by Mark Oshiro
Before I dressed, though, I lowered myself into a squat, then eased myself backward so that my head rested on a large, smooth stone in the middle of the stream. I relaxed, let my arms float free at my side, rested my legs against the riverbed, and I imagined that I was part of the water, como un pescado. They lived in water, and now I did. I became a part of a new world, and I was thrilled by the transformation. My body adapted to the temperature, to the newness of freedom.
Soy libre, I told myself.
I lay in the water until I could feel the call of exhaustion. I wanted to sleep there, but I was too far from my destination to make this my temporary home. I had to keep moving. I finally sat up, thanked the stream for allowing me to become a part of it. I walked toward the edge of the clearing and squatted, relieving myself. My urine did not smell strongly, and it was nearly clear. I was pleased. This oasis had helped me stay hydrated, and as I dressed, pulling my damp clothing over my body, I quietly thanked You, Solís.
All my doubt and fear was gone. I was on the right path.
I feasted as quickly as I could on some tough but flavorful cabra that Papá had seasoned and dried. I dumped out the goatskin bag and refilled it, then stuffed everything back into my pack. At the edge of the clearing, I gazed back once more on this paradise. The shadows sat delicately over the ground, the rocks cascaded gently downward to the west, and los árboles bent over the stream, yearning to touch it. If I went back home, I would tell Empalme that there was a source of water a half day’s walk from la aldea. They would appreciate that.
I glanced down and saw the outline of a boot print, the toe facing toward the water. It made me smile. This place had blessed someone else, too, and I sent another prayer up. Solís, please continue to allow this place to give la gente hope.
I made the sign. See the truth. Believe the truth.
I was much more careful getting out of the oasis. I stepped through the stream, soaking my feet one last time, then exited the other side, pushing past mesquites and other squat bushes I did not recognize. Once the shade faded, the heat pressed upon me, tearing the moisture from my skin, and within a quarter hour, only my breeches were still slightly wet. A spot of dryness appeared in my throat, and I thought back to that stream, and I turned to catch one last glimpse of it.
The trail behind me was flat and straight. There was no oasis behind me. Just the endless, stretching expanse of the desert.
The dirt trail, dry and wide, rose from the ground, up into the curled nooks of la montaña. I stood motionless at the edge of las bajadas, and I traced its path with my eyes. But then it tucked behind ridges and out of sight.
The summit seemed so very far away.
I couldn’t look upward. Papá taught me that, to keep my eyes a few paces ahead of myself so that I could maintain a solid footing, to spot holes and ridges so I didn’t trip, and to keep the illusion of distance at bay. I passed through las bajadas, greeted the silence and the ironwoods and the mesquites and the skyward-reaching saguaros. I was the only thing that moved, the only sound at all. My leather huaraches scraped against the dirt, my breath lightly huffed out of my mouth, and you could hear the sloshing of water in my pack.
Nothing else.
I was alone out here, and I had never felt so alive.
How did la poeta know that? How did they know me so well?
Las bajadas were short, and I passed through them swiftly. It amused me that I was climbing closer to You as You dropped in the sky.
I looked for the cacti that Marisol had told me to find. They stood on either side of the path, mirror images of each other. Each of the saguaros had the low arm facing the other, and the arm on the outside was stretched high.
Los Gemelos.
I was on the right path. I took a deep breath and passed my hand across my eyes—then stopped.
And then I started to climb
and climb
and climb.
It was a gentle ascent at first, and half an hour later, I hadn’t made as much progress up la montaña as I had wanted. My pace was steady, my pulse was not pounding in my head, and I had kept my breathing even and regular. But then the trail veered sharply to the left and I wished for the slower climb.
The trail was wider here, and it must have been so carts and horses and mules could pass one another. But I saw no one else on the horizon. I stuck to the side farthest from the edge, unnerved by just how far down I could fall if I didn’t watch where I was going.
Each step was a reminder of my choice; each step was a deliberate move away from home. I accepted it. And I paid the price, but I did not mind. My legs started to ache—a dull, constant pain—and I took a brief break to drink more water, which was still cool. I broke my own rule, too, and glanced up toward the summit. I had maybe conquered a third of the path. But I was still high enough that the tallest árboles en las bajadas were tufts below me. The trail was a direct line to the south before it snaked off in the distance.
Was that it?
Empalme?
Was it only a brown speck from up here, a tiny impossibility? Is that where I came from? I squinted and tried to focus on it, but I was too far. I could not make out any recognizable details. Would it have been easier to see at night? The desert stretched forever to the south, to the distant montañas in the west, to low hills in the east, and there was nothing. No other aldeas, no other granjas, nothing.
A panic gripped me, tightened around my heart.
I couldn’t go back now, at least not until the next morning. Empalme—if that was it in the distance—was so very far away, and I would need to make camp soon if I was going to stay safe from—
Everything.
I’d heard all the stories growing up, but they were just stories. I had never seen anything unusual at night. Conejos, lobos. Owls and lizards. Plenty of mice. But what of all the stories? What of los cuentos of two-headed bestias and creatures the size of ten humans?
