Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.
—JOHNSON
St. Augustine. It is here in a town which has made history a business — excavating, researching, re-building the look of a Spanish colony five hundred years later — that Ross Porter expects some answers. There are archives here and specialists in Spanish-American history. Someone will know something. But he realizes despite his excitement that he must be careful. He knows his requests will sound strange. He must couch them in historiography. He must conceal his true search.
After multiple phone calls he connects with Professor Alice Bush. He has read her book: The King’s Treasures, a series of articles recounting Florida’s early history; nothing more than a mention of Ponce de Leon but she would have researched him at some point. No one can write about the Spanish in Florida without annotation of the founder. Ross makes an appointment for that afternoon. The genteel southern drawl has assured him he is welcome. No trouble at all.
He hangs up the phone. Almost trembling with anticipation he leaves his hotel room to go to lunch. He has a celebratory meal at an expensive restaurant in the old quarter on St. George Street. The narrow street with its weathered stone buildings remind him of old Quebec. He takes one glass of wine; no more, for he must be sharp this afternoon. As he holds the glass just before he drinks, he can almost see Emily touching her glass to his. Images of their time together glide into his mind. The crystal glitters in restaurant candlelight. A fireplace crackles at one end and there is a wafting of Brahms from concealed speakers. The waiter deftly serves their braised rabbit. Emily looks enchanting.
“Here’s to Quebec City,” she says playfully, “and the success of your paper. This city is so lovely.”
He recalls being pleased with himself. He had spent the day going over his paper, dealing with historians and archivists as an equal. He remembered feeling quite important. It appeared in his confident smile and the studied scholastic fashion of his tweed suit and military tie and, of course, in the beauty of the woman sitting across from him. They will be seen, he’d imagined, by others as a successful, cultured couple.
“And to you, Mrs. Porter,” he’d replied suavely, “the most stunning woman in the place.”
She’d blushed.
I love her blush.
That evening, after cognac and coffee, they’d taken a walk along the edge of the Cap aux Diamants. He’d offered Emily his knowledge. He’d told her of 1759 when the basin below had filled with English ships and the battlements had thundered with French cannon. He’d told her of his day with the scholars, of his acceptance as though he’d always expected it. Forgotten in the moment, conveniently by both of them, was his anxiety of the morning when Emily had straightened his tie and told him things would be fine. There were lovers kissing in the shadows of the parapets as they had strolled past. Ross drew Emily inside an alcove.
“There isn’t much on the second voyage, I’m afraid. It ended badly, you see; a shambles really. Whatever journals there were have been lost. All we have is secondary accounts.” Professor Bush speaks precisely; her dialect is melodic but the words are disappointing.
“Nothing at all?” he asks.
The historian is an attractive woman, fortyish, wearing a soft peach suit with a snowy, high collared blouse beneath. Her spectacles hang from a beaded chain round her neck and, when she reads, she places them delicately on the end of her nose.
“You say you’ve read Herrera’s work?”
“Yes.”
“You could try Davis. He analysed a great deal of Ayllon’s material. Did a wonderful job. He translated the Capitulations, the patents, between the Crown and Ponce de Leon. But I recall very little of anything directly relating to the second voyage.”
“I see.”
“Your interest is the landing point, is it not?”
“Of the second voyage, yes. I understand the first landing was near here.”
“Oh, that’s another little myth we all perpetrate for the tourists. Far as anyone can tell, old Juan Ponce came ashore fifty miles south of here. That particular voyage, the first, is well documented by Herrera. There would have been mention of the St. John River if he’d come this far north. Rather an obvious landmark for explorers.”
“Yet in the second voyage he didn’t stop on the east coast at all. It seems such a natural location so much closer to Hispaniola. Why do you think he’d travel around the Keys and up toward the Caloosahatchee River?”
“Why that’s obvious to a sailor, Mr. Porter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“First and foremost he was a soldier but he must have known a great deal of the sea; after all, he’d travelled it often enough. Now the east coast of Florida faces the ocean but the west coast is on the Gulf. It’s known for its placid waters. And the area he is thought to have landed ...”
