Taino (7 page)

Before he left, Don Bartolomé took my hand. “Resist bad memories,” he said, forcefully. “Think of our Holy Trinity, think of our Christ on the cross.”

Folio II

Losing Everything

Thinking of the elders, after my father's death… First sight of the admiral, first greetings… Meeting Rodrigo and the Castilians, my turn of life, and leaving Guanahaní, my home… Report to the elders and pubescence… The old
cahobaneros
' vision on the night and morning of my short farewell… Last words, for a while… Enriquillo sends his messengers, request of
cohoba
peace pact… A message and words of instruction… A letter to Las Casas… Useful Castilian things, paper, horses… News from Cuba, death of the Guamax rebellion… Remembering the elder Guamax… Jiqui, a warrior, escapes… Sojourn in Cuba, along the northern coast, searching for the Great Khan, the curse of Old Guamax, days of early reverence… Embassy to Camagüey… Caréy's doubts and my certainty… Meeting Baigua, a ni-Taíno of Camagüeybax, the old ladies call for
jaguajiguatu
… Torres reports to the admiral, Cuba as mainland… Cibanakán, my father-uncle, comes on board… The old man Guamax, his curse on the admiral… Life on board and learning Castilian ways; out from Punta Maisí, at one with the admiral… Ignoring the feelings of my own people… Getting closer to the admiral… Even closer to the admiral… The good friar returns from La Plata… Preparations for his trip to court in Spain… Jiqui is captured… The execution of Jiqui… Cruelty is the province of the covered men… Pressing “the Indian cause” could get Enriquillo killed… Las Casas wants to end the
encomienda
; I want Enriquillo to live… A message for Catalina Diaz, midwife and friend… A note for later writing… Reminding Las Casas of Enriquillo's first cause… The townsmen have reasons for peace… Dissimulated romancing with Catalina… Catalina believes in both us and them… The meeting ends… Good-bye to Las Casas, ashamed of my writing… Breeding my mare… Survival in humility… Our ways were respectful of reproductive powers… I do not really feel shame… Indians tell Columbus to look elsewhere for women and gold… Diving for yellowtail with Rodrigo and Caréy… Cibanakán faces the hammerhead, impressing the sailors… A generosity of parrots… Guacanagari, first Taíno sachem to meet Columbus… Columbus's ship
Santa Maria
sinks on Christmas night… Guacanagari saves the day and provides the first gold… The white man's industry is as impressive as his hunger for gold is immense… They get more gold from us… Spirit men remain behind as we sail off from Fort Navidad…
Escarmiento
—the fight to leave a warning… Sailing out to the great water…

June 14, 1532

Eighteen.
Thinking of the elders, after my father's death.

The good friar has been gone ten weeks. Twice in early May he was roughed up while walking through the square. Fortunately, Obispo Cisneros, as well as the governor general, have pressed him into the negotiating embassy soon to discuss the parley with Enriquillo. For now, he is in study at the convent on La Plata, a much more quiet place than this hellhole of Santo Domingo. Despite our difficulties, on his departure he asked me to continue writing. I took the opportunity to request more paper, but, in all sincerity, I grew weary of the writing. It is only today, after an afternoon watching fluff clouds dancing through a light blue sky, that the wish to speak arises. The sky carries messages, as does now my pen.

Today I ask my pen: how can I pass on what I have in me but by telling the truth about myself? And I say, reader of my words: do not think my story more important than another; it is just the only one I know how to tell. Those among my people of whom I have some knowledge, those remarkable among my
guaxeri
countrymen, I will try to recount here so that their names and their deeds might be known.

From a young age I liked the feel of words; always I could make pictures from my eyes to your eyes. I remember
cohoba
nights that were full of that prettiness, when the chiefs described their old stories, told of our past, how everything came alive again, again and again, our village dreaming in unison, sometimes for days after an
areito
, sharing their words. I would pick up turns of phrases then and repeat them for my mother, her sisters, and for the boys in my group. I was well named as a boy, and often elders would remind me that my being was truly
guaikán
—keeping ahold of things, bringing them back with my head, as the
guaikán
fish will, never letting go. The elders liked me for that willingness of mine to repeat their old things, and in my village I was one of the youngest men ever to participate in the
cohoba
.

