“But you stand a better chance having this great bruja power.”
I reach down for the earth and push my magic into it. The land’s weak pulse answers back in greeting. I remember you. It doesn’t speak it, but the thought pops up in my head. The land aches, as if waking from a deep slumber. I pull at the dead patches of grass. Right where my magic met the land, a tiny, green bulb appears.
I place my hands on another patch of earth. The dry, yellow grass comes away with a snap. It reminds me of Mama Juanita plucking the feathers off a chicken. It reminds me of pulling at my hair in an angry fit, alone in my bedroom with the lights turned off while I listened to my mother crying for my dad.
I remember you, says the earth.
Green sprouts twist from the ground like newborn fingers stretching. My heart races with the boost of my magic. Instinct, as old as this place, grips me. I take a step toward the center of the temple, pulling away the dead plants from the dirt. My fingers touch something hard. A worn stone tile buried and forgotten. I jolt as sparks burn my fingertips.
I need light. I raise my hands to the overcast sky.
“La Estrella,” I say, “bless me with your light.”
The air in my chest escapes in a gust. My magic pushes against the clouds, and they race away across the night sky until there is only the blazing light of a million stars. They shine down on the circle of stones.
One by one, the symbols etched at the top of the stone pillars glow, creating a circle of light that reaches down to the ground. The newborn grass bulbs spring up higher, alive and lush.
Something’s missing. I can feel my magic, taut like a guitar string, urging me to take another step. I place both feet on the stone tile. It gives under my weight, sinking into the earth, snapping into place. The light bounces off each pillar, then funnels into a single beam, crashing over me.
“I remember you,” I say as the light fills me. Every cell of my body snaps awake, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to be born once again. If this power is a good thing. If I can control it.
The skin at my throat burns where my necklace catches the light that shines down on the grass in front of me. Yellow grass breaks away, revealing another stone. The stones glow, and when I step on them, they sink. The dirt ahead clears, revealing the next step for me to take—then another and another, leading out of the circle and down a hill and then up another.
When I look up, I’m filled with so much color and joy and light. I walk ahead, lighting up the path for Rishi and Nova to follow. The path is dizzying, and just when I think I’m heading in the right direction, the stones change. I struggle for breath as the stones lead us up a new hill, then alongside patches of lavender, and then another stretch of dead earth.
After a while, I look over my shoulder. Nova’s face is full of awe. His eyes are wide and looking only at me. Rishi, my little magpie, urges me to keep going.
So I do. I keep going until my muscles ache and my tongue is parched. Until the incline is too steep and we struggle to breathe. Until I see the ripple of the glamour, and I know we’re closer. Until the clouds return, darker and stronger, and the light of my crescent moon disappears.
29
Take me to the glittering mountain
to find the riches of the world.
Take me to the glittering mountain
to mine its treasures untold.
—Folk song, Book of Cantos
When I fall down, hands grab me instantly to pick me back up. Nova turns me over on my back.
“I’m fine.” My body is screaming with pain, and my heart and mind are racing.
He holds my face in his hands. “You’re not fine. We’ve walked for miles. You’re exhausted.”
“Don’t tell me what I am.”
A smile creeps on his face. “Stubborn.”
“Jerk.”
“Do you see that?” Rishi shouts, running ahead.
“Wait!” I call after her, but when we make it around a steep hill, I can see what has her so excited. There’s a smattering of trees that grow so low to the ground they appear to be bowing. It’s a tiny oasis in the middle of a barren land.
Despite the ache in my bones and the sight-splintering headache that comes from recoil, hunger, and general exhaustion, I sprint to the perfectly round pond nestled in a valley between two hills. I cup the water in my hands and drink greedily until my belly is full and my head spins.
“Sweet, sweet nectar of life,” Rishi says.
I look up at the dark-purple sky, torn between the need to keep going and the toll the journey is taking on us.
“We need rest,” Rishi says. “We’re not going to be of much use if we crawl the rest of the way.”
Nova holds his hand out to me. “Give me your dagger. I’m going to find us something to eat.”
“Since when are you the hunting-and-gathering kind?” Rishi asks.
“Just thank your stars you’ve never been so hungry you hunted squirrels in Central Park at night.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but the idea of Nova alone and hungry in the dark makes my heart hurt. Then he breaks into that sly smile of his, the kind that makes you forget about all the worries you might have.
“You collect wood,” Nova tells Rishi. Then he turns to me. “You should get your rest. I don’t like being out in the open like this.”
When Rishi and Nova leave, I fill our empty water bottles. I look at my reflection in the pond. My skin is bruised, and I look like I went a few rounds with a heavyweight champion. I take off my clothes. With Rishi and Nova gone, I let myself cry out in pain instead of keeping it in. I wade into the water and submerge myself until my chest burns for air. I let myself float on the surface, and the tepid water washes away the dirt on my skin and more. It fills me with a pleasant warmth that pulls me beneath the surface. I feel myself sink. I let myself sink.
I know I’m dreaming when I’m standing on top of the pond. I jump when I fear I’ll fall straight through the surface, but my feet only create small ripples. There’s a woman standing in front of me. When I recognize her, I want to fall on my knees and weep.
“You always fell asleep during your bath time,” Mama Juanita says. “Even as a baby. I told your mother she gave birth to a fish instead of a little girl.”
Suddenly I’m six years old again, and my sisters and I are running around the yard, pretending we’re part of our great-grandmother’s Circle. Mama Juanita, our favorite person in the world. She had a mean face, but she baked the best sweets and told the best stories—the kind my mom said we were too young to listen to.