独家优惠奖金 100% 高达 1 BTC + 180 免费旋转

The History of Cuba that made Fidel Castro Inevitable

This is part one of an eight segment historical fiction depiction of the history of Cuba that led to the inevitable rise of Fidel Castro and the Cuban Revolution. Each Wednesday a new installment will be made leading up to the release of my historical novel; “I Am Cuba; Fidel Castro and the Cuban Revolution”.

Part 1: The Taino Embark on a Journey in 1200 A.D.

The man was fishing when he saw the Island-Caribs coming. There was a stiff wind from the east kicking hard white caps on the water and driving the band of warriors towards where he stood. There were twelve canoes with more than a hundred men dipping oars and ratcheting them forward at a rapid rate.

Guacumao paused for just a split second, the spear poised in his hand. He was using a net for the fishing but enjoyed attempting to impale the fleeting sea creatures while he waited, not that he had achieved much success. He was naked as was the custom; his ears pierced with feathers and a small shell in his nose.

Tinima. His thoughts flashed to his recently wedded wife who had just weeks earlier exchanged the headband of the single woman for the short apron of the married. The Island-Caribs would be after women, as was their wont, not satisfied with one wife like civilized people, but always craving more.

Guacumao didn’t believe he’d been spotted, standing in the shallow water hidden by the mangrove trees. He realized that it was not he that the Island-Caribs were pointed towards, but rather, the sandy beach just past him. He eased himself out of the water, abandoned his net, worked his way through the jumbled rocks and out of sight into the tree ferns, and began to run, his legs pumping rhythmically, his arms straining to propel himself faster, his eyes searching for the easiest path back to his yucayeque, or the village in which he lived.

He came to the first bohío, the round, conically shaped dwelling of his friend, Comerío, and without breaking stride he shouted the warning of the impending doom following behind him like his own shadow. “Island-Caribs!”

There were thirty-seven such homes in his yucayeque, with his near the center, by the plaza, and adjacent to that of the cacique, his position next to the chief bespeaking his own importance. Guacumao was yelling her name now as he ran, “Tinima! Tinima! Tinima!”

She came to the door of the wood and thatch hut with a basket under one arm and a question on her perfect lips, her hip cocked to hold the weight of the woven container, her legs slender but strong, rising up to a flat-hard stomach and breasts that had not yet started to engorge even though she was with child. “Island-Caribs,” he gasped.

Tinima dropped the basket and pulled the bow and arrow from its place on the wall. “We will fight,” she said.

“There are more than a hundred warriors. We must flee.” The warning call was going up through the village now, voices clamoring in panic, for the Island-Caribs were a fierce people who stole the women and ate the flesh of their defeated foes.

The cacique was now at his side, demanding to know details. “How many? How long? Where?”

“Well over a hundred and they are only minutes behind me from the sea to the south and east. We must flee to the north and west and hide in the hills.”

“Spread the alarm. We will meet at the tsayee-baa tree scarred by fire.”

A blood-curdling scream rent the air at that moment and the enemy was upon them. Guacumao hesitated as he saw a friend have his head bashed in by a macana, a club with a rock attached to the end, the warrior then grabbing the dead man’s wife by the hair and throwing her to the ground, binding her feet and hands.

“Go.” He pushed Tinima ahead. “I will follow you.”

They ran through the village, several times yelling to others to meet up by the tree that the son of the gray serpent and the god of rain, the zemi Boinayel, had thrown fire at from the sky. Boinayel had been angered at the Taino for complaining about the long-dry spell they had been experiencing, and the scorched trunk was a testament for a need to be humble.

An arrow sliced its way across his ribcage, causing Guacumao to turn, tripping and falling as he did so. The village was a shamble behind him as the barbarians were slaughtering the elderly and children that were slower to decamp and elude them. He came to his feet in time to see a warrior knock Tinima to the ground in front of him.

The man with long jet-black hair straddled her to bind her. Guacumao realized he still carried his fishing spear. He hurled the projectile with all of his force at the back of the man, but the wooden stick went wide of its mark much like it did with the fish.

