The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  With a small metal shovel I scoop smoldering ashes from the firebox and sprinkle them into my basin of water. “How many tubers do you have?”

  “Enough for a dozen loaves of cassava bread,” Maria says, as she sits on a mat by my door shedding yuccas with a piece of coral.

  “Your family needs ten, and I two. That leaves nothing for the hospital.” I dunk my ceramic griddle—the one Bata calls a buren—into the basin, and scour it with a handful of straw.

  Bata has taught us how to make cassava bread. And when we can, we make extra for the sick men under Doctor Spinoza’s care. “I am willing to manage with one loaf. The other can go to the hospital.”

  Maria tosses the shredded roots into her pot of water. The tubers contain poison which must first be removed by shredding, then by soaking. Later, she will press the shreds through a sieve, then fry the pulp on the griddle, making round unleavened bread.

  “Can you manage with less?”

  “If you must be a martyr, I suppose so must I.” There is a frown on her face. “They will not like it, but my family can do with eight loaves. That will leave you three in all for the sick.”

  I smile. “It is more blessed to give than to receive. God will reward your kindness.”

  Maria answers with a click of her tongue, but I do not mind. For weeks, something curious has been happening. Since my return from the interior, the Lord has been speaking to me. Not as a voice in my ear, but as an inner knowledge I cannot explain, for suddenly I know a thing when before I did not. And this is what I know: when you are in want, the quickest path to blessing is the path of sharing with others. And though I have not spoken about this to anyone, I have begun tithing my food.

  Maria, Bata and I are in Marta, standing on the large tract of land allocated to Sebastian before he died, and which is now allocated to me. All the land is owned by the Crown and distributed by rank. I think this practice foolish, for if the Crown wants Isabela to attract more than adventurers seeking gold, it must issue land grants to peasants willing to work hard.

  From where I stand, I cannot even see the end of my vast lands. Only a small portion has been cleared, and this for my earlier crops, many of which have failed. Even planting these troublesome crops on mounds, as Bata taught us, has not yielded a good harvest. So I have decided to change my approach. No longer will I plant that which is ill-suited to this soil.

  The ever blowing easterly wind stirs my hair and cools my damp forehead. It is nearly the end of the dry season—the best time, according to Bata, to burn brush. Already, Gonzalo and his sons have dug trenches around the area I wish to cultivate.

  Bata stands between Maria and me, wearing the familiar zemi tied to her forehead and nothing else. She carries a pot of burning coals in a sling made of soaked roots.

  “Ready?” I say, as I reach into the pot with metal tongs. When Maria and Bata nod, I fling coals here and there. Maria does likewise, and we all walk backward until we reach the trench, then hop it.

  Presently, the brush ignites. Then flames, like hungry mouths, gobble everything in their path. The mouths snap and pop, and cause embers as delicate as moths to fill the air. And finally, when the mouths can eat no more, they vanish. I sit, then Maria and Bata settle beside me. When the ground cools we will rake the burnt brush, and the soil beneath it, into giant mounds. Bata says these mounds, which she calls conucos, can produce crops for more than ten years before having to be destroyed and new ones made. Her knowledge of farming is vast; a collective knowledge passed down by generations of Taino women, for it is the women, and not the men, who do this work.

  We sit quietly for some time before Maria breaks the silence. “Your crops will do well. Never have I seen such a wonderful way to farm—root crops at the center and bottom to keep the soil drained and prevent it from washing away; leaf crops on top to provide shade and keep the mounds moist. If I had such knowledge in Seville your father’s estate would have been the envy of the countryside.”

  “It was the envy of the countryside. At least your gardens were.”

  Maria accepts my compliment with a smile. “Still, my husband and sons long for bread made of wheat.”

  “Like everyone else in Isabela. But we must train our bellies to accept new foods if we wish to survive. It is useless to long for something that will not grow in this soil. These mounds will produce yucca for cassava bread. And Bata says if we store the roots in the ground, they can last for three years. Think of it, Maria! Having surplus crops that can be stored means we will never starve. And there are other Taino foods, too, that we will learn to grow. I have already asked Bata to show me how to plant those sweet yellow tubers we both like so much.”

