by Loriel Ryon
She was halfway to Dallas.
I knew in my heart she had begun a new life with Benjamín.
We were not prepared for what we found.
Two days after the fire, Papá found her at the edge of the property, next to the family cemetery, the suitcase tucked by her side. She lay underneath the very last pecan tree, high on the butte. She wasn’t burned, not at all, but she was covered in black ash. Soot stained her nostrils.
The sheriff said she must have fainted from the smoke. The smoke must have been so thick, he told my papá, that she couldn’t see. Just a few yards farther and she would have made it over the butte, down the other side, and would have escaped the fire.
Mami and Papá were devastated. Raúl was devastated.
I was devastated.
If only I had said something sooner. If I had told them about what those girls did. If I had told someone earlier, maybe Papá and Raúl could have ridden out to her.
Maybe they could have saved her.
Maybe she wouldn’t have died.
Thirty-six
“SHE’S lost so much.” Sonja wiped her eyes.
Yolanda pushed a lock of limp gray hair out of Wela’s face. Her eyes were finally closed and she was resting again. Yolanda’s heart ached for Wela. Her sister, her daughter, her husband. How did she go on? How did Wela find a way to keep moving forward after all those losses? Yolanda had been devastated by the death of Welo. It ate at her every day, pushing her away from her friends and family, swallowing her into a lonely cocoon. It seemed Wela handled these losses with such strength. But then again, she could see the pain in Wela’s eyes, the way she looked into the distance like she was trying to close herself off from feeling it all the way too.
Ghita grabbed one side of the serape and Sonja grabbed the other, pulling Wela along the center of the riverbed through the crimson blossoms. Yolanda, Hasik, and Rosalind Franklin walked behind.
“She still hasn’t told us what’s in the box.” Hasik kicked the toe of his shoe over the red wildflower bloom. The odor from the flowers was sour. Wela clutched the metal box in her lap even as she slept.
“She will,” Sonja said. “She’ll tell us.”
A tan-colored snake with diamond-patterned scales slithered between the blossoms in front of Yolanda and Hasik. Its bright pointy head waved back and forth menacingly.
“S-S-Sonja,” Yolanda managed to squeak out. “Snake.”
Sonja and Ghita whipped around. Wela floated between them on the serape.
The snake shook the end of its tail, making a rattling sound.
The sound sent shivers up Yolanda’s spine. She knew that sound well. Rosalind Franklin darted toward it, barking, the hackles down her back raised. Yolanda snatched her up as she wiggled and snarled.
Another snake slithered from the blossoms and headed toward Sonja and Ghita.
They froze, their eyes wide.
Sonja pulled a machete out of her backpack and held it in ready position. The snake slithered closer, then raised its head and rattled its tail. Sonja gripped the machete tighter, her knuckles turning white.
“Don’t move,” Ghita said between clenched teeth. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny punji flute.
She began to play.
It was an eerie, slow tune, and at first it didn’t seem to do anything at all. But as she continued playing the song, the snakes calmed and lifted their diamond-shaped heads off the ground, swaying back and forth.
“What are they doing?” Yolanda asked.
“Stay still.” Hasik held his arm out protectively. “Nani—she taught Ghita.”
Ghita continued to play the song, and although the snakes seemed calm, they were still within striking distance.
Rosalind Franklin barked, spooking the snake closest to Sonja. It reared back, ready to strike at her knee.
“Stay still!” Ghita commanded, her hands shaking.
She dropped the flute at her feet.
Right in front of the snakes.
The pair of snakes began move erratically again, and Ghita pinched her eyes closed and reached one hand to the ground. Her fingers curled around the punji when Rosalind Franklin began to bark again.
“Quiet!” Sonja hissed. Ghita froze.
The snakes pressed in on Sonja and Ghita again.
They got closer and closer.
Yolanda held Rosalind Franklin tight, but she kept squirming, making it impossible to keep a hold of her fat body. She wiggled free and fell to the ground barking. She righted herself and dashed at the snakes.
The snakes scattered apart.
