Sophia Gutiérrez Vega

Hurikán

TW: Violence, gore, and mentions of sexual assault.

An island with shores of soft sands and jagged rock breathes with the wind, her palm trees rustling in a synchronized dance with the lapping sea. Beneath the surface, coral grows and feeds the life that swims in her depths. And like a guiding beacon, a bright star hovers, day and night, over her tallest mountain. This island has had many names through the cycles. I know her as Orikón.

A chaos of rain and wind circles this floating paradise. A deluge that usually passes her by. That is, until the swirling grey mass approaches as if pulled in by a rope, bringing with it destruction. Through no fault of her own, chaos has become Orikón’s constant companion over the years. Its visits more frequent with the passage of time. 

It all started many cycles ago—the very first one, really. You see, each cycle begins and ends similarly, the unavoidable causes and reactions of the world. It is the middle of time where the power of humans seems to differ. The world's history has worn many faces. You only know one. Do not be fooled, little one, the weaving lines of my time are different from yours, even if they follow the same direction. 

By the way, it takes a terribly long time for the world to end. But this time around, I wonder if the earth will survive it. Because if there was ever a beginning, there must be an end too, don’t you think? And because you’ve been here before, and I’ve been here before, it means they’ve been here before. This story is about them, and about me, and about you. 

Most importantly, you. 

And don’t worry if you can’t remember my name. 

I don’t know yours.

Just be my witness before they all forget.

Tell the stories.

I am sharing mine, but I hope you make it your own. 

Please make it your own.

#

My teacher Bera was also a speaker, even if people didn’t listen. The age of listening to your elders was fading, but she studied the old stories and spread them to the rest of our yucayeke. My mother often warned me against spending too much time with her, fearing the repercussions. You’re going to get caught and tangled just like her. No better than a fish in a net, she’d say. But I admired Bera deeply and gravitated toward her like a stream toward a river.

Bera had been frantic one morning. Her other students and I watched as she paced about her family’s bohío. It was a modest home filled with all sorts of stone zemí figures, woven mats, and hamacas. While the sun was setting, she used the space to teach us stories and music to share. We couldn’t do much during the day due to the outlanders, so we spent our evenings there until our parents called us back home for the night. I spent many years under that thatched roof. Until it burned down.

We kept silent as Bera’s hair gradually freed itself from its braids. By then, her left eye had stopped following the right one like it did when she was stressed. She was also scratching her arms as if she’d stumbled into a carrasco bush.

“Take it,” she said, placing a three-pointed stone in my hand, its smooth surface indication of its years of use. “They’ll throw it all away once I’m gone.” A face was engraved into one of its sides; the face of the zemí for yuca. Memories of Bera carrying it with her during prayers and ceremonies surged forth. Cassava signifies plentitude and resilience, she’d said.  

“They can’t do this," the youngest student said, an ambitious girl.

“Of course they can. They don’t like the things I say. They think I tell you too much.”

And Bera did. On my travels with her, when the two of us could manage a visit to neighboring yucayeke’s, Bera stood before the children and taught them alternate tales of history. Things that were meant to be forgotten. Of a time when people had an uninterrupted relationship with the world around them. With the zemí—the old gods. Things I still struggled to understand at times. 

Beyond that, Bera was not shy about telling her students about the kasike's councils and the elders-only meetings. She openly criticized the kasike’s submissive nature, resented the rising tariffs, spoke against the forced labor, and actively fought against assimilation through her teachings. Most families did these things in the safety of their homes, but Bera never hid anything from us. And when she was confronted by the outlanders to stop, she told us about that too.

“You have to carry it on. Don’t let it die with me.” Her eyes looked wilder than ever.

“Die with you? You’re not going to die,” I said. But I could hardly convince her, let alone myself.

“Go to the mountain. The people of Yunteq will teach you all that I could not.” Bera managed to give us a look of pity. As if we were the ones who needed it. But before she could explain, maybe tell us what exactly she thought we could gain from the mountain, an outlander guard entered the room with two others flanking behind him. 

