The Thrice Born Read online

  Rufio was the first to reach the net. He grabbed the stringy contents out of it. He held it up, letting the seaweed fall away to reveal a string of ivory rounds. He grinned, laughing heartily as he swept away the remaining seaweed, and then bit into the small beads.

  “Hmm,” he said, nodding in satisfaction, holding the strand up. “Pearls, men!” He looked to the man with the net. “Is there more?”

  At the boat running to their left another man shouted, holding up a net, drawing attention from the other boats.

  The Captain looked to Rufio and then the other boats. He chuckled, nodding as more finds were announced. “Bring it up, men!” he called, glancing back at Rufio.

  Albert settled closer on his bench seat across from Rufio as the men resumed oaring. “Them’s real pearls, aren’t they?”

  Rufio’s hand closed vice-like around the strand as he sat down. “Keep your trap shut, Alberto!”

  He sat back, miffed. “Such rudeness! Why be like that, Rufio? I’m just trying to be polite.”

  Rufio glanced to where the Captain was eyeing the island, still trying to determine the strange glint at the shore in the early morning light. “I don’t know why the Capitán tolerates an English dog like you,” he said lowly. “We should have thrown you back into the sea.”

  Albert’s face darkened instantly and he lunged for him.

  The Captain stepped between them. “Enough! No more or I’ll have you both stretched on the top mast and be done with you!” He looked to Rufio. “Albert’s fought in two battles with us. He’s helped us take down two English ships. He’s proven his merit.”

  Rufio made as if to spit, but didn’t. “I know what he’s done,” he grumbled, staring at the Englishman, leaning closer in the boat. “That’s what spies do. Pretend they’re someone else –”

  “Protected you, I did,” Albert reminded. “Manned your damn bombardeta myself. Showed you how to work a real cannon.”

  Rufio looked to the Captain. “I tell you, he’s a worthless —”

  “It’s my call, Rufio,” the Captain said.

  Rufio frowned, sitting back on his seat as he sent a threatening look to Albert. “You’ve one more day to live – at the Capitán’s behest, English slime.”

  Albert was about to say more about his service to the Spanish ship when a cry went up from the sailor with the net. All eyes from the three boats went to the man as he hauled a small wooden chest from the water with the straining net.

  It tumbled into the boat, dragging a trail of green and brown seaweed with it. Half a dozen hands tore away the stringy vegetation, tearing at the thick chain at the bolted lock at the lid.

  “Step aside,” the Captain said, pulling a falchion from his second scabbard. While most of the crewmen carried a single sword, and only during times of battle, the Captain generally wore the falchion along with his usual sword. For this trip to the unknown island, every man was armed.

  The Captain slipped the edge of the sword beneath the snail-encrusted lock and gave it a quick flip. The old lock broke and the chain fell to the boat bottom. The sailor with the net pulled open the lid.

  Inside the sight of watery gold coins and tangled jewelry shone back at the men. At first they were speechless, and then a laugh erupted from the Captain. It was soon followed by the other men, triumph echoing across the waters.

  The Captain scooped up a handful of gemstone and gold necklaces, lifting it high as water and coins dropped back into the chest. “By God, you were right, Rufio!” he crowed, grabbing the man’s shoulder and shaking him nearly from his seat. “Ha! The log book was real!”

  The other two boats had stilled rowing, the men looking to the glittering treasure in the Captain’s clutch. Congratulatory laughter and hooting bounced off the rocks edging the cove.

  Rufio smiled, eyes on the strands of pearls, rubies, and sapphires amid the gold necklaces. “Of course it’s real. But this,” he said, chancing to plunge his hand into the chest’s interior, letting the coins sift through his fingers, “is nothing. Nothing, I tell you!”

  Another sailor sat closer on Albert’s seat to see the chest. He snatched a small gold statue from the treasure, smiling greedily at it.

  The Captain gave him a warning look and snagged the statue from his hand. “We haven’t parted out the lots yet. You wait.”

  The crewman frowned at him, and settled back at his seat. He grabbed his oar, ignoring the chuckles of the other sailors at his reprimand.

