The Demon Pool

The Demon Pool

Richard B. Dwyer

Great Words Press

AUSTIN, TEXAS

Copyright © 2016 by Richard B.
Dwyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.
Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any
resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies,
events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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Cover Design – Richard Dwyer

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The Demon Pool, Richard B. Dwyer. -- 1st ed.

ASIN B01GN1PVIU

To my wife, Ivonne, who daily puts on the full armor of
God.

“What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in
your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by
you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought
and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal
hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’
Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or
would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine?’”

Friedrich Nietzsche

“The days of our years are
three score years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore
years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we
fly away.”

Psalm 90:10, The Bible, King James
Version 1611

Southwest Florida 1521 AD

Three Spanish soldiers, accompanied by a Dominican
priest, struggled through thick brush, following a thin trail. Captain Juan
Carlos de la Viña led the group as they fought through the tangled vegetation.
A cloud of insects swarmed around the men. Their torn, sour-smelling flesh
provided the little beasts with a feast of fresh blood.

The soldiers cursed the insects, cursed the vines
and shrubs, and cursed the hot, steamy air that sucked the strength from their
weakened bodies. But, mostly they cursed the
adelantado
, the frontier
governor, Ponce de León. He had brought them here. He had enticed them with
promises of wealth and immortality. Gold and eternal youth. Now they baked in
the subtropical heat of La Florida.

Juan Carlos pushed through a wall of thick
foliage and stumbled into a clearing. The other soldiers and the priest
followed, popping into the open space as if propelled by some unseen force. The
brush wall closed behind them.

The clearing resembled an oasis. Near the center,
a large pool of clear water enticed them. At the east end, the water bubbled
and danced, but made no sound. The men stood still. They stared at the water’s
silent ballet. The insect sounds were gone. Unnatural.

“There is evil here,” the priest proclaimed.

“You see evil everywhere,” Juan Carlos replied
“Here in
La Florida
, I am less concerned with evil than I am with dying
of thirst.”

Juan Carlos removed his war helmet. He stood
almost a full head above the Dominican. The priest used his hand to shield his
gaze from the sun as he stared up at the soldier. Two black orbs, set deep in a
hard, gaunt face, stared back.

The priest’s eyes traced an ugly scar that
started above the soldier’s left temple and tracked a jagged line across a
leather cheek, before losing it in a coarse, heavy beard.

“You need to be concerned with the souls of these
men in this evil place,” the priest said. “God will judge you for your pride,
Juan Carlos.”

The soldier stared into the Dominican’s too-small
eyes. Yes, Juan Carlos thought, the priest spoke the truth. He was a proud man,
a man of authority and war.

A faint smile crossed his lips. After all, Ponce
de León himself had appointed him a
caudillo
, Captain. He felt
comfortable, even satisfied, in spite of his ragged appearance and soiled
clothing.

His padded linen vest protected an equally dirty
linen shirt. One-inch by two-inch riveted metal plates, covered by stained and
faded velvet, topped the vest. Together, the ensemble, in spite of its filth,
reflected his position, and contrasted with the simple robes of the priest.
When he spoke again, he spoke quietly, but with unmistakable authority.

“Then we will share in the same judgment,
Priest.”

The other soldiers removed their helmets. Juan
Carlos took a linen handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from
his face.

The priest opened his mouth and Juan Carlos
waited for his standard lecture on how they were holy warriors, destined to
serve God’s appointed rulers here on earth and His divine purposes through His
church — the only sermon the priest seemed capable of preaching.

Before the words tumbled from the priest’s mouth,
his eyes shifted toward movement at the far side of the clearing. Juan Carlos’
gaze followed the priest’s. A woman appeared at the woods’ edge. The other
soldiers dropped their water bags and readied their weapons. Juan Carlos had
trained and armed his men well.

Each soldier had a sword. Juan Carlos carried a
crossbow, as did one other man. The third soldier gripped a six-foot long halberd.
With its ax-like head and sharp, extended point, the halberd proved ideal for
thrusting into the unprotected bellies of
La Florida’s
natives.

Juan Carlos raised his crossbow. His fingers
rested against its trigger.

The woman seemed to stare right at them. For a
moment, no one moved. If the presence of the Europeans bothered her, she gave
no indication. Midnight black hair flowed down across her shoulders and past
her breasts. She could have been seventeen, or twenty-seven.

