Free Taino by Jose Barreiro

Guaikán.” He repeated: “Guaikán.” Now he said: “Rodrigo.” I said: “Oligo.” He smiled and nodded his head to affirm my word. He put his hand on my shoulder. “ Amigo ,” he said. “Oligo,” I said. We laughed.
    I looked him up and down. He was all covered with clothes, even his feet were crisscrossed with rope. I caught myself staring, and he read my thoughts, grabbing his groin and pointing at mine, again nodding. I laughed, as I had noticed him passing his waters. Our men, of course, went naked. My yuán was free. Everybody, both our men and theirs, stared a lot that day. Then, while some remained to stare a while longer, most of us walked away.

    Twenty-one. Report to the elders and pubescence.
    That night we had a meeting at Old Guanahaní village. Everyone came, even the oldest of grandmothers, crowding around the cohoba elders as the inhaling mixture was prepared and the men lined up at the edge of the trees, inserting vomiting spatulas to cleanse themselves.
    The old-man title holder of Guanahaní, whom we called the Guanahabax, chose the opening song. Appropriately the song told of Deminán and his three brothers—the dual set of spiritual twins—our spirit forebears who traveled the clouds, enduring adventures and creating the sea and islands of our world. Yucahuguama Bagua Maórocoti, Grand Spirit of our sustaining world, was thanked for the creation of the mother of the four brothers, but it was the four, the doers and makers, who were intoned. Significantly, the cohoba was not touched to start. The old men had opted to inhale only after the reports of the greeting on the beach.
    Everyone was so greatly excited, waiting in anticipation for the reports, even the food was neglected. The song ended and there was a pause in expectation of what we called, in our ceremonies, the little feast, which did not materialize, as the women food preparers and all their assistants were intent on listening. Aware of the anticipation, the nimble Cibanakán stood, holding his open palm out to the group.
    â€œI will start,” he said, as the old men nodded, “to tell of the wondrous day. A Guamíquina has come, I saw today. A Guamíquina and three vessels, full of hair-faced, covered beings. Nothing I have ever seen prepares us for this day. Yet I saw them smile, mostly. They traded gifts with us, and everything they have is wonderful, just wonderfully wonderful. Small rattles, made of guanin , pretty, pretty noise. A cloth so smooth I wanted to eat it. A long sharp edge, so sharp and heavy my cousin Turey was cut in his hand as he tried to hold it.”
    Everyone looked at Turey, who stared shyly at the ground. A bandage made by the red-haired Guamíquina himself was wrapped around his hand. His old mother, next to him, took the hand and raised it up and Turey smiled.
    â€œThe Guamíquina,” Cibanakán continued. “He speaks to the sky, and his men murmur with him as he intones orations. It sounded nice, very nice. His hair is red like the inside of a parrot’s wing and wavy like the sea. And he has a very quick way to strike fire. Amazing. A click on a click and there is flame, red like his hair.”
    Something wonderful and strange was happening to me. The sun was low on the horizon, one of those beautiful afternoons, red on the water, red in the sky, the end of a day so full of wonder I could hardly sit. Yet the elders had opened the meeting and it was impolite to fidget. So I sat still though my heart raced, flapping in my chest like a fish in a canoe, and a warming glow covered my abdomen, my inner thighs, my yúan .
    I want to be truthful, so much I have seen and endured since that evening. But that night, after Cibanakán’s story was discussed and digested, as my turn came to speak, a great honor considering my age, I felt myself stiffen as I stood and in my chest a heat, an excitement I had never imagined