Each of Us a Desert Page 6

  What was I to myself?

  The stories piled up, rooting into their hiding places in my gut.

  Lani, with her short hair and her disarming smile, told me that she had cheated her assistant out of her earnings by blaming it on Julio’s men.

  Lázaro had stolen from Ramona. He did not feel that guilty about it. But his pesadilla had grown too large and he could no longer hide it. It was an enormous lobo with teeth like razors, and it slunk away once Lázaro was done telling me the truth.

  When I slept, the stories rose in my mind, bursting into mis sueños like unwanted guests. They reminded me of the betrayal. The guilt. The anger. I awoke frequently in those days, coated in sweat, slick with my own guilt. I pushed it down by telling myself that this was worth it. All I had to do was get the courage to go to Manolito and then … what? How could I convince him to give me the information I needed without revealing what I’d done? I hadn’t considered that, so instead, I stopped going to Manolito’s. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, to face him, because he would know the truth if he saw me.

  By the end of the first week, I was convinced everyone knew.

  And I had no solution to it. Nothing except … go to Manolito.

  But how?

  And then Raúl came home late one afternoon, when I had so many stories rumbling inside me that I couldn’t tell which was which, and he was drenched in sweat, out of breath, terrified.

  I had been home alone, reading la poema again:

  cuando estoy solo

  existo para mi

  when I am alone

  I exist for myself

  I was filling myself with the solitude offered by la poema, my eyes tracing patterns over the cracks in the ceiling when Raúl burst inside. I snatched at la poema and hid it. My hand was under my bedroll, clutching la poema tightly, and I was convinced that Raúl had caught me. But he was too panicked to notice the obvious, so when I stood up, he didn’t look down to see the hole in the floor and the missing stone.

  “It’s Manolito,” he huffed, and he bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “You have to come, Xochitl!”

  “Take me there,” I said, and I looked back, quick as I could, and hoped that no one would come home before we did.

  He pulled me out the door. “They found something—Julio’s men,” he said. “Something in Manolito’s mercadito.”

  Dread ripped my heart down to my feet. No. No. This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  I wanted to believe it was, but they all awoke at once inside me, a painful rush of noise and emotion.

  They know they know they know

  We ran as fast as we could toward the center of la aldea, toward the well that Julio now controlled. The well where the town had once gathered.

  Our feet pounded on the dirt, kicking up dust with each step, and we said not a single word to each other. Not just because of our shared terror but also because of the silence that sat around us.

  Raúl put his arm out and slowed me as we approached the well. The dark iron pump jutted out of the center of it, and a long shadow stretched toward the east.

  Julio and his men stood in that shadow. I stilled and nearly missed Manolito, who was curled up at the foot of the well, most of his body out of sight behind it. His hands were behind his neck and his head.

  Julio raised a hand. “Leave him,” he said. Then he brought two fingers up to his mouth and used them to whistle, high and long. By the time he dropped his hands down, his mouth was curved into a devious smile.

  “It’s time,” he said, his voice echoing in the clearing. “If you are watching us now, it is safe for you to come out. This display is for everyone.”

  The central plaza of our aldea was lined with homes, and I saw Ofelia pull aside the cloth of her doorway across the square from us. She delicately stepped forward, reluctant to commit more than a step. Julio waved at her, almost as if she were a friend, and she allowed herself another step.

  I saw others, peeking around corners, hiding in their doorways, and Raúl and I remained where we were. I didn’t want Julio to see me.

  It rumbled into the square, a covered wooden cart that wobbled from side to side over uneven dirt, the wood creaking and groaning as it came upon us. I had never seen one as tall as this one, but I had seen the person who clutched the reins.

  Emilia.

  Her jet-black hair draped over her shoulder like the expensive silk wraps you could buy in Obregán, and it ran down to her lush leather boots. She wore them well; they suited her.

