Taino (43 page)

As they walked away, I felt sad in my knowledge—about them and about me. I am not sorry about any of it, but I am glad it's over.

Two hundred eleven.
My paper runs short.

This is the last of my paper now. Tomorrow we travel back together, Catalina and I. We have camped by ourselves for two weeks on the outskirts of the action, gathering word. We kept to our own when Mencia's camp moved without us. It was late July. Barrionuevo's ship was spotted and signals of smoke went up. A launch landed days later, and
guaxeri
were soon available, cutting wood within earshot of Barrionuevo's soldiers, who then “captured” our woodsmen. From that point, everything functioned as planned. Two captains in canoes came up at the lake. Catalina's daughter, Julia, was sent out and contact was made. Enriquillo prepared his delegation of captains with more than half of their seasoned men, some seventy warriors, all ready for battle. Barrionuevo, I was told, came in with some fifteen men and few weapons.

It hurt me to have to hear of the parley secondhand. Silverio went back and forth for five days while Barrionuevo and Enriquillo made their peace. Silverio is a good boy but not the best relayer of words. I knew from his reports the parley was going well, but his lack of detail was frustrating. Tamayo himself came to see me. He had been sent by Enriquillo to tell me that pardons were granted all around, that six of his captains would be deputized, and that a tract of land big enough for a town with good fields would be allotted. “The Castilian captain gives his word for the queen. All Indians not slaves can live in our new lands.”

Two hundred twelve.
Staying away from the peacemaking.

Staying away as the peace between Enriquillo and Barrionuevo was made, for once I was satisfied not to be in the center of things. It is enough to know I have a place and to trust the mind of a true
cacique
.

I know that Enriquillo's decision to press for a territory of refuge for all Indians appears in the treaty, which will establish such a community. Barrionuevo is as generous as he was encouraged to be back in Santo Domingo. Of course, there are not so many Indians left now and more and more Africans. It is not so difficult to give up the Indian labor. It is in this way I see that Enriquillo gains more concessions without me, who have chastised Las Casas for the same opinion. Oh, and that poor friar, whom I have sent on a devious and misguided trail—God keep him, please. Truly my heart pays the price for my involvement in these affairs.

Two hundred thirteen.
Feeling the good friar.

Silverio joined us, and with Catalina and Enriquillo's captain Romero we have started on our ride back to Yaquimo. We will take a barge out of Yaquimo and sail to Santo Domingo.

Today, I could feel the good friar. I walked down an open path for a distance, behind Romero and before Catalina, and it was the friar's legs and step that I could feel in my limbs, the length of his legs and of his neck, the way his neck stretches as he walks. I could feel his
goeiz
in the swing of my arms and my own step, and I was very nervous. He must be angry with me.

Two hundred fourteen.
Last of the paper on the ship.

This is the last of my paper, this half a sheet. Catalina tells me of an
areito
Mencia sang for her, the one with the story of how the men fought with each other in the old days, became mean and lost the women, and how Deminán and his three brothers lulled the female again into humanity. She said this is everyone's topic in the camps. As in that
areito
there are many instructions of how men are to care for the women and women for the men. The men talk about what Enriquillo has said, about settling down, farming peacefully, finding wives. There are messages from many, many Indians, all over the island, who want to settle with Enriquillo.

Two hundred fifteen.
Indians as dignitaries.

Our horses we leave now with Silverio. Catalina and I go by barge to Santo Domingo and Captain Romero accompanies us. The citizens at Yaquimo came out to see him and even clap for him as for a dignitary. There is genuine happiness for a peace that every day seems more and more possible. We are well fed by the main citizens of Yaquimo.

Two hundred sixteen.
All that I can fit.

I can squeeze but a few more lines into this sheet. The barge leaves today. The baby boy is safe. Our Taíno-ni-Taíno survives one more generation, and a place is marked, reserved for the future! And there are other worthy recognitions. I want to write but there is no more space for my mark. Xán, Xán Katú. This is all that I can fit. Greatful am I for the gift given and for the friendship of the courageous priest to whom I now return. Taíno-ti-carayá.