He took several steps and grasped one of the several rope belts looped around the Island-Caribs waist and flung him away from his wife. With a guttural cry of indignation, the warrior rolled over and gained his footing and charged Guacumao, striking him a might blow atop the shoulder with his club. It felt as if half his body had been cleft from him, leaving only the black pain of the night.

Guacumao looked up through the haze of his agony to see the lithe figure with the color of bark of the cinnamon raise his weapon for the final blow. A green stone-ring went from nostril to nostril, his bracelets glimmering in the sun, and then an arrow split his throat in a shower of blood. Tinima grabbed Guacumao by his good arm, pulling him to his feet and urging him to make tracks.

Thirty-nine of them made it to the rendezvous at the tsayee-baa tree. The cacique was not one of them, and it fell upon Guacumao to lead. They remained in hiding until the Island-Caribs had moved on, a period of five days, and then they returned to their yucayeque to bury the dead. The women and children were mostly gone, and the men had strips of flesh cut from their bodies that the Island-Caribs had cut to eat, and thus gain the power of their vanquished foes.

It was only after they buried their friends and relatives that the arguments began. There were, of course, those that wanted to remain where they had always lived, while others insisted, they must travel to the north and the larger settlement of Amamon that held a population ten times that of their previous numbers. When the others had exhausted themselves furthering their opinion, silence descended upon the desolate yucayeque, and all eyes turned to Guacumao.

“I will consult the spirits and ancestors,” he said, knowing that this was a bit presumptuous to take on the task reserved for the cacique, but in the absence of a chief, one must make do.

The Duho was brought to the plaza for the ceremony. The stool, in the shape of a man on all fours gleamed in the sunshine, the dark hardwood burnished meticulously. Tinima rubbed the pigment over his body until only his eyes were not an auburn red.

Guacumao took the proffered vomiting spatula, shoving the stick of wood and bone down his throat and spewed the contents of his stomach onto the ground, not once, but twice, to be certain that all food remnants had been expelled. He then settled himself into the short Duho, the grimacing zemi head between his legs; the back end of the god curled up behind him, while underneath dangled the male genitalia showing virility.

The cohoba pipe was brought forth, the vessel in which a small bowl had been packed with the ground seeds of the cojóbana tree. Guacumao licked his lips nervously, wondering if he would indeed see visions that would resolve their current issue. Would the zemi speak to him? Perhaps the recently killed cacique would come and guide him towards the solution required.

He placed the two y shaped tubes into his nostrils and inhaled mightily, sucking the burning seeds laced with tobacco so that his thoughts were singed. It was as if his head had caught fire, but nonetheless, he handed the cohoba to a man on his right and hunched himself forward on the stool, his elbows resting on his knees and waited whatever message might arrive.

He knew that the snuff was supposed to allow him to see the fifth direction, not north, south, east, or west, but to the bottom of the sea and the stars above. The spirits had woven a pattern of geometric design into the cosmos in which they lived, a key to the path they should follow, and it was the cohoba that allowed only a select few to access that desideratum, and then guide the others in the correct direction.

Guacumao felt the Duho shifting underneath him, and only then realized the gathered survivors of his yucayeque had turned upside down, their brown skin offset by the incredibly vibrant belts, necklaces, and bracelets they wore. He found himself floating above the stool and realized a hole had opened up that led both up and down, although he was not sure which was which.

The blood coursing through his body felt connected to water, land, and air. He was no longer in the plaza, but standing at the bottom of the sea, somehow able to breathe, fish swimming past him as if he was no more than part of the sea grass wavering slightly in the water, the surroundings illuminated brightly, almost enough to be blinding.

A man with a carapace upon his back approached from a distance. “Hello, Guacumao.”

“You are Deminán.” It could be no other, the father of their people, who in the time before, had married the she-turtle, and thus, given birth to the Taino.

Deminán smiled at him and nodded.

“I need to know what to do,” Guacumao said simply.

“West.” Deminán replied, and then turned into a door, revolving and shutting at the same time.

