The Always Already

By Braulio Muñoz

This is a novel about the survival of the planet. It tells the story of Kukuli, a young woman sent by the Oca, a people of great wisdom and power, to The Land, a place where humans are most adamant in using knowledge to control nature. While she travels, Kukuli is distraught by the increasing devastation of the world. She finds solace when she m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Braulio Munoz
• Release date: Nov 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578318394

Braulio Muñoz

Braulio Muñoz was born in Chimbote, Peru. There he was a student and labor organizer and a radio and print journalist. He immigrated to the USA in 1968. He earned a PhD in sociology at the University of Pennsylvania. He is Centennial Professor Emeritus of Swarthmore College where he taught social theory and Latin American Culture. Among Professor Muñoz's works related toliterature are Sons of the Wind and Storyteller: Mario Vargas Llosa Between Civilization and Barbarism. In fiction he has written Alejandro y los Pescadores de Tancay, which was translated into English and received the International Book Award at the New York Book Fair in 2009. The novel has also been translated into Italian. His other works of fiction include The Peruvian Notebooks (also translated into Italian), Los Apuntes de Alejandro, El Misha, the poem-novella Plaza mayor, a book of stories, El Hombre Que Sabía Morir y Otros Relatos, and Yaraví, a book of poems. He and his wife Nancy live in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Other Books by Braulio Muñoz

Yaraví

El Hombre Que Sabía Morir

Plaza mayor

El Misha

Los Apuntes de Alejandro

The Peruvian Notebooks

Alejandro y los Pescadores de Tancay

Translated into English as Alejandro and the Fishermen of Tancay

For Rowan, Ava, and Riley.

CONTENTS

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

EPILOGUE

Glossary

List of Characters

Acknowledgments

About the Author

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand—

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep—while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! Can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

—Edgar Allan Poe

We do not come to entertain you. We stand before you bearing an important truth. A truth that will be realized only if we all embrace it. Please listen to our story with open hearts and open souls. Let yourselves drift as when dreaming yourself dreaming in a dream. We hope that despite our clumsy telling you will recognize the good tidings we bear. For, believe us, dearest souls: humans are destined to play an important part in the coming realignment of worlds.

—Makenna ÓCeallacháin. Pahá Sápa. Spring.

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

The Huichay-Pata valley

The Highlands were reborn after the Dark Wars. This sliver of space-time was still resettling, and Mother Earth was as if newly born. Humans roamed all over her warm face for millennia. Until Pukllanayay—she who is also known as Serendipity—led them to ice bridges and sea currents that took them to this vast and previously unknown continent.

A daring band walked over ice bridges, found white pampas with food aplenty, and learned to live in houses made of ice. Those who remained in those cold places are now called Klamath. Other daring humans rode the sea currents, touched warmer shores, and spread far and wide over the newly found lands. Some eventually reached the Highlands: a vast expanse of black and white mountains, high pampas, warm valleys, and singing rivers. The people who live there are called Runa.

~

The Huichay-Pata valley, where this story begins, is nestled deep in the Highlands. It sits between mountain ranges so high they seem to snug in the blue. The range to the east is ebony night. The range to the west is white as foam. The Runa know these mountains as Apu, the great mountain gods.

The small valley is cut in two by a deep and narrow gorge. Its western side, covered by ancient gnarly keñua trees and flowering retama thickets, reaches well into the Dark Mountains. Its eastern side is cooled by winds blowing down from the White Mountains. Some two hundred Runa live in small round huts scattered on that side. A singing crystalline brook that comes down from the White Mountains and meanders the length of the valley soothes their hearts and souls.

The Huichay-Pata valley is one of the few great ceke—centers of power—left on Mother Earth. Alas, due to the doings of misguided humans, these places have been dying ever since the Dark Wars. For gladness and for hope, the Huichay-Pata valley’s crystalline brook is a Yawar Yaku river—part of the flow of Wiñay-Cuyai, an enduring and expansive force that binds everything that exists in all possible worlds. In Huichay-Pata, all exists in complete communion.

