by Laila Lalami
So what did your cacique promise you? Tahacha asked.
He had directed the question to me, since I was the more fluent speaker. It was, of course, a difficult question. If I told him the truth, he would know that these Castilians sitting by my side had come to these lands as conquerors; that they had wanted to make him a vassal of their king, to whom he would have to pay a tribute; and that they had planned to destroy his idols and turn him into a Christian. The truth, in this case, would have been a death warrant for my companions and me. So I had to improvise. He told us there was much gold in this land, I said.
Gold? Tahacha’s chin retreated farther into the folds of his neck. In this country, gold was not held in much esteem; macaw feathers, turquoises, and some animal skins held greater value and were much preferred in trade. Where is he now, your cacique?
Dead, I said. And dead, too, I thought, was his dream of conquest—for the Castilians were the ones who had been vanquished; they were the ones who lived as servants in this land; and they were the ones who dared not practice their faith openly out of fear that they would incur the Indians’ wrath. As for me, an interloper among the Castilians, I had shared their fate. Now, years later, I was no longer a slave, but my freedom had come at the price of being an interloper among the Indians. Give glory to God, who can alter all fates.
Tell me about the tribes you have lived with, Tahacha said. He was already familiar with the customs of his neighbors the Yguaces and the Mariames, but he was curious about the tribes that lived farther away, so I related for him our life with the Capoques and later with the Carancahuas. Whenever I told stories around the campfire, I sensed that Cabeza de Vaca was anxious to rival them with his own, for he was a gifted storyteller. This time was no different; he spoke at length about his life with the Han and later with the Charrucos and the Quevenes. He described the game they hunted, the foods they ate, the tattoos they bore, and the crimson red pigment they made by grinding an insect that lived on cactus plants. The tales of our travels delighted Tahacha, and he offered us some furs to protect ourselves from the night chill. For the first time, the story of our adventures, supplemented by neither labor nor begging, had earned us not just a meal, but gifts of blankets.
I WAS WOKEN EARLY the next morning by moans of pain. Beside me, Dorantes was writhing about, his arms tightly folded over his belly. Our experience on the Island of Misfortune had bred in him the habit of eating gluttonously whenever meat was plentiful, so I suspected that the large amounts of fowl he had eaten for dinner were the cause of his discomfort. I left Castillo to attend to the cookfire and went into the fields behind the camp to look for some zaatar, which I used to make an infusion. Drink this, I said, kneeling beside Dorantes.
He took a sip, then spat it out. It is too bitter, he said.
Castillo chuckled and shook his head slowly. You never learn, do you?
I am fine, Dorantes said. He ran his hand on his forehead, wiping away his sweat, and stood up. See, I am fine, he said, just before a bout of nausea seized him and he bent down again.
Come now, I said. Drink.
Although he fought me about it, he eventually drank the zaatar—he had tried it before and knew it would work. When I looked up, I noticed that the Avavares’ shaman was observing us. His name was Behewibri. He was a morose-looking man, with a narrow face and suspicious eyes. The night before, at dinner, he had sat beside the cacique and listened attentively to all our stories without offering comments or questions. But now he asked me: What did you give your brother?
I showed Behewibri the zaatar.
Ah, he said. He called it by its Avavare name and pressed the leaves of the plant between his fingers, releasing its aroma into the air. He wanted to know how I had prepared it, how much of it I had used, and whether it was safe to give to a child as well as to a man. I told him what I knew: it was a simple remedy my mother used whenever I complained of a stomachache, and it was safe to use on anyone.
I thought nothing more of the incident. The Avavares struck their camp later that morning and we followed them to their next site, a small valley where they would be picking blueberries for a few weeks. But it so happened that a young boy complained of an unbearable headache that night. Behewibri had already attended to him, breathing deeply and blowing air on his forehead, yet the boy had not shown any sign of improvement. Do your people get headaches? Behewibri asked me.
Yes, I replied.
We are just like you, Castillo added. We get headaches, too.
Do you know how to cure them?
No, I said.
Behewibri looked incredulous. You say you come from wondrous lands in the sunrise, with massive villages and many peoples, but you cannot help this boy?
It was true that I had helped Dorantes with his indigestion, but I knew nothing about cures and I had never pretended to be a doctor. It is just a headache, I said. It will pass.
Behewibri narrowed his eyes at me; the suspicion that had filled them the night before returned. Now I worried that any failure on my part to heal this boy would endanger our stay with the Avavares. Helplessly, I turned to Castillo. Your father is a doctor.
But I am not.
Surely you must have learned some things from watching him? When you took care of the friar on the Island of Misfortune, his fever broke.
All I did was put cold compresses on him, Castillo said. I know nothing of cures.
Behewibri was still watching us. Would he say something against us to Tahacha? I wondered. Would we be cast out to fend for ourselves in the wilderness again? I had to try something. The boy lay in his hut, sleeping on his side, his face turned away from the entrance. With Behewibri looking over my shoulder, I knelt on the fur bedding. Does it hurt here? I asked, as I placed my fingertips on the boy’s temples. Or here? I said, touching the nape of his neck. The boy considered my question. The pain was in his temple, he decided. I pressed my fingertips on his temple, making small circles. And now? I asked.
