The Moor's Account (30 page)

You will hurt yourself.

You heard what the cacique said. One of us has to go on the hunt.

For a long moment, the two brothers stared defiantly at one another. Then Dorantes walked away, shaking his head.

I will go with you, I said. I remembered how Diego had walked with me to the Capoques' camp when no one else would, and I wanted to return his act of kindness.

And I as well, Castillo added.

This came as a surprise to me. Castillo's frequent disagreements with the governor had given me the impression that he was a smart and stubborn man, but he had not struck me as a hardy or able worker. All that was disappearing in the face of our repeated hardships. After all, a clever retort does not feed you or keep you warm at night. Now the young nobleman had begun to let his heart, rather than his mind, guide him.

I
T WAS THE HOUR
when the owls swooped down to feed. Quietly, we followed the Carancahuas out of the camp, accepting offers of sips from a flask filled with an infusion that sharpened our senses. Every crackle in the bushes, every flutter in the trees seemed as loud as a cannon shot. Beside me, Balsehekona threw his lance at what seemed to me nothing but dry thickets, and yet he caught his prey, invisible though it had been to me. At length, the trail dropped down toward a creek, its shallow waters swirling slowly in a circle, forming a kind of pool before flowing toward the river. A frog leapt out of the bushes into the basin, where a hare dipped its tongue.

I motioned to Castillo to circle the creek on the left, while I went right. Diego had the borrowed bow. Gingerly, we stepped forward, but when
Diego took the shot, his arrow only grazed the hare. It limped away, with Castillo and I running after it, each from his side. I fell upon it, but it propelled itself on its hind legs with such vigor that it slipped halfway out of my arms. Then Castillo hit it with a stone, smashing its skull. Blood ran from it, dying the hare's brown fur a dark shade of red.

When they saw the mess we had made of the hare, the Carancahuas had great fun at our expense. I could hear them telling stories about us to the rest of their tribe when we returned, but at least we had meat that night, which we shared with the others in our group. The meat was soft and tasty and came easily off the bone. I tried my best to eat slowly in order to make the moment last, but I could not help myself—I ate avidly.

The sound of drums from the camp square made us turn to look; the Carancahuas were celebrating something.

One of them is taking a wife, León explained.

How do you know?

This morning I saw them bathe and adorn the maiden.

You saw her naked?

As naked as the day she was born.

What did she look like?

Very pretty. For an Indian.

Are you married, León?

Aye.

You must miss your wife.

Obviously, you have never met her or you would not be saying that.

We all laughed. León joined us, too. We did not know him well; he had been a part of Cabeza de Vaca's company and now he seemed encouraged by our merriment. I could see him smiling in the firelight.

Have any of you taken one of them to bed? he asked.

Of course not, Dorantes replied. Though he loved talking about his romantic conquests, he looked insulted by the question.

I have, León said. His tone was unembarrassed, even boastful.

You have, have you? And when was that?

In Apalache.

That was you?

Abruptly the memory of what I had witnessed in Apalache came back to me: in my mind's eye, I could see the women kicking the soldiers and in my ear I could hear their howling cries of pain. Was León telling the
truth or was he making up a vicious tale to entertain his fellow Castilians? With the back of my hand, I wiped the grease off my lips. I scrutinized León's face—his small eyes looked untroubled and he chewed on his meat with evident joy.

Aye, that was me, he said. And Martín. And Eugenio. There were a few of us that day in Apalache.

The flames flared up when drops of fat from the roasting hare fell into the fire. In the distance, the drums stopped and started again, this time at a faster pace.

She was young, León said. Twelve or thirteen, maybe, with small breasts and wide hips. I took her into the storage hut, where they kept the nuts and the oil. In the beginning, she put up a fight. They all do, you know. She bit me here and here. He pointed to his shoulder and arm. But she stopped fighting after a while. I think she liked it. And then there was another girl, from—

I was upon him before he knew what happened to him. We tumbled on the ground and I put my hands around his neck and did not let go. He gasped for air. Under his flared lips, I could see bits of meat stuck between his crooked teeth. The look of surprise on his face quickly gave way to anger. He tried to push me back, but I had him pinned down. I would have strangled him had Diego not pulled me off. Come now, he said. Estebanico, come. What good would it do now?

