Calling Crow

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Calling Crow Page 13

by Paul Clayton


  He went out into the night and moved quickly along the damp ground. Only the brightest stars were visible through the low clouds. Because of the poor light he would be nearly invisible to the soldiers. He slowly walked through the compound, turning where he had memorized, until he reached one of the pits. There he poured out the pungent meat scraps. All of it was the crow spirit’s protection, he told himself hopefully, as he headed toward the hills.

  He stopped after a while to listen for the dogs and heard nothing. They were still busy enjoying the meal he had provided them earlier. He had also rubbed some medicine an old man had given him over his body. The old man had said that it would make him invisible to the dogs. The crickets and frogs were making a loud racket. That would help shield him from the dull ears of the soldiers. Calling Crow prayed that it was so as he made his way to the wall. Quickly and silently he pulled himself up and over, dropping down without a sound. He walked to the stream where the Spanish got their water. Reaching it without incident, he said a quick prayer of thanks as he moved quietly along the sandy bank.

  Calling Crow followed the curve of the creek. Periodically he stopped, standing still as a tree to listen. At one point, he was ready to move again when he heard a voice. The voice was no more than a few feet away, and he could tell from its intonation that it was asking a question. Another voice on the other side of him answered. Calling Crow crouched close to the earth and began to sweat. He was evidently standing between two soldiers who had camped outside the compound. One of them said something and broke out in a loud laugh. Then the other joined in. Calling Crow slowly crept away, fearing all the while that he might step on one of the soldiers. Finally he was away from them and he increased his pace.

  The underbrush grew thick and Calling Crow moved down the bank and walked in the ankle deep water. He was well away from the soldiers when he heard movement in the bushes. He hurried along as it crashed through the brush behind him. He wondered why the medicine the old man had given him was not working. Or was this was a spirit dog? He heard the scrabbling of claws on wet rock and moved out into the deeper part of the creek. He was too late. A throaty growl came from behind, raising the hairs on his neck. He ran as a splashing sounded behind him, but not fast enough. Iron jaws closed on his leg and he cried out. He whirled about, and the creature released its grip and lunged at him. Calling Crow caught the dog by the scruff of its neck, managing to hold it off while it snarled and snapped, its claws ripping into his chest. With a powerful shake, the dog broke free of Calling Crow’s grasp and bit down hard on his arm. Moaning in pain, Calling Crow grabbed the dog with his other arm. He lost his footing on a mossy rock and fell into the knee deep water on top of the dog. The dog released him and he wrapped both arms around its neck, pinning its head under the slowly moving water.

  Calling Crow gasped for air as the dog shook and clawed, trying to free its head. He held it under the water until it stopped moving. He released it, watching its body slide away, turning slowly in the sluggish current. Calling Crow stood in the middle of the stream, stilling his breath as he listened. His arm and leg throbbed where the dog had bitten him. Apparently no one had heard the sounds of the struggle and there was only the gentle sigh of the water. He went back to the bank.

  After walking for half the night, Calling Crow found a small cave in the stream bank. He crawled inside and collapsed in exhaustion. A deep sleep quickly came over him.

  In the morning, the sniffing and pawing of the dogs woke him. Then he heard the voices of the soldiers at the entrance of the cave. They talked and laughed loudly. “Come out,” called the interpreter. “Come out now or we will send the dogs in after you.”

  Calling Crow crawled out into the morning light. Enraged at being a captive again, he charged the soldiers. They hit him with sticks and fists and tied him up. They took him back to the camp and whipped him for a long time. He laughed at them and insulted them until he passed out.

  That night in the hut Calling Crow was too sick to eat. He lay on the ground in front of the fire while No Neck watched him from the other side of the hut. He thought of Tiamai. How long had it been since he had seen her? He tried to remember her and realized painfully that he could no longer recall her face.

  “Cacique,” said No Neck. “Come, drink some wine with me. It will help you to forget what you have become.”

