The Sound of Many Waters (21 page)

Chapter Twenty One

The sunrise that morning bore the color of an old wound, casting a deep red flush over a growing throng of natives. The crowd parted as four of the stoutest warriors in the village approached carrying Mela on a litter. A thin, androgynous person walking in front of them fanned her with palm fronds. In the wake of the litter, a dozen teenaged girls—all virgins, Dominic assumed—dropped flower petals on the trail.

Francisco shook his head. “Utina has found a way around the custom.”

“Pardon?” said Dominic. He had just joined Francisco in the assembly of onlookers.

“Instead of waiting for Mela’s hair to grow back before marrying her, he had a wig made from an otter pelt. See for yourself.”

As Mela passed by on the litter, her gaze met Dominic’s. The wig was unsightly, but otherwise—in her garland of white flowers, her gown of moss, and her bracelets and anklets made of cowrie shells and oyster pearls—Mela looked heavenly. She was crying, though, and her eyes pleaded with Dominic.
Do something.
But what could he do besides further anger Utina and get himself killed?

Utina had screamed fiercely at Dominic and Mela when he found them together in the woods the previous night. Then, red-faced and furious, he marshaled Mela back to the village, woke all the women, and ordered them to prepare a wedding.

Dominic saw Utina’s primary wife standing along the path of the litter. The morose look on her face matched the feeling in Dominic’s heart. He watched the bearers lower the litter; Mela stepped out onto a platform and stood beside Utina. Boasting a feather headdress and a bear pelt cloak, Utina found Dominic in the crowd and shot him an arrogant glare, as if to say
I win
.

I have to find my sword, thought Dominic.

Mela wiped tears off her face. Dominic craved to comfort her. He had never suffered such feelings for a woman before, and he was irritated with himself for caring about a full-blooded native so strongly. What had started as a whim of lust had developed into something much more cumbersome.

“
Aayyyeee!
” Yaba’s shriek was unmistakable. A drumbeat exploded out of the crowd and Yaba broke into a turbulent dance in front of Mela and Utina, pointing his staff at them and then whirling it around toward the rest of the village. He lit a clump of some herb and threw it burning into the sky. Ash rained down on him.

“He is calling on the spirits of the dead to bless their union,” said Francisco. “To the Timucua, the supernatural is the natural. There is no separation.”

Next, Yaba pointed at Utina’s primary wife and she approached the platform. She bowed toward Utina, and then toward Mela. Dominic watched the eyes of the two women meet. He could see the words behind their faces.

I am sorry
, said Mela.

I know
, said Utina’s wife.

Could he truly perceive peoples’ thoughts? He had not always had such stirrings going through his mind. He feared he might be going mad.

The maidens that had followed the litter now joined hands in a circle around the platform and shook their hips in smooth, sensual gyrations. The dried fish bladders hanging from their belts rattled. Dominic could not look away. As the tempo of the drumbeat hastened, so did their motions, and their bodies, sparkling with perspiration, went into a judder, and their hips quaked in rapid convulsions that screamed of carnality and raw passion. Dominic turned to see Francisco’s reaction, but the old man stared at the ground.

“The spirit is willing,” said Francisco, “but the body is weak.”

The dance subsided into a gentle swerving and a soft chorus levitated out of the maidens’ mouths. Yaba climbed onto the platform and pulled a shark-tooth knife from his belt. Ut
i
na presented his hand, palm up, and Yaba pricked it with the tip of the knife, enough to draw a few drops of blood. When Yaba turned to Mela, however, she did not offer her hand, so he grabbed it and pressed the knife deep into her palm. Blood flowed out and dribbled off her fingertips. Rage filled Dom
i
nic; he envisioned jumping onto the platform and turning the knife against Yaba’s smug face.

“This is the moment they will be forever joined,” said Francisco.

Dominic trembled. “Tell me where you put my sword.”

Francisco eyed him with concern. “You must not repay evil with evil.”

“It has never failed me in the past.”

Yaba took Utina’s wrist in his left hand and Mela’s blood-soaked one in his right and brought their hands toward each other. Gasps, however, hissed out from the rear of the crowd and in a great and sudden movement every head turned away from the platform. Utina jerked his arm away from Yaba and looked out over everyone with alarm.

“Glory to God,” said Francisco. Dominic followed Francisco’s gaze to the village entrance in time to see a figure stumble sideways and collapse.

“Father!” screamed Mela. She ripped off the wig, leapt off the platform, and ran toward the entrance. Dominic and Francisco followed.

When they reached Ona, Mela cradled him in her arms and her mother—Ona’s primary wife—held his hand, sobbing. Francisco fell to his knees beside them. “Ona,” he sighed. “What have they done to you?”

Mela kissed Ona’s swollen face. He opened his eyes and whispered something to her. She pulled him closer and stroked his hair with her fingertips. “
Shhhh
.”

Dominic had never seen a man so destroyed and yet still alive. The nub of Ona’s elbow, where his right arm had been, oozed green fluid; a piece of shattered bone protruded from it. Dirt and puss filled the enormous scar on his torso, and copious other cuts and boils were spread about his body. His hair, previously black, was now gray. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot.

Yaba and Utina approached and looked down at Ona with disgust. Yaba gave some kind of order to a few boys standing nearby.

Francisco stomped his foot. “No,” he said with clenched teeth. “
Yati
.”

Yaba and Utina glared at him. Francisco turned to Dominic and said, “We cannot let them take Ona. Help me bring him to the chapel.”

They stooped and lifted Ona by his underarms and helped him step forward. Dominic, however, stopped. “Does this mean that Ona is chief again?”

“Yes,” said Francisco. “As long as he is alive, he is chief.”