They were strange, the guards. They hid their skin from the sun and covered their feet from the earth. The metal they wore clanged with their movements loudly, as if they had to announce themselves in every space they walked into. They grabbed Bera by the arms and stared us down—a threat written in their eyes. Distantly, I heard us screaming in protest, but I stood still as they took her away.

# 

The wind was loud and strong that night, dark clouds hovered above as if angry at what was to come. Our yucayeke and some travelling folks congregated at the town square. A space that was usually filled with colorful vegetables and running children had become barren save for the expectant crowd. My mother held my shoulders tightly, our breaths low and shallow. 

The next part is a nightmare I relive often. 

Outlander soldiers brought out teachers from all over the southern side of the island. They lined them up like perfect rows of sugar cane. They'd come out bruised and bloody, most of their faces unrecognizable. I found Bera only by the colorful belt my grandmother had woven for her some years ago. They’d beaten her severely. Not just her, but the other teachers too. They were shivering, though the night was warm. All of them swollen, barely able to stand. 

I’d never seen a body in such a state, and now there were many before us. 

I had envisioned Bera fleeing this forsaken place. Somehow escaping their grasp and running into the trees, or perhaps swimming into the ocean. Or maybe even being granted the mercy of a quick death, but the men that sequestered her were not merciful. 

The soldiers commanded the teachers to kneel. Some did, the gravel shuffling beneath their weight. Others didn’t. Bera didn’t.

The soldier first in line approached her. He raised a fist. I looked away, but I heard it. I think I screamed, though I don’t remember the sound. Someone else had screamed louder, deeper. A man burst through the crowd, his face contorted by rage. I’d known Bera’s husband as a calm and quiet man who fished in the mornings with my father and always waved goodbye as they glided into the open sea. He’d been a gentle man, but the outlanders brought forth a vengeful, determined warrior. He threw himself at the one in armor.

The soldiers’ metal crashed against the dirt. Bera’s husband climbed onto the man, holding him down with his weight. His fists rained on to the soldier’s face, his head whipping from one direction to another. And then they pulled him off. The outlanders closed in on him, hands grabbing arms and legs. He ripped himself from their grip for only a moment. He was headed toward Bera, whose mouth was gaping in a silent scream. And then, a sharp and loud sound ricocheted across the courtyard, piercing our ears. Bera’s husband did not stop, but more so crashed against an invisible wall. He collapsed, a gleaming red stain spreading from his back. Blood pumped and oozed from the gaping wound. He lay there, no longer in control of the body that had built the bohío I’d spent countless evenings in. Those hands that had touched Bera’s skin so softly, were now trapped beneath his torso, his elbows jutting at odd angles. 

And the crowd, as if woken from a dream, cried out in pain. Cried out in anger.

I tell you; I had imagined many ways the night might go, but never the bloody carnage that happened. Not the violence and mutilation. Not the hatred on the soldiers’ faces. Not the way our people yelled in defiance. Many died that night. The earth was soaked in blood. It took a moment to realize that it was real. That my mind was not lying to me.

Hands grabbed me by the arms, turning me away from the cursed sight to face my mother. Her brown eyes were wide, red droplets splattering her nose and cheeks. She was yelling at me. Screaming over the chaos. “Go!” she said. “Run!” 

I gathered myself enough to tell her to come with me, tugging at her wrist. 

She yanked it back. “I’m going to get your father!” 

Violence isn’t always loud, but that night it was. Guttural screams, metal clanging against metal, dirt and rocks spraying into the air, creating a cloud of dust that made it hard to breathe. Somewhere in the distance, a fire had started. Flames consumed people's homes, bohíos made with love. The thatched roofs were ablaze, a sight so bright it felt like the sun had gotten too close. 

