ISLA | Chapter Twenty-Five
Treading Water
Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
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September 1974
Water shoved into Roberto’s nose, ears, throat. His eyes burned as his mouth took in only fish gulps of water. Shouts came through as pressure, not sound. He thrashed, fighting for air in the pain—
Before the water, there was light–the honeyed kind that laid across the island like a warm hand. A lazy afternoon folding into a quiet evening. Fishing nets hung to dry. The smell of food drifted through the village. Early September sky already dimming, a cool breeze traded places with the heat as summer ebbed away.
Ropes crossed Roberto’s shoulder, biting into the skin. His fingers worked fast, knotting the handle of a plastic milk jug. Steps quick.
Behind him, another followed—just a few years out of boyhood—fumbling into a shirt, mirrored glasses catching the last light, shoving the final bite of something into his mouth.
“There’s nothing at the temple…” Esteban called.
Roberto ignored him, pushing forward.
A mountain peak paced them in the distance, always at the edge of sight, never closer. Through the village their feet stayed to the paths—no cars here, only clear, well-worn routes.
“Remember when I had to pull you out of the well,” Esteban said with a laugh. “Luckily it was bone dry.”
Roberto’s long hair swung behind him, loose and dark, bouncing with each step. Unmoved.
They crossed between paddocks. Boards of a small bridge creaked beneath their weight. Below, a clear stream rushed downhill, some of it diverted into a field. Corn stood dark green and high, ears fat and ready. Beyond, squash vines and the pale leaves of okra.
Roberto stopped short, looking up. “There—”
A streak burned across the deepening sky. Both boys watched it fade. A shooting star.
Roberto glanced at his brother. “The cave you found, where your net caught.”
“With the sharks?”
“Nurse sharks aren’t dangerous,” Roberto said, frowning. “And they won’t be there at low tide.”
They cut around the edge of the paddocks, up a rise. Somewhere behind them, a dog barked, then another, the sound carrying from the village. Esteban’s gaze flicked back toward the house with the yellow curtain.
“She was asleep when I left,” he murmured. Then, gesturing as if his own stomach were bigger, full with child, he gives a light laugh that borders on pity, “She doesn’t sleep much lately.”
Roberto nods, adjusted the weight on his shoulder and keeps moving.
The sea opened before them, the moon breaking its surface in silver. Wind moved steady through the palms. High above, the fronds rubbed together—whispers too faint to catch on the breeze—the murmuring trees gave way and the cliffside came into view.
Standing pale against the night, a temple. Stacked stones, wider than a man,
rose quickly from the grassy field in rise after rise. At the base, white blocks worn smooth at the edges, but the form still sharp—tiers lifting one atop another, narrowing toward the crown. Silent. Steadfast. There on the island’s edge, watching the water. Moonlight carved each tier in silver, as if the goddess Ixchel herself laid her touch upon the stone.
Roberto reached the base, looking up. For a moment he regarded the structureEach level was crowded with intricate symbols, the lowest nearly erased by time and weather. He climbed toward the third tier, reaching, pulling himself up. Esteban followed, his hands finding their holds without looking.
The ledge narrowed as they went. Roberto stopped, took the flashlight from his bundle. The beam was soft, blurred through layers of plastic, as he pressed it to the carvings.
Here, the pattern broke. The line of symbols paused, then continued. Roberto’s fingers traced the stone.
“Here.” He pointed. “The carvings are newer.”
Esteban leaned in, touching the stone. The lines here were finer, the edges sharper. The difference was slight, but both felt it as their hands moved from the old to the new.
“Added after the temple was built,” Roberto said.
He whispered as he read: In the year… at the eve before the harvest. Boats and passengers brought goods. One month of days and strong backs. To hide.
“To hide?” Esteban said.
Roberto moved along the wall: Prayer for the gods. Water drawn to the island, to quench the thirst. A closed mouth.
“And then this…”
He stopped at the final glyph: a woman in profile, headdress of leaves radiating, hand outstretched as if to receive—but empty.
“I found this same image inside the cave. Except—”
“Inside?”
“Without you. Lo siento, hermano.” Roberto’s shrug was light, almost contrition.
“And?”
“Her palm has a—” Roberto’s voice stopped as the sky lit again.
Another shooting star burned overhead. Roberto quickly turned, stretching out his hand. Esteban watched as the streak of flame across the sky settled neatly in view against the palm of Roberto’s hand as if he were holding it.