After my father's death, the old men cried for me. They loved me very much but they revered my father. Many would call me to their backs, as my father had, during the first round of
cohoba
songs, this for eight nights, and I would, out of my need, hug the backs of my two great-uncles, as they sang those beautiful songs I have not heard in forty years. During that time, my father was already drying in the sun, on the small bluff on a hidden bay called the Cove of the Dead. Night after night, following the double snort of the barrel sticks, chief after chief would talk and talk and they would cry to my father for me, telling me again and again his four great deeds, always recalling how our Taíno people came to be. The old people told many stories and sang many songs. Mind full of words that I have, I never picked up the songs, but I do remember the stories. I feel grateful for this time with my elders, when they showed me their love and gentility.

After the nights of
cohoba
, ceremonies full of emotion, the old men prescribed for me eight days of rest. I slept and slept again and I was well fed, in the spiritual way, by my mother and two aunts. Twice in my dreams my father visited, once walking the rim of the sky, another time sitting with me, leaving me clear minded, physically recovered from his death and its condolences. Not two moons later, when the three giant seagulls of our destiny appeared on the horizon and bearded men covered with cloth first came to our shore, it was natural the old-timers would send for me, requesting that I take a group of men to meet them. They could not tell me if I would be in danger or not, they said, because they had never heard of such a thing as the giant seagulls described to them very early that morning.

Nineteen.
First sight of the admiral, first greetings.

More than thirty young men, most older than me, followed me down to the shore. I admit I would not call myself a brave man. I have survived enough perils, have been wounded, both in incidents of war and as a slave, but seldom have I dared physical danger if it could be avoided.

We walked toward the shore up and down sand dunes formed behind a line of brush. Gaining height on a dune, I could see the giant gulls were actually huge sails, and men climbed atop long poles while others pulled on long
bejucos
(ropes) from below. I motioned our men to lay low. “They are something like people,” I whispered, as they too preened over the top. Crouching now, we spread across the dune and made our way to the brush line, very near the shore.

Maybe an hour went by and presently we saw three small boats emerge, one from each of the bigger ones. Two men paddled each boat, though, curiously, they sat backward as they rowed their vessels around the bigger caravels. Rope nets were lowered, and other men descended onto the rowboats. Presently I remember seeing the admiral for the first time, at the rudder of the larger rowboat, his slender back arched like a Ciguayo bow and that magnificent head of flaming red hair.

Closer and closer their boats came and then thudded home on our sands. They were not sixty feet away from me. I watched the admiral directly as his eyes scanned the beach from the boat and saw us. Immediately two men went to assist him but he ignored them, jumping to the dry sand. All the covered men often looked his way, as if to check their actions. He held a long staff, banners blowing in the breeze.

I am forced to say that the man they later called
el descubridor
vibrated at that moment. I saw it myself how he held that staff high, such as our own
behikes
might, and intoned a voice for the skies, how he spoke to the heavens in a harsh but resonant language.

We were all stupefied, eyes wide like seashells. “How does one greet such beings,” Xiquí, my brother-uncle, whispered in my ear. “Where could they be from?” Cibanakán, my father-uncle, responded: “Perhaps the sky. Perhaps they have arrived from the sky.”

It was the admiral I watched. He was totally clothed, along with six of the others. The rest of them, bare chested, wore short pants and on their heads, red stocking caps. One man in particular was very hairy, large tufts covering even his shoulders, and all their faces, except the admiral's, were hairy, too. As he finished his oration, the admiral handed the staff to two sailors, who jammed it solidly into the sand and then took positions around him, weapons at the ready, as he walked toward our brush.

