Arrival in America English version

[Irenova]

The author of this story has read and accepted the Rules for Posting Stories. They guarantee that the following story does not contain any of the topics listed in the "Prohibited Content" section.

The following story is fictional and is for entertainment purposes only. All sexual acts depicted in this story are between adults. Any resemblance of the characters in the story to real people is purely coincidental.


Foreword

In the year 1497, more precisely in May of that year, the Venetian-English seafarer Giovanni Caboto set out on behalf of King Henry VII of England to explore a previously unknown sea route to the west. He departed from the port of Bristol aboard a small ship, the "Matthew," with a crew of about 18 men.

On June 24, 1497, Caboto reached land—most likely the coast of Newfoundland or Labrador—and claimed it in the name of the king.
After a brief exploratory stay, during which he discovered rich fishing grounds among other things and signs of human settlement, though no direct contacts occurred, he set out on the return journey and arrived back in Bristol on August 6, 1497.

Thus, the round trip, including the stay, lasted about three months in total, with the crossing alone taking several weeks.
Caboto's voyage is known today as one of the first European journeys to the North American coast—though he himself believed he had reached Asia.

These historical facts form the background of the following story. However, it remains a free, fictional narrative. The events, encounters, and inner experiences of Giovanni Caboto depicted here stem from the author's imagination and serve to bring the historical moment to life. The goal is to capture the atmosphere of that time, but violence, or more specifically sexualized violence against the indigenous population, plays a major role. Everything that happens after the landing, every action, every conversation, and every fate that arises from it, is pure fiction. There are no verified reports of Caboto's experiences after his arrival in the New World, so the following depiction is entirely invented and serves solely for narrative elaboration.

Dive into the blue of the Atlantic, into the rush of the waves, into the pounding heart of a man who dared to set out five centuries ago, and accompany him as he discovers not only new lands but also new sides of himself. For this story is not just a journey over the water, but a journey into the unknown.

Chapter 1: The Adventure Begins

The wind tasted of salt and distant hope as Giovanni Caboto stepped onto the deck of the Matthew that morning in Bristol. His dark cloak fluttered in the rising sea breeze, and the first rays of sunlight glided over the wooden railing, as if the sea itself were welcoming him. For years, he had carried this dream within him, the dream of finding a western passage to Asia, of crossing the ocean and making the name Caboto immortal.

He was no longer a young man; life had carved traces into his face, yet in his eyes still glowed the restless fire of those men who refused to let the world dictate what was possible and what was not. The last weeks in London had exhausted him, yet they had also brought him what he needed most urgently: the blessing and seal of King Henry VII, who had placed his hand on the table with cool calculation and granted him permission to claim new lands in the name of England.

Giovanni had not left the palace halls without knowing that this was his hour. Now, back in Bristol, he stood side by side with his son Sebastian, who was scarcely twenty-two years old and regarded the world with a hunger that Giovanni knew well. The boy was quick, ambitious, and driven by an impatient fire that sometimes reminded him of his father, sometimes of the sea itself, restless, demanding, unpredictable. Together, they had selected the men who would accompany them:

William Harte, the lieutenant, experienced and vigilant, a man who never said more than necessary. Thomas Reed, second mate, quiet but reliable, with eyes that studied every wave as if he could read it. Henry Cooke, the cook, rotund and good-natured, whose hands smelled of salt and soot. Robert Finch, the physician, whose calm voice inspired trust even in the greatest distress. And then the sailors, thirteen in number, simple men from Bristol, rough and weather-beaten, each with a story that had led him to the sea, some from hunger, some from hope, some because they knew nothing else.
Giovanni knew their faces, heard the creaking of the planks under their boots, the calling, the clinking of metal, the creaking of the ropes, and above it all the soft whistling of the wind that already blew against them now, as if to test them. As the sun rose over the harbor and the fog began to lift, Sebastian stepped to the railing, gazed out at the gray water, and murmured something his father could scarcely understand. Giovanni placed a hand on his shoulder, heavy, warm, proud. "It will not be easy," he said quietly, "but if we find the land of which I dream, then England will remember us."
The boy nodded, and a brief gleam passed over his face, a mixture of awe and anticipation. On the quay stood merchants, women, children, a few priests who raised their hands in blessing as the Matthew slowly pushed away from the dock. The sails filled with wind, the wood groaned, and the water began to part under the bow. The calling of the men mingled with the screeching of the gulls, and somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, as if to proclaim the beginning of a new era. Giovanni Caboto stood at the helm, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and felt the familiar mixture of fear and longing flow through his veins. The sea was vast, the goal invisible, yet within him grew a quiet, unyielding knowledge: that somewhere beyond this gray line a new land waited, nameless, untouched, and that the path there was his destiny.

