had had. So I felt it the right thing to share with you.”

  “I thank you, Don Juan. I will do your bidding because you are wise and have always had my best interests at heart. If you think the woman will lead us to your destiny, I will be with you.”

  “And you will be the only one near the end. Unless we encounter combat I intend to leave the rest behind, along with las Casas, as we close on our goal.”

  “And you’re sure of her?”

  “She is a woman, and a native. I cannot believe she could devise anything as complex as this tale. No, I am not sure. But I am sure she believes it. Whether or not it is real we shall discover for ourselves.”

  “Two boats waiting. I have command of the second?”

  “Of course. I would have it no other way.”

  Sotomayor completed his task, slipping the final buckle into place, tightening the leather straps just as he knew his friend liked them.

  “You’ll need this,” Sotomayor proffered a cape much like his own, “to cover any glint of steel. It seems there will be no moon tonight but just to be sure.”

  Juan Ponce donned the cape.

  “What of these Calusa?” Sotomayor asked. “Do you think they’ve seen us?”

  “Oh, they will know we are here,” the older man replied. “I’ve little doubt of that. But we’ll not see them until they choose to show themselves. I have some hope. The woman has told me Calos sent her to learn about us and to offer us part of his land to colonize. It is the reason Diego Colon thinks we are here.”