Each of Us a Desert

by Mark Oshiro

  “Gracias,” she said, but I did not turn to look at her. “For helping me.”

  She rolled out something next to me, not too close, and I heard her body settle on the ground. I was facing Obregán—there was a light in the sky above it—and I counted some of las estrellas that still shone brightly. Emilia’s breathing slowed, and she fell asleep shortly after that. I was aware of how close she was, but I didn’t move, didn’t turn toward her. As my heart raced, I spoke the words to her, like a prayer to the desert, to the night and las estrellas:

  “You’re welcome.”

  I slept.

  * * *

  I dreamed of Mamá.

  We were outside our home, behind it, and the sun was setting. As it sank in the west, Mamá twirled. She spun in a dance, her black hair parted down the middle of her head, and it flowed evenly on either side of her face. She called out my name in a musical whisper. Xochitl! Xochitl! She would reach for me, but every time I stretched out, we couldn’t touch. We couldn’t close the chasm between us. She spun farther and farther, and I brought my leg up to step forward, but I couldn’t move in that direction.

  She danced and danced and danced, away from me, away from my outstretched arms, and she sang my name the entire time.

  Xochitl!

  Xochitl!

  Xochitl!

  I could not answer her.

  Then I dreamed of Papá. We were in the center of Empalme, and he floated out from our stone well, his arms crossed in front of him, cradling a baby swaddled in a colorful serape. He wouldn’t look at me. “Papá!” I called out, but his eyes were trained on the infant he held, and he rocked him, cooed at him, raised a finger and brushed it over the face, and somehow, I knew it was Raúl.

  He made a gesture with his hand, beckoned me toward him, and this time, I could move with ease, and so I slunk over to Papá, and he peeled back the serape, and I screamed and screamed and screamed, and then he dropped Raúl’s head, a tongue fell from the mouth of mi hermano, and Papá laughed and laughed and laughed—

  I awoke covered in sweat. I sat upright, and Emilia was curled up, unmoving, unaware of my terror, and the world was still and silent around me. I remained there, my eyes adjusting to the darkness just before dawn. The stars around us were so far, so distant, and I watched them disappear, a handful at a time, and then the horizon to the east glowed.

  Brighter.

  Brighter.

  You awoke. You gazed upon us.

  It was time to move.

  I gathered up my things and packed them away first, then knelt beside Emilia. I hesitated for a second, uncertain about touching her at all given her response to me the night before. So I rubbed the edge of my huarache in the dirt loudly. She woke, her eyes shooting open as she rolled onto her back.

  “Were you watching me?” she said sleepily, rubbing at her eyes.

  “No,” I said, too quickly. “Yes. I mean … I felt bad waking you up. But we need to go.”

  She smiled, and the angles on her face no longer seemed as vicious as they had in Empalme. “Should we make a fire? Maybe make some food?”

  I looked to the east. “No,” I said. “We should start heading down. I’ve got some dried meat and fruits, and we can eat those, and then we’ll go.”

  I left her to pack as I headed for the whitethorn so I could relieve myself for the morning. I passed Emilia on the way back as she was headed to do the same. I waited for her on the end of the trail, my eyes locked on Obregán in the distance. More shapes were appearing as the sky lit up la ciudad: towers. Buildings that rose impossibly from the ground. Creatures soaring through the air, taking off from atop structures and then circling over Obregán before heading to some unknown destination.

  “¿Estás lista?” Emilia called out, and I waved her over. She had her burlap bag slung over her shoulder and I wondered what was inside it.

  “Not much farther,” I said, pointing toward our destination. “We’ll figure out where El Mercado is once we get there.”

  The idea of a “we” was strange to me, but Emilia said nothing. She nodded at me, then gestured me to lead the way.

  I couldn’t allow myself to get comfortable with this notion, this idea that I was one to be followed. But I also realized that I was no longer alone.

  cuando estoy solo

  estoy vivo

  when I am alone

  I am alive

  I would have to adjust.

