Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  “How dare he use that tone to me!” Mateo followed Calling Crow outside and grabbed him by the shoulder. Calling Crow spun and threw Mateo to the ground. The two men rolled about, each trying for a purchase on the other. Mateo brought his knee up between Calling Crow’s legs and Calling Crow doubled up in pain. Breathing rapidly, Mateo got to his feet. Calling Crow forced himself to his knees. Looking up, he said in his own language, “Kill me now, Fire Hair. For if you do not, I will surely kill you one day.”

  Father Luis was suddenly beside Mateo, slapping his face repeatedly.

  “If you were not a priest-- ” Mateo roared with rage.

  “Don’t threaten me, you who breaks God’s laws and the laws of this land!”

  “You must be mad!” said Mateo. “What are you talking about?”

  “He is a cacique and you sold him to Roldan and his animals! That is against the rules of the Council of the Indies.”

  Mateo wiped a small trickle of blood from his nose. “A cacique, eh? I don’t believe it.”

  “Yes, a cacique, and now a proper Christian.”

  Mateo turned away from Father Luis and looked down at Calling Crow. The Indian’s eyes glowed with hate. “You are blinded by your own wishes for these people, Father. He is as Christ like as a snake in the grass.”

  Father Luis roared with anger. “How dare you talk that way here? Leave at once.”

  Mateo did not move.

  Father Luis’s cheeks trembled with rage. “Go now, do you hear? You are wrong. Wrong, I say. So much of what you and the others have done on these shores in the name of God and King is terribly, terribly wrong.”

  Mateo’s eyes burned into the Indian’s, then Mateo turned and walked off.

  ***

  Later that day Calling Crow went into the church. He walked through the quiet coolness and sat in the front row before the Jesus on a cross. He thought of the people in the pit, of No Neck and Big Heart and the others, and he felt ashamed for having left them. He was sure Roldan would have killed him, but still he felt shame. He would ask Father Luis if he could go to the pit with him to help the people.

  The cool air and the strange smells of tallow candles and incense filled his nose, and a peace came over him. Now that he was out of the hands of the soldiers and under the loose control of Father Luis, he began to think of escape. The priest seemed to be a good man, but who could tell with these Spanish? There was no telling what he might do later on. Calling Crow decided to use his new freedom to carefully plan an escape to the mountains. Others here had told him that there were people living free up there. This time, however, he would plan very carefully so he wouldn’t be captured like before.

  Getting to his feet, he carefully lay his offering on the altar and sat down again. He prayed very hard for the people in the pit, but he felt no power from the prayer. Sitting at the Jesus’ feet, he squeezed the spirit bag Little Bear had given him, hoping its medicine would combine with the powerful medicine of the Spanish gods. He prayed much longer and still he felt nothing. He looked at the bright red blood running down the Jesus’ face, at the long hair on his head, his up cast eyes, the spear hole in his side and the blood pouring from it. He did not understand. If the Jesus had all the magic that they said he had, and if the priests had that same magic, and if they were against what happened in the pits, why could they not stop it? And, this Father, God. If he, Calling Crow, were now His child, why had He let them do those things to him? And surely Little Bear who had been baptized many times was His child, too. But did it help him?

  Perhaps the Jesus wanted to show them how brave and proud He was and how their torture meant nothing to Him. That must be it, he thought. Feeling better with this new understanding, he prayed again, staring hard at the Jesus. He prayed this way for a long time, and then he saw the Jesus in war paint and feathers. Aieyee! He recalled Fire Hair Mateo’s hand on his arm earlier, his kick to the groin. If he, Calling Crow, had the power of the Jesus, Fire Hair Mateo would be dead now.

  Calling Crow stared at the Jesus a while longer and then closed his eyes to pray for his escape. He prayed for a long time and then he slept.

  The gentle slap of Father Luis’s sandaled feet on the stone floor woke Calling Crow and he opened his eyes. The father came up behind him.

