The Ancient Breed (2 page)

What puzzled de Leon was how pristine the strange stones remained in the middle of this tropical Hell. It appeared as if they possessed an extraordinary ability to repel lichens, moss, vines, and mildew. He surveyed the far end of the site and saw two tall white stone columns that were separated by eight feet of tangled undergrowth; each column was crudely equipped with a pair of polished manacles affixed near the top and bottom. Too well polished to suit de Leon’s suspicious mind. He began to doubt the Arawak’s true intensions. This inland journey might well be part of an elaborate savage ambush. A
cannibal
ambush.

The young guide motioned for de Leon to follow him and the captain cautiously complied, his mind and sword at the ready. A small single-story, windowless building that was constructed from the same peculiar stones as the sacrificial circle lay hidden in the deep morning shadows beyond the pillars. He and his guide circled the strange structure and discovered no opening. His trepidation escalated.

The Arawak knelt and faced the south side of the square structure and chanted in his primitive language. Suddenly the young man stood and the wall vanished.

“What kind of witchcraft is this!” de Leon roared, unexpectedly losing some of his courage.

The Arawak vigorously shook his head and pointed into the darkness inside the building. He unfolded an empty water bladder from his belt that matched the full one attached at his hip and presented it to de Leon.

Ponce de Leon understood immediately. The boy wanted him to fill the bladder from the magical spring. The guide pointed into the building, then stepped inside. Despite his reservations, de Leon followed. It wouldn’t do for his men to witness him display fear of any kind.

A steep marble stairway descended into the dank underground air, and he was again mystified how the steps remained bone dry despite the thick
Pascua de Florida
humidity. A faint illumination from the strange stones bordering the staircase dispelled the darkness, and de Leon was perplexed by this seeming magic. In the distance, he heard the faint splashing of falling water. He picked up his pace. The fountain had to be down there. Maybe this wasn’t a trap after all.

When the two reached the bottom, they found themselves staring into a luminous, domed grotto that measured eighty feet from wall-to-wall and towered thirty feet above them. The captain gasped. In the center, he spotted a pool of the clearest water that he had ever seen. A white glow emanated from the bottom as a tumbling rainbow cataract plunged from the dome’s ceiling and cleaved the pool’s surface into a thousand shimmering diamonds.

Ponce de Leon was awestruck. The Arawak’s intensions were genuine after all, and now after decades of fruitless searching, the captain had finally realized his dream. The discovery of the infamous, yet elusive fountain of eternal youth.

“Go back and get the others!” he shouted at the young guide. When the Arawak stared quizzically at him, de Leon pointed repeatedly at the stairs. The Arawak nodded and hurried away. Before long, twenty of de Leon’s soldiers joined him at the edge of the pool.

“Is it safe?” one of the old men asked. “Or be this the Devil’s work?”

“I ain’t goin’ to listen to no mar of yar yellar-belly claptrap, Mahoney! The Devil be damned, I’m goin’ ta turn back the clock ta when this scurvy ole buccaneer was a lady-killer,” another soldier replied tersely and leaped into the pool, clothes and all.

Within minutes, the twelve old sailors were splashing, shouting and drinking the refreshing liquid by the cupped handfuls. The Arawak dipped de Leon’s empty bladder into the pool and filled it for his benefactor. The captain secured it to his belt.

“Enough!” de Leon shouted. “Back to the surface to see if this is truly miracle water or just old men’s folly.”

The soldiers set up a crude encampment within the large sacrificial circle. Each of the fountain swimmers inspected themselves regularly for indications of reclaimed youth. Some declared that their age spots were disappearing. Others asserted that the gray was gradually fading from their beards.

By late afternoon, de Leon beheld amazing changes in those twelve men. Their skin became youthfully clear, their beards gradually vanished from their unnaturally smooth complexions, and their badly stained-and-decayed teeth were transformed into pearly-white chompers. It was evident that the water possessed great magical properties. Ponce de Leon allowed himself a small grin. He had done it! Tomorrow, he would name this place and claim it in the name of Spain.

As the summer sun descended into the jungle, the natives became anxious. The interpreter reminded de Leon that the Arawak had warned them that it was too dangerous to spend the night there, but the captain staunchly refused to leave. He and his men required additional time to observe the effects of the water.

