Prologue
Pizarro gazed at the Southern Cross, suspended above the Andes. He mumbled a prayer under his breath, and the sea winds carried it away. “Lead us to our destiny, my Paloma de Venganza,” he declared, giving his stolen galleon a new name.
Two conquistadors worked the capstan, raising the anchor from the dark waters. Pizarro’s hands tightened into fists. “Quietly!” he whispered fiercely.
Pizarro raised his hand in a signal, and in response, sails unfurled with a gentle rustle, revealing red crosses emblazoned on the white canvas. Conquistadors secured lines to wooden booms, and sails snapped taut in the cool winter breeze.
“To the north,” Pizarro commanded his helmsman.
The warship heeled slightly and surged forward. A shiver of excitement ran through Pizarro’s body. He approved with a nod.
Framed by the dark jungle, Xaxahuana glimmered like a heap of precious jewels on the shore. Fires danced on the outskirts, casting an eerie glow over the city while natives prepared their jungle meats and occult medicines. The Spanish-style homes, administrative buildings, and church stood square and solid, bulwarks against chaos, while a golden cross rose above it all, glowing in the starlight.
Pizarro’s gut clenched as he took in the sight. His hands tightened into fists. He had won this battle, but not the war.
He’d never forget this day—the day of his execution. Maybe he’d celebrate it in years to come, perhaps even replacing his birthday with this momentous date, as it marked a glorious rebirth.
“Death,” Pizarro whispered as he gazed at the rolling waves, “where is thy sting?”
The scheme had played out perfectly. Pizarro’s cousin, drugged and disguised to resemble him, was beheaded by priests loyal to the new viceroy. These priests were cunning, having won the king’s favor, and believed they killed the great Gonzalo Pizarro, only to have him outsmart them and slip away.
Pizzaro felt his anger rise. Through strategic placements and royal edicts, the priests stole his hard-earned power bit by bit, like a starfish prying open a clam. They played a long game, these priests. They were predators, as adept with a cross as he was with a sword. They wanted the same things he did: wealth and power, although he obtained it by destroying souls, and they gained it by saving them.
La Paloma de Venganza sailed further offshore, where a strong gust of wind caught her sails. The warship surged forward, picking up speed. Xaxahuana disappeared into the darkness behind them.
A melancholy ache passed through Pizarro’s heart. The Portuguese called this feeling saudade—a yearning nostalgia for a lost home, but Pizarro saw it as a sign of weakness and quickly discarded it, replacing it with a sense of power and pride. Peru had given him everything that Spain had denied him due to his illegitimate birth, and though he would be forever grateful for this wretched part of God’s creation, he had a plan.
I will return as a god, and the world will bow at my feet, he thought as confidence rose in his chest.
Chapter 1: The Vision
Summer, 1987
Henry perched himself on the giant knot that served as the seat for the ancient rope swing deep within the forest. He wrapped his hands around the thick rope, rubbing off a thick layer of green mold until he revealed interlaced white and blue fibers. It was identical to the ropes they used to secure the Vashon Island ferry to the dock. How did it end up here in the middle of the woods?
As he followed the rope upwards, about a hundred feet, he saw it attached to a branch of the oldest maple tree in the area—one of few that survived the clear-cutting a century earlier. The rope was sturdy and looked like it had been there for ages, so Henry figured it could support his weight. The swing’s path would take him down a steep hillside and over smaller trees and underbrush. It looked safe enough.
“Should I do it, Rocky?” Henry asked his shaggy black-and-white mutt with gray whiskers. Rocky woofed and wagged his tail enthusiastically. “Why don’t you try it if you’re so eager?” Henry muttered.
A raven suddenly swooped by, sending raspy croaks through the forest and vibrations through Henry’s chest. I must do this, he thought as courage rose in his chest, and with a deep breath, he leaped off the platform.
Ferns brushed against his legs as he picked up speed. The wind roared in his ears and blew through his long mane of chestnut-colored curls. He briefly considered backing out, but it was too late now. He was going too fast. He could only hold tightly to the rope and hope for the best.
