Chapter One“By this holy unction, may the Lord absolve thee of all and any faults or sins thou hast committed.” The young Jesuit priest daubed consecrated oil on the eyes, ears, nose, lips and outstretched fingers of Philippe and Raul, each in turn, both kneeling before him in the tight space of his cabin. With the threat of death beyond the door, extreme unction seemed the only appropriate rite to render, seeking God’s forgiveness and protection on this desperate night.
These two holy soldiers were all that remained of his once strong brigade. All the others who had survived their ordeal in the new world were chained in the dark belly of the ship. They won’t survive this storm. The hold was a briny, sloshing swamp in any storm. This was the most terrible storm he’d encountered.
No chance to receive their confessions. No last rights.
God, forgive them their transgressions.
The deck rose sharply beneath his feet, the ship rushing up the face of another monstrous wave. He gripped the vial of oil in his left hand, grabbed an overhead beam with his oily right hand and waited. The crest of the wave broke over the ship and slapped heavily onto the weather deck. The ship rushed down the back wall, a few seconds of weightlessness lasting an eternity, floating in the thick, stale air of his cabin.
The hull slammed down with a thunderous boom and his bare feet struck the deck hard, bringing sharp pain to his left heel. The ship’s wood beams and braces screamed like a woman in labor from the forces of wind and water. The priest’s feet slid on the wet acacia deck and his oily fingers slipped from the overhead beam. He landed hard on his already bruised knees but held tight the vial of consecrated oil.
Thank you, God.
The vial had been filled with precious oil consecrated by the bishop himself.
Lord, bless those poor souls in the hold, your valiant brigade. Bless and protect this ship, Conquista, if only for those of us who believe.
Their cargo had forever changed the faith of some. Their captain had been corrupted at first touch of the captured medallion now hanging over his heart.
This demon will kill us all.
His faithful saints, Raul and Philippe, helped the priest back to his feet. Only these two had managed to escape the captain’s trio of captive souls. With the Lord’s help, these two had overcome their former comrades and had thrown them over the side, lost forever to the dark night and unforgiving sea. They had lost their eternal souls by disobeying the priest and joining themselves to the captain, this devil at the helm.
A powerful force drove the captain from within, perhaps Lucifer himself. Evil forces had been evident in the captain’s angry eyes. By now, the captain would know his three captive slaves had been dispatched.
If he can, he will repay.
Hope for the ship now rested with these two faithful soldiers, these two saints, and with the Lord.
If the captain prevailed, we three will be with God.
And so be it.
“You both know what we must do.”
Both nodded.
Using the Latin, he quickly blessed them both. His soldiers stood and all three braced from the overhead beams as the ship rose sharply on another giant wave. The ship rushed down the backside, another weightless eternity, and thundered into the ocean with such force he nearly lost his grip. Her heavy wooden timbers popped and squawked, returning to normal.
Thank you, Lord, good Portuguese acacia and craftsmanship.
They’d spoken of the task in front of them earlier. If they could not overpower the captain and free the crew, the ship would surely be lost at sea.
If need be, they had prepared for the worst.
Perhaps the captain’s plan was to scuttle the ship near some uncharted island and let Joao III, their king, believe the ship and crew to be lost at sea.
He corked the small vial of oil and returned it to the fold of his cassock, behind the band of his cincture, a place that had proven safe for these many months.
Philippe removed a necklace of woven human hair taken from savages in the mountainous Brazilian forest he used to carry a heavy gold disk. He swung it like a mace, intending to use it as a bludgeon. A confident, good soldier.
Raul left his gold disk around his neck, his chattel, his reward for volunteering to join this adventure nineteen months earlier. The soldiers had melted down and cast gold in their mountain camp, a just reward for the fierce battle they had won. Raul said, “I left some heavy rope at the bottom of the stair. If we can subdue him, we can tie him to the wheel. Hemp rope is strong enough to hold him. Of this I am certain.”
If their plan worked, if they could subdue the captain and free the crew from below, they might yet save the ship.
If not, well . . . Thy will be done.
Lord, give me courage to do my small part.
His task was to incase the blood red crystal skull. One man had died trying to open the case. A horrible rotting of his flesh started in his hand and quickly consumed his whole body. If a poison had been employed, either snake venom of frog sweat, one could only guess.
