Tezzo. Tezzo! Donde estas, mi hijo?” His papa called, exasperated. It was the second time today that the boy had wandered off when his father needed help.
“Aquí estoy!” Cortéz bolted around the corner of the neighbors’ mud-and-bamboo house, skidding to a stop, the dust swirling around his bare feet.
The homes and streets of the small seaside ranchito were primitive. With no more than 600 villagers in roughly a ten-block area, as well as a few more houses scattered up the valley slopes, subsistence was hard. But life overall was happy.
“Where have you been . . . again!” His father started. “Oh, never mind. I need you. Come over here.”
“Sí, papi,” the child approached.
“While your sisters are at the river getting water and your mother is at the mercado, I need you to chase down old ____ who’s wandered off again. That old burro is hardly worth the ____ we feed him anymore, but the wagon can’t pull itself.”
“Sí, papi,” the boy turned to go.
“Oh, and your mother wants you to go trade that bag of maracuyo fruit on the table on the patio with Señora Martinez for the lemons she picked.”
“Sí, papi,” the boy turned again, hesitantly, looked back.
“Well, go ahead. What are you waiting for.”
And he was out of sight in a breath, forgetting the maracuyo.
“Tezzo!” No use.
***
Cortéz meandered down the dusty path, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of the old burro. He knew Papa was counting on him to bring back their loyal beast of burden, but the surrounding countryside was so captivating. Vibrant wildflowers swayed gently in the warm breeze, and songbirds trilled merrily from the trees.
A flash of crimson caught his eye as Cortéz passed by a weathered wooden fencepost. Crouching down, he spied a single scarlet blossom, sprouting valiantly from the base of a fence post. Its petals were so rich and vibrant that they seemed to glow.
Enchanted, Cortéz leaned in closer, examining the plant. Its slender stem emerged from a tangle of roots that gripped tenaciously to the dry earth. He was amazed that something so delicate could grow in such harsh conditions.
Glancing around, Cortez spied a twig within reach. He snatched it up and smoothed a patch of dirt beside the blossom. With the stick, he began sketching the flower, striving to capture its vivid color and graceful shape.
So focused was he on his task that Cortez didn’t notice the sun’s steady climb across the azure sky. The fence post’s shadow slowly stretched and softened as the afternoon wore on. A pair of butterflies fluttered nearby, sampling nectar from other wildflowers, but Cortéz remained hunched beside the crimson blossom.
After finishing his sketch, Cortéz carefully observed the plant’s base, noticing the tiny hairs that adorned its stem. He knew from his books that these hairs would buffer the plant from insect predators, help it retain moisture, and protect it from the sun’s heat.
Straightening up, Cortéz dusted off his worn pants. Squinting against the lowering sun, he was surprised to see how much time had passed. Papa would be wondering where he and the burro had gone.
With reluctance, Cortéz turned to go, casting a final glance at the tenacious crimson flower. It remained rooted fast, bright and unbowed beneath the vast sky.
“I’ll come back for you,” Cortéz murmured before continuing down the path. The surrounding scrubland gradually gave way to cultivated fields. Squat adobe houses sat nestled between rows of corn and beans.
As Cortéz drew closer to town, he kept an eye out for Bandido’s gray hide. But there was no sign of the truant animal. Cortéz quickened his pace. Papa would already be annoyed at how long he had taken.
Rounding a corner, Cortéz nearly collided with old Juan the goat-herder. The wizened man squinted at Cortéz before speaking.
“You seem to be missing something, m’ijo,” Juan chuckled. Cortez sighed.
“Yes, have you seen Bandido? He got out again.”
Juan nodded sagely. “Ah yes, I passed him an hour ago. He was ambling along the east road. I believe he was headed to the cabbage field.”
Cortéz groaned and thanked Juan before jogging down the road. He should have known the burro would make a beeline toward the tempting vegetables. The sun was sinking below the horizon when Cortéz finally spotted Bandido contentedly munching the farmer’s cabbages.
“You rascal,” Cortéz scolded as he seized the burro’s lead rope and tugged him away. Bandido brayed in protest but reluctantly followed Cortéz down the road.
By the time they reached home, the moon had risen high in the inky sky. Papa stood waiting anxiously by their hut, face sagging with relief as Cortéz led the prodigal burro into the yard.
“There you are! What took so long?” Papa asked. Cortéz recounted his distracting encounter with the tenacious flower. Papa shook his head.
“That imagination of yours will be the death of me, hermano,” he said, though not unkindly. “Come, Mamá saved us some tamales.”
They entered the humble dwelling, the fading memory of a crimson blossom lingering in Cortéz’s mind. “Papi, I’ll be right there.” His father watched as the boy ran off to his little hand-made desk in the corner to scrounge for a pencil and paper.
