[02 - THE SACRED RAINFALL]

♁

When the first light bleeds through the forest tops, my optimistic plans change when Mira goes into a watery coughing outburst. Once again, the vicious cycle begins, and I have no choice but to stay the course. I dissociate my consciousness and let my body go on autopilot, but her cries envenom my best memories. I have no escape when it comes. 

It starts with little sniffles, and then Mira complains of a terrible headache. I can't give her paracetamol until she has dehydrated her body, which usually lasts fifteen minutes. It's a long fucking time since you're forced to cradle the child who you doomed this life upon. She is an endless manifestation of unrefined despair, and my cherry on top is seeing Appa cry. Yes, Appa is crying. He's lying on his stomach, tail tucked between his legs, mewling, quietly licking at Mira's ankles, and I pity him. He's been unwillingly submerged in this nightmare. 

Mira's still at it, and expelling water like mad; out her nose, through her nausea and tears, sweating bullets. The only thing that makes this just a bit better is knowing that this would temporarily end in a while. The unrestricted forest offers me comfort, now that Mira can scream it out here. Back in our apartment, when she starts screaming bloody murder, the neighbours begin to consider the extent of my brutality. Out here, I don't have to pretend that we've got it together.

But this time, it's different. It's worse.

The outflow of water gets too much for her little body, and Mira begins to asphyxiate. She's choking on the surplus, and I'm left defeated on what to do. Appa continues to bark his lungs off. 

I move Mira to bring her to kneel over my lap and strike my trembling palm over her back. Not enough force. I try this once, twice, five times, calling out her name to keep her with me—and Mira's long, distorted gasp ends with a spout of water. 

I'm a blubbering mess by the time she regains her awareness. The rashes are back, true blue and deep dyed. The whites of her eyes are flaming red now, and if only we had a bit of yellow to finish off this primary-colour pain spectrum that's being inflicted on my poor daughter. 

She lies on my chest, coughing and sniffling, calling out to me weakly. Her throat is sensitive, so she can't speak until the pain fades. 

I rock her gently in my arms. "You're so strong, Mira, love."

She doesn't say anything more, her sniffles quietening. 

"I'm with you, darling. My brave baby girl. I'm here, right here," I whisper to her. I stroke through her hair to the ends, her tiny nose, and her thick eyebrows. It's a shot of linctus for her, and she eventually succumbs to the physical toll. She's fast asleep before I can ask her to ingest a tablet. 

When the forest floor begins to scorch, I can't sit and cry for too long. I have to keep moving. I have an agenda to meet. It seems like the coldhearted thing for a mother to do, to not grieve until the day's end, but I'm sick of waiting for an accident to happen. Heartbreak becomes a luxury in the fight for survival. 

My stakes are set now. Tlālōcān waits for my daughter.

I wipe Mira down, gently bundle up her in the truck, turn on the air-conditioning, set aside a slice of sandwich on the dashboard, and switch the child lock. Appa's in charge while I'm away, and he's striding from end to end on the qui vive. 

I scratch at the back of his ears and jaw. I know I'm desperate when I have to trust a dog for my daughter's security. Appa's the best I've got. 

"Please watch my baby for me," I tell him. "Take care of her, alright?"

He woofs back as if to say yes. I grin, slowly starting to warm up to him. Maybe he's not here to make my life hell after all. 

I don't pack too much because I'm still not accustomed to my dead self-protection instincts. Also, I'm only going to be away for a few hours. I have my rucksack, my 5G phone, a water bottle, the unused pistol, and a compass which I can't trust my impulses to depend on hence, the fibreglass tablet. I always feel like an idiot, walking into the wilderness with my electronics, but I have no choice. This was what kept me on the trail. 

I head west, far beyond Solera de Agua, twenty kilometres off the hiking trails, where I'd parked my truck on the tiny dirt roads within the rainforests. If it weren't for Mira's mortality looming large, I would've found the place enchanted, a verdant soul-zen you'd weave dreams out of. I manage to shake off the uneasy feeling that the forest has been eerily quiet for two days now—no animals, no birds. I couldn't hear any birdsong, either. As if a more feral predator has begun to stalk the wilds, the animals are compelled to lie in wait. 

After twenty minutes of humming and roaming, I realize that I'm unavoidably steering for the ocean. I can smell the subtle salinity in the breeze and a narrow ribbon of land lined by palm fronds. Apart from the sunlit paradise that waited, I'm way off the track. I'm supposed to be walking to an alcove away from the coast.

I look down at the map on my tablet, the red Vs igniting my way straight ahead. 

"That can't be right," I mumble. "But, she said..."

I don't give into the panic just yet. I turn to head even more west but the land has protruded to form a peninsula. It's a convex-shaped beach, both ends meeting at summits of jagged edge cliffs. 

"No." I whirl to the opposite end, only to be met with the reflection of the land on the right. "No please, no."

I squint my eyes up at the treetops, sighing out my anxiety. My mouth is dry and I'm pretty sure I'm running a fever. The elder of the tribe I'd last visited told me that there were rumours of a subterrane alcove, west of a lake with new settlements. I'd crossed that last night, so where was I now? Where was the beginning?

Consulting with my tablet does not help anymore. All it shows are the manmade lines of woodlots overlooking the Atlantic. I am unquestionably in the middle of nowhere. 

I am too parched to cry or scream out my irritation. I want to sob out for my mother, kick my legs in the air, and throw a fit. Why, why was nothing coming up? Had karma found me at the most faithless point in my life? Did Mira not deserve that chance? 

