Taino (34 page)

“Of course, whom it was I know now,” Guarionex told me. “The Castilians it is whom he was shown by Yucahu Bagua Maórocoti; the covered men were carried to us in his own Great Spirit vision, on the waves of his own mother sea.”

One hundred forty-nine.
Roldán and the first Indian
repartimiento
.

One day in early spring 1498, some six months after our twins were born, Guarionex came to our
bohío
, which was nearly a mile from his main village and a quieter place. He was distraught. His men had been severely punished in recent weeks. “So much blood I cannot sleep.”

And now something worse he had heard. The
adelantado
sent an offer to Roldán. The rebellious mayor and his men would receive land grants from Columbus, including whole villages of peaceful Indians. Roldán and his men would be installed as captains over
caciques
. Guarionex asked me to check this information for him and I did by spending some days in the
adelantado
's company (I took a wide cape of parrot feathers to him from Guarionex).

One hundred fifty.
Guarionex retreats to the mountains.

Don Bartolomé confirmed the offer to Roldán. It was true, the
yukaiekes
were to be split off, and Roldán would receive land and many Indians. Francisco Roldán, who led the first rebellion against the Columbus brothers' central authority on the islands, was a troubled man, quarrelsome. At times, he took up the Indian cause, demanding an end to the tribute system. And this way, here and there, Roldán enlisted
caciques
in plots against the admiral. Thus, at one moment, Guarionex himself threw his lot into a battle at Concepción, where his warriors wiped out nearly a whole garrison.

The problem was Roldán's men had no morals. They relied on the
guaxeri
for food but constantly abused the women. Roldán sought our alliance against the admiral but just the same demanded complete subservience from us. After one such campaign, I have written, Roldán raped Guarionex's second wife. Now, the admiral, whom Roldán insulted a hundred times, was to give him as gifts our lands and people. It was the final act for Guarionex.

“I see Castile fight, son against father.” (He meant Roldán versus the admiral). “They would kill each other. And in that fight, each of them seduce us to be of each their ally. But no matter with whom we elect to stand, they each, in the end, despise us and disdain our place. Our friendship ceremonies, our
guatiaos
, the change of faces and exchange, our
areitos
we have sung them, it all amounts to nothing. They are a people who live in constant shame.”

Guarionex would start to speak slowly, but the words soon pounded out of his mouth in stark blows. “I know his weapons can blow men apart. The fury hurricane he commands, and it does horrify. But beyond the horror of death, what truly frightens is the way they are. How certain of their destiny are these covered men, and yet how willingly they have lied to our
caciques
. This covered man sees not my eyes. He sees not this world. He is not a god, that is certain, but he is not a human like our people are human.”

Guarionex was agitated by his growing perception. “I will withdraw from my territories,” Guarionex said. “My people the admiral cannot just give away like so many fish in a canoe.”

That day, Guarionex asked Ceiba and I to take his mother's clan house under our care, hoping they could avoid direct persecution as he went to war. Ceiba and I agreed to make a village for more than one hundred people, and Guarionex asked the people to accept me as
cacique
. As his sister's husband, I could take this place, according to our ancient tradition, since she held the actual
cacique
line and not him. Of course, in calmer times, she and her sisters would raise one of their boys to be
cacique
rather than choose one of their own husbands. As the
adelantado
had granted me, with Don Christopherens's permission, a tract of land, my new relatives I settled then into a formal
cacicasgo
.

Days later, the old man moved his main villages into
Cacique
Mayobanex's territory, who had offered to protect him from Castilian attack. Mayobanex was Ciguayo, a strong warrior and elder. He greatly esteemed Guarionex's superior knowledge of our ceremonies and stories. Weeks passed and then a war Guarionex started that raged for several months. Guarionex and Mayobanex both led warriors and raided with impunity. Many ambushes of Castilians took place during that time, and it wasn't always clear who had the upper hand. Divided as he was by the attacks from Roldán's men and the various Indian skirmishes,
Adelantado
Bartolomé Columbus strung out his forces, until accommodations with Roldán allowed him time to pursue the Indian chiefs.

One hundred fifty-one.
Guarionex falls, and Mayobanex.

The story I told last night to the young men (and captains) in Enriquillo's circle, of how Guarionex and Mayobanex, a Ciguayo and a Taíno, stood together and were destroyed together. I told them of the character of the
adelantado
, who chased them mercilessly, finally cornering each of the old men in turn and alienating their jurisdictions. Poor Guarionex was chained and placed in isolation in Santo Domingo. Nearly three years he languished before being sold into slavery. His only luck was to die en route, no longer a
cacique
but not yet a slave.

