The Seven Serpents Trilogy (12 page)

The mast of the
Santa Margarita
had not moved. It thrust itself out of the water for a third of its length.

Wrapped around it was a sizable square of canvas, a part of the caravel's foreward sail. I hauled it in after great effort, since it was water soaked and I needed to take care not to upset my tipsy craft.

A heavy brass band encircled the top of the mast, but it was so embedded in the wood that it wouldn't budge. I found, however, a good length of rope trailing out just below the surface of the water, which I would be able to use to make a bridle for the stallion. The strip of canvas could be fashioned into shirt, since mine was in tatters, should I be able to make myself a needle. The Indians of Isla del Oro used thorns and fish bones for this purpose and fiber for thread.

The water was as clear as air. The
Santa Margarita
lay upon a jagged reef, broken amidships, the fore part lying on its side, the stern and main deck sitting upright.

I expected to see many drowned men there among the wreckage, but I saw only three. Two sailors who grasped each other in a death grip were wedged be tween the ship's broken ribs. The third drowned man I recognized. It was Baltasar Guzmán. He lay at the foot of the companionway, apparently entangled in wreck age as he started to climb out of the hold. A gold nugget was clasped to his chest. Small, bright-colored fish swam in and out of his trailing beard.

I did not give up the thought that Don Luis had man aged to save himself, for he was a fearless swimmer. In stead of swimming to the island as I had done, he could have gone north, to the coast that lay farther from the
Santa Margarita
.

I was keenly disappointed at having failed to salvage much that could be used. In the wreck were chests of salt meat, tools of every description, cordage, nails and iron straps, watertight kegs of powder, muskets, lances and swords with which to defend myself—all of use, all in water too deep for me to reach.

I felt better when, three days later, in the wake of a strong north wind, the
Santa Margarita's
mast pointed straight toward heaven and then, as I watched from the beach, slowly sank from view. No longer would I be mocked by her presence.

For the first week I lived on clams that I gathered in the estuary, small ones the size of my little finger, using my bare feet to locate them. I was tired already of eat ing these delicacies raw as they came from the sea and thought longingly of how they would taste cooked with a rasher of bacon and paved with eggs. Bacon I did not possess, but eggs, turtle eggs by the dozen, were to be found along the shore. What I really lacked was fire.

Recalling from my days on Isla del Oro that fire could be made by twirling the point of a stick in a soft, dry piece of wood, I spent an afternoon gathering materials.

A suitable stick I found on the beach. The dry wood and tinder were harder to come by, all the wood along the beach and around the edge of the jungle being soaked with ocean and rain. But I managed to collect a handful of dustlike particles from inside my hollow log, which I carefully arranged in a cupped rock, as I had seen it done on the island, placed my pointed stick in the midst of the pieces, and began to move it rapidly back and forth between my palms.

The twirling went on for the better part of an hour, the pile of scrapings steadily diminishing, until at last, as dusk came, it disappeared, having yielded not a single spark, let alone living fire.

This failure discouraged me completely, to the point that for one whole day I sat near my log more or less staring at the ground. I did have enough energy, however, with some effort, to go into the jungle and gather fruit for my supper.

While there I encountered an animal that the Indians on Isla del Oro called a
hay
and I later learned it was a tree sloth. The cacique's youngest son had one of these animals as a pet, and it had amused me to watch it climb down from its perch to be fed, taking half an hour to go three feet.

This one was not feeding but hanging upside down, holding on to a branch with its three-toed feet. It kept blinking its eyes at me while I gathered fruit, as though it recognized me as a friend, perhaps a cousin.

For my supper, in addition to the fruit, I had heaping handfuls of berries that I found in the meadow on the way home. They were the size of my thumb, blue in color, and, though well seeded, had a sweet, melting flavor that surprised the tongue. These, the coatimundi liked.

The heat was more intense than usual, so instead of crawling into my log, I made a pallet of leaves outside the opening. As I lay there, a soft glow came into the western sky, which I took to be the moon. But when time went by and it failed to change its position in the heavens, I decided that the glow must come from the volcano I had sighted nine days before, my first day upon the island.

