by Paul Clayton
Roldan bowed slightly to Ahopo while Ortiz watched warily. “I wanted to speak with the great cacique, Ahopo,” said Roldan. The man translated for Ahopo, who was looking at Roldan closely in the poor light. The two Indians spoke quietly for a minute and then the interpreter said, “Very well. What do you wish to say?”
“Tell him that I can produce the man who took away his people on the ships a long time ago.”
Ahopo became very agitated at the news. He moved closer. The interpreter said, “He also wants you to deliver this other Spanish cacique who has come, the one who calls himself De Sole.”
“That I cannot do,” said Roldan. The very suggestion angered him. Gaining his revenge on Francisco Mateo was one thing, but betraying De Sole and his soldiers, was quite another.
The interpreter moved closer to Roldan. “Why do you do this?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
Roldan indicated the thick leather strap of the harquebusman’s sack over his shoulder. “I want gold, as much as you can put in this bag.”
Ahopo and the other man smiled when they heard this. They talked amongst themselves for a few more moments. The man gestured for the sack and Roldan took it off and gave it to him.
“That is not all that I want,” said Roldan.
“Yes? What else do you want?”
“After I give you Francisco Mateo I want one of your people as a guide, and safe passage to Veracruz for my friend and I.”
The Indian men regarded Roldan silently for a few moments as they talked. Ahopo nodded to the interpreter. “It is agreed,” said the interpreter. He turned and spoke to the other brave, who cut the cords binding Roldan’s and Ortiz’s hands.
Roldan rubbed his wrists as he regarded the Indians.
The interpreter spoke again. “When will you bring him here?”
“Within the next five nights.”
The interpreter spoke quickly with Ahopo. Ahopo looked once more at Roldan and left the hut. The interpreter frowned at them. “You may go now.”
***
The rain fell in a fine mist as Roldan and Ortiz approached the hut which served as De Sole’s headquarters. Wood smoke seeped through the palm thatch roof, giving the hut the appearance of a huge pile of fresh horse manure steaming in the early morning cold. Roldan turned to Ortiz. “Wait here. I will talk to him alone.”
Roldan went inside. A soldier armed with a crossbow stood guard at the entryway, while in the middle of the hut, another soldier stood stiffly near the fire. De Sole sat a few feet away at a crude table on which two candles shed quivering pools of light. He was busy writing in a large volume with a quill pen and did not look up when Roldan bowed before him. Moths and insects flitted about the candles. Roldan waited, listening to the pop and hiss of the fire and the scratch of De Sole’s quill, on the paper. De Sole continued to ignore him.
“Excellency,” said Roldan finally, “I would like a word with you.”
“Yes. Speak. I am perfectly capable of doing this and listening to you at the same time.”
“Yes, Excellency. I think I have located a sizable cache of Indian grain.”
“Is that so?” De Sole still did not look up from his writing.
Roldan waited a few moments. A large moth flitted into the flame of one candle, flaring the flame with a sizzling sound.
“What is sizable?” said De Sole.
“Several bushels of maize, Excellency. Enough for perhaps a hundred men to live on for a fortnight.”
De Sole scoffed. “Hardly worth going after since we will be moving to another location in three or four days. One of the Indians has confessed that there is much gold four days march from here. My men would rather catch game along the way and go get gold.”
“Excellency, I would still like your permission to go and get this grain. We could use it on the march.”
“Very well. Go get it.”
“I will need Indian bearers.”
“Take what you need.” De Sole looked up from his writing. “Is that all?”
Roldan shook his head. “One more thing, Excellency. I should like to take Francisco Mateo with me.”
De Sole waved away one of the moths with the quill. “Why?”
“He knows the area well.”
“He told me that he does not.”
“He lies. He and his men traveled all over this country in search of Indians.”
“Well, he is no good to me. Take him.”
Roldan smiled. “Thank you, Excellency. I’m sure he will prove to be most valuable to me.”
