Page 92 of The Lost Guardian

He was enchanted by it.

I like her, he thought. The realization was embarrassingly obvious, and yet it took him by complete and utter surprise. I’m not just attracted to her. I like her.

It was impossible, of course. She was like the moon. Mysterious and ever-changing, but bright enough to make her presence known anywhere she went.

She was brave, and not just in the face of huaqueros and guns. She had been through things no child should, and she’d triumphed in the face of it.

He’d rather argue with her in the sweltering jungle than enjoy the comforts of civilization without her. She was a tapestry of color, each thread of her existence woven together in a mesmerizing work of art.

And he was just Santiago Rios.

It didn’t pain him. Not too much, at least. If he could have a little longer with her, he would be all right.

“That was really, really bad,” Ali said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Horrible, really.”

“Yeah,” Santiago replied, feeling his lips pull into a foolish grin. “Horrible.”

28

Eventually, the languidly setting sun forced them to abandon their search for the night. They set up camp together this time.

After a dinner of quinoa stew, Santiago lay flat on the forest floor, looking up at an infinite expanse of stars. They reminded him of tiny shards of glass, shattered against an indigo sky. Or the freckles that danced across Ali’s skin.

Despite the marvel he lay under, his soul was heavy. They had walked all day with nothing to show for it, and Inti Raymi was fast approaching. Abuelo Manco’s remains hung like an anvil around his neck.

He knew that indulging in self-flagellation for their lack of progress wouldn’t solve anything, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was failing.

That he was a failure.

Santiago felt Ali settling down next to him. He wanted to resent her presence, to be left alone to brood in peace. But the truth was that he felt better with her by his side.

“Some recorded hymns call the night sky ‘hananqocha,’” he said after a long, quiet pause. “I always thought that was nice.”

“The sea of heaven,” she interpreted.

“More like ‘the sky sea,’” he responded. “Since the Inca didn’t have the same concept of heaven as the conquistadores. After colonization, there was a tendency to compare Andean beliefs directly to Catholic ones. The word ‘hanan’ can mean the world above, or the world of the gods, but it’s more like another plane of existence. Different than a Christian or Catholic view of ‘heaven.’”

“The sea above,” Ali corrected, and Santiago smiled. “That fits with them seeing the Milky Way as a river,” she added.

“Two rivers,” Santiago said.

Ali grinned at him. “You remembered,” she said, sounding pleased.

Afraid he was going to stare, Santiago turned his gaze back to the night sky.

“Of course I did,” he whispered.

Ali took a weighty breath beside him. After a moment, she lifted her arm and pointed. “Those four stars right there? That’s the Southern Cross constellation, or Crux.”

“The constellation that inspired the chakana?” Santiago asked. He followed the slope of her fingers until his gaze landed on the four bright points.

“I see it.” He smiled.

“‘Chaka’ means ‘bridge’ or ‘to cross,’” she added. “This constellation is a bridge to the different realms of existence. Like Ukhu Pacha. The land of the dead.” His head and heart swam.

“They really loved astronomy, huh?” he marveled. “Just like you.”

Santiago watched as Ali fiddled with the cuffs of her sleeves. Well, his sleeves. She was still wearing his flannel.