Each of Us a Desert Page 3

  I stepped toward him. “About what?”

  “What pesadilla Solís will show me.”

  His shoulders were pulled in as if something were dragging them down toward the ground. And there, in the shadows of el mercadito, it hid. Behind a shelf. It was hunched over, shy and nervous, but it was there.

  Its eyes opened. They were bright red.

  “Can it wait until tonight?” I asked, staring at it. “We’re almost out of agua, and Raúl wants to go with me.”

  Lito still wasn’t looking at me. “Por supuesto,” he said, his voice soft and afraid. “Gracias, Xo. I know this can’t be easy, but we appreciate what you do for us.”

  Maybe that was the reason I liked Lito so much. He was one of the only people to say things like that to me and mean it.

  “Gracias, Lito. ¿Hasta luego?”

  “Until then,” he said. He raised his hand in farewell, and then he finally looked at me again.

  He was terrified.

  Something pulled me out of el mercadito. I knew what it was, and I scurried beyond the door, out into the heat, and to the place that would make me feel safe again.

  The land spoke to me, called me forth, and even though I did not have a story to return to it just yet, it seemed to know that I needed the solitude after my interaction with Manolito.

  I headed to the east first, toward a patch of mesquite that smelled rich and vibrant in the middle of the day. The sun bore down on me in an oppressive heat, but I was resilient. Alive. I stuck a hand into the waistband of my breeches, felt the edges of the brown leather pouch tucked there, and a thrill rushed up my arm.

  I needed them. Again.

  I had been doing this more and more lately. I would tell my parents that I needed to take a story, to return one to the earth, and I would be gone for hours at a time. They claimed to understand me, but they understood only the need for the ritual. They didn’t get how much I needed to be away from home; away from all the responsibilities and the sad, needy faces; away from feeling stuck in a life I never chose.

  So I would walk. Usually, I didn’t pick a direction, but I needed shade right then; the sun was still searing the exposed skin on my arms and my face. I kept my breathing even, wiped sweat off my forehead, took my steps carefully so as not to trip on the uneven ground. Without water, I couldn’t last long outdoors. This was the closest spot, and it was where I’d found the first of the two poemas, the words etched onto paper with coal.

  I had been hunting for water weeks earlier, and I thought that You were guiding me to a new source. I rarely went to the east, but as I walked in that direction, it was as if something had looped twine around my heart and kept tugging me. Closer, closer, it said, and I obeyed. I always obeyed, always did what I was told. I was the dutiful daughter, wasn’t I? The one who honored her parents, the one who kept herself available to all in case las pesadillas were close.

  But this was different. I was good at hunting water, at picking up the signs Papá had taught me, but the earth shouted at me, guided me farther east, until I was in the shade of a thick patch of mesquites. The sensation was so similar to my ritual as a cuentista, and I let the power take me to the dirt, and I dug down until my fingers hit leather. The force ripped through my body, knocking me back, and the ground bit into my elbows. But the pain was nothing compared with that spark, that rush. My heart raced as I pushed myself forward, and I tenderly reached out, ran the tips of my fingers over the little pouch again, and my whole body shook.

  I unearthed it.

  I consumed it.

  That first time I read la poema, I couldn’t make sense of the words. They were too real, too close, and I dropped the scrap of paper back to the earth, stood up, and walked away from it. But it sang to me, called me back, and I returned, devoured it over and over.

  I found another the next week, just to the north of Empalme, buried next to a saguaro that was missing an arm. Aside from Manolito’s stories, they were all I had of the world outside Empalme, the only glimpse of a life that wasn’t constrained and controlled.

  And so I visited the place I found the first one as often as possible. The earthy scent of mesquite rose up to me, and I lowered myself to the ground in the shadows of los árboles. I pulled the pouch from my waistband and removed one of las poemas. I delicately placed it on the ground. The corners were wrinkled and folded from being stuffed under my bedroll, tucked into the band of my breeches or under the loose stone in the floor of our dwelling, and the coal ink had smeared near the bottom. But it was still there, each letter ending abruptly, as if the person who had written this was in a rush.

