Chapter 10 The Taina Bride dreams of Battle and Death  
Ramon Valdez Guaba


Thin smoke is rising in the distance, seemingly from the sea. The smoke
ascends blowing north on the sun driven sea breeze to the distance hidden
lands of Cubanacn, to the wooded rolling plains and savannas of Camagey,
and the ancient eroded hills of Najasa, Tuabaque and Camajan.

Cacique does not have to give an order, the paddlers turn the great canoe
towards the smoke. The vessel turns in a great wide circle, schools of
thin long fish deep in the transparent water turn -- as streaks of
silver-- with move with the craft.

Manta rays rise from a shoal's sand, wiggling poison stinger whip tails.
On flat sheet like, rippling, triangular sheets of fins they fly in the
water as bats in air towards the deep.

On the surface a peaceful giant caguama sea turtle rows with clumsy large
front flippers fleeing away from the turning vessel.

Down in deep vast wells of clear water the Taina Bride sees large sharks.
Some sharks are blue, some gray; some are silver. All are sleek, all
sinuously flex their boneless spines as they swim up and turn towards the
piragua.

They --with great toothed mouths and deadly dull eyes -- gather to follow
the canoe. Fleeing the sharks, the smaller fish school and wheel, flecks
of silver flashes once and then the prey fish are gone, and near the
sharks no other fish play.

Distinct in its ugliness, the great hammerhead shark is still with the
great canoe. A sinuous shadow of the monster fish follows the sea beast on
the shallow sand beneath.

She sees remora fish hanging on the sharks' front bellies like silvered
ribbons. The sharks are moving near the surface now their dorsal fins are
above the sea and make tiny wakes following the canoe's much large path of
churned white on blue.

The paddlers are like mad men, grim faced and angry, she watches how their
muscled arms, shoulders and knotted leaning lopsided to the sea turn shiny
with sweat.

On the horizon smoke first connects to a far line of green. It is a cicu,
a reef island, a cayo or key. The green becomes low bush, a line of white
yellow glistening sand and white tipped waves caressing a beach.

There is movement of distant figure on the beach, amid jumbles of
driftwood and more. The Caribes realize now that the piragua is a large
Taino war canoe carrying many, many warriors and even more hate; they
douse their fires but it is too late. The Caribes smaller canoes cannot
out run the Taino vessel. Leaving the beach, their canoes, tinaja water
jars, cooking fires and their cannibal meat, the Caribes run to the
interior of the small island, to the small rise of dunes and bush there.

The Caribes squat down in the bush down, still except for their shoulders
moving as they dip and turn their arrows heads in their little pots of
poison. They rest the freshly poisoned arrows in rows carefully on twigs
so they can reach them swiftly.

At the beach edge, the sea bottom is covered with sea urchins black with
poisonous brittle spines. The Cacique sees the sea urchins and gives an
order. Paddles dig deep in the shallow water, paddlers muscles strain to
maximum effort; all hold on as the great canoe rams the beach riding over
the slow waves to stop on the sand.

As vessel is aground all rise now. The lead warriors, loop their macana
handle strings to their wrists, grasp their macanas by their cabuya
wrapped handles, loop their feathered wicker shields on their left arms
and stand ready. The Chief and his warriors leap out the prow, and take up
the first line of their well-practiced formation.

The women warriors all are Inuya, all titular wives of the Cacique. All
have several or more lovers among the warriors. They have donned their
battle harnesses, their pampaniya, their tiny bejeweled g-strings, that
flash and glitter in their crotches to distract their foes. They bear
their atlatl throwing spears and launchers over their shoulders. All men
and women, now wear glossy white feather gull-skin helmets, feathers and
skins several layers thick to deflect the arrows of their enemies.

The women are the last the Cacique scowls as their tardiness; the women
warriors, turn to face him, throwing their heads back, pelvises thrust
forward they lewdly rotate their hips at him. The jewels on the women's
g-strings glitter moving in the sun, their lovers cheer. The Cacique barks
and order and the women fall in behind the men.

