Snow had been falling for three days on San Jerónimo de la Sierra when Don Evaristo Castañeda closed the mill gates in front of Lucía Mendoza.
The thud of the wood echoed in the white courtyard like a death sentence.
Since her husband’s death in a collapse at the Santa Rosalía mine, Lucía had taken on all the jobs no one else wanted. She swept flour, mended sacks, cleaned the storerooms, and checked the old mill’s inventory. In return, she and her daughter, Abril, could sleep in a cramped room next to the warehouse.
Abril was eight years old.
That morning, the radio had announced the worst storm of the decade.
« I can’t keep feeding two people who aren’t producing enough, » Don Evaristo declared, without looking her in the eye. « We’ll all have to make sacrifices. »
Father Anselmo, who was standing by the gate, nodded gravely.
« Sometimes, my child, God’s will is revealed in trials. »
Lucía watched the workers gathered under the porch roof. Some lowered their gaze. Others pretended to be busy.
No one defended her.
« God’s will didn’t put a hole in the cellar roof, » she replied. « I’ve been saying for four months that dampness is getting in. »
Don Evaristo clenched his jaw.
Lucía had discovered that several sacks were wet. She had also found records altered to make them appear to be high-quality flour. When she tried to warn the owner, he accused her of meddling in matters that weren’t her business.
« Don’t start again, » he muttered. « The mill has survived more winters than you’ve been alive. »
« But perhaps it won’t survive this one. »
The wind rattled the shutters.
Don Evaristo went into the cellar and returned with a sack of damp flour, a shovel with a broken handle, and a bag containing six wrinkled potatoes.
« Don’t say you’re leaving empty-handed. »
Lucía touched the sack. The flour had turned into clumps.
She didn’t say thank you.
April waited in the yard with Canela, an old mule, and Tizón, a mixed-breed dog with black fur. The girl clutched a clay jar wrapped in a blanket to her chest.
Inside was the sourdough starter her father had cared for over the years.
« Mama, » she asked when she saw Lucía come out, « do we not have a home anymore? »
Lucía looked at the mill, the fogged windows, and the faces disappearing behind them.
« Not yet, » she replied. « But we’ll find one. »
They left San Jerónimo before noon.
Instead of going down into the valley, Lucía took a path that climbed toward the Barranca del Horno Negro (Black Oven Ravine). No one lived there. The elders said the land was cursed because even in winter steam rose from between the stones.
Mateo, Lucía’s husband, didn’t believe in curses.
Months before he died, he had drawn a map in a notebook and written a sentence by the ravine:
“The ground stays warm. There’s water underneath. We could build something here.”
Lucía had kept that notebook, not understanding why her husband seemed so obsessed with an abandoned place.
