Each of Us a Desert

by Mark Oshiro

  I laughed at that, then rejoined the group. I packed as quickly as I could and munched on some leftovers from the meal that Rosalinda had prepared. We took turns refilling our waterskins, and as I was nearly finished, I looked up to see Jorge, his hair disheveled, staring at me.

  “They left already,” he said, and when it was clear I didn’t understand, he shook his head. “Roberto. Héctor. To Obregán.”

  Eliazar dumped dirt and some water on the fire, and it steamed and smoked. “We will be fine,” he said. “There are now five of us. We will make it.”

  “Make it where, exactly?” I asked. “How long will you travel with Emilia and me?”

  “I don’t have a specific destination,” said Eliazar. “I’d like to find a new home someday, but right now…” He picked up his pack and slung it over a shoulder. “… I’m just walking. Searching for something.”

  “We are looking for somewhere to settle down,” said Rosalinda.

  “There’s a camp beyond las montañas that we should try for,” Emilia said. “It’s pretty far, but if we make good time today, I think we can make it.”

  I gazed north. “Beyond those montañas?”

  They seemed so terribly far, Solís, much farther than we had traveled the day before. And that was before the others had joined us.

  “We have rested well,” said Eliazar, as if he could read my thoughts. “I think we can make it. We’ve made it this far, ¿no?”

  I wanted to believe him. I chose to, because what was the alternative?

  I didn’t want to imagine that. This journey had a purpose, and I told myself then that I would do anything to make it.

  “There’s another well beyond the end of la granja,” said Jorge. “Stop there. Fill up again, as much as you need. I don’t know of any sources of agua to the north, aside from those deep in the ravines of las montañas.” He scratched at his head. “And that’s half a day away.”

  “Thank you for letting us stay,” said Emilia. “May Solís look down upon you with joy.”

  We headed out to the east at first, cutting through the fields as we had done the night before. When we popped out at the other end, Emilia directed us north on a worn trail. For the next hour, the stalks were tall enough to block out Your light, and so we all walked as close as possible to them, relishing every moment in the shade.

  The fields eventually ended, as did the shade. We were silent again, focused on making good time to the well, trying to ignore how bright the sun was. The land shimmered in Your light, and the desert spread in all directions, a ceaseless brown punctuated with the arms of the saguaros and the branches of the occasional paloverde. Low bushes sat still on the ground. We were the only creatures awake anymore, as most had scurried to find shade as You moved through the sky.

  We were a defiance, weren’t we? We made the deliberate decision to be under You when most hid in the darkness. I don’t think we appreciated that then. No, Emilia and I were focused entirely on the walk: putting one foot in front of the other, taking sips of water every quarter hour, making sure our footing was good as we climbed out of gullies.

  The pain came back before we reached the well, though, and I felt the stories awaken. It was becoming harder and harder to determine whom they belonged to. Each emotion blended with the next. Who felt regret? Was it Lani or Lito? Which story belonged to the lonely one? Was that Emilia or Ofelia or me?

  A spike ripped through my lower abdomen, and I clutched it, trying to breathe through the pain.

  Just walk, I told myself. Focus on the end. Because this will end.

  “¿Estás bien, niña?” Eliazar asked, reaching out as I rubbed my belly.

  “Only a cramp,” I said. “I bled the other day, so it’s probably that.”

  He nodded at me. “Do you need a break? Some agua?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, we should keep going.”

  I massaged the spot for a few minutes as we walked, and I caught Emilia looking back at me, trying to disguise it in a stretch.

  I smirked.

  She winked at me.

  A new sensation filled my belly, one that did not belong to any of the stories, but was mine and mine alone.

  Desire.

  She was so beautiful, Solís. It had taken me a while to admit that, but I did not let it bloom into anything else. This was not the time. Emilia had her own life to live, and after Simone, I probably would not fit into it.

  Still, it was nice. To desire someone.

  The sun was firmly in the sky when we made it to the stone well. After Felipe filled up on water, I shamelessly dipped my head under the stream of the pump. I let the cool water pour over me and wiped at my skin and the stickiness that still clung to it. We filled up our stomachs again with enough water to make us burst, and Rosalinda laughed when Felipe burped loudly. The sound echoed out into the desert.

  There was one lone field of maíz out here and perhaps the only shade for a long while. The others were talking and joking when I made for it. “¡Ya vuelvo!” I called out, and Emilia raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  I didn’t know why I went in that direction, Solís. I moved to the east, through the stalks, letting the leaves scrape at me, and I assumed the pressure down below meant I needed to relieve myself again. But then I was moving quicker and quicker, pushing past the maíz, and something ripped into my arm, tearing the skin, and I didn’t care.

  There was one here.

  La poeta had left another one.

  I plunged to the ground and tore off my pack, then pulled out la pala, and I was furious, almost sick with elation as I dug into the earth, deeper and deeper, and there it was, another drawstring pouch, the leather as worn as the previous poema, and then it was in my hands.

