The Shattered Mountain

7

THERE are not enough blankets to stave off the cold night. Mara and Reynaldo organize the children into groups and tell them to huddle close for sleep. “We’ll have a fire when we get to the cave,” Mara promises them.

Mara lies down, with Carella’s daughter and the tiny coughing girl tucked into the crook of her curved body. And when bright morning sun batters her eyelids awake, she is surprised to find that she slept long and hard.

But Marón, the tavern owner, died during the night. Mara enlists Adán’s help to drag his stiffening body into the brush and cover it with deadfall—quickly, before all the children wake. When they do, she tells them the truth. One little girl collapses to the ground, crying. His daughter.

As they break camp and prepare for the day’s journey, she overhears them talking about loved ones. So many friends and family members that they left behind. Some are known to be dead. But most were simply separated sometime during the chaos of the attack. Most, they hope, might still be alive.

But Mara saw too many bodies, blackened and oozing, for there to be many survivors. And suddenly she wonders if she should have let the children see Marón’s body. Maybe a large, single dose of pain now is better than the slow, burning pain of withering hope. Maybe seeing death up close is an important part of saying good-bye.

Right before they set off, Mara takes stock of their provisions. In addition to the supplies in Pá’s bag, Reynaldo and two others thought to grab jerky and water skins. The pack on Marón’s horse holds cooking utensils, a bag of dates, two blankets, a knife, a spongy onion, and a round of bread. It’s so much better than nothing, but they’ll need to find food fast. The nearest village is a week’s journey, but Mara isn’t sure it’s the safe choice. It might suffer the same fate as her own village. Maybe when they get close, she and Reynaldo can scout ahead.

But first, the cave—and Julio. Please be all right, Julio. Please be safe. She has purposely not allowed herself to consider the way the rain of arrows started again just as suddenly as it stopped. As if the distraction Julio provided had vanished like smoke.

They hike all day to reach the cave. The climb is steep, and the little ones tire quickly. She and Julio reached it in half that time, on that precious, precious day months ago.

It’s exactly the way she remembered, with a sun-soaked ledge outside the crooked opening. The air is drenched with a clean, sharp scent from the juniper surrounding the ledge, keeping the cave invisible from below. What she doesn’t see is any sign of life. No campfire. No footprints. No Julio.

She helps the tiny, coughing girl onto the ledge, then Mara abandons the children to rush inside the cave. “Julio?” she calls, and her voice echoes back with emptiness. “Julio?” she repeats, as if calling louder will summon him.

Someone comes to stand beside her. “He’s not here, is he?” Adán says.

“He will come,” Mara says, though her gut twists. She takes a deep breath. “All right, everyone. Let’s get settled. Reynaldo, if you build that fire, I’ll make a soup tonight.”

The cavern already boasts a fire pit in its center. It’s a narrow but long chamber, with a ceiling high enough that only she and Reynaldo must hunch over. She knows from experience that cracks in the ceiling provide an outlet for smoke. There is plenty of room for all nine of them during the day, but a shortage of level floor space will make sleeping a challenge. There might be space for everyone if she, Adán, and Reynaldo sleep outside on the ledge, rotating watches.

Mara throws together a thin soup of jerky with onions and garlic. As they take turns spooning it from her cooking pot, she sizes up the group. She is the oldest, at seventeen. Reynaldo is fifteen, Adán fourteen. Everyone else is younger, down to the tiny girl, who can’t be more than four. Mara is glad to note that her coughing has subsided, and it no longer turns up blood. Maybe something will go right for them after all.

She doesn’t know all their names. Her village isn’t that large, but skirmishes with the Inviernos have caused a lot of migration among the hill folk, and when the animagus burned her village, it was half full of strangers.

She could ask their names. She should ask their names. But she’s suddenly overcome with the sense that she might learn who they are only to see them die.

Later. She’ll ask later. She wants to be silent and alone with her thoughts a little bit longer.

Looking into their ash-covered faces, their eyes filled with both hope and terror, Mara marvels at how two such opposite-seeming emotions can exist inside her. She wants to save them. But bitterness grinds away at her heart too. These are the children of the people who turned blind eyes to her pain. They bought her pastries and her wool quick enough, but never in her life did anyone ask, “Mara, how are you really?” Until Julio.

Once Julio arrives, she won’t have to be in charge anymore. He’ll be the oldest of their group, at nineteen. He’s confident and outgoing, well liked by everyone. He’ll know how to deal with the children. Julio likes taking care of people. He’ll relish the responsibility.

Mara is about to go out to the ledge to take the first watch, but the tiny girl toddles over. Mara sits as still as a statue as the girl climbs into her lap. She grabs a fistful of Mara’s shirt and snuggles in tight. Then Carella’s daughter sidles up, lays her head on Mara’s thigh, and falls fast asleep.

After a moment, Mara’s shoulders relax. She wraps one arm around the tiny girl and lets her other hand rest on Carella’s daughter’s silky head.