—1696 AD, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

 

Yellow spots danced in front of Kamolea’s eyes. The sun, high at its zenith, seemed to have stopped its path across the unblemished sky, mercilessly casting fire over the sea.

            “What a loser,” he heard Akamui’s angry voice say. “Worthless jerk. I waited for you all night long…”

            “Kamolea, where have you been?” It was Lalago’s voice. “Your father is mad with fury. You’d better stay here overnight…”

            “You are so nice, not like the other fools,” Illima whispered. “I’ll always be waiting for you…”

            Kamolea moaned in his half-conscious, half-mad state.

It had been many sunsets already since he drifted in the sea. In the beginning everything was fine—the weather was gorgeous and when the scorching heat got unbearable he dipped in the water.

He ate very little, but he was thirsty all the time. The fresh water depleted on the third day and the lack of it addled Kamolea’s brain. Consequently, one mistake followed another.

            One morning, a fat flying fish landed in the canoe with a hollow thud. Kamolea, happy that food was falling from the sky, grabbed it eagerly and immediately dropped it with a sharp cry, clasping his hands. The long fin had stabbed his palm, and blood started gushing, soaking the boat’s bottom. Kamolea immediately dipped his hand into the sea, and the soothing, analgesic relief of the salt calmed him down.

He left his hand trailing for a while. Suddenly, the water stirred, and the boat swung. He yanked his hurt palm away just in time: two shark fins glided toward the canoe, and it rocked violently a moment later.

The sharks circled, joined in a trice by three others, and more followed. Finally, Kamolea stopped counting them, desperately watching the encircling siege from his little floating fortress.

I should have known better, he thought, irritated. Father says those beasts can sniff blood as far away as Coral Beck.

He spent the night on tenterhooks, jerking at every jolt of the boat. The next day, despite his hope that they would leave him alone, the sharks were still there, and he couldn’t bathe in the ocean. The glaring sun hurt his eyes as its heat sucked up the moisture through his skin. Thirst rending his insides, his mood darkened and his mind became foggy.

Gradually, he got delirious. Voices of his closest people, fragmentary and unclear, were ringing in his head. In contrast, a screaming, shrill voice was always clear and consistent. It heaped reproaches and insults onto him and ceaselessly incited him to commit suicide.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, you stupid jerk?” it echoed angrily in his head. “Why did you listen to that crazy old man? Where is he now to answer for what he’s done to you, eh? Of course, he’s not here because he simply doesn’t exist! Why didn’t you obey your tribe, your father, your god? What will you do now, surrounded by sharks, alone in the sea? I’ll tell you what—jump in the water and feed the fish. End your miserable existence! What’s the use of living, anyway? Kamolea the coward—a new beginning for losers and fools.”

“What I am waiting for, indeed?” Kamolea agreed. “Cowards like me don’t deserve to live. Who cares if I live, anyway? The faster I get this done, the better!”

“He hears voi-i-i-ces,” the shrill voice was screaming, drawling the words. “He se-e-e-e-es old do-o-tards who nobody else do-o-e-es. He’s a complete lo-o-o-o-ny.”

Kamolea lay on the boat’s bottom, semi-conscious, torn with grief, and unable to move. The swish of the wind, the lulling rumble of the sea, and the occasional gentle splash of the fish were the only sounds around him. He felt death approaching, its steps echoing in his ears with every heave of the boat.

Why did he have the impression that the sea swelled? He propped himself up on an elbow and exclaimed, “Finally saved!”

A beautiful island, full of trees heavy with fruit and a gorgeous waterfall falling from a soaring cliff, danced before his eyes. Colorful birds flew around a deep blue lake. The shore was swarming with people who waved at him and smiled. Illima and Lalago were there.

“Water,” he moaned. The island approached. Wasn’t that Chief Momo? Looking rather menacing? Awaiting him with his spear ready, keeping the precious water away from him? And his father, his face distorted in a mask of disdain, his brows knitted angrily? Wild, rudimentary fear welled up inside Kamolea. Fear of death. Dread of being buried under the ground, unable to see a single sunbeam again… He started panting for breath, stretching his arm toward Lalago.