“Then hold him a moment.” Dominic walked back to Utina, stared into his eyes, and tried to let him see all the fire within. Then he ripped the conch spire necklace from Utina’s neck and said, “This belongs to the chief.”

Utina stepped toward Dominic with his fists balled but Yaba put a hand on Utina’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Utina stepped back.

Dominic could see the words burning in Utina’s dark eyes.
I will kill you, Spaniard.
Dominic, in turn, sent him back a thought of his own.
Not before I hang you from a tree with a noose made from your own intestines.

They laid Ona on a pew inside the chapel and Francisco went around the room lighting beeswax candles. He made the sign of the cross over his body and knelt beside Ona. Ona’s wives remained outside, tendering prayers and burnt offerings to the sun god, but Mela came into the chapel and stood over her father, holding his only hand so tight it looked as if she were trying to prevent him from falling into a chasm.

“
Father,
” she whispered.

Francisco and Mela hovered around Ona for the entire day, praying and singing and pacing in the small and increasingly suffocating chapel. Dominic watched from the back corner. As nightfall charred the outside air, Ona woke and tried to speak. Instead, he coughed up a wad of bloody phlegm. Again, he tried to talk, and this time he was able to whisper something into Francisco’s ear. When he had finished, he lay back on the pew. His wheezing was like wind through a barren tree.

“He says that the Ais were following him,” said Francisco, “and he hid in the woods so as not to lead them to the village, until he saw Utina’s rage last night, and then he knew he had to save the tribe.”

Ona pulled Francisco close and whispered again. Francisco looked at Mela and Dominic. “No, I said it wrong. He came to save the two of you.”

Ona coughed violently. His body shuddered and his mouth foamed and he let out a long, dreadful wail. In all of his suffering, however, he never took his eyes off Mela.

“He is dying,” Francisco said with urgency. “Mela, go get my holy water from the rectory.”

Mela looked at Francisco for a moment, and then she looked down at her trembling father. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Now!” yelled Francisco, and Mela ran out of the chapel.

“Do not be so harsh,” said Dominic. “Her father is going to die.”

“He is not going to die,” said Francisco.

“You just said he was.”

“No, I said he was dying, but we can—God can—still save him.”

“
Save
him?” Dominic looked at Ona. The native’s breaths had become long and drawn out, with at least ten seconds now lapsing between each one. Dominic had seen plenty of people die throughout his career. These, he knew, were clearly Ona’s final moments. “God cannot save this one. He may as well be in the ground already.”

Francisco looked at Dominic with certitude. “Such little faith, but are you really as rigid as you portray? Tell me, commander, if God saves this man, will you make a confession?”

“God cannot save him!” said Dominic.

“But if he does, will you confess your sins?”

Ona’s eyes had rolled back into his head and his complexion was fading to blue. “Sure, old man,” said Dominic. “If he lives, I will tell you every filthy thing I have ever done. But that will never be. He is practically a corpse.”

By the time Mela returned, Ona was unconscious and looked as gaunt as a beggar. “Father?” she whimpered.

“In this moment,” said Francisco, “it is important that both of you refrain from doubting God’s unfathomable mercy.” Francisco’s lips quivered out a silent prayer. He took the clay bowl from Mela, dipped his hand into it, and made the sign of the cross over Ona’s body. Droplets rained down as he did, but Ona did not react. Francisco then poured some of the water into his hand and dribbled it over Ona’s most prominent wounds. Ona looked as lifeless as ever.

Mela knelt beside her father and looked at Francisco. “Do you think he would want this?” she asked.

“I do not know,” said Francisco.

Mela dipped her hand in the bowl and spread the water over Ona, massaging it into his lesions. Even in her anguish, Mela looked enticing to Dominic. He hoped that when she finally realized her father was dead, he might get the opportunity to hold her and let her cry against him. He hungered to touch her again. He also pitied her—Francisco was leading her to believe that a miracle was possible, but the moment of hope had clearly passed.

“He is
dead
,” said Dominic.

Francisco frowned at him. “Do you even know the definition of faith?”

“False hope?”

“Faith, commander, is the assurance of things hoped for, and the conviction of things not seen.”

“No. It is a cruel lie.”

“Get out.” Francisco pointed at the doorway. “Go!”

As Dominic exited, he looked back to see if Mela was watching him, but she gazed only at her father. He felt a ping of jealousy as he plopped down on a bench outside the chapel, but it was nothing compared to the fury he felt toward Francisco. “Superstitious fool,” he muttered, and he remembered Yaba’s prediction from the funeral.
Ona will return from the dead, but at a terrible price.
Dominic dismissed it, though, ce
r
tain that the old shaman was no more intuitive than a catfish, and no more Godly than Francisco.

Having not slept for several days, Dominic was too exhausted to even carry himself to his hut, only a spear’s throw away. He gazed at the stars for a while. In his fatigue, howe
v
er, he saw nothing beautiful about them. His eyes began to shut but something caught his last sliver of vision and he jumped up, gazing at the heavens. He had seen plenty of shooting stars in the clear tropical nights of the Spanish Main—some of them miniscule flecks that fizzled almost instantly, and others large radiant flares that scorched the ether and disappeared behind the horizon, leaving swaths of inci
n
erated stardust that resembled the wake of ships in phosph
o
rescence—but those had all been whitish in color. The one now coursing over the village shone bright orange.

“Old man?” Dominic called out. “Have a look at this.”

The illuminated object angled down in a broad noiseless arc and plunged to the roof of a hut at the far end of the village. A great blossom of flame leapt up, coating everything in a sinister glow. Shouts and screams preceded natives who ran naked from their huts just in time to see a deluge of flaming objects descend from above. It looked as if the stars the
m
selves had decoupled from the sky.

What price?