The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “No,” I say, as the last ship disappears over the horizon. “I fear the gentle Tainos will not survive our harsh Castilian ways.”

  And as if to prove me right, within a month Alonzo de Hojeda captures Caonabo, the great Taino king, and brings him back to Isabela in chains. The Tainos, outraged by Caonabo’s capture and treatment—for he was chained and kept imprisoned in one of the ships—plan revenge. Their hostility is met with brute force as Admiral Columbus and his infantry slaughter hundreds and hundreds of Tainos with firearms, swords, pikes and war dogs.

  And all Antonio and I can do is stand idly by.

  “Can you feel that?” I move Antonio’s hand over my belly to a pulsating knot that is our child’s kicking foot.

  “He is strong.”

  “It could be a girl.” We are both lying in bed; I, flat on my back, Antonio beside me, propped on one elbow. His free hand roams over the wide expanse of my protruding belly. “I pricked my finger yesterday and forced a drop of blood into a goblet of water. The blood floated. Aunt Leonora, may her memory be for blessing, always said if the blood floats it is a girl. Would you mind a girl?”

  Antonio’s large hand lingers over the moving bulge as though in a caress.

  “A boy would be better for Sebastian, to carry his name. But to me, boy or girl, what difference? I will love it just the same.”

  I run my fingers along the neckline of Antonio’s fine cotton tunic. It is well past Tierce and still we linger in bed, I suppose because outside it is pouring, and neither of us wants to begin the day.

  “Aunt Leonora said a woman must guard her eyes before lying with her husband in case she conceives, for it will affect the child. But for the life of me I cannot remember seeing anything but your handsome face.”

  “And if you had seen, say, a lamb?”

  “According to Aunt Leonora, I would conceive a weak child.”

  “And a pig?”

  “A disagreeable child, very disagreeable.” I snuggle closer to my husband, for the wind has picked up, and now it, along with the heavy rain, beats loudly against our hut. “But I do not believe it because I do not believe the Creator would fashion a child in this manner, for it is too careless.”

  Antonio laughs. “You are a strange mix of passion and logic.”

  “And Doña Maria? Did she believe such things?” I know not why I ask; perhaps because being here like this with Antonio and talking about our child has suddenly made me jealous thinking he might have done this with her.

  Antonio props two pillows against the headboard and sits up. “I once heard Doña Maria tell a maidservant she feared she would have a crippled child because she saw an old cripple begging alms at the gate just before she believed she conceived. But hers was a mind full of fears. Even her dreams were troubled, for often, from my room, I would hear her scream in the night. At such times, I would go to her and offer to pray Psalm Ninety-One, but she always refused.”

  I nod. Everyone prayed Psalm Ninety-One when trying to rid themselves of demons.

  Antonio fingers my cascading hair, and when he says, “You have no reason to be jealous,” shame overwhelms me. How ungracious to want Antonio to speak ill of a woman who is dead. Can I grow in my husband’s estimation by diminishing another?

  “I hope Aunt Leonora has taught you well, for no midwife came with the other women on Torres’s ships, only the new physician, Doctor Martinez.”

  I hear the worry in Antonio’s voice, and pull up my bulky frame until I am sitting erect. “She was a good teacher, I a bad pupil. But I believe my knowledge is greater than the average woman’s.” My hand touches his. “Women have been birthing babies since the beginning of time. Do not fear.”

  Before Antonio can respond, a sudden blast of wind flutters my hair, making me glance at the doorway. There, Maria stands holding the curtain to one side. Behind her, the pouring rain looks as solid and grey as the sheathing Pasculina’s husband forged for Torres’s ships.

  “Pardon, Doña Isabel,” Maria says, dripping water that puddles at her feet. “But you must come at once. It is Bata. She is laboring hard. The baby should have come hours ago. I fear something is wrong.”

  I try to rise but Antonio stops me. “You expect my wife to go out in this howling wind and rain?” His voice is uncharacteristically sharp. “It is as if the devil himself has descended upon us. Just listen!” Antonio points to the opening as though Maria has no prior knowledge of what is happening outside. “Would you have my wife risk herself when she is so near the end of her own confinement? Get Pasculina or one of the other women!”