The sea took them into itself like an ancient god, silent and unfathomable, and the Matthew soon became a point of wood and sail between sky and water. The first days were calm, almost deceptive. The wind came from the west, weak but steady, the waves rolled evenly, and the sky lay like a vast cloth over them. Giovanni Caboto often stood alone at the railing, his hands on the wet wood, and gazed into the expanse where the gray of the sea merged with that of the sky. It was not silence that surrounded him, but another breathing of the world, a deep rushing that came from the depths and echoed within him. Sebastian noted every course, every change of wind, drew the lines on the maps as if to tame the unknown. He worked with a concentration that filled Giovanni with pride, and yet he saw in his son's eyes that same impatience that had once driven him, a desire to be faster than time, to outwit the sea, to make it speak.
William Harte paced the deck with the expression of a man who suspected betrayal in every rope, every shadow. His voice was calm when he gave orders, but his eyes remained watchful, and even in sleep he kept his hand not far from his saber. Thomas Reed checked the ropes, the sails, the wood of the mast every day, and sometimes, when the sun sank, he stood still, his brow furrowed, as if listening to something only he could hear. Henry Cooke grumbled in the small galley, knife in hand, fire in his eye, and cursed the soot, while Robert Finch tended to the sailors' minor wounds, the salt burning into the skin and carving the sea out of them as best he could.

The men sang when evening came, hoarse songs of home ports, of women they had left behind, of dreams long buried on the coasts. Yet in their voices lay something else, something Giovanni did not overlook, a growing unease, the premonition that the world behind them was growing smaller and the sea before them ever larger, boundless, alive. On the third night, fog came. Thick, damp, impenetrable, as if the sea itself had decided to swallow them.

The calling of the men echoed dully, the lanterns burned dimly, and the wood creaked under their feet as the Matthew glided into the white silence. Giovanni remained at the helm, his face cold from the dew, his thoughts far away. He knew they had only just begun. Each day would lead them deeper into the unknown, and yet that was exactly why he was here. He felt the fog creep over his skin and thought of what he had left behind, the narrow alleys of Venice, the smell of tar and cinnamon, the king's court, Henry's eyes, cold and calculating, and the quiet voice with which the monarch had said, "Bring me a land, Caboto, and England will thank you." The fog lifted only at dawn. A pale light lay over the deck, the men blinked into the damp air, and a new day began. The sea lay smooth, almost motionless, as if waiting. Giovanni looked out and breathed deeply. The adventure had taken shape, and somewhere beyond the horizon, invisible yet tangible, waited the promise that had led him here.

The sea changed its face, as if it had had enough of their confidence. The wind, which had at first gently stroked the sails, grew harder, sharper, and the waves swelled into gray mountains that crashed against the hull of the Matthew with thundering weight. For days, the storm whipped over them, water seeped through every crack, the ropes sang like living strands, and the wood groaned under the force of the sea. Giovanni Caboto held the helm, his hands cramped, his face full of salt and rain, while Sebastian stood beside him, pale but steadfast. "Hold the course, Father," the son called against the wind, but Giovanni knew full well that no man could hold course any longer. The sea determined the direction, not the will. It was as if the Atlantic had decided to test them, to show them the price of their ambition.
For three days and nights they fought against wind and water, without sleep, without warmth, with effort and fear in their eyes. Some sailors swore they had heard voices in the darkness, ancient calls from the depths, while others only prayed, their hands damp and numb from the dew. When the storm finally subsided, nothing remained but silence. The sky hung leaden over them, and the sea lay black and heavy as oil. They had lost the north, the west, the faith in their calculations. Reed sat over the map, which had become damp and illegible, and murmured quiet numbers, as if he could remap the world.
William Harte inspected the ship, checked the masts, the sails, counted the men, and nodded contentedly when he saw that none were missing. The storm had hit them hard, the waves had crashed over the deck, and the wood had groaned under the force of the water like a living thing, yet the Matthew had held, and with her all who she carried. No man was lost, none swept overboard, none broken. Sebastian stood beside his father, his hands marked by the dew, his face pale with exhaustion, yet in his eyes glowed the same fire as once in Giovanni's, a restless flame that neither wind nor waves could extinguish.
Giovanni stepped to the railing, gazed out into the endless expanse, and felt the wind had changed. They had been driven far south, farther than he had planned, yet the thought did not unsettle him. The stars he knew stood differently, lower, stranger, and he knew they had crossed an invisible boundary, not only on the map but within themselves. Three months had passed since they left Bristol. The supplies had dwindled, the water had become warm and salty, but the men's morale held, carried by the hope that each sunrise brought them closer to their goal.