  I was used to Empalme and to open space. I could cross our whole aldea in a quarter hour, and I knew everyone who lived within the boundary of our gates. I had reason to; at some point or another, each person came to unload their stories on me. But as we descended toward Obregán, the very idea of that ciudad perplexed me.

  The sun rushed out over el valle, and with each turn in the road, la ciudad grew closer. I saw more of the flying creatures, and some seemed to have wingspans bigger than houses. How did those buildings not tip over and crumble, taking others along with them? I could see carts and horses and people on foot, almost all of them slowly scattering away from Obregán in every direction, though only a few were traveling toward us. Few visitors from Obregán ever made the journey to Empalme. We were probably just as much of a mystery to them as they were to us.

  We continued to walk in silence, and my sore muscles were thankful that they did not have to do so much work. I spotted a large herd of something—perhaps cattle—leaving the eastern side of Obregán, heading off into the endless expanse of desert. I watched them for a while until they were nothing more than a speck on the horizon, and I wondered if others experienced this perspective. Were we all specks to one another in this isolated, empty world?

  A man passed us on his way up about an hour into our descent. He waved to us in greeting. His name was Martín, and he was returning to his husband and son, making the long journey to the southeast to his aldea. Batopilas, he called it. I had never heard of it before. His cart was stacked high with grain for los aldeanos back home, and he asked us if he could sell us any. I gripped the coin purse tucked into the waist of my breeches, then shook my head.

  He bade us goodbye, and his horse kicked up dirt as it pulled him up the hill. He would be alone for days.

  I glanced over at Emilia, who kept her gaze straight ahead, her expression featureless. Did she like being alone? Her story rumbled in my gut, and her emotions pierced me. She had not truly been alone until she escaped Julio.

  I shivered. Parts of her life were so strange to me, so unfathomable. Like Solado. Living underground. Having a guardian choose you. But then the other stories awoke, scrambling for validation, to be noticed, and I pressed a hand on my stomach, trying to calm them. How many lives had I understood before I gave them back to the desert?

  As we neared the bottom of the road an hour later, there were more people. Some were climbing up the pass by themselves, either on burros, in carts pulled by horse, or on foot. There was a small camp set snug into a fold en la montaña, and I saw a boy, brown and joyous, run away from his mamá as she tried to feed him. He hid behind a tent staked to the ground with wood, canvas stretched over the posts to block out the sun. Did they live here? Were they taking a break before continuing on elsewhere? The range of possibility spread in my mind, and I was struck by how little I had known of the world. I grew up aching to travel to Obregán, yes, but there were so many other aldeas beyond it. How different were they? Who else had chosen to leave their home? Were there other cuentistas out there who had given up their duties, who had defied You?

  My life was full of stories. The ones given to me in ritual. The ones told to me. Those inside my body felt real, living. But what of all the oral traditions told to me by Mamá, Papá, Tía Inez?

  What if those stories were wrong? What would that make me?

  The last stretch of the road was flat, and the sun was now coming over the edge of the very pass we’d just descended. It shone brightly over us, and sweat beaded on my forehead. Obregán felt more and more intimidating as we
approached it. I could not understand and appreciate its size from the top of la montaña. Down here, it was obvious that many of the structures and buildings en la ciudad were as tall as twenty or thirty homes stacked on top of one another. Somehow, they remained as still as the saguaros.

  We were close to the southern entrance when I asked Emilia if we could stop for a moment. I stepped to the side of the road and stood there, staring, unable to fathom how many things there were to look at. La Ciudad Obregán was so high, so wide, and I could now see people leaning out of windows, some shouting at others down below or hanging clothing to dry. The sound, even at this distance, was like nothing I had ever heard. Obregán hummed, a magic of sorts passing through these people and this place. Or was it even magic? A creature snorted behind me, and I jumped, turned to see some massive bestia with thick, curly hair, two gnarled horns jutting out from its head. It nuzzled its owner, who walked alongside it, then snorted at me again as the two went on their way.

  “What is that?” said Emilia.

  I stared openmouthed.

