"The Ugly One," Vocabulary from Chapters 11-15

As I sat there, the night’s cold seeping from the rock’s strong body through my thick woolen cloak, I had a vague sense that somehow the huaca had been a part of the dream that danced in the dark just out of memory’s reach.

It was perhaps selfish of me to do so, but every morning I implored, “And please, Mighty Inti, remove my scar.”

Father was more forgiving of the bird, for he enjoyed the molted red feathers Sumac left behind. Mama had already woven some of the longer ones into Father’s woolen cloak, and he strutted about like royalty whenever the opportunity presented itself.

The Handsome One imitated Father’s unhappy sigh perfectly, and Father enjoyed having a fellow complainer in our midst.

The withered land and the people’s wasis and the smaller mountains spread below me tiny and bound to the earth.

I felt I could reach up and caress Inti himself if I chose.

“I want it to happen again. I want to soar with the gods. I wonder how I did it.”

He raised his finger pretending to scold me. “This new voice of yours rambles on like thunder in the rainy season.”

I would see the person, in discomfort or pain already, eyeing me warily, and I would tell my teacher no, I was not yet ready. He would nod his head and work his ways while I watched from the side.

Carefully, tenderly, with the Paqo watching, I ground up the proper plants, added water, and made a cool poultice to apply to Mama’s burnt skin, all the while speaking to the spirits of the plants, asking them to work their magic.

“The shoulder is dislocated,” the Paqo said. “New Voice, hold on to his body while I manipulate it.”

His eyes were narrow slits of spite, and his mouth was contorted in malice.

My teacher rotated the arm and shoulder outward as he pushed, trying to coax the shoulder back into place.

Was she apologizing for today or for a lifetime of torment?

The very next day I saw Tica carrying a new blanket through the center of the llaqta, waddling as she went. I offered to carry it for her, and she accepted with a look of gratitude.

I had thought Ucho was done tormenting me, but he came back with a surprising vengeance.

“Finally, that feathered menace is gone long enough that I can do what I want!” Ucho snarled.

As I lay on the earth, dust rising up in a thick haze, Sumac plummeted toward me with a loud cry. There was no confusing the sound he made. He would attack Ucho with his entire feathered being.

I couldn’t risk losing my feathered companion. He was so much more than a friend to me. He was my shield in life, my link to Beyond, my connection to my own self. I held him close to my face, breathing in his feathery belly, trying to reassure both of us.

“It’s a small scrape. There will be no scar,” he said, but his voice was detached, and his eyes studied the faraway mountains, as if he were not truly with me.

Ucho’s nose wasn’t nearly as horrid to look upon as my disfigured face.

The Paqo said, “Strange how close the two names are. Micay. Millay. Beauty and horror just a click of the tongue apart. One moment in time, and a life veers off on a different path.”

The Paqo waved his hand dismissively at what I had thought was an important revelation.

It was as I sat on my rush mat, eating the meager evening meal with my family, that I gathered the courage to place my questions into the air for others to hear.

"Three worlds dwell within the night sky,” the Paqo said as he pointed toward the stars flickering their small, icy fires.

“There is the below world, the land of the past and our ancestors, home of the ground-dwelling fox, the toad, and the mighty serpent.”

Difficult questions often churned within me when I was with the Paqo, but even so I treasured our time together.

I had been oblivious to these glances before, but once Ucho opened my eyes, I saw how some people felt.

I tried to stand tall and look at him with eyes that could stare down challenges and not falter, but my shoulders shook and my eyes filled with tears.

If the wagging tongues of the people were correct, he had been exiled to our small place in the mountains by the Sapa Inca himself.

He would rather spend his time worrying about more important things, such as the number of owl hoots he’d heard in the night or how many spiders he’d sighted scurrying across his path.

“True, but there is more to observe, and there is less to observe.”
I remained quiet, trying to decipher what the Paqo meant now.

Carefully, he extracted a handful of dried leaves from within. The messenger cupped his hands, and the shaman placed the green pile inside the eagerly outstretched palms.

I watched from a short distance as the shaman studied the koka plant intently, examining the leaf patterns and listening to their inner wisdom.

The smile my teacher offered shone almost as brightly upon me as the golden rays of Inti. I basked in the warmth.