Location: Coast of Veracruz, Mexico
Dawn arrived with a golden halo that brushed the surface of the sea, turning the waves into a liquid mirror reflecting the sky. The hulls of the Spanish ships scraped against the wet sand with a steady rhythm, like an invisible drum announcing the arrival of men and destiny. The air was thick with the smell of salt, wet wood, and an earthy, wild aroma that filled the soldiers' lungs, blending fascination with unease. The beach stretched long and smooth before them, and beyond it, the dense jungle rose like a wall of shadows, dark and silent, as if guarding secrets the newcomers were not yet ready to face.
Hernán Cortés stepped off the flagship, sinking his boots into the wet sand. Each footprint left a temporary mark, slowly erased by the advancing tide. The line of trees ahead was dense and unyielding, sending a chill down his spine. Pedro de Alvarado followed closely, a smile that tried to convey courage but betrayed a hint of nervousness. Gaspar de Espinosa moved behind them, cautious, hand on the hilt of his sword. Every step seemed measured, every movement a calculated risk.
"I hope there's wine and women here, like in Cuba," Alvarado muttered, attempting to ease the tension with a teasing remark.
Cortés raised an eyebrow, letting a faint smile form.
"If there are problems, Alvarado, we will solve them with the sword. Keep your eyes open."
Espinosa scanned the surroundings, tense.
"Captain… what awaits us there?" he asked, voice low and uncertain.
"First, we must set up a camp," Cortés replied, his gaze still fixed on the jungle. "Then the forest will reveal its secrets."
A sharp cry cut through the air. A monkey, hidden in the treetops, shrieked before vanishing among the branches. Espinosa stumbled over a rope from the ship and muttered a curse as he regained his balance. Cortés remained calm, accustomed to the unexpected.
"Nothing should surprise us more than what we have already endured," he said with a biting edge. "And if anything frightens you more than my voice… it will be my angry gaze."
The soldiers began unloading barrels of water, weapons, tools, and provisions. Every action was precise, as if the world demanded perfection. Horses stamped the wet sand and fallen leaves, restless in the unfamiliar air and light filtering through the trees. Alvarado inspected everything with furrowed brows, concerned about the jungle's density and the men's unease.
"Captain, will these supplies be enough? The men are restless, and the mosquitoes are enormous," Alvarado said.
Cortés breathed deeply, keeping his eyes on the jungle.
"The jungle is not conquered with brute force; it is conquered with attentive eyes and a clear mind."
Espinosa knelt, examining the wet sand, and pointed to some fresh tracks.
"Animals… yes. But humans too. Someone is watching us."
Cortés leaned over the sand, studying each mark carefully. Then he raised his eyes to his men, calm and unwavering.
"Then we move forward. If someone watches us, it means there is someone we must understand… or confront."
The soldiers continued setting up the camp. Cortés moved among them, observing, correcting minor mistakes, anticipating problems before they occurred. Every action, every decision, was deliberate.
Alvarado leaned toward Cortés in a lowered voice:
"Captain… some men whisper that these forests are cursed."
"There is no curse," Cortés replied calmly. "Only terrain they do not understand. He who knows his land always has the advantage. Keep your eyes open and do not fear what you do not yet comprehend."
Espinosa approached a puddle nearby, noticing a broken branch to his left. Moving it revealed fresh footprints.
"Captain, someone was here recently."
Cortés nodded.
"I know. And they have seen us too. Prudence will be our first sword."
Beyond the line of trees, Tlaloc and other indigenous scouts observed from the shadows. Their bodies were camouflaged with mud and leaves, eyes gleaming with attention and cunning. They did not seek confrontation yet. Their mission was to watch, to learn, and to choose the right moment. Among the dense vegetation, a wooden totem stood, humanoid, with empty eyes and outstretched arms, like a silent sentinel. For them, it was a signal: the newcomers had been detected, and the land itself was watching.
