Regrets Of A Conquistador
by Jonathan S. Pembrook

To you who reads this journal: let me start by saying that I hope it finds you in good health and safety—or as much safety as one can find in this God-forsaken land. I say this now: regardless of their friendship, no matter what gifts or inducements they offer...do not trust the tribe. Doing so will lead to certain death.

But perhaps I should explain.

My name is Alejandro Lorenzo de la Cruz. I was born in the Year of our Lord one thousand five hundred and five at a small estate outside the city of Segovia in Castile. My father was a minor nobleman of Castile. He was a petty and vicious man, who engaged in frequent bouts of prolonged drunkenness. My mother and I were targets of his frequent rages. When sparing us from his attentions, he passed his time by beating and raping the serving maids, killing several. At the age of fifteen, I watched as my father threw my mother from a third-floor balcony, to dash out her brains in the cobblestone courtyard. I slid a poniard between his ribs later that same day and disposed of the body with the help of a trustworthy servant. It was given out that he had fallen from his horse and broken his neck; as he was not well liked, few questions were asked. I inherited his title and lands.

Enamored with my newfound wealth, I engaged in a great deal of debauchery. I drank myself into a nightly stupor, threw lavish parties, and entertained any number of ill-favored women in my bed. My estate managers cautioned me against my wild spending, but I did not listen. The elderly priest at my estate pleaded with me. “You will drown yourself in drink and sin! Don’t you want to live, Alejandro? Or do you wish to dance your way into the devil’s grasp?” I laughed and responded that the Devil already waited for my arrival. The priest rapidly made the sign of the cross three times and thereafter left me alone.

Within four years, I had squandered my inheritance and found myself in debt to the crown. Agents of the King’s exchequer arrived and gave me an unpalatable choice; to avoid prison, I volunteered my service in the armies of Charles, the ruler of a unified Spain. I was sent to Italy to fight against the perfidious French and the League of Cognac—and found my calling. Fighting from horseback, I slew with sword, with halberd and with lance. Battle raised a smile on my lips and bloodlust in my heart. I realized that I enjoyed killing. Perhaps my father had been on to something.

I earned a reputation but not that of a gentleman. The men with whom I fought began to call me El Carnicero—The Butcher. I gave no quarter and expected none. I slew fifty men before declaration of a truce. I despaired, dreading a return to the quiet solitude of my manor—before my eyes were opened to a new possibility.

At the King’s court, I was introduced to an elderly noble named Cristobal de Vega. De Vega enlightened me to the possibility of adventure and plunder in distant lands. He appraised my character well and I was drawn into his plan. After all, who in Europe had not heard tales of the divine endeavors of Hernando Cortes and Francisco Pizzaro against the Godless savages of the New World? Endless spoils awaited in the savage lands for one who had the daring to seize them.

We sailed from Genoa two weeks later—for Africa, under the cobalt banner of Alessandro Farnese, Pope Paul the Third, rather than that of Charles. The identity of our sponsor meant little to me; rather, I was motivated by the prospect of adventure, looting, rapine, and glory. In my mind, I was already helping myself to the treasures of the southern continent, a pile of slain warriors at my feet and a dusky native lass helpless in my arms.

The six ships of our expedition sailed for several weeks, passing Gibraltar before turning south, bound for the rich lands of Africa. De Vega asked me to sail with him on the Conquistadoria. I befriended another noble onboard—a short, serious wiry fellow by the name of Juan Cavito Ortega la Hacha, who was also a veteran of the wars in Italy. He too thirsted for tumult and action. There were common footsoldiers onboard as well, although they knew their place and did not approach us.