  Excitement ripped through me as I opened it and saw the wrinkled edges of a scroll. I unfolded it, let my eyes course over the writing scratched into the paper, committed them to memory as fast as I could:

  Veo el sol y veo Solís.

  ¿Pero quién me ve?

  Me estoy escondiendo en

  las sombras

  En el dolor

  Solo quiero ser vista.

  I see the sun and I see Solís.

  But who sees me?

  I am hiding in

  the shadows

  In pain

  I only want to be seen.

  I rolled it up, stuffed it back into its pouch and my pack, but I was repeating that last line, over and over again, soft like a whisper, like a prayer to You.

  Solo quiero ser vista.

  I only want to be seen.

  I had been nudged back onto the right path. Esta poema was proof of that. I was closer to the truth. I had to be.

  If You did not want this, You would stop it.

  Right?

  I wore a smile on my face as I returned to the well, filled up on water, replenished myself with hope.

  The five of us walked in a line, snaking across the land, toward las montañas.

  Each of us a desert, alone and vast.

  We were alone together, at least.

  There were few árboles of any kind beyond la granja and the fields, and the shade that had protected us in the early morning was now gone. We could hide behind the tall arms of the saguaro that poked up from the earth, but if you got too close to them, they would leave you with a painful reminder that they were prepared to defend themselves against invaders.

  The newest poema ran through me, and I continued to recite it to myself, devouring its power, and the cramps that had tormented me faded away in its wake. I was lost in my head when I realized that Felipe had slowed down to walk next to me. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  I snorted. “Isn’t that a question?”

  He frowned. “That doesn’t count.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, giving him a smile.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Empalme,” I answered. “You ever heard of it?”

  He shook his head, cheeks shaking. “No, I haven’t
. How far is it from Hermosillo?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “This is actually my first time away from home. I’ve never been to the south.”

  “Never?” he said, his tone disbelieving.

  “Felipe, please,” said Rosalinda. “Don’t bother her.”

  I smiled once more. “He’s not, I promise.”

  “Why didn’t you leave?” He used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Didn’t you want to go anywhere else?”

  I caught Emilia’s eyes widening. Children had a way of cutting right to the bone with a question. Felipe didn’t know any better, though; he wasn’t trying to be cruel.

  “I wanted to go all sorts of places. But I wasn’t allowed to.”

  “Did you make your parents mad or something?”

  This time I laughed out loud. “No, Felipe, not like that.”

  I paused.

  Should I tell them? I thought.

  I was far from Empalme.

  What could it hurt?

  “Soy cuentista,” I said. “So I was the one who took care of my aldea.”

  Felipe gasped.

  “A real cuentista?” He reached out, put his fingers on my arm, then yanked them back. “Mami! ¡Xochitl es cuentista!”

  “I heard,” she said. “Since I am right behind you, mijo.”

  “We didn’t have one.”

  I stopped.

  Right in that spot.

  Rosalinda ran into the back of me, and I nearly tumbled to the ground.

  “Dímelo otra vez,” I said.

  “¿Qué?” Felipe had turned around and was walking backwards, facing me.

  “¡Otra vez!” I cried. “You had no cuentista?”

  “Well, no,” Felipe said. “We didn’t deserve one.”

  “‘Deserve’?” My legs wobbled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Eliazar, who had brought up the rear of our group, now joined me on the other side from Emilia. “That’s not how it works,” he said.

  “I know,” I responded. “Every aldea has one … don’t they?”

  He shook his head, took a long drink from his waterskin. “Not at all. There’s only one born every generation.”

  “A generation?” I scoffed at him. “How is that possible? How can anyone survive like that?”

  “Survive?” It was Eliazar’s turn to look confused. “It’s not about survival. They can save lives only if they absolutely must.”

  “But what of las pesadillas?” I said.

  They all stared at me, unmoving, confused.

  “The stories that come to life?”

  Emilia shook her head. “I don’t know what those are.”

  “Do you need más agua, Xochitl?” Felipe asked. “Maybe you’re tired.”

  I stared at them, the impossibility spreading through my body, reaching the stories, startling them awake, and I gritted my teeth.

  Cada una de nosotras es una desierta.

  And we were all so different.

  I stumbled toward two tall saguaros without speaking to the others, my mind reeling, the ground shaky under my feet.

  They weren’t lying.

  They couldn’t be.

  Who would lie about something so important?

  But how could all of this be true? Your heat pushed down on me, and I almost gave up right then, Solís. I almost brought myself to the earth to return all those stories to You. The bitterness was in my throat, on my tongue, threatening to pour out of my mouth and drip down the front of me, seep into the dry and arid dirt. Why shouldn’t I do it? Why was I so set on keeping them all within me?

  Giving up would be so easy.

  I bent over.

  My knees found the earth.

  My hands next.

  They rushed up—

  “Xochitl!”

  Her voice stopped me. Shoved the stories back down.

  “Xochitl, are you okay? Are you—?”

