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Hurricane Dancers

Page 4

by Margarita Engle


  all the winding paths of streams

  in this mountaintop haven,

  and he will be able to fish again.

  I will help him build a village,

  and I will find a girl to marry,

  and together, we will plant fields

  and be farmers, letting our minds

  grow rooted and leafy.…

  We will create

  our own peaceful

  New World.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  I battle Ojeda for scraps

  of swamp food—raw frogs

  and the dank eggs

  of stilt-legged marsh birds.

  I even swallow the mosquitoes

  that pierce my skin to steal my blood.

  Ojeda hates me, and I detest him,

  but it takes two men to wrestle

  a hungry crocodile.

  By the end of the first night,

  we have saved whatever is left

  of each other’s miserable lives.

  Quebrado

  In a silky green meadow,

  between stands of ebony and cedar,

  I notice a movement,

  and then a mystery—something huge

  and four-legged, on this isle

  where no tales are ever told

  of large animals—no panthers

  or tapirs, no cattle or goats.

  I aim a makeshift spear,

  only to discover that the beast

  is just a horse, a blue roan mare

  with a wavy tail and rippled mane.

  Moving closer, I see that her color

  is black and white hairs

  so finely mixed

  that they look smoky blue,

  like a shimmering cloud.

  Quebrado

  The mare is tame.

  I stroke her soft muzzle

  and puff my breath

  into her nostrils,

  inviting her to memorize

  my human scent

  so that she will accept me

  as a trusted companion,

  a member of the herd.

  After so much solitude,

  the friendship of a horse

  feels like a mysterious gift

  from distant spirits,

  so I call her Turey.

  I call her “Sky.”

  Quebrado

  Turey and the green meadow

  are so far from the swamps

  that I should feel completely safe,

  but questions begin to pound

  through my nervous mind.

  Is the horse alone, or did she escape

  from an army of mounted invaders?

  Are there explorers nearby,

  searching for gold

  and slaves?

  Perhaps Turey belongs

  to a lone wanderer

  like my father.

  If he is still alive and roaming,

  would we recognize each other

  after so many lonely years?

  Quebrado

  The mare is expertly trained,

  an eager mount whose steadiness

  reminds me how to guide a horse

  with my voice, my legs, my hopes.…

  I have no saddle or bridle,

  no halter or lead rope.…

  Clambering up the towering masts

  of rolling ships must have helped me

  preserve the art of balance.

  I ride, I fall, I climb back up

  and ride again.…

  I feel like a giant,

  gazing down at my world

  from the height

  of sky.

  Quebrado

  Alone in the meadow,

  I practice all the cavalry skills

  my father taught me

  when I was little

  and whole.

  Sing to soothe your horse

  when you are afraid.

  Do not look down at the ground

  or you will end up there.

  Throw your heart over the fence

  and your horse

  will follow.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  After long nights of sleeping

  in the branches of swamp trees,

  and even longer days

  spent searching

  for any sign

  of solid ground,

  I find myself

  absurdly grateful

  for any company at all,

  even though Ojeda

  begins to sound

  more and more

  like a madman,

  with his endless,

  rambling speeches

  about swords

  and ghosts.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  Talavera still thinks of me

  as his helpless captive,

  but once I conquer

  these phantoms,

  they will be glad to fight

  at my side,

  instead of battling

  within me

  and against me.

  The pirate will soon

  find himself

  outnumbered.

  Caucubú

  While Naridó tries to catch

  a few river fish for dinner,

  I squeeze the bitter juice

  from wild manioc tubers,

  so that we can eat

  toasted cassava bread

  and live like humans

  in our wild little village

  of two.

  We are happy together,

  yet lonely also,

  aware of distance

  and time.

  Our families are so far away,

  and the sea of days we knew

  when we were younger

  has grown tangled with chores

  and exhaustion.

  Naridó

  Without a canoe,

  I have lost my rough power.

  I lack the magic of swiftness,

  the ability to glide toward fish

  that can never swim fast enough

  to escape.

  So I sit by a stream, wondering

  how we will survive on our own,

  and then I see him, the storm-boy,

  my born-of-wind friend.

  He races on towering legs.

  He has grown two-headed,

  with a feathery crest and flowing tail.

  He seems to fly—he must be

  part bird or part spirit.

  Quebrado

  Turey is the one who finds them

  with her sensitive nose

  and swiveling ears.

