Brighter.
Brighter.
You awoke. You gazed upon us.
It was time to move.
I gathered up my things and packed them away first, then knelt beside Emilia. I hesitated for a second, uncertain about touching her at all given her response to me the night before. So I rubbed the edge of my huarache in the dirt loudly. She woke, her eyes shooting open as she rolled onto her back.
“Were you watching me?” she said sleepily, rubbing at her eyes.
“No,” I said, too quickly. “Yes. I mean … I felt bad waking you up. But we need to go.”
She smiled, and the angles on her face no longer seemed as vicious as they had in Empalme. “Should we make a fire? Maybe make some food?”
I looked to the east. “No,” I said. “We should start heading down. I’ve got some dried meat and fruits, and we can eat those, and then we’ll go.”
I left her to pack as I headed for the whitethorn so I could relieve myself for the morning. I passed Emilia on the way back as she was headed to do the same. I waited for her on the end of the trail, my eyes locked on Obregán in the distance. More shapes were appearing as the sky lit up la ciudad: towers. Buildings that rose impossibly from the ground. Creatures soaring through the air, taking off from atop structures and then circling over Obregán before heading to some unknown destination.
“¿Estás lista?” Emilia called out, and I waved her over. She had her burlap bag slung over her shoulder and I wondered what was inside it.
“Not much farther,” I said, pointing toward our destination. “We’ll figure out where El Mercado is once we get there.”
The idea of a “we” was strange to me, but Emilia said nothing. She nodded at me, then gestured me to lead the way.
I couldn’t allow myself to get comfortable with this notion, this idea that I was one to be followed. But I also realized that I was no longer alone.
cuando estoy solo
estoy vivo
when I am alone
I am alive
I would have to adjust.
I was used to Empalme and to open space. I could cross our whole aldea in a quarter hour, and I knew everyone who lived within the boundary of our gates. I had reason to; at some point or another, each person came to unload their stories on me. But as we descended toward Obregán, the very idea of that ciudad perplexed me.
The sun rushed out over el valle, and with each turn in the road, la ciudad grew closer. I saw more of the flying creatures, and some seemed to have wingspans bigger than houses. How did those buildings not tip over and crumble, taking others along with them? I could see carts and horses and people on foot, almost all of them slowly scattering away from Obregán in every direction, though only a few were traveling toward us. Few visitors from Obregán ever made the journey to Empalme. We were probably just as much of a mystery to them as they were to us.
We continued to walk in silence, and my sore muscles were thankful that they did not have to do so much work. I spotted a large herd of something—perhaps cattle—leaving the eastern side of Obregán, heading off into the endless expanse of desert. I watched them for a while until they were nothing more than a speck on the horizon, and I wondered if others experienced this perspective. Were we all specks to one another in this isolated, empty world?
A man passed us on his way up about an hour into our descent. He waved to us in greeting. His name was Martín, and he was returning to his husband and son, making the long journey to the southeast to his aldea. Batopilas, he called it. I had never heard of it before. His cart was stacked high with grain for los aldeanos back home, and he asked us if he could sell us any. I gripped the coin purse tucked into the waist of my breeches, then shook my head.
He bade us goodbye, and his horse kicked up dirt as it pulled him up the hill. He would be alone for days.
I glanced over at Emilia, who kept her gaze straight ahead, her expression featureless. Did she like being alone? Her story rumbled in my gut, and her emotions pierced me. She had not truly been alone until she escaped Julio.
I shivered. Parts of her life were so strange to me, so unfathomable. Like Solado. Living underground. Having a guardian choose you. But then the other stories awoke, scrambling for validation, to be noticed, and I pressed a hand on my stomach, trying to calm them. How many lives had I understood before I gave them back to the desert?
As we neared the bottom of the road an hour later, there were more people. Some were climbing up the pass by themselves, either on burros, in carts pulled by horse, or on foot. There was a small camp set snug into a fold en la montaña, and I saw a boy, brown and joyous, run away from his mamá as she tried to feed him. He hid behind a tent staked to the ground with wood, canvas stretched over the posts to block out the sun. Did they live here? Were they taking a break before continuing on elsewhere? The range of possibility spread in my mind, and I was struck by how little I had known of the world. I grew up aching to travel to Obregán, yes, but there were so many other aldeas beyond it. How different were they? Who else had chosen to leave their home? Were there other cuentistas out there who had given up their duties, who had defied You?
My life was full of stories. The