“What happens to us when we die?” he wanted to ask his granny, but suddenly the island disappeared, and a shrill giggle split his brain. He sat upright… and then he saw it.

It stood in the canoe’s bottom, in front of Kamolea, within arm’s reach. It was definitely the ugliest creature in the world—three handspans tall, with a large frog-like mouth and bulging, unmoving, brown eyes that stared at Kamolea. Its skinny body, with short, almost stunted arms and crooked legs, sharply contrasted with its big bald head, glued directly to its shoulders.  Two tiny protuberances, forming miniature horns, stuck out from its pate. Its color kept changing from pale gray through brown to black and then back to gray again, and its features fluctuated all the time.

It was so grotesque that Kamolea couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

“What are you gawking at, sucker?” the ugly thing shrieked. “Don’t you like what you see?

“Who are you?” Kamolea wanted to ask, but his chapped, bleeding lips refused to budge.

“Nobody! I don’t exist, loser,” snapped the creature. “You aren’t supposed to see me. I’m an invention of your sick brain, a figment of your imagination, right? Same as the old fool who messed up your life. Why did you even listen to him?”

I’m so sorry, thought Kamolea, his heart torn apart. I really don’t know what on earth seized me to do such stupid things. If I could turn back time, I’d certainly never do it again.

“That’s the way to go!” cried the weird thing and jumped toward Kamolea. In a split second, Kamolea felt a puff of air and a slight tingling sensation in his chest, realizing that it entered his body. Then, an ear-spitting giggle pierced his brain, and a range of negative feelings welled up inside him. A fireball of anger, desperation, jealousy, and spite grew bigger and bigger inside his chest until a mighty explosion tore him into hundreds of pieces and he fell unconscious.

The small, nutshell-like canoe, left at the mercy of the elements, drifted in the infinite sea, tossed by the waves and drawn by the currents toward its dim destiny.

 

***

White Shark cleaved the waves at full speed as her bow plunged forward, making a foamy whirl that raised a fine cloud of spray around a figurine of a full-sized grinning shark. The three-masted frigate outlined majestically against the blue sky, swelling out her sails with the fair wind. It had been two days since they tried to outrun the Spanish galleon that spotted them near El Callao. Although White Shark was far lighter and faster, it was a tight run, so they had been forced to tack downwind, changing the course south-west and throwing everything unnecessary from the hold to lighten the load. They had lost the galleon from sight some time ago, and everybody was on a high – at least until the frigate slowed considerably. Bobo El Tuerto[1] directed his single eye toward the dangling canvas.

“Slack as a drained cock,” he muttered, as he scrutinized the small, white, fluffy cloud hanging in the blue sky. “Don’t like it at all.”

 “What the bloody hell!?” barked Captain Gonzalez, popping out of the great cabin. One glance upward was enough for him to assess the situation.

“All hands on deck!” he bellowed. “Bos’n, blow the pipe!”

Diego de Sylva’s sharp whistle brought a commotion of running feet onto the main deck.

“All hands aloft!” shouted the boatswain. “Man the braces! Strike sail!”

In a matter of seconds, all the sailors were upon the masts, dousing the sheets. Meanwhile, the blue sky turned gradually to an ominous grey as black clouds flocked from the east.

“Coxswain, ready to lie ahull!” the captain cried.

Bobo El Tuerto fixed the helm, getting ready for lying to. A blinding glare tore through the sky, and heavy drops started pounding the deck.

“Heave to!” shouted Gonzalez. The gale drowned out his words as the heavens opened, letting go torrents of lashing rain. The waves crashed over the deck, sweeping everything before them. The ship heaved and rocked, then plunged bow first, almost keeling over, and Diente De Oro[2]  fell off the spar, screaming. A mighty blast caught the still unlowered topsail, ripped it to pieces, and crashed like a toothpick the upper part of the mizzenmast, which landed in slow motion upon the cursing sailors below, tangled rigging and all. The hurricane swelled the sea, and the Pacific roared like a wounded beast.

