by Mark Oshiro
After the herbs and curanderas, I pushed through an area with smelly pens full of bizarre creatures and livestock. A two-headed vaca stared at me with only one set of eyes. Smaller creatures like the guardians of Empalme yipped at me from their wooden crates, and eager jovencitos knelt down to pet them through the cracks and holes, letting them lick their hands and faces. Their fur looked soft, sleek, and inviting. Then there was a row of pájaros in cages, tweeting and chirping at everyone, some of them able to speak whole words and phrases in their high voices. A woman leapt out of a chair in her stall and thrust a small blue pájaro at me, and it perched in her hands, tilting its head from side to side.
I waved a dismissal at her, and then passed through the area marked ROPA. Then COMIDA. My stomach cried out again as the smells hit me, tempted me to make a stop. I took a sharp turn to the north once I neared the end of El Mercado, and the food changed again. From vegetables fritos and fresh fruit, I walked past stalls with raw meat ready to be butchered. There were small pockets of masa frita, stuffed with all sorts of items, and I knew I would try those. A person was selling bowls of guisado de cabra with an aroma that made my mouth water. Dried fruits, nuts, seafood … it was all there.
“Okay, we have to eat something,” said Emilia.
We tried a small bowl of some sort of guisado overflowing with vegetables and thick brown sauce that was savory and creamy at the same time. Halfway through it, I spotted another booth that sold pan frito, and it made the perfect partner for the guisado. We stuffed ourselves while standing off to the side, watching the flow of people.
There were so many of them.
And then there was me and Emilia. In this entire place, she was the only person that I knew.
But I didn’t really know Emilia either. I glanced over at her, watched as she ate her food hungrily. Was she starving? Nervous?
I tipped back the bowl and downed the guisado, then took the remaining pan frito to sop up what was left. “Vámonos, Emilia,” I said. Maybe she did want to get going sooner rather than later.
She said nothing. Just nodded at me, wiped at sweat forming on her brow, then grabbed my empty bowl. I watched as she returned it to the merchant who had sold us the guisado, then jogged back to me.
The color had drained from her face, and she did not look well. “Are you—?”
“Vámanos,” she said. “I’m ready when you are.”
We headed north at that point, suspicion gnawing at me. Why did she want to leave? We tucked ourselves between groups of people, squeezing towards the northwest corner. There was too much to look at, too much to smell, too much to process. So I kept my focus singular. I had one goal here.
And then:
A wooden post.
A sign carved in large letters.
CUENTISTAS.
More than one?
I tried to make sense of yet another new reality, another sign that I knew so little. Stalls were bunched up along the wall, heading toward the east, dramatic curtains draped in front of them. Some curtains were pulled shut, while other booths stood open, with people hanging out of them and calling to those who walked by, promising to take their stories, return them to Solís.
There would have to be more than one here, ¿no? At least that made sense to me. There were so many people in Obregán, and a single cuentista would find it impossible. But then I walked to the closest stall, one without a curtain pulled across it, and a man stood up from a chair, smiling at me, his hands stretched out toward me.
“Niña,” he said, and a part of me bristled at the term. I wasn’t that young.
“Espero que puedas ayudarme,” I said in my own tongue, and his smile went even wider.
“You are from the south?” he said.
“Sí,” I said. “Empalme.”
“Ay, muy lejos. And you and your woman traveled all that way together?”
I whipped around. “Oh, no, señor,” she said. “We’re not—”
“Está bien,” he said, his hands up. “Do you need your story taken, niña?”
“Me?” I shook my head. “I was hoping—”
“Before you go any further, we should probably negotiate my fee.”
“Your … I’m sorry. Your fee?”
His features twisted in confusion. “¿No entiendes?”
“What fee?” I asked, and I couldn’t help my voice pitching up in shock. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I don’t tell you how to run your affairs,” he said, shaking his head at me. He grabbed the edge of the curtain. “You would do best not to disrespect me.”
He dramatically pulled the curtain shut.
The notion bewildered me. People in Obregán paid money to tell their stories to las cuentistas? Why? The thought had never crossed my mind. This was my duty, and it was important to everyone. I would never dream to deny a person peace with Solís because they couldn’t pay me. And what of las pesadillas? Las cuentistas kept them from harming others. We didn’t make a living from it.
I stumbled backwards, the impossibility of it all radiating through every inch of my body.
She came out of the booth to my right, sidled up to me so quickly that I yelped when she appeared. She wore a veil, hooded and dark on the inside, stitched with colorful vines and flowers on red fabric on the outside. Her brown eyes were cold, and she had smeared something dark, like charcoal, around them. “Niña,” she cooed, and she took my hand, “let me help you. Let me intercede on your behalf for Solís.”
I shook my head. “No, no gracias.”
She ran her fingers over the top of my hand, but there was no warmth there, no good intentions, and I shivered.
“I don’t think she needs this,” said Emilia.
“Do you not believe in Solís, niña?”
“Por supuesto que sí,” Emilia replied.
