Page 52 of The Lost Guardian

Their presence was soon noticed, whispers jumping from ear to ear and wide eyes turning in their direction. Ali crossed her arms with stoic defiance at the attention. Santiago shifted on his feet, raising a tentative hand to wave. Finally, a middle-aged man, sun-bronzed and weather-worn from years of desert heat, approached them, his arms thrown wide.

“Friends!” he greeted them in Quechua, embracing Santiago in a quick but firm hug and smacking a welcoming kiss on Ali’s cheek. His own cheeks were pink and flushed and he smelled faintly of beer.

“We’re so sorry to interrupt,” Santiago began, his Quechua rusty and accented from disuse. Before he could say more, the man waved his hands fiercely in front of his face, as if batting Santiago’s words away.

“My very good friends, you interrupt nothing!” he belted, voice pitched higher to be heard above the crowd. “My name is Alfredo. I am the alcalde of this town,” he said, switching to Spanish for the word for “mayor.”

“And my beautiful daughter Augustina has been married on this day!” He beamed proudly, gesturing to the white-washed wooden church at the northern end of the square.

It was appropriately small, given the size of their community, but today was decorated with ribbons of fabric, flowers, and candles. So many candles, in fact, that Santiago was slightly worried for the safety of the wooden structure, but he held his tongue. In front of the building stood a pretty woman in a layered white dress, eyes overflowing with affection for the barrel-chested young man at her side.

“Our congratulations,” Ali answered him in Quechua, visibly relaxing. “It is a happy day for you and your family.”

“More so now that you are here,” Alfredo added. “We rarely have visitors, and to have them on the day of my daughter’s marriage? It must be a good omen, a good omen indeed.”

“I’m afraid we have less joyous news to report,” Ali told him regretfully. “We are only here because our tire burst about a mile up the road, and we have no spare—”

“But this is in fact joyous news!” the man argued. “You have given us the chance to start my child’s marriage with a good deed, and that will bless them most thoroughly. Come, come,” he insisted, leading them farther into the celebration. “Tonight you eat, drink, and rejoice with us, yes? We have a guesthouse nearby where guest workers stay in harvest season. It is empty now. Tomorrow morning we will set your car to rights.”

Ali frowned. “We are in a bit of a hurry…” she began, but Alfredo waved her off.

“No rush tonight! Tonight is only for celebration.”

Santiago looked around. It seemed like the entire village was at the festivities. They wouldn’t find help tonight. At least the mayor was offering them a good meal and a warm place to sleep.

He exchanged a small shrug with Ali.

“It’ll be too late to visit the Ransom Room tonight,” she told him quietly. “We’d have to find a place to stay overnight either way.”

They would find no better offer elsewhere, and Santiago had to admit that a night of good rest in a proper bed was a more appealing proposition than more long hours in their cramped car.

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Ali answered the mayor politely.

In a moment, their packs were pulled off their backs and taken down the road. Santiago and Ali were dragged to a long and laden table, brimming with mouthwatering food.

The sweet smells of garlic and onion, ají amarillo, and sautéed meat hung in the air so thick, Santiago could practically taste the ingredients on his tongue. A young woman approached them shyly, holding two plates. She offered to serve them. They both insisted that they could serve themselves, but the girl stood firm.

“Is there ceviche?” Santiago asked, eyes skimming the feast. It was his favorite thing to order in the Peruvian restaurants back home, and he was eager to try it in its country of origin.

Ali shook her head, however, turning to the girl.

“We’ll both have papa rellena, if there is any,” she said in Quechua. “And humitas, please.”

Santiago frowned at her, annoyed at being overruled on his own dinner.

“We are not in Lima, Rios,” she chided him, motioning around. “We’re ten hours north and well into the mountains. I promise, you don’t want raw fish.”

Oh.

Santiago felt very foolish. Of course, Ali was right. He was thinking like an American, accustomed to the ease of supermarkets and their well-stocked freezers, even in the offseason.

“Understood,” he said, cheeks warming against the chilled air. “And thanks,” he added. Ali had saved him from what could have been a very bad night.

They sat themselves at a small table near the edge of the dance floor. The serving girl returned with a glass of amber liquid. She handed it to Santiago with a short bow, smiling widely.

Santiago took it from her, a little confused, as he had not asked for any drink. She waited expectantly until he raised the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip.

The drink was slightly sweet but mostly acidic, with a tart aftertaste. It was new to him, though refreshing, so he drank more. He smiled at the girl, and she flushed before rushing away.