~

The Runa now living in the Huichay-Pata valley descended from those who arrived there as part of a wave of peoples who settled in the Highlands following the Dark Wars. Once in their secluded place, protected by the great Apu, they kept to themselves for a long, long time. They continue to look like all Runa: stout, round-chested, and earthen in color and, like all other Runa, too, they speak sweet Runasimi. To outsiders, the sole indication of their difference from the rest of Runa is their striking pitch-black eyes.

During their long residence in the valley, they lived close to Mother Earth and drank from the crystalline brook. As a result, they were suckled by Wiñay-Cuyai and in time they became Oca. Eventually, they gained the gift of learning from the wisdom nestled in their world. They could hear the sigh of the mountains, read the blinking of the starry sky, and speak the language of the stone. By and by, too, they learned to master fear, desire, and will with the same ease as they learned to anticipate the flight path of a butterfly.

During that time, the Oca also learned to be mindful of humanity’s vexed history. They knew humans were mired in wanton and spiteful violence against each other before the Dark Wars. They were saddened to sense it was only a matter of time before the Runa would come to suffer dearly at other humans’ hands.

~

Their presentiment came true some five hundred years ago. The Highlands suffered a long and cruel war and plunder. The Santiago, cunning invaders from The Land Across the Sea, savagely conquered the Runa. At the war’s end, most Runa ended up living as peons in their ancestral lands.

Protected by the mighty Apu, the Oca were spared the holocaust. For gladness and for hope, in the centuries after they continued to cultivate their powers by living close to Mother Earth and celebrating each new day with work, song, and dance. Their souls filled with Wiñay-Cuyai, they bided their time, waiting for the day when they could offer the rest of humans their gift: knowledge of the means to survive the coming realignment of worlds.

They sensed their long wait was coming to an end by the middle of the twentieth century. At that time, on a portentous day, a child was born among them. Kukuli was a special, beautiful female child: petite, black-maned, earthen-faced, with the blackest pitch-black eyes they had ever seen.

The world being always already as it is, however, for reasons known only to the Oca, Kukuli, destined to journey into The Land, would grow up unaware of her true origins and destiny.

Old Usco goes away

The snowy tips of the White Mountains reflected the glow of the corn fields far into the blue, and the steely air settled over the flowering potato patches. A silence rippled across the Huichay-Pata valley and dispersed throughout the Highlands.

At that instant, on a soft spot of ground circled by flowering kantu bushes, Old Usco closed his striated amber eyes to this world. From that moment on, his leathery face, his impish smile, and his mischievous deeds would begin to fade from the memory of the Runa across the Highlands.

~

On the other side of the valley, Kukuli stopped husking the corn and listened raptly to the sudden silence of the world. An image of her friend swirled in her soul: she had seen him the day before, dancing over the purple flowers of the potato fields, waving his yellow straw hat in the wind.

She had an odd sinking feeling then: a premonition that, with Old Usco gone, everyone in Huichay-Pata would come to know her secret, a secret she sensed nestled within but could not quite grasp. She renewed her work as Manchacuna swirled about—a Cold Fear all Oca carry, in the deepest folds of their being. She knew now that hard days were coming.

~

Mama Qhawa also felt the portentous silence settling over the valley. She stopped stirring the vat of corn beer and listened. She stood up, took her chonta-wood stick and waved it in the air. She understood that her long-cultivated place in the Highlands was about to change.

He has finally done it! she muttered to herself.

After a long while, she tossed kindling into the fire and went up to her granddaughter, still husking the corn.

Come, child, she said, extending Kukuli an open hand. It’s time for you to begin your journey.

~

Hand in hand, they flew over the crystalline brook, the quilt of potato and cornfields, and ichu straw-covered pampas. Mama Qhawa’s ashen mane fluttered against the blue, her dark face pushed back the golden glow of the afternoon, and her eyes took in the world with muted fury. Her sash—a Qhipu made of several knotted and braided woolen cords of varying sizes and colors—sparkled in the wind.

