I’m back at my childhood home, laying on the bedroll on the floor of my undecorated room. The sun barely peeks in through the seams of the wooden walls, particles of dirt and dust dance in the beams. The trogons, decorated in their teal and bright red plumage, sing their mournful whoop, whoop, and a gentle breeze rattles the leaves in accompaniment. Something compels me to venture outside and hike a nearby hill, gradually walking up and up and up, through the dull, bleached yellows of the tall grasses.
Sitting at the base of a lone, tall beech tree in a small clearing of the hill is a woman, whose long, black hair cascades down along her back. The color of the tanned leather garments she wears almost blend seamlessly into her skin. She sits upright and cross-legged, seemingly meditating and unaware and unthreatened by the fact that I’m walking up to her. The view from this hill overlooks a vast, deep blue lake, cradled amongst the hills and surrounded on all sides. Considering this, I, too, would rather take in the sights instead of that of some approaching stranger.
“We used to play in hills like this all the time,” she says, wistfully. Her voice is deep and regal, and even as she’s remembering a childhood memory, her words have a certain poignant staccato to them. “Do you remember that, as well, Teqosa?”
“Of course I do,” I say. “We used to spear fish in that lake, and we’d wander these hills for what felt like days, worrying our parents to death, I’m sure.” I walk over and sit beside the woman, glancing at her—not just to make sure I’ve identified the correct person, but to get a look at someone I lost so long ago. Sure enough, the unmistakable high cheekbones and soft point of a chin are painted in the morning sun. Her lips draw a thin line across her narrow face, and she keeps her chin lifted upward and proud, just how I’ve always remembered her to be.
“I can’t count how many beasts and monsters we’ve slain, but the number has to be staggering,” I continue with a small chuckle at my own joke about our adolescence. “We were the fiercest warriors of the land.”
“We still are,” she says with confidence, as if she didn’t render my comment as a joke at all. At this, there’s a pause. What I’m sure to her is a passing statement, her response has a significant impact on me as I reflect on her words. I haven’t seen my sister in years, and the uncertainty I’ve had over her whereabouts has weighed heavily upon me during this time. Knowing what I know now, it’s difficult for me to get passed the enigmatic quality of what she says. After absorbing our surroundings for a spell, she finally breaks the silence.
“You know I had no choice but to leave,” she says, anticipating one of many questions swirling in my head. “If I could, I would’ve stayed in Hilaqta, but that’s not what fate had planned for me.” She says this as a statement of fact, like she was doing a bit of accounting and going through the figures. The abrupt way she moved to this subject is jarring and off-putting, but perhaps it is to keep me on my toes. It’s something she’s always done since I’ve known her.
“It still hurt,” I say, childishly. I know saying as much won’t fix anything, it won’t change anything, and I wish I would’ve said anything else, but my heart blurts it out as if I’m a spectator to what I say or do. I feel as though I’ve resorted to a time when I was much younger, before our lives were disrupted.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she says, now in a slightly compassionate tone. “I wish things could be different, but…”
She trails off and leaves the sentence unfinished. I eventually concede and rest my head on her shoulder, looking out to the horizon along with her. I feel her body heave occasionally, coinciding with her brief and stifled sobs, but she continues to look toward the lake, watching the sky brighten with the rising sun. I want to tell her how much I miss her, and how much she meant to our father and me—how much she still means to me—but I feel the burning lump of words caught in my throat, and nothing leaves my lips.
Then, unfortunately, I awaken.
The fog rolling through the hills intensifies the glow of the morning light and mutes the dark browns and grayish greens of the countryside. There’s a slight chill in the air, forcing many walking around Hilaqta to pull in their cloaks tightly and keep warm. Merchants park their carts and set up for the day, displaying colorful garments meticulously dyed and made from alpaca and llama, hand-picked root vegetables and maize, freshly butchered meat of guinea pig, duck, llama, and boar suspended in the air, whittled tools and devices, along with toy figurines of warriors and dolls for the children, all for sale. Flocks of birds soar above, heading south to signal the next season is coming near.
