The Fortuitous Meeting Read online

  The Fortuitous Meeting

  The Elephant and Macaw Banner ®

  Novelette Series – Vol. 1

  by Christopher Kastensmidt

  Original novelette: “The Fortuitous Meeting of Gerard van Oost and Oludara” © 2008 Christopher Kastensmidt. First published in the April 2010 issue of Realms of Fantasy.

  This revised edition © 2015 Christopher Kastensmidt. All rights reserved.

  The Elephant and Macaw Banner® is a registered trademark of Christopher Kastensmidt.

  Cover art by Ursula “SulaMoon” Dorada.

  Cover design by Cristiane Viana.

  All artwork © 2015 Christopher Kastensmidt. All rights reserved.

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  High atop the Church of the Immaculate Conception, in contrast to the subdued hues of the building’s unpainted mortar and stone, a scarlet macaw perched upon a wooden cross. The macaw cocked its head from side to side, watching people pass through Salvador’s principal plaza. After a few minutes, it paused to stretch out its wings, presenting its full array of colors—ruby, amber, emerald, sapphire, chalk, and coal—a combination found nowhere else in nature.

  #

  The flash of color caught Gerard’s eye. From far below, in the plaza’s center, he looked up and examined the macaw. The exotic bird symbolized everything which had brought him to this strange New World: beauty, mystery, and magic. All thoughts of returning to Europe faded before the bird’s gorgeous display. Certainly that one sight, unknown to most European eyes, was in itself worth braving the six-week journey across the Atlantic.

  When the bird took flight, disappearing beyond the city’s northern wall, Gerard returned his focus to the plaza: the heart of activity in Salvador. All around him, people congregated in groups, trading the latest news, or rushed by on business. Guards with harquebuses stood in towers along the dilapidated city walls, watching for threats from without, while others with halberds stood near the Governor’s Palace, watching for threats from within. Not one person in the plaza, however, paid any attention to him.

  Out of habit, Gerard tugged the bottom of his linen doublet, fitting it snugly around his broad chest. Then, he stroked his palm-length goatee with his right hand and tapped the pommel of his Bolognese rapier with his left as he considered the problem at hand.

  He had come to Brazil under the assumption that anyone courageous enough to face the perilous trip across the ocean could earn a spot in one of the adventuring troops, but unfortunately that had not been the case. Antonio Dias Caldas, the most renowned adventurer in the province, had firmly declined his services, and no other group had stepped forward to explore the local wilds. Gerard could attempt to raise his own standard, but he would need to form a strong group, and he hadn’t met anyone in Salvador with whom he would trust his life.

  A coffle of slaves approached, interrupting Gerard’s thoughts. The Portuguese merchant Pero de Belem led them on a chain, and he tipped his wide-brimmed hat at Gerard as he passed. Gerard responded in kind, then stared in gloomy silence as the slaves crossed before him one by one, heads held low, the chains joining their neck collars swaying between them. Their only clothing consisted of one-piece cotton tunics which hung to their knees, while their exposed parts—arms and faces—displayed pockmarks, relics of disease from their terrible journey. Most shuffled along with unfocused eyes, as if they could no longer think, just act.

  One of the local mill owners approached Pero for a word, and the line came to an abrupt halt in front of Gerard. Gerard, who despised the practice of taking men from their homelands in chains, grimaced as the depressing sight cast a shadow over the idyllic image he had formed just moments before.

  “And so, even in paradise there are slaves,” he sighed.

  The slave who had stopped nearest Gerard turned to look at him. Gerard, startled, noticed the man did not bend like the others; he stood proud and erect. Already inches taller than most, his upright posture made him tower above the rest. His bulging muscles stood out, even through the unfitted tunic. The man exuded power and grace, his wide nostrils and high cheekbones heightening the effect. His eyes possessed none of the stupor displayed by the others, instead, they stared at Gerard with a surety he had seen few times in a lifetime of travels. Gerard looked away, embarrassed, wondering if the man, just arrived from Africa, could have possibly understood his remark.

