Song of the Coquí

Plaza Colón gleamed under the flicker of streetlights, its statue of Christopher Columbus casting an elongated shadow across the tiled square. At this late hour, only a handful of couples strolled arm-in-arm, and the occasional sound of distant salsa music drifted on the humid breeze. My nerves were on high alert; every flash of movement in the corner of my vision made my heart skip.

I hugged the edges of the plaza, weaving around benches and potted palm trees, searching for Elias and Soraya. As I neared the statue's base, I spotted her purple braids shining beneath a tall lamp. Soraya stood with her arms folded, tapping one sneakered foot impatiently. The moment she saw me, her eyes lit with relief.

"Finally," she hissed, glancing around. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

I exhaled shakily. "Dad practically had me on lockdown," I muttered, trying to steady my racing pulse. "Where's Elias?"

She jerked her chin to the far side of the plaza, where a dark figure leaned against an old wrought-iron fence. Even in the dim light, I recognized his lean build and the measured posture—like a coiled spring. At our approach, he straightened, scanning the square for any sign of danger.

"Hey," Elias murmured. He looked exhausted, bruises faintly visible beneath the flicker of the lamp. But there was a determined glint in his eyes. "We need to move. I have a ride waiting in the back streets."

My stomach clenched. A ride? Were we going somewhere beyond Old San Juan? But I remembered the way Elias had talked about a mentor, someone who could protect us and teach us. I swallowed the knot of nerves and nodded. "Lead the way."

We slipped through alleys that smelled of salt air and cooking oil, bypassing late-night cafés and shuttered souvenir shops. Eventually, we reached a narrow lane where a battered SUV was parked, engine humming softly. Elias helped us climb in, then got behind the wheel. My heart drummed as we pulled away, heading into the winding roads outside the old city walls.

The night pressed in around us, the headlights illuminating graffiti-scrawled buildings and worn sidewalks. Soraya and I shared a tense look in the back seat. Neither of us knew exactly where we were going, but we trusted Elias enough to follow. For now.

After half an hour of weaving through urban sprawl, the surroundings changed. The streets grew darker, lined with sparse streetlights and fewer houses. Stray dogs sniffed along the roadside, and palm trees rustled overhead. I recognized flashes of farmland, then lush vegetation. We weren't just leaving San Juan—we were heading into the rural outskirts.

A sign for Toa Alta flitted by. I'd been there once on a school trip, but never at night. The roads turned narrower, bending uphill. We jerked to a stop at a seemingly dead-end clearing overshadowed by tall bamboo and thick tropical foliage. Elias killed the engine, silence rushing in.

"This way," he said simply, stepping out into the warm, cricket-filled darkness.

We followed him to a large, rusted gate standing half-open, flanked by stone pillars. Beyond it lay what looked like an old hacienda—its paint peeling, the columns cracked, but still exuding a certain austere grandeur. Lanterns lit a path through overgrown gardens, where tall grasses swayed and random bursts of color hinted at hibiscus or bougainvillea gone wild.

"Are you sure this place is… safe?" Soraya whispered, trying to keep her camera bag from snagging on the tangled vegetation.

Elias threw a glance at us over his shoulder. "Safer than anywhere in the city right now. Our society used this property for gatherings decades ago. It's been mostly abandoned—except for a few people."

A pang of unease and anticipation coiled in my chest. Our society? So there were more like Elias, scattered throughout the island, clandestine in their fight against the Crimson Mantle. I clutched the coquí pendant under my shirt, recalling the lines from Abuela's diary about "the day these traditions must resurface." The day was now.

We stepped up onto a broad veranda with chipped tiles. A single door at the center of the old hacienda stood ajar, warm light spilling onto the threshold. Elias motioned us inside.

A spacious foyer opened before us, lit by a cluster of candles arranged on a weathered wooden table. The walls were adorned with fading murals—scenes of robed figures dancing beneath swirling stars, reminiscent of Taíno-inspired designs. My heart skipped at how similar they looked to the hidden chamber where Elias had taken us before.

At the far end of the foyer stood a tall, imposing woman with salt-and-pepper curls tied back neatly, her posture as regal as any queen. Her skin was the color of rich mahogany, and she wore a simple linen dress that somehow made her seem both stately and unyielding. A beaded necklace with carved symbols draped across her chest.

Elias inhaled, then approached, gesturing for us to follow. "Camila," he said softly, voice laced with respect and caution. "I brought them."

Camila's gaze swept over Soraya and me with quiet intensity. For a moment, no one spoke. When she did speak, her voice was low, and I felt it resonate in my bones.

"So," she said, "these are the two you risked everything for."

Her words crackled with meaning. Soraya and I exchanged a nervous glance. Risked everything? Elias's tension was palpable. She must be some sort of elder or mentor figure within this society—someone who could pass judgment on his actions.