The dreams have become more intense, more lifelike, and more frequent since the one I experienced the night before the final battle. They usually involve my sister, and the setting is generally somewhere in the Qantua countryside. I was able to say more to her this time—at one point, when the dreams began, no words were said at all. I have yet to broach the matter with anyone about my dreams, since I’m not sure there is anyone who could interpret them—let alone anyone who would think I’m sane if I attempted to describe the vivid details of each one. From what I recall during periods by the fires before we drifted off to slumber, when the warriors whom I fought alongside would regale us with stories from their homelands, people who frequently went about their village and told of their apocalyptic visions and dreams that came to them in the night were deemed lunatics, and they were outcast from society. Perhaps I’m becoming a lunatic?
I scan the scene to account for the activity taking place at the market when I see Upachu walking among the stalls and carts, methodically picking through a basket of thin, green, oval leaves. He wears an off-white robe, the clothing fitting very loosely and making him look tiny and frail. I almost walk right past him due to him being unrecognizable as he is nearly hidden entirely among the cloth that swallows him whole. I gently touch his shoulder to get his attention and try not to startle him, but he still jumps the moment my hand is placed. Reflexively, I reach for my weapon, only startling him further.
“Trying to bring me to an early end, eh?” he jests, looking a little flushed from the surprise. I tell him I’m sorry, but he waves as if to brush my apology aside. “No matter. I’m just grabbing a few items to assist us on our journey. We’ve got supplies—for us as well as offerings for the temple—loaded into a cart one of the Great Library’s attendees has loaned to me for the trek. And I’ve also acquired coca leaves to get us there sooner.” He says the last part with a wink and picks a few more. I haven’t tried them before, but farmers, and even some of the warriors I fought alongside, swear by the stuff, talking about the boost of energy and focus it can give someone. I’m not so sure this excursion will be the first time I try.
A procession of roughly a dozen people wearing cloaks dyed in gold with black trim around the mouth of their sleeves and hoods walk through the market, their harmonic intonation is a droning hum that disrupts everyone else’s chattering. The devotees and common folk ignore each other as they go about their respective business, and the worshipers keep their heads bowed, marching in step with one another as they make their way to their temple. They chant as they walk, speaking of the great feats of Entilqan, the mighty Qantua warrior and one of the Eleven, saviors of Pachil and conquerors of the Timuaq. Since the end of the War of Liberation, there are groups of devotees all throughout Pachil who have deified the Eleven—and more specifically, their faction’s hero—adding them to the pantheon and praying to them as if they are gods that can offer their blessings upon them. I can only find it amusing how they idolize humans they once neglected and failed to support.
I can tell Upachu wants to say something to me about them, but he resists the urge and lets the worshippers go on their way without interfering with them.
As we make our way to Upachu’s cart, it’s his turn to surprise me: Tied to the cart with a hemp rope is a llama, looking unamused by the situation it finds itself in and staring blankly at the marketplace.
“Umm, what on Pachil is that?” I say, pointing to the creature. “How are we going to make any reasonable time by dragging that thing behind us?”
“Oh, we’re not dragging it,” Upachu says matter-of-factly, “it will be pulling the cart!” He sounds genuinely excited when he makes this remark, and I sense a little bit of pride in himself for formulating the plan, as well. I want to remind him that the trip won’t take but half a day, but all I can do is I let out an exasperated sigh, shake my head, and motion for us to get moving.
The fog begins to lift as we leave Hilaqta, though the countryside is still full of muted green and brown tones. The vegetation is relatively sparse, with trees dotting the rolling hills every so often. The seasonal winds and consistent overcast skies make it difficult to grow much out here, but generations of Qantua people have found a way. Meanwhile, nature takes care of itself, and the few trees that have sprouted are the rumuli, extremely sturdy and resilient trees with thick trunks and branches that barely move with even the strongest of winds. It can take an exorbitant amount of work, and multiple laborers, to attempt to chop them down for constructing homes or furniture; sometimes, it’s easier to chisel and work stone than to cut down these trees.
Even carrying a cart with supplies strapped to its body, the llama looks unbothered by the task given to it, content with traversing the road. Upachu hums a merry tune—one with which I’m unfamiliar—and spryly bounces down the path.
“You’re awfully chipper,” I say. My statement comes out a little more sarcastically and biting than I intended, but Upachu seems unfazed.
