I scoop up the vines, and half carry, half drag them back toward the bank. I’m several feet away when something shrieks, the noise slicing the air. A mewling cry follows.
Whatever it is, it isn’t human.
I don’t think.
Goose bumps flare up and down my arms. Another scream, and the sound is heartbreaking, full of suffering and terror and defeat. There’s a menacing growl and then leaves stirring. My feet can’t take me back to the sandbank fast enough, the vines dragging behind me like the tail of an anaconda.
When I emerge from the tree line, the sky blazes orange gold, a heavenly bonfire for the gods. I drop the vines and the machete onto the sand and clap my hands over my ears to block out the eternal song of the jungle: rustling leaves, hoots, high trills, coughing grunts, and croaks.
A soft tickle creeps along the back of my right hand. Slowly, I lower my arm to inspect the sensation. A four-inch-long murky-green scorpion clings to my skin, spiral tail quivering. I fling my hand, screaming, and it snaps into the air. I squeeze my eyes shut as another rustling noise grows louder, someone crashing out from beneath the jungle canopy.
Strong arms grip my hands and shake me.
“Stop screaming,” Manuel says. “Condesa! What’s wrong?”
I reopen my eyes, and his mud-splattered face is inches from mine, dark eyes deep pools of calm water. “S-scorpion.”
“Where were you bit?” he asks, releasing me. “Show me.”
“I wasn’t, I don’t think.” I thrust my hand toward him, and he takes it into his, and warmth spreads to every inch of my skin. He turns over my palm, carefully examining the flesh.
“You’re fine.” He releases my hand, and then scoops up an enormous speckled egg from the ground, which he gives to me, and then picks up six bamboo stalks, eight segments high each. “I’m going to build shelter before it gets dark, come on.”
I trudge behind him, cradling the egg, my pack swaying behind me. He finds two trees close together and beckons me closer with the crook of his finger. “Hammock and net.” I awkwardly wrest it from within my bag and toss the canvas bundle to him. He sets up the hammock and then secures one of the bamboo stalks above it.
“Stay here,” he says. “You can put the egg in the hammock if you’re tired of carrying it.”
But I’m not. It seems bizarre to be holding something so fragile in such a dangerous place. Manuel returns carrying the bundle of vines and the machete and proceeds to attach the rest of the stalks to the one above the gently swaying hammock, forming a kind of roof with the bed underneath. He cuts large palm fronds and layers several over the bamboo, then he finally sets the mosquito net over all the greenery. Layers of protection from the jungle.
“Cozy,” I say.
He holds out his hand for the egg. “Hungry?”
The poor little creature. “What’s inside?”
“Ostrich.”
I bite my lip, and he snorts. When my stomach grumbles, I pass the egg to him and he sets it down onto the floor. Then he lops off a segment of bamboo and hands it to me. I drink the water in one long gulp while he uses his machete to scrape the sides of another stalk until there’s a small pile of tinder.
“Will you grab the pan from my bag?” He jerks his chin in the direction of the shelter, where the pack is nestled against a tree trunk. I march over, watching where I step. The pan is near the bottom. I yank it out and turn around in time to catch the soft wisps of smoke curling from the scraped-up bamboo. I hand over the pan and Manuel cracks the giant egg into it, and the food slowly cooks above the fire.
My stomach growls, demanding to be fed. The size of the egg can feed ten people, but I swear I might finish it off by myself. I haven’t eaten anything since that one banana and the handful of nuts. Neither has he, for that matter. Manuel stomps out the fire once the food is done cooking, and we eat the egg using chopped bamboo stalks as makeshift spoons. It’s plain but somehow delicious, and in moments there’s nothing left but an empty pan, my stomach finally full. We put everything away into our bags and duck under the shelter.
He and I will be sharing a hammock.