  There was too much to take in. We moved toward la ciudad, right as a group of children, their skin various shades of brown, rushed past us. It was instinct more than anything else: I reached out and grabbed Emilia’s hand. I didn’t even realize I had done it until I looked to her and saw that she was staring down at our fingers clasped together.

  I pulled mine back, but she shook her head. “No, it’s okay,” she said. “Just so we don’t get separated.”

  She grabbed my hand this time and pulled me toward Obregán. We walked together into that surreal place, and it was as if a thousand conversations were buzzing in my ear. I heard my tongue being spoken, but plenty of others floated past. There were thick accents that made the words hard and angular, other inflections that seemed to slow down time. A man with a small cart of sizzling meats gestured to us, then let loose a long string of syllables and sounds I had never heard before. I couldn’t even tell what kind of meat it was—or what lengua he spoke—so I smiled and shook my head, and then—

  The smells. La carne frita hit me first, savory and sharp, and then a stench of waste, most likely from some creature nearby. Then something new. Floral? Was that garlic? Solís, there were so many new scents; how many more would I discover?

  My stomach called out as more of these smells taunted me, tantalized me. I looked to Emilia, whose gaze was stuck on a woman selling freshly made pan and tortillas. She smirked when I caught her in the act.

  “Looks like we have the same idea,” I said.

  “Should we get food before we find El Mercado?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “My stomach certainly wants to.”

  We were right on the edge, just past the arched gates, which stood wide open. Los guardias sat on pillars and overlooked those coming and going, their eyes falling on us briefly and slipping right off. We must not have been worth their time. People continued to rush past us, some wearing long cloaks and colorful wrappings on their heads. A couple of men with heavily jeweled fingers and ears, sharing chisme in some strange language, looked the two of us up and down before moving on to wherever they were headed. Two women rushed by in wooden sillas propelled by the power of their own arms, and they wheeled around a crowd and disappeared. People spilled out of a large gray stone building to our right, and I couldn’t catch more than one or two words of their conversation. They passed by us as if we weren’t there. I watched a woman stroll by with a large clay pot perfectly balanced on her head, and she was communicating with a friend using only her hands.

  And the buildings! I leaned my head back as I walked, staring up at the towering impossibilities that loomed all around me. I couldn’t see the tops of some of these structures. Someone bumped my shoulder and knocked me out of Emilia’s hand, and I tried to scowl at them. But they slipped right back into the crowd, gone as fast as they had come.

  “I’ve never seen so many people!” I said.

  Emilia squeezed my hand tighter. “We’re close,” she said. “Follow me.”

  I let the crowd take me and Emilia, surround us, make us a part of it. As I walked, first to the east, I couldn’t focus on any single thing around me. A quiet anxiety festered in me, the fear building up as people shuffled past, touching me as they did so. Their shoulders brushed mine; a woman placed her hand on the small of my back as she squeezed past, and I kept crashing into people walking toward me. How did anyone ever learn to navigate all of this? How did a person hear conversations over the noise? How did anyone ever memorize all the streets and the alleys? I had been here for so short a time, and I was already completely disoriented.

  I was also elated. I could go where I wanted. Do what I wanted. See what I wanted.

  So I walked, my hand in Emilia’s. We tried to keep the pace of the crowd, moving through the shadow of a massive building that appeared to lean over the road. It did not topple over, and no one else seemed alarmed by its tilting presence, so I did my best to accept that it was safe. I reached my free hand out and ran it along the smooth stone at the foundation. It was cool to the touch. Where did they get something like this? How could a stone be so big?

  It filled me with a childish embarrassment. I knew so little about everything. The world of Empalme was so tiny. I had been told that Obregán was enormous, but that could not have prepared me for this. And if my world was still so small, what else awaited me on this journey? The shame rippled my own foundation, sent heat into my cheeks.

  What was I doing? How did I ever expect to survive a journey I knew nothing about?

  I shook off the feeling and breathed in the air and energy around me. Obregán was alive. Alive during the day. I was used to silence, to the heat pushing us back indoors, away from one another, until we spilled out of our homes once nighttime returned. That was not the case here. The people rushed about, unafraid of and unconcerned with You.

