There had been three ships when we set out from our homeland of Spain. Now there was only one. But we had fifteen willing men, a legendary captain, and an ancient map that I alone could read (being a scholar of old things). 

In the face of this vast new world that stretched out before us, it did not seem like much, but for us, it was enough.

“I have secrets,” the land seemed to taunt us. “Come and find them, if you dare.”

We fully intended to. For was that not what we sought? Secrets of the earth itself. Treasure not meant for mortals. These men had come all the way across an unknown sea for gold, and they were not leaving without it.

For two days, we stayed aboard our ship and watched the land, and the land watched us. As sick as we were of the water, that notion gave us pause. We knew nothing of this place we had come to. What beasts lurked in the mangroves? What spirits haunted the deep shadows?

We never doubted for a moment that countless terrors awaited us.

Nevertheless, we had not come all this way to sit trembling in a boat. We could just as easily have done that at home. 

But we called ourselves dauntless, so to shore we went, with swords to hand, and prayers upon our lips.

We camped upon the open beach that night, out of the tide’s reach. The breakers sang sweet music to us, and the salty air filled our lungs. As we sat there bathed in the light of the stars and a warm fire, we almost believed we had been there before. In another life, perhaps. As if our souls had been away for a very long time and had finally come home.

These thoughts and others left us quiet, sober, and somewhat uneasy. I caught men glancing over their shoulders, muttering things under their breath, even praying.

There was one of our party –a man named Miguel– who somehow remained immune to the strange fantasies that had taken hold of the rest of us. 

“How do you know?” he asked, troubled by our manner, “How do you know this is the place we seek? How do you know we will find what we are looking for here?”

The question silenced us, for although we did indeed know, it had not occurred to us to wonder how or why.

Each man looked to another, but none could put what he felt into words.

Finally, Don Rico spoke up.

“Because…”, he faltered, “... because I can hear it breathing.”

And the moment the words were spoken, we all knew them to be true.

“You have all gone mad”, Miguel muttered, and perhaps he was not wrong.

                                                ***

The next day we devoted to gathering supplies and plotting our route inland. “Tomorrow”, we promised ourselves. “Tomorrow we will venture into the jungle.” Yet tomorrow came, and still we were loath to leave the water’s edge. Had we become cowards? No. Never.

“Rest”, we said, “A day of rest will do us good,” as if we had not been resting the three days previous. But inactivity brought us time to think, and thinking, we began to doubt. Why should we go into the jungle? What if this treasure didn’t even exist? El Capitano Valdez de Merano witnessed our growing reluctance to leave our beach for more perilous terrain. As evening fell, he called us to gather around the fire.

“My compatriots”, he began, “far we have come from our homeland. Many dangers we have faced already, proving our endurance, loyalty, steadfastness, and pride. Yet here before us stands the greatest challenge. A test of courage. For where we go, no man has gone before, and what awaits us there, we know not.” Here he rose from his driftwood pallet, his face melting in and out of the darkness. Intensely, his eyes gazed into each of our souls.

“Will we falter?” He said. “No! Will we fail the test? God forbid! We are explorers. Conquistadors. Tomorrow we will prove our courage, and every day after that. Tomorrow we will spit in the faces of all who doubted us.”

Our hearts swelled at this thought, for we remembered well the ridicule and desertion of friends and kinsmen, when they heard of our venture. If they could only see us now, what fools they would look.

“Let us not forget why we have come,” He went on. “A city of gold, my friends.  A treasure beyond anything mortals have ever known.” 

Murmurs of assent rose from all of us.

“At the rising of the sun, we go into the jungle. And not the forces of heaven or hell will stand in our way. This land is ours. It will not defeat us.”

I think often of that night.

Little we dreamed of what would befall us in the days to come. But that night we could have faced the wrath of God himself and not faltered. At daybreak the next morning, we all felt much the same way. With the exception of Tiago. He felt nothing, for he was dead.

Not a mark we found upon his lifeless body. Not so much as a scratch. It was as if his soul had just decided it would rather be somewhere else.