I flush to the roots of my hair, but Manuel doesn’t notice. He checks the bed for any creeping insects and then motions for me to get in. Once I’m in, he settles into the opposite end, booted feet dangling off the edge and away from my face. I position mine the same way, the hammock swinging wildly as we try to get comfortable.
But that’s impossible. The long line of Manuel’s body is pressed against mine and I’m suddenly thankful for the darkness hiding my red cheeks. His matter-of-fact demeanor helps. Everything is about survival with him, and sleeping above the ground is part of that. His heart’s probably a steady drum in his chest while mine dances against my ribs.
“Sleep, Condesa,” he says gruffly.
I stare up at the canopy of tight leaves. “I have a name.”
“Yes, I know.”
Neither of us says a word, but I know he’s still awake. It’s pitch black underneath the palm fronds and maybe that’s why I say what I do. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”
Manuel remains quiet. The words he won’t say too loud in this shelter. I lie thinking, remembering that night, remembering how he’d been the one to pull me behind that tree. I’d been laughing, and he’d kissed me before I’d stopped. I remember laughing still as his lips moved earnestly against mine, until it was no longer funny. Until I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet. The way he’d looked at me after, as if I were the best thing he’d ever seen in his whole life.
How can anyone forget something like that?
All day he’s kept me at arm’s distance. No private jokes, or reminiscing about our childhood. Calling me by my title, and not my name. Treating me as a sovereign and not a friend. Manuel doesn’t want me poking at that wall he’s erected, trying to get through. Maybe he’s afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, it’s not helpful,” he says at last, and in a voice that brooks no argument.
“You don’t know a thing about my thoughts.”
“Want to bet?” he says, his voice hard. “Sleep, Condesa. Tomorrow we face the river.”
My stomach clenches. For a moment I’d forgotten about the rushing water, and the Illari watching us, waiting for our next move. I exhale, willing my body to relax, but I can’t get that arrow out of my mind. Quick and deadly, coming from out of nowhere.
CAPÍTULO
Nueve
When I wake, Manuel is gone. I stumble out of the hammock and duck under the netting and broad leaves, frantic, my heart thudding against my ribs. The dappled jungle floor steams under my boots, alive and noisy with the sounds of buzzing locusts and rustling bushes. Our measly campfire has disappeared, swallowed whole during the night. From down the hill comes a steady thwacking noise, and I walk toward the river, careful not to touch anything. My clothes are a mess, the scent truly frightening. I haven’t bathed in maybe a week, not since I first arrived in this place.
Birds trill as I continue, my stomach grumbling. I slept as well as I could have expected, if a little cramped, squished against Manuel’s lean shape. Several times I woke, having to wipe the sweat from my face with my dirty tunic.
The immense tree trunks become sparse as the black river comes into view, long and wide from one end to the other. Manuel kneels in front of a rectangular raft made of bamboo and liana vines, and he cuts at smaller stalks. His hair is wet underneath his hat, for some unaccountable reason. The rest of him is dry, and while I wouldn’t say he’s precisely clean, most of the mud and grime has disappeared from his face and arms.
“Buenos días,” I say.
He doesn’t look up. “If you’re hungry, there’s scrambled eggs in the pan. I found papaya, too.”
No good morning. Not even a glance in my direction. “You’ve been busy.”
He grunts and moves over to a smaller pile of liana vines. The shorter stacks are tied to
the bottom of the longer one, and the shape of an oar emerges. He quickly creates another one while I eat the rest of the food, still warm in the pan. I watch him work, his movements brisk, neat, and efficient. Always the same, no matter what he’s doing. Ana used to tell her children, “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.” Her mandate governs Manuel to this day. No matter what he does, he does it with excellence. In this jungle, that’s a gift. But for my heart? His duty and honor are devastating.
He stands and pushes the raft toward the river. I bend over to help and together we get our makeshift transportation close to the edge, only a foot away from the lapping water. “We need to pack up,” he says.
As we walk back up the hill, I shoot him a glance. His shoulders are tense, jaw locked tight. He’s still angry I didn’t leave the jungle when I had the chance. “You’re not happy with me.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m happy or not. All that matters is your safety.”