One hundred fifty-two.
Castilians swarm the island.

The Castilians were beginning to swarm the island by then. The central plain was nearly pacified. Santo Domingo and the other Castilian forts grew. I hear Las Casas tell that some three hundred
repartimientos
, or early
encomiendas
, were already granted by the year 1500, including many ranches and mines and large fincas. I do remember that they cleared roads for their oxen wagons and horses, and they traveled in groups between towns. At that time, I did all I could to hold Ceiba's
yukaieke
together, feeding and protecting her old people and our growing twin boys. We had settled into the valley granted to me by Don Christopherens, a remote
conuco
, away from the traveled roads, and we went nearly undetected for five years.

Many of our people did what they could during that time to hide away in remote places. Three of the five main
cacicasgos
, the Taíno bighouses, and one Ciguayo, had been annexed or destroyed by the Castilians. Guacanagari was absorbed, then lost. Caonabó, Guarionex, and Mayobanex were taken down. Only two provinces, Higüey and Xaraguá, on the eastern and western ends of the island, retained their own territories. Neither had gold to offer, yet each paid substantial tribute, in
cassabe
and fish, in woven cotton and the labor of artisans. Only later did I travel to Higüey, so I never met its
cacique
, Cotubanamá, though I often met people from their region in Santo Domingo, when they came to deliver their goods. I had more contact during this time with Bohekio and his sister Anacaona, widow of Caonabó, who maintained their Taíno
cacicasgo
intact, this in the province of Xaraguá, which surrounds these Bahuruku mountains. They were very calm people, just as my own little village was calm, and it seemed for a few short seasons that peace might return and a common ground could be reached with the Castilian towns. Of course, Ovando, the knight commander, had yet to come.

One hundred fifty-three.
Surrounded by young Taíno, education for peace.

Speaking for their young Taíno minds last night, surrounded by friendly forces, I felt incredibly light. I am light anyway from my fast, and my mind is light, too, like dew on a spider's web. I move in a flow and the warriors notice. The
behike
, whom they greatly respect, is constantly with me, and Enriquillo signals approval at every turn. He likes my stories and attitude, and I am conscious of returning his new message to his fighting people. I must educate them at every turn, prepare them for a possible peace. For fifteen years Enriquillo has taught them to abhor and kill Castilians, to kill especially
mánso
Indians like me, who have always been the greater threat. Now he needs them to appreciate an end to hostilities, if such should come. For this, he even interrupts his vigilance; he produces me as his voice. Sometimes, as I speak, I feel his face on my own, the weight and the tension of his brow in my eyes.

One hundred fifty-four.
A song comes to me.

This afternoon, on the last day of my fast, I write. Tonight we snort
cohoba
. Day by day, the
behike
, often with Enriquillo in attendance, sits me facing west, looking away from the sun, a circle of
yucca
and conch shell dust drawn around me. At dawn and dusk, a small
hicara
(gourd) of water. Each morning, with my back to the morning sun, he whispers, “Shoulder his power.” I thank this mountain site, thanking, too, the ancestors who pay attention. When the sun hits directly my face from above, my circle of protection the
behike
opens by brushing aside a line of the
yucca
and shell dust, inviting my hand and step.

“Maybe you cannot sing,” he said before, as he noticed my silence. “Make the noise, hum it, if you remember it.”

This morning, as the dew steamed away, a song came to me. The mist was still around us. The
behike
burned the lightest bit of
tabanacu
incense, and the smoke rose in little puffs that dissipated before reaching the forest canopy. It was the puffs of smoke as I watched them that recalled the touch of that old wooden drum of Guarionex, which he beat many times singing
cohoba
songs for me. Suddenly in my ears I picked up a song that went on and on, repeating itself and branching out, and I could hear in it voices that had not lived for many years. What a good sound it was, how pleasing and warm to the memory!

One hundred fifty-five.
Going to meet the medicine.

I make final notes and prepare my mind. Afterward, I will not write but prepare my return to the convent in Santo Domingo. There I will write more. For now I can say that my mind is very calm and that I feel as complete as I have in years. I am convinced of the life that exists beyond our awakened earth, the resounding mind that accompanies our walking days, and the many spaces and folds in its world. My father is there, I can tell. My father is with me. Nearly every day, here and there, I sense him. I see him in my dream, and I smell the sweat of his back on first awakening.

