The Golden Conquest – Parts 7 & 8

Posted on February 26, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

My computer has been in the shop being repaired for the past 2 weeks, so I’m behind in my installments of my manuscript. Therefore to make up for this, here’s a double dose.

“Lift your right foot. Just your right. Lift it slowly.”  Without opening his eyes Henrico began to obey the voice. And as he did, he began to feel less afraid. The voice continued, “Now move your left hand up the rigging. There, now lift your left foot. Good. Now reach up with your right hand. Yes, that’s it.”  The novice stretched up his arm and suddenly felt it grasped strongly in a rough and calloused hand. He opened his eyes to stare into the grinning face of a seaman. Within seconds he found himself scrambling up the last few feet of rigging up into the crow’s nest.

“There you go, lad. Naught to fear now,” the sailor smiled, “Never been up here before, have you?”

“No, never,” Henrico gasped as he slid onto the small platform and wrapped an arm around the mast for security.

“So, why’d you want to come up?  Most landsmen like yourself don’t even want to try.”

“The first mate Olmedo asked me to come up to check the weather.”

“What?  Why would he do that?  All he’d have to do is call up to me. Besides, Tomas doesn’t need to know what the sky looks like. He can smell a change. No, he must have had some other reason for sending you aloft.”

“It might have had something to do with Montoya,” Henrico conceded. The sailor frowned and shook his head.

“You’d be best stay away from him. He’s a nasty one.”  He reached up and rubbed a lump of scar tissue behind the corner of his jaw. “He sliced off part of my ear for no good reason. He’s a bastard, that’s for sure.”  The seaman spat on the decking and was quiet for a moment. Then he grinned again and stretched out his hand, “I’m Fernand from Castile. They call me Black Fernand because of my hair, you see. You’re Brother Henrico, right?”

The two men settled down against the side rails of the crow’s nest. The sailor pointed out a low bank of clouds far on the western horizon and explained the significance to the young monk. In tacking down to towards the Azores, the ship was departing from an area in which the prevailing winds were westward to one in which the winds would head back towards Spain. The clouds could herald a change in the weather but were too distant to say for sure. Besides, Black Fernand said, he’d been spying out those clouds for most of his watch and they had not changed. The seaman continued to chatter on, filling the novice’s head with various seafaring lore and tales.

Henrico found himself smiling at the simple sailor’s disjointed stories. He prattled on skipping from subject to subject without finishing any and often without making much sense. The Benedictine found himself wondering if the seaman hadn’t been banished to the crow’s nest to spare the rest of the crew. He did start to grate on one’s ears after a time and Henrico found himself beginning to plot his escape. The sailor was friendly and well meaning, though and the young man did not wish to offend him. However, he must at least try to focus the sailor on one thing.

“How is it that the first mate seems to give way to Montoya?  Is he afraid of him?”

“Ah well, Tomas is a good fellow, don’t you see?  But he’s not a strong man. How would you say it?  He’s not very tough, not hard enough. He’s smart though. One time he was telling me about the stars. Did you know that a bunch of them are grouped into pictures?  He told me about one called . . .”

“But what about Montoya?”

“Oh yes, well nobody knows for sure but I think that that bastard Diego knows a secret about Tomas; something that Olmedo doesn’t want anyone else to know. He’s not brave enough to do anything about it though. Not like another fellow I knew. Juan was his name and one time he took a dagger and . . .”

“I’m sorry Fernand, but about the second mate again, if he has something on Senor Olmedo why doesn’t he replace him?”

“Ha,” the sailor laughed, “Because the black hearted worm is too stupid. He can’t learn how to navigate and so he can’t be first mate. He’s mean and tough alright but he can’t figure numbers any better than I can.”

“I see. Perhaps I’d best report back to Senor Olmedo. He did ask me check on the weather.”

“Oh, I suppose that you ought to. Perhaps we’ll get to talk again some time. Now be careful there, lad. That’s it.”

The novice found the first few steps down the rigging almost as frightening as his journey up it. The ship was still rolling from side to side, but its pitch was less severe. He gained confidence as he climbed downward and by the time, he reached the deck his pulse and breathing were almost back to normal. The second mate Montoya could be heard berating the crew on the foredeck, so Henrico headed towards the stern. The helmsman was standing at the wheel beside Captain Quintero but Olmedo was nowhere to be seen. The Benedictine wondered for a moment if he should give his report to the captain but decided there was really no need.

Entering their cabin, he found Father Garcilosa kneeling in prayer beside the cot. Henrico started to quietly step out of the room, but the priest looked up with a smile.

“No, my son, please stay. I have finished my prayers. I was spending some extra moments speaking to Our Lord about the state of our little ship. The captain will not let me take a turn at the pumps, but I know that prayer is more powerful than machines anyway. How did your shift go?  Come; let me look at you.”  The priest took him by the hand and carefully examined his palms. Most of the blisters were healing and the lad was pleased to see hard calluses forming. One blister however had burst to leave a raw, painful wound. “This needs some care,” the older cleric said as he applied salve to the wound and began to wrap it with clean linen.

The young novice watched as Father Garcilosa finished bandaging his hands and wondered at the things he was feeling. He could feel himself growing and maturing but there was still so much he did not understand. And so much more that troubled and worried him. Could he speak of them? Should he? When he looked up the priest was watching him intently.

  “There we are. That should do for now.”

“Father?” The young man hesitated and looked away, his voice trembling. “Would—would you hear my confession?”

“My son, I would be most honored.”

            It was some days later that an excited shout reached the deck from the crow’s nest. Land had been sighted and they had finally reached the Azores. The sky was washed red with the rays of the setting sun when the Gabriella entered the bay at Angra on the island of Terceira. For once good fortune seemed to be with the crew for the tide was just below the high-water mark and they were able to run the ship up onto the beach. When the tide receded the damaged and leaking timbers would be exposed and the crew would be able to start the needed repairs. A lusty cheer arose as the last shift of men was able to step away from the pumps. It was a job none of them would miss.

            The following morning Captain Quintero went into the town to get the supplies and tools needed to make the ship seaworthy. Before he left, he gave strict orders that no members of the crew were to be allowed ashore. The men’s loud howls of protest were quieted only when Quintero shouted over them that he had also ordered two hogsheads of wine to be brought onboard. The protests changed to cheers when he advised them that the wine barrels would be broached as soon as bracing could be placed about the ship.

            The ship’s carpenter and his mates had been at work since before the tide started to recede. They had prepared stout timbers and footings which were now hauled into place against the sides of the ship. The Gabriella was bracketed by sturdy struts and joists that served to keep it upright as the waters of the bay slowly ebbed away. The ship was allowed to fall slightly to starboard; enough to better exposed the damaged planking but not enough to shift its cargo or to hamper the easy movements of the workmen. By the time the tide had begun to flow back into the bay, the job was completed.

            Diego Montoya was unhappy with his circumstances. He was angry at the thought of allowing the men to slack off from their work to indulge the wine and even more upset at having to remain onboard. Being left in charge to keep some semblance of order did nothing to assuage his temper. Nor did the explanation his captain offered.

            “I know the men,” Quintero had said in overruling his second mate’s objections, “If we try to keep them sober and on board, we’ll lose half of them to the dockside inns and taverns. This way we’re sure to get the bracing done quick and proper before they start into the drink. And by the time I’ve been able to gather the supplies we need they’ll have recovered enough to get back to work.”

 Montoya’s scowl had only deepened at Quintero’s reasoning. If –no—when he was captain, there would be no coddling of the crew. They would work when ordered or they would pay the price.

He stood by the railing to watch Quintero and the first mate along with the Dominican being carried ashore. Brother Sebastian had demanded to be taken to dry land in a voice that was almost desperate. Montoya grinned at the memory before turning to curse some idle men. Since he had to stay with the Gabriella, he would be sure to make the most of it. He had already marked some of the crew for his wrath and wondered for a moment where the Benedictine novice was. Perhaps he would remain onboard as well. Perhaps Montoya’s day would not be a total waste. An evil smirk crossed his face and he slowly twisted his lash in his hands.

Yes, he thought, that would make it all worthwhile.

Aboard the Gabriella, the priest and his young apprentice were preparing to follow the others ashore.  Both clerics had changed their clothes into more traditional garb and waited by the rail for the return of the ship’s boat.  Henrico regretted the change in clothing.  He had enjoyed the light weight of the more common apparel and was already feeling the warmth of his black woolen robes.  The young Benedictine ran a finger around to inside of his collar to let some of the heat out.

“I hope that you haven’t gotten too comfortable in secular clothing, my son,” Father Garcilosa smiled, “I would hate to think that you would wish to forego your calling just for some comfort.”  His eyes had a mischievous gleam to them as he spoke, but the young monk blushed, nonetheless.

“Oh no, Father, I am fine.  I am quite content to be back in my cassock.”

“Well, I for one will be happy when we’re back at sea and can wear less formal attire.  But this is more suitable for our visit into the town.  I have some acquaintances in Angra whom I wish to visit, and they tend to worry about such things.” 

At that moment the ship’s boat bumped up against the Gabriella’s side.  Henrico stepped toward the rail only to be shoved aside by a black cowled figure.

“Out of my way, boy,” the Dominican said as he pushed forward, “I’m getting off this wretched tub now.  Move aside.”

“Brother Sebastian,” the priest said as he laid a hand on Henrico’s arm, “We are more than happy to share the boat with you.”

“I am taking the boat.  And I do not want company.  Especially yours.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve watched you.  I’ve listened.  You are a heretic and a danger to the church.  I don’t know how you have evaded the Inquisition so far, but your kind needs to be stopped.  I will stop you.”

“I am sorry you feel that way,” Father Garcilosa replied, “My friend the Archbishop wouldn’t agree.  Perhaps we can speak to him together.  When we get back to Spain.”

The Dominican face went white and then red.  He opened his mouth to speak but only a faint choking sound came out.  At last he turned way and scrambled down into the ship’s boat.  He almost fell and had to be pulled to safety by the sailor holding the mooring line.  Brother Sebastian responded by striking the man about the head and demanding to be taking ashore.  Henrico and Father Garcilosa could only watch as he was rowed away.

A short time later the boat returned and soon Henrico was helping to pull it up onto the beach.  The two clerics stepped through the gentle surf and turned to head into the Portuguese port.  As they reached the street, they were surprised to see a rakish figure waiting for them.  The courtier d’Amarco had been leaning against a wall in the shade and now stepped into the sunlight to greet his fellow passengers.  With a flourish he doffed his hat and smiled at the two clerics.

“Greetings my friends, I’m glad you’ve elected to come ashore.”

“But when did you leave the ship?” Henrico asked, “We thought you were still in your cabin.”

“Ah, I availed myself of an opportunity to leave our floating home shortly after we reached the bay.  Brother Sebastian is I am sure, a credit to his office but he is sadly lacking as roommate.”

“But how?  The captain did not release the ship’s boats until this morning?”

“Oh, my young comrade,” d’Amarco laughed, “There are many other boats in such a port, and one need only know how to call for one.  Am I not right, Father?”

“If you say so, Senor,” the priest said, shaking his head slowly.  Looking intently at the young aristocrat he continued, “Did you have business to attend to?”

“Oh, nothing important.  My departure from the Gabriella was prompted more for the desire for a decent bed and a palatable meal.  Sadly, I was only able to achieve the former.  These Portuguese have no idea on the proper use of garlic and simply no concept on how to make pastry.  But enough of my woes, what do you have planned for this day?”

“It is my intention to visit the local church and speak with its priest.  There used to be some men in this port that I knew, and I hoped to inquire about them.  Henrico is to accompany me.”

“Father de la Vega,” the courtier said, clucking his tongue, “Surely you would not require a young man to spend his first day ashore touring dusty old churches?  He needs to move about and stretch his legs.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I’ll take Brother Henrico under my wing and show him around.  Oh, not to worry Father, I promise not to corrupt his innocent soul and I’ll even keep him from entering any taverns.  Come, what do you say?”

Father Garcilosa paused for a moment.  He seemed about to speak but then glanced at Henrico.  The young Benedictine had been studiously quiet during the exchange, but his face betrayed his true desires.  Surely the priest would let him go.  Father Garcilosa sighed and clapped Henrico on the shoulder, “I expect you to be on your best behavior and to meet me back here an hour before sunset.”

“Yes, Father.  Thank you, Father,” the novice called as d’Amarco quickly hustled him away.  The courtier whispered something in his ear and then laughed loudly.  The hint of a blush rose onto Henrico’s cheeks before he was propelled around a corner by Senor d’Amarco.  The Benedictine felt a rush of excitement and fear.  What was he getting into?

The day passed as a blur of bright colors and loud sounds for Henrico.  D’Amarco plied him with extravagant tales of court life but also answered his questions on the history of the Azores.  Exacting to his word, the courtier kept them outside of the many cantinas that they passed.  With the warmth of the day and the brilliant sunshine there was no need to go indoors and almost every establishment had set tables and chairs in the open air.  The novice was careful not to over indulge but as d’Amarco put it; while the Portuguese did not know how to cook, they did know how to make a very good Madeira.

Flushed with the excitement of the day and from the effects of the heady wine, Henrico failed to notice as their talk turned from the Old World to the New.  It was his turn to supply answers as the courtier gently probed his knowledge.  He was pleased to have so much attention from the young aristocrat and readily described all the things that Father Garcilosa had shared with him.  The priest had also piqued d’Amarco’s interest and Henrico did not hesitate to respond to his inquiries.  The courtier hung on his every word and continued to lead him through the town. 

