Solarpunk: Ecological and Fantastical Stories in a Sustainable World

by Fabio Fernandes

  The panoramic elevator provided Maiara with a stunning view of all of Guanabara, its buildings and avenues blooming through the green of the woods, the gray of the hills and the blue of the sea. Once inside the library, it wasn’t difficult to find the files she was looking for. Soon the teacher arranged her father’s life work on the table right in front of her. She scanned the tomes, locating the one mentioned by Zope.

  Wind Activity Bulletin said the cover. Maiara began to read it carefully, but was soon lost amid the technical jargon of the trials, analyses, and forecasts regarding the weather conditions in South Tenoque. She sighed, beginning to doubt the purpose of her visit, when she realized something peculiar about the tome: a subtle variation in the shade of black of the writing, more intense in certain sections of the pages. A close look showed that such patterns weren’t random, on the contrary, they seemed to form perfect geometric figures within each block of text. Triangles, squares, trapezes, almost like in a…yes!

  This was it.

  The teacher’s heart was pounding. She tried to control her shaking hands with excitement as she reached for a pencil and a few blank sheets of paper in her bag. Quickly, she began to transcribe each of the bold sections of the volume, which she now saw, were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Coming from her father, it couldn’t be any different.

  It was a Zonguanese tangram, a jigsaw made up of distinct geometric shapes that, when correctly combined, resulted in a perfect square like the sheet of a tome. After copying the texts, Maiara began to fold and cut her leaves, finding the figures she had observed before. With the agility of a mind trained for years in solving puzzles, she organized the pieces, recombining passages at first glance incongruous, but which, once aligned, transformed themselves, acquiring their true meaning.

  Maiara’s eyes filled with tears.

  Her father’s secret message was revealed.

  If you are reading this, it means that I left you a long time ago, and for this I apologize. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just wish my words could bring you some sort of closure.

  The rains are almost through. Our measurements are perfect. Our ominous prediction of the near future is your reality. With each new cycle, the water is less abundant, the thunder less thunderous and lightning, the blood of our life, less brilliant.

  Anticipating this fact was our job. That’s what we did. We walked the path of the storm to its cradle. We followed the trail of the wind. But the wind has no voice. We prayed. And we prayed so much to be wrong.

  What, after all, is the unit of measurement of faith?

  What causes the gods to destroy one people to the ascension of another? Maybe the Mayans know the answer. After all, they have never stopped believing in their gods. For them, we live a lie. But if we don’t believe, does it mean that they are the deluded ones?

  The paradox persists. The gods must be imperfect, or not be at all. The possibility is real. What if we are not the dream of the gods? What if we are the dreamers? There is only one way to find out. I need to take the wind path.

  Zope will wait for my signal. If you are reading this, then we were right. We certainly were not the first. Where will the others be?

  I love you. I hope to meet you again.

  The air was sucked out of the library. Even alone, Maiara felt surrounded, suffocated. It was cold. What was her father saying?

  By the gods, what was he saying?

  It couldn’t be true. She had to get out of here. Run away, as fast as she could, and then forget the last two days had happened. She would beg for the protection of the guard so that Anhangá would be kept away and would again lock her father’s memories in some dark and sad corner of her mind.

  But then came the relief, when her heart refused to take on the terrified reaction her mind wanted. Because, contrary to all reason, Maiara rejected fear and embraced what could only be compared to the warm feeling of awakening.

  It was still too early to be carried away by daydreams. There was only one place Maiara could go to if she wanted to get to the bottom of it. A sense of urgency rushed over her heart, like the Rain that would soon fall. But now it didn’t matter to her. She needed to find Zope again.

  * * *

  The Lower City was more deserted in the hours before the Rain. Maiara announced her presence, waited, gossiped through blurred windows, and even through the fetid hole where the old man had escaped. There was no sign of the Sons of Palenque or Yunru Zope.