One turned around and slithered toward Hasik and Yolanda.
Hasik backed away.
Then he stumbled and fell backward.
The snake reared its head back and sank its fangs deep into Hasik’s ankle.
Hasik screamed.
“Hasik!” Ghita cried, reaching for her brother. She looked as though she wanted to run to him but was trapped by the snake between them.
Yolanda ran to Hasik, and without thinking she peeled the snake’s head out of his ankle, flung it to the ground, and scrambled away.
Her hands shaking, Ghita began to play the slow, eerie tune again. And the other snake began to calm, swaying back and forth.
But the snake that had struck Hasik kept its eyes on him. It rattled its tail again.
Hasik crawled away, his eyes wide and terror-filled. He breathed heavily.
As Ghita continued to play and the snake calmed, Sonja tiptoed away. She made her way toward Hasik, who was propped up on his elbows, his face pale and sweaty. Blood dripped down his ankle. The snake lifted its head, threatening to strike again.
“Help!” Hasik cried.
Sonja sent a small swarm of bees toward the snake. The snake thrashed back and forth as the bees swarmed its head. It quickly slithered back into the flowers and disappeared.
Beads of sweat gathered over Hasik’s upper lip, and he fell back, clutching his bleeding ankle. His lips were purple.
Sonja walked behind the calm snake as Ghita played. It slowly lowered its head and began to slither away. Sonja bent down and examined the markings as it went. Then she looked at Yolanda. “These are venomous.”
Thirty-seven
HASIK lay in the bottom of the riverbed clutching his ankle. It was starting to swell, the skin taut and shiny, and drops of blood dripped from two small holes, darkening his white sock.
“Does it hurt?” Yolanda looked him over.
Hasik’s face was pale. He nodded and lay back.
“Hasik!” Ghita ran to his side, leaving Wela on her blanket hovering nearby.
“Take off his belt,” Sonja instructed. Ghita did as she was told, then handed it to Sonja.
“Stay still,” Yolanda said, her hand resting on his chest. “The more you move or panic, the faster the venom will travel into your system. It’s the same with the bees.”
Yolanda held Hasik’s leg steady as Sonja tightened the belt below his knee.
Hasik cried out.
“Don’t move.” Yolanda sat back on her heels and brushed the wild hair from her face. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know,” Sonja whispered. “I was always told if a rattlesnake gets you, you have to get to the hospital as fast as possible for antivenom.”
There was no way they were going to get antivenom out here. Yolanda remembered something Hasik had said earlier. “Hasik said your Nani was a snake charmer. I’m sure she got bitten, right?”
“Yes. Loads of times, but not by rattlesnakes.” Ghita stood, her brow furrowed and eyes wild. She paced in a circle around her brother, wringing her hands.
Yolanda stood and placed both of her hands on Ghita’s shoulders, steadying her. “What did she do for the bites? Did she put something on them?”
“She … She … had me make a poultice for her one time. It was some plants … I don’t know. I don’t know—we don’t have all those things way out here. That was in India!”
Ghita cried.
“Hasik has turmeric,” Yolanda said. Hasik’s eyes were closed. Yolanda shook him awake. “Hasik!”
His eyelids fluttered open and he cried out. He tried to sit up.
Yolanda pushed his shoulders to the ground. “Try not to move,” she said gently. “What kinds of plants can you use for snakebites?”
Hasik moaned again and closed his eyes. Yolanda pinched him hard on the bridge of his nose.
“Ow!” he cried.
“Wake up and tell me. Plants for snakebites. Go!”
“Turmeric … uh, p-p-plantains, prickly pear … There was … echinacea a little ways back. It’s mostly dried out, but it might help.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s sort of cone-shaped—pink flowers.” His eyelids fluttered.
Sonja left to gather the plants as Yolanda knelt next to Hasik and dug the turmeric out of his pocket. She handed it to Ghita, who went to find a flat stone to crush it. Every time he shut his eyes, Yolanda pinched him awake.
“You are not allowed to fall asleep.” She gripped his hand tight.