The town of Angra made no claim to being cosmopolitan and by late afternoon the two young men had explored most of it.  They found themselves on a small grassy hill rising above the bay and settled down under the shade of a large tree.  D’Amarco carried a skin of wine while Henrico had purchased some overripe melons and a pungent goat cheese.  They ate their lunch in silence, enjoying the cool ocean breeze and listening to the songbirds.  The day was warm for autumn and the wine along with the gentle sunshine soon had its affect.  The two young men began to doze.

Henrico awoke with a start to notice the sun low in the western sky.  He must hurry or he would be late in meeting Father Garcilosa.  He twisted around to awaken his companion but d’Amarco was nowhere to be seen.  The young Benedictine stood in puzzlement for a moment, wondering where the soldier might have gone and then turned to hasten down to the beach.  Within moments he was racing down the hill.  He turned the corner in a flurry of black robes in time to see the priest approaching from the other direction.  He slowed himself to a walk and carefully straightened his cassock as the two clerics neared each other.

“Well, Henrico,” the priest smiled, “Did you enjoy your day?”

“Yes Father, it was most pleasant.  Thank you for letting me go.”

“Where is Senor d’Amarco?  Were you not together?”

“Yes—yes, we were.  But we were resting and when I awoke, he was gone.  I’m not sure where he is.  Do you think he is all right?”

“My son, I am certain that he is quite capable of getting himself out of any trouble he might get himself into. Come, it is time that we got back to the ship.”  They walked to the edge of the water and waved to the Gabriella.  Within a few moments the ship’s boat was launched and being rowed quickly towards them.  At first, they were surprised at the promptness of the response but then a noise behind them alerted them that they would not be the boat’s only passengers.

Captain Quintero and his first mate, Olmedo were striding towards them from the town.  The captain was speaking to a smallish man who scurried beside him, writing rapidly on a sheaf of papers.  As they neared the two clerics could hear that Quintero was dictating a long list of supplies and needs.  At one point the seaman stopped and gestured broadly as he attempted to make a correction on the clerk’s list.  The diminutive fellow startled the onlookers by forcefully shaking his head and refusing the request.  The disagreement went back and forth but sea captain ultimately had to concede defeat.  With a shrug and wave of his hands he acknowledged the fact and turned toward the two ecclesiastics.

“Greetings my friends, I hope that you’ve enjoyed your time ashore.”

“Yes, we did, Alonzo,” Father Garcilosa replied, “Was your day productive?”

“Fairly so, I was able to arrange for most of the supplies and equipment that we’ll need.  Hopefully the weather will stay clear and we can get on with things.”

“How long do you think the repairs will take?” Father Garcilosa asked as they climbed aboard the ship’s boat.”

“Two weeks – maybe three.  It depends on how soon the crew recovers from their day of revelry and how hard they work in return for it.”

“Well, I suppose that you know your crew.  Brother Henrico and I will have more time on our hands then.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something to do,” the captain laughed, “I’m told that there’s a fine library in the chapel in the hills and you must have some other old friends about.  And speaking of such, we are all invited to dine at the villa of Paulo de Silves the evening after next.  He’s an old acquaintance of mine and one of the richest merchants on these islands.  I told him we’d all attend.”

“Certainly Alonzo, we shall look forward to it.”

It promised to be a fine evening.  The heat of the day was beginning to dissipate before a cooling breeze from the west.  The wind brought a faint hint of salt from the sea, but the scent was overwhelmed by the masses of flowering shrubs surrounding the villa. Paulo de Silves had built his home on a hill overlooking the harbor, positioning it so that he could watch the ships approaching the island and still be seen by the town. Captain Quintero had explained that de Silves was a rich man and a proud one. Quintero had known him for many years and while it was a relationship based more on finance than friendship, they were comrades of a sort.

Father Garcilosa followed the sea captain up the hill towards the mansion. The walls stood pink and warm above them as the group proceeded upward. Henrico walked beside him, his tonsure freshly trimmed and his cassock washed and mended. The two clerics had been surprised by the appearance of Ponce d’Amarco in their midst as they stepped from the ship’s boat.  The courtier had not been seen for two days but he somehow had learned about the planned gathering and was dressed ornately in keeping with the occasion.

The Dominican had also arrived in time to accompany the group. He too had not returned to the ship since their arrival at Angra, though hr had sent a messenger daily to check on the progress of the repairs. Captain Quintero had not wished to inform him of the invitation but Father Garcilosa had recommended that he do so to avoid further discord with the Inquisitor.  The seaman had reluctantly agreed. Thus, it was that there were five who arrived at the merchant’s home.

Paulo de Silves greeted them at his doorway. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck in bright contrast to the rich silk sash that enveloped his ample midsection. Small black eyes danced from the midst of a florid face crowned by wisps of fine white hair that waved and floated in the air like smoke whenever he moved. With an elaborate bow he ushered the quintet into his brightly lit ballroom and began to introduce them to his other guests. He presented each person as his dearest friend and one undoubtedly delighted to have been invited. Senor de Silves was, in his own eyes at least, the preeminent host in the whole archipelago.

When they were seated at the great table for the banquet, Henrico found himself seated between a banker from the town on his right and de Silves’ wife on his left. The moneychanger was a tall thin man, cadaverous in appearance and personality. He barely spoke all evening and never lifted his face from his plate. The Benedictine marveled that anyone so thin could consume so much food. Senora de Silves was the source of his greatest discomfort however.

The lady of the house was much younger than her husband but was still a mature woman.  While the years had smoothed her features to plumpness, she retained a degree of beauty. When she spoke to the person on her left, she shifted so that her leg pressed against Henrico’s. And when she conversed with the young monk, she fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly and turned so that her breasts brushed against his arm. Henrico attempted to slide away from her but was greeted by a grunt and an elbow in the ribs from the banker. He finished his meal as quickly as he could and excused himself from the table.

Escaping to the villa’s backyard Henrico sighed quietly and stepped between the heavily laden fruit trees to stare up at the jeweled night sky. Lowering his head to clasped hands he began to pray, asking God to protect and deliver him. His reverie was broken by a woman’s voice behind him and he turned to see the mistress of the house approaching him.

“Do you like my garden, Brother Henrico?” she purred quietly as she neared him.

“Y-yes, Senora, it is very beautiful.”

“I’m glad you appreciate beauty. Tell me, you are a novice you not?”

“Yes – yes I am.  I am to be a monk,” Henrico stammered, backing away from the woman.

“But you have not taken your vows yet, have you?” she breathed and stepped closer, her perfume drowning out the fragrance of the flowers.

“No, but I . . .” his mind raced frantically, searching for a way out. Suddenly the words of a Psalm came to him. In you, O Lord, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame.

“And I hope you have not taken a vow of chastity as yet.” She moved nearer, and began to reach toward him. Henrico edged backwards and suddenly stumbled and fell onto a garden bench. The senora leaned over him, her lips parting as they reached for his. Free me from the trap that is set before me, for you are my refuge.

“Henrico!” a voice called out from the shadows. Ponce d’Amarco stepped into the flickering torchlight and with a wry smile continued, “I believe that Father Garcilosa is having an ecclesiastic discussion with the other gentlemen. Perhaps you should see if they require any of your—ah—insight.”  Senora de Silves hastily stood upright and pulled her shawl up around her shoulders. Another scripture came to Henrico’s mind from the Epistles of Paul; God is faithful . . . but with the temptation will provide the way of escape, and he acted on it immediately. He gave no thought for decorum or proper manners but raced for the house.

As the black robed figure ran past him, d’Amarco watched him go and turned back to the woman. He genuflected with an air of sophisticated detachment and then plucked a pale-yellow blossom from the shrub beside him. Holding it to his nose, he asked, “Tell me, Senora de Silves, what flower is this?  The fragrance is quite intoxicating.”

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The Golden Conquest – Part 6

Posted on February 5, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

            The Gabriella surged through the waves of an open sea before a following wind. The captain had ordered every inch of canvas to be hoisted aloft and even had the spritsail raised into place on the bowsprit. Henrico stood easily on the forecastle, his body swaying gently to the pitch and roll of the ship. On his lips he could taste the salt spray that had been thrown into the air by the ship’s bow crashing through the breakers. He glanced back to the stern of the ship where Quintero stood beside the helmsman. The captain had clearly stated his intent to make up as much time as possible while this favorable weather would hold. Who could say how long that would be?  Till then, he would coax every bit of speed out of the ship. The young turned his gaze forward. The sun was warm on his face and he tilted his head upwards to catch its rays. He closed his eyes and smiled.

            “You are enjoying the voyage, Brother Henrico?”  The question broke his reverie and he looked about to see Senor d’Amarco approaching. The courtier carefully climbed the stairs to the forecastle, holding tightly to the rail to maintain his balance. The ship twisted on its keel suddenly and d’Amarco stumbled against the foremast. He took a quick breath and swallowed hard. Glancing at the Benedictine he asked, “How is it you are unaffected by this wallowing tub?  Are you an experienced sailor?”

            “Actually no, Senor. I have never been on a ship this size before. I believe that I have received a great blessing from Our Lord. I felt a bit ill for the first day but since then I have been fine. I really don’t know why.”

            “Well, you look more like a sailor now anyway,” d’Amarco chuckled, taking in the novice’s garb. Henrico was simply dressed in a thigh length black tunic and faded tan trousers. His long Benedictine’s cassock had been packed away to await the end of their voyage and he was enjoying being free of its heat and weight.

            “Father Garcilosa felt this would be more practical onboard ship than my monk’s habit,” he said. He stared down at his feet, reluctant to risk any rebuff at the change in his appearance.

            “A wise man is Father de la Vega,” the courtier said with a smile, “I see that he has adopted a similar style for himself.”  The priest had indeed replaced his clerical robes with simpler garb though his ecclesiastic calling remained apparent. The two young men watched from the forecastle as Father Garcilosa moved easily amongst the sailors on the main deck. Henrico observed how the crew treated him, respectful but without fear. They accepted him as one of their own.

            “Yes, he is indeed wise,” d’Amarco continued, “What has he told you about the lands to the west?  Has he spoken of Espanola?”

            “Oh yes, it sounds like a wonderful place, full of riches and wonders. Would you like to know what he said?”

            Across the ship, Father Garcilosa looked up at the two figures on the foredeck. The younger was speaking in an explosion of youthful vigor. The other responded with a friendly laugh and a clap on the shoulder. The priest was not completely certain about what to make of this young aristocrat, but he was glad to see Henrico with a companion closer to his own age. Father Garcilosa knew enough of the young Benedictine’s history to suspect that he had had few friendships. He hoped that the novice monk and the young nobleman would develop such a relationship. He smiled and turned to see Quintero stepping down from the aft castle.

             “Good day. Captain. The ship is fairly flying today.”

“Yes, she’s doing well. We’ve shifted the ballast and should be able to squeeze another knot or two out her.”  He paused and the two men observed the crew for a moment. “I hope that this wind holds. I plan to milk it for all that I can. You there, tighten that rope. And replace that block. It’s starting to crack.”  Quintero moved away, once more occupied with the thousand details required to maintain a ship at sea. Father Garcilosa watched his old friend go back to his duties and with a grin returned to his own.

“So, does the Father think the rumors are true?” d’Amarco was saying, “Is the New World really as overflowing with gold as they say?”

“I’m not sure about that, but he does think there are wealthy and powerful lands and peoples west of the islands. The natives of Espanola and the other isles spoke of them and had even traded with them.”

“Governor Velazquez certainly thinks that such is the case. His reports to the court of King Charles make it sound as if the shores of the western lands are lined with sand that is pure gold; that the rivers run with silver, and the trees bear diamonds for fruit.”

  Henrico laughed into the wind as the image d’Amarco described flashed through his mind. “That sounds a bit imaginative to me,” he said, “Father Garcilosa never mentioned anything that wild.”  The two young men laughed together and watched the waves being cast up from the prow of the ship.

  At the stern of the ship a black clad figure emerged from one of the rear cabins. Brother Sebastian stood clutching the door frame weakly. His eyes were glazed, and his usual pale complexion was tinted with green. The ship gave another slow roll and the Dominican rushed to the railing and began to retch violently. He almost fell to the deck, but strong hands suddenly lifted him up. The second mate had appeared and began to half carry the monk back toward his cabin.

“Thank you, my son,” the Inquisitor groaned, “God will reward your kindness.”

“I certainly hope He will, Brother,” Montoya said, “Perhaps we should talk about just how He might do that.”  The two men moved into the gloom and darkness of the ship’s cabin.

Henrico lay in the darkness of their tiny cabin, grateful once more that they had been granted the luxury of cots, no matter how small, instead of the hammocks the crew used. He could hear the wind humming in the ship’s rigging and imagined them silver in the moonlight. Captain Quintero had continued to press forward with all haste, spreading as much canvas as the ship could carry through day and night. The young novice wondered how the helmsman could keep his heading by starlight alone while the night watch scrambled over and above the deck, keeping the lines taut and the sails trimmed even as their comrades slept.

The squall hit suddenly and without warning. The force of the storm heeled the ship over sharply and sent Henrico rolling off the narrow cot. Desperate shouts for all hands could be heard from above as the novice staggered from his cabin. Captain Quintero was already on deck barking orders to send the crew aloft to haul in the sails. The young Benedictine steadied himself at the door of the cabin to observe the frantic actions of the crew. Father Garcilosa was soon beside him. They were both soaked by the slashing rain and drenched by waves breaking over the railing but could not bring themselves to retreat into the cabin.

