Rae Carson: The Shattered Mountain

“Mara!” Reynaldo calls.

Below her, Carella’s daughter has slipped in the mud to her belly, arms and legs splayed. Her wide eyes are a startling white contrast to her muddy face and hair. “Help!” she cries.

The wall of water is upon them, and Mara has no time to be gentle. She grabs a nearby manzanita branch with one hand; with the other she lunges down, grabs the girl’s cold, slick arm, and gives it a tremendous yank.

The girl screams, but the sound is cut off by water filling her mouth and nose.

Mara’s arms threaten to rip from her sockets as water sucks the girl down, but she refuses to let go, pulling with all her might. Gradually, the girl’s soaked head breaks through the whitewater, then her shoulders. One final tug, and the girl’s body is more on the bank than in the water. She lies perfectly still. Blood pours from a gash on the side of her head.

The water level is still rising. Mara stretches farther, hooks the girl’s armpit, and drags her up even higher, until only her toes trail in the water. One foot is now bare.

Mara collapses on her back. Her arms are rubbery, and her temples have a sharp, squeezed pain from so much effort. She turns her head to regard the girl beside her, half expecting her to be limp and dead.

The girl convulses once, hard. Then she coughs, and something that is half floodwater, half vomit dribbles from her mouth.

Joy surges in Mara’s chest, as brilliant as a rising summer sun. She digs her heels into the mud bank for leverage, then helps the girl sit up. “That’s it,” she murmurs as the girl continues to heave. “Just cough it all out.”

“Is she all right?” It’s Reynaldo. He lowers himself to their position, using rocks and scrub for purchase.

“I think so. She has a bad gash on her head. And I may have hurt her when I pulled her out. But . . . I think so.” I saved her . The truth of this marvelous fact fills her limbs with tingling warmth. Maybe she can save them all.

“We should get moving,” Reynaldo warns. “The water is still rising.”

The sky chooses that moment to dump vicious streamers of rain, and Mara blinks water from her eyes. “The others? Did they . . .”

“All safe on the ridge.”

She breathes relief. “Let’s go, then.” To Carella’s daughter, she says, “Can you climb?”

The girl coughs one more time, but she nods, and Mara marvels at her bravery. She can’t be more than five or six, but she stayed behind to help everyone else. Now her lungs must be on fire, her head pounding, her shoulder stinging, but instead of fear or pain in her eyes, Mara sees only determination.

“What’s your name?” Mara asks.

“Teena.”

“All right, Teena. Let’s get up on that ridge, then we’ll let you rest.”

THE tiny girl’s name is Marlín. The brothers Reynaldo discovered in the cellar are Benito and Hando. There are also Alessa, Quintoro, Rosa, Marco, and Jaime. They sit huddled on the ridge, shivering in the rain, while Mara checks everyone over. The gash on Teena’s head is not deep, so Mara tears a strip from Julio’s saddle blanket and uses it to stanch the flow of blood.

“I’m not sure what to do about your shoes,” she says to the girl.

Teena shrugs. “I don’t need shoes,” she says, kicking off her remaining one. Then her face freezes. Her chin trembles.

“What is it?” Mara says. “Are you hurt somewhere else?”

She shakes her head, staring at the discarded shoe. It lies on its side, a leather tassel dragging in the mud. It is worn through at the heel. She has been walking in near-useless shoes the whole time. “Mamá and me, we went to the tanner to get my feet measured. Because I’m so big now. But the bad men came.”

“We’ll get you some new shoes. It might take a while, but we’ll do it.” Even as she says it, Mara knows it won’t be enough. It’s not the shoes that Teena misses.

“She let herself die on purpose,” Teena says, still staring at the shoes. “So we could get away.”

Mara’s throat tightens. “She loved you very much.” She can hardly get the words out. What must it be like to have parents who would sacrifice their own lives for you?

Little Marco has an ugly gash just below his knee. The others seem to be in relatively good shape, though they huddle together in shivering groups, waiting for the rain to stop. Mara grimaces. It’s safe enough to have a fire, now that clouds choke the sky. But unless they find shelter, the driving rain makes it impossible.

Quintoro wraps an arm around his little sister, Rosa, who has been quietly crying ever since they escaped the flood. Adán digs at the earth with a stick, poking and shoving in frustrated bursts. Julio sits propped against the trunk of a small cottonwood, eyes closed, his beautiful face raised to the rain. His breathing is shallow, his face pale.

“Everybody up,” Mara orders, getting to her feet. “It’s too cold to sit still.” And too depressing.

“We need rest,” Reynaldo says. “The little ones are exhausted.”

Mara shakes her head. “We’re exposed up here on the ridge. Once the storm is over, we’ll be visible to anyone within half a day’s travel. So we move now and rest when we find shelter.”

Everyone grumbles as they get to their feet. After she helps Julio stand, he wraps his arms around her and leans against her. His skin is feverish, and she can feel the pulse at his neck—fast and fluttery like butterfly wings. “I love you,” he says.

“Prove it by getting well,” she answers.

She and Adán help him mount the horse. “You should tie me down,” Julio says, even as he lists to the right.

Mara swallows hard. Then she mounts up behind him and puts an arm around his waist. He winces at the contact. “I’ll hold you” Mara says.

They set off down the mountain. There is no trail, so they must go carefully, slipping through mud and navigating outcroppings and stunted trees. Below them, the fault has become a churning river, thick with mud and detritus. Above, the sky continues to dump rain. Mara wonders if she’ll ever be warm and dry again.

She holds Julio close to keep him upright, feeling his heartbeat against her chest. There is no way to avoid the wound on his lower back, and though he is bravely stoic, the occasional jostling step of their mount makes him gasp. She buries her face between his shoulder blades and breathes his scent, wishing she could somehow send her own warmth and vitality into his body.

They walk for hours, until Alessa plunks onto the ground and bursts into tears.

Reynaldo hurries over to her.

“What is it?” Mara calls.

“Her feet,” Reynaldo says. “She’s been walking with blisters. Now her feet are ripped to shreds.”

“My feet hurt too,” says Rosa.

“Mine too,” says Hando.

Mara takes a deep breath. “Everyone’s feet hurt,” she says. “But we have to be brave. Alessa, if you promise to hold on to Julio and keep him from falling, you can trade places with me.”

Alessa brightens. “I can do that.”

The saddle isn’t big enough for two adults anyway, and the edge had been digging into Mara’s rear. She plants a kiss behind Julio’s ear and dismounts, then helps Alessa up behind him.

“Can I ride the horse too?” someone asks.

“Me too!” says another.

Mara is careful to keep her voice calm and patient. “When Alessa’s feet are better, everyone can take turns helping Julio.”

Hando eyes the other packhorse, but he says nothing. Mara will let the children ride the second horse if she has to, but she’s not sure the rest of them are up to carrying the supplies. Not without more food to give them strength.

She takes the lead this time, keeping an eye out for shelter as she goes, but her heart is sinking. She wants to save them. Every single one. She hoped a flash flood would be the worst they encountered. But maybe it will be something little that eventually kills them all. Something insignificant. Like blistered feet.