In the Taino Brides dream vision, the cowardly Caribes are hiding,
crouched beneath the great glossy green cover of sea-grape leaves.

>From the low minature forest the Caribes suddenly stand, their long hair
blowing wildly in the breeze, to shoot their light thin paira bows; but
they do it too early and from too far. The poison arrows float in high
arcs and the sea wind blows most of them aside.

The Caribes have shot too soon and too fast, and they are now without
strength; they came to early, she muses in an earthy battle metaphor. Now
we know where they are she rejoices full of battle lusts.

Cacique in the lead, the Taino warriors stand in wedge formation on the
open strand; each man partial shielding the other; they block the enemy's
frail poison arrows with swift practiced strokes macana strokes, and
collect a few fletched trophies on their shields. The Tainos advance,
arrows rain; in retreat, the rain of arrows ebbs. Taino tactic is repeated
a few more times, until the Caribe cease shooting for they have too few
arrows, left.

The Caribes hold their last poisoned arrows in their hands, as weak short
puny, but venomous, spears.

Then the Cacique's warriors, men and women advance fast. The Taino
warriors fighting two handed with their long strong macana clubs, push
back the Caribes breaking their frail arrows.

The women fighting through their men's legs jab and drive their phallic
lances as in an orgy of murderous rape, cutting at the legs and piercing
the bellies of the enemy. The wounded Caribes scream their agony, and are
run though again.

At the kill, the Tainos push the surviving Caribes into a tight knot and
surround them. The Tainos closing in striking down at the enemy; the stone
and shark teeth edges of the macanas are slicing, bringing blood. The
warrior women's lances pierce the cannibal meat filled guts of the Caribe.

One strong Caribe parries a macana, holding his weak bow two handed at an
oblique and glancing angle; then ducking and kicking breaks out and runs
desperately to the beach trying to reach the canoes.

The Cacique gives an order, the women warriors, take out their atlatl
javelin launchers. The women mount their javelins on the launchers, and
take them to their right shoulder, then they run loose limbed on long
striding legs after the fugitive.

The women warriors run in graceful deadliness, the jewels in their tiny
battle harnesses shining green and red and white in the sun. They reach
the beach as the escaped Caribe is pushing the canoe in the water. The
Taina women stand weapons ready, not fifty feet away and look at Caribe;
he does not turn his head back to look at them, but he hears them and
gives the canoe another desperate push. The warrior women's legs spread,
strong buttocks tighten, right arms are raised; atlatls spear-throwers,
cradle javelins. They take a deep breath and hold it to steady their aim.

The Taina women's right arms drop in unison, ten javelins rise high in the
air, ten javelins hit. The Caribe is pinned under the shallow water to the
sand, his back a forest of javelin shafts, his head of dark bound hair is
moving with ebb and flow of the gentle waves, one hand still on the canoe,
bleeding twitching dying. His dead hand falls from the canoe.

The canoe is loose and floats away out to sea. The women warriors
jubilant, and full of the rush of battle, boast, accompanied by lewd
gestures hip movements emphasizing their bejeweled crotches, the fact that
they are far more accurate with the atlatl javelin than the men. Small
fish begin explore the hair and to nibble at the face dead Caribe in the
water.

The Taino warrior men do not see this show for they are giving final skull
crushing blows macana to the dead and wounded Caribes at their feet.
Bodies twitch, legs drum on the sand, and all is still. Bright red blood
soaks in and clots gritty red-black on white sand, amid the bush.

It is too far above the tide for the sea to washing and make making it
clean again.

The relief that their enemies are dead and now their families' safe,
washes over them tired bloody naked warriors, as gasping from their
exertions, they stand legs shaking, macanas and lances resting on the
ground.

For the Taina once again dream turns in nightmare. She stands legs wide
akimbo, back, arm and buttock muscles twitching from the effort of the
just ended killing. She looks back on the churned, foot tracked sand of
the place of their Taino charge, and she sees two Tainos lying there.

Two of her lovers are stiffening in death by arrow poison. They lie their
faces to the sun, eyes open, their rigid backs arcing from the sand, death
erections growing larger than in ever in life.

