The Songs of Strife

23 NIGHTMARES

Magalhaes shifted in his cot as he tried to wrestle the nightmare that wormed its way in his dream. It always starts the same. The glimpses of home, the smell of freshly cut hay and lavender, the eager hug of his son and the warm kiss of his wife all coming in familiar sequence. And so it began, he felt the soft earth under his boots as though it was real. The grass and the hills around him looked very familiar but somehow changed. A dream cut fresh from his memories, he thought. He smiled as he turned his head to the north, it was the meadow in his hometown of Sabrosa. The lone great tree on top of it stood tall unmoved by the wind. A lazy breeze blew on his face, kissing his bare red cheeks. He closed his eyes as the warm memories of home came flooding by.

Will I ever be back home? Will all of this be over soon?

And the answer to his nagging question came as his dream got muddled up without warning. And like a bubble it popped into nothing, replaced by the same horrid things. The same sound of thunder rolling overhead. The same dirty snarling faces of the barbarians, shouting their curses at him and his dream soon descended into a dark nightmare. Light turned to shadow like life turns to death.

He felt his hands grew heavy as an axe and a sword appeared on it, dragging his shoulders down. The ground shifted underneath his worn boots and became a mire made of red mud, slowing every step he made. The hills and meadows soon change to mounds of bleach white bones.

To resist was futile. So, he stood still in the middle of it all like a crooked tombstone. His men began appearing around him, faces gray and eyes ringed black. Some of them knelt while others could barely stand, all of them twisted and broken. They were all blaming him. But Magalhaes did not protest for he knew they were all right. The dead ones don't lie. He turned to the north and saw the leaves of the great tree wither into nothing, leaving sharp branches that pointed to the heavens like the fingers of a dying man, accusing God for his unfortunate fate.

Such a waste, Magalhaes thought.

The wind moaned and wailed around him, taking a bite at any exposed skin he offered. He tried to stand straight as best he could but failed. And the shrieking of a thousand barbarians over the hill drowned all sound. Their maledictions gradually formed in to one great roar as they descended upon him. Upon his men. Pigafetta, Delcano, Mortez, Duarte, and Mallaca, all turned to him pointing their fingers at him. They mouthed something he couldn't hear.

He ignored them as best he could. It was pointless, there was a fight to be fought and a promise to keep. A thousand savages flooded down upon him and his men. But there was nothing he could do. Magalhaes gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he anticipated the violent impact of their crushing bodies... of their glinting swords and of their keen spears... it would touch and kiss flesh and deliver him death. Instead, a great silence came as great as the peaceful sea and the pain didn't come. Nor did the crushing of skulls or the breaking of bones. Only the cold arrived. It seeped through his pale skin, draining all the warmth in his body. Just like falling and drowning in a sea of ice.

Magalhaes woke up drenched in his own sweat. His hair plastered on his forehead. Someone was banging on his door. He shook his head. Did I overslept again? He turned towards the window. It was still dark outside but the heavy rain had subsided.

"Come in."

Pigafetta went inside his cabin. He spoke with his uneven tone as though he was thinking if the next word was the right one.

"Captain, sorry for disturbing you... but Rajah Humabara and Datu Zullah is here to see you," the Italian said.

"What do they want?"

"I dunno. But I think its very important, captain."

"Did Miguel and Mallaca arrive?" Magalhaes said as he rose from his cot, massaging his sore neck.