On the sixteenth day of our voyage, we encountered a terrible storm. The tempest developed in a matter of moments and lashed at our ships like the wrath of God himself. It was my first such experience, and I admit I did not endure as a warrior of fortitude should. I clung to a wooden bucket, feeling my innards heave as the Conquistadoria slammed into wave after wave. Juan Cavito was no more of a sailor than I; at one point, he managed to raise a green face from his own bucket and say that we would be fortunate to survive. Before I could muster a response, we were blinded by a great shimmering light that flooded the cabin. I clamped my eyes shut; as fast as the radiance arrived, it faded. Then without warning, I was thrown across the tiny cabin, like roundshot from a cannon. Terrible grinding rumbled through the air. I crashed into the wall with a grunt, pain blossoming in my left shoulder. Juan Cavito slid across the floor and collided with my feet. After a couple of deep breaths, I regained my equilibrium. It was then that I realized we were not moving.

De Vega darted past the cabin, glancing in. He doubled back and braced against the door frame. “That dog of a Captain! We’re impaled on some rocks!”

“What do we do, Don Vega?” Juan Cavito slurred, clutching his head.

“Do?” de Vega snorted. “Get off the ship, you fool! The hull is breached and we are taking on water. It is only a matter of time before we sink or are pounded to matchwood on the rocks. Get out, while you can!” And with that, de Vega disappeared.

 

Urgency spurred me to action. Ignoring my rebellious stomach, I lurched to my feet and took a tentative step. The ship had indeed stopped moving but an ominous creaking echoed through the hull. My footing grew steadier with each step as I sought my belongings. I reached for my steel cuirass but hesitated. If I should have to swim, I would not make it far burdened by such a weight. I took it anyway, reasoning that I could discard it later as needed.

I emerged onto the deck, gasping as the howling wind lashed the raindrops against my skin. A quick glance told me the short boats were useless; two were smashed and the third had vanished into the storm. Men were running everywhere, shouting. I saw de Vega jabbing his finger to the east. I followed his arm with my gaze; despite the pelting rain, I could make out the beach—only scant yards away. De Vega yelled, exhorting the men to move faster. The footmen began jumping over the sides, carrying whatever burdens they could manage. One misjudged his leap and landed on the rocks below, knocking himself senseless. His unconscious body fell off the outcropping and slipped beneath the waves. I swallowed deeply, gauged my jump, and leapt into space.

The water was not cold, but the wind-driven swells threatened to drown me with every wave. My helmet came loose and was lost. I released my cuirass into the surf but could not bear to part with my blades. My muscles grew more slack with each stroke. I was nearing despair when my feet found sandy purchase. I struggled out of the sea, water streaming from my vestments. Guided by instinct, I staggered up the thin strip of sand towards the tree line, where two other men huddled, and collapsed at the base of a tree, my blades clattering down next to me.

“God preserve us,” one of the men muttered and I raised my head. It was half-hidden by the pounding rain, but I saw the Conquistadoria shudder, like a person taken by a sudden chill. Then came a thunderous crash as the back half of the ship tore away from the rocks and swirled away into the storm. The bow dipped precipitously before slowly coming to a stop on those cursed rocks. I cursed. With the back half of the ship went all of our horses, including my beloved roan charger. I sat watching with the two men until exhaustion overtook me.

When I awoke, the sun was just rising in the east, casting golden light across a cloudless sky. I rose, spitting sand from my mouth. Several men waded in the surf, examining the wreckage. The shattered remains of the Conquistadoria still lay on the rocks. I marveled at the grace of our Lord, whom I scarcely spoke to anymore, that He allowed the ship to get so close to shore before grounding. The prow of the vessel lay just thirty-five feet from the edge of the white sand. What had seemed like an eternity of life and death struggle against the salty deep had been a mere journey of a few feet. I smiled in spite of myself.

I found de Vega a short distance up the beach, clustered with the other nobles from the Conquistadoria. He appeared exhausted. His face was furrowed in concern though he nodded to me as I arrived. Juan Cavito was there and he greeted me warmly. I gripped his shoulder and joined the group.

“It is as I say, Don Vega,” affirmed a middle-aged man from Aragon. Reynaldo Narvarez Esposito was his name, I think. He motioned in my direction. “Even with Alejandro Lorenzo, I count seven of us. There are but a score of commoners. And most of our equipment is lost.”

