[Editor’s Note:]
This story is submitted in tribute to banned books, banned Drag Queen Story Hours, closed neighborhood libraries, and free thinkers everywhere. It is a reminder that stories are seeds, and sometimes, resistance blooms with thorns.
Act 1: Freed Library, Montrose
The library smells of old pages and lemon cleaner, the slightest hint of incense lingering where the altar once stood. Light spills through the faded stained glass and colors the linoleum with fractured rainbows.
Children bustle in, parents and neighbors in tow, their voices swirling in a bright cacophony. Where church pews once stood, shelves now overflow with books, magazines, and battered bins of puzzles. At the check-out desk, Ms. Kapfenberger surveys her kingdom through her Italian glasses, short magenta hair perfectly coiffed, lanyard thick with keys and her ID badge. She gives a glance to the man from City Oversight, who lingers in she shadows near the door. He scans the crowd, the children, the shelves, then satisfied all is in compliance, leaves. Katherine waits until the door clicks shut.
Dave, the young librarian, pokes his head out of the back office, grinning. “Katherine, his car pulled out of the garage, he’s gone!”
Dave disappears back into the office. When the door opens again, in sweeps Princess Steve. Seven feet of sparkle and unapologetic glory. His makeup is flawless, dusted in shimmer and storybook mischief. His hair, a towering confection of lavender curls, defies physics. A glittering tiara tilts just-so on his brow, catching the light. Beneath a floor-length gown of sequins and stars, pink Converse peek out—practical magic. The children erupt in cheers. Katherine’s smile beams.
“Good morning, Montrose monarchs and mischief-makers!” Steve says, bowing. “Today, we are reading ‘Timmy and Sally Mind Their Manners.” The kids snicker, titter and boo. “You’re right, that sounds boring! Actually, I want to share a story from far away and long ago. It’s a story about courage, about standing up when the world tries to push you down. A story about a girl named Xochitl.”
He settles into the center of the circle, opens the book, and as his voice lowers, the library fades into Xochitl’s world…
Act 2: Xochitl’s Story
The Breaking of the World
The first time I heard the teule outsiders had crossed the altépetl boundary, I was kneeling beside grandma Tozi in the courtyard, grinding tlaxcalli dough with the stone metlatl. The morning rain had left the calli roof shining, its white clay glistening like the skin of a newborn.
My younger brother Mixcoatl darted through the doorway, face painted with a smear of red cochineal, hair cut short, his breath coming fast; “They’ve arrived, sister! The men of iron. They ride great mazatl with thunder in their hands. They have reached the edge of the forest.”
I ignored his trembling voice and pressed the maize harder into the grinding stone, listening instead for the song of quetzal birds in the trees, the hush that meant that my father Citlalmina was near. His shadow always brought silence.
He and the elders gathered in the calmecac courtyard before the sun climbed over our city of Tizatlan. I wasn’t allowed in the meeting but I could overhear words: ‘Mexica, guerra, aliados, mictlan, Aztecas, war, allies, the land of the dead’. I could only make out snippets of the arguments but I understood that our world had shifted.
Grandmother Tozi pulled me aside that night, her hand rough and warm. “No te olvides de quién eres, Izel Xochitl.” Never forget who you are, Izel Xochitl.
I chased sleep. I traced the red threads in my huipil blouse, fingers following the patterns in the dark. That night, my dreams were full of serpents and butterflies, rain and fire.
When morning came, I watched the strangers enter Tizatlan. Their skin was pale as salt, their eyes black, small and cunning. I looked for their gods, but saw only hunger.
The Hold
My world has become smaller than the tattered blanket wrapped around my shivering bones. Black, wet wood above. Filthy straw below. Every creak is the tezcatl groan of the ship, every movement an irritation to my skin, crawling with unseen things. It is always night in the black hold of the galleon, whether the sun burns above or drowns in the sea at night. Air thick as spoiled maize gruel, but fouler. Foul with the odor of people, rot, salt, blood. I taste it on my tongue, even in sleep.
Somewhere in the darkness, a woman is sobbing. A boy retches; someone else curses the teules in a language even I do not know. My own words, Nahuatl, are sour in my mouth. I hum half-remembered lullabies from Tizatlan, the songs of my grandmother Tozi. “No te olvides de quién eres, Xochitl.” Never forget who you are, Xochitl.
I have not forgotten. I carry her words inside me like a glowing coal. I press my palm against my chest and remember the river by Tizatlan, the smell of wet clay after the rain, the sound of my brother Mixcoatl laughing as he chased the hens through our courtyard.
Here, the only light is the crack in the boards above, a thin blade that moves with the sway of the ship. Sometimes, I stare at it until my head swims and my belly cramps.
My hands are raw, nails split from clawing at the boards. I hold a shred of huipil covering to my nose, trying to catch a trace of home in its threads. The sea and the rot have stolen all other scents.
The teules shout above deck. I do not look at them. I am less than nothing in their eyes; a shadow, a tool, a voice they used for translation and then tossed below like old maize husks.
