“Is that true?”
Buelo smiled. “It could be. We all face something in life that is a mystery, where no matter which way we look, there is no satisfying answer.” Buelo shrugged. “But such is the challenge of life. Your story reminds us of that.”
Max put his hands behind his head, letting the idea settle. He liked that his story could have a double meaning, and one he’d never even considered. Miss Domínguez said that a good story left you wondering. The next time he saw her, if Papá wasn’t around, he would tell her this one.
Buelo held up a finger. “My turn. How about ‘The Secret Bridge and the Guardabarrera’? I’ll need a little help in the telling. Remind me, how do I begin?”
Max smiled. “You know. Once upon a time …” he prompted.
Buelo cleared his throat. “Once upon a time, a grandfather told his grandson a true story …”
Max giggled. “You say that every time.”
Buelo swept an arm toward the window and cleared his throat. “Once upon a time in the north, far away and hidden, there was a secret bridge, which was only discussed in whispers among bridge builders, their descendants, and chosen ones.” He held a finger to his lips. “In fact, it still exists so you must promise never to tell anyone about it.”
“I promise, Buelo.”
“Before you reach the secret bridge, you must first cross a glorious span with three arches. It glows pink in the morning sun—the Bridge of a Thousand Mallards.”
“Which makes for a lot of quacking,” added Max.
“To be sure,” said Buelo. “After you cross the bridge to river left … Do you remember what that is?”
Max nodded. “If I’m looking downstream, the bank on my left.”
“Very good. After you cross to river left, you follow the bank north for another hour until the channel grows weary of all its meanderings and loosens into a long ribbon, becoming deep and calm. It is there that you will come upon—”
“—what looks like a dead-end cove, but it’s an inlet that leads to a hidden arm of the river,” said Max. “That’s where the secret bridge is.”
“Who is telling the story?” said Buelo. “But you are right. At the back of what looks like a cove is a bridge that is so overgrown with vines and shrubs that it creates a wall of greenery, obscuring anything on the other side. There, a peculiar gatekeeper, a guardabarrera, lives beneath the bridge. She determines who may travel beyond. And because she lives in a cavern, some say she is—”
“—a troll with gray skin and yellow eyes, warts, and a nose too big for her face. Or a river witch,” said Max. “Is she?”
Buelo smiled. “I will only confirm that she is a creature of great wisdom and intrigue with a mesmerizing aura. She is a keeper of lost things. A collector of sorts. Her cavern is crowded from ceiling to sod. There, you might come to retrieve what you have lost, or deliver something you have found that someone might come looking for one day.”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps you lost something of deep meaning when you were on a picnic on the riverbank, a piece of jewelry or something of sentimental value. Or maybe you’ve lost your way in life. Or cannot find the answers to perplexing questions. She can help.”
Max wondered if the guardabarrera knew where his mother was. And if she could help find her so that Max could return the compass. Papá had said that she treasured it. He clutched the compass, rubbing the smooth glass with his thumb.
“But sadly, very few are willing to travel and meet her face-to-face.”
“Because they are afraid of what she might be,” said Max.
“Yes. But the strong and determined, such as yourself, will find her.”
Max smiled and sat a little straighter. He was glad Buelo presumed such a thing, even if it was only in a made-up story.
“When you reach the cavern door, you must knock four times. She will call out, ‘Who stands before me?’ And you answer …”
“A pilgrim, true of heart,” said Max.
“And when she opens the door, you will introduce yourself.”
“I am Maximiliano Feliciano Esteban Córdoba, son of Feliciano Córdoba Jr. and grandson of Feliciano Córdoba Sr.”
“And she will say …” prompted Buelo.
“‘I am Yadra, nothing more, nothing less.’”
Buelo nodded. “If you are very fortunate and are indeed true of heart, she may invite you on a journey upriver where you might …” He cupped his fingers.
“… hold tomorrow in the palm of my hand. But how will that help me?” asked Max.
