Latinx Rising: An Anthology of Latinx Science Fiction and Fantasy - Tapa blanda

Acerca del autor

Fragmento. © Reproducción autorizada. Todos los derechos reservados.

The Road to Nyer (after Isak Dinesen’s “The Roads Round Pisa”)

The road to Nyer hairpinned back on itself just past the turnoff, our first clue we were coming from the wrong direction. Otherwise, the approach was swathed in greenery, vigorous ferns punctuated by palm trees. Beyond the road sign indicating a town in two kilometers, it was impossible to deduce what lay ahead. An easy place to waylay travelers. Perfect country for bandits, I thought, the supposed occupation of my ancestors. Drop a rough log across a narrow road flanked by steep cliffs, and your victim, perhaps in a carriage, perhaps pulling a handcart, has nowhere to go but straight into your arms.

The road curved west and then swung south, now in the lee of houses clinging to the cliff above it. All at once the village lay before us, topped by a picture book castle at its highest point.

We parked and got out of the car. It was very quiet. All we could hear was the rushing water of an unseen river below. Perhaps the town was deserted, its use as a fortress having outlived its practicality. Yet everywhere was evidence of habitation, from live potted plants in the windows, to freshly patched and painted walls. The hand-painted portrait of a man in a cap grinned out at us from a small stained glass window that was bricked up from the back. Community water ran into a carefully maintained cistern.

A boy of around ten sat on the curb, as though waiting for someone, but he scampered off when we drew close. I doubt we could have talked to him anyway, this far north of Barcelona and any dialects I might venture into.

We trudged up a steep path to the castle, which appeared to have no entrance, and circled left around the base of the tower. Up close, we could see that the wall had been patched and re-patched numerous times over the centuries, brick replaced by stone and filled in with plaster. I ran my hand along the rough surface, wondering how many assaults it had withstood, or if this was a replica built to mimic a “real” castle. It certainly looked authentic — there was no gift shop at ground level, welcoming tourists across a faux drawbridge for a Disneyfied tour of the past. There was no Princess Room, although I could certainly use one after three hours in the car.

As we entered an alley skirting the east side of the turret, we could look up to a balcony far above. Standing back to examine the decoration, I could see a crest depicted in relief. It consisted of a rooster facing left above an oak tree, next to a pair of crossed quills. Oh joy! I thought. I’ve come to my vocation as a writer honestly. But who uses a pen on their shield? Is the pen really mightier than the sword? Above the shield itself hovered a crown, evidence of their protection by or allegiance to someone or another.