David Wood, Sean Ellis
Oracle
“The distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”
PROLOGUE
What am I doing here?
It was not the first time Gil Perez had asked himself the question, and the answer that always bubbled up in his mind was no more satisfying this time.
You have to be somewhere. Is this really so terrible?
In truth, his situation was not terrible by any stretch of the imagination. He had a place to live, a salary, he never wanted for food, and he even had a purpose, albeit not the one he had imagined when he had chosen the life of a soldier.
Therein lay the problem. As a boy, he craved adventure. The thought of becoming a laborer, scratching out a hard, miserable existence, had been utterly repulsive to him. He dreamed of escaping a life of drudgery, journeying across the seas to fight bravely in the King’s service, and finding fortune and romance. What better way to start down that path than by trading the plow for the sword? He had run away from home and joined the army, expecting to immediately be whisked away to some far off land. The conquest of New Spain had only just begun, and everywhere there were rumors of a rich but wild land, where savages worshipped demon gods and gold flowed in the rivers.
He had quickly learned that the life of a soldier was not measured in the number of battles fought, but in the long — the endlessly long — doldrums of day-to-day routine. He had indeed been taken far from home, an ocean voyage marked by long periods off excruciating boredom with a few brief interstices of absolute terror. That journey, in the retinue of Governor General Gomez Perez Dasmarinas had brought him here, to Manila, where he had been assigned to the Palace Guard.
Not that the life of a Palace Guardsman was always boring, especially not in the territories of New Spain. He had survived more than a few skirmishes in defense of the Governor General’s political agenda — the suppression of the Audiencia, an uprising in Zambales — but like the storms and pirate attacks during the sea voyage, these were merely fleeting moments of excitement in an otherwise dreary routine of service. Indeed, it seemed that being a Guardsman meant that he was passed over when opportunities for adventure arose. Why, only just a few days earlier, the Governor General had set out on a grand expedition to capture the Spice Islands…and yet here Gil was, guarding the governor’s empty house.
With a sigh, he shifted his arquebus to a more comfortable spot on his shoulder and leaned back against the wall. At times like this, he often allowed himself to speculate about what might have happened if he had made different choices along the way. It was a foolish indulgence; one could never truly know what might have been. Attempting to live in an imagined alternative life only blinded a person to opportunities that might arise in the life actually being lived. Nevertheless, he could not help but wonder what might have happened if he had acted on the impulse to stay behind in Mexico.
His friend, Alvaro Diego Menendez Castillo, had done just that. Eager for action and weary of the long journey that would only take him farther from home, Alvaro instead signed on with one of the treasure galleons due to sail the pirate infested waters of the Spanish Main, and had urged Gil to do the same.
Gil had chosen to stay the course. Unlike his friend, who was descended from a noble family, Gil was of common stock, and worse, a bastard. Though he would strike dead any man who dared speak a word against his mother, he knew the truth: his mother had been a harlot, and his father — if his own swarthy complexion was any indication — had probably been a Moorishman. He had left Spain to escape the limitations of his birth. Returning, even as a triumphant protector of the treasure fleet, would mean a return to that life. In the final calculation, he had elected to reject Alvaro’s seductive plan, and continued on to Manila.
But what if…?
Where would I be right now if I had gone with Alvaro?
In all likelihood, he would be dead. He had heard naught of Alvaro in the four years since their parting. Had the young man been lost in a pirate attack or fallen in battle with the English?
Perhaps I am a coward, Gil thought, and if that were true, then there was no better place for him than here, guarding an empty house.
A disturbance at the gate caused him to leave off his self-piteous musings and he straightened, craning his head to see what was happening. A small group of riders, covered in road dust, had arrived and whatever tidings they bore seemed dire indeed. Gil felt an impulse to leave his post and inquire about the news. But no, he would hear of it soon enough.
“Soon” proved to be an understatement. Within minutes, a runner arrived. “The Governor General has been killed,” the breathless messenger said. “Assassinated by Chinese mutineers aboard his own ship. Be on your guard.”
Assassinated! The news shocked Gil. The Governor General was a good man and a strong leader. Yet secretly, Gil felt a measure of relief that the deed had occurred far from Manila, and that he had not been included in the force that had gone out with Perez Dasmarinas.
I am a coward, he realized, embarrassed, and sank against the sturdy palace wall.
What am I doing here?
Gil Perez watched the guttering flame of his lamp, wondering how much longer he would have to finish writing his story.
He wasn’t sure why he felt such a compulsion to set the words to paper; it wasn’t as if anyone would ever read them. He was alone, trapped in the encroaching darkness. He would soon be dead and no one would ever hear his final confession.
And what was his sin?
Pride. Yes, that was it. His pride had led him to reject the wisdom of the course he had earlier set out upon four years earlier. He had made a foolish, impulsive choice, recklessly choosing to follow Alvaro on a quest for adventure and excitement, and it had led him, inevitably, to this benighted tomb.
Oh, there had been adventure and excitement aplenty, but that was of little consolation now. He would soon be dead; there was no escaping it.
He bent closer to the parchment, letting his eyes drift over his account of this final adventure. His knowledge of letters was one good thing that had come of his decision to accompany Alvaro, though that too seemed to count for little now. It was just one of the many things he would willingly trade for a chance to undo that fateful choice.
During the course of his travels, he had occasionally wondered what life might have awaited him had he refused Alvaro’s invitation. Now, he knew the answer. A dull life, true, but a life that would not end in suffocating darkness.
If I could turn back the days and choose again, I would choose that life, he promised himself.
That was the worst part of knowing.
“I have gazed upon the life that might have been,” he read aloud, his voice barely a whisper, “as one might gaze through a window. It is there, so close yet just out of reach. If only I could open the window and step through, I would.”
He sighed. Regret seemed a poor way to end this confession, but what else did he have, especially when confronted with the outcome of his choice.
If only I could open the window….
His thoughts were muddled, perhaps the effects of the stale air, but…why couldn’t he open the window? Or smash through it with a stone?
He closed the book and slipped it beneath his waistcoat, then carefully lifted the lamp. It would expire soon, no doubt about that, but he needed its light only a few seconds more. Just long enough to traverse the darkness and reach…