After the herbs and curanderas, I pushed through an area with smelly pens full of bizarre creatures and livestock. A two-headed vaca stared at me with only one set of eyes. Smaller creatures like the guardians of Empalme yipped at me from their wooden crates, and eager jovencitos knelt down to pet them through the cracks and holes, letting them lick their hands and faces. Their fur looked soft, sleek, and inviting. Then there was a row of pájaros in cages, tweeting and chirping at everyone, some of them able to speak whole words and phrases in their high voices. A woman leapt out of a chair in her stall and thrust a small blue pájaro at me, and it perched in her hands, tilting its head from side to side.
I waved a dismissal at her, and then passed through the area marked ROPA. Then COMIDA. My stomach cried out again as the smells hit me, tempted me to make a stop. I took a sharp turn to the north once I neared the end of El Mercado, and the food changed again. From vegetables fritos and fresh fruit, I walked past stalls with raw meat ready to be butchered. There were small pockets of masa frita, stuffed with all sorts of items, and I knew I would try those. A person was selling bowls of guisado de cabra with an aroma that made my mouth water. Dried fruits, nuts, seafood … it was all there.
“Okay, we have to eat something,” said Emilia.
We tried a small bowl of some sort of guisado overflowing with vegetables and thick brown sauce that was savory and creamy at the same time. Halfway through it, I spotted another booth that sold pan frito, and it made the perfect partner for the guisado. We stuffed ourselves while standing off to the side, watching the flow of people.
There were so many of them.
And then there was me and Emilia. In this entire place, she was the only person that I knew.
But I didn’t really know Emilia either. I glanced over at her, watched as she ate her food hungrily. Was she starving? Nervous?
I tipped back the bowl and downed the guisado, then took the remaining pan frito to sop up what was left. “Vámonos, Emilia,” I said. Maybe she did want to get going sooner rather than later.
She said nothing. Just nodded at me, wiped at sweat forming on her brow, then grabbed my empty bowl. I watched as she returned it to the merchant who had sold us the guisado, then jogged back to me.
The color had drained from her face, and she did not look well. “Are you—?”
“Vámanos,” she said. “I’m ready when you are.”
We headed north at that point, suspicion gnawing at me. Why did she want to leave? We tucked ourselves between groups of people, squeezing towards the northwest corner. There was too much to look at, too much to smell, too much to process. So I kept my focus singular. I had one goal here.
And then:
A wooden post.
A sign carved in large letters.
CUENTISTAS.
More than one?
I tried to make sense of yet another new reality, another sign that I knew so little. Stalls were bunched up along the wall, heading toward the east, dramatic curtains draped in front of them. Some curtains were pulled shut, while other booths stood open, with people hanging out of them and calling to those who walked by, promising to take their stories, return them to Solís.
There would have to be more than one here, ¿no? At least that made sense to me. There were so many people in Obregán, and a single cuentista would find it impossible. But then I walked to the closest stall, one without a curtain pulled across it, and a man stood up from a chair, smiling at me, his hands stretched out toward me.
“Niña,” he said, and a part of me bristled at the term. I wasn’t that young.
“Espero que puedas ayudarme,” I said in my own tongue, and his smile went even wider.
“You are from the south?” he said.
“Sí,” I said. “Empalme.”
“Ay, muy lejos. And you and your woman traveled all that way together?”
I whipped around. “Oh, no, señor,” she said. “We’re not—”
“Está bien,” he said, his hands up. “Do you need your story taken, niña?”
“Me?” I shook my head. “I was hoping—”
“Before you go any further, we should probably negotiate my fee.”
“Your … I’m sorry. Your fee?”
His features twisted in confusion. “¿No entiendes?”
“What fee?” I asked, and I couldn’t help my voice pitching up in shock. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
“I don’t tell you how to run your affairs,” he said, shaking his head at me. He grabbed the edge of the curtain. “You would do best not to disrespect me.”
He dramatically pulled the curtain shut.
The notion bewildered me. People in Obregán paid money to tell their stories to las cuentistas? Why? The thought had never crossed my mind. This was my duty, and it was important to everyone. I would never dream to deny a person peace with Solís because they couldn’t pay me. And what of las pesadillas? Las cuentistas kept them from harming others. We didn’t make a living from it.
I stumbled backwards, the impossibility of it all radiating through every inch of my body.
She came out of the booth to my right, sidled up to me so quickly that I yelped when she appeared. She wore a veil, hooded and dark on the inside, stitched with colorful vines and flowers on red fabric on the outside. Her brown eyes were cold, and she had smeared something dark, like charcoal, around them. “Niña,” she cooed, and she took my hand, “let me help you. Let me intercede on your behalf for Solís.”
I shook my head. “No, no gracias.”
She ran