  I looked up, tears streaming down my face, the refuse at the corner of my mouth. I wiped at it, saw the dark liquid on the back of my hand, and I nearly lost it again. Emilia said something, something I couldn’t make out, and I gazed back up at her. Her angular face was even more sharp with worry, and I collapsed back, and the bitter taste of the stories slid back to my gut, then spread out, finding somewhere to hide.

  “How?” I choked out. “How can this all be true?”

  “I don’t know,” said Emilia. “I thought it was strange that you were stuck in Empalme, but I never said anything. We had many cuentistas in Solado.”

  “What?”

  The faintness came back. I took off my pack and dug through it for the goatskin water bag. I knew it was reckless and foolish, but I poured some water over my head and let it run down, let it shock me and cool me.

  “Xochitl, do we need to stop?” She knelt before me, ran her fingers over my face. “You’re burning up.”

  “No,” I said. “We can’t stop. Not on account of me.”

  “No, I meant—” And then she sighed. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard. It’s okay if you take a break.”

  “And slow us down?” I shook my head. “We have too much ground to cover today.”

  Emilia offered her hand, and I pulled myself upright, wiped at my face. “Emilia, how can this all be true? I mean … someone has to be wrong about Solís.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe we all are.”

  I couldn’t stop thinking of that as Emilia gave me some of her water. What if none of us knew what You wanted, Solís? What did that mean for our world?

  For this journey?

  “We should get going,” I said. “If we’re going to make it to our next stop.”

  The two of us rejoined the others, and Rosalinda wore pity on her face. “Xochitl, we don’t have to—”

  “No,” I said. “We can keep moving.”

  “¿Estás bien?” Felipe asked. “You were crying a lot and it looked like you were sick and maybe you should take a nap.”

  “Felipe!” Rosalinda gently swatted at him. “You don’t always have to say what’s in your head.”

  “But why did she react like that?”

  I gave Felipe a smile, hoping that it would convince him I was fine. “I had been taught something very different about us. About las cuentistas.”

  “So your aldea doesn’t deserve one?” He scratched his head. “I’m confused.”

  Emilia guided us back to the main trail as we spoke. All of us. Rosalinda explained what Felipe had been referring to, how her people believed that only deserving communities who had pleased Solís were gifted with a cuentista, and they were born into that aldea.

  “But how can that work?” I asked.

  Rosalinda, who walked alongside me, shook her head. “I don’t know that I think about it like that,” she said. “It just does. Those of us in Hermosillo know that we must be better, so that Solís will bless us.”

  “Then … your cuentista is a child when you get one,” said Eliazar. He sighed. “How is that fair to them?”

  “I was a cuentista at eight,” I said. “I had to start taking stories once Tía Inez passed on the power to me.”

  “You can’t pass on the power,” said Felipe. “Solís is the one who decides that.”

  “But I know it can be done,” Emilia countered. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Ay, I’m lost,” said Felipe. “None of this makes any sense.”

  That realization killed the conversation, and the only sound reverberating across the desert plain was our boots scraping against the earth. It truly did not make any sense. My life had been so rigid in Empalme. But the rules that had been used to control my life, to make everything defined and perfect, were not even true?

  I slowed down, letting the others move ahead of me until I was alongside Eliazar. He had not said much during my outburst, but what he had said was interesting to me.

  “So, only one in a generation?” I said to him.

  He ran his fingers thro
ugh his long beard. “That’s what I was raised to believe,” he said. “I had to travel to see a cuentista if we needed healing. They were living in a place to the west. So I often went years without talking to one.”

  “Years?” I balked. “But … how did you deal with las pesadillas?”

  He played with his beard some more. “In general? Ay, no sé, señorita. You can’t really control them, can you? You get them when you get them.”

  “No,” I insisted. “Only when you are not honest with Solís. They take form. They become real.”

  His eyes lit up at that. “Ah, you mean the things you see when you become consumed with dishonesty?”

  I nodded at that. “That sounds familiar.”

  “They’re rare.” Eliazar stumbled briefly but caught himself before I could reach out to grab him. He waved me away. “You have to be truly lost to Solís for that to happen.”

  I did not know how that was possible. I had grown up seeing las pesadillas. They lived in the shadows, gained form the longer a person did not give up their story. So why was this not the case for the others?

  The anger came first, and I remembered Ofelia’s rage, the sense that she’d felt betrayed, that she’d been left out. Her memory spread out in my mind: She read the note, felt the rejection, stormed to Lito’s in fury.

  It only made me more mad, and it poured out from my chest, radiated into the rest of my body, flooding me like the gullies during a terrible rain.

  And then Eliazar brought me back.

  He cleared his throat. “Xochitl,” he said.

  No.

  I knew that tone.

  I had heard it so many times.

  I couldn’t.

  “I have not been honest in a long time,” he continued.

  My feet were stones, impossible to lift.

  “I have sought out others, but…”

  I was so full, so overflowing with the stories of others, and they swirled and churned inside me, eager at the prospect of another one joining them.

  “They could not help me.”

  My abdomen hurt, and I clutched a hand there, begging the stories to return to their slumber.