  I hated her. I hated that she did everything Julio told her to, that she didn’t protest anything he did. She was a conqueror like him, wasn’t she? She played her part in all of this, and our interaction days earlier had soured her even further in my eyes. But the fact that she did nothing, that she never intervened? That made her unforgivable to me.

  She stepped down from the cart and joined her father at his side, a scowl twisting up her sharp mouth as she looked up at him. She seemed to be thriving.

  “Empalme has been mine,” Julio announced, and his voice rang out in the square. “And I am done with it. It is time to return it to all of you.”

  “What does he mean?” Raúl whispered. “‘Done’?”

  I shushed him and watched Julio walk over to Manolito, reach down, hoist him up. “Manolito, you stole something from me.”

  I don’t know whose guilt ripped a chasm in me. My stomach dropped, a stone that pulled me toward the ground and compelled me to give up their stories to You.

  I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.

  “I didn’t do anything,” croaked Lito, and he wiped something from his mouth. Redness. Blood. “Please, let me go.”

  “Will you tell me the truth?”

  Lito looked up. Then he looked out at us.

  Then he looked at me.

  He was broken. His brows shot up.

  I shook my head. I had not told his secret to anyone! How did Julio know?

  Lito let his breath out. “I don’t know what you mean. Please.”

  Julio shook his head. “I want everyone to see that I gave Manolito a chance. You cannot say I am not fair.”

  “How is any of this fair?” Raúl whispered.

  I ignored mi hermano. My attention was rapt on the terror unfolding.

  “Manolito,” Julio said, and then he knelt before him, his hand out, stretching toward Lito’s head, “tell me a story.”

  No.

  No.

  “What?” Manolito jerked away from Julio, but one of his men held him in place.

  Julio’s hand rested on Lito’s forehead.

  “Tell it to me.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  It was a demand.

  And Lito’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he started choking, and then the screaming filled the square, something guttural and primal and terrible, and then he suddenly stopped.

  His eyes focused on Julio.

  And he started talking.

  His words were without emotion. Without the playful, singsong tone I was used to.

  “I dropped your shipment,” Lito said, and his face was lifeless. “And I saw what was inside it. After I read the note that came with it, I took it all out into the desert, and I burned it.”

  Lito collapsed.

  Julio smiled.

  “Gracias,” said Julio. “For telling me the truth.”

  Raúl swatted at me. “Xo!” he whispered, my name sharp on his tongue.

  I looked down. I had been squeezing Raúl’s arm so hard that I left a mark behind.

  I knew then how Julio had done this. How he conquered the places he’d been.

  He had figured out how to use his power as a cuentista to steal stories.

  And if he was able to get that out of Lito …

  “Whom else did you tell?”

  Julio’s words chilled me. I fell back onto the dirt, and I tried to scramble away, but—

  “Only our cuentista,” Lito s
aid. “And she always gives our stories back. I promise.”

  The pall of silence was unbroken. I saw nearly everyone. Omar. Lani. Ofelia. Ramona. La señora Sánchez. We watched. We waited.

  “Please, just let me go,” Lito begged.

  Julio shoved him toward the wooden cart. “I will,” he said. “I’ll give you a head start if you want.”

  Manolito studied Julio’s face. “Are you serious?”

  Julio nodded, all smiles again. “One last thing before you go,” he said. “I grow tired of being defied. And as my final gift to you, Empalme, I will show you what I am capable of.”

  He slammed an open palm on the side of the cart. “¡Libéralo!”

  The rear creaked open as one of Julio’s guardias yanked on it. It leapt out, striking the ground, its paws thundering in a terrible chorus. The muscular bestia dug into the earth, its snout long and terrible and upraised, sniffing, growling, snarling. There were two gnarled horns protruding from its head, and its fur was thick, black and gray, and Julio knelt down before it and pulled something from a pocket in his breeches. Lito tried to scramble backwards and out of the way, but one of Julio’s men held him in place.

