The sprawling, metallic branches of the golden oak stand before me, its boughs burdened by Muertafruta.
“This tree is incredible, father. Even in death, you out do yourself,” I say to the headstone. I tap on the slab of raw sapphire. A mound of obsidian rests by my feet.
I collect a hemp rope from one of two wicker baskets I brought and toss the rope until it catches the lowest branch. The end in my hands, I tie around the tombstone and reach into my pocket for my father’s leather gloves, the ones I found amongst his abandoned possessions.
A chilled wind sways the neighboring trees. My father’s golden oak is unmoved, as he was in life. As if the words were extracted from my memory, in the heavy voice of my father, I hear, “you can do it, José.”
“Si la Muerta quiere,” I say—if Death wants it.
With all my strength in my lanky brown arms, I ascend. I kick the sleek trunk and catch the limb. My stomach retracts, bracing for the prick of the tree’s icy skin, but my tunic wards against the tree’s defenses. I toss my weight and straddle the tree limb.
From my lower back, I unsheathe my father’s steel dagger, push aside stiff, emerald leaves—sharp as razors—and set the blade at the nexus of the tree and the stone shell, where the metal is thin. I sever the fruit. The first piece falls, and, with a thud, it lands on the ground, but the stone shell refuses to break open.
“It’s fine. Doesn’t mean anything. Try another one,” I say to myself.
My hands quiver as I reach for a higher limb and lift myself further into the tree. I pick another piece of fruit. This time, I pray before I drop it. The crimson-violet flesh bursts forth. I exhale air and climb higher, cleaving away the fruit, praying before it falls, and counting as I go, until I breach the dense crown. The autumnal Andes mountains, coated in the scarlet glow of the fading Samhain sun, greets me. By instinct, I hold my breath.
Maybe Sebastián and I will get there one day, I think. Maybe we will find some peace there at last. We can get away from Cartana, finish what we set on hold all those years ago; what we almost rekindled last…the kiss in the grave-orchard before my father—no, I can’t think about that now.
I pluck the last of the Muertafruta and let the shell fall and shatter into dust. Thirty-one pieces broke open—nowhere near as much as my father would collect. I climb down the tree, retracing each moment of the harvest to find where I went wrong.
Why didn’t the shells break?
My father did the same thing every day, never wavered from his tradition, not even for a second.
Did my father never pray? Why not plead with Death?
Or maybe this is what my father wanted all along. Doom the family, lay the blame at my feet, as vengeance for my rebellion.
When I reach the bottom, I glare at the words, “Padre Devoto y Amado,” etched into the sapphire.
“Devoted to none but himself and his stupid traditions,” I growl. I ball my hatred into a fist and kick the fractured obsidian, pelleting his headstone, defiling his rest. I think about the night in the grave-orchard when he caught me with Sebastián, about the icy sting of shame he forced me to suffer.
“The family isn’t going to die because of me.”
Determination settles my grip as I turn to the unbroken fruit scattered around the grave. I set the closest one in the basket; each cry of the wooden threads charges me with a rebellious joy.
My father’s words ring in my ear, “the unbroken fruit are for the dead! Never take them!” I huff in response.
I cover the gray shells with fallen, ordinary leaves and set the raw fruits on top. I lift both baskets and I waddle into the encroaching darkness as a gale shakes the trees. I don’t look back, but I know my father’s oak doesn’t move.
***
What good is all this fruit if I don’t know how to summon you, father?
I reach the cerulean palms—sentinels of Cartana—and pass under the granite archway to the main road, so pulverized the clay dusts our shoes. I stroll by homes of orange and yellow mud and oak. Children sweep by my feet, playing with rolling stones or the seed pit from the Muertafruta. The sweet fragrances of herbs and spices flood the streets as I stroll by open windows and peer in to see families frantically preparing their meals. I listen to the people sing and laugh. They throw their hands to the sky, ascending scales while others harmonize.
Will music awaken the magic?
