Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) (25 page)

“Go help,” he whispers.

“I won’t leave you, Daddy,” I say, taking his hand in mine. I want to do more to help him—to
save
him—but we both know that’s not possible. It’s probably a miracle he’s survived
this
long. The best I can do is fight back tears. “Tell me who you really are, who
I
really am.”

Dad coughs up blood and I’m afraid it’s too late. But his chest still heaves, his breathing still rasps.

“Your mother doesn’t know my real identity. Please don’t tell her what I’m about to say. She’s been through a lot in life and I want her to remember me for who I
am
, not who I once was,” he says.

I nod. “I promise, you’re secret is safe with me.”

Again he smiles through the pain. That might be harder for me to see when he winces.

“I knew I could count on you. My real name is…” Dad stops to cough up more blood. He can’t have more than a few breaths left but he continues the story. “My real name is Percy Fawcett. For many years, I explored much of South America at the turn of the 20th Century. I was looking for a lost city within the jungle but instead I came across a tribe of local savages, cannibals who captured me and my… travel companions. We were about to become dinner when a mysterious woman warrior killed our captors and freed us… at least those of us that survived. I wanted to express my gratitude to her but she stayed in the shadows the entire time and ran off.

“My remaining travel companion urged me to return to England, where we were from. But the jungle felt like my home and I owed my life to the woman who saved us. For several years, we scoured the jungle looking for her. I always felt a presence close by but it was like I was chasing shadows. I never gave up, though, never stopped trying to find the woman I was indebted to. One night, I saw a bluish glow amongst the trees but was stopped by a pair of beautiful women armed with bows.

“
You cannot be here,
they told me.
You must leave this place forever.
I tried explaining to them that I only wanted to find who saved me. The two looked at each other, confused, and said that their tribe never interfered in the affairs of others. I insisted that one of their kind saved me but they still demanded that I leave.
I cannot do that,
I told them.
I must repay my debt. I will not enter your camp but will remain nearby, waiting for the moment when I can serve you.

“Their camp was near a small tributary that led to a bigger river. I headed just down-river from them and we set up our own camp. It was not an easy life living there but we had a fresh source of water, which sometimes sparkled blue in the right light and always tasted cold and fresh. I was in my late 50s at that point but living by that river made me feel stronger than when I was half that age. I lived in my camp by that river for the next 60 years waiting for the women to show up.”

“Did you say
60
years?” I ask. Dad is in bad shape though his story has been lucid up to this point. “That would’ve made you
120
years old.”

Dad chuckles at my surprise but that makes him cough and groan in pain. The arrow has plugged up most of the blood loss but the coughing loosens it just enough for more redness to cascade across his shirt.

“Yes, I was getting very old but I still felt better than when I was half that age. Still, I began to wonder how many years I had left or whether the women would ever come back. Well, they eventually did. The same two women who stopped me from entering the camp decades earlier finally arrived. Needless to say, I was amazed to see that neither of them aged a single day in 60 years. They finally had a job for me to repay my debt. I didn’t think I would be useful at such an old age but they fixed that by making me younger.”

“How did they do that?” I ask.

Dad coughs and his eyes begin to flutter. Tears stream down my face but he blinks a few times before his eyes stay open. He either didn’t hear my question or ignores it.

“I was supposed to watch over you and your mother, Celeste and Cassie, protect you in case anybody suspicious came after you. I left the jungle and returned to a much different world than I left. I didn’t understand the way things were done and quickly wound up in jail. When I got out, it took me a few months to track down you girls and I was very relieved to find you safe. I was only supposed to watch but I spoke to your mother one day and fell in love. Celeste gave me her blessing and your mother and I were soon married.

“I had a family once, a long time ago. I was so obsessed with exploring the Amazon that I failed them as a husband and a father. By the time I emerged back into the real world, they were long gone. But having your mother and you in my life—
saving
your life today—has redeemed me. Because of you, I can finally die with a great weight lifted from my shoulders…”

“Don’t talk like that. You aren’t going to die, Daddy. You
can’t
leave me.”

But we both know that’s not true. As if to prove me wrong, his breathing becomes much shallower. With a feeling of utter hopelessness, I know that each breath could be his last. I hear scurrying in the woods and raise my bow to defend my father. I want nothing more than to see the other goon, to show my father in his last moments of life that I’ve avenged him. But it’s John who suddenly appears, fresh blood running down his nose.

“What happened?” I ask.

