Free What the Moon Saw by Laura Resau Page A

mouth was dry. I couldn’t form words.
    “Just—don’t move the rocks,” he said. Now his voice sounded gentle, like I was a scared dog he was trying to calm down. “Be careful.”
    He walked to the edge of a rock outcropping and yelled,
“Chchchchchchivo!”
Ggggggggoat! I walked toward him and peered over the edge. There were nine or ten white and brown and black goats scattered across the hillside, chewing leaves. Slowly, they wandered toward us.
    Now that I was standing close to him, I noticed a strange smell—wet wool and sweat mixed with something sweet. He wore a T-shirt that looked like it had been handed down twenty times. It was so thin that light came through. He had on faded red pants, too big for him, held up by a frayed rope around the waist. And the weirdest thing: Sticking out below the cuffs were pointy black shoes—old-man loafers. They were strangely shiny, with decorative fringe on top.
    He had on a woven-palm hat that was worn and comfortable-looking and fit his head perfectly, like it had been molded on there. And under the shadow of the brim were pink cheeks, brown skin, and sharp eyes watching the goats. It was the kind of face you wanted to keep looking at, soaking in every detail.
    “See you later,” he said with a sideways glance, and disappeared down the hillside.

    During the afternoon storm I sat cross-legged under a rock ledge and watched drops slide off the points of leaves. The smell of rain and the sound of drumming water wrapped around me. Nature was becoming a wild force, bending the trees and turning the ground into a mud slide. A thrill swept through me. There was nowhere I’d rather be than this place on this mountain at this moment.
    What was the boy doing now? Watching the rain? What was he thinking about? Was he used to these rainstorms, or did they make his heart race too? Was he someone I could tell about the water bug shadows and the ribbons of sand? Through the sheets of water, things lost their outlines and became blurred shapes and watery colors. I could be anyone, anywhere in the rain, and it would be the same. I could be Abuelita, my father, the boy, at any point in time, just sitting in the rain.
    I asked myself a question.
Why were you restless in Walnut Hill?
A feeling washed over me: being underwater at night in the woods.
Remember this feeling, Clara.
Abuelita had said that the world before her spirit journey had seemed like reflections on water, and that afterward, she saw what was underneath. Maybe that was what I wanted, deep inside—to see the world that Abuelita saw, the world of spirits and webs of light.

    When I bounced into the kitchen that afternoon, the green bird greeted me, “Clara, Clara, Clara!”
    “Loro, Loro, Loro,” I sang back.
    “How fast he’s learned your name,
mi amor
!” Abuelita said. She was dropping squares of chocolate into the green pitcher of milk on the fire. Abuelo sat at the table, bent over a sandal he was sewing. He glanced up at me and smiled.
    “Another pair of sandals for your grandmother.” Then he bent his head down again and threaded the thick needle through the goat hide.
    I grabbed an old tortilla out of the basket and tore off a few pieces. Loro carefully plucked them out of my hand. His beak looked ancient, covered with cracks and scars. “Clara!” he called again and again, between his tiny mouthfuls. I felt proud that he had learned my name; I was part of this odd little family already.
    Now Abuelita was rolling a wooden stirrer between her palms to make the hot chocolate foamy. It seemed to whip things up just like an electric blender. I liked her strange kitchen utensils—a stone bowl to grind chiles and tomatoes, a clay
comal
to cook the tortillas, and wooden spoons, some as small as my pinkie and others as long as my arm.
    “You seem happy about something,
mi amor,
” she said.
    “Yes,” I said. I was surprised at the flush I felt coming over my face. “Well, nothing special.” I tried to