The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (22)

Sweat ran down the sides of her temples. Not because she was scared but because her insides were squeezing water out like her body was a wet rag.

“I know why you’re angry. The world is bad and sometimes good things happen, not the other way around. But if you have been here since before strangers came to these shores, why starve us out now? Why are you angry now?”

The creature turned its face to the side. Yellow reptilian pupils stared at her, unblinking.

“I have always been angry, Bastard Daughter of the Waves. The other day, I was in the shallows near Puná, and I watched a ship unload garbage into the waters. I was buried under it for days and no one came to help me. The other fish and crabs couldn’t hear me.”

“How did you get out?”

It remained silent for a long time, showing the uneasy stillness of the animal it took its likeness from. “A little girl was rummaging through the waste. She cleared a path. I scared her.”

“So, you hate us and starve us, but a girl helped you. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“How did you even know I was here? No one knows my name.”

“Someone does. Someone remembers you. When I was a little girl, there were these old women who talked about the crocodile monster who waits on the shore. That once, it wrestled a fisherman and lost.”

“I did not lose,” the monster said, but its words were sour, angry. “He cheated. Anyway, I don’t understand why you’re trying to help them. I have seen you on the shore since you were old enough to walk alone and remember the way back home. Or perhaps, this river is the only home you want to claim.”

Orquídea shrugged. “As long as I have a place to lay my head down and the roof doesn’t leak, I’m fine. But the reason I care is because I need to eat, too.”

“Then I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you catch fishes for two years.”

She shook her head. “What about Pancho, who let me borrow this canoe? Tina, who welded the hole on the bottom so it wouldn’t sink? Gregorio, who made him the nets? It’s more than just one person.”

“They are not your blood,” the river monster reminded her.

“No, but they are part of this river and the river is my blood.” She smiled wryly. “You said it yourself. I am the Bastard Daughter of the Waves. Maybe that makes you and me cousins. Family in some way.”

The river monster snapped its mandible in the air, but Orquídea only laughed, unladylike and coarse and wonderful.

“What about this,” she said. “Whatever I catch, I will let half of what’s in my net return to you.”

“Can you make that promise for everyone?”

“No, I can only make it for myself. If you want to make a deal with all the other fishermen, you’re going to have to show yourself.”

The river monster made a reptilian hiss at the back of its throat, then stared at Orquídea a little longer as their canoe was gently pushed by the current of the Guayas. It was so very tired of this world, of these people. All it had ever wanted was respect. And here Orquídea was, acknowledging it.

“You have a deal,” the river monster said. It crept back over the side of the canoe; a ridged-back tail was the last thing to sink beneath the surface.

Orquídea paddled back to the shore and left Pancho’s vessel tied up in the pier with the others. The next day, she told him of her bargain, and that they should all do the same. No one believed her, of course, but Orquídea kept her word. From then on, whatever she caught, she threw half back into the waters. When locals saw that this girl, the runt they called “Ni?a Mala Suerte” with her cosmic bad luck, was able to make a catch, they tried making their own bargains with the river. Some cleaned up the bottles and cans from the shore. Others offered stories and conversations. By the end of that season, the heat broke, the fish returned, and so did the rain.

The river monster was never seen by anyone other than Orquídea, though there were rumors that it had been sighted by a gringo American tourist couple who documented exotic wildlife on their vegan travel blog. All they had to show was a blurry photo.

The ancient creature felt the day of Orquídea’s death, a connection carried from root to dirt to sea. And for the first time in centuries, the river monster wept. They were, after all, family in some way.





8

THE UNEARTHING OF LUCK




Orquídea gripped the arms of her chair and watched her children and grandchildren spill into the living room.

“You’re all late,” she said, voice rough as gravel.

“We were on time,” Enrique said, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. The shadow of a partial handprint was still visible on his cheek. He yanked off his ruined silk tie and tossed it on the ground. “We’ve been just outside for hours.”

“Ricky.” Félix gently squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “We’re here now.”

“Abuelita, you’re, like, a tree,” Juan Luis said.

His twin elbowed him, sucking his teeth. Gastón stage whispered, “Bro, you can’t just say that grandma is a tree.”

“But she is!”

One by one, they went to Orquídea. Hugging. Kissing her cheek, her forehead. Squeezing her rough, wrinkled hands covered in tiny branches. All, except Enrique, who glowered at the roaring flames in the fireplace. When he turned around, the green of his eyes moved, like embers had leapt into his irises and caught fire.