“I can tell she is troubled. For a small fee, I can take her story, return it to Solís, give her peace.”
“I would never pay you,” I said, spitting the words out in ire. “I’ve never known a cuentista to take money for this.”
“Many people do not have cuentistas in their aldeas or pueblos. They must travel here for help.”
I shook my head again and started to walk away. “I don’t need you,” I said. “I’m a cuentista myself.”
Her hand dashed out and grabbed mine. “Even better,” she said. “For even cuentistas need someone to listen to their stories. And you’re in luck: Soledad is the best cuentista in all of Obregán.”
“We don’t tell our stories to anyone!” I scolded. “And who is Soledad?”
“I am,” she said. “And you won’t find a better cuentista here.” She let go of my hand.
“We have to go,” I said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“It will only take a few minutes,” said Soledad. “Let me give you a sample, if you will. To show you what I can do.”
I gazed into her coal-stained eyes. “I need something else,” I said. “I don’t think you can give it to me.”
I should have left.
She held my hands, and I felt it: The pull. The urge. The pathway opening.
This woman needs to tell me something.
The stories rose.
They needed another story to bond to, to feel less alone.
Soledad guided me toward her stall, and Emilia gasped. “Xochitl, what are you doing?” she cried out. “We really need to go.”
But I didn’t listen. Something told me to be right here.
I followed Soledad into her space, and she closed the curtains behind me, shrouding us in darkness. She lit a candle on her wooden altar, then motioned for me to sit on the floor on the pillows spread about. Emilia burst in, and the brief flash of light distracted Soledad. “¡Ciérralo!” she barked at Emilia, who obeyed her, then shot a glare in my direction.
Soledad sat across from me, her scent overwhelming the space. Lavender. Something earthy and smoky. She smiled and pulled up the sleeves on her tunic after r
emoving her veil. She set the veil aside and then stuck her hands out. “Breathe with me,” she said. “Dame tu nombre, niña.”
“Xochitl,” I said, taking a deep breath, then laying my hands on hers.
“Close your eyes and focus on my voice,” she said, and her voice dropped in volume. “Think about your story, Xochitl. About what you want to tell me. About what you need to tell me.”
I closed my eyes. Maybe Soledad would make her connection first, but I suspected she would soon spill forth the truth to me.
Nothing. There was no sensation. No opening, no calling of my own story within me. Which wasn’t surprising; we did not give up our own stories. It just did not happen.
I opened my eyes, saw that Soledad had hers still closed.
Nothing.
I withdrew my hands. “Soledad, it’s not working,” I said. “I don’t feel anything yet.”
She opened her eyes now. “You have not begun to tell me your story yet,” she said. “Start talking, and as you tell me the truth, I will take it inside myself.”
I balked at her. “That’s … that’s not how it works.”
She chuckled at me, waving her hand in my direction as if to swat away this opinion. “You must not be as experienced as I am. I’ve been doing this since I was your age, niña.”
“But are you sure this is how it’s supposed to work? Do you do it differently here in Obregán?”
This time, her brows arched together in frustration. “Such disrespect for someone so young.” She stuck her hands out again, a forceful gesture of spite. “Then show me. Show una vieja how it is done.”
There was a bitterness in her voice. I did not say anything in response, though. I slowly put my hands out, palms up, and stretched them toward Soledad until they were close to her. She sighed and placed her fingers on top of my palms, then slid them down toward my wrists, and she cried out, a loud, piercing sound. Her emotions surged forth into my body, plunging their talons into my skin, and they flooded me: shock and terror and regret and shame and—
I need to tell You a story, Solís.
Her name wasn’t even Soledad. She was born in Obregán, one of many people whose parents were from the surrounding aldeas, but who chose to leave their homes to find a life in a place better than their own. They were from Batopilas, the same aldea as Martín, and they arrived in Obregán the night before Soledad came into the world screaming and crying. They named her Jovana, and she grew up in a place of chaos, of possibility, of survival.
And then they died.
It was sudden, in the middle of the night, not long after she turned ten. Their bodies were stiff and cold when she woke, and no matter how many times she shook them, they never responded.
She never found out what happened to them.
She was younger than Raúl, Solís, and You took them from her. Did she deserve that? Was she supposed to suffer, too, as Emilia had, so that You could find her worthy?
Her parents’ families were all back in Batopilas, and she was just a child, una jovencita. She had no means of understanding the journey she would have to make, all to get back to a place she had never known.
So she stayed in her home and she slept a lot, and every time she woke, she would check to see if her parents were still in the same spot. It was like that the next day and the next and then the smell became too overwhelming, and she went next door to see if Delfina could help make her mother and father come back. Delfina was short and hunched over, and she looked as though she could be someone’s abuela, but she had no children of her own. And when she saw Jovana at her front door, telling her that her parents smelled weird and could she please help wake them up, Delfina knew what she would have to do.
So Jovana went to live with Delfina, though in those early months, she would wake up and go back to her home, hoping to find her parents alive and well, ready to welcome her into their arms. The home was always empty, always as cold and lifeless as their bodies. She finally had to stop when another family moved in. They did not take kindly to someone asking to see her dead parents.
