The Shattered Mountain

8

THE next morning, Julio still has not come. Adán stands on the ledge, gazing down the mountain. He is a lot like his brother—the same long limbs, the same straight black hair bleached red at the temples. His hands are as big as paddles, hinting that he might be even taller than Julio someday.

Mara steps up beside him, squinting against the morning sun.

“He’s coming, right, Mara?” Adán says.

“He’s coming.”

“And then what are we going to do?”

She shrugs. “Julio will know. He’ll probably lead us to the nearest village. Some of these children might have family there.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” says a voice at her back, and she turns.

Reynaldo’s curly hair is sleep mussed, and his wide-spaced eyes blink against the sun. Mara has always thought him young looking for his age, with his round cheeks and open gaze. But there is something old and weary about him now. Perhaps they’ve all aged years in the last day.

“What do you mean?” Mara probes.

“Our village isn’t the only thing that burned.”

As he stares out into the empty expanse of sky, something in his face prompts Mara to say, “Your farmstead. Is that why you were in the village yesterday?”

He nods. “They killed everyone. All the livestock. Burned our . . . I ran to the village to warn everyone. But I was too late. And I’ve seen smoke on the horizon.”

Gently, Mara says, “You helped me save these children. You weren’t too late for that.”

He swallows hard and nods, but he says nothing.

Mara crosses her arms and hugs her shoulders tight. She wishes Marón had lived. He was a smart businessman, and his tavern was a cornerstone of their community. He would have known what to do. “So you think the nearest village suffered the same fate?”

“All of them, Mara. All of them within two weeks’ journey. It’s war, now. Full out.”

Adán whirls on him, tears in his eyes. “We have to go somewhere!”

“We don’t have enough supplies to stay here forever,” Mara agrees. “We hardly have enough to get us through the next two days.”

Reynaldo says, “Maybe we could hunt—”

“Game is scarce,” Mara interrupts. “The fires will have driven most of it away.”

Reynaldo looks down, scuffs the toe of his leather boots against the rock ledge. “I know of a place, but . . .”

Mara and Adán regard him expectantly. “But . . . ?” Mara prompts.

“It’s a secret. I’m not supposed to tell.”

Mara inhales sharply. “The rebel camp. You know where it is.” Julio was always so sure it existed, that the rumors were true. A safe, hidden place, somewhere west of here in the scrub desert, where an oasis provides good grazing and even some farming.

Reynaldo says, “My cousins Humberto and Cosmé went there last year. I visited once. They invited me to join, but my Pá needs . . . needed me.”

The tiny hope sparking in Mara’s heart is all the more precious for how fragile and weak it is. “Would they take us in, do you think? Could you show us the way?”

“I can. But it’s on the other side of the Shattermount, where the hills start to become true desert. A week away. We should leave right now. Before our food runs out.”

“No!” Adán says.

Mara nods at the boy. “We’ll wait for Julio.”

Reynaldo sighs. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“We’ll wait,” she repeats.

“But, Mara . . .”

“Two days. Give us two days.”

Reynaldo nods once, sharply. “Two days.”