"The Witch of the Pacific" was inspired by Peter Trickett's 2007 book "Beyond Capricorn" which posits a top-secret expedition by Portuguese explorers into New Zealand waters in the early sixteenth century, a full hundred years prior to the arrival of Abel Tasman, New Zealand's official European 'discoverer' - and who in turn arrived 100 years before James Cook. I thought it would make an amazing film and mused over an angle. The result was this story:
The novel chronicles the adventures of Micas, a thirteen-year-old Portuguese boy on the King's carrack "Santa Iria". Fresh from a society dominated by the Iberian inquisitions of pre-reformation Europe, Micas leaves his country village to seek his fortunes in the undiscovered New World. His coming-of-age adventures begin with travels around the African coastline to India and Malacca in the company of a famous Captain and a crew of mixed characters. But when mis-adventure strikes further south than anyone has travelled before, Micas finds himself alone amid the natives of a far Pacific island. A mysterious tribe takes the boy in after he performs an act of service. But the ensuing drama will force him to question his beliefs and his place in the world as he strives to save his shipmates from disaster.
Combining history, fantasy , adventure, mythology,and magic, "The Witch of the Pacific" is aimed at an audience 14 years and over. It is currently available at the Amazon Kindle store and will soon be available in print as well. The book is part of a trilogy in progress, "The Chronicles of the Portuguese Falcon". The next book, "The Song of the Bloodstar" is due for publication in 2021.
http://www.amazon.com/author/mlebrown
INSTALLMENT SAMPLE:
The random installment sample will change every few days. Please enjoy.
Prologue
Cadiz, Spain: 1575
There is no fire in the shadowy chamber. The cold reflects another type of chill running up and down Juan Fernandez’ spine and setting his innards a-flutter.
His interrogators pass the stone between them, turning it over, holding it up to the candlelight. Juan watches. So far they have flitted from one random query to another, probing into everything from the names of boyhood tutors through to what prompted Juan to choose his current tailor. He would find it amusing were he not aware of the seriousness of his situation.
They want him to elaborate, so he does. “The natives in some of the southernmost islands we visited love jade. It is commonly found in the rivers there and they all wear ornaments made of it. This piece was a gift. And I myself find the stone attractive.” There is a speculative silence.
Juan is no coward. He has sailed all the known oceans and even given some virgin corners of the new world their own place on navigational charts. But it’s a different fear he feels today. Facing savage hordes? Nursing wooden ships through monstrous storms? Pah! These are simple dangers - whereas in this room lurk the unpredictable complexities of politics.
In a corner a scribe is scratching at a parchment with his quill. A table stretches breadthwise before Juan. Behind it sit three men. The one in the centre rises, comes round the table, and crosses the floor to Juan’s chair. This individual, tall, scraggy, and unsmiling, is a Grand Inquisitor of Spain.
Juan feels nervousness, but also resentment. He has done his job, made great discoveries for his nation and the world. And this is the thanks he gets from King and country - being dragged before this court. The backlash that launched the Inquisition nearly a century ago has come full-circle and is now strangling everybody, he thinks. Those who interpret God’s laws are only men. Not always wise or compassionate ones either…
Take this particular gang of crows, thinks Juan, with their power and their egos and their wilful ignorance of the world and its wonder! It’s no doubt heresy even to think ill of them. Opposing them outright will likely get a man killed. Nevertheless, when the priest stops in front of his chair, Juan meets his eye with a hard glint in his own.
The inquisitor hands over the stone and Juan slides its cord over his head. “Curious,” the inquisitor murmurs. It occurs to Juan - not for the first time – that it would give him great satisfaction to strike that thin knowing smile off the man’s face. Instead the explorer concentrates on the safer task of tucking the pendant underneath his shirt.
“Most curious,” reiterates the priest - and then suddenly changes tack yet again. But this time he directly addresses the reason Juan is here.
“Your ship’s log states that somehow you were able to sail from Valparaiso to Lima in one month. Such a thing has never been done before.”
Juan resists the temptation to roll his eyes. They have been through this many times. “It’s in the log,” he replies, forcing himself to speak pleasantly. “We took a much wider line from shore and found the current there carried us up the coast faster. When we got far enough north we just changed course and sailed straight for the coast. It is simple arithmetic.”
