sight of it.
Lifetimes ago, when our place was at the foot of the Tree of the World, the mortals believed that a snake encircled the earth, its teeth clamped down at the end of its tail. They believed that if it let go, the world would end.
Rosa’s eyes widen and she backs away from me, stumbling over her silk-clad feet in her haste to get away, as if it is truly a snake that I hold cupped in my hand. As if it is that snake whose appetite for its own tail controlled the fate of the world.
“No.” It is a simple answer. One said in a voice not of fear or defiance but of resolution. I don’t know how to respond; suddenly I know what it feels like when a small pebble collides with a mountain.
Maria Elena takes the thread from me. She strokes it lightly with her finger, and when she begins to hum, her voice is as sweet as a lullaby.
“We have no choice,” I say, but my reply is weak, and my resolve even more so.
“And who is it that dictates that?” Rosa screeches. This time her words are formed by that ancient jargon, and it sounds like gravel, grating and rough, and for a moment I feel as though I have my sister back. That it is She Who Cannot Be Turned standing in front of me and not the good girl Mamá turned her into. The heavy pounding in my chest is slowed. But She Who Cannot Be Turned has never refused to cut before. No matter to whom the life was attached. She raises her arms to that sky. “Who’s out there? Do you know, sister? Because as far as I know, there is only us. For lifetimes, we have been both the judge and the jury, the creator and the executioner.” Rosa’s face contorts oddly, and then I realize: she is crying. She is crying, this merciless sister of mine, and I cannot think how to react. She is ugly when she cries, and for a moment, I am pleased to see her like this. To see there is a crack in the alabaster, a flaw in the perfection. To see the mask of humanity begin to slip and the monster begin to emerge.
A lamenting cry fills the air. The thread begins to sing, and it’s a mournful, heartrending elegy, full of regret and remorse and an unfinished life. And with it those shears, all glinting and huge and terrifying, appear in Rosa’s outstretched palm. She screams, wrenching her hand out from under them. And they fall, tumbling through the air until they land with the blades wedged in the ground a few feet away.
She falls to her knees in front of me. “Who says there will be repercussions, sister?” she pleads. “What could be the harm in sparing this one life?”
Strands of her hair, now loose and tangled, cling to her cheeks and underneath her nose, plastered there by tears and snot. “It is by our hands that the scales are balanced, sister,” I say, brushing Rosa’s hair off her face and smoothing it back into place as best I can. “And it is a power that cannot be abused. One that is too large for any one of us to try to manipulate. It is a beast that can never be tamed.”
I take a deep breath and say the words I’ve been rehearsing in my head since last night. “It is a duty that surpasses everything. Even love.”
I need her to say that I’m right, but instead she turns her back on me and cradles her knees with her arms. “I won’t do it,” she says petulantly.
I glance toward those shears so mercilessly stabbed into the earth. My whole body trembles as I pick them up, but my hands are hesitant and unsure and I drop them twice before I have a steady grasp on them. They are so heavy I need both hands to manage them.
I don’t know how I’m going to hold the thread in order to cut it until Maria Elena slides toward me. She leans her head down to the thread in her hand and whispers something. Perhaps it’s good-bye. Then she holds it out, one tiny hand on each side of that thread. Its mournful cry is so loud I want to cover my ears. I catch Maria Elena’s eye. She nods her head. And with trembling hands I raise those shears and cut the thread.
The world is
Lifetimes ago, when our place was at the foot of the Tree of the World, the mortals believed that a snake encircled the earth, its teeth clamped down at the end of its tail. They believed that if it let go, the world would end.
Rosa’s eyes widen and she backs away from me, stumbling over her silk-clad feet in her haste to get away, as if it is truly a snake that I hold cupped in my hand. As if it is that snake whose appetite for its own tail controlled the fate of the world.
“No.” It is a simple answer. One said in a voice not of fear or defiance but of resolution. I don’t know how to respond; suddenly I know what it feels like when a small pebble collides with a mountain.
Maria Elena takes the thread from me. She strokes it lightly with her finger, and when she begins to hum, her voice is as sweet as a lullaby.
“We have no choice,” I say, but my reply is weak, and my resolve even more so.
“And who is it that dictates that?” Rosa screeches. This time her words are formed by that ancient jargon, and it sounds like gravel, grating and rough, and for a moment I feel as though I have my sister back. That it is She Who Cannot Be Turned standing in front of me and not the good girl Mamá turned her into. The heavy pounding in my chest is slowed. But She Who Cannot Be Turned has never refused to cut before. No matter to whom the life was attached. She raises her arms to that sky. “Who’s out there? Do you know, sister? Because as far as I know, there is only us. For lifetimes, we have been both the judge and the jury, the creator and the executioner.” Rosa’s face contorts oddly, and then I realize: she is crying. She is crying, this merciless sister of mine, and I cannot think how to react. She is ugly when she cries, and for a moment, I am pleased to see her like this. To see there is a crack in the alabaster, a flaw in the perfection. To see the mask of humanity begin to slip and the monster begin to emerge.
A lamenting cry fills the air. The thread begins to sing, and it’s a mournful, heartrending elegy, full of regret and remorse and an unfinished life. And with it those shears, all glinting and huge and terrifying, appear in Rosa’s outstretched palm. She screams, wrenching her hand out from under them. And they fall, tumbling through the air until they land with the blades wedged in the ground a few feet away.
She falls to her knees in front of me. “Who says there will be repercussions, sister?” she pleads. “What could be the harm in sparing this one life?”
Strands of her hair, now loose and tangled, cling to her cheeks and underneath her nose, plastered there by tears and snot. “It is by our hands that the scales are balanced, sister,” I say, brushing Rosa’s hair off her face and smoothing it back into place as best I can. “And it is a power that cannot be abused. One that is too large for any one of us to try to manipulate. It is a beast that can never be tamed.”
I take a deep breath and say the words I’ve been rehearsing in my head since last night. “It is a duty that surpasses everything. Even love.”
I need her to say that I’m right, but instead she turns her back on me and cradles her knees with her arms. “I won’t do it,” she says petulantly.
I glance toward those shears so mercilessly stabbed into the earth. My whole body trembles as I pick them up, but my hands are hesitant and unsure and I drop them twice before I have a steady grasp on them. They are so heavy I need both hands to manage them.
I don’t know how I’m going to hold the thread in order to cut it until Maria Elena slides toward me. She leans her head down to the thread in her hand and whispers something. Perhaps it’s good-bye. Then she holds it out, one tiny hand on each side of that thread. Its mournful cry is so loud I want to cover my ears. I catch Maria Elena’s eye. She nods her head. And with trembling hands I raise those shears and cut the thread.
The world is
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