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Each of them leaving their first and last name, along with a sketch of an animal just alongside it that served as their guide.
Valentina Santos is the first—her name appearing at the highest possible point—scrawled in the space where the wall curves into the ceiling. Her writing faded, angular, with a dark-eyed raccoon drawn in intricate detail placed just beside it.
Esperanto Santos is next, and just beside him is a large black bat.
Piann Santos was guided by a fox—a red fox according to the color of the chalk that she used. While Mayra Santos was guided by either a leopard or a cheetah—she wasn’t much of an artist, so I can’t say for sure.
There are several more names that follow—Maria, Diego, and Gabriella, who were guided by a horse, a monkey, and a squirrel, respectively. And there, down toward the bottom, I spy Paloma’s strong, loopy scrawl, seeing how she went to great lengths to etch a very detailed white wolf with piercing blue eyes.
I lean back on my heels, struck by the enormity of what truly lies before me: family.
My family.
A long tradition of Santoses—both male and female—who survived the same ordeal I’ve only just started. (Well, I’m assuming they survived.)
I guess I’m so used to being a loner, so used to Jennika and my solitary existence, I never realized there was a whole other side beyond my quirky single mom, a black-and-white photo of my long-dead dad, and a few random stories about grandparents who perished well before I was old enough to form any lasting memories of them.
This is so much bigger than I thought.
So much bigger than enduring my tests and succeeding in my training as a Seeker.
I’m a Santos.
Part of a rich, deep, long-standing ancestral legacy.
A calling that stretches back through the centuries.
And now it’s time for me to add my name to the list, to claim my rightful space alongside them.
I reach for my bag, retrieving the chalk stubs Paloma tossed in, and taking great care to allow enough space between my name and Paloma’s, in order to acknowledge that Django’s is missing. Having decided that’s what the other blank spaces were for and feeling relieved to count only two.
I bite down on my lip, noting how my freshly scrawled name, standing on its own, without the addition of Santos, looks oddly alone. And yet it feels a little too weird to add it just yet. I’ve never gone by that name. Jennika and Django never married, never had a chance to, which means I’ve always been known as Daire Lyons—the surname stemming from Jennika’s side.
I grip the chalk tighter, start to add an S but don’t make it past the uppermost curve before I stop. I can’t write Lyons—can’t write Santos. For the moment, I’m just Daire—a girl straddling two bloodlines. One I was given—one I must earn.
If I live through this, I’ll add it. If not, then my first name and Raven will be my only legacy.
Not that anyone will venture in after me. If I don’t survive this vision quest, there will be no one to follow. According to Paloma, it all ends with me.
I take my time drawing Raven, adding pointed wings, a curved beak, a squared tail, long sharp talons, and glimmering purple eyes. Then I sit back to admire it, figuring if nothing else, this wall will keep me company.
My Irish side finally meeting my Hispanic side—I’m curious to see how the two get along.
I consider adding a few more doodles to pass the time, but it’s a fleeting thought I’m quick to discard. It doesn’t feel right, seems almost disrespectful. It’s like Chay said, this is a sacred space—any extraneous scribbles will only amount to graffiti.
I get up. Take another lap. In search of anything I might’ve missed the first time. But in the end, I’m just walking in circles. Other than the long list of names, there’s not much to it. So after going through a series of stretches, followed by a handful of yoga poses an on-set hair stylist once taught me, I take a quick peek outside, fail to see anything of note, then plop myself down in the middle of the cave deciding to do what Chay suggested: Go quiet and still and wait for something to happen—for a life-defining revelation.
Though I’m only a few minutes in when I grow hungry and restless and bored. I’m no good at meditating, no good at sitting still unless I have a good book. So I reach for the small bag, hold it upside down, and dump the contents before me. Counting the small book of matches, the slim white candle, the red bandanna, the three pieces of chalk, a small jar of white grainy salt like the kind that forms the border, the small rawhide rattle, and a folded-up note among the offerings. I check the bag again, turn it inside out, shake it as hard as I can, but that seems to be it.
No water.
No food.
Apparently Paloma wasn’t joking about the purification fast.
Hoping for a few words of wisdom, I unfold the note, and read:
Dear Nieta,