“Ixchel, goddess of the moon,” he said, nodding toward the rising disc, “bearer of the shooting star.”
Esteban’s gaze stayed on the moon.
“...and keeper of the archive,” Roberto said, almost a whisper, looking at the carvings. The feel and taste of the last steps of the hunt so close.
In the dark Roberto pushes further into the cave.
His young body has to fight hard to swim, pulled up by the plastic milk jug strapped to his body. Every so often he stops underwater, tipping it to sip air, letting him go just a bit more.
Down, through the dark, he moves, his body stretching, pulling.
He breaks through the water, gasping, into a pocket of air at the top of a chamber. Warm water laps over his shoulders in the tight space. Beneath the low arch of stone, just at the surface, everything feels close—cramped, breathless, waiting. His flashlight bobs in the water. The light isn’t bright, but it’s enough.
Immediately, he sees the symbols carved above him. His heart races.
This time, he’s come prepared: paper and pencil sealed in a jar.
The stone is slick, worn almost smooth and cracked with time, as he rubs the shape with the edge of the pencil. It’s the symbol—the woman and the star.
Below, his legs flick constantly, working to keep him afloat. Splashes of his motion echo quickly in the small space. His arms ache from holding them above water. He seals the paper in the jar and lets it fall, floating like a balloon on the top of the water.
Pulling in a lungful of air, he lets his body go slack. Under the water he drifts for a moment until his feet touch the jumble of stones below. Resting. What might have once been a smooth, perfect floor has become, over time, a broken patchwork with moss and other life tucked in and around the stones. The chamber underneath the water is enormous, snaking its way under the mountain.
And to one side is the hole he came through. Not much bigger than the width of his shoulders, the wall has crumbled, giving way to the whim of the sea, allowing him entry.
He rests for a moment longer, looking up at the wavering light that reflects from his flashlight. As he moves his arms, swaying them in the water, little pinpricks of light flicker everywhere—sea creatures too small to see until they flash with his movement.
He pushes hard against the floor, his right hand reaching up to grab the open mouth of a carved figure next to the woman. It’s just enough purchase to hang on as he tightens his grip.
Behind these stones, he feels—he knows—is the place where history is stored away.
He pushes but nothing moves. His chest burns as his fingers tighten.
In the dim beam, the woman’s carved hand seems to tighten, her empty palm closing as if mocking him. The current tugs at his arms, pulling him back, but Roberto only grips harder, teeth bared in the dark.
He will not be denied.
Using every bit of leverage he can muster, Roberto pushes. To his surprise, it slides just a fraction.
In that gap, a light flares—sharp and ancient.
He holds on, eyes wide, as he feels it slide and the intensity of the light grow, blinding him. But he wants to see what’s there. So he pushes the stones further until they break free, sliding, opening like a great mouth in the cave.
He waits, gripping tight, watching—stone sliding against stone, a low grind like thunder underwater.
And inside the opening: a whirl of stars. Not sky, but something older—twisting constellations blooming in motion just above his head.
The pressure builds in his chest. His vision wavers. Knuckles white, fingernails wedged into the seams between the stones.
The cave shudders around him. The walls tremble, loose silt drifting in clouds. A wave strikes his chest, then another.
From the spiral of stars, something begins to take shape. Something moves within the whirl. Moving toward him, through the light and space on the other side of the stones.
Through a curtain of wet hair, he looks inside.
A woman’s face. A most beautiful and terrible shape leans at him. Her eyes glint like twin moons—wide, unblinking, ghastly, locked on his.
For a long moment there is no movement. Below in the water looking up is youth, barely out of boyhood. He imagines the moment they’ll speak his name—mamita’s proud tears, the village lifting him high, the gods themselves nodding in approval. He aches for it. Needs it. To be remembered. To be more than just another boy swallowed by the island.
Ego in every stride, pride in every breath.
Then her mouth opens—so wide it could swallow his head. Her tongue writhes like serpents. And when she bellows, the words aren’t sound at all—just heat and force, burning through the water:
U jool náah ku páayaj
U nikte' ku k'áalaj
Mix k’aaba’ob ku beetik
Terror rips through him.
His lungs seize, throat clawing for air that isn’t there. He thrashes, vision narrowing to her eyes—twin moons burning into him. He wants to scream but only bubbles burst loose. His body folds small, instinct screaming to vanish, to hide in the dark.
