Hammer of Witches (24 page)

“I don’t see what we’re waitin’ for,” Pérez said to the other members of the crew. Antonio de Cuellar stood behind him, avoiding my gaze. “Luis and that girl — Pedro — they’re witches. It’s about time we string ’em up by their throats!”

Thankfully Colón placed himself between them. “I had rather dwell with a lion or a dragon than a wicked woman — or a witch,” he said to Catalina. “But we’ve been sailing around these islands for weeks now without a translator. Luis and the girl will remain here as our interpreters.”

But Pérez insisted, “Because of them we were attacked by
demons! And don’t forget that dragon —”

“All in the past,” Martín Pinzón said as he climbed up from a rowboat onto the
Santa María.
“Remember we are here for trade first and foremost, and these witches of ours can help us do it. Tell me, Señor Pérez, you like gold, don’t you?”

Pérez’s mouth hung open under his snub nose. “Yes.”

“Wonderful! Then let us trade.”

And that is exactly what we did. After introducing himself to the admiral, Guacanagarí sent his men back to Marién to fetch whatever trade-goods they could carry. Before long, necklaces, flapping parrots, and balls of cotton the size of a man’s head were being offered up in exchange for hawks’ bells, glass beads, and anything else Colón’s men could dig up from the hold. Catalina and I scurried back and forth across the deck of the
Santa María
translating for Spaniard and Taíno alike. Arabuko hung back, chewing gravely on his thumbnail. When I had a free moment, Jinni and I went over to him to ask him what was wrong.

“The way your man Colón looks at us,” he said. “I heard him muttering something earlier about servants, and something about your god. I couldn’t hear him well over all this chatter. But he frightens me.”

What Arabuko said gave me pause, but I said, “He was probably praying. The admiral’s a very religious man.”

“It’s true,” Jinni added. “The admiral prays all the time. He was probably thanking God for allowing us, his simple servants, to find you!”

Arabuko put a hand on Jinni’s shoulder and exhaled, relieved. “I’ll take your word for it. You know him better than I do.”

“Did you think Colón is the evil being in the prophecy?” I asked him.

“Who knows? My cacique remains certain it is the bearded man.”

Guacanagarí was currently eying a pile of swords the crew had lugged out from the hold. We went over and he asked me, “What do you think we would need to offer to acquire some of these weapons?”

I translated the question for Martín Pinzón, who answered, “Spices. Or gold.”

But the spices Guacanagarí offered were of no interest to Martín, and when the cacique offered his gold nose ring Martín refused to touch it. “De Torres, please inform these heathens that when I say ‘gold,’ I do not mean those piddling bits of wire that they pierce through their extremities. I mean this.”

Martín tossed a large pouch onto the deck by the cacique’s feet, where it landed with a jangling thud. Nearby Spanish sailors clustered around it to get a better look at what was inside.

What was inside was a heap of coins — all gold.

Guacanagarí scooped up a handful of the coins, some of which cascaded back into the pouch. “There is some gold on Ayití,” the man said, “but I have never seen so much as this before.”

“There is always Babeque,” Arabuko said. “In the stories it is a land ruled by men with dogs’ heads and tails. The dog-men of Babeque are so rich, they wear gold in their ears, in their noses, around their arms like this.” He cupped his hand around his upper arm in illustration.

Martín’s eyes turned hungry as I translated, but Colón came over and said, “I do not put much stock in stories.”

Martín shot a bitter glance in my direction. “Oh, don’t you? I may not be admiral, but I’ve sailed for longer than you’ve been alive, and I know this: Every story is made of truth. Myth or no, there is truth in that story, and I, for one, want a piece of it. If you remember, we once thought sorcerers were myth, didn’t we? Yet you cast your lot in with them.”

“The queen sent us to find spices and the Khan of Cathay,” Colón said through his teeth. “She did not send us in search of fairy tales. After we’ve finished trading with these Indians, we will make for the continent. Cathay is our destination, not this Babeque. I do not wish to hear of it again.”

