Cibola

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Fray Marcos de Niza muffled a curse as he dragged his shirtsleeve across the still-wet ink. He pushed the offending piece of fabric up to his elbow and surveyed the damage. Only a smear in the upper left corner. Nothing too grave. That ought to teach him to blot with better care.

Sighing, he turned away from the log book and refilled his cup. He held the bottle up to the light and swirled it around, looking mournfully at the very last of his wine. Three fingers, no more. Hopefully, something of a decent vintage would soon arrive at this remote outpost civilization had forgotten. He reflected on his fall from grace, and hoped that word of it had not reached his family back home. He wondered if his father still lived. If so, he hoped his father had not heard tell of what he had done. If only he could tell him the truth. If only he could tell the world the truth. If so, he would not have been sent to this place to do nothing of value. Oh, they promised him he would return to Mexico some day, when he was no longer “needed” here. It was probably true. Whenever Coronado forgave him, he would be permitted to come slinking back, tail between his legs.

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