Having never seen such fierceness in the old soul before, Kukuli knew she was witnessing an ominous surge of her grandmother’s powers. She flew over the still known world in silence, with breathless anticipation.

Old Usco’s body lay smoothly on a patch of grass. The amber eyes were half-open, the lips puckered as if for a kiss, and the long ears drooped softly to the ground. A pair of giant condors circled silently above the scene.

Hovering over the body, Kukuli remembered her friend’s laughter, the lilt of his songs, the light of his amber eyes. She sighed her greeting and turned to her grandmother to ask her why he had gone away so suddenly. But Mama Qhawa was wondering about something she herself could not quite grasp.

~

They alighted and approached the body with dignity. Mama Qhawa kissed the puckered lips, whispered something into one ear, and listened, as if something long-expected were spreading over the valley. Then she stood up and looked at her old friend’s body with quiet detachment.

Perhaps she was witnessing an ancient ritual, Kukuli thought. She tried to grasp the moment, but what she felt instead was a new longing. She looked inward, and at that instant, she felt the presence of Q’inti, invisible hummingbirds of the Huichay-Pata valley, flooding her soul.

The Q’inti wove luminous patterns in Kukuli’s being and offered an unsettling truth: Mama Qhawa’s whispering had been about her!

Manchacuna, the Cold Fear, sent shivers up and down her spine, and the silence of the valley grew heavy. She tried reaching out to her mother, on the other side of the valley, but the gap between them was too wide. Kukuli had to deal alone with the sense that her life was changing forever.

~

Mama Qhawa bent over Old Usco’s body again, put a hand into his shirt pocket, and took out a flat black oval stone. She fingered it for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

He lived well and long in our valley, she said. "He leaves all he has been and known in the bosom of Watukuy, the keeper of all memories and longings. A gift like no other."

She blinked. Back in the moment, she took a deep breath, and looked at her granddaughter with a new light in her eyes.

We must soldier on, child, she said. "Worlds are in peril. The Yawar Yaku rivers are drying up everywhere. The gates that separate the folds of Pacha—the infinite and eternal space-time fabric—are weakening. We must prepare for your journey."

The old soul opened her eyes wide and looked at her granddaughter intensely. Her gaze lingered, then she handed Kukuli the black stone.

A key to our wisdom. It’s yours now, she said.

Awakening

Kukuli hoped that all she saw and felt that afternoon was only a dream. She held the stone tight and blinked to awaken, but everything remained the same. She gulped the crisp air and sighed her unease. In that instant, her black stone glowed a soft blue.

The radiance awoke something familiar. And all at once she felt an urge to embrace it, whatever it was.

"Embrace Manchacuna! Embrace it!"

The command was as clear as if from Mama Qhawa’s own lips. She was not alone!

Who speaks? she asked aloud.

"Embrace Manchacuna! Embrace it!"

The stone’s radiance matched a coldness Kukuli felt within. She saw herself drifting over the valley. She felt the giant condors’ eyes of war trained on her, as they faded into the distance.

Then, startled and suddenly afraid, she blinked.

The radiance of her stone flickered. A cluster of luminous tendrils flowed out from her navel and wove a cocoon around her. So swathed, Kukuli was transported to the edge of a flat, yellow pampa that called out her name.

She knew the yellow pampa connected with her future. She wanted to touch it, to know its nature, but Old Usco was now speaking in her head.

Hear those who have already wandered, Kukuli. Listen to the wisdom of our people. You are about to make a perilous journey. But never forget: you will never be alone.

She was happy to hear Old Usco’s voice again. And as she did, she felt Wiñay-Cuyai—a wondrous, expansive feeling of caring and love. But feeling this wonder, Kukuli had to face her deepest fear: that she was not a Runa child at all. She was a luminous being.

