Destination Paraguay Page 5

  Chapter 4: Arazunú

  Sebastian’s heart skipped several beats. He did not move for a long time. It was all there! Well, most of it, at least. It seemed that Rodrigo and Santino had indeed taken half the plunder, but since Sebastian’s cargo was not the only cargo on the Santa Clara, most of his items were there - including the livestock, which were in a make-shift vine-and-branch corral that kept them all together. The chickens were still in their little cages. Don Segovia’s war stallion, Olympus, had been saddled and bridled, but the two mares only wore their halters. All the creatures huddled together, afraid to stray too far into the new terrain.

  While he was taking stock of his animals, the pirates disappeared into a small brick structure with a single door, two window holes, and a thatched roof. One man remained outside, stirring a large black pot that was fixed high over a blazing fire. “Lunch!” he roared. “I said, come get it!”

  “In a minute, Gus!” shouted one of the pirates who was standing in front of the door. “It’s not like that slop is going to burn.”

  “No, but it might get up and walk away,” another pirate joked. “He never cooks the meat through.”

  Gus spat in their direction. “When it burns, you’ll all be sorry.” With that, he strode into the jungle.

  “Hey, where are you going?” asked the first pirate.

  “Personal matters,” grunted Gus, who was famous for his incurable diarrhea.

  The two pirates laughed and went into the tiny hut. Still another pirate, a vicious-looking man with scars on his face, looked out the window and pointed at something, then said a few words in a low voice to his men. Immediately, the door was shut and bolted and the two windows had wooden panes put over them.

  Sebastian looked in the direction the pirate had pointed. He was shocked – tied to a tree with gags in their mouths and irons around their legs were Santino and Rodrigo! Sebastian tried not to gloat. It served them right, to be at the mercy of the pirates when they had broken trust with the crew of the Santa Clara. Live by telling lies, choke on your own words. It was a favorite saying of Don Segovia, and now Sebastian understood its meaning.

  They did present Sebastian with a new problem, though. Did he free them, or did he ignore them? What he wanted to do was walk up to them and kick them very hard, but he restrained himself. In the end he decided that letting the pirates do justice to them would be easier. If he freed them, he would be helping them attack more ships in the future. Even if he took them into his own custody and managed to keep them shackled, how would he get them to Sanctu Spiriti? One boy dragging two full-grown men would have a hard time of it. No, it was better to just leave them.

  And then there was the matter of the pirates shut up in the cabin. How long would they stay there? With them inside, and their cook in the jungle, Sebastian could wander freely around the camp. But for how long?

  So many thoughts crowded Sebastian’s brain that he had to shake his head hard from side to side to distract himself. He decided to take care of his most pressing need first – hunger.

  He stole quickly to the black pot. The soup inside smelled disgusting, but he did not matter. It had been almost two days since he had last eaten, and he could not afford to be choosy. He reached his hand toward a ladle beside the pot. As he did so, the pressure of his shirt – now dry in the sun – reminded him of the little packet he had stolen from Gato. An idea startled him. What if…

  Without stopping to consider the consequences, he fished in his shirt for the bag of sleeping powder. He dumped the entire contents of the bag into the soup, tucked it back in his shirt, and stirred the soup with the ladle.

  Santino and Rodrigo gawked at him, eyes wide open, but after a deliberate smile at them, Sebastian turned his back. Sudden regret pricked him – he might have guaranteed that the pirates would not interfere with his attempts to get his property back, but now he had ruined the only food available. Even though it smelled revolting, he had been willing to eat it.

  A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder and spun him around. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” roared the pirate cook, spitting on Sebastian as he spoke.

  Sebastian’s face turned white. He felt like fainting, he was that afraid, but he managed to stammer an answer. “I was… trying to eat, sir. I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten in days!”

  “You’re that little brat that escaped my ship, aren’t you?” Cook dug his fingers into Sebastian’s shoulders. There would be bruises in the morning. “Well, we’ll just see if you escape again. I got friends who want a good cabin boy. Or a young slave, at least. I’ll bet you’re worth your weight in ransom! Ha, ha!” He dragged Sebastian around the side of the little brick hut and pushed him to the ground. Before he knew what was happening, Sebastian found himself in irons, both around his wrist and his ankles. The pirate cook locked them securely and then hung the key back around his neck. Before he left, he bent so close to Sebastian that the boy could smell the garlicky stench of rotting breath. “The only way to get this key,” he wheezed, “is to kill me. Ha, ha!” Then he turned toward the hut and shouted, “Boys! Come see the little wharf rat I just caught. Ha, ha!”

