The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Some. The orange and lemon trees grow faster than weeds. And our melons are as big as the wheels of an ox cart. And the cauliflower and cabbage! They are the size of a man’s head! Cucumbers and radishes also grow well, better even than in Seville. Of these, we will have a bountiful crop.”

  I sigh with relief, for starvation is not as near as originally feared. “God is merciful. We will have enough vegetables and fruit. And if we learn to fish, it can be our meat. But bread, Maria. How will we ever survive without bread?”

  I bend and scoop up a handful of dirt, then rub it between my palms. It is rich and dark, as good as any soil I have seen. Surely the thick vegetation around us testifies to this as well. But if Maria cannot discover the secret of making our wheat and chickpeas grow in it, we must find someone who can.

  “Come, Maria.” I slap my hands together to remove the loose dirt. “Time we became acquainted with our Indian neighbors.”

  Her name is Bata, or so I believe, for that is what it sounded like when she said it. She smiles, showing perfectly even white teeth. Her forehead is flat, following the Taino custom of purposely reshaping the foreheads of their infants by binding flat stones or other hard flat objects to them. For some reason, they consider a flat forehead beautiful. Her ears are pierced, and in each opening she wears a colorful parrot’s feather. Her black hair is thick and straight, and more beautiful even that Beatriz’s. She is unmarried for she does not wear the customary short skirt of a wife, but is completely bare. Also, she wears the headband of a single woman on which is attached a small, grotesque face made of tightly braided cotton. It is her zemi or god, or at least one of them. Around her neck is another zemi, this one of carved stone. And I wonder if she wears them for protection from us.

  She looks so wild and pagan, so utterly different from anyone I have ever known, it actually astonishes me that I have sought her out. It is true that since our coming to Isabela the Tainos have shown us nothing but kindness. And they have displayed a great willingness to share all they have. But there is a dark side too. Father Ramon Pane has spent much time trying to convert them to Christ, and has seen how their houses are filled with zemis; how they purify themselves by inserting bone spatulas down their throats to induce vomiting; and how they use bone snuffing tubes to inhale some demonic potpourri.

  Would Mama approve of me doing business with Bata? Would Papa tell me that anything this heathen touches would be unclean and therefore should not be allowed in my house?

  I struggle with these questions as I gaze at her sweet face, a face that looks younger than mine. She holds a basket of cassava bread, which is unleavened and reminds me of the bread Mama used to make for Passover. I put up three fingers to show how many I want, then hold up a ribbon of red silk, which to my mind is a fair trade considering that both bread and this quantity and quality of ribbon is worth the same amount of copper coins. She takes it with her free hand and as she rubs it between her fingers her eyes widen with pleasure.

  We stand in the dense woods outside Isabela, obscured from view, and I feel like a thief. We are violating the rule of barter. Only Admiral Columbus’s accountant is authorized to trade with the Indians, though no one enforces this decree any more. Too many of the food supplies have spoiled, making men hungry and more than willing to break the rules by bartering privately.

  Bata gestures for me to take my loaves, which I do. Then it is Maria’s turn. She holds up a small leather pouch and indicates she wants to trade it for ten loaves. As the women gesture back and forth, I notice Bata’s woven basket. It is skillfully made, as good as any I have seen woven by Moors. The weave is simple and tight, perfect for a floor mat. It is impossible to keep myself or my house clean with a dirt floor. But a mat, or several mats joined together, would remedy the problem.

  When Maria concludes her business, I point to Bata’s basket. “Teach me to weave.” When she looks puzzled, I pull a large leaf off a vine then rip it into strips. Quickly, I weave the strips together, and again point to her basket. She smiles and nods.

  “No, no. Not for a basket. For a mat.” I bend over and lay the loosely woven leaves at my feet. “To cover the ground.”

  Again Bata smiles and nods, and this time I know she understands. And as she gestures for us to follow her, I cannot help but wonder what Sebastian would think of all this.