She blinked, and found herself near Old Usco’s body again.

The world continued to look the same. But now she could feel the wind rising up gentle slopes and the tremor of a dewdrop at the tip of the kantu flowers. She could see Old Usco again, hovering over the potato fields, waving his hat in the air, telling her he would never forsake her.

Kukuli marveled at all she was seeing and feeling. Then Old Usco got up from the ground, blinked his amber eyes, lowered the gates to his soul, and invited her to share in his wisdom.

On a pole outside Mama Qhawa’s hut, Gracula, the Oca’s faithful bird, sang out his awe.

Wizkacha

Kukuli learned many things on that golden afternoon long ago. In what seemed but a fleeting moment, Old Usco showed her images, feelings, ways of knowing and ways of being, the full meaning and value of which she would come to know well as she began her journey.

None of those visions, however, would compare with what Old Usco offered, as he hovered near her, and doffing his yellow straw hat, ushered a Wizkacha Puku-Chupa into Kukuli’s world.

The squirrel-like creature scanned his surroundings, shaking his tail, sniffing the air, blinking to be sure he was not dreaming. Then he stood on his hind legs and joined his front paws in gratitude for having been summoned. He gazed at Kukuli with both awe and recognition.

As Kukuli tasted Wizkacha’s Wiñay-Cuyai, she knew that from this moment he would be her indefatigable companion, her trusted aid and sentinel, witness to all her deeds.

She thanked Old Usco in her head, turned to the creature with a look of appreciation, lowered the gates to her soul, and invited him in. Wizkacha shook his tail and leaped to the nook Kukuli had kept for him in her soul.

On his pole, Gracula called out to the four winds.

The Dark Wars and their aftermath

Before the Dark Wars, in this fold of Pacha, the Yawar Yaku rivers flowed with Wiñay-Cuyai, the enduring and expansive Love. The rivers were like bands of goodwill binding worlds that coexisted in a peaceful Starry Sky.

Wiraqocha, a luminous Sustainer, safeguarded the peace in this fold of space-time so even Pukllanayay—also known as Serendipity—was at home. Humans, fear-free dreamers then, thrived among such wonders for a long, long time. But for pity and for woe, if there is one constant in all that is, Pacha is always shuddering, and changing.

Wiraqocha’s rule lasted millennia. But only until many indwellers of this world ceased to respect the difference between themselves and their Sustainer. Eventually, they came to recognize only Rawiy, Chaos, as their king.

The ungrateful indwellers frolicked and thrived in the arms of Rawiy without any qualms. Wiraqocha tried to warn them to mend their ways. He asked the great mountain gods to shake and Mother Sea to overflow. He burned the distances at nightfall and iced the air for days on end. But instead of mending their ways, the rebels made ready for war.

Armed with luminous spears, shadow shields, and flying fortresses, the rebels raided far and wide across the Starry Sky. Oh, they thrived in the ravages of war. Their ferocity was such that Wiraqocha had to flee repeatedly to the far folds of Pacha. But in the end, he was victorious. And in victory he was ruthless: he tossed the rebels into the Under World, sealed all gates to the light, and placed the sun as his watchman in the blue.

~

The banished were many, in number and in kind. There were throngs of minor offenders—speckled lizard-rats, rooster-lizards, yellow human-ducks, and the like—known collectively as Khuru. And there were more formidable rebels. Among them the Llanthu, shapeless beings of the dense dark; the Pakapaka, swift owls who carry the red eyes of death on their wings; and the Muskuy, cunning shape-shifters who inhabit other beings’ dreams and nightmares.

The rebels remained in the Under World, seemingly unaffected by time or memory, for a long, long time. But by the time Kukuli was born, the Yawar Yaku rivers were drying up and the gates that separate the Upper and Lower worlds weakened, so many were finding their way up to the light, where they bided their time at the rim of the Under World.

