The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Is there something you need, Doña Isabel?”

  “Yes . . . you are papal nuncio to the Indies, made so by His Holiness Pope Alexander, himself.”

  A slow smile curves Fray Buil’s lips. “I know who I am, child.”

  “Of . . . course. What I mean is you have power and influence, and . . . .”

  “What is it you want of me?” His voice is kind but strained as though weary of people soliciting him.

  “I have been contemplating the life of a beata.”

  Again Fray Buil’s lips curl. “Your husband has been in his grave only two days. It is understandable that you would want to withdraw from the world and live the life of a pious woman. But you are young and vibrant. Too vibrant for such a life, I think, Doña Isabel.”

  “I have given this much thought, and my mind is made up. There are many beatas living in small communities alongside the Dominicans and Franciscans. It is to one of these I wish to be sent.”

  “Any woman who has lost a husband might feel as you do. But during seasons of grief can one know his true mind?”

  “I tell you Fray Buil, I do know it.”

  “You must allow the Lord time to heal your wounds.”

  “It is not going to help.”

  Fray Buil shakes his head, the look on his face, firm.

  “Then you will not assist me?”

  “I assist you by not consenting to this rash scheme.”

  My heart plummets for I know my cause is lost. How can I tell Fray Buil that it is not grief I feel, but weariness? I am weary of this world. And how can I tell him I miss my family, and yearn for them, and still cannot go home because of his fellow clergymen? And how can I explain how terribly terribly alone this makes me feel? “This is your final word?” I say, squaring my shoulders.

  “It is.”

  I turn, and am nearly out the door when his voice stops me.

  “I know you did not love him, Doña Isabel, not as a wife should love a husband.”

  I spin around, stunned by both his frankness and insight. “I . . . I . . . .”

  He puts up his hand. “I do not judge you. I only caution you. Grief is a curious thing. It takes many forms, and we grieve for many reasons. And grief is never more acute than when we feel alone. But you are not alone, Doña Isabel. Look to God. And you will see He is there.”

  I bite back tears, and bow my head in resignation. Right now I see only the black empty hole that is my life.

  I sit at the wooden table in my house. I have sat here for three days, neither venturing outside to cook my meals nor allowing Maria and Pasculina to venture in. Dear kind ladies. How worried they looked! But I have slept, and was happy for the respite, though these escapes were often short and fitful. A great melancholia has overtaken me, swallowed me alive like the great fish that swallowed Jonah. And as God was the One to rescue Jonah, He must be the One to rescue me, for I know of no other way.

  This state has not been caused by Fray Buil, as one might suppose. Even in my present unhappy condition I see how childish my request was. No, that folly is over. I suffer now because three days ago my ship’s boy told me twelve of the seventeen vessels in our fleet will be returning to Cadiz, along with a good number of unhappy settlers. And this pricks my heart, for I will not be returning with them. In addition, I must write a letter to Sebastian’s father telling him the sad news concerning his son.

  A quill lies by my hand; a stack of rag paper at my elbow. I cannot delay much longer for the ships sail tomorrow. Still . . . how can I write the truth? But can I write a lie? Must I pierce Señor Villarreal’s heart with both the news of his son’s death and the shame surrounding it? I ask the Merciful One to give me the words, then pick up the quill, dip it into the oxhorn full of ink, and with shaking hand begin:

  Dear Señor Villarreal:

  What unfortunate news prompts me to write this letter! It grieves me to tell you, sir, that Sebastian is dead. He was given a proper burial and accorded several honors befitting his rank. The size of the funeral procession did him credit as well, especially considering the number of our community who lay sick. I hope you will take comfort in the knowledge that all that could be done was done to assure and convey the proper respect.

  I shall now attempt to lay out the circumstances of this tragedy.

  The day after the Feast of the Three Kings Admiral Columbus ordered two platoons to explore the interior. Sebastian was one of the first nobles to offer his sword, and so eager, too, in spite of the danger and certain hardships; for the men were ordered to find the Indians responsible for killing the settlers at Navidad, and this on limited rations.