The water was gone and Guacumao found himself perched in the top of the tsayee-baa tree, but now the branches stretched into the very heavens and stars twinkled gently around him. An immense frigate bird appeared, the wingspan nearly twenty feet across, the black feathers darker than death, the scapular with a polished purple sheen, its long bill tilted at the end, much like the hoe used for planting.

Upon his back was a shimmering figure that could have been a river, a star, or a man. It was Yocahu, the supreme creator. He pointed below, and the clouds parted, and Guacumao saw three bodies of land. Directly below his perch in the tree he could see his village of Guamá, could even see himself hunched over in the stool, the others standing around. Yocahu grunted, and then pointed to the land to the west, raised one finger, and then to the third piece of land, and raised his second finger.

Guacumao opened his eyes, his chin sticky with drool and eyes bleary with fatigue. The thirty-eight survivors of the attack stood around him. There were fifteen women, seventeen men, and six children, standing quietly, waiting. Guacumao realized the sun had crossed the sky. With some difficulty, he raised his body stiffly from the Duho, breathing the fresh air deeply into his lungs. He wished he could bathe, plunge himself into the river that ran alongside the village, but he knew that he must report his revelations.

“I took the fifth direction down to the bottom of the sea where Deminán came to me and advised us to go west, toward the setting sun,” he said, taking up a container of water and gulping it greedily down. “I then went up to the heavens where Yocahu displayed the earth, showing directly below us our home island of Borikén. He directed me to build a kanoa from the scarred tsayee-baa tree, and in this vessel, we are to travel west. We will first come to a land he called Kiskeya. He was adamant that we might visit with them, but must not stop, because the flesh eaters and women stealers raid that area as well. Beyond that island is yet another land, a place called Cubao, as the land is fertile and abundant. The Island-Caribs do not travel that far, and we will be safe and prosperous in that land.”

The next day, Guacumao consulted with the tree spirit, receiving permission to cut it down, and was given detailed instruction on how to shape and decorate it. Once the spirit had been consulted and conveyed approval and specifications, they started the fire at the base of the tsayee-baa tree, burning so that their stone axes could chop the charred wood away.

It took over a month before the immense tree came crashing to the ground. They then had to repeat the procedure partway up the 120-foot trunk, deciding that a length of 40 feet was good for their numbers and belongings, a process that only took a week, as they were able to more aggressively burn and scrape.

They used the hot coals to flatten the top and bottom, shaping the sides to taper from wide to narrow. The coals were used to hew, carve, and shape the interior of the tree trunk, several villagers constantly scraping the charred wood until the kanoa had reached the desired form.

The entire operation took over two months, a stint that was filled with preparations for the journey they were about to embark upon. Ropes were made from the calabash tree and stripped fibers from the palm branches, and it was these cords that would be used to drag the finished kanoa the mile distance to the sea. They harvested the cassava they had planted earlier in the year, and the women ground the starchy tuberous root into flour, and then made bread. Beans, peppers, and peanuts were reaped for the journey, and palm nuts, guavas, and Zamia roots were collected from the forest.

Fresh vessels to carry water were made by tempering the clay with sand, ash, and crushed shells. Wet clay was then formed into strips and laid one atop of another, and then molded with the hands for a flat finish. Different symbols were carved into the clay before it was totally dried, the most prevalent being that of the circular hole representing the fifth direction connecting the earth to the cosmos, as well as turtles showing gratitude for the blessing and guidance of the father of all man, Deminán. Once dried, these containers were fired in large open pits until glazed.

Finally, they were ready, and they struck the paddles before the sun emerged over Borikén at their backs, the only home any of them had ever known, but not one of them looked back. Their goodbyes had been already made. Once free of the island tide, they were pushed to the south and west by the current, even though the wind, as almost always, was in their face, blowing towards the rising sun. They worked in two shifts of paddlers, all but three who were too young, eighteen at a time dipping the wooden blades into the sea and propelling themselves forward.

They had no idea how long it would take to reach the next land, and so those not rowing let several lines out with suckerfish hooked by fish bones in an attempt to catch turtles. Three days later, out of water, exhausted from their efforts, and dried brittle by the fire in the sky, a suckerfish attached itself to the back of a turtle, and almost immediately, a second one was latched onto.