The loamy trail I stood on fanned out to a golden precipice, but the ocean still sounded so far away, even farther than how close I was. A fierce gust of cold winds proves me wrong. The cloudless sky pushing down from above weighs down, and it's disorienting. I think the dehydration is starting to get to me again. I realize I haven't sipped water in twelve hours. 

I'm just so exhausted. Everything feels heavy; the air, my head, the breeze. I have no will to find my way back to Mira. I want to lie on the sand and let the livid waves crash down on me. I have half a mind to give up, and the other chastises me to get off my ass and move. But the search seems futile. I'm nowhere close, and I'm deceiving myself in naivety.

I'm captive to my inadequacy and collapse to my knees. I've cared for my Mira, watched her die a thousand deaths because of me, and now I've failed to find her a remedy. I've fucked up motherhood. 

"I'm so sorry, Mira," I weep out to the bleak forest. Something I haven't been able to do in front of my daughter. "I'm sorry I conceived you. It's my fault. I can't save you."

"Mira!"

♆

The woman's cries resonate in Namor's ears and off the treetops, and a voice from the past enables him to slake his frustration. He alone bears witness to a mother's meltdown, and it's a defacing sight. He couldn't feel despondent for the very un-American invader, the woman was here to wreak havoc. He could sense it in her despite her face of innocence. She wanted something from him desperately.

Truly, how was this miserable girl a warrior? Why would anyone choose someone as enfeebled in pursuit of his mighty Talokan? For an appeal to his emotion? To shake his ground with mercy? 

Perhaps... it's working.  

As the woman continues to wail out apologies and eventually for her daughter, she depletes herself of energy. She holds her head in her hands, stumbles for balance and comes crashing back to the ground. Helpless. Her dehydration is evident, and her struggle is mortifying. Weak. She falls prey to the spells that enchanted his lands, no different from the rest who ventured here. 

And ultimately, the woman surrenders to the arid air and falls in a faint. Powerless. 

Namor leans into the trunk of the evergreen, clucking his tongue. "Ay. Expected this one to last," he says, disappointed. 

He straightens up and lets his wings take flight. They flap by the side of his ankles, allowing him to soar past the thicket and perch steadily by the woman's immobilized body. He doesn't permit any thoughts to encroach on his mind. Get it done and over with. 

He wastes no time in anchoring a perfect aim with his spear, fingers fisting into the shaft and the tapered spearhead grazing at her collarbone. He draws blood instantly—a reminder of her fragile humanity. He had to believe that, otherwise his task would fall short. 

His aim doesn't waver, but not a muscle in his body prompts him to do the damage. The air becomes electric, tested against the pressure of his undoing. 

Namor stares at her face broodingly, waiting for something to change. He suspected the oncoming storm would be done with her, or a hunter misfires a bullet. Maybe her life wasn't his to take.  

His grip on his spear tightens, and the burden becomes unendurable. He has followed her for one thing. 

"For Talokan," he prays under his breath.

He stands astride her limp body, crouches for momentum and raises his arms straight up, ready to drive the spear right in. No hesitance, just one strike. That's all it was. Finish it already.

The onset of his encouraging warcry plugs in his throat. 

His tenacious eyes catch a glimmer of ornamented gold nestled between her breasts, a necklace of sorts. A gradual lapse in judgement gets him to inspect it at once, ensconcing the charm with the jagged spike of his spear. A tug causes it to unlock. The pendant lay open beside her cheek, storing a little picture. A photograph. The fallen woman embraces her breathless infant, a moment too much out of time. It's the eyes that have him transfixed, the look that says that she's holding on tight. It is that; she would do anything for this child. 

The exhale that leaves him flares in his chest excruciatingly. A thought flashes through his mind in chains—the blood of a mother will be on his hands. He will be creating another loveless child. 

And the uncanny realization stabs him deeper. 

Another niña sin amor... because of you.

Namor's pure intention was to kill, not make. He recalls what his mother used to tell him: the greatest mistakes are made when we see through the lens of our needs. What is his need? To take a life without a cause?

His spear pierces an exposed tree root instead, his aim squandered.

He will not kill the woman. Not while a mistake haunts his reason. 

The storm clouds above Namor roiled faster, splintering a whip of white-hot lightning into the skies. The first droplets break across and splash onto the earth in a soft pitter-patter. He shuts his eyes and lifts his face to the blessed rainfall, allowing that subliminal part of himself that lay with the waters to reawaken. It strikes his body like a thousand icy knives impaling him and every breath he takes burns. The waters wash over him in a gentle catharsis, clarifying him of doubt. 

K'uk'ulkan smiles and runs his fingers through his hair, inevitably chained in the most tender prisons. He opens his eyes to the gathering storm. 

"I will not take the life of your child," he takes an oath to the rain. 

He looks down at the woman's lifeless body, prevailed over by her. Her drenched hair spreads out behind her like seaweed, and there is still maternal perseverance in her heart. It beats an intense symphony, incanting through the torrent. It mystifies him. 

With an anchored palm under her neck, he brings her to an incline off the ground. Each raindrop on her face draws his focus on her features. There is no denying his fascination, the woman's got a symmetry to her. Every delicate trait reflects another in radiant brown shades and is left deflated in her gloom. It's all wrong though, now that he is close enough to observe every aspect of her being. 

She is indeed no warrior. There is no scar on her body, no weight on her endurance. She's simply careless, hysterical, and out of her habitat. Untamed by nature. 

"You'll come to me if what you seek is honourable," he promises. "This is all I can offer."

He carefully traces a line across the woman's forehead in a pledge, wiping a lock of hair out of her face. Such a stubborn surface-dweller. 

His lips twist down at her in appraisal. "K'uk'ulkan awaits."

∞

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