American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [39]
“Oye, chica! That would never happen in Peru,” he said. “A crane in Peru would know better than to do that to the fox. You know what happens to the thirsty, eh? You know about El Aya Uma?” A clod of dirt dropped from his hand.
I didn’t know many leyendas at that point, but I knew about El Aya Uma. From quick, whispered accounts by my ama, from Vicki’s long-winded disapprovals, from any number of frightened conversations with George. I knew all I needed to know.
Andean legend has it that if a man is allowed to go to sleep thirsty, come midnight his head will leap off his body and run out the door. Possessed by El Aya Uma, “The Thirsty One,” the head will hop into the night—tac pum, tac pum, tac pum—out to the open road—tac pum—in search of anything to wet its throat. If the head encounters a traveler, it will chase him down, leap on his shoulders, tear off his head, and fix itself onto the bloody stump. Then it will ride to the river, take a long drink, and gallop home before dawn.
In the morning, the villagers will gather around to cluck at the carnage. There will be little left of the poor traveler who gets in the way of El Aya Uma: a rag of skin in the garden, a severed head on the road. Dregs of a demon thirst.
Antonio was right. A Peruvian crane would have poured the fox a drink.
I jumped off the crate and ran to where Antonio knelt in the dirt.
“Don’t talk about El Aya Uma to me, Antonio,” I said, putting my hands on his shoulders and making him look in my eyes. I loved this man. I couldn’t bear the thought of his being sent away by my mother, like the bruja with her fruit. “If my mother hears you tell stories like that, she’ll come out and tell you to go away. I’ll never see you again.”
Antonio looked startled.
“Promise you’ll never do it again,” I pleaded, “and I promise never to tell. Ever.”
“I promise,” he said. “I promise.”
But come the next afternoon, I was daring him to tell me more.
“Listen to this one, Antonio,” I began, dragging my crate close to the garden wall. He was scrubbing it with a long hemp brush.
“There was this woman, see? A queen. And when her husband went off to war and got killed, she was home with her three daughters. They were beautiful girls—muy bonitas, I’m telling you—big and pink with yellow hair and cheeks as full as papayas. All the men were crazy in love with these girls. And the queen loved them, too. Every night she would tuck them into bed, pat their pretty faces, and tell them historias, just like I do for you, Antonio. Maybe better.”
“Impossible,” he said, his back still to me.
“But then one day, an army of men swept into the city—whoosh! And they rode on their horses—cataplún, cataplún—right into the house, right up to the beds of the girls, and pulled ‘em out. Pah, pah, pah! All three. Like that.
“The soldiers took the big pink girls out on horseback and galloped around until the girls couldn’t breathe anymore. Then they threw them down on the ground like rag dolls—splaaaa—and rode away.”
Antonio turned and looked at me as he dipped his brush slowly into a bucket of water. “Ay,” he said.
“Ay, ay, ay!” I barked back. “Because the queen got mad. She got so mad, she got out her chariot. You know what that is, Antonio? It’s a fancy carretón with horses.”
“Ya, ya,” he said. “Go on.”
“She put her three dead daughters in the front of her carretón and tied them in with ropes so they wouldn’t fall off. And then she rode out onto the battlefield, shouting.
“You know what she said? This is the best part. She said, ‘I am the daughter of mighty men!’” I pounded my chest for emphasis. “‘And these are children of a very brave race! We are women! We are warriors! Fierce! And we fight not for