***

Three days later, Captain Gonzalez and the quartermaster, Lars van Halle, were bent over a large map spread out across a huge square desk in the great cabin. The storm had finally calmed, but it had done such severe damage that they urgently needed to mend the ship.  

 “How the hell did we go so far?” Gonzalez growled, stabbing his finger at the map. “We veered westward because of the bloody galleon, but it was only two days sailing from El Callao. How come we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere?”

“If my calculations are right, we are at least two weeks from Lima,” replied Van Halle who, amongst other tasks, was in charge of the navigation. “Apparently, the currents are strong in this part of the ocean and carried us away while we lay ahull.”

“Blood and thunder! We didn’t need this shit!” grunted Gonzalez.

“Nah, especially with all the fatigue and frustration going around,” muttered Van Halle.

“What do you mean?” asked Gonzalez, alert.

“The crew ain’t happy, Cap’n. Two months in the open sea, with no booty in sight, and now lost in these uncharted waters… I smell trouble…”

“What kind of trouble? Speak out, quartermaster!”

“I suspect a mutiny is brewing…”

“Let ‘em try, lubberheads,” Gonzalez snarled. “Is it my fault that the ship is so undermanned, by thunder? We were ninety-eight in the beginning, and after the ambush, when we lost half of the crew, it was already hard to handle her. Now we are thirty-six, and in heavy weather, she’s almost unmanageable.”

 “Thirty-five,” corrected Van Halle, “I told you we lost Diente De Oro in the storm.”

“Sink me, I completely forgot! How come? Was he drunk, the rascal?”

“He fell aloft when the topmast broke,” said Van Halle matter-of-factly.

“Diente de Oro, the old bucko.” Captain Gonzalez shook his head in desperation. “Thirty-five, blood and thunder! They’ll work their asses for four and shut their traps at that, or I’ll blow out the head of the first lubber who dares to challenge my authority, even if it means in the end, I have to steer this beauty alone.”

“I hear you, Cap’n. You know you can always count on me,” said Lars van Halle quickly.

“The hell I know! So, first we need to find a shore and mend her,” continued the captain. “With our mizzen topmast broken, and the hull leaking from three different places, we won’t get far.”

 “Boat ho! Larboard side, abeam!” resounded the cry of the lookout, followed by the piercing whistle of the boatswain pipe.

“What is it now!?” grunted Gonzalez, and the both of them rushed to the quarterdeck. The sailors piled up, leaning on the port rails at the waist. It was a gorgeous, sunny morning, and the boundless blue sea, calm and shimmering, cast back a golden glare.

 “It’s a boat, Cap’n; just over there,” said the boatswain.

Captain Gonzalez snapped open his spyglass and peered at the small canoe floating adrift. A swarthy, skinny boy lay prone on the bottom, seemingly lifeless.

 “A lad, unconscious, in a drifting canoe,” concluded Gonzalez. “Bos’n, ready about!”

“Hard-a-lee! Man the topgallant gear! Clew down!” called out Diego De Sylva.

The ship started turning her bow clumsily toward the canoe.

 “Lower a boat and haul him out!” ordered the captain.

 “Hopefully there’s land lying nearby, and if he’s alive, he’ll lead us there,” said Van Halle, while the sailors carried out the commands. Soon, both boat and boy were hoisted aboard. The men spread the limp body on the deck and crowded round it, watching him with great interest.

“Is it a negro?” asked Ron O’Reilly, scratching his head through the worn-out, discolored kerchief that lay atop his red hair.

“Nah, he’s not one of us,” said Bobo El Tuerto, a bald, black giant of a man with a leather patch over his left eye and a large ring in his left ear. “He rather looks like a mongrel, a mulatto, or a mestizo…”[3]

“Or even worse, a zambo,[4] sprouted out of the womb of some Indian bitch!” cried out Alfonso El Cucharón,[5] the ship’s cook, who was always in a good mood.

Everybody chuckled.