  I placed two small stones on either side of the paper, weighted it down so it would not blow away, and I traced the letters, my fingers just barely above it, and I read it again. And again. And again.

  cuando estoy solo

  existo para mí

  cada paso

  para mí

  cada aliento

  para mí

  cada latido de mi corazón

  para mí

  cuando estoy solo

  estoy vivo

  when I am alone

  I exist for myself

  each step

  for me

  each breath

  for me

  each beat of my heart

  for me

  when I am alone

  I am alive

  They called out to me, each of the words a sharp and piercing glimpse into myself. How had they done this? How had they known what I felt out here, all alone? I read it again, allowed it to fill me up, to know me, to see me.

  There were prickles on the back of my neck, a dull ache settling in behind my eyes. I lost track of the time, but my body was reminding me that I could not be outside for much longer. Night would fall soon, and I had duties around the house before the meal began and You disappeared. I folded the paper gently, returned it to its hiding place, and then got to my feet, the sweat pouring down my back.

  Doro was long gone; Ana y Quique had departed recently, too. All my friends, except Manolito, had left me behind. I hadn’t felt this alone in a long time. But as I made the journey back home, back to my family, I was alive in that solitude. I was full, satiated by the knowledge that someone out in the world understood me.

  It never lasted long enough.

  I made it back home right as the sun was in the middle of the sky. Your warmth, Solís, spread over the land, filling in los valles, shadows stretching long and deep. I stopped by the home of la señora Sanchez first to drop off el mensaje; she gave me some dried manzanas she had made as a thanks. I was chewing on one of them as I approached our home.

  Rogelio was thankfully nowhere in sight.

  Raúl greeted me on the other side of the burlap curtain, nearly crashing into me before running off again. “I’m almost ready!” he cried out. “I just need my hat.”

  Papá was standing near la estufa, using his hands to ball up some leftover arroz from the night before. “Anything for us?”

  I handed him el mensaje from Mamá’s friend, and he examined it briefly before setting it aside. “Some of los viajeros from the south are scheduled to get in tonight,” he said. “Your mother is out back already.”

  A pang of disappointment struck. I knew I’d be too exhausted after Lito to join Mamá, but los viajeros were a spectacle. They journeyed all over the endless desert, making camp in various aldeas y pueblos, bringing with them items they’d collected from other places, food that we had not tried before, and …

  Stories. They brought stories. So many of them, more colorful and strange than anything Paolo or the other mensajeros had. Maybe I could do both. Maybe I could take Lito’s story, visit Mamá, and then perform the ritual.…

  It felt like too much. So when Raúl came back, his wide-brim straw sombrero sitting atop his head, I tried to focus instead on our hunt, to keep my mind off the anxiety pulsing in my veins.

  “You two be safe,” Papá said, kissing us each on top of our
heads.

  “We will,” I said. “Be back in a couple of hours.”

  He blew me another kiss, and I stuck my cheek out, pretending to catch it there. Raúl tugged me out the door, though, his excitement overflowing. He then grabbed the two buckets and the water-hunting tools set out for us. “Come on, Xochitl!” he called out, dragging me by the hand.

  After Julio and his men took over the well and started charging la comunidad to withdraw water, some of us devised our own means of surviving. It was extra work, but it also meant that sometimes our family could go days without seeing Julio.

  Raúl and I settled into our walk after I glanced briefly at the stone pit and waved at Mamá as she pulled warm tortillas off the grill. I fought to keep up with Raúl, who was not nearly so tired as I was.

  I shrugged it off. We fell silent, and the heat filled the desert. There were others in Empalme who swore that the sun rose without a sound, but I still think they are wrong. The sound of sunlight is the gentle scurrying of lizards and mice, desperate to find shade and comfort. It’s the earth, groaning and creaking as it wakes up, as the moisture within it is pulled away, cracking and breaking the soil. It is the scratching echo of our feet pressing into the sand and dirt, of sweat dripping off us into the dust.