Guacumao was preparing to enter the sea to wrestle the turtles aboard their craft along with several others, when Tinima raised her hands. “Wait,” she said, a look of wonder upon her face.

“What is it?” Guacumao froze with his hand on the edge of the kanoa wondering if she had spotted sharks or some other ocean predator.

Tinima pointed to the sun in front of them, and then to the two lines, one on either side of the kanoa, pulled taut, flowing in the same direction. “They are taking us where we want to go.”

Guacumao settled back into the boat, as did the others, looks of awe splashing across their faces. Deminán had sent aid for their journey, or perhaps even come himself. He could feel the others shift their gazes to him and knew that their good fortune was being passed on to his spiritual powers, and that his position as cacique of their small group was cemented, not that he was sure he wanted this responsibility.

Tinima again pointed to the west. “Land,” she said.

But Guacumao was looking east, and he too pointed. “Island-Caribs.” A flotilla of cannibals was bearing down on them from behind, their smaller kanoas rapidly closing the gap. “Row!” he yelled, grasping an oar and digging into the water.

They made way for a sandy beach with a thick forest behind, hoping they could disappear into the dense foliage before their women were taken and their flesh eaten. The tide caught them and began to aid their flight, pulling them into the island of Kiskeya, a white-tailed Tropicbird swooping low over the waves in front of them.

A volley of arrows flew harmlessly over them, carried by the stiff breeze to land in the sand, shafts sticking up like recently planted miniature palm trees. The turtles veered left and right in the shallow water. The man and woman holding each tossed their lines into the water, releasing them and thanking them silently for their assistance.

The Island-Caribs were yelling some unintelligible words, the translation lost, but the intent clear. Guacumao gave one last violent thrust of his paddle and then leaped into the knee-high waves, and along with several others, sent the kanoa hurtling out of the surf and onto the beach. An arrow skipped past him, ricocheted off the rear of the vessel, and impaled the youngest of their group, a boy who was but four years.

Guacumao turned, pulling an oar from the kanoa, and swung the solid paddle into the face of an Island-Carib who was springing at him with a macana poised over his head. The Taino band from the yucayeque of Guamá on the island of Borikén were scrambling across the hundred-yard-wide beach towards the cover beyond while Island-Carib war kanoas hurtled into the sand and the warriors sprang free to give chase.

Guacumao realized they were not going to make it as the flesh-eaters closed in from all sides. He rushed to catch up to his people, leaving the dead child behind in the kanoa. He swept the feet out from under a warrior who was reaching to grasp Tinima’s hair, a look of triumph turning to surprise as Guacumao then drove the handle down into the man’s teeth, smashing them like the jagged rocks where he fished. With thirty-yards yet to go, the Island-Caribs were upon them and there was nothing to do but go down fighting.

It was then that the green forest suddenly turned red, and a wave of natives erupted from the forest with piercing screams. What must have been close to a thousand Taino painted for battle shocked the hundred-plus Island-Caribs who thought they would soon be having their way with the women and eating the flesh of the small band of scared natives.

Only one Island-Carib made it back to his kanoa, turning the sea-craft into the waves in a desperate attempt to escape, but fifty bows were drawn and pointed at him, when a regal and imposing figure of a man raised his hand, and ordered them to let him go. The bows were lowered in disappointment, but with no thought of disobeying, for this cacique held their full respect.

“Let him return to whence he came and tell the tale of what happens to his kind that come to Kiskeya.”

Add a comment

What is your view?

Send

Related posts:

This European country has a serious data privacy problem. And it might not be the one you think of.

Since 2018 and the introduction of the notorious General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR,) all member states have been required to establish a national data protection authority. The role of these…

BUY ZILLOW REVIEWS

If you are a person related to real estate business no matter Agent, landlord, caretaker, land lawyer or even a simple renter then you must have heard the name of Zillow. In terms of online real…

CrossFit Agony and Ardour

The picture on the left is of my sweaty outline. I’d just finished four rounds of twenty-five reps of floor presses using nine-kilo dumbbells. Since I moved to three workouts per week, I’ve ached…