Copyright © 2014 by Craig Goodwin
Cover Illustration © 2014 by Amanda Mullins
All Rights Reserved
To Grandma Su,
Who never doubted I would share my adventures with the world
Prologue
Fiji, 1521
The storm lasted three days. More violent than any in decades, its wind ripped bamboo homes from dirt foundations and scattered them hundreds of feet in the air. Lightning split the sky and thunder shook the ground with such intensity that rocks and boulders broke free from mountainsides and tumbled into the valleys and villages below. The ocean raged, throwing forty-foot waves at the shoreline. It destroyed beaches and dragged trees from the earth like weeds.
On the fourth day, the sun rose over calm seas and foreign visitors.
Ferdinand Magellan, famed Portuguese explorer, led three longboats ashore. In each boat sat twenty of the strongest men from each of his remaining three ships. Two years had passed since leaving the port in Spain. Their voyage around the world had brought them west, across the Atlantic ocean, down the coast of South America, through the treacherous waters at its southernmost tip, and across the Pacific to the Fiji Islands. Finding the islands was fortunate—the ships were low on supplies and had been damaged in the fierce storm.
The longboats plowed into the sandy beach and the men climbed out, dragging the boats above the waterline. The sixty sailors followed Magellan across the beach and into the jungle.
Birdsongs carried throughout the colorful forest. Beautiful, bright flowers decorated the deep green brush. It was a welcome break from the ships. But, despite the beauty of the island, danger lurked.
And the men knew it.
Natives.
Magellan ordered his men to walk with their long guns loaded and easy to reach. The savages that dwelt in the far jungles of the world were a mystery. Little of fact was known about these people, but they’d become infamous for their violent ways.
The group made their way inland, searching for fresh water, edible vegetables, and any animals they could kill for food. They also eyed the trees, looking for ones that were tall and straight. The masts on two of the ships had snapped during the storm, broken like twigs beneath the hurricane-force winds. They needed replacements.
Magellan saw the glint of sunlight reflecting off water in the distance. Toward the end of a long valley he spied a waterfall. They followed a trail through the jungle, walking single file. After a short while, the trail brought them into a wide clearing.
Without warning, a volley of stone-tipped spears arched through the air, aimed straight at Magellan and his men. The surprise attack cut down nearly twenty sailors in an instant. The forest around them erupted in shrieks and war cries. A hundred native warriors poured from the hills on either side of the valley, throwing more spears and swinging heavy war clubs.
Sixty guns fired at once, cutting a wide gap in the natives' charge. They scattered, terrified. The weapons the light-skinned invaders carried seemed to kill by sound alone. The warriors vanished into the jungle. A tense silence covered the clearing.
The sailors took a moment to reload their guns, pouring in the powder, and stuffing the wadding and lead down after it. Another volley of spears burst from the shadows, bringing down more of Magellan's men. Many of the sailors fired wildly into the brush.
Immediately, the natives erupted from the jungle and charged in from all sides. More guns fired into the Fijians, but they kept coming, having seen how long it took to prepare the guns for another shot. Magellan drew his sword and pistol and his men did the same.
The two groups collided. Native warriors fell to pistol shots, but most broke into the ranks of the sailors, war clubs swinging. Magellan battled valiantly with his sword and pistol that he held by the barrel and swung as a club. He defeated the natives two, even three at a time.
The rest of his men were not so lucky.
Magellan watched as his own fighters were overwhelmed by the larger force and shouted above the battle. He held his sword above his head by the flat of the blade and lay it at the feet of their leader in surrender. The remaining sailors, less than half of the original shore party, were bound by the wrists with vines and marched inland.
They walked for two days, stopping only briefly for breaks and to sleep. They were given no food or water. After marching through a torch-lit tunnel the men arrived at a village deep in the mountains, surrounded by cliffs on all sides. A large, middle-aged man emerged from a bamboo hut and met them in a clearing. He wore human bones as jewelry and carried a chipped and worn war club, the evidence of many victorious battles. The chief. He addressed the Fijian warriors and pointed his club at Magellan. The natives stepped forward, raising their own clubs.
The sailors fell to their knees and begged for their lives. Magellan stepped toward the chief, drawing a ruby from a bag tied to his belt. He’d found it while stopped in South America and now offered it in exchange for their lives. The chief's eyes widened at the sight of such a large gem. It was the size of an orange and deep red in color, and more valuable than all of Magellan's ships combined.
Through words and motions, Magellan made it clear he offered to exchange the precious stone for their release.
The chief considered this and called his greatest warrior from the crowd. The fighter stood a head taller than Magellan and twice as wide. His muscular body was covered in scars and black, swirling tattoos. Magellan had seen him from the other side of the battle. Many of his own men fell to the native. Magellan was to fight this man for their freedom.
