by Paul Clayton
A woman named Isabella knelt beside Juana, showing her the turnip roots she had collected. Juana had shown the women of the settlement how to make a flour from the starchy root with which they could bake a bread. “Are these the right ones?” said Isabella.
Juana smiled shyly as she ran her hand over the turnips, discarding a root she did not recognize. “Yes. They are good.”
Isabella nodded and got tiredly to her feet.
Juana dug up two more turnips, putting them into her apron with the others. This sight of such a minuscule amount of food started her stomach to rumbling. She frowned at its insistence and continued her search for the telltale tufts of turnip leaf. She was hungry, yes; but at least she still had her strength. One old man had already died and there were many other old ones who were growing weaker by the day.
Not far from Juana, three women waded in the shallow water of the creek, their gowns floating about them. They peered intently into the fast-running water, prodding the muddy bottom with wooden rakes as they searched for oysters. When they had first arrived, such creatures were bountiful but now there were few to be found. One of the women bent at the waist and turned over a rock. A small gray creature scuttled into a cloud of mud and disappeared. Another women named Flora struck something hard with her rake. Plunging her hand into the water, she brought up a rock with a solitary oyster entrusted to it. She threw it onto the bank where another woman tossed it into a sack. Just then Flora felt a sting on her leg.
“Ouch,” she said. She inspected her leg, finding two bleeding punctures. The other two women looked at her.
“I have cut myself,” said Flora.
“Look,” said one of the women, “over there!”
A long snake was swimming away on the black, raindrop-pocked surface of the stream.
“Madre de Dios!” cried Flora in horror, “a serpent has bitten me!”
The other two women looked around nervously as they helped Flora up onto the bank. They spotted Juana and called her over.
“What is it?” said Juana.
Flora sat on the wet grass and showed Juana the bite. It had already become red and swollen. Flora’s eyes closed and she lay back on the grass. Her breathing became rapid. “Madre de Dios!” said Juana, making the sign of the cross.
The other two women looked at her with fear. “Stay with her,” said Juana, “I will get Father Tomas.”
Father Tomas, the Jesuit, was also a physician. But as Juana ran toward the huts to find him, she knew he could do nothing for Flora but give her the last rites. A deep despair came over Juana. Flora had approached her only an hour earlier and asked her what she could do. She had told her to join the others in the creek. Now she was dying! All of the Spanish women were kind to her, but Flora had been the kindest. Juana brushed away her tears.
Father Tomas stood with Senor Rodrigo de Peralta and Bartolome Valdez, his assistant, outside the settlement’s church. Peralta, a handsome, middle-aged man, stroked his black goatee pensively. Valdez, in his twenties, had a pocked face which he tried to conceal beneath a sparse black beard. A head taller than Peralta, his olive-black eyes gleamed as he bent forward to catch the older man’s every word. Both men were dwarfed by the priest whose black robes made him look even bigger than he was. The priest’s intelligent blue eyes were full of concern as Juana approached.
“Father,” said Juana, “it is Senora Gabon. A snake has bitten her! Please come!”
Father Tomas took off running beside Juana. Peralta called after him. “Father, we will be assembling soon.”
Father Tomas waved in reply. A few moments later he and Juana pushed through the knot of people on the stream bank.
Isabella turned to the priest. “She is unconscious.”
Father Tomas knelt and took Flora’s hand. He put his ear to her bosom. Frowning, he pulled up one of her eyelids, revealing a cold white orb. “I am afraid she is gone,” he said. “I will give her the last rites.”
Juana and the other women broke into sobs as Father Tomas prayed. Father Tomas stood and turned to two men who were looking down at Flora. “Take her back to the shelter and prepare her for burial. The men lifted Flora and carried her toward the huts.
Juana raised her apron to cover her tears. As she walked off, Father Tomas caught up with her and took her elbow. “What happened?”
Juana wiped her tears away. “She came to me and asked me what to do. I told her to join the others in the creek. She would be alive if not for me.” Overcome, Juana turned away from the priest and faced the sea.
