The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  “He can’t spray,” I assured her. “My grandfather removed his stink glands.”

  “Pobrecito,” she said, touching his nose to hers. “Poor little guy. Three legs and no stink. You’ll just have to find a new weapon, huh?”

  “He has one,” I said, motioning to my duck. “Thunder. Our grumpy guard duck.”

  Esma’s laughter rang out, a melody like raindrops on leaves. “Think she could guard me from the boria?” she joked. “Next time my stepmother tries to whack me, Thunder can fly up and bite her hand.”

  “Actually, ankles are her specialty.” I grinned. “And greenish-yellow poo on shoes.”

  As we talked, I settled beside her, only a sliver of space between us. I breathed in the smell of earth and corn and leaves and night, and the spice and wood smoke that clung to her. She smelled like the promise of distant lands, of adventure, of possibility. I reached over and stroked the animals’ fur and feathers, and our fingers brushed, and more lightning passed into me.

  “My powers flare up when I’m with you,” she said.

  “I know,” I said softly. “I feel it in your fingertips.”

  And there in the dappled moonlight, with creatures warm and breathing, and lightning passing between the places our skin touched, we told each other all the things that best friends share.

  She showed me her new beads and shells and coins, like blooms on vines winding around her neck, her wrists, in and out of locks of her hair. Some she’d found at the sea, she said, and some in the jungle, and some in pine forests, and some in deserts.

  She told me how her stepmother wouldn’t let her sleep in the wagon anymore and made her sleep outside instead, even during storms. It was a good thing, too, because thanks to her lightning powers, one night, camping beside a river, she awoke hours before dawn, knowing something bad was about to happen. Then she saw the river rising, fast, and using her talent for screaming at the top of her lungs, she woke the others. They moved to higher land just before the water flooded the valley.

  Another night, they were camped in a field with some other Romani caravans near Mexico City, when Esma woke up smelling gasoline and smoke. She saw that someone had lit fire to the dried grasses, and the flames were zipping toward their wagons. Again, her screaming skills paid off, and within two seconds, she’d woken up everyone in camp. They moved their wagons just before the flames could engulf them. Esma narrowed her eyes and said, “I knew who set the fire—I saw him—a man who’d fought with my father earlier that evening. But later that night, there was a storm, and the man’s house was struck by lightning.” She grinned, triumphant. “Lightning avenged me!”

  And on and on we went, exchanging stories. Hers were more exciting than mine, and mostly involved her saving herself and her entire caravan from doom. She definitely didn’t need anyone to save her, not with lightning powers on her side.

  At first I was nervous, and my words came out stuttering, but soon they flowed between us like warm honey. I told her about my animals’ antics, how when Flash got grumpy, he’d raise his tail in anger, assuming he was spraying his offender, then strut smugly away. I told her how I saw Lucita in my animals, in starlight, in sunlit clouds, in the paths of hummingbirds … and how happy, mixed with sad, it made me.

  Esma told me she’d composed secret songs about missing me and Thunder. She sang them lightly, under her breath, and shivers and sparks danced over my skin, through my blood.

  In whispers, we talked until the church bell struck midnight. And then she said, “Alas, my friend for life, I must bid you farewell. The boria will be wondering why there’s no squash head around to whack.”

  “What’ll you tell them?”

  She thought for a moment, cradling Flash in her arms. “That I encountered a vicious skunk and had to stay perfectly still so it wouldn’t spray me.”

  “Creative storytelling,” I said.

  “Well, Flash is pretty vicious,” she laughed, as the skunk ran up her arm and nibbled at a red ribbon woven into her braid. She handed me Flash and stood up, adjusting her headscarf. “Until tomorrow, Teo.”

  Esma left first, just in case anyone was still in the plaza, and I stayed with my animals, warm in the afterglow of her lightning. I wondered if I could face the beautiful, evil Maestra María again, in order to make Esma’s dream come true. It wasn’t exactly saving her, but it was close. And as I thought, a question took shape in my mind—the perfect question for tomorrow’s visit from Roza, Mistress of Destiny.