  Calling Crow tried to think of a reason to not drink wine, but he could not. He crawled over and drank thirstily from No Neck’s jar. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the sound of a woman and child crying in the next hut. No Neck passed out and fell onto his side. Calling Crow drained the jar and crawled back over to the wall. He took the blood glass out of the medicine bag Little Bear had given him and held it up to the light of the fire. It shone like a little red star. Was it the answer?

  Chapter 22

  Father Luis shifted in his chair as he looked down at the paper before him. The afternoon light in the cane-walled, thatch-roofed hut was dim. The intense heat made him sweat and the wool fibers of his clothing dug into his skin like a thousand tiny knives. Sighing heavily, he reached around to scratch his back. How to begin? he thought. How to put over fifty years of pain and suffering and death down onto a single piece of paper?

  He looked out at the bright sunshine and wondered where Father Antonio was. Father Antonio was firmly on the landowners’ side regarding the Indian question and it would not do to have him see the letter. Father Luis rubbed the feather quill against his cheek pensively. If he wrote this letter, and if the wrong pair of eyes in Castile saw it, then there could be much trouble for him. He was up against some very powerful interests on the island, some of them in the Church.

  Father Luis forced the hot stifling air into his lungs and wished for an early arrival of the afternoon breeze. He thought of his visit to Roldan’s mine and the sufferings of the native people there. The problems, he knew, were the result of Bishop Cavago’s indifference. Cavago had found his way into the priesthood through his military service in the Holy Land. The son of a wealthy Lord and church benefactor, his appointment to Bishop had more to do with politics than with love of the church and God.

  Father Luis shooed away a fly that was buzzing him. Priests like Cavago were like worms in the bowels of a living creature. If not removed, they would eventually kill the host. It deeply saddened Father Luis to think these things, but it was so. And so he must do what he could.

  He touched the quill to the paper. As he wrote, he saw hope glimmering in the wet ink trace the quill left behind:

  Only after having beseeched the encomendero landowners on at least a dozen separate occasions, and even our own Bishop Cavago at least three times, all to no avail, do I dare to write these lines. Most of the encomenderos continue to treat the Indians brutally, or to sanction such treatment, ignoring all the stipulations of the Council of the Indies on these matters. I will relate several incidences herein to document what l mean--

  Father Luis folded the paper neatly. He tilted the sealing candle, dripping a glistening crystal clear bead of wax onto the seam. When it had congealed into a milky pearl, he pushed his ring into it and, as he did, felt his own fate being sealed by the action. So be it, he thought. Once his friend, Father Cuneo, the King’s confessor, received this, it was all in God’s hands.

  Hearing Father Antonio coming into the hut, Father Luis quickly tucked the letter up his sleeve.

  Father Antonio hoisted a leather pouch onto the table. “I’ve been looking all over for Miguel,” he said tiredly, “and he is nowhere to be found. You shall have to take the mail to the ship.”

  Father Luis nodded. “Perhaps he is at the reservation.”

  Father Antonio frowned. “Probably. He is slipping back into the old ways. You had better have a talk with him.”

  Father Luis didn’t say anything. This was something he tried not to think about. It wasn’t just Miguel, but other Indians as well. Sometimes when he was tired he worried that if left alone, many would sl
ip back into their old ways. It was a most disturbing thought.

  Father Luis went out into the bright light and stopped for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. As he walked around the church, its high adobe walls and arched portals gave his troubled mind some solace. Building this church had been one of his biggest achievements. It would withstand the hurricanes which wreaked havoc on the island’s flimsy cane dwellings every year, and it would be here long after he was gone.

  One of the Indians helped Father Luis onto the ass and he urged the little beast down the mountain road with steady, gentle kicks. He wanted to get to Santo Domingo and do this quickly before he thought about it too long and changed his mind. When he came to the dull green olive trees which lined the last stretch of road into the city, he could hear shouting and laughter. As he entered the shade of the trees, he saw with a sinking heart that a group of soldiers appeared to be sprawled about in the dirt, blocking the road as they drank wine and gambled.