Shouting from somewhere. Then—hands. Grabbing his feet.
He kicks, panicked. But the grip is familiar. Not down. Back. His brother.
The stones above him shift, opening wide. Abruptly and without remorse. Roberto never hears the sound of bones breaking.
A sharp intake of breath never reaches his lungs. Just water. Fish-gulps.
He chokes, kicking hard, his scream caught—flattened into a soundless blur as the light above him shimmers, just out of reach, like a sky flipped underwater.
Tiny lights—like stars—spin around him, a slow, dizzying swirl. And then: pain. Bright, immediate.
His fingers—down to the second knuckle—peel free from his right hand. Separated.
Falling.
His chest cinches tight. His vision buckles at the edges.
The flashlight spins loose and drifts just ahead of him. Its beam swings down—catches the fingers mid-fall. He sees them drift. Slow. Deliberate. Like they have somewhere else to be. Sinking.
Above, the waves roil. Below, everything moves slower. Roberto watches the fingers turn, settling just out of reach as he’s pulled away. To safety.
Blood ran down Roberto’s chest as he clutched the glass jar and his mangled hand.
Rain hammered his back, driving him and Esteban toward the village. The stream beside them had become a torrent, spilling over into the paddocks. Corn stalks bent low, whipped flat by the wind.
Ahead, shutters banged. Doors slammed. Villagers rushed through the downpour, voices swallowed by the gale as they braced homes against the storm.
Esteban broke ahead, feet splashing, and disappeared into the house with the yellow curtain that whipped inward on its rod.
“¡Marisol!” he shouted, slamming the door behind them.
Roberto staggered inside, stunned, hands still clinging to the jar. Esteban snatched a towel, pressing it over Roberto’s hand before turning to the windows, forcing wooden slats closed against the rain that pushed through every gap.
“¡Traigan el botiquín!” Esteban’s voice rose over the creaking walls and battering wind.
No answer. The dinner table still held a small plate of food from earlier. A metal cup rolled, clattering to the floor.
He hurried to the next room. Roberto stood blinking, the scene around him barely registering. His eyes stayed wide, fixed on the image still burning in him—the spectral shape in the cave, eyes like moons locked on his own.
There had been a hidden room. He had found it. But there was no archive, no treasure, no manuscripts saved by his people—only her.
“Berto…” Esteban’s voice came, distant, strained.
Blood soaked through the towel as Roberto shuffled forward. Water seeped under the door in waves, pooling at his feet. Exposed timbers groaned; the palm-thatch roof rippled, lifting and slamming down again. Long strands of water fell through the seams above.
Esteban was on his knees at the bedside, body draped forward. On the bed lay a young woman, hands locked tight around her round belly, chin drawn to her chest. For a moment she seemed to be sleeping, despite the storm raging outside. The stillness was wrong. Out of place.
From beneath the blankets, across the sheets, a dark red spread.
A wave of water pushed into the room. The mat beneath the bed darkened as it soaked.
Esteban’s face twisted. He bent low, clutching her to him as if he could reach into the place where she had gone and drag her back. His shoulders heaved once, twice, before he lifted his head.
Through the dim, his eyes found Roberto. Wet, shining, they burned with grief and something harsher—blame, raw and unspoken. A wound opened in that look, one that would never close.
The lights flickered once—bright, searing—and went out. Darkness fell fast, a velvet curtain dropped over the world. In the creak of wood, in the crash of debris against the house, Roberto heard it again: the growl from the cave.
U jool náah ku páayaj
U nikte' ku k'áalaj
Mix k’aaba’ob ku beetik
The house is breached
The blossom is sealed
No names will follow
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Maybe your best chapter, yet, J. Your description of Roberto's struggles under water had me holding my breath. The description of the amputation of the fingers was horrific. Roberto carries those physical scars and the emotional scar of his role in the deaths of his brother's wife and child. A heavy load, indeed.
This story is gripping! Yeow!
"Moonlight carved each tier in silver, as if the goddess Ixchel herself laid her touch upon the stone."
"a whirl of stars. Not sky, but something older—twisting constellations blooming in motion just above his head."
"He chokes, kicking hard, his scream caught—flattened into a soundless blur as the light above him shimmers, just out of reach, like a sky flipped underwater."