  Back home, I poked my head into Grandfather’s room. He’d waited up for me. I was touched; lately he’d been going to sleep earlier and earlier, sometimes before twilight, skipping supper altogether.

  “Teo! Come in!”

  He sat on his petate, leaning against the adobe wall, smiling with tired eyes. He looked small, huddled in his poncho; lately he’d gotten chilled so easily. His room smelled of earth and incense and herbs and wool and beeswax—Grandfather’s unique combination of scents.

  “Tell me about the movie, Teo,” he said, reaching out to smooth Spark’s ears. Once you started petting her ears, it was hard to stop.

  I told him about the beautiful, heartless woman with the alluring eyebrows. “She looked just like that teacher I had,” I added, then fell quiet, remembering Esma’s request.

  Grandfather stroked Flash’s fur for a long moment. “Is there something more?”

  It was as if he could peer into my mind, the spaces between words.

  “Esma wants me to go back to school.”

  He tilted his head, surprised. “And?”

  “Well,” I said, looking away. “I don’t know. I have the goats and my chores.”

  He studied my face. “Your cousins could help. Lalo could take over your chores, and Chucho could do Lalo’s. They’re old enough now.”

  I looked down. “People like us—we’re not welcome in school. I can’t stand how the teacher treats us.”

  For a moment, he was quiet. Then he said, “You already speak Spanish. This gives you a voice. And when you learn to read, your voice will be stronger. So strong you will be able to demand the teacher’s respect. Not just for yourself, but for others.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. My voice felt like a dusty whisper now. I made a last grasp at an excuse. “But what about helping with your patients?”

  He shrugged. “I only have energy for a few patients a day anyway. And since Paco is back in town, he can help translate.”

  I didn’t like the idea of Uncle Paco in the healing hut instead of me.

  Reluctantly, I asked, “You think the patients would feel comfortable with him?”

  “No, but I think sometimes if you give a person a role, he steps up to it. And anyway, you learning to read is more important.” His eyes twinkled. “And Esma is still your friend for life, isn’t she?”

  I nodded quickly. I thought of Esma and Maestra María. At the heart of it, my loyalty to Esma was greater than my fear of the maestra. I wasn’t so much of a coward to be scared of a teacher, was I? I was twelve years old now. What could she do to me?

  In the angled morning sunlight, I was scattering corn for the turkeys when a cluster of Romani women and children strutted up our path. Roza’s nose did a happy jig as my entire family gathered in the courtyard, eager for their fortunes. “Buenos días,” she said in her choppy accent, and then something that Esma translated as, “It’s marvelous to be back!”

  Aunt Perla stepped forward, holding her new husband’s hand. Before their marriage, he’d been a widower for years. Now they lived just a few houses down, but she made sure to be here bright and early so she could show him off to the Rom. “Look!” she squealed. “My husband. Strong and handsome, with brown eyes and black hair.” She squeezed his bicep, ruffled his hair. “Just like you said!”

  The others looked doubtfully at her husband. True, his eyes were brown, but his hair was more gray than black, and his predominant feature was not muscle but a large gut hanging over his waistband. And hands
ome? Well, that was stretching it. His teeth looked stolen from a horse, so big that his mouth never quite closed. And then there was his chronically stuffed nose, certainly not mentioned in the fortune. Yet my aunt believed he was handsome, and he doted on her like she was a princess.

  She patted her round belly. “And you were right! A baby!”

  Roza nodded, twitching her nose, unsurprised but obviously pleased. Esma translated the boria’s polite murmurs of congratulations.

  My grandfather hobbled out. “Welcome, Mistress of Destiny. We hope your people will come again to our … special yearly event. It’s in three days.”

  Upon hearing the translation, Roza nodded, let her hand linger in his, patted it with her other one. “It would be our honor.”

  Grandfather led us all into the healing hut, and as I unstacked chairs for our guests, he lit candles.

  The fortunes were similar to last year—marriages, babies, bouts of good luck, bouts of bad luck, things lost and found. When my turn came, I perched on the wooden seat across from Roza and Esma, twisting the hem of my shirt.

