The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Why? What did they do?”

  “It is all a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They buried a rosary and medal of the Virgin in one of the plowed fields, and pissed on them.”

  Antonio’s face grows white. “That is sacrilege.”

  “You do not understand, Don Antonio. It is their custom to bury their gods in the fields and piss on them, in order to bless the fields, in order to insure the land will be fertile and yield a good crop. They were only trying to honor us by burying what they believed were our zemis in the ground.”

  Antonio shakes his head. “You expect me to condone such heathen practices?”

  “They meant no disrespect. I swear it! Please, Señor, they will kill them.” Juan clasps his hands together, pleading.

  Antonio glances at me. I know my eyes plead too, but I cannot help it. Too many Tainos have already died by our hands. “Surely, mercy can be shown to these misguided six?” I say softly as I watch Bata weep.

  The bell rings Tierce as Antonio rises from the bench and pulls on hose, breaches, a doublet and finally a pair of leather shoes. When he is finished, he runs his large-knuckled fingers through his hair trying to put it in order but it does little good. With a final glance at me, and instructions to “stay here,” he leaves with Juan at his heels. When Bata rises to follow, I stop her. “We must wait.”

  Women must always wait.

  The bell rings Sext before Antonito returns. When he does, there is a sag to his shoulders, but his mouth is as rigid as bark. Juan enters quietly behind him. “I could not save them,” Antonio says, lowering himself onto the bench.

  Bata, who has been sitting at the table nibbling from the fruit platter, drops her slice of melon, and wails. In an instant, Juan is by the bench pulling her to her feet. “Thank you, Don Antonio,” Juan says, towing Bata to the door. “You have been most kind.” And then they are gone, leaving us with only the fading sound of Bata’s cries.

  Slowly, I draw the curtain, then return to Antonio and sit beside him. He is resting his chin on folded hands, looking greatly fatigued. “What happened?”

  “Bartolome put the Tainos on trial, if you can call it that. Then had them burned at the stake.”

  I quietly run my hands over Antonio’s shoulders. It is as I feared, for while Bata and I were waiting, smoke drifted across Isabela, the kind one smells at an auto de fe.

  “I told them what Juan said. The Council listened, but by their faces I knew they wanted blood. It was no surprise when they found the six Tainos guilty of sacrilege.”

  My hands gently knead the muscles of Antonio’s neck and back. They are sinewy and well-formed but tight, too, carrying in them all the tensions of the morning.

  “When it was over, Bartolome asked me to join the Council.” Antonio turns to me. “And I accepted. It is plain that cooler heads are needed.”

  I press my cheek against his shoulder. “Then God help us both.”

  I stand next to Maria and watch the new chief follow the prescribed ceremony. The Tainos have many chiefs, each ruling a family or group of families, some numbering only a few dozen, others numbering hundreds. The new chief places a gourd of water and loaf of cassava on the freshly dug mound where Bata’s uncle lies buried. The water and bread have been placed near the head. Bata, who stands beside her husband, wails loudly. She is surrounded by relatives all covered in zemis. But surprisingly, she wears no zemis herself.

  Bata has told me this burial is not in keeping with her uncle’s high rank. Normally, a chief is buried only after he has been cut open and slowly dried over a fire. But her uncle’s body was too charred to afford him this customary honor. While I think their practice barbaric, I cannot judge them, for I belong to a people who have proven themselves far more barbaric in their treatment of these gentle Tainos. And for this I feel great shame.

  Behind me stand Luis and his wife, and Gonzalo. Antonio has not come, though he offered, and for that I bless his name. Since returning from the trial of Bata’s uncle and the five Tainos, he has not been well. I have suspected that even before our marriage Antonio’s bodily humors were out of balance. The voyage across the Ocean Sea affects many that way. But this morning he was so fatigued he could barely get out of bed. And as I watch yet another burial of someone who has died in this strange land, I remember the look of weariness on Antonio’s face. If I had rose petals I would have made him a blood tonic. But none was to be found in my spice box. So instead, I made an infusion of five dried bay leaves in hot water. The brew will help clear Antonio’s head and promote better health in his bowels. His bodily humors seem to become more unbalanced every day, and my growing fear is that I will be unable to balance them again.

