“This painting? This is your boy.”
Noah took a second look, mesmerised by the thick-painted features. Could he tell, just by looking at the poorly constructed face, that it was his son? Was there any resemblance between that twisted figure and the boy he’d spent so long searching for? He couldn’t take his eyes off of it, the first artefact of his son’s existence he’d held in years. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply, trying to recover some sense of the boy. When he pulled the cheap paper away, he could barely speak.
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes the Tletliztlii—” He swallowed, then looked out the window of the classroom. Noah glanced, but there was nothing there. Only the sun burning in the sky. “The children, they were here. Your son, too. Then today, no children. But I find that.” He pointed toward the piñata on his desk, then crossed himself. “Eso es todo lo que queda de los niños.“
“What do you mean?”
“They are gone.”
Noah slumped down into one of the tiny desks, unable to keep his balance any longer. Knees up to his chest, he couldn’t help but laugh, the rasps swirling in his chest before erupting volcanically from between his teeth.
“My name is Señor Alfred Muñoz. I am one of the teachers here, but I am also the caretaker. The rest, they come only when they are needed. Classes for the babies on some days, classes for the older children on other days. Between, I must make sure the school is ready. But now, maybe I’m losing my job. Today, I’m supposed to have the children, but they do not come. Maybe never again.”
Noah looked around the room, needing to occupy himself to keep his heart from breaking. The walls of the classroom were covered in drawings scribbled by tiny hands, pasted upon a larger mural that swept everything else up in it—chalkboard, windows, the door. It was a row of children, their heads wider than tall, features pinched but gleeful. Each was a different colour, and they danced as though floating, all in line following behind a tall musician in some sort of parade. The musician’s face beamed like the sun as he blew notes out into the air, the string of them carrying across two walls. The line of happy children behind, all no more than four years old. Suddenly, Eli seemed so far away. Impossibly distant and irretrievable.
“Where would the Tletliztlii take them?” Rachel asked.
“Nobody will say. People, they are afraid of the gods, even if they don’t believe in them. They are afraid of what will happen.”
Noah banged his hand on the small desk.
“You have to have some idea. My son—he was stolen! I haven’t seen him in years. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
Rachel looked at him after his outburst in that way he hated. With well-meaning pity.
“We’ll find him, Noah. Don’t worry. If they’d left the village I bet Father Manillo would have known it. They’re still here, somewhere. We’ll find Eli somehow.”
“How can you be so sure? Even I can’t be sure. His own teacher can’t be sure.”
“I just know, Noah.”
“You know? What do you know?” Noah recognised, dimly, his frustration was misplaced, but the fire was too great; he could not stop himself. Tinder became a blaze, and he could not turn back. “We’re not going to find him. We aren’t going to find Eli or Sonia or anyone from the Tletliztlii. We’re—”
“Excuse,” said Muñoz, careful in his interruption. “You say Father Manillo is helping you?”
“Yes, Father Manillo.”
Muñoz did not get a chance to speak. A horrible moan, like the creaking of a massive door on rusted hinges, interrupted him as it echoed thorough the empty schoolhouse. The sound rattled Noah, who fell silent and cold and could not understand why—not until he saw Muñoz’s terror-filled eyes bulging wide. They were locked on Rachel, and as Noah turned he could feel the passage of time slowly stretch itself out. The room expanded outward until it fell away from the edges of world altogether, and all the while the distance between him and Rachel shrank to near nothing. He saw the web of veins standing from the pallid skin of her sweating face; saw the wrinkles around her eyes, her mouth, as she grimaced in agony. Tears fell onto her rigid arms and as she clutched at her belly trying to claw her way in to stop whatever was happening. Noah swallowed, his brain dully wanting to reconcile the sight, and it wasn’t until Muñoz finally stood and screamed that time’s normal pace resumed.
“¡Madre!“
Noah rushed over and put his hand on Rachel’s face. She was burning, and crying uncontrollably.
“My God, Rachel. What’s wrong?”
She shook her head without speaking, and Muñoz covered his own again, muttering under his breath. Noah grabbed hold of the small man so tightly he thought his fingers would puncture skin.
“Call a doctor! Do something!” he said.
Muñoz’s eyes were stuck as wide as they could go, but he still managed to whisper a question.
“The name. What is the name?”
Noah didn’t understand.
“Her what? Her name—her name is Rachel. What—”
“No, no. What is the nombre del bebé? The baby. The baby has to have a name.”
“We haven’t—we—what does that have to do with anything?”
“Noah,” Rachel managed, her voice strained. “Help me.”
Muñoz shook his head, pulling away. “El bebé necesita un nombre.“ But Noah would not let him go. Instead, he squeezed the teacher’s arms harder.
“Why do you want to know the name?”
“Noah, I need a hospital.”
“Cuando la madre de gran Ometéotlitztl’s estaba embarazada con su hermano, ella no le dio nombre al bebé y los dioses estaban tan enojados que le forzaron que lo abortara.“
“I don’t understand!”
“Help me,” Rachel cried. Noah looked down at her, his daze clearing. Panic setting in.
“¡El sin nombre se quema! ¡Un lumbre que nunca se apaga!“
He slapped Muñoz hard across the face. Muñoz stumbled.
“We need to see a doctor now,” he said, and picked Rachel up. Muñoz nodded.
“Yes, your wife. We need to help your wife.”
“We aren’t married,” Noah muttered. It was all he could think to say.
IV. The Truth Will Out
The only doctor in the village lived ten minutes away, but it could have been ten hours and the journey would have been no easier. The men carried Rachel as quickly as they could, and Noah did his best to calm her despite her delirium, while Muñoz guided them through deserted streets toward a tiny nested house.
“We’re almost there,” Noah said, but Rachel did not seem interested in being comforted. Instead, she continued to emit a high-pitched whine that steadily increased in volume. Part of Noah expected locked doors to swing open and shut windows to fly up, but as they passed rows of houses in the warm night nothing moved. They were more alone than they’d ever been.
The men burst through the door of the doctor’s house with Rachel in their arms and called out for help. A short, dark nurse with deep-set eyes and a harelip from an ancient scar appeared and looked directly into Rachel’s eyes, then at her swollen belly, then directed the two men to place her into a worn wheelchair. Noah asked if he needed to sign anything, but the nurse did not respond. Instead, she wrapped her stubby fingers around the handles of the wheelchair and pushed it forward, not waiting as Rachel weakly reached out. Before she could speak, Rachel was pushed clear of the front room.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Noah asked, eyes plastered to the door swinging unceremoniously shut.