  Trumpets sounded from the North Gate, drawing his attention from the awkward moment. Shouts erupted around the plaza as the massive doors opened and Antonio Dias Caldas strode through, a native carrying his gold-and-red standard close by his side. Behind him followed his band. Gerard counted forty in all, many less than had left on the mission a few weeks before.

  Without breaking stride, Antonio crossed the plaza to the Governor’s Palace. The two halberd-wielding guards in front of the palace did nothing more than nod as he passed between them and slammed the door shut behind him. At that sound, his men dispersed around the square, each one immediately surrounded by curious bystanders. Among the movement, Gerard spotted Diogo, one of Antonio’s men whom he held in high esteem.

  “Diogo,” asked Gerard, “what happened?”

  “We killed the Botat!”

  “The monster that’s been ravaging the countryside? Tell me more! I’ve heard only rumors here.”

  “It was truly a marvelous beast. During the day it hid in lakes and rivers, so we had to hunt it at night. It took days to corner it, but when we finally did, we discovered a serpent large beyond belief—as wide as a cart and long as a main mast, I swear. Its body blazed with a blue flame which burned beast but not bush, and which no water could douse. The flame made the beast appear blue, but when we cast light upon it, its scales shone with all the colors of the rainbow.

  “Its eyes were giant balls of fire, each the size of a boulder. Two of our companions, Afonso and Paulo, made the mistake of looking the beast in the eye; both of them went mad. The Botat burned and struck without respite, killing everything it touched. But that is all I can say for now. Antonio will want to relate the victory himself, after he collects the governor’s reward.”

  “And the recognition.” Gerard practically sighed as he said it. “It appears you lost some men?”

  “Yes, we lost ten during our encounter with the beast.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll be looking to fill your ranks?”

  Gerard hoped his insinuation would receive a positive reaction, but Diogo’s frown showed the opposite. Gerard’s next words gushed out as he attempted to sway the man.

  “Diogo,” he said, “you know I want to serve under a standard more than anything. I didn’t spend six weeks cramped in a caravel just to visit a womanless, wattle-and-daub colony on the edge of nowhere. I came here for adventure! I’ve the strength of a bear, and I’m one of the best harquebus shots you’ll ever meet. I know Antonio respects you, please help me.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, Gerard. We still have twenty harquebusiers, more than enough for anything left roaming these parts. But your biggest problem is that Antonio isn’t fond of Protestants.”

  “I’m not going to convert to Catholicism just to join his band.”

  “And it wouldn’t help,” came a voice to his right, “I don’t like converts, either.”

  Gerard turned to see Antonio approaching, his chest jutting forward under his rich, blue doublet and his black beard cropped close around his long chin.

  “Go back to Europe, Gerard,” said Antonio, “you’re not wanted here. I formally requested that Governor Almeida have you arrested for vagrancy if you’re not on the next ship out. Given
his delight at my defeat of the Botat, I have every expectation my request will be granted.”

  “I didn’t know vagrancy was a crime in Brazil,” Gerard replied through clenched teeth.

  “It is if the governor says so.”

  Gerard breathed deeply before responding. “I’m willing to risk my life in your service and you treat me this way?”

  “I don’t need your help, Gerard.” Then he paused. “Although there could be a way. A man who can think on his feet is worth a dozen harquebusiers. Brazil is filled with all types of wily creatures, and many times a sharp wit is more useful than a sharp sword. If you can guess how we defeated the Botat, I’ll withdraw my request for your arrest and consider a place for you in my band.”

  Gerard pulled on his goatee. Quick decisions were not his specialty, and being put on the spot muddled his thoughts. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Time’s up,” said Antonio, “any ideas?”

  Gerard had no idea how much time had passed. He’d worried the entire time, unable to bring his full focus to the problem. “Hmmm,” he said, “I don’t know.”

  “A serpent is best defeated through its stomach.”

