The Sound of Many Waters by Sean Bloomfield Page B

speaks Spanish?”
    “He’s learning. I have been teaching him and several others from the tribe. To be effective warriors, after all, they must know everything about their enemy.”
    Dominic’s face reddened. “So I am the enemy?”
    “That is up to you.”
    They stopped to fish at a sandy riverbank beneath the shade of an oak tree larger than any Dominic had ever seen. Its thick branches reached out over the river like claws. A cool northerly wind had developed. As it whistled through the tree, acorns fell upon the water like raindrops. One bounced off Dominic’s head; he whipped around to look for what had hit him.
    “Angry… squirrels,” said Itori, pointing skyward. He repeated it in Timucuan and the others laughed.
    Francisco grinned. “Wouldn’t that be the perfect Indian name for you, commander?”
    “What?”
    “Angry Squirrel.”
    Something like a smile flashed across Dominic’s face, but it quickly vanished. “I will kill you if that sticks,” he said.
    “Then I will ensure it does.”
    Dominic watched Utina uncoil a long twine that had a fishhook carved out of a bone at its end. A clamshell was threaded through the line above the hook as a weight. Utina cracked open a mussel and impaled its meat on the hook, and then he turned to Dominic.
    “He wants to know if you would like to try,” said Francisco.
    Dominic took the line. Utina mimicked the motion of swinging the hooked end of the line toward the water. Dominic’s first throw launched the bait as far as the twine could reach and Utina nodded in approval. It did not take long b e fore the line twitched and went taut—Dominic held tight as something on the other end pulled back with surprising force. He smiled as he played the fish. The natives whooped and hollered. With one final heave, Dominic pulled a plump ca t fish onto the bank. Utina patted him on the back and then leaned down to subdue the writhing fish.
    “Is it edible?” asked Dominic, his voice flush with excitement.
    “Not just edible,” said Francisco. “Delicious.”
    Utina unhooked the fish and held it up for Dominic to see. Its wormlike whiskers quivered as the fish gulped air and flexed its slimy fins. Utina tossed the fish back into the river.
    Dominic was dumbfounded. “I thought that was our lunch? What’s the point?”
    “The first fish is always thrown back,” said Francisco. “Next one is lunch.”
    Before long they had caught enough catfish to make a meal. The natives gutted them with a crude knife—nothing more than a shark’s tooth mounted on a wooden handle—and then they wrapped them in wetted palm fronds and laid them over hot coals to cook. The meat came out flaky and moist, although it certainly would have benefited from a pinch of saffron to help mask the mud flavor. Nevertheless, it satiated Dominic’s hunger, and he felt a warm sense of accomplishment for having contributed to the meal.
    Dominic insisted on paddling when they boarded the canoe again. The natives appeared amused by his enthusiasm for such a mundane task and seemed happy to ignore his lack of skill in exchange for entertainment. They soon came upon a basking alligator that crashed into the water and charged the canoe. Dominic held the paddle up in defense but the alligator stopped before it reached them.
    Utina pointed at the alligator and said, “Itori.”
    Dominic looked at Itori. “I thought that was your name?”
    Itori smiled. He pointed to himself. “Me Itori. Me Alligator.”
    “Your name is Alligator?”
    Itori nodded and smiled. Then he pointed at Dominic and said, “You Angry Squirrel.”
    Francisco and all the natives laughed. Dominic’s face turned red. “No,” he said. Soon, however, everyone in the boat was repeating it and he could no longer repress his smile. He bit his lip to quell it.

 
    Chapter Twelve
    Zane clung to the skeletal remains of the launch pad and tried to think of a way out of what had become a desperate predicament.
    “You can drop the bag