“And yours.”
“No,” he says ruefully. Then he stops, forcing me to stop, but I’m grateful to catch my breath. “Have you been paying attention to where we are?”
“Aren’t you doing that?”
His lips thin. “What if I’m dead?”
“Then chances are, I’ll be dead too.”
“I never want to hear that from you again. If I’m dead, it’s because I was protecting you, and you need to live no matter what.”
“You’d die for me, wouldn’t you?” I hate the idea of how much trouble I’m putting him through, by remaining here with me in this jungle, risking his life.
“Without hesitation.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Me too.”
“I wish you’d been there,” I say softly. “During the fight for the throne, when I’d lost and Ximena betrayed me. Things might have ended differently.”
“Had I known, I would have fought with you.” He straightens and lifts his chin toward the trees. “Do you know where the jungle border is? Just in case you need to walk back out.”
I take a moment to think. “We’ve been going in a straight line, so it’s this way.” I point behind me.
If I weren’t his sovereign, I swear he’d start laughing. The corners of his mouth twitch, but he manages to fight the lurking smile. He ticks my arm several notches to the right. “This way. The jungle will eat you alive, Condesa, if you’re not constantly aware and careful and vigilant. Want to survive out here? You need to pay attention.”
I reach out and grab his arm. He looks down at my fingers and then slowly upward to meet my gaze.
“It’s Catalina.”
His mouth hardens as he pulls away. “I can’t call you by your name as if I were some lord.”
“You can call me by my name because you’re my friend.” I don’t care what he says. The times we spent together in the Illustrian fortress were more than just him following orders. If that had been true, we wouldn’t have talked at all. But we did. I told him about the books I’d read, the stories I loved and the characters I admired. Once, I even caught him reading by candlelight. One of my favorite tales about a creature of the jungle who used his persuasive call to lure people off well-traveled paths.
He remains stubbornly silent. I want to shake him.
“You called me Catalina before. Right after you rescued me.”
“That was before.”
Ah. Before I told him my plan to stay here. When his sense of duty kicked in after he found out about his family’s horrible fate. “We might die here, and you can’t call me by my name?”
“What difference does it make? Both are true. I prefer addressing you with the respect your status requires. What about that upsets you?”
I gesture to all of him. “Your aloofness upsets me. Back at the keep, we were friends,” I amend. “We talked all the time. Every day.”
This seems to amuse him. “We did?”
“Yes, we—” I break off, flushing. He doesn’t remember any of our conversations, while I carried them in my heart, dreamed about him for years. That hurt. “You really don’t remember?”
Manuel stills, his expression remote and blank. If he were a house, it’d be empty and haunted. I take the tiniest step forward. His nostrils flare at my approach. He’s lying. And the hurt I feel transforms, taking over my body, overruling my better judgment. I’m tired of being protected, sheltered, of having my experiences dictated.
“You want to pretend we weren’t friends? That we never danced together or stayed up talking most nights? That you didn’t kiss me?” At this, his eyes narrow into slits, the gleam in them hard. “You’re not fooling me. But if you insist on carrying on, have the decency to explain why.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
I tug at the ends of my hair. “It was your choice to stay here.”
“I didn’t really have a choice.”
I step close to him and poke his chest. “You always have a choice. Why do people think they don’t have choices? You’re not standing in a river with the current dragging you one way or another. You’re on solid ground and responsible for what you do. Ximena had a choice. You have a choice, and so did I. You can still leave.”
“I won’t do that.”
I press my fingers to my throbbing temples. “If we have to travel together, the least you can do is say good morning. Honestly, you’re as pleasant to be around as an angry swarm of bees.”
He clenches his jaw. “Are you finished?”
I nod.
“Any moment in the jungle could be our last,” he says with fire in his voice. “I have to listen, to pay attention. I don’t have room to engage you in conversation, not when we have a tribe of people hunting us and predators with teeth, with poison in their systems. I can’t entertain you.”