  “Batatas,” Bata says, calling the sweet tubers by name.

  “Yes, batatas.” I smile at Bata, wondering if it was from this word that she got her name.

  “We will plant other Taino crops, too. Foods we have tried and found pleasing: peppers, squash, peanuts, and . . . .”

  “Please, Isabel. You wear me out. Let that be for another day.”

  I rise, and pick up one of the wooden rakes Gonzalo made. “Yes, let it be for another day. Today we plant yuccas and batatas. Come. To work.”

  “Bata is to wed Juan,” Maria says, sticking her head into my doorway. “Even now Gonzalo is settling the bride price. And Luis says he is considering one of Bata’s cousins as wife, so perhaps there will be yet another bride price to haggle.”

  I am not surprised, for I have seen Maria’s son, Juan, and Bata together. And it is only natural that Luis, observing his brother’s happiness, would want this same happiness for himself. “I pray God’s blessings on them,” I say, standing at my table and bolting the last of my wheat flour through a piece of muslin.

  “You have flour!” Maria shrieks when she realizes what I am doing, then heads for the table, her eyes as large as cassava loaves.

  “Bata will be a good wife for Juan.” I do not mention my concern over Bata’s unwillingness to give up her zemis, or the fact that she is beautiful and voluptuous, and her constant nudity has created a stir among the nobles.

  Maria presses her palms together. “I only pray Gonzalo’s leather goods will be acceptable for there are no women to be had other than Tainos. What are my sons to do?” She watches as I continue straining flour through cloth, removing bits of hull. “My sons are all old enough to wed. And they are impatient to make a life of their own. But these Taino women are such heathens! I made Juan swear an oath that once he is married he will not allow Bata to wear those heathen idols, and that he will force her to dress properly.”

  It is a relief, for aside from zemis being offensive to God, the nobles have been burning all the cotton zemis they can find, and smashing the ones of stone. It would be dangerous for Bata to wear them when she comes to Isabela to live. And with so many men in want of a woman, it would be dangerous for her to wear only the short skirt of a Taino wife.

  “Soon you will have two married sons. A great blessing.” I add ground chickpeas to my flour in order to stretch it. “But what of Enrique? Has he not found a woman among the Tainos to please him?”

  “Enrique is restless . . . and discontented. I worry. Since coming to the Indies he has grown more sullen.” Maria tucks a calloused finger under my chin and forces me to look at her. “But you must marry, Isabel. There are still many high born here. Has not one caught your eye?”

  I shake my head. “I will never marry again.”

  Maria laughs. “Nonsense! You are young and beautiful. And what are women for if not to have children? A simple nod from you would bring many suitors to your door. I have seen the way some look at you. But you refuse to give them the slightest glance. You are too aloof, Isabel. Too aloof.”

  “I am not aloof. It is just that I . . . lack the necessary disposition to be a proper wife.”

  Maria dips her finger into the bowl. Her eyes widen when she realizes the great depth of flour in it. “Perhaps you do speak your mind too freely, but you hav
e other qualities. You are peerless in the kitchen. See how great your skill is in conserving your stores! Oh, how I envy this ability.”

  I wipe my hands on my apron and pick up the bowl. “This? Oh, no. It is not mine.”

  “Well . . . whose then?”

  I hand it to her. “I have been saving this for your family’s Easter bread. I wish for you to enjoy it after Mass tomorrow.”

  Maria’s cheeks puff like the throat of a Guadalquivir River frog. “Surely not! It is the last of your wheat and beans. I could never accept such a great gift.”

  “It would be ill-mannered to refuse.”

  Her eyes linger over the bowl, and I sense her inner struggle. “It will please my family. In truth, they will be overjoyed to have wheat bread for Easter. And it will give me pleasure to bake it for them.” She cups my chin with one hand. “The only thing that would make my happiness complete is if you honor me by joining us for our Easter meal.”

