It is all so simple really as he recalls what he once was and how he has changed. He remembers a woman named Ilsa Pendereki who shook his hand, and his world as well, at a meet and greet teachers’ staff meeting. She’d been hired to teach Theatre Arts. Ross had argued against this. He simply could not see the sense in a theatre course. It would take students’ time away from more scholarly pursuits. It would take them away from the real world.
To Ross the school musical was one thing: bringing kids out to enjoy themselves; a solid promotion of the institute. He’d even helped with a few, building sets and props. But Ilsa would have none of that. Not for her Oklahoma or Bye Bye Birdie or even Gilbert and Sullivan. She said she wanted kids to explore themselves. Ross thought this was dangerous ground.
She was dark-haired and dark-eyed and looked far too avant-garde to be a teacher. She wore black clothing and left town each weekend for Toronto or Montreal. Ross found her suspicious. And then he saw her first productions. They were strange and alien to him, involving writhing body movements and ghostly voices. The sets and the lighting made the plays seem like dreams. Ross hated them and could not comprehend her success; for she was successful. More students enrolled in her classes each year. She won prestigious drama awards. Others on staff said she was an artist. Ross gave it no credence. She had bamboozled them with the arcane. In Department Heads’ meetings he began to wonder aloud what was happening when students relinquished the basics in favour of the esoteric. And to the woman herself he became aloof. She had asked him several times for help. Ross had refused. He thought her efforts worthless. But Emily didn’t.
“I happen to like her work, Ross.”
“But you know how I feel about what she’s doing.”
“Yes, and now you know how I feel.”
“There’s no place in school for that kind of self-indulgence. She manipulates them.”
“And are your students, when they come to you, when you explain things, are they being manipulated?”
“Of course not; it’s different.”
“I don’t think so. You give them history that lives. You let them see the humanity in it.”
“That’s what history is.”
“Not the way I was taught. All I remember is wars, politics and memorisation.”
“No wonder you don’t like it.”
“I like it when it’s human, when it touches me, when I know those were people like you and me who struggled to make better lives for themselves. Why do you think I prefer historical novels?”
“You think I do that? Teach like that?”
“I know you do. You have a gift, but so does Ilsa. You can’t close down new ways of thinking, Ross. History has to have taught you that much.”
“And I am, therefore, the old,” he said, suddenly hurt by her words.
“You’ll have to think that one out for yourself, Ross.”
Now Ross Porter finds himself a changed man. He is no longer the obstinate conservative. He has opened himself to the cryptic.
I wish Emily could see me now.
Still, as the search proceeds through weeks, nothing strikes him as familiar. He works on the premise of the dream, no matter how raw, to bring some recognition. This does not seem at all strange to him. He has discarded the old ways: the research, the studied hypothesis, the objective viewpoint, the things he has valued since he can remember. Nothing at all he has done before aids him in this. He finds himself on a quixotic journey within the primordial forests and swamps which recognise nothing more than themselves. They have lived for epochs, their secrets beyond human comprehension. And to gain those secrets one must, Ross thinks, return to the mystic. There is wisdom in the arcane, unrecognised by those who have lost touch with the source. And that wisdom of visions and dreams and signs may be the only true knowledge of man.
But the search begins to seem hopeless. So much of the land has been subsumed by development. The secret water could now lie beneath some shopping mall or condominium, its precious liquid lost underground, seeping into sewage systems or simply stopped up completely. And there is so much to search. As day after day passes with no progress, Ross feels a growing discouragement. He had hoped for a kind of ethereal guidance, some direction that would bring him to his goal. It had all seemed so fixed before, all fallen into place: the feelings, the dreams, Emily, Angela, all of it leading him to his destiny.
Yet slowly it has become less clear.
Still Angela pushes where he would have glided. The young woman offers him urgent purpose because she possesses it in abundance. She is in her element, discovering more and more of herself with each day as they trek through those subtle, hidden places. She becomes more confident and commanding, assuming leadership but leading now in an altered direction. Somehow as they have travelled, their visions have grown apart. She has something else now, removed from Ross’ fixation; dreams of her own.
“I keep remembering places we’ve been,” she tells him, “but they never seem right to you. Can you describe this dream path any clearer?”
“I’m sorry; intuition is all I’ve got.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t got you what you want, Ross. I have to thank you though. You’ve given me such a chance to explore.”
“So how do you feel about me now?” He tries bantering, but she will not take his bait. Her mind is elsewhere: caught up in the real.
“I’ve been thinking, with all this exploration, eventually I might even start my own business. I just need a business plan.”
So there it is. Youth and future. Peering into the distance where he cannot go.
She plots and plans their every day. But now it is more about eco-tourist routes than searching for an obscure spring. Now it has function for her beyond his nefarious dream. For her dream, despite her spirituality, is more actual and attainable than his. She arranges meetings with guides, naturalists, fishermen. She wants to know their secret places, the ones the maps cannot show: pools of beauty, orchid plots, places where people might revel in nature’s perfection. There is never a mention of sacred water. What they had shared becomes depleted, overwhelmed by Angela’s new agenda. The search for the fountain is too much like crawling, and the young have ever wanted to run.
