by Paul Clayton
El Animal frowned in disgust. “You are crazy. Get back to work.”
Calling Crow did not move.
El Animal uncoiled his whip. “I will teach you, fool.”
The whip whistled through the air and cut painfully into Calling Crow’s chest. He did not cry out and glared at the man instead. Again the whip cut into his bloodied chest and he managed not to cry out. His chest heaved with pain and fury as the man drew the whip back. The whip cracked across the distance between them like black lightning. Calling Crow held up his arm and the whip wrapped stingingly around it. He pulled on it, trying to pull the man down into the pit. “I am cacique!”
El Animal cursed loudly, digging in his heels as he leaned backward. Roldan and two Spanish guards rushed over.
“What is this?” demanded Senor Roldan.
“He says he is a cacique,” said El Animal, “but I say he is a fool.” El Animal pulled hard on the whip and fell backward as Calling Crow released it.
“Cacique!” Calling Crow shouted in fury. “I cacique!”
El Animal got to his feet and coiled the whip for another strike.
“You are a fool,” said Roldan. He turned to El Animal. “Give me that!” Roldan grabbed the whip. He struck Calling Crow across the legs. Calling Crow grabbed for it and missed. Roldan struck again, the whip cracking like a shot. “Bring the hounds,” he shouted.
All the people had stopped their work to watch as more Spaniards rushed over, their snarling dogs straining at their ropes.
“I am cacique!” Calling Crow shouted as he looked up at Roldan. “Cacique!” Calling Crow was suddenly aware of the dogs. Too many to count, their eyes were fixed on him as they snarled, their sharp white teeth snapping. He stepped back a few paces involuntarily, now only dimly aware of the Spanish. All he could see were the snapping teeth.
“Tell him to get back to work or he is dog meat,” Roldan said.
“Fool,” El Animal said, “if you don’t go back to your digging you are food for the dogs. Do you hear me?”
Calling Crow tried to talk and could not. He could not move. All he could do was watch the eyes and teeth of the dogs. The Spanish knelt and began untying the ropes of the snarling dogs. Then Born In Storm and No Neck ran over to Calling Crow and put a shovel in his hands. They began pulling him backward. No Neck shouted up to the Spanish, “Please, senor, he is young and crazy! Please!”
“Enough,” Roldan said. He tossed the coiled-up whip at El Animal. “Now get them all back to work or I will use the whip on you.” He walked off with a half dozen men clustered tightly around him.
In the pit, Calling Crow’s shame was greater than his pain. He could not look at the other people as he worked.
“Do not be ashamed,” said a voice. It was Little Bear. Calling Crow said nothing and did not look at him. “We are all afraid. All the people in this pit are afraid. The brave ones are already dead.”
Chapter 17
Alonso Roldan and Manuel Ortiz rode at a trot along the sea road. Nearing the city, they were forced to slow their pace as they maneuvered around the strollers and loiterers in the road. Passing the still-uncompleted Cathedral de Santa Maria la Menor, they rode up a cobblestone road to the smooth stone wall of the Cabildo. Half a dozen horses were tethered in front of the Roman arch portico of the building.
The two men quickly dismounted and tied up their horses. Roldan led the way under the cool portico and down a half flight of steps. They walked around to the back and knocked at a set of large doors. A servant girl opened the door, curtsying slightly as they entered.
Roldan and Ortiz stood in the marbled corridor until the girl closed the door. “We are here to see the governor,” said Roldan. “He is expecting us.”
The girl nodded and walked down the hall to where two soldiers in polished breastplate, holding tall halberds stood guarding another pair of wooden doors. The girl opened a door for them, and Roldan and Ortiz entered. The Governor sat at his desk, which was situated in the middle of the surprisingly small office. He wore a red velvet doublet with a ruffled collar, and his fat face and bald head were beaded with sweat.
Senor Alonso Roldan felt reassured at sight of the man, a loyal Peninsular Spaniard. Now justice would be done. “Governor,” he said, “thank you for receiving us.”
Governor Toledo nodded. “What have you to tell me?”
“Governor, I have knowledge of one of your subjects who has broken the laws.”
“What laws were they?” said Toledo. He took his quill from the inkstand and looked round for paper.