  “I am sad to stop you praying, Roberto, but I want you to run fast for me.”

  Calling Crow was momentarily confused by the father’s words. They communicated using a mixture of signs, Calling Crow’s own language, and Spanish. But sometimes there were things they could not quite get across to each other, things which turned strange in the telling.

  Calling Crow said, “Yes, Father. I will do it. Tell me. If the Jesus has great power and you are a friend of the Jesus, could you ask Him to help the people in the pit?”

  Father Luis smiled sadly. “Every day I ask Him, Roberto.”

  Calling Crow was puzzled. “Why must you ask Him again and again?”

  Father Luis laughed. “Sometimes others are talking into His ears and He does not hear my words.”

  “Ah,” said Calling Crow. It did not make much sense to him, but he was tired of the confusing talk and so he said nothing further.

  Father Luis nodded. “Roberto, I want you to go into the town.”

  As Calling Crow listened, his nose was troubled by the priest’s bad smell. It radiated out with the heat from his large fat body. Why did he persist in wearing the heavy black robes?

  Father Luis glanced up at the altar and a look of horror came over his face. “God of the sky, forgive us,” he cried loudly. He quickly grabbed the hare that Calling Crow had earlier snared and placed on the altar as an offering. Holding it at arm’s length, he extended it to Calling Crow.

  “Please, no put this on altar.”

  Calling Crow took the hare. “Why, Father?”

  “If the chief Father in town saw this, he would have you whipped!”

  “Why? I have done nothing wrong.”

  Father Luis shook his head in exasperation. “Please, Roberto. Never do this bad thing again, eh?”

  “Yes, Father.” Again Calling Crow felt confused. He did not understand why the father did not think his offering worthy, but perhaps he would learn in time.

  Father Luis handed Calling Crow one of the pieces of thin skin which the Spanish insisted said things. Calling Crow had already held one up to his car and heard nothing.

  “Here,” said the father. “I want you to take this to Bishop Cavago. You remember I showed you the big stone house where he lives?”

  Calling Crow nodded.

  “Remember, you must give it to no one except the old chief Father who has no hair on his head.” Father Luis touched the tip of his nose. “And he has a melon growing here.”

  Calling Crow frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “He has a mark on his nose, round like a small casaba melon.”

  “Ah,” said Calling Crow.

  They walked out of the church together, Father Luis’s hand on Calling Crow’s shoulder. Calling Crow’s skin crawled at this affront, but he knew the father was merely ignorant of the ways of his people and so he said nothing.

  Father Luis paused and looked at the sun. “You should not return today. The sun will go away before you get halfway back. Stay with the chief Father’s servants and come back in the morning.”

  Calling Crow walked down the road at a good pace. The afternoon sun warmed his back and cheered him. He walked fast, delighting at the sight of birds flying and bees gliding low over the clover of the meadow. The shadows were getting long when he arrived at the wall of the city. He paused at the Stone Pouring Woman to drink. He wanted to stay there longer, but went instead straight to the big stone house.

  Chapter 25

  Juana of the Arawak People lay awake in the bed as the Bishop slept beside her. She looked closely at his features. The blemish on his nose, a bulbous growth, was wrinkled like a melon. All that remained of his hair, a few long grayish strands, grew just
above and behind his ears, like the hair on a corpse. The Spanish were very different from her own people, she thought. The old ones had more hair on their faces than on their heads.

  She pulled her robe about her and sat up. As her feet touched the floor, the Bishop’s eyes opened and he touched his cold hand to her face. She cursed inwardly. She should have lain still longer and then maybe he would have stayed asleep.

  “Is Senor Barrameda still giving you Spanish lessons?” he said. Pedro Barrameda was the majordomo, a Spanish who ruled over the servants. Despite the Bishop’s orders, he treated Juana with contempt, but only when the Bishop was not around.

  “No. He says he is going to, but he never does.”

  “I will talk to him tomorrow.” The Bishop turned her head with his hand and looked into her eyes. “Don’t be in such a hurry, child.”