  “Waiting for someone, Professor?”

  She had fallen into the trap again.

  Now, though, it was not the friendly, familiar face of Zope before her, but Officer Hwang’s. There were no fewer than eight of his ocelots beside him, like watchdogs.

  “What are you doing here?” Maiara asked, with all authority she could muster.

  “I could ask you the same question. You’re too far from home.”

  “I came to visit a…friend.”

  “Then we won’t have a problem.” The lobo-guará grinned. “Of course, if you’re lying to me, you not only will have committed a crime, but also made the task of protecting you difficult. You know…”

  Hwang moved slowly toward Maiara, who stepped back instinctively, reproaching herself again for her foolishness. Zope had warned her about the Guard’s vigilance, and she had ignored his concern.

  “…this is a dangerous neighborhood. If you’re not completely honest with me, telling me exactly what you came here to do, and, most importantly, what you found on your short walk to the Tower, I’ll have to go with my men. Hence, who will defend you?”

  “Me.”

  The rough voice came from above. As if materialized from the air, Anhangá appeared on the roof of the shed that enclosed the alley, just behind Maiara.

  “So I was right,” Hwang said, appearing superior. “I just needed a piece of cheese to get the mouse out of the hole. This ends here, killer.”

  The ocelots engaged their rifles and pistols. Anhangá jumped, landing in front of Maiara with a somersault. He put his hand behind his head, pulling a miao dao, a Zonguanese sword with a wide blade, through a slit in the poncho.

  The sky answered the first shot with the clamor of thunder. Maiara’s instincts made her throw herself behind the abandoned battery the instant the first drops of rain and blood mingled in a brief red cloud. The ocelot screamed, clutching his torn leg through the miao dao, his mouth wide open, receiving the storm that seemed to rage against him.

  Anhangá was a black spot interspersed between flashes of lightning. The ocelots tried to warn each other, but their voices were no match for the roar of the storm. So it was too late. The shadow was already rushing again, wrenching out a cry of pain from one ocelot, pulling another one from the fray. The arrows of water fell heavily and created a thin mist just above the asphalt. And Anhangá came running again.

  Punished by the incessant flashes, Maiara’s eyes saw a fragmented world. To her perception, Anhangá’s blade swirled slowly, cutting through air and water, opening for a second a flap in the curtain of rain, an instant of dry, untouched air before the mutilated droplets could fall again.

  In seconds, Hwang was all that remained of the squad. His ocelots were down, with moans, blood pumping in his arms and legs. They would survive, but they were no longer able to wield a weapon, much less oppose a killer with apparently superhuman reflexes.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Anhangá went to Maiara. In shock, the teacher was cowering next to the battery. Anhangá was looming over her, crouched like a bird of prey, searching for some wound on her body.

  “Are you okay?”

  Maiara was so nervous she couldn’t do more than nod, accompanied by an inaudible whisper. Anhangá raised his head slightly over the battery, aware of the approach of the lobo-guará.

  That’s when Maiara saw it.

  At first glance, she thought it was a prank, something her frightened eyes played on her. She stared attentively at the figure, paying close attention to the
details in the terrible crimson patch of burned skin on the murderer’s arm. To his surprise, Maiara caught him by the wrist, exposing still more the signal that, in that brief moment in which he had risen, his old poncho could not hide.

  “The Purge brand…”

  Pieces of the puzzle fell gracefully into place. Maiara understood at last, and the sensation frightened her. The next question was impossible.

  “Have you been to Xibalba?” Her sweet voice coincided with another thunder peel exploding in the sky. “You…you’ve met my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he alive? Dad…is my father alive?”

  “The last time I saw him, yes.”

  Maiara felt a wave of numbness wash through her body. Stunned, she let go of his arm, without noticing it. Her parted mouth received the rain that flowed down her face until she managed to articulate a single word:

  “How?”