God knows.
When the captain hung the blood red pendant around his neck it settled upon his chest and changed him.
The evil medallion is the key.
When it touched the captain’s chest his eyes had instantly glowed red from within, a demon inside. The blood red crystal skull and medallion were unmistakably linked by a powerful, evil force. With the skull in the open, with the medallion around his neck, the captain’s power had been insurmountable. Only God could overcome such power.
The priest gripped the wooden cross hanging from his neck. He’d carved it from Brazil wood, a tree rich with red die. His hope lay in the power only the cross could bring. He took a deep breath and let it slide out. He was ready. His men were ready.
He nodded and Philippe removed the heavy stick barring his cabin door. That stick and his faith were all that had protected him over the past three days.
They all braced as the ship rose up the face of another wave and fell off the backside. The heavy crash and downward jolt caused him to again bite his swollen, bleeding tongue.
He slumped back and stared at his bare feet, wincing from pain, blinking back tears. Can’t let them see.
Keep your teeth clinched.
Raul opened the raised cabin door and cautiously stepped down to the narrow passageway. He nodded. Safe.
Philippe and the priest followed him.
Seawater rushed down the passage deck, lower than the cabins, and out through scuppers to rejoin the sea.
Overhead lanterns swung with the sway of the ship, barely enough light to find their way. They hurried aft to where the main mast penetrated this and two lower decks on its way to the keel. The acacia mast moaned from the strain of gale force wind. The rigging whistled from the weather deck above and tattered sails snapped and cracked noisily with every gust.
His soldiers left him, each taking a separate ladder up to the weather deck where they might remain concealed. Raul’s hemp rope had been stored there.
The ship lurched upward at the bow and the priest grabbed the mast. The wave crashed over and the ship dropped. After a moment of weightlessness, the ship crashed back into the sea. Water spilled down both ladders and the priest rounded the mast, squeezing his wooden cross, hurrying aft toward the mizzenmast where the stern passageway stepped higher than the rush of seawater.
He rounded the mizzenmast as the ship climbed up another wave. Water broke over the bow, the ship fell, quicker than before, and slammed down, driving the priest to his knees. Severe pain from bruises and salted abrasions brought tears.
He climbed slowly to his feet and faced the captain’s cabin, so close. Evil artifacts and precious gems had been stored beyond the closed door.
The captain hoards it. Why else would he imprison the soldiers and most of the crew if not to take this valuable cargo for himself?
Melted down, the gold and precious gems would make Joao III the richest king in all of Europe. Out here in these islands, the captain would be one of the richest men on earth, a king unto himself.
In the mountains of Brazil, the king of savages had surely been the richest king in the new world.
Their scouts had learned of this tribe from other conquered tribes. They’d followed the mythical stories up the mountain into deeper and deeper forest, seeking a mysterious skull of power and the wealth that surrounded it.
So many stories they’d heard about its power, more than a mere myth. It has real power. He’d seen the power high in the mountains of Brazil. The morning when the sun had finally risen, he’d managed to get it into that elaborate, white gold box. When he’d closed the lid, the latches had worked as if by magic, both securing it and protecting it.
Perhaps the box is a prison of some kind. Perhaps the native chieftain had only let this evil out for certain rituals to maintain his power over those who feared him.
I hope to never know.
It did not matter. Subduing the captain was all that mattered. Securing the skull was the first step.
In the dark of night when it was most powerful, his doubt was difficult to suspend.
I must.
The ship jolted upward at the bow and he braced from the bulkheads at both sides. The ship slammed back down and seawater swirled in the passageway behind him.
He opened the door. The dark crystal skull rested close inside. Hollow eye sockets pulsed red from deep within.
It beats with my heart, thumping loudly in his ears.
He held his cross and breathed slowly, controlling his heaving chest, trying to overcome the fear that weakened him.
The bow of the ship lurched upward and the door slammed shut, a weightless moment. He braced and waited for gravity to slam the ship back down.
Water rushed down the passage behind him and he opened the door again, holding his cross. Don’t look into the eyes.
