Arrows

Arrows

By Luisa Maria Celis

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY: Luisa Maria Celis on Smashwords

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To Morgan and Graham, who kept me afloat

Contents

PART ONE

ONE. The Voyage

TWO. My Arrival

THREE. An Expedition

FOUR. A Woman

FIVE. The Slaughter

PART TWO

SIX. Apacuana

SEVEN. Suruapo

EIGHT. Caracas

PART THREE

NINE. Reunited

TEN. My Brother’s Keeper

AFTERWORD

Prologue

In August of the year of our Lord 1566, the Isabella, a three-mast, three-deck, four-hundred-ton carrack armed with twenty-four pieces of artillery, sailed from Seville to the Indies as part of the Fleet of Tierra Firme. The biggest cannons were mounted on carriages on the main and upper decks, ready to slide into their gun ports should the need arise. I think there were eight of those culverins; the rest were demi-culverins and falconets, distributed along the upper and castle decks. I didn’t know much about weaponry—or ships, for that matter—but Bartolomé, my brother, the ship’s captain, gladly shared his knowledge while I felt like a waxed hide on which precious drops of wisdom rained, wetting nothing. He insisted I learn to fire his dear wheellock gun, but I declined. I was, after all, a Franciscan friar. Years later, I rot in a dungeon of the Inquisition, not entirely sure what I believe. My name is Salvador Cepeda, and I will soon burn at the stake. Solitude has a way of laying bare a man’s soul, and writing has a way of freeing it. Before torture steals the last of my identity, I want, if nothing else, to tell what I saw, what I lived through, as though it mattered.

ONE. The Voyage

After taking on supplies and water in the Canary Islands, I set sail with 230 other men.

Bartolomé, the bosun, the pilot and a few others ate well of the live chickens and pigs, apples and other luxuries zealously guarded by the cook, the pantry man and their minions. I was to be included in this privileged group, but my conscience would not allow me to enjoy such advantages while the rest of the men would grow slimmer by the day.

The first night Bartolomé invited me, I gladly accepted. The second time, too. But when I declined the third and fourth time, he came to me.

Are you well? he asked.

I’m fine, thank you.

Hungry?

Man shall not live by bread alone. Placing myself among the fortunate few would hardly advance me in the observance of my poverty vow, would it now?

Every other day then? he asked.

Once a week. I would be honoured.

If your joints start to ache or your gums bleed, you come to me and stop being a saint, you hear?

This exchange evinced, in essence, the struggle of our Franciscan Order. The choice between the comforts of the world and the Evangelical Rule given to us by our brother Francis had led to the separation of the Order: Those who were willing to accept financial security from the Holy See split from those who wished to follow the strict observance of poverty shown to us in the Gospel, depending on alms for all their needs as St. Francis had done. I belonged to the latter, called the Observants.

For those first few weeks I knelt on the forecastle, facing the horizon, filled with religious zeal like a virgin Judas Machabeus facing Syrians. Rocked by the sea, immersed in the love of God, I closed my eyes and prayed. I imagined that I was the ship and the waves were the obstacles I would surmount, with a steadfast wind of faith swelling my sails. I even dared climb up to the crow’s nest to observe our progress from atop the mast.

One afternoon, while pacing the upper deck, fingering my rosary beads, I noticed one of my few fellow passengers emerge from the aft companionway, black-haired and slim, pleasant to behold, as he stopped amidships on the starboard side, carrying a bucket. Salve Regina Mater misericordiae, Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve, I recited, nearing him, curious that a passenger should be carrying a bucket.

He bent over and took a large stone from the bucket. Hair flailing in the wind, he aimed at some imaginary distant point and threw with all his might. Then he took another, aimed and threw again. The site of each splash made by the stones evidenced our speed by staying behind in the waters like a stitch in a seam. The stones looked like those used for ballast. Such cobbles were only found in the depths of the orlop deck, which meant that he had been wandering where no other passengers went.

I finished my rosary, rushing the litanies, and came to stand by him. His friendly lips distended in a lop-sided smile, showing teeth were missing on one side. Here, try, he said. There is nothing else to do on this ship. Nothing to look at, just water everywhere.

