#SuperViral, Ch 2: The Serpent's Tongue of San Cristobal Pt. 2
Following coded threats, an influencer uncovers a dangerous truth. Now the governor she's investigating has invited her into a very public trap.
The first sunlight in San Cristobal, coming through the old lace curtains in Aisha’s guesthouse room, didn’t make her feel any less worried than the night before. The Governor's smooth, hidden threats, repeated by the shop owner Valdivia, kept playing in her mind. She skipped her usual morning plan of getting ready for a live video and instead called Chloe.
“Morning, sunshine,” Chloe’s voice sounded cheerful. She was already awake, drinking coffee, and ready for business from far away. “Ready to bless the Passport Pack with more highland magic? That coffee farm tour is calling—total feed goals, prime content…”
Aisha cut her off, her voice low. “Chloe, we need to talk about the plan. I’m… not so keen on the coffee farm today.”
The line went quiet for a beat. When Chloe spoke again, the business-as-usual cheer had vanished.
“Uh oh,” Chloe said. That’s your I-found-a-body-in-the-minibar voice. What’s up, Polyglot? Did Ricardo’s jeep break down? Did you accidentally upset a llama?”
“Nothing like that,” Aisha said, walking back and forth in the small room. She quickly told Chloe about what happened at Valdivia’s shop - the specific words about “old threads” and the “new loom.” Then she talked about the Governor’s speech, and how he used a very similar hidden meaning about “tangled knots from the past” that needed to be smoothed into a “single, strong Cristobali tapestry.”
“So, a politician using fancy words. Big surprise,” Chloe said, but Aisha could tell she was paying attention. “Are you sure you’re not just thinking too much about it? You’ve been studying the language very hard.”
“It’s more than that, Chloe. It’s how it was said. The fear in that supplier’s eyes. The way they stressed certain words. My… my language sense is screaming that this isn’t just about pretty weavings. I think these ‘old threads,’ these ‘tangled knots,’ might be people. Communities. The ones who don’t fit nicely into Rojas’s ‘perfect’ new plan.” Aisha paused, then went on, “I want to find them. I want to understand who they are, what their story is. The nice views can wait.”
Chloe sighed loudly. “But this sounds less like finding a story and more like manufacturing a crisis. We're talking about going way off-piste, into places that might not appreciate a foreign influencer with a camera pointed at their problems. Rojas is a popular new governor; you don’t want to accidentally cause any political problems.”
“I’ll be careful,” Aisha promised. “Quiet. I just need to see for myself. My show is about real connection, remember? Not just perfect photo opportunities.”
“Alright, alright,” Chloe agreed. She knew Aisha wouldn’t give up when she was really curious. “But being quiet is important. No live videos until you know what you’re getting into. And keep Ricardo with you. He knows the area. Just… try not to start an international problem before lunch, okay?”
“Deal,” Aisha said. A small smile appeared on her lips, even though she was worried.
The guesthouse courtyard was a peaceful spot. The early morning sun made shifting shadows through the leaves of a large bougainvillea plant. Ricardo sat at a small, simple table, holding a chipped clay mug of coffee in his rough hands. He looked up as Aisha came closer. His weathered face, usually quick to smile politely and a bit shyly, stayed serious.
“Ricardo, allin p’unchaw,” Aisha began. Her voice was soft, and her Cristobali sounded like she was gently asking a question. She pulled up a chair. He hadn’t invited her, but she settled into it gently, keeping her hands in her lap. A demand would build a wall; a quiet presence might open a door.
He nodded his head. “Allin p’unchaw, Señorita Khan.” His reply was polite, but he wasn't as warm as usual. He took a slow, careful sip of his coffee. He stared at something far beyond the courtyard walls.
Aisha waited a moment, letting the quiet settle. “Ricardo,” she started again, “I was hoping you could guide me today. My trip here isn’t just about the beautiful views, the things most tourists see. I am truly interested in the deepest roots of San Cristobal’s culture. The… the oldest traditions.”
Ricardo’s eyes flickered towards her, then away again. “There are many traditions, Señorita. Villa Esmeralda itself is full of history.” His voice was neutral, giving the standard guide’s answer.
