The torchlight along the path casts flickering shadows across his face, which is more tired and haggard than when he left. The bruises under his eyes are darker, and the lines across his forehead are even more pronounced. Smudges of dirt stain his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Estoy bien.”
“Are you hungry?”
He nods. “I’d eat whatever you put in front of me. Twice.”
We walk toward my home. He doesn’t have a limp nor is he clutching his side. He really seems fine—exhausted, but hale and whole. “Was it awful?”
“Yes.” He pushes open the door and stumbles inside. I light all the candles and soon my room is washed in a warm glow. I make him sit, and I’m about to go out again to find something for him to eat when I spot a platter on the table. The clay plate is filled with thinly sliced steak, pan-fried potatoes, choclo, and roasted plantains generously drizzled with honey. As soon as I hand him a fork, he starts eating and doesn’t stop until everything is gone.
“¿Hay agua?” he asks in a quiet voice.
I jump to my feet and pour him a cup of water. He guzzles it down and when he’s done, I pour him another. Then I sit across from him on the floor. “What happened to Guari?”
Manuel flinches.
My heart clenches. I reach over and place a soft hand on his arm. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
He hesitates, and I wait. And wait. And wait. Then: “It might scare you.”
“Share your burden with me, Manuel. I’m your friend. Probably your best friend in the whole world.”
I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead he’s quiet and serious, clearly thinking something but unwilling to bring it out into the open.
“What is it?” I press.
His face flushes. “I know you meant it as a joke, but I think it might be true.”
For once he doesn’t turn away. He lets himself smile, and warmth spreads down to my toes. “Tell me what happened out there,” I say quickly. “I can handle it.”
“We set out early this morning. I expected the affected area to be close to the one you and I saw, but we trekked to a part of the jungle I’d never been to. We didn’t stop walking the entire time.” His voice drops to a hush. My ears strain to hear every word. “This part of the jungle was totally gone—as destroyed and bleak as the patch of land we saw with Chaska.”
“How had no one seen it before?”
“It’s a part of the jungle they don’t often visit,” he says. “They have enough food and water in this area. They don’t disturb or take from what they don’t need.”
“Then what happened?”
“I noticed a flower planted in the ground. Do you remember the flower we came across earlier in our journey?” When I nod, he continues. “Well, it was the only thing growing in the entire area. We were all standing around it when we noticed Quinti wasn’t standing next to us anymore. He’d disappeared.”
“Quinti is the injured man? The one who lost his legs?”
“Yes, that’s him. We immediately started looking for him, then came this noise—gut-wrenching and awful, not the kind of noise an animal makes. It was kind of like a groan, but louder and angrier. Right after, Quinti screamed. We all went running in that direction, but whatever had attacked him had vanished. I’ve never been so scared. Any moment I expected the beast to return, even as we carried Quinti away. I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder.”
“Did he get a good look at the monster?”
“He’s been barely coherent,” he says. “Muttering and crying from the pain. Kusi made him take something that sent him to sleep.”
“What do you think the monster was?”
He shoves his plate away. “My best guess is it has something to do with that flower. It was glowing silver like—like Ximena’s moon thread.”
I gasp. “Could it be someone’s magic—the ability to grow that flower?”
“I hardly think Luna would bless someone with a gift that destroys life.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s ridiculous.” But as soon as the words are out, I can’t help but latch onto the idea. Perhaps it’s a gift that’s been corrupted? My own gift was half complete because I didn’t understand it. How many of us have blessings that we don’t know how to use properly?
“I need to sleep,” Manuel says, yawning. He stands and walks over to the end table that has several clean tunics neatly folded on top. He drags the soiled one over his head, and not for the first time, I admire the way his shoulder muscles ripple with movement. He pulls on a fresh shirt, and I look away, blushing.