“Perhaps,” responds the priest. “Or perhaps witchcraft”. An expectant silence fills the room. The quill pauses and everyone peers at the accused.
Juan sits very still. He knows perfectly well this isn’t about witchcraft. It’s about people he has offended. It’s about intrigues and jealousies; about whose names will go do down in history and for what reasons. It is his own temper which got him into this mess, making enemies of people with what he considers to be trivial concerns. Now is not the time to become rattled. However ridiculous he might find The Inquisition’s line of enquiry, he is still subject to its rule. Greater folk have died for actions far less worthy of investigating than his.
“Well, Señor?” The crows are waiting. What if I told them, thinks Juan for an instant, perversely entertained. He pictures the scene and snorts inwardly. But the results do not bear thinking about for long. Juan has witnessed burnings. He has seen the contorting muscles, smelt the roasting flesh. He can still conjure the stench. Blistering skin, frying organs, screams from smoke-rasped throats… His flash of amusement is gone.
His mind drifts back to that night long ago …
He had returned home late, tired and irritable. He was departing for the Indies. Preparations had absorbed his attention for months and now his head was aching. The last two weeks were always the worst. He had not been pleased to learn that a visitor was waiting in his study.
The level of charm the mysterious guest must have employed to wheedle his way past Bernardo would ordinarily have been intriguing to Juan; but tonight he was exhausted. That his man-servant had gone so far as to ply the interloper with wine and fruit merely deepened his scowl. He cursed the old man soundly, but Bernardo - who had worked for Juan’s father and known the explorer since he was an infant – waved off his complaints with lofty indifference. Juan sighed, gave up, and instructed his retainer to bring more wine – and food, for the love of heaven, he was starving! The servant shuffled off leaving Juan glowering at the study door. Fernandez finally straightened his shoulders and went in.
The room seemed dimmer than it should have. Shadows fell from the dark wood furnishings and the hangings blurred against the walls. A small fire warded off the evening chill. A single candle burned in its holder on Juan’s desk. Only one other flickered on a stand in a far corner. Juan wondered why the others had not been lit.
On his desk sat a jug with two goblets. Bernardo had filled one already but it sat untouched. Someone was seated in a corner well away from both fire and the candle-stand. The visitor rose. “Señor Fernandez,” he said. “I’m sorry to impose so late.”
“And I’m sorry my servants see fit to leave you sitting in the dark, Señor!” exclaimed Juan.
The stranger made a self-effacing gesture as Juan moved forward. “Don’t be angry with your household. I suffer from a condition which makes my eyes intolerant to light and your man kindly left the room dim. I also insisted on waiting. I have business to discuss with you of a sensitive nature.” Such a youthful voice – surely this was a boy! And there was something else….
“Señor?” said Juan. The stranger had not yet introduced himself, but Juan’s ears pricked up at his accent. Portuguese.
Despite Catholic kinship and sharing the same peninsular, Portugal and Spain were rivals in exploring the New World. Navigational charts and other documents pertaining to Portuguese territories were accessible only to a tight circle chosen by the King himself. Smuggling information outside the circle was punishable by death. There were spies everywhere…
Small wonder then that Juan’s smile became wary. Only he knew about the box of documents secreted in a recess within the wall of his bed- chamber. The sole key to this box was hanging on its chain beneath his shirt as usual. Still, he made a mental note to check the box as soon as possible.
The stranger took Juan’s proffered hand. “Portuguese-born - yes,” he said. Juan was startled – how had the man known what he was thinking? But the voice continued without any sign of offence or disturbance. “Foremost I am a Christian and secondly a servant of Spain. Despite my dreadful accent” he added with the hint of a smile which robbed his words of malice.
Juan was startled by the coldness of the hand in his. The stranger was wearing a cowl, which rode back as he spoke. In the flickering candle-light, the face which emerged was as youthful as the voice had been – surely the face of a boy. A further shock followed: On closer inspection Juan had to stifle an exclamation at his visitor’s complexion which was white and shrunken. Like the face of a corpse!