Today, walking through the woods from the
behike
's, I felt the ground rise and fall in waves beneath my steps, soft earth supporting my body with her heat. Everything smelled green. The world was green smelling as I walked lightly, so lightly over the earth.

It was then I felt them all around. I felt warm winds embrace me, even dance around me in the woods, walking so lightly, walking in the weakness of no food, of hunger denied and then ignored, removed. So light I was I felt the water as I drink it travel through me in clean rushes, a coolness in my thighs. So light I feel I could see them already, even in the light, knowing as they do that the
cohoba
is being prepared, greeting me in their shy way as I walked. For them, the earth said to me: Remembered son, I clean your feet with my dew as with your step you caress my back.

My father told me: Never rush the first medicine. Even your certain medicine, don't greet it personally on the first pass. So, I asked the earth, Sacred Guakeya, I intoned: On you, beautiful land, why is there so much suffering for my people? I asked, too: And, will there be survival for the good Taíno?

Folio V

Cohoba Dreams

Two weeks later, at the convent in Santo Domingo… Journey with
cohoba
, a returning memory… The
cohoba
journey… Message of the
cohoba
, a way to guard the survival… I conduct a strange ceremony… At the convent, Las Casas returns… I ask Catalina to help me… In the woods with Catalina… At my old
yukaieke
in the lower Magua country… With
cohoba
again, with Ceiba… Finding love with Catalina… Barrionuevo has arrived… Tempering the good friar… I hate telling a lie, but… The good friar confesses a deed of his youth… Las Casas goes again… In the memory: Velazquez presses me into service… The route to Xaraguá, with Velazquez… The Massacre of Anacaona's Banquet… The killing begins, Enriquillo in my arms… Encounter with Manasas at the stream… Suspected in the killing… My village is
encomended
…

One hundred fifty-six.
Two weeks later, at the convent in Santo Domingo.

Quietly I have returned to the friars' cloister. No one questions my long delay at the sugar mill, though I know that there are whispers about me. They wonder about young Silverio, who decided to stay, who decided to be a warrior
guaxeri
among his people. About him, I have said that he stayed to work in carpentry on a second Maguana sugar mill.

No one has raised any question about the way I look and act. I have decided to speak to no one, directing but very brief words to Fray Remigio, who took up the care of my poor, mangy mare and announced my deep
retirum
to silent prayer the morning of my return.

Truly they think of me as another monk. And though I have never taken vows of any kind, I could run a high Mass, a baptism, a confirmation, a marriage, and even the extreme unction. Now I protect myself by retiring into prayerful sacrifice, and they must respect it. No one speaks to me directly, and I put on their hooded mantle, and I emerge only in the quiet moments and spend much time in the chapel, kneeling for my faith.

One hundred fifty-seven.
Journey with
cohoba
, a returning memory.

I entered the Coaybay in my trance. I saw my elders again. Smitten I am by the
cohoba
messengers, and I walk every day, all day and all night, in the company of that recent memory.

Baiguanex and Enriquillo assisted me. Light already from my long fast, I was led by them to the fire. Behind a western peak, the day's sun splayed its final signals. Light I was of body but not weak inside, not in my heart nor in my mind. The moment was alive as in my childhood days. Nor were my eyes weak that could see with precise clarity. A long, low
duho
seat Baiguanex had out for me. I sat in the recline of its curve. “Close your eyes, uncle,” the
behike
instructed, and I did.

Baiguanex said: “Prepare to leave our world of human senses. Prepare in darkness now as the
cacique
and I will smoke you with sacred tobacco, as Doña Mencia prepares your tea and cleans your spatula. Prepare in the darkness of your own mind, human being. Share the darkness, little
guaxeri
, as we clear the spirits of animal and tree, shrub and herb, and we open the very place where we are sitting. Yes, our little uncle, keep your eyes closed. Here, drink from this
güira
the juice that will fully cleanse you. But don't open your eyes while the snuff of
cohoba
I prepare in your bowl; stay in the darkness from which you will travel, yes, yes.”

I sat in darkness and remembered the words of Guanahabax, our old man of my home island. “Remember all your days that
cohoba
loves you,” he said. “It will always welcome you. Xán, Xán Katú.”