He flew down the hillside faster and faster. Fear and exhilaration churned in his stomach. He felt heavy as the swing reached the bottom of its arc, then light as he soared upwards. Henry braced for impact as he approached the upper branches, yet he passed through them unscathed, emerging into bright sunlight through a break in the forest canopy.
The light and air shifted in the moment of suspension between rising and falling, and Henry felt like he had entered another world. Instead of his grandpa’s farm, a forest of towering trees grew wild in the distance. Beyond them, spanning a narrow stretch of saltwater, endless green forests led to the Olympic range, where snow-capped mountains rose brilliantly even though it was mid-summer.
Enormous cedar longhouses adorned with intricate totem poles loomed over a fleet of colorful canoes. In the foothills, small farms with red barns and windmills dotted the landscape. A magnificent golden pyramid, modeled after the Inca style, stood proudly far away on the peninsula’s northern shore, its red and gold banners fluttering in the breeze. A Spanish galleon floated proudly at a nearby wharf, its brass cannons gleaming in the sun while conquistadors loaded it with supplies.
This can’t be Earth, Henry thought.
Then he saw something much closer—wooden doors hidden within a hillside across the saltwater canal, leading to tunnels that served as pathways to this new world.
Suddenly, gravity pulled him back to Earth, and he swooped back down, catching a glimpse of Rocky jumping and barking. As the swing reached the top of the hill, he let go of the rope and jumped, landing on the soft ground. Rocky came running towards him, tail wagging and tongue hanging out in excitement.
“That was incredible!” Henry exclaimed, heart still racing from the adrenaline rush.
Rocky greeted him with licks as he sat up and considered the empty swing dangling back and forth through the forest. What was that place he saw up there?
Henry’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of the vivid images that had flashed before him. Although most of the old-growth forests on the Olympic Peninsula disappeared a century ago, his vision showed an endless expanse of them. And the longhouses and totem poles were unlike anything he had ever seen or imagined.
A shiver ran down his spine as he thought about the conquistadors. They were clearly up to something dangerous, but they died out centuries ago and never made it to the Pacific Northwest.
He briefly considered riding the swing again, but Rocky had already descended the trail to his grandpa’s farm. As he followed Rocky down the winding trail, Henry thought about telling his friends Kate and Max about the swing. He knew Kate would love it, but while Max would exhaust everyone explaining the physics of how it worked, he’d stay far away from it.
As they neared the country road, they passed an old hippie shack and a red VW microbus plastered with Grateful Dead stickers at the trail’s end. The owner was “picking flowers” in California all summer, but everyone knew he was growing pot. He was one of the many hippies and flower children who made Vashon Island their home, living in dilapidated cottages and communes. There were rich hippies, too, but the only way you could tell them apart is that they drove Volvos instead of Volkswagens, and their kids wore Birkenstocks instead of ratty sneakers.
Arriving at the road, Henry noticed that the flag on his grandpa’s mailbox was down, indicating that there was mail inside. As he opened the mailbox, something whizzed by his head, and he ducked as explosions filled the air around him. Rocky barked ferociously as bits of burning paper drifted around him. Through the smoke, he saw a boy laughing. It was Marcus, who lived on a farm a few miles down the road.
Henry watched as Marcus strolled towards him with a smug grin. He could feel Rocky tense up and growl beside him.
“I got you good, didn’t I?” Marcus taunted.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” Henry muttered.
Marcus had grown taller since last year but still sported an uneven haircut that partially covered his round head and the usual jeans and plaid shirt. His bulbous, wide-set eyes darted about as if looking for an opportunity. A golden cross hung around his neck, glinting in the sunshine.
“It’s been too long, my old pal,” Marcus exclaimed with exaggerated fondness as he reached out to shake hands with Henry. Marcus quickly lit a pack of firecrackers as they met and hurled them at Henry’s feet.
Startled, Henry jumped back as the ground erupted in fiery explosions and loud sounds. The thick smoke from burning papers stung his eyes. Rocky continued to snarl fiercely in the chaos as Henry grabbed him by the collar.
Marcus doubled over in hysterics at his prank.
With a racing heart, Henry opened the mailbox and retrieved the mail. “You’re hilarious, Marcus,” he said with a dry chuckle. “You could start a fire like that.”