The others helped León to his feet. He tried to lunge at me, but they restrained him. Having joined our band so late, he had no natural allies among us. So he said something between his teeth—something I could not hear—and sat down again. The drums had drowned out the sound of our quarrel, and the Carancahuas had been too busy dancing to notice our fight. But the animosity between León and me was born that night.

O
N DAYS WHEN
we did not take part in the hunt, we worked for our food in other ways. We fetched water from the river, washed animal skins, or gathered huge heaps of firewood that we carried, strapped with rope, on our bare backs. In the beginning, we did these tasks voluntarily, hoping they would earn us a meal at the end of the day. But before long a pattern was set. The Carancahuas began to issue orders—and if one of us was inclined to disagree, they would withhold food from him or beat him with a stick. And there were other rules. Our campfire had to be set
a good distance from the center of the camp; we could not go into certain huts; we could not touch implements they used in their ceremonies; and we were forbidden from speaking to the maidens.

The children were the only ones who were unafraid and unworried. They seemed particularly curious about me because my skin color was so different from that of my companions. Often, the children came to watch me work, and it was from them that I gained fluency in the Carancahua language—until then I had had to rely on what I knew of the Capoque tongue, but now I could expand my vocabulary and grammar. The price for my new knowledge was that, sometimes, the boys, and even one or two of the little girls, pulled my beard for fun, or rode on my back, or tied me up just to watch me fight with the knots. I was their entertainment. It was harmless fun to them, but to me it quickly grew tiresome.

Though my fluency in Carancahua was a great advantage, it also cost me dearly, for I became, without my having chosen this profession, an interpreter. One afternoon at the end of spring, Balsehekona came to say that dried mullet from the tribe's reserves had been disappearing. It was inconceivable that one of the Carancahuas would have defied their rules, so the thief, Balsehekona said, had to be one of the aliens. My companions and I were bewildered by the accusation—we had taken nothing. The cacique Okmantsul joined us where we stood, near the heap of deer carcasses at the edge of the camp. In his typically soft voice he said to me: Tell your people to surrender the thief.

I translated his words faithfully, speaking slowly to make sure I did not corrupt their meaning or lose some of their intent.

Did any of you take the meat? Dorantes asked the others.

All the Castilians shook their heads.

Tell your people, Okmantsul said, that if they do not surrender the thief, all of you will be punished.

Once more, I translated the cacique's orders.

But this is unfair, Dorantes said. How can he punish all of us for the crime of the thief? I was asleep when it happened. Tell him that. Tell him it is not fair.

As he heard my translation, Okmantsul curled his lips in disgust, though his voice remained level. Is it fair that you come to our camp, he asked, and eat our food? Or use our firewood? Or cover with our pelts and skins?

We should surrender the thief, Dorantes said, facing his countrymen. He no longer sounded surprised or irritated; his tone had shifted to urgency. As for me, I stood in the space between the Castilians and the Carancahuas, waiting to translate.

But we do not know who the thief is, someone said.

Maybe it was one of their own.

And they want to blame us instead.

This is just another one of their elaborate tricks.

What trick? Food was stolen, the thief has to be found.

They just want to kill one of us.

León interrupted the Castilians' quarreling when he grabbed me by the elbow. It was you, he said. You did it.

I freed myself from his grip. I did not steal anything, I said.

You are the only slave here. You must be the one.

I am no more a slave than you.

He raised his hand to slap me, but I caught it and twisted his arm behind his back. If you try this again, I said, I—

Stop your quarrel, Dorantes said. The Indians are looking at you. They will think one of you did it.

Okmantsul asked me to report on what my Castilian companions were saying. I hesitated, because I did not wish to incriminate myself when I had done nothing wrong. But León pushed me toward the Carancahuas and by means of simple gestures and mangled local words, he told the cacique that I was the man they were looking for.