On the afternoon when Kukuli awoke to her true nature, Old Usco and Mama Qhawa knew that she would have to contend with the rebels’ long-festering resentment. If she were to survive the ordeal, she would need the help of the few luminous beings who still walk on Mother Earth, unnoticed by humans.

A becoming

When Kukuli was born, Mama Qhawa followed the child’s luminous tendrils deep into the Oca’s past. And what she found there startled her. A dreadful feeling emerged with an insistence she had never felt before. Now she knew the feeling had reached her on wings of pity: her grandchild was soon to embark on her perilous journey.

Mama Qhawa knew that the future of an Oca is always uncertain. Her premonition pointed to only one of Kukuli’s possible futures. However, given the intensity of her feeling, she needed to know all she could about the child’s nature and destiny, if she were going to help her fulfill that destiny in any meaningful way.

And so, on that golden afternoon long ago, Mama Qhawa set one of her own luminous tendrils on her granddaughter’s belly and waded into the depths of Kukuli’s soul once again.

Mama Qhawa dwelled in Pacha, tasting myriad worlds. But finally she had to accept that she could not see all possible futures. Kukuli’s path would remain opaque for her. She harked back to the core of Oca wisdom: everything is always already the way it is supposed to be. Her grandchild will go away from the Highlands to taste the unknown. It was her destiny.

Sumaigsonkgo-Chaca

Kukuli’s mother was waiting on the other side of the gorge. She had taken the Oca fighting stance—feet apart, arms crossed east to west, hands taut, pitch-black eyes narrow, piercing—and in the glow of the afternoon she looked as immovable as the surrounding mountain gods.

On his pole, Gracula held his breath.

~

Mama Qhawa approached her daughter holding Kukuli by the hand. And when they were almost touching, she peered into Sumaigsonkgo-Chaca’s eyes with a fierceness she had never shown her before.

She is not like you or me, Mama Qhawa said. Kukuli walks to fulfill our destiny.

Sumaigsonkgo-Chaca did not flinch. She was tapping Manchacuna, the Cold Fear coiled in her soul. She meant to stand her ground, to make sure her daughter was safe from forces she felt but could not quite grasp.

Mama Qhawa felt something else in the air: her daughter was tapping Manchacuna while in the throes of self-pity—the most dangerous emotion an Oca can experience at any time. But an Oca must never forget her duty. And especially not now, when the fate of worlds is at stake.

¡Nukkanchis kaniku Illiasca: Hoocha Mikhuy!

Mama Qhawa’s words bolted out of her like summer thunder, and the chilly air carried them across the gorge, beyond the crystalline brook, to the faraway places where the Apu were one with the blue.

We are the illuminated ones, eaters of energy!

Not knowing what was happening, Kukuli reached out to her mother, but she could only hear the buzz of the Q’inti flooding the world. It was as if the valley had been suspended in a soundless cloud of time. She feared for her mother.

Just then, however, Sumaigsonkgo-Chaca blinked as if awakening from a nightmare, and unlocked her fighting stance.

Forgive me, she said to her mother in her head. I forget my duty.

Mama Qhawa got closer to her daughter, caressed her face with the back of her right hand—the Oca way—and shared with her the wonders of her Wiñay-Cuyai, the expansive love that made them one with their valley.

Gracula shifted to face a sinking sun.

~

Sumaigsonkgo-Chaca approached her daughter and caressed her face the Oca way. And Kukuli experienced the full measure of her mother’s Wiñay-Cuyai for the first time. Oh, the endless care, the sweet and complete connection with another being! And Kukuli knew that while she might always be an individual, she would never be alone.

The world being always already as it is, however, in that sweet caress Kukuli also felt an immense solitude. And that bittersweet feeling gave her a glimpse into her own life: her growing solitude, unwelcome and yet desired, will never go away, because it is all part of Oca destiny.

Old Usco spoke to me in a dream yesterday, Mama, she shared. ‘Your face has kept me in this troubled world,’ he said. And he told me that someday I would also have to make a choice, just as he had. ‘But now, it’s time for you to be on your way,’ he said. He told me that I should always remember that I’m not alone. I know he was right.

