Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  Calling Crow turned to Mennewah. “I must go to the spirit world and find out what these things are. Then I will know how to deal with them. Can you prepare a potion to send me across?”

  Mennewah nodded somberly.

  Calling Crow turned back to the crowd, “Everyone, go home.”

  No one spoke as the people filed out of the chokafa.

  ***

  Calling Crow sat alone in a dark comer of the chokafa. For a long time now he had taken one strong bowl after another of the black purgative and now he was weak and empty. His hunger felt like a dog chewing on his entrails. Soon it would go away and his spirit would have the quiet it needed to prepare for its journey.

  From outside came the muffled cries of children at play and the faint smoke of cook fires. Inside a single large fly happily raced back and forth in the long open space of the chokafa. Calling Crow looked forward to seeing Caldo in the spirit world. As he breathed deeply, his hunger began to leave him. His spirit was peaceful now because soon he would know the mystery of the cloudboats and the people from heaven. Mennewah would bring him one more calabash full of the black drink, this one containing the dream medicine, and he would drift off like an unattended canoe on the tides, gently rising and falling on the swells of the spirit world.

  Someone called his name. An old woman entered the dimness of the chokafa carrying the steaming calabash. She poured the black drink into a conch shell and handed it to him. It was more bitter than any herb he had ever tasted and it burned his throat as it went down. A moment later it began churning in his stomach and he had to go outside and vomit. When he was finished he went back into the chokafa and the old woman poured another conch shell full of the foul-tasting stuff. He could not feel his fingers and she had to hold it to his lips and help pour it down his throat.

  Calling Crow felt as if he were falling from a cliff. He heard something and looked up to see a group of people before him. Old Red Dog’s face was withered and dark like a fallen leaf. “We want you to take our messages with you to the spirit world,” he said in an ancient voice.

  Calling Crow’s head lolled uncontrollably and he fought to keep his eyes open. “Yes, I will take your messages.”

  Red Dog leaned close to Calling Crow. “Tell my brother-in-law that I know it was he who took my pipe, but I forgive him.”

  In spite of the black drink induced nausea, Calling Crow smiled. An old woman with blue, unseeing pools in her eyes was next. She put her lips close to Calling Crow’s ear. “If you see Clam Gatherer, tell him that I am coming soon.”

  Calling Crow nodded.

  Young Swan Woman, whose man had drowned the summer before, leaned close to Calling Crow. “If you see Tall Thin Man, tell him he had a son.”

  A withered hand held another conch full of black drink in front of Calling Crow and he quickly drained it. He looked at the people to assure them he would do as they wished. Then his eyes closed and his head fell backward.

  A great many women and children cried. Their voices rose like a flock of blackbirds. Calling Crow heard an answering chorus of male voices moan in great pain and sorrow. An old woman’s wail pierced the general din of voices like the cry of the wolf. Such a sorrowful sound, it pierced his heart like a knife.

  He was floating above the earth. He could see his people in the dimness below, huddled around the dying embers of a number of fires. He knew they were waiting for the one who kills, the Destroyer. In the distance the sea called louder and louder as a great storm approached. The wind began blowing very hard, whipping the garments of the people below and sending coals flying in red blurring lines across the blackness of the beach. Buffeted by the strong wind, Calling Crow kept his place, floating magically just above the heads of the people. Then suddenly a new cry went up and he knew the Destroyer was approaching. He moved away from the people and down toward the beach. White puffs of foam rode the waves up onto the beach and the wind lifted them and sent them flying like ghosts across the village. Lightning shattered the sky, illuminating the beach in a brief white flash. He saw a cloudboat out on the sea and a figure on the beach, struggling through the surf. The figure was too far away to see clearly.

  Knowing somehow that he was invisible to the Destroyer and immune to his killing power, Calling Crow floated closer in the blackness. He was merely a witness to this terrible thing, and his safeness repulsed him. He longed to drive the Destroyer off and save his people, but he knew that he could not. He was merely wind and air, a ghost.

  Then the Destroyer was close. Calling Crow tried to see his face. Who was this evil demon who would kill his people? Try as he could, though, he could only see him from the chest down. He watched in helpless horror as the feet and legs of the Destroyer moved closer and closer to his people.