  I sit just beyond the doorway of my house on the wooden stool Gonzalo Vivar made me. The light is better out here for weaving. My fingers move swiftly as they work the shredded roots, over-under, over-under, pulling, tightening. My fingers have become skilled in this employ. Already, dozens of mats cover the dirt flooring of my home, each with the edges bound and all woven together, making the covering solid and continuous.

  My fingers comb the surface of this, my last mat, searching for loose loops or unsecured ends. Finding none, I bind the edges. How will I explain this to Sebastian? My labor will displease him. So will consorting with a Taino. To my shame, I would not hesitate to tell him I paid Bata to make the mats if so many people had not seen me on my stool.

  As I secure the last loop, I consider the problem. Then consider it further as I weave this new mat to the ones on the floor. Finally, the answer comes. I will tell Sebastian the truth. All of it. For while he has been off these past many weeks in search of gold and revenge, I have learned a new way to keep our house clean . . . and a new way to grow crops.

  “Gold! Gold! They have found gold!” a noble shouts, running down the street, waving his arms. I watch him disappear around the corner, then watch others scurry after him. By the commotion coming from the Plaza, I know Sebastian and the others have returned.

  I go into the house, remove my linen skirt and bodice, wash my face and hands, then slip on clean clothing of brown and blue brocade. Then I pull off my plain net as I gaze into the mirror that has traveled with me all the way from Seville, and which now hangs on one of the wooden posts. My fingers move swiftly, braiding hair and inserting pearl studded pins. And as I do, I realize I feel no excitement at the prospect of my husband’s return. Will he notice my hands? They are rough from making mats and from working with Maria on the mounds at Marta. I picture his scowling face and disapproving eyes. It makes me dread our meeting. And as I head for the Plaza I issue silent prayers to the Holy One.

  Please let there be peace between Sebastian and me.

  “I tell you the Cibao goldfields will make us all rich!”

  “It is true! I have seen them. Nuggets the size of chicken eggs!”

  “Have you forgotten the Crown must get its share? And Columbus, too. What does that leave for the rest of us?”

  This talk is everywhere as dirty, tired soldiers gather with townspeople. Everyone seems eager to tell a story or hear one, but I have yet to see my husband. Finally, I stop in the center of the Plaza, shield my eyes from the harsh overhead sun, and scan the faces up ahead. Arias Diaz stands near the church with a cluster of soldiers that I recognize as being part of Alonso de Hojeda’s group. They talk and laugh, and gesture with their hands.

  I head for them. Surely Sebastian is nearby. When Arias sees me he breaks from the others. “Señora Villarreal.” He dips his head in a bow. “I was about to come to your house.”

  The smile that covered his face moments ago has turned into a thin tight line. My heart jumps. “What has happened?”

  “An accident. A most serious accident, Señora. Your husband has been taken to the hospital.”

  “He is wounded?”

  Arias studies his boots. One hand fingers the hilt of his sword.

  “Is he wounded, Señor?” I repeat. “Or is he dead?” There, I have said it.

  “It is a head wound, Señora. We have carried him unconscious for two days.”

  My stomach lurches as I picture Sebastian’s skull pierced by a Taino arrow. Perhaps I was wrong to befriend Bata. Perhaps these Tainos are not the kind, gentle people Columbus once thought. Perhaps they are more like the savage Caribs. Suddenly I feel ashamed for having a
nything to do with them.

  “Thank you,” I mumble, and head for the hospital.

  As usual, prone men blanket the grounds of the hospital. Many are sick with bowel disease. Others have open sores that ooze. Still others shake with fever. But all wait for a potion or elixir or powder. Once they get it they will return to their huts where many will die.

  Perhaps our large cemetery has made me wary of our doctors. Or perhaps it is because they remind me too much of my own physician in Seville, Doctor Hernando Diaz. But I have little faith in them. They are too quick to bleed patients whenever they cannot determine the cause of their disrupted bodily humors. Do they really believe draining men of blood will restore life? After the Lord Himself has told us that “the life of the flesh is in the blood?”

  It distresses me that Sebastian has fallen into their hands, but what can I do? Though I have some understanding of herbs, I am not a midwife with a vast knowledge of the healing arts. But at least I can stay by his side, as a wife should.

