Secret of the Moon Conch, page 15
Loosening my hair so it hangs in my face, I chant a few lines from an old song of sorrow my father intoned when my only brother fell, nearly a decade ago.
Thou pure in heart, now dead in war,
art summoned from the earth.
Thou leavest this place of woe
for the land of thy merit, thy worth—
there where the drums forever beat,
there where friends at last shall meet,
like burnished jade to eternal glow,
like flowers that blossom amid the snow,
a song to gladden hearts here below.
Twilight begins to purple the heavens by the time he burns down to ash. I watch the wind scatter what remains.
Ofirin stands nearby, face wet with tears.
Sitlali sits beneath a mesquite, deep in her thicket, wanting to grieve with me.
“I’ve been inside your heart,” she whispers. “I’ve felt what you feel. Please, let me carry some of that burden for you.”
As night falls, I head back to the calmecac and curl against the wall where Ayotochtli last slept.
Sitlali reaches across that impossible gap, touching the moon conch I have cradled in my arms. Soft as caresses, we spend the evening in each other’s minds, learning each other’s pasts, sharing our loss and pain.
At last, I feel Sitlali slip into sleep.
I turn my head.
There she lies, nestled among the reeds.
Loving and lovely.
Worthy of love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sitlali
June 20, 2019
I awaken with a start.
“Stay . . . ,” a woman’s aggrieved voice wails, and I lie very still. Listening.
“Staaaay!” She wails again, and I think of Llorona, the ghost of Malitzin doing her eternal penance, crying out for the children she drowned in her madness. Only I know it’s not her because I recognize that pained voice, that sad wail.
“Mami?” Through a crevice in my hiding place, I see that I am alone on the riverbank on the other side. Relieved, I push the blanket of dead carrizo canes aside.
I rub the sleep out of my eyes and look closely at my watch. It’s four o’clock in the morning. Time to move on. I pull my things together. Looking around, I take a swig of water and crouch low as I examine my compass. The needle points the way, and I start to walk northwest, moving stealthily, if not quietly, away from the cane and through the thicket.
After a while, I can see rows and rows of tiny lights out on the horizon, and I know I am nearing Eagle Pass, Texas. I come upon a barbed wire fence, press on the middle wire, and push up the others as I cross. The edge of my shirt catches on a barb, and I tug it loose. It tears and gives way to freedom.
Emboldened, I break into a run but stop when I hear the motor of a car approaching. I spot it in the distance, a border patrol vehicle, driving slowly along a narrow dirt road. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I dive down, lie flat against the ground, and hide within a cluster of huisachillos.
The border patrol van drives by. I watch it turn into another dirt road and stop. It sits there for a while, and I wait. And wait. And wait. The humidity starts to get to me. I am sweating profusely. I know I should hydrate, but I am afraid of moving even one single muscle for fear of being caught. What if when I move, he is looking in this direction through his binoculars? What if the rustle of a single branch, a single leaf, shows him exactly where I am?
My mouth is completely dry, my face feels like it’s on fire, and I am about to pass out, when I see the wavering figure of my abuela Lucía reappear. She is standing on the other side of the road behind a cluster of thick mohintli, its orange blossoms dark and muted in the moonlight. Her translucent, silvery hand waves for me to follow her. I shake my head no, but she smiles and keeps urging me to go to her.
Stay!
The echo of my mother’s voice in my dream haunts me, and I don’t know what to do. She sounds so far away, so lost to me. I wish I knew what she wants. The border patrol car starts to move again. It makes a U-turn on the road and starts heading my way. My grandmother’s eyes grow wide. Then she lifts her arms high up in the air and calls forth a great gust of wind that creates a blinding sandstorm.
My grandmother’s silver hair swirls around her head. Her white dress flaps in the wind as the sandstorm gets stronger and stronger. The patrol car speeds by us quickly, its taillights barely visible in the whirl and swirl of the dirt storm. When he has passed through, my grandmother waves me forward and I run across the road through the sandstorm. The giant gust of wind conceals me as I make the run of my life.
