The Shattered Mountain

15

THEY haven’t eaten in two days. They have all thinned noticeably, no one more so than Julio. His cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes are dark, sunken shadows in his otherwise pallid face. At least once per hour, someone complains about hunger.

Mara begins to practice with her bow in the evenings and early mornings. Several of the others have slings, and she makes them train together. She tells them they all need to practice so they can hunt as they go. But really, she needs something to distract them from their aching, empty bellies.

And she knows that if they encounter another Invierno scout, she’ll need more skill with the bow to protect them. She practices a quick draw and notch, over and over. Next, she’ll teach herself to hit a moving target.

“Where did you get that bow?” Reynaldo asks her one morning. They have stepped away from the campsite while the others linger over hot tea. Mara used some of the precious herbs from her satchel to make it. Anything to fool their stomachs for a little while.

“Pá got it for me as a Deliverance Day gift,” she says, as she sights a withered pinecone that she placed atop a boulder.

“It must have been expensive,” he says wonderingly. “It’s beautiful wood. Someone would have had to go high into the Sierra Sangre for that quality of pine.”

She lets her arrow fly. It misses the target by a handspan at least, and she frowns. “Arrows don’t come cheap either. I think that’s why he got it. He didn’t actually like the idea of me using it. He just wanted to show off his wealth at a time when all the village children were practicing with their slings.”

Reynaldo studies her thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

Mara raises an eyebrow at him. “A dead priest, no less.”

His gaze is slightly shifted, as if he can’t quite bring himself to look her in the eye. It’s the scar on the corner of her eyelid he’s avoiding, the one her father gave her when she was ten years old. “But he was not a good man, was he?” he says.

“No, he was not.”

Reynaldo winds up with his sling and throws. His loosed pebble arcs toward the pinecone, but drops too soon and thunks against the boulder instead. “One time my má was sick,” he says, seeming not to notice how badly he just missed. “Bad sick. And your pá rode hard all night to get to our farmstead in time to sit the death watch. He tended her himself. Forced her to sip her tea, changed out wet cloths for her forehead. And come morning, her fever broke and she was fine.”

Mara clenches her jaw, not sure how to respond. Yes, her father was known for acts of tremendous kindness. She came to see them as pretense. Little deceptions meant to cover up the truth of their lives.

But hearing Reynaldo talk about it, she can’t help but wonder if they were genuine after all. In the same way that the best lies have an element of truth, maybe evil is made all the more powerful when it is accompanied by the startling presence of grace. She says, “He was a good man too. In some ways. That’s what made him so terrifying.”

Reynaldo stares openly now, as if seeing her scar for the first time. Mara always thought it made her look perpetually sad, or at least tired. Until Julio assured her it gave her a sultry air, like she had just been thoroughly kissed. What does Reynaldo see?

“Mara!” someone calls out. “Come quick!” The voice is edged with panic.

She sprints back toward the campsite without a moment’s hesitation, Reynaldo at her heels.

The children are gathered around something. Mara leaps over the fire pit and elbows them out of the way, demanding, “What is it? What’s wro . . .”

It’s Julio. He has fallen over, and his cheek grinds into the earth as he gasps for breath. Beside him, a wooden bowl lies overturned in a tiny, muddy puddle of sage tea.

Mara drops to the ground beside him. “Julio?” She places her fingertips at his neck and is relieved to find a weak, scattered pulse.

“He started shaking,” Alessa says, tears in her voice. “Then he dropped his bowl and fell over, but he wouldn’t stop twitching, and then—” Someone shushes her.

Julio’s eyelids flutter open. “Mara,” he whispers. “My Mara.”

“Is it the pain? I’ll make you some more tea. We need to make sure you’re getting enough to drink. Then I’ll—”

His hand traps hers, brings it against his chest with surprising strength. His skin is as hot and dry as the desert sun. “No. Just . . . sit with me, please.”

She blinks rapidly. “Don’t you dare give up. Don’t you dare.”

He sighs. “Promise me you’ll—”

“Yes. Adán. I know. But you have to promise not to give up.”

Julio tries to speak but can’t. He takes a few breaths. Tries again. “Not him. You. Promise me you won’t hate the world.”

She shakes her head. “I . . . Oh, Julio.”

He smiles. “You burn so bright, Mara.”

He’s too weak to say anything else. They sit there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. She doesn’t see the Julio in front of her—only the Julio from the meadow, carefree and confident, full of exuberant words and all kinds of plans. Her only plan, her only hope, was him.

Then his hand drops away, plops onto the ground where it lies limply. His head rolls to the side. The light fades from his eyes.

“Julio?” She grabs his limp hand and squeezes. “No, no, no, no.” She kisses his knuckles, over and over again. Her tears make muddy streaks on his skin. “Julio, you have to fight. Don’t give up. Please, I need—”

A hand settles on her shoulder. “He’s gone, Mara,” Reynaldo says.

But Julio’s hand is still warm. How can he be dead when his hand is still warm? It’s like her insides are splitting open. No, no, no, no.

“Mara?” The voice comes from far away. Another world. Another life.

She stretches out beside Julio, rubs her hands up and down his arm, gazes upon his beautiful but colorless face.

“Mara!”

“Go,” she says, not taking her eyes off of Julio. “Just go.”

“He wouldn’t want you to be like this.” Adán’s voice this time.

“I don’t care.”

“Didn’t you promise to take care of me?” His voice turns plaintive and high, like he’s a small boy instead of nearly a man. “You promised. I know you did.”

She looks up. His face is wet with tears, and he is half bent over with a pain of his own.

Mara did promise. And she meant it, so she ought to make good. But she feels as though a chunk of her own self has been cruelly excised, leaving only pain. “I don’t know how . . .” she sobs out. “I can’t . . .” Maybe part of her died with Julio, and the rest longs to follow.

Arms wraps around her. Then more, and still more, until she is at the hot, heavy center of a dozen pairs of embracing limbs.

“We’ll carry you for a bit,” Reynaldo says. “It’s our turn.”

And they do. Reynaldo and Adán heave Julio’s body across the packhorse and tie him down. Then they brace Mara—one under each arm—and lift her from the ground.

Tiny Marlín plants herself in their path. She reaches up and pats Mara’s hip. Pat, pat. Patpatpat. Her face is a mask of solemnity.

She says, “I need you to be a brave girl for me, Mara.”

Mara doesn’t know how to respond. Marlín steps aside, and Reynaldo and Adán hold Mara up. She hangs limp between them.

They’re about to step forward, but Mara says, “Wait.”

They wait.

Mara gathers her feet beneath her. She leans over and gives Reynaldo a kiss on the cheek, then does the same to Adán. “Thank you,” she says, straightening. “But I can walk on my own.”