The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  I, too, remove cassava bread from my bag. I have become accustomed to eating my ration in small portions throughout the day. But today, though it was difficult, I have saved it all for now. I plan to make my escape tonight, and will need the strength it gives me. If Columbus’s men get any closer, I fear Enrique will make good his threat to kill me.

  My lids feel as heavy as rocks, and I close them despite efforts not to. It takes all my willpower to open them again. In the darkness, men snore or turn this way and that. Someone coughs. Another mumbles under his breath. I have been laying here for hours, waiting for all to fall asleep. But in the distance, voices still whisper. I must wait a little longer. And then I will creep into the night. But now I will close my eyes. For just a little while. For just a little . . . .”

  An owl’s hooting awakens me with a jerk. It is still dark. And all is quiet except for an occasional snore. I do not know how long I have been sleeping, but I cannot afford to tarry for who knows how soon the sun will rise?

  I roll onto my left side, facing Enrique, who sleeps beside me. I listen for any sound telling me he is awake, but all I hear is the sound of my own breathing. As usual, Enrique has looped a rope, like a noose, around my ankle, tightened it, then tied the other end around his own leg—this to keep me from escaping.

  I pull the dagger from my bodice, carefully unsheathe it, then curl into a U and begin cutting the rope. Enrique groans and rolls on his back, causing me to stop. From the many nights I have spent at his side, I know he is a sound sleeper and that it takes much to wake him. Still, I wait for his breathing to slow before resuming. The dagger is sharp, and after making a quick end to the work, I rise, sheath the blade, then tuck it away.

  It will be easy to slip past the sentries. Roldan always posts them the same way, mirroring the four compass points: north, south, east and west. Not a league east of here is the cave I spotted earlier. My plan is to break from camp, go a goodly distance, then hide in the underbrush. At first light, I will make my way to the cave, and stay there until Roldan’s men leave for Xaragua. I doubt Roldan will waste time pursuing me since he opposed my abduction from the onset.

  As I carefully step over Enrique, the heavy dagger in my bodice presses against my chest. What if Enrique follows? Will I be able to use my weapon? Will I be able to kill him?

  The darkness compels me to inch my way toward the dense thicket, carefully stepping over sleeping bodies until at last, at the edge of camp, I am swallowed by vegetation. My progress is even slower now, and the brush so thick I need to protect my face. Even so, branches scrape my cheeks and forehead while vines entangle my arms and legs. More than once I stumble and fall. I am cut and bruised and tired, but still I move in the direction of the cave.

  Deeper and deeper into the brush I go, until at last I stop, and sit. Here I will stay until sunrise, then search for the cave. And though I am bone weary I have no fear of falling asleep, for my eyes are as wide as Mama’s prized platters. I pant like a beast as I grope the ground. It is rough and thorny, but I remain sitting, barely aware of my discomfort. My body tingles as though on fire. My senses are sharp. I hear every sound: the wind in the trees, the scurrying of an animal, the flutter of a bird overhead, even my own heart as it beats wildly. The Prophet Jeremiah said, “the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked: who can know it?” But at this moment I do know it. I know I am capable of killing Enrique Vivar.

  As the sun creeps over the horizon, I leave my hiding place and walk toward where I believe the cave to be. And when I have walked nearly three leagues I know with crushing certainty I have missed it. Have I been walking in circles? The vegetation is too dense; my sense of direction, gone. It is useless to search for the cave any longer.

  But what should I do? Where shall I go? I pray to the Merciful One for guidance, and no sooner is the prayer finished that I come upon a clearing and see a small Taino village. Only five huts. I remember the fierce Taino with the club, and hesitate. Surely no Castilian would be welcome here. I look back into the dense forest. Though I have tried following the direction of the rising sun, eastward toward Isabela, I am hopelessly lost. And hungry, too. My face and arms and legs are scratched and bleeding; my body stiff and racked with pain. How much longer can I wander these woods, and live?

