The Moor's Account (23 page)

And what are you reading, Father? Dorantes asked the friar.

Father Anselmo held up a printed page, dog-eared and torn in several places. This? he asked. My book of prayers. The spine came apart. Now all the pages are like this, you see.

Father Anselmo regarded Dorantes with benevolence and curiosity, waiting for further questions about the book, but when none came he returned to his reading. He was sitting back-to-back with Diego, who was carving a piece of cedar wood into a sparrow. Diego had already chiseled the bird's crest and bill, and now he was engraving the feathers. At the edge of the raft, Ruíz stared with his good eye at the seafloor, his hands hovering over the surface of the water, ready to catch any fish that passed underneath.

So when did you become a friar? Dorantes asked.

It was five years ago, Father Anselmo replied.

What happened? Did you just decide one day that you wanted to be a friar?

Everything must be decided one day.

But why? Dorantes asked again.

Diego turned around to look at his brother, leaving Father Anselmo with no back support. The friar caught himself just in time; he sat up and fixed his green eyes again upon Dorantes.

You are young, Dorantes continued. You look about the same age as Diego here. Seventeen or eighteen, maybe?

I am about twenty.

Did you not think of all the good things you could never have if you joined the order?

It is a calling, Capitán.

You felt called to become a friar? And you do not miss … Here, Dorantes said a dreadful word, which propriety prevents this servant of God from committing to paper.

There is g-g-great j-j-joy in the s-s-service of the Lord, the friar said. His face turned the color of carnations, as always happened when someone pressed him with questions. His stuttering made some of the men
smile and they turned to watch, united in their desire for a good spectacle, something that could distract them from their predicament.

Well, Lord knows I could not do it, Dorantes said, casting a quick look toward Castillo. As if on cue, Castillo let out a mischievous laugh. You could not do it, could you? Dorantes asked him.

No, Castillo said. Never.

Dorantes looked around him, seeking further confirmation of his opinion on the natural lust of ordinary men. His eyes glided over me, then settled on his brother. And what about you, Tigre? Could you do it?

Just then there was a huge splash and we all turned to look. Ruíz had grabbed for something in the water—and caught it. He held it up in triumph; it was a speckled fish, its silvery body glinting in the sunlight. I have it, he said, I have it. But somehow the fish fought its way out of his hands and fell back into the bay. Ruíz let out a string of colorful curses, words so shocking that the friar looked on with mouth open.

Then the moment passed and Dorantes turned again on his brother. Well, could you do it?

Diego gave his brother a piercing look. Not everyone is compelled by the same instincts as you, he said.

With his nail, Dorantes scratched at a rusty spot on his sword, peeling the orange flakes that had settled on it during our stay at the Bay of Oysters. Everyone was accustomed to his mean retorts, so we expected him to say something, but Diego's answer seemed to have shamed him into silence.

It was almost lunchtime now and Father Anselmo got up to distribute our morning rations. The task had been delegated to him because he was a man of the cloth, but also because his popularity meant fewer complaints about the size of our portions. To each man, he handed out two raw ears of corn and a handful of nuts, which were eagerly accepted and quickly consumed. Father Anselmo was passing out the cups of water when Diego complained about the taste. The friar took a sip of the water himself and licked his lips thoughtfully. It tastes fine, he said.

Holding out a cup, Castillo said: Let me try it. Then, with finality: It tastes rotten.

Are you sure? Dorantes asked, taking the cup. The look on his face confirmed Castillo's judgment.

At the Bay of Oysters, we had stripped the skin from the horses' legs,
dried it, and made water containers with it. But we had had no means to seal these pouches and now they had begun to turn rancid. So it was that, after only five days at sea, we found ourselves without drinking water. We cooled ourselves with rags dipped in seawater, we sucked on each kernel of corn in our rations before swallowing it, we tied our shirts over our heads to protect ourselves from the rays of the sun—we tried everything we could think of to distract ourselves from the thirst, but sleeping was the simplest remedy, even if the first sensation that came to us upon waking was of our tongues, swollen and pressing against our teeth. In the end, the only respite we could find was in the bottom of the rotten containers. We drank the fetid water we had at first refused and, when it ran out, began to quarrel over the juiciest ears of corn.