He dropped the man’s hand at the same instant his guest moved slightly back and out of the candle-light. When Juan looked again, his visitor’s face had reverted to a normal pallor.
“My name is Angelo Falcão,” said the boy-man, apparently oblivious to Juan’s reaction. “I am a court advisor on the Far East.” From beneath his cloak he produced a scroll marked with a Royal seal. Juan, meanwhile, shook himself. It must have been the light, he chided himself.
And yes, he knew his visitor’s name. There were many whispers about this Falcão. It was said he was a defector who had been an adventurer in the East, then an adviser to the late Portuguese King. A mysterious figure who never appeared in public and had no close friends but had somehow gained the ear of Spain’s rulers. His approval was necessary should any explorer want funding for a mission. He had, in fact, been on the committee which had approved Juan’s latest venture.
But this couldn’t be him, thought Juan. From what he had heard, Angelo Falcão must be a man in his seventies at least. Judging by his brief – and perplexing! – glimpse beneath the cowl, the stranger before him could be no more than sixteen. How could that be -??
As if reading Juan’s thoughts again, the stranger smiled faintly. “I am indeed Angelo Falcão, senor,” he said. “Don’t let my pretty face deceive you. I am much older than I look.”
Juan nodded, turned to the wine-jug on his desk and filled a goblet for himself. Turning back, he passed the other one to the stranger, motioning him to be seated and hiding his discomfiture behind what he hoped was a charming smile. “Of course, I have heard of you, Excellency – and my apologies. You do look amazingly young. I’m afraid I’m no courtier with fancy manners. Just a tired sailor. As for your accent, I myself have a Portuguese grandfather.”
“Yes,’ murmured his visitor, taking in Juan from his fair hair down to his boots with an odd intensity. ”It is from him that you inherit your gift of seamanship. So I am told,” he added as Juan raised his eyebrows.
Feeling even more uncomfortable, Juan retreated behind his desk and sat down. Swigging from his goblet, he took refuge in briskness. “I would be flattered to think I was even half the sailor my grandfather was. And I am in your debt. So, how can I help you, my lord?”
Falcão politely ignored the chair Juan indicated, and glided back to his previous seat in the corner – well away, Juan noted again, from the candles. He announced quietly but clearly; “I have a mission for you. Your armada sails in ten days. I intend to sail with you. On your own vessel. After we reach Las Islas Felipinas we alone shall be continuing on to the Island of Mahogany.”
Juan lowered his goblet. There was an astonished silence, at the end of which he said the first of the many things which had crowded into his head. “Forgive me – but as far as I am aware the Island of Mahogany is a myth – a legend, arising from some supposed Portuguese charts. Which – conveniently - no one has ever seen because they were lost.”
“Most conveniently,” agreed the stranger calmly. He held his goblet loosely before him but made no attempt to drink. Holding Juan’s gaze, he added; “However, you shall sail there under my direction.”
Juan was flabbergasted. The idea was preposterous. “You have been there, I suppose? To the Island of Mahogony?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. But he knew he could not afford to alienate this formidable official. He must wait and listen. To stop himself from speaking, he tossed back the rest of his wine. After draining his goblet, he reached over to refill it.
The stranger regarded him, unruffled, his own goblet still untouched. “Of course,” he stated. Juan rubbed his temples. His muscles were aching, he knew he stank, and he would have liked to have ordered a hot bath. The fact that he was so tired was not helping him think. Curse Bernardo and all uppity servants – where was the food?
“You doubt my word, Señor.” Falcão spoke placidly, yet something in his tone reminded Juan anew that he was speaking to one of the King’s advisers.
“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “But –“
“- but the common wisdom states that the Island of Mahogany is a fairy-story,” rejoined Angelo Falcão. “And the common wisdom should certainly remain unchallenged – for the common masses. However,” he repeated, “we will sail there. And it will be a secret. You will speak of it to no one.”
