No longer.
The hut belonging to Téa was crowded, but Eliazar ignored the cries of the others as he pushed inside. “Téa, Téa, please,” he called out, dropping down before the cuentista in supplication.
They had their hands out.
They were in the midst of taking a story.
Eliazar apologized, tried to explain that it was an emergency, but they shooed him away. “No,” they said harshly, and their brow was furrowed in anger. “You cannot interrupt this.”
Eliazar waited outside, embarrassed but undeterred. It was nearly an hour later when Téa exited the hut. Their black hair was shaven clean on the side, but left long on the top, and the dark coal they wore around their eyes had smeared.
“Eliazar,” they said, holding aside the curtain in the doorway, “come within.”
When the others protested, Téa held up their opposite hand. “This will only take a moment.”
He shuffled in, tried his best to ignore the complaints from other aldeanos, then dropped to the ground once more, though not to give a story.
Eliazar was there to beg.
“Mi cuentista, te necesito,” he began.
Téa drifted to the back of their hut, seemingly interested in other things. They crushed herbs in a mortero, poured water over them, then mixed them into a paste.
“Téa?”
They stilled where they stood. “Eliazar, you are not here to give me a story, are you?”
“I need your help. It’s Gracia.”
Eliazar could see their head shaking. “I don’t think I am what you need, amigo. Or what she needs.”
“But you must know someone. Someone who can help her with the sickness she has.”
Eliazar moved closer to Téa. “Can’t you ask Solís for help? Just this once?”
They spun around, anger twisting their features. “You know that’s not how it works. It never has.”
They sighed, then reached out to put a hand on Eliazar’s shoulder. “Lo siento,” they said. “Maybe there is someone out there. Some sort of cure. But I can’t hand out favors. I can’t get Solís to change the world. Each of us is responsible for that.”
Eliazar did not feel disappointed as Téa rejected him. He had an idea.
He rushed homeward, pushing his mare harder than he should have, and when he dismounted at the cliff face, she collapsed. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He knew she would have taken too long on the narrow trail down. So he shielded his eyes from Your light, peeking over the edge of El Mar, and he searched for Gracia’s rock.
He saw the waves that El Mar spat onto the shore, furious and frothy.
He found the rock.
And the body slumped over next to it.
Eliazar walked slowly down the decline, then up to the body, saw how Gracia’s skin was sickly, pale, shriveled.
She had a smile on her face.
He bent down, moved her hair off her forehead, kissed her. “I’ll be back, mi amor,” he said.
Kissed her again.
“I’ll find you a cure this time.”
His fingers danced over her cheek.
“Volveré por ti.”
Eliazar stood. Gathered some supplies. Made the climb back up the cliff face. Ignored the mare, who had not recovered. He walked to the west again, and he stopped in every aldea he found, asking for a cuentista or a curandera. If he did not find something to help Gracia, he thanked the people and moved on.
Eliazar traveled west for a long, long time, meeting new people, seeking out a cure. A few days ago, he arrived in Obregán, and he was overwhelmed by El Mercado. But he rushed past the curanderas, past the centers for healing, and he headed straight for the northwest corner.
CUENTISTAS.
He spoke to one. Another. Another. They shook their heads; their faces slumped in pity; some even returned the money Eliazar gave them.
One of them—dark coal spread over her eyes, a red veil with a dark hood hanging from her body—offered to give Eliazar what he wanted.
He told her what he desired.
And even she tilted her head at him, let go of his hands.
“Señor, you must let go of that,” she said.
“Of what?”
“There is not anyone here who can help you get her back,” she explained, returning to her booth. “You cannot cling to this.”
He shuffled from one foot to another in that spot. “Thank you for trying,” he finally said, and he left El Mercado de Obregán.
It has been over a year since he first left El Mar, Solís.
He is still walking.
He was breathless. “Gracias,” he said to me, and this time, he steadied me as his story, his never-ending grief, became a part of me. I was a storm, a flood that ripped through the desert and toppled the saguaros and the ironwoods, ripped the bushes from the ground and sent them tumbling.
I coughed.
I nearly lost all the stories—because Eliazar’s was so powerful.
Then it settled, as the others had before.
I was getting better at keeping these stories inside me.
“I had to tell you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left her behind. I shouldn’t have been so slow.” He smiled, that same sad grin I’d seen so many times over the past day. “I’ll help her this time.”
I placed a hand low on my gut, felt as Eliazar’s story settled in deep.
But Gracia was dead.
There was nothing to return to.
That was the story he wanted to give me?
Eliazar allowed me to lean on him as we walked back to the group. Emilia had water ready for me, and an affection swelled in my heart.
It passed, though. As I drank the water down, wishing it were cooler, I saw Eliazar speaking excitedly with Rosalinda. He looked so pleased.
I recalled Ofelia and her misguided anger.
Or Omar, and his refusal to change his behavior. His face sparked in my mind: I saw his expression as he finished telling me his story, as he knew that he’d been cleansed.
And now there was Eliazar, who believed so wholly that he had done his love wrong that he apologized for it.
If I had done as You asked of me—if I had followed the rules