  They thrived in spite of You.

  From the stone structure, we moved toward another building, this one capped with a gold dome shimmering in the sunlight. At the top, a small tower reached up into the sky, and there was someone up there, in a tiny window, looking out at la ciudad. The steps leading up to the entrance were covered with people, most of whom were listening to a man in a long flowing white robe. His gray beard swayed as he looked over the gathering.

  “Beware of the path that strays from Solís!” he shouted. There was a murmur at this that spread throughout the crowd. “They will surely punish us again if we fail Them! Heed the warning given to us from Hermosillo!”

  I didn’t understand what he meant—once again, I was lost in my own ignorance—and so I focused on the crowd that drowned out his words. Emilia tugged on me and—

  “Heed the wisdom of Solís, Xochitl! Tell the truth!”

  I whipped around and stared at the man in the robes, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. Neither was anyone else. He was still preaching, his audience rapt and hungry, and I shivered.

  “What is it, Xochitl?” Emilia said, sidling up to me.

  I scanned the crowd again.

  Nothing.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s keep going.”

  I sped up, ignoring the other voices I heard: The curses from those I bumped into. The conversations floating by. The stories I ingested, each now struggling to find a way up and out of me, each one telling me to turn back, to go to Empalme, to stop this silly game, to spill them into the earth and back to Solís and—

  No. No. I could not go back.

  On the next corner, near the crossroads, there was a wooden sign. It directed people to various buildings or sights, but the only one that mattered to me was in bold lettering: EL MERCADO DE LA CIUDAD OBREGÁN. It pointed east and slightly to the north, and my heart began racing again. I was here. I was close. What would I find in El Mercado? What would las cuentistas be able to tell me?

  I took the lead, and I pulled Emilia forward. Much as Obregán had risen out of the earth at the top of la monta
ña, El Mercado de Obregán now towered in front of me. There was no end to it in either direction from the corner where we came to a stop, and the white roof—stretched canvas and cloth, blocking out the sun—was a beacon in the desert.

  I had to do this, Solís.

  Northwest corner, I told myself, Marisol’s directions echoing in my head.

  I stopped before the entrance.

  “You found it,” said Emilia.

  I chuckled. “Just followed the sign.”

  “Maybe,” she said, and she let go of my hand. “Vámonos adentro, get some food. And then we should probably get going as soon as we can.”

  She wasn’t wrong. But my hand, damp from the heat and from my nerves, twitched at my side.

  I missed holding hers.

  So I breathed in deep, and I entered El Mercado de Obregán alongside Emilia.

  The din rang and crashed all around me. Sounds bounced off the stone walls, merged with one another, and I tried to take it all in. There was a stall directly to my left, and three people were shouting, trying to negotiate over the roots and vegetables displayed on the counter, all the produce shaped strangely and specked with dirt. The man under the blue awning yelled numbers at the patron on the other side, who consulted the third man, who then offered another number back. My gaze fell to the stall next to it, its colorful blusas stitched with bright patterns. More smells, more sounds, and I looked to my right.

  The aisle stretched beyond where I could see, overflowing with people.

  Everything competed for space: Bargaining. Conversations. Children yelling. Someone singing sad songs loudly over guitars and an accordion. It was a roar that filled my head, that rattled my insides.

  I walked slowly to the east first, pressing in between people, muttering apologies over and over again, but no one else seemed to care about how close everyone was, that people had to basically squeeze tight to one another in order to get anywhere. The stalls were at least organized in rows, so I quickly figured out each section as I passed through it. I moved from los granjeros to what I assumed were cures for ailments of the body and mind. A young woman with skin like the thorny mesquite branches reached out to me, urged me to try her herbs, told me that they would give me a better night’s sleep. She was stunningly beautiful, and I listened to her as she listed off other products, other remedies for sale. There were avocado leaves for inflammations of the nerves and skin, jacaranda for upset stomachs. I wanted to keep talking to her, but Emilia nudged me, then jerked her head to the west.