Juan stared. Something about this stranger was compelling. As though he somehow knew things beyond the comprehension of others. Ridiculous! thought the explorer, swinging back to being impatient with himself. And even if the boy-man was telling the truth, Juan already had a mission. He couldn’t simply turn around and sail off somewhere else on a whim. Of all people, Privy Councillor Angelo Falcão must be aware of that…
Again, Falcão read his mind; “Let me explain - your mission shall proceed to Las Islas Felipinas as planned and then I shall navigate you myself to the island. Afterwards you will re-join the rest of your expedition in the Americas without delay, I guarantee it.” He rose and produced the sealed parchment once more, this time throwing it on the desk where it fell like a challenge. “Everything is arranged. And paid for,” he added, placing a large bag of gold coins on Juan’s desk next to the seal. It was a considerable sum and the explorer’s eyes widened. “Half now and half upon delivery”
Juan pondered. The mission itself sounded intriguing – if far-fetched. Certainly the extra coin would come in handy. But his irritation was rising again now. The casual commandeering of his own plans made his jaw tighten. Space on his ship had been allocated to the last inch and provisions weighed down to the last ounce. He had his own meticulously-planned objectives for the mission and was used to calling his time his own.
Yet he knew it was useless to argue. After a moment, he let out an exasperated breath. Then he looked up and said with what civility he could muster; “We both know I can’t refuse, Excellency, so of course - I agree.” He raised his goblet in an ironic toast.
Angelo Falcão relaxed. ‘Then I have no further reason to take up your time. My thanks.” He rose and came forward, placing his goblet carefully on Juan’s desk. “I shall see you closer to the day of departure.” His tone became sympathetic, almost apologetic. “I know this is inconvenient, Señor Fernandez. I am very much in your debt. And you must not trouble yourself – you will find I do not take up much space. Or food.” He extended his hand in farewell.
Juan ignored the hand. He remained seated, cupping the bowl of his goblet in both hands and staring into its depths. Something was nagging at him. “Tell me,” he asked. “Would you not agree under the circumstances I have the right to know how it is you have seen this mythical island?”
The stranger considered the remark and laughed unexpectedly – a merry boyish sound. “A truthful explanation? Or one you would believe?”
Juan thought for a moment before looking up. When he responded he chose his words with care. “Surely the two must be the same.” Angelo Falcão looked intently at him for a moment as if seeing him for the first time. Then he shook his head.
“In my experience life is rarely that simple, Señor Fernandez. And besides - that story would take many hours. It’s late and I shouldn’t detain you any longer.”
As Falcão spoke, the door opened to admit Bernardo bearing a tray laden with cold cuts, cheese, bread, olives, tomatoes,, and a fresh wine-jug. At the sight of the food Juan became energized. As his servant laid the tray on the desk and left, he rose and gestured to his visitor.
“You can hardly leave now without at least sharing some supper with me,” he said. He motioned his guest towards the tray. “Come, Excellency – please join me. I am at your disposal. Now is as good a time as any for me to hear this tale of yours…”
Cadiz, Spain: 1575
There is no fire in the shadowy chamber. The cold reflects another type of chill running up and down Juan Fernandez’ spine and setting his innards a-flutter.
His interrogators pass the stone between them, turning it over, holding it up to the candlelight. Juan watches. So far they have flitted from one random query to another, probing into everything from the names of boyhood tutors through to what prompted Juan to choose his current tailor. He would find it amusing were he not aware of the seriousness of his situation.
They want him to elaborate, so he does. “The natives in some of the southernmost islands we visited love jade. It is commonly found in the rivers there and they all wear ornaments made of it. This piece was a gift. And I myself find the stone attractive.” There is a speculative silence.
Juan is no coward. He has sailed all the known oceans and even given some virgin corners of the new world their own place on navigational charts. But it’s a different fear he feels today. Facing savage hordes? Nursing wooden ships through monstrous storms? Pah! These are simple dangers - whereas in this room lurk the unpredictable complexities of politics.
In a corner a scribe is scratching at a parchment with his quill. A table stretches breadthwise before Juan. Behind it sit three men. The one in the centre rises, comes round the table, and crosses the floor to Juan’s chair. This individual, tall, scraggy, and unsmiling, is a Grand Inquisitor of Spain.