  “I have work to do back at the reservation.”

  “Is work more pleasing to you than lying with me?”

  Juana’s stomach turned at what she must say. “Of course not, You know it is not so.”

  The Bishop smiled and slowly pulled her to him. A knock came at the door. Juana’s heart beat rapidly as he sat up. Hopefully it was someone who would engage him for some time. The Bishop got out of bed and quickly pulled the gown about his broad, hairy body. He cracked the door.

  Juana could hear old Senor Barrameda’s voice, brittle as a fallen leaf dried out by the sun. “An Indian messenger has arrived with a letter.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “He would not give it to me. I know it is for you because I could clearly see your name on it, but he would not hand it over to me.”

  Bishop Cavago’s voice rose in annoyance. “Why not?”

  “I do not know. He is either deaf, or else he cannot speak the language. I think he is also nearly blind, too, for he studied my facial features most carefully.”

  “Thank you, Pedro. I will be there in a few minutes.”

  Bishop Cavago closed the door and watched Juana get out of the bed and pull her slip on. As she started through the door into the rear of the apartment, he called to her. “I will talk to Senor Barrameda tomorrow about your lessons.”

  With some effort, Juana managed to smile and went into the other room to dress.

  Bishop Cavago walked to the courtyard door. He was surprised by the sight of the messenger. He had never seen an Indian so large of build. “I am Bishop Cavago,” he said.

  The Indian studied Cavago carefully before handing him the letter.

  Bishop Cavago ripped it open impatiently, glaring at the big insolent Indian as he walked off with his curious, wolfish gait. He glanced down at the signature and felt a twinge of anger. Father Luis again! He might have known. He read the letter quickly and balled it up. First, Father Luis had been quoting scriptures to him, his own Bishop! Then he had angered most of the encomenderos on the island by placing himself between them and their Indians. Now, he was threatening the encomenderos with excommunication!

  Bishop Cavago watched the small groups of Indians huddled in the shade of the courtyard. He smoothed the letter out against his gown and put it in his vest pocket. Well, he would have to do something about Father Luis before too long, perhaps transfer him to that mission down on the Main where the Caribs were still proving so bothersome. At any rate, he could not allow Father Luis to take matters like this into his own hands.

  Calling Crow saw one of Father Luis’s native servants, the one called Miguel, sitting in the courtyard of the Bishop’s house with some other men. He walked over to him.

  “Grandfather, are you staying the night here?”

  “Yes. I stay the night. And you?”

  Calling Crow nodded. “Yes. I will stay.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.

  Miguel got slowly to his feet. “Come. I know where we can get food.”

  As Calling Crow and Miguel walked out onto the hot street, they found themselves in a crowd of people. The women talked loudly among themselves as the men walked quietly. Someone shouted a warning, and the crowd quickly moved to the side to get out of the way of an approaching Spanish on horseback. Calling Crow was shoved against a slender woman walking beside him and instinctively grabbed her to keep her from falling. She dropped the sack she was carrying and he stepped on some of the fruits that fell out of it as he fought to keep his balance. The people shouted angrily at the rider as the dust from his mount floated through the air, obscuring them from one another and grinding in their teeth. Someone made a joke that the Spanish was in a hurry because he must be right off the boat from Spain and, having eaten of some red peppers for the first time, desperately needed water. Some of the people laughed at this, and Calling Crow looked around for Miguel. Someone hit him on the arm. It was the woman.

  “You mashed my fruit to a pulp with your big feet!”

  Calling Crow looked down at her. Since he had been in this place, he had learned enough of the local dialect to be able to understand her.

  She wore her hair pulled back in the Spanish fashion. Her face was proud and her skin had a glow to it which drew the eye. As she knelt in the street to pick up her food, he could see that beneath the Spanish cloth, her breasts were firm and her hips rounded nicely. He felt bad at noticing this, however, for he was reminded of Tiamai.

