The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  All is deathly quiet. Gonzalo, who has been sitting at the head of the table, rises to his feet. For a moment, I think he will strike his son, but then I see the fear in his eyes and know he will not. “You have insulted our guest, and disgraced this house. Get out!” His voice shakes. And for the first time I understand how greatly he fears Enrique. I look around at the others and see the same fear. Obviously, it is only for my sake, and to avoid losing honor, that Gonzalo has dared face his son now.

  Maria presses her hands over her mouth as Enrique stands to his feet. Her eyes tear. Does she fear Enrique will disobey his father and that Gonzalo will have to exert his authority by force? Or is she afraid Enrique will strike Gonzalo for daring to speak to him so harshly?

  I am not to find out, for Enrique says in a stiff, cold voice, “I beg your pardon, Doña Isabel,” and in four strides, exits the hut.

  My needle moves swiftly, stitching the last bit of open seam on the linen cloth of my new mattress. It is filled with three basketsful of cotton purchased from Bata. I make the final knot, break the thread with my teeth, and lay the bedding across my wooden table. Any minute now Gonzalo will be here with my new bed. He claims it is a gift for coming to his house, but I think it is to make amends for Enrique’s outburst, and to soothe any feelings of indignation I might have. But I have none.

  Gonzalo says he has also made me a wooden case with four shelves on which to place my dishes, pots and kitchen utensils. And though I have insisted on paying him for his trouble, his refusal was so vehement I dare not pursue it for fear of offending him.

  I am filled with joy and anticipation, both, and when I hear a commotion outside I fly to the door where at long last I see Gonzalo and Enrique walking down the street carrying the bed. Behind them, Juan and Luis bring the wooden case. And all are lead by Maria, who holds what looks like a pillow tucked under her arm.

  “Gull feathers,” she says, handing me the pillow when she gets to the door. “For sleeping and laundry.” We both laugh.

  Then Gonzalo and Enrique enter with the bed.

  “Such a fine bed!” I exclaim when at last they set it in place. It is made of pine, with a head and footboard. On the headboard is carved a large ornate cross. Sturdy hemp, strung through the frame, will hold the cotton mattress. “Surely the finest bed in all Isabela!” I clap my hands in delight.

  Next, Juan and Luis carry in the tall wooden case, and after repositioning one of my trunks, they put it near the window. What a delight to finally have a place for my things! I want to hug Gonzalo out of pure gratitude, but such rash behavior would be inappropriate, and embarrass him. So I hug Maria instead.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Laughter and well wishing abound, then I am left alone to arrange my bedding and fill my shelves.

  I am kneeling beside the wooden case, filling the last shelf, when a sudden noise makes me turn. The sight of Enrique’s large square frame causes me to spring to my feet.

  “What . . . do you want?” Enrique remains silent. “Have you forgotten something?” His molten eyes frighten me. There is something terrible and dark in them. I grab a knife from one of the shelves. “You must leave. It is . . . improper, you being here.”

  His laugh is throaty and coarse as he walks towards me. And before I can stop him, he knocks the knife from my hand, then stands so close I see the thin black hairs that protrude from his nostrils; see the web-like cracks in his lips; see that his bottom front tooth is chipped when he opens his mouth.

  “Every woman needs a husband. Even one such as you.” When I remain silent he steps closer, forcing me against the wooden case. “Do not think any of these preening nobles can make a life for you here. They are weak. And you have seen enough of that weakness in your last husband.”

  I push against his chest trying to escape, but he only laughs and shoves me hard against the case. “I will be your husband, Doña Isabel. You will not find better out of this sorry lot. Besides, you married above your station. Why should I not marry above mine?”

  “You are too full of pride and arrogance, Enrique. Beware, or it will be your undoing!”

  He grabs my arms and pulls them hard behind me. “It is you who are full of pride. You and your race. You call yourselves ‘the chosen’ as if God only cares for you. And no matter how many of you we try to destroy, still you prosper. You have wealth, houses, lands, livestock. You live like kings while the rest of us . . . . Very well. If you cannot be destroyed, then you can be made to share your wealth. And you will share it, Isabel. As your husband, I will own what you own. Your wealth will be mine.”

