flipped onto my back so I could face my childhood home.
What I saw flooded me with horror. In the valley below me, our little cottage lay in ruins. My uncle slumped among the debris — alive or dead, I couldn’t say. A dozen soldiers ducked in front of him, gaping at the monster my aunt had summoned.
It was the Behemoth, a clomping black reptile the size of several houses. It had the black face of a lion. Spikes the width of tree trunks shot out from its stout body and atop its scaly head. Its tail whipped this way and that, sending rocky chunks of what used to be my house flying at the heads of the soldiers.
“Go, Behemoth!” my aunt cried, and the black lizard surged forward. Its teeth snapping at the soldiers, the beast ripped through the remains of the workshop’s floor, tossing up shards of tile and parchment as it went. The soldiers shielded themselves and scattered, throwing spears at the Behemoth’s armored back. A couple of them stuck in the monster’s skin. Most glanced off and rained back down on the soldiers.
They continued fighting each other, I’m sure, but I couldn’t concentrate on the battle. All I could see was my aunt staggering toward my uncle, cradling her bloody belly, and dropping to her knees. Finally she fell forward, reaching one bloody hand toward Diego’s.
Don’t look back, I thought I heard my uncle say. Run! Run, Baltasar!
So with tears in my eyes I ran, knowing that they had saved me.
My feet pounded over cobblestones; the muscles in my legs tightened and burned. But I couldn’t stop running — not now, not yet. In another minute I was tearing through the port. Over my winded breaths I could hear soldiers shouting “Fan out this way!” and “He can’t be far!” My uncle’s voice still drummed through my head. Run, Baltasar! Go! Spain is no longer safe for you!
Run. Yes, yes — but where? Portugal and France were too close; Diego had said I must run far. The Malleus Maleficarum was formed in Germany, and the Inquisition started in Rome.
Oh, then where else was there to go? The only other places I’d heard of were the imaginary ones listed in stories. Cathay, Arabia, Cipango, Zanzibar. But those were just names, weren’t they? Fairy tales. Even if those places were real, how could I hope to get to one with those men following two steps behind?
And how could I leave my aunt and uncle dying on the floor?
“Check near the ships!” I heard another Malleus soldier yell in the distance, and I ducked behind an overturned rowboat. My gaze ticked up and down the port, searching for something friendly, something safe. To my right stooped Palos’s salt-encrusted houses of ill repute. To my left the Santa María and her sisters waited to sail off on a suicide mission.
The Santa María.
At once the face of Antonio de Cuellar flew up in my memory. We’re going west, the ruddy carpenter had said just yesterday. Suddenly that route didn’t seem so dangerous at all. The Malleus Maleficarum would never send their men that way. Look for me at the Dark Sea Inn, de Cuellar had said, so I fled across the street and into the tavern.
Once inside I slammed my uncle’s coin purse on the bar in front of the innkeeper, who took in the sight with gleaming, greedy eyes. A few coins bought me a tray of greasy soup, a lit candle, a painted pitcher of water — but most important, they bought me secrecy. The innkeeper said I could hide up in his attic, and no one would know I was staying there as long as the coins kept coming. And as for Antonio de Cuellar, the Santa Marías carpenter? I would be alerted the second he returned.
So I flew up the inn’s rickety back staircase and into my attic sanctuary: a room only large enough to fit a broken-down dresser, a few anxious moths, and a single lumpy bed. Some dusty light pushed in from under the slats of the window’sshutters. They barely made a dent in the shadows that blanketed the slanted ceiling.
I placed my lit candle on the
What I saw flooded me with horror. In the valley below me, our little cottage lay in ruins. My uncle slumped among the debris — alive or dead, I couldn’t say. A dozen soldiers ducked in front of him, gaping at the monster my aunt had summoned.
It was the Behemoth, a clomping black reptile the size of several houses. It had the black face of a lion. Spikes the width of tree trunks shot out from its stout body and atop its scaly head. Its tail whipped this way and that, sending rocky chunks of what used to be my house flying at the heads of the soldiers.
“Go, Behemoth!” my aunt cried, and the black lizard surged forward. Its teeth snapping at the soldiers, the beast ripped through the remains of the workshop’s floor, tossing up shards of tile and parchment as it went. The soldiers shielded themselves and scattered, throwing spears at the Behemoth’s armored back. A couple of them stuck in the monster’s skin. Most glanced off and rained back down on the soldiers.
They continued fighting each other, I’m sure, but I couldn’t concentrate on the battle. All I could see was my aunt staggering toward my uncle, cradling her bloody belly, and dropping to her knees. Finally she fell forward, reaching one bloody hand toward Diego’s.
Don’t look back, I thought I heard my uncle say. Run! Run, Baltasar!
So with tears in my eyes I ran, knowing that they had saved me.
My feet pounded over cobblestones; the muscles in my legs tightened and burned. But I couldn’t stop running — not now, not yet. In another minute I was tearing through the port. Over my winded breaths I could hear soldiers shouting “Fan out this way!” and “He can’t be far!” My uncle’s voice still drummed through my head. Run, Baltasar! Go! Spain is no longer safe for you!
Run. Yes, yes — but where? Portugal and France were too close; Diego had said I must run far. The Malleus Maleficarum was formed in Germany, and the Inquisition started in Rome.
Oh, then where else was there to go? The only other places I’d heard of were the imaginary ones listed in stories. Cathay, Arabia, Cipango, Zanzibar. But those were just names, weren’t they? Fairy tales. Even if those places were real, how could I hope to get to one with those men following two steps behind?
And how could I leave my aunt and uncle dying on the floor?
“Check near the ships!” I heard another Malleus soldier yell in the distance, and I ducked behind an overturned rowboat. My gaze ticked up and down the port, searching for something friendly, something safe. To my right stooped Palos’s salt-encrusted houses of ill repute. To my left the Santa María and her sisters waited to sail off on a suicide mission.
The Santa María.
At once the face of Antonio de Cuellar flew up in my memory. We’re going west, the ruddy carpenter had said just yesterday. Suddenly that route didn’t seem so dangerous at all. The Malleus Maleficarum would never send their men that way. Look for me at the Dark Sea Inn, de Cuellar had said, so I fled across the street and into the tavern.
Once inside I slammed my uncle’s coin purse on the bar in front of the innkeeper, who took in the sight with gleaming, greedy eyes. A few coins bought me a tray of greasy soup, a lit candle, a painted pitcher of water — but most important, they bought me secrecy. The innkeeper said I could hide up in his attic, and no one would know I was staying there as long as the coins kept coming. And as for Antonio de Cuellar, the Santa Marías carpenter? I would be alerted the second he returned.
So I flew up the inn’s rickety back staircase and into my attic sanctuary: a room only large enough to fit a broken-down dresser, a few anxious moths, and a single lumpy bed. Some dusty light pushed in from under the slats of the window’sshutters. They barely made a dent in the shadows that blanketed the slanted ceiling.
I placed my lit candle on the
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