I had kept count of the time since leaving Seville, and because it was now the 29th of August, the feast day of St. John the Baptist, I gave the volcano his illustrious name. I said it aloud, and as the name rolled across the meadow, it occurred to me that the glow must come from hot lava and that I could go there and bring back a few embers to start my own fire. Once it was started, I would tend it carefully.

With this thought in mind, I settled down to sleep, calming my stomach by thoughts of a bowl filled with cold cucumbers shredded fine, bread crumbs, a gener ous helping of oil from Ubeda, vinegar, and water fresh from the stream—a bowl of
gazpacho.
I also pictured a plate of calves' feet, and if not them, a cow's head, however tough it might be.

I must have fallen asleep, but not for long, for when I opened my eyes a pack of small animals had taken up a position not more than twenty paces away. They were squatting bunched together in a half circle. In the glow of the volcano their eyes glittered like mica, and sounds issued from their mouths, small grunts and a chattering of teeth, as if they were talking to each other.

I jumped to my feet and threw a length of tree limb in their direction. They instantly disappeared, but when I lay down again they were back, sitting in a half circle, closer this time, so close that I could make out that they were a species of dog, the same animal I had seen on Isla del Oro, which hunted in packs and was captured, fattened, and eaten by the Indians. Their heads were round as a ball, their large eyes bulged, but their pecu liar characteristic was that they were pink skinned and scanty of hair.

The little pink dogs went on chattering to themselves. Close to me now, they gave off a strong, sickening odor, as if they had recently gorged themselves on carrion. They chattered until the moon rose then quietly trotted away through the grass and disappeared.

I fell asleep, determined, as I thought of the sloth hanging upside down in the jungle, blinking its eyes at me in a fraternal way, of the sloth on Isla del Oro who moved when it did move at the pace of a foot an hour, determined somehow to make a fire. Besides furnishing edible food, the flames would afford me a small meas ure of protection.

But first I would attend to the stallion. Then to the building of a hut, since each morning I crawled out of the log more tired than when I had crawled into it.

 

I
WAS NOT A HORSEMAN.
I
HAD NEVER BEEN ASTRIDE THE STALLION, BUT
I knew from the riding I had done, most of it on the broad back of a donkey, and from watching Don Luis, how a good horseman should hold the reins, handle the bit, how to put spurs to the animal's flank and when. I lacked everything—spurs, bridle, a bit, a saddle—but all of them I would somehow contrive.

I cut the rope I had salvaged from the wreck and used it as a tether and tied it in such a way that it fitted snugly around Bravo's muzzle. To this headstall I fastened two lengths of rope to serve as reins. The result was crude and somewhat of a surprise to the stallion, who, used to the best of harness, winced and shied away when I tried to slip it over his head. He gave me a dark glance from his rolling eyes that made me feel that I did not know what I was up to. Accustomed to Don Luis's arrogant commands and sharp spurs, he took me at once for someone he could bully. I liked Bravo and admired his beauty, but this was not enough. I had to win his re spect. More than that, I had to win it by showing him who was the master.

I collected a bundle of moss from the jungle to serve as saddle, thinking to stuff it into a sack. But the thorns I was forced to use to bind the whole together proved bothersome, so I gave up the idea of a saddle and de cided to ride the stallion bareback.

By evening, having labored since noon, I was ready to make the attempt. I led Bravo to my log and climbed upon it. I spoke to him softly, repeating words that I had heard Don Luis use. Words such as “
hombre
” and “
amigo
” and blandishments like “
Mira, señor, el león bravo
(Look, sir, brave lion).”

I eased myself onto the stallion's back, holding the reins in one hand as I had seen it done before. He didn't rear up on his hind legs, but he did make two leaps, the second of which sent me sprawling in the grass. I tried again, this time remaining on his back for three short leaps.

