The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  Some of the stronger patients have gathered around. Even Doctor Martinez, who is generally timid, comes over. I see by the way he pinches his lips then throws back his shoulders that he is working up his courage.

  “Perhaps it would not be unreasonable to let all those who can walk, go to the church,” Martinez finally says. “Then if the weather turns, we have only the others to worry about.”

  Many of the nearby patients nod in agreement.

  “Señora Villarreal, look outside,” Doctor Spinoza says, ignoring Martinez and the others. “The sky is grey, yes, and the wind rustles the branches, but I see nothing amiss. I see no storm on the horizon. If I thought there was danger I would be the first to order an evacuation.”

  “Then do so at once,” says a voice I do not recognize, but when I turn, I see Juan de Aguado standing behind me, perfumed and dressed in silk and brocade. “Are lives so cheap here in Isabela we can afford to squander them needlessly?”

  Doctor Spinoza’s face is ashen. “Yes, Señor Aguado. I mean, no, Señor Aguado. I mean . . . I will vacate at once.”

  And as I rush out the door to find Antonio, I see the look on Spinoza’s face and know that today I have made an enemy.

  We—the Vivars, Antonio and I—wait out the hurricane in the cave Bata has brought us to, and listen to the wind howl for hours, and the rain beat, and palms whoosh, and trees and structures creak and collapse. And when it is over, half of Isabela is destroyed along with Juan de Aguado’s four ships. And many lives are lost, among them the great king, Caonabo, who had been transferred to one of Aguado’s vessels. But not one patient from the hospital is lost, though the hospital itself lies in ruins, for all were safely moved to the church. Nor is one cubit of our hut—Antonio’s and mine—damaged. I tell Antonio it is the Lord’s way of showing us we can trust Him, and he nods and says, “Yes,” but his eyes tell me he is not persuaded.

  Antonio and I stand overlooking the shipyard at the lagoon. The India is finished and the second vessel, not yet named, nearly so. It has been two months since the last hurricane devastated our colony.

  “I still marvel that neither ship was destroyed during the storm,” I say, feeling uneasy for I know Antonio has brought me here for a purpose.

  “Yes, it is fortunate, for the hurricane destroyed much.”

  There were still signs of devastation everywhere. Many damaged huts, rather than being repaired, have been abandoned by owners despairing of Isabela all together. And everyone knows these men have left for the interior to live off the Tainos and illegally search for gold.

  “When will they leave? Columbus and Aguado?” I ask, the noise of hammers filling the air.

  “By week’s end. Admiral Columbus will command the Niña. Aguado is to take the India. I am certain the Admiral will use all his skill to get to Castile first in order to plead his case to the Queen before Aguado arrives. Columbus knows Aguado will not bring back a good report.”

  “Will the Admiral not wait until Don Bartolome returns from the Rio Haina with the news of his exploration there?”

  “The only news the Admiral wishes to hear is if Maestro Paolo and his miners have found the ancient gold mines believed to be located in the south.”

  My stomach lurches. “Gold. Always gold. And if they find it we shall see more trouble; more fighting with the Tainos. And the taking of more Taino slaves to work the mines.”

  “Evil resides in the hearts of all men, Isabel. Including mine.”

  I am startled when Antonio gathers me under his arm. I watch the breeze play with his hair, slapping it against his cheeks as though in a gentle rebuke. Sweat dots his forehead like flecks of glass. But there is a look of peace about him I have not seen for some time. I do not press, for in time he will tell me what is on his mind. Rather, I turn my gaze to the shipyard, and watch the men work. Before long, I hear my husband sigh.

  “I have acted the fool—forgetting I am a servant of the Most High, and seeking to be master instead. In this world there will always be tribulation. Who can say what will happen? To Isabela or us. Surely, our life will be difficult. But as I look at these ships, and think of Columbus and Aguado sailing to Castile, I know the only life I want is with you. And if that life can only be lived here, in this place, then God will give us the strength to endure it.” He turns to face me. “Forgive me for squandering these past many months. For allowing my fears and worries to devour them like locust. Forgive me for wanting to be in control of our lives, and our futures, instead of allowing God.”

