The Sound of Many Waters by Sean Bloomfield Page A

finishing touches of a paddle. Another paddle lay on the ground beside him.
    “ Buenas dias , commander,” said Francisco, his disposition much sunnier than it had been the night before. “It’s about time we got you back on the water, wouldn’t you say?”
    Dominic did not respond. It still pained him to see Francisco using his sword. He longed to have it back, if only to give it a good cleaning. The rust accumulating on the blade was a cancer that had to be eliminated; otherwise, he feared, the co r rosion would consume the metal entirely. The night before, he had asked Francisco to at least wipe some oil on the blade, but the old man refused. It was only a thing, Francisco had said, and no man should be attached to a thing.
    The natives ushered Dominic into the canoe while it still lay on the riverbank. Then they lined up along its sides and heaved it into the water, each one jumping into the canoe when they reached the water’s edge. Soon they were gliding across the black water at enough speed to ruffle Dominic’s hair. He could tell from the miniscule wake left by the canoe that it had a negligible draft, yet somehow it was buoyant enough to accommodate twelve men. He marveled at the stability and swiftness of the vessel, especially considering it had been standing in a forest as a living tree just hours earlier. The shipbuilders who constructed his galleon could have learned plenty from these natives.
    Dominic gazed at the bizarre world around him. Massive alligators basked on the muddy shoreline like dragons turned to stone, too large and otherworldly to be real. Further on, three otters swooped through cattails in a playful game of chase and, nearby, an egret speared a perch with its beak. For the first time since the shipwreck, his surroun d ings did not seem so hellish. He was beginning to glimpse some sort of covert system at work, a flawless order that disguised itself as chaos to hide from man’s recognition, as evident in the biota as it was in the way the natives paddled in perfect unison. Dominic watched them for a while and marveled at their precision.
    “Untie me,” he said to Francisco, who sat in front of him, “so I may have a turn.”
    Francisco looked back at him with a skeptical grimace. “You want to paddle?”
    “I need to move my arms,” said Dominic. “There are eleven of you and one of me. What could I really do?”
    Francisco consulted with Utina who then sat silent and pensive for a long time. This, it seemed, was the first chiefly decision Utina had to make. Finally, he nodded.
    Francisco turned to Dominic. “Hold out your hands.”
    Francisco put the rusty tip of the sword against the twine and pushed it down. The severed fibers fell away and Dominic pulled his hands as far apart as he could, stretching his arms and exhaling with relief. He massaged the deep red i n dentations on his wrists where the twine had dug in to his skin. Then he turned and reached out to the youngest native—the one who had gathered the cassina for him—and motioned for him to hand over the paddle; the native hesitated, but then he gave it to Dominic.
    Dominic tried to mimic the motions of the other paddling native but the canoe decelerated and tracked to the left. The young native tried to show Dominic the proper technique by raising his arms into the air and bringing them down across the water in a circular motion. He said something that Dominic did not understand.
    “What is this savage trying to tell me?” Dominic asked, frustrated.
    “He says that you need to finish your stroke with a curve, as if you are tracing the rim of the moon. And commander, it may surprise you, but this savage does have a name.”
    Dominic put a curve in his stroke. “Not that I care, but what is it?”
    “Cual es tu nombre?” Francisco said to the native.
    The native smiled. “Mi… nombre… es… Itori.”
    Francisco nodded. “Very good.”
    Dominic sat there stunned, his paddle frozen in mid-stroke. “He