“Governor, a man known as Francisco Mateo underreported the number of captive Indians he brought back from the Floridas so as to pay less tax. The tax man himself seems to have been complicit in this, too, I might add.”
Governor Toledo sighed. “Hardly a unique crime, I’m afraid. It happens quite a bit. I will have someone look into it.”
As Toledo’s quill scratched on the paper, Roldan frowned. Toledo did not seem to care much that the Crown was being cheated.
Governor Toledo glared up at Manuel Ortiz. “I suppose you are a witness to this too.”
Ortiz nodded.
Governor Toledo tiredly scratched out the details with his quill. As Roldan looked down on him, he realized that this would go nowhere. He hadn’t believed it when he had first heard of the laxity of the colonials. But now it certainly seemed so. He had a sudden thought. There was another way, indirect, but effective, to punish Mateo. And that would be to put his old fool of a friend in peril.
Roldan cleared his throat. “Governor, there is something else, something much more serious.”
The Governor sighed. “What is it, man?”
Roldan nodded. “Several months ago, I and some of my men were witness to a certain Senor Diego Vega, committing the act of sodomy with a Moorish boy named Miramor.”
Governor Toledo put down his quill and slowly sat back. His face grew very red. “Conchietta!” he called out. The servant girl entered.
“Come here.”
The girl walked over and the Governor whispered in her ear. She immediately left the room. Governor Toledo looked back and forth between the two men, finally settling on Ortiz. “I suppose you witnessed this, too, eh?”
Ortiz nodded.
Heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor and a squad of six soldiers dressed in breastplate and carrying crossbows burst into the room. They immediately seized Roldan and Ortiz by the arms.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Roldan.
“Senor,” said Governor Toledo slowly, his face still red, “you are either mad or else you are a liar! Diego Vega is a good and honorable man. I know this because I came over with him on the Galician’s second voyage twenty five years ago. I don’t know what you hoped to gain by attempting to savage his reputation, but you shall not succeed!”
Governor Toledo turned to the soldiers. “Throw them out!”
The soldiers pushed Roldan and Ortiz quickly down the corridor. Their angry shouts echoed off the marble walls. Reaching the doors, the soldiers roughly pushed them out onto the street where they fell into the dust.
Bleeding from the nose, Roldan got to his feet and dusted himself off. He walked straight to his horse, mounted, and rode off. Manuel Ortiz hurriedly dusted himself off and mounted his horse, racing after him.
Ortiz did not catch up with Roldan until they had passed through the gates of the city. Without a word, they rode slowly along the red dirt of the valley road. On either side of them the cane rose up like a green wall, blocking the breeze. The air in the road was like an oven and both men were soon soaked through with sweat.
As he rode along, Roldan could not put what had just happened out of his mind. The ignominy of it took him back to the ship and his flogging, a flogging for saving the ship! The pain he suffered that night was nothing compared to his shame at having had to face his men afterward. The shame burned in him again, hotter than the sun which bore down on them from high above.
Manuel Ortiz came abreast of Roldan and slowed to a trot. He spat out a mouthful of dust and looked over at Roldan. Roldan’s eyes were glazed as if he were drunk. They rode in silence for a while. Finally Ortiz said, “Senor, what can we do?”
Roldan looked off into the distance. “Nothing at present. But there will come a time. I will just have to wait for that time, that is all.”
Ortiz nodded. “God! Who would have thought it, Diego’s coming over with the governor? There must be some--.”
“Shut up!” snapped Roldan. He reined up his horse and turned angrily to the younger man. “Your prattle riles me and it changes nothing.”
“Sorry, Senor.” Ortiz avoided Roldan’s eyes. They rode on. A few moments later Roldan again reined his horse to a stop. Ortiz shot past him, turned his mount round, and rode back. Roldan dismounted and tied his horse to a tree at the edge of the road.
“What is it, senor?” said Ortiz, quickly dismounting. He held the reins of his horse.
Roldan ignored him and walked out into the field. Ortiz tied his mount to the tree and watched in silence.
“Come!” roared Roldan, and two lizards in the shade of a nearby rock skittered away at the sudden noise.
Ortiz hurried over. Roldan stood before a rock as big as a sow. “Senor?” said Ortiz tentatively. “What is it?”
