“Three Names”

This story is by Linda Ross and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

“Hot water! Ahora! You idiot spawn of a monkey! Marcos!

The slave named Marcos scurries to the tin washtub with a kettle of boiling water to freshen his master’s tepid bath. When one’s master is a Castilian gentleman, there’s no excuse to forgo a hot bath, even in the frontier borderlands of New Spain.

With the expedition camped for the night, Marcos will sleep on a blanket at the foot of his master’s cot. Resigned to minimal personal space, the slave’s squat torso is a silhouette of the oak water barrel he lugged earlier to his master’s tent.

In counterpoint to his stubby body, Marcos’ fingers are narrow, poetically long with tapered ends – an artist’s hands despite hard-earned callouses. As a small boy named Marzuq in southern Spain, he found joy in shaping animal figures from clay mud found near the Alhambra’s canal, unless summoned to one of his slave duties.

He now owns nothing, except ragged childhood memories of tranquil gardens with sparkling, sun-kissed pools, vivid mosaic tiles, and tantalizing saffron wafting from cone-shaped clay pots. Spain stole the magnificent citadel and palace several generations past. His Muslim ancestors survived by adopting outward trappings of their Christian conquerors but nurtured their culture in clandestine ways.

Only at night did his mother sing secretly to little Marzuq in Arabic. She dared to only whisper his forbidden name in their slave hut, until she was sold to a Portuguese trader. At age 6, Marzuq was gifted to the Alhambra viceroy’s entitled son.

“ ‘Marcos.’ You’ll obey me, as ‘Marcos.’ ” proclaimed his new master. “Marzuq” no longer existed; his childhood was vanquished and his clay animals were abandoned.

Now, Marcos carries two smiles. One must stay guarded and private for moments of simple joys; a concealed smile for bright yellow butterflies cavorting among mesquite bushes along El Camino Real. Or when he flashes his covert smile when viewing pristine vistas from Montañas Rocosas’ sky-high peaks. His master never catches these guarded smiles. Their honesty is too real to be shared.

Marcos’ second smile is a survival reflex to assure his master of docile submission. Fifteen years of obedience to his master have taught Marcos the wisdom of surface simplicity in actions and words. Revealing his real smile is dangerous, a fool’s dream. He eats pork and forgets praying towards Mecca. Memories of his Moorish childhood have begun to fade like sweet smoke rising from an incense burner.

The conquistadors march north. Their expedition is far from any protection by military presidios and Franciscan missions at established colonies in Nuevo Mexico.

In full silver armor, velvet doublet and plumed helmet, his master is colonial Spanish power astride his large roan horse. Seeking Quivira’s riches, he sits high above the dust, confident and proud. Marcos plods behind him in quiet servitude, dreaming of perfumed rose gardens, filagree mahogany carvings and bubbling fountains.

The Spanish credo of superiority with the privileges of wealth keep their Moorish slaves in their God-decreed status as inferiors. They rarely speak directly to their masters. “Si” and “Claro, mi dueno” are the most utilized responses. Believed to be incapable of intellectual nuances in philosophy, art, and literacy, Marcos and his kindred are pre-ordained to be lesser by their dark skin and bushy hair.

“Polish my boots tonight, Marcos. Or it’s Zacatecas’ silver mines for your lazy soul!” Although his master is never physically cruel, his threats are as sharp as the lash or brand. Marcos serves as an accessory to proclaim this Spanish gentleman’s all-important social status. Physical deformities from punishment would reflect poorly on his master’s image.

Marcos saves his secret smile for himself and composes poetry in his head about dancing butterflies when polishing his master’s armor. He imagines Moorish designs, intricate and lyrical, when emptying his master’s porcelain chamber pot early each morning. Inwardly scoffing at the sight of his master wearing the steel helmet shaped like an oversized almond, Marcos memorizes colors of each sunset to later relish an inner visual feast. When oiling his master’s elegant leather gauntlets, his imagination spins stories about fantastic, winged creatures, impish genies, and virginal maidens with ebony bodies draped in silk.