“My soldier took the canoe that was near the river and went after your mom and Cassie in the raft,” he explains in a huff. “Cassie’s mother accused me of helping my ‘uncle.’ She punched me in the face out of nowhere and took off running through the woods down-river. But I came back here ’cause I need a quicker way. You should come with me to help.”

The thought of my father’s killer closing in on Mom and Cassie makes my blood boil. I feel that invisible hand again, this time pulling toward rescuing them. But all it takes is the sound of Dad’s wheezing to swipe that hand away.

“I won’t leave my father,” I say through tears.

“I love you, Zannia Ammo. My years as your father have been my proudest. You are a special girl but you must go now. You can help your mother; there’s no helping me now…”

With that, Dad’s eyes close and his chest stops heaving. He dies. My tears stop and I forget to breathe, the inside of my chest hollow where my heart once was.

“He wants you to help,” John says softly.

He’s not pushy but there’s urgency in his voice. Every second we stand here is one second that the other goon gets closer to my mother, one second closer to me failing my father’s last wish. Every part of my body urges me to go and protect the keeper but I can’t take my eyes off my father. Finally, I nod and hold my hand out to John, who knows to take it and guide me away.

His pull is gentle yet firm, allowing me a few steps to get my feet back under me. I feel empty inside but I still slide the old bow and quiver of arrows over my shoulders. It’s not until we pass by his unmoving soldier that a fire is lit inside me again. If John wasn’t here to lead me away, I would stop to kick the goon’s body until I felt every one of his bones break. We run by the trailer and over the parking area where John’s motorcycle is parked next to the ‘Adventure Guides’ van. He quickly starts the engine, revving it loudly. He hands me the other helmet but I hesitate to put it on.

“Who are you?
Really
?” I ask.

“There’s no time for that now,” he says dismissively. “I will tell you everything later.”

He tries to pull me behind him onto the bike but I resist. I understand the urgency of the situation but I don’t care.

“Your name,” I demand. “At least tell me what your
real
name is.”

“Get on and I will,” he promises.

I grab the helmet from him and climb on the back, not really knowing if he will fulfill his promise. He revs the engines again and spins the bike away from the dirt road. He aims us toward the forest, but not before he calls out one more thing.

“My name is Juan Ponce de Leon.”

John’s motorcycle is nothing like a dirt bike and that quickly becomes obvious. This thing is meant for pavement
only
. As we speed toward the trees, the bike bumps and swerves all over the place. I’m nearly thrown off the back several times but I squeeze John so tightly that he probably can’t breathe. But nothing slows him down and he pushes the bike’s throttle faster and faster. Any sane person would yell at him to slow down—or stop for that matter—but I trust that he’ll keep me safe. Whether that trust is totally misguided is a whole other matter…

We speed toward the burning garage and I want to close my eyes to avoid looking at my father’s body. Seeing him might cause me to start crying and lose my grip. But the one thing I
do
want to see is nowhere to be found. My insides sink when I glance toward the ground where the soldier fell and died—at least I
thought
he died. A large pool of blood stains the grass where he’d just been but the body is gone. The motorcycle speeds by in the blink of an eye but I spot the glint of a small glass vial laying on the ground.

“He’s gone!” I scream to John.

He glances back just long enough to see it’s true. He yells a word in Spanish that
can’t
be nice.

“I should’ve known they were stealing water!” he calls back to me. “I thought there was going to be more when is saved you. But don’t worry, he couldn’t have had much. The water can’t save a person hurt
too
badly. His injuries were too severe to be much of a threat to us now. I’m more concerned about these trees coming up. Hold on!”

We swerve in and out of trees, between big rocks, speed through piles of leaves that dance in our wake. I can’t say how many close calls we have with death—literally, I
can’t
say. As soon as we enter the woods, I try to peer around John but immediately duck my head, narrowly avoiding a protruding tree branch. Someone with a slower reaction time than me would’ve undoubtedly been decapitated. I bury my head into John’s back, making myself as small a target as possible. The only time I turn my head is when I spot the river just beside us.

The man I thought my father is dead, his killer is missing and the slightest wrong turn will be the end of me, too. But my thoughts don’t focus on any of those. Instead, my mind drifts back to a boring history class I took several years ago. The Spanish Armada. The conquistadors. The world’s most well-known explorers.