  “Oh Merciful One,” I whisper, “give me one ally here, just one friend to help me.” And then I step into the clearing. Since it is early, I am not surprised there are no signs of life. I creep to the first hut, and when I see the doorway barred by two crossed spears, and that it is empty inside, my heart sinks. I go from one hut to the next but it is the same with them all.

  The village is deserted.

  I must not panic. Think, Isabel. Think. Normally, Tainos bury roots for planting future crops. I look around for a small mound, and finally finding one, begin digging with my hands until I feel tubers and pull them out. Yuccas. Poison when raw. I discard them. But among the yuccas are batatas, too. I brush the dirt off one and devour it. It revives me, and quickly I gather a dozen more before recovering the mound. I abandoned my empty food pouch long ago, so I use my outer skirt, gather it to my waist, then tie it before placing my batatas inside.

  Since it is unsafe for me to wander in the woods with Roldan’s army so near, I have decided to wait, perhaps a day maybe two, before venturing out, and when I do, I will travel northeast, keeping the rising sun slightly to my right, and head for Isabela. But for now, I will hide in one of the huts.

  Choosing the smallest—for it is tucked among three large palms and not easily seen—I remove the spears and enter. It is neat and clean, with matted straw on the floor. To my delight, I see a large wooden bowl filled with fruit, and find two papayas not rotted. I slip one into my skirt pouch, and with my dagger I peel the other, then eat it. When I am finished, I put my knife away and lean against the wall facing the door. Presently, I drift into a restless sleep.

  “Did you think I would not find you?”

  My eyes open, and there is Enrique filling the doorway, his crossbow pointed at me. Gulping air, I scramble to my feet.

  “You left a trail a child could follow.”

  “If you let me go I swear I will not bring any charges against you. I will even plead your case to Don Bartolome.”

  Enrique tilts his head back and laughs. Then he lowers his crossbow. “No Doña Isabel, promises will not save you now.”

  By the fierce look in his eyes, I know it is useless to plead further, so I pull the dagger from my bodice.

  “Ah, then you plan to kill me?” He laughs again, and tosses the crossbow onto the straw, then pulls open his leather jerkin revealing his chest. “Go ahead. I give you your target.”

  He still blocks the doorway. If only I could squeeze past him! Then lose him in the brush. I move to my right, hugging the wall, hoping to force him to move as well, but he remains firmly planted. I notice a window nearby. It is covered with a heavy thatched shade. I try to calculate if I can open it and climb out before Enrique reaches me, then decide I must try. It is my only hope. I lunge for the window, and before I can maneuver the shade I find myself thrown to the floor. The dagger flies from my hand and lands several cubits away.

  Enrique laughs like a madman, tearing my clothes and grabbing my thighs. And I know what he plans to do before killing me. I push hard against him still hoping to make a lunge for the door. And just when my strength is about to fail, and I feel unable to fight him any longer, I hear a loud thud, and Enrique slumps against me as one dead. It takes a second to see the Taino standing over me. And another second to recognize the scarred forehead. His club is raised in the air, and I close my eyes for surely he will strike me next. When I feel Enrique’s body move, I open my eyes and see the Taino pulling him away. Then he extends his hand and helps me to my feet.

  The Taino and I, using two wooden shovels we found in another hut, dig a grave for Enrique. I have insisted we bury him. I do not know if this insistence springs from a belief that even Enriqu
e deserves a proper burial or because I fear he will be found, and I will be hunted all over again.

  We work quickly, then place Enrique into the deep pit and cover him with dirt. Over the dirt we throw pebbles and bark and vines and anything else that will disguise this spot as a grave.

  When we finish, I pray a portion of the burial Kaddish, and think of the irony that Enrique’s final prayer is a Jewish one. And then I think of Maria.

  How will I ever be able to tell her about this?