In her dreams

Fortunately, Old Usco had gone away from Huichay-Pata not to abandon Kukuli but to be closer to her. He was often a hawk dancing with the high winds, or an iridescent Q’inti drinking from a kantu flower nearby. When the shadows lengthened in the valley, she heard him playing a Toyo Siku, the great panpipe of the Highlands, just over the hills. And, now and then, he came into her dreams to speak mysteries.

"The Wizkacha Puku-Chupa who dwells in your soul is like an ordinary wizkacha in many ways. But he is also very different. You’ll find him much to your liking. Don’t be afraid. He can be as enigmatic as any other luminous being. But he won’t waver from his task, which is to accompany and assist you. When you are ready, listen for him… Your energies will ebb and flow. Always. There will be times when you won’t hear me, or Mama Qhawa. Share your glee or your fears with him then. He can be pithy, but you will never be alone."

~

Kukuli felt caught in a web of forces she couldn’t understand. She felt forlorn and went through a time so dark she wished she had never been born at all. But the world being always already the way it is, with time, as naturally as a soul wanders, she learned to carry on despite her fears.

Then, on a pampa-quiet night, Mama Qhawa came into one of her dreams:

She dreamt her grandmother was bathing her in the crystalline brook, as she had always done before the Yawar Yaku rivers flooded into her life. Mama Qhawa was looking into her eyes, stern in her casualness. Her words rolled out of her as from an empty well.

You’re no more cursed nor less blessed than any other member of our strand, child. Our pain, as our duty, is a window. Make the best of it. You know all you need to know for now. The rest you will learn with each new step on your journey.

Where am I going?

Mama Qhawa glided closer, ashen mane fluttering against the blue, and placed her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders.

"Where in Huichay-Pata have you felt Manchacuna, the Cold Fear, the strongest?"

"On the other side of the ichu bridge."

There is where you must begin.

At the ichu bridge

Kukuli woke up with a strange urgency gripping her soul. She went to the door and looked out. The sun cut the gorge sharply into shadow and light. The bridge swayed gently, as usual. But she now felt something or someone waiting for her on the other side. It beckoned her. She knew she needed to know more.

~

Kukuli stepped onto the bridge and everything within and around her changed. Her tendrils wove a cocoon around her and she saw that the vault of the blue was now lower on the horizon, the pampas and the fields were blankets of vivid rainbow colors, and the air was particularly moist. She had the feeling she was in a new fold of space-time.

She took the next step and saw the Allqu for the first time. The giant blue dogs of Huichay-Pata stood two on each side of the far entrance to the bridge. They panned the distances with keen eyes, their flint tails pointed to the blue, and their sinewy bodies, low to the ground, were ready to spring.

A zephyr swept the bridge, and Kukuli caught the whiff of an ill-disposed presence lurking ahead. She peered forward, fiercely. She still could not see. Not knowing whether to advance or to retreat, she looked back: the door to the hut was closed and Gracula was not on his pole. In front of her, the four blue dogs were in their place, rotating their ears, breathing low and heavy.

She clutched her stone and moved forward.

The blue dogs had stopped breathing and their bodies, almost touching ground, seemed about to burst. Kukuli sensed they meant to protect her. But from whom and why? Clutching her stone she moved on, telling herself she was not afraid and never alone. When she reached the other side of the bridge, she hurried to step off.

~

She found herself in what seemed yet another fold of space-time. The blue was a thin veil floating above rainbow fields, as a dry wind slithered among shallow ravines, sucking the light air along. A pair of giant condors hovered on a horizon where mountains breathed crimson fires.

Kukuli dwelled in several space-time folds in her cocoon of light. She could see Old Usco dancing in strange new worlds, just as clearly as she could hear her mother and her grandmother wondering about her under Gracula’s pole. And then, as naturally as she breathed, she shared her awe with the Wizkacha Puku-Chupa waiting for her words in his nook.

