Esteban

In my country, we had a saying. Talk little and listen much.   So I listen much. 

I remember my country less and less with each passing year.  I do remember being torn from my mother’s arms when I was not much more than a child. “Be strong!” she said in our native language. “Be brave. You are a warrior!” was the last thing she said to me. I remembered her words often when I thought I could not go on while lost in the swamps and deserts.

I listen to these Spaniards, with their endless talk of gold and treasure. They tell stories they have heard of the New Spain and The Seven Cities of Gold, a town called the Indians called Cibola,, where the streets glitter and huge pyramids are encrusted in gemstones. Stories the Indians tell them, even though the Indians have no gold nor have they ever seen any.  

“We will be rich,” they boast. “Richer than anyone in history. Richer than the King!” Then they laugh loudly and slap each other on the back. “We will share our fortune with you, of course, Nico!” Then they laugh even harder.  

We also have another saying in my county.  A rich man will starve faster than a poor one.  

So I listen and I watch and I wait. 

Estevanico they call me. A name they gave me. A name they use for children. A name they call slaves. 

I cried and cried until they beat me and said cállate in my face, which became the first word I learned in Spanish.  

In my village, we lived in harmony and cooperation with each other. We had to otherwise we would starve. The women planted yams, melons, and cassava. The boys tended the goats and the noisy fowls we kept in cages.  The men of my village taught me to set traps for the small animals and hunt the antelope that ran thick on the golden plains.  They taught me how to separate out an animal from its herd, follow its tracks until it collapsed from exhaustion. They taught me the prayers of thanks to say to the animal  before I slit its throat.  

I quickly learned the Spanish ways were so unlike our own.  I was taken north to a place they called Azemmour, in chains, along with many others. I had never seen the ocean before.  I only caught a glimpse of it as they loaded us onto the boat as we spent many days chained in the deepest part of the boat. I was fascinated by the sight. The color was bluer than the sky. The air smelt of salt. The fresh breeze in my face was intoxicating. I longed to be up on deck where I could see the waves. Instead, I imagined what it looked like.  

There I was taken to Spain where I was sold on the steps of the church. I had never seen such things, so many people, black and white. Huge buildings, large beasts like zebras only larger and without stripes the men would ride upon.  

I watched and I listened. I listened to the language and learned what words I could. Agua, comida, ándale.  I learned these strange men with their pale skin believed they could own the land.  I learned they worshipped only one God, whom they revered above all else.  They say their God is a god of peace. Yet I do not see much peace among those that worship Him.  

 I passed from one man to another, working in the fields or in their large houses. Eventually I was sold to a man called Dorantes.  He had another slave from my country who spoke my language. He translated for the master. He told me my name would no longer be Mustufa, but Esteban. I would no longer be allowed to worship in the way of my people, but I would be baptized in their Christian church. I did not understand these strange ways, but at the same time I was enthralled by the newness. I was eager to learn so he explained the ways of these Spaniards and taught me their language. 

One day, the master came to some of us and told us he was going to a place called La Florida. He and many other men would be going on ships and would need us as servants. My eyes widen at the thought. I was excited at seeing the ocean, to feel the rise and fall of the waves under my feet. 

What a fool I was. What fools these Spanish men were. Sailing into a storm so fierce that I prayed to my old gods for protection. After the ship was wrecked the few of us that lived barely survived on the oysters and seaweed that washed up on the shore.  

Then we were taken captive by Indians. They loaded their bows with arrows and pointed them at our chests and the Spaniards quaked in terror. I quickly thought if I repeated the words they said and made signs with my hands, perhaps they would be intrigued enough  not to kill us.  But they were cruel and forced us to be their slaves.  My masters were now servants and the irony was not lost on me.  But I did not tease. I did not mock. I watched. I listened.

I learned the ways of these people the Spanish men called salvajes. I learned what roots were edible, where the bushes with the sweet berries grew, gorged on the red fruit from the spiny plants that bloomed in late summer. I learned their language well enough.  

After many years, we hatched a plan to escape and walk South to Mexico City.  We walked and we walked.  Our clothing was long ago worn to shreds, so we wrapped deerskins around our waists like the natives. Our unshorn hair and beards grew as shaggy and unkempt a wild sheep. Our feet become thick and crusted as hooves. 

We were so hungry we ate whatever we could. Worms, spiders, the bark of trees. But I knew how to hunt. I knew how to set traps for lizards and squirrels. I looked for signs, footprints, the barest hint of a trail. 

If we live, Dorantes told me, if you can get us out alive, I will grant you your freedom.  I asked him to swear before his god and he did, but I did not believe him. 

When we first came upon another native tribe, we were sorely afraid.  I was able to communicate with them by signs and some of the language I had learned from my captors.  But to our surprise and astonishment, they did not try to kill us but instead welcomed us as some sort of spirit beings.  

They gave us gifts of food and animal skins.  Then they brought us their sick and injured.  The Spaniards said their Christian prayers over them and made the sign of the cross. I silently prayed to my god. To our astonishment, many of those that needed healing became well. 