I arrive at the limestone plaza, where the mayor stands before a sapphire fountain twice his size. The heavy-tanned man, lean and dressed in a white, linen suit directs my brothers as they lay a thick, candy green vine over the fountain’s spiraling ravine. The mayor glances back. His brown eyes, slightly bulged, lighten with his boyish, tight-lipped smile, lay on me as I stroll by, trying to avoid his bear-cub ears—I have no time to melt into the stream.
“Looks good, right?” He says, loud and sharp, deep and strong.
I nod. “Beautiful, Sebastián.”
He turns around, walks toward me, head bowed, and hands stowed, and my muscles tense.
“The vanilla grew so well. I was nervous it wouldn’t grow for me. My dad was really good at growing it. Death is going to look so beautiful.”
I set the baskets down. With a glance, I check for any peaking gray shells. Satisfied they’re all hidden, I meet Sebastián with a nervous gaze.
“Good you got the fruit in time. I went to get mine and I saw your tree was still full. I was worried,” he says curling his lips into a grin—I don’t think I’ve ever seen him frown, at least not around me.
“Now I just have to hurry up and prepare something. I think a soup will work,” I reply, avoiding the magnetic pull of his delicate face.
He nods, lowering his head and an awkward silence falls between them until he breaks it.
“So, when can we talk about last night?” He asks eyes fixed on the weeds sprouting through cracks in the pavement.
“Not tonight,” I say, lifting the baskets, offering him a wordless explanation for why I haven’t the time to revel in his indescribably enchanting aura. If we discuss the kiss, eat away my time for preparing the meal, Death will almost assuredly wipe my family from all memory.
He pries his gaze from the ground and his shoulders sag. His face scrunches as he asks, “We just hadn’t done that in a while. I don’t get what it means…”
I don’t answer, keeping my eyes low.
“José, your father is gone. We don’t have to hi—”
I am grateful for my brother, whose cry steals Sebastián’s attention. My brother shakes his hand, likely numb from the icy mountain water siphoned from the stream running under the plaza. I seize my chance to escape, scurry by the rest of my brothers, and shout,
“See you later!”
Before I reach the houses of white-painted stone and coffee-dyed wooden frame, which guard my neighborhood, I look back to my brothers—one preparing the beeswax candles, two others setting azure baskets of withered jasmine on the Feast table, while the upset one recovers and chases the bored boy.
Maybe it will be worth it. I look down at the baskets. Death can understand and forgive, can’t She?
My father always insisted that Death expects nothing but perfection and abundance.
“To show that our family is worthy of life, or Her attention, we must be disciplined,” my father used to say. It’s what his father taught him, and he tried to teach me.
I won’t need forgiveness. The creek of the basket handles rings beneath my tightening fingers. This feast will be perfect. Death won’t know what to do with all the food I’m going to give Her. I have to do it. For their sake.
I wander down the clay road of my neighborhood. Gray-stone houses line the walkway. Wooden shutters seal away the fragrances and music of cooking. I reach the brown-painted door of my house and enter, carrying the two baskets through the house lit only by the strings of dusk-light that manage to slip under the cedar blinds. Mom is upstairs tending to the youngest boys—I can hear the shouting and fussing over baths and clothes.
Through a stone archway, I pass and set the baskets on the white tiled floor before the kitchen counter.
Does she know how to extract the magic? But my father, nor any older man in Cartana, would never have taught it to her. It’s tradition the oldest son performs the rite after the father perishes. This burden is mine.
Besides, she likes to keep her distance. I stare at the white stone breaking through the ceiling. She’s never forgiven me for loving Sebastián.
I begin the brew and conjure a melody from my lungs.
Vowels carry the notes I learned from the families on the main road. I hold the song on my lips as I peel the rinsed, velvet-skinned fruit and offer the skin to my macaw familiar, who waddles on the counter beside me. She shrieks and flaps her cobalt-colored wings.
I wedge a slender paring knife into the pumpkin-orange flesh—it bleeds a skin-tingling acid—until I strike the granite pit, slice away the ruby-veined, soft tissue, and cast it into the boiling water. Heat furrows the meat. With the wooden spoon, I blend the pulp and reduce the juice into broth. Steam blooms and soothes the stale air with the fragrance of a gardenia—the same scent my father would evoke!