  I fold the clean red-and-gold silk skirt and bodice, then place it atop the towel that is spread across my wooden tabletop. To that, I add clean undergarments, a fresh bar of scented soap, a hairbrush, red velvet shoes and a golden silk veil. Then I carefully fold the towel, forming a neat bundle which I tuck under my arm.

  I glance at the bed as I pass, remembering the linens must be changed for ritual purity’s sake. In one of my trucks are stored fresh cotton sheets, folded among sprigs of dried lavender. I only hope Antonio loves the scent of lavender as much as I.

  My husband left earlier to meet with Bartolome Columbus and the Governing Council. He still looks pale. But the bay leaf tea I have been giving him for two weeks must be working, for he is not as lethargic, and his bowels do not seem as troublesome. At least that is what he tells me, and I pray it is so. One thing I have learned about Antonio, he dislikes worrying me.

  I am happy my husband is not here, for this morning I go to Marta to the Isabela River where I will immerse in a mikveh and ritually bathe to purify myself for him. I did not tell Antonio that today marks the end of my time of impurity, for I wish to surprise him. It makes me blush to say it, but I have dreamed of nothing else for the past two weeks. Every time his hand touches mine, or his lips brush my cheek I think of us doing the holy deed. And I know it is the same for Antonio, for I have seen the hunger in his eyes.

  I try not to think that such an experienced man is bound to be disappointed by someone as novice as I. Instead, I think only how tonight I will finally show Antonio how much I love him.

  Even before my little boat—made for me by one of Bata’s cousins—rounds the corner and I see Isabela, I smell the smoke. It is not the smell of an auto de fe, but of burning wood and grass. And when my boat approaches the sandbank below the rocky promontory, I see large billowing clouds. It is as if black serge drapes the whole of Isabela.

  My silk skirt rustles as I jump from the boat. “What has happened?” I shout to someone standing overhead.

  “It burns,” he answers, turning towards me and revealing a soot-streaked face. “Best you stay away.”

  “What burns?” I shout.

  “The Poblado.”

  My heart jumps. The Poblado is the section of Isabela that houses the peasants and tradesmen. “What sector?” I yell, for it is divided into central, south and east.

  “Central.”

  Again my heart jumps. Maria’s sector. I grip my bundle of dirty clothes and run up the dune. Smoke fills my nostrils and burns my eyes. It swirls around me in dark angry waves. I slow to a walk and flail one arm hoping to create a path through which I can see. It is useless. The smoke invades everything with its choking smell, its sting, its thick black soot. When I reach the Plaza, it is empty. So is my street. Every available man must be in the Poblado trying to stop the fire from spreading to the church or armory or powder house or the elite section where the nobles live.

  I race past my house, and without slowing, toss my bundle inside the open doorway, then head east. The smoke is even thicker here and I cover my nose and mouth with my hand. As I walk, I try not to stumble against trees or huts, or over scattered fireboxes and stools.

  The closer to the Poblado, the less visibility. My ears guide me now to
the voices ahead. I stop when I feel heat. Through the smoke I see red flames devour a roof before jumping to the one beside it.

  “What can I do?” I shout when a man bumps into me.

  “Throw this on the flames, then hand it back.” He shoves a heavy bucket of water into my hands. I discern, rather than see, that men have formed several lines all the way to the Isabela River and are passing buckets back and forth. I go as close as I dare before throwing my water. Then I pass the empty bucket to hands I barely see. Behind me, men are pulling down the huts that have yet to be touched by the flames, then clearing away the debris in an effort to deprive the fire of new fuel. We work like this for hours, and when the flames are finally subdued, Poblado Central is nothing but a charred field.

  “Are you injured?” I say to Maria when at last I find her. Her clothes are singed, and black soot covers her face.

  “We have lost everything but our lives.”

  I embrace her, and marvel that she does not weep. “You must stay with Antonio and me until you rebuild.”

  “No. It would be unseemly. But do not concern yourself, Isabel. Pasculina has already offered her home.”

