Garita Del Diablo

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;

Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvalu’d jewels,

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men’s skulls, and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhibit, there were crept –

As ‘twere in scorn of eyes – reflecting gems,

That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.

 Richard III, Act 1 Scene 4

On San Clement’s Day, my lagoon front building project encounters an unexpected and formidable obstacle.

In a land teeming with boutique hotels, I find myself constructing yet another tourist trap, despite knowing that it's the last thing the island needs. But driven by the need to support my family, I press on through the relentless onslaught of calamities. Two hurricanes. An earthquake. Construction delays. A pandemic. Inflation. Crime. Corrupt unions. A scarcity of workers. These setbacks continually plague my path. Nevertheless, the island’s raw beauty and historical allure cast an irresistible spell that captivates tourists and vagabonds and draws them in like a siren song. Unlike these transient sojourners, my fate and legacy are inextricably tied to my ancestral homeland—the backdrop for my family's struggles for generations.

My immediate concern lies with my son Pedro, who has recently been accepted into Columbia Law School. Pedro's dedication and ambition have led him to dream of a prestigious legal career in New York, someday having his own office in the tower of an international law firm. I am wracked with guilt, for I cannot bring myself to shatter his dreams with the truth of our financial condition or tell him that his dreams are out of reach.

Facing the ocean, cannons that once defended El Morro stand as a testament to the valor of my forefather, Admiral Pedro Tello de Guzmán. In 1595, he valiantly repelled the English Armada, his frigates ablaze amidst a barrage of fire pots and shells on that unforgettable San Clement’s Day.

The echoes of that fateful battle still resound within these walls, a clarion call that stirs the spirits of all who tread upon this hallowed ground.

Today, after nineteen generations, I wage seemingly mundane battles: navigating the labyrinthine bureaucracy for construction permits, grappling with budgetary constraints, and combating persistent construction delays. In this ceaseless struggle against the forces of nature, commerce, and bureaucratic logjam, I fight to maintain a precarious foothold. 

The remnants of past dynasties and the echoes of glory and independence reverberate within the bones of El Morro and embolden me in my path.

Within the old fortress, jutting defiantly into the ocean stands the garita known to locals as “Garita del Diablo.” This hidden sanctuary, a sentry tower with a thin opening, seems to exist in an otherworldly realm, hovering over the blue expanse of the sea itself. It is whispered about only by those who dare. It holds an inexplicable allure for me. As night guards once shouted through the blustery darkness to ward off slumber, one soldier, Sanchez, grew silent in the din of the crashing waves and howling winds. Fearful of abandoning their posts, his comrades dared not investigate until sunrise.

Only his rifle and uniform remained, as the search for his missing body proved fruitless. The legend arose—a chilling testament—that Sanchez had been spirited away by the very Devil himself.

Despite being only late afternoon, the weight of my worries and the anxieties of the day overpower me. Listening to the calm seas, the smell of seafoam in my nostrils, bathing in the tropical autumn air, I slump down and sit with my back against the cool stone walls of the Garita. Before long, I drift off into the deep peaceful sleep of exhaustion.

I awake naked in a dungeon beneath El Garita del Diablo. A four-foot-long iguana is mounted on my chest—the spines on its back at attention, the claws of his feet clinging to my bare skin. He regards me with disinterest at first until I jolt up, and he scurries away. 

Pictures of Spanish Galleons are drawn on the walls in white chalk and shimmering paint that glimmers with the faintest light, causing ghostly figures on the ship's upper decks to dance in the black of night like they have captured a true pirate’s booty. 

Who drew these haunting images? I imagine these frightful ghouls are the depiction of the marooned spirits of the English navy that El Morro still holds captive to this day.

Not knowing where I am, I grasp around me and feel a mound of cold, wet gold and silver coins underneath me. What is this treasure? Turning to my side and getting on all fours, I follow the drawings to the wall and begin feeling my way along it in the dark. I feel shackles and cuffs on the wall covered in a foul oily film. The musty air is heavy with dampness and decay. The close quarters add to the stagnant atmosphere, creating a feeling of suffocating stillness. 

And then my groping left-hand clasps the right hand of a skeleton, sending a shiver of electricity all the way up to the back of my skull as we shake hands across centuries. Desperately, I search the walls and finally find a torch hanging in a sconce. As I pull it down, hands shaking, brow beaded with sweat, the torch alights as if by magic.

With the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows on the stone walls, I am able to see the full length of the chamber. The unadorned skeleton sits in an Indian position with its hands on its knees and a pile of pesos in its lap. The entire floor is littered with a heap of gold and silver pesos and other metallic treasures and gems, forming little dunes and mounds. It is a stockpile that would rival Aladdin’s cave. 

This must be the long subterranean tunnel under the parapet where my forefather’s soldiers hauled off the nearly two million pounds of pesos from the shipwrecked galleon that the English Armada had come to the Bay of San Juan to retrieve. 

My eyes focus on a shrouded figure hunched in the corner of the chamber.

Holding up the yellow light, I discern that this hooded form is that of a living, breathing person! 

“Who are you?” I feel my heartbeat rise and my eyes draw into sharper focus.

What looks up at me is in the shape of a human face, but has blazing yellow eyes, scaly green skin, and the visage of a haggard lizard.

“I see you have found poor Sanchez,” the creature says with mirth.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“You are in another realm—beyond the Devil’s Doorway”—and he points a scaly hand at the staircase in the opposite corner.

“But how is it no one has found this place, and this treasure, after all these years?” I ask.