I must confess that I’m finding the confinement more constraining than a monastery, I said. I took the stone and waited for him to take another. We threw together in a childish competition that entertained not only us but also the lads kneeling in groups of four holystoning the deck.

Hey! I turned and saw the weather-worn face of Pedro Mendez, the ubiquitous bosun, obscured by the sun at its zenith, as he glowered down at us from the quarterdeck. Already, everyone knew better than to provoke him.

Ballast is for ballast, he snapped. He marched toward us, bare feet turning inwards, glared at the bucket, snatched the stone from my hand and shoved the bucket at Bartolomé’s page, a boy nicknamed the Canary for his constant whistling. As the bosun returned to his duties, my fellow passenger chortled, half-covering his mouth with his hand. He took a big step back and bowed with one hand on his belly, the other on his back.

Gregorio de la Parra, at your service.

I had seen Gregorio a couple of times before but had never talked to him. To my surprise, I quite liked him. He was different from the man who stood apart with a haughtiness around his jaw and neck that went all too well with his inquisitive brown eyes.

What did you do back in Spain? I asked.

I studied Canon Law in the University-College of Santa María de Jesus in Seville, he said. But my godfather, who lives in Havana, wanted me to join the next expedition to the land of the Caracas Indians.

Why, God must have something in store for us, my friend! I said, I was sent to join the same expedition!

I assumed we might become friends but instead he briefly frowned and looked me over as though for the first time.

Did you finish your studies, then? I asked, changing the subject but keeping the smile in place. He pulled at his leather doublet to make it fit more comfortably.

No, he muttered, straightening his back and looking away.

Are you planning to finish them?

I was mystified by his sudden solemnity. His eyes took on a piercing intensity. You will excuse me, Father, but I just remembered there is something I must attend to. He bowed slightly and left.

I was twenty-two years old, and largely untested. I had no inkling of the role this man Gregorio de la Parra would play in my life, no premonition whatsoever.

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Overnight we were left becalmed. Bartolomé stood beside me in silence on the quarterdeck, watching the impressive fleet of thirty ships. The Isabella was sailing next-to-last in the caravan of galleons and carracks led by the Capitana. Behind her the second ship in importance, the Almiranta, kept the formation ordered by La Casa de Contratación, the institution overseeing the traffic between the New World and Spain known as the Carrera de Indias.

Deep lines from years of squinting at the sun ran from the corners of Bartolomé’s eyes and between his brows. He eyed the sea, sky and rigging, frowning as he chewed his inner cheek.

The surface of the ocean was smooth and flat with neither crests nor foam, suspiciously tranquil and grey, like liquid lead. The voices aboard the ship had grown notably quiet except for the ditty of the sailor in charge of the sandglass. The other deckhands were going about their business as if preparing for something.

I heard Bartolomé muttering to himself. It was his first crossing as captain, and I supposed he might be nervous. He had reason to be. As we passed the Tropic of Cancer that afternoon, the wind had blown from the southeast, dragging clouds that crashed and clashed into a furious jumble of greys, unleashing thunder and lightning. Just as quickly, the storm had abated.

As Bartolomé bent over a portulan he had spread on top of the binnacle, I moved closer, marvelling at how sure he seemed of our location amid the tangle of lines on the vellum chart. We need to keep course toward Martinica, he said, tapping the chart with the dividers he used to measure distances. His big eyes, as grey as the lightning-torn clouds above us, briefly scanned my face to see if I had understood.

Bartolomé lowered his head again to talk with the pilot. who was also bent over the chart, then he turned and gave instructions to the bosun who immediately stepped toward the upper deck and yelled orders that jumped from mouth to mouth until they reached their target.

The wind was picking up again. Bartolomé faced me, coming closer. From there the convoy divides into two fleets with different destinations, he said, joining and separating his meaty hands to illustrate. I nodded and held onto the nearest beam.

As I clasped the beam to secure my footing, my brother smiled brightly with a hint of amusement in his eyes. I attempted a smile of my own, though, in my view, the situation was decidedly losing its charm. I could see the waves swelling in the twilight.