Sometimes the sailors swore they could smell land, the distant scent of damp earth, of pine resin or smoke, and then their gazes lifted, scoured the horizon until the fog deceived them again. Yet Giovanni did not doubt. He believed in the course, in the signs of the heavens, in the thought that even the storms had been part of the path. Perhaps, he thought, the wind had not punished them but guided them, away from the planned route but closer to what truly awaited them.

As the sun sank red and heavy over the still sea that evening, Giovanni stood at the bow, his hands firmly around the wet wood, and felt a calm that came from the depths. He saw his men, tired, exhausted but unharmed, saw how they laughed as Henry Cooke lit a fire in the galley, how Reed and Harte secured the sails, and Sebastian silently smoothed the map on which lines now ran that no man had drawn before. In that moment, Giovanni Caboto knew they had survived, that they had conquered the sea without defeating it, and that when they returned to England, they would bring something greater than gold or fame: certainty. Behind them lay the old world, before them the unknown, and above them the vast, silent vault of the sky, which gave answers only to those who dared to follow it long enough.


*
Awenita knelt at the riverbank, her hands dipping into the cool water as she felt for smooth stones on the bottom. The sun stood high over the wooded coast, its rays warming her naked skin, which glistened in the humid air. Her long, shining black hair fell like a waterfall over her shoulders, brushing the firm, ample breasts that were considered unusually full in her tribe. Her large, dark brown eyes, watchful and alert, sparkled in the light, while her slightly pointed nose and high cheekbones gave her face a graceful sharpness. Her athletic, slender body moved with fluidity, yet her round, plump buttocks, which swayed lightly with every step, drew the gazes of the men in her tribe—often accompanied by a quiet murmur that she was "too much," not quite fitting their ideal of beauty.

The K’tani, Awenita's tribe, lived in a sheltered coastal valley of Newfoundland, where the weather was mostly mild, the summers warm and the winters bearable. Their village consisted of a handful of mamateeks, conical tents with wooden frames covered in caribou hides and sealskins. The hides, carefully tanned and decorated with red ocher stripes, shimmered in the sunlight. Each dwelling stood on an elevated platform of earth and stones to keep out moisture. Fire pits glowed in the center of the camp, surrounded by dried fish and caribou meat hanging on wooden racks. Vines and mossy stones lined the paths between the tents, while the scent of pines and saltwater filled the air.

The men of the tribe wore loincloths of soft leather, sometimes with caribou hides over their shoulders that rustled softly with movement. For hunting or battle, they donned bone armor—plates of walrus or caribou bone fastened to the torso with sinews. Their weapons, spears and knives of sharp obsidian or carved bone, lay ready beside the tents. The women, by contrast, wore nothing, their bodies naked, their skin often painted with red or black patterns that told stories of sea and forest. Married women, like Awenita's older sister, tied skimpy loincloths of plant fibers around their hips, which barely covered their intimate areas. With every movement, the fabric slipped, revealing fleeting glimpses of their skin, which the men of the tribe observed with satisfied nods.

Awenita, unmarried and just eighteen summers old, was naked like the other young women. Her skin tingled under the warm sun as she sorted the stones in the river, searching for a smooth one for a new knife. The K’tani valued her for her skill, yet her ample breasts and round buttocks made her the subject of conversation. "Too full, too soft," they whispered in the camp, as if her beauty disrupted the tribe's harmony. But Awenita cared little. She loved the freedom of her body, the way the wind caressed her skin as she ran through the tall grass.

A soft murmur rippled through the camp. Awenita lifted her head, her eyes narrowing as she heard her brother Keme's voice. He stood at the edge of the cliff that separated the village from the open sea, his hand shading his eyes against the sun. His loincloth of sealskin fluttered in the wind, while a caribou hide draped over his broad shoulders. "Out there... something big," he called, his voice tense. The other men, spears of bone and obsidian in hand, hurried to him, their bone armor clinking softly.

Awenita dropped the stone and sprang up, her breasts bouncing lightly as she ran barefoot over the mossy ground to the cliff. Her long hair streamed behind her, and she felt the men's gazes, briefly distracted from their tasks. Reaching the cliff, she pressed beside Keme, her naked skin brushing his arm. She followed his gaze out to the horizon, where the sea glittered in deep blue. And then she saw it.
A gigantic thing, larger than any K’tani canoe, swam on the water. It had tall, white wings that shimmered in the wind and moved slowly but purposefully toward the coast. Awenita's heart pounded, her fingers clawed into the rock. Never had she seen anything like it. The K’tani knew no strangers, no other peoples. Their world was the sea, the forest, the caribou. This thing was like a spirit, a monster from the elders' stories.