When I stop and crouch behind the brush, the dusty whirlwind begins to lose power. It dissipates in seconds, taking my grandmother’s spirit with it. I jump up and start running again. I don’t stop until I am in the city.
Hearing dogs in the distance, I duck into an alley. With my compass in my hand, I make my way north, from one alley to another until I spot a gas station with its lights on. My grandmother reappears and points to it. When I nod, she touches her lips, throws me a kiss, and disappears—vanishes into the newly formed sandstorm. Because I don’t want to call attention to myself, I hide behind a stack of empty pallets. Not far away from me, in his own time, Calizto is hiding too.
“Where are you?” I ask.
Your voice is faint, he replies. Speak into my mind.
Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you? I ask. My heart thrums in my chest at the thought of it.
Yes. Cortés pushed into the ceremonial center again. We attempted to retreat toward Tlatelolco, but we were cut off.
I understand, I say. You had to run.
To fight was impossible, Little Star, he admits. Now the Spanish are pulling their cannons from block to block with their horses, flattening houses as they go. They are approaching. We have to move. Be safe, Sitlali.
You too, Calizto . . .
My love, I add in the hidden recesses of my heart so he won’t hear.
The sun has come up over the horizon, so I sneak out of my hiding place and walk down the street. Businesses are opening, and I trot quickly to the gas station. It’s a small establishment, but I find a way to enter it inconspicuously, falling into step behind a group of chatty Mexican American girls.
I go into the restroom, strip down, and use the wipes in my bag to wash up inside the privacy of a stall. When I am done, I pull out the yellow sundress and white sandals Doña Sofía gave me, happy to see that they stayed dry.
As I slip the dress on, I am overcome with anxiety and something else—lament. So much has happened to me. It feels like a lifetime since I first put this beautiful dress on. At the sink, I comb my hair into a ponytail and apply makeup to my face, until I look like myself again. When I am satisfied, I leave the restroom.
As I wander the store, trying to figure out what to buy so that I can blend in, I realize everyone in the store is speaking Spanish. Here and there, I hear a few words I do not understand, because they throw in a bit of English, but for the most part I catch the gist of their conversations.
I buy a bottle of Diet Coke and drink it as I walk down Eidson Road. Waiting to cross at a corner, I see an old couple leaving their car, and I step out of their way when they go into the restaurant.
Looking up at the street sign, I realize I have reached El Indio Highway. Which way did my madrina say to turn?
Left. She said to turn left. I walk along El Indio Highway for a few minutes, and then, I’m there. I smell it before I see it, Rodee’s, an orange building with a dancing chicken on the signage. People, smiling, laughing, talking excitedly, step out of it, weighed down with loaded bags of food.
I step up to the counter and place my order, exactly as my madrina instructed. The young man at the counter frowns.
“Necks?” The young man asks in Spanish. “We don’t sell necks.” He points at the cardboard menu beside me.
“But that’s what I want. That’s what I need,” I insist.
Startled, the young man blinks at me. “Do you mean the three-piece chicken?” he asks.
Frustrated, I shake my head and repeat the order, emphasizing that he can keep the biscuit, with attitude.
The boy’s confusion turns to panic, and he says, “Forgive me. It’s only my third day here. Let me get the manager for you.” He turns around, steps away from the counter, and yells, “Sandra! I need help. I am not sure . . .”
A woman in her forties with her dark hair tied back in a chignon and a headset close to her wide lips winds her way around the heated chicken stand and says, “What’s up?”
Sounding a little flustered, the boy repeats my order to her. Sandra turns to look at me. Her eyes take in my hair and dress. They linger on my duffel bag, and then she breaks into laughter, a hearty, luscious sound that bounces off the restaurant ceiling and walls, like joyful thunder.
“Osvaldo!” she says, looking back at the boy. “This is my niece. She’s trying to play a trick on me! Aren’t you, m’ija?”