“What’s that on his wrist?” O’Reilly squatted beside him and took his limp hand.  “Two bracelets, one of shark’s teeth, the other a pretty womanish one.”

“Shark’s teeth? It’s an omen, that!” exclaimed Benito El Creyente.[6]

“Aye, everything connected to the sharks brings us luck,” confirmed the old Calisto.

“It’s weird, his face,” said Hugo La Daga,[7] raising his brawny, mermaid-tattooed arm and running his hand through his long hair. “His features are like a white person, his hair is curly like a quadroon, and his skin is not too dark. It’s tough to tell. I would say some mulatto, but no way a mestizo or zambo…”

“Pour a bucket over his face, and we’ll find out fast enough,” ordered the captain.

The first pail had no effect, but the boy jerked and opened his eyes after the second hit his face. He propped up on one elbow, stretched his hand, and moaned something in an unfamiliar language.

“Give him water,” commanded Gonzalez.

Benito kneeled and brought his canteen to the boy’s lips. He grabbed it and started gulping like mad, his eyes bulging from the effort. He emptied it within seconds and motioned for more.

“Hey, not so fast, you’re gonna get stomach cramps,” Benito said.

“Shiver me timbers, seems this one has spent a lot of time at open sea,” exclaimed Juan Carlos.

The boy tried to rise, but his legs failed him and he remained prostrate.

“Where is your homeland, lad? Is it nearby? Show us where are you coming from?” pressed Captain Gonzalez.

The curly fellow offered no answer and just stared at him. The sailors watched with bated breath, waiting for the outburst, as they knew their captain and his famed lack of patience.

“Hey, Gabacho[8], bring your brush and make this one speak, or blimey, I’ll throw him back in the sea!” growled Gonzalez.

“Aye-Aye, Cap’n!” replied a tall man with a palpable Spanish accent and disappeared down the hatch. He had been born François, but now only his mother remembered it, as nobody had addressed him by his real name in years. He returned with a piece of canvas, a paintbrush, and a small round box filled with red paint. He spread the sheet, and drew a picture of an island with a palm tree in the middle. This time, the youngster seemed to understand. His eyes gleamed for a moment, but then he shook his head in despair.

“Where is it?” shouted Gonzalez. “Heave him here!” 

Bobo El Tuerto lifted the skinny boy like a feather and pressed him to the larboard edge.

“Where is your land? Is it over there?” Gonzalez waved towards the southeast, the direction they first had noticed the boat.

The boy’s gaze lingered on the horizon, then he slowly turned his head, tracking something visible only to his eyes. He disentangled himself from Bobo’s hands and strode aft, staggering and reeling, then mounted the quarterdeck and grabbed the mizzen starboard shrouds to steady himself. Staring into the distance, he raised his hand and pointed northwest.

“Impossible!” cried Van Halle. “No way to come from thence! Look at the current, the wind; it’s ridiculous!”

Quiescent but confident, with one hand tangled around the shrouds and the other decisively indicating northwest, the boy’s posture was an embodiment of determination and assurance, and Captain Gonzalez, who trusted nobody, somehow believed him.

“Are you sure, lad? Your land’s over yonder?” he asked him quietly.

 The boy’s chest started heaving fast. He turned his head slowly towards the captain, and his eyes blazed with a yellow, inhuman glare. He nodded, and from his mouth came a thick, hoarse bass voice, speaking Spanish,

“Dos dias en tierra.”[9]

The voice had nothing in common with the youngster’s previous timbre. Gonzalez’s jaw dropped open and goosebumps crawled down his spine.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

Instead of a response, the boy released his grip and collapsed unconscious.

“Benito, O’Reilly, over here!” Gonzalez shouted. “Take this fellow to the focs’l, find him a place to sleep, feed him, quench his thirst, and see he lacks nothing. Coxswain, at the helm! Bos’n, ready to go about! We tack northwest!”

“Big mistake, Captain,” Lars van Halle objected. “According to my calculations…”

“I’ll take a chance,” interrupted Gonzalez, patting him on the back. “Wanna’ wager two escudos^[10] that the boy is telling the truth?”

