by Paul Clayton
The three men climbed up the bank and followed the two Spanish to the horse drawn wagon they transported food and supplies in. Ortiz indicated that they should get in the wagon. As Calling Crow pulled himself in, Ortiz kicked him in the buttocks. Calling Crow turned quickly to lunge at Ortiz, but No Neck and Big Heart grabbed him from behind. Ortiz said something in Spanish and scowled, going round to the front of the wagon. No Neck and Big Heart continued to hold Calling Crow to keep him from going after the Spanish until the wagon began moving.
The wagon swayed and bumped past fields of towering cane. No Neck and Big Heart laughed and talked quietly about how much wine they could drink, about how much wine Calling Crow had drunk the night before, about which woman was lying with which man. Calling Crow said nothing as he watched the fields pass by. Finally they came to a plantation full of flowering cassava plants. Among the orderly rows, tens of tens of black slaves worked at digging up the roots with many-pointed sticks. The slaves sang as they worked, one man calling out a line of their strange song, after which the others would repeat the phrase in a thick, wailing harmony. As he listened, Calling Crow forgot his own sadness as the pain and suffering in the singing filled the air. There was something else in the music, a bright hopeful lilt running through the refrain.
The wagon pulled up before a large, open-sided, thatch-roofed hut, where black women could be seen preparing the cassava by squeezing it in long skin bags hanging from the roof of the hut. Calling Crow and the others got out and loaded many baskets of cassava bread and fruit, along with vases of water and wine in the wagon. When they finished, Ortiz disappeared on the other side of the building. Calling Crow and Big Heart sat in the shade of the wagon under the watchful eyes of the crossbow-toting Spanish, while No Neck, who had come to this place many times, walked over to talk to the black people. He came back a few moments later and sat down heavily, something concealed under his tunic. When the Spanish guards wandered around to the far side of the cart, No Neck produced a red glass Spanish bottle. He took a sip and rubbed his lips appreciatively.
“Is it wine?” said Calling Crow.
“No, it is better, stronger. It is cane liquor.”
“Give me some,” said Calling Crow.
No Neck handed Calling Crow the bottle, and he tilted it up and drank hungrily.
“That is enough,” said No Neck, “too much.” He laughed as Calling Crow handed the bottle back to him. “This is not wine, Calling Crow. It has much more power. Soon you will know that.”
Ortiz and the other Spanish came back after a half of an hour and ordered Calling Crow and the others back into the wagon. The wagon had not gone far when Calling Crow felt as if his head had opened up and crazy, shouting demons rushed inside. “Kill him, ” they shouted. Calling Crow got to his feet and grabbed Ortiz from behind. He tried to pull him back into the bed of the wagon, but No Neck and Big Heart pulled Calling Crow off of him. The Spanish guard turned and hit Calling Crow in the face. Calling Crow threw off the arms of the others and howled in rage. The wagon jumped violently and Calling Crow and much of the bread and produce was thrown out onto the road.
The wagon stopped, tilted up at a crazy angle. Calling Crow crawled to one of the wheels as No Neck and Big Heart called to him. He heard the Spanish cursing angrily as he grasped the wheel. The Spanish beat him, but he did not feel their blows and he laughed at them.
No Neck and Big Heart began picking up the bread and fruit from the road. Calling Crow heard a horse coming and saw Roldan dismounting. Roldan and Ortiz conversed angrily, both men pausing several times to glare over at Calling Crow.
Roldan cursed and took the whip from the bed of the wagon. He stepped back and extended the leather coil to its full length. Then, with a quick snap, he lashed it out at Calling Crow. Calling Crow flinched at the stinging pain. He held up his arms and the next blow cut into them. He saw something coming down the path from the hills. At about the distance an arrow would travel, a Black Robe rode closer on a little horse. As Roldan continued to beat Calling Crow, he realized that he would not live out the day. The words that Little Bear had taught him came to him suddenly and he called out, “Cacique! I cacique!” Caciques were not supposed to work in the pits. If he could get out of the pits, maybe he could help the others. Maybe he could even escape.