  “Doña Isabel’s aunt was a midwife. Bata knows this and will not be comforted by anyone else.” Maria’s voice is pleading.

  “Is Doña Isabel responsible for Bata’s comfort?” Antonio shakes his head. “No, I will not allow it! Find another to comfort her.”

  “Since the time Bata’s Taino midwife was taken away on Torres’s ship, Bata has scoured other villages for a new one, but all have fled to the mountains. Even so, Bata is brave and was willing to have the baby alone. But now this . . . this . . . terrible pain.” Maria’s eyes meet mine. “In God’s name please help her, Doña Isabel.”

  Slowly, Antonio releases my arm. “Dress,” he says, without emotion. “I will go with you.” But I know what this is costing him. And while I put on my skirt and bodice I pray to the Holy One to give us strength. Then I ask Him to bless my hands and help me remember everything Aunt Leonora taught me.

  I stand by Bata’s bed, trying to ignore her groans and the howling wind outside. Her pain is so great she cannot sit on the birthing stool but lies writhing in bed and pulling at her hair. Quickly, I brush aside her hands then spread her hair across the pillow, for nothing must be tied or constricted when one gives birth. Maria has already removed the pins and untied all the knots in the hut. And since the weather is so bad, we bypass custom by not removing the coverings on the door and windows, for Old Christians follow these customs as well as Jews.

  Next, I open my box of spices, take out a pouch of dried fennel and sprinkle a handful around the bed to ward off demons. I pray it works, for Aunt Leonora always used fresh.

  Since the hut is only one room, and the men cannot go outside due to the fierce storm, Juan and Gonzalo have strung a blanket for Bata’s privacy. I open the jar of massaging ointment just as Bata cries out in a loud voice. I cringe, for I know Antonio listens on the other side, and that her screams only enhance his worry for me and my own birthing to come.

  Maria has already arranged Bata’s clothing, exposing her large belly. I am wet to the bone from walking to Poblado Central, and drip water everywhere, including on Bata, but this cannot be helped. After a brief hesitation, I lean over and apply the ointment, massaging it gently in circular motions. Bata shrieks and digs her nails into my arm. Without a word, Maria tears rags and binds Bata’s wrists to the frame of the bed.

  I feel Bata’s belly to determine the position of the baby’s arms and legs, but stop when I feel the head. “Let me see your hands,” I say to Maria. When she holds them out, I am disappointed to see they are larger than mine.

  “Bring me a goblet of wine.” I tremble inside for the work I must now do. While Maria pours the wine I pick through my herbs until I find the wormwood. I take a few leaves, crush them between my palms, then drop them into the liquid. Aunt Leonora mixed this with another herb but I cannot remember what.

  “To help ease her anxiety,” I say, hoping I am right.

  I sit on the bed creating a wet ring on the covers. Maria holds Bata’s head while I hold the goblet and force Bata to drink. When she is finished, I ask Maria to bring a bowl of olive oil. Then I pull off all of Bata’s covers, exposing her legs.

  “The baby lies sideways in your belly, and must be turned.” I dip my hand into the bowl Maria holds. There is fear in Maria’s eyes, and rightly so, for many women have died from being unable to deliver a baby thus situated.

  I climb on the bed, feeling like a cow with my
heavy wet clothes and great belly. With difficulty, I position myself between Bata’s legs; then ask the Merciful One to guide my hand as I slip first two oiled fingers inside Bata, then a third. My fingers are long, enabling me to feel the opening of her womb which is wide and soft and ready for delivery, but unless I get all four fingers into the birth canal I will not be able to reach the baby. I pray, then gently push my fingers upward. Bata screams and cries and gnashes her teeth, and if Maria had not taken it into her head to hold Bata down, I doubt the rags would have held.

  I am on my knees now, trying to turn the baby with my fingers inside and with my hand outside; pushing and prodding between contractions.

  “Quickly, grind five peppercorns,” I shout. “For the baby is nearly turned.”