  Sebastian watched the fat pirate waddle away and wondered if all ship cooks were so fat and so cruel.

  “What’s this? What did you find?”

  Several pirates came out to gawk at their latest prisoner. The one with the scars on his face must have been their leader. He turned to the cook and spoke in a language Sebastian recognized as Portuguese. Sebastian’s lips tightened when he realized that these pirates were both Spaniards and Portuguese – a mixture that never should have been. Spain and Portugal, though not exactly at war with each other, were not the best of friends. They competed with each other for land and trade goods, and the Portuguese were well-known as thieves.

  Sebastian’s mother had insisted that he study Portuguese, Latin, and French. Although he had resented the lessons when he was younger, he now found that he was grateful to his mother. He could understand what the pirates were saying.

  “What’s his crime?”

  “Stealing food. Can we hang him?”

  The scarred leader studied Sebastian for several long minutes, his steely blue eyes as piercing as the sword that hung by his side.

  Sebastian stared back, unwavering, although tears did spring to his eyes and he felt like crying again.

  Finally, the leader spoke directly to the boy, this time in heavily accented Spanish. “Let him be hungry a little while longer. If there’s food left when we’re done, he can have it.” He grinned a malicious grin and pointed to the three hounds who were lying in the shade. “If there’s food left. And when we’re all done.”

  Sebastian did his best to act grateful, hoping that they would eat it all right there in front of him so he could watch them drop like flies when they fell asleep. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so much. I never knew pirates could be so considerate. It’s been two days, you know…” He stopped babbling, not wanting to overdo his innocence. So far, the pirates suspected nothing.

  From his viewpoint beside the little hut, Sebastian could clearly see the pot full of soup and sleeping potion. The pirates shoved their way around it, hitting each other with their metal plates and threatening each other with loud words.

  One by one, the pirate cook ladled soup onto their plate and slammed a thick piece of fresh bread on top of it. Sebastian was appalled to see that the pirates did not use napkins or manners of any sort; they simply sopped up the soup with the bread and shoveled it into their mouths as fast as they could swallow. Some of them ate so quickly they choked, but it seemed like a game to the others to watch.

  Lunch time was done in a matter of minutes. The pirates threw their plates roughly at the pirate cook’s feet, hurling Portuguese insults as well as dishes.

  “This food isn’t even fit for the pigs, Gus.”

  “Oh, yeah? So why do you always eat so much?”

  “Because there isn’t any pig food available!”r />
  Sebastian waited in tense anticipation. The only one who had not yet eaten the soup was the cook, and he did not look hungry. Besides, what was taking the potion so long to work with the other pirates? Did he use enough? Had it somehow gotten wet, and so become useless?

  The fat cook saw the leather pouch on the ground beside the pot and bent over to pick it up. It was empty. He opened the mouth wide and held it upside down, but nothing came out. He was puzzled. Then he noticed the white powder still lining the inside of the bag. He wetted his finger, wiped the inside of the pouch, and licked his finger clean. “Doesn’t taste like sugar,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “Whose is this?”

  Not ten seconds later he collapsed close to the fire. One of the pirates saw him drop and sprinted to his side. “Captain!” he called. “Captain Mendoza!”

  The scarred pirate looked out his window, annoyed that someone would interrupt his meal. He was the only one who ate at a decent pace, chewing his bread instead of inhaling it.

  “Captain! I think Gus is dead.”

  “Dead?” Mendoza put his bread down and walked outside. “What did he choke on?”

  “Heart attack, maybe,” said another pirate who had come to watch. “He’s been complaining of pains lately.”

  Mendoza bent down to feel for a pulse on the fat man’s neck. “Not dead,” he grunted. “Sleeping.” He straightened. “Stupid lazy pig! That man’ll take a siesta anywhere. You two,” he pointed, “drag him away from here. Can’t have him catching on fire, now, can we?”