“No, child,” said Father Tomas. “Don’t blame yourself. Many people would have died here were it not for your knowledge and help.” Father Tomas gripped Juana’s shoulder in his large hand. Juana felt his warmth and strength flowing into her and she felt better.
“Gracias, Father.” Juana looked at her feet.
Father Tomas took her elbow and led her back toward the settlement. “Perhaps Flora is one of the lucky ones,” he said. “Dying from the bite of a serpent is said to be a fairly painless death. If we do not find food soon, many more will die, and much more slowly and painfully.”
They passed the field where they had harvested their corn. Rain splashed in the water that had formed in the furrows. Father Tomas stopped and looked at it. “Did you know the corn is almost gone?”
Juana shook her head.
The priest went on. “There is not enough to keep all of us alive. The weaker ones will begin to die in a few months.”
“What can we do?” said Juana.
“There is only one thing we can do and that is to pray. No ship will sail till after the season of storms. Only God can help us now. We must pray very sincerely.” Father Tomas began walking again.
In front of the church hut, two groups of men had assembled. One was large, about two dozen men; the other consisted of five men. The groups stood apart, waiting for further orders. All the men wore armored cuirasses about their torsos to protect their vitals from arrows, and comb morion helmets. Their faces were grim and determined. Some held the tall, combination lance/battle axes, called halberds at their sides, and a dozen or so carried harquebuses. All wore swords. The leader of the settlement, Senor Rodrigo de Peralta talked excitedly with Bartolome Valdez in front of the larger group.
“Where are the men going, Father?” said Juana.
Father Tomas pointed to the smaller group. “They are going to try and locate the French Protestants who have settle somewhere north.”
Juana’s face grew dark as she thought of the intense anger and hate people had for the French Protestants. She did not understand it and it troubled her.
Father Tomas nodded at Senor Peralta and the larger group of men. “One of Senor Peralta’s men has located a big native town. That is where they are going, and I. Perhaps we can trade for food.” Tomas looked at the huts. “But, more importantly, I can begin teaching the Indians God’s laws.” Tomas looked at Juana. “After we have assured ourselves that they are friendly, I want you to interpret.”
“Si, Father.”
Father Tomas and Juana walked through the throng of men and saw Flora’s body lying beneath the overhang of the church’s thatch roof. Her face was as gray as the sky. Her husband knelt over her, his head bowed. They knelt beside him to pray. A few moments later Senor Peralta came up to them. “We are ready.”
Father Tomas made the sign of the cross over Flora and he and Juana got to their feet. He smiled a good-bye to Juana and joined the men who were walking in a file toward the woods.
Juana heard a gasp and turned. Flora’s husband shook with sobs. Not only was he mourning her death, Juana realized, but also the fact that now he would have to walk his earth journey alone. Juana thought of her own lonely path. Was Calling Crow walking his path in heaven now, and was her dream of seeing him once again, just that, a dream? He could have survived and escaped, said the tiny, persistent voice in her head. It was possible. Possible, but unlikely. Juana prayed to God. Either way, whether he was dead or alive, she m
ust find peace.
Chapter 8
Eight boys played a game of kickball with a ball made of deerskin and wood in the muddy field outside the palisaded east wall of the village of Aguacay. The object of the game was to get the ball past one of the two goals, small sticks planted in the dirt at opposite ends of the field. A boy called Follows-The-Dogs had just recovered the ball after it had been knocked from the arms of one of his competitors. Laughing in glee, he ran for the goal, slipping on the muddy ground. Tall Boy led the pack chasing him, only a few feet behind. With the thunder of their feet sounding in his ears, Follows-The-Dogs ran as fast as he could. Then he heard nothing. He looked around and saw that Tall Boy and the others now stood in a confused knot, looking past him. Follows-The-Dogs turned and saw ghosts with pale white skin and faces as hairy as dogs emerging from the woods. Dressed in bright-colored skins and shells, and carrying long sticks, they looked at him hungrily. He ran with the others back into the palisade.