I must admit something now that still confuses me. As I looked at Don Christopherens the first time, I felt a great glow of warmth, a happiness inside my chest I have never been able to explain, and it drew me out of the brush and onto the beach, pulling a dozen of my men. As if enchanted, we walked toward the admiral, directly and without fear. Suddenly the two sailor-soldiers brandished swords, running forward menacingly and we all jumped back. They ran toward us, and we ran, a powerful terror in the calves. Then they stopped. We stopped and I could hear laughter from them. I spotted their red-haired chief, their Guamíquina, whose palm was raised toward us and the soldiers now dropped behind him. So I walked toward him again, and he came toward us with palm raised as my father-uncle, Cibanakán, properly walked before me to pronounce our people's formal greetings.

June 19, 1532

Twenty.
Meeting Rodrigo and the Castilians, my turn of life, and leaving Guanahaní, my home.

Today, I think of young Rodrigo, and it is indeed a very proper day to think of my dear friend. One of my two twins, born on this day, named Heart of Earth in Taíno, I named Rodrigo in the Castilian, after my good friend. Among the Castilians, I value no one higher than Rodrigo, not even the good friar.

Rodrigo was there on the first day, a young man of fourteen years, kind and soft-spoken. I remember how he came to me, a hawk's bell dangling from his fingers. “
Para ti
,” he said. I responded, “
Taíno-ti
.” And though we spoke different languages, we understood each other immediately. I took the hawk's bell, a great wonder as it would ring when shaken, rather as one of our
maracas
, or gourd rattles, but with a high, metallic pitch. Then I cast around to spot one of our men who held a
jaba
,
or cord sack, full of fruit. I pulled several
guayabas
and returned the gift, indicating with my hand that he should crack it open and eat. Rodrigo followed my instructions, whereupon Don Christopherens came toward us and I also offered him a
guayaba
, cracking it quickly to expose the sweet part as he extended his hand.

Thus we stared at each other and smiled. More hawk's bells were offered, more
guayabas
and other fruits were returned. Three men from a coastal village situated around the bend of the cove now joined us. Don Christopherens spoke out loud, locking into our eyes as we crowded around him. Several times Don Christopherens raised his arms toward the sky. Then my father-uncle, Cibanakán, also spoke. “The spirit men of the skies have arrived,” he said. “Tell your communities to bring them food and other gifts.” Turning toward me, he said: “We must go and tell our elders. They have instructions for such a day. Where these men come from there is no death. We may be very lucky today.”

By instinct I now looked for Rodrigo. I spotted him by the sea brush, urinating. “
Para-ti
,” I called to him in our new language. “Guaikán I am, and I go now.” He looked at me in wonder, then pointed to my chest and his ear. “
Nombre
?” he asked, and though I did not know the word, I understood him. I said again, “Guaikán, Guaikán.” He repeated: “Guaikán.” Now he said: “Rodrigo.” I said: “Oligo.” He smiled and nodded his head to affirm my word. He put his hand on my shoulder. “
Amigo
,” he said. “Oligo,” I said. We laughed.

I looked him up and down. He was all covered with clothes, even his feet were crisscrossed with rope. I caught myself staring, and he read my thoughts, grabbing his groin and pointing at mine, again nodding. I laughed, as I had noticed him passing his waters. Our men, of course, went naked. My
yuán
was free. Everybody, both our men and theirs, stared a lot that day. Then, while some remained to stare a while longer, most of us walked away.

Twenty-one.
Report to the elders and pubescence.

That night we had a meeting at Old Guanahaní village. Everyone came, even the oldest of grandmothers, crowding around the
cohoba
elders as the inhaling mixture was prepared and the men lined up at the edge of the trees, inserting vomiting spatulas to cleanse themselves.

The old-man title holder of Guanahaní, whom we called the Guanahabax, chose the opening song. Appropriately the song told of Deminán and his three brothers—the dual set of spiritual twins—our spirit forebears who traveled the clouds, enduring adventures and creating the sea and islands of our world. Yucahuguama Bagua Maórocoti, Grand Spirit of our sustaining world, was thanked for the creation of the mother of the four brothers, but it was the four, the doers and makers, who were intoned. Significantly, the
cohoba
was not touched to start. The old men had opted to inhale only after the reports of the greeting on the beach.