Van Halle grunted discontentedly and turned his back. Captain Gonzalez smirked and muttered to himself, “And if he is, I swear I’ll make him a fine seaman and my favorite attendant.”  

 

***

Kamolea woke with a start. His first impression was that he was in his hut on Maniha Komo, swinging in his hammock, but it quickly dissipated as the unfamiliar smell of tar hit his nostrils. His eyes flew open, and his jaw dropped—a mess of taut ropes, dense as a spider’s web, tangled above his head. He hauled himself up and looked around. Large pieces of canvas were flapping in the wind; men were climbing poles so high that their tops reached the sky; shouts and pounding feet echoed around. Kamolea stepped carefully onto the wooden deck. The floor heaved up and down, and he staggered as he took several steps towards the midship. Beyond the bulwarks, the sea stretched to the horizon, boundless and everlasting.

“What an immense boat,” he mumbled, dumbstruck. Everything looked so enormous, so sophisticated…

“Almighty Kepolo, what is this thing?” he whispered, staring flabbergasted at the capstan. The round black wheel on the reel-like base had six metal poles sticking out of it, and was so impressive that, for some reason, he decided that this structure was the place for sacrifice and torture. Memories of past events started running through his mind.

How did I get to this place? he frowned, rubbing his forehead. He had been cast off, all right—he clearly recollected that. Then he was alone in the canoe, encircled by sharks, his hand bleeding… And that was the last thing he remembered. As he was racking his brains, somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped, frightened.

“Ahoy, matey!” cried out a short, plump, jolly man in his forties, clad in drab, baggy trousers and a threadbare, once-white shirt. Kamolea immediately liked his round face as it stretched into a broad smile across his rosy cheeks, which were covered by large bushy whiskers. “Hey, old drunkards, look who’s swelling sails here! The scourge of the Seven Seas has awakened.”

 “What are you babbling on about, Cucharón?” shouted back a burly fellow in a bleached open shirt and a faded bandana wrapped over short-sticking pigtails.

“Tell the bos’n to blow muster. Our tiger’s aroused, and everybody deserves to see him!”

“The lad is up. The chap awakened,” echoed a few voices around the ship. Within minutes, all the sailors had gathered on deck and surrounded Kamolea, staring at him as though he was some strange animal. Kamolea gawked back, unable to conceal his stupefaction, but calculating at the same time his chances against each one of them.

The tall black one with the bulging muscles and the eye patch looks pretty scary. The one with pigtails has an ear missing and could be dangerous. The man tattooed with the fish-tailed woman doesn’t seem too strong; neither does the one with the wooden leg…

They all were tough-looking men with weather-beaten faces furrowed with wrinkles and scars. Their beards were bushy, and their hair was plaited in queues under tricorn or brimmed hats, or bound with bandanas and faded kerchiefs.

More pale men, Kamolea shuddered, recalling the bearded man from his vision. Their clothes, however, differed considerably from the old man’s gorgeous, richly embroidered red cloak. This lot wore plain ragged linen shirts and canvas doublets, knee-long breeches or baggy trousers, strapped sandals, and leather boots. Some were barefooted, just like Kamolea was. Their fierce, proud, derisive eyes, which conveyed the message that no other law existed but the one they had chosen to obey, reminded him of his tribesmen.

He did not understand the conversation that flowed, but it was obviously something funny, for they were all laughing their heads off, shaking and clutching their bellies, even bent double and gasping for breath. Ron O’Reilly pointed at Kamolea’s skinny biceps and cried,

“Look at these bulging muscles! So strong and healthy, as he is, he’ll do the job! But what about his ribs? They’re about to split his skin open.”

“Pretty handsome, curly lad, I’d say!” panted Alfonso.

“Wanna become a privateer?” cried Hugo the Dagger, taking over the roars of the others. “It’s a lot of fun, you’ll see! Rum, lasses, and booty all day long! But first, get your sea legs, matey!”