O
N THE EVE
of the seventh day, a large swath of hazy green and yellow appeared in the horizon. Land! one of the soldiers cried, standing up. Land! We were so excited at the prospect of drinking fresh water that, using our paddles, we raced the other rafts to the island. As we approached, we saw that the island was not far from the continent, forming a kind of strait that would finally lead us to the open ocean. Curious pelicans came to hover over our rafts and then returned to the seashore. From behind the bushes that bordered the beach, plumes of white smoke appeared—fires that had been hastily put out with water. Five painted canoes were moored on the rocks.

What a sight we must have made for whoever lived on this island: two hundred and sixty strange men of different ages and colors walking or hobbling to the beach, already scouring the world around us for anything to eat or drink. Our clothes, or what remained of them, hung absurdly on our bodies. Our faces were burnt, our lips were blistered, our limbs covered with sun rash. We were a plague in human form. But Narváez still managed to look better than the rest of us. On his head was his feather-adorned helmet—while the officers had all sacrificed their morions to the forge, he had decreed that his position entitled him to keep his—and he still had his doublet and breeches. In addition, his recent weight reduction made him look like a younger man.

Presently, he began to issue orders: this island would be called San Miguel, after the Christian saint whose feast day it was; Albaniz and Cabeza de Vaca were to look for the nearest river; Dorantes and Castillo
would go to the Indian village to bring whatever supplies they could find; the friars would report on the health of the company; and Fernándes was to check the rafts for any needed repairs.

Dorantes did not relish the chance of intruding upon the Indians, even with the help of ten armed men, but being the one in charge of getting the supplies would give him the first choice of them, so he agreed without protest or complaint. I went with him, tucking under my belt one of the axes we had fashioned at the Bay of Oysters. The sandy path that led from the beach to the Indian village was covered with fresh footprints, and it seemed to us that we were watched from the bushes, but to our relief no Indians came forward to confront us and no arrows were shot at us.

The village was small: eight thatched-roof dwellings, arranged in two neat rows. A pyramid of firewood sat under a cluster of palm trees; some baskets made out of palm fronds were stacked beside it; and a large fishnet was laid out for repair. But behind each row of huts we found tall wooden racks, on which dozens of mullet fish were drying. What a gift this was for hungry men! The mullet tasted dry and salty and chewy and it was the most delicious thing we had eaten in a long time. We collected all of it, as well as some mullet roe, filling up several baskets.

Then we searched the huts. I was fortunate; in the first one I entered, I found a covered jar filled to the brim with cold water. I dropped on my knees, tipped the container, and drank and drank and drank until my stomach began to ache. It was the same kind of pain I used to get when I broke the fast on the first night of Ramadan, a feeling of being at once satiated and yet still thirsty. An odd feeling, but not altogether unfamiliar, and it made me dizzy. I fell down on the pelts to rest, allowing myself at last to look around me properly.

In one corner were two children's rattles, made of bone and wood. A thick garment of animal skin lay in a heap by the entrance, as if discarded in a hurry, next to a woman's comb. I ran my finger on its even teeth and was reminded of the tattoo on Ramatullai's right hand. The shame of my theft settled upon me all at once. How low I had sunk as a man. But once again I told myself that I had no other choice: I was trying to flee from La Florida and in order to do that, I needed food and water. It was necessity, rather than greed, that had driven me to this.

When I came out, I saw that Dorantes had already raided the village storehouse. Having run out of baskets, he and Castillo were using the
edges of their shirts to carry corn and fruit out of the hut. Beneath their round burdens, their white waists and thin legs were exposed, making them look like half-stuffed rag dolls. We need clean containers for water, I said, lifting up the jar in my hand to show them. As I went into the next hut to look for another one, I heard Dorantes call out to his brother. Diego. Diego, leave that. Help Estebanico round up all the pots. Hurry!

