The Sound of Many Waters (19 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The stench inside the dead deer’s face was appalling, but when Dominic watched a massive buck prance out of the forest on the other side of the brook and regard him like an old friend, his mind became fixated on the hunt. Holding its antlered head high as if it thought of itself as royalty, the buck strutted toward him through tall grass. Dominic’s body tensed and his breathing accelerated, but with the nostrils of his deer costume sewn shut to keep its face from tearing apart, each breath ricocheted back at him as hot, gamey vapor.

He gazed to his side through the eyehole. Even though he knew it was Itori hiding within the other hollowed-out deer carcass beside him, it appeared so lifelike and natural that he had to look for the human eye peeking through to be sure. Itori held steady as the buck extended its neck over the brook to sniff him. Dominic had never been so close to a wild deer b
e
fore—so close that he could hear its breathing and smell its pungent odor and see the black-legged ticks that groped through its fur.

The buck swiveled its neck upward and sniffed the air, then lowered its head to the brook and drank. Its cheeks bulged with each sip and Dominic could hear the water gushing down its throat like a torrent, but then, mid-gulp, the buck froze. Dominic became worried when he saw what the deer saw on the water’s surface—it was his reflection as seen from beneath his deer disguise.

“Now,” whispered Itori, and at once the native lifted his bow from the grass and drew its leather string and—
thwack!
—sent an arrow into the buck’s fleecy neck. At the same time, Dominic lifted a spear and, lunging forward, rammed it into the buck’s left haunch and pulled it out. The buck rose on its hind legs and whipped its head, trying to shake Itori’s arrow.

“Again!” said Itori. Dominic reared back with the spear and slung off the deer costume as he did. Time seemed to decelerate. He looked into the frantic eyes of the buck and could envision its thought:
My brother has become man
.
Nature has come undone. All is lost. All is lost.

The confusion in the deer’s eyes brought forth a gust of memories; in a blur, Dominic saw the faces of all the people he had ever slain, their eyes rife with fear.
Let them tremble before you
. How many had he killed? For the first time in his life, he wished he knew the number.
Seek gold, glory, and God—and only in that order.
His superior’s foul ranting echoed in his head. It was a voice he had not heard since his first day in the New World, when his ship sojourned in San Agustín to take on supplies and orders.
You are to be a subjugator of barbarous pe
o
ples, Dominic, and never their equal.

“Now!” yelled Itori. The buck came down on its front hooves and Dominic rammed the spear into its chest, using all of his weight to thrust it in. Dark blood pooled around the spear shaft and the buck collapsed around it like a piece of skewered meat and Dominic pushed and pushed and let out a terrible, animalistic scream that only relented when the spear burst out of the deer’s back. He found himself leaning against warm fur. A legion of ticks—as if somehow sensing the death of their host—clambered onto Dominic like rats abandoning a sinking ship. He shoved the buck off and brushed the ticks away before they could burrow into his skin.

Dominic felt a hand on his back. He spun around and almost struck Itori, who stood looking at him with fear and concern, obviously troubled by Dominic’s excessive aggression. “Brother?” said Itori, as if to ask if he were alright.

“I told you,” snarled Dominic. “I am not your brother.”

Dominic looked down at the crumpled buck, its face halfway submerged in the brook. A steady stream of redness flowed downstream out of its nose and waved in the current like a water snake. The rest of the deer’s body was sopping with blood and three of its legs were bent beneath it in a disturbing and unnatural position; the other leg jutted into the air. What had he done? He felt sick and bolted into the woods.

When has it ever occurred,
mused his superior,
that exploits more remarkable have been achieved over such vast distances and cultures?

Dominic kneeled beside a poplar tree, in a leafy alcove on the bank of the same small brook, completely shrouded from the world. In the water crayfish and minnows faced the current, snaring miniscule bits of flesh that flowed toward them from the kill. They were plucking life out of death, he pe
r
ceived, entombing the deer within their pea-sized gullets one particle at a time, never questioning the innate desire to pr
o
long their brief but crucial stints in the world, eyes as cold as undertakers’ while they gorged.

Whose deeds compare to Spain’s? Not even the ancient Romans or Greeks.

He shuddered when he saw his own reflection in the water. Was it even him anymore? His face and hair glistened with deer blood. His shirtless body looked no more civilized than a native’s. He splashed his head and scrubbed feverishly. The minnows went silly with the deluge of tasty sustenance that rained down from him. They swarmed in a tight ball around the largest chunk, tails lashing.

I have seen the wilderness. I know what to say. Conquest is simple, if you use my advice.

Dominic heard the
chk chk chk
of Itori butchering the buck with a whalebone adze and soon the brook ran red. All he could see of the minnows now were raindrop-like dimples on the surface.
First, kill their chief to prove your power
, said his superior,
and if that does not pacify them, kill some women and children, too
. Dominic dipped his hands in the rosy water and brought them so close to his face that he had to cross his eyes to focus. Red droplets plummeted back to the brook.
And their blood—let it run through your fingers.

Somewhere, something moved. He jerked up to look, still not sure if it was something he heard, glimpsed, or sensed in another way. He scanned his surroundings but saw only palm fronds and oak foliage. Still, it was clear to him that some living, intelligent being drew near. Dominic could feel eyes on him. His body went cold.

“Itori?” he said.

He heard a stick break deep in the dimness. Had the scent of deer flesh lured in some predator? Was the panther of his vision stalking him? A dry leaf crunched. He squinted into the forest and poised to flee. “Hello?”

A human figure, clothed only in shadow, melted out of the foliage and limped into view. A shroud of knotted hair obscured the man’s face and a scabby gash ran from his neck to his navel. His right arm was missing from the elbow down. The man parted his hair with his only hand, looked at Dominic, and opened his mouth to speak—but Dominic heard the sound of the flowing brook and nothing else. Who was this broken person standing before him? Dominic studied the man’s features for anything familiar and his eyes came to the man’s chest where a patch of lighter-colored skin bore the shape of a conch spire.