I tried pulling my mother with me, but she didn’t relent. She looked into the crowd, searching for my father's face. Then she shoved me. I fell back, the wind knocked out of me. In an instant, my mother disappeared into a sea of limbs.

So, I got up and ran. To the trees. Others ran too. I could see them from the corners of my vision. But I didn’t stop. I kept running. 

And running.

And running.

Blindly, I pushed through the ache in my thighs, past the stinging of my feet, past the burning in my lungs. I ran faster than the thoughts inside my head. Were the gods playing a cruel joke on me? Because it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be real.

Because there, in the depths of the jungle where the night was dark and all I could hear was the buzzing of insects, it was easy to believe I’d imagined all the horrible things I’d just witnessed. There, where the air was dewy with fresh rain, it was hard to imagine people were capable of spilling so much blood. But the smoke still clung to my skin. Soot and dust and dirt. 

I swiped at my arms and legs, trying to rid myself of the stench of my burning village. I wanted it off me. 

Off 

off 

off!

My mind was plagued in a continual reimagination of what I’d seen. 

And it was a terrible thing. 

I knew it had happened even if I was entirely alone and no one could confirm it.

I looked up at the sky and found the star my father had told me about. He'd warned there may come a time when I'd need to follow it to Yunteq; the brightest star hovering over the tallest mountain, he'd said. And then sobs racked my body. Tears fell in a torrent. I could barely get a breath in before the wails escaped me. Before grief struck me. 

I carried on anyway. 

Through the tears, I ran. I didn’t stop when the sun rose, and the mosquitoes came out with a vengeance. I ignored the pain in the soles of my feet, the strain on my knees and ankles. Sweat stung my eyes, and mud covered my hands and feet. But there was only forward, I told myself. There was nothing left behind me.

#

It took four suns to reach the stairs.

The humidity in the air was thick. I couldn’t see far for all around me were trees and leaves. But above, I could catch glimpses of an open blue sky. The smoke had not reached this far. 

The call of birds and insects had been overpowered by the roaring river. I’d walked out of it soaking and shivering. Before me, a person waited. The nagua she wore was embroidered with the mountain of Yunteq on its front. Seeing another human, I wanted to sob. I wanted to drop to my knees in relief and lay there for a long while. But I knew if I did any of those things, I may never stop. I reminded myself I hadn’t arrived yet. I wasn’t safe yet. 

We regarded each other. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Ana-” I let out a small cough, unused to my voice after days of silence. “Anakayna.”

“I know where you’re from,” she said. “You’re not the first to arrive.”

How many? Were my parents among them? 

I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

She touched a hand to her chest. “Leteh,” she said. Something about the sound of her name made me think of strong, gusting winds. “Come with me.”

#

It felt like an eternity going up those stairs, though I know better now. 

It took all that was left in me to reach the top of Yunteq where the sky finally opened wide above us. Trees spread out across the land and their canopies were taller than any I’d ever seen, as if the world didn’t pull them down from so high up in the mountains. Wooden bohíos stood in the centers of grass mounds supported and lined with stones. Stoned paths navigated the space like flowing streams. People and children walked across the pathways wearing naguas like Leteh’s, their necklaces of seashells and beads making lilting sounds with their movements.

Behind me, a horn blared, its deep, long call reverberated through the trees and through my chest. Leteh lowered her guamo from her lips. The conch was decorated with painted swirls of blue and red. “Let’s go,” she said.

As the sun set, the people gathered by a big fire, the flames tall and bright. The night was warm, but the wind staved off the heat. Drums and flutes meshed with the musical tones of the coquis and the popping of the wood in the fire. Leteh told me an areito was being held for the souls that had passed. As it turned out, there were many. Some of the fielders, people that travelled across the island gathering news, reported that the outlanders had suffered many losses as well. It wasn’t a consolation.

I found some people from my old yucayeke, mostly children, crying and sobbing. I watched them from a distance, witnessing my own grief reflected in them.

