Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  The four legged reached him first, raising its long knife to strike. Calling Crow gave out a war cry as the creature’s flanks brushed him, knocking him flying again. He looked at the sky as the sun seemed to break into pieces and he struggled to his feet just as the demon men surrounded him, shrieking in their strange language. He lunged for one of them as others seized him tightly from behind. As his hands sought a hairy white throat, something crashed hard into his head and he fell back onto the sand.

  Chapter 9

  Diego spotted Miramor by the spring that fed the small creek. The boy had run away that morning and had not been seen all day. He sat in the shade of the trees with his feet in the shallow water. His head was down, and his body had an attitude of great suffering. Diego knew that only God’s grace could relieve his sorrow, but the boy was a converted Moor, or Morisco, and not very knowledgeable of the Faith.

  Diego pushed into the grove. “What is bothering you, boy?”

  The boy shook his head. “Nothing, senor. There is nothing anymore.”

  Diego frowned. “Don’t grieve anymore for the soldier, Garcia. He shall have a chance to stand before God and plead his case with Him. Perhaps he shall even get into heaven.”

  The boy looked at him hopefully.

  Diego’s face grew more serious. “God is merciful, boy, You must pray to Him to mete out some of His mercy to your Senor Garcia.”

  The boy stared off into the darkness of the forest. “I’ve forgotten how to pray. I no longer know the words.”

  Diego shook his head. “It is of no matter. I will teach you and then we shall get back to the boats. There are some who are worried about you.”

  Diego got down on his knees and the boy did the same. “Lord God Almighty,” Diego intoned in his phlegmy voice, “please be merciful to this boy’s friend who shall soon come before you.” Diego turned to the boy. “We shall now say the Lord’s Prayer.”

  As the boy repeated the words after Diego, a column of men moved through the thick green forest, carrying sacks of fruit and clay jars full of fresh water. Alonso Roldan, who was in the lead, spotted Diego and Miramor ahead by the stream. The men behind him were not able to see. Intrigued, Roldan held up his hand for the column to stop. From his vantage, he could hear the faint drone of Diego’s voice as the old man led the boy in prayers. Diego made the sign of the cross and got to his feet. The boy followed suit.

  Manuel Ortiz tapped Roldan on the shoulder. “What is it? What do you see?”

  “Quiet,” hissed Roldan.

  A moment later, Diego Vega and Miramor came out of the grove and walked off toward the beach, unaware of the men watching them.

  Roldan turned round to Manuel Ortiz. “Let’s go. Pass the word back.”

  The men continued walking along the forest trail till they found a sandy path. They turned and came out onto the beach. Their boots sank in the soft sand and they carried their loads with great difficulty. Slowly they headed for two boats which were drawn up on the shore. Senor Alonso Roldan and his young friend and lieutenant, Manuel Ortiz, were empty handed as they trudged along at the head of the little column. Ortiz turned his boyish face to Roldan.

  “That cursed Mateo will not be back for a while. He thinks he can find where those two Indians we captured came from, but the bare-asses leave no track a man can follow.”

  Senor Roldan nodded without looking at him. “Did they interrogate them?”

  “Si, they tried to, but they got nothing.”

  Manuel Ortiz wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “What an utter waste of time this trip has been.”

  Senor Roldan nodded. “That it has, and for that and for Senor Garcia’s death, Francisco Mateo will pay. Though it takes me a hundred years, I shall make him pay!”

  Senors Roldan and Ortiz and the column of soldiers reached the boats. The soldiers set down their heavy jars gratefully, some sitting down immediately on the hot sand to rest. Others went over to the smaller of the two boats where one of the Indians lay chained up.

  Roldan walked over and leaned into the boat to look at the Indian. Roldan was filled with contempt. The Indian was naked but for a strip of animal skin between his buttocks and a few feathers in his hair. Subhumans, they were as stupid as monkeys and as sullen and stubborn as mules. They couldn’t do half the work a black could do, which made them almost worthless. If it had not been for the meddling Fathers, the Conquistadors would have exterminated them all years ago. He turned to Ortiz.