Juan feels nervousness, but also resentment. He has done his job, made great discoveries for his nation and the world. And this is the thanks he gets from King and country - being dragged before this court. The backlash that launched the Inquisition nearly a century ago has come full-circle and is now strangling everybody, he thinks. Those who interpret God’s laws are only men. Not always wise or compassionate ones either…
Take this particular gang of crows, thinks Juan, with their power and their egos and their wilful ignorance of the world and its wonder! It’s no doubt heresy even to think ill of them. Opposing them outright will likely get a man killed. Nevertheless, when the priest stops in front of his chair, Juan meets his eye with a hard glint in his own.
The inquisitor hands over the stone and Juan slides its cord over his head. “Curious,” the inquisitor murmurs. It occurs to Juan - not for the first time – that it would give him great satisfaction to strike that thin knowing smile off the man’s face. Instead the explorer concentrates on the safer task of tucking the pendant underneath his shirt.
“Most curious,” reiterates the priest - and then suddenly changes tack yet again. But this time he directly addresses the reason Juan is here.
“Your ship’s log states that somehow you were able to sail from Valparaiso to Lima in one month. Such a thing has never been done before.”
Juan resists the temptation to roll his eyes. They have been through this many times. “It’s in the log,” he replies, forcing himself to speak pleasantly. “We took a much wider line from shore and found the current there carried us up the coast faster. When we got far enough north we just changed course and sailed straight for the coast. It is simple arithmetic.”
“Perhaps,” responds the priest. “Or perhaps witchcraft”. An expectant silence fills the room. The quill pauses and everyone peers at the accused.
Juan sits very still. He knows perfectly well this isn’t about witchcraft. It’s about people he has offended. It’s about intrigues and jealousies; about whose names will go do down in history and for what reasons. It is his own temper which got him into this mess, making enemies of people with what he considers to be trivial concerns. Now is not the time to become rattled. However ridiculous he might find The Inquisition’s line of enquiry, he is still subject to its rule. Greater folk have died for actions far less worthy of investigating than his.
“Well, Señor?” The crows are waiting. What if I told them, thinks Juan for an instant, perversely entertained. He pictures the scene and snorts inwardly. But the results do not bear thinking about for long. Juan has witnessed burnings. He has seen the contorting muscles, smelt the roasting flesh. He can still conjure the stench. Blistering skin, frying organs, screams from smoke-rasped throats… His flash of amusement is gone.
His mind drifts back to that night long ago …
He had returned home late, tired and irritable. He was departing for the Indies. Preparations had absorbed his attention for months and now his head was aching. The last two weeks were always the worst. He had not been pleased to learn that a visitor was waiting in his study.
The level of charm the mysterious guest must have employed to wheedle his way past Bernardo would ordinarily have been intriguing to Juan; but tonight he was exhausted. That his man-servant had gone so far as to ply the interloper with wine and fruit merely deepened his scowl. He cursed the old man soundly, but Bernardo - who had worked for Juan’s father and known the explorer since he was an infant – waved off his complaints with lofty indifference. Juan sighed, gave up, and instructed his retainer to bring more wine – and food, for the love of heaven, he was starving! The servant shuffled off leaving Juan glowering at the study door. Fernandez finally straightened his shoulders and went in.
The room seemed dimmer than it should have. Shadows fell from the dark wood furnishings and the hangings blurred against the walls. A small fire warded off the evening chill. A single candle burned in its holder on Juan’s desk. Only one other flickered on a stand in a far corner. Juan wondered why the others had not been lit.
On his desk sat a jug with two goblets. Bernardo had filled one already but it sat untouched. Someone was seated in a corner well away from both fire and the candle-stand. The visitor rose. “Señor Fernandez,” he said. “I’m sorry to impose so late.”
“And I’m sorry my servants see fit to leave you sitting in the dark, Señor!” exclaimed Juan.
The stranger made a self-effacing gesture as Juan moved forward. “Don’t be angry with your household. I suffer from a condition which makes my eyes intolerant to light and your man kindly left the room dim. I also insisted on waiting. I have business to discuss with you of a sensitive nature.” Such a youthful voice – surely this was a boy! And there was something else….
“Señor?” said Juan. The stranger had not yet introduced himself, but Juan’s ears pricked up at his accent. Portuguese.
