Sevilla la Nueva, Isla de Santiago (Jamaica) Anno Domini 1510
A curse runs through these lands where the living seem dead and the dead come alive. The natives have not been welcoming. They stalk the perimeter at night, from what we can hear. The coagulated mud swallows their un-shod feet. They are savages, hidden in shadow, their language, song and screaming indistinguishable from beast, bird or devil. They chant. They drum. The watch while we lie impotent in malarial fever dreams, visited by shamanic visions of terror, blood, and the claw… the claw.
Day 66 saw the last of our munitions spent on… what..? it rose from the mud like a viscous wave, took form, animated by some savage cunning beyond our ken; hair an inexhaustible stream of deep red blood. The musket shot flew through it as through water. The trees shook, the jungle screamed with what we would call terror but we recognized in these demons as delight. The enfilade ceased and it grinned, knowing our folly, before melting back whence it had come. The silence that then struck was absolute. The moon shone cold down upon our wretched souls.
The ship promised had not come. Our king had abandoned us to savage destitution. We tried to make peace with the horde. Threw blankets, clothes, even weapons down from the parapet. They came, one night after many spent in silence, with black eyes and red teeth; flanking a Witch, white as the steps of heaven with a face though marked by the runes of devilry. She looked upon us; we begged her for food.
A simple nod filled us with hope. She summoned forth a minion. He bore a sword emblazoned with the heraldry of our King. With this, she, in one deft and devastating blow, hewed a leg from the man standing before her who neither flinched nor fell. His long hair flapped softly in the thick, warm breeze. She looked into his soul. He stooped to pick up the severed twitching limb from the mud which already sought to claim it. A crimson scythe cursed the sky as he slung this butchered appendage over the parapet, then fell, ecstatic and exsanguinated, at the feet of his now gore stained Witch Queen.
The leg lay lifeless in the fetid quagmire that was the center of our camp. We approached, ravaged by hunger, terror and loathing. The chanting began. Low. Slow. Primal. It shook our skulls as if it did emanate therefrom. I can still hear it, no, I can still feel it… and the crush of bodies. They had surrounded us - it seemed also from above. An ungodly cry arose from the morbid, grinding din. The leg shook. The sky broke. We clasped what weapons remained. I admit, I did pray, but could not hear my own voice, and I know now God too heard it not.
The wooden walls of the camp shook at their roots as if seeking escape in the sky. The leg jerked. The leg jerked again. The Witch Queen’s shrill screams called down lightning from clouds which clung purple to the firmament as green gasses pool in putrid swamps. We were, to a man, paralyzed. We knew now we had these many months been no more than curiosities in an unfathomable hell, and whatever game they were playing with us had grown tiresome to those who dwelt there.
Lightning struck the leg and it took to the air. It hung, grotesquely, in a cloud of smoke and crimson vapor. The toe… it turned, barely discernible through the miasmic haze, its silhouette more a talon… a claw. It lashed out with ungodly speed, for nothing of this earth or above did propel it, and bore itself into the neck of a good man by my side. I tasted his blood and felt it warm and thick on my face. The sound I heard then was to death as a newborn baby’s cry is to life. It came from elsewhere, the veil between the warring realms, to whom we are enthralled soldiers one and all, was peeled back and for a moment I saw the chaos that is God and demons alike slaughtering their children.
I dove to the ground as the claw slew my countrymen at will. Their bodies piled upon me. I thought I would drown in blood. The air being crushed from my lungs, I longed for death so I could take up my Father’s sword and wreak bloody revenge beyond time upon the demon who breathed life into these abominations. This though, as you know, was not to be.
I awoke the next morning to the warmth of Helios' kiss and knew I was not dead. I lifted my head and saw Your Majesty’s ship at anchor. I heard the sweet voices of my countrymen and saw the pile of burning corpses down the beach. I was given wine. I was clothed and fed. I had been blessed and I knew my mission as I sailed away from that accused cove.
And it is that mission which brings me to your court, Your Majesty, to petition your leave to embark upon my own expedition. I do not seek to sail for riches. Nor will I sail vaingloriously. But I will return to the cove of the Witch Queen, and I will capture her for Spain, and she will fight for us in chains blessed by the Lord, and your Empire will stretch wherever your gaze may fall O Great and Glorious King!!!