 Someone in a long and colorfully decorated nagua, also with the mountain embroidered on its front, walked over to us. Leteh introduced me to Kasike Deneba, a highly revered leader Bera had once told me about. I’d thought xe was merely a legend, now I saw xir in the flesh. Xir long hair was braided, and xe wore a white, flowing robe that reached xir bare feet. “Miyari, Anakayna. Welcome to Yunteq. I am Kasike Deneba.” 

“Miyari,” I said with great effort. 

Xir skin was wrinkled and on xir head, xe bore a crown of blue and green feathers. Red ink marked the tops of xir cheeks, xir hands were tinted black, and swirling designs climbed up xir forearms to xir elbows. “On behalf of our yucayeke, we feel your loss. Your pain is our pain. Your loss, our loss. May the mountain of Yunteq become the refuge you need.” Xir voice was like rolling waves against the seashore. “May you find strength in your Ascencion.”

“Arikoma bu,” I said, and gave a slight bow. I was not sure what Ascencion meant, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Xe gave me a knowing smile and walked away.

The areito was like so many grieving ceremonies I’d been to before, and yet entirely different. We gathered under the ceiba tree and offered the zemí’s our prayers. We wished the departing souls safe travels to the spiritual realm. But my mother, father, grandparents, were not there. It pained me deeply that my family would not receive a proper burial. I didn’t let myself wonder what the outlanders had done with their bodies.

“Ease your heart,” Leteh said when I knelt before the ceiba tree long after the areito had ended. “They will wait for you here, and you will join them once again.” 

I didn’t tell her it mattered to me little that I’d see them one day when I didn’t have them now. I placed Bera’s stone zemí by the roots, hoping she’d found rest. Hoping my family was safe with her.

#

It was the sun in my eyes that woke me the next morning, peeking through the opening in the bohío Leteh had shown me to. I stretched my aching body and rubbed the throbbing soles of my feet. Beside me, a piece of white cotton cloth lay neatly folded. I unraveled it to reveal a simple nagua, an improvement from the stained and tattered one I still wore. This nagua, however, did not bear the mountain on its front like so many of the others I’d seen. As the blank space indicated, I was not yet a member of the community.

I walked out to find Leteh sitting outside by a large and porous stone, grinding down jagua fruit against its surface into a black dye. 

Leteh looked up when I got near and flashed a warm smile. Her hair fell in rivulets over her soft shoulders. She carried on, the rhythmic sounds of her grinding stretching the silence between us. I took a deep breath in. “What does it mean to Ascend?” I asked, thinking back to what Kasike Deneba had said.

Leteh looked up, squinting against the sun. “It’s when our minds convene with the zemí’s. Everyone here Ascends at an early age. It allows you to see the world more clearly. Spiritual energies become visible to you. Some people even come back with new abilities.”

“Abilities?”

She shrugged. “Most times, it’s subtle. Like an affinity for the land. Some people have a special gift when it comes to growing plants or medicinal herbs. Some have an affinity for crafts like weaving, pottery making, or stone carving. My mother is talented with music. She says it is how she communicates with our ancestral spirits. And Kasike Deneba commands lightning, though xe rarely ever practices it.”

I stared at her blankly. Bera had never taught me any of this. “What do you mean she commands lightning?”

Leteh let out a laugh, a musical sound. “Honestly, I’ve never seen it. And I pray we never do.”

“But how is that possible?”

She laughed again, “Oh Anakayna, have you fallen so far from our gods? Here, we are close to them. They gift us with the world, and in exchange, we protect it.”

The thought of Kasike Deneba having any power over lightning felt absurd, but perhaps not as much as the events that had brought me here. So instead, I asked, “And what about you?”

She shrugged then wiped her forehead, leaving a stain behind. “Mine’s the wind.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m going to fly away from here with all your questions,” she said with a teasing smile.

