Chapter 95: The Caravan South

Trail through Chiapas, Mexico 1822

The dusty road east rises beneath the hooves of the mules, clings to Ixchel’s sandals, settles into the folds of Yalitza’s huipil. She walks beside Ixchel, her small hand wrapped around Ixchel’s fingers, swinging their arms lightly as though this journey is a game.

The morning sun is warm but not yet harsh. The mountains cast long shadows across the narrow path. Ixchel walks with steady purpose; Yalitza walks with bright curiosity, turning her head at every bird call, every rustle in the brush.

I feel the rhythm of their steps through the bracelet. Ixchel’s are measured and determined. Yalitza’s are light, quick, and full of wonder.

The caravan is small ... seven people, two mules, and a cart that creaks with every turn of the wheel.

The young couple walk ahead of us. They hold hands tightly, whispering to each other as though afraid the wind might steal their words. Yalitza watches them with fascination.

“Are they married?” she asks.

“Almost,” Ixchel says.

“Are we almost something too?” Yalitza asks.

Ixchel laughs softly. “We’re almost travellers.”

Yalitza beams.

Behind us walks the wounded soldier. His arm is bandaged, his gait uneven. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, searching the hills for danger. Yalitza stares at him with solemn interest.

“Does his arm hurt?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Ixchel says. “But we’re helping him.”

Yalitza nods, as though this is a great responsibility she shares.

The priest walks beside the cart. He watches Ixchel with the same expression he gives the sky: wary, suspicious, as though both might be hiding something dangerous. His cassock is dusty and his boots worn. He grips a wooden cross tightly whenever Ixchel opens her notebook.

Yalitza keeps her distance from him.

The merchant leads the mules. He knows the roads, the river crossings, and the safe places to camp. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice carries the weight of long travel and longer memory.

We stop at a bend in the road where the mountains open into a wide valley. The merchant calls for a rest. The young couple sit beneath a tree, sharing a piece of bread. The soldier lowers himself onto a rock, wincing as he adjusts his bandaged arm. Ixchel kneels beside the soldier.