If the Fijian warrior emerged victorious, the sailors were to be executed and Magellan’s bones added to the chief's jewelry. If Magellan won, both he and his crew would be spared. They would be given time to rest and re-supply before resuming their travels, leaving behind the precious gift. If he refused to fight, all of them would be killed.
The choice was clear. He needed to save the lives of his men—and avenge the lives of his sailors that the warrior had taken.
Magellan was cut from his bonds and given his sword.
The warrior hefted his war club and the two men circled like wolves. The Fijian lunged forward. He came close to killing Magellan in the first moments, knocking him to the ground and nearly crushing his skull with the war club.
But Magellan dodged the blow and jumped to his feet. He sliced upward with his sword. The warrior stepped back, narrowly dodging a lethal strike. He swung down with his club, straight at Magellan's head.
At the last moment, the captain blocked the death blow. The force of the strike snapped his sword and knocked him to his knees. He got back to his feet. A solid kick to his chest sent him flying. He landed on his back, the pieces of his sword tumbling out of reach. The Fijian warrior towered over his foe. The sailors moaned.
Then, with strength and speed the Fijians did not expect from the smaller, wounded foreigner, Magellan rolled away from the killing strike and grabbed a shard of his broken blade. He leapt up and buried it in his foe’s heart.
The chief roared and pointed his club at Magellan. His greatest warrior had fallen. The victor stood his ground, breathing hard. Their eyes locked and they stared at one another. A minute passed in tense silence. Abruptly, the chief spun and stomped away.
He remained true to his word and allowed the men to live. They stayed in the village until they were well enough to make the trek back to the beach—many of Magellan’s men had been seriously injured in the attack. Local women waited on them and tended to their wounds. They were kind and treated the foreigners with care.
Magellan spent hours each day with a village woman to whom he taught some Portuguese words and gave her gifts from his travels. She, in turn, taught hi
m some of her language and cared for him as he recovered from the battle.
She was beautiful and kind-hearted and Magellan quickly fell for her. They could be seen holding hands by the fire at night. At other times they were nowhere to be found.
The days passed and Magellan and his men recovered. Once able, they retrieved their weapons and left the village, leaving the ruby behind. They returned to their ships and agreed to never to speak to anyone about how Ferdinand Magellan had found, and then lost, the most valuable ruby ever discovered.
1.
Threat
“Hey Stone, you sure you’re not a chick?” Trent whispered to the back of Benji’s head. “Because you really look like one. You sound like one, too. You've even got those silky-smooth legs.”
Benji felt the crimson warmth crawl up his neck. He tried to ignore Trent, but blushing came easy to the fourteen year-old. The other kids couldn’t resist making jabs at him just to see his face change colors. The brighter red it got, the more they laughed. Years had passed this way, and every time they teased him he wanted to dig himself a great big hole to hide in.
“You’re in a guy’s class, Stone. The girls take home ec. With you being a chick and all, you should be in home ec, right? Not history.”
Benji felt his ears turning red. He knew, without even looking, the exact facial expression Trent was making. One eyebrow would be just slightly raised and the right corner of his mouth would be lifted in a devilish half-smile. He heard a suppressed chuckle beside him.
Benji never understood why the other kids thought Trent was so cool. The varsity pitcher was a god here at Woodward High. He never walked down the hallway without a small crowd of fans trailing after him, half wearing varsity jackets, just like their hero. Kids were even saying that the Red Sox might sign him straight out of high school. Teachers even liked him, using words like “charming,” “handsome,” and “talented” when they talked about him. So yeah, he was pretty popular. Too bad he was a jerk.
But he was right; Benji shouldn’t be here. He should be in a different class, in a different part of the building, maybe a different school entirely—as far from Trent Ironside as he could get.
Instead, he sat in a world history class full of older boys and two of Trent’s female cheerleaders, all of them endlessly amused by Benji’s misery. Home ec wasn't an option, though. He had no interest in cooking or sewing or taking care of babies. But really, he didn’t much enjoy learning about the wars these guys loved so much.
He took history to learn about ancient cultures and the lives of courageous adventurers that died years and years ago. Nothing caught his interest as much as Sir Francis Drake’s trip around the world, the cannibals of the south pacific, or his ancestors in Scotland. He could hardly wait until junior year when he could take anthropology—the study of human societies and their cultures. Until then, he would have to suffer through sitting in a classroom full of upperclassmen for two entire school years.
“Actually, you don’t look like a teenage chick. You look more like a little girl. Skinny, kinda short, and with such a smooth face…just like a little girl.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Benji jumped from his seat and spun around. His face felt hot and he knew his skin matched his bright red Patriots jersey, but in that moment he didn’t care. He raised his voice with his fists clenched at his sides.
“Stop talking to me. Just leave. Me. Alone.” He felt his eyes water up in his anger and embarrassment and saw, for a split moment, the corner of Trent’s mouth lifting along with his eyebrow. The instant passed and a look of pure innocence took over.