“Sanchez fell asleep at his post and found himself right where you now stand,” he says.

“That was 400-years-ago! Are you going to chain me up and leave me to die?” I tremble as I walk backward with my back touching the cold stones, feeling a pit of dread in my gut—screaming ‘Escape!’.

“You have it backwards. Sanchez chained himself down here, un-will-ing to return,” he counters.

“Chained himself?”

“Yes, he chained himself to that wall and gave me the key, as a guarantee that he would not forfeit his inheritance in a moment of weakness.”

“Why would anyone choose to die for some shiny coins?” I ask.

“These coins are not ordinary tender; they possess the power to fulfill any desire. Have you ever known the feeling of a desire that was completely fulfilled? The bliss that never thirsts for more. But go, grab a handful of coins, and run up the stairs back to El Garita Diablo, and you will see,” he says.

I notice a handful of coins already in my hand and realize that for the first time in weeks my monetary woes have faded from my thoughts. All of my wants and worries have been pulled out of me and into these coins, exactly as the creature has said.

I stoop and grab another fistful of coins and then ascend the short staircase in long lumbering leaps, as the corridor twists around the circular shape of the tower. At the top of the stairs is a corridor. The corridor is covered by a mosaic of smooth marble stones, depicting the Battle of San Juan, and the stones glisten and gleam—imbued with an unnatural energy. 

I thrust my hand through the opening in the corridor, and I feel the force of an invisible barrier pull the hair on my forearm erect with the force of an electromagnetic current. My fist proceeds into the corridor, but the coins fall in a pile at my feet where the invisible barrier stops them from going further.

Running back down the stairs, I exclaim, “there is some invisible barrier – I cannot bring the coins through to the tower.”

“This is the curse of El Draque, and as you can see poor Sanchez chose to stay in this dungeon with his forbidden riches and die with his treasure, rather than returning empty-handed,” he says.

“This money would solve all my problems,” I tell the creature, realizing, that I have not stopped to inquire what kind of entity I am even speaking to.

Slinking out into the middle of the chamber, the creature speaks. “I appear to you in reptilian form, but in truth I am an ancient spirit. The Sss-pirit of Plunder! The muse of Conquistadors and rebels that defy fate!” Then appearing to grow larger in size and casting off his hood with the thin clawed fingers of an Iguana, he continues, “I am called Defiance. My offerings are given for a sss-secret price.”

“You ask me to choose without knowing the cost?” I ask.

“Such is the aching bargain of craven lust—a blind trade—a gamble. I am that spirit which brought the great Sir Francis Drake to his demise against the palisades of this impregnable rock, laying him low with the retching of the sea. 

All for the favor of Queen Elizabeth and the promise of a bounty that could be piled to the heavens. What men will do for fame and fortune! 

My bargain is that I give the defiant their innermost desire but cannot reveal the toll for retrieving the boon of such forbidden treasures. 

It may cost you your very life or even your sss-oul. It is mine to grant the judgment, but another levies the wages.”

“How can it be that there is a portal to the spirit realm? An invisible barrier? I have made this discovery, how is it I am denied the artifacts I’ve unlocked?” I ask.

“Are you dense? There are portals all around you, filled with spirits and invisible barriers! What is a book? What is a film? These are portals to worlds brimming with sealed treasures, forever out of the reach of your hands. Who can pull a character of fiction into your world? Who of your kind knows the ritual to incarnate the unborn?”

The creature stands there with his yellowing green scales shimmering under the torchlight, the weather of eons glinting from the shadows in his sallow cheeks. Staring into those yellow eyes, I notice that his physical body begins to dissolve slowly into a translucent mirage.

“I don’t have long now before I must leave you. You can bring this treasure across the threshold and suffer the consequences, or you can return empty-handed. Choose. But, if you decline the wager, you will never be able to access this place again,” he says.

I rack my brain at the conundrum that Defiance presents – inevitable wrack and ruin – no matter what I choose. Since my youth, it was always a Hobson’s Choice that would save me from my predicament. As a framer, I’d run into an architectural puzzle. Two choices would be presented and neither worked. I’d learned that wooden beams can be bent, and the frames of a structure can be reformed to meet new demands. There is always a third option.

“You must make your choi-ssse before I fade away and return to my realm,” Defiance hisses, his long nimble fingers nearly transparent in the dim torchlight.

Slumping down next to Sanchez in a fit of mental exhaustion, an idea occurs to me. It was what Defiance had said that brings the idea to my mind. Portals are all around you… who can pull a character of fiction into your world? Perhaps I cannot retrieve sunken treasure, but maybe I can retrieve a remnant from our world that has been lost to time – a living legend must be worth its weight in gold! Sanchez! You are the key to the lock that opens the invisible barrier!

I see the entire architecture of my new hotel drawn out like a blueprint before my eyes—a destination like no other on the island. Its rooms and chambers would be imbued with the stories of past conquests. Buried treasures stored away in vaults. A restaurant where diners could attend a banquet attended by Sanchez himself!

“I am sorry, old friend” I say as I grab the brittle radius and ulna restrained by the shackles and sharply crack them over my knee, severing the limb and allowing me to free Sanchez. I scoop up the disembodied bones of his broken arm and toss the remainder of Sanchez’s brittle skeleton over my shoulder.

As I run up the stairs without looking back, I feel a slick and scaly hand try to grab my free arm and pull me down into the dungeon, but the slender digits already lack substance or form and pass right through me, just real enough to send an eerie chill through my body.

Reaching the corridor, I plunge through the portal, emancipating Sanchez from the dungeon of legend.