The Black Robe evidently did not hear Calling Crow, and the whip continued to bite into his back, each blow drawing blood. Calling Crow got to his knees and crawled out into the road. A gust of wind blew a wave of dust into his eyes. Again he called out loudly, “I cacique! Cacique!” Calling Crow saw that the Black Robe was not going to stop. Despite the red hot sting of the whip on his back, Calling Crow began scratching into the dirt road the image of the crossed sticks that the Black Robes worshipped. In his own language he shouted angrily at the Black Robe, “I put your craven cross in the dirt where it belongs!”
Father Luis saw the wagon and men over by the edge of the cane field as a few big errant drops of rain struck his face. He heard the crack of a whip, but kept his eyes straight ahead. More of those awful soldiers. Hopefully his letter would change much of what they did here, but, in the meantime, he could not involve himself in every instance of abuse. Besides, thunderheads were building over the green hills in the distance. A rainstorm was coming. He’d better hurry. He had to teach a catechism to the Indians in his charge and he didn’t want to be held up.
A loud, awful voice called out. “Cacique! I cacique!” It was a horrible voice, full of pain and rage. The voice came again and again, stabbing into Father Luis’s soul as he kept his eyes straight ahead. It must be one of the soldiers, he thought, trying to play a joke on him. He tried to think of something else. What was it that Father Marcos had said about the new theory going around, that the Christ had visited this New World, perhaps after rising from his sepulcher? After all, there were many stories among the Indians on The Main about the bearded white god who had appeared to them. And had not Cortes in New Spain conquered the Indians there, poor souls, because they believed him to be their bearded white god returning to them?
“Father!” The voice was piercing and soul-rendering in its pain. Father Luis halted the ass and looked over. In the quickly darkening light, he saw one of the Indians crawling about in the dirt of the road as the overseer stood over him, whip in hand. These soldiers, he thought, had they no mercy, no fear of Him who rules over all, Spanish and Indian alike?
Father Luis jerked the halter of the ass and looked away as the ass started forward. A great flash of lightning lit up the sky as Father Luis was looking over at the men. His breath caught in astonishment. The Indian had scratched a life sized cross in the dirt of the road. It was a miracle, as if God Himself was working through the man. A concussion of thunder rolled across the land, rumbling in Father Luis’s chest cavity. Another lightning bolt whip cracked across the darkening sky, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The Indian screamed in a voice so horribly tortured, it stopped the ass in its tracks. Father Luis watched, unable to move. The overseer stooped over the Indian and brought the hard wooden handle of the whip down on the back of his head. He collapsed onto the crude cross on the ground as cold rain poured down all around in a torrent.
The rain broke the spell and Father Luis quickly slipped off the ass and hurried over. He saw that it was Roldan and one of his men. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he shouted.
Roldan said nothing as he and the others dragged the Indian toward the wagon, leaving a trail smeared in the mud.
“Stop!” Father Luis demanded.
Roldan looked at Father Luis. “This is none of your affair. We are disciplining him.”
“Discipline?” Father Luis shouted. “I wouldn’t discipline a dog as poorly. Leave him be. I command you!” They dropped the Indian, and Father Luis knelt in the mud beside him. He slapped the Indian’s face, trying to bring him to, but there was no response.
Father Luis looked up at Roldan and Ortiz and saw that they were smiling. “I hea
rd him say that he is a cacique!” Father Luis shouted over the sound of the rain, “You are not allowed to work caciques. They and their progeny are supposed to be sent to the mission schools.”
Roldan spat. “He is no cacique. He is simply lying to get out of work.”
Father Luis looked at the slowly disappearing cross scratched in the muddy earth. “Well, for certain he is a Christian and because of that I shall take him at his word.”
Roldan frowned down at Calling Crow’s still unmoving form. “It is like the old saying-- ‘The devil takes refuge behind the cross.’”
“Who are you to be the judge of such things?”
Roldan said nothing and Father Luis turned to No Neck and Big Heart, who were watching. “Is he a cacique?”