“Afraid you’ll miss me, huh?” he said weakly, and smiled. The smile that used to bother her, but not anymore. The color was draining from his lips, and his teeth began to chatter. “My leg really hurts,” he said.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said, but she gripped his hand a little tighter.
When his eyes closed again, she knew she had to do something. She let go of his hand and moved down toward his ankle, holding it between her hands. He winced when she moved it. The swelling was moving up his calf to his knee.
Rosalind Franklin pressed her paws into Hasik’s chest and licked the dampness from his pale cheek.
Yolanda glanced at the cut on her dog’s hind leg. It was completely healed, with a thin pink scar.
She considered it.
No.
She pulled Rosalind Franklin in close and examined the cut more closely. It was perfectly healed.
It had been only a day.
She brushed her hand along her shoulder. The teeth marks were gone.
Impossible.
She looked around. Ghita was crushing the turmeric into a pulp, and Sonja had returned with the dried-out echinacea. Sonja touched the centers of the dried coneflowers and they immediately brightened, the brown petals turning a vibrant pink and the green stems rejuvenating with life.
Yolanda bit her lip. It was worth a shot.
Holding Hasik’s ankle in her hands, she drew her face close, pursed her lips, and blew onto the punctures. The air felt cool across her lips. A steady stream of blood poured out of the wound, dripping dark burgundy splotches into the brown dust below. His ankle quickly warmed between her hands as she pressed gently on the swelling. More blood poured out. The swelling started to go down as more and more blood flowed from the holes. She was too afraid to release the belt around his calf.
Ghita and Sonja came over with the poultice cupped in their hands. Yolanda ripped a triangle of fabric from the bottom of her T-shirt, soaked it with water, and plopped the greenish-orange poultice in the center. The swelling was already going down. She quickly wrapped the shirt around his ankle before anyone could see. Hasik winced at first and then relaxed, his eyes still closed.
“He doesn’t look good.” Ghita bit her thumbnail.
“He’s going to be okay,” Yolanda said. She was sure she had felt it. The coolness across her lips. It was just as Margaret Purty had described when Violeta healed her arm in Wela’s story. Yolanda had felt it too when she’d healed Rosalind Franklin, and the blisters on her thumbs. The healing coolness.
“How can you say that?” Ghita threw her hands up and paced in a circle again. “It was a venomous snake! This may not work at all.”
“It will,” Yolanda said more firmly. It had to work.
“It will,” Wela repeated, a twinkle in her eye. She was still hovering on the serape. She must have woken during the commotion. Wela sat up and looked around. “Are we ready to go, then?”
“Yes.” Yolanda picked up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.
“We can’t leave him here,” Ghita cried.
“Of course not,” Yolanda said. “You stay here with him until we get back.”
“We need to get him to a hospital.” Ghita’s eyes were full of worry and panic.
Yolanda turned back and held her arms wide. “Look where we are. There are no hospitals here, Ghita!”
“He’ll be all right,” Wela said, nodding.
Sonja looked torn. “Are you sure?” She looked from Ghita to Wela.
Wela nodded.
Sonja flung a backpack over her shoulder. “We have to get Wela to the tree first. Then we can get him home.”
“Sonja, don’t leave us.” Ghita pressed her palms together. She was begging.
Sonja sighed. “It’ll be okay. I have to help Wela, and then we’ll come back for you. I promise.”
“Everything will be set right when we get to the tree—right, Wela?” Yolanda said.
Wela nodded and pointed a finger to the sky. “Sí, mija.”
“Let’s go, then,” Yolanda said, starting toward the serape.
“Wait.” Hasik’s eyelids fluttered open. “Come here a second.”
Yolanda knelt down beside him and gripped his clammy palm.
“You’ll come back, right?” he said.
Yolanda nodded. She didn’t want to leave him. Not at all. But she knew he’d be okay. She’d felt it.
And Wela. She needed to get to the tree.
Hasik closed his eyes and groaned. “I did this on purpose, you know. So you’d feel sorry for me.” He grinned, and Yolanda felt her insides warm. She suddenly wanted him to know how she felt.