As the sun climbed higher, the men worked methodically. Makeshift shelters were built with haste but careful precision, and fires were lit to cook provisions and provide warmth. Cortés moved among the soldiers, instructing the nervous and correcting the inexperienced. Horses stamped impatiently, flicking flies and rustling the leaves, making the men jump at every unexpected sound.
"Alvarado, do you think the natives will attack tonight?" Espinosa asked, his voice low, betraying his unease.
"I do not know," Cortés answered firmly, eyes scanning the treeline. "But if they do, we must be ready. Observe first; strike only when necessary."
Alvarado shook his head slightly, still uneasy but trying to project confidence.
"We are not in Cuba anymore. The land itself feels… alive."
Cortés gave a faint, approving nod.
"Precisely. And this life is not ours to command. We must understand it before we act."
The soldiers settled in, some sharpening weapons, others checking armor and supplies. Cortés walked among them, stopping now and then to speak quietly, instilling both discipline and calm. The jungle whispered around them, wind rustling leaves, distant calls of birds, and the occasional croak of a frog creating a soundscape that was as mesmerizing as it was unnerving.
Alvarado tried to lighten the mood.
"At least if they attack, the mosquitoes will fight for us," he said, forcing a chuckle. A few men laughed nervously, appreciating the attempt to ease tension.
Cortés glanced at him, a hint of approval in his eyes.
"Well thought, Alvarado. Even in the edge of uncertainty, a man must find humor."
Espinosa, meanwhile, crouched near a small tide pool, observing the reflection of the sky and the movement of the sand. He thought of Cuba, of familiar shores, contrasting sharply with this dense, strange land full of eyes and secrets. He felt both fear and fascination, and sleep did not come easily.
From the undergrowth, Tlaloc and his companions shifted silently, never leaving sight of the soldiers. Every gesture was watched, every whispered conversation recorded. They did not plan to strike immediately; first, they would understand. Their patience was part of a strategy, taught by the land and their ancestors. The jungle, thick and protective, concealed them as much as it shielded the land they defended.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that mingled with the darkening foliage. Firelight from the camp flickered across the sand, illuminating faces drawn with caution, weariness, and curiosity. The totem's silhouette grew longer in the evening glow, a sentinel that seemed to mark the boundary between the Spanish intruders and the secrets of the jungle.
Cortés gathered a few of his men, including Espinosa and Alvarado, near the largest fire. He spoke quietly but with authority, his eyes scanning the darkened treeline.
"We do not yet know their customs. We do not know their language. But we do know observation saves lives, and rashness brings death. Watch carefully, men, and remember: prudence first, courage second."
Alvarado muttered, half to himself, half to Espinosa,
"Sometimes I wonder if the jungle itself is testing us… or laughing at our ignorance."
Espinosa smiled faintly despite himself.
"If it is laughing, I hope it waits until morning. Tonight, I do not need any more tests."
As darkness fully descended, the camp settled into a cautious rhythm. Fires flickered, shadows moved, and the sounds of the jungle intensified. Somewhere deeper in the foliage, eyes watched, assessing, planning. The first night in this foreign land would not be quiet. It would be a night of observation, of tension, and of small victories in survival and understanding.
Cortés walked to the edge of the firelight, looking toward the jungle, hand resting on his sword. Every crackle of leaves, every rustle, was a reminder that the land was alive, and that life here would demand more than brute force.
"Remember," he said quietly, though all could hear, "we are not here merely to conquer. We are here to endure, to understand, and to survive. Observe everything, trust no shadow, but fear nothing you can face with courage and wisdom."
The night deepened, and the campfire's glow flickered against the shadows of the jungle. Soldiers whispered among themselves, some sharing quiet jokes to mask their fear, others scanning the darkness with tense anticipation. Cortés remained vigilant, walking slowly among them, observing every movement.
Alvarado, leaning against a horse, muttered,
"The jungle is full of eyes… I can feel them watching us."