  Then Hwang’s angry voice sounded:

  “Surrender, assassin! Reinforcements are on the way, you won’t be able to escape!”

  “Your father is responsible for me being here. He saw what I could do and he chose me to bring the message to you. To them, even.” Anhangá pointed at Hwang.

  “Which message?” The noise of the storm forced Maiara to shout.

  “A revolution is on its way. It has already begun, silent as a breeze, there, on the other side of the ocean. Soon it will turn into a storm that will once again sweep away the curtain of lies of the Nahua. But when it does, you must also be prepared here. The fourteenth baktun is approaching. The Transition. Your father thinks that’s when they will act. We need to act sooner.”

  “But what is there?” the teacher asked, not sure if she really wanted to know. “In Xibalba?”

  “A new world.”

  Hwang was moving. Anhangá could hear his footsteps splashing in the puddles. He tucked his bamboo hat over his head and flexed his body like a jaguar preparing his attack.

  “The Zonguanese know it’s all a lie. What fell in the east and brought the Rain was something else, not Xibalba. And it’s happening. Soon there will be an energy shortage, unless they get another source. That’s what they’re looking for. There is a ruined land beyond the horizon and they are already there, allied with the Nahua elite, exploring the energy impregnated in the soil, using the purged as slave labor.”

  Suddenly Maiara remembered the look of resignation on those faces pierced by earrings of bone.

  “The Sons of Palenque, they also know this…”

  “They always knew.”

  Anhangá placed her hand gently on Maiara’s shoulder and their eyes met through the threads of rain streaming from the bamboo hat. Despite his clothes, he had Tupi-Guarani features, such as hers.

  “And now you know it too.”

  Her time was up. Suddenly, Anhangá jumped on the battery that sheltered them. The whirl of his body made the old poncho open, creating a curtain of water that confused Hwang’s sight. Then the miao dao flew through the air through the rain in a swift turn until it reached the officer’s hand in full, shredding the pistol he held and cutting off three fingers. The lobo-guará screamed, until he was silenced by a violent kick in the face.

  When he came to, Hwang was half-buried in a muddy puddle. Sharp pain radiated from the mutilated hand and he felt something small and solid roaming the mass of blood in his mouth. He spat out one of his teeth.

  “I have a message for your superiors,” Anhangá growled in his ear.

  Officer Hwang’s eyes throbbed with hate, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew he was beaten. It would do no good to react or rage, or say anything, even if his wounded mouth allowed him.

  “Tell them their lives are now my indulgence. That, now, I am the only god to be feared. You’ve seen what I can do. Already they realize that there is no one that I can’t reach. You’ll leave the girl alone, can you hear me? She’s only collateral damage. If I even suspect that you’re pestering her in any way, I don’t care who is responsible, I will kill you. You got it? Nod your head if I was clear enough.”

  After a moment of helplessly ruminating over all that hatred, Hwang obeyed Anhangá’s command.

  The killer slapped the lobo-guará again, turning to Maiara.

  “Go away. Don’t ever come back here. Go now…the rain is abating.”

  Maiara nodded. Her feet trod puddles of water and blood, and she had to go around the fallen ocelots to leave the alley. Before leaving the stage of the bloody battle, the teacher took one last look at the scene before her. Eight ocelots, in addition to their officer, overcome by a single man. Of all that Maiara had learned in the last two days, there was still the great question: who was Anhangá anyway?

  She knew, however, that it was not yet time to find out.

  For now, she had to trust him, and more than that, she had to trust her father.

  * * *

  The accounts of the following days served as additional confirmation of the lies told by their rulers. The official report of the High Priesthood reported that Anhangá was not acting alone and that he had actually received help from more than a dozen Mayan ruffians. According to the statement, were it not for the heroic performance of Officer-at-Arms Hwang in the Lower City, the lives of those valiant ocelots would have been lost at the hands of the killer and his new comrades.