“God save us,” muttered de Vega. “The other ships?”

We all shook our heads. I found that peculiar; those ships must have noted our disappearance. They should have turned back to find us. Those were de Vega’s orders and each ship’s Captain had confirmed his understanding. Yet here we stood, alone.

De Vega stroked his chin for moment, his eyes fixed on the ocean horizon as he thought. He finally said, “It is clear that we cannot remain here. We have little equipment and less provisions. We must move inland and seek both.”

Noble and commoner alike, we clustered around de Vega, who divided our weapons and supplies. I was glad to have kept my blades. Juan Cavito was forced to carry an arquebus; he grumbled but fell into rank with the peasants. Leaving four men on the beach to continue salvaging from the remains of the Conquistadoria, de Vega led the rest of us into the steaming jungle, the papal banner fluttering brightly overhead.

The next hour was an unsettling experience. The verdant growth was thick and close and we were forced to push our way through it. The canopy overhead was tightly twined and in just a few feet, we were immediately plunged into semi-twilight. There was a smell on the air, similar to brine - but different and alien. We passed a clump of yellow flowers growing on thin, ropy vines wrapped around a tree trunk. I felt a harsh dryness in my mouth when I realized that the blossoms had all turned in the direction of our small band. Had I not known better, I would have sworn to the Pope himself that the flowers were watching us.

A lancer cried out and stabbed at the ground with his sword. “What?” shouted de Vega, “What has happened?” With shaking arm, the lancer pointed his gore-encrusted sword at the ground. Our eyes followed his sword and we were left speechless. The lancer had stabbed a three-headed serpent.

“Madre de Dios! ” Juan Cavito blurted out and unconsciously, he crossed himself. I was amazed but I told myself it was a consequence of being on the Dark Continent. I could not expect to encounter the same beasts as in Castile.

After an hour of leading us through the jungle, de Vega halted our column. We had traveled no more than a few miles. I whispered, “Don Vega, why have we stopped?”

“Do you not smell smoke?” he muttered. I inhaled deeply and found that I did detect smoke. De Vega pointed and said, “That way. Ready your weapons.”

 

 

The jungle thinned and the smoldering aroma stronger; we could see a break in the trees ahead. The commoners murmured amongst themselves, hoping that our trek had yielded better rations than the moldy sea biscuits we carried.

I pushed aside a leafy branch and exited into a large clearing, perhaps two hundred yards across. Trees had been felled and burned, revealing a field of jagged, blackened stumps. A collection of two dozen huts occupied the center of the clearing. The village was swathed in a white hazy smoke. We could see indistinct figures moving and I could now smell cooking meat. My heart began to beat in earnest and I stepped forward, loosening my blades from their sheaths.

De Vega stretched out his arm to bar my way and threw me a stern glance. “Caution, young Alejandro. We will attempt to suppress the natives peacefully. If they will not cooperate, we will use the sword.” I nodded and reluctantly refastened the clasps.

As we got closer, one of the figures walked out to approach us and we stopped again, this time in shock. Doubtless, I should record here the disbelief on my companions’ faces. I would, had I not been immobilized with gape-mouthed awe myself.

He was short, perhaps four feet tall. His face and nose were flat and wide. Dull eyes peered at us from underneath a mop of unruly black hair. His slack-lipped expression revealed a small number of sharp-looking teeth. Two long knobby arms hung limp at his side. He was not visibly armed but approached us without fear. But it was the native’s skin that gave us pause. Pulled tight over his bony frame, the hue was a dull azure, like that of a lizard or a fish. Several of the men swore under their breath or made the sign of the cross.

