Read Online To the Edge of the World by Michele Torrey - Free Book Online
Authors: Michele Torrey
Tags: Fiction
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is not funny. You are an idiot if you think Cartagena will be in the stocks forever and a double idiot if you think there are not men who will do his bidding at the snap of his fingers.”
His words rang true and I grew suddenly alarmed. I did not go around Cartagena anymore and felt only a grim relief when I learned he was stripped of his captaincy. On the
San Antonio,
his flag was lowered and the flag of a new captain raised to take its place. It was whispered that only his father’s high position as a bishop had prevented an execution.
With Cartagena in the stocks, the fleet hoisted every scrap of sail and made good speed to Brazilian waters. On the sixth day of December the crew of the
Trinidad
burst into cheers when a brightly colored land bird settled on the quarterdeck railing.
All the next day, I smelled the scent of land. Rodrigo said it was the fragrance of jungle. I awakened the following day to the cry “Land ho!” We had been eleven weeks at sea.
For five days we hugged the coastline and headed south. We dared not land, for this part of Brazil belonged to the Portuguese and we feared for our lives lest we fall into their hands. From the railings we watched as the land rolled by. Monkeys swung from tree to tree. Flocks of parrots sprang into flight, clouds of red, green, yellow, and blue. Insects swarmed aboard, buzzing and biting.
“Do you think we will ever find a secret passage?” I asked Rodrigo. “Someone told me that the southern continent stretches both north and south forever and that it is impossible to go around.”
“If no such passage exists, then this will be a short voyage. Unless we can sail over the jungle, that is.” Rodrigo walked away, muttering, “Only a Portuguese would think of sailing west to reach the east.”
On the feast day of Santa Lucia, when the heat smothered us like fires from a blacksmith’s forge, we anchored in a bay surrounded by lush hills. Once ashore, I fell to my knees and crossed myself. It began to rain, a great rain that made my hair hang in strings. Beside me knelt Rodrigo, and for the first time in many days we smiled at each other.
Crowds of natives swarmed the beach.
We stared at one another. The natives and we, the men from across the sea. We stared while the rains poured and the dirt beneath us turned to mud.
I stared at the women. How could I not? I had never seen a naked woman before. And there were hundreds of them. All naked. Beautiful and naked.
“Paradise,” whispered Rodrigo, his eyes huge. “We’ve landed in paradise.”
Trade began immediately. One of our men served as interpreter. A king of clubs or a queen of spades bought seven pineapples, a fruit both sweet and sour at the same time. A mirror bought ten chickens and two geese. A handful of beads bought a basket of fresh fish. Once it was discovered the native men had no metal tools, a hatchet bought one woman. If the sailor was lucky or the daughters especially ugly, one hatchet bought two. Trade was very brisk. Many men left their chores and could not be found.
Rodrigo gave me ten small bells to trade. Going into the village, I bought a shell necklace from a sag-breasted old woman who had but two blackened teeth in her mouth. She followed me around then, laughing behind her hand, pinching my backside if I turned away. I bought other things, too—pineapples, sweet potatoes, and a basket to store them in—meanwhile always followed by the old woman. Later, she sat staring at me, giggling as if I were the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen, as I spent the rest of the day drawing in my sketchbook. I sketched her as well. She would make a fine addition to my collection.
When I returned to the
Trinidad
and Rodrigo saw my purchases, he laughed and called me a weakling, asking why I did not buy myself a woman. I shoved him to the deck. “I am not a weakling!” I yelled. We fought until his eye was blackened and my ribs bruised, until we both lay on the deck panting.
The
His words rang true and I grew suddenly alarmed. I did not go around Cartagena anymore and felt only a grim relief when I learned he was stripped of his captaincy. On the
San Antonio,
his flag was lowered and the flag of a new captain raised to take its place. It was whispered that only his father’s high position as a bishop had prevented an execution.
With Cartagena in the stocks, the fleet hoisted every scrap of sail and made good speed to Brazilian waters. On the sixth day of December the crew of the
Trinidad
burst into cheers when a brightly colored land bird settled on the quarterdeck railing.
All the next day, I smelled the scent of land. Rodrigo said it was the fragrance of jungle. I awakened the following day to the cry “Land ho!” We had been eleven weeks at sea.
For five days we hugged the coastline and headed south. We dared not land, for this part of Brazil belonged to the Portuguese and we feared for our lives lest we fall into their hands. From the railings we watched as the land rolled by. Monkeys swung from tree to tree. Flocks of parrots sprang into flight, clouds of red, green, yellow, and blue. Insects swarmed aboard, buzzing and biting.
“Do you think we will ever find a secret passage?” I asked Rodrigo. “Someone told me that the southern continent stretches both north and south forever and that it is impossible to go around.”
“If no such passage exists, then this will be a short voyage. Unless we can sail over the jungle, that is.” Rodrigo walked away, muttering, “Only a Portuguese would think of sailing west to reach the east.”
On the feast day of Santa Lucia, when the heat smothered us like fires from a blacksmith’s forge, we anchored in a bay surrounded by lush hills. Once ashore, I fell to my knees and crossed myself. It began to rain, a great rain that made my hair hang in strings. Beside me knelt Rodrigo, and for the first time in many days we smiled at each other.
Crowds of natives swarmed the beach.
We stared at one another. The natives and we, the men from across the sea. We stared while the rains poured and the dirt beneath us turned to mud.
I stared at the women. How could I not? I had never seen a naked woman before. And there were hundreds of them. All naked. Beautiful and naked.
“Paradise,” whispered Rodrigo, his eyes huge. “We’ve landed in paradise.”
Trade began immediately. One of our men served as interpreter. A king of clubs or a queen of spades bought seven pineapples, a fruit both sweet and sour at the same time. A mirror bought ten chickens and two geese. A handful of beads bought a basket of fresh fish. Once it was discovered the native men had no metal tools, a hatchet bought one woman. If the sailor was lucky or the daughters especially ugly, one hatchet bought two. Trade was very brisk. Many men left their chores and could not be found.
Rodrigo gave me ten small bells to trade. Going into the village, I bought a shell necklace from a sag-breasted old woman who had but two blackened teeth in her mouth. She followed me around then, laughing behind her hand, pinching my backside if I turned away. I bought other things, too—pineapples, sweet potatoes, and a basket to store them in—meanwhile always followed by the old woman. Later, she sat staring at me, giggling as if I were the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen, as I spent the rest of the day drawing in my sketchbook. I sketched her as well. She would make a fine addition to my collection.
When I returned to the
Trinidad
and Rodrigo saw my purchases, he laughed and called me a weakling, asking why I did not buy myself a woman. I shoved him to the deck. “I am not a weakling!” I yelled. We fought until his eye was blackened and my ribs bruised, until we both lay on the deck panting.
The
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