Folio VII

Last Testaments

In the convent, news of Las Casas… In my room, a letter from the good friar… A year's wait… Preparing for marriage… I hear of Enriquillo… Journey to the new community… I see Enriquillo again, in his deathbed… At last in our
bohío
… Final testament, 1539… A letter from Las Casas, the New Laws… A note for Las Casas… They will remember, my young generations…

Two hundred seventeen.
In the convent, news of Las Casas.

I write at the convent, on these few sheets I put away here. Thus I will write some pages more, though everything is doubly painful in this Castilian place and in this Castilian mind.

Catalina and I are separated once more. We have no place to be together and even our marriage is yet to be properly announced. Among our people it is so easy to just be, but here we must watch every move.

I long for Catalina immensely. I dread where I am and want to go.

For one thing, Abbot Mendoza is rude in his disappointment at my wanting to take a wife. “You were close to vows with our order,” he said. “You have learned from us the Holy Sacraments. Consider the seriousness of your decision.”

Like everyone else, of course, he knows about my problem with Father Las Casas. He mentions it not, but he watches me differently, all the monks do. Only Father Remigio is warm to me as usual.

Two hundred eighteen.
In my room, a letter from the good friar.

In my room, on top of my papers, I found his letter. But the good friar is gone, refusing to even countenance me.

[Inserted letter from Las Casas.—Ed.]

June 10, 1533

To a Dieguillo who is a
diablillo
:

I have read all your papers. Thus I know of your deceit doubly, once on the trail, walking for nothing, and now again, from your own words that tell so many lies. Deceit I know I can find in these papers on your desk, as I leaf through them again, what I read before and the much I had not seen. So I see your calumnies against Cúneo, who was a gentle soul and I know could not have treated your cousin so badly. Your assertions of heathen curses destroying the mind of the admiral I must laugh at; then, to read of your inebriations with the
cohoba
vapors and of your infernal nightmares into the nether regions, oh, wonder that you are still the recalcitrant heathen; I lament the wastefulness of all your years of catechism, all that patient instruction, first from the great admiral himself, and then myself and so many others, all of us thinking you might take your vows someday, only to read right here in your room that you are a fornicator of old women (and in the past few weeks!), a frequenter of Barcelona girl whores, you who have walked through all that is holy of our sacraments, you who have taken the blood and corpus of our Christ and have assisted in all of our sacred rituals … how could you deceive me this way? How, how, how could you betray me in such a manner, Dieguillo? You are a true devil, chameleon, changing your colors with the shades around you. Was it vanity, lizard, fear that I might take your glory that made you betray my cause of unity with your people?

I credit you for this only: I know now with certainty the little trust of your pages. I see with ease how wrong you are about so many things. Is it perhaps your luciferous
cohoba
—is that what burns your head clean of sincere thought? Why, for instance, do you pick on Pané, that simple good friar who recorded so many things about your people? And why do you vilify Velazquez, claiming that he killed his wife, when he was one of the truly refined people to come to the islands? Of course, he was a conquistador—but his own wife? No, Diego…But you know what a great fibber you are.

I thought to destroy these pages, but I will leave them that you may read and reread your own profanities. I know not all your shenanigans, but you are securely beyond redemption and I would venture even less to consider what penance you might make for your brutish and odious twists of mind.

Consider, of course, that we are no longer friends. When you return, I shall be moved to another residence. I desire not to see you again. As for our shared ideas on Enriquillo's defense, feel released completely from any and all obligations. I certainly do. In fact, I shall visit the camps soon, bringing the sacraments and planning for their new settlement. In the event of our coincidental meeting, do not bother to recognize me. Consider it sufficient our years of convent life, and ponder the fate of our apparent friendship, a fetid swamp now where once ran a transparent stream.

Las Casas.