  I nod. Pasculina lives in Poblado South which was not touched by the fire. “And your sons? What will they do?”

  “They will each live with their wife’s family. We will be scattered, but only for a short time. Then God willing we will start all over.”

  We kiss goodbye, and with a heavy heart I go in search of Antonio.

  The first thing I do when I reach my house is remove my clothes that reek of smoke. Quickly, I fill the washbasin with water and wash my face, my hair, then my body. I am just slipping into a fresh silk skirt and bodice when I hear Mateo’s voice through the drawn curtain.

  “Doña Isabel? Doña Isabel!”

  I pull back the drape and see Mateo’s strained face. “Don Antonio has collapsed. They have carried him to the hospital.”

  Without waiting for more information, I bolt past Mateo, not caring that I am barefooted. I ignore the small pebbles that grind my soles as I run; ignore my heart that pounds like a shipwright’s hammer; ignore the air that is pungent with smoke, making it difficult to breathe. I think only of Antonio. I never found my husband after leaving Maria. But I never imagined he was in danger.

  Be merciful, Lord.

  I reach the hospital, and burst through the door in time to see Doctor Spinoza about to bleed my husband.

  “Stop!”

  The doctor turns, startled. “Doña Isabel, your husband is very ill. You must not interfere.”

  Mateo, who has been running behind me, finally enters, breathing heavily. “Doña Isabel . . . you must allow the doctor to do his work.” I feel his hand on my arm. “Please come outside with me.”

  I break from Mateo’s grasp and lunge for the doctor. “You will not bleed him,” I say, knocking Spinoza’s hand away from Antonio’s arm. “You will not bleed him.”

  Spinoza looks at me as though I am mad. “Your husband has great influence at court. I must bleed him. If I do not and he dies, our Sovereigns will have my head.”

  My hand locks around the doctor’s wrist, and I squeeze until he drops the knife. “Do not fear for your head,” I say in a low, flat voice. “If anything happens to him, the Sovereigns can have mine.”

  I turn to Mateo whose mouth has dropped. “Please carry Don Antonio back to the house.”

  Mateo shakes his head. “Doña Isabel, think of what you are doing. Your husband must stay here. He is sick with fever.”

  “I will care for him at home.”

  “Impossible! He is vomiting and has . . . lost control of his bowels. He must stay here.”

  I glance at Antonio who lies on the table and is covered with soot. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is shallow and uneven. I touch his forehead. It burns with fever. Forcing my arm under his neck, I bring him to a sitting position. With my other arm, I lift his legs.

  “Doña Isabel!” Mateo says in alarm. “He is much too heavy for you.”

  “Either you bring him or I will.”

  Mateo signals to a nearby man who comes and stands over Antonio. Then slowly, gently, Mateo removes my arms, and the two men pick up my husband and carry him out the door.

  And as I step into the doorway to follow, Doctor Spinoza shouts after me, “You are wrong to do this, Doña Isabel! May God have mercy on you, for if anything happens, I will not.”

  Mateo removes Antonio’s clothes while I fill the wash basin with fresh water. Then he helps me carry the basin to the bed—where Antonio lies, unconscious—and places it on the mat flooring.

  “He has not felt well since the voyage. But the teas you made helped him keep the sickness at bay.” Mateo takes one of the cloths from my hand to wash Antonio’s body. “But he has not wanted to worry you. Many who sailed here with Antonio are sick. It is the hardship of the voyage and this infernal heat and strange Taino food that brings on the bowel disease.”

  I listen as I wash the soot from Antonio’s face, taking care with the scar on his cheek even though it is completely healed and needs no such care.

  “When the fire broke, he was the first highborn at Poblado Central hauling water, pulling down huts. I tried to make him stop but he only laughed and said you would be angry if anything happened to Maria’s house and he did nothing to prevent it. I tried to discourage him, Señora, I tried to . . . .”

  “Peace, Mateo. I do not blame you.”

  And so we wash Antonio in silence. I, his hair, face and shoulders; Mateo the rest. And when we finish, Mateo puts a wide leather sheet beneath Antonio’s buttock. “It will prevent him from soiling the bed. There are more sheets in his trunk. Whenever he needs to be bathed, send for me, and I will come.”