#

To Ascend, one needed to be an active member of the community. The few other people from my yukayeke and I were taught the ways that had been lost to us with the arrival of the outlanders. We were thrust into every aspect of the community and I welcomed it all eagerly, filling every waking hour with tasks that could distract me from what had brought me to Yunteq in the first place.

In the early mornings, I worked on the nagua that I would wear during my Ascencion ceremony. It consisted of countless tiny beads woven with a bone needle into the white fabric, often leaving my fingers stinging and my hunched back aching. Afterwards, we meditated under the rustling ceiba trees. Kasike Deneba, who headed these lessons while smoking out of xir pipe, admonished us when we didn’t concentrate. 

By midday, we had batéy practice which consisted of going over the rules of the game and actual play. I had little control of the rubber ball, but my muscles strengthened and my reactions quickened over time. 

Evenings, after the daily rainfall, were about plants. We learned which seeds were best planted together, and we dried herbs to make teas and poultices. We hunted for mushrooms on the forest floor or on rotting tree bark, and I spent a day retching after accidentally ingesting a mildly poisonous one.

Before the sun set, we spent a short while in the caves. Kasike Deneba also headed these lessons and taught us the intricate network of tunnels and rivers that traveled beneath our feet. On the walls, storytellers had marked the story of our origins. How our ancestors had climbed out of the caves, emerging from their dark depths like a babe born out of the womb. 

Every night, we sat around a fire and listened to stories, lessons dressed in adventures, histories passed down, or funny retellings. Meanwhile, the fielders reported more ships arriving at the shores. More outlanders building their stone homes.

By the time, I finished sowing the last bead onto my nagua, a year of punctured fingertips and an aching back had passed. Leteh had peered over my shoulder at my work, her scent warm and sweet. “It’s time,” she said.

#

The crowd had become an impenetrable wall around the pool of water where I stood, the cold sting of the water reaching just above my ankles. Stalactites dripped in multitudes from the stone above and vines crept around the edges of the cenote, bringing life to the dark caves. While the people gathered in the cavernous labyrinth of Yunteq, I felt the gods peering over the gaping hole connecting the cosmos to the underground waters of life.

Drums resounded through the caves, like the beginning rhythms of a batéy game. Everyone danced, yet I stood still; the feeling of being an outsider fooling everyone into sympathizing with me was beginning to eat away at me. I’d prepared for this day, but I felt outside my body. They were better off without me. I did not deserve to be among them. I-

Kasike Deneba and two other elders passed through the crowd. As they entered the water, the music ceased, and all attention turned to the elder's wearing masks of zemí deities. 

The three wore long naguas that floated on the surface of the dark water. Today I wore one too, though their designs were much more intricate than the one I’d made for myself. The three had also decorated their bodies with beaded belts and necklaces made of seashells.

“Myari aba’toma. Thank you for being here on such a special occasion.” Kasike Deneba's voice carried through the crowd. “Today, an island child Ascends. Anakayna has fought for a new life, and the universe has gifted it to her.” 

Kasike Deneba turned to me. I could barely make out the gleam of xir eyes through the two small slits of xir mask. “Your journey will be long and arduous. We will not be able to pull you from whence you go. Trust in your spirit to guide you. Your strength will show in the days to come as your mind and body adjust.”

The matron to xir right came forth. In her hands she held a clay bowl full of a wet paste of naná mushrooms, God’s Flesh. The woman passed me the bowl, and I tried to steady the shaking in my hands. I scooped the contents into my mouth with my fingers. It tasted like dirt. Then I cupped the water and drank.

Music returned, now accompanied with chants and prayers. People I'd never spoken to prayed for me. The heads of families brought forth flowers, carved stones, pottery, and large seashells to be tossed into the middle of the pool where they would sink to the bottom; offerings for a safe journey. I had not been raised as one of them, but I had not been treated as separate. It was strange to be valued by others and find such little worth for myself.

Kasike Deneba extended a hand to me. Together, we walked deeper into the water, the other elders close behind. My breath hitched as the cold reached my navel and then my chest, soaking the nagua. 

