Taino (41 page)

I cannot help thinking at this moment about my twins, how they looked together laid out on the hammock just after birth. It turns my mind to the songs of the double twins in our origin stories: Deminán, first ancestor, and his three
ximagua
brothers. Many roundances were sung throughout the villages of the Taíno for these four beings. Episode after episode was sung, the cycle starting the evening after first rain and running, night after night, through the wet season.

Of woman born without male ancestor were these four brothers, who are the four winds, who gathered the powers from the world beyond the clouds; they who walked the rim of the sky. Said one
areito
song: “In the world where heat does not exist, the eyes can create.” I think of it today, as I lie and write in a hammock that hangs low behind the captain's cabin. We are clipping fast toward Yaquimo, and this well-made ship, the king's own, has the grace of a giant dolphin. There is nothing like the swing of a hammock on a gentle ocean.

Our
areitos
said: this world of humans is of the heart, the belly, and the groin. Mind exists, and spirit, but in little proportion to the other three. In the world before ours that the dead endeavor to reach and are forever in, mind and spirit are nearly all. There is some heart, very little gut, and no groin, no link to the rudeness of procreation, no hope of the fleshful love, nor the command of touch necessary to its generation. Yet, in the mind is everything, in the spirit of the other self, the other me, the opposite, in that link is where movement originates and the spark of existence.

A pondering people were our Taíno on the measure and the breadth of our existence. Origins we had, and creators, generations of creators. Before ever I heard of Adam and Eve, ancestors of the Castilians, or of the Jesus from Nazareth, from a place beyond Iberia, in the Kingdom of Judea, whom all Christians venerate though his own people betrayed him—before all of that, we had Itiba Cahobaba and the Sky-walking Brothers, and before them Yucahu, and even before that, YaYa and Atabey and so much more…

Deminán was first among the brothers and many of our songs told the tales of his adventures, his intelligence, his beautiful looks. Deminán could swim in the wind, and while his three younger brothers were being born, his laboring mother told him: “Search out ways of creating a world where Taíno can live, a sea and a bracelet of islands, all manner of fish, the action and heart of man, the mind and love of woman, a language, and, best of all, the
cohoba
and the tobacco to make the link complete. All the forces necessary are in your path,” his mother, Itiba Cahobaba, told Deminán. She, Ancient Bleeding Mother, said to him: “Spirit beings you will find in your path who hold the needed medicines and powers but know not how to use their gifts to spark the world into being. That is you. Your curiosity is the next creator,” she told him.

Yucahuguama Bagua Maórocoti, first-force-
yucca
-giver-sea-provider-of-Woman-born-without-grandfathers, already existed and had accomplished his main labor on the heated earth. Birthed by Atabey, along with his brother, Guacar, they had been formed by their mother out of the invisible elements of space. Atabey, too, brought the life-giving powers to earth: she sucked the wind into herself, churned it into her spiritual waters, and birthed twin boys. They were the best and the worst, natural harmony and natural chaos. Yucahu, the harmony, continued to create the earth, and the sun and the moon he brought out of their origin caves. All this Yucahu accomplished. Beauty he had accomplished, on his mother's instructions. Guacar, his brother, in his own nature, sought disharmony. He liked ugliness; he created what his brother did not: all manner of disintegration, turbulent storm, pests, diseases, aggressive fish (shark), poison sea jellies, pain itself, and, of course, death.

But that was a time much before, and even then the world of human beings was already coming out of caves and forming out of trees and
manatí
and out of the heart of palm. Some paddled in the spirit waters, but blindly and lost and needed to be taught. All were guarded from the sun, who was fierce and unforgiving before he loved us. All this Deminán's mother, who died as the fourth brother emerged, told Deminán. Now, he must walk the clouds and follow his wishes, his curiosities, and all would be alright; he would accomplish the rest.

So, Deminán traveled, and his impulse was certain.

