Mañanaland

The entire property around La Reina Gigante and the ruins was fenced, abandoned, and off-limits. Only Papá had permission from the mayor to commandeer the rubble to build new bridges. For as long as he could remember, Max had begged Papá to take him to see La Reina and the ruins up close. He’d be a hero among his friends if he was the first boy to cross the haunted gates! Just because Papá didn’t believe in ghosts didn’t mean they weren’t there. Maybe this summer Papá would finally take him. He was almost twelve.

Max leaned over the capstones, warm from the afternoon sun, and waited for Papá to catch up. In the river, he saw half of his head reflected: a mop of black curls, heavy eyebrows, and caramel- colored eyes. Buelo called them tiger eyes and said they were a sign of strength and determination. Chuy called them leche quemada eyes, like their favorite milk and brown sugar candy. Some of the boys at school called them devil eyes. Max did his best to ignore them. But he wondered if the boys knew something about him that he did not. Was he filled with badness? Still, they were his mother’s eyes and one of the few things about her he could claim. That, and a tiny silver compass on a leather cord that once belonged to her. He patted his chest and felt it beneath his shirt.

As he tossed a pebble into the river, he let the rippling water turn his heavy thoughts to happier ones. School was out, and tryouts for the village fútbol team were in five weeks. Like all his closest friends, he dreamed of making the team.

Max picked up the ball and threw it at the parapet, letting it ricochet back so he could catch it. The bumpy stones sent the ball in unpredictable directions, forcing Max to hover and anticipate. He kicked it hard, and when it hit the wall and flew back at him, he batted it down.

“Bravo!” Papá yelled. “Don’t unsettle any of the facing though. Or I’ll have repairs.” His cheeks flushed with ruddy circles and his forehead wrinkled from his usual troubled frown.

“You know I can’t kick as hard as you,” said Max. Papá was broad shouldered and solid, a wall of strength and muscle. He and Buelo had both played goalie on Santa Maria’s national team, and Max wanted to one day do the same. He was already as tall as both of them, but scrawny.

Max kicked the ball up and caught it in his hands. “Do you remember that tryouts are next month?”

“It’s hard to forget when you remind me so often.” Papá almost smiled.

“I was wondering … My fútbol shoes are nearly too small and the toes will need wrapping soon. If I had a pair of Volantes, the ones with the fancy wings on the side, I’d surely make the team.” He looked at Papá hopefully.

“Your shoes are fine for now. And expensive ones that we can’t afford won’t make you a better player. A world of disappointment comes from wishing for what you cannot-”

Before Papá could finish, a falcon swooped overhead, low enough that both he and Max ducked. Its sickle-shaped wings were splayed and taut. The head and hooked bill stretched forward, baring a white neck and speckled breast. They shaded their eyes, mesmerized by the silent flight.

“It’s so big,” said Max as it caught a current and soared away. “Peregrine,” said Papá. “A female that has come back to nest.” Whose spirit did it bring on its wing? wondered Max. “They say -” he started, then thought better of repeating the superstition. “They say they come back to the same spot every year.”

Papá nodded. “It’s true. But I haven’t seen one that large for a long time, and it is a little late to nest. Others have already come and gone.” He put an arm around Max’s shoulder and hugged him to his side. “Let’s go, slowpoke.”

“Me? Slow?” Max quickly dribbled the fútbol across the deck and called over his shoulder, “I’m going to meet Chuy at the field, and I’ll still beat you home because you have to stop and talk to everyone!”

“Come home right after. Buelo went fishing this morning and dinner will be ready in an hour or so. I don’t want to have to come looking.”

“Okay!” Max yelled back.