“You don’t want them as friends until they learn how to be human,” said Diko. “Guacanagarí will beg for them to be friends with someone else before this story is played out. But I tell you this. No matter what happens, let it be known that no harm is to come to the one they call Colón, the white-haired one, the cacique. Tell it to every village and clan: If you harm Colón, the curse of Sees-in-the-Dark will come upon you.”
Nugkui glowered.
“Don’t worry, Nugkui,” she said. “I think Colón will be back.”
“Maybe I don’t want him back,” Nugkui retorted. “Maybe I just wish you and he both would go away!” But he knew the rest of the village wouldn’t stand for it if she left. So she said nothing, until he turned and walked out into the forest. Only then did she return to her house, where she sat on her sleeping mat and trembled. Wasn’t this exactly what she had planned? To make Cristoforo angry but plant the seeds of transformation in his mind? Yet in all her imagining of this encounter, she had never counted on how powerful Cristoforo was in person. She had watched him, had seen the power he had over people, but he had never looked her in the eye until this day. And it left her as disturbed as any of the Europeans who had confronted him. It gave her new respect for those who resisted him, and new understanding of those who bent completely to his will. Not even Tagiri had so much fire burning behind her eyes as this man had. No wonder the Interveners chose him as their tool. Come what may, Cristoforo would prevail, given time enough.
How had she ever imagined that she could tame this man and bend him to her own plan?
No, she said silently, no, I’m not trying to tame him. I’m only trying to show him a better, truer way to fulfill his own dream. When he understands that, those eyes will look at me with kindness, not with fury.
It was a long trip down the mountain, not least because some of the men seem disposed to take out their anger on the girl, Chipa. Cristoforo was caught up in his own thoughts when he became aware that Pedro was doing his best to shield the girl from the shoving and curses of Arana and Gutiérrez. “Leave her alone,” Cristoforo said.
Pedro looked at him with gratitude, and the girl, too.
“She’s not a slave,” said Cristoforo. “Nor is she a soldier. She helps us of her own free will, so that we’ll teach her about Christ.”
“She’s a heathen witch, just like that other one!” retorted Arana.
“You forget yourself,” said Christoforo.
Sullenly Arana bowed his head in acknowledgment of Cristoforo’s superior rank.
“If Pinzón doesn’t return, we’ll need the help of the natives to build another ship. Without this girl, we’d be back to trying to talk to them with signs and grunts and gestures.”
“Your page is learning their babble,” said Arana.
“My page has learned a few dozen words,” said Cristoforo.
“If anything happened to the girl,” said Arana, “we could always come back up here and take that black whore and make her interpret for us.”
Chipa spoke up in fury. “She would never obey you.”
Arana laughed. “Oh, by the time we were through with her, she’d obey, all right!” His laugh got darker, uglier. “And it’d be good for her, too, to learn her place in the world.”
Cristoforo heard Arana’s words and they made him uncomfortable. A part of him agreed completely with Arana’s sentiments. But another part of him couldn’t help but remember what Sees-in-the-Dark had said. Until he saw the natives as equals . . .
The thought made him shudder. These savages, his equals? If God meant them to be his equals, he would have let them be born as Christians. Yet there was no denying that Chipa was as smart and good-hearted as any Christian girl. She wanted to be taught the words of Christ, and to be baptized.
Teach her, baptize her, put her in a fine gown, and she would still be brown-skinned and ugly. Might as well put a monkey in a dress. Sees-in-the-Dark was denying nature, to think it could be otherwise. Obviously she was the devil’s last-ditch effort to stop him, to distract him from his mission. Just as the devil had led Pinzón to sail the Pinta away.
It was near dark when he returned to the half-completed stockade where the Spanish were encamped. He could hear the sound of laughter and revelry in the camp, and was prepared to be angry about the lack of discipline, until he realized why. There, standing beside a large fire, regaling the gathered seamen with some tale or other, was Martin Alonzo Pinzón. He had come back.