We carried our loot back to the beach, where we found Narváez's men destroying the painted dugouts with their axes. What are you doing? Dorantes asked, unfurling his shirt and letting all the fruit inside roll to the ground.

Oh, good, you brought some food, Narváez said. Set it aside, I will divide it. His brows were furrowed as he watched the men work.

What are you doing? Dorantes repeated.

Breaking up these canoes. We can use the wood as gunwales.

You should not have done that. It is one thing to take food from them and another to destroy their property. They will come after us now.

How? They will have no canoes with which to pursue us.

What if there are others who do?

We will be gone by then.

You should have consulted with us before taking such a drastic measure.

Castillo stepped forward, eager to support Dorantes in his complaint. You have endangered all of us, he said.

Narváez regarded Dorantes and Castillo wearily. Their doubts no longer angered or saddened him; he was now resigned to them. We are about to reach the ocean, he said, and we need to ensure that the rafts remain dry. Do you have a better idea?

A brown sandpiper had walked up from the shoreline and was eyeing the fruit that was on the ground. I shooed the bird away before it got too close.

Dorantes's reply, when it finally came, was quiet and grudging. No, he said.

By the time all the rafts were fitted with gunwales and the containers filled with water from the river, it was late afternoon. The men wanted to spend the night on the island—to be able to stretch out on the sand and sleep alone, without having to smell another man's bad breath or dirty feet, seemed like a wonderful luxury. But Narváez's decision meant that we could not take that risk; we had to leave San Miguel Island right away if we wanted to avoid retribution for breaking up the canoes. We
departed under a darkened sky, eager to reach Pánuco—a word that, for every one of us now, was synonymous with salvation.

I
N THE MORNING
,
WE
passed the strait and reached the open sea. We sailed westward under skies the color of mackerel, with patches here and there of darker gray. The oppressive heat of the past two weeks had finally broken, but that was little comfort to two men on our raft, a cobbler from Segovia and a crossbowman from Sicily, who were burning with fever. They had been well at the Bay of Oysters, but the journey on the raft had weakened them; they lay indolently at the far edge of the boat, sometimes using the pot and sometimes helplessly soiling themselves. It was a horrible sight and a cruel reminder that the sickness had followed us out of La Florida.

Dorantes sat at the other end of the raft, far from the sick men, and he took frequent naps, but Diego stayed up all day, carving up his little birds. It surprised me that a nobleman like him should be so skilled with his hands. Where did you learn how to do that? I asked him.

The whittling knife stopped midair. Diego looked up. I taught myself, he said.

You have already made two birds, I said. Why are you making another one?

This one is the older brother of those two, he replied with a little smile.

I took the little sparrows in the palms of my hands. How expertly he had shaped their beaks and tail feathers. And look how alive their eyes seemed. Diego could have been an artist if he had not been a nobleman. I have twin brothers, I said, more to myself than to Diego. A memory, buried away in a corner of my mind, surfaced now: we were walking by the side of the Umm er-Rbi' River, returning home from a trip to the shrine, where we had given prayers for my father's health. Yahya had grown tired; he threw up his little hands, wanting me to carry him on my back. Right away, Yusuf proclaimed himself the more tired of the two. I lifted them both up and carried them home. I could still remember the weight of their bodies against mine.

You will see them again someday, Diego said.

My longing for Yusuf and Yahya was so plain that Diego had seen it. And rather than ignore it, the way Dorantes would have, he had tried to soothe it. Ojalá, I replied. A word of hope in his native language, borrowed from a word of prayer in mine—Insha'llah.

Once again, Father Anselmo stood up to distribute the rations. The water and mullet we brought from the island had lasted only a few days, after which we returned to eating corn. We did not mind the small rations so much; it was the thirst that was unbearable. We were weak with it. It gave us headaches and made us dangerously lazy, so that when the rafts drifted away from their course, we did not have the strength to use our paddles and depended increasingly on our sails. So you can imagine, gentle reader, how relieved we were to find another island.