Papa knew it would be another one of Tezzo’s flower pictures.
***
Cortéz scampered down the dusty road, past the old stone church and into the center of the village. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking to see if his father was watching, before darting down a narrow alley between two adobe houses. The alley opened up into a small courtyard shared by several families in the neighborhood. A mangy dog resting in the shade of a tree perked up his head and thumped his tail, recognizing the boy.
Cortéz scanned the courtyard. “Chuy!” he stage-whispered. “Chuy, are you here?” Hearing a scrambling sound behind him, Cortéz whirled around to see his best friend Chuy clambering over the low wall that enclosed the courtyard.
“Hurry up!” Cortéz urged him impatiently. Chuy tumbled over the wall and picked himself up, brushing the dust off the knees of his ragged pants.
“What took you so long?” Cortéz demanded. “I’ve been waiting forever!”
Chuy shrugged. “My papá wanted me to sweep the store before I could go. You know how he gets.” Chuy’s father ran the village’s small general store. Chuy was expected to help out every afternoon after school got out.
Cortéz nodded sympathetically. His own father often gave him chores to do around their small farm before allowing him to run off and play. “Well, come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us.”
The two boys crept back down the alley and peered cautiously around the corner. The dusty village square seemed empty under the hot midday sun. Quick as mice, they darted across the square and down another narrow passageway that ran between the general store and the cantina. They picked up speed as they left the village behind, racing each other and whooping with laughter. Their destination was a shady grove of trees along the riverbank where they had built a ramshackle fort out of old boards and palm fronds.
As they neared the grove, Chuy skidded to a stop, breathing hard. “Wait, where’s the donkey your papá sent you to get?”
Cortéz waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ll find him later. He’s probably just down by the river eating weeds somewhere.” In reality, Cortéz hadn’t even bothered looking for the donkey yet.
Chuy looked doubtful. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“Nah,” said Cortéz with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll have that silly donkey back before Papá even notices he’s still gone.” Inwardly though, Cortéz knew Chuy was right. His father would be angry if Cortéz didn’t do as he was told. But the sun was shining, the morning’s chores were finished, and their fort awaited. The donkey could wait.
The two boys raced down the riverbank and ducked inside their dilapidated hideout. They kept a secret stash of prized possessions hidden in the fort: smooth stones from the river, feathers shed by exotic birds, fragments of pottery dug up from ancient ruins nearby. The boys handled each item reverently, inventing elaborate histories for how they had come to find such treasures. [pretending to be explorers and conquerors like Cortez’s namesake.
After a while, the noonday heat drove them back outside into the shade. They lounged on the riverbank, cooling their bare feet in the gentle current. Cortéz plucked a long blade of grass and chewed on the end, staring up at the brilliant blue sky overhead.
“Have you thought about our plan?” he asked after a while.
Chuy sat up, his eyes shining with excitement. “You mean about running off to join Geraldo’s pirate crew? Of course!”
Recently, a band of nomadic traders had passed through the village, peddling wares and telling tales of their travels. Their leader, a dashing rogue named Geraldo, had captivated the boys’ imaginations with his stories of the open seas, distant islands, and a life free from the constraints of school, chores, and disapproving parents.
“Just think,” said Cortéz dreamily, “we could sail to lands no one here has ever seen before, hunt for treasure, fight off cannibals …”
Chuy chuckled. “My papá says there aren’t really cannibals anymore.”
“Oh yeah? What does he know?” Cortéz scoffed.
The boys spent the next hour happily lost in an imaginary world where they stood side-by-side with Geraldo on the deck of his ship, the wind whipping through their hair as they sailed through uncharted waters. Their plans grew more elaborate by the minute.
Eventually, the sinking sun told them it was getting late. As they hiked back to the village, Cortéz grew quiet, his steps dragging reluctantly. He still hadn’t found the burro or traded with Señora Martinez. There would be trouble waiting for him at home.
Chuy shot his friend a sympathetic glance. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ve got all summer to plan our escape. Geraldo and his crew will be back through here in a few weeks.”
Cortéz nodded halfheartedly. He knew his father would never let him run off with a band of vagabond merchants, no matter how thrilling their life seemed. But the fantasy of escape would sustain him through the scolding he was sure to get and how would he continue his self-study of the plants around his village.
As the village came into view ahead, the boys said their goodbyes. “Meet me tomorrow in the old courtyard?” Cortéz asked hopefully.
“You bet,” said Chuy with a grin. “And don’t worry about papá. Tell him you were just … looking real hard for that donkey before you finally found him.”
Cortéz laughed in spite of himself. With a reluctant sigh, he turned and trudged up the dusty road toward home, dragging his feet as he mentally prepared himself to face his father’s wrath.
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