I hope the unbroken fruit will do the same.
In silence, I gather a hammer and chisel, stalk to the shelled Muertafruta in the sink and break the rock. The crimson-violet skin is as vibrant as those that had broken on their own. I carve out the flesh of one—the orange juice oozes out, dripping into the sink.
If Death had intended for me to stay away from these fruits, wouldn’t She have rotted them?
I resume the song as I submerge the peeled fruit in the boiling water. I watch it melt the flesh from the pit and smile once my nose floods with the gardenia-scented steam. I thicken the broth with a few cups of cream, then ladle it into a wide wooden bowl with the words “Carvajal”—our family name—etched along the rim and place fresh blueberries and strawberries on top. I don’t have time to do more.
I throw open the windows and the doors to let the mountain breeze carry the aroma of Muertafruta soup and blend with the communal scents, the creations of the other families all seeking another year. I close my eyes and pray the dead catch the scent. I imagine the fumes rising into the night like the aerial dance, gliding over the clouds, over the leaves of the grave-orchard, over the mountains, and calling the ancestors. I see them reaching for ethereal tendrils to lift the spirits from their graves.
And then I catch the static in the wind—it pricks my nose. The spirits come with the moon.
I quickly slip into a white linen suit and leave the house with the soup, carefully making my way to the plaza illuminated by the moonglow reflected off the fountain. Villagers approach the table in beautiful, white linen dresses or suits with a tart in hand or trays of cakes and savory pies. I glance over at the head of the table, at Sebastián, who wears a hooded poncho of alpaca fur dyed blue, green, and gold—the colors of Death—over his suit, as he sets down a banquet of Muertafruta adapted into tarts, cakes, stews, and more. He catches my eyes. His gaze twitches down to my bowl, but I don’t catch any judgment—or maybe I’m too far to notice—only love. He steps away from the table. His attention doesn’t break away from me.
Stop it! I have to focus.
The breeze tickling the oaks fills the silent void over the village. Ages of the Earth passed. Celestial time, marked by the drifting moon, until the light is concealed by mountain mist and fades. I rub my fist in my palm, shift my weight between my feet, reposition the plate so the strawberries are pointing toward the fountain.
The heralds of Death are coming.
Water trashes in the fountain basin, spilling onto the clay and seeping beneath the Feast table. Everyone steps back as the liquid earth congeals. The air sculpts the crystal drops. Ripples flow over translucent forms and settle as the human faces are defined and colored by the clay and oils pilfered from the world. Each spirit fills the gaps between the villages, nestling into their places as sacred members of the Cartana.
A tall, slender woman appears before Sebastián. Water flows down her back fraying into heavy black hair. Ripples settle into fair, light brown skin. Her lips split wide into a warm, gentle smile. Sebastián’s arms break the water. They slip through the spirit, and as if suspended on a river, they embrace.
My father will likely offer me no such affection.
“Men should never touch,” he once said to me. “Maybe hands. Nada mas.”
Come to think of it…where is he? Some of the ancestors were delayed, but none are missing.
I watch Sebastián sit beside his mother on the table bench. He casts me a quick, assuring glance before setting a plate of tarts and fruit before the spirit. Her eyes widen. Her hands grab as much food as they can, and her face relaxes in delight.
At least Sebastián is safe. His herald is pleased. Death will be pleased.
The clay pool before me is flat and slowly draining into the ground. I think back to what my father did to summon the spirits, trying to remember any words he might have recited. I can’t recall any and no one else gave any words. They let the food speak for itself.
“Come on,” I whisper, coaxing steam from the soap into the sky. “Get over here, father.”
My eyes flit from the gray overcast, down to the mountain silhouettes, to the moonlit treetops, over the babbling stream, but there is no sign of my father.
My grandfather always came for my father. What will become of us with no herald?
Like a furious river, thunder crashes over the mountain and jolts the water in the fountain basin into a frenzy of violence. It whips the sapphire stone and sculpts the rock into a woman. The water foam molds into blanched feathers. Her wings fold under blue dust coagulating into hair, and the black veins of the stone expand into skin. The thick green leaves expand to cover the inmate parts of her body and the cordon flatten into a dress. Death towers over the village, yet Her wings span only the length of the plaza, and the mountains keep Her humble.