Looking at my papers, which are out of order still on my table, I can tell by the round ink stains where he sprinkled holy water on them. He opened my
cohoba
bundle, too, which I left behind, and he broke in half four green parrot feathers given to me by Baiguanex.

Two hundred nineteen.
A year's wait.

Catalina and I are made to wait one year. Abbot Mendoza has agreed to seek her free-woman status but we are instructed to prepare for one year, save our pesos, and then set up our home. “If you are to be married, then let your Christian home be an example to your new generation,” said the abbot.

I see Catalina in the market on Wednesdays and Saturdays and at Mass on Sundays. We sit together and chat, and we lock our ankles together under the benches.

Two hundred twenty.
Preparing for marriage.

I stay to myself, and thankfully, while in the convent. I go nowhere most days but dedicate my hours to latching together square pig traps, which Catalina sells for me at four pesos a cage. I make three or four pig traps a week, and they all sell. Pigs are everywhere in the woods, and they produce great damage against all tuber crops.

With forty pesos we put away per month, in a year we will have what we need. I want to put up a good
bohío
and get a few cows for beef steers and raise young horses. My
yucca
I will plant already this year, for the crop will take a full turn of the seasons and will be ready when we are. I can always keep making pig traps, and Catalina makes a fine hammock. We will live thus.

I look not for Enriquillo, nor for the camp at Boyá. Even that urge has left me and I am motionless in their relation. I ponder his words at our final meeting, and I hesitate not in seeing the meaning he dictated in my strategic actions. I know he is right. Once again I realize how the covered man continues to suck at my Taíno marrow.

I cannot write much more. I feel my urge in this activity leaving me, too. This play of words I have been at most of my life, as
interprete
, and now in this writing, tires me. Robbed am I of enough memories by this Castilian activity, images in words spilled to the page so that my inside mind can no longer see them.

Two hundred twenty-one.
I hear of Enriquillo.

Ten months it is today, since our return from the Bahuruku, ten new moons. Silverio I saw today, my young helper. He has married and has his own
bohío
at Boyá. He looks quite firm and robust. I asked about Enriquillo.

“He is frail, cannot sleep, and is often irascible.”

“Is he ill?”

“His lungs hurt him, and he doesn't sleep.”

I asked about the
behike
Baiguanex.

“He never came in. We have not seen him anymore,” he said.

Two hundred twenty-two.
Journey to the new community.

I have decided to visit Enriquillo at Boyá. It is a bit of a journey from Santo Domingo, and I traveled with Silverio for nearly a month. This is truly the last that I will write.

Leaving Azua and entering the
cacique
's community, we ran into a party of horse riders, six men in long capes and sabers. They stopped to greet us and a voice I don't forget said out loud, “The clever Dieguillo, I believe. What convenience.”

It was Oviedo, the gold-counting historian. He went on, addressing a companion.

“My duke,” he said, “this Indian right here will resolve our question.”

“Dieguillo,” he said, turning to me. “The duke wonders how the Indians of the first years saw us. Did you think we were human beings or angels?”

“I said many times you were angels, in those first days,” I responded, to avoid conflict. “And many of my people believed me. I believed it myself for a while.”

Oviedo laughed. Silverio was impatient but quick to realize they had us surrounded, outmanned and out-armed.

“And when did you start realizing that we were humans,” asked the duke.

I saw my opening and responded.

“I once thought you might be angels, but, if the gentlemen will forgive an Indian's honest opinion, I never have thought you human at all.”

Oviedo might have been angered, but he was jovial that day. “Our
cacique
has quite the stamp,” he said. “He likes his cups, too, duke. You ought to see him.”

“Only with the Castilian wine,” I replied. “My own
mabi
root beer I can drink and drink. It never gives me a headache.”

“Saliva beer,” Oviedo said, pulling on his horse and laughing loudly. “It's a wonder the Indians didn't drink piss.”

The Castilian group, following Oviedo, reined their mounts away from us without another word, cantering away, the shod hooves of their powerful horses throwing clods of mud.

