Belém do Pará, Estado do Maranhão (northern Brazil), Late 1632
Like an arrow falling from heaven, the cormorant plunged into the waters of the Pará. For a few seconds it was lost from sight. Then it emerged triumphantly, a fish in its mouth. Two gulls spotted the capture and winged over, no doubt hoping to snatch the meal away. Before they could carry out their designs, the cormorant gave the fish a little toss in the air, and swallowed it. The would-be hijackers swerved and headed out toward the sea.
Henrique Pereira da Costa, watching this drama from the docks of Belém do Pará, hoped that his own dive into the unknown would be as successful.
He heard a cough, and turned. It was his servant, Maurício. “We’re packed and ready to go.”
“May I see the fabulous map again?” Maurício asked. Wordlessly, Henrique passed it over.
Maurício studied it carefully, then handed it back. “It’s got to be a fake, sir. I asked around, and no one has explored beyond where this river”—he pointed to the Rio Negro—“comes into the Amazon.”
“M-m-my family has assured me that I can stake my v-v-very life upon its accuracy.” Henrique had an unfortunate tendency to stammer under stress. It had been mild at first, but had worsened after his parents’ deaths.
“Trouble is, you will be staking your life on it . . . while they’re home, safe and sound in Lisbon.” Henrique was the da Costa family’s factor in Belém, which lay near the mouth of the Pará, the river forming the southern edge of the Amazon Delta.
“Bu—um—bu . . .” Henrique’s stammer was one of the reasons he was stuck here in Belém, rather than enjoying the high life of a successful plutocrat in the capital. Instead of collecting expensive artwork and mistresses, he was looking for drogas do sertão—products of the hinterland—that might one day have a market in Europe. Most recently, he was pursuing a strange material that his relatives called “rubber.”
“Speak English, or Dutch, sir, no one here will care.” Henrique’s stutter disappeared when he spoke a foreign language. Even one of the Indian jawbreakers.
Henrique nodded. “But there are those rumors . . .”
“Right. Like the Seven Cities of Cibola. Or El Dorado and the Lake of Manoa. Or the Kingdom of Prester John. Or—”
“Will you let me finish?” Henrique glowered at Maurício until the servant inclined his head in acquiescence. “Rumors of a town called Grantville, which has visited us from the future.”
“If true, showing poor judgment on their part.”
“Well, even if the story is false, I have my orders. Find the rubber trees, teach the natives how to tap it.”
“And your family knows how to tap it, even though they don’t know where the trees are?” Maurício’s eyebrows flickered.
“Perhaps they found the trees in the Indies already? Or perhaps it’s more knowledge from the future.”
* * *
“Coming aboard, Maurício?”
Maurício jumped into the canoe. The boat rocked for a moment, then steadied. Maurício nervously checked to make sure that his neck pouch hadn’t slipped off in mid-leap. What it held was more precious than gold: his letter of manumission, signed years ago by Henrique.
Maurício had been born into slavery. His mother had been one of the housemaids employed by Henrique’s parents, in Bahia. In his childhood, he had been one of Henrique’s playmates. Henrique’s handwriting was a disaster—sometimes, even Henrique couldn’t read it—and Maurício had been trained to be his scribe.
Henrique’s father, Sérgio, was a physician, the usual choice of occupation for a da Costa who was temperamentally unsuited for the business world. He had one of the largest libraries in Bahia, and it was Maurício’s second home. Maurício mastered Latin, and Greek, and even Hebrew. Not that there was much need for any of those languages in the rough-hewn society of Brazil.
Sérgio’s will had instructed Henrique to make Maurício a curtado, a slave who had the right to earn his freedom by paying a set price. Henrique instead freed Maurício outright. “I hope you can now be my friend, instead of my slave,” he had said. The words were burnt into Maurício’s memory, as deeply as a slaver’s brand had bitten into his mother’s skin.
* * *
The canoe, perhaps forty feet long, had eight Indian rowers and a “bow man.” The middle of the boat was roofed over with palm fronds to provide a somewhat flimsy shelter. Henrique was glad to be on his way. In town, his stuttering was a recurring source of embarrassment. In the wilderness, he could relax.