by Shirl Henke
“All my life,” she whispered against the hollow between his neck and shoulder, “all my life I have loved you.”
“And I shall love you, my fiery little temptress, all the rest of my life, upon my soul I shall.”
* * * *
“Tis not possible! Only yesterday he was healthy as could be,” Francisco said, looking at the fat, shiny tears trailing down Aliyah's cheeks.
She stood before him clutching a small jar. “When he died, I had him burned. Here is his spirit jar. I will save it for his father. You may tell his wife, ” she spat the word, “that no one but the zemis own Navaro now.”
“You may give the jar to Aaron yourself, Aliyah,” Roldan said with a sigh. “He only this morning arrived in search of Magdalena. He will be desolate. Do not let your hate for her prevent you from remembering what you and Navaro's father once shared,” he added with surprising gentleness.
Aliyah did not raise her eyes, but her mind raced. “Aaron is here? Would you send word that he come to my dwelling? I wish to tell him without that woman being present.”
“It shall be as you request,” Roldan said simply. As she turned to leave, bearing her small, sad trophy, he added awkwardly, “Aliyah, I am sorry.”
She nodded and departed.
Late that afternoon when Aaron was escorted to Aliyah's bohio, he felt a strange sense of foreboding. The soldier sent to escort him would say only that the cacique's mistress desired speech with him and Roldan had dispatched him as messenger. As they crossed the compound, he stepped over several yipping dogs and two small boys playing with them in the muddy streets.
Navaro! Magdalena had told him only a few moments before he was summoned that the boy had been ill—or that Aliyah seemed to feel he was ill, although Roldan said he was quite well. Surely it could be nothing serious...yet there was fever in the village, as in Ysabel. Everywhere the white men came their diseases decimated the Tainos. But Navaro is half white. He must be safe from these maladies!
Aaron approached the bohio and discreetly called out. Aliyah's voice was soft and low as she bade him enter. She was facing a corner of the room, seated on a plain low stool. Dressed in a simple grass skirt, her head was bowed toward the household zemis. Aaron knew with a raw surge of pain what she would say to him. “Navaro is dead.” Her voice was choked with pain. “Your white man's sickness killed him.”
Aliyah stood up and faced him with a small jar of ashes in her hands. She thrust them at him, saying, “Here is your son, the only one you will ever have if you stay with that barren stick you have wed! Keep Navaro's spirit to comfort your old age!” Jealousy and hatred flashed from her dark eyes, once so warm and lustrous, now cold as obsidian.
Aaron took the jar in trembling hands and said in a hoarse voice, “I will take our son's spirit jar to your brother's village, where he was born. It is fitting that he rest with the zemis of Guacanagari.” He hesitated a moment, wanting to offer her comfort, to share their grief, but her body radiated such intense anger that it struck him like a wall. There was no consolation they could offer each other. “Good bye, Aliyah.” He turned and walked away with his son's remains clutched to his heart.
Aliyah saw the tears in those wondrous blue eyes, magic eyes she had once thought, eyes exactly like Navaro's. A hard, bitter smile froze on her face as she watched his retreating figure. Soon, all the hated white men and their skinny women would be dead, especially that pig Roldan who had banished her husband, the royal Behechio!
Aaron walked slowly back to the small caneye he shared with Magdalena, feeling in need of the comfort, the understanding that he now knew only she could give him. The moment he stepped into the hut, clutching the small urn, she knew what had happened. His eyes were sheened with tears as he silently knelt in the corner near the window and reverently placed the urn on the floor. “The first light of sunrise should strike it here,” he said softly. Magdalena placed her arms around him and held him in a wordless embrace of consolation.
If only she could give him a child, a son—not to replace Navaro, but to fill their lives after the void of his loss. She had hoped for the past month, but could not be certain that at last she did carry her husband's babe. It would be cruel to raise his hopes after this painful loss and then have them dashed. After all the times they had come together over the past three years, she had not conceived. Perhaps Aliyah had been right. Maybe she was barren. Magdalena forced that thought from her mind and clung to her dream as Aaron began to speak.