  The other two boats fell into a line behind the Captain’s as they reached shallower water. Most looked to the shore where the twinkle of gold in the sand evolved into more discernible shapes in what appeared to be a double row leading from the water.

  The Captain rested his boot on the seat beside Rufio, a cautious eye on any hands daring to reach for the open chest in the boat’s bottom. “Did you know all this was here?” he questioned Rufio. “The log book said so little. Certainly not enough to describe this,” he said, gesturing to the jewels and coins. “Why did you attach such importance to it?”

  Rufio chuckled lowly, rubbing the stubble of beard at his chin. “Just a lucky feeling, Capitán. A little gift from my old mother.”

  Albert snorted a scoff. “Ah, that explains it. Your mother’s a witch, Rufio!”

  In a flash steel, Rufio’s long knife was in his hand as he bolted across to the other seat, holding the razor sharp blade at Albert’s neck. The Englishman leaned back in surprise. Rufio’s burly hand knotted in the other man’s shirt, keeping him close. A trickle of blood started at Albert’s throat as he swallowed.

  “Captain, it was a compliment,” he said carefully, feeling the blade edge against his Adam’s apple. “I meant no disrespect.”

  Rufio’s knuckles whitened, eyes narrowing at the man as the other sailors looked on, expectant.

  The Captain gave them each a quick glance. “Alberto’s harmless, Rufio,” he said. “He’s just got a strange sense of humor. You know how English sailors are.”

  “All liars and traitors,” Rufio said with a grunt.

  “Come on, Rufio,” the Captain said, trying to allay the tension. “When we’re back on the ship we’ll toast your mother, and thank her for our rum and our gold. Alberto will toast her himself,” he added, sparing the Englishman a sharp look. “Won’t you?”

  Rufio threw away Albert roughly and sat back in his own seat. “Like hell he will.”

  Albert shifted on the seat, straightening his rumpled shirt, aware of the other crewmen estimating him.

  “Mention my mother again and I’ll cut you in little pieces and feed you to the sharks,” Rufio promised him.

  Rufio’s threat was lost on the Captain. His attention was locked onto the shore where the double line of glittering objects had now dissolved into recognizable view. The sailors noticed, every eye on the sandy shore approaching.

  A double line of shimmering gold took the form of statues, one after another as they filed in tandem up from the water, each in progressing size. As the boats neared the shore the sailors gasped at the oddity. Two lines of golden statues, each larger than the preceding, emerged from the azure water, each facing the opposite line, both columns disappearing into the heavily treed interior of the island.

  “Gold!” a sailor cried from the second boat.

  “Unbelievable,” murmured another crewman as the boats neared each other, all eyes on the spectacular golden statues.

  In the third boat, two men had stood up to see the columns better. “There must be thousands,” one said, pointing to where the statues disappeared into the lush vegetation. “Look at ‘em! Unbelievable!”

  No one had expected it. The statues rose overhead like great deities guarding the waterway, each arrayed in golden robes, their faces both solemn, gaunt, yet holding the likeness of angels the Captain had seen on illuminated pages of his hometown church’s sacred books. The statues were immensely tall and thin, with large wings opened to expose intricate skeletal patterns that seemed out of place o
n an angel.

  It unsettled the Captain. He was aware of several sailors crossing themselves, but no one looked away at the glittering gold sight that rivaled full sunlight.

  He grinned, a reverent whisper coming from him. “Oh, my God...”

  Albert was also reverent, but to a different idol. He’d stood at the sight of the statues, but now he dropped to his knees – before Rufio. “Truly a godsend,” he mumbled, face pale as he looked up to the Spaniard, his tone penitent. “How could I ever have doubted you? You beautiful man... No witch could know this; your mother is a saint. A blessed saint, Rufio. I take everything back.” He grasped the man’s hand and kissed it roughly. “A blessed –”

  “Unhand me!” Rufio pushed him off. “You damnable English cur.”

  Albert was in the middle of an apologetic kiss when Rufio withdrew his hand and shoved him away.