Roldan spoke in a hoarse, solemn voice, “Hear my oath. You shall be my witness!”
“Yes, senor.”
Roldan drew his knife and knelt before the rock. He stared at the mountains in the distance. “I, Alonso Roldan, swear before these mountains and this rock, and with Manuel Ortiz as my witness, that I shall have my revenge against Francisco Mateo and Diego Vega, even if it should take me a thousand days!”
“It is witnessed,” said Ortiz.
Roldan lay his hand on the rock and quickly sliced off the smallest finger of his left hand. Ortiz frowned as thick red blood pulsed from the stub. Roldan picked up the finger and placed it on a cloth handkerchief. He solemnly handed it to Ortiz. “Keep this as proof of my vow.”
“Yes, senor.” Ortiz stole a last furtive look at the finger before wrapping it up and putting it in the pocket of his doublet.
Roldan got to his feet, his left hand dripping blood onto his tan breeches and white hose.
Ortiz took a rag from his breeches pocket. “Senor, allow me?” He tied it firmly around Roldan’s left hand, stanching the flow of blood. He had barely finished when Roldan strode over to his horse and mounted. Without a look back, he dug his spurs into his mount’s sides and bounded down the road.
“Senor, wait,” cried Manuel Ortiz, as he raced for his own mount.
Chapter 18
Diego and his wife, Lomaya, crossed the street. The sun was bright and the people in the thick black shadows of the buildings were almost invisible. Diego saw that they were Indians and they were watching him and Lomaya closely. He looked away nervously. He heard an altercation and a young mestizo came out of a house and some Indians attacked him. He crawled out into the hot street, leaving a trail of blood in the tan dust. An Indian ran out and struck him with a club. The blow bashed in the back of the man’s head like a melon. Diego gripped Lomaya’s arm and they backed away as a mob of Indians began forming. “Quickly,” said Diego, pulling Lomaya around, “let’s run.”
They ran in the direction of the jungle. As Diego pushed into the cool green safety of the thick jungle, he heard shouts and turned. Someone had spotted them and was pointing them out to the others. Diego pulled Lomaya along behind him. As they ran, the vines caught at their clothes, as if trying to hold them back. Lomaya screamed and Diego turned to see that the vines were really large snakes hanging from the trees. One of them had seized Lomaya’s blouse and held her tight. He pulled his sword and chopped the snake in half as others hissed and snapped at them.
They ran on and soon his leg and hip stiffened and ached, slowing him down. Lomaya pulled at his arm. “Hurry! They are coming!” Painfully, he ran on, sweeping the serpents out of their way with his sword. He tripped on a log and fell. Rolling onto his side, he managed to sit up. Lomaya knelt before him, her face a blur of tears. “Please, get up,” she cried.
Diego closed his eyes and when he opened them, Lomaya was gone and in her place, an Indian clutching a club was looking down menacingly at him. Diego raised his sword, but a blow from the man knocked it out of his hand. A crowd gathered around him. Diego recognized Lomaya’s face among them. “No!” he cried.
“Diego, please!” Lomaya’s voice came through the hot night air, waking him. “Diego, you are dreaming!”
Candlelight illuminating her frightened face, Lomaya looked down at Diego. Her long hair brushed his face. “What is the matter?”
He sat up in the bed, drenched with sweat. A slight breeze moved through the open window, chilling him. He pulled his breeches on and headed for the doorway.
Lomaya held the candle before her, shielding it with her hand. “Where are you going?” she cried. “Come back to the bed. You are still sick with fever!”
“Leave me.” He went into the kitchen. By the light of the moon, he jerked open the wooden door of the pantry and took out the bottle. He bit down hard on the cork and pulled it out, spitting it across the room. Tilting the bottle back, he drank from it so quickly that it ran down his neck. He was vaguely aware of Lomaya crying in the other room. He felt as if he were suffocating and he went out into the moonlit garden to get some air.
Later he heard her come out. He was lying up against the wall of the garden, the empty bottle by his side. She knelt and took his gray head in her arms. He spoke her name as she kissed his forehead. She rocked him back and forth as she chanted a prayer to Mary the Mother and another to her ancestors.