It so happened a spirit named YaYa was the ultimate existence, the weaving of time itself. He lived with his wife in a
bohío
that was the beginning and the end of the road. His own first son, who had a great gift, YaYa had killed. Yayael was the son. He was now bones in a basket hanging from the rafters in the westernmost corner of the
bohío
. One day his bones, caressed in his mother's hands, became fish, and both father and mother ate happily. Now with his wife, YaYa went to his
conuco
, where a patch of spirit corn needed cleaning.

Deminán, walking the rim of the sky, saw YaYa's empty
bohío
. He knew he should respect a strange
bohío
but on impulse approached and entered. His three brothers only waited at the door.

Deminán moved carelessly through YaYa's
bohío
. Spotting the basket, he climbed at the rafters without thinking. Suddenly the brothers whispered, “YaYa is coming.” Deminán lunged for the basket and toppled it. Out came mountains of water, heavens of wet water; long, heavy fish tumbled out, all manner sea life, an immense volume of life-giving water world. YaYa approached his
bohío
angrily; he felt his son, whom he loved above all else, upset by a simpleton. Deminán fled, trailed by his brothers, and, the song says, all four were suddenly consumed by a hunger that craved
cassabe
, smelled
cassabe
—crisp-roasted tort of the
yucca
root, sustainer of Taíno life. This—smelling the heat of a cooking fire—just as the waters of the earth began to teem with life.

June 2, 1533

One hundred ninety-seven.
Another gold trap.

Soon, maybe by late this afternoon, we land. After a night of drifting in the open sea, a pilot who well knows the coast indicated a shadow like a darkened eye on the line of land. “That is Yaquimo,” he said. “We can be there in half a day if the wind holds.”

I talked again to Rodrigo, mentioning again the Valenzuela plotters. Barrionuevo approves the arrest of two guards on board, Valenzuela's men who mean to strike at Enriquillo at the earliest opportunity. They will be taken at the port of entry, handcuffed, and turned over to the local marshals in Yaquimo with six-month sentences. The charge, admittedly trumped up, will be: transactions in gold without authorization. This set up with the last piece of gold from the
cacique
.

One hundred ninety-eight.
Happiness to be in thick of events.

After so many cloistered years, I am living grandly these days, a purposeful happiness in my heart. I am relishing my intense participation in the effort for Enriquillo. Suddenly that old gift (or curse) of mine, to arrive at places of central action, to be in the mix between men who must converse, I feel it working for me. Something in my soul tells me I am the one to carry out this function, and I am enthused to join the two men and put them through an old-time, Taíno peace pact. Even the song of the
guatiao
, our exchange-of-names ceremony, I have been singing to these lonely waves. I feel I am ready to fulfill this destiny and through this work, if successful, to salvage from this life my shame that I carry to have introduced, so many times, the Castilians into our people. Shaking off the life of the monks, I feel more than ever my life is clear before me and I am my own man.

Catalina is to meet me at Yaquimo, and right at this moment, the wind in my ears whispers the music of another
areito
, also of the four brothers, about the time the men lost the women and how Deminán helped us. Why is it when I think of her the music of my childhood resounds in the wind? I long for Catalina so deeply right now, I want so much to be in her presence. And here I am again, after all these years, riding on the royal ship of the king of Spain, toward an Indian
cacicasgo
, a sovereign, and a people. The wind holds.

June 6, 1533

One hundred ninety-nine.
Catalina becomes my wife.

Out again in the bush, down old trails and small
carreta
roads. Catalina is with me, and Silverio, both with good mounts. I have my Cariblanca. Today, the three of us rode the coastal savanna to these first foothills. We are resting tonight under the perfect canopy of two huge
ceiba
trees, where we made a small fire and hung our things. The horses we have tethered in a pasture of tall grass nearby.

Catalina met me at the dock, dressed like a white lady, Silverio acting the servant and holding the three horses at a distance. Her daughter, Inez, known to the Castilians as Julia, came along. I introduced the two women to Barrionuevo and Rodrigo. I used the phrase
my betrothed
when introducing Catalina, and both men bowed deeply to her. Her daughter stayed under the protection of both men, who vouched for her well-being. Julia will act as a guide to Enriquillo's camp when they spot sign to follow from the ship.

