Each of Us a Desert Page 4

  Ofelia’s shame spilled forth when her eyes locked with mine. It was obvious that I should not have heard this conversation. “I’ll be back, Manolito,” she said. “They can’t do this to me.”

  She turned up her pointed nose at me as she passed by, but I could see the worry lines near her eyes, on her forehead. It was a mask, an attempt to make herself seem strong and powerful to me, but her eyes betrayed her.

  Manolito sighed again as the door slammed shut. “Sorry, Xo,” he said. “It’s a difficult time for a lot of people.”

  I stepped forward to his counter and extended my hand when he let the words perish. “For you, too, ¿no?”

  We’d done this many times before, and yet Manolito always got so bashful before he gave me a story. He knew I wouldn’t remember it the next day, but that didn’t seem to matter to him. He’d refuse to make eye contact, would treat me as though I’d already judged him as inferior. He briefly grasped my hand, then let go of it and rushed past me. “Let me lock the door,” he said, and he dropped a thick wooden post across the doorframe to keep the door from swinging inward. The darkness settled amid the dust and silence as he stood there, his back to me.

  “Xochitl,” he said, unmoving. “Please don’t judge me.”

  I watched him. His shoulders heaved upward as he breathed. “You know I can’t,” I said. “That’s not what I do. I judge no one.” I moved away from the counter, toward Manolito. “You tell me your story, and I give it back to Solís. We are all cleansed by Them if we see the truth, believe the truth.”

  His eyes were red and raw. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  An anger hit my chest, branched outward and down my body. “I never do, Lito,” I said. “I can’t, even if I wanted to. So please, don’t say that again.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Lo siento, Xo.” His eyes flicked open, still bloodshot. “I’m afraid.”

  I reached out to him again, and this time, he took my hands as he was supposed to, so I could become the conduit he needed. “Please, talk to me, Manolito. Tell me your story. I will forget it, as I always do, and you can change. Be better. Make Solís proud.”

  Another deep breath from Manolito. Another jolt of fear, and this time, I could feel it as it passed down his arms and into me. It was the sign I needed, the one that told me that the connection had been made.

  It was time.

  Let me tell You a story, Solís.

  Manolito was born back when Empalme was even smaller, still growing, and still desperately clinging to life in an arid nothingness. Only a few generations had survived La Quema, and Manolito was now the fourth born of his lineage since You took away our world.

  This was before Julio, before his men arrived from some aldea in the north, and long before we had to pay someone else to access our own water.

  Yet Manolito had never seen anything like Julio’s ominous appearance. The man had ridden into Empalme the week before with a party of nearly ten men and Emilia. They took up a spot on the south side of la aldea, out where the homes were sparse. Manolito kept track of them as best as he could, but they were barely seen that first week. Sometimes he would catch them inspecting parts of la aldea—particularly the well—but they otherwise kept to themselves. They never came out at night to celebrate surviving another day, to surround themselves with the light of las estrellas or to bask in the sound of los aldeanos laughing.

  And then one day, as Manolito was walking away from the well with a bucket full of water, they descended.

  They moved in as though it had been coordinated. Poor Ofelia, who happened to have arrived moments before to retrieve agua for herself. Julio placed his saber at Ofelia’s throat. “This well is ours now,” he said, “and I will not hesitate to spill blood over it.”

  Manolito almost believed it was a joke until he saw blood dripping from the saber, watched the dry earth drink it down. Where was the blood from? Whom had he killed?

  Julio’s men swept into la aldea and claimed every empty home, left behind by those who had set out, looking for work and new adventures in Hermosillo or Obregán. After that day, two of the strangers were permanently camped near the well, and they demanded payment: Food. Drink. The coins used in El Mercado de Obregán. Anything we had that we could spare. It seemed unreal, impossible.

  Until la señora Sánchez tried to take her weekly portion of water.

  And Julio lifted his saber into the air and severed her arm below the shoulder.

  We knew he was serious then, and a terrible pall settled over Empalme. Some of us found ways to avoid him by hunting water on our own. But Manolito found that Julio increasingly relied on him, not only for supplies but for information, too. He had Lito’s mensajeros running errands for him, traveling to Obregán for tasks that were kept a secret from Lito. It became clear that Julio was not a temporary problem. He was planning on staying in Empalme.

  Manolito did not know whom to tell or how to prove it. It was an instinct, a feeling deep down that Julio was digging in for the long haul. How could he stop it? How could he save Empalme from a man who demanded so much?

  The package came a couple of weeks ago. Paolo had left it behind and said that it was important that Lito deliver it as soon as possible, that there would be a second shipment coming that would require this first one. Manolito did not understand what that meant, but he accepted the task. He knew that it was better to find Julio in the mornings, when the drink was wearing off. The first time they spoke after Julio had harmed la señora Sánchez, Julio became furious that Lito had not sought him out. He had run his long saber over Lito’s knuckles, asking him which finger he’d like to lose the next time.

  So he resolved to deliver the wooden crate the next morning. Easy enough. It wasn’t terribly heavy, so Lito left it alone. He stuffed it on the shelf under the counter, and then a day passed.

