Prologue: The Notes of León
Off the coast of Florida, 1513
Waves hissed outside the musty cabin walls of Juan Ponce de León's ship as he fervently scrawled on a stack of parchment. His metal helm glinted in the candlelight, reflecting the yellow flickering flames as his ship rocked back and forth. Wax dripped slowly onto the table with each passing minute. He'd been working for hours, days, months on these notes. They were his work and thoughts, his observations. Every word he wrote gave him hope of inspiration, hope of enlightenment. Hope that he would find the way. He'd been secretly on this quest for years. Islands and seas of the Caribbean had been conquered in the name of Spain, but all the while he was searching. He was always searching.
People all over the earth had searched for it. First in Jerusalem, where Jesús Cristo himself had supposedly baptized men with the waters. Then in Asia, where Alexander the Great eagerly sought it out. Now he'd finally heard word of this magical place somewhere in the Caribbean. From the coasts of Puerto Rico, Hispaniola, and Cuba, natives gave tell of a healing spring, a place of eternal life. Even these uncivilized peoples from the complete opposite side of the world had heard of such a place. They spoke of Sequene, chief of the Arawak tribe, who had been consumed with the greed and desire for it. He'd put together a large caravan of warriors and set off years before, never to return. De León had been convinced what he searched for lay somewhere within the mainland, somewhere beyond the coasts of this newly-discovered, newly-named Florida.
His forehead shimmered with sweat as he leaned further over the table. Pages lay spread out across the wood before him, ink drying. Pages and pages of his records of the journey thus far. Pages and pages of what he had proved was false and what he had proved was true. He'd become obsessive, pouring over the sheets of parchment, adding more and more every day.
But not today.
He bent closer, his brow furrowing in concentration. The scratch of his quill was barely heard over the creaking of the wood and the crashing of the water. He was not adding today, no. He was concluding. Concluding his journey.
"He buscada para muchos años, por todas partes de éstos mares, pero yo nunca la encuentro. Yo nunca encontré el Agua de Vida, la Fuente de Juventud, la última oportunidad para inmortalidad. Mis soldados están cansados y abatidos. Ellos no pueden continuar en este viaje. El tiempo es duro. Las horas son largas. Nuestros cuerpos y nuestros espíritus son rotos. Hay nada más dejó en el Caribean, en los océanos, en este mundo. Es imposible alcanzarla. Es imposible alcanzar el Agua de Vida. Estas cartas son el tiempo final que yo hablo de este."
(I have been searching for many years, all over the seas, but I never find it. I never found the water of life, the fountain of youth, the final opportunity for immortality. My soldiers are tired and dispirited. They are not able to continue on this journey. The weather is harsh. The hours are long. Our bodies and our spirits are broken. There is nothing left in the Caribbean, in the oceans, in this world. It is impossible to reach it. It is impossible to reach the water of life. These letters are the last I speak of this.)
With a woeful look up to the groaning, dripping ceiling of his captain's quarters, De Leon signed the bottom of the cream paper and swiftly blew out the candle. The puff of smoke lingered with his thoughts as he sat alone in the darkness. Never would anyone find the fountain. Never would anyone see the notes he had written. Never would anyone know these secrets. It was impossible to find that spring.
It was impossible.