  “Where is the other bare-ass?”

  “They have already taken him out to the ship for the barber to patch up. When Mateo’s horse knocked him down, he must have landed on a rock. It opened up his head and broke his arm.”

  “It does not matter. One or two, it does not exactly make for a fortune.”

  “True,” said Ortiz. “But what amazing specimens they are, eh? They are as big as blacks.”

  Roldan nodded. He was annoyed at Ortiz for telling him the obvious. He had already been calculating what he could get for thirty or forty as big as the two they had caught on the beach.

  Roldan looked around and turned back to Ortiz. “Where are the rest of these fool colonists?”

  Ortiz looked over at the boat. “There’s Roberto and two other farmers. I don’t know where Vasquez, the harelip, is. Pelagro, the fat Genovese, is on the Hound.”

  Senor Roldan turned aside and spat. “Come with me. We have work to do.”

  They walked to the other long boat, which was half loaded with clay water jars. Roldan pointed to two coils of rope. “Grab the ropes and find Hotea the Indian to interpret for me.”

  Ortiz leaned into the boat and grabbed the ropes.

  Roldan looked at the bright green of the forest. “I’ll find out where the rest of the bare-asses are hiding.”

  Calling Crow was lying on his back, tied down in a great canoe on the beach. In a rage he tried to free his hands from the cords which bound them, cords as hard as stone. Earlier, before they had put him in the great canoe, the big, fire haired, four-legged creature and an old silver headed demon had attempted to speak to him. Their voices were like dogs trying to speak like men, and he could understand nothing they said.

  In anger and frustration Calling Crow again shook the cords like stone on his hands. The demon men leaned over the canoe to look down at him and laugh at his efforts. A very pale faced demon man smiled, showing a tooth that shined like the sun. “Cual es su nombre?” he said.

  Calling Crow stared at his glowing tooth. “Release me!” he demanded.

  The demon man thought this very funny and laughed loudly, turning to share something with the others. More pale hairy faces leaned down to scrutinize Calling Crow. The demon man with the shining tooth tapped himself proudly on the chest. “Yo soy Roberto,” he said. “Ro-- berr-- to.” Then he poked Calling Crow’s chest.

  “I am Calling Crow,” said Calling Crow slowly, amazed at the exchange. Were these men? They seemed so strange and had great power.

  Shining Tooth attempted to repeat Calling Crow’s name and gave up. He moved out of view as he turned to talk to the others. Loud laughter followed. Suddenly a young man with hair like sea grass was looking down at Calling Crow. The others crowded about him.

  Sea Grass Hair shouted and raised his long knife. Calling Crow thought he was going to kill him, but instead Sea Grass Hair sliced the cords tying him down before he pulled him roughly out of the canoe and to his feet. Calling Crow looked about him for an escape route, but they surrounded him. A short, smooth faced man approached. His skin was much darker than the others. Calling Crow’s eyes widened in shock as Dark Skin spoke to him using signs and some heavily accented words from Calling Crow’s own tongue.

  “I am Hotea,” he said. “These men are from a land across the great water.” Hotea slowly sounded the name of the land. “Castile. They have come across the waters because their king has given them these lands to govern in his name.”

  Calling Crow forgot his amazement as anger welle
d up within him. He frowned and raised his arms, rattling the stone ropes the men had put upon him as he used signs and some of his own words to reply. “Surely you lie, for how can their king give away something which is not his, something he has never laid his eyes upon?”

  Hotea smiled sadly and said something in the harsh tones of the others. Then Sea Grass Hair shouted menacingly at Calling Crow. Hotea translated. “He wants to know where your village is.”

  Calling Crow looked at Sea Grass Hair and then at Hotea. “I have no village.” A great sorrow suddenly came over Calling Crow as Hotea translated. Had the time come for his tribe to perish? Was Sea Grass Hair the Destroyer in his vision?

  Hotea pointed at Sea Grass Hair as he spoke to Calling Crow. “This man is Manuel Ortiz. He will kill you if you don’t tell him where your village is. You must tell him.”