Is that what he thinks? No better than a child, demanding amusement? The thought spikes my blood, and tears prick my eyes. Whenever I feel frustrated, I tend to angry cry until the emotion is swept away. “That’s not fair. I’m not asking you to do that.”
“Then what do you want from me?” he asks, genuinely confused. “I’m a ranger and your guard. I’m trying to protect you. That’s all I’m trying to do.” Manuel shoots me a look loaded with meaning.
He doesn’t want to talk about the kiss. He’d rather I forget all about it, as if I hadn’t dreamed about that moment for years. As if I hadn’t cried when he left without a word.
“I understand.”
His eyes narrow. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
I bite my lip. Struggle to contain my emotions. Manuel is all I have left. Ana and Sofía are gone, Ximena betrayed me. My people are living in La Ciudad under the reign of an enemy queen, the sister of the man who took away everything from us.
“I don’t mean to hurt you,” he says softly. “But I need you to let me do my job. If I’m short or unwilling to talk, it’s because I need to concentrate. We both need to be prepared for the worst. I’m not going to coddle you.”
He’s telling me the truth—but not all of it. There was a time when he used to tease me, sneak me stolen food from La Ciudad. That’s the person I miss. I can sense that he’s keeping himself tucked away from me, blocking my way with an impenetrable wall. Leaving me out in the cold. “You used to be kinder.”
He rears back as if I’ve struck him.
I wince. “Manuel. I only meant—”
“We’re losing light,” he says, moving away, as if an emotional distance isn’t enough. I trudge after him, lonely and hurt and unsure of how to make things less awkward between us. Confusion filters into my mind, and I try to parse through our conversation. He never answered my question. I still consider him a friend, but maybe he doesn’t feel the same way.
We pack up our meager belongings and double back to the river as thunder rumbles from above. The clouds are heavy with rain, and I prepare myself for another wet day. What I wouldn’t give to bathe with gardenia-scented soap and
put on fresh, clean clothing. My fingers are caked with mud, and all over my body are red welts from the mosquitos ravaging my skin. Manuel pushes the raft into the water and easily hops on. He turns, his hand reaching for mine.
But I stay put on the sandbank.
“Condesa,” he says. “Come on.”
“Am I your friend?”
His brow darkens. “You can’t be serious.” The raft moves slowly away from the edge and he uses one of the oars to keep it still. “Condesa.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Catalina.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
“Then say my name, and stop calling me by my title.”
“¿Por qué?”
Because I’ve loved you all of my life, and if I can’t have you that way, then at least be my friend. I want to scream. I’m so tired of keeping this secret. I never told anyone, not even Ximena. “It’s important to me. Por favor. Say my name.”
“Catalina,” he growls.
My name on his mouth is like hissing coals, smoke curling and twisting high into the air. I jump onto the raft, arms windmilling. He glares at me, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up to the surface.
I grab the other oar and help him maneuver away from the bank. The water runs swiftly and carries us out and away, until both sides of the thirty-foot-wide river transform into dense walls of vegetation: mosses and vines, bushes and enormous palms. There’s no sight of the Illari, only intuition’s insistence whispering in my ear that they’ll be back.
My paddling needs work and Manuel calls out instructions. When I finally get the rhythm right, I’m ready for more conversation. “Tell me about your time here.”
“What do you want to know?” His voice is wary, as if not trusting I’ll keep to subjects that won’t end in an argument.
“Well, you’ve been in this jungle for eight months.” I pause. “Did you make any friends?”
He lets out a crack of laughter. “No one. The Illari were suspicious of me from the day I stepped foot in here. Not too long ago, I saw a man in a purple robe walking through, but I didn’t like the look of him so I didn’t attempt to make my presence known. I’m sure it was for the best. I never saw him again, so he must have died.”
Written in Starlight Page 7