Destination Paraguay Read online

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  Thanks to the indefatigable herding efforts of the little mutt, it only took an hour of easy riding to reach the cluster of houses. And it was indeed Spiritu Sancti! Sebastian almost cried for joy when he saw the fort. It seemed pretty quiet, but he was still a good distance from it. As he drew closer, however, he felt that something was very wrong. The fort should have been bustling with activity – soldiers doing drills, women and children going to the market or spinning wool or making meals, shouts and orders and laughter. There was no noise, except for the quiet hum of the jungle that had grown so familiar to him.

  It was abandoned.

  At first, Sebastian could not believe it. But the vines growing over windows, and the rusty gates, and the silence of the places gave all the evidence he needed. Shocked, he entered the fort – it should have been carefully guarded to prevent invaders from going in – and searched for some sign of life. Life he found, but not in human form. There were mice and snakes and birds, and an occasional wild boar or two. But the houses were completely bare. Nothing remained – not a dropped fork, or a hidden coin, or a needle left behind by a careless woman. It was completely empty, and had been that way for what looked like years.

  Sebastian was crushed. He had reached the end of his journey only to find that there was nothing worth journeying for.

  Too numb to feel any emotions, he turned his stallion back toward their camp. He wished he had brought the rest of the animals with him, so they could at least stay in the fort stables and he under a decent roof for one night at least.

  Halfway back to his makeshift camp, his emotions returned and overwhelmed him. It was all for nothing, everything he’d been through. He was going to die out here. How would he make it to Asunción now, without a guide, without a ship, without any help for his livestock? He was out of food and did not know which plants around him were safe to eat. The next time he was attacked by a squeezing snake, he might not survive. And if he did, who would cure him? Why did Santino and Rodrigo have to be dishonest in the first place? Why did his father have to be a soldier of fortune, seeking wealth at the risk of death? Why couldn’t he be a nice, quiet accountant in Spain, or a farmer, or a craftsworker? Those were safer professions, and kept a father at home, where he should be, instead of halfway around the world without his family. And if he’d stayed in Spain, Sebastian would have a home right now - a proper home, a traditional home, a home where he felt safe, not one carved out of the jungle on an entirely new continent.

  And why did everyone he know have to die?

  Feeling very sorry for himself, Sebastian started to cry. Here he was, in the middle of a jungle, following a river that was supposed to lead into cannibal territory before he reached friendlier territory, with a ribcage full of bruised and cracked ribs, trying to lead a dwindling pack of animals back to his father. The pain in his ribs was still numbed, but he knew that indulging in sobs would only make his lungs worse. Still, once he started, he could not stop. Weeks of frustration began to pour out of him, and he cried until he could no longer balance himself on the horse. He pulled the stallion over to a tree and hugged his arms around its trunk as if it were his mother there to comfort him. He cried for a very long time, cursing the day he had set foot on the Santa Clara. He cried about anything and everything, listing all the ill-deeds done against him from the time he was a baby, and then he went through his list again just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. It was a fine pity-party. He sobbed like a spoiled child until the sun started to set and he had no more energy to cry.

  Drained, and with nothing else to cry about that he hadn’t cried already, Sebastian let loose of the tree and nudged his stallion to a walk.

  “What else could happen to me,” he said in a dejected whisper to his horse.

  Of course, his imagination began to answer that question for him. He could be bitten by a poisonous spider, or eat a poisoned root. He could die from dehydration if he strayed too far from the river. There could be mountains or canyons to cross. He might die from starvation, since his food supplies were dwindling and would be depleted in a matter of days.

  But I survived worse, he thought defiantly. To his surprise, he found it was true. He had been the victim of pirates, been put in chains, faced starvation, almost froze to death, been attacked by a squeezing snake, and had had to hike for weeks on end on foot with blisters on each heel.

  But I survived! he thought again. New emotions filled him. Now, more than ever, he realized how mortal and frail he was, one boy against a wilderness of unknowns. But he had already lived for three weeks on nothing but his own wits.

  His father always said that, when stranded alone, most people died within the first four days, either from not doing anything about their situation or from doing all the wrong things. Whatever Sebastian had done so far had worked. Even with the disappearing pigs and the dead goat and chickens, he was still alive.

  And here he was crying like a kid.

  He decided, right then and there, to stop acting like his mother would always be there for him. He was alone now, and had been for years. It was time to accept it and act like a man. When he met his father in Asunción – for there was nothing left to do except to continue following the river another thousand kilometers up to Asunción – he would greet the man with a firm handshake and say, “Father, I made it. Here are the animals I saved from pirates. Be proud of me now, because I am.”

  The words were silly, but he suddenly listened to himself. All this time, he had been ashamed of himself, and his father had been ashamed of him for that very reason. Now, he knew that not even his father’s disappointment could take away the pride he had earned, and would continue to earn.

  “No more tears,” he announced to an empty, vine-covered wall. “Today, October 8th in the year of our Lord 1542, I have become a man. I will act like one no matter what.” Saying the words aloud made them more official. He felt as if he was bound to keep them now.

  Despite the pain in his ribs, he did not swallow the last pouch of painkilling medicine. He would need it for his journey tomorrow. He was headed for Asunción, and neither pain nor jungle could stop him now.