  I fought the urge that came suddenly upon my body. I wanted to start running, toward las montañas to the north, to find las bestias. The mysteries. The land of thoughts come to life. My body was full of desire and longing, Solís. What was I supposed to do? Continue ignoring it? Every time I ventured into the desert to return a story, to hunt water, or for food, it haunted me. Every. Time.

  I switched the bucket I held from one hand to the other, then made the sign—see the truth; believe the truth—hoping it would calm down my thoughts. Raúl’s hand flung out and stopped me and—

  There. On the arms of a tall, green saguaro sat una paloma, gray and delicate. It pecked at the rough hide, and we held our breath, now as motionless as the towering cactus, and then we saw la paloma lift into the air, its wings beating, and dart off to the north.

  Raúl and I exchanged a quick glance, and a smile curled up on his lips.

  We followed.

  Papá had taught us that life in the desert was a sign of water. Other creatures couldn’t live without it any more than we could. Normally, Papá and I braved the heat to find underground sources. There used to be a well to the east of Empalme, but bandits had ransacked it and destroyed it a couple of years ago. But I had gotten so good at picking up the signs of hidden agua that I usually did it alone these days.

  I was grateful to have Raúl at my side that morning, though. We sprinted toward a patch of mesquites, and I was already panting and dripping sweat by the time we reached it and saw the colorful branches. There was no sign of la paloma anymore; it was much quicker than we were. But the smell leapt to my nose, and I knew that these árboles were alive, thriving in Your heat. There had to be water somewhere here, and I let go of my caution. I dropped to my knees at the foot of the nearest árbol and pulled out la pala that Papá had given me long ago. It was made from a thick branch of paloverde and a sheet of iron that had blown off someone’s roof one night. I plunged la pala into the ground, the dry earth fighting me every time it dug deeper and deeper. Soon, I could see moisture seeping around the sides of the hole I had made.

  Raúl slumped to the ground under the flimsy shade of the mesquite. “That was quicker than usual,” he said, still out of breath. “You want to do the first bit?”

  I nodded at him. “Rest,” I said.

  And then I got to work.

  I got another foot down in the hole before there was a sizable pool of water at the bottom. I stuck my hand out and Raúl passed over the cloth used for extracting water. I dropped it into the puddle and let it soak up some of the water, then squeezed it out into the bucket. I repeated it: Drop. Soak. Squeeze. Drop. Soak. Squeeze.

  “I’m going to Ramona’s again today,” Raúl said after a long silence.

  I squeezed more water out into the bucket. “What for?”

  “See if Renato is around. Or if Ramona needs any help.”

  Drop. Soak. Squeeze.

  “Just stay away from Julio and his men,” I said.

  He dismissed me with a wave. “He’s not going to pick on me. He doesn’t even know I exist.”

  “Well, make sure you don’t announce your presence to him, ¿entiendes?”

  He didn’t say anything else, and my stomach grumbled in the growing heat. I kept at it, trying to focus on the task, but my thoughts wandered quickly. What if I just stood up and left? What if I floated away, like una paloma, to be free? Would that be possible for someone like me? Or would I have to take stories every day for the remainder of my life? The thought pressed down on me, pushed me into the dirt, and it was harder to lift my arms, to wrench the water from the cloth, to accept that my whole life was written out for me.

  “Want me to take over?”

  I sat back, sweat pouring down my head, dripping into the dirt. I’d been working so hard I hadn’t even noticed that the bucket was nearly full. “Please,” I said, handing him the cloth.

  He lifted his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead, but didn’t say what was on his mind. He grabbed the cloth from me, then scooted over to the hole I’d dug. But before he started, he looked back to me. “¿Te sientes bien? You seem a little…”

  He didn’t finish. He dug deeper and went silent. Drop. Squeeze. Soak. Was I that obvious? I took pride in being able to hide so much of myself from the others. Aside from Manolito, no one really knew about my desires. And no one knew about las poemas.

