Lines in the Sand

Fiction by Fernando Buendia

Long ago in what is now known as the Nazca desert, there was a fisherman, Riy, who loved his daughter, Khuyay. Each day, he would take her with him to catch fish. The soles of Riy’s bare feet swished and clapped as he walked with the young girl past jagged red rocks toward the river’s edge. “Tayta,” for that is what Khuyay always called her father, “why are rocks red?”

He laughed as he climbed into the warm water. “Ususi,” for that is what Riy called his daughter, “you know this story. I have often told it to you.” Every time she approached the water’s edge and saw the red rocks sticking out of the flora, she begged her father to tell the story of creation. He always relented to her pleas. “Viracocha formed the sky, sun, moon, stars, and world. Then he gathered the rocks to make runa-kuna, like us, but the rocks were too big and made beings the size of mountains.” Riy scrunched his eyes and covered his ears. “The giants didn’t listen to their creator’s directions. Instead, they became rebellious and destroyed the land around them, so Viracocha brought a flood to destroy them.” The fisherman splashed water at his daughter. She stepped back and screeched in delight. The water landed on the ground in front of her. The fisherman continued, “The flood reduced them to red roc—”

Khuyay interrupted jumping up and down, “Then the k’usillu-kuna?” The little girl always asked about monkeys.

“Yes, he sighed. “Then Viracocha tried again with pebbles instead, but made k’usillu-kuna.”

“Can we have one, tayta?”

Though the fisherman loved his daughter, he didn’t believe her old enough to care for an animal, especially one as meddlesome as a monkey. He always replied, “We’ll see.”

The issue was postponed, but Khuyay’s eyes would look up at the sky. Her smile would widen as she thought about having a pet.

The fisherman eyed a nearby red tail and struck with his spear. Flecks of water flew from the wriggling fish’s body. The fisherman placed his catch in a chuspa, a woven bag hanging by his side, and searched the water again. Sunlight reflected off the river. Riy admired the beauty of it when he noticed his daughter inspecting pebbles on the bank. Three pebbles sat in a line in front of his daughter as the young girl inspected another before tossing it aside.

When he had caught enough fish, Riy walked home with Khuyay beside him. She carried three small stones in her dress. Riy asked, “What are those,” and picked the red one. It looked flattened on one end and pinched near the other end. He turned it over in his hand, uncertain why it had caught his daughter’s attention.

A squeak escaped from Khuyay’s toothy smile. “You don’t see it?” she asked.

Riy shook his head.

Her eyes twinkled, “It’s a k’usillu! I’m bringing home pets.”

Riy laughed, cupping his head in his hand. He held the red stone near her ear and mimicked the low, guttural call of a monkey.

She giggled.

Khuyay presented the smaller of her two remaining stones, a rounder, nut-shaped one that came to a point. She held it between her finger tips and motioned it to circle above the monkey stone Riy held in his hand. The small pebble darted in one direction, paused for a moment, and darted in another direction. All the while, her tongue flitted between her lips, trying to mimic the buzzing of a hummingbird flying.

The dark, flat stone left in her other hand appeared level on one side while the other came to a point. The fisherman’s imagination failed him once more. Riy asked, “What about that last one?”

Khuyay pursed her lips and looked at what she held. Her voice came out small as if she was afraid to say, “Kuntur.”

Her response confused her father. Though she came with him to the river every day, she never once asked about the condors that soared in the sky. She only had ever shown enthusiasm for monkeys. He asked, “Why did you pick a kuntur. Why not another k’usillu?”

“Because I want to fly high in the sky so I can see all the animals and you, tayta.”

A week later, illness overcame Khuyay. Movement became difficult for the young girl, and her skin became pale. She hardly ate or drank. Her father tried giving her a crushed herb he found outside, but it did little to improve her state. Word soon spread about his daughter’s illness to the village, and the village’s best healer entered Riy’s hut one evening to help. The fisherman’s hopes were renewed at the sight of the healer’s confidence. Soon her countenance of superiority was replaced with a solemn head shake and averted gaze, and the healer was replaced with an umu, a priest.

Although the umu gave his best efforts, no herb nor prayer worked. The pale girl remained still in bed. “Isn’t there something else you can do, some answer you can come to,” the fisherman asked. The umu considered his next step then walked through the door without a word. Riy followed and watched as the holy man crouched near the fire and produced dried leaves from a pouch at his side. The leaves crunched in the umu’s mouth, and he stared into the flames. Soon his eyes grew wide and his focus on the flames intensified. Though the two men occupied ground near each other, one was far off, seeing visions the other could only hope to imagine.

Cracks and pops of embers punctuated the silence. Riy paced a long time until the priest responded, “All journeys take time, and all travelers must be nourished.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I have nothing more I can do. Weeping for the inevitable is a waste of energy. Her illness could fade or she could die. Whatever may be is in the hands of the sun god.”

The fisherman grew angry at the response and ordered the umu to leave.