  I leap off her back,

  to help my friends understand

  that I have not changed.

  At first, Caucubú looks frightened,

  but Naridó reminds her that my father

  rode a marvelous four-legged beast

  in the tale I chanted when the pirate

  first appeared in the cave of dancers.

  Caucubú smiles and agrees

  that hurricane songs are often filled

  with impossible dreams

  that turn out to be real.

  Caucubú

  The storm-boy and his sky beast

  make the forest seem even more

  remote and eerie than before,

  but a little less lonely too,

  and more exciting.

  He teaches us how to ride Turey,

  and she carries all three of us

  on her sturdy back to a red tree

  that resembles

  an upright canoe.

  Yearning fills Naridó’s eyes

  as soon as he sees the tree

  and hears the leaves whisper.

  He is eager to carve a new boat,

  to keep our hopes

  from sinking.

  Quebrado

  I long to stay hidden forever,

  carving boats and dreaming

  of safety.

  On clear nights,


  I climb to the highest branch

  of the tallest tree.

  I perch like a hawk,

  close to the pictures

  made by stars.

  The glittering shapes

  of mermaids and centaurs

  help me imagine

  distant life.

  Quebrado

  Imagining

  turns into a circle

  of possibilities

  that leap and spin

  in my mind.

  Are there villages

  beyond the eastern swamp?

  What if the pirate and Ojeda

  survived?

  Would a song-story hero

  race to warn the people

  who live in that land

  of far light?

  I have a horse.

  I can fly.…

  Part Six

  Far Light

  Bernardino de Talavera

  When we are hovering

  on the very edge of starvation,

  natural warriors appear

  like spear-bearing angels.

  They lead us

  out of the swamp

  and into their heaven

  of thatched huts.

  We are joyful with feasting

  and magical cures.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  The coral cuts on Talavera’s hands

  are quickly mended, and even

  my poisoned leg is healing.

  Each evening, we sit around

  the barbacoa fire, where natives

  offer us our fill of lobster, shark,

  and crocodile.

  I still wear my armor

  and my amulet, along with fangs

  and claws from all the beasts

  I have swallowed.

  Soon, I will seize a canoe

  from this generous tribe,

  and the ghosts will serve

  as my oarsmen.…

  Quebrado

  Balanced on Turey’s back,

  I creep through forests

  and canter across grasslands,

  skirting swamps until I finally reach

  an open coast

  of leaping waves

  and twirling dolphins.

  As I gallop

  along sandy beaches,

  the land, sea, and air

  feel like one.

  My fear of the shore

  has been transformed

  into exhilaration.

  No one can capture

  and cage

  a horseman.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  Voices, vultures, faces, hands …

  and now an avenging phantom

  galloping toward me …

  All the ghosts are happy to see

  this mounted specter.

  They must know that he will speak

  in their language of sighs,

  revealing my past to the village,

  announcing that I am a killer

  of chieftains.

  So I rush, I charge, I clasp

  the horseback phantom’s

  narrow wrist.

  He twirls away

  from my weakened grip,

  and when he glances

  into my eyes,

  I see that he is real,

  just the broken boy

  from the pirate’s

  storm-swallowed ship.

  Without my sword,

  all I have is a sliver of shell

  from the beach,

  so I struggle

  to use its sharp edge

  as a knife blade,

  to slice away

  the boy’s

  defiant fingers.

  Without hands,

  he will never be able to hold

  reins to guide horses

  meant for knights.…

  Bernardino de Talavera

  I yank Ojeda away from the boy,

  but it is too late to stop

  this disaster.

  Warriors surround me,

  even though the boy is unharmed,

  his hand intact.

  Ojeda’s rough madness

  has turned our rescuers

  into attackers.

  With spears at my throat

  I remain silent, hoping to evade

  any appearance of sharing

  the madman’s

  useless rage.

  Quebrado

  Villagers subdue both men

  at spear point, while I canter

  wide circles

  around the edge

  of chaos.

  I never imagined that the pirate

  would try to protect me,

  not even in a futile attempt

  to protect himself.

  All around me,

  there is turmoil.

  No one in this village

  has ever seen any creature

  the size of a horse.

  Alonso de Ojeda

  The boy displays a mounted dance

  of horseback leaps and pirouettes

  that convince me he is a master

  of spells.

