excerpt
The other Indians gripped me by the arms and the cloth of my
habit. Someone hit me hard on one ear, making me reel, and Baruta
punched the air out of my lungs with a solid fist to my wounded
chest. My knees gave way, and I found myself on all fours. I heard
Apacuana screaming.
A pair of feet stood before me, and I raised my head to find
Guacaipuro glaring down at me, unperturbed. I stumbled to my
feet. Still Guacaipuro did not speak. Baruta’s violence had not
impressed him. I suspected he regarded the opinion of his future
daughter-in-law as highly as he regarded the views of his
headstrong son.
“I came,” I said. “God sent me to you.”
Tamanoa translated.
I used my hands sparingly, not wanting to make any threatening
gestures.
“I am shaman!” Guacaipuro declared, indignantly. “I talk to the
spirits. And they talk for Mareoka.”
“I no need no spirits to talk to God,” I replied, proudly, but
without arrogance. “I talk to Mareoka.”
If this was tantamount to heresy in their religion, I did not care.
My only hope was to eventually persuade these people that my
beliefs were stronger than theirs.
“I have message from Mareoka, my friend . . .” I stammered.
Tamanoa translated anxiously. He sensed that I did not have any
idea what I could possibly say next.
“Don’t hurt. Don’t hurt.”
I felt the weight of the book I always carried with me, the
translation of the New Testament by Francisco Enzinas given to me
by Friar Bernardo. I slowly removed it from my pocket.
“I have a greater gift for you,” I said. “Even greater than my gift of
Apacuana.”
When Tamanoa translated, there were murmurs among the
Indians. Baruta was beside himself, as if I had just insulted him.
“Here,” I said, pushing the book forward. “Message.”
The crowd gasped at the sight of a book.
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