"Chief! Bad news! Bad news! The natives' arrows are poisoned! A full six sailors were poisoned, and two are already dead!..."
"What?! How could that be? The natives' arrows are light as feathers. At most they'd scrape a bit of skin—how could that kill someone?..."
The Portuguese sailing ships adjusted their sails, turned toward the deep sea, and avoided the stronghold of the Carib tribes: Martinique Flower Island. And once the sails were fully raised and the fleet began to accelerate, the Carib canoes gradually could no longer keep up. Before long, their shouts fell behind the ships, drifting farther and farther away in the east, until they vanished at the eastern horizon.
Yet Bruno had only just breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the urgent report from the boatswain, Haroldo. Shock and anger surged through him as he remembered the natives' thin arrows flying wildly just now—one had almost grazed his neck... He drew a deep breath, glared at Haroldo's sweating round face, and barked.
"Haroldo! Where are the poisoned sailors? Quick, take me to see them!... Right! Have the scholar in the cabin come over too... Yes! Ask the scholar to help and do everything he can to treat the wounded!..."
A moment later, everyone gathered around the poisoned sailors with grave faces. The sailors all wore stiff expressions, collapsed in a disorderly heap, letting others handle them as they pleased. Their bodies were clearly intact, yet now they did not move at all; they could not even move a single finger, and even their pupils had begun to scatter.
"Lord above! This is an extremely severe paralysis! Very weak breathing and heartbeat... Strange! What toxin did the natives use for it to be this powerful?... Hm? The color of this wound?!..."
The scholar Martin crouched