  I smile into his kind eyes, then kiss his lips. What need was there for words?

  “Gold! They have found gold in the Rio Haina!”

  The shouts penetrate the curtain hanging over our door, then fade as the man brings his news further down the street. But the announcement has shattered the peace in our hut, where I lie in Antonio’s arms.

  “We must dress,” Antonio says, but by his eyes I know this news is as unwelcome to him as it is to me.

  I rise and fill the wash basin with water. Antonio washes first, and while he dresses, I wash. But I am as slow as a slug, for I have no heart to go to the Plaza and hear more of this. My hair still hangs wildly about my shoulders, and I am just putting on my chemise when Antonio finishes dressing.

  “If you wish, you can remain here,” he says when he sees my face. “I will go to the Plaza and learn of this news.”

  I blow him a kiss, and watch him disappear through the door. I am weighed down by thoughts of what this new discovery of gold will do to our men; what it will do to Isabela. I have barely finished dressing and fixing my hair when Antonio enters the hut, breathless.

  “Don Bartolome has indeed found gold. And Pasculina’s husband claims the large nuggets Don Bartolome sent back to Isabela are of exceptional purity. The new site has been named San Christopher, in honor of the Admiral. They say it will far surpass the gold of Cibao and Vega Real. But that is not all. The Admiral sent orders instructing Don Bartolome to find a site for a new settlement. Isabela is to be abandoned!”

  Antonio and I are in Marta, lounging on the south bank of the Isabela River not far from the large oval kiln that is capable of firing a thousand pots at once. Nearby is a much smaller one which now fires several dozen including our two large earthenware pots with handles. The pots were made months ago for Antonio and me by the ollero, the potter who specializes in them. But only today has he pronounced ready for firing and removed from the drying shed. I watch as the ollero makes another round handled pot on his pit wheel. Nearby, another potter kneads wet clay with his feet.

  It seems odd to see them work, for Isabela is partially abandoned. Most of the other potters have already left for the new settlement since there is little need for clay goods of any kind, here.

  “I leave for Santo Domingo tomorrow,” Antonio says, breaking the silence.

  I look down at my husband who lies prone on the matted vegetation with his head on my lap. “Why all of a sudden?”

  Antonio laughs. “It is hardly sudden, my love. It has been months since Columbus sailed for Castile. I have stayed this long only because I was loath to be parted from you. But since Captain Niño brought the news of the Admiral’s safe arrival in Spain, and the official orders sanctioning the abandonment of La Isabela by the Crown, Don Bartolome grows impatient. He wants the Governing Council to go to Santo Domingo at once, and establish order.”

  “You mean to better secure the gold mines at San Christopher.”

  “Do not think poorly of him, Isabel. He follows the Admiral’s orders. And though it is barely a patch of cleared land now, perhaps one day we can make Santo Domingo a great city.”

  “Can you not make it great with your wife along?”

  “I must build our house, a house of stone, with a proper tile roof and a lime-mortar floor, and with many rooms. At least I can do that much for you.”

  “But why can I not come with you? I can help and . . . .”

  “That is precisely what I do not want. Y
ou work too hard, and God knows you would be tempted to mix plaster or whitewash walls. I have already hired an army of peasants for that.”

  “An army of peasants? There are hardly a dozen who are willing to hire themselves out. Most are busy laboring in the mines of San Christopher.”

  Antonio laughs. “All right. I have found only five. But they will work swiftly. I have promised them a generous bonus if they finish before the Feast of Saint Luke the Evangelist.”

  “October! I am not to come to you until October?”

  “Only two months, my love. And it will greatly ease my mind if you remain here, where you have a roof over your head, and food; for your mounds grow well, and Captain Niño’s three ships have brought fresh supplies of wine and wheat and dried beef and pork.”

  Antonio sits up and gazes out over the area of the kiln with its numerous pit wheels, drying tables, and sheds. “Here, at least, is some civilization. And you will not starve. Nothing but a fort has been constructed at Santo Domingo. Men refuse to build the town, preferring to search for gold instead. The Council has much work to do before it is a fit place to live.”

