by Mark Oshiro
Our eye contact was brief, but she pierced me with her gaze, so cold and tense. How? How was she still here? Had Emilia’s father sent her back to get me?
I glared at her, a ferocious hatred for her and her father burning through me. Let her try to get to me. Let her try to stop me from leaving. She was good at that: doing nothing at all.
Then watch me, Emilia.
I walked away. That walk became a run, and I was beyond el mercadito, beyond Marisol’s, beyond so many places and people in Empalme that I had known since I was a little girl, and when I got to the gate on the northern edge of la aldea, I flung it open, let it slam shut behind me, and I did not turn back for a long, long time.
I ran, Solís.
From Emilia. From Julio. From Empalme.
From everything.
I don’t know for how long. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. I ran because I had to, because I wanted to put distance between myself and Emilia, because I had to get as far away from Empalme as I could, lest I change my mind. If she was supposed to track me down, I wanted to give her as difficult of a job as possible.
I slowed only when my chest felt as if it would burst. I climbed up the side of a short hill, then finally gazed in the direction that I had come. Empalme was nothing but a speck behind me, a dark brown mound in the distance, the only sign of life in any direction. The mountain pass that Marisol had instructed me to take was hours to the north of me, still short and manageable at this distance, but I swung back around. No clouds of dust rising from the ground. No one on the clear, flat path back to Empalme, nothing. No one followed me; no one was chasing me down.
So I didn’t stop.
Out here, the land stretched farther than I could see, and the horizon, shimmering and shining in the morning heat, held possibility. When I moved toward it, secrets were revealed. The earth could give you patches of mesquites, the unwavering arms of the saguaros, the pointed branches of the paloverdes.
I’d learned long ago from Papá that the desert could also give you an illusion, its own magic, a trick of the mind and of Your land. I was taught that if we did not please You, You would fool us. You might let us believe in the oasis we saw where the sky met the earth, and You would pull us miles off course, until finally, we would return to You.
I had to keep a clear mind, and so I kept my breathing regular, something Papá had taught me from his trips to Obregán. In, out, in, out, in a constant rhythm. I kept going. Every doubt I had was burned away by the sun, by the distance I put between my old life and … this.
What was this? What would this become? Who would I become?
They ran up to me then, and I was so convinced that my mind was playing tricks on me that I only glanced at los lobos and kept walking. I had seen lobos in the desert many times, and they were skittish bestias. They did not attack humans unless given a reason to. But one of them—large, with fur that was the color of sand and dirt—bolted in front of me, and finally I heard them.
You are la cuentista, they said.
I stopped walking, stilled by the realization washing over me.
The guardians.
They had not left after all.
“I am,” I said, my voice shaking. They had never spoken to me in all the years I’d been in Empalme. Never spoken to anyone, really, except la Señora Sánchez and elders before her.
You are leaving, they said, and they sat on the trail in front of me. The others—their coats varying shades of brown and gray—assembled behind the largest one. They all stared right at me, but only one of them spoke to me.
We will take care of Empalme, they said.
“But la señora Sánchez told us last night that you had left us,” I countered. “That you had abandoned us.”
That is not our way, they said. We only hid from the one who attacked us.
“He is not from Empalme. And he is gone.”
We know.
I took a step forward, and I knelt in front of them. “You will stay?”
Empalme needs our help while you are away. Until you return.
I grimaced. “I am not so sure I will.”
They regarded me, saying nothing. You will return, and you will change it all.
They moved off to the east. What did that mean? I had no time to ask. They left me in the dirt, under Your heat.
They left me alone.
They left me free.
* * *
I continued to walk to the north, continued to push out every fear that cropped up, every bit of terror that hid within the stories I had. There was a comfort in knowing that our guardians had not left us, but I still had to distract myself in order to remain hopeful.
So I imagined myself with wings, great big brown appendages with sleek feathers, and I thought of pitching up and down in the air, watching the land pass below me. Flying over montañas, over valles, wherever I wanted.
Wherever I wanted. An hour later, I glanced back.
Empalme was out of sight.
No mound, no speck of dust, nothing.
I was farther out in the desert than I had ever been, and each step was a choice, was a conscious decision, was an act of freedom. No one was telling me to take a story. No one was telling me that it had to feel good to be needed. Every bit I moved forward plunged me further into the utterly unknown.
For the time being, no one was looking over my shoulder, no one was expecting anything of me, and I got to choose whatever I wanted to do.
Soy libre.
The sensation dripped down with each bead of sweat.
Each step I took.
Each breath that filled my lungs.
I was supposed to be free.
I was supposed to choose myself.
* * *
Manolito visited me before el mediodía.
* * *
I knew the desert played tricks on the mind. I was focused on breathing evenly, breaking my routine only when I had to direct myself around saguaros or down into small ravines. I remained careful not to lose my footing, and I kept an eye on las montañas to the north so as not to drift too far from the trail that ran toward it.
I remembered Marisol’s instructions: find Los Gemelos.