“What’s not to be happy about?” he retorts. “I’m finally stepping foot outside of Hilaqta, the weather is agreeable, and I’m alive to breathe in the fresh country air!” I might be taking this journey too seriously, but his upbeat demeanor annoys me. We’re off to find information about the Eleven and what they sought—something that was supposedly so groundbreaking that it spurred on a years-long war and altered the course of Pachil. This is knowledge that ultimately led to their sacrifice to rescue humanity, and Upachu is treating this as a trip for pleasure.
“It’s been such a long time since I’ve been to the Temple of the Titans,” he says cheerily. “There were stewards of the knowledge kept there, but it’s been closed to outsiders since the Timuaq took it over and repurposed it for their cause. Took on a bit of a different meaning at that point, calling it a ‘temple’. There must be so much to learn and discover there! Oh, and I hope all my friends are still there! Some used to be a part of the Great Library, but I haven’t seen them since they were ordered to tend to the temple. I wonder if Qaschiqe is still there? Did you know he was from Iaqutaq? Have you ever been that far south? It’s amazing there! Such a tremendous port, and all that fish! You’ve never had fish until you’ve dined in Iaqutaq!”
He speaks hurriedly and enthusiastically, giving me absolutely no chance to respond, and the llama and I can hardly keep up with his frenetic pace. Based on what I’ve been told about it from others, I’m starting to wonder if he dipped into the coca leaves already. If so, even for half a day, this is going to be an excruciating journey.
Upon reminding Upachu for what I estimate is the thousandth time that our llama—and myself—should pause to prevent exhaustion, we take a moment’s rest by a creek trickling through a rare, dense forest. The old man appears to have been running on pure momentum, because at the first instance of sitting down and getting off his feet, he rests his arms on his knees and takes gasping, deep breaths.
“Don’t ever grow old, my boy,” Upachu sagely says to me. “It’s a cruel joke the gods play on us, making our bodies age and weaken while our minds are sharper and more capable.”
The llama immediately goes to drink, and Upachu and I soon follow suit, rejuvenated by the crisp, cold water of the creek which races along to eventually join up with the much larger river to the southeast. I can feel the fluid flow through every fiber of my being, giving me new life—more than any coca leaves could do, I am certain. It’s this kind of nourishment that always sustained me on the battlefield, during long campaigns, when we’ve been marching for what felt like numerous lunar cycles. I spot other animals such as deer, guinea pigs, and various birds eyeing us cautiously, approaching the stream with suspicion as to why two predators and what should be their prey amicably coexist.
For once, Upachu is silent, appearing pensive and hypnotized by the flow of the creek. The cool air fills my lungs and the nearby creatures rustle the twigs and dead leaves as they carry on. I can tell something is pressing on his mind, so deciding to interrupt the peaceful sounds of our surroundings, he finally speaks.
“Are you afraid of what we might discover, Teqosa?” Upachu asks with unexpected earnestness, not looking at me as though he’s talking to the stream. “Is that why you’ve been so anxious and serious this whole trip?”
“I’m not afraid at all,” I respond, “but I am eager to unveil what secrets and truths may be there. It was something the Eleven felt was worth fighting for, and I want to know what it could possibly be.”
“There’s a possibility the Timuaq may have destroyed everything before they met their demise,” he says, “to prevent anyone from utilizing the knowledge. There’s no certainty we’ll be able to decipher what the Eleven found here, if anything still remains.”
“Understandable,” I say in between gulps of water, “but we have to try. They never shared what they learned, and so many mysteries have been left unsolved. Once they found what they were looking for, the war began without pause for breath. So much to unearth and piece together.”
“You want to know what was so important that it made your sister leave Hilaqta, am I right?” Upachu asks without missing a beat, what has clearly been on his mind this whole time, likely stemming from the scene at the marketplace earlier in the day.
Again, Upachu carries on with the talk of my sister. Why is he so persistent in bringing her up? Is he trying to anger me? Because he’s accomplished his goal, if so; I’m furious, and it takes a lot of energy to not storm off and leave him to fend for himself out in this wilderness. What is his obsession with trying to discuss this matter? I’ve returned to Hilaqta for some time now, so the fact that he’s brought this up multiple days in a row—and so brusquely, as well—is insulting and perplexing. I then consider the conveniently timed coincidence of mentioning her after all the dreams I’ve been having, including the one from this morning, and an unreasonable curiosity about this serendipitous chain of events crosses my mind. Setting that aside for now to revisit later, I focus on the latest line of questioning I’m facing from him.