  I sigh in resignation. “I suppose it is best I stay, for who will feed the sick?” I lean against Antonio, taking in the pleasing fragrance of lavender and rosemary. “But I will miss you so.”

  “You will have Maria for company, and some of the other women, too.”

  I am about to say Pasculina has already followed her husband to Santo Domingo, where he is busy assaying the San Christopher gold and where they most likely have only a miserable hut for shelter, and still he allowed his wife to come; but I think better of it. What is the point? Antonio would never be swayed by this. Still, Roldan worries me greatly. Rumors abound how he is agitated by the Admiral’s orders to abandon Isabela and relocate to a place where he might not be town warden.

  “Is Don Diego capable of commanding Isabela while Don Bartolome is away, do you think?”

  “Do not worry, Isabel, Roldan will not dare raise his hand against him,” “But Roldan is the town warden and has great influence.”

  “Only among the baser elements.”

  “Precisely why he is so dangerous. He surrounds himself with men of little honor and little allegiance to the Columbus brothers. Only yesterday, I overhead him say the Council of Santo Domingo will not command his loyalty. When he speaks of the Council of Santo Domingo—he speaks of you, my love.”

  “I doubt he was thinking of me when he said it. And he still swears loyalty to our Sovereigns.”

  “But not to the Columbus brothers. According to Roldan, they are conversos, and by the law of blood purity, it means they are ‘offspring of perversion’ and unfit to have authority over any Old Christian of pure blood like himself. And certainly unfit to own land, which, Roldan claims, Columbus and his brothers will take the best of for themselves.”

  Antonio frowns. “Ah, yes, land. And there is the heart of the matter. Roldan wants land and an allotment of Indian labor like the nobles. As a common soldier, he resents the privileges of class; perhaps even wishes to abolish them. But I do not believe he cares one bit about the purity of anyone’s blood. I have seen this before, Isabel.”

  I think of Enrique, and his hatred of me and my race, of his jealousy and resentment. I have not told Antonio about Enrique, and cannot do so now for fear of worrying him. But a sudden thought springs to mind. What if Enrique returns to Isabela while Antonio is away?

  “It will be another month before Niño and his three ships sail back to Castile. No trouble will arise as long as he is here. Also, I am leaving Mateo behind. And I have hired the sword of Arias Diaz for your protection. I cannot name a better swordsman in all Isabela.”

  “Everyone knows you are the best swordsman in Isabela.” I force a smile then kiss my husband lightly on the lips. Soon, Antonio will leave, and it will not do to have him worry. He has done his best to secure my comfort and safety. And two months is not such a long time. Surely I can manage that long without him.

  But in my heart there is a terrible dread.

  The letter in my bodice crinkles when I bend to pull on my old leather ox-mouths. Since receiving Antonio’s letter, I have carried it around so I can read it whenever I feel the need. I have read it so often the edges are frayed. But it is the only letter I have received in three weeks, and it is what keeps me from missing Antonio to distraction.

  The bell chimes Sext. Soon Mateo will be here to carry the kettle of stew to the partially rebuilt hospital. There are fewer than a dozen men to feed now, and they eat less every day. The other patients have been moved, at Bartolome Columbus’s orders, to outposts scattered across the island. But the sick remaining in Isabela remain because, according to Doctor Spinoza, they are dying. And it is true. I think only a handful will last past week’s end. And Doctor Spinoza tends them all since Doctor Martinez has gone with the others, dividing his time between the posts.

  While I wait for Mateo, I pull the well-worn letter from my bodice, and though I have memorized the contents, begin reading:

  My Darling Isabel,

  I believe Santo Domingo will be a good settlement, for it is perched on a hill overlooking a beautiful river the Tainos call Hocama. It also overlooks a fine harbor so large I believe it could hold even Prince Juan’s entire wedding armada.

  Fine progress is being made on our house. The stone foundation has been laid and the walls are going up at a rapid rate. In addition, our large kiln, which has only recently been completed, is even now firing the tejas that will be used on our roof. Each day the house is nearer completion, meaning each day you are nearer, too.