Then again—I had never been past the safety of los lobos before, either.
I looked down the trail, and I thought I saw Manolito, tucked behind one of the thicker saguaros, and when I shut my eyes tight and opened them again, I saw nothing. Was the doubt playing games with my mind? Was the heat getting to me?
I drank more water.
I kept moving.
I rounded more corners that looped back on one another so consistently that even though I’d walked a thousand paces, I still hadn’t progressed that far up la montaña. The incline was not so bad, but my muscles twitched, an early warning sign that cramping could arrive soon. I drank more water. Ate another strip of meat. Briefly squatted to relieve myself again.
More yellow. Not a good sign.
The sun was near the horizon to the west when I finally noticed that the heat was beginning to fade away. It was gradual, and my mind was focused on the climb. I wiped at my arms, felt the grime of salt and sweat, and I wished for another oasis. I wanted to bathe the filth from my skin, douse my body and wash it all off, and a flash of memory came to me: the deluge. The blood. The blame and the guilt. Were they mine? Or was Lito’s story awakening in me, desperate to be set free?
I pushed it back down, I walked farther away from Empalme, and I did not look back.
This was the only way that wouldn’t kill me. That’s what Marisol had told me.
I hoped she was right.
Then the vista came upon me so suddenly that I only noticed it when the pressure on my legs faded. I looked up and gasped, mostly out of relief. The land had flattened before me, and my legs knew that they were done for the night, and I collapsed right there, lying flat on my back and panting, an elation ripping my insides, then slipping into joy.
I had made it. One impossible part of this impossible journey just became real. The joy spread through me, and I gripped the dirt, connected myself to what I had walked, and I lay there as You began to fade, to drop beyond the horizon, and darkness slid into the world.
While You were gone, we were unseen. This was
why we celebrated at night, under the stars around us. We were hidden. Unwatched. Free. My breathing slowed, and I urged my body to stillness, listening.
Silence was back, but this time, it held the anticipation of possibility. What would awake? Who would join me?
I slowly lifted myself with my palms, then pushed, my legs and arms aching, and I ignored the pain, the muscles screaming in my body. Your light was nearly gone from the sky now, and the darkness was so calming, so welcoming. The shadows that stretched from the rocks and árboles were not intimidating. Se sentián como amigos. I looked up, hoping las estrellas would come out soon, would bless me with their gentle twinkling.
Not yet.
I walked slowly across the vista, toward the north, hoping Marisol’s information was right.
It sprung from the desert like an eruption, as if the earth itself had spat it out in a fury of creation. Lights sparkled from unknown sources, and what buildings I could make out all seemed to lean against one another. How were they so tall? How were there so many? It was as if you could fit a hundred versions of Empalme within it, and somewhere, in that mangled, complicated mess, las cuentistas waited for me.
La Ciudad de Obregán. It was finally within view.
It felt silly to think about how little I had seen of the world, but as I stood on the edge of la montaña, what else could I consider?
There was una ciudad awaiting me, a place so monstrous and large that it must be un sueño or a trick of the mind.
But it wasn’t. Papá had been there once, as had Marisol, and yet, their stories paled to the reality. Nothing compared to the actual sight, and this was in the evening. What would it look like in the daylight?
A part of me wanted to let that mysterious pull guide me to Obregán. I had to resist, though, because while I may have been foolish enough to journey during the heat, I refused to risk my life when las bestias took over at night. It was possible that all the stories were exaggerations, that it was all just a myth. Still, I needed rest. I needed to get some energy back if I was going to face El Mercado de Obregán.
Was an answer really that close?
Was this worth it?
I stayed on the north side of the vista, spread out my sleeping roll, and then walked far enough to the east so that I would not be relieving myself close to where I slept. I dug a hole in the ground with la pala, then used it, making sure to cover it back up again when I was done. I cleaned myself and my hands off with a little water that I could afford to wash with, because now I was so close to another source.
I fell back down on my roll once I had finished, and my whole body thrummed with a soreness, the kind that got even worse after a night of sleep. I wasn’t looking forward to that, Solís, but I was sore because I had chosen to be.
I ate again, but this time, Obregán, my destination, was in sight. I devoured a decent portion of the food I had brought, saving some of it, just in case.
I could have built a fire, maybe roasted a few of the vegetables that I had packed, but I didn’t want to bring more attention to myself while I was alone. So I ate quietly, listening as the rustling around me revealed how many other creatures woke in the darkness.
Like the time immediately before sunrise, los pájaros called to one another, their chirps high and joyous. A crackling in the mesquite bushes revealed a small brown conejo, its ears pointed up, alert and wary. It hopped off and ducked into a hole near the whitethorn that stood near the passage south.
Then las estrellas arrived.
Night was here, and I was free of You.
A relief flushed my body, and I lay there, on my back, watching each of the twinkling lights appear, one by one. From here, up on top of esta montaña, there was nothing else I could see. Las estrellas surrounded me, enveloped me, were my entire world. A light in the darkness, a light without you.