  When Father Luis could see their faces clearly, his pulse quickened. Their horrid weapons, no doubt stained with the blood of innocents, lay about-- their harquebuses, halberds, and crossbows, their sharp steel swords. The closer he got, the more their talk abused his ears. They were an embarrassment to Christianity. They knew the Lord’s holy commandments yet they behaved like beasts. Even the most warlike Indians of the New World were saint-like compared to these Spaniards, for the Indians knew not of God and His laws.

  “Father,” said one of the soldiers mockingly. He had his hand on his sword.

  Father Luis considered turning around and telling Father Antonio the ass had bruised a hoof on a rock and he couldn’t get to the ship on time.

  The soldier stepped in front of the ass, and it stopped, waiting patiently.

  “What do you want?” said Father Luis. He looked back over his shoulder. There was no one coming in either direction.

  “Won’t you have a drink with us, Father?”

  The other soldiers watched the exchange intently with leering drunken faces.

  Father Luis’s face grew as red as a beet. “Stand back and let me pass,” he said. “I have business in Santo Domingo.”

  The man swayed drunkenly and took the ass’s halter in his hand. “What’s the hurry, Father?” He looked back at the others. One of the men threw some dice onto the dirt. “We want you to gamble with us.”

  “Can you not see I am a man of God?” Father Luis tried to put as much anger as possible into his voice, but was unnerved at the pleading quality of the result.

  “Then dismount and we shall bend our knees in prayer together instead.”

  The man folded his hands as if in prayer and a bellow of rough laughter followed. Another man got to his feet and started over. Father Luis’s heart pounded in his chest and he swallowed hard. He felt like a swine being pushed into a holding pen before a holiday feast. Please, God, he prayed, give me the courage to do Thy divine will.

  “Let me pass,” he said aloud, this time managing to put more anger into his words.

  The man held on to the halter and came around the side of the ass.

  Father Luis felt as if his heart would stop. “Madre de Dios,” he said as he jabbed his heels into the ass. The animal jerked forward in fright, bumping the drunken soldier. He staggered backward and fell on the ground as the others laughed. Father Luis, his face taut with fear, looked straight ahead as the ass trotted on. He half expected to hear them running after him. When he was safely away, he turned around for a look and saw that they were not following him. Thank God!

  Soon Father Luis approached the city gate. Made of reddish adobe brick, its high walls had crumbled in places and bushes and weeds sprouted from the exposed earth. The wall stretched out about the length of two cables, with turrets at either end and a high Roman arch in the center. Father Luis passed beneath the arch, delighting in the shade. He smiled when he heard the shouts and laughter of children playing near the Fountain of the Maid. He paused, watching a mule train pass, the slow moving animals tethered head to tail.

  Father Luis started out again, the ass plodding through the red dust streets of Santo Domingo. As he passed half-naked children playing in the dirt and diseased men and women begging, he wished he had never been transferred to the colonies. He was a man of God and he wanted to help these people, but he could not. He was not cut out for all this courtly intrigue and skullduggery. The ones who were seemed to thrive on it, like Cavago, and do nothing for the native people. He frowned slightly as the ass plodded along. Perhaps he should just forget about sending the letter.

  Half of an hour later Father Luis came to the wharf area. The resinous smell of tar and the salty aroma of the sea tickled his nostrils. He rode past a great carrack, careened over against the stone quay for bottom cleaning and caulking. Sturdy ropes secured it to iron posts in the quay, its masts supported by heavy timbers. A raft of logs lashed to the hull rose and fell slightly in the swells, the wetted wood glinting dully in the afternoon light. No men were working on it. Father Luis rode on, coming to two ships tied up together. Next to them, several tall stacks of casks waited to be loaded. The sweet smell of cane sugar filled the air, and Father Luis looked up at the men moving about on the ships. They were Francisco Mateo’s ships, and he spotted him leaning against the rail talking to another man. Mateo waved.