Catalina becomes my wife now, setting my hammock next to hers at night, prescribing my tea, and even tasting my food. I love to have it so. There is nothing I would not do for the Catalina now, nothing. As a teacher and midwife I have appreciated her and now, as my wife, her way I will make easier. Catalina is full of spark yet in the daytime but a bony bird she is at night, slight to settle in the curl of my arm and chest. I am complete once again in my time, called to the active life by this great occasion. Suddenly there is Catalina, again, the same and yet this time a different Catalina, ready to have me and give me life. Oh, I am full of happiness and optimism as we ride into the hills of Enriquillo's country.

(Difficult it will be to write long here. I've only ten sheets of paper left and little time. Nevertheless, I will continue to make notes.)

Two hundred.
Going to the Bahuruku again.

Where the plain breaks into bush and begins to climb sharply, eight young
guaxeri
made rendezvous with us. I recognized only one man, but Silverio knew several by name and talked our old language to them without hesitation. They are severe about moving rapidly to meet with Enriquillo.

Two hundred one.
Deminán and the
guanguayo
turtle create the islands.

At night, the warriors are polite but cautious. They are particularly impressed with Catalina, who shows them how to improve on a good balm for cuts and bites with the bark of the
jagua
tree. Now she hums
areito
music late into the Bahuruku night. The eight warriors crowd around her, listening.

I finish here the Deminán story, the one where he again accosts the
bohío
of a holy spirit man, requesting his cooked
cassabe
to eat. The irritated old man spirit spits a gob of
cohoba
on Deminán's back. A swollen hump forms on his back and he loses strength. Lying down on a sliver of sandy beach, in the middle of the vast ocean, Deminán takes deadly sick. Using a coral knife, one of his brothers lances the swollen hump. Out of his back comes the turtle. Where the first turtle grows, land surfaces, where a
bohío
can be built, where good people can make a home. Thus were our lands created.

Two hundred two.
Warriors who would be husbands.

On the trail, I talk openly with Catalina and Silverio about our mission to Enriquillo. The young men warriors listen. I talk about our old Taíno peace pacts, and Catalina confirms my description. A leader of the warriors says: “Our
cacique
maintains we will marry, all, and settle down to farm with our wives. Is that possible? Do you think so?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “If the peace can be arranged, it could be a very different life.”

“I can help you boys get matched up with your own women,” Catalina said. “When the peace is made, we will work on that problem.”

The young men smiled all around. “Anything you need, great mother,” one said, humorously but not in jest. “Only look my way.”

Two hundred three.
Catalina stays with Mencía.

Mencia recieved us at the water's edge. She led a troupe of twenty men and her three women assistants. Everybody is very tense.

Enriquillo is with the young
behike
. They are in
cohoba
. Tamayo is also gone, along with Cao and six other captains. Mencia is in charge of everything at the camp, which has been reduced. I do not discuss with her Tamayo's mission, which I put out of my mind.

“We prepare a great lot these past few weeks,” she told me. “It is confusing because we build new hidden camps as precaution against sudden raids, yet I tell my young people a peace may take place, that we may get our own farms. It is confusing for the men who might now think of peace, yet still we prepare for war.”

At their main camp, Mencia and her women received Catalina formally, singing an old
areito
about the creation of the moon for her. Catalina, who knew Mencia as a child, offered to stay with her while I go to Enriquillo. “I want to help my niece,” she said. “You go see what you can do for the baby boy.”

Two hundred four.
At the enchanted falls.

Silverio brought me here. We arrived at midday. There are little falls just at the entrance to a cave facing the ocean. A gentle trail leads to it from the forest behind it, but facing out from the cave to the sea is jagged rock straight down to the hard-breaking waves. At the entrance, a pool is formed on clear white stone from a cascading spring of fresh water. The cascade flushes a mist that cools the day. We sat down a while, and Silverio cooed like a dove. Finally, Baiguanex came out.