  Calling Crow stared at the man called Ortiz for a few moments. “I have no village.”

  Hotea translated, and Ortiz stepped forward and struck Calling Crow in the face. Calling Crow grabbed for him with his bound hands, and two men seized him from behind. There was a great deal of loud talking and then another older man stepped forward. He pushed Sea Grass Hair out of the way and spoke to Hotea. The others smiled at his words and stepped back a few paces. Calling Crow wondered what the older man had said to make the others smile.

  Hotea turned to Calling Crow. “This man is Senor Roldan. He has great medicine. He said that if you don’t tell us where your village is, he will call down thunder and lightning upon you.”

  Calling Crow scowled as he spoke. “Not only are you all liars, but you are all crazy as well.”

  Hotea told Roldan what Calling Crow had said. Roldan then picked up a tall stick with many carvings on it and slowly approached Calling Crow. He set one end of the stick on the ground beside Calling Crow and knelt down. Calling Crow saw many strange dwellings carved into the stick. There was even a large buck deer carved there. Toward the bottom of the long stick a small piece of smoking kindling was attached. The man called Roldan smiled at Calling Crow and squeezed the stick. There was a clicking sound, like a branch snapping underfoot, and the tall stick erupted in thunder and smoke. Calling Crow jumped and ran, knocking one man down before the others pushed him roughly to the sand. Several demon men piled on Calling Crow. His heart beat like the wings of a captured bird and his mind raced. The demon men had great horrible powers but he must not tell them about Tumaqua. He must tell them something else; perhaps he could set them off on the wrong trail.

  Someone drove his foot into Calling Crow’s side and he looked up. The one called Roldan looked down at Calling Crow as if he were a diseased dog. Hotea repeated Roldan’s demand that Calling Crow tell him the location of his village.

  Calling Crow coughed as he spoke to Hotea. “My friend and I were taken prisoner by another tribe a long time ago. They took us far away from our village to this strange place and we have only now managed to escape. I am not even sure about where I am.”

  Hotea translated, and Roldan smiled. He spoke in a dog-growling tone to Hotea. Hotea nodded and looked down at Calling Crow, “Where do your captors live?”

  Calling Crow pointed west. “Three days’ march into the forest toward the setting sun.

  Hotea translated, and Roldan the demon man studied Calling Crow for a moment. Then all the demon men turned as one to look in the distance.

  Calling Crow saw two of the huge four-leggeds which had run him and Big Nose down earlier racing toward them. They drew up a few feet away with hideous squeals and snorts, pawing the earth and throwing up a cloud of sand. Calling Crow watched in amazement as the top fire haired, manlike half of one creature disengaged itself from the lower four-legged half. Then Calling Crow realized that each of these things were really two separate creatures, one a huge demon dog, the other a demon man riding on the top.

  Hotea said to Calling Crow, “That is Senor Mateo. He is the chief of these people.”

  The fire haired demon man who was called Mateo glanced briefly at Calling Crow before turning to speak to the demon man called Roldan.

  Calling Crow could tell by the exchange between the two men that Roldan was Mateo Fire Hair’s enemy. Fire Hair addressed Roldan in angry, barking tones, and then Roldan responded in words that were colder than the water at the bottom of the sea. Calling Crow could see that each of the two men wanted very much to kill the other. The other demon men moved away suddenly and Calling Crow saw a big canoe moving quickly through the surf toward him. Rising from its center was a tall thin tree, and hanging from this was a great skin which blew in the wind. When it drew close, a dozen demon men quickly pulled down the skin and jumped out to turn the canoe so that it faced the sea. Fire Hair issued orders and the men secured many ropes to the demon dogs, pushing and tugging them into the center of the great canoe. Next, rough hands seized Calling Crow and he was lowered into the other canoe. He tried to raise his head to see where they were going, but the sides of the canoe were too high to see over and the effort caused him great pain. He blacked out and awoke a brief moment later to see a demon dog being hoisted up the side of a great cloudboat by many ropes as the beast snorted and wailed.

