“Tell me how to get to Obregán,” I said, and my voice was no longer shaking, my heart was no longer uncertain, my spirit was no longer afraid. “Tell me now, or everyone will know.”
She shrank away from me. “I could take you,” she said. “If Julio is still here, I can’t—”
“He and his men left already,” I said, cutting her off. “They’re gone. You don’t need to leave. But I do.”
Her eyes flashed open, and she brought herself upright, wiped at her eyes. She still seemed so much smaller than she used to be. “Follow me,” she said, and she led me into her home.
I had never been to Solado, and I did not know if Marisol’s home was an exact imitation of that place, but I still gasped when I descended into the main room. Her home was so much bigger than I had expected. Since she had only tiny windows up near the ceiling, she used candles, set deep within recesses along the walls, to provide a haunting glow. There was an intricately woven cobija hung above her bed, full of bright colors that collided with one another. She crouched down and pulled out a wooden box from under the bed, then searched through it.
I was still gaping at the inside of this structure when she spoke. “Less exposed to the sun,” she said without looking up. “So it doesn’t heat up so much during the day.”
I had nothing for her; her story flashed within me, and then I was inside: inside that room in Solado, deep within the earth, as if the memory were my own.
“It reminds me of home,” she said, and then she looked up, her eyes raw and shining. She rose, and she stuck her hands out, a small leather purse cupped inside them. “Take it,” she said, lifting one of my own hands and dropping it there. “It’s the least I can do.”
I balked at her. The purse was heavy with coins. “I don’t need—”
She raised a hand to stop me. “Take the road out of the north side of Empalme. Follow the trail across the hills and gullies, and as long as you’re heading toward las montañas in that direction, you’ll be fine. The path up and over is between two saguaros. They are mirror images of each other. Los Gemelos. It’s the only way across that won’t kill you.”
“Kill me? What do you mean?”
“You don’t want to know,” she said, and then she was pushing me toward her door. “Please, I need to be alone.”
“Wait!” I spun around to face her. “Julio … how did he do it?”
“Do what? ¿El sabueso?”
I shook my head. “No, not that part.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
I balked at her once more, unsure what that meant. “But how did he leave his aldea? How can someone like that abandon their purpose as a cuentista?”
She tilted her head to the side, examined me. “You are not who I thought you were, Xochitl,” she said. “You remind me of who I used to be.”
I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. “You have to know,” I said.
“If you want to find more cuentistas, go to El Mercado de Obregán. Head to the northwest corner. You’ll know when you see them. They might have the answers you need.”
She grabbed my arm as I turned to leave, and this time, she had the advantage. “I don’t know what you’ve done,” she said. “But are you prepared to pursue this path that’s laid out before you?”
I smiled and said nothing. I walked out of her home.
I floated home. Empalme was unfamiliar to me, as if I had never spent any time walking its dusty streets. A darkness sat over la aldea like a shroud, and the shadows grew. I trusted nothing in that terrible silence. Were the others afraid of what would happen next? How long would it be until we reclaimed our rituals and routines? Until we would begin to pour out of our homes once You left the sky? Until Rogelio would serenade us with his mournful voice? Until la señora Sánchez resumed roasting maíz over a fire, handing them to the children and warning them of how hot they were, only to watch them ignore her every time?
Would all return to normal once I left?
Yes, I told myself. That had to be the solution. If I left, if I took this plague, this curse, away from them all, they would be fine.
At least I hoped that was the case. Empalme was silence now. No fires, no meals together, no joy, and no fiestas.
No Manolito.
The only sound was my breath. The beating of my heart.
Cada latida de mi corazón.
This was for me.
My home had never felt so empty. They were all asleep except for Papá, who sat up against the far wall, reading something. He looked up briefly, nodded at me. Raúl’s sleeping roll was next to him, and he had one hand gently running through Raúl’s hair.
I smiled at him, drank some water, and then dropped down onto my sleeping roll on the floor. By the time I hit the ground, the decision was made. I would leave in the morning, before the sun was out, and I would tell no one.
I closed my eyes.
“Xochitl.”
His voice was barely a whisper. Through the darkness, I looked back to mi papá.
“¿Estás bien?” he asked.
It was his question for me. He never meant it as small talk. It was so common that I could imagine his face, even though my eyes were shut. He did this thing where his eyes opened up, became affectionate, and I crumbled right there, convinced that all my plans had disintegrated in an instant.
I swallowed. “Estoy cansada,” I said.
He believed me. He didn’t move from his spot, and as I drifted off to sleep, I heard him say, “Te quiero mucho, Xochitl. I don’t always understand you, but we’ll get through this.”
I was asleep before I could