“I never realized how bitter she is. Her love has turned to hate. Perhaps it never was love. She is not like her brother Guacanagari. He is noble and wise, tolerant of other's feelings, but Aliyah will ever be a spiteful child. I did not wish to wed her, even when I knew Navaro was mine. Some instinct made me want only my son, not his mother. She must have sensed that much. I am not even certain she truly mourns his death.”
“I think you are in enough pain for two parents,” Magdalena said, her voice muffled by her tears as she softly massaged his arms, trying to absorb some of the agony from him.
“You loved him, too, in spite of everything.” He said it not as a question, but a fact, which he now freely acknowledged.
“Navaro was your son. How could I not love him?” she said simply.
“I must return his ashes to Guacanagari's zemis. That is the Taino way,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“I will go with you...if you wish it.”
He turned and placed his hands on the sides of her face, framing it gently. “I wish it, Magdalena, my wife. I wish it very much.”
At Magdalena's insistence, Aaron rested for a few hours that afternoon, although he would eat nothing. He had ridden for three days across Española with little sleep, none at all the night before he had arrived. She knew when Lorenzo and Peralonso returned, there would be a fight. Roldan would encourage the two enemies to battle to the death. Even if the cacique did not, Aaron would insist on his vengeance against the man who had killed his family and abducted his wife. As Aaron finally drifted into a restless sleep, Magdalena prayed he would be victorious.
She could see the gray lines of fatigue about his eyes and mouth, even in repose. Perhaps if she asked him, Roldan might hold Lorenzo prisoner for a few days so Aaron could regain his strength before the duel. Praying she might have such influence, Magdalena decided to approach the enigmatic Francisco Roldan, cacique of Xaragua.
Roldan's bushy eyebrows beetled over his shrewd brown eyes. “You realize this will change nothing? Aaron will not be denied his revenge, nor would I withhold it.” .
“What revenge if Lorenzo kills him, Francisco? He is so exhausted and stricken with grief for his son he might well be the one to fall, not Guzman!” Her expression implored him as she leaned across the table with her palms pressed on the rough surface.
He hesitated a moment, then said, “As you will. I will have Guzman and Guerra placed under guard for a few days. I warn you, Aaron will take it ill when he learns what I have done.” He paused and then smiled at her. “But as I am the cacique here, I may do as I wish and he will abide by my decision.” His humor mercurially shifted then, and he said sadly, “He is distraught over the boy's death.”
“More, it would seem, than Aliyah. I saw her leaving the compound as I came here. She did not look to be mourning the loss of her only child.” Oddly, she felt none of the old jealousy, but only pity for a woman who was so shallow a mother.
Francisco scratched his bushy hair and shook his head in perplexity. “I still do not understand it. The boy was well enough when last I saw him.” He flushed, then added self-consciously, “Aliyah had him brought here each day when it was time to feed him. Yesterday morning he had no fever.”
Magdalena's heart skipped a beat. In a cold, stiff voice she asked haltingly, “Do...do you think she killed her own son in revenge...because of me?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What can you mean by this? I will have that murdering butcher! Why do you protect
him?” Aaron shouted at Roldan.
Last evening, when he awakened from an exhausted sleep, Magdalena and Francisco had convinced Aaron that Guzman would return to the compound by midday following. When Lorenzo did not appear, Aaron began inquiries and found the cacique had imprisoned the couturier in a caneye under heavy guard.
“I will hold him until you are fit to do battle,” Roldan replied.
Aaron's eyes narrowed and his expression hardened. “Magdalena is behind this. She fears for my life and has pleaded with you to keep me from that scum.”
Roldan shrugged, neither denying nor admitting the accusation. “When it suits me, you may slash each other to bloody ribbons.”
“And when will it suit you?” Torres grated out.
“Mayhap at sunrise tomorrow. Does that please you?” the cacique asked indifferently.
“No! Every hour he breathes is an affront to the House of Torres.”
Roldan looked at the blazing fury etched in every line and angle of Aaron's taut body. “You had best save your ire for the morrow and focus it on Lorenzo Guzman.” He waited until Aaron nodded and turned to leave, then said softly, “Have no fear. The fop will die soon enough.”
