The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  His voice tells me he is still angry even though we have not seen each other for two weeks. Perhaps I have added to his anger by wearing a plain linen skirt and bodice, and by binding my hair with plain cotton netting, and this in sharp contrast to the fine clothing he wears. Had I known he was coming, I would have dressed more appropriately, even though it would be a hardship in this heat.

  “Well, Señora? Must I wait all day?”

  Without a word, I enter the canvas shelter that our young ship’s boy erected for Maria, Pasculina and I, and which has been our home in Marta since landing. Though our men have not been with us, for they have been busy building our houses, we have not been without protection. All twenty of the Lanzas have stayed with us on Marta. They have stayed to protect their war dogs and corralled horses—horses they will not even allow Admiral Columbus to use for the clearing of land or the hauling of heavy materials. They have also stayed on Marta to avoid work, for they say skilled horsemen should not be forced to labor with their hands. This has been a constant source of strife for Columbus. Twice he has come to Marta and argued with the Lanzas. And this refusal by the Lanzas has emboldened the nobles to complain against Columbus. And many have begun openly defying him by refusing to work as well.

  For my part—though it is selfish and reveals a poor faith in God’s protection—I have been happy to have the Lanzas here. Since learning the fate of the thirty-nine settlers at Navidad, I have been uneasy about the Indians. When we first entered the harbor, many came to the shore to watch, but none have come to Marta. And I attribute that to the presence of the fierce Lanzas and their dogs and horses.

  At La Isabela, it is different, for there is a large Taino settlement nearby, and I have been told Indians come and go all day to barter. But that does not concern me, for in Isabela there are hundreds of men to protect us.

  “Doña Isabel, the boat cannot wait all day!”

  Sebastian’s impatient voice makes me quickly stuff my trunks with hair brushes, shawls, some clothing and bedding. Outside are my cooking pots and spoons, a few bowls and . . . the trough. My trunks are too full to hold the trough, so I quickly grab a woolen blanket and walk outside. Without looking at Sebastian, I spread it on the ground and place my pots and spoons and bowls in the center, then the trough on top. I tie the four corners, and tell Sebastian I am ready. Then he, by some silent signal, sends four peasants into the tent. Minutes later they return carrying my trunks while two others pick up the bundled blanket. Another signal from Sebastian sends them to the riverbank.

  Maria and Pasculina have discreetly removed themselves, and are sitting beneath a tree grinding wheat. I know they will not come to me for fear of Sebastian, so I walk to where they sit, feeling strangely disquieted.

  “I will see you in La Isabela.” My voice breaks.

  The women nod and smile, but say nothing, for my husband stands close by. But just as I am about to join Sebastian, Maria takes my hand, squeezes it, then as a mother hen shooing her chick, waves me away. With a heavy heart, I walk with Sebastian to the river. A longboat will take us around the bend to our home just north of here. There, I will begin a new life with my husband. Already my trunks and bundled blanket are aboard. But with all my heart I wish I could stay at Marta with my friends.

  I walk silently down the wide dusty street. If Isabela had a bell surely it would be ringing None, for the sun is westerly. Sebastian, who walks beside me, wears a cream silk doublet with a collar lined in lace. His beard is trimmed. The light brown curls protruding from his velvet cap appear shiny and clean. Though it might be reasonable to believe he has done this for my sake or for the sake of the occasion—that of entering our new home together for the first time—I cannot believe it is, for surely he would be more congenial. But his face is as sour as one of our Seville oranges.

  Behind us, the six peasants carry my trunks and blanket. “Is our house near? Our bearers tire.”

  Sebastian remains silent. All around us carpenters and masons send up such a cacophony of noise I wonder if Sebastian has heard me. “Are we nearly there, my husband?” I ask again.

  If I had not been watching him intently, I would have missed the slight shake of his head, for that is all the answer I receive. Since Sebastian has given me such little response, and since we have walked a good distance, I slow when we reach the Plaza and the church that anchors it. Surrounding the church are scores of sweaty men wielding hammers and saws. Others set stone. To one side, more men prepare thatch for the roof. I am surprised when I hear one of the bearers say, “Tomorrow, Fray Buil dedicates La Isabela at Mass,” for it seems impossible to me that the church will be ready in time.

