The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina

by Zoraida Cordova

  “Go, Marimar!” Lázaro yelled as he fell to his knees. She felt the temperature drop, frost creeping against the walls.

  The wall of magic that froze Rey and Rhiannon was lifted. They stumbled into Marimar and she seized them. She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t look back to see her father’s fate. She held onto her cousins and stepped into the beam of moonlight. A force tried to pull her back, but she fought hard.

  Marimar thought of home. Four Rivers with its great blanket of sky. Her garden. Her orchard. Her house that she’d bled for. She heard her mother’s laughter as if she was standing right beside her.

  “Did you know that there’s a secret door at the bottom of the lake?” she told Marimar.

  “No way,” Marimar said. “You can’t have doors in lakes.”

  “Where do you think all the fish came from, silly?”

  Marimar saw it now, the door. A kaleidoscope of celestial light. She stepped right through.

  33

  THE STARS FELL OVER FOUR RIVERS

  Rey’s first thought upon opening his eyes was that he should have taken his mother up on those swimming lessons. The second one was that even if he’d learned to swim, he still couldn’t breathe under water. When he looked back, the prism of light that Marimar had created was gone. He made the mistake of being startled by a tiny silver fish and sucked in a mouthful of water. The next thing he knew was that Rhiannon, his seven-year-old cousin, was the one dragging both of them out of the slimy depths of the lake.

  After belly crawling themselves onto the shore, they coughed and sputtered, and he was certain he’d swallowed a fish.

  “You couldn’t have teleported us onto the shoreline with your star magic?” Rey choked. Somehow, they still had Orquídea’s fishing net and knife with them.

  “I don’t know, Rey, I’ve never done that before. I was just hoping none of us combusted along the way. Let’s go. We have to warn the others. We have to warn Orquídea.”

  Rhiannon raised her arm to the lake. “It’s them!”

  The wind came first, clearing the sky, like someone had taken an eraser to the evening heavens. She thought of Lázaro and their matching constellation of freckles. She felt a pressure in her stomach. The lake’s surface bubbled and churned, twisting into a whirlpool, and she knew that Bolívar had followed her.

  Marimar, Rey, and Rhiannon ran from the lake to the house, their path lit by incandescent dragonflies and lighting bugs. When she chanced a look back, Bolívar was trudging across the valley and pulling Lázaro along.

  “Hurry!” Marimar urged. She opened her mouth to scream when a piercing cry split the valley awake.

  “Bless that zombie rooster,” Rey said, as they reached the porch.

  Marimar saw her laurel leaf was intact. She touched the wound at her throat again and swallowed the urge to wail along with Jameson.

  The front door swung open and the Montoya clan spilled out of the house that Marimar had built. There were Juan Luis and Gastón, Ernesta and Caleb Jr., Enrique, Tía Silvia and Reina.

  “What’s happened?” Enrique asked.

  “They’re coming!” Rey managed. There was no time to explain. “We have to protect Orquídea.”

  Marimar tried not to think of that day seven years prior, but she couldn’t help it. She knew that Enrique must have been thinking of it, too, because when their eyes met, he was crying. She’d never seen him cry, not ever, not even when he got a compound fracture when he fell down the hill after a fight with Orquídea.

  One by one, the Montoyas returned with their weapons. The baseball bat and pocketknife Chris had left behind, the shovel Enrique had used to dig Penny’s grave, butcher’s knives, hammers and wrenches, and even a curling iron. The ceiba roots sprouted out of the ground like keloids on skin, the moonstone baby embedded in the trunk glowed as they gathered around Orquídea’s tree.

  The sky that had been clear moments before changed. Clouds gathered over the valley as two figures moved like vengeance coming to call. Bolívar’s aura refracted like light on water. His clothes were singed in places. His long black hair blew in the storm winds. He was younger again, closer to the man in the wedding photographs they’d discovered. A man who believed the world was made for him alone. At his side, Lázaro wavered as if a strong wind might scatter him like dandelion seeds.

  “Come out, Orquídea!” Bolívar shouted. “Come face me, Divina!”