A few seconds passed and she moved toward the
Spaniards on long legs that, even from a distance, made her appear tall. Almost
as tall as Juan Carlos. As she walked closer, he identified her as one of the
Calos
,
the fierce people of Southwest Florida that the soldiers often encountered and
just as often fought.

She walked to the edge of the pool, close enough
now that he could distinguish her dark, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones.
Close enough to see beauty so great as to be both breathtaking and almost
unnatural. She stopped next to the water and removed her clothing, a single
garment of tightly woven moss and leaves. She stood at the water’s edge, alone
and naked.

The priest again spoke first, his voice barely
above a rasping whisper.

“Only a whore or a witch would take off her
garments in front of these men,” he said.

Juan Carlos glanced at the priest, who appeared
suddenly uncomfortable in his own garments. His right hand clutched the coarse
material just below his round waist. The fingers of his left hand stroked the
crucifix at the end of the rosary he carried. His voice grew louder as he
commanded the soldiers.

“She is a witch. In the name of God, you must
kill her.”

Juan Carlos’ eyes returned to the woman. He had
not seen such beauty since coming to the New World. Beauty so arousing, it
apparently discomfited even the priest. Juan Carlos had not been with a woman
in months. None of his men had. They struggled daily just to find food and
water. There had been no gold. No treasure. No immortality. But now, after
months of deprivation, he saw a treasure worth taking. It would be the one lust
he could satisfy in this miserable land.

He looked toward his soldiers. They glanced
nervously between him and the woman. He lowered his crossbow and nodded at his
men. The other bowman then lowered his.

The priest spoke again, this time shouting, his
voice a mix of excitement and agitation.

“You must kill her,” he demanded. “Kill the
witch. Kill her now.”

No one moved.

Except the priest.

He rushed the young bowman, crashing into him as
he snatched the crossbow from his hands. Before the soldier could recover, the
priest raised the crossbow to his shoulder.

Juan Carlos did not have time to think. He spun
toward the priest and fired from the waist. His iron-tipped bolt pierced the
priest below his Adam’s apple and pushed out the other side.

The impact spun the priest toward the soldier
carrying the halberd. His knees buckled and smashed into the ground. The
priest’s finger involuntarily squeezed the trigger on the underside of the
crossbow, sending its projectile into the soldier’s back, just below his armor.
The point of the bolt slammed into the soldier’s spine. Falling forward, his
legs useless, the soldier screamed. He dropped the halberd and clawed at his
back.

The priest, on his knees, tore at the bolt in his
throat. Blood spurted from his mouth as his jaw moved up and down, his words
reduced to an agonizing gurgle. Blood streamed down his chin like thick, red
syrup. His bloody fingers danced around his throat as he too fell forward into
the lush grass of the clearing.

The surviving bowman, armed now with only his
sword, backed away. His wide eyes telegraphed confusion and fear. Juan Carlos
loaded another bolt and cocked his crossbow. The girl would be his. His alone.

The bowman backed away from Juan Carlos and
reached for his sword. As Juan Carlos swung the crossbow toward him, the
soldier yanked his sword free. He brought his arm up in a high arc and turned
away as if to escape. Watching the soldier turn, Juan Carlos forced himself to
relax as he aimed his crossbow.

The soldier suddenly spun back toward Juan
Carlos. His arm whipped around completing the arc. With a guttural yell, he
heaved the heavy sword underhanded toward his captain. A second later the bolt
shot free. The projectiles crossed in flight. The faster bolt hit first. It
pierced the soldier’s left eye and lodged itself in the back of his skull. He
died instantly.

Juan Carlos twisted away from the sword a moment
too late. The blade’s tip sliced off a chunk of his left earlobe. The edge slid
along his jaw line and cut him almost to the bone. He dropped the crossbow and
slapped his hand against the wound. Blood oozed out from under his palm. He
slid his hand further up his face exploring the damage. More blood ran down the
tips of his fingers from the severed lobe.

With his right hand, he pulled the dirt and
sweat-fouled cloth from his back pocket, and held it to his face to slow the
bleeding. With his left hand, he drew his sword and walked to where the
soldier, wounded by the priest, moaned and flailed on the ground. He put a boot
between the soldier’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground. He thrust the
sword into the back of the soldier’s neck. Quiet returned to the clearing.