He finds more and more he is helping her rather than the reverse. He is envious of her energy, jealous of her vision, or perhaps just hopelessly lost in his age. If the water will bring him youth again, it will give him the wisdom to govern that youth. For the water will not erase his experience. He admits to himself ageing does have its benefits: patience, a calmer demeanour, the knowledge one gains, the mind that grows as the body falters.
And there is the rub.
Angela begins to notice his irritability. She tries to assuage him. She is loyal but he knows very well she could leave any time. If their separate visions grow further apart, she will realize she has made a mistake and, as youth does, find a way out: perhaps with sensitivity, hopefully that, but more likely with brutal youthful decision.
And he must abide by it.
It comes to him then why the search has been empty. He has begun to follow the path of a youth. That track leads nowhere but toward the obvious. His track is the numinous. The road has not yet been made which leads to the mystical fountain. He must make his own.
I’ve done this the wrong way. I’ve been searching others’ routes, trying to find the unknown through the known.
The unknown will only be found within. Deep.
Where youth fears to go.
Their search ends one day by mutual agreement. She cannot find what he is seeking and he can no longer follow her. They pack up their gear and return to the town, each to their own places, brief goodbyes as he drops her off. Her green eyes are dreary like a turgid sea; they no longer sparkle.
31
And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope.
—SHAKESPEARE
Spring
— The Past
The woman had not exaggerated. The going was hard. After the riverbank they found themselves, the three of them, marching across grassy ground with pine trees interspersed. But then it had become boggy, the ground soft and wet underfoot. They moved quickly despite the heat of the morning. He was impatient. He wanted to know when they would reach the sacred place.
“There,” she said, pointing toward a forest of gigantic trees in the distance. As they approached the ground became worse: soaked and acrid with sludge that would suck at their feet and make the march harder. And the forest grew into huge bearded trees reaching impossible heights. They were forced to wend their way in the narrow, dark passages between the trees. The earth not earth at all but reduced to moss.
When they entered the quagmire, there seemed to be no ground. Black water; covered with air plants and ferns and the tangle of half submerged roots of the trees. She led them into the swamp, glancing over her shoulder to discover if they were afraid. She smiled again, but the smile was merely a mask. He did not trust her. He made sure he was always directly behind her, within reach of her, with Sotomayor following at his back.
It was a strange place. Silent. Predatory. The water was cool. The sun was gone, blocked by the leafy canopy far above them, though once in a while the sun would reach through and dapple the water. They would slash at the fern growth to clear their way through. The woman said this was not necessary, that they could move around such tangles, but neither man wished to detour. They had never done so before and would not now. They barged straight ahead clearing a passage where none had ever before existed. It gave them a sense of control.
Occasionally, the woman would lead them to rises in the swamp, surprising places where the vegetation changed and there was dry land. They would rest in these places, eat a little, and question the woman.
“How far now?” Juan Ponce demanded.
“A little more. Deeper in. I told you it would not be easy.”
“We’ve been wading for hours!”
“You can turn back.”
“You know better than that. Let’s push on.”
“Rest a while.”
“We’ll rest when we find it! Move on!”
The serpent struck without warning. Sotomayor slashed at a clump of ferns and then screamed. When she heard it, the woman froze. Juan Ponce caught sight of the monster slithering into the water: long, black, quick and then gone. He turned to his companion. The big man’s face had turned pale with shock. He held up his wrist. There were puncture marks, red, bruising; a trickle of blood.
“Get him to a rise,” Juan Ponce said to the woman. “Quickly. Where it’s dry.”
It took a long time. Sotomayor was silent, lost in himself. He seemed to want no assistance, shaking off Juan Ponce’s helping arm, slogging in front of him, following the woman. They came finally to a hammock. It seemed strange to Juan Ponce that this rise had taken so long to reach when the others had all seemed closer together. He suspected the woman had done this on purpose. But before he could challenge her, Sotomayor slipped as he tried to climb onto the bank. He was sweating and nauseous. His hand had swollen and Juan Ponce peeled back his shirtsleeve to see the same of the arm.
“It throbs,” Sotomayor said. “I tried to suck the poison out as we walked.”
“Lie down. I’ll cut it and try again.”
“There are leaves that will draw the poison out,” the woman said. “I can make a poultice.”
“Do it!”
“I must find the leaves.”
“Then hurry. It’s working into him.”
Using his morion as a pillow, Sotomayor lay on his back looking up into the eternity of the trees. He was trembling now and his eyes were glassy. He complained of the cold and Juan Ponce hoped it was just his wet clothing. He tried to remove his friend’s armour but the man was a giant and weighed even more in the steel which encased him. It was useless. Each time he would move him the pain would cause Sotomayor to cry out. Finally, the old man gave up. He kneeled beside his friend and, as the fever took hold, bathed his face with a dampened rag.
“I had hoped not to die like this, Don Juan,” Sotomayor said softly. “It is an ignoble way to die.”
“You will not die,” Juan Ponce whispered. “The woman has gone to find makings for a poultice.”