  The Destroyer emerged from the water, his body wrapped in a wet coat of strange white skin. Calling Crow hovered closer in the blackness, screaming at him to be gone, but no sound left his lips. He could only float helplessly along, following behind as the Destroyer headed toward the people, leaving his footsteps in the sand. The shouting and crying stopped and the wind began to die. Calling Crow moved up the beach and over the dune. Everything had changed. Only four stout poles remained upright where the chokafa had stood. The circular depressions of the cook fires were still visible, but there was not a hut or a canoe in sight and everyone was gone!

  The next day, Calling Crow sat up straight in the chokafa across from the Council of Old Men. The Old Men were dressed in their ceremonial raven’s feathers, and Calling Crow held the Chief’s long calumet in his hands. He drew the sweet tobacco smoke into his lungs and passed it to Mennewah.

  “Now that I have told you of my vision, Mennewah, tell me what you know of these people from the heavens. Do they live, or are they the spirits of the dead?”

  Mennewah smiled. His small, almost woman-like chest rose and fell as his breath whistled out. “They live in the sky and they come down from time to time on their cloudboats. Whether they are spirits or gods, I cannot say, but they cannot live on the land. If they come onto the land they die.”

  Calling Crow could still see the terrible images of his vision flickering across the backs of his eyes. The Old Ones did not think the cloudboats a threat, but after his vision he knew they were. For surely one of them carried the Destroyer from his vision. Calling Crow took more of the warm smoke into his lungs and blew it out in the four directions. “Has anybody ever seen the cloudboats up close?”

  Red Dog nodded slowly with dignity.

  “Tell us,” said Calling Crow.

  “When I was a young man, I took Running Child and Cries At Night out on their first hunt. We heard a great many odd sounds on the sea and went down to the beach to see what they were. Not far from the shore we saw one of the great cloudboats. There were strange looking spirits on it with seashells on their heads and seaweed growing from their faces. They called to us in loud harsh voices like crows and waved at us to swim out.”

  “Did you swim out to them?” asked Flathead Killer.

  Red Dog frowned and shook his head. “No. Just as I am now in no hurry to go to the spirit world, neither was I in a hurry then.”

  The others laughed.

  Calling Crow knew he must go and see if these things were a threat to his people. He regretted having to leave Tiamai, but he could not send other braves on such a dangerous journey as his first act as Chief. He himself must go. He got to his feet and the Old Men looked at him attentively. “I have made up my mind. I will go and find these things. Perhaps they are still where the Mountain People saw them. I must find out if they bring this Destroyer. I shall take two braves with me.”

  Mennewah nodded solemnly.

  Calling Crow knew that if they traveled by foot they might not be able to catch the cloudboats. They would have to take a canoe. Ever since his father’s death he had avoided traveling on the water when he could, but this time he had no choice. “We will leave tomorrow,” he said.

  Stepping out i
nto the bright sunshine, Calling Crow saw Tiamai and another maiden across the way preparing a skin for curing. Even though she wasn’t turned his way, he knew she had been watching and waiting and had seen him exit the chokafa. His heart was not happy over leaving her and for a moment he even thought of taking her with them, but he knew he could not. There were too many evil spirits about, too many signs. He walked over and stood before her. She stopped her scraping, but did not look up at him. “I go to find these cloudboats tomorrow,” he said.

  Tiamai put the sharp rock against the skin and continued her scraping, saying nothing,

  “I go because I must,” he said, “not because I want to. I will return soon.”

  Tiamai looked up at him and smiled. “I will be waiting.”

  Chapter 7

  The Guadalupe floated peacefully at anchor in a cove protected by a long sandy spit of land. Sailors pounded and sawed planks as they replaced the last of her blackened timbers. The water beneath the ship was crystal clear, as if the ship sat suspended upon a great sheet of Venetian glass. Dozens of bright blue and yellow fish moved gracefully below. Three fathoms down, large rocks lay scattered across an expanse of tan sand. Senor Francisco Mateo was resting in his cabin in the rear of the ship when two of his men pushed in a third named Juan Zacuto, a goatherd from Samana. Zacuto was breathing heavily as he looked fearfully at the other two.

