In 1492, on the ship Santa Maria, an event that would forever change the course of history occurred. A hurricane of ungodly magnitude was whipping the Atlantic Ocean into a frenzy, smashing into the ship with the strength of a typhoon. The Santa Maria groaned under Neptune's wrath, her hull shuddering as mammoth waves tried again and again to drag her to a watery grave.
"Hold boys! Hold! Your lives are at risk! All of our lives rest on this moment! Do not falter!" Screamed Christopher Columbus, premier explorer of the king of Spain, on a quest to find a direct sea route to Asia. His voice, normally so regal and dignified, as befitting an envoy of Spain, was jagged with fear and despair. He was the Admiral of the Ocean Sea, yet here, he looked like a drowning rat, his fine wool doublet sodden and heavy as lead.
A crewman slid across the slick, tilted deck, catching himself on a pin-rail just before the sea could claim him. "Sir!" he shrieked, spitting salt. "The navigator! Pedro! He says the charts have shifted!"
Columbus wiped a slurry of stinging spray from his eyes. "The Black? What does he want in the height of a typhoon? To pray?"
"Sir.. I think that's why he wants to speak with you." Nervously replied the crew member. "The Nino brothers are gifted navigators, maybe he has found a way for us to escape the storm?"
"Right you are, good man. I shall see what he wishes to contribute to our current situation. Now how do I get to him without meeting whatever monstrous beasts lie in these waters?" Columbus said.
"Hold tight to the rails, sir?" Answered the crew member.
"Quite right." Columbus turned and grabbed the rails tight, before gingerly making his way to the navigator's chambers, and the famous African-Spaniard, Pedro Alonso Nino.
As he entered, Pedro rose, and offered a traditional Spanish salute. "Captain."
"Ehm, yes." Captain Columbus quietly retracted his hand and wiped his glove, before asking, "Have you found a route out of this storm?"
As Columbus spoke, Pedro unrolled a map weighted with brass instruments that rattled with every violent sway of the ship. Inked lines crawled across the parchment like veins.
"If we turn northeast for forty leagues," Pedro said steadily, though the walls shuddered around them, "we may skirt the storm's eye. These merchant guides from Madeira suggest an island chain here." His finger tapped the parchment. "It may place us near the Indies."
Columbus studied the chart. Lightning flashed through the porthole, illuminating Pedro's face in stark white relief.
"Exce- I mean, well done. You have brought glory to your… kind. I shall see you rewarded accordingly when we return. You and your brothers." Columbus promised.
"Much thanks, my captain." Replied Pedro gratefully, bowing his head.
As the ship swung and Columbus bellowed orders to the scrambling crew, the chamber seemed to exhale the moment he left.
Pedro locked the door.
He drew the curtains tight over the porthole until no outside light remained. From his desk drawer, secured with a small iron key he wore beneath his shirt, he withdrew the compass.
It was no ordinary instrument. Its casing was pale and smooth as old bone. Beneath a disk of sea-glass swirled a thick red liquid that moved slowly, deliberately, as if reluctant to settle. It emitted a faint glow, not bright enough to illuminate the room, but enough to make the shadows pulse.
"Mi tesoro," Pedro whispered.
He touched it with reverence, though when the ship lurched and the compass struck the wood of the drawer, he winced as if struck himself.
Across the following days, the compass never left that drawer for long. Pedro ate little. He avoided the crew. When the red light washed across his face in the darkness, his eyes reflected it back in twin points. The storm eventually thinned to gray skies and uneasy swells, but something in Pedro seemed to tighten rather than ease, until at last, land.
However, they had not landed in the Indies. They had landed on Hispaniola, the island that would one day be called the Pearl of the Caribbean, and would bleed wealth into Europe for centuries.
By the time Columbus set foot upon its soil, bodies already lay scattered among trampled grass. The Taíno people had not greeted steel kindly, nor steel them.
"What is this?" Columbus asked softly, surveying the scene. "Is this the Indies? Hmm?" His softness was more chilling than fury.
"Bring me my navigator."
Pedro approached without escort, though it did not escape him that his brothers were seized and dragged beside him soon after. All three were forced to their knees in the dirt.
"You… You called? My Captain?" Asks Pedro reluctantly. "Should you have called, you know a humble navigator like myself will always answer."
"You misled us," Columbus said. "Or perhaps you overestimated yourself."
"I followed the charts," Pedro answered quietly.
"And yet we are here."
"I… Yes. As you say, my captain." Replied Pedro, bowing his head obediently, although not without a flash of hatred, which Columbus caught.
Columbus circled him like a magistrate considering judgement. "I have been considering a question," Columbus said thoughtfully. "Is one Black man distinct from another? Or are they… functionally equivalent?"
He gestured toward a captive Taíno warrior, bruised but defiant.
"Let us test this."
Pedro's breath hitched when he saw the compass in another man's hand. For the first time, its red glow flickered in open daylight.
"No," Pedro said hoarsely. "Please. My brothers—"
"They will observe."
The warrior was released. He stood, looked around, and saw Columbus pointing at Pedro. Understanding the message, the warrior rushed towards Pedro with club in hand, amid the laughter and jeers of the watching crewmates and screams of the Nino brothers. Pedro stood as well, albeit unsteadily, thin and hollow-eyed. The compass, thrust into his palm, felt warm to touch. As the warrior ululated in the Taino language, Pedro raised his hands as he fell back from terror, and the warrior brought his club down in a mighty swing. The club struck with a crack that echoed across the clearing. Glass shattered. The red liquid spilled across Pedro's arms, seeping into shallow cuts carved by splintered sea-glass. He screams, and the crowd laughs.
Crumpled on the ground, Pedro made for a sorry silhouette amid the mud and his own blood. Then, he rose, like a draugr from the grave. Clasping his hands together, and tilting his head towards the grey, uncaring sky, he whispered beneath his breath.
"Bajo tu amparo, oracion devotissima a nuestra señora. Bajo tu amparo, oracion devotissima a nuestra señora. Bajo tu amparo, oracion devotissima a nuestra señora. Bajo tu amparo, oracion devotissima a nuestra señora." Pedro mutters, getting louder and louder until he is screaming, at the world, at the crew members watching, at the Taino warrior just as bewildered as everyone else. Pedro rushes forward, surprising the warrior, and grabs his head while still screaming his prayers. The warrior beats Pedro with his club, then his fists, but as Pedro keeps pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing, eventually something snaps. The warrior stops fighting. The compass lies broken in the mud, mixed with blood from Pedro and from bodies long buried.
The compass lay shattered in the mud, red and human blood indistinguishable now. The wind shifted inland. The voyage would continue. Reports would be written. Maps would be redrawn.But the mud remembered.