“Yes, Father,” said No Neck, looking nervously over at Roldan. “That is what he has told us.”
“That settles it, then,” said Father Luis. “I’m taking him with me.”
The rain came down steadily now as the thunder and lightning moved off into the distance. Father Luis turned to No Neck and Big Heart. “Help me with him.” Together the three men carried Calling Crow and slung him face down across the ass’s back. The animal shifted uncomfortably, moving its hoofs as it adjusted to the weight.
Roldan walked over to them. “By what authority do you do this?”
Father Luis took the cross from around his neck and held it out. “By His! And if that is not enough for you, you can go before the Cabildo of Santo Domingo and plead your case with them.”
Roldan smiled arrogantly. “Very well, Father.”
Father Luis turned away and took the bridle. He led the ass back toward the path.
“Now we shall have to work the others even harder,” Roldan called after him. He shook the coiled-up whip at No Neck and Big Heart. “Now you must do his work too, you dogs.
Father Luis did not turn around as he led the ass down the ox track.
***
Calling Crow heard Birdfoot’s flute playing in his dream. He could not see him, nor could he see Sun Watcher, or his village of Tumaqua, or Tiamai. Sadness welled up in him as he realized they were all gone now. He woke in a place where they kept animals. He could smell their food and droppings. He opened his eyes and saw the Black Robe sitting next to him. Calling Crow was surprised at how fat the man was, and how bad he smelled.
“I, Father Luis,” said the Black Robe, using signs and some of Calling Crow’s own words. “What name you?”
“Calling Crow.”
“Tell me how you came to this place?”
Calling Crow told the Black Robe about his village and the woman he loved who was called Tiamai. He told him how Caldo had died, and how he had killed Many Skins Man and become Chief.
The Black Robe was very upset when he heard about Many Skins Man’s death. “Bad!” he said. “Very bad!” He waved his hand over Calling Crow as if to chase away flies. “Go on.”
Calling Crow told him about going after the cloudboats, about his capture and how Big Nose had died.
“Where your village?” said the Black Robe.
Calling Crow grew suspicious. “At the other end of the sea.”
“Ha!” The Black Robe laughed heartily and jabbed Calling Crow with a fat finger. “You no say where. You think I slaver, eh?”
Calling Crow said nothing.
The Black Robe got to his feet. “You worry no more, eh? You have home this place. You have father, too. God is father. Holy Mary is mother, and Jesus is savior. Jesus is Lord! Do not worry.”
Calling Crow tried to focus on the man’s face, but his eyes blurred and he fell back into a deep sleep.
***
Calling Crow woke when his nose told him there was food nearby. The fat Black Robe had left meat in a wooden bowl beside where Calling Crow lay. Calling Crow knocked the bowl onto the floor in his haste to eat it. It was good, and he left the animal place and walked out into the sun. The light hurt his eyes, and he stumbled into the shadow of a large hut made of stone. He walked along, feeling the walls, till he found an opening. Now his eyes could see, and it was a very pleasing sight after the dirt and filth of the mines and hovels. This house of red rocks and weathered wood beams, mud smeared over all, felt good to him. It was like waking after death. He slowly ran his hands over the walls as he walked along on a path of smooth rocks.
There was peace here. He stepped across the threshold. The wind came in behind him moving his hair while the leaves swirled on the rocks outside the door like skittering bugs. Inside the walls it was cool and peaceful and dim. He moved in further to the center and after a while he saw the beautiful woman on the wall and the man attached to the tree. He realized it was the Jesus and Mother Mary that the Black Robes prayed to and he sat down and stared at them.
Chapter 24
In the dim, candle-lit church, Senor Francisco Mateo looked up at the pulpit at the beef red face of Father Luis. The father was livid, and spittle flew from his lips as he continued his angry harangue of the landowners, “‘And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt--’” Father Luis looked up, catching Mateo’s eye. “This land here is as cruel a place as Egypt was.” He continued reading, “And have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters--.’“ Father Luis looked slowly around at the congregation. “That is you. ‘for I know their sorrows. ’” He said this last softly and again looked round at the congregation. “Has any one of you ever tried to ponder the sorrows of these people who labor for you? I don’t think so. ‘And I am come down to deliver them out of the land of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey.’”