  All three men turned to see who had spoken. The African-accented Portuguese made the speaker undeniable; the voice had come from the nearby slave whom Gerard had noticed before.

  “How did you know that?” shouted Antonio. “I told the story to Governor Almeida just five minutes ago!”

  Pero de Belem came running.

  “What’s going on here?” he yelled. “Is this slave babbling something?” He held his face close to the slave’s and said, “Ooga Booga!”

  “Actually,” said Gerard, “he appears to speak perfect Portuguese.”

  “Oh right,” Pero said, scratching his beard, “that one. I can never tell them apart. He’s the only one of these monkeys who speaks Portuguese, and he gave me a mouthful too much of it on the way over from Africa.”

  “Do not call us monkeys,” said the slave. “We are not animals. You who take men from their homelands and sell them like vegetables are the animals. But I comprehend your denial, Mr. Pero de Belem, and I pity you. If you ever truly accept what it is you do, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “See what I mean?” Pero said, holding up his hands. He turned his attention back to the slave. “No one asked for your opinion. One more word will get you a lashing tonight.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” interrupted Gerard, not wanting to see any harm come to the man. “He just responded to a question. His insight was quite remarkable, in fact.”

  “Really?” said Pero, squinting his eyes. “Well, if you think he’s so special, I can sell him to you.”

  “What? You take me for an owner of slaves?”

  “I’m just saying. He’s supposed to be shipped down to Fernando Alvaro’s sugar mill in Porto Seguro on Thursday, but if you give me forty thousand réis before then, you can do whatever you want with him. I can settle something else with Fernando.”

  “Forty thousand? That price is absurd!”

  “What was that you called him again, ‘remarkable?’ Well, that just means you have to pay a ‘remarkable’ price. Of course, you could always just leave him to Fernando. Five of his slaves were killed in Indian attacks last month, and he’s eager to fill the ranks with fresh fodder.” Pero turned back to the line and yelled, “Move out!”

  Antonio burst out laughing.

  “See, Gerard?” he said. “You’re not clever enough for an expedition like ours. Even a slave just arrived from Africa knows more than you!”

  He walked off chuckling.

  Diogo placed a hand on Gerard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gerard. Antonio’s words are often unnecessarily brusque.”

  Gerard watched the line of slaves moving away.

  “Not at all, Diogo,” he replied. “I think he may be right.”

  #

  Gerard sat patiently in Pero’s office with a spoon, a pewter cup of water, and a full plate of food on the table before him. To pass the time, he studied a painting of Belem, Pero’s native city. He recognized the port from its unmistakable ornamented tower, which he had passed on the start of his voyage to Brazil. The quality of the painting could not compare to those produced by the schools of Venice and Flanders, yet still provided a reasonable representation of the port.

  Pero entered with the slave in tow. The slave stared at Gerard in silence, then took a long look at the plate on the table.

  “Please, sit down,” offered Gerard.

  The slave sat down on the other side of the table.

  “Could you please leave us alone?” asked Gerard, looking at Pero.

  “I suppose it can’t do any harm. But if anything happens to the property,” Pero motioned toward the slave with a flick of his chin, “you’re responsible.” Just before leaving, he looked back and said, “Remember, forty thousand by Thursday or he’s on his way to Porto Seguro.”

  After Pero slammed the door, Gerard looked at the slave and asked, “What’s your name?”

  The slave studied him. Their eyes made contact and Gerard held his gaze without blinking.

  “Tell me yours first,” the slave replied.

  “All right, my name is Gerard van Oost, twenty-nine years of age. I’m Dutch, from the Duchy of Brabant, but I’ve spent more years traveling Europe than I have in my homeland.”

  “Well, Gerard, you are the only white man who has ever asked me my name. I am Oludara. I hail from the kingdom of Ketu, which bears the misfortune of lying within a region you Europeans call the Slave Coast. I have lived for twenty-three years.”

  After a pause, he continued. “Why do you seek me? From what I heard of your conversation in the plaza, I understand that you are not a sugar mill owner.”

