Balin was trying to fall asleep again. In the distance, he heard the bell of some church tolling midnight, followed by the metallic echo of locks shifting. For a moment, he thought it might all be part of a nightmare—one from which he could wake at any instant—but the chain fastened to the wall and clamped around his ankle brought him back to reality. Fear and anxious expectation consumed him until the sound of keys reached his ears—the jailer was approaching. He stopped at Balin's door; a lock clanked open.
The door creaked wide. Two soldiers entered, approaching the prisoner in total silence. They unchained him, only to secure a new set of irons around both ankles, forcing him to shuffle down the corridor, the shackles clattering against the stone floor. They stopped before a chamber where three clergymen of the Holy Office awaited: the commissioner of San Francisco de Campeche, Father Adolfo Noriega y Pliego—an ancient, decrepit man with liver spots on his bald pate and a few ragged tufts of gray hair. His gray, cold eyes glared from beneath a thick brow of the same hue, and his posture recalled that of a vulture. Beside him sat the secretary, José María Hernández Apodaca, a relatively young man with a round face and an arrogant air, though meek in the presence of his superiors. Both sat behind a heavy oak table strewn with documents; a crucifix rose to one side. In the corner stood a third cleric—pale, long-faced, expressionless—beside a stool with blank sheets and writing tools: the scribe, Manolo.
Balin was brought before them. The two senior men regarded him sternly.
"Take a seat, Virgilio Coppieter," the commissioner ordered.
Balin sat on a backless bench; the guard remained behind him.
"In the name of the Holy Office," the commissioner began, "you are hereby informed that your case has been opened on charges of stealing secret objects deemed heretical and property of the Holy Office, as well as conspiring against the Crown of Spain. Do you acknowledge such accusations?"
"No, sir," Balin replied nervously. "I am but a simple writer of adventure tales, with no intent to commit heresy or conspire against anyone."
The commissioner took up a sheet and began to read, his spectacles resting on his hooked nose in the candlelight.
"Father Hernández, I see the list of facts and accusations is brief, yet there is no statement from the accused," he said.
Father Hernández, the young cleric with the round face and haughty demeanor—the sort who savors authority—answered,"Father, by order of Inquisitor Francisco de Garzarón Vidarte, everything was to remain extremely cryptic. No official record of this case should be kept… for obvious reasons."
"Understandable. Still, keep it in the log," the old man replied.
"Manolo, write as instructed," the secretary ordered, and the scribe nodded.
The commissioner continued, placing a book in the middle of the table before Balin.
"Are you the author of this book?" he asked.
Balin looked at the volume and read the title: The Legend of the Uncharted Island. He cleared his throat.
"Not exactly… you see, that book was a collaboration between—"
"Are you or are you not the author of this book?" the inquisitor interrupted.
"Yes, but… how shall I explain… I worked from some notes by—"
"I hope you are not Balin Van Buuren," the secretary interjected.
"Who is Balin Van Buuren?" asked the inquisitor.
"A Dutch writer of pirate adventures," said the secretary. "His works have been quite popular—even read in the royal court, in secret, of course."
Balin swelled with pride, on the verge of admitting that he was that very author whose novels entertained the King of Spain's courtiers.
"A Dutch writer of pirate stories?" the inquisitor sneered. "Then a heretic, glorifying assassins, blasphemers, and other bloodthirsty beasts. Were this old fool that author, I'd condemn him to the stake at once."
Balin swallowed hard. "Most certainly I am not that heretical, detestable Dutchman—nor would I ever wish to be compared to that mediocrity, Van Buuren. I am from southern England."
"'Coppieter' does not sound English to me," the commissioner remarked. The secretary pursed his lips and shrugged.
"Manolo," said the commissioner, "record that the accused is not the mediocre Flemish writer known as Balin Van Buuren."
At that, Balin felt a sharp blow to his pride and vanity but said nothing. The inquisitors whispered among themselves, then turned back to him.
"What became of the navigation charts?" the commissioner asked.
"What navigation charts?" Balin replied, bewildered.