All these years later and I still have my own spatula. I lost the feather fans, the two-pronged sniffer, I lost the rattle and broke my gourd, all years and years ago. Somehow, the spatula I never lost. It was my father's spatula, made of hard, smooth coral, and I always managed to keep it. I drank freely from the cleansing tea, filled my belly to its bursting, then asked to face the woods. Eyes closed, I was guided by my assistants. The tea caused my belly to expand. Situated, then, I heard, “Give it back, now, uncle,” and I used the spatula to cause a sudden torrent of vomit, long and dark, to flow out of my body. I staggered, and my assistants held me up then guided me back to my reclining seat.

“Prepare to travel,” Baiguanex said, approaching me. “I will now load my
cacimba
,” he said. “It has two blowholes that I will place at your nostrils. Then, as I was taught, I will blow the
cohoba
dust into your head. And you will be released.”

I heard him stand up then. He offered the loaded
cacimba
to the four directions. He sang the song of Deminán and the four Caracaracoles, the skywalkers, the ones without fathers. He sang the
areito
of Attabei, the Ancient Bleeding Mother. Then he invoked his two
cemis
, Baibrama, to guide me, and the Jumper, a helper who would instruct Opiyelguobirán—canine guardian of the Coaybay—to not accost me but to receive me and, later, release me. In a few moments the
behike
said, “Are you ready, uncle?” I nodded, then felt the
cacimba
lean into my nostrils. “Blow,” I whispered to my guide. “Push off gently from this shore my slippery canoe.”

One hundred fifty-eight.
The
cohoba
journey.

There was light, and transference was immediate. I held the sneeze, felt my body give, then succumb. Then it was midday, clear as sunlight, and I sat on a dock made of two long tree trunks, tied together with
bejucos
, that jutted out into a cove. The cove was on the mouth of a river, and many canoes paddled out to sea. In the cove, some canoes were latched to each other as people talked. Two men in a canoe glided up the dock. They were old and naked, brown wrinkled skin hanging from thin arms and faces with missing teeth and alert eyes. “Boy,” one said to me. “We have a full canoe, but you can't come with us.” I looked and saw that their canoe was not full but actually upside down. And now they paddled away, chuckling to themselves at my surprise.

Now I was chopping wood. I was by myself. I had a Spanish ax and I had a log against which to chop. I was cooking
leña
for Ceiba. I was in my woodlot, near the
bohío
we kept in the valley of Guarionex. I was chopping wood by myself, and I could hear the twins calling to each other. I could not see them, but I could hear their voices nearby. “Good Wind,” said Heart of Earth, “come see my worms. I have many of them in a pool.” And Good Wind replied, in that high, pretty voice he had as a little boy. “Let's go fish the river, my
himagua
.”

Then I was alone again in the same place, but there was no sound at all. I felt a group of men approach through the woods, eight or ten of them, Taíno
guaxeri
of the old generation, all hardy and straight standing. Without sound I could tell they meant for me to drop the ax and go with them. They walked, and I fell in line as they moved fast through the woods. They half-ran in the old manner, single file, at a half-trot, for hours. This is the way the men liked to travel in the old days. Form a line, put a singer at its head, and trot to the next destination. And there I was for hours, it seemed, trotting behind a pair of calves and hairtail spinning in the wind and running. Once the singing started, it went on and on. Among many voices I heard Baiguanex, and I knew, briefly, he was working with me from the living world.

Then we were at the bottom of a rocky mountain. The man before me pointed out a small trail, and I was alone again, walking that trail up the hill, which suddenly opened to a plateau. I heard a snarl behind me, turned quickly, and saw only a rustle in the grass. Then he was ahead of me, the
cemi
Opiyelguobirán, guardian and master of Coaybay. I could do nothing suddenly, could not move as his mere gaze captured my movement. Opiyelguobirán sat just as his
cemi
depicted, on his haunches, with front arms extended like legs. The friar, Pané, called him a dog spirit and having known the Spanish dogs I can see why. Opiyelguobirán was small and he was big, so big at moments I felt just his nostril could take me up in a breath. Suddenly the songs caught up with me, the sweet running songs and then the ones of Guarionex and the ones of my father and even the death song of Cibanakán, long imbedded in my ear from the time of his freezing. Hearing Cibanakán's song, Opiyelguiobirán began to diminish in size. Then, quite small, he wagged his tail, tended his head for me to pat, and darted away.

