Waiting For Columbus (6 page)

“I think he’s under a lot of stress,” she says. She pulls hard on the rope and ties a knot, then tosses the bag into the hallway. “I gather your session was less than satisfactory?”

“Isn’t this the work of orderlies? Or nursing assistants?”

“I don’t mind helping out where I can.”

“Alternate persona, my ass,” he mutters. “Never heard of such a thing. I do know about Vikings, though. Everyone’s heard about Vikings.”

Fourteen years
before
Columbus came to Palos with three ships in the harbor; fourteen years
before
he was to embark on an incredible, unprecedented, and courageous journey; fourteen years
before
all of this, he was on the open ocean near Iceland and had a chance meeting that connected the dots—sparked his obsession into a full-fledged fire.

It’s a shouted conversation above howling wind and rain across the bows of two ships bobbing in the ocean off the coast of Iceland. Three men from three different lands who speak three different languages shout back and forth. The two vessels are loosely lashed together. Crew members from each craft keep a distance with their oars—pushing and giving way in order to maintain a half stability. This is a full-time fight against crashing together. Eight-foot swells don’t help. These rising and falling motions, and the blustering wind, are proving to be great inconveniences to conversation. The man from Britain, called Hardy, barely translates between Columbus and the big Norseman.

“WHAT’S HE SAYING?” Columbus screams above the wind, frowning.

All three men are soaked by a wave that sprays a fanned-out sheet of icy water across both vessels.

Water dripping in rivulets from his nose, Hardy screams: “HE SAYS THERE ARE TALES ABOUT A LAND TO THE WEST.”

“WEST? WHAT DOES HE MEAN WEST?” Columbus is thinking this is a joke. And then he thinks it could be the break he’s been waiting for, and then he thinks it’s a cruel joke, and then …

Hardy begins to translate but Columbus stops him. “IS HE SURE THAT HE MEANS WEST? GET HIM TO POINT TOWARD THE WEST.”

Hardy begins again to translate and Columbus stops him again. “ASK HIM IF HE’D TELL US ONE OF THE TALES ABOUT THIS LAND.”

Hardy finally delivers his message and the Norseman smiles before he speaks.

The Briton translates: “HE SAYS THERE’S A LAND BEYOND THE WESTERN SEA. HE SAYS THEY DO NOT GO THERE. BUT THERE ARE TALES OF SUCH A LAND. HE SAYS THEY ARE VERY OLD TALES. HE ALSO SAYS HE IS NOT GOING TO POINT.”

“WELL ASK HIM HOW LONG IT TOOK THE PEOPLE OF THESE TALES TO SAIL THERE.”

“HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE THERE.”

“WHAT?”

“MONSTERS.”

“BUT HOW LONG DID IT TAKE TO GET THERE? AND WHERE DID THESE JOURNEYS BEGIN? HOW DID THEY NAVIGATE? BY WHICH STARS?”

Hardy and the Norseman scream back and forth at each other, the Briton pointing west several times. Finally, the Norseman shakes his head.

“HE SAYS THEY ARE JUST STORIES. SAGAS. HE SAYS DEMONS LIVE—”

“BUT HOW LONG WOULD IT TAKE TO SAIL THERE?” Columbus says. “ASK HIM AGAIN. HOW FAR?”

“WHAT?” Hardy screams.

“LET’S GO INSIDE THE CABIN! LET’S GET OUT OF THIS DAMNED RAIN.” Columbus points toward the door. “ASK HIM OVER.” He points at the cabin and then at the Norseman and back again.

They both reach out a hand to the Norseman and pull him across. This maneuver is a trick of balance and timing between the rising and falling ocean, and the expanding and contracting gap between boats. A miscalculation could be deadly.

Columbus marvels at the odd-looking craft with its dragon’s head. It’s the only contact they’ve had since leaving Britain.

“Land is all around us,” the Norseman says, “to the west and to the east. My people have always known it.” They are huddled in the dim light of the small lower cabin. Chickens cluck in a corner.

“What do you mean?” Columbus says. “What do you mean there is land all around?”

“In every direction. My people believe there is land in all the directions. To the north and the south, east and west.”

“Do your sagas mention the distance to the west?”

“This I do not know: it’s not far.”

“But how far? In days?”

“Not many.” The Norseman looks evenly into Columbus’s eyes. He smiles again. “From Iceland, to Greenland, and then to Vineland.”

“Vineland?”

“That’s what the sagas call it.”

“What’s it like there?”

“I cannot say. I have not been there.”

“What do your sagas say it is like?”

“It’s nice,” he says.

“Nice?”

“Beautiful. Green. And much rock.”

“So the land to the west is beautiful?”

“The sagas say so, yes.”

“And how far are these lands?”

“The sagas also say do not go there. There is only death there.”

“What?”

“Why are you so interested in this place? Why do you ask so many questions about the sagas? How is it that you are in these waters?”

A creaking sound whines through the small cabin. Steam rises from a stove in the corner. The stench of sweat and smell of wet fur blurs the air.

“We’re not so interested. Not really. Uninterested is more like it. How’s your fishing been going? As for us being here, we are … what’s
the word? We are sailing out of Britain but we have made a diversion. A deviation. A digression in order to see what is there.”

A voice from above shouts that they should move away from each other because the swells are growing.

One of the crew hands the Norseman a steaming drink. Columbus looks at him carefully. He’s a big man. So big that he looks down on both Hardy and Columbus. Light-brown stringy hair. Eyes far apart and with the color of fair weather in them—an azure color they have not witnessed for a week.