  “First, I’d like to offer you a gift.” Gerard pushed the plate and spoon forward. “Are you familiar with the local food?”

  “Just the black beans and rice, which we receive only when we are lucky. Most days we eat cooked green bananas, which makes me think Mr. Pero de Belem really does believe we are monkeys.”

  Gerard didn’t know whether Oludara made the comment in bitterness or jest. After a short pause, he chanced a chuckle. Then Oludara smiled and they both laughed heartily.

  “Yes, Gerard,” continued Oludara, “even in a situation like mine, a man must keep his humor. My people say, ‘Do not lament spilled water. As long as the calabash is not broken, one can still get more.’ Times are dark for me, but my body and will are strong, and for this reason I do not despair. However, it is indeed difficult to live on bananas alone.”

  “Well, you may find this to your liking.” Gerard pointed to each item in turn. “The fish is grouper. It is dense, yet mild on the tongue. This is roasted cassava. It comes from the ground like a potato, but is richer in flavor. The yellow bread is made from corn, and mixed with a bit of coconut for sweetness. And these slices are from a fruit known as pineapple, regarded as one of the sweetest flavors in the world. It is so treasured by the Portuguese, they ship the plants to all their colonies, even to India.”

  Oludara stared at the plate, but made no move toward it.

  “It is truly a feast, but no one offers a meal for free. Let me know what you seek before I accept your generosity.”

  “Tell me how you knew the answer to Antonio’s question yesterday.”

  “Is that all? I would tell you the story if only for the courtesy you have shown. But I accept your offer, as I am so tired of bananas that my pride would not get in the way of any handout.”

  Oludara ate his first spoonful of rice and beans, closing his eyes as he chewed it. After washing it down with a sip of water, he looked Gerard in the eye.

  “Let me tell you a story. It happened five years ago, in my homeland of Ketu...”

  Between bites, he told his tale.

  #

  Oludara stopped clearing weeds and leaned against the hoe. The wrapper around his waist weighed hea
vy from the sweat which trickled down his bare chest. He could afford to rest; three weeks remained before yam planting, and the field appeared to be in good shape. He scanned down the expanse of rust-colored dirt and watched his two younger brothers working farther upfield.

  As he removed his straw hat to wipe sweat from his brow, he noticed movement to his left. Bale Akeju, master of the village, approached with another man, tall and confident, walking by his side. As they came closer, he saw that both wore fine, indigo robes. The bale wore such rich robes all the time, but Oludara knew no one else in the region with the status to wear one. Oludara couldn’t imagine what would make the bale come out to the fields at midday. It would be much easier to find him in his hut that evening, after the day’s work.

  The two men came straight to him, without stopping, and he greeted both with a handshake. The imposing stranger studied him carefully, but the bale spoke first.

  “Oludara, this man has come all the way from Ketu to speak with you.”

  “Are you Oludara,” asked the man, “oldest son of one known as the ‘Slayer of Monsters?’ ”

  “I am Oludara, but my father passed away years ago.”

  “That fact is known to the oba, for it was he himself who sent me with orders to escort you to Ketu. He wishes to have words with you. I am Oyewole, one of his personal messengers.”

  Bale Akeju gasped at the news.

  Oludara frowned. “For one such as I to be called before the oba without warning cannot be good.”

  “You may be right,” said Oyewole. “I know not why he has sent for you, but from my experience, a surprise summons from the oba is rarely good news—I would not trade places with you right now. Nevertheless, we must leave immediately; the oba does not like to be left waiting. Take time only to say goodbye to your family and collect clothes for your audience.”

  “Very well, it shall be done.”

  #

  Even though Ketu was only a three-day walk from his village, for Oludara, it might as well have been on the other side of the world. He had only been to Ketu once before, as a child, while his father still lived. He had gone for one of the festivals, and had seen the oba in full royal attire. He did not remember many details, just the feeling of awe he had experienced upon visiting.