  My rescuer’s name is Savique, and this is his village. He calls me The Kind One, for he has heard of me and how I have fed the maimed Tainos. I learned this through gestures, and a mix of Taino and Castilian. We sit in his hut now, sipping fresh water from his gourd. It is a hut of generous size—much larger than the hut I hid in earlier, and contains three hammocks. Everywhere there is evidence of a woman’s caring hand. Numerous wooden bowls, suspended in rope slings, are filled with fruit—now rotten—and even loaves of cassava bread which are still good, for I have already, at Savique’s insistence, eaten one whole loaf myself. Two clean cooking stones lie on the floor in the corner.

  I sit quietly against the wall waiting for Savique to tell me his story. He pulls the familiar root from his pouch, then talks while he eats.

  I do not understand all his words, for he uses both my language and his. But I understand enough to know that this was a village of renegades escaping the harsh tribute system, and many, like him, barely escaping with their lives. But all have died from a strange disease Savique has never seen before. His wife, too, fell ill, so he took her and his young son north where he knows certain curative roots grow. He points to his pouch, and I know he is talking about the roots he carries, and that he, too, is ill.

  He goes on to tell me that he hid his wife and son near a river bank while gathering the roots. When he returned, both were dead. I have trouble understanding how his wife died. His explanation is too garbled to follow. But it is easy to understand Savique when he speaks of his son’s death. His eyes grow hard as he describes his son being slit open and left with intestines spilling onto the ground and a steel ball embedded in his forehead. I finally understand why Savique looks so familiar, for now I see the son’s face in his.

  Sevique tells me from the lead shot he knew it was the work of soldiers, and so he followed their trail. Once he joined our ranks it was easy to learn who killed his son, for bored men tend to retell their stories, and the story of “mad Enrique” still circulated. So he stayed close to us, and when I escaped and Enrique followed, he saw his opportunity for revenge.

  I see the odious glint of satisfaction on his face as he finishes. But who am I to judge? I, too, am happy that Enrique is dead, though I know how much this displeases the Savior who forgave all His tormentors. But try as I might, I am still unable to forgive Enrique. Or Maria, for that matter—Maria, who so cruelly deserted me. My heart feels heavy as I think of her now. Just how am I going to tell her about her son?

  And will she ever be able to forgive me?

  “I go now.” Savique slaps his chest with the flat of his hand and I know he is telling me he doesn’t wear the necessary token.

  I nod, and look down from our perch on the mountainside, and see Isabela. “Yes, please go quickly.” If Savique is caught, he will surely meet the same fate as his son. I urged him to leave me long ago, but he insisted on guiding me to a place where it was impossible for me to get lost, and so he has led me all the way from his village, graciously sharing his food and allowing me to keep the batatas which I stole. I return them now, what is left, for his trip. He plans to go back to Xaragua and join Roldan once again, for Roldan promises to end the tribute system. I have tried to tell him Roldan and his men have no authority to abolish the tribute. In addition, they have committed more atrocities against the Tainos than even the nobles, but Savique will not listen. I suppose because, having lost his family and those in his small village, he has nowhere else to go. And I suppose because a roguish life is preferable to slavery.

  I wave goodbye as Savique disappears into the thicket, then turn once again towards Isabela, and for the first time in weeks I feel joy thinking perhaps Antonio will be there waiting for me.

  Antonio is not in Isabela. He is with Don Bartolome’s men searching for me and Roldan. But ten days later, after a courier finally finds him and gives him the news of my safe arrival, he returns to my arms. And my heart, which is murderous as well as deceitful and wicked, melts in his tender embrace.

  Antonio and I stand in the courtyard of our new stone house in Santo Domingo listening to the trill of a bird perched on a nearby tree. The sound is a lovely opus to my ears. Every day for the past three months, we have gone to the courtyard and stood under this tree listening to Antonio’s “friend” sing. When the song is finished, the bird flies away, leaving the courtyard silent.

  “Admiral Columbus and Roldan have finally come to terms,” Antonio whispers as he bends and kisses my neck. “The nobles grumble that the terms favor only Roldan, for Columbus has given all the rebels grants of land, and Roldan even retains the title of town warden.”

  I breathe in the familiar scent of Antonio’s lavender and rosemary. My heart is so full I have no wish to leave this place of love for thoughts of the hateful world of Española.

