Her hair, which cascaded down to her ankles, swung back and forth behind her when she spun to look at him strangely. He had believed he was being charitable and kind when he offered to take her the rest of the way, but she refused, simply and quickly. “No gracias,” she said, then turned back and kept on walking.
“But how can I get to know you?” he yelled.
Without hesitation, she said, “Walk with me, then.”
He left his horse in the shade of a patch of boojums, whose brushlike trunks stretched up to the sky, and then he walked alongside her as she went home. He asked her questions the entire time—her name, where she was from, what she did with her days, what she looked forward to in life—and she gave short, terse answers. But she kept giving them, along with quiet smiles every time he made a silly comment to her about what she had said.
When they arrived en la aldea an hour later, she thanked him for the company. “You made my walk enjoyable today, Eliazar. The time passed much quicker than usual. If you would like, I leave again in two days. You are welcome to join me.”
“I would like nothing more,” he told her.
And so, for the next month, Eliazar’s routine changed: He would meet Gracia on his journey to El Mar. Sometimes, he would walk her to the next aldea—where she sold las camisas and serapes she made with her father. Sometimes, he would walk her back home. This decision extended his trip to El Mar, but it was worth it. Gracia was always worth it.
The day she agreed to ride in Eliazar’s cart was the day he knew that she finally felt the same affection for him as he did for her.
He was so happy with her, Solís. They moved together to a tiny aldea that hugged the coast, where Your heat waned and the land was not so impossible. Here, the homes were distant, scattered along the coastline haphazardly. Together, Eliazar and Gracia created. They hunted. They thrived. Eliazar brought Gracia’s parents to El Mar to live a better life. When Gracia’s mamá bothered the couple about the promise of grandchildren, they gave the same answer: They didn’t need anyone else. They had each other.
It happened so suddenly, so inexplicably, as these things often did. Years passed, and Gracia’s parents had long since returned to You. She had grieved, but with her love beside her, she carried on. Their small home next to El Mar may have been weathered and worn, but it was theirs. Eliazar, whose joints had begun to cry out whenever he moved too fast, finally stopped visiting the shore to spread his nets into the unpredictable and violent waters. He did not have the strength to pull them back in. He instead took it upon himself to deliver la ropa that Gracia still made by hand. The pains had not visited her in her old age.
It became a new routine. Eliazar would load up his cart with la ropa, would bid her goodbye, and then would travel west. He would be back by nightfall, so he could curl up next to the one he loved, beneath the starlight that twinkled overhead, that cast such a haunting glow over El Mar.
One morning, he awoke, and Gracia was not by his side. She was not at la mesa where she did her work, either.
He knew something was wrong.
She sat by the ocean on her favorite rock, a dark slab on the white sand, and she dipped her toes in the surf as it came upon the shore.
“Gracia?” He approached gingerly, terrified of the future that was unfolding.
Her skin was pale, waxy, and she wiped at her nose.
There was red on her hands.
“It’s time,” she said calmly, plainly, as if she were stating the weather. “I’ve known this was coming.”
He reached out to touch her.
She recoiled. “Don’t,” she warned. “I don’t want this happening to you, too.”
“Gracia, please,” he said. “What is happening?”
“We all have our time upon this earth, Eliazar. Mine has come to an end. Maybe a day or two from now.” She smiled, dug her toes deep into the wet sand. “I want to die looking at El Mar.” Gracia’s eyes bored into Eliazar’s. “Will you allow me that, mi amor?”
He didn’t respond.
He quickly pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting, and he headed straight for his horse, an old mare he’d grown close to over the years. Once atop her, he climbed the rise that ascended from the coast. At the crest of the hill, he looked behind him, down toward the home that lay at the bottom, one of only a few built tight against the stone cliff.
She sat upon the rock, which meant there was still time to save her.
Eliazar made the journey with what haste he could on a horse that was probably as old as he was. He pushed the mare as fast as she could go, meaning she sometimes slowed to a trot, and together they weaved through the grove of boojums, then over and down ridges and rises.
Eliazar was determined to save Gracia.
He made it to the next aldea a few hours after he had left El Mar. He didn’t even tie up his mount; he was sure that she was so exhausted she wouldn’t go anywhere. He left her next to a large trough of water, and he ran. And ran. And ran. Dodged around those of the aldea who knew him both as el pescador viejo and as the man who delivered Gracia’s colorful creations. He had none of these goods with him today, and his body ached terribly as he ran, ran straight to the cuentista, whom he had not spoken to in many years.