"According to your book, the Hawk possessed charts belonging to the Spanish Crown. Where are they now?"
"I have no idea. I never saw them—I don't even know what they contain."
"But in your book you claimed they were in the hands of the governor of Isla Negra, the corsair in service of England, Gustave Hawk."
Balin stared at them, incredulous; disbelief twisted his features.
"It was fiction," he said in surprise.
"Fiction? Do you know that Hawk did steal those charts, which were being transported to Spain under utmost secrecy?"
Balin drew a deep breath and answered, voice trembling, "Everything I wrote in that novel was fantasy—fiction. None of it is real. I know nothing of those charts or of Hawk's fortunes."
The commissioner regarded him coldly, then gestured for the guard to leave the chamber.
"Well, let us dispense with niceties, Mister Virgilio," the inquisitor said, fixing him with a penetrating stare. "You claim it was all fiction."
"Yes… all of it was the fruit of a feverish, unbridled imagination."
"I see. Then tell me—how did you know those charts were connected to a forbidden relic, a helmet of impious power?"
"A magical helm? Like those of Odin or Siegfried?—surely you jest. I wrote of a sword, not a helm, as it said in—" Balin pressed a knuckle against his lips.
A brief silence followed.
"As it said where?" asked the secretary.
"As I said," Balin improvised quickly, "it was a sword, never a helm. I would never have imagined such a thing—helmets don't suit pirates. Picture one of them wearing a helm under the Caribbean sun! Helms belong to northern epics, not the tropics."
"Let us stay with the helm," said the inquisitor. "Its location was described in those charts you mentioned in your novel."
"Charts? Written letters? Notes? A diary, perhaps?" he muttered, recalling the London pirate's journal.
"Navigation charts. How did you know of them?" pressed the secretary.
Balin fell silent. A shiver ran down his spine; his ears burned. Fragments of his dream resurfaced—the ghost's warning. He had written his novel based on a journal he had never realized carried such a dark legacy—one now condemning him. He inhaled the stale air of the vaulted chamber, thick with the scents of burnt wax, parchment, and the acrid odor of the inquisitors. Then he lifted his chin toward his accusers.
"Once again: it was fiction. Coincidence," Balin said calmly. "I wrote that story in collaboration with—"
"With whom?"
Balin hesitated. If he said "a pirate," they would hang him.
"With my… experience reading the absurd novels of that Balin Van Buuren," he said at last. "Rather like Don Quixote, who lost his wits reading tales of chivalry."
The inquisitor's eyes narrowed.
"You are lying," he said. "It shows on your face. There is something behind what you wrote—and I will find it out. We have effective methods for extracting the truth."
"Torture?" Balin asked, his voice trembling.
"Indeed. We shall apply it until we draw the whole truth from you. And if that fails, I'll send you to the next Auto-de-Fe in Mexico City."
"I beg for mercy," Balin pleaded. "I am only a writer who tried to imitate the style and manner of that celebrated author of adventure tales, Balin Van Buuren."
"You just said he was detestable," the secretary remarked.
"Well… in fact, he is. I only meant it ironically," Balin replied. "But I swear, I merely sought to make a living."
"Then you are losing it for having written what you should not," said the commissioner.
With that, the inquisitors rose, ending the session. Balin was taken from the chamber and escorted back to his cell. Once inside, they chained him again. He sank onto the straw pallet, alone in the gloom. A chill crept through his body. Now it all made sense—he was in real peril. All because he had tried to reclaim his literary glory. He had fallen victim to his own vanity; he felt like Faust, tempted and deceived by Mephistopheles. The only difference was that this demon had been a mere stranger—a pirate who had simply shared a story from which Balin sought to profit. In the end, he had been the demon, and now he was paying the price.
He clasped his hands in prayer.
"Please… may Mrs. Harris have burned that damned journal—and may my dear Sammy be safe, and resigned never to see me again," he murmured.
At that instant, a sardonic chuckle echoed behind him. Balin turned, startled, and thought he saw a stout shadow standing in the corner. It slid toward the window and vanished.
"I am losing my sanity," he whispered.