August 24, 1535

Two hundred twenty-three.
I see Enriquillo again, in his deathbed.

Doña Mencia is the same, perhaps a little heavier. Her hair is turned quickly gray.

She took and sat me by Enriquillo's hammock. He looked very old and thin and was coughing in great fits. But he greeted me warmly.

“Look how you find me,” he said. “Uncle, I knew I would not last long.”

“You are bound to get well,” I said. “You were always strong.”

“Its all spent, my wax.”

“Rest and gain strength, you magnificent
cacique
,” I said to my Enriquillo boy. “You have a long life ahead.”

I felt foolish for not coming earlier, as he wanted to speak with me. But his comments were all about problems of the community. For one thing, the Castilians had promised twenty cattle and had delivered only six. Then, his deputized men, including Tamayo, helped track and recapture two escaped Africans. Many Indians in the community disliked Tamayo tracking runaways for the Castilians. “It's a big problem for everybody,” Enriquillo said. “Even here they come talk to me about it. But I no longer see the workings of things. I only know that without our warrior discipline, everyone goes this way and that. On the other side, I know Tamayo's angers and they continue to grow. Tamayo is angry all the time. He doesn't think through his decisions.”

Enriquillo caughed for a long stretch. A cloth he held was stained red. I felt so badly for him and for Doña Mencia, but such matters as the Castilians not keeping their promises to us or of Tamayo participating in the tracking and hunting of
cimarróns
I cannot contain.

“I liked the Bahuruku, our mountain trails,” the
cacique
said. “The
behike
was right to stay away.”

I wondered about Baiguanex but said nothing.

“I only hope he doesn't die alone,” Enriquillo said, looking at Doña Mencia standing nearby. “At least I know I won't die alone. She will sing me to the Spirit World.”

“Come back,” Doña Mencia said, as we parted. “Tell us more of your stories.”

I promised I would, though, truly, I lack the strength myself for such a trek again.

Two hundred twenty-four.
At last in our
bohío
.

I have left the convent with Catalina, not toward the mountains but to the edge of the sea on the savanna, to an area apart, what Castilians now call vacant lands. We picked a place by a good stream, by a ridge she knows well, a place of fertile earth on her old people's lands.

Building our
bohío
, which we do alone, a rider came to see us, sent by Silverio. The young
cacique
died on September 27, nearly a week ago. Last night, when I complained to the fates about the young
cacique
, wracked with problems and now coughed to death, this after so many years of hard work for his people, Catalina shook her head at me. “My young husband,” she said. “Remember our old saying, ‘Expect nothing for your deeds.'“

May 5, 1539

Two hundred twenty-five.
Final testament, 1539.

Fearing that I may pass on without assigning these matters, I am resolved here to put down a dispensation of my wordly goods.

I own:

— A
bohío,
which I share with my wife, Doña Catalina Diaz de Colon, and this
bohío
, of course, belongs to her person even more than mine, as the four directions of our
bohíos
always belonged to the female.

— A herd of ten horses, including five mares, two colts, two geldings, and one stallion. This herd belongs to Doña Catalina.

— A herd of six beef cattle. This herd also belongs to Doña Catalina. Of these two herds, I want Doña Mencia's people, on her behalf, to pick two mares and two cows for their community.

— Several pigs, all of whom will remain to Doña Catalina.

— All my
conucos
, in preparation or planted, belong to Doña Catalina.

— My personal belongings of correspondence tools, personal tools and clothing, one machete, three good lariats, two saddles and bridles, all of that I leave with Doña Catalina.

— Finally, these pages, which I have kept all these years, the early ones and the later ones, these items I leave to Father Remigio, of the Convent of Dominicans in the town of Santo Domingo. May he keep them for what they are, the incomplete record of my people's affairs in the years since the coming of the Castilianss to these islands of my heart. Maybe they will last, maybe they will burn. I only know this: from the sky of our beautiful seas, the stars they will not cause to fall.