Ponce de Leon,
Juan
Ponce de
Leon,
John Leon. How did I not figure this out sooner? My brain always had a greater capacity to retain historical facts, more so than any other school subject. I even remember correcting history teachers a few times about their inaccuracies. But as I try to remember everything I ever learned about Ponce de Leon, all I have to do is think about what John
has
told me about himself: born in Spain, spent time living in Florida and Puerto Rico. As an explorer and sailor, he was good at charting the stars; as a soldier, he was good with weapons and fought well. But the one fact that Ponce de Leon was best known for also should’ve been the most obvious to me—this search for a mystical—and most thought
imaginary
—place.

“The fountain of youth,” I say aloud.

The motorcycle swerves dangerously close to a low branch that clips the top of my bow. I grip John so tightly that the impact nearly knocks us
both
off. The bike wobbles as we jostle around but John is strong enough to hold on and regain control. Unfortunately, my quiver gets knocked sideways and the arrows slide out. I let go of John just long enough to snatch the last arrow before it falls.

“He’s there!” John yells.

I still see only flashes of the river through the trees but finally spot the goon rowing the canoe. My blood boils at the sight of the man that murdered my father. I vow that the lone arrow I hold in my hand will wind up in that goon’s heart. I wish there’s some sort of way I can shoot him right now but not even I’m
that
good of a shot.

It’s not long before I also spot the raft on the water, just a few hundred feet ahead of the canoe. With only my mom and Cassie rowing, it’s a miracle the canoe hasn’t already caught up. The goon suddenly stands in the canoe and aims his bow. Most noise is muffled within my helmet—and the bike’s engine still
whines
loudly—but I can still hear a high-pitched shriek that can only belong to Cassie.

An explosion of tingles jabs at me like millions of tiny pinpricks. Of course we have to drive along a thicker area of forest at this very moment, the thicket of trees blocking my view of the river. The next few seconds are the longest of my life, as every catastrophic possibility runs through my mind. I imagine Mom with an arrow through her, Cassie with an arrow through her,
both
of them so close to one another that the arrow went through Cassie and then through Mom. That irrational thought
should
be laughable in its unfeasibility but it still makes me want to throw up.

When we finally emerge into a clearing beside the river, I’m relieved to see that nobody is hurt—yet. The goon’s arrow did not hit Mom or Cassie but it did strike the raft, which has lost a lot of air in the last few seconds. A deflated raft will quickly fill with water and weigh them down, making them an even easier target. John also realizes this and throttles the bike back to its maximum speed—I don’t know how much longer we can drive this fast over bumpy terrain. I glance around his body long enough to see that the river narrows just up ahead though this clearing is quickly coming to an end. Within seconds, we’ll be back in the heavy forest with little view of the two boats.

John also realizes our chance to help is running out and keeps glancing toward the river.

“Get ready to jump!” he finally calls out.

“Jump? Jump where? We’re moving too fast to jump off!” I scream.

Jumping off the bike would be suicide, especially since he doesn’t slow down at all. But when he suddenly turns hard right, I realize he doesn’t mean for us to jump off the bike—at least not onto the ground. He again revs the engines to full power and aims for a dirt embankment next to the water. John pulls back on the handlebars as we reach the embankment and we drive up it like a ramp. Before I know it, the ground has disappeared below us and we’re soaring high above the river.

I barely have time to realize we’re headed straight toward the canoe. My instinct is to hold onto John even tighter but he pries my fingers off him while we’re in mid-air. He pushes me off the bike in the direction of the sinking raft while he jumps off the other side, headed directly for the canoe. I hit the water hard and skip across the surface like a stone, every part of my body jostled painfully—thank goodness I’m still wearing the helmet. When I settle into the water and sink below the surface, I can still hear the thudding crash of the motorcycle hitting down.

This part of the river is much faster than earlier parts and my body is swept into the flow of the rapids. My helmet might help protect me from big rocks in the river but it quickly fills with water and I have to rip it off. I swim to the surface and take a deep breath—I didn’t realize I was holding my breath long before I hit the water. The water churns around me, white froth threatening to engulf my head. I try to see what’s happening on the river but only catch a glimpse of the raft up ahead. I’m suddenly hit from behind by something and worry that the goon is shooting arrows at me again. But I turn to see a piece of debris that I recognize as part of the canoe, clearly no longer intact.

I am yanked back under by the force of the water, ricocheting off several large rocks like I’m a human pinball. By the time I pass through the rapids and into calmer waters, I’m gasping for air. Somehow, the old bow remains hooked around my elbow and the last arrow is still firmly in my hand.

“Nia!” I hear a familiar voice calling out over the sound of rushing water.

“John!” another voice yells, this one much whinier.