As Cristoforo strode across the open area between the gate of the stockade and the fire, the men around Pinzón became aware of him, and fell silent, watching. Pinzón, too, watched Cristoforo’s approach. When he was near enough for them to speak without shouting, Pinzón began his excuses.
“Captain-General, you can’t imagine my dismay when I lost you in the fog coming away from Colba.”
Such a lie, thought Cristoforo. The Pinta still was clearly visible after the coastal fog dissipated.
“But I thought, why not explore while we’re separated? We stopped at the island of Babeque, where the Colbanos said we’d find gold, but there wasn’t a bit of it there. But east of here, along the coast of this island, there were vast quantities of it. For a little strip of ribbon they gave me gold pieces the size of two fingers, and sometimes as large as my hand!”
He held up his large, strong, callused hand.
Cristoforo still did not answer, though now he stood no five feet from the captain of the Pinta. It was Segovia whc said, “Of course you will give a full accounting of all this gold and add it to the common treasury.”
Pinzón turned red. “What do you accuse me of, Segovia?” he demanded.
He might accuse you of treason, thought Cristoforo. Certainly of mutiny. Why did you turn back? Because you couldn’t make any better headway against the east wind than I did? Or because you realized that when you returned to Spain without me, there would be questions that you couldn’t answer? So not only are you disloyal and untrustworthy, but you are also too cowardly even to complete your betrayal.
All of this remained unsaid, however. Cristoforo’s rage against Pinzón, though it was every bit as justified as his anger toward Sees-in-the-Dark, had nothing to do with the reason God had sent him here. The royal officials might share Cristoforo’s contempt for Pinzón, but the seamen all looked at him as if he were Charlemagne or El Cid. If Cristoforo made an enemy of him, he would lose his control over the crew. Segovia and Arana and Gutierrez didn’t understand this. They believed that authority came from the King. But Cristoforo knew that authority came from obedience. In this place, among these men, Pinzón commanded much more obedience than the King. So Cristoforo would swallow his anger so that he could make use of Pinzón in accomplishing God’s work.
“He accuses you of nothing,” said Cristoforo. “How can anyone think of accusing you? The one who was lost is now found. If we had a fatted calf, I’d have it slaughtered now in your honor. In the name of Their Majesties, I welcome you back, Captain Pinzón.”
Pinzón was obviously relieved, but he also got a sly look in his eyes. He thinks he has the upper hand, thought Cristoforo. He thinks he can get away with anything. But once we’re back in Spain, Segovia will support my view of events. We’ll see who has the upper hand then.
Cristoforo smiled, held out his arms, and embraced the lying bastard.
Hunahpu watched as the three Tarascan metalsmiths handled the iron bar he had taught them how to smelt, using the charcoal he had taught them how to make. He watched them test it against bronze blades and arrowheads. He watched them test it against stone. And when they were done, the three of them prostrated themselves on the ground before him.
Hunahpu waited patiently until their obeisance was done—it was the respect due to a hero from Xibalba, whether they were impressed by iron or not. Then he told them to rise from the ground and stand like men.
“The lords of Xibalba have watched you for years. They saw how you worked with bronze. They saw the three
of you working with iron. And they argued among themselves. Some of them wanted to destroy you. But some of them said, No, the Tarascans are not bloodthirsty like the Mexica or the Tlaxcalans. They will not use this black metal to slaughter thousands of men so that barren fields burn under the sun, without anyone to plant maize.”
No, no, agreed the Tarascans.
“So now I offer you the same covenant I offered to the Zapotecs. You’ve heard the story a dozen times by now.”
Yes, they had.
“If you vow that you will never again take a human life as sacrifice to any god, and that you will only go to war to defend yourselves or to protect other peaceloving people, then I will teach you even more secrets. I’ll teach you how to make this black metal even harder, until it shines like silver.”
We would do anything to know these secrets. Yes, we take this vow. We will obey the great One-Hunahpu in all things.
