Hijuelo walked barefoot, dry mud clinging to his heels. An ixtle bag slung over his shoulder, the silence of home still heavy in his chest. Ahead, Verde stoked the oven with the calm of a minor god. Hijuelo stopped a few steps away.
“I’m leaving, brother.”
No response. Only the crackle of embers. Verde didn’t turn. But something shifted. He thought of Azul—the silence he left behind—and how the family had chosen absence over confrontation. Staring into the fire, Verde wondered: was losing Hijuelo the price of holding on to what was left of himself? He had heard the words, but refused to hear them. Accepting them meant facing another fracture. He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
“Thanks for not stopping me,” Hijuelo said, and walked on.
At the dry edge between Oaxaca and Jalisco, a mule-drawn cart stopped.
“Where are you headed?” a man asked.
“Far,” Hijuelo said.
A woman in back offered him water. The driver tapped the bench beside him.
“Get in. We don’t ask why. But we respect the pace.”
Hijuelo climbed aboard. He didn’t yet know he had joined the Rhodacantha family.
The father, Rhodas. Quiet. Deep-eyed. Hands like dry branches. The mother, Canta. A voice like wet stone. Their daughter, Mira. Watchful. As if the world were a secret.
Days passed in silence. Until one night, by the fire, Rhodas asked:
“Does Verde know you’re with us?”
“I spoke to him. He didn’t answer.”
Rhodas stared. “Then he will know. And if he comes for you, don’t expect us to stand in the way.”
They reached the highlands of Jalisco, looking for work. Maybe a beginning. But the first taverns didn’t just turn them away. They laughed.
“Where’d you crawl out from? This isn’t Oaxaca. We do things clean here.”
“Go back to your smoky pits.”
A man in polished boots sneered. “We don’t ferment in dirt. No more smoke. We use steam. No superstition.”
Hijuelo froze. Canta gripped Mira’s hand. Rhodas stared until the man stopped smiling.
They left. Silent.
They climbed the sierra—not out of faith, but because it was the only way left. The highlands had spit them out. The coast was too far. The sierra didn’t ask. It just stood.
Smoke led them to a clearing, a taberna half-swallowed by the mountain. It belonged to the Maximiliana family—a lineage that never left, never had to.
Ocote, the father, greeted them with a nod. Raíz, his pregnant wife, moved with the grace of someone who no longer needed to prove anything. She poured jícaras. Mira watched from the side.
Rhodas drank. “Is this mezcal?”
“That’s what we call it,” said Ocote.
Hijuelo tasted. Green. Raw. Something missing.
“It doesn’t taste like mezcal.”
Mira stared into her cup. Didn’t drink. Canta frowned. Rhodas set his down.
No one spoke. It wasn’t mezcal. Not to them.
Ocote broke the silence. “We used to drink worse. Back when the rain never came. Half-burnt maguey and bad guesses.”
No one laughed.
He looked at Hijuelo. “Aren’t you the brother of Espadín and Weber?”
Hijuelo didn’t flinch. “My brothers are Verde and Azul. The world named them something else.”
Raíz stepped forward. “I thought you’d be taller. More proud.”
“I’m not like them.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe you just don’t know yet.”
The silence thickened. The air pressed close, dense with judgment and unfamiliar mezcal. Even the fire seemed to whisper. Every glance weighed more than it should. Words hovered, unsaid.
Raíz gripped the table.
Her breath caught. Pain surged. A sound cracked through the room.
Everyone moved. Cloth. Water. Hands. Mira stoked the fire. Canta cleared space. Ocote said nothing—he simply acted.
Tension turned to purpose.
Raíz knelt, growling through pain like the mountain itself. The fire pulsed. The room shifted.
Then a cry.
Small. Alive.
Raíz held her daughter. Exhausted. Steady.
Everyone sat, as if remembering they had been standing.
Canta exhaled. “We need a drink.”
They grabbed the same jícaras they had refused. They drank.
It wasn’t the same.
Two neighbors stepped in—Valenciana and Inaquidens. One tall and sharp. The other, quiet and round-shouldered.
“We came to see the baby,” Valenciana said. “And to warn you.”
“They’re banning mezcal,” Inaquidens added. “Burning palenques. It’s begun.”
The air folded inward.
Rhodas lifted his drink. “But this… this isn’t mezcal.”
Mira looked at the newborn. “Then what is it?”
Hijuelo stared at her. Then at Raíz.
“It tastes different because of her.”
Valenciana drank. Blinked. “It’s not the same drink. It’s… alive.”
“It’s delicious,” said Canta.
Inaquidens sniffed. “It is different now.”
Rhodas paused. “Still smoke. Still agave. But… yeah. Maybe.”
Hijuelo turned to Raíz. “What will you name her?”
Raíz looked down. Her daughter, still damp from birth, eyes open, impossibly calm. The fire reflected in her gaze. Or maybe it came from her.
“Raicilla.”
Hijuelo repeated it. Not a word. A decision.
“Then this should carry her name.”
They poured a little more. Not for thirst. For reverence.
They drank. Said nothing.
And the smoke kept rising.
This article was structured with the assistance of artificial intelligence (ChatGPT). All content is based on human input and editorial oversight. For more details on how PKGD integrates AI responsibly, please refer to our AI Policy.