The ship began rolling heavily, surrounded in turn by sky and then sea, each pitch longer than the one before as we sank into deeper troughs and faster-moving mountains of grim water.

As night fell, the glow of lanterns at the sterns of the ships ahead grew dim and frequently disappeared, blocked out by the ever-taller waves. Bartolomé was growing livelier as though he drew strength from the upcoming storm. Mendez! Lash everything down, take in the topsails! he ordered the bosun who went forthwith. Contreras! he called to the pilot, mind your rudder and steer astern of ship ahead! Marcano, entry time and course.

Watching him standing firm, and his men responding alertly to his orders, I felt invigorated myself; this was the happiest I had ever seen him.

I heard the words, the language of the sea, but gleaned their meaning only by observation. Pedro Mendez shouted at the top of his lungs, scattering the sailors over the deck like frightened ants. The waves had worked up crests, and we were quickly soaked by the flying spume. Gusts lifted us into the air and dropped us with a crash into dark, foamy waters.

I wondered how many storms Bartolomé had survived, feeling a rush of admiration for that part of his life I had never really understood. He must have sensed the intensity of my stare for he paused, resting his weight on one leg and leaning on a beam, hand on his hip. He looked directly into my eyes; we were of a same height, a head taller than most men.

It is time, Salvador. Go below decks, he shouted with that older-brother tone. The use of my whole Christian name instead of the usual Chava made it all the more official. Heat rose in my chest and throat: to confine me below decks was like throwing me in irons. I inhaled through clenched teeth but nodded my assent.

As I was descending the after-companionway from the quarterdeck, I turned and saw the sailors climbing up the shrouds with eyes half-closed and hands squeezing each ratline. At the top, struggling to take in the sails and secure them to the yards, they swayed with the masts in immense arcs. The tips of the yards seemed close enough to plunge into the waves. I shook my head and took a deep breath, hoping to dispel the dizziness that was setting in.

It was getting darker. I staggered sideways, legs wide apart, holding to whatever came within reach. The ship creaked from all sides, irked by the jolting of the sea. I stole another glance at the flashes of lightning that gave fleeting and varied glimpses of the clouds. Blinding rays descended from the very finger of God—and there was thunder that would have triggered the pulse of a dead man.

Fascinated by the fury of the gale, I was unaware of a huge wave that, swelling rapidly, was about to wash the deck. It rushed over the coaming and poured into the hull through the open trap door. Instantly drenched, I heard the wave fall onto the wooden planks below, followed by the growling complaints of the men. I closed the trap door quickly, ashamed of my carelessness.

I groped in the darkness, hitting my head, while my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. At the lore deck, the movement seemed less. I found what appeared to be a sandbag and sat on it, swaying back and forth with the ship’s short keel. And there I remained.

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I retched again and leaned to one side to let out a stream of bitter bile. I blinked in the darkness and looked around without the least hope of standing up. The roof was low and the hot air impregnated with damp and the smell of unwashed bodies, vomit and bilge; the air seemed to congeal as I exhaled.

How long had we been rocking and shaking in this darkness? A day? Two? Eloí, Eloí, lama sabactani? I quoted, meaning every word our Lord had said when feeling forsaken on the Cross.

Trembling, I grasped a coil of rope. My tonsured head was bathed in cold sweat; drops trickled down my forehead, slid down my neck and soaked my grey cassock. The Seraphic Rosary dangled from my cord, rippling monotonously. I took no more than shallow breaths, distracting my mind amid the artillery, lines, water barrels and cases, some knocked about by the sea’s fury despite having been lashed down.

The hatches and portholes were kept closed to avoid water, and the lighting of candles was strictly forbidden. I had withstood the first hours by meditating on the Passion of Our Lord, but once overcome by sickness, I could not stop vomiting.

The danger on deck had confined many men below: the carpenter and his mates, the cook and his galley lads, the gunners, seamen awaiting the change of watch. We sat close to one another, sweating and praying, eyes fixed on the ceiling, following noises from the upper deck. After making vows and promises to the virgin, swearing to make penitence of fasting on bread and water the first Saturday of every month, some wished to confess.