“Stand ready,” de Vega commanded. The arquebusiers planted their gun mounts and trained their weapons out. I drew my blades and others did likewise. The native stopped about twenty feet away from us and studied us with unblinking eyes. De Vega took a bold step forward and said, “I bring greetings from His Divine Holiness, Alessandro Farnese. I am Cristobal de Vega of Valencia. We come to claim this land in the name of his Holiness.” The native stood mute. De Vega tried the same words in Latin, then in French, finally in broken Arabic, none of which produced a response. De Vega said, “He speaks no language I’m familiar with.” Other tried Portuguese, English, and Italian without result. De Vega shrugged, as if he expected as much.

The native turned towards the village and let out a series of dog-like barks. Within a few seconds, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of the natives emerged and trotted towards us. “Prepare to fire, on my order only!” de Vega snapped. I crouched low, sword and dagger at the ready, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. A grim smile crept onto my face.

The newcomers stopped at the same distance as the first. All of them—men and women alike—wore those same animal skin breeches and naught else. In any case, due to their scrawny nature, they were difficult to distinguish. And they all had the same look of dull apathy on their faces.

A group of them clustered around the first arrival and engaged in a series of growls, barks and snarls, with much arm waving and pointing. Finally, one of them stepped forward and the others quieted. “Krrikka,” It said over and over, repeating the word. A ripple went through the throng of creatures and they took up the chant. It slowly built, until it was reverberating across the clearing. “Krrikka! Krrikka! KRRIKKA! ”

De Vega motioned to one of the arquebusiers and pointed to the sky. The man pivoted the musket upwards and fired. The sudden thunder cut across the natives’ droning, silencing them. The man quickly reloaded. De Vega scowled at the assemblage, which was now staring at him with a collection of impassive eyes. In his booming voice, he thundered, “I have come to claim this land for the Supreme Pontiff.”

The blue-skinned man that had initiated the chant now stepped forward. He pointed at De Vega, then back at his village. “Krrikka! Krrikka!” he said with obvious excitement. He took a few steps towards the village, turned, and motioned to De Vega. “Krrikka!” He scampered away and the rest followed, chanting in their dog-like voices.

Someone voiced the question on all our minds. “Don Vega, what do we do now?”

“We follow them,” de Vega replied. “And I say to all of you: keep a tight grip on your weapons.”

We moved at a deliberate pace towards the village, keeping in battle formation. The smell of cooking meat grew stronger; my stomach growled and I snarled at myself, trying to keep my mind on the matter at hand. We entered the village. The huts were crude constructs of wood and mud, and topped by large plant fronds. The center of the village was dominated by a deep pit filled with smoldering wood and brush. Here the natives assembled. They watched us approach, grunting and yipping to one another.

Strapped across the cooking pits were many long poles adorned with fist-sized chunks of meat and some type of gourd. The aromas set my mouth to watering. The natives pointed at us and then at the cooking pit. One pulled a blackened spit away from the coals and tore loose a hunk of meat. Holding it in both hands, he offered it to Juan Cavito, who struck it aside, yelling, “Away from me, you foul beast!” The native did not look offended but squatted over the fallen offering, brushed some dirt from it, and stuffed it in his mouth.

Ever the leader and diplomat, de Vega stepped forward, drew a dagger and sliced off a small piece. He held it up for all to see and took a small bite. We waited in suspense. He gave us a thoughtful look. “It not beef, nor is it pork. But it is very good.”

 

 

We all went forward and partook of the meal. The gourds were unusual, reminding me of pumpkin. But as de Vega had stated, it was all quite palatable. The natives chattered in what we took to be approval. One came forward to me. He was smaller than most of the others and had a discolored patch of skin on his neck and shoulders. He held out one small hand to me. Reluctantly, I touched his hand, which closed over my fingers with disquieting strength. He looked up with an open mouth gesture I took to be a grin. “Krrikka?” As soon as I released my grip, he scuttled off and sat some distance away. As I watched, he poured a collection of small white stones out of a leather pouch and piled the stones with intent concentration. His eyes came back to me and discomfort trickled up my spine.

They led our party to a large empty hut. We were suspicious, but the hut was surprisingly clean, dry—and empty. After we all went inside, they clustered around the entrance, peering in. We waited in silence until they became bored and departed.