“What are you trying to achieve with bringing her up, Upachu? I’m starting to regret approaching you with personal matters.” My voice is shaky with anger and adrenaline, and in an effort to restrain myself, I grasp at the dirt and grass beneath me, tightening my hands into fists of soil.
“You have never spoken about her to me before we met at the Great Library a few days go. I’m hoping that such an emotional event hasn’t affected your judgement, considering the possible treacheries that we may encounter on this journey. We’ve never gotten to discuss the moments of that day, or your time at war, and I want to make sure everything is okay.”
“Have you possibly considered that just because you were council for my father doesn’t mean I consider you the same to me? You’ve always tried so hard to insert yourself into our family, and maybe that’s only because you did such an excellent job isolating yours.”
The moment those words left me, I know I said something I shouldn’t have. I pride myself in being able to control my emotions and not let them get the best of me, but the consistent pushing and prodding by brining up my sister had made my feelings boil over. Upachu looks wounded, as though my words caused physical pain. I let out a sigh and attempt to breathe through my nose, calming myself down and preparing to conduct some damage control.
“I apologize for my insensitivity,” he says, somberly. “I assumed that, since her departure took place so long ago, and with the result of the war, you would have found some peace in the resolution that came of everything. So I was thrown off by your demeanor since you’ve returned to Hilaqta, projecting what I assume should be how a warrior carries themselves and stereotyping what that means. That was wrong for me to do. No amount of time could ever fully heal those wounds—I should know.”
“I apologize, as well. I was speaking from a place of hurt and should not have gotten personal. I should have been more controlled.” I look at him and he continues to look at the water, his head lowered and his eyes heavy with melancholy.
“It’s been a long, trying time,” Upachu says, now getting up from his place on the bank of the stream and dusting off the dirt and leaves from the spools and spools of cloth that make up his outfit. “I should have anticipated that the wounds may still be fresh. You are such a strong, steady presence in the council gatherings, and I imagine even more so on the battlefield… I figured nothing would have gotten to you, ever. Even as a little boy, you have always had that determination and strong will—it’s most certainly a family trait. I should never have insinuated you’re incapable of feeling. That was ignorant on my part.”
I hoist myself off the ground and stand up, grabbing the rope tied to the llama in preparation for leaving this spot that has been tainted by the conversation. The llama seems indifferent to everything that has taken place, and for a moment, I’m envious at its seemingly blissful existence without pain or suffering. Perhaps they do experience this, but they’re certainly never going to let on—not in a way I will ever understand.
“Let’s carry on, shall we?” Upachu asks, putting on a brave face, and we depart.
We round the long, sloping bend that subtly descends toward a valley nestled at the base of a small group of mountains. The path becomes more rocky and turbulent from the hilly terrain we’ve traversed up to now, and the llama begins struggling to carry the cart. Upachu persists that the llama will be okay, but after nearly bringing our travels to an unbearably sluggish pace, I eventually pack the animal with only a few supplies in some sacks, bound together to distribute the weight evenly on both sides, and maneuver the wooden cart myself. It’s inconvenient, but we move much faster than before, and the llama can more easily handle the terrain. Despite this, Upachu still pouts at the dismantling of the idealistic fantasy he concocted in Hilaqta regarding the llama’s functionality. This trip has certainly not gone how he planned.
After negotiating the road in our updated formation for quite some distance, Upachu lets out a slight gasp and points at smoke above the tree line. His face becomes sheet white, and his eyes grow enormous like two full moons. He quickly darts off toward the dark plumes of ashen gray. My initial thought is that it’s simply a campfire, but the smoke is much too large and thick to be that, and now my curiosity is piqued, and my heart sinks for a moment. I attempt to wrangle the llama to keep up, but between all the items the creature and I are both carrying, I eventually have to abandon the cart and guide the llama—reluctantly, on the animal’s part—in chase of Upachu. I’m calling to him all the while, but he takes off like I wasn’t speaking, as if the only matter of importance is finding out what lies beyond those trees—for better or worse.