  I shake my head. “I will tend him now.”

  “Doña Isabel . . . surely you do not mean that? It is . . . it is unseemly!”

  “I am determined, Mateo. I will not be moved.”

  “Is there nothing I can say to make you change your mind?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Mateo sighs. “If you will not let me or the doctor help, then at least allow me to supply you with fresh water. I can have someone carry it from the river every day.”

  “That would be kind. Thank you.”

  Mateo picks up the washbasin. “I do not approve of what you are doing, Doña Isabel, but it is I who should thank you. You have made Don Antonio happier than I have seen him in years.”

  I hold Antonio’s head over a large bowl as he retches for the third time. When he has finished, he drops back onto his pillow and moans. His eyes are closed, and by lamp light I see beads of perspiration dot his forehead. I wash his face with a wet cloth, then begin washing his body, which burns with fever. The cold rag makes him shiver. In addition to throwing up the contents of his stomach, he has lost control of his bowels, the fourth time tonight. His bodily humors are greatly disrupted.

  If only I can bring down the fever.

  When the bathing is done and I have put a clean leather sheet beneath him and washed the soiled one, I prepare yet another brew of fennel and chamomile—to calm the spasms in his stomach. To this brew I add a spoon of dried basil to subdue the fever.

  Aunt Leonora, may her memory be for blessing, shared her knowledge of herbs with me. But I was a poor student, preferring, instead, to learn about commerce and Papa’s ledgers. Now I am sorry, for how can knowledge of buying and selling and adding columns help Antonio?

  I massage my forehead as though trying to shake loose all the knowledge Aunt Leonora imparted. Think, Isabel! Think! I concentrate until I hear Aunt Leonora’s voice in my head.

  “To maintain balanced bodily humors, the last portion of every meal must create harmony between dry and wet, cold and hot.”

  I strain the tea and pour it into a lead-glazed goblet.

  “Radishes and apples close up the stomach and prevent the vapors from rising.”

  Steam curls around the lip of the goblet, and
after I take a sip to make certain it is not too hot, I carry it to the bed and sit beside Antonio.

  “Tea made from flowers of hollyhock help firm the bowels. As does tea from the bark of the rose bush.”

  I cradle Antonio’s head in the hollow of my shoulder and bring the tea to his lips. He moans and pulls away. I try again, but it is no use, so I carefully return Antonio’s head to the pillow.

  “Lemon balm cools the brow.”

  I place the goblet of hot tea on the stool beside the bed and cradle my head. Useless. Useless. Useless. What good is knowing Aunt Leonora’s remedies if I lack the ingredients? Tears puddle my hands.

  When Antonio moans, I lift my head and see his handsome face grimace in pain. This will not do. What good is crying over what I do not have? I must ask the Merciful One to bless what I do.

  I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, and rise to my feet. My mouth forms prayers to the Merciful One as I walk to the tall wooden case and retrieve a small spoon. At the bedside, I slip the spoon into the goblet. Thankfully, the tea still steams. Perhaps the heat will force the fever out. Carefully, I lift Antonio’s head and put two more pillows behind him. Then I sit on the bed, curling my legs beneath me. I wedge the goblet between my knees to secure it, then ladle a small spoonful of tea and bring it to Antonio’s lips. With two fingers, I pinch his cheeks and force the spoon and liquid into his mouth. I do this over and over until the goblet is empty.

  Sweat runs down Antonio’s temples like miniature rivulets. He moans through chattering teeth as I place the empty goblet and spoon on the stool. The rustle of silk mingles with the sound of his irregular breathing as I stretch out on top of the covers. I tuck the sheet and blanket beneath his chin, then spread the folds of my skirt over his shaking body. Lastly, I enfold him in my arms.

  I can do no more.

  Now the tea must have its time to work. In a few hours I will make another brew. And a few hours after that, yet another. And tomorrow, I will send Mateo to buy one of Admiral Columbus’s chickens to make chicken soup like Mama used to make when I was sick.