  I believe you can be proud of your son’s bravery in volunteering, and in his willingness to serve our Sovereigns through their appointed agent, Admiral Columbus.

  It was during this time that Sebastian was struck down by an Indian. He never regained consciousness even though the doctors employed all their skill to save him. They assured me Sebastian did not suffer. I was also told the offending Indian has been punished by forfeiting his own life.

  Your son leaves behind many friends in Isabela, all from noble families, and to a man, they tell me he will be missed.

  I pray the Merciful One quickly heals the wound this letter inflicts. I regret it is my hand that writes it.

  I sign it, then blot the page before putting it aside and picking up another. Then I begin my second letter:

  Dear Mama and Papa,

  I write a message similar to what I have written Señor Villarreal. But at the end I add:

  I send this letter and another to Señor Villarreal, along with my appeal to quit this place. There is much sickness here, and with many of the able-bodied men returning to Castile, our ranks are noticeably reduced. Food is rationed, and many of our crops fail to grow. It is a wild country, filled with half clothed heathens and I fear, very dangerous for a woman alone. Only two other Castilian women live in our town of Isabela. Surely the dangers here far out weigh those in Seville. Understanding this, you must allow me to come home.

  The fleet’s physician, Dr. Chanca, will also return with the ships. He is weary and almost sick himself from attending so many ill in our settlement; further proof that this is no place for a woman alone.

  Captain Antonio de Torres will command the fleet during its return voyage and sail on Admiral Columbus’s flagship, the Mariagalante. He is the brother of Prince Juan’s governess, a reputed man of honor and highly respected by our Sovereigns. Indeed, he was named town warden by Columbus upon our arrival.

  Captain Torres claims that in several months he will return to Isabella with new supplies, and if you grant me permission, I will sail with him when he returns, yet again, to Cadiz. I am sure I will be safe under his watchful eye. Please grant my request for I do not think I can bear living here much longer.

  Your respectful daughter,

  Isabel

  I stand on the rocky promontory facing the harbor. It is a beautiful sight. Twelve vessels unfurl their sails as a warm wind blows from the east, catching my bodice and skirt, and causing them to billow like sails themselves. If only the wind could blow me back to Andalusia! I pray the ships will catch the favorable west winds Columbus so often speaks about, and thus ensure a speedy voyage to Cadiz, the faster to carry my letters.

  It is the second of February, the month of Shevat. Today, I am seventeen. I try not to remember that I am now both divorced and widowed. Rather, I think of the gift I have been given, the gift of a ship carrying my petition. God willing, in a few months, it will carry back a favorable reply.

  “Captain Torres will return soon,” Maria says, squeezing my elbow reassuringly.

  “Yes, and then things will improve,” adds Pasculina, whose frame no longer fills out her large skirt and bodice.

  I smile at my companions, and feel much gratitude. God has not forsaken me altogether, but has left me two good friends.

  “I hear the Admiral has ordered ten thousand bushels of wheat and sixty tho
usand pounds of biscuit,” Maria says. “And bacon and raisins and almonds and sugar—twelve hundred pounds of sugar! Not to mention more seed and livestock.” There is giddiness in her voice.

  “Have you forgotten we are not salaried? We will not partake of these delights. We must rely on our own crops.” I try to keep the worry from my voice. Even using the farming methods learned from the Tainos, our wheat, barley and chickpeas do not grow well.

  “Fear not, Doña Isabel,” Maria says. “God will help us.”

  Pasculina shrugs. “How difficult can it be? This planting of crops? You toss a handful of seeds onto the soil and they grow.”

  “It is not that easy. Each plant has its own secrets; secrets of how much water it requires, or pruning, or mulch, its growing cycle, when and how to harvest.” Maria frowns. “It has taken me years to learn these things. If you wish, I can teach you.”

  Pasculina laughs and shakes her head.

  “This food shortage is serious,” I say. “It may be the undoing of our Admiral. Every day more and more grumble against him.”