With a crack like a musket shot, a line gave way amidships. More ropes separated and a heavy spar broke free from the mast to smash downward. A muffled scream reached the ears of the two clerics. Sliding on the slick decking, they scrambled out into the storm. Tangled rigging hung from the mainmast and hampered their progress. The broken remnants of the heavy oaken beam had struck Old Pedro, tearing into his thigh and twisting his lower leg at an angle. The old sailor was helpless as the raging storm tilted the deck sharply to send him spinning towards the railing. A great wave swept over them sending the spar crashing through the sideboard and threatening to carry the wounded seaman after it into the dark and angry sea.

Henrico lunged forward and grasped Pedro by the arm. His foot slipped on the slick decking and he started to fall when he felt Father Garcilosa grab hold of his belt. Together they struggled to pull the old sailor to safety. He cried out in pain as they yanked him away from the broken railing. Another wave struck from starboard and righted the ship suddenly, allowing the two clerics to move the injured man back toward the security of the stern cabins. Captain Quintero and another seaman appeared by their side.

“I saw what happened,” the captain shouted over the din of the storm, “And I thank you. Move him inside now. Hold him steady.”  The rain continued to drench them and the lightning crashed overhead as the sailor helped the priest and the novice carry Old Pedro inside. Quintero gave a fierce grin and shouted after them, “I’ve got to get back to the helm. This little blow may keep us busy for a time.”

Henrico pushed the door shut against the storm and stood dripping in the dimly lit cabin. He looked at his comrades in bewilderment and stammered, “A little blow?  He calls this gale a little blow?”

“Ah, lad,” the sailor smiled as they laid Old Pedro on the cot, “We’ve been through a lot worse than this. It’s naught but a squall and should blow itself out in a few hours.”  He headed for the door but turned back to say, “Twas brave of you, lad. I thank you for helping my shipmate.”  He gave a quick bow and darted back into the storm.

“Come, Henrico,” Father Garcilosa said, “We must do something for this poor fellow’s leg.”  The priest pulled a knife from a fold in his robe and slit the old sailor’s trouser leg to expose his wounds while Henrico steadied him against the continued pitch and roll of the ship. A deep gash crossed Old Pedro’s outer thigh while below his knee the calf was swollen and deformed. Father Garcilosa gently felt along the limb, taking care to avoid further injury. Even so the seaman groaned in pain and chewed on a knuckle.

“Is it bad?” Henrico asked anxiously.

“It’s a clean break,” the older cleric replied, “But we need to set it. Hand me the leather satchel from my bag. Yes, that’s the one.”  Father Garcilosa opened the case and removed a small pouch of a yellowy powder. Glancing up at the novice he continued, “Now pass me that wineskin and the pewter goblet.”  He carefully sprinkled a measure of the powder into the cup and added the wine. Carefully supporting the elderly sailor’s head, he tipped the mixture into his mouth. The injured man grimaced at the bitter liquid and sank back on the cot. Within moments the pain on his face began to ease.

The priest next reached into his satchel and pulled forth a thick piece of dark leather. As he placed it in the seaman’s mouth Henrico saw that it was scarred with teeth marks from prior use. He glanced in wonderment at the cleric. Soldier, priest, what other professions had he held?  A quick word from Father Garcilosa brought him back to the present and the novice moved to follow the priest’s directions.

Henrico knelt beside the cot and wrapped his arms tightly around Old Pedro’s thigh. Father Garcilosa gripped the injured man’s lower leg firmly and began to slowly pull on the limb. He steadily increased the force of his exertion, working to overcome the spasm of the bruised and torn muscles. Pedro groaned in pain and bit down harder on the strip of leather. Sweat began to trickle down the priest’s face as he redoubled his effort. The old sailor gave a sudden cry of anguish and the broken bones slipped back into place.

Father Garcilosa laid the damaged limb on the cot and sank back on his heels. He sighed heavily and wiping his brow with his sleeve, watched as the elderly seaman closed his eyes and began to breathe more quietly. Soon he would sleep, overcome by exhaustion and the potent drugged wine. Henrico stood slowly and rubbed the circulation back into his arms. Father Garcilosa smiled up at him, “Now my son, while you find us some wooden slats and strips of cloth for a splint, I will dress his other wounds.”

At that moment the door of the cabin flew open and the drenched figure of Captain Quintero strode in. He surveyed the scene and nodded, “Very good, my friends. I thank you again for your help and concern.”  Through the open doorway Henrico noted that while the rain still came down the wind had died significantly and the ship’s roll had become steadier and more even. He moved to close the door as the sea captain pulled off his soaking hat and cloak.

“The storm is passing,” Quintero continued, “It was only a squall, brief but still nasty.”

“How is the ship, Captain?” Father Garcilosa asked, looking up from his task.

“She’s taken some damage, I’m afraid. The mainmast lost a spar but we have spares. No, the worst is below. This blow has sprung her seams and we’re taking on water. Oh, don’t worry; it’s not so much that the pumps won’t handle it. The worst news is that the rudder was also damaged.”  The Captain frowned and shook his head, “I’m afraid my little Gabriella will need some repairs. We’ll have to head for the Azores.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” the priest said. “Will it delay us much further?”

“It will. We’ll have to cut across the prevailing winds to get there and then claw our way back. So far, this voyage has been nothing but trouble. Any more problems and it may start to eat into my profits.”

 “If I know anything at all, my captain,” Father Garcilosa laughed, “It is that you will always know how to make a profit.”

The battered ship tacked its way slowly toward the archipelago of the Azores. The most obvious damage was repaired within days. The broken railing was replaced and painted to match the rest of the vessel. An extra spar was brought out of the hold and hoisted aloft while the torn rigging was knit back into shape. Even Old Pedro was put back to work. With his splinted leg propped up on a coil of rope, the sailor toiled with a heavy needle to patch the torn sails. The hardest labor however took place below decks.

Deep in the bowels of the ship the pumps were manned round the clock. Teams of four men each sweated in the damp darkness to pull the seeping seawater out of the bilge. Their efforts ensured that the water level never rose above their mid-calves but they could not gain on the steady influx. Even Henrico took a turn at the pump’s handles, working until his hands were blistered and his muscles ached. He was the only one of the passengers who did so. Captain Quintero had refused to allow Father Garcilosa to take part while Brother Sebastian was even more seasick after the storm than he had been before. Ponce d’Amarco had simply laughed at the suggestion.

The young novice trudged wearily back onto deck after completing yet another shift in the bilge. His tunic was stained with sweat and his trousers soaked with foul salty water. He blinked in the bright sunlight and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Stepping to the rail he stared down into the water churning swiftly down the side of the ship. So much had changed for him over the past few months. His face and arms had been burnt to a deep tan and the muscles in his back and shoulders, though sore and stiff, had been hardened by the steady work. He also realized that his old cassock would no longer reach his ankles but would leave a few inches of calf exposed.

The internal growth however had been even greater. Henrico felt a change in his attitude. He was more confident and more self-assured, but he still was not at peace. His talks with Father Garcilosa and his study of the scriptures had brought greater clarity on the nature of God to him, but he still had more questions than answers. There was so much about God and His creation that he still did not understand, and he still struggled to comprehend the depth of and more especially, the reason for God’s love. He sighed wearily and dropped his chin to his chest.

A sharp, sudden blow across his back snapped him from his thoughts and brought his head up with a jerk. A harsh voice snarled behind him, “Get back to work, you lazy cur.” Henrico turned to find himself face to face with the second mate. Montoya smirked at the novice and stood fingering a short length of rope.

“Oh, it’s you,” he sneered, “I didn’t recognize you. You don’t look much like a monk dressed like that and you certainly don’t smell like one.”  The young man stared back into the bully’s eyes. His breath came in short gasps as he felt his face flush red.

“What?  Are you going to cry?  Do you want me to call your priest to take care of you?”  Montoya spread his hands as if inviting the novice to strike him. Suddenly one of the sailors stepped forward as if to intervene.

“Why don’t you leave the lad alone, Diego?” the seaman said. “He’s not doing no harm.”  The second mate reacted swiftly, cuffing the interloper across the face and sending him sprawling backwards with a yelp of pain. Henrico clenched his fists and stepped forward. Montoya continued to glare at the youth and smacked his open palm with his whip.

“Are you going to do something, boy?  Or are you just going to stand there?”  The two antagonists stood tensely for a moment when another figure stepped between them. Tomas Olmedo, the first mate, was a slight sickly man more comfortable with his mariner’s quadrant and cross staves than with the crew. With Quintero below decks he was supposedly in command.

            “Diego, what’s the problem?” he asked. The bully scowled at his superior officer and moved to step around him.

            “It’s none of your business, Olmedo. I was talking to this little whelp.”

            “Brother Henrico,” the first mate said while moving to stay between the two figures, “Would you be so kind as to go aloft to the crow’s nest for me?  I need to know if there is any sign of a change in the weather.”  The young Benedictine swallowed hard before nodding. He walked quickly to the mainmast and began to climb the rigging. Glancing back, he saw Montoya clamp a hand on the first mate’s shoulder and whisper sharply in his ear. Olmedo paled suddenly and hurried to march back toward the stern. Henrico could feel angry eyes boring into his spine as he climbed but he was determined not to look back; not to give Montoya the satisfaction; not to let him see the anger, or the fear in his eyes

He continued to climb the rigging as he replayed the scene over in his mind. He could not understand why the second mate had chosen to hate him so and he was unsure how to deal with it. Should he turn the other cheek and endure his martyrdom?  Was his faith strong enough to do so?  Or should he fight back?  He had acquired enough skill with a staff from his lessons with Father Garcilosa that he believed he could hold his own. But was it right to do so?

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to strike back at Montoya. He desired to fight him and make him suffer for all his cruelties and all of his bullying. Henrico wanted to lash out for all of the times he had ever been harassed or tormented; for all of the times he had ever been afraid. He paused in his climb to stare out at the horizon as it rose and fell before him. He had always struggled with feelings of insecurity. Others around him always seemed so confident and strong. He did not know how to achieve such peace and self-assurance but he strongly desired to.

He had been climbing without thinking but now paused to glance down at the deck. He was shocked to see how high he had climbed and even more so to realize that the roll of the ship had him suspended not over the deck but the open sea. If his grip slipped now, he might not be killed by the fall, but he would surely drown. The young man pulled himself tightly to the rigging, his hands gripped fiercely to the hempen ropes. He screwed his eyes shut and fought to control his breathing. A cold sweat began to trickle down his forehead and he began to fear that he would not be able maintain his hold on the cables. Then a calm clear voice came from above him.

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The Golden Conquest – Part 5

Posted on January 29, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

Father Garcilosa turned to speak to Henrico but the young man had already hurried into the inn. The priest frowned and shook his head. There was a sadness about the lad, a deep pain from some yet unknown source. The Lord knew, however. The priest would just have to wait.

            As they packed their belongings into burlap sacks, the novice pointed to a wooden chest bound with iron straps. “This also, Father?”

“Yes, a gift from the Bishop of Cadiz. A new set of priestly vestments and a set of silver Eucharist vessels.”

“What a fine gift. You must be pleased?”

            “Pleased? I suppose, though the gift is actually too—ah—ostentatious for me. A wooden mug or clay cup would do just as well. Oh, I know that many need these symbols to reach out to God and I am willing to accommodate them. But such things could also be a barrier if men chose to concentrate solely on the symbol and miss the reality behind them.”

“I not sure I understand, Father.”

“True communion with God is spiritual, not a physical. In the heart, not the mind. But come, there is a boat waiting to take us out to Quintero’s ship. We will talk again later.”

            The skiff was waiting for them at the quay and carried them out to the Gabriella. With the sailors help them clambered aboard the ship and moved toward the stern where a small group of men had gathered around Captain Quintero.

            “This is absolutely unacceptable,” the pair overheard as they came nearer. The speaker was a tall pale man, almost gaunt in stature and dressed in the stark black robes of a Dominican friar. While Henrico and the other monk both were dressed in black, the novice’s cassock, like the priest’s was made of coarse wool; the Dominican’s of fine linen edged with silk. A heavy gold crucifix hung around a neck seemingly too thin to support the large head perched on it. Sparse white hair fringed a skull covered by sallow parchment-like skin while dark eyes glared out from either side of a hawkish nose. He seemed less of a man of God and more of a malevolent black stork. The Dominican spoke again, “You must correct this problem immediately. Do you not know who I am?”

            “Yes,” Captain Quintero said with a sigh, “I know. But this ship simply does not have the space to give you your own cabin.”

            “Is there a problem, Senor Captain?” Father Garcilosa interjected in respectful tones, “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“Ah, Father,” Quintero said, relief flooding his features, “We have some difficulty with the sleeping arrangements. I had planned to put you in my cabin while your colleague stayed with the mates. But now we have our extra—ah—guests.”

The Dominican cast a baleful eye on the priest and scowled. “So, you are here, de la Vega. We have not met but I have been told . . . about you.”

“And I also am aware of you, Brother. This young man is Brother Henrico, a Benedictine novice who is my assistant and is to accompany us. Henrico, this worthy is Brother Sebastian of the Office of the Inquisition.” Father Garcilosa gave a quick shake of his head at the novice’s sudden look of anxiety and Henrico glanced away. The frown on Brother Sebastian’s face darkened as he glared at the novice with obvious distain. At that moment another man stepped forward from beside the Inquisitor and gave an elaborate bow.

“If I may be so bold, Father,” the young man declared, “I am Ponce d’Amarco, late of the Royal Guard and now assigned to accompany Brother Sebastian. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” He added an almost impertinent emphasis to the ‘I’ in his statement and winked at two companions. His lips were curled in an amused smile as he glanced back and forth between them.