I laugh, a genuine, little chuckle that turns into a giggle when I look at the relieved boy.
“Oh, oh,” the boy says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Sandra unties her apron, pulls it over her head, and shoves it under the counter. “I’m going to take a lunch break. Put in a three-piece order for us and throw in some gizzards. She can’t leave here without tasting our gizzards.” Then she turns me around and guides me to an empty table in the far corner of the restaurant, where we are out of earshot.
Sandra leans over the table and smiles. “Hola, Sitlali. I am one of the Gallinitas, so you can relax. You’re in the coop now.”
She tells me my madrina is excited about my upcoming visit, and, after sending a series of texts, she says my madrina is happy I made it there safely. When our order is called, Sandra jumps up to get it.
She talks between bites, giving me bits of information about the restaurant, her relationship to my madrina Tomasa. Apparently, they’ve known each other for over thirty years. Sandra does all the talking, while I mostly melt over the lemon-peppery goodness of Rodee’s gizzards. I’ve never tasted anything so divine.
“Do you have a phone?” she asks, slurping on the drink that came with her meal between bites of fried chicken.
I shake my head, and she frowns.
“That’s okay. We’ll see what we can do to help you.” She sends another text. Finally, Sandra smiles and says, “You’re in luck. Mariela is leaving work right now, so she can give you a ride to the station.”
“The station?” I ask, confused, because she knows I don’t have any papers.
Sandra pats my hand. “You’ll be fine. Mariela will take good care of you, I promise.”
The “station” ends up being a small, dark warehouse that we access by driving past a gas station and taking a rural dirt road to a part of town with no street names. We pull into the shadowy warehouse, get out, and walk to a small office at the end of a long corridor. Mariela speaks for me, introducing me as Doña Tomasita’s goddaughter to Ramona, a white-haired woman with winged eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and a wide collection of loud bangle bracelets tinkling on her right wrist.
“Is it all right to leave her, then?” Mariela asks.
Ramona nods, and her hoop earrings glint in the dark office. “Sure.”
“She needs a phone and a ride to San Antonio,” Mariela explains.
“One fifty for the phone,” Ramona says. “Five hundred for the ride. You have that much?”
I reach into my bag and pull out a wad of cash I know is close to that amount. Ramona takes the money and nods. “Close enough,” she says, reaching under the counter to pull out a box. “Take your pick. They all work.”
I choose a small, white phone. Mariela helps me turn it on. She calls herself. When it’s clear the phone works, she ends the call and hands the phone back to me.
“That’s my number,” she says. “In case you need it. But I doubt it. Ramona will make sure you get there.”
Mariela hugs me and prays over me before she leaves. Then I follow Ramona down the hall. We go through several doors, down a winding flight of stairs, and along a series of narrow hallways, until we arrive at a windowless room, where nine other people sit in folding chairs, waiting.
I look at the faces of men, women, and children. They smile as I sit and wait with them.
“Do you need to use the restroom?” Ramona asks. “Your ride won’t get here until after midnight.”
I shake my head and she leaves. I pull the phone out and try to call my madrina, but the call doesn’t go through.
A woman shakes her head. “There’s no reception in here.”
Calizto, I call to him in my mind as I hug the duffel bag to my chest, pressing my fingers between the grooves of the moon conch through the thick canvas. Are you safe yet?
Yes. Apologies for not speaking sooner, but I could see you were occupied. Ofirin and I reached the borough’s ritual plaza. Many others have converged here as well. In fact, I have encountered two people I know: the xochihuah named Quechol and the middle-aged woman who worked with me, moving rubble.
Eyolin, right? It’s one of the many names I learned in his mind last night, as we lay merged as one for hours, sharing our stories.
Yes. She is trying to get a little sustenance into the dozens of people trapped in this temple. Close to no food remains. But between us we have trapped a few lizards and gathered maize straw, salt grass.