  Two.

  A week.

  Two weeks.

  He knocked it off the shelf yesterday morning, and it tumbled to the ground, tearing open as it did so, and they spilled all over the floor: tiny glass vials that shimmered in the low light. Manolito panicked. He wasn’t supposed to read any of los mensajes; he never opened anyone’s packages. But it was so tempting, Solís. Manolito had never seen anything like this before, and curiosity burned in his mind. What were these for? Why did Julio need them?

  He left el mercadito that night and headed straight for the one person who would know more about this than anyone else: Marisol, la Reina del Chisme, as she was known in Empalme. Manolito dashed to her home, descended down steps carved into the earth, but she turned him away almost immediately. “I do not cross Julio,” she said, setting aside her stitching. “No matter what you are paying.”

  “But I just wanted to show you—”

  “No digas ni una palabra más,” she said. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “I’ll do anything,” he begged. “I can—”

  She pointed to the door.

  He returned to el mercadito, returned the box to the counter, and was no closer to understanding what was going to happen in Empalme. He picked up the vials that had rolled over the floor. It was just there, sticking out of the box, and Manolito picked it up, unfolded it, and began to read el mensaje addressed to Julio.

  He shouldn’t have read it, Solís.

  He folded it back up, stuffed it in the crate, and tried to reassemble the container as best as he could. It was hopeless, too broken ever to reconstruct. He hoisted it up off the counter, walked it out of el mercadito, and marched straight out into the desert. He didn’t stop until he was sure he wouldn’t be seen. Then he set a single lit match to an edge of the wood, then another, then another, and it caught fire, a thick smoke rising into air, and he panicked. He would be seen. He would be caught. So Lito rushed back home, to the tiny room underneath el mercadito, and he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Manolito begs for Your forgiveness, and he hopes that his truth absolves u
s of Your wrath. He was weak, he knows it, and he will never betray You again.

  He shouldn’t have read it.

  But he did.

  And he can’t do anything about it.

  The letter was wrinkled around the edges, the script hasty and messy, as if someone had written it under duress. They wrote to Julio of their success, of the delivery they were taking south, under the light of las estrellas, away from the gaze of You. They were determined to avoid suspicion, and they would be in Empalme in a few days.

  Then, the person wrote, the bloodletting would begin.

  La aldea would be controlled.

  And the letter writer had included one last touch of devotion in the end.

  The final line read, “My beloved cuentista, Julio, I long to make you proud. You will not be disappointed.”

  They were coming for us.

  “Lo siento,” Lito rasped, and sweat dripped down his temples. “You cannot tell anyone.”

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think straight. Lito’s terror thrust into every open space of my body, and panic rolled behind it. These emotions rushed through my body and nearly overwhelmed me. I held back a scream, pushed the story down.

  I heard something rustling behind me. My head spun around, and Lito’s pesadilla was there. It closed those bright red eyes, and then it shrank before me, until it was nothing but the shadow behind a shelf.

  The vials.

  They were gone, just like Lito’s pesadilla.

  But something is coming for us.

  I turned back to Lito, and his shoulders were pushed back, his head held up higher, and relief radiated from his body.

  He had given his burden to me.

  He was free.

  Soy libre, I thought.

  “You have to give it up soon,” he urged me, wiping at his damp forehead. “No one can know. I’ll try to stop him, but … but I don’t know what to do. And I’m afraid he’ll find out.”

  I clutched at my chest, Lito’s terror and my own becoming one. No. No. What did this mean? Why did Julio want our blood? What was he going to do to us?

  I wanted to ask Lito more, to tell me what else he knew, but he helped me up and was gently guiding me to the door.

  He was free.

  I couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t say anything. His fear was overwhelming, and if I didn’t get it out of me … I didn’t know what would happen. Would it overpower me? Would I become unable to do anything but give in to the fright? Would I fail Empalme, too, like Lito already had?

  This was my burden. My duty. I would give up this story … and then I would forget. I would forget our own destruction.

  “Gracias, Xochitl,” Lito said, and when our eyes locked, I saw pity in his own. “I know this can’t be easy, but I feel so much better.” He smiled. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  The door closed in my face. The fear ate at me.

  I walked out into the desert. I didn’t know what else to do.

  When You leave our world, there is a sound to the sunset, too, and I dropped down to the earth as You dropped behind the horizon to the west. I had not journeyed far out into the desert, as I usually did to complete the ritual.

  I became still as I remained hunched over there, and that’s when the desert woke up. Las lagartijas, las serpientes, los ratones, los conejos: all of them emerge from their hiding spots, and the ground comes alive with their footsteps, with each rustle of feathers or fur. A rattlesnake slithered from behind a saguaro to my left, regarded me, and did not perceive me as a threat. I was motionless. I became a part of the ground, of the sky, of everything around me.

  I could feel Manolito’s story within me, swirling deep in my gut, and his fear flowed up into my throat, a flood of emotions that were not mine, but which I still recognized.

  There are no emotions I do not empathize with anymore. For a cuentista, there is nothing new under You, Solís. Empalme has been giving me stories since I was a child, and then I return those stories to the desert, to You.