Despite Catholic kinship and sharing the same peninsular, Portugal and Spain were rivals in exploring the New World. Navigational charts and other documents pertaining to Portuguese territories were accessible only to a tight circle chosen by the King himself. Smuggling information outside the circle was punishable by death. There were spies everywhere…
Small wonder then that Juan’s smile became wary. Only he knew about the box of documents secreted in a recess within the wall of his bed- chamber. The sole key to this box was hanging on its chain beneath his shirt as usual. Still, he made a mental note to check the box as soon as possible.
The stranger took Juan’s proffered hand. “Portuguese-born - yes,” he said. Juan was startled – how had the man known what he was thinking? But the voice continued without any sign of offence or disturbance. “Foremost I am a Christian and secondly a servant of Spain. Despite my dreadful accent” he added with the hint of a smile which robbed his words of malice.
Juan was startled by the coldness of the hand in his. The stranger was wearing a cowl, which rode back as he spoke. In the flickering candle-light, the face which emerged was as youthful as the voice had been – surely the face of a boy. A further shock followed: On closer inspection Juan had to stifle an exclamation at his visitor’s complexion which was white and shrunken. Like the face of a corpse!
He dropped the man’s hand at the same instant his guest moved slightly back and out of the candle-light. When Juan looked again, his visitor’s face had reverted to a normal pallor.
“My name is Angelo Falcão,” said the boy-man, apparently oblivious to Juan’s reaction. “I am a court advisor on the Far East.” From beneath his cloak he produced a scroll marked with a Royal seal. Juan, meanwhile, shook himself. It must have been the light, he chided himself.
And yes, he knew his visitor’s name. There were many whispers about this Falcão. It was said he was a defector who had been an adventurer in the East, then an adviser to the late Portuguese King. A mysterious figure who never appeared in public and had no close friends but had somehow gained the ear of Spain’s rulers. His approval was necessary should any explorer want funding for a mission. He had, in fact, been on the committee which had approved Juan’s latest venture.
But this couldn’t be him, thought Juan. From what he had heard, Angelo Falcão must be a man in his seventies at least. Judging by his brief – and perplexing! – glimpse beneath the cowl, the stranger before him could be no more than sixteen. How could that be -??
As if reading Juan’s thoughts again, the stranger smiled faintly. “I am indeed Angelo Falcão, senor,” he said. “Don’t let my pretty face deceive you. I am much older than I look.”
Juan nodded, turned to the wine-jug on his desk and filled a goblet for himself. Turning back, he passed the other one to the stranger, motioning him to be seated and hiding his discomfiture behind what he hoped was a charming smile. “Of course, I have heard of you, Excellency – and my apologies. You do look amazingly young. I’m afraid I’m no courtier with fancy manners. Just a tired sailor. As for your accent, I myself have a Portuguese grandfather.”
“Yes,’ murmured his visitor, taking in Juan from his fair hair down to his boots with an odd intensity. ”It is from him that you inherit your gift of seamanship. So I am told,” he added as Juan raised his eyebrows.
Feeling even more uncomfortable, Juan retreated behind his desk and sat down. Swigging from his goblet, he took refuge in briskness. “I would be flattered to think I was even half the sailor my grandfather was. And I am in your debt. So, how can I help you, my lord?”
Falcão politely ignored the chair Juan indicated, and glided back to his previous seat in the corner – well away, Juan noted again, from the candles. He announced quietly but clearly; “I have a mission for you. Your armada sails in ten days. I intend to sail with you. On your own vessel. After we reach Las Islas Felipinas we alone shall be continuing on to the Island of Mahogany.”
Juan lowered his goblet. There was an astonished silence, at the end of which he said the first of the many things which had crowded into his head. “Forgive me – but as far as I am aware the Island of Mahogany is a myth – a legend, arising from some supposed Portuguese charts. Which – conveniently - no one has ever seen because they were lost.”
“Most conveniently,” agreed the stranger calmly. He held his goblet loosely before him but made no attempt to drink. Holding Juan’s gaze, he added; “However, you shall sail there under my direction.”
Juan was flabbergasted. The idea was preposterous. “You have been there, I suppose? To the Island of Mahogony?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. But he knew he could not afford to alienate this formidable official. He must wait and listen. To stop himself from speaking, he tossed back the rest of his wine. After draining his goblet, he reached over to refill it.