Mom and Cassie row the deflating-raft to the side of the river and I swim to catch up. Mom jumps in the water to help me but Cassie doesn’t get off until she reaches dry land. Her face is a mask of panic as she looks out at the river; she doesn’t even give me a second glance.

“Daddy’s dead,” I blurt out between deep breaths.

Mom’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. She shakes her head. “No, you must be confused.”

“They shot him in the heart with an arrow,” I say, blubbering like a fool. My face is just as wet with tears as river water. “He’s dead, Mom. He’s dead.”

She collapses to her knees and her eyes go blank. She mutters no louder than a whisper, repeating the same thing over and over.

“I never should’ve agreed to any of this,” she says, shaking her head.

Mom doesn’t shed a tear but her look of utter shock might be worse than if she broke down in tears. With a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, I leave Mom to her grief and join Cassie looking out toward the river. If she heard what I said about my father’s death, she doesn’t express her sorrow—she doesn’t even mention it. For once, her selfishness might be better for me at this moment. Instead, she watches the water for any sign of movement. One of the motorcycle tires and half of the busted canoe suddenly emerge from the rapids.

“Where’s John?” Cassie asks worriedly. “Do you see him?”

Her concern for him pisses me off but I hate to admit that I’m just as nervous.

“What happened after I jumped off the motorcycle?”

Cassie doesn’t answer me for a few seconds and I wonder if she even heard me.

“I don’t know, it was all such a blur,” she finally says. “It looked like John and the motorcycle crashed on top of the canoe and his uncle. Your mom yelled to row to the side of the river and I didn’t see either of them again once we entered the rapids.”

For nearly a minute, we see nothing but water in the middle of the river, along with a few more busted bits of canoe. It’s not until I look near the river’s edge just upriver that I spot movement. Whoever it is moves quickly and ducks into the nearby trees before I can see who it is.

“John!” Cassie screams excitedly. “We’re over here!”

“Will you
shut up
?” I snap at her. “We don’t know who that is!”

“How
dare
you talk to me like that,” Cassie hisses at me. It takes all my willpower to stop from pushing her into the water. “It
has
to be John. He
has
to come back to me. Being with him is my fate—I wouldn’t expect
you
to understand. Besides, there’s no way John’s uncle could’ve survived a motorcycle falling…”

I tune her out, my ears focused on another sound.
Rustling
footsteps approach from the forest, growing louder by the second. I pray it’s John, too, but a sudden tingle of warning lets me know otherwise. I roughly grab Cassie’s arm—ignoring her cries of protest—and force her behind me. I take the bow off my shoulder and load my only arrow, aiming it toward the tree line.

“What are you doing? You might shoot John by – ”

Cassie shuts up when we see the goon from the canoe emerge from the forest. He’s bloody, wet, hobbling but armed with a bow—
my
bow. It’s aimed straight at me and I doubt he’ll miss my heart a second time.

“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot,” he growls.

“I could say the same thing to you,” I reply.

I want nothing more than to release the arrow, to shoot the smirking bastard who murdered my father. But I don’t flinch or make the slightest movement; in fact, I barely breathe. I have no doubt that my shooting skill is far superior to his but I can’t say the same about my weapon. John’s soldiers have shown great reaction times and solid weapons’ skills. His bow—
my bow!
—can fire much quicker than the old one in my hand. I’d be lucky to get off a good shot before his arrow would slice through my heart.

“Fine,” I say, the word like acid on my tongue.

Although there’s a good chance he’ll kill me anyway, I lower the old bow onto the ground, hopeful he’ll leave the three of us alone since we aren’t his real targets anyway. But Cassie doesn’t think so clearly—acting rational is not one of her strong suits. She picks up one of the raft oars and steps in front of me. My body nearly collapses from the resulting tingle’s intensity.

“No, Cassie. Stay behind – ”

I try to grab her arm again but she threatens to take a swipe at me with the oar. She’s pissed in the way that only she can be, without a single care for the dangerous consequences of her reaction.

“Tell me what you did to John or I’ll bash your head in with this oar,” Cassie shrieks at the killer.

“I bashed his head with a rock,” the goon snaps back. “There he is now.”

We turn back toward the water and see John’s body, face down, floating down the river, his long hair cascading around him. The current sweeps him along quickly and he doesn’t make a single move. I’m growing numb from dealing with so much shock and this moment is no different. John’s soldier could shoot me right now and I wouldn’t even flinch, wouldn’t even look away from the river as John’s body floats out of sight.