Perhaps Tiago’s death should have told something, but we buried our misgivings with him in the pure white sand. And into the unknown we went, the sheer vastness of the sky weighing heavily on us, breathing like some great, living beast.

“I need not remind you why we are here”, the Captain said. Indeed he did not. His words filled the men’s heads with grand visions of this city, and filled their hearts with gold-lust. 

As for myself, Don Rico, and Merona, our heads were filled with far different visions.

We three alone knew what the treasure really was.

                                                                     ***

With much difficulty, we began to cut our way through the mangroves. They grew in a thick, tangled wall, trying to keep us out, but they failed. Then dense forests of hardwood, and palm, with rotting leaves beneath our feet. Creatures were there in abundance. Some familiar to us, some strange.

On the night of the second day, Enrique –a retired soldier– wandered a little way from camp. Merona had given the order to stay close, but the forest had been quiet, and our caution was at a low ebb.

A few hours he was gone before a seed of concern sprouted in our minds. Having no wish to sound like nagging women, we said nothing. Only strained our ears to catch the slightest noise, and furtively glanced into the wall of darkness that surrounded us.

He had not returned when we settled in to sleep– leaving two men on watch. 

He did not return by the second watch, nor the third.

It was not until the fourth and final watch (about one hour from sunrise) that Enrique came back to camp. He stumbled into the light of the dying fire, blood streaming from thousands of cuts on his face and arms.

“Hermano!”  one of the men cried, racing to his side. 

Enrique looked at him with a vacant expression, and grasped the man’s shoulders. Feverishly, urgently, he began to mutter gibberish. As if his message was important. But what was coming out of his mouth could not be called words.

We told him to slow down. We tried to make sense of his ravings. We tried to stem the blood flow, but he fell convulsing to the ground. Horrified –unable to tear our eyes away– we watched as the wild contortions slowed to a steady twitch, then ceased altogether.

We buried him in a shallow, sea-shell grave. For that’s all the dirt was. Crushed sea-shells everywhere.

Thoughts flew through my mind, as questions flew from the others’ mouths. I looked at the men around me, and wondered if they were beginning to suspect that something else was going on. 

I looked at Merano, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but none was there.

To know what was coming was one thing. To watch it happen before my very eyes was quite another.

Later that day, Merano sought me out, and took me aside.

“You have concerns, old friend?” he asked. 

I told him it was just a little hard to watch, and he sighed.

“Yes, it is hard. But we must not forget our purpose. I need you to believe in this as much as I do,”

Silently, I cursed myself for faltering.

“I do believe”, I swore. “Whatever the cost.”

Both assured, we parted and rejoined the group. Thankfully, our little conference had gone unnoticed by all but one. However, that one was Miguel. 

I feared even then that he mistrusted us.

There was a haze that hung in the air, seemed to grow thicker the further inland we went. The curtains of hoary moss swayed in the ever-present breeze. The breeze which set the trees whispering in some forgotten language. Was it only my fancy that I could almost make out the words they spoke?

One by one, the men kept dying – at irregular times, in unrelated ways. Drowned, poisoned, attacked by savage beasts, bitten by snakes, strangled by the jungle itself , and sometimes there was no cause at all. They just… stopped living.

And by the end of the second week, we stopped burying them. God forgive us. We had simply grown weary of it.

“There are no natives”, Miguel pointed out. We concluded that they were further inland. Our number had dwindled down to eight or so, including Merano, myself, and Miguel (Don Rico having perished in the swamp). 

Still nobody considered that there might be something behind it. We were treasure hunting in an unknown world. Death and hardship; these things were to be expected. 

Curses? Some people liked to blame things on those, but we weren't among them.

Besides, it was too loud to think, too quiet to talk, and too lonely to do anything but keep walking.

Gradually –almost imperceptibly– the air became thicker, the oppressive silence beat down upon us, and it became harder and harder to take the next breath, until we couldn’t remember a time when it had been easy.

We would have despaired of hope, had we been lucid enough to understand it.

Seven days we went on like that, and two more men died. We thought we would be lost in that daze forever.

Even thus, a stubborn little thought prickled my psyche. What if we hadn’t brought enough? What if we ran out before we found the treasure? How many would it take to satisfy the curse?

