by Laila Lalami
Before I could turn to look for the source of the projectile, another one landed on my head. The pain was so sharp that it took the air out of my lungs and numbed any other feeling; I fell on my knees and covered my head with my hands. A third rock landed on our campfire, sending bright sparks high up in the air. As I shot to my legs to look for cover, the notary leveled his musket and fired. One of our Indian hosts fell to the ground, clutching his leg and screaming. Stunned by the sound and the smoke, the others retreated.
Narváez came out of the lodge the Indian chief had given him for the night. What happened? he asked. The Indians turned against him now, hurling rocks at him. To the rafts, he screamed.
We ran back to the shore under a shower of stones. Our sudden return alarmed those who had remained on the beach and they quickly set up a line of defense, but we were in very poor shape. The horses, which had given us such an advantage at the Battle of the Río Oscuro, were gone now and there was little ammunition left for the five muskets we still had. Many of us suffered injuries: Narváez was bleeding from the forehead, Cabeza de Vaca was nursing a sprained elbow, one of the carpenters had a broken leg, and I could feel a large lump throbbing on my head. To make matters worse, several men were missing, including two from the Dorantes contingent. The Indians returned twice that night, to hurl rocks or shoot arrows at us and the musketeers and crossbowmen held them back as best they could. All night long, we waited for the missing men, but they did not return.
We were forced to leave at first light, rowing away from the coast as fast as we could. The fate of our missing companions, the guilt we felt at leaving them behind, and the prospect of dying on the rafts weighed heavily on all of us, putting us in a quarreling mood. The men wanted to know why Echogan and his tribe, who had been so generous to us at first, had turned so suddenly and so inexplicably against us.
Perhaps we offended them, Father Anselmo said.
How, Father? Dorantes said. We did not set foot in their temple.
Do you think we did something to them? Ruíz said. No one did anything. That is just how the heathens are. Look what they did to me. He pointed to the dark socket where his left eye had been, oblivious to the role he had played in his own predicament.
Looking back on these events now, and having given them much thought and gained the perspective that can only be given by the passing of time, I have come to believe that this tribe of fishermen attacked us because they had been warned about our wickedness. The visitors we had seen at sundown must have told them what we had done on San Miguel Island: the dugouts we had destroyed, the containers we had stolen, the food we had taken. It may seem a far-fetched idea, but not as far-fetched as generous hosts turning against their guests for no reason. God, may He be glorified and exalted, tells us: God will not deal unjustly with man in aught; it is man that wrongs his own soul. Now we were back in the ocean, drifting like tree leaves in the wind, and we dared not land anywhere for fear of encountering more Indians.
TWO DAYS LATER, we sailed into the mouth of a mighty river, the largest I had seen in all my life. Its flow was so powerful that we were able to drink freshwater directly from our rafts and to refill every one of our containers. Thank God, I thought. Now that the port was near, so was our salvation. But some of the men among us, perhaps having grown used to our misfortune, insisted that this river was not the Río de las Palmas and that we had been led astray. Do you see any sign of Castilian presence on the shore? they asked. But others, and this servant of God among them, insisted that there was only one way to know whether this was the right river: we would have to go upstream to look for the port.
The Indians had good reason to call this the Great River. At the point where it met the ocean, its current was still strong enough that it would be very difficult to maneuver our rafts, whose oakum had washed away and whose floors were so damaged that we could see the water in between each pair of logs. And there was, too, the risk that the five vessels would be separated or lost. This was why Dorantes called out to Narváez: Don Pánfilo, we ought to throw lines to one another.
It was a good suggestion. No matter what happened, at least the rafts would remain together. But Narváez did not reply. The sun was setting and a strong wind blew from the east, growing more intense as the light faded.
I do not believe he heard you, I said.
Dorantes cupped his small hands around his mouth, so that his voice would carry farther. Don Pánfilo!
