Revolutions

76 - Walumaq

"Goddess Walumaq! Goddess Walumaq!"

The chants of the villagers is deafening. Every person fights to touch me, to lay their hands on some part of me. They begin tearing at my garments, grabbing at the bronze and turquoise jewelry around my wrists. The biggest concern is when I feel a tug at my neck, the jostling of the amulets forcing my neck down as the people claw at me, hoping to obtain a memento of their deemed savior of Qespina.

Fear roots me to the ground. I'm terrified of losing the amulets, and I fend off anyone who attempts to clutch at my necklaces. Daylight is slowly shrouded by the persistent horde that closes in around me. How do I escape? Where do I run? I had only wanted to help, to reestablish life in this village and eradicate the evil that encompassed it. How did the situation escalate so quickly? I'm gripped with panic, terrified of being devoured by the swarming masses with no way out of this place.

A hand reaches into the mob and grabs ahold of mine. At first, I pull away reflexively, worried it's another misguided worshipper. I flinch and cower. Then, I look up and find Paxo's mother staring back at me, her eyes willing me to grab ahold so that I may be rescued from this place. I grasp her wrist with no intention of ever letting go, like wreckage in a storm. She drags me away from the worshippers as stray hands feebly reach out to me. The shaman, Tlalqo, staves off any pursuers, and I am mercifully able to escape to freedom.

Weaving through the narrow paths of Qespina, the homes of the tiny mountain village whizz by in a blur. I lose track of which direction we've taken, and I imagine that's my rescuer's intent. The shouts from the crowd spring up occasionally within earshot before gradually fading into the distance. Eventually, we pass the edge of the village and disappear into the rocky landscape. I'm still out of breath from the claustrophobic encounter, so I struggle with the steep climb up, up, up into the mountains.

The mother's home is humble: a tiny, solitary wooden shack nestled among the verdant valley. The hut is crafted from the very timber that flanks the winding mountain paths, with wooden planks comprising simple windowless walls that appear smoothed by the countless passings of a stone adze. A lone jacaranda tree, barely taller than the gently-sloping thatched roof, sways softly in the breeze. A modest entrance of a draped animal hide flutters at the whim of the wind, occasionally revealing glimpses of the inside, where Paxo plays enthusiastically. As we get closer, the smell of maize cooking on a small hearth sporadically escapes the dwelling.

Upon seeing me, Paxo's face lights up. Before I've taken even two steps into the hut, he greets me with a tremendous hug. Apparently, today, I am simply unable to avoid being touched by anyone from Qespina.

"Come, sit," the mother offers me a mat on the floor next to the hearth. She waves her hand toward the area as she returns to the cooking maize, inspecting its progress. "I was just starting the meal, which I hope you can partake in. It isn't much, but I hope the 'Goddess Savior of Qespina' will accept my humble offering."

She smirks at the last part of her statement and chuckles. It's a relief, as I was worried I may have fallen into the hands of yet another misguided worshipper. Especially after what she witnessed regarding her son in the cave, I'm pleasantly surprised this isn't the case.

"So, it's just the two of you here?" I ask. I fear I may be coming across as insensitive, particularly if the child's father passed away tragically. I don't want to reopen old wounds. However, I'm curious about the woman's living and family situation, fretting if I'm imposing upon her modest life and routine. She doesn't appear upset nor insulted, focused attentively on rotating and cooking the maize on the tiny grill using wooden utensils.

"It has been Paxo and I since he appeared in the village," she says casually.

"Appeared?"

"Indeed," she says with a nod. "Wouldn't say a word. Just walked into Qespina with only the clothes on his back. A young thing. No one is certain of his age, and he didn't know his numbers when he arrived. We assume he's a handful of harvests old. He talks now, but never about his birth mother or father. Everyone in the village assumes the worse, with the war and all...