Cursed [Book 1] ✔

Chapter 6: The de Soto Sword

I was special.

All my life, I had known it too. It wasn't arrogance, just a matter of acceptance. Perhaps I wasn't the only living thing to gleam revelations based on intuition. I use the term "living" loosely here. Clearly, non-living entities had taken an interest in me, entities with origins in the former woods behind my childhood home. However, intuition wasn't the only method of gaining knowledge. A good ol' fashioned research fest at the local library would do me just fine.

The haunting called out to me. At least, that's what I hoped their larger purpose was: cries for attention at the injustice inflicted upon them by Spanish settlers. It also occurred to me that the hauntings could be the random torments of souls seeking pleasure at the expense of others, namely me. In which case, at what point would the souls feel satisfied? When I was scared shitless? When I was scared into an asylum? When I was dead?

All of these questions and more circled around my head on the trek to the public library. The walk felt good, even with an overcast sky darkening the sidewalk and streets. Minutes later, a large colonial building loomed in view.

As a child, I had loved walking to the library. Each new book was like a discovery into a new world. Not only that, but the head librarian had loved old antiques, making sure to display them proudly all around the library. Vaulted ceilings, the smell of the leather bindings, and the antiques created an enchanting atmosphere. I remembered how my favorite item in the library (the multitude of books notwithstanding) had been a shining silver sword unique quality, originally owned by Hernando De Soto. As a girl, I hadn't cared who owned the sword, because the gold etching along the blade fascinated me. I longed to follow the swirly gold pattern with my fingers, a desire I'd been unable to carry out because the sword rested on the tall arch of the library's entrance, far from reach. The familiar longing tugged inside upon entering the library.

Out of habit, I approached the librarian stationed at the front desk. Seeing my intent, an older woman with bitchy resting face by the name of Judith pointed behind me at a row of computers. I scoffed at my soon-to-be research companions.

Since it was a cloudy Tuesday afternoon, I was the only library patron around. I settled at the computer facing the entrance, unintentionally aligning my sight with the beloved de Soto sword.

For a few minutes, I stared blankly at the keyboard. What did I hope to learn? Where would I start?

On the screen, I typed "hauntings" into the search engine. Over 1 million possibilities appeared in response. I sighed. Narrowing down my search was a must. Demons? Possessions? Both searches produced insubstantial results.

All right. I had to be missing something. There was an explanation for what was happening to me, had to be. I couldn't believe the internal hypocrisy.

Seeing into the future had given me a sour outlook on fate. After both sisters were taken from me, I decided nothing happened for a reason; every incident was simply a confluence of random events that added up to nothing in particular, other than a guaranteed death. Overall, it was a depressing mindset, but one I had adopted nevertheless. My desperate attempt to explain the unexplained seemed egotistical at best, and crazy at the worst.

Again, I sighed and zoned out. Deep in thought, I focused on my one source of plausible inspiration, the de Soto sword.

Of course! Hernando de Soto was one of the first explorers to grace the shores of the Tampa Bay area, and he might've had contact with the local Native American tribes. My next search consisted of "Hernando de Soto" and "Tampa".

Several websites looked promising, but the best one featured pictures of Native Americans. I clicked, and the webpage chronicled de Soto's first encounters with two dominant tribes in the early 1500s: The Uzita and the Morcoso.

The name Morcoso struck a chord because they were Rafe's tribe of lineage, and apparently, they were still around. Maybe the Uzita were too. A separate link for the Uzita's detailed the life and death of this volatile tribe. They were not as peaceful as the neighboring Morcoso's, practicing cannibalism on occasion, and sacrificing to their god, Lamashtu. Some scholars compared them to South American tribes with similar theological practices, with one even surmising that long ago, a band of Incans could have migrated to the Bay Area, evolving into the Uzita's over time.

After their initial meeting with de Soto, the tribe was never again mentioned in Spanish texts. Presumably, he and his men spread European diseases to the Natives, using the survivors as slaves in the army.

The Uzitas practiced sacrifice primarily as a gesture of thanks to Lamashtu, and from what I could gather, they had a pay-it-forward outlook: "with their sacrifice the Gods gave us life. They produce our sustenance, which nourishes life."

Lamashtu.

She was a female goddess similar to the Mesopotamian demon Lilitu. Both looked unappealing. I scrolled through several pictures of Lamashtu, and one depicted the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, a bare-breasted woman with a snake's lower half posed alluringly in the branches of a tree between Adam and Eve in the "Scene of Temptations" statue.

I cringed and clicked onward.

In other photos, her head was a lion's mane, her feet were that of a bird's, and her breasts were suckled by a pig and dog while she rode the back of a donkey.

"Hawt."

I wanted to click off the page, but a sentence caught my eye: the Uzita once resided in what was now Grayson, Florida. I bit my lip and re-focused on the screen in front of me.

Another man had actually made first-contact with the Uzita, a Juan Ortiz. Before de Soto arrived in 1537, the tribe captured Ortiz in 1528. For years, they used him to guard their tent full of human sacrifices, even though the chief planned to eventually use him as one of the sacrifices. That, or roast him over an open grill. The chief's daughter was against it, and she let her father know. When an opportunity arose, the chief's daughter helped Ortiz escape to the nearby Morcoso tribe. When the chief found out about his daughter's betrayal, and worse yet, that she had lain with Ortiz, he planned to use her in an ancient ritual sacrifice as punishment.

There was no reason for me to read on. Although the complete history of the Uzita was compelling, I was only interested about who or what was messing with my life. Side-notes about the chief and his daughter were not my concern.

Plus, I had a dinner date with my mother and I had to get going.

I stood and flagged down the librarian lingering at the front counter.

Mr. Ninzicky met me in a few quick strides. "How can I help you, young lady?"

"This may sound like an odd request, but can I take a closer look at the de Soto sword?"

He took a step back. "You're one of the Ameores, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Yes, I remember you. When you were little, you used to ask me that very same question every time you came in here. And I always said no." He paused. "My answer remains the same." A ghost of a smile lifted the lines of his mouth.

Stalking out the door, I replied, "Can't say I didn't try."

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