            The long period of starvation had sapped Kamolea’s strength, and his muscles had disappeared, so his boyish body had become ridiculously skinny. Now he looked so grotesque that the pirates were dying with delight. He jumped and spun, following the direction of the shouting, a stupid smile plastered across his face, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin, his eyes darting from one man to another, and his curly head swinging comically atop his long neck.        Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, and Captain Gonzalez’s voice thundered:

            “Avast!” All the men shut up and parted. “Aye, caramba! Who’s in charge here, you scallywags?”

            “Cap’n Gonzalez forever!” roared back the crew.

            “Bring the monkey before your Cap’n then!”

            Santiago and Andreas grabbed Kamolea and tossed him at Gonzalez’s feet. Captain Gonzalez was a huge man. Long black locks spilled over his mighty shoulders and framed his pale, handsome face, which was decorated with an aquiline nose, thin lips, and a short-boxed beard. His aristocratic features, which betrayed a man of noble birth, now emanated the cruelty of a bird of prey. He wore a thigh-long black coat, with two pistols and a dagger sticking out from his belt, in addition to a dangling saber on his waist. Although his black eyes gleamed mischievously, the crew was tense, clearly displaying that their captain was not a man to be trifled with.

            “Kneel down!” he bellowed at Kamolea, who did not react. Tom Brady kicked his shin from behind and he fell to his knees.

            “Never kneel before your foes,” Akamui’s angry voice rang in his ears, and he attempted to rise. Captain Gonzalez yanked his cutlass free and raised it high. Kamolea dropped in response, bowed his head in submission, and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the mighty impact. He heard the blade swish, but it hardly touched him. He looked up at the towering man, who had laid his weapon upon his right shoulder.

            “Men, do you see this boy?” Gonzalez cried. “Two days ago, he set a new course and predicted that we would reach land today. Luckily, I listened to him, and sure enough, now we are approaching land—you all saw the hovering petrels and seagulls. So,” he continued in a solemn voice, “today I nominate you, little savage, as ship’s boy and my first attendant. And as we don’t know your name, and because nobody bloody cares what it is, and as you have no more brain than my favorite, sadly departed monkey, I’m giving you his name–Junu. Therefore, in the monkey’s honor and the glory of our great Rey Carlos El Hechizado,[11] I dub you a knight. From this day on, you will be known as Caballero Junu El Gran,[12] the scourge of the Seven Seas and the dumbest sailor in the universe!”

The cutlass tapped Kamolea’s right shoulder, before swinging narrowly over his head and touching his left. The crew burst out laughing and cheering.

            “Let’s make El Caballero swear allegiance!” cried Ron O’Reilly.

            They grabbed the boy under the armpits and dragged him toward the captain where, across a large keg, lay a huge, bleached shark’s skull, complete with a gaping jaw and two well-preserved rows of sharp teeth. Just underneath it was a crossed pistol and dagger. Dizzy and confused, Kamolea was forced onto his knees before the keg, facing the maw of the grinning beast. Somebody put his right hand on the top of the skull and bent his head down, pressing his face to kiss the weapons amid more shouts and laughter. 

            “Let’s brand him now!” proposed Tom Brady. “Tuerto, bring the brazier!”

“My pleasure,” grinned Bobo.

“Land ho! Dead ahead!” shouted the lookout from the main top.

The men dropped Kamolea, and everybody ran to the bow. Sure enough, the hazy outline of a shore lay far ahead.

“I knew it!” cried Captain Gonzalez, delighted. “Everybody, take your places! Coxswain, steady as she goes!”

He brought the spyglass to his eye, and with a thin smile, he observed the approaching land as he muttered to himself,

“My favorite cabin boy ever.” 

[1] The One-Eyed

[2] Goldtooth

[3] Born of Indians and white people

[4] Born of Indians and African ancestry

[5] Alfonso The Ladle

[6] Benito The Believer

[7] Hugo The Dagger

[8] Frenchy

[9] Two days ashore.

[10] Gold coins.

[11] King Charles the Bewitched (the nickname of King Charles II of Spain).

[12] Sir Junu the Great.