“I surmised Sanibel Island, or thereabouts. Perhaps even Pine Island.”
“That’s not ascertained but it’s probable he was near the mouth of the Caloosahatchee. That area has many fine harbours, deep enough for his caravels. He was planning to set up a colony, as you are aware. His people would have needed fresh water as well as access to the Gulf. He would have thought the islands offshore would provide shelter for safe anchorage. Still, we both know what happened there. He would have to have been near a Calusa settlement of some size. Just south of there are the remains of Mound Key. Theoretically, at least, that place seems the best alternative. But I’m no specialist in that field. You said you’d happened across something in your research. Are you planning a dig?”
“No. I’m retired. But I’m afraid I’ve become a little obsessed.”
He shifts in his seat uncomfortably aware of where he must lead the conversation. She has treated him well. She has answered his questions and tried to help. He feels for a moment suddenly foolish then quickly discards his self-doubt.
“You see, Dr. Bush,” he says, “I’ve been studying this for some time now and I’ve come to the conclusion, supported by certain documentation, that Juan Ponce de Leon was not merely colonising. I believe he was searching for something else.”
“Gold or silver, of course,” Dr. Bush said. “He’d lost nearly everything when he was relieved of his offices. He went west as Cortez had done, to a land for which he already possessed the patents. I’m sure he expected to find his fortune as well as land suitable for a colony. Clearly he meant to begin one, then become its Governor. Regain his powers.”
“Oh, no doubt. But Florida contains many freshwater springs and rivers. I know he was after gold, land, power; that’s obvious. But what I’m suggesting is something a little less ...”
“You aren’t actually suggesting the fountain of youth are you, Mr. Porter?”
He can hear the disdain in her voice. Her eyes glitter warily as her mouth sets itself in a tight, thin line. Her next words are curt and offer no compromise.
“I’m not in the business of romantic history, Sir. I’m afraid you’ve fallen under the spell of another tourist myth.”
“But Peter Martyr’s writings talk about ...”
“Hogwash. In those days people believed in witchcraft, relics, miracles and a great deal of other nonsense. I don’t see how you could prove Ponce de Leon actually searched for a fountain of youth. It could only be conjecture and in history, as I’m sure you’re aware, conjecture has little domain.”
She wants to end the interview, he can tell. She rises from her desk and walks toward the doorway. He has little choice but to follow.
“If you want to look into the fountain of youth, I suggest you take a drive just around the bay. It’ll give you some idea of what I mean. Now I’m rather busy this afternoon ...”
“Yes. Thank you for your time.”
“No trouble at all. You have a nice day now.”
And with that he is out on the street, the afternoon sun beating down on the cobbles, the heat eddies rising in the parking lot where he retrieves his car. He adjusts the air conditioning to full. As he drives frigid air inundates the interior. But it is no help. The burning is inside him: the embarrassment, the insult, the rage; especially the rage.
Cynical bitch. Conjecture? What does she know? She is a drone in history’s hive. I doubt she has had an original thought. Like me, Juan Ponce would have hidden his purpose, concealed it beneath the mundane: a new colony, a search for silver or slaves. He could never reveal his true intention.
That was my mistake.
Ross has driven around the bay. There is a Catholic Mission there with a cross that stands on a point looking out at the ocean. Past the Mission’s entrance he sees the first signs of what is to come, clamped to light posts:
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FAMOUS FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH NEXT RIGHT
He turns right.
Off the main road is Magnolia Avenue, a narrow street which ends at a patched parking lot. Beyond it there is a walled compound. The walls are mottled stone; at their centre is an entrance gate. The entrance is a terra cottacoloured hut with a Spanish conquistador, made of plaster, which stands beside a large sign showing two ships and Juan Ponce de Leon himself on a beach with the overhead title: FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. The entrance explains the interior grounds hold an archaeological dig of what once was a native village along with some Spanish artefacts, mostly ballast and a few cannonballs. Multi-coloured pennants garland the walls. He cannot resist. He buys a ticket.
