October 28, 1578
“Captain General, sir. We’ve found no people to trade with, but some spectacular ruins. The first mate sent me back with the dinghy so that you can see.”
I joined the sailor on his return trip and made the grueling ascent to the top of the precipice that stood over the shoreline. My sweat condensed inside the helmet of my suit of armor, worn to impress upon any natives we might encounter that I was the chief. At the top, a cooling breeze blew through it as my eyes alighted on the finely chiseled structures that stood before us.
Two platforms, constructed of massive stone blocks, were topped by figures which resembled drawings of dragons I had seen from the Orient. Between them, a causeway invited us forward into the center of a great paved plaza that was flanked on three sides by colossal step-pyramids.
A platform, about forty yards square, rose from the center of the plaza. In its center sat two obsidian orbs, each about the size of a wine barrel, about a yard apart. Between them was a stone seat who’s back reclined at an angle to either facilitate relaxation or to afford an unimpeded view of the sky which overarched the bay to the west. I sat down and looked over the tattered remains of my small fleet.
Sliding down into the chair, I reached out my hands on either side to push upon the orbs’ surfaces to provide the leverage to rise, but something happened to my field of vision. An emerald green caste pervaded everything I saw as I watched the dinghy return to the ship, but… stern first! They were rowing backwards for some reason, with increasing speed, until they clambered back aboard the ship like ants onto their hill. Then, before I had time to even fathom it, the ships sailed backwards out of the bay.
Then it was the sun that sailed overhead from west to east in a motion so rapid that you could only distinguish it as a vast golden figure eight floating above the horizon as the jungle that flanked the site approached and retreated so quickly that it looked like a green curtain fluttering in the wind. I removed my hands from the orbs and everything stopped. The full-throated resonance of a conch horn rose above the chatter of the jungle and a phalanx of bronzed men carrying wooden cudgels embedded with sharp stones approached, making me glad I was wearing my helmet.They fell to their knees with bowed heads.
“Captain General Francis Drake, at your service,” I declared magnanimously.
“Qua tzi coatl?” An imposing figure in the middle said in an attempt to mimic my response. I nodded gravely, in no mood to agitate the group of armed men. They bore me away on a litter and hosted a resplendent feast in my honor or, rather, the honor of whomever they took me to be. I pressed this to my advantage.
Literature in Small Doses 