She holds out Her hands and in a rich voice, smooth as jasmine, says, “children, the Feast is wonderful. Spirits, come! Let us share in the works of your descendants.”
Her pale, golden eyes, like beeswax, sweep across the villagers and spirits and stop on me. She glares down, grinding me to the size of a speck.
“But you who tried to deceive me,” she says in a harsh, dissonant tone, “you who took the fruit belonging to the dead and sealed your father in the earth. You who defiled my scared boundary of life and death, tainted my blessing with your defiance are not welcome to Feast.”
Gasps emanate from behind me. I don’t turn to find its origin—likely my mother. I don’t dare tear away from Death and Her static expression.
“Sacred Death, please let us join!” I cry. I take the bowl from the table—more gasps—and try to lift it into the air, but my hands shake too much. The offering falls and shatters.
My heart sinks, dragging me to my knees, and I gaze up at Death with pleading eyes. “Do not punish my family for my mistakes.”
“No herald comes,” She says. “You cannot taste the blessing of my fruit. Do your brothers know the rite?”
Though I told my mother that father had taught me the rite, he never did. Perhaps in secret, he taught others.
I glance back at the shock on brothers’ faces—none seem to know the traditions. I contain all the emotions in my chest. I steady my breath to keep my voice from breaking.
“My father’s traditions weren’t passed to us,” I say.
Death flaps Her wings sharply and raises Her voice. “Do not blame others!”
“I’m not…I meant—”
“You are the oldest of your brothers. The rite is your responsibility. Why did you not learn the spell?”
My eyes stroll over the Feast table. Like a scorpion, the question gnaws and burrows deep into my heart. I once thought the reason was that I was not meant for such rituals. I honestly believed my purpose in life was to leave Cartana and if I held on to these traditions, they would anchor me. But this excuse doesn’t sit well with me. Until my eyes find Sebastián, worry stains his lips, and a sting unlocks the memory.
My father caught us once. In the grave-orchard, we would often play. One day, our wrestling was a bit too intense. Our hands moved into places boys were taught to never acknowledge, much less touch. We were tired and rested on the great, bulging roots of an oak. I closed my eyes for a moment. It was just a second and suddenly the whole world melted away. Plump lips, soft as peaches, as love, plucked mine as if they were playing an instrument.
I look up at Death, my countenance firm, and say, “my father died and left me with the burden of caring for the family. I cannot do what he did. I will never be the man he was…”
My father rushed into the grave-orchard with a roar so great even the mountains quaked. He tore me away from Sebastián, commanded my new love to leave, and shamed me before the watchful eyes of our ancestors.
“Yet I do not want to be such a man,” I say to Death.
He ripped the clothes from my body, forced me to stand in the autumn wind shivering and weeping, and told me this was my lesson in manhood; that no son of his would ever love another man, so long as he lived.
As the memory fades, taking with it the scars of that lonely night, I say, “my dreams may be beyond any power on Earth, but I will pursue them anyway. I take responsibility for my actions. Punish me alone.”
A silence passes over the village again, until at last Death speaks.
“Tonight, the tradition of your family is broken. The heralds, your father, will never come for you or your brothers. But I will grant you mercy.
“Until the end of time,” her voice booms, “you are banished from the village. Your family may stay and Cartana will tend to their needs, but you are never to return.”
Sebastián breaks traditions. He rushes to my side, cups my cheeks in his hand, and weeps as he takes a kiss.
“No,” he whispers.
He turns to Death and says, “take me, too. My family will be fine. They know the rites. Please. I can’t be here without him.”
Death beats Her wings, furiously gathering the wind, coating me in a gale of fresh, mountain air. My mother cries out, but knowing she and my brothers are safe, I close my eyes and let Death take me and my love to the farthest reaches of the Earth. Over the grave-orchard, the golden oak, I drift.
The men who died for love. I wonder if that is what my people will call us.
Here, in the Andes, Sebastián and I will stay, far from the Feast of Cartana, until the end of our days.