Cortés stopped beside him, his gaze sweeping the dark treeline.
"And you are right to feel it. The land itself has its guardians. But it is not yet an enemy. Watch carefully, and you may understand before it acts."
Espinosa knelt beside a puddle, tracing the disturbed sand with his finger.
"These tracks… they are recent. Someone has moved close, perhaps just now."
"Then we are not alone," Cortés said quietly, almost to himself. "And we must act as if we are, without revealing weakness or fear."
The men continued their tasks—some tending to the fires, others checking weapons, and a few trying to get a few hours of rest despite the tension. Every crack of a branch, every rustle in the leaves, made them flinch. Cortés noticed this, and he allowed a thin smile. Fear was natural, but discipline must prevail.
Alvarado tried again to lighten the mood, speaking with exaggerated bravado:
"If they attack, at least the insects will slow them down!"
A few men laughed, breaking the oppressive silence. Cortés nodded approvingly.
"Wisdom and humor, even in darkness, are weapons as sharp as the sword."
Further into the undergrowth, Tlaloc signaled to his companions. Their eyes gleamed as they observed the Spanish camp. Every gesture, every word was a piece of the puzzle they were deciphering. Their patience mirrored the patience of the jungle itself. To strike too soon would be foolish; observation and strategy were their allies.
Espinosa looked at Cortés, whispering,
"Captain… do you think we are truly ready for what lies ahead?"
Cortés considered this, his gaze fixed on the silhouette of the trees against the night sky.
"Ready? Perhaps not. But no man is ever fully ready for what the world has in store. What matters is courage, judgment, and unity. Watch closely, Espinosa, and learn to read the land as much as the enemy."
The fires crackled, sending shadows dancing across the faces of the men. The jungle's sounds were relentless: distant howls, the rhythmic calls of nocturnal birds, and the constant hum of insects. Sleep came to some, but never fully. Espinosa's thoughts wandered to Cuba, to familiar shores, and back to this strange land, full of secrets and eyes that seemed to pierce the night.
Cortés walked to the edge of the camp, watching the line where sand met jungle. His mind was alert, calculating, anticipating possible dangers. Every step, every movement of his men, was a measure in a larger strategy. He understood the importance of first impressions—both for his men and for the inhabitants of this land.
Alvarado leaned close, speaking quietly:
"Captain… sometimes I think the forest itself is alive. It seems to breathe, to watch."
Cortés's eyes narrowed slightly, acknowledging the truth in the words.
"In a sense, it is alive. And like any living thing, it must be respected. One cannot impose will without understanding the rhythms and secrets it holds."
Espinosa shivered slightly, feeling the cool night air mixed with the damp scent of vegetation. He adjusted his cloak, wishing for the comfort of a familiar shore but knowing that this unfamiliarity was now reality.
From the shadows, the indigenous scouts moved with grace, silent as the wind. Their eyes were fixed on every movement of the camp. Not a single gesture escaped their notice. They were observers, strategists, and protectors of the land. Their patience was as formidable as the Spanish weapons they watched.
Cortés returned to the fire, addressing his men quietly but with authority.
"Remember, we are here not merely to explore, but to endure. Every gesture, every decision, matters. Fear is natural, but it must never govern action. Watch, learn, and be ready. Tonight is a night of observation, not confrontation."
The soldiers listened, their nerves eased slightly by the clarity of his commands. Even in fear, they found strength in leadership, in the presence of a captain who seemed always aware, always prepared.
As the night pressed on, the jungle remained alive with unseen movement. Every rustle, every crack of a branch, reminded the men that they were not alone, and that survival required both vigilance and cunning. The first night in this new land had begun, and with it, a silent understanding: the land watched as closely as they did, and the story of their arrival was only just beginning.