A portly man next to Mateo coughed, his phlegmy hacking echoing loudly off the stone walls.
Father Luis sighed heavily as he waited for the man to stop. “The Lord’s meaning is obvious. Surely you can see that the Indians of these lands share a similar plight.” He paused for a moment, the only sound in the church being the scratch of a boot on the stone floor. “Be it hereby known, as the servant of the Lord, I shall not sit idly by while even one of the Indians in your encomiendas is mistreated in any way!”
Unable to contain himself, Mateo called out, “Are you now trying to tell us how to run our businesses?” Without turning her black lace-shrouded head, his wife squeezed his hand in warning.
“Yes,” cried another man, “you should stick to teaching the Gospel, that is all!”
Father Luis slammed his meaty hand down on the pulpit, causing some of the women in the front row to jump. He leaned forward as he looked at Mateo. “This is the Gospel. His Gospel! And He is speaking to you! Now, hear me carefully. I shall withhold the Sacraments from any member of this congregation whose treatment of the native peoples goes against the rules of the Council of the Indies. Then I shall recommend excommunication to the Bishop.”
A hush fell over the people. For Catholics, excommunication from the church was worse than any earthly punishment.
Mateo smiled coolly, but inside he was troubled. To be cut off from God’s grace and condemned to the fires of Hell for all eternity was a frightening thing to contemplate. But the bishop would never side with Father Luis in this.
An old gentleman in the rear of the church got quietly to his feet and left. Three other men and their wives followed suit. Several hollow coughs echoed through the cool church. Mateo considered walking out. He couldn’t sit and listen to much more. But again, as if reading his thoughts, his wife squeezed his hand in warning.
Father Luis looked down at the congregation, his face still flushed in anger. “And now,” he said, “let us close the service with the Lord’s Prayer.”
Mateo stayed in his seat until all had left the church. His wife had been deeply disturbed by the father’s threats and had left with her father. Now Mateo’s anger built as he thought of the injustice of it all. The colony needed Indians to work the plantations and mines. And he had provided them. There had
been evidence that they were cannibals, and therefore taken legally, all according to the rules of the Council of the Indies.
Father Luis walked out of the sacristy, and Mateo got to his feet and approached him. The father looked haggard and did not seem surprised to see him.
“What would you have us do?” said Mateo quietly.
Father Luis turned. “What?”
“The Indians must work for the greater good of the colony and Spain. To make them work we must push them. Don’t you see?”
Father Luis shook his head tiredly. “No. I do not see. I see no need of beatings, starving people into submission--.”
“These things happen rarely. They are the exceptions to the rule!”
“One exception is too many.”
Mateo scowled and moved closer. “You-- you have never had to run a business, to turn a profit, to bring in a crop.” Mateo wanted to rein in his anger, but could not. “What do you know of these things?”
Father Luis looked at him as if he were mad and then turned away.
Mateo heard a noise in the rear of the church and turned. An Indian with his back to them ran a polishing cloth along the wooden frame of a painted panel. Something about the man looked familiar. Mateo walked to the back, Father Luis following him.
The Indian turned around and Mateo recognized him as the one he had run down with his horse and captured on the beach. “You!” he said. “You are from the beach!”
Father Luis translated Mateo’s words.
Calling Crow shook his head. “Tell him I was on his ship, but I am not that one.”
“He said you are wrong,”‘ Father Luis told Mateo.
Mateo advanced on Calling Crow. “He lies! He is the very one I took from the beach! What is he doing here?”
Father Luis stepped between the men and turned to Mateo. “What of it? It makes no difference now.”
Before Mateo could answer, Calling Crow, his face a mask of hate, said loudly in his own language, “The man you took from the beach died long ago.” He walked outside.