To my surprise it was Pánfilo, a wiry old midshipman who had lost most of his front teeth, who came first. I dried my face with the sleeve of my habit, uncertain of my strength, and passed my hand across my wet chest and aching belly. My stomach was void, though still assaulted by waves of nausea. "Move over, hombre! My sins are only God’s to hear, you filth," lisped Pánfilo. Others shifted. Pánfilo knelt beside me.

Forgive me, Father, he began, for I have sinned.

I know, Pánfilo. Who hasn’t? I mumbled, my mouth bitter and sticky. Tell me.

Well, I took something, but I was going to give it back, I swear. And José’s wife . . .

I absolve thee.

But I’m only halfway!

Forgive me. Go on.

I bent over and let out a trickle of bile. I cleaned my mouth with my sleeve. Pánfilo didn’t seem to notice or care that I was barely able to listen. I don’t remember what else he told me.

After the confessions, my head throbbed terribly, and the violent sea, lifting me off my improvised bed and dropping me down again, was almost unbearable. The men crouched on the floor wherever they could find room.

The sound was muffled by the roaring of the storm, but we heard the sharp cry of alarm from the upper deck and a thunderous crash. The ship tilted sharply, and we rolled like pebbles and crashed against the water barrels. I thought the ship had split in two.

I crawled up the forward companionway and thrust open the trap door. I had to make sure Bartolomé was all right, but halted long enough to inhale a mouthful of fresh air. A lightning bolt revealed the sea, white with spume. Merciful Heaven! I muttered and crossed myself.

A midshipman whose name I never learned, shouting into the din, stepped over me and through the trap door. I stood up and went out. Gusts of wind sucked the air from my nostrils as I strained to breathe. On the upper deck, two silhouetted heads in the forecastle disappeared momentarily in the gusty rain. On hands and knees, like a wingless beetle, I made my way toward them, holding onto whatever I could while praying for Bartolomé’s safety.

To my relief, Bartolomé was standing near the helm, with legs wide apart. He looked as much a part of the ship as the mast. It was the foremast that had broken. And lying beside the stump of the mast was Antonio. The poor fellow had been standing on a coiled line that wrapped itself around his leg when the mast sprung and fell over the starboard bow.

The mast, still attached by the forestay, foresails and sheets that were sprawled on the waves, floated ominously near the ship. The pressure of the line was enough to yank off the man’s leg, which had begun to resemble a blood sausage.

A midshipman had already gone for an axe, so I too lent myself to the task of pulling on that formidable rope with all that remained of my strength, while Antonio screamed and screamed. As the midshipman appeared behind me, a huge, black, glittering mountain of water hovered over us on the starboard side. It left me no time to gasp for air before it washed the deck with brutal force.

The water scooped me into a swift slide overboard. I held onto the line, worried more for the pressure I might be putting on the sailor’s leg than for my own desperate need for air. Time and the world seemed to stall in confusion. Then the cowl of my habit was caught from behind. Amid the confusion, Bartolomé had seized me. I had no idea he was so near me. He must have been watching out for me, as I had instinctively watched out for him. Miraculously, I was back on the ship.

The wave passed overboard through the scuppers. Bartolomé took the axe and hit the line with furious blows, releasing it from the sailor’s leg. It would have disappeared in a moment, along with the mast, had it not still been attached to the ship by the stays bound to the bowsprit.

I lifted the sailor, now unconscious, by the armpits and dragged the dead weight toward the companionway. Bartolomé hurried fore to cut the lines that were keeping the mast attached. I was growing desperate. How could a man be so heavy or I so weak? I gratefully delivered him onto the meaty shoulder of Benjamin Cienfuegos, the pantry man who had appeared on the upper deck.

Shaking with exhaustion, I staggered back up to the companionway. By now, I hated the sea and its waves and the rocking of the ship. Another flash of lightning illuminated Bartolomé as he raised the axe to cut the line. The ship lurched, he lost his balance, and