He entered the captain’s cabin where wooden trunks and cases had been stacked to the overhead with no place to move. He looked about the cabin quickly, searching for the white gold box.
It sat on the floor near the captain’s ladder to the high stern deck and to the helm.
He stooped and grabbed it by the horns. His flesh sizzled, painfully charring his hands. Smoke stung his eyes.
The ship rose up the face of another wave and the cabin door slammed shut behind him. He held fast, drifting weightlessly as the ship fell off. The hull slammed down and threw him forward toward the captain’s ladder, the white gold box. He landed on his shoulder and held tight, his flesh burning like fire.
He squirmed to his elbows and pressed the skull forward, concentrating on the short horns to position it. He let go and the skin peeled from his hands, clinging to the horns. His skin flashed white and disappeared as the skull settle into the box. His badly burned fingers curled, useless, and he closed the lid with the back of his hand. The latches moved mechanically, magically locking the box and it was done.
Light flooded down the ladder from above where the captain stood in the open doorway. Flashes of lightning silhouetted his long black hair, sucked skyward by the wind. His maniacal laugh chilled and the medallion at his chest pulsed bright like the eyes of the encased crystal skull, in rhythm with my heart.
Can’t breathe. Heavy air pushed him against the deck.
The bow of the ship lurched upward and the captain braced into the ladder, stepping down toward him. The priest left the deck, weightless with the drop of the ship, unable to grab anything with his badly burned hands, and his face slammed into the deck with the ship’s splash into the sea.
Odd, not to feel pain in his face or hands, only my knees.
The ship rolled with a flash from above. Philippe’s heavy gold disk cracked into the side of the captain’s head but barely dazed him. He held fast to the rail and shook it off. Blood flowing from under his long black hair flooded into his ear.
The priest struggled to his feet as Philippe hit the captain again and Raul helped drag the captain onto the high stern deck.
The ship lurched upward and the priest braced between the bulkhead and a heavy trunk, waiting for the ship to fall off the back of the wave. His knees sprang back and he used his shoulder, sliding against the bulkhead, climbing the ladder to the stern deck. The bite of cold rain chilled the sweat on the priest’s face.
Fingers of lightning streaking through the heavens momentarily lit a gray-green ghost. A giant mass loomed off the ship’s bow, out past the frothy spray of another gigantic wave.
An island, very close.
The ship lurched and Raul slid helplessly across the deck, plunging into stacked monkey cages.
The monkeys screamed and held tight to the bamboo bars of their cages, watching the struggle between the captain and Philippe.
Philippe held the captain from behind, pulling him toward the wheel.
Raul scrambled back to his feet, lunged forward, grabbed the captain by his neck and looked into the captain’s bulging eyes, hot with rage.
“Don’t look at his eyes,” shouted the priest. Too late. Raul let go and backed away, a lifeless soul.
The captain struggled to free himself from Philippe while holding Raul with his eyes.
There. The rope lay by the broken monkey cages. The priest lunged, grabbed the rope and the hemp bristles stabbed into the skinless flesh of his hands. Odd, not to feel pain, only my knees.
Raul fell with the sudden rise of the ship and the priest lowered his shoulder into the captain’s belly. They floated in space for a weightless eternity and the glowing medallion pressed hot against the side of his face.
The ship slammed back down, all three men tumbled to the deck, and Philippe held tight.
Brave, good Philippe.
Together, they fought and dragged the captain to the wheel and lashed him tight. Neither glanced into his eyes, his power.
The ship rose with nothing to grab and he floated above the high stern deck. Lightning flashed bright and illuminated a tall, green spire. The ship came down with the jarring crunch of wood on stone.
Wild screams of chained men drifted up from the hold, men dying in the dark, cold sea as the ship broke up over a reef.
The sea washed over the ship quickly and sank her under heavy waves, the screams of men being replaced by those of the monkeys as the sea took them all.
* * *
Michael Crooke wakened with a jolt, the Boeing 737 out of San Juan, Puerto Rico, had dropped through an atmospheric downdraft. His momentary weightlessness had been followed with the jolt.
Jesus. His knees ached from the back of the lowered seat in front of him and the palms of his hands itched, reliving flashes of his dream, a storm at sea. A chill enveloped his back and quickly faded.