“I promise I’ll come back,” she whispered in his ear. “And it’s not maybe anymore.”
A smile flashed across his face, even though his eyes were closed. She gripped his hand one last time and stood, leaving him with a faint smile on his face. She pinched her lips together to keep from smiling. She was glad she’d told him.
Wela rode quietly on the humming serape as Sonja and Yolanda each took a side and walked out of the riverbed to the base of the butte. The pecan tree was at the top, its limbs twisting in the wind.
Hasik lay on the ground with his eyes closed and his leg wrapped up in the juicy poultice. Rosalind Franklin rested her head on his shoulder, and Ghita sat next to him, nervously biting her thumbnail.
Thirty-eight
SONJA pointed out the trail they needed to take to the top of the butte. The enormous trunk of the pecan tree emerged from the earth as its dark skeletal arms reached in every direction. The sisters hummed along the rocky trail, the bees and butterflies buzzing underneath the colorful serape. Yolanda gazed back at the dry riverbed down below. From there, the vein-like pattern in the earth appeared etched on, broken up only by the crimson river of blossoms. She looked again for the house, but beyond the riverbed was never-ending grass that had grown even taller. She spotted the rickety bridge where Hasik had given her the orange flower, and it looked tiny from up here.
She felt for the flower.
It was gone.
Hasik.
What if it hadn’t worked?
She looked to Wela, who was asleep again. The creases in her face seemed to deepen the closer they got to the tree. Her dull hair hung lank off the back of the serape.
But Wela needed her.
The clouds in the deep blue sky were beginning to darken as the wind whistled through the desert grasses. Yolanda twisted a curl of her hair around her finger. What if they didn’t make it in time? The thought made her nauseous.
Her hand brushed her shoulder, and the skin was smooth and taut. She thought of Rosalind Franklin’s cut and Hasik’s leg.
What if she had healed them? Could she have healed herself, too?
The possibility sent an electric surge through her body. It was exciting and yet terrifying at the same time
.
What if?
The more she thought about it, the more jittery and dizzy she felt. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest.
Then she thought of Violeta and Mamá.
The weight of the responsibility of their gifts sat heavy on her shoulders.
“You like your bees … ,” Yolanda asked Sonja, “don’t you?”
Sonja walked ahead, pulling the fringe of the serape. She turned slightly before answering and chewed the inside of her cheek as two bees flew around the limp red flowers in her braid. Even sunburned with dry, cracked lips, she was beautiful.
“They’re okay.” Sonja shrugged.
“Just … okay?”
Sonja climbed over a large boulder. “To be perfectly honest, I was scared when they came.” She pulled the serape around it and waited for Yolanda to catch up. “I don’t like bees.”
“Really?” Yolanda grasped the rough boulder with her fingertips. “But you seem to be doing fine with them.” She pulled herself up and over, landing with a thud.
“Fine?” Sonja scoffed. “The only person who would talk to me after they showed up was Ghita. Even you stopped talking to me. Eli Jensen’s mom threw a fit at the camping club meeting after one of the bees stung him. It was awful. I thought I’d never live that down. I’ve had to incorporate them into my daily life, pretending I’m interested in them for science projects so no one knows the truth about me. Same as Wela studying the butterflies so no one knew the truth about her. And with all that, the town still hates us and calls us bru—” She stopped herself before she said the word. “And never mind the fact that they sting you and you almost die.” Sonja puffed out her chest. “So, no, I guess I don’t like them.”
Yolanda was surprised by this. Sonja didn’t like her bees? How could that be? “But it’s your gift—and Wela helps you.” Her feet slid on the rocks, and she gripped the fringe of the serape to keep from falling.
“The plant stuff is pretty cool. Like how Wela showed me how to make the prickly pear fruits come.” Sonja reached out and touched the tip of a dried stalk of lavender. It sprang to life, its purple blossoms opening and emitting a calming aroma.
“That’s amazing,” Yolanda whispered. She hadn’t realized all that Sonja was capable of with her gift. She was getting better at it.