I drank water.
I ate dried strips of meat.
I relieved myself, my urine still too dark for my liking, but I couldn’t do anything about it.
I walked
and
walked
and
walked
and
walked.
Until I was certain I would burst into flames, that I would combust under you, that I would get so close to my destination but still end up like Raymundo, like all the others claimed by your heat.
And yet, I kept going.
One last story remained.
One last climb.
I would make it.
I had to.
Time slowed.
Time sped up.
Time meant nothing.
You were already cresting to the west when la montaña was within reach. Las bajadas at the base of Las Montañas de Solís were short and fierce, a dense collection of thorny árboles and dark bushes, the raised arms of the saguaros pointed toward the sky.
How long had it been since we left La Reina? I looked up at you, at your arc across the sky, then squatted low to the ground, my eyes closed, and I shoved it all down. Panic. Fear. The mixture of stories, churning, living, desiring.
“¿Estás bien, Xochitl?”
Emilia put her hand on my back, but I kept my eyes closed, let the wave pass. I thought of Papá, of how often he asked me that question, never as small talk. He truly wanted to know if I was well.
Perhaps Emilia did, too.
You’re so close, I told myself. Don’t give up now.
But I was so terribly afraid, Solís. Afraid that I’d made a terrible choice, afraid that I was barreling toward nothing, afraid that this was all pointless.
The guardian spoke to me in my mind. Cuentista, Amato said. You must rise.
I opened my eyes slowly, and the burning light hurt. I blinked away tears.
“Xochitl…” Emilia’s voice was tentative.
Worried.
I expected to see the leader of the guardians in front of me.
Instead, there was a person.
Their hair was long, tied in thin braids that fell from a brown wrap on their head. I could only see their eyes: Dark. Nearly black. They were tall. Thin. What skin I could see under their flowing clothing—baggy breeches, a light cloth like mine bound around their torso and then cascading back into something like a cape, dark boots—was similar to my own.
Emilia guided me upright with her hand under my arm, and I looked around frantically for Amato, the guardian who had been speaking to me.
And was surprised to watch them walk up to this stranger’s side and nuzzle their leg.
Cuentista, Amato said.
But not to me.
“Who are you?” I called out, my throat parched.
They are with us, Amato said. The other guardians—their coats differently colored but still brilliant in your light—gathered behind the stranger.
“Ximen,” they answered, and they stepped forward, slowly at first, then crossed the space between us. “I think we should talk.”
Emilia gripped me tightly. “I don’t like this,” she said. “We should go.”
“I’m like you,” they said.
I was too tired to be polite to this stranger. “No, you’re not.”
They unwrapped their face to reveal full lips, long lashes. “We are both cuentistas.”
That got my attention, but I still teetered in place from exhaustion, and Emilia steadied me. “I gathered that. But why are you here?”
Then, turning to the guardian, I asked: “Is this what you needed me for?”
No, Amato answered. But you should hear what they have to say.
“I am from far, far to el norte,” they said, brushing a braid out of their face. “Beyond Solado. Beyond the land of ash.”
I felt Emilia stiffen.
“Beyond?” she said.
“Sí. Far beyond. Where the land is covered in árboles, tall and green,” they said, and I could hear an accent on their tongue that was unfamiliar to me, one that smoothed out all the parts that would be harder in my own mouth.
“Then why are you here?” I asked. “Why leave that place?”
“Because I had to.”
I held my breath.
My own words, echoed back at me.
“Do you ever feel alone in a crowd, cuentista?”
I exhaled.
“Do you ever believe that the people in your life see you only as a means to an end?”
“All the time,” I said.
“Then you must understand why I left paradise,” Ximen said. “Because even paradise can be tainted by what we are.”
I stepped toward them. “And what are we?” I asked.
They smiled, flashing white teeth at me. “We are an answer. To a question no one has asked yet.”
A new line of sweat broke out over my brow. I looked to the guardian nearest Ximen, but they were occupying themselves with cleaning their sleek coat.
“So what are you doing here?” Emilia asked.
“I’m just passing through. I met the guardians a few days ago, when I first reached the land called Solado and passed over it. We had many conversations about what life is like in the north. It is very different from here in the south.”
“And where are you going next?” I asked.
There was a part of me that wanted to ask them to come with us. I had so much I wanted to know, so many things to ask.
“I don’t know,” they said, and they began to wrap their face up again. “It frightens me, but I find it exhilarating. For the first time in my life, I feel alive. I feel like I can choose who I want to be every day.”
La poema came to me:
cuando estoy solo
estoy vivo
when I am alone
I am alive
“You can be alive, too, cuentista,” they said, and then they started walking, moved right past us, then turned to raise their hand in farewell. “Perhaps we will cross paths again.”
Had I just met—?
The thought spread through me, and I was so tired, Solís, and I tried to will my legs to run after them, to call out their name.
Is that la poeta?
No.
No, it didn’t make sense.
But they did seem to understand me.
Can it be?
There was a low growl behind me.
Come, cuentista, Amato said, their voice reverberating in my