“Oh, so much might be realized by glimpsing what is yet to come. Wouldn’t you want to know if the path you are on is leading to a place you want to go? The knowledge might inspire you to change how you live today. Wouldn’t you like answers to questions that puzzle you?”
Max nodded. He would like to know if he’d make the fútbol team and where his mother was and if she was ever coming home. He sat up. “You’ve met the guardabarrera, Buelo, right?”
“Many times, though it has been quite a few years now. Once, we even had tea, which she served in a china cup. And I went on the journey.”
“You held tomorrow?” whispered Max. “What did it feel like?”
“I suppose it might be different for everyone. For me, one moment it was warm and syrupy, like a cinnamon pastel just from the oven. And the next, cool and smooth, like a rock pulled from the riverbed. Mostly, though, tomorrow was very slippery. As soon as I thought I’d captured it, swoosh, it slid through my fingers and was gone.”
“Was your path leading to the place you wanted to go?”
Buelo nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“How did you know where the bridge was?” asked Max.
Buelo held up a finger, his eyes twinkling. “A map, of course.”
“Can I see it?”
“All in good time, Maximiliano. But remember, your father would remind us, it is just a story. Then again, he is not here.” He smiled.
Buelo wanted him to believe, whether there was a map or not.
The clock in the kitchen ticked. Lola snored. Buelo slurped a long sip of coffee.
“Buelo, why is Papá so serious? He always thinks the worst is going to happen.”
“Your Papá was once quite lighthearted,” said Buelo. “But now he wears his worries and fears like a cloak. The grown-up world robbed him of a bit of his spirit, and he lost his belief in happy endings.”
“You mean … when my mother left?”
Buelo nodded.
“She stole a piece of his spirit?” asked Max.
“You could say that.”
“Didn’t he look for her?”
“He looks for her everywhere he goes.”
Max thought of the bridges his father had built all over the country. Were those jobs—that sometimes kept him away for weeks at a time—just excuses to look for her?
“Maybe the guardabarrera could help him find her.”
Buelo sighed. “Yes, well … she would have to want to be found.” He stood and patted Max’s legs. “That is enough for tonight. It is past your bedtime and I need to take Lola out. Now, promise me that when you grow up and meet the guardabarrera, you will tell her hello for me.”
Max smiled and went along with Buelo’s fantasy. “I promise.”
“Good night, Maximiliano. Te quiero.”
Max’s heart swelled. “Good night, Buelo. I love you, too.”
Before he climbed into bed, he stood in front of the small window in his room and looked up. The world was moonlit and on the distant cliff top, La Reina Gigante glowed, diminutive and delicate, as if he could reach out and hold her in his hand. Fog wrapped the tower’s waist. A trailing mist drifted at her sides. She was a guardian angel with outstretched arms.
Max slipped the leather cord with the compass off his neck and carefully set it on the windowsill. Then, like the hidden ones, he prayed to the giant queen for protection and guidance. “La Reina, please watch over Papá, Buelo,
my aunties and uncle, Lola, and me. Can you please watch over my mother, too, wherever she is?”
Sunday afternoon, Max left ahead of Papá to meet Chuy at the field.
He stopped at the store to buy two pieces of leche quemada, which he shoved in the pocket of his shorts for later when he and Chuy could celebrate their new summer jobs.
“Max!” Chuy jogged toward him. “What did your father say?”
“Probably the same as your parents. No. But he said you and I could be his apprentices this summer. He’ll pay us!” Max laid out the plan of working on weekdays and going to the secret water hole on weekends.
Chuy hung his head and stared at the ground.
“What’s wrong?” asked Max.
“I’m going to the clinic.”
“Your parents said yes?”
He nodded and looked apologetic. “I was surprised. They think it’s a great opportunity because they never have money for things like that. Gui’s going, too. Why can’t you come?”