I’m back at my childhood home, laying on the bedroll on the floor of my undecorated room. The sun barely peeks in through the seams of the wooden walls, particles of dirt and dust dance in the beams. The trogons, decorated in their teal and bright red plumage, sing their mournful whoop, whoop, and a gentle breeze rattles the leaves in accompaniment. Something compels me to venture outside and hike a nearby hill, gradually walking up and up and up, through the dull, bleached yellows of the tall grasses.
Sitting at the base of a lone, tall beech tree in a small clearing of the hill is a woman, whose long, black hair cascades down along her back. The color of the tanned leather garments she wears almost blend seamlessly into her skin. She sits upright and cross-legged, seemingly meditating and unaware and unthreatened by the fact that I’m walking up to her. The view from this hill overlooks a vast, deep blue lake, cradled amongst the hills and surrounded on all sides. Considering this, I, too, would rather take in the sights instead of that of some approaching stranger.
“We used to play in hills like this all the time,” she says, wistfully. Her voice is deep and regal, and even as she’s remembering a childhood memory, her words have a certain poignant staccato to them. “Do you remember that, as well, Teqosa?”
“Of course I do,” I say. “We used to spear fish in that lake, and we’d wander these hills for what felt like days, worrying our parents to death, I’m sure.” I walk over and sit beside the woman, glancing at her—not just to make sure I’ve identified the correct person, but to get a look at someone I lost so long ago. Sure enough, the unmistakable high cheekbones and soft point of a chin are painted in the morning sun. Her lips draw a thin line across her narrow face, and she keeps her chin lifted upward and proud, just how I’ve always remembered her to be.
“I can’t count how many beasts and monsters we’ve slain, but the number has to be staggering,” I continue with a small chuckle at my own joke about our adolescence. “We were the fiercest warriors of the land.”
“We still are,” she says with confidence, as if she didn’t render my comment as a joke at all. At this, there’s a pause. What I’m sure to her is a passing statement, her response has a significant impact on me as I reflect on her words. I haven’t seen my sister in years, and the uncertainty I’ve had over her whereabouts has weighed heavily upon me during this time. Knowing what I know now, it’s difficult for me to get passed the enigmatic quality of what she says. After absorbing our surroundings for a spell, she finally breaks the silence.
“You know I had no choice but to leave,” she says, anticipating one of many questions swirling in my head. “If I could, I would’ve stayed in Hilaqta, but that’s not what fate had planned for me.” She says this as a statement of fact, like she was doing a bit of accounting and going through the figures. The abrupt way she moved to this subject is jarring and off-putting, but perhaps it is to keep me on my toes. It’s something she’s always done since I’ve known her.
“It still hurt,” I say, childishly. I know saying as much won’t fix anything, it won’t change anything, and I wish I would’ve said anything else, but my heart blurts it out as if I’m a spectator to what I say or do. I feel as though I’ve resorted to a time when I was much younger, before our lives were disrupted.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she says, now in a slightly compassionate tone. “I wish things could be different, but…”
She trails off and leaves the sentence unfinished. I eventually concede and rest my head on her shoulder, looking out to the horizon along with her. I feel her body heave occasionally, coinciding with her brief and stifled sobs, but she continues to look toward the lake, watching the sky brighten with the rising sun. I want to tell her how much I miss her, and how much she meant to our father and me—how much she still means to me—but I feel the burning lump of words caught in my throat, and nothing leaves my lips.
Then, unfortunately, I awaken.
The fog rolling through the hills intensifies the glow of the morning light and mutes the dark browns and grayish greens of the countryside. There’s a slight chill in the air, forcing many walking around Hilaqta to pull in their cloaks tightly and keep warm. Merchants park their carts and set up for the day, displaying colorful garments meticulously dyed and made from alpaca and llama, hand-picked root vegetables and maize, freshly butchered meat of guinea pig, duck, llama, and boar suspended in the air, whittled tools and devices, along with toy figurines of warriors and dolls for the children, all for sale. Flocks of birds soar above, heading south to signal the next season is coming near.
