A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
The death cart's late and I’m in a devil of a hurry. Zigzagging my way through morbid gawkers, I see the bodies piled high like marketplace fish, all gaping mouths and frozen stares. Ay, I hate Sevilla, so-called port city to the New World. I hate its quaint narrow streets; hate its charming three-story apartments; hate its gleaming river. Most of all I hate its hot stench, which today is so foul that horses tremble and people faint. But not me.
There’s no time. My father the Admiral likens tardiness to stealing. Crouching like a sprinter, I'm ready to blow pass the stuck cart and its idiot driver, rapido. “Uno, dos—ugh!”
Spinning around, I'm confronted by an enormous, grinning mustache. Instantly hands sweep over my shoulders and down my sleeves. I freeze--the man’s face is so close I can taste the raw onions on his breath, and I feel callused fingers wrapping themselves around my wrists.