Clara’s heart momentarily sped up. She took a deep breath.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
Chita had kept up a steady stream of conversation during their walk in an effort to calm Juana. But as soon as Esteban pointed out the new creature, the two women fell silent.
The dragon was clearly visible and intricately detailed. The texture of the bark resembled scales and feathers. Small protrusions bubbled out of the dragon’s two mouths like fire and ice, knots became claws, and a fibrous tangle of wood shaped the forked tail.
Esteban pointed out the small details Clara had included in her drawing: the E, the C, the ring.
“Do you see what I mean?” Esteban said.
Clara nodded, trying to still her now fiercely pounding heart.
“Can we see it?” Juana asked. “The drawing?”
Clara opened her bag and pulled out her sketchbook. She flipped to the page with the dragon sketch, a close approximation of the one that had gone missing.
Juana, Chita, and Esteban studied the picture. Clara didn’t need to do that. She knew that the image on the tree was identical to the one she had made for Esteban.
“This,” the tour guide said, standing directly behind them, “is the newest outgrowth that the tree has given us. Can anyone tell me what it is?”
He pointed at the formation of the dragon on the trunk. Some people tilted their heads, squinting as they studied the tree.
“It’s a two-headed dragon,” one of the tourists replied. Dressed in an elegant black suit and vest, with a red handkerchief poking out of his pocket, the man looked rather out of place. His beautiful companion nodded, and the group broke into collective head nodding and laughter.
“This is by far the most detailed and complex of the forms depicted on the tree,” the guide went on, pointing out various aspects of the creature that Clara and Esteban had specifically chosen for the design.
It was at this very moment that the dirt-colored scorpion with a black dot decided to make its move.
Nestled among the pages of Clara’s sketchbook, the scorpion had waited out the previous evening in Clara’s kitchen. It had taken the bus ride to Santa María del Tule and sat through a lively lunch. Now it crawled out from its hiding spot and inched its way toward Clara’s fingers, its stinger poised for attack.
“But there are dozens of other formations,” the guide concluded. “Take this one here….”
The guide was leading the tourists away when Clara felt a sharp pinch on her finger.
“Ow!” she cried, and dropped her sketchbook. Her finger throbbed sharply, and the pain quickly spread across her hand. An angry red spot on her finger appeared to be swelling.
“What happened?” Esteban asked.
“I don’t know.” Clara gasped as the pain in her hand intensified and spread up her arm. Her finger went numb. “I think something bit me.”
Clara leaned over to pick up her book, and the ground seemed to sway beneath her. She stumbled and fell.
“Clara!” Juana cried, rushing to her side. “Are you okay?”
Clara sat up and blinked, trying to steady her vision. Everything seemed to be spinning around her. Her heart thrummed wildly in her ears.
“I’m…really…hot,” she mumbled, reaching up to touch her forehead.
Chita spotted the wound on Clara’s finger. She inspected it closely. “It’s a scorpion sting!”
Chita turned to Esteban. “Run and ask the tour guide for some water and ice,” she instructed. “Bring it here and stay with Clara. I’ll be back in two minutes.”
Esteban raced after the tour guide, but the telltale cramp of a premonition gripped his stomach, forcing him to a halt. He groaned and gulped in air, trying to keep from vomiting. He glanced back at Clara, leaning against her mother on the ground. Even from where he stood, he could see her skin shining with sweat, her chest rising and sinking unevenly. Ignoring the pain in his belly, he lumbered forward.
“Hello!” he called to the tour guide. “Excuse me!”
The guide turned and frowned.
A fresh wave of nausea arose, but Esteban fought it back.
“Are you okay?” the tour guide asked, running toward the boy.
Esteban nodded. “It’s not me,” he said between gasps. “It’s my cousin. She was stung by a scorpion.” He pointed at Clara, now lying on her mother’s lap.
“What do you need?” the guide asked.
“Water and ice.”
The tour guide sprinted to the bus, and a moment later he raced back with bottles of water and a small bag of ice. He took everything to Juana, who placed the ice on Clara’s finger and urged her to drink water.
“Do you need anything else?” the guide asked Juana. “I can take you to the clinic.”
“Thank you,” Juana replied, forcing a smile. “My sister will be back any minute with the antidote.”
“Good,” he said. “I hope she feels better soon.”
Juana nodded. She waited for the tour guide to move out of earshot before turning to Esteban.
“Is this it?” she asked. “Esteban, is this what your premonition was about?”
Esteban’s stomach tightened.
“Is Clara going to die?” Juana’s words were barely a whisper, but they echoed loudly in Esteban’s ears.
“I—I don’t know,” he said.
Usually when Esteban witnessed his premonitions unfolding, a certainty fell upon him—the knowledge that no matter what he did, this event was coming to pass. It gave him comfort, relinquishing things to their ultimate destiny.
But what Esteban felt at that moment was not comfort; it was not the peace of resolution. What he sensed was the bitter onset of profound grief.