  Though there is a crowd by the door, I push through. This is the first time I have been inside the hospital. It is not the dingy hovel I expected. Rather, it is bright and well-lit by large windows, and separated into two sections. One section is filled with sick men on bedrolls, the other is sparsely furnished with two large tables, a few chairs, and shelving nailed to the wooden posts of one wall—shelving filled mostly with ceramic medicine jars. But they also hold glass vials, a cone of sugar, jars of honey, and several pipes of molasses, as well as herbs.

  As I walk to where men lay on bedrolls, my feet cause the dirt from the floor to rise like gritty vapor.

  “Señora Villarreal, your husband is not there.”

  I turn and see Doctor Spinoza. “Where is he?”

  Spinoza points to the table where a man, fully clothed, lies on his back. I cannot tell if it is Sebastian, for someone stands by his head. I watch as four men lift him, then place him on the dirt floor in a sitting position. A chair is brought, and one of the doctors, after sitting down, allows the limp body to be propped against the chair’s edge. And just as the doctor clamps the man’s bloody head between his knees, I see the face, and know it is Sebastian.

  Someone hands the doctor a scalpel which he applies to Sebastian’s head, and suddenly blood is everywhere. Why was not the white of an egg applied first to his wound? Even Doctor Hernando Diaz cleansed wounds in this manner. Next, a metal instrument resembling a sharp pointed borer, is handed to the doctor, and I gasp. I see no dried mandrake soaking in hot water, or sponges drenched with opium for pain.

  “You cannot go.” Doctor Spinoza clamps my arm when he sees where I head. “They are about to trepan his skull.”

  “Trepan his skull?” Doctor Diaz once talked of this, explaining how the skull is opened to release blood and thereby relieve pressure. He spoke of it as calmly as he spoke of leeching. But I have also heard that many died from trepanning, and those who lived were sometimes left unable to talk or walk. Could Sebastian bear such a life?

  “Is this necessary?” I say.

  “Necessary? Doña Isabel, your husband’s skull has been crushed by a Taino war club. The damaged bone must be removed and the wound dressed with wool soaked in vinegar and oil. Without trepanning, he will surely die.”

  “How many others were injured in the battle?” I ask, allowing Dr. Spinoza to lead me outside.

  “The battle?” Spinoza looks confused, then his face reddens. “No one else, Señora.”

  He appears eager to leave, and when he moves toward the door, I step in his path. “How is it that only my husband was wounded?”

  “Señora, ask the soldiers who were with him.”

  Again he moves toward the door but I refuse to yield my ground. “Was there a battle or no?”

  Reluctantly, Spinoza shakes his head. I dislike the look on his face.

  “Then how did my husband receive his injury?”

  “Señora, you must ask his commander.” There is pleading in his voice.

  “I will not leave this hospital until I know the truth!”

  Perspiration drips from Spinoza’s face, and his bottom lip protrudes as though deciding his course of action. “If I tell you, Doña Isabel, will you give me your word you will leave quietly?”

  “I will.” My heart thumps.

  “Your husband . . . Don Sebastian came upon a pretty young Indian woman and . . . took his pleasure. But while doing so, the woman’s husband found them, for it is said she raised a cry loud enough to wake the dead. And instead of allowing Don Sebastian to compensate him for the misunderstanding—for how was he to know the woman had a husband?—the Indian struck him with his club. But be assured the savage was hunted down and executed.”

  I stand speechless as tears stream my cheeks.

  “Do not grieve, Doña Isabel, for whatever happens, your husband’s honor has been avenged, and Spanish justice served. Go home now and pray that God will guide the surgeon’s hands.”

  So I go, and all the way home I weep, not out of grief for my husband, but from grief over the hapless Indian woman who has lost both her honor and her husband because of Sebastian’s folly.

  Sebastian is dead.

  He has lost his head, though it does not hold herbs and swing in some hut. Rather, it is crushed beyond the ability of our doctors to repair. Bone splinters, deeply imbedded in his brain, caused the type of bleeding the doctors could not stop. He never regained consciousness.