The next morning, Riy returned to the river to catch more food. Though many fish filled his chuspa, he didn’t feel right. A nagging suspicion chewed his stomach. He stopped to consider this feeling, but the sound of wings flapping startled him. He peered around to see a condor sitting on the river’s edge where Khuyay always sat. It stared at him—through him—with its red, menacing eyes. Riy pulled back his spear as if to hurl it, but the bird didn’t move a single feather.

Riy was dumbfounded by the size of the bird that stood nearly as tall as he did. Its feathers were black, and a white collar encircled its neck. To his knowledge, he could not think of a single person he knew that had seen a condor up close. He thought it lingered from hunger. The fisherman dug in his chuspa for a smaller fish and tossed it to the water’s edge. Again, the condor did not move. It didn’t take interest in anything except for the man standing in the water. As the condor examined him, Riy could see moisture forming around the bird’s eyes. He realized the condor was crying and ran home as fast as he could.

For as much time as the fisherman spent in the river, he did not realize that life, like water, is fickle. Riy rushed through the door of his hut. Khuyay’s body lay still on the floor. He attempted to wake her to no avail. Riy clutched her lifeless body to his chest and wailed. His daughter had passed. To the fisherman, the river of life no longer reflected light nor held abundance. It lacked water. Riy ran outside his hut and yelled at the sun god, “Intí, return my daughter to me!”  Only it was too late. Intí already had begun stalking off over the horizon without a word. The fisherman was alone once more. In his sadness, Riy wandered in the dark.

Tears blurred his vision. He whimpered like a wounded animal. His feet grew numb to the scrapes and cuts from the jagged red rocks he shoved out of his way with each passing step. While most roads and foot paths were rather direct, the path created by Riy was as complicated as human emotion. It wound upon itself, a coil in the sand. And when one leg grew weak, he changed direction, continuing his path parallel to what he had already created. He walked long into the night.

When Riy ran out of tears, he sat on the ground. He felt completely alone and was startled when he heard a voice say, “Good evening, artist.” Riy looked about and saw nobody. When he heard the voice again he looked up at Mother Moon’s pale round face shining in the night sky.

The fisherman wiped his nose on his forearm and responded, “Artist? What do you mean, Mama Killa? I am no artist.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree. Do you not see what you have created,” she gestured to the nearby stars. One twinkled brighter than the rest, then another and another grew more luminous until a path in the sky matched the spiral Riy etched into the ground. “You drew my husband’s likeness into the earth like so. Thank you, artist,” Mother Moon continued, “For your great deed, I grant you audience. What do you request of me?”

Riy dried his eyes and cleared his throat before speaking in a most respectful manner. “Mama Killa, wife of Intí, it’s—” he fumbled with his words. “My daughter has passed. I humbly ask you bring her back to me.”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” Mother Moon responded. Tears began to well up in Riy’s eyes once more. Mother Moon continued, “Only Intí has the power to heal.”

Riy described his failed attempt to speak to her husband. She explained, “Intí’s benevolence is highly sought; however, he will have no choice but to grant a great favor to whomever has done the same for him.”

Riy thought for a moment and grew confused. “How can I, a mere runa, perform a favor worthy of a god,” he asked.

“You gave me a way to see my husband when he is away. I am sure you can think of something marvelous, my artist.”

Riy walked back to his hut to rest. When he woke the next morning, he looked at his daughter. He imagined her walking with him to the river. He could hear her asking why the rocks were red. Then he looked at the stones on the ground near her, and an image flashed in his mind.

His legs sore, Riy set off for a new stretch of ground and began shuffling his feet in the sand as he had the night before. The path began as a curve, then a sharp turn changed the path to a straight line. Scabs reopened as he shuffled his feet along the ground and shoved rocks out of his path. He envisioned his daughter behind him, picking pebbles from the ground and seeing animals he could not.

Intí watched the design etched into the earth from early in the morning until well into the afternoon. It was late in the day when Riy’s work was finished. Intí spoke in a slow, sonorous voice, “What is this? Explain yourself.”

Fighting the pain in his legs, Riy stood at attention. He looked into the warm, round face in the sky, its light nearly blinding him. “Intí, I have made a gift for you. A giant.”

“I have no need for giants,” the sun retorted. “They don’t follow directions.”

The words slapped Riy in the face. All his hard work appeared to have gone to waste. Then he shouted at the sun once more, “I have tamed this giant for you. He can no longer destroy or ignore. He is yours to command. Give him an order. Tell him to stand at attention.”

The sun spoke his direction at the earth, and the giant engraved in the ground remained still. Intí laughed a deep laugh. “How marvelous, fisherman. You have indeed tamed a giant for me. One good turn deserves another. How can I return the favor?”

“Yes, Intí. All I ask of you is one small favor. Revive my daughter, please.”

The sun never rushed into action without reflection. A cloud passed between the two as the sun thought. The fisherman grew impatient. Finally Intí replied, “I’m afraid she is beyond the help of my medicines. I cannot return her as she is already on the path to Ukhu pacha. Fear not, for I will owe you a favor.” The sun departed over the horizon, leaving the fisherman alone once more.

Defeated, Riy returned home and wept for the child he had lost to the underworld.