* * *
In the distance a rogue current of air split off from the gathering storm. Intoxicated by its newfound freedom, the wind went wild, raking through trees, whose branches bent and snapped; razing fields and demolishing fragile crops; snatching a little boy’s arrow, a gift from the heart of one mother, and carrying it far away, into the heart of another.
Chita never saw it coming, the arrow. She had just stepped out of the house, her mind running through a checklist of ingredients she needed for the antidote. Clara would be fine; Chita was certain of it. Her skills would overcome Esteban’s premonition. It was curious, though, how Esteban had been wrong about this premonition. That had never happened before.
The arrow struck a direct hit, and Chita instantly collapsed. Her last thought as she fell was surprise at the realization that this was the exact spot where her husband had been struck by lightning.
“A devastating consequence,” Life sighed. They had set up their game a short distance from Chita’s house and thus were present to witness the unfortunate event. Catrina had approached Chita and embraced her, welcoming her into her domain. A petal fell from Catrina’s crown, but before it touched the ground, a violent gust of waterlogged wind yanked it away.
“If only that young boy had made a different choice,” Life said. “If only he’d aimed his arrow in another direction.”
“My friend,” Catrina said. “You are mistaken to think anyone had a choice in this matter.”
“Of course they did,” Life replied. “The boy didn’t have to stand where he did, he didn’t have to—”
With a clap of thunder, the sky cracked open, releasing a downpour. Life raised his umbrella, expanding it to shield himself and his companion from the sudden onslaught of rain.
“You are assuming the boy had options,” Catrina explained, “that he chose to stand where he did.” She pointed at the water beginning to gather in rivulets down the street.
“See here—the path the rain is following is not arbitrary. It is entirely dependent on the shape and size of the cobblestones, the dirt or debris in its way, the particular slope of the
street. It depends on many factors, some of which we cannot even perceive but all of which were in place long before the storm arrived.”
“That’s true, about the rain. But how does that apply to the boy and his arrow? Rain does not have free will. It couldn’t choose a different path, even if it wanted to.”
“And what does it mean to ‘want’ something?” Catrina asked. “Where does that desire originate?”
Life frowned as he pondered her question.
Catrina went on. “The boy’s ‘choice,’ as you call it, was not arbitrary, nor was it made on a whim. It was based on a number of factors in place long before the moment he released his arrow.”
“Such as?” Life asked.
“Well, perhaps the ground was rocky and the boy didn’t have solid footing. Or maybe the ground was wet or too soft or smelled foul. Perhaps the sun was in his eyes or the grass too high upon his legs.” Catrina shrugged. “There could be any number of factors, and the boy had no control over any of them. But like the stones on this street”—she pointed at the growing streams of water racing over the cobblestones—“those factors gradually nudged the boy until he found the spot, the only spot, from which he could shoot his arrow.”
“So you’re saying the result was inevitable.”
“Yes!” Catrina nodded. “Inevitable, devastating though it is for the boy.”
Just as quickly as it came, the rain ceased, and bright columns of light pierced the dark clouds, carving out blue patches of sky and casting rainbows over the town. Life and Death took a moment to admire the celestial canvas spread out before them.
“You make an intriguing point,” Life finally said. “I will need to ponder that one for a bit.”
Catrina motioned to the deck of cards. “In the meantime, shall we resume our game?”
Life obliged her and turned over the next card. “CON LOS CANTOS DE SIRENA, NO TE VAYAS A MAREAR,” he said, and he placed a black bean on the pictograph of a mermaid.
“Always wise advice.” Catrina laughed. “DON’T BE SWAYED BY THE SONGS OF THE SIREN.”
Huddled under the massive branches of El Árbol de Tule, Juana and Esteban had taken shelter from the rain. Clara lay on the ground with her head in her mother’s lap.
The storm had come on suddenly and without warning. Almost as swiftly, Esteban’s stomachache had vanished. But a new ache assaulted him.
The pain spread through him like so many fissures, shattering his body into a hundred pieces. The sharpness gradually dissipated, but it left behind a deep and unfamiliar darkness.
“I wonder where Chita is?” Juana muttered. She brushed a strand of hair off Clara’s damp forehead. “She should be back by now.”
Esteban wondered the same thing.
“Maybe she ducked indoors to wait out the rain,” Clara said. Her finger ached painfully and her arm tingled, but the fever had subsided and her breathing was less erratic.
“No,” Esteban said. “She wouldn’t do that.” His mother was a healer, and nothing ever stood in her way when she had a job to do.
The ache inside him hardened.
“Do you think—”
Juana’s words were cut off by the sight of a woman racing toward the tree in the rain.
“Lupe!” Esteban jumped to his feet at the sight of his neighbor, a kind woman whose affinity for soap operas was rivaled only by her love for children.
Lupe was breathing heavily. Her clothes were wet and clung to her body.
“¡Ay, mi niño!” she cried, and she held out her arms to Esteban. “You poor boy!”
Esteban quietly walked into her rain-soaked embrace, not knowing why he did it but knowing simply that he had to. Through the thin cloth that separated them, Esteban could hear her heart beating a sorrowful tune.