Still, there was no reply. Cabeza de Vaca, whose raft was nearest ours, took up the request in his own way. Don Pánfilo, he said, how should we proceed across the river? What are your orders?
Narváez’s eye patch gleamed in the half-light. The time for orders is past, he said at last. Each raft should try to save itself. That is what I intend to do.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then the questions and complaints started. How can you say this?
Are you forsaking us?
Traitor.
Reason with him, Father.
How are we going to cross with only these tattered sails?
Grab one of his oars!
Stop! I will have you shot.
Then there was the sound of thunder. The skies opened up and the rain fell fast, hitting us at an angle and blinding us. The wind pushed us across the mouth of the Great River and the noise of the storm, terrifying in its intensity, quickly drowned out the sound of our quarrels. Our raft would capsize, we would all die, no one would know what happened to us—such thoughts flitted through our minds even as we tied our sails and tried to keep the raft level. I can say in all honesty that each one of us wrestled with his fate that night. We prepared ourselves to die, praying to God that He forgive us our sins and grant us eternal life in heaven.
12.
THE STORY OF THE ISLAND OF MISFORTUNE
The wind carried us well past the mouth of the Great River. By morning, we found ourselves in the open sea again. From horizon to horizon, we could see only water, glazed white by the sun. The other rafts had disappeared, as if charmed away by night sirens or swallowed up by sea monsters. Lord Almighty, the men said, where have they all gone? The loss of so many of our companions, especially after the hardships we had endured together, was intolerable. And yet we could not help feeling grateful that our own lives had been spared. Still, as the day wore on and clouds began to fill the sky again, we realized just how desperate our situation was: we had neither food nor water; the horse rope that tied the logs together was rotting; and the mast was leaning dangerously against the wind.
With daylight fading, the water turned glossy black and a grim peace fell upon us—we were but condemned men waiting for their executioner. I could not escape the thought that I had brought all of this upon myself, first by engaging in greedy trade, later by selling myself into bondage, and later yet by stealing from the Indians. And it seemed to me that the others, too, were confronting their own sins in that misty, moonless night. Father, one of the men asked, will you hear my confession? The friar clambered over the bodies of his neighbors, this one prone, the other curled up, and slowly made his way to the supplicant. He listened to whispered admissions of theft, lies, envy, or adultery, all of which he absolved. The Christians’ outlook toward sin and salvation was a mystery that even six long years of life among them did not entirely elucidate for me. I had been raised to expect judgment for my actions. Perhaps, I thought, this was what was being meted out to us now.
The warmth of the morning sun brought with it the smell of disease and death. My breath grew shallow and I felt myself helplessly drifting into the final slumber when one of my companions called out that he could see land. Land? The word revived my spirits to such an extent that I lifted myself up on one elbow to look at the horizon. An island with leafy trees danced in the hazy distance, but I was too weak to gaze at it for long and had to lie back down. The heartiest among the men had already grabbed their paddles. Whether it was the rocky shore or their feeble paddling I could not guess, but by the time t
hey threw the anchor down our gunwales were gone, one log had detached itself from the raft, and pieces of fabric hung loosely from our sails like so many flags of surrender.
I crawled unsteadily out of the boat, like a child learning how to walk, and lay on the wet sand, the waves lapping my feet as if to call me back to the ocean. Oh, what relief it was to be on land! I closed my eyes and let darkness embrace me. I dreamed that I had returned to Azemmur on a ship filled with other voyagers from the province of Dukkala. No sooner had I disembarked than I ran down the winding streets of the city to our old house. I pushed its creaky blue door open and came upon my mother, my sister, and my brothers, sitting around the brazier having their soup. My mother dropped her spoon; my sister cried out; my brothers got up. They were all staring at me as though I were an intruder. Mother, I cried, Mother. Do you not recognize me? But she looked confused and I realized then that I had spoken to her in a foreign tongue, though it was not any tongue I had heard or known before.