“You seem quite certain of the contest's end,” Aaron said, studying the shrewd brown eyes of the white cacique.
Roldan grinned. “I have seen him duel at court—and I have seen you hack down half a dozen Moors at one time, any one of whom was the equal of Guzman. Yet do not be overconfident. He has skill with a blade and he is crafty.”
Aaron leaned his shoulder on the door frame of the cacique's bohio and replied thoughtfully, “He is not the only one who is crafty, Francisco. You play a dangerous game, rebelling against the crown. Even if you like not the Colons, they are the magisterial authority on Española. ”
“Perhaps I should allow you to return me to their good graces?” Roldan suggested, knowing what Aaron intended.
“Because you saved Magdalena, I will intercede with Cristobal for your pardon,” Aaron replied. “If you in turn mend your ways.” He looked at the burly Castilian meaningfully.
“The idea of reformation has played about my mind here of late,” Francisco said. He sat down on the carved cacique's chair and ran one large, calloused hand over the smooth wood, pausing at the inlaid gold carving on one arm. He looked up at Aaron. “Let us see what tomorrow brings. Then we will talk more. Do not deal harshly with Magdalena, Torres. She loves you well.”
Aaron sighed. “Already I have dealt far too harshly with my wife. She wants only my safety. I will not fault her for asking this boon of you.”
* * * *
Aliyah looked behind her at the flickering fires of the compound. The orange flames danced through the slits of the cane walls like slivers spun off the sun. The gathering blackness of the jungle quickly enveloped her. Long ebony hair and dusky skin blended with the whispering palms and low-hanging flame vines of the dense undergrowth. Good. No one had seen her leave and no one followed. She made her way to the rendezvous, her eyes glowing like a cat's in the night.
The moon was rising when she reached the clearing. She gave a low trill and waited. Nothing broke the silence but the hum of insects. Then suddenly, without warning, a set of calloused fingers bit into her shoulder, pulling her around.
“You are late,” Behechio hissed.
Aliyah lowered the thick lashes over her glowing eyes. “I was forced to endure a meal with that pig Roldan before I could slip away unnoticed.”
“A meal and what else?” the muscular, dark-skinned man asked, his harsh, angular features contorted with bitterness.
“Nothing tonight, but you know he takes me.” She made an obscene gesture, then looked at him defiantly. “I hate him.”
Although little taller than she, Behechio was barrel-chested and his powerful girth made him seem to menace the woman's softly rounded curves. “You say you hate white men, yet you have a white child,” he accused her. “You are my wife now. No one should touch you but me.”
She placed one hand placatingly on his hard, smooth chest. “No man but you ever shall again, my lord, once this is finished.”
“What of the Golden One and his woman? My men tell me they are here. Once you went willingly to him.”
Aliyah tossed back her long mane of hair as she raised her head. The handsome planes of her face were twisted with hatred. “Once it was my right. Now I would see you kill him and give me his skinny, red-haired wife as my slave. Will you do this for me, Behechio, husband?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes, I will kill him, but I will keep his woman as my slave, I think,” he said with a sneer.
“No!” she stamped a bare foot on the mossy carpet of fecund earth.
A cruel smile spread across his face. “So, you do not like me to have a white woman, yet you lay with two white men. Even now you may have that usurper's baby growing inside you.” The smile was gone.
“You know this was part of our plan. I had to stay with Roldan if we were to succeed. I can rid myself of his seed as easily as I did the other...if it is necessary,” she added carelessly. Then her eyes locked with his and she asked, “How went the battle in the north? Does Caonabo come to join us in driving the whites into the sea?”
Behechio's expression altered swiftly from jealousy to fury. “That traitorous dog you call brother has joined the enemy! He rules over more Tainos than all other chieftains, yet he fought with the whites. Caonabo and our friend are all taken. No help comes from the north.”
“Then we must wait no longer. I overheard Aaron speak of the battle but could learn little. Once we kill Roldan and all the whites here, we will march north. I will make my brother, the ruler of Marien, see the justice of our cause,” she vowed in a passionate voice.
“No more will white men kill us with their diseases and make us dig the accursed yellow metal,” Behechio said, his voice rising. “You are certain Guacanagari will heed you and join us?”
