FLORIDA
1527
THE CONQUISTADOR WAS DYING.
They had set upon his men without warning, their fire-hardened arrows and spears punching through Spanish armor like paper. Their heavy wooden clubs, studded with shark teeth, crushed skulls and tore flesh and muscle from bone.
His men panicked. His commands were lost in the sudden screams of pain and fear. He was knocked from his horse and thrown to the ground. There was no strategy, no order of battle, only pitched and desperate fighting.
Within moments, he was separated, surrounded by the endless green and the echoing screams of his men.
Something struck his leg, and he looked down and saw the arrow buried there. He saw a flash of copper-colored skin at the edge of his vision.
He’d thought he was lucky to be hit only in the thigh. He pulled the arrow out by its shaft, and saw the savage who had shot him disappear into the heavy green of the forest at the side of the trail.
Half-mad with rage, he crashed into the trees on foot, determined to make at least one of his enemies pay for this.
First he had run, then he had limped, and now he dragged the leg along behind him.
He realized now the arrow was poisoned. Sweat stung his eyes. Insects crawled on his face, under his armor, in his hair. Pus spilled from the wound like warm egg yolk.
He removed his armor, piece by piece, leaving it behind like fragments of shell on a beach. His rifle was gone, left behind at the scene of the fight. His pistol was empty and useless in his belt. His provisions had been carried by the men at the back of the line, who were surely dead now.
All he had left was his sword. He used it to swat at the branches as he tried to hack a path through the jungle.
He did not know where he was going. He thought he heard water, and he thought a drink might cool the fever that was raging in him now. But even though he was ankle-deep in mud, he could not find the source of the water. He tried to follow the sun, which seemed only to stick in place, blazing above his head.
It was growing difficult to breathe. He lost the sword somewhere along the way. He didn’t remember dropping it.
The soldier stumbled upon a trail—narrow and partially overgrown, but he could see fresh footprints in the mud. He moved forward as best he could, supporting himself by leaning on the trees between steps.
Finally, he staggered into a clearing. The sun was even more cruel without the canopy of shade in the forest.
He saw a cave: a dark opening in an overgrown hill rising out of the ground. He heard the trickle of water again, echoing from within the hole.
He could no longer swallow, his tongue was so dry and his throat so raw. But it would be nice to get out of the heat.
He fell inside the mouth of the cavern and dragged his body out of the sun with the last of his strength. He knew he would never find the water. This was where he would die. It was a good enough place, he thought. He had spanned an ocean and crossed the world and found only death. He did not need to get any farther from home.
Here, he could rest.
His eyes closed. He heard the voices of his mother and his father. He saw his childhood home. Smelled bread baking in the kitchen. He smiled.
He felt a cool hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes.
There was an angel looking down at him. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His smile grew wider. She looked troubled, and she spoke in the tongue of angels, trying to tell him something mere human ears could not understand. It didn’t matter. He wanted to tell her it was all right. He was prepared for judgment. His soul and his conscience were clear.
He closed his eyes again. Wherever she would take him, he was ready.