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Authors: Lindsay Eagar
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safe here. Nothing new ever happens.”
“
But that’s why no one ever leaves,” Sergio said quietly. It was impossible to understand Rosa sometimes. He liked that they were safe, that really bad things didn’t happen in the village. Rosa was so restless — Inés the puppy was better at sitting still than she was
.
“
I want to go.” She looked at the lake, her face soft, and stood, balancing on the branch, toes gripping the knobbled bark. “I want to see things. I want to know what’s out there.”
He climbed up next to her, pulled out his whittling knife, and carved a piece of dried rose locust wood. His fingers worked on their own; they didn’t need his eyes. He was busy watching Rosa’s every movement, her arms rising, hands pointed like a prayer, eyelids falling shut
.
“
I want to see the corners of the earth. I want to see oceans. Mountains, forests, even other deserts. Snow.” This last word she whispered
.
“
No one leaves,” Sergio whispered back. “Not ever. Not even you.”
“
I’ll find a way.”
Sergio wondered if she would unfold hidden wings and take to the sky right now, but she sat back down next to him, toes tucked beneath her. As though she were glued to the tree. Stuck
.
“
Don’t you ever think about those things?” she asked. “The things the Father told us, about the world?”
Sergio carved away a strip of wood and thought. Father Alejandro — the wiry, birdlike father of the mission — was born somewhere else. A kingdom of olive tree orchards, castles surrounded by sprawling gardens, and bullfighting. He came on a ship with a crew, hired to tear the desert apart until they found gold. They searched in rain-soaked jungles, atop the peaks of breathless mountains, along white beaches . . .
Instead of gold, when he led his expedition north into the dry rainbow desert, he found the lake. And the oasis
.
He found the tree
.
That was in 1480, Father Alejandro told them. Two hundred years ago — though the village had no use for years. He founded the village and built the mission with the crew, who also felt the tree was worth far more than gold. They made houses of stone and red desert clay, with yarrow thatched roofs
.
The village grew. That group of sailors married local women, then raised children and grandchildren, and kept sheep and goats. Their children and grandchildren built huts of their own on the lakeshore. No one ever left. No one ever died. Those sailors grew old, yes, enough to be called the elders of the village, but their aging was slow. They were cheating time
.
“
I saw shorelines made of pebbles,” Father Alejandro would say, remembering his former life, “and flowers the size of my head. We sailed on gray oceans for so many days and nights that we lost the memory of ground beneath our feet. Sometimes the wind died, and we didn’t move for weeks. I saw cities glittering silver and gold, people made of feathers.” Rosa was always the one begging the Father for these details
.
Even now Rosa’s cheeks glowed at the mention of Father Alejandro’s travels, but Sergio knew she missed the whole point of the Father’s stories — that the world was the empty clam shell and the tree, the pearl. Nothing outside the village would ever compare with what they had
.
“
Is this the tree of life?” a grown-up had once asked
.
“
The tree of life bore fruit,” Father Alejandro had counseled. “Our tree grows only blossoms.”
“
Then it is a magic tree!” Rosa had said
.
Father Alejandro’s face had darkened. “Magic is the devil’s tool,” he’d growled. “Our tree is simply a gift. A gift from God.”
“
What about everything else we have here?” Sergio tried to say to Rosa now. “What about the lake? And the stars? This tree gives the perfect shade, and the flowers make the village smell so nice, and the bees . . .”
The bees bring life, just like Rosa does,
he thought
.
Rosa scoffed. “I’ve had enough of this lake, these stars,
“
But that’s why no one ever leaves,” Sergio said quietly. It was impossible to understand Rosa sometimes. He liked that they were safe, that really bad things didn’t happen in the village. Rosa was so restless — Inés the puppy was better at sitting still than she was
.
“
I want to go.” She looked at the lake, her face soft, and stood, balancing on the branch, toes gripping the knobbled bark. “I want to see things. I want to know what’s out there.”
He climbed up next to her, pulled out his whittling knife, and carved a piece of dried rose locust wood. His fingers worked on their own; they didn’t need his eyes. He was busy watching Rosa’s every movement, her arms rising, hands pointed like a prayer, eyelids falling shut
.
“
I want to see the corners of the earth. I want to see oceans. Mountains, forests, even other deserts. Snow.” This last word she whispered
.
“
No one leaves,” Sergio whispered back. “Not ever. Not even you.”
“
I’ll find a way.”
Sergio wondered if she would unfold hidden wings and take to the sky right now, but she sat back down next to him, toes tucked beneath her. As though she were glued to the tree. Stuck
.
“
Don’t you ever think about those things?” she asked. “The things the Father told us, about the world?”
Sergio carved away a strip of wood and thought. Father Alejandro — the wiry, birdlike father of the mission — was born somewhere else. A kingdom of olive tree orchards, castles surrounded by sprawling gardens, and bullfighting. He came on a ship with a crew, hired to tear the desert apart until they found gold. They searched in rain-soaked jungles, atop the peaks of breathless mountains, along white beaches . . .
Instead of gold, when he led his expedition north into the dry rainbow desert, he found the lake. And the oasis
.
He found the tree
.
That was in 1480, Father Alejandro told them. Two hundred years ago — though the village had no use for years. He founded the village and built the mission with the crew, who also felt the tree was worth far more than gold. They made houses of stone and red desert clay, with yarrow thatched roofs
.
The village grew. That group of sailors married local women, then raised children and grandchildren, and kept sheep and goats. Their children and grandchildren built huts of their own on the lakeshore. No one ever left. No one ever died. Those sailors grew old, yes, enough to be called the elders of the village, but their aging was slow. They were cheating time
.
“
I saw shorelines made of pebbles,” Father Alejandro would say, remembering his former life, “and flowers the size of my head. We sailed on gray oceans for so many days and nights that we lost the memory of ground beneath our feet. Sometimes the wind died, and we didn’t move for weeks. I saw cities glittering silver and gold, people made of feathers.” Rosa was always the one begging the Father for these details
.
Even now Rosa’s cheeks glowed at the mention of Father Alejandro’s travels, but Sergio knew she missed the whole point of the Father’s stories — that the world was the empty clam shell and the tree, the pearl. Nothing outside the village would ever compare with what they had
.
“
Is this the tree of life?” a grown-up had once asked
.
“
The tree of life bore fruit,” Father Alejandro had counseled. “Our tree grows only blossoms.”
“
Then it is a magic tree!” Rosa had said
.
Father Alejandro’s face had darkened. “Magic is the devil’s tool,” he’d growled. “Our tree is simply a gift. A gift from God.”
“
What about everything else we have here?” Sergio tried to say to Rosa now. “What about the lake? And the stars? This tree gives the perfect shade, and the flowers make the village smell so nice, and the bees . . .”
The bees bring life, just like Rosa does,
he thought
.
Rosa scoffed. “I’ve had enough of this lake, these stars,
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