“Lupe?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
The woman took a deep breath and let the words come with her tears. “It’s your mother,” she said. “I can’t explain it.”
“What is it?” Juana asked.
“She’s…”
The unspoken word hung heavily in the air before them. There were things one knew without needing to be told.
Esteban’s legs gave way, and the ache inside him grew ravenous, eagerly devouring that very space where love used to reign.
“Esteban?” Clara looked over at her little cousin. It had been hours since Lupe’s tearful revelation at the tree. Her body had overcome the scorpion venom, and the effects of the sting had mostly worn off. She still had a dull ache in her finger, and a much heavier ache in her heart.
Clara’s throat was raw from crying; her eyes, swollen from grief. Esteban, on the other hand, had not shed a tear or released even a single sob. Clara was pretty sure he hadn’t even blinked since Lupe brought them back to her house.
“I want to see her,” he had said when Lupe finally explained what happened.
“No,” Juana had told him. “That’s not how she would want you to remember her.”
“But I need to make sure,” he said. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
Lupe hugged him then. “No, mi hijo,” she said. “There’s no mistake.”
Esteban knew Lupe was right. The emptiness inside him confirmed what his premonition had told him. Something very bad had happened.
And so Esteban stayed with Lupe and Clara for the next few hours, remembering his mother as he wanted to remember her, while Juana and the rest of the family made the necessary arrangements for Chita’s burial and send-off.
Years ago, after the suddenness of Esteban’s father’s death had taken Chita by surprise, she vowed to never again let death knock them off their feet, and had left explicit instructions about what to do in the event of her own demise. She had two requests.
First, Manolo was to be the head of the household, responsible for the care of his younger siblings. But he would not be alone or unprepared. For years, Chita had set aside what little money she could to help provide for the boys until they could provide for themselves. It was not a fortune, but it would be enough, and the community would chip in to help. As the youngest, Esteban would move in with Clara’s family until he was old enough to rejoin his brothers.
Chita’s second request was that sadness not be allowed to enter her home. Instead, there would be a party, with food and music and dancing. Everyone she knew and loved was invited. Preparations for the lively celebration were already being made as Esteban stared unblinkingly into Lupe’s living room.
“You should eat something,” Clara told him. “It’ll make you feel better.”
On the table beside him was a plate with a barely nibbled concha—a round doughy roll topped with a crumbly coat of sugar. Lupe had also given him a glass of milk and some quesadillas, all of which stood untouched on the table.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“What about a sweet?” Clara asked. “These are your favorite.” She reached for one of the hard candies wrapped in colorful paper that Lupe always kept in bowls around her house. Her hand accidentally knocked over the bowl, scattering colorful candies across the floor.
“Maybe later,” Esteban said, and Clara tucked the sweet into her pocket before collecting the others and returning them to their place.
“Well…how about this?” Clara said. “I’ve been working on it for a while.”
She pointed at a page in her sketchbook where she had drawn a winged horse.
“You can have it,” she added.
Esteban didn’t even glance at it. His eyes were fixed on the door, his body poised to spring up from the couch. “Do you hear that?” Esteban’s body stiffened; his eyes were bright and alert.
“Hear what?”
“That song.”
Clara leaned forward. She heard a jumble of words from a faraway radio, but no song. Lupe was on the phone
in the kitchen. A dog barked sporadically.
“No,” she replied. “What song is it?”
Esteban trembled.
“What is it?” Clara asked. She rose and put her arms around him. Waves of cold rippled off his skin.
“No me olvides, amor,” Esteban whispered.
Nunca estoy lejos de ti.
Tu vida ha sido un dulzor,
Un regalo para mi.
Clara’s throat tightened as she recognized the words.
“That’s impossible….” But before she could say anything else, Esteban was at the door.
“Wait!” Clara called, and she caught up with him. “Are you sure it’s not in your imagination? I can’t hear a thing.”
“It’s faint, but I can definitely hear it!” His face glowed, as if lit from within. He smiled broadly, and Clara could actually see the sorrow release its grip on him.
“It’s her,” he whispered. “She’s okay!” He reached for the door handle. “She’s calling me.”
Esteban yanked the door open. “Mami!” he cried. No sooner had the word left his lips than it fell with a heavy thud at the threshold.
There was no Chita—not a soul around, not even a sound.
Esteban frowned and peered down the street, looking one way, then the other.
“Esteban…” Clara gently took his hand, but he pulled away and walked out of the house.
“Mami?” he asked. This time the precious word was barely a whimper.
“It’s not Chita,” Clara said. She put her hand on his arm.
“I heard her!” He yanked his arm away. “I know it is! She’s back home waiting for me.”
Before Clara could respond, Esteban was racing away.
“Esteban!” Clara chased after him.
“Mami!” The boy’s cries trailed behind him as he rushed toward his home.
“Hey,” Clara called out. “Esteban, wait!” She picked up her pace. Esteban picked up his pace as well.
Clara was fast, but just as she was about to reach her cousin, he pushed himself forward and out of her grasp. He ran heedlessly, quickly approaching a busy corner.
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