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.
“You finished?” he asked.
I walked over to him, let him kiss me on the forehead. “Sí, Papá. All done.”
I rubbed at my eyes and yawned. I didn’t have to fake the exhaustion. It hit me fiercely, a rolling sensation that merged with the guilt. Was that my guilt or Manolito’s?
“Mi hija obediente,” he said. “We’re so proud of you.”
They know.
I smiled, or at least I tried to.
What had I done? I had never heard of a cuentista keeping a story. We just didn’t do it. We wouldn’t dare betray the promise we made to You.
Would we? I had known only one other cuentista: Tía Inez. And she had passed on mere hours after she gave me her gift. Her curse. I didn’t know what it was anymore.
What had I done?
And was Julio really a cuentista? How had he left his aldea without abandoning his people?
I shuffled over to my sleeping roll. Mamá said something then, but I curled up, turned away from her.
Raúl was at my side. “Do you want to eat first?” he said. “We were going to meet the others at the fire.”
I shook my head. “No, hermano. I just need to sleep.”
“Déjala sola,” Mamá ordered. “You know she needs her rest.”
They know, they know, they know.
I let the exhaustion take over my body. I did not dream. I woke up in spurts that evening and into the night: once while the others were still awake, again a few hours later when our home was dark and silent. They must have been at the fire, at the nightly celebration.
Each time I awoke, Manolito’s story moved inside me, as if it were burrowing deeper, finding a better place to hide.
I fell back asleep, and I didn’t awaken again until the warmth of the morning pulled me into consciousness. Raúl was snoring softly this time, and I let the sound of it—the normality of it all—convince me that everything was fine.
It was not. But my anxiety was not as bad as it had been the night before. Instead, it was a gentle pulse near my heart. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and I breathed slowly, in and out, waiting.
Nothing happened.
No.
Nothing had happened.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked about our home. Raúl was still asleep, and I could hear Papá snoring in the other room. Was Mamá up? Would she know?
I breathed slowly again.
I had done it. I had kept a story for nearly half a day and … I was still alive. You had not punished me. You had not scorched the earth again. We were surviving, as we had always done.