As the sun’s heat spread over my skin, I started thinking about my time as a cuentista. The elation I felt over my newfound freedom—and the guilt of my failures that pierced me—finally gave way to something new. What are You to me? I wondered. My only connection to You was these stories, the refuse that poured out of my mouth, bitter and thick, and into the earth. They were my responsibility.
But Solís, You had remained silent my entire life. I was Your cuentista, but what were You to me?
More and more sweat dripped down my face. I stopped every quarter hour to take a small drink of water, then continued on. I was the only sound in every direction. Who else would be foolish enough to walk for miles and miles during the hottest part of the day? Not the creatures that thrived out here. Even they knew this was the time for resting, for hiding, for disappearing.
But not me. I was alone out here.
Soy libre.
* * *
He stood off to the side, his form nearly hidden behind a thick saguaro trunk, and it was only the flash of red, the blood from where his arm had been torn off, that caught my eye. I had almost missed him.
* * *
Don’t trust it, I told myself. It isn’t real.
* * *
I spun my leather pack around to the front, then unlatched it so I could get some water. I was starting to sense the pressure building, first behind my eyes, then on the back of my neck. I’d been under the sun for a long time, and my body was trying to warn me to rest, to drink water, and that’s why it sent me the bloody image of Manolito.
At least that’s what I tried to convince myself of. I settled my bag on my back again, pushed on farther and—
He
was
right
there.
Standing so close to me now, blood oozing out
of the stump where his arm had been, and his torso was a terrible mess. I averted my eyes from whatever hung out of the gash on his stomach and choked back a horrified cry. I couldn’t afford to lose what little I had managed to eat over the last half day. That would bring me closer to death.
He was there again in front of me. I shut my eyes and walked. Felt nothing. Opened my eyes.
He was still the same distance from me.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Did Solís send you?”
“You have to turn back,” he said, or at least, that’s what it sounded like. When his mouth opened, they poured out: both the words and maggots. A sign of rot, a sign that Manolito had become a meal for something else. Where was his body? Is this what he looked like now? The insects tumbled to the ground, piling upon one another, then his tongue, split on the side and shredded, half consumed by el sabueso, drooped to the sand.
“Go back,” he slurred. “You must.”
I was firmly planted where I stood, but when he took a step toward me, I tumbled, fell back onto my elbows, a new pain bolting up my arms.
“Lo siento, Lito,” I said, softly, barely able to speak. “Lo siento que te pasó.”
“Go back,” he oozed.
“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t go back there. I can’t let them pay the price for what I’ve done. I have to find out what’s in the desert. What’s in Obregán.”
His head tilted to the side as if he was considering something. “You were warned,” he said, and he took another horrible step toward me, and from where I lay sprawled on the ground, I could see that his right leg was barely connected to his body, that it was held by sinews of tendons and muscle, that he might fall apart right there.
Lito reached down. His hand—those cold, bloody fingertips—brushed over my cheek.
“You will see me only one more time, Xo,” he said. “And it will be before you admit the truth.”
For just a flash, I saw him. Lito. The man I knew, who told me stories of Obregán and the desert beyond, and through that bloody, mangled face, he came back to me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said. “I should have told you everything.”
His whole form collapsed, as if he had never been there in the first place, and a hot wind gusted around me, sending ash—what remained of Manolito—into the air.
He was gone.
My stomach lurched, but I ignored it, desperate to keep the food down. I sucked in a breath, tilted my head back, let it out.
I was still alive. I was still here. So I stood up, and I brushed myself off. I forced a little water down, and then—
I kept walking.
Was that You, Solís? Or something else? Did the guardians send him to me?
I pushed away so much uncertainty on that day.
Most of all, I tried to ignore the fear that You were still watching me.
It would have made more sense to walk during the night, when I could be hidden, but I was alone. And I had no knowledge of where I was going. So I kept walking, with only those poemas in my heart.
As terrible as Julio was, he, too, had been a cuentista—and he was evidence that what I was told as a child could not be true.
Soy libre.
Did You understand me? Or did You think I was a fool?
I believed in myself despite everything that told me not to.
Is that really so bad?
I picked up the pace at first, a desperate attempt at escaping the spot where Lito had appeared and then turned to ash. My legs wobbled, but despite the scare, I remained determined. I had to keep going. Was I running from guilt and shame? Maybe.
Maybe deep down, I thought that if I walked faster, I’d never have to accept that I had kept all those stories, that I had played a part in accelerating everything. Mamá had said that they expected me to leave. Had they known that I would betray Empalme, too?
I kept my eyes on the trail ahead, about ten paces or so in front of me, because it helped me feel like the landscape was passing much quicker than it was. Your heat cut straight through my skin, seemed to cook the bones and muscle and tendons that held my body together. It was a piercing sensation, like terrible knives shooting into me. But I didn’t complain. I said nothing when my monthly cramps rushed into my abdomen, and I grimaced as they forced me to stop and breathe deeply. They passed for the moment, certain to come back, and I kept going.