One Taino body has a barracuda scarred thigh, the other she knew almost as
well. She had felt them in her body; she had felt their pleasure and hers
combined, and now they are gone. She brushes sand from the dead faces,
kisses them above their eyes, and with careful touch closes their eyelids
forever.

She kisses the scarred thigh, and strokes it gently following the scar
upward. She touches his death erection, and takes it gently into her
mouth, and releases it with a kiss.

Then sadness turns to black anger, she runs into the water, with a great
heave pulls her javelin out of the dead Caribe, rolls him over and with
the razor sharp bloodied point of her weapon slashes his eyes.

Then, in the deepest depths of horror, she recognizes him as her first
love, the once gentle half Taino half Caribe boy, now a man, now a killer
Caribe, now dead. There he lies body ornamented with ritual scars, a
string of human teeth around his neck, a human bone tied in his long hair,
bands of cotton on his legs and thighs. The condor amulet marks him as
from that Caribe clan.

It is not him! It is not him! She screams: this is a monster, an evil
spirit! He is not my first love, he cannot be Camaju, I loved him so! Far
out near the horizon, a thunderhead --dark shadow over dark sea-- burst
out in arching branching rays lightening. Camaju! She said.

Wicked son of thunder! There is your poor soul! Your cana your mother
saved you from this and yet you returned! How can I tell your mother how
you died! May you wander forever finding no rest for what you have done! I
hate you even after death! I hate you! I hate you and all your kind! She
seizes the condor amulet as blood prize, and sobbing places it around her
own neck.

She runs up to the rise, to the sea-grape, in rage. There below a cloud
specked blue sky among bright green leaves and yellow-white sand, she runs
her lance through and through the bellies of the bloodied bodies of the
dead Caribes, till her arms hurt and she tires of hate. The sand is
crimson with Caribe blood.

Taino warriors loot the Condor amulets, for this is the end of that feared
Caribe band. Loot is now round Taino warrior's necks, the bright sunlight
bounces shines off the cruel ornaments. Agate shines in bands of quiet
multi-colored clouds, amethyst glows in purple dreams.

Rust red blood spots mar sea-blue turquoise and dim deep grass-green jade.

Taino dead and the remains of the Caribe cannibal meat, are buried with
gifts and ceremony. Some Taino heads are kept to be cleaned by ants, then
stored among the roofs of the bohios so they, though dead will not be
forgotten, and their Hupia ghost will live among friends.

She severs the throat of her dead barracuda scarred lover, and as his last
blood sinks into the sand, drives her lance through the vertebrae. She
takes his head to washes it in the sea. She washes herself clean in salt
water; as she comes out she is sobbing desperately cradling the head.

The Cacique comes over and rests his arm on her shoulder until her sobs
cease; his eyes are moist for he too has lost this friend. The Cacique
takes the head and carries with care to place it the stern of the great
piragua and then returns to embrace her. She clings to him desperately. He
is proud of her bravery.

The Cacique gives another order, some of the dead Caribes nearest the
beach are to be picked up, carried to the sea edge and thrown to the
sharks. Bodies are dragged through bush, dead leaves and twigs stick,
through the dry sand limp hands make finger tracings, the sand turns wet
semisolid gore sticks to the beach in dark, red clots following body
smoothed paths to the sea.

The bodies splash ragged edged clear sheets of spray as they hit the
water. First there is nothing, then terrible havoc. The sea heaves and
foams. She looks out to sea, amid the turbulence thin streaks of red mark
the place that the Caribe bodies were thrown. It is all over fast.

Tanam sees a very large dorsal fin through the slow clear water; she can
see it is the hammerhead. Now death has come, the shark has fed, and once
filled its gut, the great fish is leaving.

The shadow of death is now lifted, still the tingling almost sexual thrill
of surviving victorious battle is with her, and carries over her dream
sorrow. The sandy beach the celebration stores of the great Taino canoe
are opened from the great, round, red brown clay jars stored in the stern.
Feasts first, then areitos begin on the beach.

