The Last Cuentista

“Once, there was a princess named Blancaflor,” I begin. It’s not a standard fairy tale. Parts of it I’m not even sure how to tell in English. Lita said there was a time, when she was a little girl, she didn’t dare speak Spanish in public, or share her stories where others could hear. A time when her language and the color of her skin could mean trouble. So, under a blanket of starry skies and piñon smoke, out of habit, she whispered her stories to me in Spanglish. Her own version, passed from her grandmother, and her grandmother’s grandmother—each of them a slightly different version depending on what was happening in their world at the time.

I remember what Lita said about my stories. “Never be ashamed of where you come from, or the stories your ancestors bring to you. Make them your own.”

I will never be a real storyteller now like Lita. But for Zeta-4, I decide to tell one more. And for Lita, I’ll make it my own.

Even though they are spread out, in the expanse of the main room alone, I realize, there are far more people than there should be on the entire ship. Rations meant for the Monitors were strictly planned out. But these people are no longer Monitors, and they aren’t following the rules.

There’s no way they could have sustained this many people and all the passengers in stasis on the ship. And then I realize, they never really intended to support anyone other than their Collective—which made those of us who were left far more disposable.

Maybe no one is paying attention. I could throw the monitor into the lake. The cave will hide my heat signature. I’d be free.

I close my eyes and imagine myself back in Lita’s arms. “Can you imagine the fear Blancaflor must have felt?” She clicks her tongue. “Still she mounted the flying horse and trusted it to deliver her and the prince across a vast ocean. All the while the king on an even faster horse, flying at their heels[…]”

Lita said about Blancaflor: “If you don’t take a risk, you cannot cross the ocean.”

I glance back toward the shuttle. Once behind those vines, they’ll never see me. And Len wouldn’t have the guts to even look. […]

I turn to face [Feathers]. She smiles up at me. Just like chick feathers, her baby hairs are plastered to her forehead from Sagan’s humidity. And staring down, I realize it.

I can’t leave her and Rubio behind on the ship to spend their lives with Nyla.

Suddenly, I know what Lita’s words really mean. Blancaflor wasn’t just brave because she crossed the ocean herself. She was brave because she took the risk in saving the prince.

Feathers sits next to me. “I really liked the cuento you told about Los Viejos and the shiny gems and stones, Zeta-1. Especially the ending when they lived by the river and planted fruit trees and crops and the children from all the neighboring towns arrived to run and play through the orchards.” She sighs. “I’d like to see an orchard someday.”

I turn my head quickly. It’s a great addition to the story, but I know I didn’t mention children running or playing in orchards.

Rubio continues, “I liked how Los Viejos helped the poor and homeless after the great pandemic.”

Tingles run up and over my spine. I definitely didn’t mention the great pandemic from back in the twenties. If they’re remembering things from home, it’s great. But my gut tells me now it’s better for them to remember after we’re on Sagan.

Javier places his hand on my cheek just like Lita used to. “You are going to have an amazing life.”

And because of what Javier has done, he and I still have the chance. “We will, Javier.” I smile. Then I glance at Suma with her furrowed brow. “But we should hurry now.”

He sighs deeply and wraps his arms around me in a hug. I feel his body shaking. It’s the same hug as the time I left for Camp Condor for the week. It’s the same hug before he walked into kindergarten on the first day of school. “I’m sorry, Petra. It is the only way.”

“Javier? Hurry. Get me to the cockpit. You’ll have to help me pilot.”

“They could come at any time. I have to stay. Please understand,” he whispers. Javier stands, his eyes welling with tears. “If this small part of my journey is to give everyone else a chance, then that is what will make our parents and ancestors proud.” He turns and shuffles toward the door.

I pull [Voxy] into a hug. “Why are you here?”

“I saw what Nyla and the others did to you. I don’t want to be like them. If I go back, I will be part of that. Part of the Collective.”

The idea of that happening to Voxy makes me shudder.

He bows his head. “And…and I want to have cuentos too.”

How could I not see this coming? And he’s right. He should have all those things. Will the Collective hold his hand when he’s scared? Will they tell him stories to calm his nerves?

It’s too late for my little brother, but maybe I can give Voxy the childhood Javier never got to have.

“If I stay with you…?” Voxy’s timid voice trails off.

I grit my teeth, and a tear falls inside my visor. “If you stay with us, you’d be Voxy,” I answer. “Just Voxy. A boy who gets to have his own cuento.”

His jaw settles in a stubborn clench. “Then I choose to be Voxy. Voxy who gets to have his own cuento.”

I close my eyes and suddenly I’m behind Lita’s house in the desert. The chirp of the flying lizards here, singing to their friends high above the trees, sounds like the coyotes singing back home. I even imagine sweet elephant-ear wood smoke drifting into Sagan’s starry sky.

Lita’s voice fills my head. “Set your intention.” Tears well in my eyes. I let my memories fill me. I am bringing all of them: Mom, Dad, Lita, Javier, and our home. Ben and my crumbling library, deep in my mind. The stories of Lita and my ancestors. I’m bringing them all to this world.

The winds pick up high above, branches billowing in Sagan’s warm breeze, just like the New Mexico desert. I look around at Rubio, Feathers, Voxy, and Suma: different colors and sizes. However dissimilar, we feel like an unexpected family.

“A few brave humans left their home on the nagual’s mother, Earth. They took very little and left behind so much they loved, in hopes of finding a new home for their children, and their children’s children, and all humans to come. […] The fire snake mourned for the loss of his mother, blaming himself. […] He had no choice. He followed the only thing that felt like home, the only thing familiar to him.” I point to [Rubio] and Feathers and Voxy. “Humans.

“For hundreds of years, the fire snake trailed the humans on their exodus.” I point in the direction of the west. “Staying within a safe distance, for fear he might accidentally harm them too. He dared not get too close. But when they arrived at their new home, and the fire snake with them, he realized he could not live on the dark side of Sagan, to the east, as its ice might extinguish his fiery breath forever.”

A warm gust from the west times itself perfectly with my story.

“See?” I say. “He sends his comforting winds to the humans, a promise he will keep a safe distance, but send his breath to keep them warm. A reminder that he’s here to protect us, the other children of his mother, Earth.”