Sunshine appeared. In a wide field I saw multitudes. There were Taíno people all over the plateau, and I could hear talking and I could smell roasting
cassabe
bread and roasting corn. An old man I did not recognize came up beside me. “We can smell the food,” he said wistfully. “But we cannot eat it.”

He moved on, and then Guarionex was there and my father behind him, and the other old men of our
cohoba
circle in Guanahaní. It was all men, and they circled around me then began to walk me up the hill.

“We welcome you, beloved,” old Guanabanex said, and I heard my father singing softly behind him. I could see ahead of us the entrance to a cave, a dark hole in the side of the mountain, maybe three feet wide.

“This is the way we come,” the old man said, crawling in. “Now, let's enter.”

Inside we could stand. Sabananiobabo, lord of the
jobos
(dead men turned to wood), guarded the entrance from inside. He is an old man with grave eyes. He greeted us and walked next to me. Suddenly, from above, large swarms of bats dislodged and flew around us. Sabananiobabo waved them away. The last flier of the swarm was not a bat but an owl, who circled once over me and flew off. Sabananiobabo sat the others in a circle but took me aside. “Come look at the owl's reminder,” he said. “You have something here that he retrieved for you.”

Then in front of us, near a stream, there was a hut. He pointed through the door. A long log bench I saw inside, with two men sitting on it. One was the soldier Manasas, a hefty Extremaduran man; the other was the foreman Moises, thin and slight. They didn't look up, neither of them, their necks hanging low. I recognized their bodies and faces. They are the two men I have killed.

“I can do nothing with them, so they will wait, until you meet them at your proper time,” Sabananiobabo said.

The cave was large and open, very old and musty, humid, almost cold. Now, both women and men walked through as I sat in the men's circle. The
cohoba
twins—the twins in everything—I saw float by, crying, yet watching everything and reminding me of the meaning of
cohoba
, the opening to the other self. Reminding me, too, of my own boys, gone from me now these many years.

My father now sat to my left in the circle. “They still live, both of them,” he answered my silent question. I was totally happy and dared not inquire further about them.

“And your mother,” he said. “She is alright, here, in the Coaybay.”

Happy to know that much, I inquired no more about her either. He said nothing more but sang his canoeing song for me. “Glide in this cloud of a sea,” he sang. “Carry my son ahead of me, carry my son ahead of me…” And for a long while, in his celestial canoe, I leaned into my father's back, smelling the sweat of his neck, listening to his favorite song. Suddenly from our right side, out of the endless sky, Opiyelguobirán and his twin brother, Corocote—one guardian of the House of Death (and felicity), the other always harbinger of life (and love heat)—flew past us, crossing our path.

Then I was in the circle of men, and I was very young, a boy in a circle of elders. I knew I was receiving instructions. “Protect the baby boy,” one man said. It was Caiçiju, father-uncle of Guarionex, prophet of our people's doom. There was also my second father, Cibanakán, and my grandmother, and my uncle Jiqui, and my brother-cousin, Caréy, all among the many faces in the circle of
cohoba
. I had no need to greet them directly, but they had come and I had come, so we were all now here together again. Guarionex sat next to me, real as anything, and now as I write in this Christian convent I close my eyes and see him next to me still, as in a waking dream.

My
cohoba
memory comes and goes. I remember most the talking, the sound, darkness in my eyes but all from sitting in that circle, between the songs. Guarionex was much there. He whispered in my ear. “The Castilians need us no more,” he said. “That I know.”

Someone else said: “Between the Castilians and their gains of gold, the baby boy now stands. They would make a peace, finally, and leave him more or less alone.”

Guarionex said: “A warrior of the Castilians who has killed must be opened again. Sing a song of words in his ears. Clean his eyes, his ears. He must hear if he would give the baby boy respite…”

This was repeated. I remember clearly, he said: “Those who would kill him: put gold in their path. Even revenge they will ignore for gold.” He repeated, several times: “Gold in their path.”

They talked about our people and continuing to be.

“Our own warrior man-killers, they too must be cleansed. Taíno they all must be again.”

“Guaikán of the living sea,” I heard, and it was Caiçiju, our prophet of doom. “Taíno they must be!” I could see him, how skinny he still was, even in spirit. But he was the most adamant, crying at me from his
duho
seat while the others stood to dance. “Torrent waters of white and black faces will wash the mountain current of our blood. But Taíno they must be, even if all that remains of our generation is the depth of our black eyes and the love in our living bones.”