Collection 1: "Balboa" by Sabina Murray

He is dragging the mantle of civilization up the pristine slopes, over the mud, over the leaves that cast as much shade as a parasol but with none of the charm.

Balboa had organized the rebellion, supplanted the governor—all of this done with great efficiency and intelligence.

Upstream he sees an outcropping of rock.

But Balboa’s hindsight is always good, and no amount of swearing—which he does freely, spilling Spanish profanity into the virgin mountain air—is going to set things straight.

Insects swoop malevolently around his head.

He breathes harshly, genuflecting, musket steady.

His head is the size of a man’s, and his body has the look of a lion—shoulders and hipbones protruding and muscle pulling and shifting beneath the glossy skin—which is where he gets his name.

Maybe the dog had been attracted by the smell of provisions, the great barrels of salted meat.

Balboa’s strength had been to recognize this discord.

They make no distinction between good and evil.

Balboa, having accomplished his goal, luxuriates in this moment of peaceful ignorance.

He does not know that his days are numbered, that even after he returns to Darién with his knowledge of the South Sea, even after he has ceded the governorship to Pedro Arias Dávila, even after he is promised Dávila’s daughter, he has not bought his safety.