The Moor's Account (38 page)

L
ATE THE NEXT DAY
, I returned to the Indian village where we had been staying, flanked by my Indian followers on one side and Patricio Torres and his men on the other. (Alcaraz had cajoled Cabeza de Vaca into staying behind, telling him that they still had much to discuss with one another.) The sky was gray and a fine, persistent drizzle had made its way through the fur and the deerskin I wore; I was shivering with cold
by the time I made it to the village square. My appearance with bearded white men caused an immediate commotion—dozens of men, women, and children came out to greet me and to ask questions.

Who are these strangers?

Where is your brother?

Did you bring me oak bark?

Why were you gone for so long?

Oyomasot made her way through the small crowd. When I saw her, the kindness and intelligence in her eyes, I knew that everything would be fine. She put her hands in mine; they were so warm that they were an instant comfort to me.

I was worried about you, she said.

It was unlike her to speak so plainly of her feelings in front of others. I drew her closer. All I wanted now was to be alone with her. We ran into these soldiers, I said, nodding at the dusty Castilians.

Now Dorantes and Castillo came running through the square. Hombres! they said, and Gracias a Dios! and Míralos! There was much hugging and crying.

The soldiers looked relieved to see their countrymen in this Indian town and one of them finally stopped pointing his musket and instead slung it across his chest. Names were exchanged; inquiries were made about hometowns; details were traded. It was another hour or two before I had the soldiers settled in their own quarters and was finally able to speak to Dorantes and Castillo alone.

Imagine being found after all these years, Castillo said. I wonder if my mother is still alive.

We can all go home now, Dorantes said. If only my poor Diego had lived long enough to share our deliverance.

The memory of Diego's last day returned to me, the weight of his body in our arms as he bled to death in the Carancahuas' camp. His death had marked the beginning of our exile in the Land of the Indians. Now that our exile was ending, it was as if he were with us again in spirit. He was a good man, I said.

That he was, Dorantes said, blinking. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse: But you will be able to see your brothers, just as he foretold it.

I still remembered that morning on the raft, when Diego had comforted me by telling me that I would return to Azemmur someday.
Dorantes had remained quiet then, but over the last eight years, he and I had shared so much danger and so many hardships that our relationship had been transformed. A feeling of fellowship, which could not have existed between us on that raft bound us together now. We both wanted the same thing: to make our entire journey in reverse, return home to what remained of our families, and try to forget about Narváez and his expedition.

T
HAT NIGHT
, I
COULD NOT SLEEP
. I lay on my pelts, listening to the crickets and the wind outside. I kept thinking about the trip back to New Spain, then to Seville, then to Barbary, and then, finally, to Azemmur. Thirteen years had passed since I had closed the blue door behind me one last time, with my name still on my mother's lips. The image of her in my mind had not dulled with the years; I could still see her in her housedress, standing in the arched doorway, silhouetted by the light. Now I felt I was on the threshold of a new possibility—that I would fulfill a dream I had had for many years.

I turned to Oyomasot, and found her quietly watching me. She was on her side, her long hair undone, her shoulders bare under the blankets. I ran my fingers along her arm, all the way to the beauty mark at the base of her neck. When we get to New Spain, I said, I will get you a new—

We?

I smiled. Of course, we. You did not think I was leaving without you?

You did not ask what I wanted.

My heart skipped a beat. Do you not wish to go with me?

You misunderstand. I said you never asked.

I brushed her hair away from her shoulders. I am sorry. I should have asked.

She was quiet for a moment. You miss Azemmur, she said.

Yes, I said. And I have grown so used to the pain of missing it that sometimes I feel as though I have learnt to walk after an amputation. But now, Oyomasot, it is as if I can sense that severed limb again. Barbary is a country unlike any other. Its people are famous for their kindness to travelers and exiles—you would like them, I am certain of it. They form many tribes, speak different languages, worship in different ways. The soil is so rich that you could never count the varieties of fruit it produces. Cherries, figs, pears, pomegrenates …

Which one is the one you press into oil?