I expected Martín to argue as usual. But he walked off, saying, “As you wish, Admiral.”

It was only when the sun began to dip into the western horizon that the trading finally ended, and Guacanagarí prepared another feast that the Taíno brought on board the
Santa María.
This time he arranged for Marién’s best poets to regale us with Taíno songs. The drumming and singing seemed to put the once-angry crew into a good mood for once, and their
mood only brightened as Guacanagarí’s wives came on board. Soon Vicente was dancing with one and Antonio de Cuellar with two others, and Jinniyah clapped for them from the audience. Guacanagarí and Colón stood off to one side, talking to each other as Catalina translated.

I was about to ask Jinni to dance when I heard a voice behind me. “May I have a word, de Torres?”

Martín Pinzón was resting against the ship’s rail. The way he stood there, holding his elbows, the man appeared more at peace than I’d ever seen him.

“I come with a proposition,” he said. “I would have you on my ship as a translator.”

For a second I didn’t understand. And when I realized what he was saying, I was shocked by the audacity of it.

“You’re planning on sailing to that mythical island, to search for Babeque against orders,” I accused.

“Yes,” Martín said, “and I’m sure you realize your powers of translation would be of use to me. And I would be of use to you, as well. Colón’s patience with you and the girl is growing thin. He was not as happy to see you as he may appear, no matter how he needs a translator. I, however, have no compunctions about traveling with sorcerers. If you help me find gold, you can be the Devil himself for all I care.”

I have to admit I was tempted. I could stay on Ayití with Arabuko, find and finally confront my father. Or I could go with Pinzón and run.

I glanced back at Colón and said, “They’ll catch you. You’ll be marked as a traitor. You and your crew will be sent back to Spain in chains.”

“I hardly think so. I once said that wealth is my religion, de Torres, and so is Queen Isabel’s. She won’t dare hang me when I come back bearing a ship full of gold and jewels.”

I knew what he said was probably true. “Still. You’ll be betraying your admiral. Your brother! What you’re doing — it’s wrong.”

For the first time ever I saw Martín’s face soften. “Come now, de Torres. You are nearly an adult. It’s about time you learn this lesson. Right and wrong? Fairy tales, that’s all they are. I will buy rightness with the gold I find on Babeque. History will only call me wrong should my plan fail.” Done with his lesson, Martín replaced his mask of irony to his face and said, “Now will you come with me or not?”

I glanced back at Colón a second time. Jinni was not far from him, dragging a weakly protesting Catalina to the Taíno dance. The sky above them was empty now, but the hameh was around here, somewhere, and Amir al-Katib.

“I can’t,” I told Martín.

“You’ll be paid well, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It isn’t.”

Martín shrugged. “That’s a pity. Well, suit yourself. I suppose it will be more fun to beat Colón at his own game when he has the advantage of translators and sorcerers. Assuming he
doesn’t throw you all away before he has the chance to make good use of you. Good-bye, de Torres.”

I barred his way back to the
Pinta.
“What about Colón?” I said. “He’ll find out what you’re doing. Maybe the queen won’t hang you, but Colón will.”

“I try not to waste my time worrying about the whims of Cristóbal Colón, Translator. Go. Tell him my plans now, if you wish. It makes no difference. The
Niña
and the
Santa María
are no match to my
Pinta
when it comes to speed. Farewell.”

Martín climbed down one of the ladders that led to his waiting rowboat. As he rowed back to the
Pinta,
I did as he’d suggested. I ran over to Colón and told him what Martín was planning. But it was too late. By the time Colón decided to believe me and started to prepare his own rowboat, Martín was already on his
Pinta.
And by the time Colón started rowing across the bay, the
Pinta
had set sail and was almost over the horizon. Martín was right. There was no way to catch up with him. When Colón realized that, he retired to his cabin and didn’t come out for the rest of the day.

The next morning I
awoke on the deck as the wind spritzed seafoam across my cheeks. Catalina sat cross-legged nearby, sucking the side of her cheek as she pored over a piece of parchment. Beside her, Jinniyah dangled a leather string in front of Catalina’s cat. Arabuko, Guacanagarí, and some other Taíno men consulted with Vicente and Juan de la Cosa across the deck.