“I’m not here to be your king. You have your own king. I ask only that you keep this covenant. And then let your own king be as a brother to Na-Yaxhal, the king of the Zapotecs, and let the Tarascans be brothers and sisters to the Zapotecs. They are masters of the great canoes that sail the open sea, and you are masters of the fire that turns stone into metal. You will teach them all your secrets of metalwork, and they will teach you all their secrets of shipbuilding and navigation. Or I will return to Xibalba and tell the lords that you are ungrateful for the gift of knowledge!”
They listened wide-eyed, promising everything. His words would be relayed to the king soon enough, but when they showed him what iron could do, and warned him that One-Hunahpu knew how to make an even harder metal, he would agree to the alliance. Hunahpu’s plotting would be complete, then. The Mexica and the Tlaxcalans would be surrounded by an enemy with iron weapons and large fast ships. Huitzilopochtli, you old faker, your days of drinking human blood are numbered.
I’ve done it, thought Hunahpu, and ahead of schedule. Even if Kemal and Diko failed, I will have suppressed the practice of human sacrifice, unified the people of Mesoamerica, and given them a high enough technology to be able to resist the Europeans whenever they come.
Yet even as he congratulated himself, Hunahpu felt a wave of homesickness sweep over him. Let Diko be alive, he prayed silently. Let her do her work with Columbus and make of him a bridge between Europe and America, so that it never comes to bloody war.
It was suppertime in the Spanish camp. All the officers and men were gathered for the meal, except for the four men on watch around the stockade and the two men who watched the ship. Cristoforo and the other officers ate apart from the others, but all ate the same food—most of which was provided by the Indians.
It was not served by Indians, however. The men served themselves, and the ship’s boys served the officers. There had been serious difficulties over that, beginning when Chipa refused to translate Pinzón’s orders to the Indians. “They’re not servants,” said Chipa. “They’re friends.”
In reply, Pinzón had started beating the girl, and when Pedro tried to intervene, Pinzón knocked him down and gave him a solid beating, too. When the Captain-General demanded that he apologize, Pinzón gladly agreed to apologize to Pedro. “He shouldn’t have tried to stop me, but he is your page and I apologize for punishing him when that should be left to you.”
“The girl, too,” Colón had said.
To which Pinzón had replied by spitting and saying, “The little whore refused to do what she was told. She was insolent. Servants have no business talking to gentlemen that way.”
When did Pinzón become a gentleman? thought Pedro. But he held his tongue. This was a matter for the Captain-General, not for a page.
“She is not your servant,” Colón said.
Pinzón laughed insolently. “All brown people are servants by nature,” he said.
“If they were servants by nature,” said Colón, “you wouldn’t have to beat them to get them to obey. It’s a brave man who beats a little child. They’ll no doubt write songs about your courage.”
That had been enough to silence Pinzón—at least in public. Ever since then, there had been no attempt to get the Indians to give personal service. But Pedro knew that Pinzón had not forgiven or forgotten the scorn in the Captain-General’s voice, or the humiliation of having been forced to back down. Pedro had even urged Chipa to leave.
“Leave?” she had said. “You don’t speak Taino well enough yet for me to leave.”
“If something goes wrong,” Pedro had told her, “Pinzón will kill you. I know he will.”
“Sees-in-the-Dark will protect me,” she said.
“Sees-in-the-Dark isn’t here,” said Pedro.
“Then you’ll protect me.”
“Oh, yes, that worked so well this time.” Pedro couldn’t protect her and she wouldn’t leave. It meant that he lived with constant anxiety, watching how the men watched Chipa, how they whispered behind the Captain-General’s back, how they gave many signs of their solidarity with Pinzón. There was a bloody mutiny coming, Pedro could see it. It awaited only an occasion. When Pedro tried to talk to the Captain-General about it, he refused to listen, saying only that he knew the men favored Pinzón, but they would not rebel against the authority of the crown. If Pedro could only believe that.
