Then las estrellas arrived.
Night was here, and I was free of You.
A relief flushed my body, and I lay there, on my back, watching each of the twinkling lights appear, one by one. From here, up on top of esta montaña, there was nothing else I could see. Las estrellas surrounded me, enveloped me, were my entire world. A light in the darkness, a light without you.
A life free from being a cuentista.
Soy libre.
There was no one here, begging for me to take their hands in mine, to take their stories into me. No sneers, no scoffs, no expectation that I would do as they asked or else the entire aldea would suffer. The pressure in my bones lifted, and I had never been so light. I could have floated up into those stars, become one myself, a brightness to guide others, to give others hope.
I could not recall another evening spent like this.
There was more rustling, more crunching of leaves. I sat up and tucked my legs under me, thankful for how much it stretched me out, and I remained still. There was a scratching to my left, and I moved my head as slowly as possible to see if I could spot what was coming my way.
There was nothing.
A snap.
Still soft, muted by distance, this time to the south, beyond the lone whitethorn.
Probably un conejo, I told myself. I focused my gaze on the south, on my past, and I allowed the darkness to settle, to sketch out the lines of the whitethorn, the mesquite bushes, the barrel cactuses that were clumped on the ground and
something
was
right
there.
At first, I thought it was another saguaro, but as I traced the outline cast in the starlight that grew above me, it moved.
A slight twitch on the right.
I moved as slowly as I could, reaching with my right hand toward my pack, inching the clasp open, then thrusting my fingers in until the cool wooden handle of la pala was there, its edge sharp enough to pierce flesh.
If I put enough force behind it.
I pulled it in my lap, careful not to make a single sound, not to make any sudden movements. I stopped again and watched, my eyes gliding over the edges of the dark shadow that stood there.
I tensed.
It moved. Again. No trick of the shadows and darkness, no magic of the mind. I watched the figure move in my direction. Did it know I saw it? Was it toying with its prey? Did that mean I was the prey?
It moved into the clearing on the vista, and as it did so, the figure became clearer.
Human.
Was that worse? I didn’t know.
Una pesadilla? Had Manolito come for me as he had promised?
No. That wasn’t it.
Who had followed me? Or was it a stranger, from some other aldea, trying to make the passage north; someone who had merely stumbled upon me by accident? But human or not—there was always something worse out here. Marisol had warned me. Was that warning now true?
I took a risk, Solís.
And I did it because I had to choose.
I bolted upright, la pala pointed directly at them, and I said, clear and loud: “Stop! What do you want?”
I wondered briefly if I’d been fooled, if they were even there, but then they moved so quickly that before I could even react, before I could raise la pala and save myself, she had her arms on my shoulders and they shook and jerked, and I cried out.
“You have to help me,” the girl said.
She made a sick and pitiful sound, something between a sob and a yelp of pain. She dropped right there on the ground, became a heap, and her breath was ragged and panicked and horrible and she didn’t stop. “Get me away from him,” she spewed, and her hands were on my legs and my feet and I tried to escape, but she held me so hard, Solís.
“Away from whom?” I yelled at her.
She choked, spat something up, and then looked up at me, her cold eyes visible in the starlight.
I knew those eyes.
“My father,” said Emilia.
Emilia rolled onto her back, a single burlap sack flung to the side, and continued to cough, and it shook her entire body. She began to gurgle, and I just moved. I hated seeing her, I hated the terrible possibilities that she brought with her, but she sounded like she was dying.
I danced away from her grip and retrieved my goatskin bag. By the time I went back, her eyes, glassy and red, were focused on me. I could see more of her, and her outfit—black breeches, a flowing camisa that used to be tan—was filthy, torn, and there was a dark stain running down one side of it. Blood? And was it hers?
I stuck a hand behind her head and gently guided her up so that she could take a few sips of water. She drank too fast, began coughing up again, but then she slowed down, taking only a sip or two, swallowing, and then repeating it until her thirst was quenched.
“I need you,” she said.
I frowned at that and moved slightly back from her. What if this was a trap? What if Julio had sent her to track me down, to take me back to Empalme? A story rolled in me: Lito’s. He was warning me, telling me not to trust her. Or was that my own natural suspicion?
I couldn’t tell.
“Why are you here?” I asked her. “Why did you follow me?”
“Let me tell you, please,” she continued, and she reached out gingerly, grasped me lightly by the right hand. “Let me tell you a story.”
I yanked my hand from her and rose. As I backed away, I said,
