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Nigel folded his legs and sat like a child at the feet of his teacher. "Gracias, Abuela." Her accent was thick, but understandable. He'd be sure to do a gloss of her story later for those who might have difficulty understanding. For now, he settled in to listen.
"I have also, inside me, the blood of all the peoples who come here—the Spanish soldiers who came with the priests, the African sailor on the American ship, and the people already here when they come. In me, you have all of Mexico." She accompanied her words with smooth, practiced gestures, expansive enough, along with her orator's tone, to draw a few more people closer. She couldn't see them, but clearly heard their approach, alerting and shifting her attention slightly each time to acknowledge the newcomer.
"What I do not have—or so I think—is the blood of the English pirates." She reached out to pat Nigel on the shoulder, and Devi, behind the camera grinned briefly. "Maybe you bring me some, eh?"
His own very English blood was nearly spilt in the desert already, but of course, she couldn't know that her phrasing gave him a shiver. As for his background, well, his tangled family tree grew from uncertain roots, and his delving beneath them had brought his brother's wrath upon him more than once. "I'll have to check the genealogy on that one, Abuela. Robber-barons, I've got in spades, but pirates, I'm not sure of."
"No matter, señor," she said, then continued, "Maybe is better you no pirate, or you don't like how the story goes." She wagged her finger, then settled in to the tale. "It happened long time ago, the pirate Cavendish, he comes to hunt Spanish, with their ships full of gold. This Cavendish, he has three ships of his own, small and fast as foxes. He has a medium ship, a middle-size ship, and uno muy pequeño—"each time she held her hands apart to show the relative sizes of the vessels, spread very wide for the pirates' target. "When the big ship Santa Ana comes around, they race out and bite her. They fight all day, and their cannons knock holes in the Spanish before she finally surrender." She punched her fist into the opposite hand, like cannon fire. Clearly, she'd been telling this story a long time.
"All the crew, they put ashore, but now they have not enough men, so they sink their little ship—"she indicated the smallest size, then settled her hands down, down, down—"and the treasure they load onto the other two, then sail for England.
"Cavendish, he arrives home a few months later, a very wealthy man, but the other ship is not seen again, and many say, it has never left these waters." She nodded, rocking in her seat, and a few of the tourists started to clap, then Hortensia lurched forward again her arms spread.
"Wait, wait! There is still more." She turned her head, her milky eyes rolling as if seeking Nigel's gaze. She reached out and settled her hand on his arm, giving a gentle shake. "Because I know the truth," she whispered.
The other tourists leaned in a little closer. Even Devi looked intrigued, perhaps just because she watched a master draw in her crowd.
"My people know the truth, I say. The desert people. Long time ago still, but not so long as the first, a big storm has blown, like the one blowing down on us now, eh? Three hunters have to shelter from the wind and rain. When they come out the world is different, night has fallen, and their path is dark. They look for wood, and a way to make fire. But the wood they find is strange...so smooth, so flat...so old." She smoothed the air in front of her, creating the scene with her hands and her words.
"A fire they build to keep through the night. When the sun rises, they see they are sitting on a ship, a ship in the sand, its masts gone and deck scarred by cannons and by flames. None of those three men ever forget what they see in the desert, the ship of ghosts."
A young tourist scoffed. "Really? Come on, Dad, you can't listen to these people." He gripped the elbow of the older man beside him. As if all stories, to be true, must also hew strictly to the facts.
"Ah ah!" Hortensia said. She slipped a hand into the neck of her blouse and drew out a pendant that sparkled in the long sun. A gold coin, pierced with a hole. The irregular shape and central cross marked it for Spanish, and centuries old. True shipwreck booty? Could be, even if it weren't from that particular wreck. Or it could simply be a clever prop to lend weight to the tale. Either way, Nigel didn't mind in the slightest. The reveal would make for a great moment.
The storyteller chuckled at their gasps. "The memory was not all they took home." She held the coin aloft a moment longer, then tucked it away. Leaning back again, she rested her hands on her thighs. "And there is a story for you."
This time, she allowed their applause, tipping her head graciously as people dropped coins into her wooden box then drifted away.
"Gracias, Abuela. Thank you for trusting us with your story."
"De nada, Nigel Rowe." She enunciated each syllable and rolled the 'r' of his name, making his very ordinariness into a sort of incantation.
Nigel rose, and said to the camera, "Sounds rather like a string of stodgy Victorian flats, doesn't it? Nigel Rowe? Hortensia's story is much more engaging. Pirates, treasure, shipwrecks—I could almost smell the woodsmoke. Or perhaps it's merely lunchtime? No scorpions on the menu today, I'll wager." He winked, taking a long pause, then cued Devi, who turned off the camera.
The wind flicked her hair around, and tossed a woman's hat off her head. Devi pounced after it.
A gust swept the dusty street, rifling the storyteller's box of bills, and Nigel dropped to one knee, reaching for the lid.
From across the street, Devi shouted.
Nigel froze in the act of reaching. A slender arrow as long as his hand whipped between him and the box to embed itself, quivering, in the dirt.