“So you’re saying your people have already been to the new lands across this sea?”

The Norseman grins. His smile is generous and kind. There is almost pity hidden in this man’s face. “It’s a harsh land filled with demons. Horrible rocks and twisted trees. Twenty-five ships set out and only fourteen arrived. Many of our people were killed. We will not try to make a home there again.”

Columbus tries to focus. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe and think of something to say. Go slow. “Why not go back? I mean to these new lands.”

“These lands are not new. Our sagas date back five times a hundred years. There is nothing new about these lands.” The Norseman stands.

The ship rolls to the port side and the sailors adjust their stance. They recognize the danger in that sudden shift and begin to move to the upper deck.

The Norseman waits for the right moment and then jumps to his ship where three of his fellow sailors stop his momentum. He disappears belowdecks. His crewmen unfasten mooring lines and the two ships begin to drift apart.

The vessels are thirty feet apart when the Norseman reappears from below. He tosses a leather bundle across the gap and the Briton catches it.

They wave to each other.
“Watch out for the Skraelings!”
the Norseman shouts.

“What did he say? Sky rings?” Columbus looks to Hardy but Hardy only shrugs.

In the cabin, Columbus opens the bundle. Inside are three stones.

“What the hell?” he says.

“Rocks,” Hardy says. “Worthless rocks.”

“This I can see.” Columbus spreads the leather wrapping flat on the table. Burned into the other side of this piece of leather is a very basic chart: Britain, Iceland, Greenland, and then jagged inlets and a large, triangular landmass on the other side of the ocean with the name Vinilanda Insula across it.

The sound of the ocean, water lapping the ship, creaking sounds. In the corner, chickens scratch at the wooden decking, looking for something left behind.

“Does this look like Japan to you?” Columbus looks up from the map and finds Hardy’s eyes. “I think this looks like Japan.”

Hardy glares at him. “How the fuck would I know? You’re not going to trust a Viking, are you? Are you daft, man? They’re a bunch of godless, filthy buggers. You’ll be sailing to your death if you give any weight to that chart. They kill and eat their own children is what I heard.”

Columbus just smiles and nods. “How is it that you were able to speak his language?”

“I’ve always had a gift with the languages,” Hardy says. “All I’ve got to do is hear it spoken. It doesn’t take much before I start to understand.”

“There were days when I could not bear humanity. Days when I was disgusted. Days when I’d seen too much death, too much cruelty, violence,
and despair,” he says. “All this, added to the search for funding and support for my voyage across the Western Sea, was a heavy load.”

“I can’t imagine,” Consuela says, encouraging.

Columbus takes a bite of his ham sandwich, followed by gulping half a glass of milk. Then another bite of his sandwich. “We all need sanctuaries, Consuela—places where we can feel safe.”

When Columbus needed to escape his own mind and heart, he would go to Salvos’s bar, a hidden enclave two blocks off the river in Valdepeñas. Few people knew about it. It was widely rumored to exist. One would only wind up at this bar if somebody on the inside brought you. It’s an exclusive, unknown, run-down haven.

Salvos is a pig of a man. He’s fat like a stuffed sausage and leers at most women, but he serves decent food and cheap drinks. He runs a couple of girls in one of the upstairs rooms. Both of these women know better than to approach Columbus, who has never taken advantage of their offers. The best thing about Salvos’s bar is that it’s a relatively safe place in which to speak. Salvos may be an ugly man, but he edits his clientele carefully. There are no ears from the Holy Brotherhood. No ears from the Inquisition. No clergy. It’s not a perfect system, but after any given night, what was said at Salvos’s place was swept up in the morning, carried across the threshold, and thrown into the Jabalón River. Also, this bar is, compared to most bars along the river, well ventilated.

“Hola
, Columbus,” Salvos says. “How many days does it take to sail to Japan?” He smiles. All his smiles are a variant of lecherous. Usually Columbus feels soiled after just looking at him. Mercifully, his service is not great, and his one waitress, Sophia, takes on most of the bar.

“Ya, good one, Salvos. It gets funnier each time. Today it’s hilarious.”

“What?”

“Hilarious. It’s a word that means … really funny—mirthful.”

“I know what hilarious means. Why is it hilarious today?” Salvos finishes pouring the wine. He leans toward Columbus as he passes the drink but he does not let go of the glass. They are stuck like two planets revolving around this glass of wine. “Seriously, how does it go, my friend?” Columbus is surprised that Salvos’s breath is not foul. He’s not sure what this is about—this suddenly serious and concerned Salvos. So he is honest. He’s got nothing to lose, especially in the safety of this temenos. “I have high hopes for Spain,” he says. “But it is difficult … sometimes I … I’m daunted.”

Salvos considers this, releases the glass of wine, and whispers,
“Noli nothis permittere te terere
, my friend.”

This stops Columbus. He did not expect Latin from this man. This blessing from such an unlikely source moves him. It props up his hope. He nods his thanks at Salvos. Indeed, he won’t let the bastards grind him down. Salvos grunts and moves to the end of the bar. Columbus watches in the mirror over the bar as the doorman opens the door the distance of two hands, enough for Salvos to see who is there. Having seen, Salvos shakes his head. The doorman closes the door and delivers the bad news to the man on the outside. Perhaps he advises the bar is full, or that it’s a private party.