  “Well, rations are not what they should be.” Pasculina frowns. “The Crown promised salted fish, beef, bacon, olive oil, garlic, onions, not to mention wine and cheese and biscuits; and of course, plenty of wheat and beans. Instead, we receive a little rancid bacon and rotten cheese, and only a handful of wheat and beans.”

  “At least you receive something.” Maria’s voice is hard. “My family and I must get our food where we can.”

  “Many claim that while they eat rotten bacon and cheese, Columbus dines on candied citron and dates and rose-colored sugar.” I shake my head. “But I do not believe it.”

  “Oh, it is true! My husband has seen it with his own eyes.” Pasculina folds her arms under her ample breasts. “And the nobles, and even the peasants and artisans, are angry. Can you blame them?”

  I shrug, for it still puzzles me how men can be angry when they are receiving a share of food, no matter how meager. I wonder if Pasculina understands how great is the uncertainty and fear of not having anything to count on at all.

  “And the Admiral has sent a list with Captain Torres requesting new supplies of sweets and dainties for himself.” Pasculina’s voice drips with indignation. “Not to mention tablecloths and towels and silver cups and copper pitchers.”

  I ignore her as she prattles on about Columbus’s pewter cutlery and brass candlesticks, for I am watching the ships drift toward the horizon and feel an agony of soul.

  “I will be happy to see them return,” Pasculina says, jutting her chin toward the disappearing ships and finally ending her tirade.

  I nod. But while Pasculina yearns for the food and goods the ships will carry here, I yearn for the letter that will grant me permission to be carried away.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Maria’s face is as furrowed as her fields.

  “I must. But do not concern yourself. I have prayed for God’s protection.”

  “Are you not afraid?”

  Instead of answering, I pull a red and gold silk shawl from my trunk and carry it to the table where I spread it out, then smooth the wrinkles with my hands before refolding it. It is a favorite possession, a gift from Papa; my first silk shawl. It is of the finest quality, and very costly.

  “Doña Isabel?”

  I smile. Maria never calls me Doña when we are alone except when vexed. I do not resent her tone for it is the tone only a good friend would use. “Yes, I am afraid.”

  “Then why are you going? No gift can undo what has been done.”

  “I know. But perhaps it can put the matter to rest. Perhaps it can bring healing to two households. Columbus’s interpreter told me it is proper to give a gift to an injured party.”

  “I do not understand this, Isabel. It is foolhardy, even dangerous. And there is no guarantee your gift will be accepted. Why take such a risk?”

  “Because I need this, to get rid of the sickness I feel in here.” I place my hand over my heart.

  “Then let Gonzalo accompany you, or my sons.”

  I pick up the shawl and when I do, I smell the scent of lavender. “This is between women. It is not for a man to fix.”

  “Then I will come.”

  “No. You said yourself there may be danger.”

  “All the more reason I should be with you.”

  She sounds so much like Mama. I look at her worn, frightened face and nod as I embrace her. “Very well, Maria. Come if you must.”

  Bata waits up ahead behind a clump of vines. Through a partial opening I see her shiny black hair and the grotesque cotton zemi that presses against her glistening forehead. I struggle through the vegetation that snags our hair, clothing, legs and feet. Fortunately, the shawl is safely tucked inside my bodice.

  I finally stop at a narrow clearing, allowing Maria to catch her breath. “You can turn back. It is not too late. If anything happens . . . you have a family who needs you.”

  “Do not speak of this again, Isabel. The matter is settled. I am here, and will remain here by your side.” Maria pulls vines from her hair as Bata signals impatiently for us to follow her.

  So we follow, winding this way and that along the bank of the Isabela River to where a small unpainted boat, hollowed out by fire judging from its charred interior, sits along the water’s edge. Inside are two large gourds of water and two paddles, each resembling a baker’s shovel.

  Bata gestures for us to get in, and when we do she pushes us off the bank, jumps into the boat as easily as if she were a cat, then hands me one of the paddles while she keeps the other.