I pushed myself onto an elbow and cracked my stiff neck and back. I said to Jinniyah, “I see you and Catalina are getting along.”

“She’s nicer than Pedro,” Jinniyah answered. “She lets me play with her cat.”

Catalina’s cat pawed at Jinni’s leg, asking her to continue playing. “I thought you didn’t like animals,” I said. “Didn’t you say something about them being dirty?”

“Cats are different,” Jinniyah explained. Then she looked at Catalina. “What’s his name?”

“Tito,” the girl said without looking up from her parchment. Jinniyah nodded to herself in approval.

I scooted over to Catalina so I could see what she was doing. She tilted her parchment toward me. “It’s a map of the island,” she said. “Colón’s taken to calling it La Isla Española.”

On Catalina’s parchment La Isla Española — or Ayití, as I knew it — was a wiggly-lined island shaped like an east-facing arrow. Other, steadier lines slashed the landmass in five, and raw hatches representing mountains scattered across the interior.

“I asked Arabuko to draw it,” Catalina said. “He and Guacanagarí came aboard early this morning.” She pointed at the top left corner of the illustration. “This is where we are: Marién, the land of Guacanagarí. According to Arabuko, he wishes to be the foremost cacique on the island.” Catalina pointed with two fingers at the two provinces below Marién. “But the warlord Caonabó and priestess Anacaona married. The marriage effectively doubled Caonabó’s territory and his power.” She tipped her head in the direction of the cabin, where an astonished Guacanagarí was handling one of the admiral’s swords. It nicked the cacique’s finger when he touched it. He sucked on his finger and laughed. “Which is why Guacanagarí wants a military alliance.”

“With us?” I asked.

“Naturally. Why else do you think he’s treating us to all these feasts?”

Jinniyah let Tito hop off her lap. “Maybe he’s just a nice person. Storytellers! Read too much into everything.”

Across from us Rodrigo Sanchez exited Colón’s cabin with the admiral’s arquebus in hand. He filled it with gunpowder, lit the fuse, aimed it at the sun. Finally he shot it, creating a humble explosion of smoke that Guacanagarí took in with delight.

“See what I mean?” Catalina said.

I scratched the back of my head. “Well, it makes sense that he wants to ally with us. He wants to protect his people. His village was under attack just a few weeks ago. And Arabuko said he’s worried Caonabó will ally with Amir al-Katib.”

The name must have lit something in Jinniyah, because she jumped from her seat like she was on fire. “Amir’s here? Why didn’t you tell me? What are we waiting for? We have to go find him!” She dashed across the deck to Arabuko, presumably to ask him for directions to Amir al-Katib and use of a canoe. I gave Catalina an ironic wave and followed.

On the other end of the deck Arabuko was rubbing his bare arms and arching his head toward the sky. “I do not like the feel of this air,” he said in Castilian. “It feels wrong. It feels like a
huracán
.”

“What’s a
huracán
?” Jinniyah asked.

“A storm. The winds pull trees from the earth.” Arabuko ripped the edge of his thumbnail off with his teeth. “The gods must be trying to say something, but I cannot understand what.”

Catalina walked over and pulled her cape around her shoulders. “Should we be concerned about this storm?”

“I should not like to be at sea during a
huracán.
You use these sails to capture the wind. Sometimes the wind allows itself to be captured. A
huracán
does not.”

“I’ll go tell Colón,” I said, but as I reached for the cabin door, I heard Colón shouting within.

“‘The queen wants, the queen wants!’ Is that all you can say? This may be the queen’s mission in name, but it is mine in fact! And the Almighty God’s!” I heard another voice — Rodrigo Sanchez, probably — though I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Colón exploded, “I’ve had enough of your questioning! And I’ve had enough of traitors, thank you!”

“W-what traitors?” Rodrigo said within.

“You know very well! Tell me, Señor Sanchez, have you seen the
Pinta
today?”