“Yes, and it’s wonderful,” Aisha said, leaning forward a little. “But I’m especially interested in the art of weaving. Not just the items in the fancy shops, but the methods, the stories that have been passed down for… for centuries, maybe. The kind of knowledge that might be found in villages a little farther from the main roads. More… hidden away.”
A long silence filled the space between them. Only the distant sound of a rooster crowing broke it. Ricardo slowly swirled the coffee in his mug. The lines around his eyes seemed to get deeper.
“Hidden away villages, Señorita,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper, “often prefer to stay hidden. They have their ways. Their… memories.” He stressed the last word very slightly.
“And I would never want to bother them, Ricardo, truly,” Aisha said. She sensed he was unwilling, like he was building a quiet wall. “I don’t want to be an intruder. I want to learn. To understand. As someone who studies culture and language… I believe these older ways have great wisdom.” She then used a Cristobali proverb about how the deepest roots support the tallest tree, hoping to show her respect for old knowledge. “Saphinmanta sayariq sach’aqa aswan hatunmi wiñan.”
Ricardo’s eyes met hers directly for the first time that morning. There was a flicker of something in them - surprise, maybe, that she used the proverb, or maybe a sadness she couldn’t understand.
“Wisdom, yes,” he agreed, his voice still low. “But wisdom can also be… heavy, Señorita. Some paths are best not taken by those who don’t know the way.” He took another sip of coffee. “The roads to such places… they are not like the road to Villa Esmeralda. They are difficult. Dangerous, even, for those who don't know them.”
“I am not afraid of difficult roads, Ricardo,” Aisha said gently, trying not to sound impatient. “And I would be with you, and you are very capable. I simply want to see… to observe. Maybe there are craftspeople whose work is rarely seen, whose skills are unique?”
He looked down into his mug, as if the answers were in the dark coffee. “There are… weavers. In the high valleys. Their hands remember what the towns have forgotten.” He paused, then added, almost as if he just thought of it, “They are K’anchay.” He said the name softly, with a special sound that suggested something separate, something ancient.
“K’anchay?” Aisha repeated. She let the new word rest on her tongue. Her language ability immediately noted its unique sounds. “That is the name of their community?”
Ricardo nodded slowly. “It is who they are. The Illuminated, some say. Children of the Light. Their ways are… very old.” He looked up at her again. His eyes were direct and full of unspoken warning. “They do not look for attention, Señorita Khan. They do not welcome cameras easily. Their privacy is… a shield.” He hesitated, then added, his words so quiet they were hard to hear, “Especially… especially these days.”
The phrase hung between them, like something real. “These days?” Aisha echoed softly, her heart beating faster. “Is there something… different about ‘these days,’ Ricardo?”
He looked away, his jaw tightening just a little. He seemed to be struggling with a decision. “The winds change in the mountains, Señorita,” he said, avoiding a direct answer. “Sometimes they blow gently. Sometimes… they carry a chill.” He pushed his coffee mug away. The scraping sound was loud in the quiet courtyard. “To visit Pukarumi, the village where some K'anchay weavers live… it would require great respect. No sudden movements. No demands. Only quiet watching, if they allow it.”
Aisha leaned forward, her voice sincere. “Ricardo, I give you my absolute word. My camera will stay in my bag unless I am given clear, unforced permission to use it. I will be like a shadow, a listener. My only wish is to understand their art, their traditions, with the deepest respect. If they want me to leave, I will leave without a word.”
He studied her face again, for a long, searching moment. The tenseness in his shoulders seemed to relax, just a little. Maybe it was the honesty in her eyes, the fluent and respectful way she spoke Cristobali, or maybe he was just tired and gave in.
“Very well, Señorita,” he said finally, letting out a sigh. “Pukarumi. We will go. But we leave at first light. And we do not stay long. The K’anchay… they have seen many seasons change. They know how to read the sky.” He stood then. It was a silent sign that the conversation, and his agreement, was over.