When the water lifted me off my feet, I floated onto my back and felt Kasike Deneba’s gentle hands support my head. Water covered my ears, muting the crescendo of the music. I found the sun centered between the walls of the cenote, outlined by falling vines. 

“Close your eyes,” Kasike Deneba said, xir voice muffled by the water. 

I obeyed.

I suppose you’d like to know what it was like to enter the spiritual world. 

I didn’t. 

My soul grew bat wings and I flew over the heads of the many people gathered by the water. I circled the yawning mouth of the cave and left to a blue and green world. My soul fluttered through the rising and falling of mountains, until I found the stairs I’d climbed when I’d escaped death only a year ago. 

In truth, I was only under the naná spell for a small part of the day, but I traveled over the course of many years that day. I saw how the outlanders had changed the land. The natural world had been cleared to make room for their stone homes and symmetrical fields. I followed the seam where land met the sea. Ships crowded the harbor where my father used to fish. Outlanders brought in more supplies, as well as something new: people. Also mistreated. Also exploited. Also regarded with hatred and anger and fear. The outlander’s purpose was evident. The more of us they killed, the more they needed someone to replace us with.

In my short travel, I witnessed years of violence. Calculated manipulations and betrayals. Kasike ears shorn off, tumbling heads, raped women, beaten children, and fatal sicknesses. But I also saw retaliation. The outlanders suffered when we built on strength and community. The rivers ran red. 

In response, larger stone forts were built to keep us out. It was evident the overwhelming waves of outlanders would not cease. They were persistent, believing the island their rightful possession. 

But I also saw the way they watched the skies before setting sail. The way they recoiled from the rain as if it were burning coals. They were so separated from the natural world that they feared it. I understood then that the only thing greater than man is nature herself.

#

When a musician Ascends, the instruments sound clear and crisp and the drums thrum through your bones. When a florist Ascends, the vines from the cenote trail down to the water, and flowers bloom. A protector and caretaker of animals might be greeted by the singing of birds, or the flapping wings of bats. When I Ascended, it rained. And it kept raining for three more days.

In the month that followed, the rain became something I carried constantly, easily swayed by my temper. I began making beaded cuffs near the river to calm my nerves. Batéy games were subject to my ire when we lost, though most of the players laughed it off when the rain was too much to play through. Meditation became my fondest coping activity, despite my initial struggle with it. Leteh told me it had taken her a while to adjust to the wind, but once she did, it was as an extension of herself she couldn’t remember living without.

News soon came that the outlanders were making their way up the mountain. Yunteq's caves were empty of gold, and the land was too mountainous for their way of building. But we lived there, and that was reason enough. Fielders reported the moving development: how fast they travelled, how many weapons they carried, and how large was their advance. They estimated two days remained before they reached the stairs of Yunteq.

Leteh and I sat near the fire that night. Her body next to mine was warmer than the heat of the flames. Memories roiled over me of my mother's face marked with blood, of the fires engulfing the bohíos. Of my father’s gentle smile. 

Out of fear that I might lose her too, I reached out and held Leteh’s hand. Gently, she stroked the inside of my palm. 

I turned to her and stared at the way her features danced with the flickering light. Her nose was slightly crooked from a batéy accident, she’d once told me. Her lips, slightly pressed against each other, were humming to the soft sounds of the music around us. She turned to face me. A smile formed and she brought a hand to my cheek.

She stood and I followed, not questioning where.

Far from people on the forest floor, she pulled me close. And finally, I got to taste her. We got lost in each other. Wind caressed my skin in tune with her exhalations. It rustled the hairs on my neck, and I caught the teasing glint in her eyes. I couldn’t help the water droplets that fell from the sky like stars landing on her skin, her body a constellation I explored through the night. Intertwined in each other’s arms, we watched the full moon glow above. My fingers trailed over the slopes of her soft skin as she held me firmly in her arms. I hadn’t been held by anyone in over a year.