  “And what is your question, Teo, my friend for life?” Esma asked, exuberant.

  Softly, I translated. My relatives raised their eyebrows, curious about my friendship with this Romani girl. My cousins giggled and made jokes and low whistles.

  A blush warmed my face. I looked at Esma for a moment, then flicked my eyes to Roza. “Mistress of Destiny,” I asked, “should I go to school?”

  There was another flurry of murmurs and baffled whispers.

  Roza looked amused at the question, her mouth widening into a five-toothed smile. “That’s a new one. Haven’t heard that before.”

  As Esma translated back and forth, her eyes glittered with hope.

  I dealt the cards as Roza instructed and watched her nose flutter as her gaze swept over the cards—a jumble of swords and cauldrons and goblets and royalty and suns and moons that meant nothing to me.

  She shook her head and muttered something.

  Esma’s shoulders sank, and a shadow passed over her face. She took a deep breath and began arguing with Roza. After a storm of impassioned words flew between them, Roza smacked Esma’s head lightly and tugged her braid and gave her a command.

  Esma hesitated before translating, her voice bitter. “No, you shouldn’t go to school. It’s a … it’s a waste of time.” She blinked back angry tears.

  Pipe bobbing, Roza studied her granddaughter. Her nostrils expanded to nearly double their size as she sucked in a long breath. After a moment, her nose calmed and her eyes softened. She spoke again, resigning herself to something.

  A smile broke out over Esma’s face. She translated, giddy. “You shouldn’t go to school. No child should. But the fact is, you will! You will go to school! For reasons more noble than most. You will learn to read. And it will change your life. And the lives of others!”

  Roza narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips and added something else.

  Esma suppressed a smile as she said, “The Mistress of Destiny would like to make it very clear that in her own opinion, however, school is not recommended.”

  With a glint in his eye, Grandfather nodded at Roza and said, “Thank you for that true fortune.”

  “You go next,” Lalo said, urging my grandfather forward.

  I stood up to offer the seat.

  He shook his head. “I’m an old man. Fortunes are for the young.”

  But Chucho and my other cousins pushed. “Come on, come on, Grandfather.”

  With a sigh, he consented and sat down, looking almost sadly at Roza. With trembling hands, he dealt the cards.

  Roza gazed at the cards, then at his face, deep creases at the corners of his eyes from years of smiles, and between his brows from years of compassion for others’ pain. And lately, from some of his own pain.

  Her nose held perfectly still, motionless as a statue. Something passed between the two of them. Something beyond words, something that remained unspoken. She laid her hand over his. “Your grandson will bring you great joy.”

  Grandfather appeared relieved. “He already does.” He added, “He also brings me three-legged skunks and baby ducks and blind goats.”

  Laughter filled the room, and as if on cue, Flash squirmed out of my arms and onto the table, attempting to gnaw at the fortune cards. Then Thunder spewed out a wave of curmudgeonly whistles, as if to say, Quiet down, now! She didn’t like crowds or closed-up spaces or noise … unless she was making it herself. With all the ruckus, Spark the goat began to baah and stumble around, confused.

  Embarrassed, I scooped up Flash and set him firmly in my lap, then drew Spark in close, stroking her ear.

  As my cousins joked about my animals, Grandfather and Roza continued to stare at each other, in silent conversation. Despite the commotion, her nose remained still as a leaf on a windless day.

  And then Uncle Paco entered the room, limping slightly from his too-tight footwear. “What’s going on here?” he bellowed in Spanish.

  Thunder gave him an unwelcoming whistle and stood between me and my uncle, protectively.

  Roza broke her gaze with Grandfather. Like the hair on the back of a dog, her nose stood up, tall and ready for a fight.

  I groaned inside. I’d been hoping Uncle had slept in late this morning, as he did most mornings, lost in dreams of sewage pipes and television.

  “Well?” he demanded. And again, louder now, “What are these people doing in my home?”