  The Montoyas stood their ground, but there was nothing they could do to stop the crack of lighting that split the ceiba tree open.

  * * *

  Orquídea Divina wanted to rest, but she had too much unfinished business. She held her head high, her spirit evanescent as she stepped out of the tree with Pedrito in her arms. She’d spent years running from the memory of Bolívar Londoño III. And there he was, in the flesh. He wore his favorite blue velvet, the same damned top hat. His smile, the one she’d loved so much, turned into manic delight, then, distraught.

  He punched his chest. “Mi Divina.”

  “You got old, Bolívar,” she said. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Mi Orquídea,” Bolívar said, his voice as possessive as it was mournful. He breathed hard and fast, trembling in place as he studied her and their son. There were burning white flames within him. Impotent rage at the memories she evoked. He whimpered and extended a fist toward his family. “You took everything, and yet you could never outrun me.”

  “Not for a lack of trying, querido.” When she held her head up high, she was still that show girl, dazzling the world with her smile, her voice, her charms that had been hers and hers alone. “You always knew how to get what you wanted.”

  “Enough of this, Divina. Come back to me,” Bolívar wailed softly, like a wounded beast.

  Orquídea took in her family once again. They dusted themselves off from the lightning blast and stood ready to protect her, as she’d tried and failed to protect them. She’d been gone for years, but had she ever truly been present when they’d needed her? Marimar had led an expedition to the center of the earth just to get to know her. Despite it all, her family had blossomed without her, and the realization hurt more than Bolívar ever could. She would never fail them again.

  Her gaze then fell to Lázaro, nearly drained of life. His kindness had been a balm and it had turned out to be the worst mistake he’d ever made.

  “I told you I was cursed when I met you, Bolívar,” Orquídea said. “And yet you want me still?”

  “I wished for you, Orquídea. The universe saw fit to bring you to me. I made mistakes, but I gave my heart to you and you alone, and I know you gave yours to me.”

  She considered this as she brushed a lock of hair away from Pedrito’s forehead, the ghost of his infant sounds haunted her still.

  “Leave the others,” Orquídea said, “and Pedrito, and I will go with you.”

  “No!” Marimar shouted. “You can’t just do that. Not after everything.”

  “Mom,” Enrique whispered. “Mom, please. I’m sorry.”

  Orquídea held up her hand. She would do this. They would accept it. “I’m so proud of you. All of you.”

  Then, she made her way back into Bolívar’s arms. The winds picked up. The weight of the sky felt like it would crush the valley.

  Marimar looked at her father who’d fallen to his knees. This man, who claimed to have sailed through the cosmos, rendered to nothing. She looked at her cousins, her aunts, and uncles. Orquídea’s weakness was her family, and they’d led her back to the very person she’d given everything to run from.

  Who was she to stop this?

  The answer came to her in a flood. She was Marimar Montoya. Her mother chose the name. Mar y mar. Sea and sea. In the middle of the Four Rivers valley, away from the oceans, she pulled on that spark that had always been within her. The granddaughter of Orquídea Divina Montoya, Bastard Daughter of the Waves, a girl who couldn’t swim, had never even stepped into the sea.

  But here, in her family’s home, she was river and
salt and that same sea found her. She was the mouth of an ancient god who would swallow the world. She was an ocean of stories, memories, thousands of little moments that made up her whole being.

  A slick warmth trickled down from her throat as a new flower bud penetrated the wound. When she touched it, she could feel the thick petals of her new bloom.

  Rey and Rhiannon closed ranks beside her and held her hands. They formed a chain. Then, Marimar let out a scream that shook the valley.

  How do you fight a thing that believes it owns you? How do you fight the past? With gold leaves and salt? With silence? With new earth beneath your feet? With the bodies, the hearts of others?

  With hearts that are tender and bloodied but have thorns of their own.

  With the family that chooses you.

  * * *

  Bolívar Londoño III’s presence in their valley felt wrong, and the land which had protected Orquídea Divina for so long was ready to fight back. It simply needed a little help.

