Tlalocan

I'll never forget that night. The wind was blowing so hard the trees seemed to groan. I had left the village to secure the roads when, through the rain and fog, I saw something strange by the stream: a figure lying on the ground.

I ran, thinking it was some wounded traveler or a beast. But no. It was a woman. Her skin was ice-cold, her lips purple. She wore clothes I'd never seen before, thin, impossible to withstand the cold. She didn't respond, she barely breathed.

I took her in my arms and carried her to the village. The sentinels saw me arrive with her, confused, murmuring about bad omens. The leader ordered her locked up until they knew who she was. He said that if she survived the night, the gods would decide her fate.

And he survived.

On the second day, when I went to bring her water, I found her awake. She was watching me with the same mixture of fear and wonder with which I had looked at her the first time. She tried to speak, but her sounds were incomprehensible, soft, broken. I offered her a piece of bread, and she hesitated before taking it. Her hands were still trembling.

On the third day, the leader called me over. He said that since I had found her, it was my duty to take care of her. “Teach her our language, if you can,” he ordered. “If she can speak, we’ll know if she’s an envoy… or a threat.”

Since then, I spend my days near her. She doesn't understand my words, but she observes every gesture, every tone. And somehow, when our eyes meet, it seems she does understand me, even though neither of us can say a single word the other understands.