The stranger regarded him, unruffled, his own goblet still untouched. “Of course,” he stated. Juan rubbed his temples. His muscles were aching, he knew he stank, and he would have liked to have ordered a hot bath. The fact that he was so tired was not helping him think. Curse Bernardo and all uppity servants – where was the food?
“You doubt my word, Señor.” Falcão spoke placidly, yet something in his tone reminded Juan anew that he was speaking to one of the King’s advisers.
“My apologies,” he said stiffly. “But –“
“- but the common wisdom states that the Island of Mahogany is a fairy-story,” rejoined Angelo Falcão. “And the common wisdom should certainly remain unchallenged – for the common masses. However,” he repeated, “we will sail there. And it will be a secret. You will speak of it to no one.”
Juan stared. Something about this stranger was compelling. As though he somehow knew things beyond the comprehension of others. Ridiculous! thought the explorer, swinging back to being impatient with himself. And even if the boy-man was telling the truth, Juan already had a mission. He couldn’t simply turn around and sail off somewhere else on a whim. Of all people, Privy Councillor Angelo Falcão must be aware of that…
Again, Falcão read his mind; “Let me explain - your mission shall proceed to Las Islas Felipinas as planned and then I shall navigate you myself to the island. Afterwards you will re-join the rest of your expedition in the Americas without delay, I guarantee it.” He rose and produced the sealed parchment once more, this time throwing it on the desk where it fell like a challenge. “Everything is arranged. And paid for,” he added, placing a large bag of gold coins on Juan’s desk next to the seal. It was a considerable sum and the explorer’s eyes widened. “Half now and half upon delivery”
Juan pondered. The mission itself sounded intriguing – if far-fetched. Certainly the extra coin would come in handy. But his irritation was rising again now. The casual commandeering of his own plans made his jaw tighten. Space on his ship had been allocated to the last inch and provisions weighed down to the last ounce. He had his own meticulously-planned objectives for the mission and was used to calling his time his own.
Yet he knew it was useless to argue. After a moment, he let out an exasperated breath. Then he looked up and said with what civility he could muster; “We both know I can’t refuse, Excellency, so of course - I agree.” He raised his goblet in an ironic toast.
Angelo Falcão relaxed. ‘Then I have no further reason to take up your time. My thanks.” He rose and came forward, placing his goblet carefully on Juan’s desk. “I shall see you closer to the day of departure.” His tone became sympathetic, almost apologetic. “I know this is inconvenient, Señor Fernandez. I am very much in your debt. And you must not trouble yourself – you will find I do not take up much space. Or food.” He extended his hand in farewell.
Juan ignored the hand. He remained seated, cupping the bowl of his goblet in both hands and staring into its depths. Something was nagging at him. “Tell me,” he asked. “Would you not agree under the circumstances I have the right to know how it is you have seen this mythical island?”
The stranger considered the remark and laughed unexpectedly – a merry boyish sound. “A truthful explanation? Or one you would believe?”
Juan thought for a moment before looking up. When he responded he chose his words with care. “Surely the two must be the same.” Angelo Falcão looked intently at him for a moment as if seeing him for the first time. Then he shook his head.
“In my experience life is rarely that simple, Señor Fernandez. And besides - that story would take many hours. It’s late and I shouldn’t detain you any longer.”
As Falcão spoke, the door opened to admit Bernardo bearing a tray laden with cold cuts, cheese, bread, olives, tomatoes,, and a fresh wine-jug. At the sight of the food Juan became energized. As his servant laid the tray on the desk and left, he rose and gestured to his visitor.
“You can hardly leave now without at least sharing some supper with me,” he said. He motioned his guest towards the tray. “Come, Excellency – please join me. I am at your disposal. Now is as good a time as any for me to hear this tale of yours…”
Reviews of "The Witch of the Pacific"
"I very much enjoyed this book and didn't want it to end. It is well-researched, fast-paced, and utterly absorbing. The themes researched here are timeless and of fundamental significance to most cultures. M.L.E. Brown brings spiritual knowledge and depth to her writing. Loved it." Amazon Reader