A life free from being a cuentista.
Soy libre.
There was no one here, begging for me to take their hands in mine, to take their stories into me. No sneers, no scoffs, no expectation that I would do as they asked or else the entire aldea would suffer. The pressure in my bones lifted, and I had never been so light. I could have floated up into those stars, become one myself, a brightness to guide others, to give others hope.
I could not recall another evening spent like this.
There was more rustling, more crunching of leaves. I sat up and tucked my legs under me, thankful for how much it stretched me out, and I remained still. There was a scratching to my left, and I moved my head as slowly as possible to see if I could spot what was coming my way.
There was nothing.
A snap.
Still soft, muted by distance, this time to the south, beyond the lone whitethorn.
Probably un conejo, I told myself. I focused my gaze on the south, on my past, and I allowed the darkness to settle, to sketch out the lines of the whitethorn, the mesquite bushes, the barrel cactuses that were clumped on the ground and
something
was
right
there.
At first, I thought it was another saguaro, but as I traced the outline cast in the starlight that grew above me, it moved.
A slight twitch on the right.
I moved as slowly as I could, reaching with my right hand toward my pack, inching the clasp open, then thrusting my fingers in until the cool wooden handle of la pala was there, its edge sharp enough to pierce flesh.
If I put enough force behind it.
I pulled it in my lap, careful not to make a single sound, not to make any sudden movements. I stopped again and watched, my eyes gliding over the edges of the dark shadow that stood there.
I tensed.
It moved. Again. No trick of the shadows and darkness, no magic of the mind. I watched the figure move in my direction. Did it know I saw it? Was it toying with its prey? Did that mean I was the prey?
It moved into the clearing on the vista, and as it did so, the figure became clearer.
Human.
Was that worse? I didn’t know.
Una pesadilla? Had Manolito come for me as he had promised?
No. That wasn’t it.
Who had followed me? Or was it a stranger, from some other aldea, trying to make the passage north; someone who had merely stumbled upon me by accident? But human or not—there was always something worse out here. Marisol had warned me. Was that warning now true?
I took a risk, Solís.
And I did it because I had to choose.
I bolted upright, la pala pointed directly at them, and I said, clear and loud: “Stop! What do you want?”
I wondered briefly if I’d been fooled, if they were even there, but then they moved so quickly that before I could even react, before I could raise la pala and save myself, she had her arms on my shoulders and they shook and jerked, and I cried out.
“You have to help me,” the girl said.
She made a sick and pitiful sound, something between a sob and a yelp of pain. She dropped right there on the ground, became a heap, and her breath was ragged and panicked and horrible and she didn’t stop. “Get me away from him,” she spewed, and her hands were on my legs and my feet and I tried to escape, but she held me so hard, Solís.
“Away from whom?” I yelled at her.
She choked, spat something up, and then looked up at me, her cold eyes visible in the starlight.
I knew those eyes.
“My father,” said Emilia.
Emilia rolled onto her back, a single burlap sack flung to the side, and continued to cough, and it shook her entire body. She began to gurgle, and I just moved. I hated seeing her, I hated the terrible possibilities that she brought with her, but she sounded like she was dying.
I danced away from her grip and retrieved my goatskin bag. By the time I went back, her eyes, glassy and red, were focused on me. I could see more of her, and her outfit—black breeches, a flowing camisa that used to be tan—was filthy, torn, and there was a dark stain ru
nning down one side of it. Blood? And was it hers?
I stuck a hand behind her head and gently guided her up so that she could take a few sips of water. She drank too fast, began coughing up again, but then she slowed down, taking only a sip or two, swallowing, and then repeating it until her thirst was quenched.
“I need you,” she said.
I frowned at that and moved slightly back from her. What if this was a trap? What if Julio had sent her to track me down, to take me back to Empalme? A story rolled in me: Lito’s. He was warning me, telling me not to trust her. Or was that my own natural suspicion?
I couldn’t tell.
“Why are you here?” I asked her. “Why did you follow me?”
“Let me tell you, please,” she continued, and she reached out gingerly, grasped me lightly by the right hand. “Let me tell you a story.”
I yanked my hand from her and rose. As I backed away, I said, “No! You’re just trying to trick me! Leave me vulnerable!”
“Please,” she begged, and the coldness was gone. What was that in its place? Fear? “Give me this one thing, at least. Then you’ll understand.” She lifted herself up, rested on her elbows, and her piercing eyes bore right through me. “This isn’t a trick. I promise you.”
I shook my head. No, I thought. She’s with Julio. It’s a trap. I focused on the spot where the trail met the southern edge of the vista, hoping that I could see someone coming.
“You think he’s coming, don’t you?”
I looked down at her. “Who?”
“Julio,” she explained. “You think I’m here for you, don’t you?”
I wrinkled my brow up in response.
“You keep looking behind me. Like you’re expecting someone.”
I sighed. “Can you blame me? After what he did?”
“But I did something, too, and I can’t go to Julio. Not anymore. I have to clear my conscience before I continue on. And you could help me.”