“I don’t think she needs this,” said Emilia.
“Do you not believe in Solís, niña?”
“Por supuesto que sí,” Emilia replied.
“I can tell she is troubled. For a small fee, I can take her story, return it to Solís, give her peace.”
“I would never pay you,” I said, spitting the words out in ire. “I’ve never known a cuentista to take money for this.”
“Many people do not have cuentistas in their aldeas or pueblos. They must travel here for help.”
I shook my head again and started to walk away. “I don’t need you,” I said. “I’m a cuentista myself.”
Her hand dashed out and grabbed mine. “Even better,” she said. “For even cuentistas need someone to listen to their stories. And you’re in luck: Soledad is the best cuentista in all of Obregán.”
“We don’t tell our stories to anyone!” I scolded. “And who is Soledad?”
“I am,” she said. “And you won’t find a better cuentista here.” She let go of my hand.
“We have to go,” I said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“It will only take a few minutes,” said Soledad. “Let me give you a sample, if you will. To show you what I can do.”
I gazed into her coal-stained eyes. “I need something else,” I said. “I don’t think you can give it to me.”
I should have left.
She held my hands, and I felt it: The pull. The urge. The pathway opening.
This woman needs to tell me something.
The stories rose.
They needed another story to bond to, to feel less alone.
Soledad guided me toward her stall, and Emilia gasped. “Xochitl, what are you doing?” she cried out. “We really need to go.”
But I didn’t listen. Something told me to be right here.
I followed Soledad into her space, and she closed the curtains behind me, shrouding us in darkness. She lit a candle on her wooden altar, then motioned for me to sit on the floor on the pillows spread about. Emilia burst in, and the brief flash of light distracted Soledad. “¡Ciérralo!” she barked at Emilia, who obeyed her, then shot a glare in my direction.
Soledad sat across from me, her scent overwhelming the space. Lavender. Something earthy and smoky. She smiled and pulled up the sleeves on her tunic after removing her veil. She set the veil aside and then stuck her hands out. “Breathe with me,” she said. “Dame tu nombre, niña.”
“Xochitl,” I said, taking a deep breath, then laying my hands on hers.
“Close your eyes and focus on my voice,” she said, and her voice dropped in volume. “Think about your story, Xochitl. About what you want to tell me. About what you need to tell me.”
I closed my eyes. Maybe Soledad would make her connection first, but I suspected she would soon spill forth the truth to me.
Nothing. There was no sensation. No opening, no calling of my own story within me. Which wasn’t surprising; we did not give up our own stories. It just did not happen.
I opened my eyes, saw that Soledad had hers still closed.
Nothing.
I withdrew my hands. “Soledad, it’s not working,” I said. “I don’t feel anything yet.”
She opened her eyes now. “You have not begun to tell me your story yet,” she said. “Start talking, and as you tell me the truth, I will take it inside myself.”
I balked at her. “That’s … that’s not how it works.”
She chuckled at me, waving her hand in my direction as if to swat away this opinion. “You must not be as experienced as I am. I’ve been doing this since I was your age, niña.”
“But are you sure this is how it’s supposed to work? Do you do it differently here in Obregán?”
This time, her brows arched together in frustration. “Such disrespect for someone so young.” She stuck her hands out again, a forceful gesture of spite. “Then show me. Show una vieja how it is done.”
There was a bitterness in her voice. I did not say anything in response, though. I slowly put my hands out, palms up, and stretched them toward Soledad until they were close to her. She sighed and placed her fingers on top of my palms, then slid them down toward my wrists, and she cried out, a loud, piercing sound. Her emotions surged forth into my body, plunging their talons into my skin, and they flooded me: shock and terror and regret and shame and—
I need to tell You a story, Solís.
Her name wasn’t even Soledad. She was born in Obregán, one of many people whose parents were from the surrounding aldeas, but who chose to leave their homes to find a life in a place better than their own. They were from Batopilas, the same aldea as Martín, and they arrived in Obregán the night before Soledad came into the world screaming and crying. They named her Jovana, and she grew up in a place of chaos, of possibility, of survival.
And then they died.
It was sudden, in the middle of the night, not long after she turned ten. Their bodies were stiff and cold when she woke, and no matter how many times she shook them, they never responded.
She never found out what happened to them.
She was younger than Raúl, Solís, and You took them from her. Did she deserve that? Was she supposed to suffer, too, as Emilia had, so that You could find her worthy?
Her parents’ families were all back in Batopilas, and she was just a child, una jovencita. She had no means of understanding the journey she would have to make, all to get back to a place she had never known.
So she stayed in her home and she slept a lot, and every time she woke, she would check to see if her parents were still in the same spot. It was like that the next day and the next and then the smell became too overwhelming, and she went next door