The dreams have become more intense, more lifelike, and more frequent since the one I experienced the night before the final battle. They usually involve my sister, and the setting is generally somewhere in the Qantua countryside. I was able to say more to her this time—at one point, when the dreams began, no words were said at all. I have yet to broach the matter with anyone about my dreams, since I’m not sure there is anyone who could interpret them—let alone anyone who would think I’m sane if I attempted to describe the vivid details of each one. From what I recall during periods by the fires before we drifted off to slumber, when the warriors whom I fought alongside would regale us with stories from their homelands, people who frequently went about their village and told of their apocalyptic visions and dreams that came to them in the night were deemed lunatics, and they were outcast from society. Perhaps I’m becoming a lunatic?
I scan the scene to account for the activity taking place at the market when I see Upachu walking among the stalls and carts, methodically picking through a basket of thin, green, oval leaves. He wears an off-white robe, the clothing fitting very loosely and making him look tiny and frail. I almost walk right past him due to him being unrecognizable as he is nearly hidden entirely among the cloth that swallows him whole. I gently touch his shoulder to get his attention and try not to startle him, but he still jumps the moment my hand is placed. Reflexively, I reach for my weapon, only startling him further.
“Trying to bring me to an early end, eh?” he jests, looking a little flushed from the surprise. I tell him I’m sorry, but he waves as if to brush my apology aside. “No matter. I’m just grabbing a few items to assist us on our journey. We’ve got supplies—for us as well as offerings for the temple—loaded into a cart one of the Great Library’s attendees has loaned to me for the trek. And I’ve also acquired coca leaves to get us there sooner.” He says the last part with a wink and picks a few more. I haven’t tried them before, but farmers, and even some of the warriors I fought alongside, swear by the stuff, talking about the boost of energy and focus it can give someone. I’m not so sure this excursion will be the first time I try.
A procession of roughly a dozen people wearing cloaks dyed in gold with black trim around the mouth of their sleeves and hoods walk through the market, their harmonic intonation is a droning hum that disrupts everyone else’s chattering. The devotees and common folk ignore each other as they go about their respective business, and the worshipers keep their heads bowed, marching in step with one another as they make their way to their temple. They chant as they walk, speaking of the great feats of Entilqan, the mighty Qantua warrior and one of the Eleven, saviors of Pachil and conquerors of the Timuaq. Since the end of the War of Liberation, there are groups of devotees all throughout Pachil who have deified the Eleven—and more specifically, their faction’s hero—adding them to the pantheon and praying to them as if they are gods that can offer their blessings upon them. I can only find it amusing how they idolize humans they once neglected and failed to support.
I can tell Upachu wants to say something to me about them, but he resists the urge and lets the worshippers go on their way without interfering with them.
As we make our way to Upachu’s cart, it’s his turn to surprise me: Tied to the cart with a hemp rope is a llama, looking unamused by the situation it finds itself in and staring blankly at the marketplace.
“Umm, what on Pachil is that?” I say, pointing to the creature. “How are we going to make any reasonable time by dragging that thing behind us?”
“Oh, we’re not dragging it,” Upachu says matter-of-factly, “it will be pulling the cart!” He sounds genuinely excited when he makes this remark, and I sense a little bit of pride in himself for formulating the plan, as well. I want to remind him that the trip won’t take but half a day, but all I can do is I let out an exasperated sigh, shake my head, and motion for us to get moving.
The fog begins to lift as we leave Hilaqta, though the countryside is still full of muted green and brown tones. The vegetation is relatively sparse, with trees dotting the rolling hills every so often. The seasonal winds and consistent overcast skies make it difficult to grow much out here, but generations of Qantua people have found a way. Meanwhile, nature takes care of itself, and the few trees that have sprouted are the rumuli, extremely sturdy and resilient trees with thick trunks and branches that barely move with even the strongest of winds. It can take an exorbitant amount of work, and multiple laborers, to attempt to chop them down for constructing homes or furniture; sometimes, it’s easier to chisel and work stone than to cut down these trees.
Even carrying a cart with supplies strapped to its body, the llama looks unbothered by the task given to it, content with traversing the road. Upachu hums a merry tune—one with which I’m unfamiliar—and spryly bounces down the path.
“You’re awfully chipper,” I say. My statement comes out a little more sarcastically and biting than I intended, but Upachu seems unfazed.