  It takes some doing but finally my paddle works in unison with hers, and we glide along the river. The beauty of the land steals my breath. The trees are so high they obstruct the sky. And the birds! What songs they sing! Like a choir of angels! It is all so lovely I scarcely mind the hard work of paddling. But presently my arms grow tired and I realize we have been at this for some time.

  With each stroke we go deeper into the interior. It is not a comforting thought. Even with Maria sitting nearby I am uneasy. I am about to ask Bata if we are nearly there when she gestures for us to head to shore.

  We beach our boat then Bata leads us along a narrow path through tangled vegetation until finally we come upon a large Taino village. Dozens of circular wood-and-thatched houses lay scattered about like tossed dice forming no discernible pattern. But the center is cleared and appears to be a well-graded rectangular plaza. The plaza itself is lined with stone slabs, each a cubit or so high, and painted with figures that remind me of Bata’s zemis. More than twenty men run from one end of the plaza to the other, tossing about what looks like a small ball made of roots and grass. Though it appears to be a game, the men’s fierce whoops and shouts frighten me.

  Someone sees us, and points. Then men stop running, stop shouting, stop tossing the ball, and all is quiet. I expect any minute to be attacked, and whisper prayers to the Merciful One. To my surprise only one large man approaches. His face and arms are painted black. Tied around his neck is a stone zemi. Another zemi is tied around his upper right arm. A golden ornament fills the large hole in each ear lobe. His loins are covered with a colorful cloth, and around his waist is a wide cotton belt of a fine tight weave.

  “He cacique,” Bata says. “Cacique.”

  I have heard this word many times and know Bata is telling me the man is the chief. She talks while Maria and I stand quietly to one side. I do not understand anything she says, but it makes the chief smile. He barks what seem like orders to a man standing nearby, then we follow the chief to a house at the end of the plaza. It is larger than the others, and rectangular instead of round. The roof is high and thatched. Tall thick poles, driven deep into the dirt, make up the frame; while thin branches, tied together by vines, make up the walls.

  I enter reluctantly, and only after men holding clubs and bows gather around us. Inside, the floor is covered by pleasant-smelling straw, and some of the walls are decorated with
painted bark. Two large balls of cotton sit in one corner. In the other, suspended above the ground, is a bed of cotton netting which Tainos call “hammock.” Dozens of grotesque stone carvings, some several cubits high, others as small as my hand, line the opposite wall—the chief ’s zemis. Sitting almost in the shadows is an elaborate wooden chair, the legs of which are carved to look like animal paws, with the front resembling a face with ears and eyes covered in gold.

  The chief takes his chair, then Bata gestures for us to sit on the floor. I only hope Columbus’s Taino interpreter, who I paid to speak to Bata, has made my message clear, and that now she will relay it accurately. As she and the chief converse, three women enter. One carries a wooden tray of fresh fruit, the other, two gourds of water. They set their offerings on the floor and depart. The third woman, who comes empty-handed, sits down beside us. She is young and pretty, and appears shy, for she gazes only at the ground.

  The chief gestures for us to eat, and I do so only out of fear of offending him for my stomach is too uneasy to enjoy food. While I nibble my papaya, the chief says something to the young woman. Then Bata speaks. She talks so long I grow restless. Perhaps she has misunderstood our Taino interpreter, or perhaps she is saying more than she was instructed to say. But I am relieved when at last she is silent. The shy Taino woman finally lifts her head and looks at me. There is sweetness in her eyes.

  Bata stretches her hand toward me, and I pull the shawl from my bodice and give it to her. I know the woman does not understand, but I cannot stop myself from saying, “Please forgive me.” And as Bata passes the shawl to the woman, I add, “Please forgive my husband.”

  The young woman places the folded silk on her lap and studies it intently before allowing her fingers to rub its surface. When she looks up there is a smile on her face and she says something in a sweet, soft voice. I do not understand the words of her mouth, but I understand the words of her heart. I take a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant air of the hut, and feel a lightness I have not felt for some time. The great melancholia that has kept me in its belly these many days has finally spewed me out. And for the first time since Sebastian’s death, I feel free of the guilt and shame of his terrible deed.