Disappointment smothered Max all over again. “You know Papá. He worries about everything. He said that he and Buelo could train me as well as anyone else.”
“That’s true. But it won’t be the same without you. Can’t you convince him to change his mind? Maybe if you tell him my parents said yes?”
Max shook his head and tried not to cry. Once Papá’s mind was set, there was no changing it. He stared up at the white clouds and watched his summer, his friends, and his plans drift away.
“It’s okay, hermano. I promise I’ll remember all the fancy drills so we can practice together on weekends.” Chuy tried to console him. “And we can still go to the water hole.”
Max nodded and avoided Chuy’s eyes. He choked out his words. “Do you want to practice?”
“I can’t. I only came to tell you Ortiz invited us all to stay at his cousin’s tonight and have dinner with the new coach. I have to watch my sisters before I catch the bus. But … meet at the fork on Saturday? Three o’clock?”
“Sure.” Max put his hand in his pocket and felt the leche quemada. Even through the wax paper, he could tell the candy had already flattened and started to crumble. He didn’t bother to offer it to Chuy.
When Chuy turned to leave, he almost toppled Papá.
“Nice to see you, Chuy. Ready to chase some balls?”
“Sorry, Señor Córdoba. I can’t today.” He ran off.
“Where’s he going?”
Tears stung Max’s eyes. “You were wrong! His parents said yes to the clinic. They said it was a great opportunity! Gui’s parents said yes, too. And Chuy and Gui get to have dinner with the new coach tonight. You never let me do anything! Or go anywhere on my own!”
“Max, when you’re older—”
“What does that mean? When will I ever be old enough?”
“In time. I promise … And don’t worry about Chuy.” Papá held up two fingers and pressed them together. “You two will always be like brothers.”
Max frowned. “Until he and Gui and Ortiz make the team and I don’t.”
“You’ll practice. You’ll do your best. Then, what will be—”
“I know, Papá, what will be will be!” Max hung his head. He dropped the ball and dribbled it out onto the field. He didn’t want Papá to see him crying or to lecture him to act like a man, especially when he treated him like a baby. He dribbled the ball from one end of the field to the other and back again. Finally, he passed it to Papá.
“Let’s do some drills. You said Ortiz was better at kicking and throwing. So we will practice throwing. Did you know it can be more accurate than kicking?”
Max shook his head, grateful Papá didn’t mention his red eyes.
“It’s true. Get into the box so I can toss some balls at you. You save the shot, and then immediately bring back your throwing arm. With your non-throwing arm, point down the field to where you want the ball to go. Then, using all your strength, heave it. The top goalies can throw half the length of the field. Afterward, we can practice shooting on goal, just in case you want to play forward.”
Max went through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in it. He imagined Chuy, Gui, and Ortiz on the bus every day together, and all the fun they’d have at the clinic making friends with boys from other towns. And how they’d meet Coach Cruz before the tryouts. All without him.
“Max!” called Papá.
He was so lost in his misery, he didn’t realize Papá had stopped throwing balls. He waved Max forward and put a protective arm around him. “Today isn’t a good day for concentrating. But I have been thinking about what you asked me yesterday.”
Max looked up.
“I could use your help at the ruins tomorrow.”
“But you said it was no place for a boy.”
“You reminded me that you are almost twelve, and maybe that is old enough.”
“Really?” Max knew Papá was just trying to take the sting away from not going to the clinic. But still, Max would be the first boy ever to cross the gates. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Thank you.”
Papá tousled Max’s hair. “You might not thank me after you realize what hard work it is.”
The chessboard lay open on the old picnic table beneath the oak tree in the side yard—the soapstone rooks, knights, bishops, pawns, king, and queen in a huddle, waiting to be positioned.
“Maximiliano!”
“Hola, Tío.”
“How is my favorite nephew?” he asked, squeezing Max in a hug. His bushy white eyebrows, mustache, and soft round body made him look like a gentle San Nicolás.
“You don’t have any other nephews.”