It wasn’t long until Jovana settled into her life with Delfina, who worked in El Mercado selling pottery that she made by hand. Delfina, her hands knotted, her hair white, began to fold esa jovencita into her life as best as she could. She invited Jovana to help her with little things at first: like carrying freshly made pots from the studio to the windowsill to dry. Like teaching Jovana to shape the pots as she spun the mud and clay. Soon, that sad girl filled her spirit with Delfina, who never made Jovana feel like anything but her own daughter.
Jovana met her first cuentista while wandering around, trying to find a suitable meal for herself and her new mother. Her name was Soledad, and she was gorgeous, haunting, irresistible. Jovana had never met anyone so tall, who commanded the attention of those who cast their gaze on her. She coaxed Jovana into her stall, brushing aside her black hair, which was so long that it swept across the floor.
Jovana sat before her, her hands out, and Soledad took her story. She told her everything: of her life while her parents were still living, of Delfina, of the creeping loneliness that invaded her late at night as she wished for a different life.
When the telling was over, Jovana felt lighter. More alive. “Puedes ser una cuentista, también,” Soledad had told her. “It is a lucrative practice, and there is always someone with guilt in their heart.”
“Lucrative?” Jovana had asked. “What does that mean?”
Soledad held her hand out and demanded that Jovana pay her for her services.
She learned her lesson the hard way that day when she returned to Delfina without food, then had to lie about where the money had gone. Delfina had just shaken her head at Jovana and told her that everyone makes mistakes, that she would have to be more careful next time so that the money did not fall out of her pocket. She did not seem to suspect that Jovana had lied, and for some reason, that hurt Jovana more.
Yet she couldn’t stop seeing Soledad. The woman allowed her to sit in her stall, hidden behind a curtain in the back, while Soledad took desperate customers, pried their secrets out of them, then charged them modest prices to do so.
They always paid.
They always came back.
She never gave any of those stories to You, but what did those people know? As far as they were aware, Soledad was one of the most sympathetic and understanding cuentistas in Obregán. She never judged others for what they had done, what they had felt, who they were. When those customers left her stall, they were alight with the hope that they could become better, that they would stop doing You wrong.
This continued for years, and Jovana found herself spending more and more time hidden in Soledad’s stall. Delfina never bothered to ask where Jovana would disappear to; she always welcomed her back.
Jovana shared this with Soledad one day, and Soledad smiled. “It is rare to meet someone so unconditionally good,” she said. “But Delfina is an exception. Most people are hiding something, and if you promise them good fortune in the eyes of Solís, they will admit it to you.”
She brushed her hair back, and then she said, “Come. It is time for me to show you the real power of being a cuentista.” She ran her hand lovingly through Jovana’s hair. “You are ready.”
She swept Jovana away, into El Mercado, and they headed for the section where the jewelers flourished, where everything arranged on the tables and racks glittered and sparkled and shimmered. Soledad found one of the stalls where all the gems were a stark, deep red, and the jeweler—a man named Márquez—greeted Soledad with a smile. “What do you have for me today, mi cuentista?” he said.
“How much?” She held her hand out, exactly as she had done when she first tricked Jovana.
“What is your story worth?”
“It is worth nothing to me, Márquez,” she said, her voice syrupy and lush. “It is more a matter of what it is worth to you and your business.” Jovana watched as Soledad glanced dramatically to the left at the vendor
next to them, then back at Márquez. The other man was deep in conversation with a potential customer.
Márquez said nothing. He reached under la mesa, then dropped a small cloth bag into Soledad’s outstretched hand. She did not count what was inside, but merely tucked it into the folds of her cloak. She leaned forward.
“Ignacio has been stealing gems when you go to relieve yourself.”
His face changed—a flash of shock—and then he relaxed. “Gracias, Soledad,” he said. “Your gift is eternal.”
As they walked off, Jovana heard a sharp yell and spun around. She watched as Márquez left his stall, reached over Ignacio’s mesa, and ripped the man into the aisle.
Then he slashed Ignacio’s throat. Blood spilled forth, as red and deep as the gems that had been stolen.
Jovana looked back at Soledad, who wore a subtle smile. She was twisting the bag of coins in her right hand.
When the time came, years later, Jovana began to take stories, too. She added her own flair: she lit candles, she waved expensive oils about her, and she wore paints and coals on her face to allow people to think she was something more than she was. Soledad grew proud of her, and she let Jovana start to take just one story each day. She was often given the easiest ones, but one story per day became two, and then together, they sold the myth that Jovana was Soledad’s long-lost daughter, reunited through the power of Solís and the art of las cuentistas.
She spent more and more time with Soledad. One day, she packed a small bag in Delfina’s home while Delfina was at El Mercado, and after she left, she did not return. Soledad gave her a small cama in her own home, on the northern edge of Obregán, and Jovana dived into her new life, her new destiny.