The commander comes below sometimes, boots thudding on the steps. ‘Don Hernando de Salcedo’, his skin blistered, beard filthy, rings of sweat staining his silk doublet, gold chain heavy on his neck. He reeks of garlic, sour wine, sweaty wool. His voice is rough, but he carries himself with the swagger of the king he imagines himself to be. Today, he stands at the foot of our prison and peers down, eyes pale and restless. “Prestad atención, muchacha. We are almost there. Soon you will see the towers of Sevilla, and you will remember your place.” He speaks as if words are whips. His Castilian is harsh, foreign, thick with pride and greed.
“No sois más que el trofeo de nuestra victoria. Una flor para la corona, ¿sí?” he says.
I translate as ‘You are nothing but the trophy of our victory. A flower for the crown, yes?’ A trophy. A flower for the crown. He laughs, showing bad teeth and spit. He touches the gold crucifix around his neck as if it will shield him from the ghosts that ride his ship. But I see the slight tremor in his hand, the sickness in his skin, the red-rimmed eyes of a man haunted by his own greed.
When he leans closer, I can smell the illness inside him, his sweat, his breath, the sweet rot of his gums. He reeks of hunger, of wanting, of a sickness that even gold cannot heal. I look away, not in fear, but in contempt. He is hollow, his words clattering like bones.
When he leaves, I breathe shallow and steady. I have survived worse than him.
My body shakes, but my spirit is stone. I will not let the sickness win. I will not forget the language of the land, the words of my people. I am Xochitl. ‘Flower’, but also thorn. I endure.
Sevilla
The stink of the Spanish puerto clings to everything: rot, oil, fish, smoke. Sevilla devours the river, her mouth full of ships, her belly crammed with people, horses and noise. There are no green hills here, no market laughter, no scent of earth after rain.
They have scrubbed me raw, poured perfume over my skin, braided my hair in their fashion. Still, the girls in silk point and laugh, their words sharp as cactus spines, ‘salvaje, india, bruja.’ I do not flinch. I stand as stone. They can not make me look away.
The conquistadors strut in their parade armor, boasting of Nueva España and the riches wrested from Moctezuma and the “allies” who delivered them. They speak of rivers of gold, of the cities swallowed, of enemies crushed.
The room is hung with velvet and banners. Behind the men, a tall figure sits, face shrouded in shadow, fingers heavy with rings. The king? Perhaps. Or his tesorero, the man who weighs men’s fates in silver and gold. His eyes are cold as a blade, missing nothing.
Commander Salcedo’s voice rings out, oily and proud. “Majestad, behold the fruits of your faith and fortune. The people of the Indies bow before your glory. See, even their noblest daughter comes bearing tribute.”
I am motioned forward. The chest is heavy with metal and stones; oro, plata, turquesa, the bones of gods and ancestors. I set it before the throne. The dignitary’s eyes rake over me searching for fear, for obedience. He leans forward, lips curling. “¿Y esto? What is that there, in the box?”
I see it: the obsidian blade, serpent hilt. The mark of Cihuacoatl glimmers in the candlelight. “Hand it to me,” he commands, in the bored tone of a man who thinks all things must yield.
I lift the dagger with both hands, steady as rain on stone. The room hushes. He grins, crooked, sure of himself. He nods and holds out his hand, palm up; a dare, a challenge.
Our eyes lock. I feel the ancestors behind me. I set the chest aside. I take a step forward. Another. Calm as a quetzal in the breeze. The dagger is warm in my grip. I do not speak. I do not flinch.
My world is in this moment… I strike.
Act 3: Reflection and Creation
For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the air conditioner and the distant wail of a siren outside. The children stare at Steve, wide eyed. Contemplating the story. Katherine wipes at her glasses. Dave is grinning in the corner.
Running an elegant hand over the cover, Princess Steve closes the book and lets the silence linger. Then, softly, he asks, “What do you think Xochitl was feeling, at the end? Why do you think she acted the way she did?” A small girl, wrapped in a superhero cape, raises her hand. “She was brave. She didn’t let them take away who she was.” Another asks ‘why wasn’t she scared?”
A boy frowns, chewing his pencil. “Why did nobody help her? Why did they just watch?” A boy in a Rockets T-shirt, “Why did the Spanish want to take everything from her people? Didn’t they have their own stuff?” A child at the back, hair in braids, asks, “Do people in Mexico still speak Nahuatl? Does anyone remember her story now?” Someone else blurts, “Why didn’t anyone save her? Where were her friends?”
Steve nods at each, meeting their eyes. “These are the questions that keep stories alive,” he says. “Every time you wonder, or feel, or wish you could change something, you’re walking with her, too.”
He gestures to the art tables. “Now it’s your turn. Draw something that makes you strong. Write a story about a time you stood up for yourself, or for someone else. We’ll put them in the window, so everyone in Montrose can see what courage looks like.”
As the children scatter to the tables to create, the Freed Library feels more alive than ever, a little louder, a little brighter, the spirit of Xochitl echoing in every corner.