  My relatives didn’t answer, simply looked the other way as if that could make him disappear. The odor of shoe polish oozed through the room.

  “Answer me!” he shouted in Mixteco first, then in Spanish. He swung his arms around wildly, nearly hitting Aunt Perla in the face. Her husband pulled her in close, gaping at Uncle.

  Esma cracked the silence, her head high. “We’re reading fortunes, señor.”

  He glared at her, then at the others. “I’ll tell you what they’re doing! They’re getting you in a crowded space and distracting you so these little Gypsy brats can pick your pockets.” He pointed to Da, Ga, and Ba, who were more interested in picking their noses than any pockets.

  His rant continued, a furious mix of Spanish and Mixteco. “Criminals, all of them. I’ve seen Gypsies in the city, how they work, like sneaky foxes. They’ll even steal your kids.”

  Esma kept her chin jutting bravely out, and translated not a word. But her people’s offended expressions made it clear they understood the gist.

  My stomach was in knots. We’d worked so hard to forge a friendship, not just between me and Esma but between our people. What if my uncle ruined it all?

  Grandfather spoke. His voice sounded more fragile than ever but had a calmness that commanded attention. “Son,” he said to Uncle, “these are honored guests. There is a respect among us. I ask you to show them this same respect.”

  This, Esma did translate, with a flash of pride.

  Uncle barged through the crowd to the table. “So read my fortune,” he challenged. “Do it now.”

  Esma whispered words to her grandmother. Roza seemed unruffled. The tip of her nose had somehow turned up, as if it were looking down on Uncle. If a nose could be indignant, this was it.

  Tapping her pipe against her teeth, she instructed him to shuffle and deal the cards. He did so, roughly, banging them on the table.

  She stared at the cards, then at him. Her words were slow and solemn.

  Esma translated, “Your insides are torn up, broken.”

  Uncle shifted uncomfortably in the chair. All my relatives listened carefully, watching his reaction.

  Esma’s translation continued. “Beware of doing something very”—and here Esma paused and seemed to hold back a smile, but then she rearranged her face into something solemn—“very stupid.”

  At that, Uncle erupted, all rage and clumsiness. He flipped the table over. Cards scattered. Roza held her ground like a mountain, with Esma at her side, but the other Romani women gasped and s
kittered backward with the toddlers. My aunts pulled away, against the wall, holding their own children. My uncles lunged toward Uncle Paco, trying to restrain him.

  But he shook off their hands.

  Anger rippled through the room. Even Flash the skunk was arching his back and stamping his feet in outrage. Fists were clenching, eyes narrowing. Someone would get hurt if this wasn’t stopped. And the Rom might leave forever. I had to do something.

  I looked at Esma for inspiration, at her gleaming silver eyes, at her fierce, proud jaw framed by braids and shells and coins. And I thought about what she would do in my place. I felt her lightning in my blood.

  I righted the chair, stepped onto it, and held up my skunk, whose bushy tail was already raised and ready. I spoke loudly, from my belly, staring straight at my uncle. And I aimed Flash’s bottom right at him.

  My cousins and other uncles and aunts were surprised but unafraid, knowing that except for his penchant for nibbling at clothes and grain sacks, my skunk was harmless. Esma murmured something to her relatives, which made them relax. Now only Uncle Paco looked wary.

  My voice thundered, low and strangely commanding in Mixteco. “Uncle, my skunk has no patience for … stupid things. He’s just about to spray.”

  That was like a bucket of cold water on Uncle’s head. He fled the room.

  I lowered Flash, who promptly began biting at a loose thread on my sleeve.

  Over the next hour, my relatives fetched payments of eggs, vegetables, and corn for their fortunes and chatted with the Romani women. The children picked up the cards from the floor, eager to touch their magic. Eventually, my aunts and uncles and cousins trickled out to return to their chores, and the Romani women and children headed outside and down the path, leaving only Roza and Esma and Grandfather and me. We lingered at the doorway, half in the sunshine.

  A tiny snort of laughter escaped from Roza. Esma pressed her lips together to keep her own laughter from bursting out.