  “Then let your happiness be complete.”

  “You . . . would come?” It is unheard of for someone of my rank to eat at a peasant’s house, for it implies equality in a society where rank is closely guarded. “You would come?” she repeats.

  “Yes.” The look on her face I will never forget. It is one of love and joy and gratitude, for my going will not only reveal to all in Isabela the high regard I have for Maria’s family, it will reveal the depth of my friendship with Maria herself. And for the first time in weeks I think of Sebastian, may his memory be for blessing, and all I can do is smile.

  It is Easter morning, the month of Ilay or April. Last month, in the month of Nissan, came the days of Unleavened Bread and Passover, which I did not observe. More and more it is difficult to observe, even in small ways, the Lord’s Feasts, since there are so many Christian holidays to honor, and more Saint’s days than grains of sand. Also, there are daily Masses and prayers and weekly fasts. It is more than I can manage, and short of becoming a beata, which Fray Buil insists I am ill suited for, I must content myself in doing what little I can.

  But in honor of today and the One who won my heart by His great sacrifice, I have taken care in my appearance. My hair is arranged in multiple braids coiled at the nape of my neck then studded with pearls and covered by a beautiful veil of shimmering gold silk. I am sure even Sebastian himself would approve. In addition, I wear a beautiful gown of green and gold brocade, adorned with pearls and lace. And around my neck hangs Mama’s green stone of Zebulun.

  The church bell, a gift from Queen Isabel to our community, chimes Tierce as I head for the plaza. While I walk, I scan the town. It is no secret Admiral Columbus expects Isabela to be the capital of Spain’s colony in the Indies. Perhaps one day it will be a grand city, but for now, it is very modest, consisting of a storehouse, a forge, a powder house, and one of the most beautiful spots in all Isabela—Casa de Columbus, the House of Columbus. And I give silent praises to God that we have accomplished even this much with so many sick.

  We have even increased our sphere of influence. Our first fort, Santo Tomas, a small outpost really, was built last month in the Vega Real to protect the Cibao goldfields from Caonabo, the Taino ruler believed to have been behind the Navidad massacre. Santo Tomas is less than twenty leagues from Isabela, and manned by fifty-seven men, all under the command of Alonso de Hojeda.

  Considering all our privations we have accomplished much. But there are many problems, too. Hojeda has proven harsh. Already he has sent one chief to Isabela in chains and cut the ear off another. And the Lanzas are cruel to the Indians, and terrify them with their horses and war dogs. Amid all this is the constant sickness. Many have died. And food is still scarce, partially because the settlers search the riverbanks for gold, like men possessed, rather than planting crops. And everywhere, men whisper of rebellion.

  Even my own Fray Buil is at odds with Columbus, for he feels the Admiral is too severe with the men. How is it possible that two men who love the Lord are so incapable of amiability and friendship? Everyone knows how sincere Columbus is in his devotion to the Holy One and to Scripture. By Columbus’s own admission it was the Prophet Isaiah’s words that enabled him to find the Indies. So why was there no peace between these two?

  To make matters worse, the royal accountant, Bernal de Pisa, is imprisoned on one of the naos for talking rebellion and threatening to sail the remaining ships back to Castile with the other malcontents.

  Oh, how many malcontents we have in Isabela!

  Everyone blames Columbus for the food shortages, and for not finding the quantity of gold they believe they were promised. Many despair of ever becoming rich, and are bitter. All this robs me of sleep when I allow thoughts of it to fester. But today I am determined to push it all from my mind and think only on the One who has sustained me throughout it all.

  As I near the church, angry voices fill the air. Surely more discontentment, more complaints. I walk faster, not wishing to hear, not wishing to take my mind from the One we honor today. But it is useless. The talk is too loud, too angry.

  “He has no right!”

  “His right has been granted by our Sovereigns.”

  “Flogging two men for insubordination is one thing, but hanging the third is another. I tell you he has gone too far.”

  “Even Fray Buil feels Columbus has overstepped this time, and threatens to refuse him the sacraments.”