Did you steal from us? Okmantsul asked me.

No, I said.

León stabbed me with his finger. The slave did it.

Stop this at once, Dorantes told León.

Yet León continued to point his accusing finger at me. It is him.

In a flash, I found myself on my knees, surrounded by the Carancahuas. Two of them began to beat me with balled fists and a third used his lance wherever he found an opening. I fell on my side, my head in my arms, taking the hits but not daring to protest, for I feared it would only invite more blows. Then they tired of me and, kicking me like a discarded toy, they went about their business as if nothing had happened.

The world around me was a blur of shapes and colors. I felt myself being lifted up by the Dorantes brothers; they carried me to our side of
the camp and Diego brought me a drink of water. Dorantes knelt beside me, inspecting my left arm. You are losing a lot of blood, he said.

The ringing in my ears began to recede, replaced by a sharp pain. I had a gash just above the elbow; a long stream of blood flowed freely from it onto my hand.

You should tie it, Diego said.

It is not as bad as it looks, I said, I just need some oak bark for it. (I was trying to sound braver than I really was; I did not want to give León the satisfaction of looking weak.)

I will get you some, Diego said, standing up.

I lay down and closed my eyes again. Of all the humiliations I had endured in the Land of Indians, this was the hardest one for me, because I had been entirely innocent of the charge and because the word León had used—slave—had revived a pain that I had been trying to bury. My heart was consumed with anger and, while nursing the injuries the Carancahuas had inflicted upon me, I spent my days thinking up ways to revenge myself on León.

L
IFE WENT ON LIKE THIS
, my time filled with menial tasks, with restless sleep, and with meals that were eaten hurriedly, in fear that they were my last. One day, as I was walking back from the river, carrying jars of water on my back, I spied León hiding in the bushes, eating something. Again, I said to myself. He has stolen food again. My anger burned through me like a brushfire and, without considering the consequences of my actions, I signaled to three passing Carancahua boys and pointed them to León's hiding place. They found him eating nuts from the winter stores and dragged him before Okmantsul. There was no lengthy questioning this time—the evidence was clear. I felt mighty satisfied to see my accuser get caught in his lies, but my moment of vindication was short. The Carancahuas began to beat León and, when he raised his fist to strike back at one of them, they stuck a lance right through his chest, killing him. Fear and horror quickly settled inside my vengeful heart.

W
E WERE GRINDING NUTS
in a mortar, Diego and I, when Balsehekona pulled him from this task, taking him to the center of the camp. It was a cold morning in autumn. The trees were bare and the ground was covered with shriveled red and yellow leaves. A large puddle reflected
the gray sky above. Diego and I had been talking about how we measured the passage of time, the differences between the Julian calendar, which relied on the sun, and the Hegira calendar, which relied on the moon. Out here, separated from our lands and our peoples, neither one of us could be entirely certain of the date—we did our best to estimate it.

But now Balsehekona had Diego by the hair. The poor lad's feet dragged on the ground, leaving wet tracks behind him; his hands thrashed in his attempt to find his balance and get back on his feet. What is it? I cried, running after both of them.

When they noticed the commotion, Dorantes and Castillo left the washing they had been ordered to do. We all followed Balsehekona to the camp square, where his pregnant wife stood, her hands resting on the mound of her belly. Her face was wet with tears. One of her sisters stood beside her, with an arm wrapped around her shoulder. The other women watched from outside their huts. Again I asked: What did Diego do? Why are you holding him?

He visited her dream, Balsehekona said.

A dream?

What is he saying? Dorantes asked.

A dream, I replied. Then I turned to Balsehekona, What dream?

He stole her child and killed it, Balsehekona said.

What do you mean? I asked.

Is that him? Balsehekona asked his wife.

She nodded.

Are you sure you did not mistake him for one of the others? Balsehekona asked, pointing to Dorantes, Castillo, and me.