“Benjamin,” came a soft, deep voice from the front of the room.
He took his eyes off Trent and turned to face his teacher, Mr. Edwards. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Is there a reason why you’ve decided to so effectively disrupt my class?” The old man frowned and furrowed his bushy eyebrows so deep they touched. He waited for an answer.
Benji slowly regained control over his breathing and forced himself to calm down. He stayed quiet. He’d learned years ago that telling on Trent only made things worse.
“Mr. Ironside, explain what you did to upset your classmate so much.”
The star pitcher turned into a young boy shocked at being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. “I really don’t know what got him so angry, sir. All I did was ask him for a spare pencil—the tip of mine broke off. See?” Trent held up a pencil whose tip was conveniently missing.
Mr. Edwards sighed and ran his fingers through his stringy silver hair.
The aging teacher pointed to an empty desk in the front row. “I’d like you to sit here for the remainder of the period.”
Trent scowled and opened his mouth to argue.
“It wasn’t a request,” said Mr. Edwards said in a soft voice while looking over the top of his bifocals. The room was silent for a long moment.
Finally, the Woodward High baseball god gathered his materials and strutted his way up the aisle to the empty desk in the front row. He fell into the seat with a huff.
“Now, I’d like everyone to turn to page one hundred and fifty-four…”
Mr. Edwards read the assignment from his notebook and Trent turned around in his seat. He stared at Benji without blinking and slowly drew a finger across his throat. No smirk, no lifted eyebrow.
His glare lingered another moment and then he turned to face the front just as Mr. Edwards finished reading out the assignment.
Oh, no.
2.
A wiry one
The eleventh and twelfth graders spent the remaining ten minutes reading about the conquests of Alexander the Great. The lone ninth grader in the room looked at the pages but couldn’t focus his eyes through the tears. He wiped them away and kept his gaze down and pretended to read.
People like Trent think they’re so awesome with their fancy cars and varsity jackets. How can jerks be so popular? They’re mud—nothing more than mud. What they say doesn’t count. It doesn’t even matter.
But, even after telling himself that a thousand times, it didn’t keep Benji from walking with his head down or feeling like dirt. It never did.
Nine years on the swim team was both a blessing and a curse for Benji: he was good at it—really good at it—but shaving his legs on a regular basis wasn’t seen as the manliest of things.
He casually ran a hand down his jaw to his chin. Come on, just one hair. I bet if I grew a beard he would leave me alone. Benji sighed. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I do look like a girl. I just wish I had more muscles and facial hair and looked like the other guys…Man, I hate high school.
The bell rang and the class shuffled out the door, well aware that Mr. Edwards would make them practice leaving the room in absolute silence if they couldn’t do it on their own.
Once all the other kids had gone, the teacher turned to his favorite student. His stern demeanor melted away and Benji could see concern in his eyes. Mr. Edwards took off his glasses and rubbed his face.
“Oh, Benji. What am I going to do with you?”
“Mr. Edwards, he called me a chick. He said I’m skinny like a girl and that my face is as smooth as one’s too. He told me I shouldn’t be in a history class with a bunch of junior and senior guys. Trent thinks I should be in home ec with the girls, not in here.
“You know what, maybe he’s right,” Benji mumbled, staring at the floor. “It’s not just him. It’s the other guys, too. They all say those things to me.” He looked up and spoke softly. “Why won’t they just leave me alone?”
His favorite teacher sighed.
“Come over here.”
Benji stood, wiping his eyes, and walked to Mr. Edwards’ desk. Mr. Edwards reached up and brushed his rough fingers across the boy’s chin. “No whiskers yet, but just give it a little while. Don’t you worry so much about that. And I, for one, wouldn’t say you’re skinny. Wiry is more like it. You’ve got less fat and more hard muscle tha
n any of those jocks, just like your dad did when he was your age. I’d rather be wiry than buff with muscles any day.”
Benji couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, despite the feelings he had about his father.
Mr. Edwards put his hand on Benji’s shoulder and squeezed. “Wiry guys are the ones to watch out for. They’re the tough ones, facial hair or not. All the best rugby players and rock climbers are wiry. Best fighters, too. In fact, your father, he—well, don't you worry about that.”
Benji gave him a weak smile.
“And as for that little comment about you shaving your legs…well, you do.” He grinned. “And that helps you glide through the water like a marlin after its dinner. All of the best swimmers race with smooth legs and you are one of the best at the school. You’re a strong young man, Benji. Don’t you ever let anyone tell you anything else.
“And about my class not being the right place for you—forget that nonsense. You're passionate about history and learning about other cultures, just like your father was when I taught him. Stick with it and you won't regret it.”
He sat down and pulled a book from a desk drawer. “On a different note, I have something for you, Mr. Daydreamer.”
He handed Benji a thick paperback. Benji took it gently, looking at the cover. The Heart of the World, by Ian Baker.