  “I’m just tired,” I said, which wasn’t a lie, not after taking Rogelio’s story the night before.

  Raúl smiled back, and then he began to work on filling the second bucket. While he did so, my mind took flight. I thought of las poemas, letting hope spring in me. I knew them both by heart, and the second one floated up from my memory, poured into my body, filling me with its power:

  Este mundo de cenizas

  no puede contenerme

  No hay paredes

  para detenerme

  Soy libre.

  This world of ashes

  cannot contain me

  There are no walls

  to stop me

  I am free.

  By the time Raúl finished and the two of us began to haul those buckets back to filter the water, I was aching with desire for las poemas to be in my hand again. I knew I’d have to wait until no one was looking to get at them, but it was like a terrible itch spreading over my skin. I had to see them.

  Raúl was talkative on the walk back, but I responded only occasionally, mostly to let him think I was paying attention. I wasn’t. I kept repeating the phrase in my head:

  Soy libre. Soy libre. Soy libre.

  I wanted it more than anything. To be free of these responsibilities and rules and expectations. I wanted my own life.

  Mamá was trading chisme with Papá as he worked to prepare el almuerzo for us. She took the buckets and said that she was proud of how much water we’d gotten, that she’d filter out the dirt and the rocks in a few hours. She had too much to do before los viajeros arrived. She kissed me on the forehead. Told me she loved me. Papá blew another kiss my direction.

  I loved them back. I really did. And yet, as I sat down on my sleeping roll, stretching out my legs and my arms, my fingers grazed over to the loose stone. I ran my fingers over the edge of it. Wiggled it a bit in its spot. No one was looking, so I quickly removed the stone, stuffed the little pouch in there, and then covered it again.

  I lay back, exhaustion taking over me. I had to rest before I saw Lito that night. I needed to recuperate.

  I needed to feel less isolated.

  And I needed to know who wrote las poemas.

  But I was all alone there in Empalme, with no hope of ever escaping it. I closed my eyes, and I could not wait for You to sink out of the sky, for las estrellas to return.
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  I saw Julio again that evening before I arrived at Manolito’s. I’d passed the home of la señora Sanchez, and the sun was a sliver on the horizon, glinting off the metal of her roof. I wasn’t paying attention, and then he just loomed there, seated atop an enormous brown horse.

  He was lanky and tall enough as it was, but as he glared down at me, his patchy facial hair a shadow on his face, he was a giant. Unfathomable. Impossible. I had seen few horses in my life—they were too challenging to own and care for in a world so harsh—and so it made him look even bigger.

  Yet here he was. It had been only a month since he and his men arrived in Empalme, but he filled the space left behind by all those who had traveled to the north or to the south for work or for a better life. There simply weren’t enough of us willing to make him leave anymore, not when he and his men carried such sharp sabers and knives.

  I stilled when I saw him. He paused, only briefly, casting a wicked glance at me, up and down, and then I noticed her—

  Emilia.

  She sat behind him, and her glare was somehow more stern than his. She had the same long, flowing black hair as him, the same sharp, angular features. Her brows furrowed as she looked at me with an expression that said it all: She was above us. She would not dare to lower herself to our level.

  I did my best not to react, even though I found I could not tear my eyes away from her.

  But they were gone, just as quickly as they had ridden into view. All I heard was the gentle plodding hooves of the horse, and I waited until they faded away before I continued on. Neither of them looked back at me. Was I unworthy of their attention? I was relieved to be able to get to Manolito’s unbothered. I was still tired from the previous night, and the thought of giving back another story weighed my body down.

  But this was what I was supposed to do. I couldn’t refuse it any more than I could refuse to breathe or drink water.

  El mercadito was different as night began to fall. It was not nearly as welcoming; it rested in the shadows of the buildings around it. I pushed open the door and was greeted by the sounds of a loud negotiation. Ofelia had her hands placed firmly on her hips. Manolito looked up at me, then sighed before focusing on Ofelia. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “It’s not under my control anymore.”