  “We must allow our bearers to rest,” I say, seeking shade beneath a tall pine and wiping the dampness from my forehead with one of Mama’s lavender-scented handkerchiefs. She has hidden many such handkerchiefs in my trunks, along with sprigs of dried lavender and pouches of lavender seeds. And though it pleases me, it also makes me homesick.

  The bearers gratefully set down my trunks, then talk in low voices amongst themselves. But Sebastian paces like the chained lynx I once saw at a Seville Fair, and makes me so agitated that after only a few minutes I signal the bearers that we are to continue.

  “Which way?” I ask, and Sebastian points toward the right, to a narrow street. On the corner is a large hut of wood and thatch, surely the hospital, for sick men lay all over the grounds. My stomach lurches when I see that some have sores on their faces and hands. Pox? Oh merciful God! Pox has killed one of three in many Castilian towns.

  “No, it is not plague,” Sebastian says, seeing my fear. But the deadness in his voice makes me shudder, for it is as one saying, “No, it is not Sunday” or “No, it is not raining.”

  We pass the hospital where Dr. Chanca, physician to the fleet, stands in the doorway talking to two men. One I recognize as Dr. Spinoza from the Tortoise. I hear them discussing bodily humors. They look weary. Surely their burden has been great. My ship’s boy tells me nearly one hundred souls have died since landing, including all ten who were ill on the Tortoise, as well as three of the five Tainos who came from Cadiz as translators for Columbus. Even our Admiral is sick.

  Already La Isabela has a good size cemetery.

  “I understand Admiral Columbus himself gave out the land plots for the building of homes,” I say, as we turn down yet another street, this one lined with small huts of wood and thatch.

  “He did. According to rank.”

  “Then the nobles and knights all have their homes together?” When Sebastian nods, my heart drops for this means I will be separated from Maria and Pasculina. “And the peasants and artisans? Where are they?”

  Sebastian’s face tightens. “The wide street by the Plaza divides the settlement in half. It also divides it by rank. Peasants live further east of the road. You will have no trouble finding your way there.”

  The derision in his voice causes my anger to rise. “It is easy to be proud when you can choose your company from among hundreds of nobles. What if you only had two peasants from which to choose it?”

  “Then I would choose solitude,” Sebastian says curtly, as he points to a house larger than the others on the street. “Your new home, Doña Isabel.” The deadness in his voice is chilling.

  The house is perhaps two hundred cubits square while the neighboring houses are nearer a hundred. The thatched roof is tall, and rises upward in the center like a cone, I suppose the better to assist the movement of air. The doorway is uncovered and a small window is visible in the back through which flows a delightful breeze.

  The house is well constructed, more so than most others I have seen. In fact, some are so poorly made I fear it will take little more than a good wind to knock them down. But what can be expected from men on short rations or who have been brought low by sickness? All the more our house is a wonderment. Surely it has cost Sebastian much, far more than he will ever admit, for skilled hands have fashioned it. And few hands in Isabela, especially ski
lled ones, are available.

  I gaze silently at the structure. In light of the other huts, it is a palace. In light of what most Castilian peasants are accustomed to, it is more than adequate. In light of what Sebastian is used to, it is akin to a barn for housing animals. Even I have never lived so poorly. But I am determined to be grateful to God and my husband for the blessing of this good, sturdy abode.

  “It is very fine,” I say, smiling at Sebastian who seems embarrassed by my good humor.

  He gruffly orders the peasants to take my trunks and bundle into the house. I follow, and stand quietly to one side while the peasants deposit their burdens, then leave. I feel Sebastian’s eyes watch me as I examine the interior. The floor is dirt. A large bedroll leans against a side wall. A wooden rectangular table sits near the opposite wall, and on it is a single glass oil lamp, unlit. Against both sides of the table are long wooden benches. I find it odd that Sebastian’s trunks are nowhere to be seen. My two flank the window wall.