  “He saw the one who set the fire,” said Paco Nacrillo, one of Mateo’s ranchero hands.

  Mateo’s eyes fixed on Zacuto and the little man seemed to shrink into his tunic. “Son of a whore,” said Mateo, “and you didn’t say anything?”

  Zacuto shook his head, his eyes fluttering nervously.

  Mateo thought of the fire. If they hadn’t managed to extinguish it, they would have been forced to crowd aboard the smaller ship and go home. The expedition would have been over and all the money he had invested wasted. He would have been ruined. He wanted to seize the little man by the throat, but he made no move. He would let the Cabildo decide his fate when they returned to the island. Now he must deal with the one who had started the conflagration.

  “Who was it?” he said.

  Zacuto trembled. “The big fat soldier, Garcia.”

  Mateo’s chair barked as he pushed it back and got to his feet. He pulled on his sword and left the cabin, the others following.

  “There’s Roldan,” said Paco, “but I don’t see Garcia.”

  Senor Alonso Roldan was in his forties and of a small build. But he had a soldier’s granite-hard strength. It was obvious in his every limb, and unlike most men his age, there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him.

  Mateo angrily watched as Roldan and his soldiers stood about idly near the landing boat. He walked up to Roldan. “Where is Senor Garcia?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Mateo heard a clatter and turned. Diego and some of his men ran up. They were wearing their swords. Mateo turned back to Roldan. “I’m going to put him in chains for setting my ship on fire.”

  Roldan scoffed. “You must be mad. What proof do you have?”

  Mateo’s face darkened. “One of my men saw him.”

  “Impossible,” said Roldan, “he was with me and my men all that night. Your man’s a liar.” Roldan walked over to the rail and spat over the side, glaring sullenly at Mateo.

  Diego came up beside Mateo. “Francisco, wait till we return to the island. Then we will deal with this.”

  Mateo shook his head and looked at his men. “Follow me,” he said, starting for the steps to the below decks.

  “Advance in line!” Roldan shouted, and his men pulled their swords as one. They quickly ran and blocked Mateo’s path. Roldan slowly walked over.

  Mateo turned to his men. Farmers and ranchers, they were nervous about confronting the eight soldiers before them. They knew they would get the worst of it in a fight. Mateo looked at Roldan.

  “Call off your men and bring me Garcia! I give you one last chance.”

  Roldan stared coldly at him. “You are a fool if you think we will listen to your orders any longer.”

  Mateo turned to his men. “Draw your swords! If it’s a fight he wants, we shall give him one.”

  The men nervously pulled their swords as they eyed the cold, unmoving faces of the soldiers arrayed before them.

  “This has dragged on too long,” Roldan said. Ignoring Mateo, he addressed Mateo’s men directly. “My men have no fight with you. They simply wish to go back to the island, as you do also. Senor Mateo said we would be gone a month and a half and no longer, and it has been over two months now.” Roldan held up his arms dramatically. “And we have seen no Indian villages, not one!”

  Mateo could feel the resolve of his men fading. His voice boomed out in a controlled roar, “I said we would be out until we located a sizable village, and that would probably take a month and a half. Now disperse your men and see that they attend to their work.”

  Gaspar Hojeda, a small mestizo colonist, his dark oily hair still mussed from his night’s sleep, pushed up behind Mateo. “Senor, please do not push the matter. I fear for our lives.”

  Another colonist edged up behind him. “Si,” he said in hushed tones, “they are too strong for us to fight.”

  Mateo turned angrily to the two men. “Shut up!”

  “I have a proposition,” said Roldan, addressing himself to Mateo’s men as well as Mateo. “Since it is my man Garcia you want, why don’t you and he fight a duello? If Senor Garcia wins, then you shall give us the Speeding Hound and we will go back to Santo Domingo. If you win, then my men and I shall continue to do your bidding.”