  I pick up my pace and head for the church. Oh, how greatly La Isabela needs the care and love of the Risen One.

  The first thing I smell, when approaching Maria’s hut, is baking bread. The warm, yeasty aroma floats from two greased earthenware bowls stacked lip to lip—Maria’s makeshift oven that sits on a bed of coals in her firebox. The smell makes my mouth water, and even while Maria and I hug and extend Easter blessings, I am distracted by it.

  “Please go sit at the table.” Maria gestures toward the doorway of her house. “It is too hot to be outside. The bread is done and has only to be removed from the oven.” Maria shoos me away with her hands

  And so I enter her house for the first time. It is smaller than mine, though five grown people live here. All the bedding has been neatly rolled, and leans against one corner. A large wooden table with benches on both sides occupies the center. On the table is the sizeable lead-glazed bowl Maria carried all the way from Seville. Next to it are three knives and five small ridged bowls for individual use. Around the table sit the three Vivar sons while Gonzalo stands nearby.

  He braids and unbraids his fingers nervously as he bows. “Come in. Come in, please. You honor us with your presence.”

  I quickly occupy the empty space beside Juan, who smiles broadly. So does Luis, who sits on the opposite side next to Enrique. Not surprising, Enrique just glares.

  I wish everyone a blessed Easter, then turn to Juan. “All is well between you and Bata?” It would be indelicate to ask him directly if Gonzalo found the bride price acceptable.

  Juan’s face brightens. “Oh, yes. The bride price has been agreed upon, Fray Buil has been consulted, and the date set. Will you come to the wedding, Doña Isabel?”

  “He is to be married in a month,” Luis blurts, as though unwilling to be left out of the conversation. “And soon Papa will inquire about the bride price of Bata’s cousin who I wish to . . . .”

  “Enough talk,” Maria says, entering the hut carrying a large loaf of bread wrapped in a kitchen cloth. “Gonzalo will pray now.” She places the bread on the table. And while Gonzalo prays the blessing, I lift my eyes and see his three sons gaping at the steaming loaf. Before the prayer is even finished, Enrique grabs it.

  “Guests go first,” Maria says, giving Enrique a sharp look.

  He scowls, and I accept both the bread and his ill humor with a polite “Thank you.”

  “Tomorrow Columbus leaves with the Niña and two other ships,” Luis says. “He goes north looking for the golden city of Quinsay and the Great Khan.”

  “I am grieved to hear that. It would be better if he stayed
here, having only recently recovered from his illness.” I cannot bring myself to utter anything harsh against our Admiral though I find his leaving irresponsible with Isabela facing so many difficulties.

  “He leaves his brother, Diego, to govern in his absence, and made Francisco Roldan town warden to assist him,” Luis adds.

  I nod, and hope my anxiety does not show. Diego is young and inexperienced; Roldan, coarse and ambitious. A dangerous mix.

  “Fray Buil looked angry when he announced Columbus’s voyage at Mass this morning,” Juan adds.

  “Everyone is angry, for Columbus leaves Isabela when he is needed most,” Luis says.

  “No need to share such gossip.” Maria ladles fish stew into one of the bowls, and hands it to me. “We should keep our tongues from speaking unkindly. It is not for us to question the Admiral.”

  “And why not?” Enrique’s voice is so sharp that all heads turn in his direction. “Why should we not question him when we are the ones left to do the work? And even if we labor without complaint, what will we gain for our trouble? The Crown controls everything, receiving most of the profits with Columbus gobbling the rest. Even the nobles will be rewarded in lands and titles. I ask again, what do we get? I will tell you, we get . . . .”

  “Enrique!” Gonzalo’s face is white. “Men have been whipped for such talk.”

  “Diego Columbus can have my flesh to lash if he wishes. Let him enjoy his power while he can. He will not have it long. Already there is talk of . . . .”

  “This is treasonous!” Gonzalo barks. “Enough!”

  “Enough? It is not nearly enough. Change is in the wind. You will see. The nobles will not rule us forever.” Enrique’s nostrils flair as he looks at me.