  Father Luis nodded. He didn’t like the man. Mateo was part of the problem. Indeed, of the two shiploads of captives he had brought in a few months ago, many of them were already sick or had died from the Indian pox.

  Father Luis approached the last of the caravels tied up along the quay. He could tell by all the activity that she was the Esmerelda, the ship which would take the mail to Castile. Gangs of mestizos and Indians rushed about to finish loading her before she left in the morning.

  He tied up the ass and walked up the plank. On the ship, he paused. He retrieved his own letter from the sack and tucked it in his robe. Sending the letter would only cause him trouble and would not change much. He gave the sack to the guard and walked back down the plank. Suddenly his cowardice weighed heavily on him and he felt very sad. He tried to tell himself that he was only being realistic, that his feelings of disappointment and sadness would pass. But of course they did not.

  Someone called him and he looked around. Senor Domenico Grimaldi, one of his parishioners, sat with some other men at a table under a tent top on the other side of the casks.

  Despite the hot weather, Grimaldi wore a wool cloak about his shoulders. He smiled as Father Luis approached. Aged and badly weakened by fevers, Grimaldi had only come to the colony three years earlier, but his constitution was poor and he had never been able to withstand the tropical weather. Now he was going back to live out the rest of his life at his estate in Lisbon.

  “How are you, Father?” he said.

  Father Luis tried to smile. “I am well.”

  Senor Grimaldi took Luis’s hand, looking deep into his eyes and smiling. “Well, please take care of yourself, Father. The Indians love you and they depend on you very much.”

  Luis’s eyes grew moist and he sat down, feeling dizzy. It was as if God were speaking to him through his friend. What had he just done? He, the only advocate for the Indians on the island with any power, had just abandoned them. How different was he from Judas selling out our Lord Jesus?

  Grimaldi smiled and held up an empty cup. “Won’t you join me in a cup of beer?”

  Father Luis shook his head and swallowed. He looked around furtively. “Listen, Domenico, I want you to take something back for me.”

  “Of course, Father,” said Grimaldi.

  Father Luis took out the letter and handed it to him. “You must give this only to Father Cuneo at the palace in Castile. You must not show it to anyone else! Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Father Luis. Just as you say.”

  Father Luis got to his feet. “I must go now.”

  They embraced, and Grimaldi spoke, “I will miss you, Father.”


  Father Luis leaned close, “And I, you. God loves you, Domenico.”

  As Father Luis rode off, he looked out at the harbor. The sea was a beautiful blue, like the Virgin’s gown in the church paintings. A strong, steady breeze moved inland, the cool air filling him with hope. He looked out past the stone breakwater at the many small, lateen-rigged fishing boats bobbing in the gentle waves. Hopefully, he thought, something would finally be done about these great injustices. Instead of leaving behind just a church of stone, he would have bettered the lives of hundreds and hundreds of Indians. A small, almost imperceptible smile colored his round face and for the first time in a long time he felt at peace.

  Chapter 23

  Calling Crow shoveled dirt into the woman’s basket. “Are you of the Guale People?” she asked him. He didn’t hear her. Like all the others in the pit, he was entranced by the smell wafting over them and he could think of nothing else. Up on the raised bank, Spanish soldiers were roasting a large animal over a fire. Everyone knew it was for the Spanish only. They had never given the people meat, except once when some rotten scraps were mixed in with their cassava bread. The people told Calling Crow that this animal was a pig, and all morning the sweet scent of its flesh and the crisp smell of its fat dripping onto the fire had tickled and teased their nostrils cruelly until it was all anyone could think about. They talked of it in angry, muffled tones. Some of the older, weaker ones even wept as they worked. Calling Crow thought that No Neck, who was working close by, would go mad. He had not taken his eyes off of it and had fallen down several times because he had been walking backward to keep the pig in sight.

  Roldan’s younger helper, Ortiz, and another Spanish carrying a crossbow came to the edge of the pit and pointed at Calling Crow, No Neck, and an old man called Big Heart. “You, you, and you! Come with us.”

 

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