The newcomer was elaborately dressed in the latest style in a doublet of black silk with a fine gold brocade. A short black cloak was draped over his shoulder, its rich scarlet lining flashing through whenever he moved. His hose was also of black silk while the short Italian trousers he wore were parti-colored gold and black. A dark beret with an extravagant ostrich plume was perched rakishly on his head. His left hand rested on the gold and jewel encrusted hilt of his sword while his other held a silken ivory handkerchief which he now held before his mouth as if to stifle a laugh.

“Captain Quintero,” the Dominican continued, ignoring his companion though a faint line of crimson could be noted growing above his neckline, “I must again demand proper accommodations.”

“Demand?” Quintero sputtered, “Who do you think . . .” Father Garcilosa again intervened, placing a restraining hand on the captain’s arm. Smiling, he spoke softly, “Perhaps I can offer a solution. If you are agreeable, Brother Henrico and I could both share your cabin. A small corner or piece of decking would suffice for us. Then Brother Sebastian and Senor d’Amarco could have the mate’s cabin. Would that be acceptable?”

“That would be most acceptable to me,” d’Amarco laughed, “My Lord Inquisitor and I should be most content as cabin-mates, would we not?” Brother Sebastian continued to scowl fiercely but gave a short nod of agreement. Without a word, he turned sharply away. A nearby sailor quickly responded to his captain’s gesture and led the monk towards the stern cabins while another followed with his baggage. The courtier smiled and with a second elaborate bow followed the Dominican.

Father Garcilosa watched in silence as the two men departed. A worried look crossed his face before he turned to the Captain and Henrico. Shaking his head, he sighed. “I’m sorry you’ve been troubled, Alonzo. And I fear that this will not be the last complaint that you may hear from Brother Sebastian. He has a reputation for being—ah—difficult.” 

“Well my friend, once we’re at sea he’ll learn very fast who the captain of this ship is. If he doesn’t then he had better learn how to swim!” Quintero gave a wicked grin to the priest and excused himself to attend to his duties. The two clerics carried their baggage to the captain’s cabin and only when they were behind closed doors did Henrico break the silence.

“Why is the Church sending an Inquisitor on the expedition? There aren’t any Muslims or Jews in the New World, are there?”

“Not so loud, my son,” the priest said in a sharp whisper, “These walls are quite thin, and all ships are infested by a wide variety of vermin.” He leaned closer to the novice. “The Office of the Inquisition has broad powers and is always seeking to expand them. Some are genuinely concerned that various heresies and false doctrines may take root amongst the new converts across the oceans. Sadly, others are more concerned with wealth and power. They care more for temporal gold than for the spiritual variety. I fear that Brother Sebastian may belong to the latter.”

At that moment the ship gave a slight lurch and slowly but perceptively, began to move. They were underway and the seaboard portion of their journey had begun. The priest gave a smile warm enough to dispel all gloom and clapped the novice on the back. Gesturing to the door he continued, “Go my son, you’ll not want to miss seeing the Gabriella move out into the Atlantic.”

“And you Father? Will you come?”

“No, my son, I need to unpack some things. And I need to pray. Now go.”

Henrico stepped from the cabin into the bright sunlight to observe the organized chaos of a ship being set to sail. Harried figures swarmed over the deck and up into the riggings amidst the cries and curses of the ship’s officers. The clank of the capstan as the anchor was secured was quickly drowned out by the snap of canvas as the sails more fully caught the wind. The foresail and the main had been set and Quintero now ordered the topsails trimmed. Other sailors strained to haul the lateen mizzen into place. The wind was favorable and after their long delay in port the captain wished to make as much haste as possible.

The Benedictine novice was fascinated by the quick movements of the sailors as they scampered high into the rigging. He watched as they raced out onto the yardarms seemingly oblivious to the heights and as surefooted as a pack of monkeys. As more canvas filled with the wind the Gabriella surged forward with increasing speed. Captain Quintero had been forthright in his description of the ship. She had the appearance of a stout draft horse but she moved with the fluid swiftness of an Arabian stallion. Henrico leaned over the rail to stare at the sea foam being thrown up as the ship’s bow pierced the waves.

A sharp command from Captain Quintero caused the helmsman to swiftly spin the wheel. The ship sharply tacked to round the rapidly approaching headland. Momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in direction Henrico staggered away from the railing. Catching his foot on some coiled rope he attempted to regain his balance but became more entangled in his long woolen cassock and fell roughly to the deck. In the process, he toppled over a bucket of seawater bringing further embarrassment and discomfort upon himself.

“Easy lad,” a grizzled old sailor grinned as he grabbed his arm, “You’d best be staying in your cabin till we’re clear of the bay.”

“Get back to work, old man,” a harsh voice snarled. The Gabriella’s second mate stepped forward to roughly pull Henrico to his feet. “You’re needed aloft Pedro, so move it!”  His lips curled into an ugly sneer. “The men don’t have time to spend wiping the snotty noses of fools or brats. So, stay out of the way or I’ll have to teach you another lesson.”  Henrico tried to shake the seaman’s hand off but the bully only tightened his grip. Glancing over his shoulder Montoya noticed the captain watching them and his demeanor quickly changed.

“Careful now, lad,” he said, raising his voice so Quintero would hear, “We can’t have our passengers getting injured before we even leave Spain, can we? Here, let me help you aft where it’ll be safer.”  The Benedictine was at last able to slip from the mate’s grasp. Henrico stood for a moment, fists clenched and breath coming in ragged gasps before turning away. In his haste he stumbled again on the ropes and almost fell a second time. Heat rose once again into his face as he heard a jeering snicker escape from the second mate’s lips. Forgoing any attempt at maintaining a shred of dignity he sprinted to the stern cabin and slammed the door behind him.

            Henrico slumped against the doorframe, his eyes screwed shut while he tried to calm his breathing. Memories of older boys at Medellin came to him; memories of taunts and blows that would send him running to the comfort of his mother’s arms; and memories also of his father’s displeasure and his brothers’ scorn at his failure to stand up to the bullies. He could not turn to any of them now. There was no more sympathy or instruction that they could give him. For a moment he felt very alone.

            Then a strong gentle hand was laid upon his shoulder and he opened his eyes to gaze into the face of Father Garcilosa. Seeing the quiet compassion cast upon the priest’s visage, Henrico found himself swallowing hard to fight back tears. Father Garcilosa led the novice to a bench and motioned for him to sit. He stood in mute prayer for a moment before saying, “I saw what happened on the deck, my son.”

            “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to shame you.”

            “There is no shame on your part. But I think I now understand why you had asked for instruction on the use of a staff.”  Henrico looked away, fearful that the priest would be angry.

            “My son, there is a path set before you. Soon you will have to choose which way you will take. You will have to decide what will rule in your heart. Will it be fear, anguish and doubt? Will it be anger, violence and revenge? Or will it be another way?”

            “But Father, you are a warrior. You have fought.”

            “Yes. Yes, I have. Sometimes rightly but also sometimes out of sin. To battle evil, to fight to protect widows and orphans, to uphold the truth; this is just. But to resort to violence for our own ends, for vengeance or out of pride; this is not the way of the Lord.”

            “I—I don’t know.”

            “I understand, Henrico. Just remember the Scriptures. Remember that Our Lord told us that we would be known by our love. Remember that we battle not against flesh and blood but against powers and principalities. Remember to pray.”

            “I will try, Father.”

            “That is all that I would ask, my son.”  The priest stood for a moment lost in thought, and then clapped the novice heartily on the back. “Come now, I think we should look into changing your garments to something more suitable for being at sea. Perhaps that will help you to avoid more—ah—incidents.”  The priest stooped to pull his baggage from under the bench. Opening the satchel, he produced trousers and a tunic, a new set of clothes for the novice, and held them aloft with a flourish. Henrico looked at the gift and smiled.

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The Golden Conquest – Part 4

Posted on January 23, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

As he moved through the streets of Cadiz, Henrico’s senses were assailed from all sides. The tang of the salt air mingled with the pungent aromas of sweat and raw sewage. Gulls shrieked overhead while dogs snarled and yelped at their feet. The cries of shopkeepers and street vendors hawking their wares competed with the laughter and curses of drunken sailors. The young Benedictine was dazzled by the myriad smells and sounds and even more so by the sights. The slow-moving Rio Guadalete mingled its silty brown waters with the sparkling blue of the bay. Dhows with red and white striped sails slipped past dingy barges laden with cargo, while tanned and sweating fisherman tossed glistening silver fish into woven baskets made golden by the sun.

            The streets were filled with countless people. Drab merchants with faces as pinched as their purses jostled with brightly clad sailors from distant ports. Liveried servants pushed aside ragged street urchins to allow the passage of ornately decorated sedan chairs, while overhead whores leaned from windows and balconies to call down their profane offers. The young novice blushed a deep crimson at the sight of their too loose bodices and quickly looked away. Purposely fixing his eyes down on the cobblestones, Henrico walked straight into a man standing by a tavern. The man’s flagon of ale splashed onto his shirt and he turned with a curse.

            “Look out, you fool,” he snarled, “You had better start to watch you step. Or do I have to teach you.”  He reached out to grab the novice’s arm but Father Garcilosa stepped between them and raised his hands in a conciliatory manner.

            “We are most sorry, sir,” the priest spoke gently, “Our Benedictine brother meant no harm. Come; let us replace your drink.”  He attempted to redirect the scowling man back towards the tavern, but he shook off the cleric’s hand and swore again.

            “Let go of me, priest!  I want satisfaction alright but not from more ale.”  He was attempting to step around Father Garcilosa to confront Henrico when a second man stepped into his path.

            “Is there a problem here, Diego?” the man said, his voice calm and even. His swarthy face was smiling but his eyes were hard and cold. The seaman stopped short and took a step backwards.

            “No, no problem, Captain. Just a little misunderstanding. No harm done.”

            “Lucky for you,” the captain’s grin widened as he pointed to the priest. “Do you have any idea who this is? This pastor could give you a beating just as quickly as he could a blessing.” The sea captain grasped the cleric’s arms and thumped him on the back as they embraced. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Father. I’ve been waiting for you.”

            “Not for too long I hope, Captain Quintero,” Father Garcilosa replied.

            “Not to worry, Father. We’re still loading supplies.” He turned to stare at the sailor. “And as my second mate, you’re supposed to be overseeing the work, Montoya. Now get yourself back to the ship.”

            “Yes, Captain.” Montoya gave a quick bow and headed back to the docks but not before flashing an angry glance at Henrico. The young Benedictine felt a chill run up his spine. Suppressing a shudder, he turned his attention back to the two older men.

            “Henrico,” Father Garcilosa was saying, “This is Alonzo Quintero, the captain of the ship which will carry us to the New World. We will be quite secure in his care. He has made the voyage across the ocean several times. Indeed, it was he who took Senor Cortes there for the first time.”

            “Ah, Father. That was long ago. We’ve all changed a lot since then.”

            “So, I see,” the priest laughed, waving a hand toward Quintero’s fine clothing. The embroidered doublet disguised but could not hide his wide girth. “I see you’ve done well for yourself.”

            “What can I say? Life is good and the market for trade grows. A smart man can do very well for himself.”

            “Especially if he’s willing to overlook the rules now and then, eh Alonzo?”

            “Father de la Vega, you know I’m an honest man or at least as honest as the rest of them, and what about you? I’ve some tales about you also. You still don’t always do as you’re told either.”

            “We had better take care, my friend, lest we corrupt our young brother here. Now, where is that ship of yours?” The trio turned and continued down the avenue, Quintero’s booming voice clearing the way for them. His obvious delight in pointing out the sights to Henrico eased the young novice’s apprehension, and his fascination grew as the sea captain elaborated on the history of the port city.

            “The oldest city in all of Spain, it is,” Quintero was saying, “Cadiz was here before the Romans even. It was the Phoenicians that first found this port and a fine anchorage it remains. See that arch, lad? The Romans built it, they did, but those stones were cut first by the Sea Folk.”

            “Actually, Alonzo,” Father Garcilosa interjected, “The stones were probably brought here by the Carthaginians. The Phoenicians were here earlier, yes, but they settled mainly on the island.”

            “Why would they do that? The food’s much better on this shore.”

            “I bow to your expertise in this matter, my friend,” the priest smiled, “There is much history in this city, Henrico, and many peoples have trod over its stones. We could spend many weeks exploring its streets and alleys but I fear we must soon depart from its shores.”

            “That’s right, lad,” Quintero said, “We should finish loading the supplies on the ship within a few days and then we sail. It’s already late enough in the season. I’d rather that we had left in early spring and now it’s almost summertime.”

            “You worry too much, Alonzo my friend.”

            “That’s my job, Father. I’ve seen too many other sailors end up as bait for the fish because their captain didn’t worry enough.”

            “I am sure that is true, but I know that if we are in God’s will, we are also in His hands and need be anxious for nothing. I feel assured that this is the case.”

            “I hope so, Father. But look, we’re spoiling the lad’s sightseeing. See that building there, the Moors built it. Now it’s a gathering place for seamen from all over the Mediterranean. That place hasn’t seen a priest or monk in decades. Probably the last time a cleric was in there was when Father Garcilosa was . . .”

            “Captain Quintero,” the priest interrupted, “Are we not approaching the docks? Which is your ship?”