  Suddenly, I understand Enrique’s hatred of me, and why he has frightened me all these years. “I will never accept you as my husband.”

  Enrique releases me and laughs. “We shall see how you feel when the rebellion is over and there is none to protect you from the rabble that fills Isabela. Perhaps I am distasteful to you now, but I believe you will feel differently then. But know this—next time I come, it will be to claim you as my bride.”

  “Get out before I sound an alarm!” I point to the door with a shaking finger.

  His lips curve in a smile, but I see fear in his eyes, too. “I will leave. But for a season, Doña Isabel, only for a season. When things change—and change they will for even now men plot and plan—I will return.”

  And then he is gone, leaving me to sink to my knees. And in this position of humility and weakness, I implore the Merciful One to take me away from this horrible place.

  “You must stop this!” I say, as I stand by the forge and watch Pasculina’s husband, Señor Lopez, crush a pacer nugget. “You must gather the honorable men of Isabela and put a stop to this. Surely you can not approve of what is going on!”

  Señor Lopez shrugs as he adds water and quicksilver to the unrefined lump. “The Crown pays me to assay gold.” He agitates the mixture, then watches the impurities separate. “I am not the town warden. What can I do?”

  “Isabel is right,” Pasculina says, her hands on her hips, a fierce expression on her face. “Will you stand idly by while everything around us crumbles?”

  “You know how badly things have gone since Admiral Columbus sailed away on the Niña,” I add. “But instead of assisting Francisco Roldan in keeping order, Pedro Margarite and his soldiers plunder the Tainos—their food, their goods. Some even steal young boys for forced labor. And the women? They are shamelessly taken as concubines. Stories of rape and pillage abound. How can men of conscience allow this?”

  Maria stands nearby and I watch her eyes tear. It is mainly at her insistence that I am here. Enrique has joined these worthless men. More than once Maria has told me she fears for his immortal soul. Daily, she lights candles and prays her beads. “Someone must stand against this,” I press.

  “For two months Diego Columbus has tried to stop the lawlessness by laying fines and punishments upon the men. Even Fray Buil has preached restraint in all his Masses. Am I better than they? Or more powerful? The Governing Council must handle this.”

  Maria’s lip quivers. “Señora Villarreal has already gone to the Council and registered a complaint. They are too frightened to act. You must go to Francisco Roldan and plead with him. It is his job as town warden to right these wrongs.”

  Señor Lopez pours his mixture into a porous leather bag. “What good will that do? Roldan has turned a blind eye, and worse—he is in league with these scoundrels.” Slowly, quicksilver drips from the bag into a pan. When all of it has dripped out, the bag will contain only gold dust, which Señor Lopez will put into a crucible and heat to assay its purity. “If rumor can be trusted, Roldan himself keeps two concubines and eats many a meal from stolen Taino pots.”

  “Then go to the Lanzas at Marta,” I say, “and appeal to their honor.”

  “Appeal to their honor? Embittered men have no honor. Promises were made, promises of riches and glory. Like most here in Isabela the Lanzas see these things slipping through their fingers. Many talk o
f returning to Castile. And if they cannot have gold, they will enrich themselves in other ways, believing it their due.”

  “Gold! Gold! I am sick of hearing that word. It sweeps our town like a plague. Everyone is mad with it.” Pasculina narrows her eyes at her husband as though it was all his fault. “No one is interested in building canals for water. I spend half my days carrying heavy buckets from the river. And where are the roads we were promised? And look how long it took to build the mill! And now that we have it, where is the wheat to grind in it?” She points to the large smelting furnace behind her husband where he refines the gold. A man in coarse homespun and covered in sweat works the bellows, keeping the fire hot. “This will be the downfall of our settlement. You mark my words.”

  Our pleas are silenced when the church bell rings, and shouts are raised. The forge is outside the storehouse, toward its northern end, and from our position we see nothing amiss. When the shouts grow louder, I dash for the church. Maria and Pasculina follow. And then I see them—three ships on the horizon coming from the west.

  A crowd has gathered on the rocky promontory, and I thread my way through it to a suitable vantage point. Columbus’s ships would surely come from the north, from the direction of fabled Cipango and Quinsay. My heart pounds like the hoofs of a Lanzas horse.