  The woman gave him an exaggerated hostile look. “Since you knocked these out of my hand, you should at least help me pick them up.”

  Calling Crow made no move, and the woman handed him the sack of fruits. “Take these over there,” she said, pointing to a cool spot of shade cast by a tree.

  Calling Crow walked over and, turning, spotted Miguel watching him from a distance. The older man’s face darkened with displeasure. He turned and walked away. The woman walked over to Calling Crow and held the fruits out. He held the bag open as she placed them inside. He handed the bag to her.

  “What people are you?” she said.

  “I am Calling Crow of the Muskogee People.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I have never heard of those people. What do the Spanish call you?”

  “Roberto.”

  “I am Juana. I am of the Arawak People.”

  A group of laughing children ran past them through the dusty street, their laughter rising above the dull drone of the adult voices like the songs of brightly colored birds. Juana smiled at them and turned her attention back to Calling Crow.

  “Where do you live?” she said.

  “Outside the city.” Calling Crow absently looked around for Miguel. He wondered why he had left so quickly. “I live with a priest called Father Luis. For a Spanish, he is a good man.”

  “Yes. I have heard of him.”

  A vendor walked by with a basket full of shiny red and green peppers. Calling Crow remained where he was as Juana inspected the peppers.

  “There will be dancing tonight at the Napatuca reservation,” she said. “Why don’t you come’?”

  “I must talk to my companion first.” Again Calling Crow looked around for Miguel and could find him nowhere. He turned back to speak with the strange, attractive woman named Juana but she had joined the crowd on the street. He watched her walk away. She walked proudly, he decided, like the daughter of a cacique. She turned round to look at him and smiled.

  Calling Crow walked back in the direction he had come from and saw Miguel standing at a row of small reed-thatched, palm frond-roofed vendor stalls. Each stall housed baskets piled high with fruits and vegetables. Calling Crow went over to him.

  “What did she say to you?” asked Miguel.

  “That there will be a feast and dancing at the reservation tonight.”

  Miguel’s eyes turned to slits. “Stay away from her.”

  “Why?” said Calling Crow.

  “Why? You sound like the Spanish. See how she dresses? See how she wears her hair? She is not of the people anymore. That is why.”

  Calling Crow said nothing out of respect for Miguel’s greate
r years, for that was the way of the people. But he knew that Miguel must be wrong somehow. For in just a short time this woman had touched something in his heart. He knew she wasn’t a bad woman. He thought of staying away, however. After all, memories of Tiamai still saddened him. But, now a loneliness greater than that sadness welled up in him. The more he thought of this attractive woman, this mysterious Juana, the more he knew he must go to the reservation.

  ***

  Calling Crow wandered past the reed-thatched huts of the reservation. Down by the beach, the drums beat steadily, like the heart of the village. The sound filled the people with a sense of joy and expectation. A group of six men and two women stood around a cook pot suspended over a fire in front of a hut. They were looking over at Calling Crow as he approached and some of them laughed. One of the women waved him over.

  “What people are you?” she said.

  “Muskogee.”

  She turned back to the other woman to say something that Calling Crow did not understand, and they laughed again.

  He turned away from them to watch the people walking by.

  “Have you eaten?” the woman asked him.

  “No.”

  “Sit.”

  Calling Crow stood watching the people as she walked over to the cook pot. He saw her quickly pull some hot meat from the pot and put it in a gourd bowl. She brought it back to him. “Here.” He thanked her as he knelt and pulled a piece of the hot meat from the bone. “What meat is this?”

  “It is pig. It was brought here by the Spanish.”

  “It is very good.”

  The woman smiled. She went back to stand with her group, but she continued to watch him eat, smiling at him.

  Calling Crow watched the people milling around. Down at the beach he could see some small figures dancing in a line. Then he saw Juana walking alone up the path from the beach. He liked the way she moved. He looked at her and she saw him and started toward him. The woman who had given him the meat ran up and grabbed the gourd bowl from him angrily. She glared at him before dashing back to her group.