            Henrico was intrigued by the vessels moored along the stone quay or driven up onto the narrow beach. Tiny one- and two-man fishing boats vied for space with larger barges and cogs. An old caravel listed on its side on the shale while workers scampered over its darkened timbers, scrapping off layers of barnacles and encrusted weeds. A long slim ship bobbed gently in the swell of the bay. Its prow was high and peaked and sculpted into the shape of an eagle. The ship’s stern was square and ornately carved and painted. Gold leaf shone from around the glass stern windows and from the name proudly displayed above them. Henrico noted its sides were pierced for oars which were stacked on its sparkling white decks.

            “Is that it?” he cried, “Is that your ship, Captain? It’s beautiful.”

            “That?” Quintero laughed, “No lad, that’s the royal galley, Santa Anna, and yes, it is pretty. But you couldn’t get me on board that wooden pig in the open sea for love or money. It’s meant only for skirting the shore and isn’t fit for blue water. No boy, that’s my ship.” He pointed further down the wharf to a stout three-masted ship anchored just off shore. Its sides were a dull red hue, and the sails furled limply on its masts were more grey and brown than white. Both the bow and the stern were raised and square, and devoid of any decoration or paint. In Henrico’s mind, the boat looked cumbersome and barely seaworthy.

            “Now that is a ship,” the captain continued, “She may not look like much but she can out sail anything else in this port, or any other I’d say. She’s a nao, like the Santa Maria was, but she’s Portuguese built and a superior ship. A nao is much bigger and stronger than a caravel is, you see, and a better sailor. She’s out of the same shipyard as Vasco da Gama’s vessel, and is even named after his. But there’s no doubt that the Gabriella is the best ship, and she’ll get you to the New World safe and sure.” 

            Observing the confused look on the Benedictine novice’s face, Quintero continued, “You know who da Gama is, don’t you? No? He’s one of the greatest explorers of our time and sailed the entire way around Africa until he reached India. His ship was also a nao and they are some of the best sailing vessels there are. You’ll see.”

            Captain Quintero continued to expound on the virtues of his ship while Father Garcilosa watched with a benign smile. He placed a hand on Henrico’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The young man face remained tense. He had never been in anything larger than a small dory and then only on a lake. The monastery had a fine collection of maps, and the novice had observed how broad the ocean was and how filled it was by strange beasts and creatures, many of them so much larger in appearance than the Gabriella. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in Salamanca.

            As if reading his mind, Father Garcilosa leaned forward. “Do not fear, my son. Our Lord Jesus calmed the sea and brought the Apostles safely to the other shore. I am quite certain that He will do the same for us.”  Henrico looked into the eyes of the priest and felt a wave of peace come over him. Father Garcilosa was right, they had nothing to fear. The priest turned back to the sea captain. “Alonzo my friend, I see you have much yet to do and we are weary. Is there a decent inn nearby where we can obtain lodging until we sail?”

            Henrico grinned as he stepped into the street. What a rare privilege. While Captain Quintero completed preparations for the voyage and Father Garcilosa conferred with the local bishop, he would have time to himself. The Benedictine novice enjoyed the warm sea air as he sat on the quay watching the fishing boats come and go. As he helped the crews of the small vessels unload their cargos, he listened to their tales of the sea and began to grow more comfortable at the thought of being away from dry land. Henrico even accompanied some of his new compatriots out of the bay into the open sea.

            One vessel he avoided was the Gabriella. The first time he visited, Captain Quintero was present, and all went well. The second instance did not end so well. As he climbed over the rail to venture aboard, he found himself looking into the second mate’s face. He shuddered at the pale grey eyes staring at him from a harsh faced framed with lank brown hair. Henrico attempted to move away but Montoya thrust out a foot to send the novice sprawling to the deck.

The sailor leaned over his prone form and scowled. “What’s the matter, boy? Are you as clumsy as you are stupid? Help him to his feet, my lads.” Henrico was hauled to his feet by two grinning sailors as others of the crew ducked their heads and looked away.

“We can’t have someone so clumsy running about at sea, can we? You might get hurt and we wouldn’t want that, would we lads?” Montoya’s face creased into a cruel sneer. “We’ll have to teach you to be steadier on your feet. Put him up, men.” The two ruffians lifted the novice onto the ship’s side rail and held him in place while the mate picked up a long boat hook.

“Now we’ll teach you a little jig.” Henrico had tucked his cassock up into his belt before he had clambered onboard the ship and Montoya now thrust the boat hook out at his exposed legs, striking a glancing blow. The young man cried out in pain and would have fallen had he not been being held on either side. The second mate laughed harshly and continued, “Oh, I’m sorry, boy. You need to move faster.” He swung again at Henrico’s legs. This time the novice was able to pull his leg back quick enough to avoid the blow.

“That’s better,” the bully continued, “Now let’s see how well you can do on your own. Let him go, lads.” The two sailors released Henrico’s arms but remained on either side of him to prevent him from stepping down from the railing. The novice wavered back and forth for a moment before he was able to regain his balance. Montoya struck out again at his legs. Henrico leapt from one foot to the other to avoid the blow, desperately trying to steady himself. The mate swung the boat hook again and the young novice toppled over the side.

Henrico splashed downward into the chill waters of the bay. Floundering in his heavy black cassock he struggled to the surface, gasping for air. The second mate glared down at him and laughed, “Have a nice swim, boy. And if you want another dancing lesson, just come back tomorrow!” The novice felt the wool of his garment becoming heavier as the salt water soaked into it. He fought against the downward pull of his robe and desperately worked toward the shore. Henrico felt a burn enter his shoulders as his arms begin to weaken. A wave splashed against him and he tasted salt in his mouth. He worked his arms despite the growing ache in his muscles and prayed in silent desperation. Just as he felt his strength failing him, he felt the hard shale of the seabed strike his foot.

Coughing and gagging on the seawater, Henrico stumbled up the steep beach. Hands gripped his arms and pulled him higher. Through watery eyes he looked up at the rough visage of the same fisherman who had rowed him out to the Gabriella. The simple seaman shook his head sadly and gave the young man a knowing smile. Without a word the fisherman carried the half-drowned novice up onto the shore. Over their heads the wind carried the taunts and insults from Montoya and his two followers. Henrico felt a red heat rise into his face and a hard lump into his throat. Shame washed over him and then dissipated to be replaced by something harder, something dark.

            A few days later Henrico stepped out onto the street to find Father Garcilosa and Captain Quintero seated at a small table in front of the inn. It was a fine summer day with bright sunshine streaming down from a clear azure sky. A breeze from the bay brought cooling airs to the town and song birds filled the trees. A day to enjoy God’s creation. Or, so it seemed at first.

Quintero slapped his hand down on the table and grimaced. “I sick and tired of dealing with idiots and bureaucrats!  We’ve been ready to leave for four days and now they say we must wait another week. Don’t they know it’s late in the sailing season already? It’s almost the end of July and the hurricane season has started in the Caribbean by now. The whole court must be full of fools.”

            “I’m afraid that I must agree with you, Alonzo.” The priest’s face was also grim. “I also am concerned about our delay but not just because of the lateness of the season.”

            “My new passengers, eh? That’s just what I need, more clerics to baby-sit. No offense Father, but one priest, even one as sensible as you, is enough for any ship. And where in Hades am I supposed to put you all?”

            “Hopefully not there, my friend,” Father Garcilosa laughed, “I’m sure we will manage somehow. I am not concerned about the sleeping arrangements. I am worried about the reason behind these late additions.” As Henrico approached, the priest glanced up. Clearing his throat, he shifted in his chair. “Ah, there you are, my son. I see that the sea air is putting some color in your cheeks. I also see we need to find a barber to touch up your tonsure.” The novice self-consciously rubbed the growing stubble on the top of his head and nodded. His furrowed his brow and glanced back and forth between the two men but did not speak.

            Later as they returned to their lodging the priest asked Henrico how he had been passing the days. The novice told of his visits to the beaches and his work with the fishermen of the town. He smiled when he spoke of his boat ride out of the bay but became quiet when the older cleric asked if he had been out to the ship. Instead, he asked how much longer they would be staying at the port. When the priest explained that they would be delayed a few more days the young man asked for a favor.

            “I’ve been wondering Father, that is, with us going to the New World and all, and with the dangers there, I mean . . .”

            “What is it, my son?”

            “Well Father, I saw how you dealt with the robbers on the trail and I was wondering if you could teach me to use a staff like that?” The novice blushed and stared at the ground. “I am sorry. I should not have presumed to ask. I know the abbot would not approve. But . . .”

            Father Garcilosa paused and stroked his chin. “Did not your father or your brothers teach you such skills?”

            “No, Father, my mother always felt that I was too young and after she died, my father was too ill. My brothers never had any time for such things.” When the priest remained silent, he looked up. “It’s just that I felt it wise to learn how to help you if we ever have trouble again.”

            “Hmm, so I see. Very well, but on one condition. For every hour of instruction that I give you in weaponry, you must spend two in prayer and another two in studying the scriptures.”

            “Yes, Father. Thank you, Father. When can we begin?”

            “First your time of prayer and study and then the instruction. Now go and fetch our supper.”  

            The bargain was kept. If Henrico applied himself more vehemently to learning to use a staff than he did to his prayers, he still was quick to memorize and recite the Scriptures. How much of the knowledge was just in his mind and how much in his heart was harder to discern? The priest was forced to watch in silence as his protege exercised in the inn’s courtyard. God alone knew the answer. He could only wait and pray.

            The young novice stood in the afternoon sun holding a stout oak staff in clenched fists. He turned the pole slowly in his hands, stretching his arms and working the stiffness out of his shoulders and began to swing the stave in gradually larger circles. Picking up speed he began to move forward and back, dancing around a thick post set in the middle of the courtyard. A sharp crack split the air and was followed in rapid succession by a series of quick blows against the post. A trickle of sweat began to work its way down his brow and a burn edged into the muscles of his upper back. But he did not quit. He continued even though his breath came in ragged gasps.

            His face was set in grim determination. A red flush crept over his face and his eyes grew wide and wild. Gripping the staff with hands close together he began to strike the post with all his strength. Again, and again he swung at the pillar until the stave slipped from fists slick with sweat. The novice stared down at his hands for a moment, a quiver of fatigue coursing through his body. He turned away from the courtyard, his shoulders slumped in frustration and weariness, his face grim.  With a sudden start he looked up to realize that he had been observed.

            “Father, I—ah—I hadn’t noticed you there.”

            “I see you have been working very hard at the exercises, my son.”

            “I don’t think it’s working. I’m not getting any better at it. It—it’s just too hard.”

            “You must have patience, my son. Your skill and your knowledge are increasing. They will continue to do so. Is there anything else we need to speak of?”

            “Ah, no.” the young man blushed, casting his eyes down to the ground. “No, I do not think so.” He looked up to find the priest staring into his eyes. Silence stretched out between them before the novice glanced away. “Not right now anyway. Perhaps later, I hope—I hope that would be alright.”

            “My son, I will always be here for you. When you are ready to talk, I will be more than willing to listen.”

Henrico bit his lip and nodded. “Perhaps, I should—.” A shout from the street shattered the moment and he jerked his vision away.

            “There the two of you are.” Quintero strode into the courtyard, waving his arms in extravagant glee. “The day is finally here. Our other passengers have arrived and we sail with the tide. So, get your baggage and hurry on board. I have had my fill of dry land and need to feel the sea under my feet again. Come quick, if you’re coming.” The Gabriella’s captain laughed and dashed back into the street.

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The Golden Conquest – Part 3

Posted on January 15, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

“Who said that he was alone?” a voice thundered from the darkness. Father Garcilosa strode into the firelight holding his staff before him. His hands firmly clenched  its wooden shaft and his eyes flashed. “Put the boy down and then you can leave!”

            “Or what, priest?”  The brigand sneered, “You’ll excommunicate me?  I haven’t cared about your church for a long time.”

            Henrico watched in horror as a third bandit appeared behind the priest. Knife in hand, the new threat crept forward toward Father Garcilosa’s exposed back. He was raising his blade to strike when suddenly the cleric moved. Father Garcilosa swiftly brought the end of his staff upward between the man’s legs. Eyes wide, the thief let out an oomph of air and fell to his knees. The priest kept his eyes locked on the other two men while he spun his weapon around his body to crack the fallen bandit across his head. The man fell forward and was silent.

            Cursing, the bearded man flung down the bedroll and pulled a short, curved sword from his belt. “You’re going to die for that, priest,” he snarled, “And then so will your blackbird.”  He motioned for Raul to hold the young man and stepped forward. The knifeman pushed Henrico to his knees. The blade was still at his throat as they watched the drama unfolding before them.

            The whiskered thief inched forward, his flashing blade weaving a mesmerizing pattern before him. He grinned cruelly and licked his lips. “I’m going to cut off your hands first, priest. And then your ears and your eyes. And then I’m going to kill you.”

            Father Garcilosa smiled gently, “You sir, really do talk too much.”  The brigand growled in anger and charged forward. The priest sidestepped deftly and struck him across the back. The thief sprawled to the ground but quickly regained his footing. He advanced again but with more cautious. He feinted to the right and then suddenly lunged forward. Father Garcilosa parried the blow with his staff and turned it sharply to strike him again. The blow staggered the thief and was quickly followed by a second and a third. The bearded man fell motionless to the ground.

            Henrico had watched the battle in amazement. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the display of martial skill. He realized that Raul was just as shocked for the pressure of blade against his neck had lessened. The knife wielding bandit seemed transfixed by the sight of his comrade’s fall. The Benedictine novice became aware of the rough feel of a large stone beneath his hand. Closing his fist on the stone, he swung it against the thief’s temple. The struggle was over.