                                                                   ***

Was it hours or was it years? We had no way of knowing. But we woke from our stupor when we stumbled into a river.

Not the tepid, hellish swamp water we had been slogging through, but an actual deep, cool, swift-flowing river.

The heavy jungle soon rang with shouts of joy as the water washed our delusions away.

Behind me, one of the men –his name Antonio, I think– shouted out in fear or pain as something in the water dragged him under.

But we didn’t mind the blood, for the river washed that away too.

At length, Merano whispered to me.

“This water”, he said, “is no ordinary water. We are close. So very close.”

I knew what he spoke to be true. The river seemed, not full of life, but… life itself. 

“Enough!” Miguel suddenly screamed.

Startled, we looked up to see him standing over us, rapier drawn. The other four men moved to circle us, hands on their own weapons.

“Enough of your whispered conversations”, he spat. “Enough of your scheming and secrets. I am no fool. I know there is no City of Gold.”

Some parts of his statement were truer than others.

His eye twitched.

“So, what is it you search for? What are the writings on that map?”

Merano, unshaken as ever, shook his head sadly.

“You disappoint me, Miguel. Can you not even be content with the greatest treasure the world will ever know? Must you turn my own men against me with your blind greed?”

“The same men you have been murdering one by one?”

                                                                   ***

The fearful accusation hung oppressively in the air. What right had he to say a thing like that? We had only killed one or two ourselves.

I saw Merano’s shoulders tense up, and I knew what was coming. Memories of old battles fought side by side flooded back to me. Always the two of us. Always victorious.

“I see you will not be reasoned with”, his voice was low and steady. A cue to anyone who knew him well.

Miguel did not.

Before you could even blink, Miguel’s stomach split wide, and his guts spilled out.

Merano’s blade dripped crimson in his hand.

The other four paused a moment, unsure of themselves, but they came on anyway.

We made short work of them –just like old times. He turned to me then.

“Come now, my brother”, he said. “We are close.”

With some difficulty, we forded the river and climbed out on the other bank. Thoroughly wet, but refreshed and light of heart.

Here the trees grew a little taller, the air a little clearer, and the undergrowth a little thicker. Yet, a path seemed to clear itself for us.

We came to a deep, shady grove of twisted oaks festooned with curtains of the gray moss. The ground underfoot was soft, springy grass that –although midday– was dripping with dew. The inside of a cathedral is but a mockery of the sanctity that was there.

But we –intruders in this small paradise– had eyes for none of this.

We saw only the stone pedestal in the very center, upon which stood a crudely chiseled goblet filled to the brim with liquid crystal.

“Behold”, said Merano –never at a loss for words–, “The Eternal Water.”

Slowly, he approached the edifice, but I hung back.

“We’ve done it, Cato. This is it. This is our moment.” He took up the goblet, and raised it to the sky, glorying in the splendor of the moment. 

“Our victory over death itself.”

Something was wrong.

He looked down, confused, at the four inches of steel protruding from his chest.

Right through his heart.

I drove my sword through farther, and reached out; my hand grasping the cup above his.

“My victory”, I hissed in his ear.

“...Brother-” he choked out, before his mouth filled with blood.

Characteristic of him to have the last word.

His fingers lost their grip, and I slid my blade free as he crumpled to the soft grass.

I brought the rough stone vessel to my lips and drank.

How can I tell you what I felt? It was… heaven and hell. Every pain, every pleasure, magnified beyond comprehension. 

So much life that it hurt, spreading like fire through every fiber of my body.

I screamed into the sky, overcome by the power of it.

But beyond all of that, I felt joy, for I had finally won.

                                                             ***

*Present Day

 Now look around you. Look at all these people. 

I saw them all come. I saw their predecessors die. I watched these cities grow from nothing. I stood by as they cut this land to pieces building their roads and their houses and planting their crops.

They have pushed back the forest, but they have not tamed it. The grass still ripples like water, the trees still sing scratchy lullabies, the great, silent sky is as untouched as ever.

And if you find a quiet, lonely spot, and listen very closely, you can still hear it breathing.