  And minutes later when Maria brings the ground pepper, I slip out my fingers and know the baby is not far behind. It is pointless to take Bata to the birthing stool. She is much too weak, and in great pain. She must deliver in bed.

  “Blow the pepper into her nose,” I say, “but not all of it.” And when Maria does, Bata sneezes, and I see the crown of the baby’s head. “Again!” I shout. And again Maria blows pepper. This time when Bata sneezes the head pops out. One more contraction and I am able to pull the baby free.

  “A beautiful girl,” I say, when it is all over.

  On the other side of the blanket the men shout praises to God. Then Juan leads them in the Pater Noster.

  Maria hands me a knife, and I cut the umbilical cord and tie it off. Then I give the baby to Maria who washes her with salted water, then rubs her gums with honey to stimulate appetite. Next, Maria dries her, swaddles her bottom in a wool cloth, and finally wraps her tightly in a small linen blanket. And while Maria shows the baby to the men, I pour another goblet of wine for Bata, who is exhausted and weak and having difficulty expelling the afterbirth. To the wine I add a pinch of savin which will help her with this. “Drink,” I whisper, “then I will massage your belly. Just a few more contractions and you will be able to rest.”

  When we leave Bata’s hut the sky is so dark it looks like the bell should be ringing Compline rather than Sext. Almond-size drops of rain pelt us relentlessly as we move slowly across Poblado Central. Not a soul is stirring, and I wonder if we should return to the Vivars. Bata was frantic when we left, begging us to stay and shouting, “Guabancex! Guabancex!” over and over, which Juan said means “Lady of the Winds” and is the goddess of what Bata calls, “hurricane.”

  But their hut is too small for so many, and being exhausted I wanted to return home, and Antonio felt the same way. Now, I fear we have made a mistake.

  “Do you think we should turn back?” I shout, trying to be heard above the wind that howls and tears at our hair and clothing like a beast. And though I cling tightly to Antonio’s arm, it has knocked me down more than once. “Should we turn back?” I repeat.

  “We are half way home. It would be pointless. Either way, the distance is the same.”

  I wipe the water from my eyes and am alarmed to see the side of someone’s hut blow over our heads. I am reminded of the time Fray Buil saved my life by lashing me to the mast of the Tortoise, and suddenly, as trees sway and bow to the wind, I am greatly afraid.

  “We must hurry, Isabel,” Antonio shouts, “for the wind is getting stronger!”

  And so I run, holding Antonio’s arm with one hand and my great belly with the other, feeling grateful I left my spice box with Maria. A thatched roof flies by, then another. Lightning and thunder fill the sky. And the incessant wind flogs us unmercifully. Something hits Antonio in the head. He falls, and I with him. And as I try to rise I hear the sound of cracking timber, and see a nearby tree list, then hear it creak and groan as it plunges down on top of us.

  I hear a voice, but it is far away. I know that voice. It is Antonio’s. But I cannot answer. I try. Oh, how I try, but my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. It is dry, my mouth, like a wad of Bata’s spun cotton. I try moving my lips but they remain like lazy slugs and will not obey. I am cold and wet. But I am not afraid, for suddenly I smell the fragrance of lavender and rosemary, then feel Antonio’s strong arms lift me into the air. But why does he weep and call my name? Do not weep, Antonio, I am here. I am here! Only . . . I do not know where that is, exactly.

  I look up and see sky—beautiful blue sky with rolling clouds that look like giant foaming waves. I close my eyes, and my fingers crawl over the space by my side. Surely I must be mistaken, for I feel mattress beneath me. Can I be lying on my bed and outside at the same time? Surely no one has moved the bed. I look again and see the same blue sky, but something else, too. A thatched roof. And after staring for some time, I realize I am seeing sky through a large hole in the thatch. I have hardly gotten my mind around this oddity when I hear a faint sound and notice Antonio kneeling on the floor beside the bed. His eyes are closed, his head bowed in an attitude of prayer. The Pater Noster streams softly from his lips. But his face, the way it is pinched, and his entire body, which is doubled over, reminds me of one travailing in . . . childbirth.