            Shoving the bandit’s limp body aside, Henrico leapt to his feet. His heart was racing and his breath came in ragged gulps. He stared at the man lying still at his feet and then at the rock still clenched in his fist. Dropping the stone, he watched with relief as Raul’s chest rose and fell and a soft groan escaped from the thief’s lips. Henrico let the stone fall from his fingers and looked up.

            The priest took a step towards the younger man but stumbled and almost fell. Rushing forward, Henrico grasped his arms and helped him to the ground beside the fire. His voice was sharp and tense when he spoke. “Father, did he hurt you?”

            “No lad, it’s the old wound. I’m not use to such exertions. No doubt, I will pay the price for them and I fear I will need to ride the mule again tomorrow. Now Brother Henrico, I suggest you make our guests more comfortable. Take their belts and some cord from our packs and bind their feet and hands. We’ll deal with them in the morning.”

            “What will we do with them, Father?”

            “I will pray about that. I suggest you do likewise. And be sure to thank the Lord for our deliverance.”

            “Father,” the young man spoke, his eyes downcast and a blush rising to his face, “I’m sorry about . . .”

            “There now, my son. I was young once also. You are forgiven. Now you had better take care of those bandits before they regain their senses.”

            The eastern sky was smudged with red when the priest stirred again. Henrico sat pale by the fire, his eyes glazed with fatigue. He had armed himself with a stout piece of firewood to guard their trio of prisoners. The robber’s weapons lay untouched in a pile beside him. A poignant mixture of shame, guilt and fear had kept him from handling the blades but also from sleep. He had failed once again in his duty and in doing so had almost cost them their lives. He promised himself that he would not fail Father Garcilosa again. The novice looked up suddenly as the older cleric knelt beside him.

            “Good morning, lad,” the priest said, “Your face bears the marks of our battle last night.” He reached out and touched the bruises and abrasions on the young man’s face. “Take this salve and apply it to your wounds. It will aid the healing greatly.” Henrico took the small clay vessel and winced at the pungent aroma that assailed his nostrils when he pulled off the cork stopper. “Yes,” the priest continued, “It is not the most pleasant of perfumes but I assure you it is effective.”

            Father Garcilosa took the curved sword from the pile beside Henrico. He studied the blade carefully in the morning light and then rose to stand over the bandits. The three men stared up at the priest, their eyes displaying a mixture of fear, apprehension and scorn. Slowly their confidence was eroded under the cleric’s scrutiny and one by one they were forced to avert their gaze. The priest held the short sword up and turned it slowly in his hands.

            “Where did you get this weapon? I assume you stole it.” The bearded man looked up sharply.

            “I wasn’t always a thief, priest. I earned that blade. I took it from a Moor after the final battle for Grenada.”

            “I remember that battle,” Father Garcilosa said, “I was in the vanguard. Where did you stand that day?” 

            “I-I was on the left. You were there?  You fought?”

            “Yes, I was, and I did. I also remember that the warfare was especially bitter on the left flank. Many good men died that day.”

            A wave of sadness passed over the bandit’s eyes. He shuddered before turning his head to spit on the ground. “And for what? My father and brother fell on that field and what good did it do? We traded the Moors for other tyrants. Our lords weren’t grateful for our sacrifice. No, no rewards for us. Just more taxes and when the crops fail and you can’t pay, out you go.”

            “Did you seek justice?”

            “From who? The courts belong to the lords and the Church only cares for lining its pockets with gold, or burning out those they don’t like. There’s no justice for the likes of us.”  The other thieves grunted in agreement. “Yes, we’re thieves, Father. And we have killed to protect ourselves but I tell you right, we’re not murderers like some of your kind. Not like that.”

            The priest stood in silence, his eyes seeming to focus on some distant point. Then he clenched the sword in his hand and bent over the three thieves. Henrico gasped as the blade flashed in the morning light and the men’s bonds fell away. They all stared in amazement as Father Garcilosa spoke. “Your words are true, sad but true and they confirm what the Holy Spirit has spoken into my heart. Stand.”

            The trio of men gingerly rose to their feet. They touched painful bruises and rubbed stiff and numb limbs. The younger men glanced at their leader who only shrugged and shook his head before turning to stare at the priest. The cleric carefully reversed the curved blade in his hands and held the hilt out to the bearded man. The man’s mouth dropped open in bewilderment. When he continued to hesitate Father Garcilosa face was touched with a gentle smile. At last he took the sword, his face was flushed with shame.

            “Why are you doing this, priest? We meant to rob you and even to kill you? Now you give me my weapon back? Why?”

“Our Lord Jesus offered forgiveness and redemption to all men. He told the thief who hung on the cross beside Him that through his faith he would join Our Lord in paradise that very day. Do you trust in God?”

            “I can’t trust the Church anymore.”

            “I did not ask you of the Church. I asked you about Our Lord. Do you believe in Him? Do you know Him? Is He your Father?”  The priest placed a hand on the bearded man’s shoulder and stared into his eyes. Henrico was amazed to see tears begin to roll down the thief’s grizzled cheeks. The man nodded and dropped his head. A warm smile creased Father Garcilosa’s face as he continued, “Now my son, go. Go in forgiveness. Go and in the words of Our Lord Jesus, sin no more.”

            Henrico watched as each of the former thieves knelt in turn to seek a blessing from the priest. The trio silently gathered their meager belongings and prepared to depart. Before they left, they pledged their good behavior and promised that the two clerics would not have no more trouble on their journey. Within moments they had disappeared over a hilltop.

            The men had been true to their word. The attitude of the common folk which they encountered had changed. People removed their headwear and smiled as they passed. Villagers, who had earlier fled behind shuttered windows and closed doors, now came forth to watch their passing. The priest’s old wound gave him such discomfort that he called an early halt to their journey on that day. They were greeted and invited into a roadside inn where they settled before the fire.

            They were there when the village elders came to them. There were no churches nearby and the people had long been neglected by any traveling priests. Their request was simple? Would Father Garcilosa hold a mass for them in the morning?  Would he serve Holy Communion? As the priest smiled and nodded yes, Henrico observed all of the pains from his old injury disappear from his face. The mass would be held at dawn in the village square.

            Father Garcilosa held the simple earthenware chalice aloft as the sun rose into the eastern sky. The villagers had begun to fill the dirt plaza well before and they now stood or knelt in eager anticipation as the mass. Though the priest’s vestments were plain and his Eucharist vessels simple, an awed hush seemed to fill the square. Henrico had assisted in the preparations and now attended the priest at the crude altar. He watched in fascination as the priest turned and began to minister to the people.

            Each liturgy that the young novice had ever witnessed had been presented entirely in Latin. True to form, Father Garcilosa commenced in the ancient language but he quickly switched to the common Spanish understood by the citizens of the village. They at first seemed surprised to hear the priest’s speech but their faces glowed as his words filled their hearts. He spoke to them not of a God of judgment or vengeance but rather of love and forgiveness. He told them of His grace and holiness and invited them to partake. The communion bread was coarse and dark and the drink more vinegar than wine, but both were made holy by God’s presence.    

   At the end of the service, the two clerics bade farewell to the villagers and resumed their journey. Henrico hesitated before speaking. His voice quaked and his brow was creased with deep furrows. “Father, forgive me, but I must ask. Most would have given the service only in Latin. Would that not have been more proper?”

            “Proper?” the priest replied with a chuckle, “I don’t think our Lord Jesus delivered His Sermon on the Mount in Latin. No, I suspect He spoke to the people in their own language. The truth of His love needs to be delivered to His sheep in a way that they can understand.”

            “But the prior at the monastery spoke harshly of any attempt to translate scripture, or even explain them to the common folk.”

            “I’m not surprised. Too many in the Church spend all of their time putting barriers up to separate people from God. It seems that they do so to make themselves more important and more necessary. Sadly, it seems that the Church hierarchy believes that this is the correct path.”

            “But Father, I don’t understand how they let you – I mean, doesn’t someone – um, I mean to say how do you—?”

            “Get away with it?” There was laughter in his voice. “There are those who would like to silence me, who disagree with my beliefs and wish that I desist in my efforts. However, I have good friends and support both in the office of the Archbishop and at court. It seems that it does pay to have friends in high places,” Father Garcilosa paused to gaze into the clear blue sky before continuing, “And of course, my closest friend is very high up indeed. As long as I stay in God’s will, I need fear no man.”

            “How can you know God’s will except from what we’re told?”

            “You should listen to your elders and those in authority over you. But if what they command you is against the Lord’s will, then you must choose to obey God and not man.”

            “But how do I know?”

            “The Holy Spirit will guide you but you can start by studying the Word. St. Paul told us all scripture is useful for instruction and admonition. Moses told us to keep them in our heart and teach them diligently to our sons, and Jesus Himself told us that if any man lacked for wisdom, he need only ask. Learn scripture, study it diligently and you have a basis to know God’s will. Here.”  The priest pulled a small book from his pack, and handed it to the novice. It was a simple testament, lacking the usual decorative pages and ornate lettering but accurate and detailed. Henrico held it in his hands as if it were the most precious of treasures and could find no words to thank the priest.

            “It is yours, only promise me that you will read and study it.”  As the young man nodded with grave vigor, the cleric continued, “Now, put it in your baggage for safekeeping.”

            They hurried on, with no further incidents to trouble them. Henrico studied the testament he had been given but often sought the priest’s help to understand what he read. The speed of their journey often prevented any deep conversations. Soon they had passed Sevilla and moved on, skirting the swampy lowlands of Los Marimas at a rapid pace. Within days a salty tang could be noted in the breeze and multitudes of seabirds swirled overhead. At last as the two clerics crossed over an ancient stone bridge, the priest pointed ahead to the end of the first step of their expedition, the ancient port city of Cadiz.

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The Golden Conquest – Part 2

Posted on January 8, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

Here is Part 2 of my award winning manuscript, “The Golden Conquest”. I hope you enjoy it and pass the word on to others. – Kevin

Spain, 1518 AD

            The chill of the stone floor sent a shiver through his knees and up his spine. He welcomed it. It would keep him awake and help him finish his vigil. The chapel was deserted but the prior’s eyes were everywhere, quick to note every fault and quicker to punish. The young novice tried to be obedient, he really had, but the day had been so hot and the pond so cool and inviting. It would have been bad enough if he had merely left his work to go wading but you can’t swim in a heavy cassock. It had lain at the water’s edge to be found by the prior just as the naked novice dove beneath the dark waters.

            He had accepted his beating meekly. Though the prior was skilled with a rod, he lacked the strength and determination of his own father. The dull ache in his shoulders seemed a fair exchange for the moments of bliss his illicit swim had given him. The extra punishment of a night of prayer in the old chapel did more to dampen his spirits. A gnawing ache in his belly and dryness on his lips reminded him that he had also been denied food and water. The aching numbness in his legs vied for his attention. How could the days be so hot and the nights so cold? It must be winter’s last gasp before the coming of spring.

            The novice tried again to return to his prayers. He knew them all by rote and recited them easily, first in Latin then in Spanish. He tried a bit of Greek but found his mind too dull with fatigue to finish and so changed to French. Soon his mind was not on his prayers but some doggerel from his childhood. That would never do. What would the prior think if he heard such a verse.  A faint smile creased his face as he pictured the man’s face red with pious indignation. The novice half wondered if the sight would be worth the consequences.

            “I am glad to see that you have at least obeyed this command,” the prior spoke from behind the young man, “If I had my way you would continue this vigil through the day as well. But the abbot has commanded your presence as soon as prime is over. Come.”  

            “Are you sure you want this novice?” the abbot said, “Henrico is young and headstrong and has not yet taken his vows. I do not wish to question your judgment Father, but—”

            “But you can’t help yourself, can you, my friend?  But do not worry. I have my reasons for wanting one. I am confident that he will not disappoint me.”  The priest smiled and turned from the window. He was tall and dark, his temples tinged with grey but his eyes clear and sharp. His cassock was simple and befitting of a country priest but his face showed much more. Father Garcilosa de la Vega had been a soldier before he was priest and he remained an adventurer even after.   

The abbot shook his head. “You have been my friend for almost three decades but still I did not know all about you. There are so many stories and I wonder how many are true. Perhaps it is best not to know. Still, I admit I do not understand. You are an educated man. Not just at the university here but in Paris also. You served in Rome before the Moorish wars. You’ve seen so much. Why take such a risk again?  You have already been to the New World once.”

  “Yes, I was there. From the decks of the Nina I saw it. Now I must return.”

“That made no sense at all,” the abbot said, “You are a soldier, a commander, a priest, a scholar but yet you signed on as a common sailor with that madman.”

“Columbus wasn’t mad. He might have even been inspired.”  The priest stared back out at the horizon before continuing, “He came aboard the Nina, you know, after the Santa Maria was lost. I was at the Captain’s table by then.” 

“No doubt. Your skills as a healer and priest would be wasted as a common seaman.”

“Ah, but I loved the adventure of it.”

“At last, you answer with the full truth. Is that why you must return?”

“Perhaps in part, but more so because I truly feel the call of God.” 

As the chapel bell sounded the end of the first canonical hour, Henrico stood wide eyed behind the prior as he knocked on the door to the abbot’s quarters. As it opened, the monk bowed deep and with a grunt signaled for the young man to enter. Henrico swallowed hard and stepped over the threshold. His mind raced. What had he done that warranted an audience with the abbot?  What sin had found him out?  Was he to be expelled? Or worse?  The abbot’s smile was benign as he turned and left the office.

            The novice was more confused than ever. He looked up to study the tall priest standing by the window. The morning sun gave a golden cast to the halo of hair rising from his head and served to increase the young man’s apprehension. When the priest spoke, his voice was calm and strong, “The abbot has a fine view of the university, does he not?”