Chapter 44
Chained together with three other bearers, Calling Crow squatted in a patch of shade under the watchful eyes of Alonso Roldan and Hotea, the interpreter. Both men carried loaded crossbows. Manuel Ortiz, exited the hut carrying an iron pan full of parched maize. Standing before one of the bearers, he told him to take a large handful, for they had much walking and carrying to do. He stood before Calling Crow. Calling Crow would not look up at him, nor would he take any grain. He did not want to eat. With Juana now gone back to that terrible island, he did not want to live. Let them kill me now, he thought. I am ready.
Ortiz sneered at him. “You’ll be begging for food later. Then you will get only the whip.” He moved on to the next man.
Roldan and Mateo approached. For some reason, Mateo was without his sword. Mateo caught his eye. “It appears our fates are somehow intertwined,” he said.
Calling Crow ignored him.
Roldan began shouting. “On your feet! We are going now. On your feet!”
As Calling Crow stood, Mateo laughed sarcastically and called to Roldan, “You are all armed to the teeth. You must expect to encounter some difficulty on this patrol.”
Roldan’s face was expressionless. “There is no need for your talk. Just begin walking. Too much talking can be dangerous.”
As Calling Crow watched the exchange intently, Mateo again caught his eye. “You see,” he said, “our fates really are tied closely. Don’t you think?”
Calling Crow looked away in disgust. Mateo must have gone crazy if he thought he wanted to engage in conversation with him.
Ortiz and Hotea took the lead, Roldan waited till the column moved out before falling in behind Mateo.
Although the rain had stopped, the skies were still gray and impenetrable. They entered the bog, the walk slowing to a tiring, sloshing march. Through a red haze of pain and exhaustion, Juana’s face appeared before Calling Crow again and again. He cried out involuntarily and Ortiz jabbed him with the point of the bolt in his crossbow. “One more sound and I’ll take the whip to you.”
Calling Crow was too dazed to react.
At midday they reached the edge of the bog and climbed onto solid land. With firm earth beneath his feet, Calling Crow’s dreamlike state began to dissipate. They marched across a flat plain of reeds, dotted here and there with scrub pine. At about the distance of three crossbow shots, the plain melded into jungle. As they drew close to the jungle, Calling Crow looked back. Roldan was a few paces behind Mateo with the crossbow pointed at his back. Roldan nervously watched the direction from which they had come and Calling Crow realized that Roldan had brought Mateo out here to kill him. Calling Crow was not surprised. He knew the men hated each other.
Suddenly the tree line ahead exploded with sound. Dozens of braves emerged from the trees howling with rage. They quickly surrounded Calling Crow and his captors, and to Calling Crow’s amazement, neither Roldan, Ortiz, or Hotea did anything in defense. Mateo, however, turned to run, but several braves shoved him to the ground and quickly bound his hands.
Calling Crow watched in bewilderment as the braves left Roldan, Ortiz, and Hotea unmolested. They walked behind, while the braves pushed Mateo and Calling Crow and the other bearers ahead of them toward the jungle.
The village had recently been constructed of newly cut, still-green palm thatch. As they entered, a mob of noisy people milled about them. The women and children fingered the clothing of the Spanis
h and the bearers. Calling Crow wondered what sort of arrangement Roldan had made with them. The cacique emerged with his advisors from one of the huts. Calling Crow recognized him as Ahopo, the big man who had jabbed Mateo with his lance before jumping over the side of the ship. As Ahopo and Hotea talked, Calling Crow realized that Roldan was delivering Mateo to Ahopo. What would he get in return?
Ahopo and an attendant walked over to Mateo. Ahopo’s eyes lit up with recognition. He pulled Mateo roughly away from the others and ordered two braves to hold him by the arms. Ahopo looked over at Calling Crow and the other bearers. “Release them!” he said.
The braves tried unsuccessfully to undo the iron ring from around Calling Crow’s neck.
Ahopo said to Hotea. “Tell Roldan to release him.”
Hotea translated the command and Roldan took the key from the pocket of his doublet He quickly unlocked the ring, and it and the chains fell loudly to the ground. Calling Crow felt dizzy at being released from the weight. He rubbed his neck and waited to see what would happen next. Ahopo turned back to Roldan. Roldan’s gaze was steely, but Ortiz and Hotea eyed the milling throng of braves nervously.