The land bled into itself, repetitive in a manner that made it difficult to tell anything apart. I hadn’t passed that patch of prickly pear before, right? And that mesquite or those ocotillos were new, ¿no? Las montañas seemed closer, but there was no way to tell. Browns blurred into dull greens; each hill or shallow valle barely differed from the others; the saguaros stood still, bearing witness to my passage, acting as silent judges on Your behalf.
And I kept walking,
and walking,
and
walking.
* * *
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone.
My head throbbed, and each pump of blood sent pain to my temples, down the back of my neck. The journey stretched out before me, and it occurred to me that this could all be endless. Impossible.
It was a silly thought, one I discarded by laughing so my whole body shook. “Stop it, Xochitl,” I told myself. “It’s the heat. You were foolish enough to walk during the hottest part of the day. You’ve done it before. Do it again.”
I had not spoken in so long that it was soothing to feel the words emit from my throat. I took another drink of water—nearly a quarter of it gone, I noticed—and swallowed it gratefully.
I cleared my throat and recited la poema from memory:
Este mundo de cenizas
no puede contenerme
No hay paredes
para detenerme
Soy libre.
This world of ashes
cannot contain me
There are no walls
to stop me
I am free.
I was free. It was a terrifying thought, but I let the power grow, and it sent a chill down my arms, raising bumps, and I welcomed las poemas. They always did this to me. Whoever wrote them didn’t just understand me. It seemed that they had reached far across the desert, dipped their hands into my heart, and removed the tiniest bit of my spirit. They folded it into each of these lines, and that’s why they pulled me. Called to me. Kept me hopeful. How was that possible? How could words on a piece of yellowed paper have such an incredible spell over me?
The sun was dropping to the west. I continued to the north, and I kept las poemas in my mind, allowing them to cool and comfort me, and then I looked up. How much time had passed? How far had I gone?
There was nothing recognizable behind me.
Ahead of me, there was a haven of árboles, thick and lush, the mesquites in bloom. There was ironwood there, too, the flowers a delicate lavender at the tips of its branches. Two gray palomas flew overhead, another sign that I had found a place that was alive. That had survived.
The patch was about a half hour short of las bajadas, the thicker growth that you find at the bottom of most montañas, but I could see shade as I approached. Shade. Relief. I stumbled briefly in excitement, because I needed a break to refuel, to relieve myself, to stop moving.
I kept the respite short because I still had a climb ahead of me, and it would be the highest I had ever ascended. I’d survived the heat so far, but climbing would only make Your heat feel worse.
A sound.
Soft. High. A sound so rare, so impossible, that my own heart leapt at the very chance that it was not my imagination. I stilled, as I did when I hunted for water, and adjusted to the silence of the desert so far from home, and there it was again.
A quiet trickling.
Water.
I took off at a full run, and my legs struggled to keep up with my own excitement. I plunged through a mesquite bush, and its branches whipped at me, striking my arm, scratching and tearing at my skin, but
I didn’t care. It was louder now, the sound of water rushing and falling, and I pushed deeper into the thatch and emerged into a clearing, shaded and dim, and then I was on all fours, my face planted in a stream, my long hair dripping at all sides of my head, resting in the water, and I drank, deep and long and full, and it was real. My head flipped up and I gasped for air, and I couldn’t control the tears that began to run down my face. How, Solís? I asked You. How is this here? How has no one in Empalme ever found it? How had we not known?
I couldn’t stop myself. I drank again, my belly mostly empty, so when I filled it up, nausea forced me to stop. I let my pack fall off me, rolled over on my back, and panted, trying to keep it all down, but it didn’t matter. I had found relief from the heat, and it felt like a blessing, as though You had judged that I was on the right path.
The joy spread. My breathing slowed, a calm settled over me, and I sank into the earth, letting it accept me as I accepted it. We both benefited from each other; it was what mi gente had taught me. We all knew that one reason Solís had sent La Quema was because of the violence that humanity had subjected the earth to. It was why I gave the stories back to the desert first before they were sent home. The earth deserved our contrition, too.
But in that moment, the earth loved me, and I loved myself.
cuando estoy solo
estoy vivo
when I am alone
I am alive
I rolled over and pushed myself up, then removed my blouse, then my huaraches, my short breeches, my undergarments. There was a small spot of blood on the cloth padding there, and I was thankful that I had not bled too much so far. In all of this chaos, I had lost track of the days.
I set my clothing in a neat pile next to the stream, and I stepped into it, surprised at the depth at first, at the coolness of the water, and another step brought the water level up to my knees, then another dropped me down to my waist, and then I curled up and submerged myself, rubbed at my skin, cleansed my body. I then brought each item of clothing into the water, scrubbed them, too, until they no longer smelled of sweat and the odor of exertion. The dirt and dust came out, and I removed most of the stain of blood on my padding. As long as it was clean, that was all that mattered.