  It flashed. Your light shimmered off it, Solís. I had never seen one of them myself, but I knew it was the vial that Lito had told me he destroyed in a fire. How? Had Lito told me a lie?

  Julio reached over, pulled out Lito’s arm, and slammed the end of the vial into it. He screamed in agony, and then—it was over. Lito breathed heavily on the ground.

  Then Julio reached out to the creature, and he held up the vial.

  Red.

  It was now full of Lito’s blood.

  “Mi sabueso,” he said. “Are you hungry? Are you aching for the blood?”

  He twisted something on the end of the vial, tipped it forward, and el sabueso jumped up, lapped at the blood that it could, the rest of it plummeting to the dirt. Julio stood, holding the vial upside down, Lito’s blood dripping to the dirt.

  “Run, Manolito,” said Julio.

  Lito did not hesitate. He pushed himself upright, and he ran, so quickly that his arms flopped back and forth, trying to gain more momentum.

  Then he was out of sight.

  El sabueso sniffed at the blood on the ground, tasted it, lapped at it, and then it changed. It lifted its snout to the air, then growled. Its head jerked to the north. Its gaze was focused, razor sharp and—

  El sabueso bolted.

  Someone screamed. Julio smiled, wider and wider, and his men, gathered around him, laughed and laughed. One of them, clean-shaven and baby-faced, shouted out and raised his saber high. “¡Más rápido!”

  Emilia was stone still, her expression blank. She didn’t care.

  “Xochitl,” Raúl said, and this time, I had not noticed how hard he was gripping my hand. “Should we leave? I’m scared.”

  But I had to know, Solís. I had to know. Was this my fault? What was going to happen?

  I put my hand on Raúl’s arm to signal him to stay, and el sabueso was gone, gone, far away from us. A thick silence dropped over la aldea, one of terror and anticipation, and it smothered us. We waited. And waited. And waited.

  They know.

  Why? Why did that thought arrive in my mind? It made no sense, but I couldn’t push the paranoia down.

  His scream was a wail, and it ripped the silence apart, and then it was cut short. Raúl gasped next to me, and a whimper followed, and I tried to cover his mouth to get him to stay quiet, but he shook out of my grasp.

  I heard ripping.

  Tearing.

  El sabueso trotted back, its jaw clamped over something, and then I couldn’t stop the cry that rushed from my throat as la bestia passed by Raúl and me, couldn’t stop the sobbing that broke through, couldn’t believe that el sabueso held an arm, torn ragged from a shoulder, still oozing blood onto the ground, and then it dropped its prize at Julio’s feet, its jaw stained scarlet with the blood of my friend.

  My only friend.

  Julio smiled again. “I missed you, mi sabueso,” he cooed, dropping down to give la bestia affection. “It has been too long.”

  El sabueso, its body twisted and wrong, nuzzled Julio’s hand.

  Julio had his arm behind Emilia, embracing her, and the two of them looked upon the remains of Lito.

  “I am tired of your little aldea,” he announced, “and Manolito here tried to hide his theft from me. I leave you with this gift.”

  He picked up Lito’s arm, and the eyes of el sabueso followed it. Then he dropped it into the well, and the splash of it hitting the water echoed back up to us.

  Julio said something; I didn’t hear it. My eyes were locked on the remaining puddle of blood on the ground, all that was left of mi Lito. Raúl was begging me to leave, but I couldn’t move at all. A new realization formed inside me, gripped me tightly:

  We were being punished.

  No.

  I was being punished.

  I had wronged You. I had defied You. And this was Your revenge.

  But I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. Despite the pounding of my heart and my body as both screamed at me to run away and hide from the horror, I stepped out into la plaza. I moved forward, then rushed at Julio, and none of his men saw me, and I knew it was foolish, knew that I was making a mistake, but I couldn’t let him leave unscathed. I collided with his back, my fists raised, and I let out my grief and my anger. He pitched forward and stumbled, but his men snatched me from him.