Olive. You can also eat it raw or pickled.

Oyomasot had always had an adventurous spirit—after all, she had agreed to this wandering life in the first place—and this new journey would mean that she would see a part of the world she had not seen before. I think, too, that she was curious about my family and my hometown, the people and places I had told her about, and which I longed to see once again. I imagined her standing on the rooftop of our home, watching the sunset over the Umm er-Rbi' River. It was a picture I had never conjured up in my mind before and its newness filled me with delight. I could take her on a walk along the crenelated walls of Azemmur all the way to the port, or maybe she would like to go to the souq, to watch acrobats, musicians, apothecaries, and storytellers. How would she get along with my mother? It would take them some time to get acquainted with one another, but they could grow to be friends.

I will go with you, she said.

But by the morning, there were already complications. Somehow the entire village had heard of our intention to leave, and our followers said they wanted to come with us. We spoke to them in their language, urging them return to their homes now, as we would be returning to ours. And some of them did. But most of them refused; they insisted that they had to follow the custom of taking us to the next settlement. Around the square, Alcaraz's soldiers were watching us, their hands resting on their weapons. We gave in, telling ourselves that, once our followers had reached Alcaraz's camp, and saw that there was no one there to reward them with gifts and banquets, they would return to their homes on their own. It was a mistake we—or at least I—would live to regret.

T
HE SHEER SIZE
of our party made our journey slow. The elderly and the children required frequent rest stops, and a woman gave birth along the way, so that it took us nearly a week to reach the Castilians' camp. Our numbers impressed Alcaraz and he climbed on a boulder to survey the large camp that was being set up around him. Men were digging poles in the soft earth, calling for a hammer, spreading deerskins over the skeletons of their huts, laughing as they worked, but also, in the way of men the world over, keeping an eye on their neighbors to see who would be done first. Women were collecting firewood, filling their jars with water from the river, washing the old uncle who soiled himself along
the way, grinding corn for the evening meal, running their fingers over the gum of a teething child, while keeping an eye on the other two. Children were digging in the dirt, running after each other, swimming in the river, splashing each other with water and then running to their mothers to complain about one another.

At last, Alcaraz came down from the boulder to greet Dorantes and Castillo properly. The breastplate he had worn a few days earlier had been replaced with a simple white shirt, which was tucked neatly in his breeches, and his belt buckle glimmered in the afternoon light. He asked for the names of the hidalgos, though he already knew them, and nodded politely as he heard their answers. Then he said: Cabeza de Vaca told me there were hundreds of Indians with you, but I confess I had a hard time believing him. I see now that I was wrong. He smiled, looked beyond us at the camp for a long moment, then cast his eyes once more on Dorantes and Castillo. Why do they follow you? he asked.

But I have already explained, Cabeza de Vaca replied. They think of us as doctors. They—

I know, Alcaraz said, interrupting him. But I want to hear from your friends here. What hold do you have over the Indians? Why do they run from us but not from you? They seem to be following you like—like devotees.

Castillo opened his mouth to speak, but Dorantes took hold of his elbow to silence him. In a cautious voice, Dorantes said: Any power we have over the Indians is granted by God our Lord. We make the sign of the cross upon them and pray for their health. That is all we do, and nothing more. They follow us of their own free will, because we do not seek to harm them in any way.

Alcaraz shot a dark look at Dorantes, as if he suspected that this answer had been rehearsed and he was not being given the whole story. He pursed his lips. We had not counted on staying in the wilderness so long, he said. We ran out of hardtack yesterday and we have at least ninety leagues to go to reach Culiacán.

You need not worry about food, Dorantes said. The Indians have their own and whatever else they need, be it meat or fruit, they can provide for themselves.

In any case, I said, the Indians will not be coming back with us to Culiacán.

Why not? Alcaraz asked. They followed you here. They will follow you there.

But what do you intend to do with them? I asked.

Bring them to the city, of course, Alcaraz said. That is my mandate.

Cabeza de Vaca intervened. I have tried to impress upon the captain that our Indians are kind and friendly, and that they can be convinced to join the Christian faith and the empire without enslaving them.