The first night deepened, and a heavy silence settled over the camp, broken only by the crackle of fires and the constant hum of the jungle. Cortés remained alert, moving quietly among his men, checking positions and watching the shadows for any movement that might signal danger. Each soldier felt the weight of his gaze, the unspoken expectation of discipline and courage.
Alvarado, still uneasy, whispered to Espinosa,
"I keep thinking… what if the forest itself conspires against us?"
Espinosa gave a faint, wry smile.
"If it does, I hope it waits until morning. Tonight, I have enough to face without supernatural tricks."
Cortés overheard and allowed a faint smirk. Humor, even in fear, was a weapon. He addressed the men again, his voice low but firm.
"Do not let fear guide your actions. Watch carefully. Understand what you see. And remember, the land can teach as much as any man can."
The soldiers nodded, some whispering prayers, others tightening their grips on weapons. They were aware that this land, wild and unknown, demanded respect, alertness, and courage in equal measure. The firelight flickered on their faces, highlighting sweat, dirt, and determination.
From the jungle, movement was minimal but precise. Tlaloc and his companions shifted silently, observing, calculating, waiting for a moment to understand more. Every detail of the Spanish camp was noted: the placement of fires, the sounds, the gestures, and even the humor. The scouts knew patience was the greatest ally, and the forest gave them cover and guidance.
Espinosa, unable to sleep, wandered toward the edge of the camp. The tide lapped at his boots, cold and relentless. He watched the dark horizon where jungle met sky, sensing unseen eyes in the shadows. It was a mixture of fear and fascination, a pull toward understanding a land so unlike any he had known.
Cortés approached him silently.
"You are right to sense observation," he said quietly. "But being seen does not always mean danger. Sometimes, it is an invitation to learn. Watch, listen, and remain still. The land and its people reveal themselves slowly."
Alvarado joined them, leaning against a tree, trying to project confidence but unable to hide the tension in his posture.
"I never imagined arriving in a place so… alive," he said. "Every sound, every shadow… it feels like it breathes."
Cortés nodded.
"And in a sense, it does. Respect is not given freely. It is earned through understanding and action. We will learn its rhythm, or we will falter. Remember, men, the forest is as alive as the men who dare enter it."
The night wore on. Fires burned low, shadows grew longer, and the sounds of the jungle intensified. Crickets, frogs, distant calls of animals, and the occasional splash from the tide created a symphony that was both beautiful and threatening. The men stayed vigilant, each aware that a single misstep could have grave consequences.
In the darkness, Tlaloc signaled to his companions. They moved silently, blending with the shadows, analyzing patterns and habits. They did not strike; they learned. Each whisper, each laugh, each cautious step of the Spaniards was a piece of the puzzle they were assembling. The forest itself seemed to guide them, shaping their strategy, urging patience over rashness.
Cortés returned to the center of the camp, looking at his men, and spoke softly but firmly.
"Tonight is only the beginning. We are observers and learners. Every gesture, every decision matters. Fear is natural, but it must never rule our actions. Remember this: the jungle watches as closely as we do. It is patient, unforgiving, and alive. Learn from it, respect it, and you will endure."
The soldiers absorbed his words, feeling both the weight and the reassurance of leadership. Even amidst uncertainty, they found strength in order, in purpose, and in the presence of a captain who seemed always aware, always prepared.
The night passed slowly, a mixture of tension and cautious rest. Espinosa watched the waves, thinking of distant shores and the strange new world before him. Alvarado whispered jokes occasionally, breaking the oppressive silence. Cortés remained alert, his eyes scanning the dark horizon, ready for whatever challenges the coming days would bring.
The first night in the New World ended not with a clash of swords, but with an understanding: the land was alive, full of eyes, secrets, and patience. The story of their arrival had only begun, and every choice, every gesture, would shape the days to come. The totem stood silently, firelight flickering on its carved arms, as if marking the boundary between the Spanish intruders and the mysteries of the jungle, watching, judging, and awaiting what would come next.