The sound of chatter woke me up. Ruíz had found a clear spring nearby and brought water for everyone in the company. A few sips of it and I felt as if I were hoisted from the abyss in which I had fallen. I sat up and took the raw oyster that was being offered to me—out of caution, the men had not built a campfire—and I returned to sleep.
I woke with a start, my face wet with the drizzle of early morning. All around me, the others were taking stock of what was left on the raft, which had been pulled all the way to the safety of the shore: two muskets and five swords; two sets of axes, saws, and hammers; some bowls, jars, and cooking pots; animal skins of different sizes; the cloak of marten and ermine skin that Narváez had left behind; beads and trinkets; some bibles and rosaries. But no food; no ammunition; no rope or twine; no fishing poles or nets; no tents or bedding; nothing that could help us survive on the island. The raft looked pitiful; I dared not ask the others whether they thought they could repair it because I feared I already knew the answer.
Dejected, I went to the spring to get water, but as I refilled my flask I noticed footprints leading away from it onto a native trail. I followed the path for a while, and then prudently climbed up a tree to survey the area from above. The island was quite narrow, only half a league wide, but lengthwise it stretched several leagues. In the distance, the continent was outlined between gray clouds and a sea of dull green. If we could somehow cross this stretch of ocean to the continent, we could continue on foot toward the port. From my perch, I could see that the native trail led to a village of perhaps a dozen huts, of the kind that can be struck easily and moved to a different site. Tiny figures moved about in the square, occupied with their chores and unaware of being watched. Running among them were what looked like dogs, white and fawn in color. I had not seen dogs in the new world before and, although I took their presence as a good sign, I decided to retreat for fear that they would smell me. Returning to the beach, where the men were still working out what to do with the supplies, I reported what I had seen.
The island is not that far from the continent, I said, but this raft won’t carry us there in its present state. Perhaps we can go to the Indian village for help.
With his good eye, the soldier Ruíz gave me a vicious look. No, we cannot.
There was an authority to his tone that I resented immediately. We must, I countered. We have no other choice.
Did you forget what happened to us the last time we went to an Indian village? Ruíz asked. Echogan’s men turned against us. And that was when there were two hundred of us. Now there are thirty-nine of us left, and not ten can bear to walk, let alone fight. El Moro says he saw a dozen huts—how many Indians does that make?
At least a hundred, Dorantes conceded. Maybe more.
See? We cannot go.
We cannot stay either, I said. We have to find food and shelter.
What if the savages sacrifice us to their idols and eat us? Ruíz asked.
These words had a great effect upon the men, already rattled by our dangerous journey on the raft. Echeverría, a blacksmith whose brother-in-law had accompanied Cortés in the conquest of México, began to tell stories about midnight sacrifices to idols with evil faces and enormous tongues. The victims were carried up the steps of the great Temple of Huichilobos and put upon an altar, where their still beating hearts were torn out of their chests, and their arms and legs cut off to feed caged lions, tigers, and snakes. Dozens—nay, hundreds—of Castilian prisoners of war had been sacrificed in this gruesome way. By the time Echeverría stopped speaking, few of the men wanted to go anywhere near the Indian village.
So we remained on the beach for another night, not daring to build fires, or to stray too far from each other. Those who were afflicted with fever could do nothing for themselves and their condition only worsened after it rained. By the next morning, we were all drenched and shivering with cold. Still, Ruíz and the others refused to venture inland. I stood up, brushing the sand off my clothes. I will go alone, I said.
No, Dorantes replied.
If we stay here, we will die, I said. I will go.
You will not, he said.
I was almost startled by his order. Did he think he could still impose his will upon me? I had already lost everyone and everything that mattered to me. All I had left now was my life, which I had sworn never again to put in the hands of others. I would not break my promise to myself. So I walked away, feeling his eyes upon my back. I half-expected him to run after me or even to try to hit me, but he did neither. From where they stood on the beach, the men watched and waited.