  “You’re very fortunate, Alberto,” Rufio said, grinning in spite of the show of remorse. “I heard a trace of sincerity in your voice despite your wretched accent. Perhaps gold has softened your heart.”

  He rumbled of chuckles went through the other Spanish men. Albert paid them no mind, his eyes flicking from Rufio to the statues.

  “I’m sure I’ll regret it,” Rufio said, glancing to the Captain, “but out of respect to the Capitán I’ll let you live one more day.”

  Albert stood and made an obsequious bow.

  The sailor with the net was in arm’s reach of one of the smaller statues rising from the water as the boat passed it. At his proximity the face was stern, judgmental, daring any of the treasure-hunters to step out of line. The crewman looked to the sandy beach where some of the smaller statues canalled in sort of an entryway, as if guiding the three boats.

  He pointed to some of the smaller ones. “Aye, Capitán, some are small; even if pure gold, we could dig one out now and take it back to the ship in a boat. Shall we?”

  A sudden thunderclap followed by an instant shadowing of the cove and beach made each man look to the sky. The dark clouds that had eased up on the El tesoro del cielo caught up to the boats, hovering ominously overhead. The crewmen grumbled at the change in weather, but no one wanted to leave without investigating the golden statues.

  The Captain studied the sky for a long moment, itching to put ashore and wrap his hands around the nearest treasure idol. “We’d better get fresh water first,” he decided.

  A collective groan went through the men.

  * * *

  A groan also echoed through the Vatican Library centuries later as Father Elmo read the account of the three boats landing on the statue-laden island. He leaned over the frayed red leather diary at the library table, his inordinately long fingers in white gloves of soft cotton as he carefully handled the gold edged pages of the book. He’d studied the words of Rufio Catalán with growing curiosity, but he’d ever gotten this far in the sixteenth century seamen’s diary.

  His aged eyes squinted at the ancient Spanish dialect, ink smudged on several parchment pages of the relic of a book. He’d memorized much of what he’d already read in El Diario de Rufio Catalán, but this, he thought, rereading the passage describing the angel-like statues on the island, this was definitely a new turn of events.

  “Father Elmo!”

  Father Bertrand’s tone was demanding now, and nearer than the first two times he’d called out.

  “Father Elmo! Here you are!”

  Father Elmo sat back in his oak chair, the creak of the wood echoing through the vast, eclectically-furnished library. It was a well-lit room, with tall marble and walnut paneled walls, the Swarovski crystal and gold chandeliers and colored glass windows stretching to the high ceiling. It was a showcase of libraries, housing artwork and relics the outside world would worship, had anyone known of them.

  He straightened in his chair. At a height of more than eight feet, he towered over many men even while sitting down, but it also played havoc with his spine when he was crouched over a good read, as he was now. He muted his groans and looked to Father Bertrand’s scowling features as he came to the table.

  “You’ve a paper due at the Archival Symposium in two weeks!” the more senior man said crisply, forty of his sixty-two years snapping out in authority. He adjusted his glasses, looking to the ancient, gold-embossed diary on the table. “Is this part of your research?”

  Father Elmo could hear the skepticism in his tone. “No...”

  It was always the same old argument, he knew, yielding the same results. He stripped off the gloves and laid them beside the diary.

  “Do we need to go into that again, Father Bertrand? How many times?” He hoped not; he wanted to find out what the captain of the El tesoro del cielo and Rufio Catalán had found on the island in the diary.

  “I challenge your strange linkage between historical documents,” Father Bertrand said stoutly. “What could a fifteenth century ship’s diary or an aging record from the Spanish Inquisition have to do with the Book of Genesis?” He gave a dismissive nod to the other documents and study material on the table spread before Father Elmo. “And what would those have to do with the Nephilim, the Fallen Angels?”

  Father Elmo smiled. “A great deal, I believe.”