I broke the silence. “We can’t let them come.”

“No,” she said. “We can’t.”

“I know how to stop them.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. When I turned to face her, a tear was falling down the corner of her eye as she stared up at the swaying trees. “Me too.”

#

The next morning, Leteh and I went to Kasike Deneba. Xe, like Leteh, was not surprised, and did not hesitate. Deneba ordered fielders to discreetly evacuate the people from the coast under the coat of darkness. They were lead through a network of cave tunnels that took them farther inland, away from the ocean and the outlanders. Meanwhile, the people of Yunteq prepared.

Kasike Deneba, Leteh, and I gathered at the heart of the caves. The two other elders from my Ascencion were also with us, serving as our anchors. 

Again, the people of Yunteq brought music and offerings, though without the celebratory air I’d grown accustomed to. The drums called first, then the singing for the zemís to favor us. I could not wait for the ancestral spirits to pity us. They had not interfered the night my yucayeke had burned and my people were killed.

The three of us swallowed the naná and drank the sacred water. We floated onto our backs, my body barely registering the cold. I closed my eyes.

First, thunder crackled through the caves and the world outside. Then, the sky bellowed its wrath. Howling winds whistled through the caves and made the water shiver around me. Despite myself, I called to my mother and father, my grandparents. Their mothers, fathers, and sisters. Our ancestors. I prayed for them to help us. Because together, we are a force greater than human.

My skin prickled with the beginning of rain that soon turned into a downpour. Torrential and all consuming. I could hardly breathe through the falling water. I felt for the other two bodies commanding the storms. Through the water, I felt their souls mingling with mine. We were a mixture of grief, anger, and pain. The world was chaos, and we brought it forth. We were poison ready to purge the land. 

Our three energies coalesced into a single being. We were the storm that plagued the land. We were untethered.

With my rain, I enveloped the world in water, washing away the sickness, the rot, and festering wounds. We toppled the outlander’s stone buildings and high fortresses, the people inside crushed by their heavy walls. The outlanders had looked at our bohíos with distaste, not seeing how the air seeping through the wood stabilized the pressure. The outlander did not want the outside world in his home. But nature cared about no such thing. The wind wanted in. 

Their weak crops were easily uprooted. Nothing like our cassava, whose roots embedded to the ground and held steadfast against the powerful storms. The bodies of the soldiers hiding in the forest were frail. The flooding waters swept them away before they could ever lay eyes on the stone steps of Yunteq. The human part of me did not enjoy hurting anyone. But I had to. I was the earth, and I could feel the splinters of their steps on my body. The wounds of my people as my own. I had to end it. Expel them from the land. 

Many died that night. No storm had ever been so violent. But I’ll tell you this: the outlanders never reached Yunteq. You tell me if the price was worth it.

The three of us became known as one being: Hurikán. We plagued Orikón around the same time of year, every year. Many of our own prayed to us, begging to be spared. But nature is not so specific, and we’d decided to continue so long as the outlanders remained. 

Some people curse our beautiful island for it can be a terrible place to live. That is, if you don’t know how. But our people do. We were made for this land. The outlanders never mastered the hurricane's secrets. They build their heavy homes, and Hurikán breaks them down. They starve and mourn their dead when we are finished, yet they do not care who they condemn by staying.

Hurikán fights for this land, making it inhospitable for the outlander to ever truly thrive. In the process, we lose our own. But we return to the spirits and join the fight on another front. We are made of clay that molds, hardens, and molds again. We will never reach our true form.

You might wonder why it matters to tell this story. Well, the cycle will continue. We will survive as we’ve always done. Except, if there was a first time, there must be a last. And though I am a zemí, I am no creator nor destroyer. At least not really. I do not know when the last cycle will be, but Hurikán will not rest. Not until the very last day of the very last cycle. We will cry and weep for those we’ve lost. And we will honor your resilience.

I fight for you, even if I may kill you. 

I hope you know this.