He felt so sad. “It is too late for prayers, Lomaya,” he said in a thick voice. “What we did on the ship is against all of God’s laws. No prayer can salve that!”
“No,” his wife cried in a frightened voice, “don’t speak so. Go to see the good priest, Father Luis. He will help you. Of all of them, he is the closest to God.”
Diego said nothing.
“Will you go?” she said.
“All right,” said Diego. “I will go tomorrow.”
Chapter 19
Inside the thatched hut, the four men sat around the fire, their heads just beneath the pall of smoke that hung in the air. Calling Crow had been in this place for six moons now. A high log palisade surrounded the huts. During the day the Spanish soldiers were everywhere, and at night they let the killing dogs roam freely. No one dared leave their hut for fear of being ripped to pieces.
Calling Crow watched Little Bear, who sat close to the fire, chanting and shaking his rattle rhythmically. Off a ways, the other two occupants of the hut, Born In Storm and No Neck, sat drinking the wine they had purchased that evening.
“Cacique,” said Born In Storm, “why did you not buy any wine?”
“Because it is bad,” said Calling Crow. “I saw a whole village of people easily taken by the Spanish because they were under its influence.”
“It is either this or following the Jesus path,” said Born In Storm.
Calling Crow ignored him. The Spanish gave the people a small amount of money at the end of every week for their labor. When they had first given him his wages he did not understand. The Spanish had penned them up like dogs and forced them to work, yet they gave them a reward. Some said that the Spanish were required to do this by their cacique across the big water. But later, when he saw how most of the people spent the money on wine, and what the wine did to them, he understood why the Spanish gave them their pittance so willingly. The people who bought and drank the wine went crazy for a while. They forgot who they were and where they were. The wine dulled their pain and made them sleep. After Calling Crow had been here for three moons he had grown very sad and he was going to buy some wine. Little Bear had convinced him not to. He had told him that the wine would blot out his dreams, and without dreams, a
person could never make contact with their guiding spirits. They could never be free. Little Bear did not drink the wine and so neither did Calling Crow. Instead he bought some extra cassava bread and fruit with his money.
The fire flared and Calling Crow looked over. Little Bear’s eyes were half closed, but his face still wore the same determined look it had when he had started chanting after they had finished their work. With one hand he shook the rattle, its sound threatening and hypnotic like a snake’s, and in the other he held a shemi, a tiny, doll-like talisman he had fashioned out of Roldan’s hair and some feathers and bones. Calling Crow knew there were other things inside it too, but he did not know what they were. With the rattle, Little Bear was going to call the spirits into the shemi, and then the spirits would kill Roldan. Calling Crow felt some satisfaction at the idea of Roldan suddenly falling down dead. His heart suddenly burned as he thought of Fire Hair Mateo. He was the one Calling Crow most wanted to see dead. Maybe someday he would kill him.
Little Bear let out a wail, throwing his head back as he sang out his prayer.
As Calling Crow listened to Little Bear, he wondered about the sense of it all. What was the point of killing only one Spanish? What they really needed was to kill all of them. After that these other people could go back to the way they had been, instead of living like penned-up dogs. Calling Crow would be stuck in this place forever, unable to get back to his people and Tiamai across the big waters, but at least he would be free to roam the forest alone and lament, to climb a hill and see the earth spread out before him while the wind moved his hair and birds sang.
“Heyah heyah, hokah heyah,” Little Bear cried out his prayer to the spirits. The rattle hissed in the darkness, calling.
Calling Crow thought of his village of Tumaqua. He remembered hunting with Sun Watcher and Birdfoot, when Birdfoot sat out on the rock in the middle of the pond, playing his flute. But try as Calling Crow might, he couldn’t remember the tune. Not being able to bring the tune back bothered him and he looked away from the fire and into the blackness of the hut. His heart grew heavier. What about his beautiful young Tiamai? Did she still wait for him? More likely she was now mourning him as dead. Another brave would soon take her for a wife. Were Sun Watcher and Birdfoot off on a hunting trip? Was Mennewah the Shaman chanting a prayer at this very moment under the same night sky full of stars? Or were they all gone, victims of the Destroyer, as Calling Crow had seen in his vision?