One of the footmen went to the door. “They’ve gone, Don.”

A babble of confused discussion erupted. De Vega held his hands up for silence. “My companions, I think perhaps we have misread God’s design. I envisioned our coming as the arrival of conquerors but these poor wretches are not worth conquering. We must determine the best way in which we can use their labors to find greater treasures further away from the coast. And we must begin to teach them the ways of God.”

I sighed. I had come for glory, not to build a church. Also, I worried that the natives might try to lull us into their confidence to slay us more readily. At least one other man shared my concern. “Don Vega, I disagree. I say we conquer this tribe immediately, ransack the town, and force their conversion to our Holy Mother Church. Let us use our strength—our guns, our steel—while we still may, lest these creatures tire of our novelty.”

De Vega shook his head. “No. Let us husband our strength and see what aid and gifts this tribe might provide. With their help, perhaps we will find the wealth we seek.”

Three uneventful days passed. The native with the discolored skin patch came and sat next to me frequently, always seeking my fingers with his. Despite my initial misgivings, I grew fond of the little man’s gentle company. I called him Mi Pequeno—My Little Friend. He always carried his leather pouch of white stones; when I reached out for the pouch, Mi Pequeno shied away, primitive jealousy in his eyes.

De Vega spent those days ministering to the creatures. They listened to him with dull apathy on their faces. He attempted baptism on one; the man coughed and sputtered when de Vega pulled him from the bucket but otherwise did nothing. I sensed and shared Don Vega’s agitation. Juan Cavito and I made an unobtrusive search of the huts but found nothing of value. At the time, I thought that was why the natives did not move to stop us. They continued to feed us the same strange meat and gourds but otherwise seemed content to ignore us. In fact, they did very little other than mutter that same word over and over. Krrikka.

The absence of the other ships was troubling. De Vega ordered several men to the beach each day to stand watch. He also sent out patrols to look for further signs of civilization. Our attempts to communicate with the natives on both counts produced nothing and our frustration mounted.

Early on the fourth day, Juan Cavito sought me out, shaking me awake. His eyes were a little wild, like those of a startled deer. I opened my mouth to query him but he placed his fingers to his lips and whispered, “Get dressed and follow me. There is something you should see.”

“What is it?” I asked him, cross that my slumber had been interrupted. “Why don’t you get someone else?”

“There is no one else, Alejandro. Don Vega took the others on a patrol before sunrise. They should be back soon but we can not wait.”

Grumbling, I got up and fumbled around for my blades. As we left the village, Mi Pequeno trotted up and as usual, grabbed my fingers. “Krrikka?”

I pulled away and mumbled, “Not now, my friend.” When I glanced back, the little man was squatting down, playing with his white stones again.

Juan Cavito led me north. I was confused, as we had patrolled in this direction several times, without result. My questions elicited fearful snarls. “Wait and see, Alejandro,” he snapped. “And be mindful that we aren’t being followed.”

After perhaps a mile, Juan Cavito stopped. He pointed and said, “There. Do you see it?” I followed his arm and was startled to see an irregular opening in the ground. It was a cave entrance. I wondered why we had never seen it before.

Juan Cavito followed my thoughts. “Before today, I did not notice it either. It was masked by large plants, piled across the opening. I assumed that this is where the creatures hid their wealth, so I entered.” His face grew grim. “I found something else.” Taken in by his serious tone, I approached the darkened entry with caution. A peculiar combination of smells emanated from within—none of which were pleasant. I steeled myself and ducked inside.

I expected total darkness but a flickering light lapped against the walls, around a bend perhaps twenty feet in front of us. We rounded the corner into a small cavern. Crude torches of peat moss lined the wall, filling the air with foul-smelling smoke and haze. Even in the smoky conditions, I discerned a number of dugout pits in the floor. Juan Cavito nudged me forward. I peered into the nearest hole.