            “Y-yes, I mean, I d-don’t know. I’ve never been in his office before.”

            “You are Henrico de Medillin, are you not?  And I . . .”

“I know who you are, Father. I was allowed to attend some of your classes, and once the master of novices took us to see your church.” The young man blushed at his interruption and stared back at his feet. “I’m sorry, Father.”

            “Quite all right, my son. Did you also know that I was a friend of your father’s?  No?  We fought the Moors together in Castille. I also knew your mother. I was sad to hear of their passing.”

            “Thank you, Father,” Henrico managed to say through a throat suddenly tight and dry.

            “I also know that is why you are here at the Monastery of San Vincente. Your father had planned to send you to the University, hadn’t he?  But then he died, and the estate could only go so far.”

The novice lowered his head and stared at the ground with clenched fists as Father Garcilosa continued. “The eldest received the manor and lands. The second inherited the orchard and olive press. And the third son . . .”

            “Stephano took father’s horse and armor.” Henrico’s voice was cold.

            “Ah yes, off somewhere seeking his fortune. But not much left for you, the youngest. Sadly, your brothers chose not to honor your father’s plan to send you to the university here in Salamanca.”

            “They offered a position at the press or in the fields.”

            “Yes, and what a waste that would have been. Thankfully you came here instead.  I have had my eye on you and am pleased with what I have seen.”

            “You are?  I mean—thank you, Father.”

            “You have an excellent ear for languages and a quick mind. Your Latin is good and your Greek is passable. I believe you also speak French and Italian.”

            “Yes Father. I know Portuguese as well and a little English.”

            “Very good,” the priest smiled “I believe you can be of use to me. And in helping me you would also allow me to repay a favor to your father. Now tell me, what you know of the New World and of the man Hernan Cortes.”

                                                                                                                                                            The sun was warm and gentle on the shaved tonsure of the young Benedictine as he strolled beside the laden mule. He still found it hard to believe. Was he truly on this journey south the great port of Cadiz?  Had someone like Father Garcilosa de la Vega really requested his service?  The prior was against it. Even the master of novices had opposed the plan. He knew their concerns were justified. He was young, he was inexperienced and he had not yet taken his vows. But somehow the priest had prevailed and the abbot had agreed. The young man was released into the care and direction of Father Garcilosa.  He glanced ahead where the priest rode the other mule.

            “Father, would you tell me more of the New World?”

            “More?  Haven’t I already told you enough?  Very well.”  The priest spoke as Henrico walked behind him. The miles passed quickly. After a time, Father Garcilosa stepped down from his mule and turned to the novice. “So many questions, but there is one you have not asked – why are we going back?”  He stood in silence for a moment. “There will be another expedition to the west of the known lands. The reasons are many.

            Diego Valazquez, the Governor of Cuba, wants more power. Our King, Charles, wants the gold and wealth that is rumored to lie further west. And Cortes, well he wants glory.   I know him, did I tell you that?  He was a student for a time in Salamanca. Not a very good one but there is a spark within him that others lack. He is also from your home town.”

            “From Medellin?”

            “Yes, we will carry letters confirming his commission to Cuba. We will then accompany him on the expedition.”

            “What will we be doing on it, Father?”

            “God’s will my son, God’s will.”

            When they had reached the Rio de Tajo, Father Garcilosa dismounted from his mule and stood leaning on his staff. He shifted his weight and grimaced slightly, a flicker of pain showing in his eyes.

            “Father, are you injured?”

            The priest paused. “It is nothing new, my son. Someday perhaps, I shall tell you the story. For now, suffice it to say I have been privileged to shed blood both for my country and for my God. Yes, at times my leg pains me but I accept God’s wisdom.” He gave a small smile and then pointed to the river, “There, the ferryman has arrived to take our coin and send us onward in our journey. Let us make haste.” 

            As the two clerics traveled, they spoke of many things. Freed from the rigid rules of ecclesiastic society, Henrico was able to question the priest directly. He willingly answered and shared his knowledge and experience. The Benedictine novice had never heard anyone speak about God the way this man did, not just as a King but also as a father and a friend. Henrico wondered how such a thing could be. The God he knew was distant and stern. How could anyone have such a relationship with Him?  Was such a thing possible?

            The road steepened as they climbed into the Sierra Morena. Settlements and farmsteads became sparse and scattered in the rough terrain while the people they encountered seemed withdrawn and suspicious. The two clerics were watched with faces set in careful stoicism, only their eyes betraying a sullen dislike that surprised and troubled the novice. He was walking in silence beside the mule, trying to find the right questions to ask the priest when they came over a sharp rise. Before them, they saw the burnt-out ruins of a small village.

            Without a word, they moved through the deserted streets. Cracked and crumpling stone and brick walls still bore the blackened scars of the fire that had gutted the small cluster of houses. The central well was overgrown with briers and thorns. A rabbit darted out from the weeds as they approached. It raced past the shattered hulk of a red brick building. Henrico noted it had not only been burned but also pulled down and broken apart. As if whoever had done this wanted to wipe out all memory of the place. The young man looked around with eyes wide and mouth fallen open.

            “Father Garcilosa,” the young man stammered, “What happened here? This is not new. Why has no one rebuilt?”

            The priest looked around the devastation and shook his head. “This place was visited by Tomas de Torquemada in the past and it is his handiwork that you see here.” 

            Henrico stepped back with a sharp indrawn breath. He had heard so many tales of the Inquisition. The name Torquemada had been used to frighten him into obedience as a child and now he stood where the Grand Inquisitor had held sway. “They say he killed tens of thousands.”

            “You should not believe all that you hear,” the priest said, “The truth is horrific enough.”

            “Horrific?  But wasn’t he doing God’s work?” 

Father Garcilosa turned to stare at the novice in silence. Henrico saw his eyes flash and his jaw clench and relax twice before he spoke.

“Our Lord would have all men drawn unto Him that is true, but not once in the Holy Scripture did He command that they should be threatened with burning at the stake if they refused.”   The older cleric bent over amongst the tumbled piles of red bricks. He turned over a large stone to reveal a carved relief of a simple seven stemmed candlestick, a menorah, a symbol of the Jews. “The people who lived here were the children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, as was our Lord. Jesus came first for the Jews and only second for us, the Gentiles.”

“But, they rejected Him. They killed Him!”

“The leaders of the Jews did. The Pharisees, the Sanhedrin and the court of Herod did. And never forget, the Romans. But remember, Saint Paul and all the Apostles were Jewish and so were all of the early Church. On the day Saint Peter preached three thousand were converted to the Faith. All of them were Jews.”  The priest sighed and stared at the horizon for a moment. “I believe in my heart that our Holy Lord Jesus will continue to call His chosen people to Him. He is their Messiah and I pray some day they will respond to His love.

But I know that threats and fear will never change the hearts of men. It may lead to an outward change; a change in action but not in attitude. Jesus tells us in the Holy Scripture that they shall know us by our love. Sadly because of men like Torquemada many now know the Church only by our hate. I fear we may have driven them further away from God. We will have to answer for that.”

“I don’t understand, Father. I’ve always been taught that the Church never is wrong. What does this all mean?”

“My son, God’s Holy Church is His Bride without spot or wrinkle. But it is inhabited by foolish, fallible and sometimes corrupt men.”

“But what about …” 

The older cleric interrupted with a gentle smile, “I think my young friend, that we have risked enough heresy for one day. The sun will be setting soon and I would rather not spend the night in this place. Let us hurry.”

            For the next few hours the two traveled in silence. Henrico noted when Father Garcilosa paused to stare into the distance, seeming deep in old memories. The novice looked back toward the abandoned village and shook his head. What did it all mean? They made camp on a rocky hillside that night and, after sharing a simple meal of bread and dried meat, settled in beside the campfire. Both remained quiet allowing their thoughts and prayers to mix with the wood smoke as it drifted upward. The young novice fingered the simple brass cross his mother had given him years before. If only he could speak to her now. She could make sense of things for him, whether the aloofness of his older brothers, the pain that so often seemed to fill his father’s face, or the simpler questions of country life. She did not have all the answers but her simple love and goodness would calm his worries and fears. He missed her.

            The priest announced it best to set a guard this night. The Sierra Morena hills were isolated and wild, and it was wise to take precautions. Father Garcilosa took the first watch and awoke the novice hours later to take his turn. Henrico settled in with his back to a large stone and fed wood into the fire. The warm flames danced before his weary eyes in an almost hypnotic pattern. The long hours of travel and the tiring stress of the day took their toll and his eyelids grew heavy, his breathing shallow and regular. The young man’s head slowly dipped forward in slumber.

            The warm sun dappled the ground with gold as it flashed through the leaves of the olive trees. He lay on his back and watched the small birds flit from branch to branch. A woman’s infectious laugh brought him to his elbows and he saw his mother coming down the path from the house. Her dark hair shimmered in the sunlight, and he thought how much like an angel she looked. She was carrying a woven basket and stooped to pick wild flowers for the manor. Looking up she caught his eye and waved a greeting.

            With graceful ease she continued to walk toward him. Her ebony eyes shone with love and happiness as she approached the grove. He was her youngest son and he knew that he held a special place in her heart. She was more than his mother; she was also his confidante and his protector. She laughed again as he waved back to her. Suddenly she stopped, her face becoming clouded and her eyes anxious. She looked beyond him and he turned abruptly to see a darkened figure standing over him.

            “Sleeping again, you lazy whelp?  Wake up and get back to work!”

            A sharp blow across his cheek shattered the dream and brought him back to the rocky hillside. The dark figure swore foully, “I said wake up, you little swine!”  The apparition grasped him by his robes and pulled him to his feet. Fetid breath watered his eyes as the bearded man grinned to show crooked and missing teeth. Taking note of Henrico’s Benedictine cassock, he laughed harshly, “So we’ve got a blackbird, do we?  Well, little blackbird, you nested on my hillside tonight and now you must pay the toll. And pay you will.” 

Henrico gasped in pain as the bandit struck him again and shoved him into the arms of a second man. The other brigand spun him around and grabbed his throat. The novice caught a flash of steel in the flicker of the firelight and felt the prick of a knife blade at his neck. His eyes widened with fear as his head was stretched back. The bearded man spoke again.

            “Now we’re going to take your mules, monk. But that’s not enough. I want your gold too. We’ll call it a tax – no, a tithe.”  He laughed again and spat into the fire. “So, blackbird, you can just tell me where your gold is or I can let Raul convince you to talk.”  Henrico winced as the pressure from the knife increased fractionally. A tiny trickle of blood began to inch slowly down his exposed neck. His eyes darted from side to side. What could he say?  He had no coin but would the bandits believe him?

            “It was very stupid to travel these hills alone, monk,” the bearded man said as he rifled through Henrico’s bedroll, “Very stupid indeed.”

            “Who said that he was alone?” a voice thundered from the darkness.

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The Golden Conquest – Part 1

Posted on January 2, 2022 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

In 2008, my first novel won The Word Guild of Canada’s award for the best new Canadian Christian author. There had been plans for the novel to be published but the market crash of that year intervened. The publishing company almost went other and did not publish any books that year. By the time things stabilized, my story had been forgotten and we all moved on. Since then, I’ve had some short stories published and my mystery novel Scars was named Best Suspense/Intrigue Novel of 2019.

I have now decided to release my first novel The Golden Conquest in installments on my blog site. If you like it let me know. Let your friends and family know. I’m hoping there is enough interest to continue through to the end of the story, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Prologue

                                            Mesoamerica, circa 9,000 BC

The wind was bitter against her hide. She shifted in an attempt to protect the young ones from its stinging blast as they huddled closely against her. They trembled more from cold than from fear but they also sensed the tension in her. Her eyes were reddened and narrowed against the ice crystals in the air as she scanned the distant bluffs.  

The trees beckoned with the promise of more shelter than this hollow in the side of a low hill could ever provide. She knew her position was perilous but also recognized that the children were too fatigued to go further. She reached back and caressed them gently with her trunk.

            The mastodon was the last of her herd. Not as large or as powerful as her cousins the mammoths, the mastodons had still roamed much of the land. The huge herbivores wandered through the forests and swamps, dining on the choice vegetation. Staying in extended family groups they had little to fear and few enemies. Their size and strength were enough to give them sway over the other grazers, while the two or sometimes four enormous tusks gave any hunter pause. Only three predators had ever threatened them, the great cats, the dire wolves and man.   

But the herds were gone now. The retreating ice sheets were followed by massive climatic shifts that cost the huge pachyderms their advantage. Pressed on one side by the growing throngs of hoofed mammals and assaulted on the other by predators, they were unable to withstand the final attack—disease.

            She had watched her mate wither and die before her eyes. Others of the herd had weakened to the point that even smaller predators like wolves and puma were able to pull them down. Somehow, she had survived. She was the last adult of the herd. Only the two infants beside her remained. Her own male calf continued to thrive despite having to be weaned early while the young female had lived even while her parents had not. The mastodon knew that she must now lead and protect the young ones at all cost. She knew that they were the last hope of her kind.

            A wave of tension came to her shoulders as the shifting wind brought a subtle hint of some unseen danger. Her ears pricked forward as she raised her trunk into the air. Slowly she wove it through the chilling wind seeking any indication of peril. Instinctively she sensed that something was wrong and her growing apprehension was quickly transmitted to the young huddled against her. The she-calf gave a plaintive cry and retreated further under her legs. The male, trying hard to make a show of courage, turned outward to face the storm and raised his own trunk in defiance.