  I have not allowed anyone to cut down the trees that surround our house for they provide a cooling shade, a shade especially pleasant over a section of the courtyard where I, even now, picture you sitting. But fear not, there is ample sun in other portions, sun enough for your pots of lavender as well as for a small herb and vegetable garden.

  It is an extraordinary thing, but a bird of brilliant color—all shades of yellows, greens and blues—comes every day and perches on one of the trees. And then he sings the most melodious song! The first time he came I could hardly believe it, but now, after so many days, he is like an old friend, a friend I believe the Merciful One sends to dispel my loneliness.

  I hope you are well. Write when you can. I know couriers are scarce and it is difficult for any mail to travel across this strange, overgrown land.

  Being away from you is more difficult than I imagined. I can endure it only because I know that by the Feast of Saint Luke you will be by my side.

  I send you all my love,

  Antonio

  “Try to eat, Rodrigo,” I say, cupping his gaunt face in my hand, and offering him a spoonful of stew.

  His dark, sunken eyes roll as he shakes his head. His body reeks of death.

  “At least drink the broth.” I hold the bowl closer to his lips but he turns away. All around, it is the same. Men languishing, smelling of death, unable to eat. Already three have died this morning. Less than half a dozen remain.

  Nearby, Maria tends another man. Only she and I have come. Many of the other women, like Pasculina, have already left Isabela with their husbands. Those who remain say they cannot bear seeing any more death.

  I am about to take the bowl away when suddenly Rodrigo’s dry, bony fingers curl around my arm. “He . . . has it. I saw.”

  I feel the heat of Rodrigo’s hand. When I touch his forehead it burns, too. Surely a feverish delirium has set in. I place Rodrigo’s bowl on the floor, then send Mateo for a goblet of water.

  “I saw it yesterday.” After a futile attempt to sit up, Rodrigo slumps backward on his pillow. “It fell out of his jerkin.”

  “You must not distress yourself.” I take the water from Mateo and bringing it to Rodrigo’s mouth. He takes a sip then runs his badly coated tongue over cracked lips.

  “He hides it from you.”

  I lean closer. “Who? What does he hide?”


  “Your . . . letter . . . from Captain Niño’s ship.”

  “My letter?” I put down the goblet. “I have a letter?”

  Rodrigo closes his eyes. He is so pale and still, and his breathing so indiscernible I am certain he is dead. “Doctor Spinoza has it,” his raspy voice finally sputters.

  Mateo, who has heard all, leaves the stew pot and crosses the room to where Doctor Spinoza stands by a table grinding herbs. Mateo says something to him as he points to Rodrigo, and soon they are both standing over me.

  “Rodrigo says you have a letter for me.” My voice is barely under control.

  “The man is mad with fever.”

  “It is not . . . right . . . what you do.” Rodrigo’s head lolls backward like the head of a bird whose neck is broken. There is a rattle in his throat. Death is not far off. “Give Doña . . . Isabel her letter.”

  Doctor Spinoza bends toward the reclining Rodrigo, and when he does, Rodrigo’s skeleton-like fingers claw the front of his jerkin. When Rodrigo’s hands drop to his side, I know he has died.

  I wonder at his valiant effort on my behalf. To me, a letter from home would mean so much. But what could it mean to Rodrigo that he spent his last ounce of strength trying to secure it? Was it gratitude for the meals and my reading of the Psalms these many months? Or did he want to right a wrong, albeit small, as if in doing so he could right all the larger wrongs he had perpetuated on the Tainos since coming to Isabela? I cannot answer for only God knows, but I ponder it while I rise to my feet.

  “I hope you are satisfied. Agitating a dying man over some fictitious letter.” Smugness coats Doctor Spinoza’s face like ointment. “It has only hastened his death, for surely if it had not been for you perhaps he would have lived a few more days. Add that to your conscience.”

  “I meant no harm. It was Rodrigo who brought up the matter of the letter. Not I.”

  “Yes, but oh, how quick you were to believe me capable of some maliciousness conduct. A woman of better breeding would apologize at once.”