  As the two men struggled to heave Gus’s sleeping body away from the flames, Mendoza noticed the little leather pouch. “Wait,” he commanded, and lifted it up. Seeing some powder still clinging to the insides, he took a careful whiff, checking for any familiar smells. His eyebrows shot upward. “Impossible!”

  As if on cue, the two men who were dragging Gus away from the fire dropped to the ground. Another pirate keeled over, landing with a heavy thud. A fourth, already sitting on a stump, simply fell over into a patch of soft grass. The other three fell asleep while coming to see what had happened to Gus.

  Mendoza shook his head in disbelief, then rounded on Sebastian. He closed the distance between himself and the boy in several quick strides. Hauling Sebastian to his feet, he shook the boy so hard the chains rattled. He spoke in Spanish. “What did you do? Is this the same potion I gave Santino?” He looked over at Santino and Rodrigo, still chained to the tree. “Did they tell you to do this?”

  Sebastian stared at him, refusing to answer.

  Mendoza shook him even harder. Sebastian bit his tongue from the force of the shaking and let out a sharp cry. Mendoza slapped him, once, twice, then again and again. Still Sebastian would not answer. Finally, Mendoza withdrew his jagged-edge knife and held it closed to Sebastian’s throat. “Tell me now,” he said, “or I’ll kill you.”

  Sebastian had no doubt that the pirate meant what he said. “I put it in the soup,” he admitted. “Go ahead, kill me. I’m going to die out here anyway.”

  Mendoza hesitated, then raised the knife high and plunged it toward Sebastian’s heart. As he did so, he fell asleep standing up, The blow nicked Sebastian in the shoulder but did not penetrate deeply, and the pirate fell at Sebastian’s feet. 

  The day had warmed up, but it was not the heat that caused sweat to bead up on Sebastian’s brow. It was intense fear. Now he laughed uncontrollably as he realized that he was out of danger. All nine pirates were safely asleep.

  His laughter ended in an abrupt choke as another hand touched his shoulder. He turned around, ready to face another adversary, and came face-to-face with the strangest boy he had ever met.

  The boy was Sebastian’s age but not as tall, with strong muscles that rippled under sun-darkened skin. His thick black hair was cropped short on his neck, and he had two rows of black paint on his cheeks, like cat whiskers. Dressed in nothing but a leather loincloth, he had been sitting so motionless and low to the ground that, although Sebastian had glanced at him, he seemed invisible so Sebastian had not given him a second glance. Now, however, Sebastian gawked, realizing that the boy was neither Spanish nor Portuguese.

  His first Indian! Despite his father’s letters describing various tribes of Indians, Sebastian still expected them to be monsters. Columbus had described men with one foot large enough to use as an umbrella in times of rain; other tales told of men with the heads of dogs but the bodies of humans. There were even men without heads; their faces were in their chests. But this one looked normal enough - human, actually - except for his dark skin and lack of clothing. There was one thing in common: the chains. Both boys wore iron bracelets around their wrists and ankles, and both were chained to the hut.

  The boy was the first to break the awkward silence that fell between them. “What do you plan to do now?”

  Sebastian gawked at him. “You speak Spanish!”

  “Yes. I am the translator for these men.”

  “They taught you Spanish?”

  The boy hesitated. “And Portuguese, although I learned against my will. What do you plan to do now?”

  Sebastian turned to the cook. “I’m going to get the keys and get out of here. With my stuff.”

  The Indian boy merely watched as Sebastian tottered toward the fallen pirate cook. He had to take tiny steps because the ankle chains were awkward and could easily trip him. When he neared the cook, he bent down and removed the key that hung around his neck.

  It took no time at all to unlock the ankle fetters, but it was near impossible to unlock his own wrists. The angle of the lock was such that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not insert the key into the lock. Even if he miraculously managed to do so, he would not be able to turn it properly. Perhaps the Indian boy would be able to free him.

  No longer shackled, Sebastian took free and easy strides back toward the Indian boy. After unlocking the boy’s wrist and ankle chains, he held the key out to him. “Your turn,” he said, and held up his wrists.

  The Indian boy did nothing but stare at him.

  “Take the key. Unlock me,” said Sebastian. “You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” the boy said. “But why should I help you?”