“We would like to be on our way now,” said Roldan.
Hotea translated the request. Ahopo nodded. “We will pay you now.”
“What did he say?” said Roldan worriedly to Hotea.
“He said he would pay us now.”
Ahopo raised his hand and the braves unleashed a cloud of arrows. Dozens of them found their mark, striking Hotea and Ortiz. One arrow struck Roldan after he put a bolt from his crossbow deep into the belly of one of the braves. The braves rushed at Roldan. He pulled his sword but went down in a heap. Screaming out their war cries, the braves stabbed their lances downward, their sweating, muscled backs rippling from the effort.
Ahopo pointed to Mateo as he said to Calling Crow and the other bearers. “Who among you speak his language?”
Calling Crow got to his feet.
“Tell him he shall live,” said Ahopo, “but he shall live as a slave for the rest of his days-- just as he has enslaved our people.”
Calling Crow delivered the message to Mateo, relishing the fear and sadness he saw in the other man’s eyes. “Now,” he said, “everything is turned round, Mateo. How do you like it?”
Ahopo shouted to his braves. “Put the Spanish chains on him.”
After they put the chain and iron ring around Mateo’s neck, Ahopo came over and gave the chain a yank. Mateo grabbed the ring, holding back as Ahopo began pulling him. Ahopo gave the chain a mighty yank and Mateo lost his balance and fell to his knees. Laughing, Ahopo turned and started running, pulling Mateo through the dirt. An old woman rushed out from the crowd and kicked Mateo as the people howled with laughter. Mateo fought to hold onto the chain as others rushed forward to kick him. Calling Crow was unable to turn away from the spectacle, amazed at the turn things had taken for his former enemy.
Chapter 45
Calling Crow had only been in the village of the Saturibas for a few days when a woman befriended him. One of the most attractive women in the village, Cochilima’s long, scalloped hair flowed over her breasts and down to her hips, which were full and inviting. Since losing Juana, Calling Crow did not want a woman. But this woman pursued him persistently and cooked for him, and so he went with her and lived in her house. They became lovers and she begged him to tell her his story, but he would not, saying only that it hurt him too much to tell it. Always, after their lovemaking, she would implore him to tell his story, but he would not, and eventually she gave up. She made up for his quiet moods by talking enthusiastically and sometimes singing.
Cochilima told Calling Crow everything about her life in the village and all the changes that had come to pass there. She told him how life had been under Chief Callos, and how things had changed when the others had come to live with them. It had been four turnings of the skies ago when Ahopo and his people arrived. They were welcomed and made ‘of the people,’ but shortly afterward many people became sick. People began dying and there was much fear and sadness. The people were angry with Ahopo and his people, thinking them somehow responsible. Then one day, Ahopo discovered in the hut of the medicine man, Tupac, a spell bundle containing one thing from each of the people who had died. They were small things of small value-- a bone auger, a tiny clay figurine, a favorite feathered fishhook-- but their purpose was clear: with them Tupac had cast a spell.
The village decided to hold a council and decide Tupac’s fate. But before that could take place, Ahopo discovered Tupac sneaking away one night and killed him with a single blow from his club. Wonderfully, magically, the deaths stopped soon after and life became good again. It was then that they lost Chief Callos. He and two braves had gone into the forest with Ahopo to seek a vision when tragedy struck. They were attacked in the night by demon people and only Ahopo and one of the braves returned alive. The brave limped for ever after and, having been struck a blow to his head which drove away his man’s mind, he was left only with the mind of the little boy he had once been. Ahopo had become Chief, having been given the sacred mantel by Callos as he lay dying on that fateful night.
Calling Crow got up from where he lay with Cochilima and looked out the entryway. Father Sun would be up shortly. The birds had already started singing. He had been in this new place with the Saturiba People for over two moons now. In the beginning, he had intended to go north to find Tumaqua, but despite his new freedom, his heart was heavy with the loss of Juana and he had never begun the journey. He felt as if his spirit had left his body.