“Ziiiiii Loooo!” the Arawak pleaded as if the Spaniards understood the meaning of the name.

The soldiers mocked his cowardly prostrations and tossed small stones at the frightened young man. He yowled at each stinging strike.

“You will all be dead by morning!” he shouted at his attackers in his native tongue and sprinted along the path to the river with the other natives close behind.

The men guffawed loudly before settling down to build fires and cook. After hearty helpings of food and numerous rounds of rum brought from the ships’ stores, they slipped into snoring slumbers beneath a sea of stars and an ascending crescent moon.

A rustling and light padding of feet roused Ponce de Leon in the chilly early morning hours. The moon was directly overhead as he rolled stiffly over toward the fires, but he found them extinguished. No winking embers. Just bone cold black.

He remained quiet and strained to identify the movements. Every time the padding ceased, there was grunt and an almost imperceptible slurping. He silently slid his long dagger from its sheath and warily lit the torch lying at his side. The sudden illumination unveiled a blood-spattered circle littered with corpses!

The captain watched in horror as naked dwarf-like creatures with bulbous shoulders, elbows and knees scurried from one sleeping soldier to another. They sliced each soldier’s throat with long, razor-sharp nails and sucked the spewing blood. Ponce de Leon counted the murderous creatures, each no taller than four feet. There were a dozen in all!

Holy mother of Mary! The fountain water had transformed his aged soldiers into those unholy brutes!

“Look lively!” he yelled to his still sleeping soldiers. “Ambush!”

Upon seeing the torch, the hairless creatures bared their long black fangs at de Leon and charged. With his dagger in one hand and his sword in the other, de Leon quartered them into twitching body parts when they closed within reach of his slashing blades. The surviving soldiers scrambled to their feet and joined the fray. Within minutes, the twelve hideous creatures were dispatched.

The captain inspected the grisly remains of his altered soldiers. Their skulls were disproportionately large for their shrunken frames, the ears were curved to points, and the teeth were black spikes. Their round eyes bulged and glowed like green lanterns with icy bulls-eye centers.

Their chests were massive; their feet were thick tripods. His loyal sailors had become bloodthirsty demons, de Leon reflected sadly. Temporary youth had come at a high price – their souls for a few hours of regained youth. Such a pity. At morning’s first light, he and his men would destroy the cursed structure and bury the fountain and its terrifying secret forever.

Suddenly one of his men gestured toward the columns. They glowed dimly at first, but before long the dull radiance swelled to a blinding white brilliance that dispelled the night inside the sacrificial circle. The manacles rattled and twisted wildly as if some invisible demon was attempting to free itself! The surviving soldiers wheeled toward the river and raised their swords high at the sudden clamor at the jungle’s edge.

It was only the Arawak. The soldiers returned their uneasy gazes to the columns.

“Ziiiiii Loooo!” the guide yelled frantically, pointing at the ominous columns. “We must go now!” he screamed.

Ponce de Leon didn’t need his interpreter to understand what the Arawak demanded. Retreat sounded like a damned good idea.

“To the river!” he roared to his men, but they didn’t need urging. They threw off their heavy armor and stampeded like frightened cattle toward the river.

Soulless, unworldly howls raised the hair on de Leon’s neck. Before fleeing, he chanced another glimpse at the columns and wished he hadn’t. The bony skeleton of a horrifying beast came into view between the pillars and struggled fiercely to escape the manacles. The captain rushed through both sacrificial circles, clambered onto the live oak trunk and lowered himself into a canoe. Without a word, the natives dipped their paddles deeply into the onyx waters and headed back toward the Gulf bay.

The beast’s blood-curdling howls and snarls appeared to close on the group rather than grow distant as the canoes raced away from the sacrificial site. The captain’s canoe overtook the others, because his paddlers were the strongest and most frightened of all the natives.

The beast crashed through the jungle on a course parallel to the river, its blazing blood eyes searching for the trespassers; the crescent moon provided enough light for it to see well in the thick night shadows. The delicious scent of fear fed its fury. After stalking the canoes for three miles, the beast broke through the dense tangle of jungle growth and stood on the riverbank, seeing but unseen. A growl rumbled in its savage chest.