  If I ever reach any Spanish town,

  I will see this strange boy

  and all my other

  natural phantoms

  burned at the stake.

  I will see Talavera

  hanged by the neck.

  I will see my own name

  on every proud map

  of impossible islands

  and perilous continents.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  The prancing mare

  and the broken boy’s

  two languages

  must seem like magic

  to the chieftain

  and the healers.

  While Ojeda and I

  are held prisoner,

  the boy is free

  to tell the same tale

  that condemned us

  once before.

  This time, I fear

  his words might kill us.

  Quebrado

  After dancing and sphere games,

  the village cacique is willing

  to execute my enemies,

  or banish them forever.

  The choice is mine.

  Heroes in songs make easy decisions.

  They kill without conscience,

  but in real life, deciding is torment.

  I think of my father at the moment

  when he resolved to leave the army.

  I remember my mother’s people,

  who settled disputes by trading names,

  a peace pact that turned rivals into friends,

  offering everyone a fresh start.

  I think of the quiet times

  between hurricanes.

  I dream of the peace

  in a forest.

  Bernardino de Talavera

  We row away from the island,

  arguing about who will be captain.

  I imagine Ojeda thinks

  he has captured the whole world

  in this tiny canoe,

  but we are alone

  in our exile.

  We have nothing left

  but oars and the sea,

  endless distance …

  endless time.…

  Yacuyo

  As soon as I am alone

  on a sunlit beach,

  I shed all my old names,

  both the gentle ones

  given by my parents,

  and the rough names

  I received from my life

  as a ship’s slave

  in hurricane season.

  I choose the name

  of a place—Yacuyo,

  “Far Light.”

  The name glows brightly.

  It carries me galloping

  on my sky horse

  all the way back

  to the sheltering forests

  of high mountains

  where I have friends

>   and a home.

  I no longer feel

  like Quebrado,

  a broken place,

  half floating isle

  and half

  wandering wind.

  I am free

  of all those old

  shattered ways

  of seeing myself.

  I am whole.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I became fascinated by the first Caribbean pirate shipwreck while researching my own family history. One of my ancestors was a Cuban pirate who used his treasure to buy the cattle ranch where many generations of my mother’s family were born. It was a ranch I loved visiting when I was a child. I especially loved riding horses.

  The 1511 Spanish conquest of Cuba came so close to genocide that most historians regard Cuban Indians as extinct.

  While researching this story, I learned that throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the region around my ancestors’ ranch was known as un pueblo indio, “an Indian community.” I became a subject of the Cuban DNA Project, and discovered that I carry a genetic marker verifying tens of thousands of years of maternal Amerindian ancestry.

  I am a descendant of countless generations of women like Caucubú. Indigenous Cubans do survive in body, as well as spirit.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Characters and Events

  This book is a fictional account of historical events that were variously recorded by early chroniclers as having taken place in 1509 or 1510. Quebrado is an invented character. The others are historical figures, but I have imagined numerous details.

  During the Age of Exploration, an estimated one of every seven vessels that left Europe sank or was wrecked by storms.

  In the early years of the Spanish conquest, horsemanship was forbidden to natives of the Americas, who were only allowed to ride donkeys. Indians who defied the ban became some of the world’s finest horsemen. The speed offered by horses allowed some to reach mountain hideouts, where they had a chance of survival.

  Bernardino de Talavera was an impoverished conquistador who had worked all the Indians on his land grant to death. To avoid debtors’ prison, he stole a ship and became the first pirate of the Caribbean Sea.

  Alonso de Ojeda (also spelled Hojeda) arrived in the New World on the second voyage of Columbus in 1493. Ojeda led the brutal conquest of Hispaniola, and became notorious for his cruelty. He was one of the first Europeans to capture Indians and sell them as slaves. He led an expedition to South America that included Amerigo Vespucci, for whom the Americas are named. As governor of Venezuela, Ojeda was wounded by a poisoned arrow. Desperate for help, he accepted a ride from Talavera, who took him prisoner. The pirate and his hostage were shipwrecked together off the south coast of Cuba. After encounters with Indians and an ordeal in the swamps, they reached Jamaica in a canoe. Talavera was hanged for piracy, and Ojeda settled in Santo Domingo. According to legend, Ojeda ended his days as a mad pauper who asked to be buried under the doorway of a monastery, so that all who entered would step on his bones.

 

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