“So, daughters of mine,” Francisco Gómez says once we’re heading south toward Santa Cruz. “Did you read my book—The Seed Sower?” He looks away from the road for a split second and pats the messenger bag on the seat beside him.

“You mean the one Mattie stole?” Mercedes says. He chuckles.

A punch of guilt hits my gut. “We read, um, some of it.”

He laughs his big guffaw again, filling his small car with the booming sound. “Well, I want to tell you a story from the book. From the Arhuaco people. Once upon a time,” he begins, “in dark times, before there was light, an Arhuaco woman gave birth to two children. Hermanos. Siblings, like you two. Twins.”

Maybe they were doppelgängers.

“These children glowed, a brilliant light shining from them. They were beautiful. Afraid that the people of her village would want to kidnap her children because of their beauty, the woman hid her children in a cave, covering the entrance with large stones. But through the cracks, the people of the village saw the light shining. It was so beautiful, they wanted to see what made this light. La luz. Do you know what la luz is?”

We both shake our heads.

“Light,” our father says. “La luz means ‘light.’ Did you know that in Spanish, when a mother gives birth to a baby, we say that she gave light? Dar luz.”

I watch the sun sparkle on the blue ocean as we speed toward home. Far off on the horizon, fog fights with the sun. “Luz,” I repeat softly. The word feels happy and safe in my mouth.

“Well,” our father continues, “the villagers came to the cave one night. They brought instruments and played music. The music was so beautiful that the brother, Yuí, couldn’t help but come out to hear it. As soon as the people saw Yuí, they tried to grab him. But he flew into the sky where he became the sun. The next night, the people returned to the cave and saw that light still glowed. Again they played beautiful music until the sister, Tima, emerged. She was so lovely. The villagers didn’t want her to get away, so they threw ashes in her face, hoping to stop her. But Tima flew into the sky in the same direction as her brother. Her face was covered in ashes, so she wasn’t as bright as the sun.”

“The moon,” Mercedes says, interrupting the story.

“Very good, Mercedes,” our dad says. The way he says it makes me wish I had guessed. “She became the moon. And at night she watches over the Arhuacos. And that’s very comforting.”

“So this Tima is just like Selene. In Greek mythology. Only a different story,” Mercedes says with a snort. “It’s all just stories.”

CHAPTER 40 Mercedes