Inside the village, many bravos lined the walkway on the inside of the palisade wall. People ran in all directions, shouting that ghosts were coming. Dogs barked and nipped at their heels as little children and babies cried in fear.
From the top of the palisade, Black Snake and Kicking Dog watched. When the white people had all emerged from the forest, they started toward the village.
Black Snake turned to Kicking Dog. “Where is Atina?”
Kicking Dog continued to watch the advance of the white people. “He is coming.”
Black Snake turned and saw Atina approaching with his entourage of old men and guards. “Come,” he said to Kicking Dog. They jumped to the ground and ran to meet them. Together they walked to the gap in the palisade and looked out at the invaders. The whites now stood in a group, waiting and watching in silence.
Outside Green Bird Woman’s hut, Calling Crow and Red Feather knelt as they skinned a deer Calling Crow had caught. Bright Eyes played nearby with a doll Santee had made for her.
A boy crier ran up to them. “The white people are at the village entrance!” he said.
“How many?” called out a man who had overheard.
“What did he say?” cried another woman.
The boy ran on, ignoring their questions.
Calling Crow and Red Feather got to their feet, grabbing their bows and quivers of arrows. Another crier ran by and Calling Crow seized him by the arm. “Is there fighting?” he asked.
The boy shook his head in agitation. “No. The whites are waiting outside the village for a parley. Our men are going out to meet them.”
“Aieyee!” Green Bird Woman stood in the entryway. “I knew they would come.”
Santee joined her.
“Bright Eyes,” shouted Green Bird Woman, “get in here.”
Both women stood in the darkened entryway, their arms wrapped protectively around Bright Eyes.
Calling Crow called to Green Bird Woman. “If anything happens, stay here until I return.” He turned and ran, Red Feather behind him.
Calling Crow and Red Feather stood with the other bravos as they watched the file of Spanish go into the council house. A slight, older black-eyed man with a small beard as pointed as a sword walked in the lead. Behind him walked a young man, his face hiding in a mass of black hair. Behind him came an old, solidly built Black Robe. A large loop of beads with a cross were wrapped around his waist and he wore a round, flat hat on his head. Under the hat, his wrinkled face held two bright eyes the color of the blue sky on a summer day.
Calling Crow noted the weapons of the whites, the tall sharp halberds and swords, the tensed crossbows ready to shoot their iron bolts, and especially the dozen or so harquebuses. He noted the tiny wisps of smoke coming from the burning cords and he knew from his capture and from watching De Sole’s men when they assaulted the Floridas, that this meant the things were ready to be fired. Calling Crow saw Black Snake scrutinizing the weapons from a distance. Then the bravos began entering the hut. Calling Crow pushed into the throng of men, wishing to get a good spot to see.
Senor Rodrigo de Peralta found the large council house oppressively hot. He had wanted to meet with the savages outside where his men would have had the advantage, but, using signs, the old cacique had insisted they meet in here. The harquebuses would negate any advantage the cacique thought he had, putting both the fear of God and plenty of lead balls into the savages, if need be.
Senor Peralta glanced down at the ring he wore on his left hand. Made of Venetian gold, it contained a sliver of Christ’s holy cross mounted under a slice of amber. His wife’s mother had brought it with her from Castile when he had been sick with the pox in Santo Domingo. After wearing it for a week he had recovered, and in a month he was in the best of health. He said a prayer to it now and looked around.
Peralta’s thin face began to bead with sweat as he looked at the cacique and the four elders seated around him. The cacique sat directly beneath a large spot of sunlight beaming down from the smokehole. The bright light illuminated his every wrinkle and hair. Incredibly, the man was wearing a turban in the style of a Turk. Painted or dyed blue, it appeared to be made out of soft skin.
Peralta watched more bravos crowd into the hut, and he wished that it was they who were so brightly illuminated. They would bear watching.
He turned to Valdez. “Keep a sharp eye. Tell the men.”