It was like this wherever we went, as we walked from village to village.  They seemed to revere me in particular, stroking my dark skin and plucking at my shaggy, coarse hair. They gave me the gifts of a medicine man. A feathered headdress and staff topped with a gourd filled with pebbles that rattled when I shook it.  These objects filled the Indians with awe and wonder.  This filled me with pride for it was the first time I felt honored since I was in my village and the men celebrated my first kill. 

We wandered from village to village, followed by multitudes of natives, through the lands where no white man--or black--had ever gone. After close to eight years, we finally came upon the first other Spaniards we had seen since we were shipwrecked.  Slave hunters with Indian captives, bound together like a brace of rabbits.       

 My companions told them of our travails, which astonished them until one of them recognized one of us from his days in Andalucia.  

This sickened us.  It sickened me for I knew the bitter taste of slavery. We would not be alive were it not for these mostly harmless, defenseless people.  I had forgotten about the hunger for this stuff they call money.  The bile rose in my throat so I was disgusted.  

They took us to Mexico City. We told our story. I was treated like a hero by the blacks and like an equal by the Spanish. Or so I thought. 

The Viceroy wanted to mount a new expedition to find Cibola, of which the Indians spoke of. I knew what this meant. I knew the natives. I had learned their ways. Spoke their language. Was a respected medicine man. He could not do this without me. He offered to buy me from Dorantes. He offered a price five times for a slave.  

My master became very upset. He would not part with me for any price.  Esteban saved all our lives, he told them.  But did he not remember he promised me my freedom? But the Viceroy was too powerful a man to refuse. That is when we hatched a plan. 

Dorantes told me to go with these men. Take them where they want to go. But tell the Indians to help the Spaniards, but not to trust them.  Tell the Indians to erect large, white crosses, so the Spaniards will think they had been converted and they will move on.  

So we set off. At least we had horses. When we came near each village, I was to approach on foot, wearing the effects of a Medicine Man.  A plumed feathered headdress, a staff with a dried gourd filled with pebbles at one end, jingle bells on my arms and ankles.  Nude except for a deer skin tied around my waist.  

These Spaniards took advantage of my rapport with the natives.  They had me question these people repeatedly about gold. They told the natives they had a stomach ailment that could only be cured by the metal. The natives told them stories of a town called Cibola, where there were many great buildings, all covered in gold and shone in the sunlight like fire.

I could see the expression on the faces of these white men. Their lust for gold overwhelmed most of their senses and reason.  I wondered to myself if there was so much gold, like the Indians said there was, why they did not have any? Surely there would be one trinket or another in their possession?  It became clear to me the Indians were telling us what they thought we wanted to hear.   

I kept these thoughts to myself. Why, you may wonder? We had another saying in my country.  At the bottom of patience one finds heaven.

The natives greeted me as they always do. I would shake my staff, making the gourd rattle, the sign of a shaman, to gain their attention and respect.  I would speak to them in their language, and use signs. Then we would sit, eat, I would tell them I came with some white men and we came in peace. 

The Indians would sometimes offer me their women.  Pretty women they were, with their wide brown faces, eyes the same color as mine, long dark silken hair they would wear in braids.  This made the Spanish jealous, for they only thing they wanted just less than gold was to satisfy their carnal desires.   

When the white men joined us, they always asked me to ask them the same thing. Where is the city of gold?  The natives would shake their heads. They would say there is no such place. But the Spaniards would not listen. They did not believe the Indians, thinking they were lying and keeping the gold for themselves. 

Then one Indian came forward and said he saw such a place where there are great houses and they are gold in color. This was all the Spaniards needed to hear, such was their crazed desire for treasure.  We shall go north, the white men told me. I knew this was madness. But I waited. 

We rode for many days until we found the pueblo of which the Indian spoke.  It was no more than a few tiny houses, covered in buff-colored earth mixed with ground sea shells for which the Indians traded.  I approached the Indians in my usual manner as a medicine man, explained my presence and asked the name of their settlement. Cibola, they said. I had to suppress my laughter.  

The Spaniards were furious. They told the Indians they were lying. They thought they were tricking them. But I knew these people. I knew they were naive and guileless. But the Spaniard wanted to hurt the Indians. They threatened them with their muskets. 

I knew then the time had come.  The Spaniards would not listen, but I would. 

The natives told me there was a vast desert to the west. There were no villages, no food, no water. So I told the Spaniards that they said the Indians told me there was gold to the west, many days walk. 

I lied.  

After several days, they were hopelessly lost in the desert. Their food and water was almost gone. I waited until the middle of the night. The sky was clear and lit with just a sliver of moonlight. I waited, listening for the deep breathing that came with sleep.  Then I crept as silently as the spirits the Indians thought I could summon. I slowly picked all their guns. One man snorted and twitched and rolled over in his sleep. I froze and held my breath, but soon the man quieted down and returned to sleep. 

I carried the guns and carefully tiptoed until I was far away from the camp. I dug a deep hole in the sand and buried the muskets.  Then I walked east towards the pueblo where I knew the Indians were waiting for me.