  Childbirth.

  Suddenly, I remember Bata and her baby, the storm, the tree. “Antonio!” I shout, and am surprised to hear my voice dribble out in a whisper. “Antonio!” I say again, this time sounding louder. And when he lifts his head, I see the terrible fear in his eyes.

  “You are . . . awake.”

  I raise my hand to touch his tears, but my arm is too heavy and drops back onto the bed. Then I see the deep gash along his right cheek, and the wounds around his neck. “What happened?”

  “Do you remember returning from Bata’s house, and the storm?”

  “Yes, I remember. And the falling tree, too. Is that where you got those?” Since I cannot lift my arm to point I gesture with my chin and am surprised to find even that requires great effort.

  “These are nothing. A few scratches.” Antonio rises from his knees and sits on the bed. “But you . . . the full weight of the tree fell on you, while I was protected by your body. I wish to God it was the other way around.”

  His eyes tell me something terrible has happened. I try to sit up but my muscles refuse to obey. With great effort, I slide my hands over my hips until they rest on my belly. And instead of feeling the large familiar mound, I feel a soft, empty pouch.

  “You lost the child, Isabel,” Antonio says, lying down next to me. “The tree crushed him.”

  “It was a boy?” I try not to cry, for Antonio’s sake. He looks so sad I can hardly bare it. But still the tears come.

  “Doctor Martinez says you are strong.” Antonio scoops me in his arms. “But you have lost more blood than ten bleedings would have drawn, and it will take time for you to recover.”

  “And children? Did he say I can have more children?”

  “Yes,” Antonio answers, but there is something odd in his voice. “No need to think of that now. You must rest, Isabel. Rest.”

  And after a long while, when Antonio thinks I am sleeping, I hear him weep.

  It is two weeks after the hurricane, and all Isabela is still cleaning up the debris and making repairs. Many huts are destroyed. Many more damaged. Only the stone buildings were spared, though the church roof was torn off because it was thatch.

  Though I am still weak, and though Antonio disapproves, I am participating in the baptism of Bata’s baby. Normally, a baby is baptized the same day it is born, but the church’s roof has only now been repaired. I walk behind Luis’s wife who follows Maria. Both are godmothers. Maria carries the child, a child you can barely see for the long flowing robe of silk she wears. The silk is my christening gift to Bata; the robe was made by Pasculina as her gift.

  Luis’s wife holds the baby’s silk train. Since I served as midwife, I have the honor of carrying the christening bonnet, and am the third in the processional heading for the church. Behind me walk the rest of the Vivar family. Antonio has been included in this group, a dubious honor since many of the nobles appear resentful.

&
nbsp; Since the baby is a girl, two godmothers, but only one godfather, may be chosen. Thankfully, the Vivars used good judgment and did not ask Antonio. Certainly this would have infuriated the nobles even more.

  I think of Antonio now as I walk. Though he has been most caring throughout my convalescence, something has changed. I have asked, but he will not say what is wrong. Perhaps it is anger or resentment, for our own child’s birth and baptism would be but two months away had he lived. It would be understandable if Antonio harbored these feelings for I, too, feel both anger and resentment, though I fight it.

  How could the Merciful One so cruelly take my son from me?

  I scold myself for being so sullen. Today, I am determined to be happy for Maria. Bata is not here since the Church considers her unclean until her period of confinement is over. The similarity between this and my old tradition is striking, for after a Jewish woman gives birth she too is niddah.

  As we near the church, the smell of fresh pine cuttings fill the air, for they decorate the door. The smell is strangely comforting and draws my heart back to the Savior. What sorrows can I have that the Savior does not feel them too? What sorrows can I have that He is not able to heal?

  I take these thoughts with me as I enter the church. Already, Maria has laid the baby on a silk-cushioned table, and is undressing her. When she is finished, the priest dips his finger into holy oil and makes the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead. Then Luis, the godfather, hands the baby to the priest who immerses the infant into a baptismal font, a font decorated with linen and velvet. Luis’s wife dries and bundles the child, and I place the christening cap on the baby’s head to protect the holy oil.