Above them, unnoticed in the sea-grape the birds too begin their feast.
For other Caribe dead lie in patches of gore among the purple fruit and
green leaves sea-grape above the beach and out of sight.

The first carrion feeders are dressed in gray white wings, and land beside
the dead on yellow webbed feet. The gulls gather courage and after waiting
approach without fear for the dead do not move. Gulls peck dead eyes,
probe dead ears, unsuccessfully probe dead skin, and with more success
pull, like taffy eaters, at the testicles of the dead.

Dots appear high in the sky to the north, birds are coming; these are
larger birds. Their wings are tipped with feathers like fingers. These are
not swift flying hawks, for they fly too gracefully and lazily, gliding
and floating on air currents. The birds grow larger. They are clearly seen
now, as dark auras, scavengers of the sky.

Flying lower, then roosting in the sea-grape, branches bending under their
weight the auras arrive. Cautiously they land on feather-tufted thighs and
skinny naked legs, their ugly, bald heads, wrinkled necks and large,
nostril-pierced, hooked beaks spoiling the illusion of grace their flight
had given.

The aura buzzards peck at the gulls; the gulls too small to resist these
larger birds, scatter and remain in the background. Carefully, ever so
carefully the auras and gulls watch the Tainos on the beach.

For the dead Caribes lie there, now alone on the island's low rise under
the sea grape, the beach is not their place celebration. Here beyond the
beach, their fate now lies with the birds.

One aura approaches a cadaver and pecks cautiously, no response, pecks
again, the body does not move. Suddenly the auras close, in fighting,
pecking at each other; the buzzards stick their heads through the belly
wounds, ripping flesh dragging out loops of white and pink intestines.

In sad comedy they pull, fight and peck to hold and eat the strings of
guts. Gulls fly in trying to steal scraps of flesh torn by the auras, then
when successful fight each other in acrobatic flight for the fragments of
meat.

Birds eat to their fill, and roost near by staining the sea grape with
their foul slimy gray-white droppings. The birds are content, here they
have food for days.

On the beach celebrating all are celebrating except for a young Taino
warrior, pale from vomiting his fear; he sits crouched in stillness a
little way from the Taino feast. His macana soiled with patches of
straight black hair, and blotches of red clotting blood. His shield has a
poisoned arrow almost through it. He is not hurt, and has broken off the
lethal arrowhead. Still he shakes, but then relaxes and falls asleep where
he is.

The night falls on a victory dance. As the pale light of the tropical full
moon turns all sand to silver, bodies touch; bodies meet; the lovemaking
begins and is soon driven to frenzy by the recent terror, the recent
death.

A warrior woman separates from the melee of frenzied intercourse, goes
over to the sleeping young warrior and after setting aside his lethal
weaponry gently wakes him. He startles at her touch. The warrior woman
assuages his fear, with a quiet hug. Feeling her warmth, slowly the young
warrior returns the hug, with increasing strength and interest, and soon
both are entwined and oblivious of all but themselves.

For an instant they are in perfect union. She is half on her side her head
back, resting on her right elbow, a great fold of her hair around her neck
falls between her breasts floating at each thrust. He is driving fast and
hard, his hands clasped around her buttocks. Her pelvis is thrusting back
at him; his penis is driving low between her swelling labia deep into her.

She is breathing heavily, her diaphragm rising and falling fast, her belly
muscles divided along their length changing shape as each breath comes in
and out. Repeatedly, the belly crease at her navel waxes larger, and wanes
disappearing from her abdomen. His eyes are vacant he sees nothing, his
mouth is open, he is moaning quietly.

Then suddenly her ribs start to stand out in strong relief, as her chest
expands even more taking in a huge gulp of air. Veins on the side of her
neck pulse, the skin above her cheekbones flushes dark, her eyes close in
pleasure. She gives a low grunt, holds a massive breath, then sings one
long powerful high note again and again and again.

As she sings, and the air leaves her lungs, her diaphragm closes down on
her belly and her vagina's barrel clamps and holds. He cannot come, his
penis swells with sperm, he cannot stand the ecstasy; his heart feels as
if it will break. His eyes turn blood-shot with the effort.