 

 

The pit was approximately fifteen feet deep. An unmoving woman lay in the muck and sluice lining the bottom of the pit. She was naked and well-formed. Her dark hair and olive skin marked her as one of the Muslim Saracens of Sicily. I thought she might be dead but for the slow rise and fall of her breasts. I glanced at Juan Cavito. My thoughts must have been apparent on my face. He whispered fiercely, “Think, man! There is no time for satisfying your loins! Ask yourself: how did this comely wench come to be here?”

He was right, of course. I looked down at the girl and considered the question. She was the first human we’d seen since the Conquistadoria ran aground. Most of the pits were empty but several held other Saracen men and women. None were clothed and all appeared to be in a deep slumber. I called out to one man. He did not move. I kicked some dirt across his face and called again. He did not stir.

Juan Cavito muttered. “The natives. They placed these unfortunates here.”

I nodded; it made sense. Then a cold tickling thought wormed its way into my mind. “Do you believe that is what they have in mind for us?”

“I do.”

“They have shown no sign of aggression.”

“Perhaps not,” he countered, “but I should not like to wait until they do. In any event, we must inform the Don.”

“I agree.”

As we exited the cave, we were met by four unarmed natives with blank stares on their faces. I moved to pass but they stepped in front of me to bar my path. I sneered and ordered them out of our way. They did not move. My throat went dry and I drew my sword; it came free of its scabbard with a steely hiss that was terribly loud in the silence. The natives still did not stand aside; instead, they advanced on us, their arms raised.

Juan Cavito screamed in rage, tearing his dagger free and stabbing wildly at the nearest foe. The blade slid into the man’s chest with resounding crunch and he hissed in pain. Juan Cavito wrenched the dagger free and a spurt of yellow ichor arched from the wound. I nearly dropped my sabre. “Demons!” he choked. And then there was no more time to talk, as the other three men were upon us. My training took over.

I felled one instantly and tried to ignore the venomous ooze that clung to my sword. One grappled my sword arm with a vise-like grip and I could not shake it loose. The man bit down and I heard his teeth scraping on my steel pauldrons. With my free hand, I pulled my dagger and stabbed him in the chest twice. Slowly, he released his grip and tumbled away. I was horrified to see tiny blood-soaked punctures in the armor.

Juan Cavito finished the fourth one. “What manner of hell-spawned beasts are these?” he exclaimed.

“I do not know. But they are not human as we thought. We must warn the others.”

We sprinted back. The others were just returning and we met them before they entered the village. In terse tones, we explained what had happened and held up our befouled weapons for our companions to see. De Vega tore the air with sulfuric curses. “Hear me, men of Christendom. These vile creatures have deceived us. Now, we shall exact the Lord’s justice upon them. We will rescue the captives, infidels though they may be.”

We were alert and prepared for combat but the creatures did not show themselves. We marched to the cave. De Vega, Juan Cavito and a few others entered, emerging a moment later. “They have taken the captives away.”

“Then let us return to the village and raze it to the ground!” shouted Reynaldo Narvarez. “Let us apply steel to these creatures until they surrender their captives!”

“Yes,” I shouted, as did other men.

Don Vega nodded, murder in his eyes. “Form ranks.”

As we returned, I noticed smoke rising from the cooking pit. The natives were there. My fingers caressed the hilt of my sword in anticipation.

The man-creatures looked up as we entered the village. My eyes searched but I did not see Mi Pequeno. De Vega thundered, “Prepare!” We halted, brandishing arms. De Vega stepped forward and demanded the return of the hostages.

The natives did not respond; as the others had done, they marched towards us with outstretched arms.

De Vega raised his hand. “For God and Pontiff!”

What followed was a ghastly slaughter. The arquebusiers fired repeatedly until the pall of smoke hovered over their position like a grim Angel of Death. We chased the creatures as they fled, stabbing and slashing at them. They fought without skill but with great strength and tenacity. Perhaps a hundred of them were slain. An equal number fled the village. At least ten of the monsters fell under my blades. The blood in my veins sang with the joy of the killing. El Carnicero lived again. And not a man among us fell.