The meadow was strewn with gray rocks thrown there, I presumed, by the volcano. Fearing a cracked head, I led the stallion to the beach, where the sand proved softer to fall upon. I gave up the idea of trying to control him by gripping the reins. Instead, I grasped his long, thick mane and hung on, letting him take me where he willed. Thus I labored until nightfall.

The next morning I was too stiff to ride, but in the af ternoon I braved the ordeal again. By dusk I had learned to stay on the stallion's back without clutching his mane. At the end of the week I could control him with the reins except when he got it into his head to stand on his hind legs or kick up his heels. At these times I closed my eyes and hung on.

I had plenty of time to perfect my horsemanship, so at once I began the construction of a hut. It didn't prove as difficult as I thought it would be, for near the shore was a large pile of lava, made up of rocks of various sizes, none too heavy for me to handle. I simply shifted them around to form an enclosure seven paces in length and five paces in width. The crevices between the rocks I filled with mud from the estuary.

This took me six days. I then set about the gathering of materials for a roof. The task would have been much easier if I had used the stallion as a pack horse. But he was such a magnificent animal that I couldn't bring my self to pile burdens on his back. As it was, I piled them on my own back and carried branches and palm fronds from the jungle, withes from the mangroves at the head of the estuary, and mud to bind them together.

This task wasn't easy, because I had little knowledge of how even a simple house should be built, though I had lived in one all of my life. But in the end, after two hard weeks of toil, I owned a dwelling that—while it lacked windows, had only an opening for a door, a roof that was too low and on which the thatch would prob ably leak—still promised more comfort than my hollow log.

 

A
T DAWN, AFTER THE FIRST NIGHT IN MY NEW HOME
, I
SET ABOUT THE
making of a pair of boots. The little amount of walking I had done had left me with tender feet, too tender for me to attempt a long barefoot walk to the volcano, which I judged to be distant some two or three leagues. It would have been much better had I been able to ride the stallion, but the jungle was so dense that such a journey was impossible.

The boot I had recovered on the beach was shrunken out of shape, but it furnished me with enough leather for two thick soles. These I cut out in a crude pattern to suit my feet, beating the leather with rock against rock, using sand and the sharp edges of many seashells.

It took me two days to make the soles, three days to cut out part of the canvas I had retrieved from the wreck. At the end of a week I owned a pair of boots with open toes and heels and cloth tops that also served as leggings—not pinked cordovan, I must say. I also made myself a rough shirt out of what was left of the sail, a sleeveless poncho without a collar, using thorns to pin it together.

The next morning, in my new boots and shirt, with a conch shell, from the beach, that was large enough to carry a good quantity of coals, I set off.

The plume of feathery smoke that rose from the volcano gave me a sighting. Wherever I might be along the way, it would be my guide. I took no food, thinking to gather fruit when hungry, and no water, since there was nothing to carry it in.

It was very hot, steaming and cloudless, though the day had just begun, with the result that, before I had gone half a league up a steep slope, through trees and heavy brush, I was forced to stop for breath.

Farther along I came to a stream and, resting on its bank, counted many troutlets lying on the bottom among the stones. Trees heavy with fruit grew every where, and bushes hung thick with black and red berries. I took note of this sylvan place as a future source of food.

Following the stream, I entered a cathedral-like grove. The trees, which were of a variety I'd never seen before, had delicate, transparent leaves the shape of coins, fastened to branches at such an angle that, as I passed among them and stirred the air, they seemed to turn full circle on their stems.

A heavy odor of many fragrances surrounded me as I moved along—of flowers blooming somewhere out of sight, of leaves and moss wet from rain, and the linger ing smell of some sweet bush. Far above me through rents in the foliage, I caught glimpses of the sky, a startling blue, since I was traveling in emerald shadow.

Orchids grew everywhere, and butterflies that looked like orchids danced in the green twilight. A flock of friendly parrots followed for a while, flying from tree to tree, waiting for me to pass, then flying on ahead to wait until I passed again, shrieking all the while. Bright-billed toucans, holding in their claws the same kind of fruit I often had for supper, stopped eating to watch me. In the near distance a waterfall came into view, the stream leaping wildly out as if to free itself from the earth.