“What’s not to be happy about?” he retorts. “I’m finally stepping foot outside of Hilaqta, the weather is agreeable, and I’m alive to breathe in the fresh country air!” I might be taking this journey too seriously, but his upbeat demeanor annoys me. We’re off to find information about the Eleven and what they sought—something that was supposedly so groundbreaking that it spurred on a years-long war and altered the course of Pachil. This is knowledge that ultimately led to their sacrifice to rescue humanity, and Upachu is treating this as a trip for pleasure.
“It’s been such a long time since I’ve been to the Temple of the Titans,” he says cheerily. “There were stewards of the knowledge kept there, but it’s been closed to outsiders since the Timuaq took it over and repurposed it for their cause. Took on a bit of a different meaning at that point, calling it a ‘temple’. There must be so much to learn and discover there! Oh, and I hope all my friends are still there! Some used to be a part of the Great Library, but I haven’t seen them since they were ordered to tend to the temple. I wonder if Qaschiqe is still there? Did you know he was from Iaqutaq? Have you ever been that far south? It’s amazing there! Such a tremendous port, and all that fish! You’ve never had fish until you’ve dined in Iaqutaq!”
He speaks hurriedly and enthusiastically, giving me absolutely no chance to respond, and the llama and I can hardly keep up with his frenetic pace. Based on what I’ve been told about it from others, I’m starting to wonder if he dipped into the coca leaves already. If so, even for half a day, this is going to be an excruciating journey.
Upon reminding Upachu for what I estimate is the thousandth time that our llama—and myself—should pause to prevent exhaustion, we take a moment’s rest by a creek trickling through a rare, dense forest. The old man appears to have been running on pure momentum, because at the first instance of sitting down and getting off his feet, he rests his arms on his knees and takes gasping, deep breaths.
“Don’t ever grow old, my boy,” Upachu sagely says to me. “It’s a cruel joke the gods play on us, making our bodies age and weaken while our minds are sharper and more capable.”
The llama immediately goes to drink, and Upachu and I soon follow suit, rejuvenated by the crisp, cold water of the creek which races along to eventually join up with the much larger river to the southeast. I can feel the fluid flow through every fiber of my being, giving me new life—more than any coca leaves could do, I am certain. It’s this kind of nourishment that always sustained me on the battlefield, during long campaigns, when we’ve been marching for what felt like numerous lunar cycles. I spot other animals such as deer, guinea pigs, and various birds eyeing us cautiously, approaching the stream with suspicion as to why two predators and what should be their prey amicably coexist.
For once, Upachu is silent, appearing pensive and hypnotized by the flow of the creek. The cool air fills my lungs and the nearby creatures rustle the twigs and dead leaves as they carry on. I can tell something is pressing on his mind, so deciding to interrupt the peaceful sounds of our surroundings, he finally speaks.
“Are you afraid of what we might discover, Teqosa?” Upachu asks with unexpected earnestness, not looking at me as though he’s talking to the stream. “Is that why you’ve been so anxious and serious this whole trip?”
“I’m not afraid at all,” I respond, “but I am eager to unveil what secrets and truths may be there. It was something the Eleven felt was worth fighting for, and I want to know what it could possibly be.”
“There’s a possibility the Timuaq may have destroyed everything before they met their demise,” he says, “to prevent anyone from utilizing the knowledge. There’s no certainty we’ll be able to decipher what the Eleven found here, if anything still remains.”
“Understandable,” I say in between gulps of water, “but we have to try. They never shared what they learned, and so many mysteries have been left unsolved. Once they found what they were looking for, the war began without pause for breath. So much to unearth and piece together.”
“You want to know what was so important that it made your sister leave Hilaqta, am I right?” Upachu asks without missing a beat, what has clearly been on his mind this whole time, likely stemming from the scene at the marketplace earlier in the day.
Again, Upachu carries on with the talk of my sister. Why is he so persistent in bringing her up? Is he trying to anger me? Because he’s accomplished his goal, if so; I’m furious, and it takes a lot of energy to not storm off and leave him to fend for himself out in this wilderness. What is his obsession with trying to discuss this matter? I’ve returned to Hilaqta for some time now, so the fact that he’s brought this up multiple days in a row—and so brusquely, as well—is insulting and perplexing. I then consider the conveniently timed coincidence of mentioning her after all the dreams I’ve been having, including the one from this morning, and an unreasonable curiosity about this serendipitous chain of events crosses my mind. Setting that aside for now to revisit later, I focus on the latest line of questioning I’m facing from him.