  The demon men roughly pushed Calling Crow down into the belly of the cloudboat. It was dark, but his nose told him he was in some kind of animal pen. His body felt afire and he was very weak from a spell they had cast upon him. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a figure lying not far away. He crawled through the dry grasses lying on the ground. It was Big Nose. As Calling Crow’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that red spots covered his cousin’s face and his mouth hung open in the heat.

  “Aieyee,” said Calling Crow. “Big Nose, are you well?”

  Big Nose said nothing, and Calling Crow put his hand on his brow. It burned like a rock exposed to the summer afternoon’s sun. He, too, must be under the powerful spell of the demon men. Calling Crow shook Big Nose again and, getting no response, crawled back over to the door of the pen. He tried to undo the cords that secured it, but they were as cool as stone and just as strong. Suddenly the cloudboat groaned and leaned over dizzyingly. Calling Crow knew they were moving and a horrible thought struck him. What if they somehow found his village of Tumaqua? The thought sickened him and he crawled back over to Big Nose. He lay his hand on Big Nose’s head. It was cool to the touch now.

  Big Nose opened his eyes slowly. “What spell is this they--.”

  Calling Crow leaned closer as Big Nose closed his eyes and his voice trailed off. Calling Crow listened closely but the only sound he heard was the creaking of the big trees rising from the belly of the cloudboat. Calling Crow shook Big Nose. “What is it?”

  Big Nose’ eyes opened wide as he grabbed Calling Crow’s arm. He seemed to look through Calling Crow. “Forgive me--. I am leaving you alone in this place.”

  As Calling Crow looked down at his friend, a fly landed on one of Big Nose’s watery, sightless eyes. Another fly lit on his cheek, rubbing its back legs as it circled in a death dance. Calling Crow cried out, but the spell the demon men had put on him strangled the sound in his throat.

  ***

  For a long time Calling Crow lay unmoving in the darkness. Then, the one called Hotea and an old gray haired demon man opened the gate to his pen. They brought food to him, but Calling Crow was too weak to eat. When the demon men saw that Big Nose had died, they carried him away and Calling Crow felt as if they had taken his spirit away as well. He lay back and felt himself spinning down into the bottom of the sea.

  Chapter 10

  Miramor, the ship’s boy, climbed the stairs from the gundeck, his bare feet slapping the oaken beams. The lamp he carried created a wobbly pool of yellow light that surrounded him. The moon and stars were completely obscured by a low layer of thick marine clouds. Still groggy from his sleep, Miramor tried to remember the dream he had been dreaming only a few moments ago when he had been awakened for his watch. It was the vineyard. He remembered lying in the grass at
the edge of Senor Gaspar’s vineyard, the sun warming his skin, while he and another boy watched a column of ants moving across the ground like the brave soldiers of De Sole, the great Conquistador. Now, as Miramor headed for the ship’s rail to feel his way forward, he wondered if they would ever get back to Santo Domingo. All the things that had happened crowded into his head suddenly. Garcia’s drowning, the horrible man, Mateo, the kindness of old Diego. When would it all end, he wondered. When would they go home?

  Reaching the rail, Miramor heard the faint pounding of surf in the distance and turned to look. In the blackness, dozens of fires burned brightly.

  It must be a village of hundreds, he thought, as he watched the flickering lights reflected on the rolling black waves. He ran toward the stairs leading up to the poop deck. “Indians!” he cried. “There are Indians on the shore!”

  After the sun had risen halfway to its zenith, a fair breeze began to blow off the land. The sailors and soldiers on the decks of the Guadalupe and the Speeding Hound congregated in groups and watched the shore. They were pointing and laughing at about a dozen Indians who had ventured shyly out of the trees as far as the water’s edge. To the amusement and delight of the men, the Indians were almost naked, the men wearing only a thin loincloth over their genitals and the women a skirt of grasses, leaving their breasts exposed. The Indians could be seen pointing back at the ships and waving. Even though there were dozens of small dugout canoes drawn up on the beach, the Indians made no attempt to come out to the ships.