Cochilima called to him softly, but he did not go to her. He sat and watched the outlines of the village take shape in the growing light. He saw the other huts like the one he stood in, raised on stilts, the game pens, the hard-packed earthen courtyard. He saw the dogs tethered to the feeding pen. Then, as the light grew stronger, he noticed a familiar figure curled up with the dogs for their warmth-- Mateo. His clothes were rags now, and his red hair and beard had grown so much he resembled the four-leggeds. Calling Crow’s anger began to build as he watched the sleeping figure and thought of all the things that had happened to him since he had first seen this man on his high horse so long ago. He thought it would have been better if Ahopo had killed Mateo as he did all the other Spanish that day. This feeling was natural, he knew, his longing for revenge. The more he thought of Mateo and all that had happened, he realized that Mateo was the reason he was still here. Mateo was his last tie to that other world. When Mateo died, he would be free to go.
Calling Crow saw two small shapes moving under a hut. Boys, they ran out and under another hut, drawing closer to the sleeping Mateo. They emerged in the diffused light, one of them armed with a stick. A dog sniffed them and lifted its head to bark softly. Mateo continued to sleep. The boys waited till the dog quieted, then crept closer. When they were close enough, the larger of the two struck Mateo sharply on the back with the stick. Mateo raised his head and growled at them, and the boys backed off, laughing nervously. Mateo looked around furtively to see if any of the village adults were up. While his head was turned, one of the boys threw a rock and struck him. Mateo’s leg had been damaged the day he had been taken prisoner, and he got to his feet and ran after them in his peculiar, rocking limp. He did not get far when the chain tethering him brought him up short. He cursed impotently and the boys howled in delight.
Calling Crow watched Mateo probe his head where the rock had struck him. Moaning, he limped back. Lying down, he curled the chain up beside him, looked around, and nestled up against one of the bigger dogs.
***
Mateo sat in the shade of a hut listening to the chanting in the distance. Most of the villagers were in the big hut singing their prayers, but there might be one or two about. Ahopo and his men had captured two of De Sole’s soldiers. Mateo wanted to see them. He must know what had happened. If De Sole and his soldiers were not too far away he might make it to safety.
Mateo had recently
managed to loosen and pull up the post where he was chained. But he dared not run away until he had assured himself of his chances. The last time he had gotten lost, and when the braves caught him, they had beaten him almost to death.
He crawled as far as the chain would allow and looked down the muddy street. No one was about. He pulled up the stake and quietly gathered the chain in his arms. He crawled under a hut, coming out by the back. He passed three more huts and crept into the street. The two men were tied to poles just ahead near the fire. Their heads hung limply. As he crept closer his hope died, for they appeared long dead. He stared silently at the many burns and gouges on their skin. One man suddenly opened his eyes, startling Mateo. He said nothing for a few moments as he stared at Mateo.
Mateo shook his head. “Is it bad?”
The man blinked, his only movement. Then, in a voice like a rusty gate, he said, “Give me water, fool.”
Mateo looked around and saw a calabash of water sitting on a rock. He took it and held it up to the man’s lips. Most of it ran down his chin, but he managed to drink some. Mateo set the calabash down as the man coughed and the ropes suspending him creaked from the movement. “We were down to two dozen men,” he said weakly, “no food.”
Mateo was suddenly aware that the chanting had stopped. “What about De Sole?” he said.
“Dead,” said the man in a croaking voice. “We buried him in the river so the savages wouldn’t find him.” The man opened his eyes again. “Give me more water.”
Mateo turned around for the calabash. Four boys came running up to him. They shouted an alarm and Mateo looked over to where the jungle edged up against the huts. So close… but he knew he would never make it and he remained where he was.
The boy in the lead struck him with the shaft of his lance, knocking him down. The others began beating him. He fended off the blows as best he could as the boys shouted for others to come. Holding his hands over his head, Mateo heard an older male voice and looked up to see Father Luis’s Indian-- he’d forgotten his name-- throwing the boys out of the way. As one of the boys rolled in the dirt, the big Indian kicked him and spoke gruffly to him in their language. The boy got to his feet and backed off.