Valdez’s eyes blinked as he turned to his men. “Don’t crowd in so. You at the edge, face out!”
Those carrying the heavy harquebuses placed them into their shooting stands. Valdez saw with satisfaction that when the heavy guns were swung around to face the savages, they were not suspicious in the least. He whispered in Senor Peralta’s ear. “With the harquebuses pointed right at their vitals, they are merely curious.”
Peralta nodded without taking his eyes off the cacique. He turned to Father Tomas. The older man’s blue eyes took in the scene hungrily as if he were sitting down at a banquet table after a long fast. “Do you think they will try anything?” said Peralta.
Father Tomas continued his inspection of the hut and its occupants. “I don’t know,” he said.
Peralta frowned at the man’s apparent lack of concern. He wondered if it was due to the courage he drew from his prayers or if it was just foolishness?
“Look at the way they have arranged themselves,” the priest said. “The elders are seated to hear from all. And note the respect the others exhibit toward them. It is quite impressive.”
Peralta turned away in irritation. Stroking the point of his black goatee, he looked back at the old cacique with the turban. He decided to give the bravos another few minutes to settle down and then start the bargaining. It would not do to let them call the tune.
After the milling of the men had stopped, a deep silence filled the great hut. The air was pungent with the smell of sweaty, anxious men, ready for a fight. Outside a dog barked as the Spanish and Indian bravos eyed each other warily.
Peralta waited a few more moments and turned to a short, stout farmer named Salazar who spoke some of the Indian tongue. An Arawak man had been brought from Hispaniola to interpret, but had died of a pox the week before. That left only Juana, the Arawak woman, but Father Tomas had insisted it was too dangerous to bring her. So, Salazar had had to do. Peralta tapped Salazar on the shoulder and the man started. “Tell them what I told you earlier,” he said.
Salazar nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow. He stepped out of the group and looked at the cacique. Using signs and a few words, he said, “Want food. You have.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “Have pretty things. You want.” He turned and waved his arms expansively at the bravos, including them. “You give food; we give gifts.”
Atina ignored him, looking instead across the hut at a tall, handsome native man. Peralta noted that the man’s hair was long and he was not tattooed like the others. The man shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Annoyed, Peralta said to Salazar. “Open the chests and show them the truk. That wil
l convince them more than the few measly words you know.”
Salazar’s round face was red as he turned to the men behind him. “The chests, quickly!”
Four men pulled two chests forward and dumped the contents onto the ground. Necklaces of bright-colored beads caught the dim light of the hut and seemed to give off a light of their own. Salazar held up polished brass mirrors, brass hawk’s bells, and small iron knives. He lay them on the ground. The bravos pushed forward, straining for a look at the treasure spread on the dull-colored hard packed earth. Peralta watched with satisfaction as one of the more decorated bravos, evidently of a higher rank, pushed through the throng and picked up a necklace of colored beads. Other bravos crowded around him as he inspected it.
A commanding voice boomed throughout the hut. Peralta turned and saw that it was the tall, un-tattooed Indian. He spoke to the bravo who had picked up the necklace and the bravo dropped it as if it were a viper. Peralta’s anger grew as the cacique joined in, haranguing the bravos who had been admiring the necklaces. They backed off.
Peralta turned to Father Tomas. “The big one has told them not to take our truk. Did you see?”
Father Tomas nodded.
Peralta turned to Salazar as the big Indian and the cacique continued to talk. “What are they saying?”
Salazar swallowed. “It is hard to follow; they talk very fast, too fast for me. I believe the old one said that the other was right in his prediction that we would come here.”
“What?” said Peralta. “Ask them about that. Find out.”
“Callan se!” said the un-tattooed Indian.
Peralta and the other Spanish looked shocked.
“You speak our language!” said Peralta. “How?”
The Indian moved out of the crowd and came closer to stand in the space between the two groups. “One learns quickly when his teacher wields a whip,” he said.
Peralta tried but could not hide the amazement in his face. “Who are you?”
“I am called Calling Crow. I was a slave on your island.”