  Rey felt the ground tremble. He could feel them, all of them, the earth itself, as they clawed their way out. Roots of faraway trees split the ground. They grabbed hold of Bolívar’s ankles. Blood gushed from Rey’s nose from the effort. He knew that he was shedding petals, but he didn’t feel weak. Instead, he dove headfirst into the sensation of being part of the valley. Rey raised a fist in the air. The clouds split open with rain, feeding the hungry lake until it surged and flooded, like a river racing to wash away their sins.

  But as hard as they fought, Bolívar was still stronger. He ripped free from his bindings and lashed out, twisting his signet ring to draw from Lázaro’s life force. He shouted Orquídea’s name. She remained unmoving, clutching her moonstone child, as her family fought to protect her soul. Her children formed a barrier around her, the rhythm of their hearts so fierce, the whole valley could hear them beat.

  Bolívar lunged for Ernesta first, but Juan Luis swung his bat. There was the crunch of bone. Bolívar’s jaw snapped out of place, but he popped it back with a low rumble. Enrique swung the shovel. It lodged in Bolívar’s side, but he only yanked it out.

  “Don’t you see?” Bolívar said. “You are fighting the infinite.”

  He pulsed with blinding light, expelling a force that knocked everyone down.

  Marimar coughed up mud as she pushed herself to stand. She thought of her dead. She thought of Quilca in his river, so ancient, so close to being forgotten. Her father was on the ground, a spark of light pulsed fainty in his heart. And she knew, nothing was infinite, not truly. Not even the stars. She reached for her power, the network of veins and sinew and chaos that connected her to these people. She used it to guide the flooding river in a wave. It crashed over Bolívar’s head until he stopped moving.

  There was a brief moment when Marimar felt a wash of relief, but even mortality couldn’t stop Bolívar Londoño III. He rose from the sodden earth and relished the mud, the rain. He twisted the signet ring on his finger, surveying the wild green that surrounded them.

  “This is the place that hid you from me,” he said to Orquídea. “I would like to see it burn.”

  A second lightning bolt tore the ceiba tree further apart. Molten fire spilled from its core. Its flowers curled into black husks and withered in the rain. Dead insects and birds pelted the grass.

  It was then that Marimar heard a voice in her mind. A whisper hurrying to solidify.

  “Marimar.” It was Rhiannon. “Rey.”

  They turned to the youngest Montoya and saw the intent in her eyes. The little girl nodded once. By accepting their gifts, wholly and completely, they were connected.

  “You can do this,” Marimar whispered in their shared thoughts.

  “We’ve got you, little one,” Rey repeated.

  “I’m not afraid,” Rhiannon told them.

  She readied the net that Quilca had given them. In their shared dreams, Mamá Orquídea had shown her how to use it, how she’d cast it in the water and pull in her catch.

  Then Orquídea whispered in their thoughts. “Now, Rhiannon. Now.”

  The little fairy child closed her eyes and pictured Orquídea on the river. The sun danced on the water, and Quilca the river monster was waiting for its share. Rhiannon threw the net. There was nothing stronger than a vow.

  Orquídea’s first pact singed into Bolívar’s skin and pinned him to the ground. His face contorted in disbelief. Marimar crouched down at his side and sawed off his finger with her grandmother’s fishing knife. Then, she made a wish.

  The ground beneath Bolívar’s feet ruptured. The earth was hungry, and it would clean its teeth with Bolívar Londoño III’s bones.

  * * *

  The valley smelled of smoke and upturned earth. The Montoyas remained gathered around the smoldering split trunk of the ceiba tree for a long time. First in silence. No insects, no night creatures, not even wind made a sound. The valley held its breath, a reminder that they were alive. Then the fireflies returned. Each and every one of them exhaled. Jameson let out a victorious crow as Rey ran inside. Their silence turned into crying, relief, terror, hope, and music. Always music. It poured out of the open windows, and the front door as Rey returned with a bottle of Marimar’s favorite whiskey.

  Rey yanked the cork with his teeth and raised a shoulder at Marimar. “You said you were saving it for a special occasion. What better occasion than our grandmother’s resurrection?”