He does not care. She relaxes to take in a breath, he jets pulsing,
pulsing warm and wet inside her.

The pair rest in post coital lassitude, they lay there quietly catching
their breath. Her back is the on sand; he, still inside her, lies on his
side below her crotch, his left thigh just below, along side and touching
hers. His now diminished penis half-withdrawn, and his fears half allayed.
Little trickles of viscous fluid drip between them on to the sand.

They feel the perfection of the comfort of each-others' presence. For a
few instants there is nothing else.

The young warrior, war trauma temporally eased, falls asleep again. She,
her clitoris throbbing yet for more, her needs not yet assuaged, gently
separates to seek more balm to calm her own fears and satiate her needs.

Among the crew of great canoe there are many more men, than women. Couples
dot the beach copulating vigorously in every way, the surplus men wait
their turn in a fever of impatience.

Fear not yet gone and relief at living not quite yet realized no one is
rational. The warrior men and woman, their needs multiplied by crashing
raging seas of emotion, make orgy beyond reason. With their first lovers
done, women lie on their backs, grasping a hand under each of their
thighs, they pull their legs apart to widen their crotches, and call for
men and more.

Men find their organs will not die and keep rising again and again. Every
position is tested, women ride and are ridden.

Surrounded by waiting suitors, a woman warrior, riding her man, leans
forward on his chest and offers to takes another at the same time.

The new man grasps her rear with a hand on each buttock cheek, holding
wide her firm woman flesh, penetrates driving and driving.

She first gasps, laughs in surprise at the dual sensation, then feeling
both men have their organs deep inside her, pushes back hard. The phalli
drive back repeatedly faster and faster. Legs and arms on the sand
straining under the weight of the man above, face distorted by
overwhelming gratifying feelings, eyes half hooded and glazed over, mouth
open in climatic scream, she responds. With uncaring roughness, she forces
the whole surface of her pudenda, front, bottom and rear, against them and
comes again and again.

The coupled men come, grunting their climax, for a few moments their
phalli lose turgidity, and they release their holds. The woman rises
brushes sand off her body, walks over to the other waiting men, and does
it all again, and again as men recover.

Taina bride is riding Hupia, the Cacique's great tool. He is face up on
the sand, she is sitting upright and faces away from him to the clean
shadows of the deep ocean. As she rides up and down, her mind clouded by
mixture of relief and fear, she does not come.

She feels that even the great Hupia is not enough today. She has him
enormous and moving vigorously inside her, and yet it is not enough.

Her nipples tingle seeking greater pressures. Her clitoris, her whole
vulva, her inner vagina, the pulsating sensitized mouth of her womb,
scream for more. She too calls for help; men come to her call.

Rising on Hupia, she turns to face the Cacique, kisses his face gently,
and bends forward. She, looks only at the Cacique, yet feels other hands
around her waist, a quiet kiss on the small of her back. Her face
startles, then calms, at the smooth entry of another phallus into another
recess of her body.

Tanam rides and she is ridden, in double time two penises drive at frantic
pace, pleasure rides up and down her spine. Yet as excited as she is on
the edge of climax, she does not come. The Cacique's Hupia lasts with her,
but her phallus of second rider does not, and he and those who follow are
successively replaced.

Finally an ending comes to her, she shudders, her body shakes with
pleasure. Torso stretched upward, mouth widened to the point of pain, her
neck bending back, she strains to give full voice to her ecstatic release;
she climaxes again and again. Hupia responds as always to her needs,
coming too; her thighs and crotch are covered with sperm; she rests; she
is done for tonight. She, at last in peace, sleeps among the arms of her
lovers.

Still as she sleeps double ridden women dot the strand and the frantic
pumping becomes general. Oscillating rumps do the dance of the many-legged
beast and moving pale reflections glint off heaving wet skin in the
moonlight.

The empty sea echoes to cries of pleasure. The women climax repeatedly to
exhaustion. The men, each in turn collapse, as they are finally exhausted;
the women rest, and quietly compare the efforts of their lists of
tonight's lovers.