  I follow behind six men who carry Sebastian’s shrouded body to the church. Beneath the shroud, Sebastian wears no clothing, and his arms have been crossed on his chest in the manner of all the burials in Isabela. But he will not be sewn into deerskin as is the custom of Old Christians, for there is none to be had. Nor will he be placed in a wooden box or buried inside the church as is usual for someone of Sebastian’s rank. The soil is too shallow, and covers bedrock.

  As we make our way along the Plaza, The Mourning Office is prayed, and loud dirges and lamentations fill the air. But I do not weep.

  Surely Sebastian’s disappointment would be great if he could witness these proceedings. For prudence’s sake, it does not follow Jewish law. Nor does it follow the pattern of Old Christians in burying their dead, especially their privileged dead. No public crier has been hired to carry the news of his death, or to tell the time and place of his burial—all customary for someone of Sebastian’s rank. Neither have I draped my house in black serge, for I have none. But he was awarded the honor of being washed with scented water by two priests, then anointed with ointment and balsam. It is a small comfort, and I grasp it greedily, for I am full of remorse.

  If only I had been a better wife.

  Why did I not try harder to help Sebastian heal his wounded heart? Oh, how disappointed Beatriz must be! And oh, how flawed is my character!

  All through Fray Buil’s Mass, my mind whips me with these thoughts. And not even the perfumed vapors coming from Fray Buil’s censer, as he waves it over Sebastian’s body, can dispel my brooding. It continues as Fray Buil sprinkles Sebastian with holy water and says the Pater Noster. Only when he begins the Absolutions—the prayers of forgiveness—do I feel a measure of peace, and not because of the prayers, but because I feel the very hand of the Holy One trying to wrestle this burden from me. But I will not release it.

  It was Sebastian’s sin that brought about this end, and in some way, Señor Villarreal’s, too. For Sebastian was made careless by his father’s numerous indulgences. How many times had Señor Villarreal paid Sebastian’s gambling debts or soothe an irate innkeeper Sebastian had insulted or cheated?

  It is easy to make messes when one does not have to clean them up.

  But what of my sin? Did not a wife have an obligation to pray for her husband? And how sorely lacking were my prayers!

  I watch Fray Buil, who has already removed his chasuble, pick up a large cross. Then we, the mourners, all carrying lighted candles, follow him to the cemetery that sits alongside the church. There ar
e many of us. Most I do not know. But their clothing tell me they are peasants, peasants who have come for the alms. It is customary for a wealthy man’s family to give alms to the poor who follow the procession. The custom will be honored. They will be paid. But I am comforted that Maria and Pasculina carry their candles out of friendship.

  We stop at the appointed place. Fray Buil makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the ground with holy water, then hands the cross to one of the many priests by his side. Next he picks up a shovel and digs the symbolic grave—a shallow trench in the shape of a cross. Rumor says this will be the last burial here. Already, another parcel of land, further from Isabela, has been chosen where the soil is deeper.

  For my part I am grateful that Sebastian’s grave is here, near enough to tend. And I will do it for Beatriz’s sake. Now the two will rest beneath blankets of lavender.

  When Fray Buil is finished, two men step forward and dig the actual grave. As they dig, Fray Ramon Pane reads the Psalms. The air is suffocating, and when a breeze does come, it is like a hot breath on our necks and causes one of the diggers to pause, lean on his shovel, and wipe his face with the back of his hand. His actions irritate me for they are so casual, so devoid of emotion, and mirror mine so exactly, that I feel I have been exposed.

  When the trench is finished, Sebastian’s body is lowered with his head facing west, his feet east, in the manner of all burials in Isabela. And as the diggers cover Sebastian with dirt, I quietly watch with dry eyes.

  I stand at the back of the church as gaunt-faced men hurriedly file past. Early Mass has just ended, and plainly the men are anxious to return to their huts and break their fast with the little rations they have. I wait patiently, and when the crowd has thinned, my eyes search for Fray Buil. He stands by the altar talking to Ramon Pane. But though he sees me, he waits for the church to empty before approaching.