The Songs of Strife

-INTERLUDE: PARADISE

I feel that I should not continue this journal. That it would be a great travesty if I would. But when I found this discarded, I knew then what should be done. Reading all this personal accounts with my own eyes, I feel that it should be completed...

So, I shall write this not because of vanity, but to simply finish this as it should be finished, with the best of my ability and with aid of the Holy three.

We made history and history unmade us. Betrayed, broken and defeated we ran from the savages of Zubu. I could recount every single detail that happened to us in that wretched piece of hell as we escaped its grasp. But in doing so, I may not fully give justice to all of our experiences. I simply can't...

I refuse to relive it all over again.

All history needs to know is that our Captain General fought like the noble leader that he was. And that he sacrificed himself for our pitiful lives. But alas, instead of rewarding us for his undying bravery and efforts the rajah's men chased us out of Zubu. We still don't know what happened to Captain Barboza and his men there. Maybe they escaped. Maybe he's dead. I hope the former is true for even a vile man like him should be given the chance to live. All I'm sure is they never came out of the island in ship Concepcion. For the once grand caravel is no more, all that's left of it is burnt drift wood. All thanks to our loyal allies in Zubu. All thanks to Rajah Humabara and his dear friend Zullah.

I could feel the hate rise from the back of my throat like a curse waiting to take flight just thinking of them. If only they could see the madness and pain that they wrought...

Days after our plight, I observed something amongst my fellow sailors. At first, it was subtle but as time passed I saw it more and more. It is mostly in everyone's eyes. It is in how we carried ourselves. A palpable burden few could comprehend.

Simply stated, we who survive the place they call Zubu are but shells of our former selves. Only a few show a glimmer of positivity in their demeanor. Only a few have hope. I've talked to some of them. Heard them praising god, thanking the Lord for another chance at life. I clung to the thought too that we will be renewed like them. I hope my fellow men will heal. I hope I will too. Perhaps, time could only tell if it will come.

I've been helping the doctor and our chaplain take care of the wounded and the broken not just in body but also in the mind and soul. I fear my dear friend is one of them. I fear for his life as we traverse the Peaceful sea. I fear he may come out of this as another casualty of war. Permanently wrecked by its lasting clutches. Some nights, down in the deck when the winds howl, I can hear him sleep-talk in his fevered dreams, swearing that he'd come back in that wretched place again. That he'd find Kalipulako and make him pay for all the blood he spilt. He'd often swore that he'd blot him and his savage men out of history.

I was going to tell him that revenge was an exercise in futility but I couldn't. Instead, I told my friend another lie. I told him I'll come with him. I told him we'll burn the indios' village and enslave their women and children when we return. I told him that we'll be the ones who'll conquer the savages. And that the Mother España will rule over the wretched. I promised it in the name of my Captain General.

And in my heart, I believe it will come to be. But in truth, it'll probably never happen in my life time. Never in my life time. For in that hellish place even the brave cower, even the strong waver, even the devil himself may die...

---An excerpt of Sebastian Delcano's entry on the Personal Journal of Antonio Pigafetta