"Yes," Elias answered. "The Mantle attacked them directly. We can't leave them vulnerable."

Camila's dark eyes flicked to me, lingering on my chest. I realized, belatedly, that the outline of my pendant showed through my T-shirt. Her brows furrowed slightly. "I see you wear the coquí. Old magic clings to you, boy. Where did you get it?"

My throat constricted. "It—belonged to my abuela. She was… into folklore and stories."

A ghost of something softened her face—approval or maybe sorrow. She lifted her chin. "Then you may have more potential than you realize. And you," she turned to Soraya, "your presence here is unusual. Why did you come?"

Soraya squared her shoulders, though her voice wavered slightly. "I'm a journalist. I don't like secrets." She paused, then added, "But mostly, I'm here because Mateo is my friend, and we're both in danger if we don't learn what's going on."

Camila's lips twitched in what might have been a small smile. "Loyalty is admirable. And knowledge can be a shield, if wielded wisely."

She beckoned us deeper into the house, leading us through a series of corridors. Motes of dust danced in candlelight, and distant echoes of drums reverberated from somewhere within—soft, steady, and strangely comforting. My pulse quickened at the sound. Was someone practicing?

Finally, we emerged into a wide salon, the furniture pushed to the walls. The floor was bare except for a scattering of woven mats and a few wooden crates topped with clay bowls. Symbols were chalked onto the floor in a circular pattern—Taíno petroglyphs, if my memory served right. The soft thrum of distant drumming grew louder here, resonating from an adjoining room.

Camila turned, assessing us both with a critical eye. "If Elias vouches for you, I must trust him. But make no mistake—what I teach you, or allow you to witness, must remain secret. We stand on the brink of war. The Crimson Mantle grows bold, and the only way to stop them is to preserve the older traditions they seek to corrupt."

Soraya nodded earnestly. "I—I understand."

My mouth felt dry, but I forced the words out. "Me too. I want to learn. I need to learn."

Camila pursed her lips, then looked at Elias. "You're sure about them?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking to me with an odd mixture of caution and warmth. "Yes. They deserve a chance."

She inclined her head. "So be it. We begin tonight with the basics." She motioned to the chalked symbols on the floor. "Place your shoes by the door, stand at the circle's edge. The first lesson is about understanding the island's heartbeat."

Soraya and I exchanged glances, hearts thudding. Shoes off, we stepped onto the cool tiles, the thin layer of chalk dust tickling our soles. Camila guided us around the circle until we stood on opposing sides, Elias off to the left, watching with folded arms.

"In the old days," Camila explained, "our people combined dance, drumming, and elemental awareness to harness the magic in the land. It's not about flashy sparks or conjuring illusions. It's about attuning to the pulse that's always there, beneath our feet."

A subtle beat throbbed through the walls—faint, insistent. My eyes darted to Soraya, who flashed me a nervous grin. Then Camila lifted her arms, palms out, and began a soft chant, half-Spanish, half-African dialect. Her voice merged with the drumming, sending goosebumps racing down my arms.

"Close your eyes," she commanded. "Feel the ground. Listen to the rhythm."

I swallowed, shutting my eyes. For a second, all I felt was my own pounding heart. But as I inhaled slowly, an undercurrent of warmth—almost like a gentle vibration—rose from the soles of my feet, winding up through my legs. The coquí pendant pressed against my chest with a comforting heat. I focused on the drumbeat, on the subtle whoosh of air in the dim salon.

Slowly, my breathing aligned with the tempo. Each inhale matched the gentle thud, each exhale the space between. It reminded me of Abuela's lullabies—how they often spoke of the ocean waves and island breezes, each breath a piece of nature's grand pulse. My anxiety ebbed, replaced by a cautious wonder.

After some moments of chanting, Camila's voice lowered. "Good. Now, open your eyes—but keep the rhythm in your bones."

I did, blinking in the candlelight. Soraya's expression was one of careful concentration, her brow furrowed. On the floor between us, wisps of faint greenish light shimmered along the chalk lines—like glowing dust stirred by the drum's vibration. My breath hitched. This was real. Powerful. Ancient.

Camila stepped gracefully into the circle, her bare feet silent against the tile. "Each line represents an aspect of the island's spirit: earth, air, water, fire… and the living hearts of its people. Our enemies—" her voice darkened momentarily, "—seek to twist these gifts for destruction. We must stand against them by strengthening our harmony with the land."

She demonstrated a slow pivot, arms sweeping in a gesture that resembled a half-dance, half-martial form. Her hands traced arcs in the air, and the greenish light traced after her fingertips, leaving luminous trails that flickered out like breath on a cold window.