De Vega ordered the firing of the huts, which we did. We ransacked each dwelling, though there was little of value. One man found a pile of unusual fruit, which was unlike the gourds we’d been given. We left the corpses to rot where they fell and proceeded back towards the shipwreck, black smoke from the burning huts rising behind us.

 

 

We reached the beach in good order and marched south for several hours, until the sun hung low in the sky. We struck camp and divided up our plundered provisions. The men hesitated to eat the demon-tainted food but de Vega pointed out that we had little else edible. Faced with hunger, we had little choice; the fruit was sweet beyond reckoning and I regarded it as God’s reward for doing His work. I was not hungry and ate but a small piece. De Vega set guards for the night and I wrapped myself in my cloak before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I woke to the feel of rough skin upon mine. I reached for my blades but my arms were pinned, held by dozens of small hands. I shouted, attempting to wake my fellows. Juan Cavito cried out as well, but to no avail. None of the others moved. Tough vines encircled my body, constricting my limbs, and I felt myself being lifted from the ground. I craned my head. Hundreds of the creatures surrounded us. Each man in our party was trussed and lifted. The creatures raised us over their heads and carried us away. Happy expressions plastered their brutish faces and as they marched, they chanted, “Krrikka, Krrikka, Krrikka!”

I do not know how long they carried us—hours, perhaps. I do know that as the sun rose, I was dismayed to see that we had returned to the ruined shell of the village. The creatures lay us next to each other, in a rough line. I found myself next to de Vega. I whispered, “Don Vega!” He did not respond. His face was slack and his eyes closed.

A few of the beasts rekindled their bonfire; others moved among us, stripping all equipment and clothing from my comrades. When they reached me, I fought like a wild boar, but to no avail. I was left trussed in the dirt, awaiting whatever fate the creatures had in mind for us.

A shadow fell across my face. I looked up to see Mi Pequeno standing over me. He leaned over me and said, “Krrikka,” in what sounded like great satisfaction. His hand held one of the white stones from his pouch. He made to put it back in the pouch but missed. The pebble skipped down the pouch and landed next to my eyes. I squinted, looking closely at it and my blood turned to ice in my very veins. My ever-present companion’s “pebble” was not a white stone.

It was a human knuckle bone.

A piercing, anguished scream caused me to jump. Reynaldo Narvarez Esposito had been placed face down by the cooking pit. Creatures held each of his arms, though he struggled not at all. One of the natives—the one who had first greeted us when we arrived—sat across his back, clutching a stone knife. The creature sawed at poor Reynaldo’s torso, cutting it in half. Blood sprayed across the creatures holding him but they did not flinch. One licked at her lips, tasting the salty gore with obvious relish.

Reynaldo Narvarez’s cries weakened; he shuddered and died before the creature finished. It was the matter of a few more moments of work, and the body was divided. The creatures fell to, tearing his body into countless pieces. Then, to my amazement and utter terror, the creatures slid those pieces onto their cooking spits and placed them across the fire. One hollered, “Krrikka!”

“KRRIKKA!! ” shouted the others. Bile rose in my throat, for I then knew the source of the mysterious meat we’d been given.

We were hauled to the cave. I was thrown in the pit with the Saracen female. After a time, I wiggled free from my bonds. The woman was alive but in a deep slumber from which I could not wake her. I felt around the pit. There were some objects half-buried in the mud of the pit floor: the remains of a belt, a Venetian coin, a broken perfume bottle—and a small satchel. Inside was a scroll of parchment, a small vial of ink, and two writing quills.

I called out to my companions. Only Juan Cavito answered. He too had seen the spectacle at the cooking pit. Like me, he had no answers. I said, “What has overcome the others?”

“I do not know,” he said quietly. After a moment of silence, he added, “Did you partake of the food we took after destroying the village?”