Estebanico, Dorantes called after me. If you find any food, bring it. His tone suggested that it was his idea to send me to the Indian village.
Diego stood up and fastened his sword belt. Wait. I will come with you.
Where are you going? Dorantes asked him.
Where do you think?
It is too dangerous, Tigre.
No one is asking you to come.
In the end, four of us went: Diego, Father Anselmo, Fernándes the carpenter, although he was looking rather sickly, and this servant of God, Mustafa ibn Muhammad. Diego had his sword, but the rest of us carried, tucked into our belts, axes we had made at the Bay of Oysters. Scalloped clouds hung low on the trail, where the trees were still shedding drops from that morning’s rain. From the soft earth beneath our feet, worms crawled out, unconscious of the rapacious beaks awaiting them. The brisk wind penetrated our clothes, making them flap around our bodies.
As we came into view of the village, barking dogs signaled our presence, with the result that two Indian youths came with them to investigate. The dogs encircled us, snarling at us and baring their fangs. I was alarmed, but Father Anselmo, who had a natural ease with animals, cooed to one of the dogs and it came to sniff his hands. The barking died out.
The two Indian youths were exceedingly tall, taller than even the friar or me, and had the broad chests typical of good archers. A reed as long as a hand’s breadth perforated each of their nipples, and another, short reed cut through their lower lips. One of them had a scar on his chin and the other had a squarish jaw, which made him look older than he likely was. For all this, their manner was completely gentle, as if they knew, without needing to be told, what great hardship we had endured. They seemed especially taken by the differences in our hair—the friar’s was red; Diego’s was blond; Fernándes’s was brown and straight; and mine was black and curly. Everything about us seemed exotic to them: our colors, our beards, our clothes, our weapons.
With my hand on my chest, I said: Mustafa. My name is Mustafa.
Kwachi, said the youth with the scar.
Elenson, said the other.
This was the easy part. Now I nudged Diego; he offered them several strings of yellow beads. In return, Kwachi gave Diego an arrow from his quiver. The exchange of gifts appeared to convince them of our good intentions and they invited us to their village, which was much larger than I had thought. I counted twenty dwellings, made with wooden poles and
covered with tree branches and animal skins. The Capoques, for that is the name of this tribe, numbered at least two hundred souls, most of them now congregating in the square to stare at us. The women were nearly as tall as the men, though they were more modestly attired, with deerskins trimmed with white seashells covering parts of their bodies. The children took great delight in our beards and two or three of them came up to pull them. The adults shooed them away, but we smiled and offered them another string of beads.
Kwachi and Elenson invited us to sit by the fire, which was a great comfort to us in our damp clothes. We were offered bowls of a warm, dark drink, made from a leaf I had not seen before, and which revived us greatly. The color returned to poor Fernándes’s face. Later on, the cacique—he turned out to be Kwachi’s father, an elderly man by the name of Delenchavan—joined us for a meal. In those early days, the entire Indian vocabulary I had at my disposal consisted of ten or twenty words, overheard when Narváez or his interpreter spoke to the caciques or prisoners, words about gold and silver, land and rivers, time and distance, and which would be of limited use to me now in my attempt to get help with finding shelter from the rain and repairing the raft. I had much to learn. The Capoques asked me where we had come from and somehow I managed to communicate that we were travelers heading to the continent on the other side of this island and that we were stranded on the beach—not a lie, but not the complete truth either.
YOU BROUGHT THEM HERE? Ruíz asked when I returned to the beach. His fingers were already wrapped around the handle of his hatchet. You brought them to us?
I was bewildered. I thought he would have been relieved to see the baskets of food—fresh rabbit, dried fish, edible roots—we had brought back from the Capoques’ village, but his only concern seemed to be that our benefactors had followed us to the beach. This is their island, I said. I cannot stop them from going wherever they please.
Without waiting for an answer, I began to divide the victuals. The men fell on their shares and the quarrel stopped.