The jocotes were ripe. Quin was the one who pointed out the palos in the neighborhood. In the orchard, the fruits would be suspended from the branches of dozens of trees, waiting for us to pluck them. They're ready for us, hombre.
Quin had black curls and freckles, wide shoulders for a boy of ten, and he could run, rápido para correr. You always wanted Quin on your fútbol team, or at your side for stealing jocotes. Méme and Beto were tagging along, too.
We set out with our empty backpacks for the two-hour walk to the orchard, imagining the kiwi-sized stone fruit. Red on the ends faded into yellow. The sweet, juicy yellow meat would melt on your tongue like a honey-infused avocado.
The white-yellow limestone dust on the surface of the rich volcanic earth powdered our shoes. Beto stomped and dragged his feet to create the polvo, stirring it up on the path for the rest of us streaming behind.
The tierra in our sight was black, black, negro. The great volcán loomed ominous next to us. The Volcán de Pacáya was its name but it was known as Volcán de Fuego, Volcano of Fire.
One time, a man was riding his horse at the skirt of the volcano. He was going along when the volcán decided to spit out a mouthful of rocks. He was too close, a big one came right at his horse's head and severed it clean off. That's what they say anyway.
Walking along, we heard deep, low rumbles, like a gurgle from the gut of the earth. A dark, gray humo rose. We stopped in our tracks, heeding the warning. Those rocks could go flying. Safe on our trail, they looked like pebbles or sand, but we knew to respect the volcano.
If you stopped and looked carefully, you could see dull orange lava flows sliding down the side of the black, black earth. Under the night sky, the lava glowed bright, but with the sun, it crept in subtle incognito.
Arriving at the orchard, los jocotes called to me with their olor, their scent, like they called to the birds and animals, We're ready, estamos listos, comenos. With a satisfying twist, I pulled the fruits from the stems. Twined inside the shady branches of the tree, tented by leaf and limb, I was a boy, but my limbs twisted like surrogate branches. The smell was floral, tangy, mixed with the earthy scent of the bark, the rough texture of it toughening my hands. I would put the freshly broken tip of the fruit to my nose and breathe in the vapor of the broken connection. God's attachment between fruit and limb gave off a scent when it was freshly severed and I breathed it in like sin, like touching a girl.
Our backpacks were nearly full, but we were greedy. There were more trunks to climb and bigger and bigger jocotes just beyond our grasp. Reaching with one hand, fingertips brushing the orbs, straining for the higher, clandestine fruits.
The sun-wrinkled caretaker appeared from behind a trunk. He had probably been watching, making a plan to catch at least one of us this time. I saw him up close for a moment. One of his eyes had a cloudy film, but the other was clear as the sky. He looked at me like it was his daughter I touched, like he knew what I was thinking as I pilfered his crop. I smiled on the inside, deciding not to fear him, before I wriggled down the tree, deftly swinging my backpack onto my back.
He began chasing after us, swinging the rusty C shape of a machete in front of him. He yelled and cursed, we were little diablos. His checkered shirt, and the brim of his straw hat extending from his brow, distanced itself against the horizon, against our young, fast run.
The others crawled under the barbed wire fence. I snagged my shoe as I tried to jump it, falling onto my back. With a squish, the ripe fruit burst open between me and the ground.
We passed by the river on the way home. My shirt and shorts were smeared with the gooey meat and juice of the fruit that had oozed through my backpack. I tried in vain to wash it from myself in the river. The others laughed; they knew I could take it.
On the shady curb in front of the house of Chucho, we nibbled and slurped the juicy fruit, even the broken ones.
From down the path, a giggling approached us. The group of girls came into sight, in line, stepping in tune. Marcela stood out from the others. A little more gordita, and tall. Her clear, round eyes, a penetrating black, seemed to send rays of cool moonlight on me. They girls slowed, stopped in front of us.
Blanca scanned the jocotes hungrily with her eyes. I picked up one from our stash that was whole and plump, held it out to Marcela. Looking at the fruit until she took it from me, I noticed a band of pink between the red and green. The sun was setting and the fruit glowed. Marcela glowed. Rose appeared on her cheeks as she palmed the fruit. The girls picked up their step again, continuing down the road in their protective, unbreakable cadena — shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.
Susan Niz is currently writing a series of short stories set in Guatemala. One of these stories, "Patas Cenizas," was recently published with Opium Magazine online. She lives in Minnesota.