  Sebastian’s jaw dropped. “I just freed you! You should return the favor!”

  “I could have escaped on my own. Without your help.”

  “Really? Who grabbed the key from the cook?”

  “I would have if you hadn’t.”

  It was a good point. Sebastian tried again. “Who put sleeping powder in their food? I did, not you.”

  “I still would have found a way to escape. I’ve seen what I came for.”

  Despite his situation, Sebastian noticed that the boy spoke with very little accent. From time to time, he mispronounced words and sometimes said them in a singsong voice, but otherwise the Spanish was perfect. “It would seem that I’m at your mercy, then. Won’t you please free me?”

  “Help an enemy?” Though he did not laugh, Sebastian sensed that the way the boy folded his arms across his chest meant the same thing in his culture.

  “I’m not your enemy. You’ve never done anything to me. Why should I fight you?”

  The boy was silent, considering. “All you white men are the same. You come to steal food and land from my people. You turn us into slaves and treat us like animals. When that no longer amuses you, you steal from yourselves. Why should I help you?”

  Sebastian looked at the ground. From the boy’s viewpoint, those words were true. But not all Spaniards were like that. He said so, and then added, “Besides, I’m not a criminal. I’m not a pirate, I’m not a slave trader.”

  “But you believe in slavery?”

  “Not at all! The Portuguese do. They even bring their own slaves from Africa to work their new sugar cane plantations. But we Spaniards do not take slaves.”

  “You Spaniards are liars. Explain, then, why I am here, taken from my people and my home – by Spaniards.�
� The boy’s brown eyes glittered dangerously.

  “I don’t know. Honestly. There are good people and bad people everywhere – even in my own country. And I bet you have some bad ones in your tribe, too. Does that make all of you bad?”

  The boy shrugged and turned to leave.

  “You tried to escape once before, and they captured you and put you in chains to prevent you from doing it again,” shouted Sebastian, hoping that his guess was right. “They’ll find you again, you know. And probably they’ll find me, too.”

  The boy stopped walking. He halfway turned his head back toward Sebastian. “You’ll just free your friends there,” and he indicated Santino and Rodrigo at their tree.

  “Look. Just help me get out of these chains. I’d rather kill myself than set those two free. They’re the reason I’m here.”

  The Indian turned around fully this time, listening. “There is truth in your voice.”

  Sebastian sighed. “All I want is to take my stuff back to my father. Those men stole it from me. I just want to get home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere on a river pretty far from here.”

  The Indian stiffened. “You’ve never been there, and yet you call it home?” He turned to leave again.

  “Wait! My family all died back in Spain! I was sent here to join my father, whom I haven’t seen in years. Please! Help me!”

  The boy kept walking and did not stop. He disappeared silently into the forest, not even disturbing twigs or leaves as he went.

  Sebastian sat down on the ground with a heavy thud. His head pounded, probably from hunger and thirst. Wedging the key between two stones, he tried to insert it that way, but the key kept falling out. After almost half an hour, his wrists were bleeding where the metal bit into them, but still he kept trying.

  “I haven’t seen my father in years, either,” said a familiar voice.

  Sebastian looked up into the face of the Indian boy.

  “I am called Arazunú, voice of the lightning,” he said as he unlocked Sebastian’s shackles. “I hear the lightning speak and I interpret its words. It is one of my gifts, although,” his eyebrows drew together in anger, “at times it is also a curse.”

  “You mean languages,” Sebastian said.

  Arazunú grunted. “I hear them, I remember them. At night, while I sleep, I dream about them. In the morning when I wake up, whatever I heard I can understand. It is the reason your people kept me so long. Everywhere we traveled, there was a new language to be learned. They would not let me go home when my time was done.” Seeing that Sebastian wanted to ask more questions, he held up his hand. “My father also has this ability. He also was taken as a slave by your Spaniards. Not by the Portuguese.”

  “Why did you help me, then?”

  “No son should be without his father.”

  The two boys looked at each other. Without words, they understood that each had his own journey to complete. They turned and parted, Arazunú back into the jungle, and Sebastian toward his livestock and furniture.

  “Good luck to each of us,” Sebastian muttered under his breath, and then rolled up his sleeves and set to work.