            Hints of spruce and dying field grasses came to her as the mastodon cautiously studied the air currents with her trunk. Whatever threat she had sensed before no longer seemed to be there. She lowered her trunk and gazed out of the drifting snow.  Soon the calves would have regained enough strength to push on to the trees. There they could all rest, safe among the boughs and sheltering branches of the forest. Dim memories came to her, memories of the herd pushing through underbrush, crushing trees under their feet to feast upon the tender upper branches and leaves. They were memories that were without fear.

            A glimmer on the snow brought her head up sharply. Something had moved. She quickly looked to both sides. The drifts of snow seemed larger and closer, then they had before. She shifted nervously and moved deeper into the hollow in the side of the hill. A snort to the male calf pulled him scampering behind her. If there was a threat, she would face it with all her fury and wrath. Tense moments passed but neither scent nor sight came to her. Perhaps fatigue and cold had misled her. She turned to look at the yearlings to see if they had rested enough. At that moment the attack came.

            Teo-Te-Huk was not happy with the hunt. The herds of bison and elk were smaller and more scattered than he had seen before. The green fertile valleys that were the center of the tribe’s hunting territory were now almost devoid of game. Watering holes and salt licks that usually teemed with prey had instead been fouled by rotting carcasses and bleached bones. Even the scavengers and carrion eaters avoided the putrid flesh. The odour had driven the birds from the sky and Teo-Te-Huk did not need to hold back his hunters. None wanted to enter into the valley.

            Only Quetzol had stepped forward. Squat and ugly, the old man was not usually a member of the hunting party. He had never had any ability with a spear or club, and age had not changed that fact. Teo-Te-Huk had been surprised that Quetzol had wanted to accompany the hunt but he respected the old man too much to refuse. The hunt chief had recognized that Quetzol’s wisdom would be vital to the tribe’s success.

            He watched as Quetzol tilted his head back and sniffed the air. Shuffling forward, the old man crouched and laid his hand on the cold damp earth. Scooping up a handful he brought it cautiously to his face and inhaled tentatively. He tipped his head to the side, deep in thought. Quetzol threw the clod of dirt aside and stepped forward to a pile of deer droppings. Taking great care not to touch the refuse, he leaned forward to peer at it intently. A shudder went through his body and he quickly rose to back away from the scene of death and decay. He looked at Teo-Te-Huk and shook his head. The hunting party would have to find prey elsewhere.

            As he limped painfully away from the watering hole, Quetzol frowned in thought at what he had seen. Whatever this sickness was it was destroying the great herds. Some animals were gone completely. The giant camels and great ground sloths had disappeared and the woolly rhinoceros and mammoths were only a memory. As he looked around the tribe, he realized that most of the hunters had not ever seen any of these great beasts and that it was unlikely they ever would.

            As they walked, he spoke to the hunt chief. Teo-Te-Huk nodded respectfully as Quetzol shared what he had discerned. The old one used the understanding gleaned from a lifetime of observing the wilds to read the signs around them. As he did, he recalled his past. He had been always seemed gifted in his ability to relate to animals. Unlike all the others, he had kept animals as pets and even now carried a small ferret curled up in his shoulder bag. He had been seen to stand motionless in a clearing while birds landed on his outstretched arms and squirrels scurried near his feet. They seemed to sense that he was no threat to them. 

 Quetzol had been born weak and lame and had always been left behind when the older hunters would take the boys out to learn the club and the spear. But he had not become angry. Instead he had found a different strength, even learning a skill that eluded most of his clansmen; that of quiet. He would sit or stand for hours at the edge of a clearing, watching the birds and mammals. As he watched his knowledge grew and he began to use it to help and instruct the hunters of his tribe. Many had resisted his advice at first but that changed with the growing success of those who took his lessons to heart. The health of the tribe improved, and their numbers grew. Quetzol became a valuable and respected member of the clan and took a place of prominence at the fire. It was this position that allowed him to claim a place with hunting party.

            Quetzol continued to share what he had discerned. Something was destroying the herds. None could know how many had been lost or even if the people were safe from this terror. They would have to go elsewhere to find prey or the people would not perish. Small game was still plentiful, and the women were always able to gather wild grains and fruit, but the meat that the hunt provided would make the difference between survival and slow decline. They had no choice.

            Over the next few weeks, the tribe trekked northward. Signs of life returned and they began to see larger game. The hunt achieved some success and Teo-Te-Huk sent most of the women and younger hunters back to their home fires laden with dried meat, hides and antlers. They would work steadily at replacing and refilling the larders of the tribe while the remaining hunters continued their journey. One more big kill Teo-Te-Huk reasoned, and their stocks would be sufficient to see them through the coming winter. One more good day and they could all go home.

            It was the next morning that brought news. The lead scout excitedly called them forward. He had come upon the signs of a creature which he had never seen before. Teo-Te-Huk studied the ground carefully but was unsure of what he saw. There were three sets of tracks, intermingled and obviously traveling together. The hunting chief discerned an adult and two youngsters but did not recognize the animal. He motioned Quetzol forward and the old man shuffled forward to crouch beside the trail. For a moment he was silent, and then he spoke. They were the tracks of a mastodon and two calves.

            An unseasonable chill had greeted them that morning. As the day progressed, the leaden skies broke open to release an unusually early snowstorm. Teo-Te-Huk was concerned that the snow would hamper their attack on the mastodon but Quetzol reassured him that it would actually be beneficial. The day progressed and the tracks freshened as they closed in on their quarry. They could tell by the trail that the calves were growing weary and struggling in the snow. The hunt chief realized that the beasts were heading to the forest he noted to the west. The shelter of the trees would give the mastodons an advantage as the calves would be able to hide in the underbrush. He urged the men forward at a faster pace. Coming to a small rise, he dropped to the ground overlooking a shallow valley. Their quarry was in sight.

            The three mastodons were in a small depression in the side of a hill. Seeking protection from the chilling wind, the adult attempted to comfort the two calves. Crouching low the hunters scattered to approach the animals from downwind. Three of the men draped whitened hides over themselves and began to crawl forward. Their movements were cautious and slow. The swirling snow hid their movements and camouflaged them as they approached the mastodons. Teo-Te-Huk led the other hunters around the side of the hill, their footsteps quiet and stealthy. Hand signals flashed between the men as they prepared for the assault. Suddenly they froze as the adult tensed in an aggressive stance. Taut moments passed, till she relaxed and turned back to the calves. Teo-Te-Huk signaled the attack.

            The three hidden warriors suddenly threw off the frosted hides and         leapt to their feet. Shouting loudly, they waved their spears in the air to startle the mastodon and capture its attention. Teo-Te-Huk and the others crept over the edge of the hill and launched themselves at their prey. The hunt chief raced forward, a razor-sharp obsidian blade in his hand. If he could slash the mastodon’s heel tendon, he would hamstring the animal and it would be helpless. He reached the rear of the beast and brought his hand up to make the cut. With an agility and swiftness that belied its size the mastodon twirled about, its head low. A powerful jerk of its head brought the cruelly spiraled tusks upward.

            The tusk thrust upward through Teo-Te-Huk’s abdomen into his chest and out his spine. He gasped more in shock than in pain and the knife fell from his lifeless fingers. The remaining hunters pressed the attack forward. The great beast tried to turn to meet the new threat but the corpse of the warrior was lodged on her tusk and hampered her movement. She trumpeted in pain as another hunter succeeded where Teo-Te-Huk had failed. Her ankle tendon severed she stumbled and fell forward. Spears were thrust into her exposed sides. She shook her head fiercely to dislodge the body. In doing so she uncovered her neck. The scout leapt forward and thrust his spear into the mastodon’s throat. Hot red blood stained the snow. She swept her trunk forward to ward off her attacker but he rolled safely away.

            Calling upon her last reserves of strength, she pulled herself to her feet and trumpeted her defiance. The hunting party fell back briefly but then charged back into the fight. The spears flashed forward again. The mastodon staggered and fell. Within moments she was dead. 

The men paused, their spears poised to attack once more if needed but the beast did not move. Two of the hunters turned to the calves and stepped toward them. They also would die. But suddenly a figure rushed between them and the young mastodons and Quetzol harshly ordered the men back. They hesitated before reluctantly obeying the old man.

            Quetzol turned and crouched before the terrified calves. A soft low croon came from his lips as he slowly crept forward. His voice took on a sing-song quality and he slowly reached out a hand.  The young animals were frightened and confused. The scent of blood was heavy in the air mingled with the strange smell of the hunters. Part of them wanted to run while another part desired to huddle against the still form of the adult. The old man crouching before them confused them more. His motions were not threatening and his voice was strangely comforting.

            Quetzol continued to quietly call to the calves and slowly move forward. He had not planned this intervention but knew he could not stand by and allow the young animals to die. He knew he could and must save them. He gazed intently into their soft brown eyes. The male stared back and shuddered slightly. He was too weary to run and too scared to move forward. The young female also watched the old man’s face. As she listened to his voice, she cautiously reached out her trunk. The young mastodon touched the old tribesman’s hand, and the world was changed.

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Health and Healing

Posted on November 21, 2021 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

 

    As many of you may know I’ve recently has some health issues. I’m doing so much better now and wanted to share my journey. First some history. Twenty years ago, I had a detached retina in my left eye and multiple surgeries failed to correct the issue and I lost my vision in that eye. I have been able to cope very well with this and carried on with life. In 2014 I had to have cataract surgery in my right eye but everything turned out fine.
     Then in August of this year, I noted something odd in my right eye. It turned out that the lens they had placed in 2014 was starting to slip. We hoped it would settle but within days the lens was flopping completely out of place. I wound up needing emergency surgery to fix the problem, which unfortunately, proved more difficult and took four hours to complete. Afterwards, my vision was very poor and for the next two weeks, I was virtually immobilized.
     We had already planned holidays in September and, though I wasn’t recovered, I was feeling well enough to go. Lisa did all the driving as we went west to Kelowna to see our son and his wife. We enjoyed our visit immensely and then drove home. Sometime during these weeks of decreased activity and long car rides, I developed a clot in my leg. For some reason, I had no symptoms. No swelling of the leg, no calf tenderness and no redness. When we got home, my eye had improved enough that I was back at work and had resumed exercising.
     On the morning of October 13th, I was just about to start on my exercise machine, when I became light headed and short of breath. I sat down and it settled a bit but when I climbed the stairs to the main floor, I again felt very short of breath. I called Lisa and we went straight to the hospital. It turned out that some of the clot in my leg had broken free and gone into my lungs. I had two small clots on the left and a big one on the right. I had to be admitted to the hospital and started on medication. Over the next five days, I seemed to improve and was released home.
     I had had a low-grade fever the night before which concerned us but had seemed fine overnight. Unfortunately, once home I worsened and was even more short of breath than before. I returned to the emergency room, where it was discovered that I had pneumonia on top of a lung infarction caused by the clot. I needed fairly high flow oxygen and was very short of breath with any exertion. We were all very concerned as I was readmitted and started on antibiotics and more blood thinners.
     Monday and Tuesday were still quite bad, but suddenly on Wednesday, I was dramatically better. I had spoken to our prayer pastor and given him permission to share my health issues. I hadn’t realized, but Tuesday evening was a scheduled prayer meeting at our church. Dave later told Lisa that he had never seen such fervent and heart felt prayers as the people prayed that evening.
     You know what? It worked. God heard their prayers and touched my lungs. My improvement has been fantastic. Within 2 days, I no longer needed oxygen and by Saturday I was home, this time to stay. I have been careful and cautious but am back at work and feeling completely healed. I have no doubt that my improvement and recovery is a miracle from God and an answer to prayer. Thank you to everyone who prayed, and thank you to my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
    Luke 10:9 “Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’”

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Painting in Banff

Posted on June 20, 2021 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

     Recently, my wife Lisa and I were able to spend a week in Banff, Alberta. Lisa had been offered a chance to stay at the Banff Boutique Inn as an artist in residence. It was a lovely little hotel and for most of the week we were the only guests. Due to COVID, the town was quieter than I have ever seen before but we were able to thoroughly enjoy ourselves.
     Lisa did a great deal of plein air painting. This is sitting outside while painting a copy of the scene before you. She did a wonderful job and I contributed by acting as porter and support person when not hiking, writing or reading. In the evenings, we did more of the same or walked together down quiet boulevards or wooded trails. It was a wonderful, restful and truly blessed time.
     As Lisa was acting as an artist in residence, our room was complimentary. In return, the owner of the Inn selected one of Lisa’s painting studies. She made a larger copy after we returned home and this will now be displayed at the hotel. If you are ever staying at the Banff Boutique Inn, you may see it hanging on the wall. We both thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and hope to get back again in the future.
     Here’s a couple photos of Lisa at work and her five studies.

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My novel “Scars” at the Library

Posted on December 17, 2020 by Dr. Kevin J. Dautremont

I’m a big fan of libraries.

I use our local library a lot. So much, in fact, that a lot of the staff know me on sight and start pulling out the books I have requested before I can even take out my library card. When my novel first came out, they responded to requests from some patrons and made sure there was a copy in the stacks.

Over the past few months, I’ve enjoyed keeping track of when the copies were out from both the Moose Jaw and Willow Bunch branches. I thought it would be neat to actually see my book on their shelves, but it was out each time I had a book to pick up. Finally, it worked out that it was in at the right time and I decided to get a photo.

I had forgotten about the COVID restrictions.

But then one of the staff came to the rescue. She took my cell phone and went behind the barriers to take some shots for me. She did a lot more than her duties required and I really appreciated it. Here are the photos.

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