My eyes find him, crouched down in the corner of the room. He’s exhausted. His handsome face looks haggard, and I know he needs to drink fresh water. He needs to eat and rest.
As if sensing my apprehension, he adds, The barrage has stopped. I suspect the Spanish are retreating. Ofirin says Cortés isn’t stupid. He won’t be trapped here again.
My mind races, and my heart twists itself into a knot in my chest because I know different. This isn’t good. I don’t want to tell him outright what happens if he doesn’t escape, but I have to warn him. I can’t let him die like this.
I love him.
Ofirin is right, I say. Cortés is the most dangerous man in Mexico right now.
Indeed. And he leads a massive army, every nation with a grudge against the Mexica. Our enemies are tireless locusts, swarming the city.
I close my eyes and try to control the tears that threaten to roll down my face.
You are right about them, Calizto. They will not stop until everything and everyone is destroyed. You must find a way to escape. Now. Before they find you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Calizto
Day 13-Grass of the Year 3-House (June 21, 1521)
It is a restless night for both Sitlali and me, curled up on dusty floors, surrounded by strangers. Eventually I arise to keep watch, though more than anything, I watch Sitlali’s face, her features slack but beautiful.
The moon’s descent tells me that half the time between midnight and dawn has elapsed. Given the enemy’s strategy of marching into the city before the break of day, I know we must get moving soon.
I stir Ofirin first, then Eyolin and Quechol. It is a brutal reality that I can only keep a handful of people alive. The rest can accompany us, but I’ll focus on my—dare I say it?—friends.
“I suppose we’ve no choice,” Quechol groans, their hair comically askew, rich clothes covered in dust, “but to set forth without having broken our fast.”
Eyolin laughs wryly. “Oh, Honored One—it may be days before this fast ends. May as well attach a paper collar to your neck.”
As they gather their things, Ofirin mutters, “Paper collar?”
“A joke,” I explain. “We wear them when fasting.”
He nods as the other two join us, a half dozen strangers in their wake.
“Come,” I say. “Let’s reach Tlatelolco before dawn.”
We leave the temple, cross the plaza, and find the bridge over the canal to our north still intact.
On the far bank, Eyolin gives a cry of joy. “Look! A gift from Huitzilopochtli!”
She rushes to the courtyard of an abandoned home. A prickly pear cactus awaits, its paddles heavy with fruit.
“Okay,” I rasp. “Grab as many pears as you can, quickly.”
Eyolin shakes her head. “No. We need to harvest the paddles, too. There’s a week’s worth of food here for each.”
“Aunt,” I say respectfully, “there will be food in Tlatelolco.”
“You don’t know that. People all over this isle are starving. They’ve gotten so hungry they’re eating the poisonous fruit and bark of the coral tree. They’re roasting leather, breaking mud bricks open to get at the straw.”
Quechol puts their hand on my shoulder. “We’ll be as quick as we can, but we cannot shun this opportunity.”
With a groan, I acquiesce. “No matter how badly you’re pricked, work fast. The enemy will return soon.”
The group falls to work. I pull Ofirin after me. We set a watch outside the courtyard.
“Dawn’s in an hour,” he says.
“Keep your eyes south and west. I’ll scan the north and east.”
The setting moon, brilliant stars, and slight eastern glow illuminate the closer and farther dikes. Both have been breached, spilling brackish water into our canals so that thirsty children make themselves sick with brine.
Terror. That is what the Spaniards have brought. I’ve never heard of a Nahua nation razing a city, starving its widows, poisoning its children. Armies are defeated; their cities become tributary territories. Sometimes an enemy refuses to surrender, and our army sacks their city, taking goods and prisoners, enslaving women and children.
But wholesale slaughter?
Never.
Calizto.
Sitlali is getting up.
The truck’s here. We’re going to get inside. I don’t know how long the journey to San Antonio is, but that’s where I’ll be for a while.
Be safe, Little Star. We have left the temple, but we found a prickly pear cactus.
Oh! Nopales and tunas.
