Laura Resau - The Queen of Water

A S A LITTLE GIRL , I did not know I was a descendant of the Inca, the most powerful ancient civilization of South America. I did not know that when the Spanish conquistadors came, crazed for gold, they conquered us, and over the centuries, two kinds of people emerged in Ecuador.

The mestizos.

And the indgenas.

I did not know how they came to be them, or how we came to be us. For me, the distinction seemed as old and fixed as the mountains.

The mestizos thought they were as white and precious and delicate as fresh bread. They spoke Spanish and had fancy last names like Palacios and Cevallos. They were the doctors and dentists and teachers and bankers and landowners. They kept out of the sun so they wouldnt grow dark like Indians. Even if their skin was as brown as mine, they claimed they had no Indian blood and proudly held up their names and clothes to prove it.

And then there were us, the indgenas, with skin as rough and ruddy as freshly dug potatoes, cheeks chapped raw by the sun and wind. The mestizos called us longos, stupid Indians, dirty Indians, poor Indians. We had awkward, backward names like Farinango, which our grandparents signed with an X on contracts they couldnt read. In this way, our grandparents sold their land and then, forever after, paid the mestizos half their harvest to rent what was once theirs.

As a little girl, I hated those mestizos.

Yet I wanted, desperately, to be one.

When I was about seven, I left my world. I disappeared into theirs, and did not find my way back until many years later. But I am getting ahead of myself. I will begin at the beginning, on my last day in my village, Yana Urku. When I woke up that morning, I thought it would be a day like any other.

B EFORE DAWN , I wake up to the sound of creatures scurrying inside the wall near my head. Mice and rats and dogs have burrowed these tunnels through the dried clay, searching for food scraps. Im always searching for food scraps too. Right now my bellys already rumbling, and its hours till breakfast.

The house is dark as a cave except for bits of blue light coming through the holes in the earthen walls. My gaze fixes on a new trail of golden honey oozing from a crack, just within arms reach. Bees live in there, black bees that sting terribly, but make the best honey in the world. I poke my hand in the crack and scoop out the sticky sweetness and lick it from my finger. Its gritty but good.

Our guinea pigs are hungry now too, squeaking and dancing around in their corner, waiting for alfalfa. I can see every corner of our house from my sleeping place on the floor. Mamita and Papito are snoring under their wool blanket on a bed frame made of scrap wood. My brother and sister are curled up next to meHermelinda on the end and Manuelito wedged in the middleand the fleas and bedbugs and lice are crawling wherever they please. My spot against the wall is cozy, the perfect place for licking honey in secret.

Soon Mamita will awaken, standing up and stretching in her white blouse that hangs midway down her thighs. Then, yawning, shell wrap a long dark anaco around her waist, golden beads around her neck, and red beads around her wrists. Then shell open the door and a rectangle of misty morning light will shine into our houses musty darkness. Then shell light the cooking fire and well all slurp steamy potato soup around the fire pit.

If she catches me with honey dripping from my fingers, her face will twist into a frown. When people tell her, Your little Virginia is vivsima! Mamita snorts, Humph, shes clever for stealing food, thats about all.

Its true, I do use my wits to fill my belly with fresh cheese or warm rolls. Or to get something I really want, like a pet goat or a pair of shoes. But theres more. I have dreams. Dreams bigger than the mountaintops that poke at the clouds. In the pasture, I always climb my favorite tree and shout to the sheep, Im traveling far from here! and my tree turns into a truck and I ride off to a place where I can eat rice and meat and watermelon every day.