***

At the pool’s edge, the young woman watched Juan Carlos
as he dropped his sword and walked weaponless toward the pool. From behind the
woman’s eyes, a malevolent spirit also watched the soldier. The woman, under
the spirit’s control, took a step into the pool. Her body trembled as the
spirit fought to maintain her outward youth and beauty. Every cell strained
against the spirit’s power.

Baalzaric wondered at his good fortune even as he
cursed his power’s limitations. This woman had been his host for one hundred
and fifty years. If the Spaniard entered the pool, the demon parasite would not
have to wait dozens more years, or maybe even hundreds more, lurking alone
beneath the pool’s sparkling waters. He could have his new host today.

Baalzaric’s effort to maintain control of the
woman and her body took all of his power. He felt what the woman felt, and she
felt excruciating, soul-numbing pain as her body struggled to tear itself loose
from his control. Outside she remained young and beautiful. But inside, every cell,
every organ, struggled toward its long overdue demise.

The spirit himself was thousands of years old.
Yet he never aged. At least not in the way these human fleshpots did. He had
been there with Lucifer at the very beginning, and along with him and an
uncountable multitude, had been cast down from the high places by a jealous and
unjust God. A God who claimed to have created them. After their fall, Lucifer
had given the former angel a new name — Baalzaric.

For all his great strength, Baalzaric could not
keep his host alive forever. Once he released the woman, she would immediately
age and die. The Europeans had come along at just the right time.

In spite of the pain, he dared not release the
woman yet. He needed more time. Enough time enough for the Spaniard to enter
the pool.

The girl turned and faced Juan Carlos as he walked
toward her. Baalzaric used her to draw the man into the pool. She backed into
the water until it swirled around her nipples.

***

Juan Carlos stood at the pool’s edge. His right hand
remained pressed against the bloody gash along his jaw, holding the dirty
handkerchief in place. He sat down and tossed the cloth aside. He removed his
boots, vest, and linen shirt. He stood again and stripped off his pants. Naked,
face painted with blood, he stepped into the pool.

The girl did not move and stared straight into his
eyes. She had the darkest eyes he had ever seen. Beautiful and compelling, they
drew him to her. The captain lost himself in their bottomless blackness. He
moved closer until his chest brushed hers. His hands reached down below her back.
He lifted her slightly as he drew her to him. He felt her body tremble. Her
legs came up and encircled his waist and her arms snaked around his neck. He
was ready for her.

Without warning, her eyes turned slate gray. The
skin on her face suddenly wrinkled and sagged. Juan Carlos jerked his head
back. The woman aged over a hundred years in seconds.

His heart pounded against his ribs. Before he
could pull away, she thrust herself down on him.

Every muscle in his body locked up at once. His
vision dimmed. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He could still feel her body
pressed against his, but something had cut the connection between mind and
muscle. The girl’s face, inches from his, faded to hideous shadows. Her grey
lips parted and her breath stunk of a tomb filled with rotting corpses. Her
body shriveled and he felt it become bone-thin. Her breasts, now flat and
wrinkled, pressed hard against his chest. He wanted to move, to push her off.
But he could not.

***

Baalzaric smiled to himself. The tension in the
Spaniard’s muscles indicated great physical strength. He probed Juan Carlos’
mind. Darkness, cunning, and ambition lurked there. Satisfied with his prize,
he knew he would not have this one as long as he had had the woman, but the
Spaniard promised pleasure and power. Baalzaric withdrew to a dark corner of
Juan Carlos’ mind and allowed his new host to regain control.

***

Juan Carlos found himself able to move again. He tore
at the girl, pulling her off and then pushed her shriveled corpse away. The
girl’s body slipped under the water. He stumbled back toward the pool’s grassy
edge and collapsed. His legs and feet remained in the spring. After a moment,
he sat up and used handfuls of water to wash away layers of grime and filth
from his body. He splashed his face and scrubbed his skin and beard with his
palms. He stopped as he realized he no longer felt pain from the gashes to his
face and earlobe. He carefully probed the wounds with his fingertips. No blood.

He gazed out at the water and remembered the dead
priest’s words. The priest had called her a witch. Juan Carlos nodded in
agreement. Not only a witch, but a witch who had tried to steal his soul.