Some women warriors laugh and others cry. The sands cool and all gather
together body touching body to stay warm. A persistent penis rises once
again, and finding a warm wet home, drives on till dawn.

All others sleep, but few find shelter, without troubling dreams, in this
temporary oblivion.

In the dark, avoiding the noise of the Taino celebration to hurry across
the moon lit open beach to reach the bush, lively red and black sea crabs
come out of the water from under submerged rocks. These small and lively
animal scamper fast in their advance. Huge blue-ash and gray, land crabs
come cautious but persistently out of their burrows at the edge of dank
mangrove swamps. The land crabs come peeking over obstacles with their
long stalk eyes, treading ever so cautiously like a lover escaping an
irate husband in a French farce. Their thin long pincers are held aloft
like a fencer's foil.

The crabs go towards the sea-grape bush. The crabs advance pincers aloft,
pushing, shoving and eating each other to raid the carcasses of the
Caribes. Masses of the crustaceans, crawling crabs by the thousands cover
the bodies. Above the fighting crabs, auras roost nosily slipping and
stumbling, and pecking each other on the weak branches of the sea grape.
The gulls sleep in a group, wings folded floating on gently rocking
shallow waters far from predatory fish.

Morning comes and crabs crawl to their holes. The sun first lights the
beach throwing long shadows from east to west, then heats the sand.

The Tainos find an area free of sea urchins to bathe in. They eat, they
smash the Caribes water jars against each other. Then with much heaving
and effort the great canoe is launched; the paddlers dig into the sea, the
vessel accelerates rapidly crashing through the light rolling surf, and
leaves pulling the smaller Caribe canoes like toys behind it.

The paddlers chant songs of victory; the sea is clean and shiny, no sharks
follow. The Taino warriors are going home.

The only Caribe survivor comes out of hiding, peers out the sea grape and
in despair watches his towed canoe go towards the horizon; he knows he
will die here for this island has no water. He will poison himself with
his last broken arrow rather than die or thirst, he will only be mourned
by the return of the carrion eating birds and he will only be buried
inside the scavenging crabs. He looks around.

As the Taino vessel leaves, on the island the first arrived auras raise
sooty wings to lift from their low roosts, they drop down to continue
their feast and the gulls trying to get a meal chase the scurrying crabs,
yet other auras keep coming from far. In a day or two there will be
nothing left, but the foul smell on ripped green leaves covering white
bones, white leavings of powerful digestive systems all around, and the
island will return to quiet. These great birds will soon be gone from the
sky above.

The lone Caribe composes himself; he sits cross-legged on the beach, and
sings his death song to the now empty sea. An aura vulture lands on the
beach not far away, wings folded, legs still the bird looks around, moving
only its eyes and its repulsive wrinkled featherless neck; it sees him.

Caribe looks at the foul bird, a breeze sends its dread odor to his nose;
the last cannibal looks away. He raises his right hand; strikes down
firmly, he feels the envenomed arrowhead pierce the soft part of his inner
thigh.

The wound burns a little; then he feels nothing, nothing hurts at all; he
thinks, all pain is gone. Then sudden rapid incredible pain; he stiffens,
and turns rigid the world contracts to a pinprick hole, his mind still
working he feels his heart stop. The last sleep comes; his body falls
sideways, and the watching bird walk-hops watchfully and carefully towards
him.

A great condor --never seen here since the last great ground-sloth died--
comes in on vast wings from a distant nowhere in that vast blue dome of
sky. He, the crested great beaked, one drives off the aura. The condor
sits, in calm repose at the head of the last Caribe of the bird named
band.

The great vulture waits a day as if to mourn, then eats. The bird tarries
days untill all is gone, and then slowly lifts to disappear into the blue.

The green tinged island is as beautiful as it ever was, tides smooth the
disturbed beach. The sky opens and torrential rains clean the sea-grape
leaves. Rotting meat and putrid blood break down. Nitrogen seeps to the
roots of the bushes and the plants grows lush and emerald green. The
garden isles of the Gulf of Guacanayabo are as they were before.

Copyright @2001, held by Larry Daley for Ramn Valdez Guab