Revolutions

63 - Teqosa

In the coolness of the dawn, I grab the purple maize, its hues as rich as the twilight sky, and begin removing the hard kernels. I grind them against the stone metate in the same rhythmic motion I recall my mother doing when I was a young child. It's one of the few memories I have of her: the sun kissing her face as she worked in the kitchen, humming a sweet melody as she prepared the api for our meal.

I haven't thought about my mother in quite some time. She passed away unexpectedly when I was eight or nine harvests old—Entilqan was much younger, perhaps too young to remember her. Until I left to attend the Maqanuiache, I would visit the Great Library every day just to have her name recounted, listening to the stories Upachu would tell me of her. The intensity of her feisty warrior's spirit only rivaling her love of maternity and raising Entilqan and me. How she gave so much of her time to taking care of those in need—a practice she'd continue up until her untimely death. Her love of nature, and music, and preparing meals. Her love of life, and her love persevering through the oppressive Timuaq rule.

Now a fine powder, the ground maize feels like silk between my fingers. Water simmers in the clay pot over the fire, and I gradually blend in the maize powder. As the mixture thickens slowly while I continuously stir, I glance over to see I'm joined by the recovering Upachu, who emerges from his long slumber. I watched over him the entire night as he slept, ready to sprint and contact the healer should anything go wrong with his recovery. He winces in pain as he sits down, yet after taking a few contemplative sniffs of the air, the grimace morphs into a smile.

"Api," he says as if recalling a warm memory. "I didn't know you were capable of making such a dish."

"It's a special occasion," I say. "Celebratory of what we've achieved so far, and sending us off in the best way possible."

"Where have all my blankets disappeared to?" Upachu asks, looking around him and trying to locate the missing items.

With a small chuckle, I answer, "I believe Inuxeq took them all with her last night. I believe she slept outside."

"And avoided the warmth of the indoors? Is she mad? She was already shivering in our mild autumn weather; I can't imagine how she fared sleeping outdoors!"

I add a touch of cinnamon and cloves I purchased at the nearby market, their pleasing fragrant scents mingling with the earthy maize. "Everyone has their peculiarities," I say as I return to stirring. For a finishing touch, I drizzle some honey into the mixture, how my mother used to do for me and my sister. Upachu saunters over to me and supports himself on my shoulder with a delicately placed hand. I hear his low, pleased hum as he takes in the aroma, and he pats my shoulder a few times.

"Just how your mother used to make it," he says, looking off into the distance. "She was a good, noble young woman. I believe she would be very proud of you, Teqosa."

I know there was no malicious intent, but my heart aches for a moment from the compliment, longing for my mother. This compounds when I begin thinking about my father, then my sister. I try to remember that numerous people have lost someone, that so many on Pachil have experienced grief, but it only makes my feelings persist. How long does grief take? How much time is one allowed?

Abruptly changing the subject, I say, "I'm departing for the first location on the pot. The one nearest Hilaqta. I'm hoping that you'll recover in time to join me for the other journeys." As I pour the mixture into wide-mouthed cups, Upachu grunts in the affirmative, absorbing the news I have told him.

"You don't need a haggard, old man slowing you down," he says plaintively. I stop what I'm doing for a moment to look at him. His eyes are cast downward, and his lips are pressed into a tight line, holding back a quiver.