  This was the perfect excuse for an even greater oppression of the Sons of Palenque from that moment on. It could not have been more ironic, in fact, and in the days that followed, Maiara wondered if that had not been the intention of Anhangá all along.

  It brought to mind the image of young Mayans being apprehended, day after day, for crimes they weren’t guilty of, being condemned to damnation in the underworld of Xibalba. In their hearts, however, it would be certain that they were heading not for the punishment imposed by a god who had betrayed them, but for the opportunity of a new revolution.

  A New World, where her father would be waiting for them together, to unravel what was perhaps the greatest of mysteries, or the greatest of lies. Anhangá had said that her father trusted her to be his eyes, ears, and arms on this side of the ocean.

  But, after all, how to start changing the world?

  Come to think of it, it all started on a morning like this.

  Now quiet, Luc and his classmates watch their teacher with eager eyes, anxious to unravel the world and trusting her to help them. Young minds, fresh soil where lies had not yet been sown like weeds. Just alive and fertile.

  “Are you all right, teacher?” one of the little ones asked as he noticed her silence.

  Maiara smiled. She still felt watched, day after day, but she was counting on the threat of Anhangá to leave the sinister forces of Guanabara far enough away for her to do what she knew best.

  To teach.

  Maybe she couldn’t change the world, but she couldn’t be in a better place to begin.

  For the Rains are abating.

  And the fourteenth baktun is approaching.

  * * *

  André S. Silva is a carioca (native of Rio de Janeiro), a civil servant, and a student of Letters at UFRJ. He started writing fanfictions inspired by the X-Files series in the late 1990s. He collaborated with OTP Filmes in the screenwriting of short films and had short stories in the 2011 Literary Challenge and the Henry Evaristo Prize for Fantastic Literature 2012, both on the website A Irmandade (The Brotherhood). For Editora Draco, he participated in two anthologies, Dragões (2012) and Excalibur (2013). Find him on Twitter @andressilva.

  Sun in the Heart

  Roberta Spindler

  He woke up to the persistent whistle of the old-fashioned digital alarm clock, vibrating on the bedside table. Slowly, he sat on the bed, stretched his arms and popped his joints. Through the wide window stretching across almost the entire wall, he could see the sunrise painting the sky with many shades of orange. But not even this beautiful panorama was enough to ease his restlessness. Sighing, he turned to the side and stared at the woman still
sleeping under the covers.

  “Wake up.” He brushed the dark hair from her face and whispered in her ear. “It’s almost time.”

  She frowned and shifted, drowsy, muttering some disconnected words.

  “Let’s go. If you lose the morning light, you will get weak.”

  With a single tug, he pushed the duvet aside and revealed his wife’s slender body. He smiled at that sight and let his eyes wander across the tanned outline. Her skin was the color of honey, her muscles were sharp and well defined. He leaned closer and kissed her on the back, just above the biggest sun tattoo she had. The gesture seemed to wake her, because she shivered and let out a muffled laugh.

  “Okay, okay. You win.” She sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window at the brightening sky. She took a deep breath, as if mustering the courage to get up. “Today is the big day. Are you nervous?”

  He wrapped his arms around her, both covered by a thick black line that began at the wrists and ended at the base of her neck, and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Terrified. You?”

  Before answering, she closed her eyes and lowered her head, allowing herself to be distracted by that brief caress.

  “I didn’t want to wake up. Does that answer your question?”

  Hand in hand, they walked to the spacious balcony and let the sunshine bathe their naked bodies. Relaxing, he closed his eyes and felt a light electric shock through the various tattoos that covered him. At the same time, he was much more willing, renewed.

  “Do you think he’s going to miss breakfast?” he asked timidly, still keeping his eyes closed.

  “Since he abhors that watery porridge we force him to eat, I don’t think he will,” his wife said good-naturedly.

  He tried to smile, but the tension made him stop in his tracks. He tightened his grip on her hand and watched her out of the corner of his eye.