It seems to me, Alcaraz replied, that perhaps you have lived among the savages for too long. Your judgment of their abilities has been impaired.

Capitán Alcaraz, Castillo said. The nasal tone in his voice was deeper than usual. I agree with Cabeza de Vaca here. These Indians have followed us because they believe we will not harm them. We cannot force them to go anywhere.

Who is forcing them? They are following you of their own free will, are they not?

But we have given them our word that no harm would come to them, Castillo said. They are following us only to the next Indian settlement and then they will return home. He turned to Cabeza de Vaca and, in a voice filled with impatience, he asked: Did you not explain all this to him?

Cabeza de Vaca nodded wearily. He looked beyond us at the camp that was being set up.

But Castillo continued arguing with Alcaraz. We cannot take them to Culiacán, he insisted. We promised them they would not be enslaved.

Alcaraz chuckled. Well, Capitán, you should not have made promises you were not legally permitted to make.

This back-and-forth went on for a while, and then Cabeza de Vaca tried to appeal to Alcaraz's self-interest. He told the captain that this entire area had become barren because the Indians were fleeing the soldiers and that taking a few hundred more would only make it more difficult for future missions to find Indians. It would be better to let these people go and thereby to establish a feeling of trust between the empire and the Indians. But Alcaraz replied that he had already roamed these parts for too long in search of slaves, that he did not intend to let so much wealth go just when he had it in his hands, and that, whatever the merits of the gentlemen's arguments, he was merely complying with the law. By way of closing the discussion, Alcaraz added: And if you try to take these Indians away, I will report you to the alcalde.

Do you realize, Cabeza de Vaca said, that you are nothing more than a troop leader, while I am a royal treasurer? I outrank you.

Not out here, Alcaraz said. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword, a gesture at once imitated by two of his deputies. The others quietly leveled their muskets and arquebuses. Tell your Indians that we are leaving in the morning, he said.

Dorantes spoke for the first time. Please put down your weapons, he said. We are all hidalgos here. Surely we can come to an understanding.

The only understanding I have is this, Alcaraz said. I lost my brother to the Indians two years ago, I have been roaming the wilderness for nearly a month, and I am not going back without the slaves.

Very well, Cabeza de Vaca said. We will go with you. But I wish to inform you that once we reach Culiacán I will speak to the alcalde mayor myself and I will make sure that you are demoted.

We left Alcaraz where he stood and walked through the Indian encampment, intending to speak to our followers, but the soldiers followed us, making it impossible to hold a proper gathering. So we split our numbers and, each in our own way, we instructed our guides to tell the Indians that Alcaraz could not be trusted. We told them that we could not guarantee their safety and that they should all go back to their lands, where no harm would come to them.

But almost all the Indians said that they would not leave us, that we were the Children of the Sun, after all, and that they trusted us to protect them. We had lived with them for so long, and had given them so little reason to doubt us, that even when we told them not to follow us, they insisted on keeping the custom they had set for themselves.

W
E SET OUT
for San Miguel de Culiacán the next day. After marching southward for ninety leagues, we came upon a wide river, on whose bank a large party of armed soldiers, some forty or fifty of them, were waiting for us. They escorted us to the town. It was an outpost at the border of the empire, nothing more than a dusty garrison and half a dozen hastily built houses that faced each other across a wide road. It had been built next to a small Indian settlement, of the kind we had seen everywhere in the Land of Corn.

All the inhabitants of Culiacán had come out to get a good look at the four castaways who were rumored to have bewitched hundreds of Indians
into following them. The alcalde mayor, Melchor Díaz, was waiting for us at the end of the road, dressed in his finest cotton and brocade. He had white hair and a broad face that would have been forgettable were it not for his extravagantly long mustache, whose ends curled upward toward his eyes. In the name of the Gobernador of Nueva Galicia, he said, it is my deep pleasure and privilege to welcome you to San Miguel de Culiacán. My men and I, and indeed everyone else in Culiacán, are at your service.