Pearls Read Free

into the midst of the rowdy sailors, and I soon laid claim to one of the maidens. I rushed her into a grove of banana palms unnoticed and pressed further into the undergrowth until we were hidden from sight. I removed my shirt and gave it to her. As she was small of stature, the shirt hung to her knees, covering her modestly.
  I led her further away from the port, following the shore but careful to stay hidden in the trees and vegetation. She shrank away from my touch and refused my help, but she did not offer undue resistance. After a two-hour walk, we arrived at the abandoned hut once occupied by an Indian fisherman now captured and enslaved.
The small, crude hut would serve as a refuge for the maiden, at least for a time. Set a distance away from the beach, trees and brush surrounded the structure. Vines and mosses grew over its walls, providing effective camouflage. I entered the hut alone, checking for snakes or scorpions lying in wait for a victim.
When I emerged and gestured for her to enter, she recoiled in terror, as if certain I intended her harm. The fearful way she looked at me made me ashamed to be a man. Rather than force her in, I decided to coax her with food and drink. I removed my canteen and set it inside the doorway. Nearby trees offered a variety of foods including bananas, guavas, and avocados. I gathered a selection and placed them inside with the water, then strolled away, giving her time to make her choice.
When I returned, she sat inside, eating and drinking the meal I had provided. Upon seeing me, she scrambled into the corner, bearing the look of a frightened animal. I left her crouching in the hut, unsure whether I’d see her again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
    Isabel leaned back and quietly expelled the breath she’d been holding, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time in an hour. The words had swept her into another time and place, full of danger and intrigue and life-or-death struggles the likes of which she had never experienced. The journal was more spectacular than she could have imagined, the entries full of raw emotions and the setting vivid with harsh realities and cruel fates.
    She ran her finger along a line of script. This man, Rodrigo Velasquez, was her ancestor. She’d come to Caracas seeking information about the Venezuelan side of her heritage, who she was, where she’d come from. The answers lay before her, written in the careful handwriting of the man who’d begun it all, the story of how her people came to live in this part of the world. The entries offered her a poignant glimpse into his life ... and his heart.
    She looked at the clock with a woeful eye. Suddenly she wanted to translate all night, but her classes would start early the next morning and she had yet to tackle her homework assignments. Reluctantly, she returned the journal to its case and packed her bag. “Tomorrow, Rodrigo Velasquez, we will meet again.”

 
 
 
Two
    I have to focus. Taking university-level classes in Spanish is hard enough without distractions. Isabel glanced at the clock and willed the last five minutes of class to pass quickly.
    Since translating the first journal entry, she’d been able to think about little else. This was why she’d come to Venezuela, to learn about her heritage and maybe discover herself in the process. Who she was. Where she belonged.
    The moment the professor dismissed them, she started the long trek to the library. Central University accommodated nearly 70,000 students on its expansive campus. As she hiked across the substantial grounds, she felt like a pack animal weighted down by all the books in her backpack. She ignored her aching shoulders and continued on, beckoned by the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in the journal.
    In contrast to the tropical heat outside, the interior of the library felt cool and comfortable. Isabel shuffled into the elevator that would carry her to the floor bearing the reference books she needed. When the doors opened, the