Seven Tides

1 A Perfect Storm

Prologue

The year is 1489. The journey from Lisboa has been void of any semblance of land. We became lost in the wildest of storms searching for a passage to the east around the bottom of Africa and learned first-hand why Bartolomeu Diaz named this the Cape of Storms this past year. Both compass and constellations have been of no use. Weeks of torrential rain dogged us from the start. An unusual darkness blankets the sea and does not relent. What should have been a journey of a month has become two months, maybe more. The unexpected time at sea has depleted our supplies entirely. All that remains is a barrel of musty beans and a half bushel of stale hardtack. We will last a week, maybe ten days. To make matters worse, the horse we transport is well-fed and kept under special guard. It seems especially cruel to keep animals while men starve. There is talk of mutiny, but for lack of strength and perhaps little hope, nothing comes of it.

Captain Cabral is oblivious to all of this. Day after day he stands watch by the wheel, eyes narrowed on the horizon, square-jawed and unmoving except to check the heading on the errant compass occasionally. His large frame and broad shoulders show no signs of fatigue. He has captained vessels for two kings since his early twenties. Now approaching fifty, he seems intent on securing his name in history. In the past week, no one has approached him, and he speaks only to his first mate. Now, his first mate Fernandes Galioto, lies below, stricken by the fever.

Being one of the few crew members with a knowledge of writing and history, Captain Cabral assigned me the task of documenting this journey. However, if I were to present this account in Portugal, they would brand me a heretic, or worse, a sorcerer, to be burned at the stake. Considering the dire circumstances in which we now find ourselves, I doubt if this account will ever be told. My name is Ibrahim Nazario, and this is the log of the Santiago and its crew of twenty-five stalwart crew.

1 The Perfect Storm

Gabriel and I are below decks with his uncle, the first mate Fernandez, who lies limp on a make-shift cot. A thin linen shirt drenched in sweat traces the outline of his gaunt skin and bones ribs. In less than a month, he has become an unrecognizable shell of the man he once was. A sudden coughing fit causes his entire body to convulse violently, shaking the small bed beneath him.

"Gabriel," he wheezes, "Gabriel, where are you?"

"Here I am uncle, beside you." The young man takes a damp cloth and wipes down Fernandez's brow. He gently shifts the bunched-up blanket under his head. He can do little else. Another fit of violent coughing wracks the old man's body. This time, the muscles contract into tight knots, twisting his frail body until his back arches up in pain. The coughing subsides, and he slumps back down onto the cot.

"Gabriel, I am lost. You must be brave."

"You just need some rest, uncle. Try to rest."

"My dear boy, my time is short. Listen carefully to what I say." With one hand Fernandez grips the young man's shoulder, his eyes filled with tender compassion and urgency, "I have loved you as my son. I have taught you the best I could. You must carry on now; no matter the difficulty." He wheezes, bringing up bright red phlegm that trickles down through his gray-stubbled beard. Gabriel hovers over him and quickly wipes the spittle away.

"Please, uncle try to rest. We can talk later," he pleads.

"No!" — Fernandez chokes out between gasps — "You must hear this now. You must listen!" Fernandez swallows hard. "You are the last descendent of an ancient and honorable family. After you, there is no one. Our ancestors date back to before the time of Christ. Long before there were even kings, we were the guardians and keepers of a sacred prophecy. We fought against the Gaels and other nomadic raiders whose names the sands of time swept away centuries ago. We defended this land against all. The Romans and the invading Moors could not conquer us. We endured —" Fernandez gasps and tries to swallow through dry, cracked lips. Gabriel brings the cup to his mouth and encourages him to drink, but he only wets his lips.