  “You have done well,” I say, afraid to praise Sebastian too highly for fear of upsetting him. I know he views his surroundings as intolerable.

  He stands before me stiff and awkward, and I feel pity. I have married a boy but live in a land requiring a man. I glance at the bedroll. It is said a Jewish husband rarely tires of his wife since he cannot “use the bed” whenever he pleases. For during his wife’s monthly flow, when she is niddah—unclean, he may not touch her. And though Sebastian and I have only lain together as man and wife once, I believe he is already tired of me. I will not lie and say it disappoints. Still, we must somehow find a way to make a life together. And I quickly send up a silent prayer to the Holy One to make it so.

  “I think you will be comfortable here,” Sebastian says, turning to the door.

  “You . . . are not staying the night?” My mind returns to his missing trunks.

  “Arias waits.” His face reddens, then becomes hard, as though I have criticized him in some way. “A man must have his diversions. What does a woman know of the pleasures of dice?”

  “It is our first night in our home,” I say softly. “Do you not want me to cook for you before you go?”

  Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “Sometimes, Isabel . . . sometimes when your hair is arranged in a certain way or when you tilt your head just so . . . I see . . . Beatriz. And I cannot bear it. Do you not understand that?”

  And before I am able to answer, he is gone.

  It is the Feast of the Three Kings, and those of us who still have our health have gathered in the church to commemorate the dedication of La Isabela. Surprisingly, a roof covers our heads, due only to the diligence of the men whose tools sounded well into yesterday’s sunset. But all are not happy with our church. Some complain we lack a reliquary chest holding the bones of some martyr. They fear their prayers will be hindered because of it. I have yet to understand this need to have fragments of dead saints encased in gold or silver, or the need to “swear by the relics,” as so many Old Christians do. But being a converso and not born into this tradition I suppose I never will.

  We press together, for the church is not spacious. I am pleased to discern little body odor. It is plain most have washed for the occasion. Their hair shines, their beards are trimmed, their clothing clean. I too have bathed, and wear a fresh green velvet skirt. My bodice, which is also green velvet, contains several inlays of green silk. Around my neck is a thick gold chain, and my braided hair is covered by a silk headdress.

  I have not seen my husband since yesterday when he escorted me to our house, nor can I find him now among the sea of heads, for most face Fray Buil who stands in front by a stone altar saying Mass. Surely Sebastian is here, numbered among the faithful, for though he is a crypto-Jew he would not dare miss this commemoration service. I glance around again, this time looking for Maria or Pasculina. It is useless. A large man wearing a tunic of coarse homespun and a venera—a silver medal of the Virgin around his neck—has just stepped in front of me. I say nothing for we are all crowded together like sheep in a pen. And since I cannot see Fray Buil or his many attendants, my mind wanders.

  It is January, according to the Christian calendar, though I am still accustomed to calling it Tevet. And last month, the month of Kislev, I failed to honor yet another of our holy days. It would have been nice remembering Hanukkah and how the brave Maccabees recaptured the Temple. And though I have no menorah, perhaps I would have lit a candle and recited the three berakhots, or even had fried food, as is the custom.

  What would Mama say if she knew how little I have followed our Jewish laws or traditions, or that I have missed so many feasts? Perhaps she would say it was prudent. Certainly, she would be surprised by my disappointment over it; especially after being so insistent we stop these very observances.

  Fray Buil’s voice rises, capturing my attention once more. He is in the middle of his sermon, and I lean forward, straining to hear.

  “The Patronato Real, the papal degree giving our Sovereigns ecclesiastical control over the Indies comes with the corresponding responsibility of our Sovereigns to convert the Tainos and to uphold church precepts. It is our Queen’s fondest wish that we bring our Indian neighbors to Christ. Therefore, we must remember her command in all our dealings with the natives, and treat them accordingly. And finally, it is the duty of the Crown’s agent in the Indies to respect church edict and see that it is carried out. It would be great folly to ignore the council of the duly appointed shepherd of this church.”