  Rage filled me, and I felt someone’s—Ofelia’s, perhaps—churn in my gut. This wasn’t my fault. It was his.

  “What have you done!” I screamed.

  Julio wiped dust and dirt off his breeches and smiled. “Who are you?”

  “You killed him!” I seethed. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

  He strode toward me, but I jerked away from his outstretched hand.

  “You’re smart to fear me, chica,” he said. “And to fear my touch.”

  “Xochitl!”

  Raúl’s voice rang out in the clearing, and he rushed forward even as I shook my head at him. No, no, no!

  “Leave her alone!” Raúl shouted, and another man held him back with a hand on his chest.

  “Raúl,” I panted, “turn around and go back home, okay? Go back home to Mamá y Papá.”

  He puffed up.

  Put his hands on his hips.

  Sneered.

  “You disrespect las cuentistas,” he said, and my stomach dropped. “You are nothing like mi hermana.”

  Silence.

  Please, no.

  “So you are la cuentista of Empalme, ¿no?”

  My mouth was a tight line. I said nothing. But the stories … oh, the stories awoke again in me, twisting around in my torso, trying to find a new place to hide.

  “Manolito told you what he knew.”

  I remained resolute. I would not give him what he wanted.

  “And you did nothing to stop me.”

  “How could I?” I shot back. “I gave your story back that night, back to Solís. As you are supposed to.”

  I tried to sell the lie by spitting on the ground. It was only a little bit true. I despised Julio and what he had done. But was I in any place to judge him?

  “You have no idea of the power that you have,” he said.

  He reached forward.

  I tried to force myself backwards, but his men held me in place.

  “Don’t,” I slurred.

  “I want your story,” he said.

  His fingers grazed my cheek.

  It was all he needed.

  It was all he could stand.

  Because a spark tore from my body, a burst of magic that I had never before felt, and Julio was thrown back. He hit the ground and his breath rushed out of him, but this was not an act of protection.

  It was a warning.

  Julio stood openmouthed, his eyes wide. “Mi cuentista,” he muttered. “You still have them.”

 
; I shook my head, coughed out a protest.

  “You keep them as I do.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Did you figure it out, too?” he said, and his eyes were alive with lust, with joy. “Do you know the truth?”

  You knew.

  They all knew.

  A numbness settled over me as I heard the murmurs around me, as I heard Raúl softly crying, as I accepted that the truth was now out in the open. My gaze followed the line of blood in the dirt, right up to the well, and then I looked up and—

  Her dark eyes were locked in mine. Still. Expressionless. They drilled into me. She saw me. Then her face twisted in … was that disgust?

  “Is that true, Xochitl?”

  Ofelia. She rushed toward me, put her hands on my arms and shook me. “Did you keep them?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I looked for Raúl, and his bushy hair had fallen over his eyes.

  He was still crying.

  “Look at me!” Ofelia cried, and she dug her nails into my skin, but I couldn’t focus.

  They were all moving in toward me.

  Closer.

  Staring at me.

  Realization growing like dawn on their faces.

  “We trusted you,” Omar said. “We don’t have a choice. We have to tell you our secrets!”

  I couldn’t look at him. I cast my eyes down, but there it was.

  Manolito’s blood, pooled at my feet. All that was left of him.

  Was this my fault?

  When I looked up, they had mostly surrounded me. But Julio was still smiling.

  “She’s yours,” he said.

  Then he walked off, Emilia at his heels.

  My panic burst, and I couldn’t be there any longer. I spun around and ran as fast as I could, silent and terrified, and every step pulled my stomach further down in shame and guilt. They called out after me, yelled my name, demanded the truth. The only living part of Manolito was inside me. His story twisted, and now my guilt was my own.

  I had done this, hadn’t I? I thought. We were not supposed to lie. We were not supposed to hide from You. And I had not given Lito’s story back, and You had punished him.