Mesmerized, I tried mimicking her movements. At first, my limbs felt clumsy, my shoulder flaring with a dull ache. But something guided me—Abuela's stories, the energy of the pendant, the memory of distant drums. Each step became a fraction smoother, each sweep of my arm more natural.

Soraya followed suit on the other side of the circle, biting her lip in concentration. She wasn't as fluid, but her determination shone. We exchanged a fleeting, excited grin—we were doing it. Real magic, not just surviving an alleyway brawl.

Camila watched, nodding as we stumbled through the steps. "You're both rough," she said, not unkindly, "but there's potential. We have little time to refine your techniques. The Mantle won't wait."

A pang of apprehension shot through me at the mention of the Mantle. I recalled the attacker's snarling face, the scorching red energy that almost killed us. My heart pounded faster, and I stumbled. Camila stepped forward, steadying my elbow.

"Focus," she said, her grip firm but reassuring. "Your fear blocks the energy. Let it go."

I inhaled shakily, forcing the memory aside, and re-centered on the drum's steady heartbeat.

Elias observed from the periphery, arms folded. At one point, our gazes met, and he offered a slight, encouraging nod. An unexpected thrill curled in my stomach—knowing he believed in us, believed in me, was both exhilarating and terrifying. After all, it was his reputation on the line too.

For the next half-hour, Camila led us through basic poses and footwork reminiscent of Afro-Puerto Rican dance. She showed us how to tap the floor in sync with the drum, channeling a faint shimmer of energy through our fingertips. It wasn't dramatic like the crimson blasts we'd seen before, but it felt deeper, more honest—like a dialogue between our bodies and the island's spirit.

By the time we paused to catch our breath, sweat soaked my shirt, and my shoulder throbbed in protest. Yet the fatigue was mixed with a strange, hopeful exhilaration. I wanted to do more, learn more, be more—if it meant protecting my home from those who'd tear it apart.

Camila motioned Soraya and me to the edge of the circle. She studied us, her expression unreadable. "For a first attempt, not terrible," she said. "But you'll need far more training to face the Mantle again."

Soraya mustered a shaky grin. "We'll work at it. Every day if we have to."

I nodded in agreement, heart still dancing from the newness of it all. "Thank you," I said softly, feeling an undercurrent of gratitude to this stern, wise mentor who'd let us glimpse this hidden world.

Camila inclined her head. "We rise before dawn to begin formal lessons. Tonight, get some rest if you can. Elias will show you to your rooms." She paused, fixing Elias with a cool stare. "You'll train with them, to ensure they learn discipline." Her tone implied this was both a directive and a warning.

He bowed his head slightly. "Sí, Camila."

As we followed Elias down the dim hallway, the distant drums faded into the hush of nighttime insects. Every step echoed on the worn tiles. My mind spun with a dozen questions—Would Dad figure out I was gone again? How long before the Mantle attacked us here? Could I really learn enough magic to protect the people I love?

But amid the swirl of doubts, a flicker of pride took root. Abuela's voice in my memory seemed to hum in agreement: You can do this, Teo. Beneath my shirt, the coquí pendant pressed warmly against my heart, as though echoing her blessing.

Elias guided us to two small guest rooms at the hacienda's rear, each sparsely furnished: a bed, a table, a barred window overlooking the moonlit countryside. Before Soraya disappeared into her room, she caught my arm, eyes bright with excitement and lingering fear.

"Tonight was… a lot," she whispered. "But you were amazing, Mateo. That swirling energy? I saw it around you—like you were really connecting to the island." She squeezed my hand. "We'll figure out how to juggle everything else later. For now, let's just… survive training, yeah?"

I managed a nervous laugh. "Deal."

She slipped into her room, softly closing the door behind her. I stood alone in the hallway, the candlelight dancing on the old walls. Far off, I heard Camila's low murmur—likely talking with Elias about us. Tension fluttered in my chest, but exhaustion pulled me forward.

Inside my own room, I set my phone on the tiny table, ignoring the multiple missed calls from Dad. Guilt pinched my chest again, but I pushed it aside. I'll explain everything once it's safe. Right now, I had a duty—to the island, to my friends, and to the legacy Abuela believed in.

I sank onto the creaky bed, exhaling. My muscles buzzed with fatigue, but my spirit felt alight with possibility. Despite the dangers, despite the secrets and lies, I was on a path I couldn't abandon. The coquí frogs outside the window started their nighttime serenade, a reminder that I wasn't alone in this fight.

Clutching the coquí pendant, I let my eyelids fall, drifting toward uneasy sleep. Tomorrow, the real training would begin, and with it, the first tangible steps toward understanding—and wielding—the power that lived deep in Puerto Rico's soil and stories.

Somehow, I felt Abuela's presence more strongly than ever, as though she stood at my shoulder whispering, "You've taken the first step, mijo. Don't stop now."

I wouldn't.