The Shattered Mountain

6

THE children are waiting right where she told them to. The tiniest girl’s chin and blouse are soaked with red-tinged phlegm. At Mara’s questioning look, Reynaldo says, “She’s been coughing up blood.”

Oh, God. If she has internal injuries, there is nothing they can do.

Reynaldo’s eyes flash when he notices Mara’s patchy hair and her bruised eye—her bruised eye . . . when did that happen?—but his gaze slides over it like water, a veil clouds his face, and her injuries are suddenly invisible to him. She’s seen it happen dozens of times before. The villagers always turned a blind eye to this, the handiwork of her father.

“We need to get away,” Mara says. She doesn’t want to scare the children more than necessary, but she can’t bring herself to lie either. “The gully behind me is starting to catch fire, and the Inviernos could have scouts in the area. So we move fast and quietly. There will be no talking unless it’s to call out a warning. Understood?”

They nod in unison.

“What about my brother?” Adán asks. “Did you see Julio?”

“He’ll meet us on the Shattermount.”

As they exchange fearful glances and murmur among themselves, Mara considers that lying might have been better after all.

“Mamá says I’m not allowed on the Shattermount,” says one little girl.

The boy beside her nods solemnly. “There are bears.”

“Flash floods!” says Adán.

Mara sighs, knowing there is no safe way to lead them. “Yes, there might be bears. And flash floods. And even ghosts,” she says. “But do you know what the Shattermount doesn’t have?”

The children shake their heads.

“It doesn’t have Inviernos. It’s too frightening a place for them. Only Joyans are brave enough for the Shattermount.”

“I’m not afraid,” says Adán. A chorus of “Me neither” follows.

Thank you, Adán.

“Will we climb the slope or stick to the fault?” Reynaldo asks.

“The fault. It’s out of sight.” Julio’s family maintained a trap line on the Shattermount, as did a few other villagers. No one has seen signs of Inviernos there. Yet. But it’s better to be cautious. No one had seen them in the village either, before this morning. “We’ll keep an eye on the sky.” Rain, even a day’s journey away, could mean a flash flood.

Reynaldo nods agreement, and she suddenly wants to hug his gangly form, just for being almost grown up, someone who can help make decisions and look out for the little ones.

They set off, quietly as promised. They walk for hours, and Mara’s thighs burn with effort, for the Shattermount is a steep, wide-based monolith that marks the transition from desert foothills to the mighty slopes of the Sierra Sangre. In its upper reaches, the desert scrub gives way to pine, the gravel to granite, the rain to snow. A thousand years ago, or maybe more, a great cataclysm opened a huge fault line right down the center. This shattering resulted in a mountain with a deep groove and twin peaks. Julio always compared them to the horns of a mighty goat. Mara preferred to think of them as the ears of a great lynx.

The sun is low at their backs, sweat is stinging Mara’s ruined scalp, and a few of the children are beginning to stumble from exhaustion when they walk right into a campsite.

The children rush forward, recognizing a few friends. Four more survivors—three children and one badly injured adult. Two horses. A pack full of supplies. A cheery fire sending smoke tendrils into the sky.

Mara sizes it up quickly, but as everyone hugs and cries and laughs with delight, she hangs back, her relief at seeing others turning to despair. Because she made a mistake, one that could have gotten them killed. She should have scouted ahead. What if this had been an Invierno camp?

No more mistakes. She strides over to the campfire and kicks dirt and gravel onto it. When the flames are low enough, she stomps it out.

“What are you doing?” asks a young boy, his face furious.

She whirls on him. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to bring the Inviernos down on us? You might as well send them a letter. ‘Here we are! Survivors for you to come kill!’ I can’t believe you all were so stupid.” Her face reddens as the words leave her mouth.

Joy dissipates from the camp like a drop of water poured on scorched earth. Some stare guiltily at her. Others glare.

With a resigned voice, Reynaldo says, “Mara’s right. No fires. Not until it’s safe.”

Mara knows she should say something encouraging. Something optimistic. But she doesn’t know what. She has never been good with people. A bit withdrawn, Julio tells her. Due to a lifetime of hiding her bruises and scars—the ones on her body and on her soul.

She looks to the one adult in the group for support. He sits slumped over by the now-dead fire, clutching his side. He raises his head briefly, and she finally recognizes him—it’s Marón, owner of the Cranky Camel and the richest man in the village. His skin is corpse-white, his eyes glazed. The two horses belong to him. With a start, she realizes that he didn’t lead the children here. He is too far gone. They rescued him.

And suddenly Mara knows what to say.

“You are all very brave for making it this far, and I’m proud of you.”