He released Rocky’s collar, maybe too soon as the dog was still on edge, but Rocky remained obedient and sat down on the pavement. A low growl emanated from his throat.
Marcus placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, man. Really.”
“How have things been?” Henry had hoped to avoid running into Marcus altogether. Something about him made him uneasy; he seemed always to have an ulterior motive.
Marcus grunted disgustedly. “Being stuck on this bogus island isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I just got my driver’s license, so that’s cool.” He swung his backpack around and unzipped it, revealing red fireworks packages and bundles of bottle rockets held together by thin green paper. “Take a look at these. They’re all illegal.” With a smirk, he threw a package of firecrackers towards Henry. “On the house.”
“Thanks,” said Henry, eyeing the cartoonish image of a black cat and Chinese characters adorning the label. The thin red wrapping paper crinkled as he picked up the package of firecrackers.
“If you ever need some, just let me know,” Marcus offered. “I can give you the friends and family discount.”
“Thanks,” Henry replied.
“You still stuck living with your uncle and his six kids?” Marcus asked with a smirk.
“Just five,” Henry corrected him. The thought of his miserable home life made Henry’s stomach churn.
“It’s six, including you.”
“I’m not related to him,” said Henry.
“Yeah, but the law might see it differently,” Marcus joked.
“I don’t want to think about it,” Henry said, uneasy.
“I wish my dad would leave, too. All he does is make me work.”
Henry stayed silent.
Marcus playfully punched him in the shoulder. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bring you down. Let’s change the subject, alright?”
“Okay,” said Henry as a sick feeling spread through him.
Memories of his mother flashed through Henry’s mind. A scarf covered her bald head, and her brown eyes showed exhaustion from her battle with cancer. But even in her weakest moments, she would muster a smile that gave him hope.
Henry’s father showed up at her bedside one day, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. He promised he knew of a miraculous cure and would find a way to bring it to them. After a few tearful kisses and a red-eyed goodbye, he disappeared and never returned.
Henry’s mom’s family came from Argentina for the funeral, and he translated for them since he spoke Spanish and English. They cried and hugged him, and although he felt better surrounded by the warmth of their love, his heart felt like a cannonball in his chest.
After the funeral, Henry went home with his aunt and uncle in their station wagon that smelled of diapers and cigarettes while his aunt talked about how his mother’s death was part of God’s plan and that Henry should be happy about it. They showed him the bedroom he would now share with two younger cousins while Rocky had to sleep in the garage. As summer break approached, Henry counted the days until he could escape to his grandpa’s farm on Vashon Island, where he always found solace.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Marcus asked Henry. “There’s a party at the VFW hall. We could sneak in and grab some beers.”
Henry shook his head. “Kate and Max are coming over tomorrow, so I can’t.”
“You mean that tomboy and the little Black science geek?” Marcus burst out laughing. “You need to find cooler friends, man.”
A voice interrupted them. “Is everything okay up here? It sounds like a war.” Henry turned to see his grandpa walking up the driveway.
“Hello, Mr. Brooks,” said Marcus in an oily tone. I'm just celebrating Independence Day with a few fireworks.”
Mr. Brooks gave him a skeptical look. “Okay, but try not to do it around here. It frightens the chickens, and we won’t get any eggs if they’re scared.”
“No problem, sir. I love chickens and eggs!” said Marcus.
“We should be going now,” said Henry to his grandfather. “Kate and Max will be waiting for us at the ferry dock.”
Marcus scowled. “Your city friends,” he muttered.
As they watched Marcus walk away, Henry’s grandpa turned to him. “Choose your friends wisely, Henry, because they will affect the kind of person you become,” he said.
“He’s not my friend,” said Henry.
“All the more reason to choose carefully,” replied his grandpa with a knowing look.
Henry’s spirits lifted as he pictured Kate and Max with him on this adventure. He was sure they would be eager to join him in finding the world he had envisioned. The opposite shore where he’d seen the tunnels was quite close, separated by a relatively calm stretch of saltwater. Plus, if it turned out there were no tunnels, they could quickly turn back and return home.
“Let’s go get Kate and Max,” Henry told Rocky. “They’re going to think that swing is awesome.”