Pathways wind through floral displays and groves of trees. Several beautiful peacocks spread their tails for the few tourists there. At strategic intersections are the promised cannonballs and ballast pots and even an occasional rusted gun barrel. A path leads him out along a peninsula to a place where stands, greened bronze on a limestone block base, a statue of Juan Ponce de Leon and a plaque beneath stating that at this spot, precisely, in 1513 A.D. the great man had landed. A noble figure. Classical. Sword and flag in hand. There is pigeon shit on his nose and shoulders. His blank eyes stare blindly back up the path.
Ross studies the statue awhile, thinking of history and historical fiction, then returns to a group of buildings, old peppered walls and a bright sign saying:
TASTE THE WATERS OF THE FAMOUS FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH!
He cannot help himself. He enters beneath another archway through timbered doors into a dimly lit grotto. Stone steps, carefully worn in the middle to seem more ancient, lead him down into an alcove and a spotlighted diorama. And there with open, welcoming, plastic arms is a native, deftly and modestly clothed in breechclout and beaded bands. He points with one hand to a dark pool of gelatinous water; with the other he beckons what Ross takes to be Juan Ponce de Leon in a silver morion and breastplate, a hot orange striped jacket and grey suede boots. The Spaniard wears a white ruffed collar and stares down into that plastic puddle which sits so conveniently just off the beach where three more Spaniards, holding their flag, dressed in bumblebee yellow, stand before a painted backdrop of cloudy blue with a ship in the background. Paper wavelets move from side to side to side to side back and forth like a carnival ride for fish.
Majestic music by synthesizer.
And down the antediluvian steps he wanders to the well. A middle-aged woman stands at the wellspring. She smiles at Ross. She dips a small pail on a pole down into a cavity in the stone floor. She pulls it back up, filled with water. She takes a paper cup, fills it from the little bucket, and offers the water to Ross.
Ross drinks.
“How long have you been working here,” he says clumsily, needing something to pass the moment of communion.
Her smile broadens.
“I’ve been working hear for two hundred an’ twelve years now. Hope y’all enjoy your water. Don’t forget the gift shop. They got little bottles up there y’all can take home for your friends and relations.”
She has done this before.
Perhaps it only feels like two hundred years.
Dr. Bush’s little joke.
Ross departs the place quickly, drives his car to the hotel, packs, and leaves the city going far too fast. He hardly notices the time so furious is he with embarrassment. Near Orlando he stops for the night, exhausted from the drive and his emotions. Then the dreaded dream catches up with him.
There is the road the car the trees the path and the almost unbearable heat. He wears again his ridiculous suit and again there is someone with him. He twists his head around to catch a glimpse but she is always concealed by a bend in the pathway. He calls to her. He calls the name Emily though he knows Emily is dead. No answer; just those half seen faces within the foliage tittering now, like the sound of birds, chuckling and cackling and mocking. The faces are painted. Dark, devil faces spattered with daubs of herbaceous colour. Their tongues are like flowers blooming then receding and the tongues speak words which have no meaning.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice quavering.
When he addresses them, they disappear. He tries to chase after them. But as he steps off the path his wing-tipped foot sinks deep to his knee in the oily muck. His heart jumps to his throat as he hauls himself out. He feels a burning in his throat. It moves down his oesophagus into his chest scorching, clenching his ribs like a vice. Sweat pours from of his body. Every limb aches. Each part of him has its own agony.
He reaches for a branch to steady himself, put himself back on the path and at least have firm purchase as he challenges the flower tongues. But the branch breaks off and falls, smashing into a thousand glittering pieces. And the pain subsides, leaving numbness.
He is on the floor by his bed. A lamp lies beside him, broken, its shards reflecting the morning sunlight which pours through the window. Pieces of glass surround him like shrapnel. His legs are tied in a knot of bed sheets. The sheets are soaked from his sweat. His body feels heavy as lead. His right arm is numb.
He lies helpless on a hotel room floor.
Too exhausted to rise; he sobs.
And eventually sleeps, dreamlessly.