  Everyone is so quiet you can hear the west wind rustling thatch overhead. Fray Buil has just issued a rebuke to those who have dealt unkindly with the Indians, for it is well known how men, coveting both the Tainos’s belongings and their women, have taken unfair advantage. He has also rebuked our Admiral; for it is no secret Columbus and Fray Buil have had numerous disagreements.

  Someone coughs, another clears his throat, then men shuffle their feet, until finally Mass continues with one of the many priests leading the Creed.

  Suddenly, the large man in front of me weaves, then slumps forward, and I fear he will faint. There is little air, and we are tightly packed. I step aside as much as I am able, and gesture for those around me to do likewise. When there is enough room, the man lowers himself onto the lime-mortar floor. His face is deathly white. Heads have turned because of the commotion, among them Sebastian’s. I smile warmly when I see him, for I am determined to be a cheerful wife. Surprise marks Sebastian’s face, then the corners of his mouth curve upward. It is evident he is pleased by my good appearance. And just when Sebastian takes a step toward me, the man on the floor heaves the contents of his stomach. I pull Mama’s lavender scented handkerchief from my bodice, and bending over, wipe his face. Then more commotion follows as men lift the barely conscious man and carry him toward the door. When at last my gaze returns to Sebastian I see the familiar disdain, and after dispensing a slight nod, he turns away.

  The next day on the way to early Mass, I see Sebastian in the Plaza. He stands among a group of soldiers wearing his chain mail and a sword belted to his waist. Next to him are Arias Diaz and Juan Ponce de Leon. When he sees me he lifts his hand as though to gain my attention. I wait in stunned silence as he walks over. What can account for this unexpected congeniality?

  “Admiral Columbus has ordered two platoons into the interior,” he blurts as soon as he is near. “We go to explore, and search for gold. We have also been ordered to find the Taino chief who killed our men at La Navidad.”

  “You volunteered?”

  “Yes,” his breath catches with excitement. “I and Arias and Juan Ponce. But fear not. We go well armed.”

  I look at the men behind him. Some carry crossbows, others swords or pikes. Two carry new muskets that shoot small lead balls. All, like Sebastian, wear protective breastplates, though only Sebastian and five others have fine chain mail.

  “There will be hardship,” Sebastian continues. “Our food will be rationed. A pint of wine and a pound of rotten biscuit a d
ay is about all we can expect.” He seems proud of his impending privation. “Twenty of us will go under the command of Alonso de Hojeda. Another twenty will be lead by Gorvalan.”

  The names mean nothing to me, but by Sebastian’s excited manner I know he feels honored to be among their number. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Who can say? But the job must be done and when it is, I shall return.”

  His face is boyish and handsome, so bright with excitement, and I feel pity that only a quest for danger and gold was able to stir his heart. “I will keep you in my prayers,” I say, as I turn and walk toward the church.

  “Look how they have mildewed!”

  I follow Maria along the furrow of wheat we planted well before The Feast of the Three Kings, and see blight everywhere.

  “And look how they wilt beneath the hot sun.” She runs her fingers up a stem. “Even if this were not so, even if the wheat stood as straight and unblemished as the staff of the Good Shepherd Himself, it would be all stalk and no head. And look there.” She points to another patch where chickpeas are planted. The entire field is wilted.

  “What can we do?”

  “You should see the olive trees!” Maria says, ignoring my question as she tows me through her gardens. “Not one has taken root. And the vines! They do not like the soil. They barely grow, and are sure to produce grapes as small as rat droppings. And the lettuce? Shriveled. All shriveled.”

  I dig my heels into the dirt, bringing myself and Maria to a stop. “Surely we can do something. You must know a way of bringing life back into our crops.”

  She shakes her head. “It is beyond my skill, Isabel.”

  “But Marta is good, fertile land!”

  “Not for our Castilian crops.”

  “Has anything survived?” I feel desperate, for though we find exotic fruits here and there, and eat them, and though our ship’s boy catches fish for us, the wheat we brought from Cadiz is nearly gone, and we have no reserves of food. And if Maria, with all her skill, cannot grow our crops, how will we survive? “Are there no crops left?”