Remain here, they said, until la cuentista arrives with la poeta. Then you can tell her the story of this place, so that Solís will know what we have done for Them.
He stood and dusted himself off. “But how do you know that a cuentista is coming? How will they know how to find this place?”
Because las poemas are luring her here and guiding la poeta back, they said. Their journey will begin soon, and then … all this will be over.
Eduardo coughed, spat up blood and dirt, and then nodded. “Please,” he said. “Please let me do something. Let me show Solís that I am sorry.”
And he was guided to a room in Solado. There, the guardians told him to remain. He could leave only to relieve himself or to drink water from the stream in the rocks in the cavern across from his.
So he waited.
Two days ago, the other guardian arrived, the one with the black and gray fur. She told Eduardo that it was only a matter of time before la cuentista y la poeta would arrive.
Eduardo waited.
And waited.
And waited.
She sat next to him.
They waited.
And waited.
And then …
We arrived.
La poeta.
Las poemas.
Emilia.
Emilia.
She had been with me the entire time.
We had been drawn to one another. And for what?
I struggled with the truth then, Solís. Did you feel it? Did you sense what passed over me as I let go of Eduardo’s hands?
Elation. Rage.
The person I had been looking for was right there. She had written such beautiful words, had spoken to me across the vast and empty desert, and it explained so much.
Was I drawn to her because she understood? Or because the guardians wanted me to find her? Because they needed me.
Were they on a mission guided by you? How could they be? If I was necessary to their act, then it meant that they did not have direct contact with you. They were the same as everyone else.
I was a means to an end for them.
Just a cuentista.
Once again.
No more.
I sat back as Eduardo took in a deep breath, one of relief, one of finality. “Gracias,” he said, and his face looked so peaceful.
He did not rise from his chair. He twisted toward Emilia, who was sobbing. “I am sorry for what I have done,” he said, and his face drooped as he spoke. “But now you know the fate of Solado.”
He shifted his weight, leaned back, his eyes red with exhaustion and tears.
“It is time to rest,” he said. “I’m so very tired.”
“Eduardo,” I said, my hands still outstretched. “Please. I still have so many questions.” I glanced at Emilia, at her distraught face. “We both do.”
His eyes bored into me. “I wanted to be free,” he said. “I wanted to do something for myself. Was that too much to ask, cuentista? Will Solís understand that?”
He looked to Luz.
Luz inclined her head. You have done well, Eduardo, she said.
He smiled.
And Eduardo looked so very young again, almost like he was a child.
He leaned forward.
His body pitched to the ground.
And when he hit it, he erupted into a cloud of ash, black and thick, like those above Solado.
They slowly floated to the earth like feathers in a breeze until they settled peacefully on the packed dirt.
Eduardo was … free.
Sweat dripped down my face, and I gazed up at Emilia.
La poeta.
“You have them,” she said. “You’ve had them this entire time.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to react. So I reached over to my pack and turned it upside down, letting the contents fall to the ground, and there it was: the leather pouch full of las poemas.
“Did you really write these?” I asked her.
She crouched down and picked up the pouch. An intense urge flowed through me: I wanted to snatch it out of her hands, hold it close to me.
But the feeling passed as she loosened its strings and opened it, as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“You found them,” she said softly.
“I can’t explain it,” I said. “They called to me.”
“They call to me, too,” she said, running her fingers over the stitching in the leather.
It all came together then.
“That’s how you knew,” I said. “Where to go.”
She nodded, and then she handed them back to me. As soon as it touched my hand, the surge came back: all those emotions, trapped in the words she had written, rushing through me.
There were so many clues. So many hints to the truth. But no answer.
So I asked it.
“Why? Why did you do this?”
Emilia looked from me to Luz, who licked at her own paw but said nothing. “When we were separated, I had no one to talk to,” Emilia explained. “Luz had been my companion for so long, and then, all of a sudden … no one.”
Lo siento, mi amor, said Luz. I wanted to be there for you, but … She dropped her head down, down between her paws. She said nothing else.
Emilia moved closer to her guardian, stepping through Eduardo’s ashes, and knelt down in front of her. “Luz, why can’t I touch you?”
Luz whined, a high, pitiful sound.
Because I am not really here.
Emilia shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
I came to you when you were most alone, when you had not said a single word aloud in weeks. You turned to me, and you relied on me, and you opened up. You told me stories. You were so magical with words, and I loved every single one of them.
And then you found a new way to express what you had denied, what you had hidden.
Luz sat upright and let out a sorrowful whine, then rose to all fours.
After you were stolen from your home, you began to write your poems. You left them behind once you realized the power they held, and they were your path back here.
Emilia’s guardian came so close, her snout hovering over Emilia’s chest.
You do not need me.
Emilia
