If You did not want this, You would stop it.
Right?
I wore a smile on my face as I returned to the well, filled up on water, replenished myself with hope.
The five of us walked in a line, snaking across the land, toward las montañas.
Each of us a desert, alone and vast.
We were alone together, at least.
There were few árboles of any kind beyond la granja and the fields, and the shade that had protected us in the early morning was now gone. We could hide behind the tall arms of the saguaro that poked up from the earth, but if you got too close to them, they would leave you with a painful reminder that they were prepared to defend themselves against invaders.
The newest poema ran through me, and I continued to recite it to myself, devouring its power, and the cramps that had tormented me faded away in its wake. I was lost in my head when I realized that Felipe had slowed down to walk next to me. “Can I ask you a question?” he said.
I snorted. “Isn’t that a question?”
He frowned. “That doesn’t count.”
“Go ahead,” I said, giving him a smile.
“Where are you from?”
“Empalme,” I answered. “You ever heard of it?”
He shook his head, cheeks shaking. “No, I haven’t. How far is it from Hermosillo?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “This is actually my first time away from home. I’ve never been to the south.”
“Never?” he said, his tone disbelieving.
“Felipe, please,” said Rosalinda. “Don’t bother her.”
I smiled once more. “He’s not, I promise.”
“Why didn’t you leave?” He used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Didn’t you want to go anywhere else?”
I caught Emilia’s eyes widening. Children had a way of cutting right to the bone with a question. Felipe didn’t know any better, though; he wasn’t trying to be cruel.
“I wanted to go all sorts of places. But I wasn’t allowed to.”
“Did you make your parents mad or something?”
This time I laughed out loud. “No, Felipe, not like that.”
I paused.
Should I tell them? I thought.
I was far from Empalme.
What could it hurt?
“Soy cuentista,” I said. “So I was the one who took care of my aldea.”
Felipe gasped.
“A real cuentista?” He reached out, put his fingers on my arm, then yanked them back. “Mami! ¡Xochitl es cuentista!”
“I heard,” she said. “Since I am right behind you, mijo.”
“We didn’t have one.”
I stopped.
Right in that spot.
Rosalinda ran into the back of me, and I nearly tumbled to the ground.
“Dímelo otra vez,” I said.
“¿Qué?” Felipe had turned around and was walking backwards, facing me.
“¡Otra vez!” I cried. “You had no cuentista?”
“Well, no,” Felipe said. “We didn’t deserve one.”
“‘Deserve’?” My legs wobbled. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Eliazar, who had brought up the rear of our group, now joined me on the other side from Emilia. “That’s not how it works,” he said.
“I know,” I responded. “Every aldea has one … don’t they?”
He shook his head, took a long drink from his waterskin. “Not at all. There’s only one born every generation.”
“A generation?” I scoffed at him. “How is that possible? How can anyone survive like that?”
“Survive?” It was Eliazar’s turn to look confused. “It’s not about survival. They can save lives only if they absolutely must.”
“But what of las pesadillas?” I said.
They all stared at me, unmoving, confused.
“The stories that come to life?”
Emilia shook her head. “I don’t know what those are.”
“Do you need más agua, Xochitl?” Felipe asked. “Maybe you’re tired.”
I stared at them, the impossibility spreading through my body, reaching the stories, startling them awake, and I gritted my teeth.
Cada una de nosotras es una desierta.
And we were all so different.
I stumbled toward two tall saguaros without speaking to the others, my mind reeling, the ground shaky under my feet.
They weren’t lying.
They couldn’t be.
Who would lie about something so important?
But how could all of this be true? Your heat pushed down on me, and I almost gave up right then, Solís. I almost brought myself to the earth to return all those stories to You. The bitterness was in my throat, on my tongue, threatening to pour out of my mouth and drip down the front of me, seep into the dry and arid dirt. Why shouldn’t I do it? Why was I so set on keeping them all within me?
Giving up would be so easy.
I bent over.
My knees found the earth.
My hands next.
They rushed up—
“Xochitl!”
Her voice stopped me. Shoved the stories back down.
“Xochitl, are you okay? Are you—?”
I looked up, tears streaming down my face, the refuse at the corner of my mouth. I wiped at it, saw the dark liquid on the back of my hand, and I nearly lost it again. Emilia said something, something I couldn’t make out, and I gazed back up at her. Her angular face was even more sharp with worry, and I collapsed back, and the bitter taste of the stories slid back to my gut, then spread out, finding somewhere to hide.
“How?” I choked out. “How can this all be true?”
“I don’t know,” said Emilia. “I thought it was strange that you were stuck in Empalme, but I never said anything. We had many cuentistas in Solado.”
“What?”
The faintness came back. I took off my pack and dug through it for the goatskin water bag. I knew it was reckless and foolish, but I poured some water over my head and let it run down, let it shock me and cool me.
“Xochitl, do we need to stop?” She knelt before me, ran her fingers over my face. “You’re burning up.”
“No,” I said. “We can’t stop. Not on account of me.”
“No, I meant—” And then she sighed. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard. It’s okay if you take a break.”
“And slow us down?” I shook my head. “We have too much ground to cover today.”
Emilia offered her hand, and I pulled myself upright, wiped at