“Then it is true. You are my favorite!” His booming laugh filled the yard. Within arm’s reach, a plate was piled high with empanadas.
His aunties sat in chairs at either end of the table. They were both as tall as Max and as thin.
Amelia spread her arms wide, folding Max beneath her protective wings. “Hola, mi cariño, my love.” She was Buelo’s older sister and had once been a nurse. Her enormous eyes beneath dark-rimmed glasses made her look like a curious wren.
She held up a crossword puzzle book. “You will help me later?”
Max nodded and then ran to Mariana, Buelo’s younger sister, who was teaching him to garden and cook.
“I made rellenos for dinner, from the chiles we planted!” she said, hugging him, too. “After they bake, you can dress them with the sauce and sprinkle the cheese. Remember how I taught you?”
“Yes,” said Max, grinning. “And I remember how to eat them, too.”
She patted his face, cooing. “You appreciate food because you help grow and prepare it. Now tell me, is it true you will be your father’s apprentice?”
He smiled half-heartedly and nodded. “Papá is taking me to the ruins tomorrow.”
She raised her eyebrows. “The day has come.”
Papá slid in across from Tío and pointed to the empanadas. “You know, Rodrigo, I’m beginning to think our Sunday dinners are just an excuse to convince Amelia to stop at the bakery. Tell the truth.”
“I’ll never admit such a thing, Junior!” He picked up an empanada and licked a dollop of filling oozing from the small turnovers. He nodded toward the plate. “Maximiliano, they’re pineapple, your favorite.”
Max grabbed one and looked at Papá. “Please?”
“Just one,” said Papá. “Don’t spoil your dinner.” He began setting up the chess pieces on the board.
Buelo came from the cottage with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade.
“Considering the speed of gossip in Santa Maria,” said Tío, “I suppose you’ve all heard about the new coach, Héctor Cruz?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mariana. “Everyone is talking.”
Amelia nodded. “I wonder how he will adjust here.”
“Why?” asked Max.
“He’s coming from a big city,” said Tío. “We’re a sleepy little village, a walking town where most distances are more qu
ickly covered on foot, or in a wagon with a sure-footed burro.”
“Some people have trucks or cars,” said Max.
Mariana held up a finger. “And there are buses to San Clemente, where a train can take you anywhere.”
“We are not entirely cut off,” said Buelo, setting a glass in front of each of them and sitting down. “Almost everyone in the village has a phone. It is just here in the foothills we do not have service.”
“Yes, of course all that is true,” said Tío. “But he’s a young coach and probably ambitious. He may want something bigger and better. It would be good for the village if he stayed for at least a few seasons though, especially for our boys who want to make the team this year and move up in the league.”
“I want to make the team this year and move up,” said Max, glancing at Papá.
Tío cleared his throat. “There was a council meeting yesterday. We’ve had a letter from Coach Cruz. Seems he’s a stickler for details. We must be sure to enforce the league rules about who is eligible to play. Which means we need to have all the documents on file. No exceptions.”
“Like birth certificates,” said Max. “That’s what Ortiz said.”
“Yes.” Tío’s eyes darted to Papá.
Papá picked up the white queen and tapped it on the table, the rhythm like a ticking clock.
Buelo reached over and covered his hand.
A thick silence settled. Max could hear himself chewing.
“Given the recent circumstances, Junior,” said Tío, “and since you two are going to the ruins tomorrow, it would be wise to—”
Papá shook his head. “Not yet.”
Mariana leaned toward Papá. “Junior, he needs to be prepared.”
Amelia set her glasses on the table and rubbed her eyes. “I agree.”
Max looked at their concerned faces. “What are you talking about?”
Papá turned to him. “I need to talk to Tío and your aunties. Get started on Lola’s bath. When you’re done, it will be almost time for dinner.”
“If it’s about me, why can’t I hear?”
Papá gave him a look that said the conversation was over.
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