"What is that?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at her brother. Keme shook his head, his hand gripping the spear tighter. "It doesn't live," he murmured, "but it moves. It carries something... beings." Awenita's eyes widened as she made out small figures on the thing, their movements frantic, alien. Her skin prickled, a shiver ran down her back, and she suddenly felt her nakedness make her vulnerable. The other women of the tribe, some in skimpy loincloths, others naked like her, gathered behind her, their faces a mix of fear and awe.

Awenita took a step back, her feet sinking into the soft ground. Her thoughts raced. Was this a sign from the spirits? An attack? Her full breasts rose with each quick breath, and she noticed how some of the tribe's men eyed her, their gazes not only on the strange thing but also on her body, which glistened in the sunlight. She straightened her shoulders, trying to hide her uncertainty. But the thing on the horizon drew closer, and with it a feeling she could not name—a mixture of fascination and fear that would change her world forever.

Awenita's breath caught as she fixed on the massive thing on the horizon, her bare feet planted firmly in the cool cliff soil. The wind stroked her glistening skin, making her long black hair dance, while her large dark brown eyes refused to let go of the alien object. Her full breasts rose with each nervous breath, and she felt the gazes of the other K’tani men crowding around her, spears of obsidian and bone in their hands. Yet the fascination of the sight outweighed any shame. She had to fetch her father. He would know what to do.

"Keme, stay here," she said, her voice firm but low, as she glanced briefly at her brother. Without waiting for a reply, she turned, her athletic form moving fluidly down the narrow path into the village. Her round hips swayed lightly, and the wind played with her hair as she ran between the mamateeks, their caribou hides gleaming in the sunlight. The fire pits still smoked, the scent of dried fish hung in the air, and some women, naked or in skimpy loincloths that barely concealed their intimate areas with every step, lifted their heads curiously.

Awenita found her father, Taregan, in front of his tent, mending a net of plant fibers. His loincloth of sealskin sat loosely around his hips, and a caribou hide hung over his shoulder, while his hands worked deftly. His eyes, framed by wrinkles, flashed as he heard her hurried steps. "Awenita, what is it?" he asked, his voice deep but calm.

"Father, come quickly," she gasped, her fingers grasping his arm, her skin warm against his. "On the horizon... something big. Bigger than a whale. It swims, but it doesn't live. Keme says it carries beings." Her words tumbled out, and her full breasts bounced lightly as she leaned forward, her eyes full of urgency.

Taregan set the net aside, his movements deliberate. He grabbed his spear, its bone tip shimmering in the light, and followed her without hesitation. When they reached the cliff, the crowd of K’tani men had doubled. Their bone armor clinked softly as they stared at the thing in the sea. Taregan stepped forward, his broad shoulders tensing as he shaded his eyes with his hand. The massive object glided closer, its white wings shimmering like the scales of a giant fish. It was larger than any whale the K’tani had ever hunted, larger than anything Taregan had seen in his forty summers.

"That's no animal," he murmured, his voice heavy with awe. "That's a god of the sea. A spirit rising from the depths." His words echoed over the cliff, and the men nodded, their faces tense. Some gripped their spears tighter, others whispered prayers to the spirits of forest and water. "Why does it come?" Taregan asked, more to himself than the others. "Have we angered the spirits? Have we taken too many fish? Too many caribou?"

Awenita stood close to him, her naked skin prickling in the salty breeze. She felt the men's unrest, their gazes wandering between the sea and her body. Yet her thoughts were with the god on the horizon. "Perhaps it wants to test us," she said quietly, her voice almost swallowed by the wind. "Or it brings something new." Taregan looked at her, his eyes narrowing as if weighing her words, but he remained silent.

The hours passed, the sun slowly crossing the sky. The K’tani stayed on the cliff, their bodies motionless, spears at the ready, as the thing drew nearer. The white wings seemed to shrink, as if the god were folding them in. Questions buzzed through the crowd. "Is it a messenger from the spirits?" asked a young hunter, his bone armor clinking as he leaned forward. "Does it mean to punish us?" murmured another, his loincloth fluttering in the wind. Awenita remained silent, her eyes fixed on the thing, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair. She sensed that this was no god, but something else—something that could change her world.

After three hours, as the sun hung lower and the shadows lengthened, the tension eased slowly. Taregan shook his head, his hand resting on Awenita's shoulder. "We cannot stand here forever," he said. "The spirits do not speak through waiting." He called the men back, their steps heavy as they trudged down the path into the village. Awenita followed, her bare feet probing the cool ground, yet her gaze kept drifting back to the sea. The thing was still there, smaller now, but no less threatening.

[HistBuff]

Hi @Irenova. You forgot to insert the disclaimer before the translated story. I did it for you. Nice story!