  “You’ll only be able to use that excuse once,” Orquídea said, and took the bottle from Rey and drank straight.

  The Montoyas laughed together, as they never had before. And then there was another first.

  “We deserve the truth,” Enrique said, with his head lowered to his mother’s ghost.

  Orquídea touched his chin, leveling their eyes, and shed shimmering tears that never hit the ground. “It’s a very long story.”

  But she told them everything.

  * * *

  Lázaro hung back at the fringes of a family he did not belong to. But after decades, he languished in a moment of rest. Besides, a part of him did not want to leave yet. He wanted to raise Pena’s spirit, see her one last time. He did not want to leave Marimar before he could truly meet her, his daughter, his miracle.

  They were pretty thoughts, but he’d been the cause of enough harm on this earth.

  “You look stronger,” Marimar said, and sat beside him at the base of the hill.

  Lázaro inhaled the valley air. Though he longed for the sky, he couldn’t help but touch the living things around him. Dirt and grass and wildflowers. Glowing insects were drawn to him. This valley, after all, was born out of his power.

  “I feel stronger,” he told her.

  She extended her palm and offered his ring back. When she’d separated the ring from the finger, Jameson had been there to rid the valley of any traces of Bolívar Londoño. “This belongs to you.”

  “I thank you,” Lázaro said, slipping the ring back on his pale hand. “I did not let myself believe I would ever be free of him. But I would endure this, just to have known you even for a moment, Marimar.”

  She licked her cracked lips and found the courage to hold her father’s hand. “Where will you go?”

  He smiled, and she found they had the same wry grin. He simply looked up.

  * * *

  As the hours passed, and Orquídea began to fade, Lázaro and Marimar rejoined the family. The Living Star and Orquídea Divina faced each other after so many years apart. There were not enough words that could be spoken. They were entangled deeper than roots and always would be, and that was enough. Sometimes silence said enough.

  The moment they faded into prisms of light, thousands of shooting stars filled the sky.

  Others outside of the valley, who had not witnessed the miracles of that night, would call it an omen, government conspiracy, the end of times, a blessing from the gods.

  For Marimar, it was simply a goodbye.

  34

  NOW

  Marimar
wrote everything down like she’d always wanted to. First, the trickle of a few lines in a notebook. Then, her words became ocean again.

  In the first few months following the meteor shower, the Montoyas moved back home. Marimar didn’t mind, even if Rey forgot to replace the wine he consumed from the cellar, and even if Juan Luis and Gastón preferred to write their songs in the middle of the night when not even the valley’s animals howled.

  Tía Silvia and Enrique were usually in the kitchen. He wanted to learn all of his mother’s old recipes. He wanted to learn the things he’d never gotten a chance to. There would never be the curse of silence in the valley again, not if they could help it.

  Once a month, every month during the third quarter moon, everyone came to dinner. Even the ghosts, even Orquídea. They announced themselves with Gabo’s howl. After Bolívar’s demise, the ceiba tree came alive, the wound down its center grafting back together with scarred skin. But the faithful blue rooster that had protected the Montoyas and their valley, had followed Orquídea into the afterlife, and after dying a final time and being resurrected as a spirit, Orquídea changed his name back. Gabo’s ghost was always the first to return, announcing the others.

  Penny’s spirit would hide the twins’ guitar picks. Uncle Félix drifted around the ceiling with Pena, while Parcha might smoke the cigars left out on the altar with Martin. But Orquídea was only ever found in an upholstered chair in front of the fire, sipping an offering of whiskey as Rhiannon played with Pedrito at her feet.

  Rhiannon’s rose never stopped changing and she never stopped talking to the dragonflies that returned, the birds and deer that trailed after her. Mike’s parents eventually called to check up on their granddaughter, but it was Marimar who adopted her. Marimar who told her the same stories their mothers grew up hearing. It was Rey who taught her how to paint, how to curse, how to find hidden doors. Enrique who taught her how to apologize. Caleb Jr. who taught her about the science of plants. Ernesta, how to classify the species of fish that should not exist in their valley, but the Montoyas had a habit of ignoring what should be possible.