The River of Swamps
The skinny man stands on the muddy beach and watches the three caravels sail away. He stands silent, staring as the ships disappear toward the horizon, each sail emblazoned with the scarlet cross of the Order of Christ. He stands staring for a long time, even after the ships have disappeared. Then he sits on his wooden trunk. He sits there for a long time. After a while he rises and slowly removes his clothes. He wades into the churning waves.
* * *
“This is in Portuguese,” says Esteban. “And written on what appear to be the faded pages of a Bible.”
With one hand Esteban grasps the ladder and with the other he delicately passes down a small stack of papers to Alan. Esteban is wearing thin cotton gloves. “Take a look,” he says.
Alan, also wearing cotton gloves, carefully takes the crumbling parchments. “You found these up there?” he asks.
Sweat drips from Esteban’s forehead. Spain is hot in the summer, and particularly in the City of Seville, and particularly in the Great Library. The ceiling fans flutter futilely in the late afternoon light, which peeks through small windows high in the walls, casting stark shadows as the daylight fades. Esteban points up to a dusty shelf of documents wasting into fragments. “Yes, up there,” he says.
Alan peruses the fragile pages in his hands. “Portuguese? There were no Portuguese on the Concepcion. We’ve been all over that manifest. We know every fucker on board. This was somehow misplaced. A mistake.”
“Perhaps,” says Esteban. He holds up a scrap of paper. “I found this note on top of that pile. Different handwriting. In Spanish.”
“And?”
Esteban reads: “I am Pedro de Escheverz, master of the galleon San Pablo. In the year of our Lord 1580 these letters were found on the Black Coast near the mouth of the River of Swamps, contained in a jar in the manner of the Portuguese. Nearby were the bleached bones and tattooed skin of a human soul. A white man.”
“Holy crap!” says Alan. “Bleached bones and tattooed skin! And what in the hell is the ‘manner of the Portuguese?’”
“I have no thoughts concerning bleached bones, nor tattooed skin,” says Esteban, “but I can tell you this. When the Portuguese went exploring in the century before Columbus, they would stop at prominent landfalls. There they would erect a conspicuous cross, a cross made of stone or wood, and called a prado. There they would leave sea charts, maps, and important observations sealed in a jar on the beach. Along with a degradado. And a cage of rabbits.”
“The Black Coast? The River of Swamps? And what the hell is a degradado?”
“I cannot tell you of the River of Swamps, but I can tell you about degradados.”
Alan examines the fragmented papers on his hands. He shrugs. “This is all very interesting,” he says, “but it really doesn’t have any bearing on the whereabouts of the Concepcion.”
Esteban also shrugs. “Look, mi amigo, we could use a break. We have been here for three weeks and have not found anything we did not know already. What is the big damn hurry?”
Alan wipes his brow. “Crutchfield is the big damn hurry. He calls me twice a day. He says that there’s another crew diving near Tortuga. And Crutchfield is paying our freight!”
Esteban descends the ladder. “They are a hundred miles off, mi amigo. We both know that.”
“Yeah, but they’re going to figure that out soon.”
“How soon? Tonight?”
Alan looks at Esteban, who grins broadly. Outside, there is a loud celebration in the street. It is the Feast of Saint Jude.
Alan looks at the crumbling papers in his hands. He reads the Portuguese as best he can, mumbling in short phrases — “Save you all … the tale ... misfortunes ... went too far ... land beyond … the end of the world ... the ocean boils ... ”
Alan turns to Esteban. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll make you a deal. You go down the street and get a couple bottles of Madeira, and I'll bribe the man at the front desk.”
Esteban removes his cotton gloves. “Good Madeira?” he asks.
“Okay, why not?” says Alan as he takes off his gloves.
“Two bottles?” asks Esteban, frowning.
“Four bottles,” says Alan. He hands Esteban some money.
* * *
The skinny man wades out of the surf and shakes himself dry. He stares at the mangrove thicket encroaching upon the edge of the muddy beach. He sits on his wooden trunk. Nearby on the beach is a large wooden cross. And a cage containing six cringing rabbits.
* * *