  “These grants of land,” I say, reluctantly allowing Antonio to draw me back into the larger world, “which Columbus has been authorized to distribute to the soldiers and peasantry is a great concession for the Crown. But a good thing, I believe.” I am thinking of Maria and her family who have stayed behind in Isabela, not wishing to move to Santo Domingo for they have purchased my land with its mounds.

  “It is good only if the settlers honor their agreement and work the land for four years, otherwise they will lose it. But Columbus has brought such rabble with him on his last voyage I doubt they will do any work. I believe, in the end, they will be of little benefit to our colony here.”

  I remain silent since I fear my husband is right. Columbus has brought all manner of rogues with him, including pardoned convicts, for no one else would sail with him to the Indies.

  “Nor do I believe this is the end of Columbus’s trouble with Roldan or his men,” Antonio continues. “Already they are buying and selling Taino women, some as young as nine. Getting one hundred castellanos a piece, the same price the Crown is charging for a farm in Santo Domingo. What can you do with such men?”

  Again, I remain silent, for I am thinking of Enrique. What, indeed, could be done with such a man?

  Antonio encircles me with his arms. “But we need not concern ourselves, my love. For as soon as a ship leaves for Castile, we will leave with it.”

  “It cannot be soon enough.”

  “Will you miss nothing of Isabela or Santo Domingo?”

  “Nothing.” I think of the seven men now swinging on the gallows in the Plaza, men executed by Bartolome Columbus as rebels. I think of the many others so hungry for gold they would rather dig in the San Christopher gold fields to feed their greed than dig mounds to feed their stomachs. I think of the young Taino girls sold to lecherous men; of the tribute system, of the enslavement of an entire race. How can I miss such a place?

  “Will you not miss Maria?”

  I tense at the mention of her name.

  “What is it you have not told me, my love?” Antonio pulls away so he can see my face.

  “I have told you everything about Enrique. I have held nothing back.”

  “Yes, everything about Enrique, but not Maria, I think.”

  I turn from his gaze. “No. not Maria.” With tear filled eyes I tell him how neither Maria nor any of her family, except Bata, came to my aid. And of how deeply wounded I feel over Maria’s betrayal.

  “Is that why you did not tell her of Enrique? That he is dead?”

  “I could not . . . face her with it. But she knows. I saw it in her eyes. She knows everything.”

  “Because she knows her son, Isabel. But it is
too painful for her to tell you so.”

  I push away, not wanting to understand Maria’s pain or her great fear of Enrique. I can think only of my pain; the terror of those days and nights in the interior; not knowing if I was going to live or die.

  Suddenly the church bell rings, and someone outside shouts, “Ships sighted! Vessels from Castile!”

  I am about to venture outside to see them for myself, when Antonio stops me. “You have a great capacity for love, Isabel. Do not be stingy with it now. Remember, we all have the ability to do what is easy rather than what is right. Have compassion. Do not leave this island without making peace with Maria, for I fear you will regret it all your days.”

  Tomorrow we sail for Cadiz. A few weeks ago, when Antonio and I were discussing Maria in our shaded courtyard, Francisco de Bobadilla arrived from Castile with two ships and the Crown’s authority to serve as the new Governor of the Indies, replacing Bartolome Columbus. He quickly brought the three Columbus men before a hearing board. After vile accusations were leveled against them, Bobadilla felt his only recourse was to clamp the Admiral and his two brothers in irons, sequester them in one of his ships, and order their return to Castile where they will stand trial.

  It is strange to think that once again I will be sailing with Christopher Columbus but under, oh, such different circumstances. And it is hard to believe that instead of commanding the ship, the Admiral will be confined to its hold in chains like a common criminal.

  I sit at the table in the beautiful stone house Antonio built me, hardly sorry that I will soon leave it. In front of me is a blank sheet of paper. I have been sitting here since before the bell chimed None, and now it chimes Vespers and still I have not put pen to page. I had in mind to write Maria a letter. Instead, I have employed my time thinking on my life in the Indies.