THE FESTIVAL

“Let the festival begin.”

El Garro’s cry evoked a roar of approval.

The wide oval of the Great Clearing was filled with golden moonlight that shimmered in and on and around the armadillos. They wove about greeting and being greeted. Any armadillo within a week’s travel was here. In the frontier, where the population was thinly spread, a festival honoring a family leader and choosing the next leader was dear to the hearts.

Somehow, the sight lifted El Garro’s spirits. He had arrived late to hide his sadness, but the clusters of friends mingling in the dazzle of light soothed his ache.

The first two nights of festival would be storytelling and boxing. El Garro would listen and watch and try to choose a new leader. He carefully stepped off the map rock and allowed Nalda to take his place as the announcer for the storytelling.

Her piercing yet sweet voice called the armadillos to the first storyteller. “From the south.”

“From the north,” the crowd replied in one voice.

“From the east,” Nalda called.

“From the west,” the crowd responded.

“Let the story come!”

“Let it come!”

The first young armadillo stepped onto the map rock and began his telling.

While the first two storytellers spoke, El Garro beamed at anyone who looked his way, conscious that this gathering of armadillos was the result, partly, of his life.

Nalda called for the next storyteller and he came through the crowd. Juan had flat brown armor with deep ridges along his back, a short tail and large ears. He hopped confidently on the map rock and surveyed the crowd with kindly eyes. Beginning slow and drawing strength from his listeners, he told about El Carlos, the first armadillo to cross the Rio Grande River from Mexico into the United States.

Watching and listening, it wasn’t the story Juan had chosen, but how he drew on the strength of his audience that touched El Garro. Talking to Juan alone, the young armadillo wasn’t impressive, but put him in front of the Colony and he came alive.

Two other armadillos caught El Garro’s attention that first night. When Felix, Galen’s quad-brother, started a story about his parents, the crowd cheered. And Kemen charmed them with his voice. It was strong and rich, sounding as if the earth itself rolled out words.

Drawing strength from the presence of armadillos, from the example of family, or from the stability of the land—those were the choices, El Garro thought. He slept little that day; instead, the crickets sang while he weighed the merits of Juan, Kemen and Felix. Who would best serve the Colony as its next leader?

An hour after sunset the next night, the boxing began. Thirty-six armadillos entered the Great Clearing while the observers crouched or lay under the trees around the edges. The boxers represented every variation within the nine-banded armadillos. Armor ranged from amber, to pale tan, to deep umber; some armadillos were the size of a baby raccoon while others were nearer the size of the largest raccoon. Knowing these armadillos had been El Garro’s life. He knew each name, each family history, and the location of each one’s den. His devotion to the Colony wasn’t due to his ignorance of their failings; it was in spite of such intimate knowledge that he loved them. But this was no time for nostalgia.

Lying upon the map rock, El Garro alone stayed in the Clearing with the boxers to act as referee. It was his job to declare when a boxer must retire.

It began with a melee among the younger armadillos. The weather was dry; dust puffed up around them, until a fine cloud obscured the center of the Clearing. Through a series of sneezes, El Garro watched.

During a lull, El Garro sent two-thirds to the sidelines. With only ten left to fight, El Garro’s excitement grew. He was pleased that Felix, Juan and Kemen remained. They played an avoidance game and let the other six battle it out until only Tomas, an armadillo with massive forelegs, remained to face them.

Juan took on Tomas while Felix and Kemen boxed. The cheerful babble rose above them, with armadillos calling out their favorite and commenting on the boxing stances, the jabs, the balance and quickness of each boxer. El Garro watched carefully, but he saw no grounds for disqualifying any of the four; these last few fights would be long.

When they took the boxer’s stance—standing on hind legs and using their tail for balance—Juan was half a head taller than Tomas, but Tomas was heavier.

Juan jabbed, connecting with Tomas’ long nose in a bitter thump. Using his strong forelegs, Tomas charged, rammed his head into Juan’s belly and heaved. Juan staggered, and then tumbled backward, landing upside down, with his feet batting at air.

“Bravo!” El Garro cried. He exulted in the whole festival: his friends and family, the events and the competition. It had been several years since he enjoyed an evening this much. “Tomas wins the round!”

Now the attention turned to Felix and Kemen. Both were caked with dust; only around their eyes had the dust cracked, leaving a jagged outline and an oddly comical face.

“Let’s fight,” Kemen called.

Felix rose on his back legs, ready to fight, but Kemen’s claws darted toward Felix’s belly. Felix dodged, barely escaping. While Felix was off-balance, Kemen darted forward. But Felix leapt into the air and used his hind legs to send Kemen rolling sideways. Twisting frantically in midair, Felix managed to land almost upright and was instantly ready for what might come next. Dust floated around him as a golden aura.

“Ho! Ho!” El Garro called. “Felix wins!”

Silently, Tomas and Felix, the last two fighters, squared off. Overhead, white clouds scooted across the moon’s face, leaving the Great Clearing in shifting shadows. The fighter’s faces were intent, focused.

With a groan of longing, El Garro recalled the many times when he had been the fighter, when the exhilaration had surged through his limbs.

Panting slightly, both rose on hind legs, as if someone had given a signal. A flurry of jabs from both sides left them in a stalemate, but allowed them to test each other; they were evenly balanced and neither had an apparent advantage.

“Charge! Take the fight to him!” El Garro yelled, though, he wasn’t sure which fighter he was yelling at. His voice was lost in the crowd’s roar.

Felix charged so fast he managed to get his front claws past Tomas’ guard. He grasped Tomas’ armor and wrenched, trying to jerk Tomas off balance. Tomas’ powerful forelegs, though, got inside Felix’s protection, and he clawed Felix’s stomach. Felix howled in pain, but maintained enough control to pivot hard and throw Tomas over: he landed on his feet.

The fighting had kicked up more dust, and suddenly, Felix started coughing. He backed away. Felix shook his head like he was trying to rid himself of a mosquito’s buzz. He rose on his back feet, ready for another bout.

Tomas lowered his head and charged, hitting Felix near the bottom of his belly. Felix’s body flipped over three armadillos and landed with a resounding crack, like rock hitting rock, in the middle of the crowd.

El Garro stood. From his position on the map rock, he could see that Felix was dazed. “Tomas wins!”

When the roar of approval died down, El Garro called for silence. Suddenly solemn, El Garro looked around at his friends and family. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “four armadillos will destroy my den and dig dens of their own. Tomas.”

Tomas shook dust from his massive limbs and climbed onto the map rock beside El Garro.

“Felix.”

Eyes wide with surprise, Felix joined Tomas. He was half a head shorter than Tomas, but they bumped armor gently, as if to say they were still friends.

“Kemen.”

Kemen, from the back of the crowd, broke into a short song and timed it perfectly so when he stepped onto the map rock, he sang the last note.

“Juan.”

Watching the smaller armadillo move through the crowd, El Garro was amazed again at how Juan fed off others, growing larger, more animated until he seemed the largest on the map rock.

El Garro studied the four. One would replace him as Colony leader. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “you four will dig dens.”

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