“Yes, but I will plead your cause only if you do not touch the white woman. Give her to me when we take the compound,” she implored.
“I will think on it,” he replied, his male vanity pleased by her jealousy. It never occurred to him to question whether she was jealous over him or Aaron.
“When do we attack? Now that we know no help comes from the north, we must move quickly.”
“My warriors are ready. Just before dawn three of the stealthiest will slip in and use their bejucos to strangle the guards. Return to the compound and wait. You must keep watch to be certain no one gives an alarm before we are inside.”
“I will do better than that,” she boasted. “A leaderless band of men fights ill. I will kill Roldan as he sleeps.”
He smiled and nodded. “Let it be so. I will join you at sunrise.”
* * * *
Lorenzo Guzman paced his cell in the damp pre-dawn air. “God's balls and blood of all the martyrs! What am I doing in this hellish nightmare?” he muttered beneath his breath as he swatted at a mosquito intent on extracting what small measure of moisture remained inside his sweat-drenched body. When he next met Alonso Hojeda, he would kill the posturing little peacock! Sending him to this barbarian—a comrade in arms of Torres!
He shuddered as he considered the impending fight. It would be to the death. Torres knew he was Valdés' co-conspirator. He had not only abducted the swine's wife, but was responsible for the death of all the House of Torres. “And look what all my striving has gained me!” he hissed bitterly. “A prisoner awaiting a primitive gladiatorial combat to appease the blood lust of a pack of howling barbarians. I am their amusement in this god-forsaken hole!”
Peralonso watched his companion pace and mutter, swearing and sweating. From his reclining position on the crude pallet in the corner of their dingy prison, he spoke. “You but waste your strength on useless fear. Direct your anger. You are accounted a good swordsman. So is Torres, but he will attack with blind fury for revenge. Use cool determination against him and you may well take him.
”
Guzman ceased his pacing. “Well enough for you to say. You will not be facing his blade!”
“I share this ghastly colonial prison with you, do I not? What madness to abduct that woman and flee here! I only wish—”
Guerra's speech was cut short when a dull thud sounded outside the door. A body had dropped to the ground. “What goes there?” he whispered nervously, climbing to his feet as Lorenzo waited by the side of the room's lone entrance.
Hojeda's Taino slave slid into the room with a broad smile on his face. He bowed, a length of supple bejuco cord still wound around one brawny fist. “Come,” he said simply, then added in broken Castilian, “I help you escape. Soon all whites be...” He gestured with the cord, making his meaning abundantly clear.
Guzman and Guerra followed him past the strangled guard outside their cell.
Roldan's instincts had been finely honed over years of fighting Moors on the battlefield and brawling with his compatriots in the streets. He opened his eyes but did not move or alter his breathing as he lay in the hamaca. Someone was in the room with him. He swore silently for the unusually close night that had led him to sleep in the cooler but confining hemp sling. His sword and dirk lay across the room by the raised pallet in the corner. He was trapped, trussed up like a hog at butchering time!
The room was cast in darkness. The moon had set. Dawn was near. He strained his ears for another sound, but heard none. Then he caught the scent of fruit soap and the vanilla fragrance of the leopard orchid. Aliyah!
She approached the hamaca, knife raised high, gleaming dully in the darkness. For all the times you rutted on me, white pig—as fat and dirty as the vile, squealing animals you brought to pollute our land! She stood beside the hamaca ready to bury the knife in his throat. Then she saw the glow of his eyes—wide open, staring up at her in bemused surprise. Cursing, she plunged the blade downward on a swift, sure arc.
Roldan's reflexes were amazingly swift for a man of his size. One brawny arm came up to deflect the blade, smashing against her wrist. The knife went flying from her hand. Aliyah dove after it as Roldan rolled from the confining hamaca. By the time he had freed himself, she again held her weapon and ran at him, screaming like a deranged thing. He tried to seize her wrist, but the strength of her blind hate fortified her. As they struggled, she turned her body to the left while he twisted downward on her wrist. She held the blade at just such an angle that it slashed across her breast and embedded itself in her belly.