Better, he said reluctantly.
I massaged his temple for a long while and then declared that he would feel better by the morning. At least, I had bought myself some time. I told my companions that we should be ready to leave at first light, but by the great mercy of God, the boy improved the next day and was even better the day after that. The Avavares thanked me by giving me a small piece of turquoise, which I threaded and wore around my neck. My relief was such that, when they began to dance at night, I joined them, under the amused glance of the shaman.
IT WAS AN EARLY FALL that year, the trees quickly shedding their red and yellow leaves, as if in a hurry to stand, unadorned, in God’s rain. Soon, it would be time for the Avavares to strike their camp and move again. I was returning from the river with a jar of water when I came across Behewibri’s daughter, Oyomasot. She had long, dark hair, which she wore in elaborately wound knots on either side of her head, and she always stood very straight and tall, like a sultan’s daughter contemplating her dominion. Since our arrival, she had not said a word to any of us—this was not unusual, of course, since we were nothing more than alien drifters who worked menial tasks—but in her case the silence was accompanied by a mocking stare, as if she knew something about us that the others did not.
I found Oyomasot struggling with a length of palm-frond rope, trying to pull it down from the mulberry tree on which it was stuck. I put down my jar of water and rushed to help her. Taking the rope from her hands, I whisked it away from the tree branch and handed it to her. She fixed her beautiful eyes upon me; they were filled with surprise.
There, I said with a smile.
Gentle reader, I had hoped to impress her. Instead, she became angry with me. What have you done? she asked.
I pulled the rope down for you.
I was trying to hang it, not pull it down. Furrowing her brow, she looked up at the branch, where a small piece of rope had remained. Now you broke it.
I am sorry, I said. I was only trying to help.
I did not need help.<
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I can see that now, I said. I was rattled by her fiery replies and, fearing I might say something harsh in return, I picked up my water jar and walked away.
Wait, she said. She stood there, under the dappled light of the mulberry tree, watching me. One of the knots in her hair had come loose in our tussle over the rope and the strap that held her tunic had slipped, uncovering her shoulder. My throat felt suddenly dry; I wanted a sip of water, but had forgotten all about the jar in my hand. You could at least help me hang this, she said. She pointed to a wide drum that had been set against the tree trunk. White seashell bracelets were strapped upon her tiny wrists. What graceful arms she had.
Well? Are you going to hang the rope or not? she asked.
Yes, I said. My voice was hoarse and sounded as if it came from far away. I put down my jar again and, taking the rope from her, I climbed up the mulberry tree. The first branch bent dangerously under my weight, but I continued to the next one and the one after that.
Be careful, Oyomasot called. I looked down; the irritation that had colored her face had disappeared, replaced with what looked like genuine concern.
Is this high enough? I said.
Yes, she said, her manner changed now. Just tie it and come down.
As I did so, I felt her worried gaze upon me. The image of Ramatullai, waiting for me every night in that Sevillian kitchen, came to me unbidden. She was standing just so, with the light from the candle behind her, leaning against the counter where our dinner bowls sat side by side. Bouquets of lavender hung from the wall beside her, filling the room with their scent. I had not seen Ramatullai in many years, but I knew she had waited for me on the day I had been sold to Dorantes. She had been the only one who cared whether I lived or died.
After I climbed down from the tree, I was disoriented, more because of the image that had been in my mind’s eye than because of the descent itself. But Oyomasot asked: Are you well?
Yes, I said. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above me. A blue jay landed on the nearest branch and regarded me with curiosity. I was trying to think of some way I could prolong the encounter, so I lifted the drum and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed ever so slightly against mine—was I imagining it or did she do it on purpose? You made this drum? I asked.
It is nothing.
It is beautiful.
Every maiden is expected to make drums, she said. It sounded as if the expectation itself took away any pleasure she might have found in making the instrument. She hung the drum from the rope and, by the time she turned around again, her expression was once again distant. Without another word, she walked back toward the camp.
FROM THE START, what struck me about Oyomasot was that she did not care what anyone thought. She did not care that the other Avavare maidens thought her strange because she preferred going on walks in the woods to sitting by the riverbank with them. She did not care that her father and mother disapproved of her wandering off alone. It was true that she did all her tasks uncomplainingly, whether it was collecting mountains of firewood or washing smelly animal skins, but I cannot say that she did them zealously or expertly. Once her chores were completed, however, she would go set up traps for wild fowl, or she would play a popular game of sticks, but she would often be rebuked, since these were not proper pastimes for a girl. It was on such days that she would wander off in the woods until it was nearly dark. She seemed to be nursing a resentment that could not be healed.
It was raining one day when I saw her coming back home. The weather had turned abruptly: the sky had been clear one moment and the next it had opened up and poured like a river over the entire camp. We had carried everything inside and huddled in our huts, waiting out the storm. The light was low, but I saw Oyomasot’s face clearly—it was the face of someone who was preparing herself for a burden. As she came into the camp square, her mother stepped out of their hut. Where have you been? she asked. She stood with her legs apart and her hands resting on her hips. I could see that Oyomasot had the same eyes—large and slightly upturned—but that was where the similarities ended, for the mother’s mouth was set in a contemptuous turn and her voice was grating. You left your brother’s furs hanging on their racks, she said.