Then it charged into the river and attacked the trailing canoe.

Its ferocious howl echoed throughout the jungle and enveloped the canoes in terror. Ponce de Leon’s head snapped back in time to see a leaping shadow descend upon the last canoe. There was a simultaneous splash and sharp crack in the blackness, and the soldiers’ and natives’ shrieks died swiftly.

“Fight it!” de Leon shouted to his men. “Kill the blasted thing!”

But without their heavy weapons and armor, his soldiers couldn’t mount an effective counter-attack. The beast quickly caught and destroyed the speeding canoes in succession, mutilating the hated trespassers before moving on to the next. Every conquest brought the demon beast closer to de Leon’s canoe, which spurred his paddlers to even greater effort.

“How much further?” he shouted anxiously at his paddlers, but the natives didn’t understand his language. They remained focused on the task at hand – survival.

Occasionally, his soldiers wounded the monstrous beast with their broad swords, but not seriously enough to slow its progress. The beast was relentless. Mile after deadly mile, the foul stench of grisly corpses enveloped de Leon and soured his soul.

There seemed to be no escape from it.

Frenetic shouts from his paddlers momentarily dispelled his thoughts of dying. The two natives swiftly beached the canoe and crashed through the misty jungle toward the beach. The beast’s horrific splashing and grunting was less than fifty feet away.

Ponce de Leon tried not to dwell on its proximity. It would only slow him down and dull his senses. Demoralize him with the hopelessness of the situation.

From the corner of his eye, de Leon noticed a swift moving shadow following him along the path to the Gulf shoreline. The Arawak! The young guide’s fist clutched the oilskin pouch that contained the crudely drawn map depicting the location of the fountain of youth. The captain seized it on the run a split second before the demon’s lethal claws penetrated the screaming guide’s chest and ripped him into quivering pieces.

It swiped at the retreating de Leon with its free hand, but the keen points merely grazed de Leon’s back and shoulders. The captain maintained his pace, oblivious to the pain. He had to make it to the shore. He didn’t want to die in that godforsaken place.

Sweat scorched his eyes as he plowed through the slapping palm fronds and thorny vines. He felt the beast’s pounding footfalls behind him. Smelled its acrid breath. Heard its raspy and uneven breathing. A ghastly shadow obliterated the moon and engulfed de Leon like a black tsunami. It was over. He was about to die. If only he could have reached . . .

The beach!

The captain stumbled onto the soft sand and loudly hailed his men as he shoved the closest longboat into the calm water and worked the oars like a madman. The creature halted beyond the reach of the lapping surf and curled its splayed toes deeply into the damp sand.

It snorted angrily, sliced the air with its lethal claws and retreated into the jungle.

Ponce de Leon related his adventure to the sailors and soldiers aboard the
San Cristobal
, but he altered the facts so that the world would never know about his tragic discovery. They listened soberly as he recounted the appalling details of a native ambush down the river and how his men had fought valiantly, but in the end they had succumbed to the savages’ superior numbers. He told them that he had been wounded during the fierce fighting, but he’d killed dozens of the savages on his return trip to the bay. And, he added, there was no fountain of youth. The Arawak’s story had been a ruse to lure his men to the slaughter.

The outraged men pleaded with their captain to return to the beach and exact a bloody revenge on the murderous curs, but de Leon refused to acquiesce. Maybe another time, he told them, in an attempt to subdue their misguided passion.

Ponce de Leon knew in his heart that this would be his final voyage. The beast’s talons had singed his soul and injected death into his blood. He was certain that the evil malignancy would spread throughout his body until it claimed his life.

He was a dead man walking.

After the
San Cristobal
had sailed safely out of the bay, the captain stuffed the Arawak’s oilskin pouch and the bladder that was swollen from the cursed water into a golden chest. As dawn dispelled the sky’s raven shroud, de Leon limped to the ship’s stern rail, made certain that no one was watching, and dropped the chest overboard. It sank quickly into the ship’s foamy wake.

No one will ever suffer the fountain of youth’s curse again, he vowed. Stretching, he inhaled the crisp sea air. It was time to visit his beloved Havana and celebrate life during his remaining days.

Death would come knocking soon enough.