My brother smiled. “They work for gold, which I have plenty of. Therefore, everyone works for me. You will tell him you are there to oversee my investment and help locate objects for my collection.”
And so the next day, I set out on horseback to Spain to deliver the letter and travel on this ship to the New World. Four and a half months later, I had arrived to the place once occupied by óolal’s people, only to find a jungle abandoned long ago. Any traces had been consumed by vegetation. But I didn’t give a shit. Those few months, traveling in this world that was so changed yet so similar to the one I’d left behind, made me feel like a kid in a candy store. Killing was my candy, and there were plenty of people deserving of it. I killed thieves on the road to Spain who’d tried to take my horse. I killed a drunk group of men who were beating a woman outside of a brothel near the port. I killed several men who’d tried to overthrow the ship. It was when I learned how my darkness and willingness to kill could serve another purpose. I was a man who couldn’t die. I didn’t know fear. I was consumed with a need to shed blood. Every time I obeyed that need, it felt like a drug. Then guilt would kick in, and then I’d kill again for relief. Nevertheless, I believed I’d found my calling.
When we reached Caobana, now known as Cuba, it felt like my own personal heaven. The indigenous population was in need of some taming, and I was in need of some killing.
We hadn’t been there more than five days when Diego started gathering men to fight an uprising.
Of course, he asked me to lead. “You’re an animal, Callias. And a fine warrior. You will clear the way for our settlement. Show these heathens no mercy.”
The next morning, armed with swords, myself and a group of men invaded a small village about one mile south of the port. I remember bursting into the first hut, the blood pumping through my veins, calling for my sweet, sweet drug. But when my eyes met those of the young woman kneeling in the corner, wearing only the traditional loincloth, shielding two small children, I froze. My eyes saw óolal. It was only for a moment, but it was real. And if I’d had any doubts, they were dispelled by the sweet smell of her permeating the small dwelling.
“It can’t be,” I said.
She looked at me, her eyes filled with shock. I didn’t speak her language, but when that familiar voice filled the air, I fell to my knees, my sword dropping with me. Her presence was ten times more potent than any kill I’d ever made.
I don’t know how long we stayed there staring at each other—confused, elated, horrified, and happy—but the screams outside woke me.
“I have to get you out of here.” I held out my hand, and she took it, urging the two children to follow.
I looked outside to scout for the rest of the men, who were off inside the other dwellings, killing.
“Come. Hurry!” I said.
They followed me along the outer perimeter of the hut and into the jungle. Meanwhile my head pounded and spun. Could this really be her?
If not for the noise in my head, I probably would’ve heard the footsteps coming up behind us. When I turned to see why óolal and the children had stopped following, it was too late.
That day would forever be known as the massacre near Camagüey. But what the history books do not tell is that I was the one doing the massacring. Spaniards, indigenous people, anyone who crossed my path. I was blinded with rage.
When the Spaniards finally caught up with me, I let them kill me. I wanted my pain to end.
But it wouldn’t.
Cleopatra’s ankh brought me back a few days later, and I clawed my way out of a mass grave, stole a boat, and headed north. I was beyond psychotic—something that wouldn’t change for the next several hundred years.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TEDDI
I wanted to judge Mack for the crimes he’d committed. I wanted to wish him to hell and make sure he stayed there. But the fact that he truly hadn’t been in control steered my heart in another direction: pity.
To be frank, I wasn’t a religious person. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because my analytical mind had never been able to subscribe to anything without proof. But if there was a god, she had abandoned this poor man long ago and left him to rot. It wasn’t fair. I could see the torment in his eyes, hear the guilt in every syllable spoken from his mouth, feel the despair leeching into the air around him. If there was a god, why punish him like this? Because he’d killed his brother? Mack had done it, thinking he might save their people. For screwing me without my father’s permission? Mack said he’d loved me. For becoming cursed with my father’s pain or being resurrected by his brother? Or because he wasn’t strong enough to resist their will?
This man didn’t choose. He was forced into every action. Yet he took the blame for all of it.
“Your guilt, Mack, is a sign that you are not evil,” I said.
As he stared at the crackling fire, I could tell his mind was off in some other world, reliving his sins.