At the top of the final ascent, the whitethorn still stood proudly, its trunk a stark lightness against the backdrop of night and las estrellas.
I was shaking then. The pain tore at me, and Emilia had to guide me carefully off the horse, who still remained gracious and kind throughout it all. She trotted off to the edge of the vista to the south and began to munch on grasses.
The leader came back to me. You are running out of time, Xochitl, they said, and they pawed at my leg, pushing me into Emilia. What is your decision?
“Let me rest,” I said. “Let me rest for a few hours, and when the sun rises in the morning, it will happen.”
Emilia looked to me, her hand on my back. “What are they saying to you?”
“We’ll rest,” I said. “Not long. And then head out at dawn.”
She nodded her agreement, and she took my sack from me, started to set up camp. The guardians were on the north end of the vista, curled up close to one another. I walked over to them, wobbling as I did so, and I called out. “Why did you come?”
Amato turned around, their eyes flashing in the darkness. You can change the world, Xochitl, they said. You can choose something different.
I walked closer to them. “But I’m afraid.”
All change is frightening, niña, they said. We still remember La Quema. Many of our kind perished that day, too, and those who hid in caverns en las montañas mourned for days and days and days.
But we kept going. We chose to adapt. We chose to be something different. And now look at us: we thrive. We are feared and respected. We protect the land, and the one you call Solís protects us.
“Do you believe that?”
They did not answer at first. As I was about to turn back, their voice was in my mind. Sometimes it is easier to believe, Amato said. It gives us comfort. It makes us feel like we are a part of something.
“Each of us a desert,” I muttered.
Yes, they said. But you do not agree. You question. You wonder about your place. You challenge Them.
They all rose in unison and faced me, and their eyes were so gorgeous, so utterly horrifying, and they sent an energy forth, floating amidst that hum of intimidation.
We admire you, Xochitl. You ask things that others are afraid to say.
You ask Them if They watch our suffering.
You ask Them if They care.
You ask Them if They are listening.
We obeyed.
You challenged.
They knelt then, bowing their heads to me, and the tears rushed from my eyes. I choked back something. A cry? A sob? A story?
You challenged us. You made us reconsider what we have done. What it means to have these powers.
Xochitl, you can change the world, Amato repeated. Choose something different.
They curled up again, their eyes closed, and all those yellowish dots of light were gone. I turned back to Emilia, saw her smoothing out one of the sleeping rolls, and I went to her. I let myself fall at her side, and when I did, she was staring at me with eyes that were dark in the starlight, but oh so beautifully warm.
And alive.
I reached a hand out to her face, ran my fingers down the line of her jaw, over her sharp nose, and then I leaned in, and I brought my lips to hers, my tongue to hers, and I kissed her because I had to make a choice. I knew then exactly what I was going to do, and it filled me with an unrelenting terror. But the flash of fear was gone, and I allowed myself to submit so fully to her kisses, to her fingertips on my cheeks, on my breasts, on my legs.
I crawled close to her, everything touching, both of us on the same bedroll, and she embraced me with her body, with her affection. We were warmed by the light of Obregán to the north, the stars around us in the sky, and we were warmed by the existence of each other.
They did not wake me. I woke myself, surrounded by the darkness of night, by the gentle haze of starlight. I carefully untangled myself from her arms, from her legs, so smooth and muscular and strong, and I rose, stretching deep, and I ignored the roaring pain in my torso, ignored that it had spread, that it was now pressing on my lungs, and I ignored the guardians, too, who stirred softly and began to wake up.
I walked to the edge.
I gazed upon Obregán in the north.
It was still an explosion from the earth.
An impossible eruption of light and possibility.
It was still exactly the same.
La Ciudad de Obregán was uncaring. Uninterested. There were so many people who lived there, whose lives were complicated and messy and impossible to define, and la ciudad thrived. It lived beyond death, beyond birth, beyond everything in between.
My life had changed so much in such a small span of time.
Obregán had not.
The indifference comforted me, and the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
You were indifferent, Solís. I believed you were there, that you had burned the earth in anger and rage, that you had given us the power of la cuentista.
And then you left us alone.
You were never coming back.
You observed us from up on high, and you watched us struggle with the chaos born of violence and destruction, and you did nothing. You never sent us signs; you never planned for anything; you just watched your creation.
Vast.
Alone.
A desert.
I decided then, Solís, that you could hear me, and that there was only one thing left for me to do.
I woke her up, and she turned over, smiling at me, her lips full and delicious and I wanted to kiss her again, but I was so heavy, Solís. I was so full, and it was time.
It
