by Laila Lalami
The viceroy’s plan called for Coronado to stay in Culiacán for a few weeks, while the friars, the Amigos, and I went on an advance mission to the north. Our task was to bring back a detailed report of the land, including information about its trails, water sources, towns, tribes, and the alliances between them. In short, we were to find out everything we could to facilitate the governor’s entrada.
While waiting for the Amigos to prepare supplies for our journey, I took long walks around the outpost with my greyhounds. I had traded or given away all of my Castilian clothes by then and wore a leather coat over a cotton tunic, of the kind made by the tribes that dwelled in Nueva Galicia. Oyomasot, too, had discarded the dresses she had found constricting, especially in her new condition. I noticed that she smiled more easily; she even composed a rhyme when I prepared an infusion of zaatar for one of the Amigos. It seemed as if my wife, and my life, were slowly being returned to me.
When the day of our departure arrived, Coronado came to the gates of the garrison to bid us good-bye. He reminded Father Marco and Father Onorato that they were to take careful notice of everything they saw and that they should not hesitate to send back regular messages with one of the Amigos. For me he reserved a less humble tone. Estebanico, he said, you have been given an important mission, and I trust you will execute it faithfully.
I am ready.
If you find the Seven Cities, you will be treated well and receive many rewards. But if you betray your orders in any way, it is as if you have disobeyed His Majesty himself, and I will find you and punish you in ways you cannot even imagine.
I am ready, I said again.
He put his right hand on my shoulder. Then go with God.
WE ARRIVED at the base of the mountains at the worst time. It was windy and cold and we had to trudge through slippery trails. Behind me, the two friars pulled their mules by the reins, but the animals were slow and reluctant. Then the Amigo porters followed, balancing their baskets on their heads; it was a miracle that none of them fell and killed himself. But my wife’s spirits were high, though she refused to take the hand I offered her. I can manage, she said, I can do this. She was just as eager as I to reach the other side.
Only when we reached the Land of Corn did we begin to slow our pace. The trail brought back many happy memories of our time here. One morning, about a week into our march, we came across a macaw-feather trader who recognized Oyomasot and me—he had been selling his wares to the Jumanos during our visit with them. From him, we learned that over the last two years the Indians in this area had been sick with fevers that brought on red spots and vicious welts. Hundreds had died. He was on his way to the settlement of Petatlán, farther north, where he hoped to find a reputable medicine man. So he joined our party as we headed there.
We arrived in Petatlán at midday four days later. It was a beautiful town of about fifty or sixty dwellings, all of them built with mud bricks. Brown and yellow mats hung from the walls, exposed to the sun. At night, they would be pulled down and used as bedrolls. Beyond the houses lay the fields of corn and beans, where workers still labored, tiny figures bent among their crops. In spite of the large number of people in our party, the town elders offered us food and shelter for the night.
While the friars took a nap in their quarters, Oyomasot and I visited the tribe’s elders. Of course, we had no cure for the pox that afflicted their people, but we listened to the stories they told us and we shared our own. We described what we had seen in Tenochtitlán, the temples the Castilians had destroyed to erect their own, the slaves with branded faces, and the mission that Coronado was heading. But later that night, when we returned to the lodge where we were staying, we found the two friars waiting for us.
Oyomasot walked past me into the house and left me standing by the door with them, under the light of the moon. Father Marco, the older one, was very tall and had bulbous eyes that seemed to take notice of everything: my clothes, my satchel, even the gourd I carried, which had been given to me as a gift by one of the town elders. The friar spoke Spanish with an accent that hinted of his birth in France. Estebanico, he asked, how far are we from the wealthy settlements Cabeza de Vaca spoke of?
This is one of them, I replied.
Petatlán is one of them? But it does not look the way it should.
How should it look?
It seems much poorer than I expected.
Compared with the camps we lived in for so long, this town is much richer.
Well, I suppose it is all a matter of perspective. Still …
Father Marco’s gaze drifted away. Coronado had instructed him to send detailed letters from every town we reached and to take note, especially, of any precious ornaments, decorative items, or trading materials that could suggest proximity to the Seven Cities of Gold; he was probably working out what he would write in his next letter to the governor.
The other friar, Father Onorato, was much younger and had never been outside of New Spain. He was watching me with the curiosity and enthusiasm of a young novice on his first day of service. Everything about him suggested sharpness: straight eyebrows, an angular nose, small lips that were pressed together in a disapproving line.
I unslung my satchel and put it down with my gourd by the door. Without waiting for him to ask me about it, I said: We use gourds in our cures.
This was the opening for which he had hoped. It seems to me, he said, that what you do with these Indians is dangerously close to witchcraft.
Do you see me calling upon any evil spirits?
Well, he said. He glanced at Father Marco for support, but the older friar remained silent, lost in his thoughts about wealthy settlements.
I am curious, Father Onorato continued. What did the friars from the Narváez expedition think of your cures? Did they not think them an affront to God?
The friars never witnessed any cures, I said.