 

The morning when Ute warriors slay his master, Marcos loses one of his smiles forever. After saddling his master’s stallion for the day’s march, he empties the chamber pot into the nearby creek. When bushes rustle, he’s the first to see war-painted faces of armed Utes emerge from dawn’s morning mist.

Marcos, with no weapon, dashes for an ox cart, clutching the emptied chamber pot against his chest. Huddling against a stack of firewood, he witnesses His Majesty’s Royal Expedition succumb in a frenzy of desperate screams and cries of “Ay, Dios mio!”

Outnumbered in the Utes’ early dawn ambush, a melee of panicked grabbing of swords, lances, crossbows, and slow-loading harquebus muskets confront an onslaught of Ute arrows and hatchets. Marcos sees his master briefly appear through the tent’s opening before an arrow slices through his throat, spilling blood on his elaborate lace ruff and velvet dressing gown. He dies choking, his eyes locked on Marcos and unable to scream for his slave to save him.

With a ruthless sweep through the expedition’s camp, Ute warriors massacre unarmored soldiers, pleading padres, and gentlemen half-dressed in fine linen shirts. In terrified fascination, Marcos faces the hopelessness of the Spaniards’ attempts to defend themselves.

One Franciscan padre, known for a zealous fervor to baptize all heathens, trips on his robes in front of Marcos. A warrior sprints to him, hatchet raised. Babbling in Latin, the padre flails on his back in the dirt. The hatchet goes deep into the padre’s chest, sending him to his heavenly reward.

Marcos’ fingers touch a crude pewter cross hanging around his neck on a thin jute cord. He remembers how this padre forced his baptism, keeping Marco’s head underwater longer than needed. Choking and gasping, he heard him demand the cross must always be worn or Marcos would burn with hellfire in the afterlife. Like his slave smile, he wears the cross for survival. It means nothing to him and is heavy.

The warrior grunts and wrenches the hatchet out of the dead padre. Two fresh scalps dangle like grotesque pelts from his breechcloth. Intent and fierce, he takes swift steps towards Marcos to glare down at him. Eyes meet. Marco stares back, now sure he’ll never again see the Alhambra nor tomorrow’s dawn. He looks down at quilled moccasins just inches away and sees blood dripping from the half-raised hatchet. Looking up, he doesn’t run but keeps his eyes on the warrior’s face without flinching, knowing this will be his last vision.

The warrior reaches out with his free hand to brush along the top of Marcos’ bushy hair. He clutches and explores a handful with his fingers. Marcos remembers his mother’s soft voice and how early morning sunshine will soon grace the western mountain peaks. For a reason he’s never able to explain later to his grandchildren, he smiles his true smile, ready to die as himself.

In measured inches, he reaches for the cord around his neck, gives a hard yank, and holds up the cross forced on him by the dead padre. Spitting on it, he flings it into the dust.

“Now, I will die as Marzuq.”

No bloody hatchet swings down into his skull. While his comrades ransack the Spaniards’ food supply, the silent warrior scrutinizes Marcos. Walking away, he gestures to a tall warrior giving orders. They huddle and take long piercing looks at Marcos. Feeling suspended between life and death, Marcos stays by the ox cart but stands up to make sense of his situation. Alone. He sees no promises of glory and gold, all in the grand expedition are now dead.

Carts and tents are set afire and useless possessions surrender to ravenous flames. Oxen and horses are rounded up as  precious plunder for the tribe. Ready to move on, the Utes also seize food, cooking pots, and weapons.

The warrior selects a horse from the captured animals and Marcos is handed reins of a familiar roan. Near his master’s dead body, the ornately tooled saddle with silver stirrups is dumped as unimportant. The porcelain chamber pot shatters when a smiling Marcos tosses it on the saddle pommel. Without words, Marcos mounts his horse.

Left behind is his slave smile, two names, and a crudely made cross. Over open plains near the mountains, he follows the Utes south to his newly adopted life. Freedom feels like coming home.

In time, his tribe gives him his third and final name: Little Buffalo. His mesmerizing tales of a distant Moorish palace and haunting songs in a strange tongue are favored with respect around communal campfires. Clever clay animals like deer and buffalo are cherished by the tribe’s children. Little Buffalo is often seen contemplating on a high rock, smiling at the splendor of the sunset in peace.