So this evening Pedro directed the ship’s boys in serving the officers. The unfamiliar fruits had grown familiar, and every meal was a feast. All the men were healthier now than at any time before in the voyage. From outward appearances everything was perfectly pleasant between the Captain-General and Pinzón. But by Pedro’s count, the only men that Colón would count on his side in a crisis were himself, Segovia, Arana, Gutiérrez, Escobedo, and Torres. In other words, the royal officers and their Captain-General’s own page. The ship’s boys and some of the craftsmen would be on Colón’s side in their hearts, but they wouldn’t dare to stand against the men. For that matter, the royal officers had no personal loyalty to Colón himself. Their loyalty was simply to the idea of proper order and authority. No, when the trouble came, Colón would find himself almost friendless.
As for Chipa, she would be destroyed. I will kill her myself, thought Pedro, before I let Pinzón get his hands on her. I will kill her, and then I will kill myself. Better still, why not kill Pinzón? As long as I’m thinking of murder, why not strike at the one I hate instead of the ones I love?
These were Pedro’s dark thoughts as he handed another bowl of melon slices to Martin Pinzón. Pinzón winked at him and smiled. He knows what I’m thinking, and he laughs at me, thought Pedro. He knows that I know what he’s planning. He also knows that I’m powerless.
Suddenly a terrible blast shattered the quiet evening. Almost at once the earth shook under him and a shock of wind from seaward knocked Pedro down. He fell right across Pinzón, and almost at once the man was hitting and cursing him, Pedro got off him as quickly as possible, and it soon became clear even to Pinzón that it wasn’t Pedro’s clumsiness that had caused their collision. Most of the men had been bowled over by the blast, and now smoke and ash filled the air. It was thickest toward the water.
“The Pinta!” cried Pinzón. At once everyone else took up the cry, and ran through the thickening smoke toward the shore.
The Pinta wasn’t on fire. It simply wasn’t there at all.
The evening breeze was gradually clearing the smoke when they finally found the two men who were supposed to be on watch. Pinzón was already laying on them with the flat of his sword before Colón could get a couple of men to pull him off.
“My ship!” cried Pinzón. “What have you done to my ship?”
“If you stop beating them and shouting at them,” said Colón, “perhaps we can learn from them what happened.”
“My ship is gone and they were supposed to watch it!” cried Pinzón, struggling to get free of the men who restrained him.
“It was my ship, given me by the King and Queen,” said Colón. “Will you stand alone like a gentleman, sir?”
> Pinzón furiously nodded, and the men let go of him.
One of the men who had been on watch was Rascón, who was part owner of the Pinta.“Martín, I’m sorry, what could we do? He made us get into the launch and row for shore. And then he made us get behind that rock. And then the ship—blew up.”
“He?” asked Colón, ignoring the fact that Rascón had reported to Pinzón instead of to the Captain-General.
“The man who did it.”
“Where is he now?” asked Colón.
“He can’t be far,” said Rascón.
“He went off that way,” said Gil Pérez, the other watchman.
“Señor Pinzón, would you kindly organize a search?”
His fury properly focused now, Pinzón immediately divided the men into search parties, not forgetting to leave a good contingent behind to guard the stockade against theft or sabotage. Pedro could not help but see that Pinzón was a good leader, quick of mind and able to make himself understood and obeyed at once. That only made him more dangerous, as far as Pedro was concerned.
When the men had dispersed, Colón stood on the shore, looking out over the many bits of wood that were bobbing on the waves. “Not even if all the gunpowder on the Pinta exploded all at once,” said the Captain-General, “not even then could it destroy the ship so completely.”
“What could have done it, then?” said Pedro.
“God could do it,” said the Captain-General. “Or perhaps the devil. The Indians know nothing about gunpowder. If they find this man who supposedly did it, do you think he’ll be a Moor?”
So the Captain-General was remembering the curse of the mountain witch. One calamity after another. What could be worse than this, to lose the last ship?
But when they found him, the man wasn’t a Moor. Nor was he an Indian. He was white and bearded, a large man, a strong one. His clothing had obviously been bizarre even before the men tore much of it from him. They held him, a garrotte around his neck, forcing him to his knees in front of the Captain-General.
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