There was a long silence, during which Father Marco’s thoughts finally drifted from the matter of wealth to the matter of God—few minds can entertain both subjects at once. Now he focused his bulbous eyes on me. Yes, he said. The friars of the Narváez expedition had already been martyred by the time Cabeza de Vaca journeyed here.
Always Cabeza de Vaca, I thought, with not a little bitterness. That man’s sterile account of our travels would always be considered the truth—no matter what had happened. I felt a small rebellion bubble within me.
Not all of the friars died, I said. One of them settled with the Indians.
Father Onorato raised a surprised eyebrow. Is that true? he asked.
Indeed it is, I said. His name was Father Anselmo. He was a good man. As for the other friars, one drowned on his raft. And two were eaten.
Eaten? Father Onorato repeated. Do you mean—by cannibals?
Yes, I said, eaten. The look of horror on Father Onorato’s face told me that my story needed only a little embellishment. After a moment, I added: their bodies were consumed in different stages and their hearts were saved for last.
Father Onorato’s mouth hung open. It did not cross his mind that Castilians like him could partake of human flesh, and I did nothing to correct his assumption that the cannibals had been Indians. I bid him good night and left him standing there.
The elders teach us: be a trickster, and you will survive.
THE NEXT DAY, WHEN WE WERE getting ready to depart Petatlán, Father Onorato declared that his dinner had not agreed with him and that he was much too ill to ride. He wanted to remain in the town until we returned. Father Marco and I went into his lodge and found him on his bedclothes, facing the mud wall.
Arm yourself with patience, Father Marco said, sitting on his knees by his side. The pain will pass.
I cannot ride, the young friar replied. His face remained stubbornly turned toward the wall. He pulled up to his neck his wool blanket, a gray piece of fabric that had many holes along the hem. In a moment, he began to moan.
Father Marco laid his hand on the curled form of the young friar and
whispered a prayer. We can stay here until you feel better, he said.
But we have to cover another ten leagues today, I protested.
The light from the doorway fell on a corner of the room, where our hosts had laid a pitcher of water, a bowl of nuts, and a pot filled with fresh peppers. I tried one of the peppers—it was sweet and crisp and made a satisfying sound as I crunched. I leaned against the doorjamb, waiting.
I would rather not cause any delay, Father Onorato said. Go on without me, Brother. I will wait here.
Reluctantly, Father Marco stood up and adjusted his belt over his belly. Let us go, then.
Outside, Oyomasot was waiting for us, the dogs sitting obediently beside her. The Amigos, who had been sitting on their haunches in the shade, stood up at our approach. They picked up their bundles and baskets. Father Marco climbed on his mule and put the satchel that contained his papers in front of him on the saddle, as though it were a child.
We marched for another four days. Except for inquiries about the land or the trail, Father Marco remained quiet. He no longer had the company of one of his Franciscan brothers, and there were no Castilians in our party. He cut a lonely figure, sitting on his black mule while the rest of us were on foot. Behind us, the mountains had faded into a haze.
We reached the town of Vacapa just before sunset. Having heard about our arrival from emissaries sent from Petatlán, the villagers were already waiting for us in the square. Their hooting calls and joy-cries alarmed the friar, and he asked me to take him to his quarters directly.
The banquet that was given for us that night was as long and extravagant as any we had had in the Land of Corn, so that I did not speak to the friar until the next morning. He looked at my new turquoise earrings with disapproving eyes. What is that? he asked.
A gift from the townspeople, I said.
Are you performing your cures again?
I help whenever I can.
He corked his bottle of ink and began to gather his papers. His spirits had dampened over the last few days. Writing a record of our expedition was not as glorious a task as he had expected it to be. Our days were spent on the dusty trail, exposed to the sun or the rain, whichever it pleased God to impose upon us. The conversations were short, the lodgings bare. The work of exploration required patience and persistence, for which Father Marco had no inclination.
If you like, I said to him, I can go ahead of you to the next settlement.
No, he replied. We already left Brother Onorato behind. We must remain together. The governor’s instructions were quite clear in this regard.
But think of what you stand to gain.
What do you mean?
You want to minister to these people, but they know nothing about you. Imagine if you were to be preceded by an ambassador who would introduce you and tell the people all you know and all you can do.
I need no introduction.
The fierce Indians who dwell in these parts will be better disposed toward you if you are properly introduced. And your reputation will grow. This is how Cabeza de Vaca used to proceed.
The friar’s ambition wrestled with his doubt, but in the end ambition won. How will we communicate? he asked.
I had already thought of a way. I told him that I would go ahead of him to the next town and, as I proceeded, I would ask the Indians about the Seven Cities of Gold. If I heard or saw signs of them, I would send back a group of Amigos with a signal. If the land was poor, the signal would be a white cross the size of a hand. If it was rich, the signal would be a cross the size of two hands. If it was very rich, the signal would be a cross the size of an arm. And if it was richer than that, as rich as Tenochtitlán, then the signal would be a white cross the size of a man.
The friar agreed.
And now, free of him, I marched on. At each town my wife and I reached, I dispatched a set of Amigos, sending them back with a cross of decreasing size, until I had only ten of them left. When we arrived in the Indian town of Hawikuh, I sent back the remaining ten, giving them a cross the size of only one hand.