  Father Bertrand shook his head, adjusting his glasses at his nose. His tone turned mocking. “You think the ancient world – its obsession with golden treasures, lost worlds, remote mining, slavery, the star Sirius, ancient tombs –”

  “They’re all connected,” Father Elmo told him. He sighed, carefully closing the diary, staring at the gold-embossed red leather cover of the book. “You know it is genuine. Testing proved the date of the ink, of the parchment, of the –”

  “The leather cover,” Father Bertrand finished, weary of the argument they’d had over the subject. “But most palimpsests are like that, Father. A clever forgery does not make a treasure map or directions to a lost city of gold.”

  Father Elmo turned in his chair to look directly at his colleague, a slow smile coming to his face. “You’re right, Father. As usual, absolutely right.”

  Father Bertrand nodded in self-satisfaction. “Your treasure hunting is a grievous character flaw, Elmo,” he said, foregoing proper titles. “Even hypothetically. Be warned!”

  To demonstrate his seriousness, Father Bertrand turned and strode back across the library. Father Elmo smiled at the dramatics, and then pulled a leather satchel out from under the desk and took a small clipboard from it. He shuffled the papers in it to his notes for the paper he was to give at the Archival Symposium. He nodded, tracing a long finger along a line of notes he’d made for the paper he had yet to begin. His head bobbed in time to Father Bertrand’s retreating footsteps, as if counting.

  When the library door opened and closed with a stiff thud, Father Elmo smiled again, but this time he set aside the notes and case. His mind was already drifting back to the diary and the island.

  He pulled another pile of notes on the table closer, eyes still on the red diary. Beneath his hands were the documents outlining the Spanish Inquisition and the role of its key players. He thumbed through them to his favorite section, and then pulled the soft gloves back on, and delicately opened the diary again.

  Chapter Two

  BLOOD OF ANGELS

  Fresh water was the last thing on most of the crew’s minds as the men pulled the boats up to the sandy shore below the threatening dark clouds above them. The Captain had given the orders for fresh water to be found before any of them further investigated the golden statues seeming to watch their every move.

  Even with those orders, every one of the fifteen men filed between the two rows of tall statues on the beach, none of them wanting to stray from the austere beauty of the find.

  “Make quick on the feet, men!” the Captain called back to the crew following him. He kept one hand on his sword hilt at his strong side, as did most of the men; treasure or not, their guard was up. A deep rumble of thunder followed them as they followed also the statues into the wooded in
terior.

  A canopy of trees overhead crowded the statues, mingling vibrant green leaves with the glitter of tall angels and raised wings. Rufio kept a vigilant eye on the storm still brewing above them, feeling the air grow damp with unspent rain.

  “I tell you,” one of the more superstitious crewmen said, looking up at the nearest statue, “it’s damned. The island is damned.”

  Another man chuckled, nodding ahead of them as they followed the Captain. “If this be damned, I’ll take it any day to blessed and poor!”

  Albert grinned, glancing at the men, and then to Rufio, who ignored him.

  They made their way through the dense trees, keeping to the path cutting through the greenery lined by the tall golden statues. After a few moments rain began to splatter down, lightly at first, and then with more force as the sunny day darkened. Rumbling thunder grew louder.

  The path opened to a clearing in the forest and the Captain held up a hand to the men behind him.

  Before them the statues parted to either side, encircling the clearing as if to bear witness to something. At the far end of the circle was a large throne, sitting as if waiting to pass judgment.

  The crewmen all looked to each other, every face somber amid the rain and growling sky. Before anyone could speak, a horrible screeching scream rent the air and the clearing darkened.

  Rufio looked up, face growing ashen as the sky crowded thick with a swarm of half-human, half-possessed appearing creatures in flight. A flash of lightning lit the darkening sky, illuminating the creatures, bringing gasps and shouts from the men.

  A chorus of shrill screams echoed from above and the creatures swooped down into full view. They were human in appearance, much like the statues, with dark, scaly green flesh and spindly skeletal wings, naked and unsexed. Their mouths yawned open in grotesque cries, their features imitating the statues, but distorted and angry.

  “To arms!” shouted the Captain, drawing both his swords. “Full combat, men!”