Marcoceanum

Juan is woken by the racket all around him. He looks around. It's past daybreak. Still overcast. And while he's able to discern each of the caravels flanking his ship, they're not as easy to make out anymore. The mist is still there and Juan's whole world is painted in scales of grey. It appears that all of the men are up and about and, as a matter of fact, what's taking place is one hell of an argument.

"What's all this commotion about?" he asks one of the men.

"It was never no god-damned rat at all, Captain!" answers Yzquierdo. He's extremely distressed. "Someone has killed the bird! Jaco found it behind the chest where we moved the crossbows to last week! Underneath the pillow! Whoever finished it, he was keeping it there, the lowly bastard, like some kind of unholy amulet!!"

Juan looks around the deck. The men had just about had it. He knew that the conservation of such a mascot aboard would end up spelling trouble. And smelling it, too, it turns out. The bird – probably a double-crested cormorant, but Juan wouldn't know -- had flown and glided alongside the vessel for a span of approximately four days – sometimes even above the vessel, not too high up – and during those few days the men had basked in sunny good weather, had been in good spirits; a robust, persistent wind had kept the sails swelled and aboard the ship, general good fortune dwelled. The food even seemed to taste better – or shall we say – less horrible – for that short span of time. Jokes had seemed funnier, the men's seafaring tall tales less believable – whether that's a good or a bad thing – and even the wine seemed to be easier on the men: much more benevolent, allowing them better buzzes for less of the coveted liquid – and their longings for their women left so far behind took a more positive quality, as instead of depression and longing, the general feeling was exhilaration and anticipation.

But then, upon daybreak one morning, the large black bird was found on the deck, starboard side, huddled against the base of the ladder to the upper deck. Its magnificent bright green eyes did then take to mute, and the men assumed God's creature had taken ill. De Gallego took to the bird, but even Doctor Sanchez could not make it feel better, apparently, as he did always stress, he was 'no vet.' But the good weather, sail and fortune remained intact. And after a few days of pampering from the men and petting it and telling it tall tales and even including it in 'future' tall tales, as a protagonist, plus feeding it the best of the strips of salty dried meat and the cleanest of the water – whichever the admiral left over unconsumed; sure, slightly mixed with his saliva and thus probably too with some of his germs, but still – the bird appeared to fully recover. It, the bird, opted to, however, bask in its revered pet status and chose to fly very little again, almost not at all, instead keeping to the company of the crew, and was often seen perched tranquilly atop the shoulder of many a sailor; and even, at least Alonso "Ch." assures so, making the greatest of efforts to learn to speak, so as to become an even better companion and bird of good omen to the men.

But then, one night, the bird had disappeared. Most of the men suspected Marin, who was last seen with the bird – by the way, they named it "Ave" – the night before while drunkenly coming down the ladder with it on his shoulder and stumbling and landing face-first on the main deck and the bird – "Ave" – took off from the shoulder and batted its wings a couple of times, landing composedly on the cannon, thus avoiding equal fate as Marin. But the thing is someone – the goldsmith, if it must be known – argued in all fairness to Marin, that Marin had been so wasted the rest of that night and most of next day that it surely couldn't have been him who had harmed the bird. "Ave". But what was for sure, is that at some time between that moment and noon the next day, the sails had begun to sag, the sun had begun to dim, clouds had started to appear as far as the eye could see and the color of the water had turned grey... and the grey water was still -- as still as the water of some sweetwater lake. But, a sweetwater lake that had been shrouded, by some malevolent curse, from end to end, in fog. And the ship had stalled in this windless, sunless fog. The admiral had even ordered the men to lower the sails -- recoged las velas – in a decision that practically all of the men had favored, as, they reckoned, altogether, deliberately, in the face of this windless rut, to remove the sails, as opposed to allowing them to sag, haplessly, pitifully, flacidly in the weak, haphazard breeze, at least slapped the curse back in the face by removing at least one, if not all, of the mockful symbols of its sadistic triumph. "El tener las velas sueltas, caídas de esta manera, por tanto tiempo, constituye no más que la peor de las peores de las malas de las suertes," had even reflected to some of the men and later that night written in his journal Rodrigo de Jerez. Then had come this nauseating smell that the less superstitious of the men – Juan among them -- had assumed was one of the many rats aboard, one that had died (perhaps while gnawing on the life-size wooden cross they'd brought, which was tossed behind some boards and drenched in stale water down at the bodega). For the more superstitious ones, of course, the extremely offensive smell was just part of the curse. But regardless, all of the men's spirits were running low. The mourning for Ave and the conviction that its disappearance had cursed them had them going about their duties woefully, and turning in early to sleep, in the hope of a better next day. And in fact de Gutierrez, the royal steward, always assured them: "Tomorrow will be a fine day." But that "fine" day had not yet come, for any of them.