At last, I was free of the Amigos, who were not amigos. And my involvement with the empire was finally over.
25.
THE STORY OF HAWIKUH
With the sun nearly at its nadir, the sky had turned a light shade of amber. The breeze, still warm despite the late hour, diffused the scent of the wild flowers. I lay on the soft grass, with my head in Oyomasot’s lap and my ear pressed against the growing mound of her belly. If I stayed perfectly still, I could hear the faint heartbeat of our child. I had waited many years for that sound, for its promise of a new life. From the lake nearby came the croaking of the frogs and the singing of the crickets. It seemed to me as if the entire world were speaking to me, telling me that I was free now, free no matter what happened next, and a feeling of tranquility settled over me.
Listen, I said. Let me tell you a story that you can tell our child. I spoke to Oyomasot in her native language, a language I had had to learn in order to survive, a language that no longer felt alien on my tongue. She looked down at me then and her long hair brushed against my arm, making my skin break into bumps. There was a hint of curiosity in her eyes, but her face was otherwise untroubled and her features moved with grace.
The rays of the setting sun colored the walls of Hawikuh an orange color, the color of the gold that the servants of empire so desperately sought and so rarely renounced. Of all the places I had visited in the Land of the Indians, none looked to me so much like my hometown in Barbary, with its houses huddled together against the light. I thought of Azemmur in the spring, when the fig trees bloom and the fields are a sea of green and white. How I longed to see those fields again, to lie in them and listen to the humming of the bees, to swim in the Umm er-Rbi’ again, to sit on a boulder at the edge of the river and watch the shad swim against the current. How I longed to lay eyes upon my mother, to visit my father’s grave and whisper a prayer for his soul, to sit by my uncle’s side as he built chests or divans. How I longed to be woken in the morning by the call of the muezzin, to be tempted to go back to sleep, and then to feel my brothers’ hands gently shake me awake.
None of these things would be mine again, but if my destiny had been to travel west and see this vast, mysterious, beautiful land, perhaps it would be my child’s destiny to travel in the opposite direction and see my homeland, which will seem just as vast, just as mysterious, just as beautiful to him—or will it be her? In my mind, I could almost hear my childhood self intone, together with the other boys in the msid, our bodies moving forward and back to the rhythm of Qur’anic verses, that to God belong the east and the west. Whichever way you turn, there is the face of God.
This moment was perfect. It was all I had, and it was everything. I did not care for all the gifts that had been given to me along the way to Hawikuh—lapis, coral, turquoises by the purseload, pelts and furs. All I wanted was the freedom to lie here in the tall grass, under a darkening sky, with my wife beside me. On the other side of the town walls, Ahku, the cacique of the Zunis, was still appraising the news I had brought him and conferring with the tribe’s elders about what he should do.
That afternoon, when we arrived at his gates, Ahku came out to greet us. He was an older man and his hair was streaked with white, but he walked about with the posture and vigor of a youthful warrior. He was wrapped in a red blanket, tied with a bone clasp over his right shoulder. Behind him, three deputies stood, watching us with bare curiosity. Their headdresses were modest, made of plain strips of leather, but they wore many necklaces of coral and turquoise stacked together. None of them carried any weapons, for the town was fortified and well guarded.
Ahku led me into his lodge, a handsome, mud-brown edifice with white ladders angled against its walls, leading to the doorways of higher floors. A meal of roasted corn and baked beans was laid out for us in his receiving room, and we ate and conversed with great ease. But when I told him about the white men who were headed his way, he became concerned. W
hat do they want? he asked.
Gold, I replied.
We have no gold.
I know. But they mean to conquer the country even if it has no gold. All of the territories south of here are already under their rule. They force people to till the land and those who refuse or fight them are branded rebels and killed wherever they go.
And how do you know this?
Because I lived with them. I came to this country with them.
Ahku ran a thumbnail on his lips, removing flecks of dry skin in one smooth stroke. His eyes traveled from me to my wife, and back again; I felt as if he were scrutinizing every gesture, every breath, every word. A servant brought a dish of roasted wild fowl and Ahku waited until we had taken a few bites before he spoke again. You said that these intruders are white, but you are black. How do you know so much about them? How do you know their ways or their intentions?
It is true that I look nothing like them, I said, but I speak their language and I have lived among them long enough to know what they mean to do. You must believe me.
Even if what you said is true, why did you come here? What do you stand to gain by warning us?
I gain nothing. I did not make the news, I merely tell it.
Ahku fell silent. He leaned back against the wall, thinking about everything I had said, but his face darkened as he reached his conclusions. Let the white men come if they wish, he said. We have fought intruders before, we can do it again.
At these words, his deputies nodded in agreement. The town of Hawikuh was not a settlement that could be taken without a fight, and they were prepared for it.
But they cannot be fought with weapons, I said. I explained to Ahku that the white men’s weapons were far more powerful than anything he had ever seen and that his only means of salvation was to create a fiction.
A story? Ahku asked.
Yes, I replied. Send a group of men, some bearing injuries of battle, to Vacapa. They can tell the friar Marco that the Zunis killed Estebanico.