Each of Us a Desert

story I was told of how las cuentistas were born; You gave some of us the ability to devour the truth of others, and You warned us. We would all know if someone had harmed another, if they had kept their truth from You. The longer one of us went without a cuentista, the worse our pesadillas became. And so we were cast out into the world to ingest what others had done wrong, then return it to You, to the eternal desert. We were spread far and wide, forcing las aldeas to form, each of them around a cuentista. When that cuentista died, a new one would be granted the same power, just as I had been when Tía Inez died and chose me.

We cuentistas were exempt, too. No one took our stories. We did not manifest pesadillas.

We were alone.

I never questioned any of it, Solís. And why should I have? I had never met another cuentista besides Tía Inez; I had never truly ventured beyond Empalme; I had no reason to question anything.

I am telling You this, Solís, because maybe You’ll understand. Maybe You will have mercy on me. Because even before all of this happened, before I had to flee Empalme, I knew something was wrong. Why did I not have to tell You the truth? Why were my secrets my own, and why had they never become one of those terrible pesadillas? Why did You not punish Julio and his men, who stole our water from us every day?

I would say that I am sorry, Solís, but I had to.

I had to leave.

I woke in a haze. I always did. The remnants of the story I had given up swam within me, so when my eyes opened, regret flooded my mind. What had I done? Why did I feel so terrible?

It took some time for me to collect myself, and I rolled over to see Raúl and his bushy hair flowing over his face. He was still asleep, and there was a line of drool over his pillow. I smiled at that; it brought me home. It reminded me of where I was.

I rose and set about my morning chores—change the waste pot if it was my day, get la estufa running for Mamá, feed las cabras—while I continued to separate myself from the residual story. Mamá woke up in the middle of this, then kissed me on the cheek as she set to making some tea for herself. She loved this specific mixture of nettles and rosemary, and the scent of it filled the whole house in minutes.

But I enjoyed our quiet company. She watched me rush around to get things done. “You hunting agua today?” she asked, stirring the pot of water. “We’re getting pretty low.”

“Later,” I said. “Have to stop by Lito’s first, see if there are any mensajes for us.”

“You spend a lot of time there,” she said.

“Lito is my friend,” I said, slipping on my leather huaraches near the door.

“Don’t you have any friends your age, mija?”

I stared at her, delivering my accusation silently before saying it aloud. “Like who?”

“Well, what about Ana?”

As soon as the name left her mouth, I watched the realization hit her. She wrinkled up her face. “Lo siento, Xochitl. I forgot.”

“Do you need anything else, Mamá?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“No. Hurry back, though. I think Raúl wanted to go with you to find agua.”

“I know,” I said.

“Did you have a good time at the gathering last night?” she said, and I resisted the urge to groan at her. This again, I thought.

“Estuvo bien. Food was good.”

“Do you remember what you ate?”

It’s true that I was often disoriented after giving back a story, but everyone seemed to believe that I lost entire days’ worth of time, and they always spoke to me as if I were a forgetful child.

“Estoy bien, Mamá,” I said. “Promise.”

She turned back to the tea brewing on la estufa. “Well, you know how you get.”

I didn’t want to hate her. It was difficult in those moments to control the rage that surged in me. So I let out a deep breath before saying, “I’ll be right back!”

I looked to her before I left, but she was occupied with her tea. Probably on purpose. How could she forget that my friends were all gone? That there wasn’t anyone but Lito left for me? How could she assume I was so forgetful when she couldn’t remember this one thing about me?

I pushed the burlap cloth aside and stepped out as the frustration brimmed in me. It wasn’t that I thought my parents didn’t care about me. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell them how I really felt. Would they think I was ungrateful? Selfish?

I just wanted more. Was that so bad?

I shook off the exhaustion creeping around my eyes and head, knowing I should have slept off the ritual longer. My body ached, and if I didn’t get more sleep, it would be terribly sore the next morning. I raised my hands above my head and stretched, and a grunt echoed to my right.

Rogelio’s home was only twenty or thirty paces from ours, and I watched him as another snore ripped through the silent morning. His head had dropped down; his chin touched his chest. An empty bottle of tesgüino was tipped over at his side.

I may not have remembered exactly what his story was, but everyone knew he was un borracho. He was probably still drunk, even after I’d taken his story. He absolved himself through me, then went right back to it. What was I supposed to do? I only guided secrets out of people; I did not guide them to be a better person. Still, someone should get him indoors before the sun baked him.

I kept walking, the guilt needling into me. I silently resolved to help Rogelio if he was still outside when I came back. I couldn’t ignore a clear duty when it