  The ships must be from Cadiz.

  Someone shouts, “Do they fly the standard?” And I know he thinks my thoughts, for the standard he speaks of is the standard flown only on Admiral Columbus’s ships.

  “I see none but the flag of Castile and Leon,” someone else says, and a murmur ripples through the crowd.

  Closer and closer the ships sail until finally someone cries, “No standard flies from their masts. They hail from Cadiz!”

  A shout goes up, and men slap each other’s backs and praise the Almighty. Joy overwhelms me, and I hug both Maria and Pasculina at once. We stay there, watching the ships throw their anchors. And all the while my heart pounds this secret prayer: Please God, let there be a letter from Mama.

  Two longboats pull onto the sandbank, and dozens of men climb out. A third boat heads back in the choppy water towards its ship, having discharged passengers only moments before. Two of these passengers are well dressed, wearing velvet jerkins and cloaks. Gold chains hang from their necks. Already, a rumor circulates that they are men of importance. I watch them head to where Diego Columbus and Fray Buil stand waiting. One of them is tall and broad, with grey hair and wearing a red cap. I am struck by how greatly he resembles our Admiral. Next to him walks a young man, bareheaded, and with a neatly trimmed beard. His wavy onyx-colored hair falls below his ears and glistens in the sunlight as though freshly washed. Diego Columbus embraces the man in the cap. And when he says, “Greetings, Don Bartolome,” I know it is his brother.

  I remain behind, while most of the throng follow Fray Buil to the church to give thanks. And for a long time I watch as men and supplies are rowed to shore. Only after Maria and Pasculina leave do I summon enough courage to approach a nearby sailor. “Have you brought any letters from Castile?”

  He looks startled, perhaps because I am a woman in a place where only men are said to dwell. “Now what would I know of any letters, my pretty? Am I the captain?” He leers at me as though I am a tavern maid, but I cannot fault him. My skirt and bodice are coarse homespun, and my hair is held in cotton netting—the garb of a peasant.

  “It is the captain, then, who carries the letters?”

  He nods, and points to three men standing together on the sandbank. Two of the men wear fashionable clothes of velvet. The third wears a leather jerkin.

  Carefully, I work my way down to the shore where I come first upon the captain wearing leather. He has separated himself from the others, and stands by one of the longboats issuing orders to a seaman. When he is finished, I approach.

  “Pardon, Señor, do you carry letters from Castile?”

  “We all carry a pouch of mail,” he says, gesturing toward the other captains.

  “Then can you tell me if you carry a letter for Señora Villarreal?”

  “Your mistress?”

  “No. I am Señora Villarreal.”

  His bushy eyebrows rise like wings. “Pardon, Señora, I meant no disrespect.”

  “I am not offended, Captain, only anxious to learn if you have mail for me.”

  “Not in my pouch.” He turns to the others. “Perhaps in theirs.” Then he quickly makes my request known to the captains.

  When both men shake their heads, I thank them and walk away, all the while biting back tears.

  I stand by my table, pouring water from the calabash into a large flat-bottomed wash basin which I use for bathing and sometimes for washing clothes. Since learning I have no letter from home I have done nothing but cry.

  When the basin is full, I place the calabash on the table. My heart is heavy as I bend and wash my face. Why did Mama not write?

  And then the thoughts come, like insects nipping at my brain. Has something happened? I dry my face then remove the netting and loosen my braid. Have Mama and Papa fallen into the hands of the Inquisition? I brush my long auburn hair. Why did Mama not write? I pull my hair back, and loosely tie it with a white cotton ribbon. How much longer can I survive in this horrible place? Puffy eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I cover my head with a shawl.

  I will go to Marta and work my mounds. The feel of earth between my fingers, the kiss of the sun on my cheeks, these will help soothe my troubled mind. And I will not seek Maria’s company. I will go alone, and in solitude ask the Merciful One what to do.

  Why did Mama not write?

  As I fly through the door, I bump into a well-dressed silver-haired man of medium height, a man I have never seen before. “Oh, pardon.”

  “Are you Señora Villarreal?”

  “I am.”