Why did he not bring them in from the rain? Oyomasot asked. She said this in a level tone, but that only made her mother angrier.
That was your duty, not his.
He would rather they get wet than bring them in himself?
They must be ruined by now. And it is your fault.
It was quiet in the camp; everyone was in their huts, listening to the quarrel outside. The rain grew heavier now and Oyomasot had to raise her voice in order to be heard. Everything is always my fault, she said. How powerful I must be to command the whole world.
Her mother grumbled something about her uselessness, before drawing the deerskin closed across the doorway. For a long moment, Oyomasot stood in the rain, considering what her mother had said about her. Her tunic was wet and clung to her, and her feet were sinking in the mud. Then with a sigh she walked to the edge of the camp to get the furs.
I do not know why I fell in love with Oyomasot. Who can explain such things? Perhaps it was because I saw in her someone who, like me, chafed under the rules that were imposed upon her. Perhaps it was because, though she lived at home, she did not seem fully at home—an outsider of a sort, another interloper. Or perhaps it was because, despite her fiery disposition, she was the one to whom children flocked when they needed someone to watch them race or to sort out their quarrels. But I can say when I fell in love; it was that day, when she stood in the rain, her feet sinking in the mud, but her back straight.
WE HAD BEEN at the fall camp for only a month when we received word that the cacique of the Susolas had fallen ill. They were a neighboring tribe, camped some two or three leagues south of us, where they would remain for the season. They had heard about my helping with the Avavare boy’s headache and, since their medicine man had been unable to cure the cacique, he wanted me to come visit him. I could not turn down the invitation because I was afraid of causing some offense that might complicate our stay with the Avavares, but neither could I accept it, for how could I help this man?
For a while, I tried to delay. I told Tahacha that it was better to give the Susolas’ shaman more time to find a cure. I said I was too busy with my chores. I even complained that I could not walk all the way to the Susolas’ camp. But all my excuses were uncovered for what they were. And, to my amazement, the shaman Behewibri encouraged me to go, even though he had not been asked himself. Was he hoping that I would fail and be thrown out of the tribe? I really could not guess. But I had no recourse, especially if I wanted to keep the peace with my hosts.
I asked my Castilian companions to come with me, but Dorantes and Cabeza de Vaca both refused. The rivalry that had existed between them when the expedition first landed in La Florida had disappeared, replaced by a friendship that had grown more steadfast during the year they spent together as servants of the Mariames. Conversely, the friendship that had existed between Dorantes and Castillo had all but faded away after Diego’s gruesome death. So I was not entirely surprised when only Castillo offered to go with me.
By the time we arrived in the Susolas’ camp, three days after the invitation had been sent, we found the cacique bedridden and nearly delirious with back pain. I fell into a panic. Obviously, I could do nothing to help this man and now I was certain that I would be blamed if I failed. But with the clarity of mind that comes at such fraught moments, I remembered how, years before, in the market of Azemmur, my father had gone to the hijama tent, complaining of similar pains. I had seen a cupping cure performed on him that day and, although I had no experience with it myself, I felt I had no choice but to try it.
Calling the name of God upon the patient before me, I asked for a cup and, heating it over a fire, I placed it on the cacique’s back, causing the skin under it to lift and stay trapped. After a few minutes, I released the skin gently a
nd started the process again. All the while, I told a story, to distract the Susola chief from the pain and also to entertain his kin, who sat all around us in the hut. Years ago, I said, taking some liberties with my tale for the sake of my audience, my father suffered from the same predicament. He was a formidable chief who was known throughout the town for his fairness. But once he was afflicted with these spells of back pain, he took to his bed. He could no longer work. My mother and brothers grew hungry. One of my uncles, taking pity on my father, brought him a medicine man, an old man in black clothes. This medicine man had been forced out of his land and had only recently settled in our town, so no one was sure whether he could be trusted. But he used this cure you see today. The cup traps the illness and then releases it into the air. Not only did my father get better, but he returned to work and became stronger than he ever was.
Sitting beside me, Castillo whispered that he had once seen his own father use a cupping cure in Salamanca. He asked for a cup and began to help me. To my great and lasting relief, the cacique was able to sit up and eat the next day, and by the third day he was able to stand.
IF I HAD HOPED to be rid of the vocation that had been thrust upon me, the welcome I received when I returned to the Avavare camp cleared away all of my illusions. The entire tribe came out to greet me and I was hugged like a long-lost brother. Over the next few days, the recovery of the Susola elder became the subject of tales among the Indians in the area and, with each new telling, my healing powers seemed to acquire greater force. In one version of the tale, the Susola chief had been on the verge of death and his people were already in mourning—until I had brought him back to life. No matter how many times I explained that this was a simple cure that had been used in my hometown, people did not believe me; they thought I was being humble. And because I had succeeded where the Susola shaman had failed, my alienness became connected in people’s minds with my healing power.