When the moon came out once more, Mama Killa saw the crying fisherman and surmised what had happened. “Oh, my poor artist,” she sighed. She looked upon his engraving in the distance and howled. As her silver tears fell upon the fisherman’s hut, an unearthly white light emanated from Khuyay’s body. Her body floated off the ground and bobbed through the doorway. Riy chased after his daughter as her body started rising into the sky. He grabbed her hand and held it for one last second until her form faded. All that remained was the unearthly light rising higher and higher, stopping among the other lights in the heavens. “I’m sorry,” Mama Killa cried, “I cannot heal her, but I can put her in the sky for you to see each night.”

The fisherman passed the next several nights resting his injured legs and staring at his shining daughter. One night he noticed her star appeared a bit dim and feared she might think he had forgotten about her. He set out once more, dragging his feet over earth in a new design. Fresh cuts appeared on his feet. When he finished, his daughter could see the flower etched into the ground and she twinkled, and then the morning sun took hold of the sky.

Though she was gone, he knew she would return at night, so he continued walking. When night fell again, she looked down at her father’s work, a hummingbird, and shined brighter than before. He looked up at her and flitted his tongue between his lips to mimic the buzzing sound of the tiny bird and hoped that she was pleased by his gift. Riy could see his daughter twinkling in the sky. The moment was bereft of Khuyay’s sweet laughter and her nonpareil smile. Without her there, his gift felt miniscule. From her height, he thought, this must seem smaller than a pebble. He slept for days to heal his damaged legs.

One morning, he woke with an image in his mind and a drive to make a gift more marvelous than the one he gave her. Under the watchful eye of the sun, he hobbled once more, shifting stone and creating a new path of sharp lines and delicate curves. The design took the entire day. Stars came out from hiding, and he located the gleam of Khuyay. She looked down on the condor he made for her and sparkled. Riy thought he could almost hear her laugh.

Over the next weeks, the fisherman designed a series of birds—a heron, a parrot, a pelican. The ground became Khuyay’s personal aviary. His knowledge of birds expended, Riy wracked his mind to think of what to make next for her. When he couldn’t think of anything, he made a tree. And the next week he made a bush with great worry for he feared that he had nothing worthy of her attention anymore.

The fisherman spent the next week searching for a new image. All he found was himself catching fish with little enthusiasm and eating scant meals with his daughter’s pet stones for company. After eating a meager breakfast one morning, he stomped the ground in frustration at his lack of imagination. The red stone fell over. Riy saw it on the ground and ran from his hut. He began his most intricate work, the work that took the most energy. Mother Moon had come out by the time he finished the design. That was the night Khuyay glowed her brightest. That was the night Riy gave her a monkey. Her light was so bright she rivaled the moon. Mama Killa turned to the little star to keep her in line. Riy smiled the entire walk home.

Riy continued to add to his inanimate menagerie—a dog, a spider, a fish, a cat, and a lizard—catching the worried gaze of villagers who saw his thinning form. Though the figures were beautiful, they required more than just time and energy. He had taken to using the planks of wood that originally formed the top of his table to make larger designs. Each new form etched in the ground took longer to compose and reopened old injuries. The new characters in the ground helped Khuyay keep her glow. Though her light gave him pride, it wasn’t enough.

More than anything, he wanted to hug his daughter one last time. Riy had walked a great deal over the past several weeks; he felt drawn. Thin. Weak. The harsh effects of his art’s beauty had ravaged his body. His belly grew distended from hunger. Pain weakened his knees. Blackened scars marred his feet from having moved a mountain’s worth of rocks. Nevertheless, Riy walked out of his hut one last time to create his final sketch. He continued to push through the rocks and pain under the worried expressions of fellow village members he passed.

Intí watched as the fisherman, worn by despair and loss, stumbled. Riy’s need spurred him to rise and carry on with his design. The sun watched stunned to silence, still uncertain how to repay his debt to the fisherman.

As night fell, Khuyay emerged to see her father’s latest work. She watched as her father limped through the rocky terrain. The latest work of art was near completion when Riy stumbled. Muscles failed him as he struggled to rise up. The most he could manage was to kneel in defeat. A few of his fellow village members, watching in pained silence, came to his aid. Tears fell from Riy’s eyes as he said, “Help me, help me finish.”

A man and a woman from the village lifted one arm each and joined him for his ultimate work of art. With Riy’s last step, he completed the circuit of the final figure, a pair of hands stretched toward the sky. Then the fisherman collapsed under the strain of his effort.

The villagers lowered him to the ground. Khuyay cried. Mama Killa wept. Intí could be heard wailing in the distance. And through his tears, the sun god formulated a way to return the favor he owed: the fisherman faded away; the gifts he made for his daughter have not.

Nobody knows how the glyphs on the floor of the Nazca desert were made, or even what they mean. How they have lasted as long as they have is even more baffling. If you ever have a chance to see them in person, don’t ruin them. They are a message of love. And if a mere man’s longing can move a few rocks, then maybe, just maybe, love can move mountains.