  Mateo thought quickly. Garcia was a large, fat man, but Mateo knew there was much muscle under the fat. Back in Santo Domingo he had seen Garcia win a bet by lifting an ass onto his back. Still, Mateo knew himself to be one of the best swordsmen on the island of Hispaniola. In the tourneys and fairs held on the island he had never been bested.

  As the sun beat down on the bleached boards of the deck, radiating heat up like an oven, Mateo knew he had to agree to the duel. His men could never prevail against professional soldiers in a fight.

  Diego put his hand on Mateo’s shoulder. “Don’t do it, Francisco. I don’t trust them.”

  Mateo turned to Diego. “I must. And I shall dispatch him quickly, you will see.”

  Mateo looked into Roldan’s cold gray eyes. “I have your word as a gentleman that if I win there will be no more trouble?”

  Roldan nodded. “Si.”

  “It is agreed,” said Mateo.

  Roldan smiled. As he walked over to the steps, some of his men began laughing conspiratorially. “Send Garcia up,” Roldan shouted down into the ship.

  Mateo heard heavy footsteps from the below decks. He watched in astonishment as Garcia came up the steps wearing a three-quarter suit of armor with long, fully articulated arm and thigh plates. Someone had polished the metal to a gleaming silvery shine. Mail leggings encased Garcia’s stout thighs, and reinforcing plates hung on his shins and knees. His feet were encased in heavy iron boots, and his hands in fully articulated finger gauntlets. The many ridges and scales gave him a gleaming, serpentine appearance. He carried a long, broad, two-handed sword over his shoulder. Garcia took the sword, a head taller than himself, and stabbed the point of it into the deck

  Mateo’s blood pounded in his temples. He looked over at Roldan and bellowed, “You think such trickery will give you the advantage, do you? Well, you watch. I shall open him up like a clam!”

  Alonso Roldan smiled coldly and said nothing.

  Taking a deep breath, Mateo turned his angry attention to Garcia. How, in God’s name, he wondered, would he ever manage to puncture this fat grape of a fellow? He must find a way.

  Mateo pulled his sword. “You shall pay for what you did the other night, Garcia.”

  Garcia spat on the deck and smoothed his beard down against his metal breastplate.

  Light, hurried footsteps came from below. Miramor
, the fourteen year old Moorish ship’s boy, emerged carrying a comb morion helmet with a graceful upswept brim. He gave it a few furtive wipes with a polishing cloth and, poised on his toes, pulled it over Garcia’s head and secured the leather thongs. A moment later the rest of the soldiers came up on deck, talking in low, excited voices.

  Mateo frowned. “I had no idea you were so well equipped,” he said to Garcia. “Such extravagance for a poor soldier, I do not understand.”

  “Si, Senor Mateo, you are right,” said Garcia sarcastically. “I am a poor soldier and only the helmet belongs to me. The arm plates are Rivera’s, the suit, Nuno’s. The rest of these things belong to the other soldiers. You see, they all have a stake in the outcome, and we all know of your expertise with a blade. Therefore they insisted that I wear these things to even the odds.” Garcia made this last statement with a loud show of smiling bravado and the soldiers laughed. They moved away from him and into a wide circle, eyeing Mateo and his men.

  Garcia raised the sword, testing its weight. “You had better hope that God will be more merciful with you than I.”

  Mateo scoffed. “God? What does a pig know of God?” Some of the men laughed nervously. Mateo shifted his weight from side to side, preparing himself. He would have to use his own lightness and speed to advantage, but was that enough? This walking, metal-encased sausage would cut him in half with that broadsword if he connected. Mateo looked around quickly and saw a possible answer to his problem in the sparkle of the sea.

  “Francisco!” came Diego’s worried voice. “Here, put this on.” He ran up and quickly enclosed Mateo within a rusting breastplate which was hinged like a clamshell. Diego secured the leather ties and quickly backed away.

  The sun had climbed halfway to its zenith and now burned down powerfully on the two men. Garcia advanced slowly and cautiously, his heavy sword held high with both hands. Mateo moved in quickly, striking a blow to Garcia’s shoulder that glanced off harmlessly. Garcia’s sword whistled overhead as Mateo ducked quickly and rolled away.