“Only a small piece. It seemed to make me sleepy.”

“I did not eat it,” he replied. “I said it was demonic food. It put everyone to sleep and allowed the villagers to capture us.” He paused, and then added, “I wonder why they did not bring us here before?” A harsh sound filled the air. I realized it was my bitter laugh. “Would you cage a chicken that did not run away?”

Juan Cavito’s guess about the food proved correct. Sometime later, the woman with whom I shared the pit awoke. In her eyes I saw that she knew the truth. I reached out my hand to her and she pulled closer. I did not seek to satisfy my lust, comely though she was. I merely held her.

With time, my other companions awoke, demanding answers. We had few to give them, save for the evil truth. To a man, they cried out in terror and despair. A few attempted to climb out of their slippery prisons. I doubted our captors would allow us to escape so easily.

A few of the creatures appeared above us, dropping several of the strange fruits into the pit. The woman offered one to me. I shook my head. I could see disapproval in her eyes; she clearly thought it better to go to her fate unawares, awakened only in that final moment of intense pain. She ate both pieces and slipped into her peaceful slumber.

 

 

The next day, the creatures took the woman from the pit. They scurried down the walls like spiders and lifted her away. I fought them but they simply pressed on top of me and held me down. I managed to break the arm of one. He climbed back up the wall with his one good arm, leaving me in the pit, considering my next action. They kicked some objects into my pit. A brass medallion, a few coins, a wax candle. I presume these are objects for which they could not divine a use and considered trash. That explained the debris in the mud of the pit. At that point, I took the stylus out and began to scribe this grim tale.

An hour later, Mi Pequeno came to the edge of my pit, holding some bloody object. I stared at it for a moment, then blanched and turned away. It was chewing a human finger—presumably from the woman who had just been taken from this very pit. I now understood Mi Pequeno’s intense interest in my own fingers and I began to shake.

Days passed, marked only by the removal of some person from the cave. Despite my protesting stomach, I refused to eat the fruit they brought. After a fashion, de Vega and Juan Cavito refused to eat as well. When they took de Vega, he screamed and fought with all his might. I heard one creature hiss in pain but nothing else. Most of the men adopted the woman’s pose and fell into the drugged dreams, afraid not of death but of the anticipation.

I had not heard from Juan Cavito some time when he called for me. “Alejandro, do you believe in the will of God?”

“No.”

“I did not,” he said slowly. “But now I wonder—have we fallen into Hell, as payment for a lifetime of our wicked deeds?”

I did not answer him for some time. When I did, I asked, “Are we in Hell, Juan? Have we died?”

“In the storm and shipwreck, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Does it matter whether we live in Africa or live in Hell? Where ever we landed after that storm, it is doubtless God’s justice.”

“It is not too later to repent, Alejandro.”

I sighed. “Theft, rapine, murder…A just God cannot absolve us of these crimes. We consumed human flesh, Juan. We are the damned.”

“I shall pray for repentance anyway,” he said.

Juan Cavito was taken the next day. As he was carried away he called back, “May God have mercy upon us, Alejandro.”

I did not respond. I believe that we are beyond God’s mercy.

#

That is my story. I hope that whoever shall find this book shall be forewarned to avoid the same grisly fate which befell us, befell the Saracens before us, and God knows how many unfortunates before them. I wonder how many ships have encountered such a storm, only to find themselves marooned in this Godless place. Whether it is Africa, Hell, or some other locale, I cannot say; I can only say with certainty that it is a cursed land of death.

I hear the creatures shuffling about in the cave. I believe they have come for me today—for either I am the last one left, or none of the others will answer my calls. I am placing this scroll back in the leather satchel and burying it in the wall of the pit. I shall leave the strap exposed, so that one may find it and learn of our plight.

They are coming closer—I can hear them. Strangely, all I can think of are the words of that fool of a priest at our estate: “Don’t you want to live, Alejandro?” I am now able to answer honestly: yes, I want to live.

And now it is too late.