“The poison is already in me. As we walked I could feel it travel. Try to bury me, Don Juan. I don’t want to be food for swamp creatures.”
“The woman will be back soon,” the old man responded. It was all he could say. Suddenly Sotomayor grasped his arm. His face was beaded in sweat and his eyes gazed out from his face in panic.
“Do you think this magical fountain has properties to restore me? Perhaps that is what the woman is doing. She said it was close now.”
“It’s possible,” Juan Ponce said, comforting his friend, and felt the same hope rising.
“I can see her,” Sotomayor’s eyes widened.
“Where?”
“Over there.”
Juan Ponce looked. There was nothing.
“She isn’t back yet.”
“I saw her! I saw her face with the faces of devils! She is a witch, Don Juan!”
“There are no devils,” he said, trying to ease Sotomayor’s delirium.
“Find the fountain, Don Juan. Heal me. Convince her to heal me.” His voice was hoarse, yet childlike in its plea.
“Remember when we met?” Juan Ponce tried to offer distraction. “You were a boy then, do you recall? But even then you were a big fellow and I watched you in wrestling matches. You never lost. And I thought to myself this is a young man with potential, a man I would like to second me. And you have, Cristoval, more than you know. I’ve loved you like a son, like the son I wish I had had. And you’ve stayed more loyal to me than my own family. You and I have shared more together than ...”
“We were wrong.” The feverish face gazed up at him, sheeted in sweat.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve killed too many men. God has sent me a serpent as punishment.”
“You’re a soldier. God has nothing to do with it. They were savages.”
“Don’t you see? Don’t you see? If they paint their faces, if they are not Christian, still, they are men. Las Casas was right. We were wrong.” He turned his face away and stared vacantly up to the treetops, trying to peer through them to the sky beyond. Then he murmured softly: “I love you, Don Juan. I’ve followed you here to the end of the earth.”
He lapsed into unconsciousness, his breathing becoming shallow and sharp. He fought for breath to the end, as he had always fought. But the end came. And with a long, rattling sigh the last of his breath flowed out of his body and the soldier, armoured and girded with weapons, found peace.
Juan Ponce de Leon watched him pass and when he was dead, the old man on his knees raised his head and howled like an animal, the sound of his anguish echoing into the pillars of trees and across the black waters and was lost finally in ferns that trembled with his clamour. And then he stood peering into the timeless swamp and, realizing he was alone, began to feel fear. He called out for the woman.
“Emilia!” he wailed, time and again, loud and long, “Emilia!” using her Christian name, her slave name given her by Leonor. She had never told him her true name. He had asked and she had muttered something unpronounceable but truly, she had never told him. He knew then that she had deserted him. She had found her opening and got away. He cursed his stupidity. He had suspected somehow she would do this and yet in an instant of distraction, in the panic of wanting to help his friend, he had forgotten her cunning. “Emilia!” he cried desperately but his only answer was the echo of his voice through the forest, then silence.
“I know you are there!” he shouted. “Sotomayor has seen you!”
“I am here,” she said at last, and her voice was as dark as the water around him. Black water. And her black eyes.
“Where?” He looked around, her voice had ech
oed. He could not find its source.
“Here, Spaniard, where you cannot touch me.”
He found her. Her face was striped now with green stripes. She appeared from behind a thickness of trees, standing in a canoe flanked by devils; hard-muscled warriors with paint daubed faces, green and brown like hers. He knew he had found his hell.
“Who are they?” He croaked out the words.
“Calusa, as am I. They have been watching since we came ashore.”
“I didn’t see them.”
“They did not wish to be seen.”
“Why do they appear now?”
“To bring me back to where I belong. I am a daughter of Calos. Long ago he sent me to you, not as a sacrifice nor as a hostage, but to learn of you and your foolish people who think they can own the earth.”
“Sotomayor said you were a witch!”
“He is dead now?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad. I only wish I had been the serpent, to kill him myself.”
“And all this ... all this time with me, you plotted to return here?”
“Had it not been you I would have found another way.”
“You used me!”
“As you have used others.”
“And the fountain? The sacred water?”
“You still dream of that, old man? It is all around you. Look for a moment and finally see. Here, in this place, there is never death. Here things fall and pass through water and become of the water and after a time spring up again into life. Even your Sotomayor will live again in another form. Death, as you see it, is the end of something. Yet there is no ending. There is, instead, transformation.”
“If I drink this water?”
“It will become part of you and all it contains will live in you.”
“You lied to me!”
“You lied to yourself. You were always a simple man.”
Her words pierced him like a spear. He sank to his knees in exhaustion, his vision annihilated. He felt himself vacant, bereft of feeling, of hope. And he cried. His sobs wracked his body, wrenched at his brain as he gave way to despair. And as he cried he heard laughter and looking up saw all around him, peering out through the ferns and wild creepers as though they were part of them, faces, painted faces, surrounding him: laughing, cackling, mocking in the gibberish of their language. Each way he turned he would glimpse them appearing then reappearing in some other place. He could not escape them; as if they were a dream and he could not awaken. Finally he stood. What remained of his manhood he gathered around him and, quivering, spoke again to the woman.
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