Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #18 September 2015 | Page 19

Bana’s more peaceful people of the conquered Hispaniola. She had often heard of tribes armed with
spears and arrows, ready to attack anyone that was
an outsider, keeping untrustworthy foes away. Bana
sometimes wished her people had been as untrustworthy of the Spaniards when they came to her island,
more violent and apprehensive in their initial meetings
with them, but wishes were meaningless. The Taino
were a peaceful people, their natural blessing exploited as if it were a curse.
Bana would not be peaceful to anyone approaching her as an enemy. She checked her sword
at her right side. The cutlass was there, dependable,
sheathed, and ready for usage. She had already
cleaned it, eliminating the blood stains of the previous sea battle. On her left leg, the appropriate musket
rested beside a sack of black powder.

Wandering the shoreline, Bana inhaled and
took in the sea air. She looked the night sky, those
weird stars and unknown constellations still foreign
to her. How could the maps of the night change so
abruptly? Bana felt as if she weren’t even in the same
comprehensible realm anymore, as if her ship had
been mysteriously steered into a weird, separate space
which held no connection to the mundane world. Bana
doubted she was on a familiar earth.
Science had long established the world was
round. Sailors navigated the seas with well chartered
maps, possessing some sense of direction. The seas
always lead somewhere, and there were always routes
that could lead one home.

Satisfied with her weaponry, Bana placed her
tri-fold hat upon her head. She pulled her Captain’s
cloak back on, the one she had seen Alejandro die in,
still stained with his blood.

But there was also the science of the stars, of
astronomy with its reliable lights in the sky. Without
them, a sailor was as lost as a blind man.

The ship parked against the shore. Bana found
the anchor. After much tugging and pulling on the
iron, she was able to lift it off the rim of the ship, letting it drop on earth below the water.

Perhaps it was best that Bana couldn’t follow
the stars, couldn’t comprehend them. Her home wasn’t
some romantic Elysium to re-find. There was nothing
on conquered Hispaniola for Bana anymore, except for
pain and suffering. Her people lived in hell, enslaved
and beaten, raped and killed. El Cráneo Negro was the
only home she had left, and maybe this island would
provide a new home.

A long, wooden plank was lifted by Bana and
dragged to the edge of the ship. She found an appropriate location to let the wood meet the ground, then
started to push it, letting it slant downwards. A firm
agreement between plank, ship and earth was established. After lighting a lantern to illuminate her path,
Bana began her descent with her brown boots leading
her.
Once her boots pressed against the sand, Bana
looked cautiously to the left and to the right. The
sounds of the rushing waves and a few distant insects
greeted her ears. She walked forward, taking in the
scenery. The land seemed almost as lonely and secluded as she felt.
Bana contemplated going into the jungle.
Exploring such a vast, dark place this late at night

seemed like a very bad and quite stupid idea, so she
opted against it. She would look around the beach,
take the scenery in, and then climb back aboard the
ship until sunlight.

After walking a mere five hundred yards or so,
Bana looked out to the horizon, overlooking the water.
The moon was beautiful that night, yet macabre at the
same time. Its full sphere was tainted with a slightly
solemn reddish yellow, nearly as bloody as the water
appeared during sunset.
Suddenly, Bana didn’t trust this place. Fantasies of retiring here died in a creeping feeling of
queasiness and discomfort. She looked away from the
sky, turning around to walk back to her ship.
Bana stopped after her first step with a gasp,

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