  I have felt it all:

  Regret. Anger. Distress. Sadness. Hatred. Envy. Disappointment.

  I may forget the details, but I know that those in Empalme have felt every emotion imaginable. I knew what mi gente suffered with in their lives. At least, I thought I did.

  Except—Julio and his men.

  They had been a mystery to me, and not only because I did not know where they had come from. Probably from another aldea, some other place they stole from and exploited. They had refused our rituals and our guidance, and they didn’t care if we were worried that You would return and scorch it all out of existence again. We were superstitious and silly to them, and that’s why Julio had said we deserved to be conquered. “You are all like this,” he slurred to Papá one morning during that first week he arrived; it was also the last day that we relied on our weekly portion from the well. “The last aldea I controlled, they were just as weak as you. Waiting for Solís to save them.” He brushed his hand across the face of mi papá. “Their god didn’t show when I slaughtered them all.”

  Was he telling the truth? Why did he choose us? Was this a test, Solís? Did You want to see what we would do?

  I thought of that as I let You pull me down, down. And then I knew I was ready.

  I slowly leaned forward, close to the ground, felt the dirt and stones tear into my palms and knees. I pressed myself closer to the earth, hunched over, and Manolito’s story was ready to leave.

  It churned within me, and then it poured out of my mouth, into the nooks of the desert, deep into the dirt, and it was filthy, thick, bitter. I coughed as it exited me, and I lost the weight of it. I rolled back, wiping at the acidity as I panted, and stared up at those estrellas far in the distance, their brightness twinkling at me.

  Manolito’s story was gone, sent back to You, and I shook.

  I trembled there on the desert floor, exhausted by the experience.

  * * *

  Except that didn’t happen.

  I remained hunched over the ground, the story churning in me, climbing up my throat, but … The vials. I couldn’t believe it. What did they mean? What was the second shipment? What is coming to Empalme?

  I had intended to give his story to You, to give up the burden and Lito’s fear and my own knowledge of it all.

  I leaned down closer until my mouth was nearly touching the dirt. I let the story move again, and a burning sensation crept up my throat and—

  It slid back down.

  Nausea swelled up from my stomach and threatened to spill everything out, but I stopped the story from rising again. It fought me, barbs of fear jutting out into my body, and the sharpness of it caused me to cry out, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t give this up.

  The vials.

  The second shipment.

  And then the last thing.

  A word—a title—a hope that seemed impossible. That should have been impossible.

  Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I should have ignored it.

  But Julio is a cuentista. How? How? And he had left his aldea? How was that even possible?

  I knew my decision was wrong, but it was still mine. So I rose from the ground and felt the story drop lower in me. Manolito’s emotions churned. An anxiety threaded my ribs, stitched terror to my insides, but I couldn’t give his story back to You.

  I kept it. I’m sorry, Solís. But I had to—You’ll see.

  But as I stumbled away from the desert, my bearings a horrific mess, I already knew I had to start lying.

  Immediately.

  Omar was leaving the well, and I tried to rush past it, hoping that he wouldn’t see me, but he called out my name. Twice. He jogged toward me. “Lo siento por molestarte,” he said, “but I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Sure,” I slurred, and I tried to avoid making eye contact.

  “Are you okay?”

  I looked up at him, at his short-cropped hair and high cheekbones, at the concern etched into his face. The
thought popped into my head in an instant.

  He knows.

  I choked back a cry, then covered my mouth. “Sorry,” I blurted, and the lie rolled out so easily that it unnerved me. It was as sudden and natural as the paranoia swirling inside. “I just finished … just did the…”

  “Oh, Xochitl,” he said, his hands up, palms out. “I had no idea. This is a bad time, I can see that now. Can I get you anything? Do you need water? Do you know where you are?”

  I narrowed my own eyes at him. “In … I’m in Empalme?”

  “Sí, you are,” he said. “We all know how bad your memory can get sometimes.”

  My face twisted into a glare, but I recovered. “Gracias, Omar,” I said. “But I will be fine.”

  “Do you need me to walk you home?”

  I shook my head quickly. “No, no, I know where it is.”

  He knows.

  His eyes looked over my face again, and he smiled. “I’ll find you tomorrow,” he said. “Get some rest, Xochitl. Y gracias por lo que haces.”

  Then he was gone, another shadow heading toward the nightly fire.

  He knows.

  I tried to push it out of my head, out of my body, but my own fear spiked in my gut. When it did, it met Manolito’s own. The two twined together, and I had to crouch over, let my nausea pass.

  I had now kept a story for longer than ever before.

  And I was terrified.

  I pushed myself east, toward home, and exhaustion threatened to pull my eyes shut, but I kept going, my pace brisk, but as I came upon my home, I stilled.

  I couldn’t go in.

  They would know.

  Ya lo saben.

  My hand grazed the edge of the burlap cover in the doorway, and another spike of terror raced down my arm.

  I had to face them.

  There was an iron pot on la estufa bubbling, and Raúl was deep in conversation with Mamá. Papá stood to the side, rolling a ball of masa over and over, his muscles flexing, and he winked at me as I walked in.