It’s wonderful, Wizkacha. Wonderful.

A beginning.

We are one!

Always. But, listen to Mama Qhawa. She has news.

"This is a truly powerful ceke, her grandmother said in Kukuli’s head. You have spoken to the Wizkacha Puku-Chupa in your soul. We can now converse in our heads. We rejoice! On this ceke you have been reborn. But look beyond child. What do you see?"

Kukuli saw herself as a small child, stealing glances from Old Usco’s amber eyes, taking in the scent of virgin wool and chonta smoke, drinking Mama Qhawa’s corn brew, sweet as Q’inti’s nectar, as her mother’s milk. And Kukuli saw her past linking with a barely glimpsed future: dragonflies drinking from a brook bordered by chamomiles in bloom, a chersonese covered with purple sage overlooking a pristine bay, White Angels with a bright eye on their foreheads visiting her on a cold metal bed while she dissolved like a grain of sand into an alluring dune.

"¡Yanapaway! ¡Yanapaykuway! What’s happening, Wizkacha!"

"Listen, Kukuli. Listen," Wizkacha answered.

Our greatest fear is to achieve full communion before our time, Old Usco said kindly in her head. "The allure of complete communion is final rest. Oh, if never to think about destiny, task, duty. Oh, if never to be an individual at all! But the price of final rest is our freedom to Choose. And without Choosing we can never achieve that sweet communion. Our greatest fear dwells in that wheel… But do not fear, my child. In time you will come to understand all you need to find final rest. For now, know this truth: you are doing what you are supposed to be doing. Feel Manchacuna’s power, Kukuli. Embrace it!"

Kukuli felt Manchacuna pooled in her belly, icy cold, and she was scared. But she believed Old Usco: she needed to know It. She looked inward, into the center of her Cold Fear. Manchacuna swirled. Oh, the power! The Power!

At that moment Kukuli felt Wiñay-Cuyai, the expansive love that had nurtured her in the Huichay-Pata valley, course through her east to west. Feeling the familiar presence in her soul, Kukuli dared to send a tendril into the icy pool. And she rode Manchacuna’s gusts trembling, trembling. Until its frenzy stopped.

You have done well, Old Usco said in her head. You have embraced your fear, a most difficult challenge for an Oca. You will now be able to use it for your own ends. Yes; it seems you are ready for your journey.

~

The visions ended, and Kukuli returned to being a Runa-looking child on the bridge. The blue dogs were no longer with her, the mountain gods had returned to guard the valley, and she could hear Gracula murmuring on his pole. She sighed her wonder and headed back to the hut. The sun followed her from a pristine blue sky, and, in the gorge, the shadows clung tightly to the walls.

Mama Qhawa was waiting for her, eyes fixed on her fledgling fire. She seemed casual in her ways. But Kukuli sensed she had important news. The old soul spoke without facing her:

"Your mother is no longer in this sliver of Pacha. She waited for your awakening, just beyond your reach. Since you have awakened to your Oca gifts and survived your first ordeal, she has risen to the Upper World. She will reach out to you, my child, when you are ready."

Is she dead?

The Oca never die. You will be able to speak with her, from time to time. And I will be with you for as long as you dwell in this fold of space-time.

Kukuli clutched her stone and walked away. She knew that she was still becoming who she was meant to be.

CHAPTER II

The Oca are choosers

The Runa say Khunan kinkin kausayninchispa qhepa kausayni kan—the now in which we dwell is in truth the past of yesterday. They know that all that exists does so within the wheel of the Always Already.

Having lived close to Mother Earth and drunk from the Yawar Yaku rivers of Huichay-Pata for millennia, the Oca have been blessed with a gift: they have become Choosers. This means that only for the Oca, and then for only one fateful moment in their lives, is the past not always already waiting in the future. Only they are able to stand, however briefly, outside the wheel of the Always Already and make choices