I watched Ximen disappear.
Solo quiero ser vista.
I only want to be seen.
Maybe that was them.
And maybe la poeta wanted me to feel seen.
And so we climbed.
The road was wide, worn with ruts from the carts that had used it for years, but it narrowed as we pushed through las bajadas, squeezing us together, closer. I traced its path, up and up and up, and even if I could have followed it, even if it didn’t snake into ravines and rolling inclines, it was impossible to see the top.
This is it, I told myself. One last climb.
So much weighed on each of us. Emilia and I ascended side by side, panting in turn, and we continued in agonizing silence. We were pushed to our hands and knees when the trail became sharp and vicious, and I crawled upward, closer to you, closer to the truth.
When we reached the first plateau, I dropped to my knees and threw my head back, gasping for air. I breathed deep as the muscles in my thighs twitched, threatening to cramp, so I drank water and rolled my fists over my legs, urging Emilia to do the same. I’d learned that move from Papá long ago.
Papá.
Was he worried?
Disappointed?
Had he already forgotten me?
I bent over in a deep stretch, running my fingers over the muscles in my legs, digging them into the cords and tendons, the pain and soreness flaring in protest. I breathed in and out, tried to slow my galloping heart, then raised my arms above me. When I felt that I had regained control of my body, I opened my eyes, let your light pour into them, adjusted to the terrible brightness and—
On the trail.
Farther down.
Right in the middle.
Un sabueso.
It didn’t move.
I watched el sabueso’s lip curl up, heard the low growl that escaped it, and I tried to scramble away, but my feet couldn’t get a grip on the dirt road, and I slipped. I lashed out with both hands, desperate to hold on to something, but I slid down, down toward that gaping mouth, toward the bloody teeth, toward—
“Xochitl!”
Emilia had me under the arms, and it snapped me back, her terror flowing into me, and I stopped falling, stopped plunging into—
It was gone.
I blinked. Sweat broke out anew. I rubbed at my eyes, so sure that I was about to be devoured, but it wasn’t there.
“Drink,” she said, and she held up her own water. As I gulped it down, washing away the bile that had risen in my throat, she asked, “What did you see?”
“See?” I choked.
“If you don’t get enough agua, Solís makes you see things,” she said. “Remember? You taught me that.”
I swallowed more water, shame rippling over my face, heating it up. “It was nothing,” I said, even though I knew she was probably right. I had been walking for a long time; my last full meal was two days ago. “Nothing at all,” I added.
Do you need help, cuentista?
Amato came forward and pawed at me. I wondered if the guardians cared about me, too.
It is important you make it to Solado, they said.
I gave the guardian a brief scowl. Perhaps they didn’t. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Emilia?”
She helped me up and steadied me, and a warmth coursed in my fingers, up to my shoulder, like what I felt before I took someone’s story. But it was gone as fast as it had arrived.
Did she know the effect she had on me?
I settled my pack onto my back, wiped the sweat that threatened to sting my eyes, and I began to walk.
And I walked.
And walked.
And walked.
You climbed in the sky.
We climbed closer to you.
And you punished me. That’s what I believed as my water got warmer. As the cramps throbbed in my lower back and at the bottom of my abdomen. As the stories stretched out and fought for room. As the summit stayed in the exact same spot, never moving, never getting any closer. Was every moment a penance I had to pay, a price torn from my skin and from my mind?
I lost track of time as it stretched out, became everything and nothing all at once. My water was rancid in my stomach, but I knew I needed it. I became the desert, more vacant and alone than ever before, as if you had hollowed me out, replaced me with exhaustion and suffering. I was no longer whole. No longer real.
I slowed again close to el mediodía. I thought I was better at this, and shame rippled through me. I poured hot water over my head, enough to soak my hair, and it ran across my scalp, gathered in the band of cloth around my head.
“Are you as miserable as I am?” asked Emilia.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I spoke. “It’s like everything has slowed down. I can’t seem to remember anything but walking.”
“Ay, Xo, take a break,” she said, and she dropped her bag next to me. “Más agua,” she said.
“Mine is boiling,” I said. “It’s too hot.”
“Let me see,” she said, and I handed her my water bag. She tipped a bit of it into her mouth, then shook her head. “Xochitl—”
“I know,” I said. “But I don’t have anything else, so it’ll have to do.”
“No, it’s cold.”
She took my hand, let some water trickle over my hand.
It was cool.
Rest, Amato ordered. You are getting worse.
A spark of disagreement burst in me—was that Ofelia, deep down inside, her spite and ire ripping through me?—but my body simply would not move. I accepted it, and I lay back in your light, let the darkness rush in at the corners of my vision, then shut my eyes, granting the shadows a home inside me.
I heard their voices—was it the stories? Was it Emilia?—swirling about, but I wouldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t. I wanted to stay here, to stay in the darkness and rest and sleep and never return.
Mamá was