“Good God,” whispered Dominic. “Ona?”

The man turned away and stepped into the forest and vanished in its obscurity. Dominic jumped across the brook and started to pursue the man, but he suddenly stopped. If it were Ona, wouldn’t he have approached? Wouldn’t he have made contact? A chill leached up the middle of his back. Something was not right.

At dusk, Dominic and Itori returned to the village with arms full of deer meat. They gave it to the women at the cooking fire, and then Itori ushered Dominic to the chapel where they found Francisco praying inside.

“Tell,” Itori said to Dominic, and Dominic did. Francisco listened with his hands folded across his lap and his head facing downward as if still in deep prayer.

“I do not believe in ghosts,” Dominic concluded, “but I do not understand what else it could have been.”

Francisco looked up at him. “Itori says you were like an animal when you killed the deer.”

“Angry,” said Itori, nodding.

“So perhaps your mind simply tricked itself,” said Francisco. “Let us not tell anyone.”

Dominic glared at him. “Are you saying I did not see him?”

“I am simply saying that the woods can play games with a tired mind. Our journey was long. Perhaps you simply need more rest. The women have prepared a place for you, a place of your own. Come.”

They walked along the inner wall of the village. Dominic noticed a circle of women around the central fire. Dripping with firelight, they threw their arms in the air to the booms of a drum. Yaba flailed about in the shadows beyond them, thrusting his staff in the air and shrieking. “
Ayyyyeeee!
”

“The crops need rain,” said Francisco. “When it comes, they will think Yaba’s invocation worked. They do not know that I have been praying for rain all day.”

Francisco led him to a small hut. When they entered, dry, comfortable warmth embraced Dominic. He saw a hardwood cot covered in animal furs. Below it, a shallow pit filled with coals emitted a specter of smoke and a pleasant light. On the opposite side of the hut, a clay bowl filled with water and a basket of roasted hickory nuts sat atop a table carved from a single piece of wood.

Dominic lay on the cot and ran his fingers through the soft fur. His body hummed with a feeling like warmth and coolness combined, something he never felt in any of the Spanish villas and colonial mansions he had ever lived in. Despite its simplicity—or perhaps because of it—he liked his new home.

“This will do,” he said.

“For now,” said Francisco, “it will have to.”

Dominic crossed his arms. “When will you give back my sword?”

“When God tells me to. Goodnight.” Francisco swirled out of the hut.

Dominic stared up at the finely-woven thatch roof. “My hovel,” he said.

He closed his eyes but behind his eyelids he saw the mysterious figure in the woods. In an ongoing loop, the man staggered into view, looked at Dominic, said something inaudible, and then stepped into oblivion. Dominic knew he would not be able to sleep—whenever his mind entangled itself around something, it did not relent, no matter how exhausted he was.

He slunk through the low doorway of his hut and crept out of the village, not breathing until he made it through the village entrance. The direction to the hunting grounds took him down the middle trail, first past the shell mound, and then along the perimeter of the burial ground. The partial moon overhead strew droplets of silver on the tall grass, giving him enough light to follow the trail. Mosquitos whined in his ears. He batted them away. As he came to the far end of the burial ground, he froze. There, beside Ona’s grave, stood a figure.

“Hello?” he said. The figure turned to him and in the gleaming moonlight he saw that it was Mela. He stepped toward her, but she backed away.

“Do not be afraid,” said Dominic. “I may have seen your father.”

She did not respond.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I know you do not understand me.”

“I understand you,” she replied in flawless Spanish. “But one can lie in any language.”

Dominic suddenly felt angry at Francisco. Why hadn’t the old man told him that Mela spoke his language? What other secrets was he keeping?

“I am not lying,” said Dominic. “I saw your father, I think, during the hunt.”

Mela looked at the grave. “My father is dead.”

“I thought so, too, but remember—his body is not in there.”

“You’re a Spaniard. Why would I believe you?”

“I hardly believe myself. I have seen many strange things lately. But this was different. It seemed… real.”

Mela stared at him for a long time, and then at the grave. “Take me there.”

Distant lightning sent white flickers through the woods as they trekked. Growls of thunder shook the ground beneath their bare feet. Thick clouds rolled in and extinguished the moonlight. Mela whistled a mournful tune.

“Please whistle, too,” she said.

“Why?”

“It calms storms.”

Dominic puckered his lips for a moment but then he stopped and shook his head. He wanted to please her, but he would only go so far. “You can whistle for both of us.”

When they reached the brook, Dominic shivered against a cold breeze that carried the sweet, earthy scent of looming rain. They came upon a family of foxes huddled around the bloodstained patch of grass where Itori had quartered the buck. The animals scampered into the forest, leaving behind gnawed bits of bone and sinew.

“How did he look?” said Mela.

Dominic paused to choose his words. “Not well.” He gazed at her. “I am surprised you came with me.”

“I love my father.” She leapt across the brook and turned to face Dominic. “I am one of the few who want him to be alive.”

Dominic jumped across, stumbled in the soft ground, and fell toward Mela. She caught him by his shoulders. He looked into her eyes. “Who would not want him to be alive?”

“Can you not see? Chiefdom has blackened Utina’s heart. He has fallen in love with power. He wants to bring back the old ways. He wants to take me as a lesser wife. My father would never allow these things.”

“Wife?” Dominic felt a knot form and tighten in his chest. He took Mela by the hand and led her toward the place where he had seen the man. Could they run off together? Find the coast and walk to San Agustín? She pulled her hand away, but he took it again and this time she did not retract it.