  “The man bows, then pulls something from his tan velvet jerkin.” I have been instructed to deliver this.” He extends his hand, and when I see he holds a letter, my heart jumps. Could it be from Mama?

  “My master will call on you in two hours.”

  “Your master?” I take the letter from him.

  “Yes, for your answer.”

  “What answer do you speak of ?”

  “It is all in the letter.” He bows and turns to go.

  “Wait! Pray tell, who is your master?”

  The man looks surprised as though it is obvious. “Why . . . Señor Villarreal of course. Señor Antonio Villarreal.”

  I am too stunned to speak so I just watch him walk down the street until he turns a corner and disappears. It is then I remember the letter, and rush inside. I sit on the edge of the bed, and with trembling hands break the seal and unfold the pages. Carefully, I spread them across my lap. My heart pounds when I see Mama’s familiar handwriting.

  My Darling Isabel,

  What sad news you send us! Papa and I sat shiva with Señor Villarreal and prayed the Kaddish and mourned for seven days. But nothing can bring Sebastian back, may his memory be for blessing, or ease the pain of losing one’s child, a pain I know all too well.

  My heart also grieves for you, dear Isabel. It is a terrible thing to be a young widow; for a woman, especially a young woman, should not be alone in this evil world. For that reason, the loss of a husband, even one who has not been husband long, is not easy to bear. Even so, we are all servants of the Most High and must suffer as He wills.

  Concerning your request to return home; I must forbid it, Isabel. It is far too dangerous here in Seville. The Inquisition rages like a mad dog, its mouth full of our people’s blood. More burn at the stake every day. Fray Alonso is still enraged by your departure, and Sebastian’s. But since he has no charge to lay against you or us, he is powerless to order your arrest or ours. It is only God’s mercy that makes this so, for, as you feared, Catalina whispered against us. But a sudden illness has taken her life, and silenced her tongue forever—may God forgive her for her treachery. Dr. Hernando Diaz said she d
ied of brain fever. I did not rejoice upon hearing it, but I cannot say I am unhappy that we have one less enemy to worry us.

  But it has not gone as well for Señor Villarreal. Isabel, you would not recognize our dear friend! He is thin and pale, and suffers so acutely with gout he seldom stirs from his rooms. Fray Alonso, believing Sebastian to be a potential assassin, tried to implicate Señor Villarreal as a co-conspirator. Our friend has undergone hours of questioning, much to the detriment of his health. But no amount of questioning was able to extract a confession, so Fray Alonso, lacking evidence, could not bring a formal charge against him. Even so, this shows how the high born and well-connected must also fear the Inquisition. But now this news of Sebastian’s death! I worry it will weaken Señor Villarreal further.

  If you wonder why I write so freely it is because I send this letter by Don Antonio’s hand, and know it will be kept safe from the prying eyes of the Inquisition’s spies. For your safety and ours, you must burn it after reading. Don Antonio brings it, along with a contract of marriage between you and him. It has been signed by the necessary parties, as well as witnessed, all in accordance with Jewish law. Also, your dowry has been paid.

  If you are wondering what has caused this turn of events, let me tell you. Recently, Antonio lost his wife, Doña Maria de Murcia, in childbirth, along with his infant son. Since Sebastian died without an heir, it falls to Antonio to provide his brother one. The proper year of mourning has been waived for you as well as Antonio, due to your special circumstances of living in the Indies with so many men. All agree it is not wise for a young woman to be left so unprotected. As you know, under the law of levirate marriage, Antonio was able, in the halizah—the ceremony of un-shoeing—to release you from your obligation to marry him. This he did not do. Antonio has been so despondent since the death of his wife and child, and has clamored so loudly to be released from his court duties and sent home, that Señor Villarreal urged him to enter into this marriage. He believes the marriage and the move to the Indies are necessary for the wellbeing of his son’s mind and heart, both of which are greatly troubled. Señor Villarreal also fears Fray Alonso will try to torment him further by fabricating some charge against Antonio. I believe Señor Villarreal’s assumption is based on grief, the grief of a loving father who has lost a son and fears losing another, rather than on any true facts concerning Fray Alonso’s intentions. But who can say for sure.