“What are you trying to achieve with bringing her up, Upachu? I’m starting to regret approaching you with personal matters.” My voice is shaky with anger and adrenaline, and in an effort to restrain myself, I grasp at the dirt and grass beneath me, tightening my hands into fists of soil.
“You have never spoken about her to me before we met at the Great Library a few days go. I’m hoping that such an emotional event hasn’t affected your judgement, considering the possible treacheries that we may encounter on this journey. We’ve never gotten to discuss the moments of that day, or your time at war, and I want to make sure everything is okay.”
“Have you possibly considered that just because you were council for my father doesn’t mean I consider you the same to me? You’ve always tried so hard to insert yourself into our family, and maybe that’s only because you did such an excellent job isolating yours.”
The moment those words left me, I know I said something I shouldn’t have. I pride myself in being able to control my emotions and not let them get the best of me, but the consistent pushing and prodding by brining up my sister had made my feelings boil over. Upachu looks wounded, as though my words caused physical pain. I let out a sigh and attempt to breathe through my nose, calming myself down and preparing to conduct some damage control.
“I apologize for my insensitivity,” he says, somberly. “I assumed that, since her departure took place so long ago, and with the result of the war, you would have found some peace in the resolution that came of everything. So I was thrown off by your demeanor since you’ve returned to Hilaqta, projecting what I assume should be how a warrior carries themselves and stereotyping what that means. That was wrong for me to do. No amount of time could ever fully heal those wounds—I should know.”
“I apologize, as well. I was speaking from a place of hurt and should not have gotten personal. I should have been more controlled.” I look at him and he continues to look at the water, his head lowered and his eyes heavy with melancholy.
“It’s been a long, trying time,” Upachu says, now getting up from his place on the bank of the stream and dusting off the dirt and leaves from the spools and spools of cloth that make up his outfit. “I should have anticipated that the wounds may still be fresh. You are such a strong, steady presence in the council gatherings, and I imagine even more so on the battlefield… I figured nothing would have gotten to you, ever. Even as a little boy, you have always had that determination and strong will—it’s most certainly a family trait. I should never have insinuated you’re incapable of feeling. That was ignorant on my part.”
I hoist myself off the ground and stand up, grabbing the rope tied to the llama in preparation for leaving this spot that has been tainted by the conversation. The llama seems indifferent to everything that has taken place, and for a moment, I’m envious at its seemingly blissful existence without pain or suffering. Perhaps they do experience this, but they’re certainly never going to let on—not in a way I will ever understand.
“Let’s carry on, shall we?” Upachu asks, putting on a brave face, and we depart.
We round the long, sloping bend that subtly descends toward a valley nestled at the base of a small group of mountains. The path becomes more rocky and turbulent from the hilly terrain we’ve traversed up to now, and the llama begins struggling to carry the cart. Upachu persists that the llama will be okay, but after nearly bringing our travels to an unbearably sluggish pace, I eventually pack the animal with only a few supplies in some sacks, bound together to distribute the weight evenly on both sides, and maneuver the wooden cart myself. It’s inconvenient, but we move much faster than before, and the llama can more easily handle the terrain. Despite this, Upachu still pouts at the dismantling of the idealistic fantasy he concocted in Hilaqta regarding the llama’s functionality. This trip has certainly not gone how he planned.
After negotiating the road in our updated formation for quite some distance, Upachu lets out a slight gasp and points at smoke above the tree line. His face becomes sheet white, and his eyes grow enormous like two full moons. He quickly darts off toward the dark plumes of ashen gray. My initial thought is that it’s simply a campfire, but the smoke is much too large and thick to be that, and now my curiosity is piqued, and my heart sinks for a moment. I attempt to wrangle the llama to keep up, but between all the items the creature and I are both carrying, I eventually have to abandon the cart and guide the llama—reluctantly, on the animal’s part—in chase of Upachu. I’m calling to him all the while, but he takes off like I wasn’t speaking, as if the only matter of importance is finding out what lies beyond those trees—for better or worse.