Before they left, Aisha quickly recorded a short video for her viewers. She explained her decision to visit a traditional village quietly. Her phone camera showed the pretty guesthouse courtyard as she spoke softly, “Hey everyone! Quick update - today’s adventure is taking a slightly different turn. I’m going to be visiting a very traditional, faraway village to learn about some ancient weaving methods. Out of deep respect for their privacy and traditions, I won’t be live-streaming this visit, and I’ll be very careful about any recording. Sometimes, the most real connections are made when the camera is off. I’ll share what I can, if and when it feels right. Wish me luck on this very special journey!”
She uploaded the video, then put her phone away. Today wasn’t about performing for an audience. It was about finding the “old threads,” and understanding the true story behind San Cristobal’s carefully presented image. The trip to Pukarumi, she sensed, would be more than just a pretty drive.
The trip to Pukarumi was very different from the smoother, winding road to Villa Esmeralda. Ricardo’s strong jeep, which felt almost fancy on the main roads, now bounced and creaked. It drove on a track that was just a rough path cut into the mountainside. They crossed shallow, fast-flowing streams. The water was shockingly cold. They climbed such steep, zigzagging paths that Aisha felt her stomach drop, even though she was used to traveling. Every bump, every loud noise from the engine, showed how far they were leaving the well-kept town of Villa Esmeralda.
They were going into something older, wilder, and more exposed. The air got thinner. The silence was deep, broken only by the jeep’s engine and sometimes the sad cry of a hawk flying high above. Its shadow quickly crossed the empty land. The journey showed how isolated the K’anchay people were, whether by choice or by force.
After a very long, bumpy ride, the track went steeply down into a narrow, shadowy valley. It had been hidden by mist on the higher mountains. Pukarumi was on the valley floor. It was a small group of simple, strong houses made from river stones and sun-dried mud bricks. Their thatched roofs blended so well with the light brown grasses that the village seemed to want to stay hidden.
Smoke curled from a few chimneys - the only quick sign of life. The thin grey smoke rose against a steel-grey sky that looked like it would rain more. The place felt connected to the earth, timeless. But it also had a heavy, watchful quietness.
When Ricardo parked the jeep at the edge of the village, the silence around them was almost total. No one shouted a welcome. No curious children ran out to meet them. There was just the sound of the wind in the tall grasses and the faraway murmur of the river. Then, people started to come out of the doorways. They moved slowly, watching carefully. They wore the traditional K’anchay clothes Aisha had seen a little of in the market.
The women wore dark, pleated skirts and detailed woven shawls that seemed to soak up the light. The men wore strong trousers and ponchos. Their hats had special bands of dark blue and a surprisingly bright, almost disturbing amber color. Their faces were rough from the weather, marked by the harsh mountains and an old, unreadable sadness. Their dark, sharp eyes looked first at Ricardo, then at Aisha. Their dark eyes flicked from Ricardo to her, lingering for a moment. There was no curiosity in their gaze, only the flat, steady appraisal one gives to a gathering storm cloud.
The welcome, when it finally came, was very formal, almost suspicious. An older man, his face covered in deep lines, stepped forward. Ricardo quietly said his name was Tayta Apaza. He was a highly respected elder with quiet power. His eyes on Aisha did not change. They held no warmth, only a deep, unsettling tiredness. Ricardo spoke first. His Cristobali was soft, almost begging. He explained that Aisha was a visitor from a faraway land, someone who studied languages and traditions. She only wished to learn from their ancient weaving skills.
Aisha felt the delicate tension. She followed Ricardo’s lead. She offered a traditional K’anchay greeting she had carefully learned from her research and Ricardo’s reluctant help. Her pronunciation was exact. Her posture showed only humility. “Allinllachu, Tayta Apaza. Sumaq p’unchaw kachun qanpaq. Hamuni yachaqayta, mana phiñachinaypaq.” (Are you well, Father Apaza. May this be a beautiful day for you. I come to learn, not to cause disturbance.) She kept her hands loosely together in front of her. Her eyes were respectfully lowered. Her camera bag was slung so far behind her it was almost invisible.
Tayta Apaza’s eyes, like pieces of black stone, seemed to stare right through her. He was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. The only sound was the wind whistling through the roofs of the mud-brick huts. Other villagers gathered, forming a loose, silent half-circle. Their faces showed no expression. Their stillness was unnerving. The air was thick with unspoken questions and many years of caution. Finally, he answered. His Cristobali had a strong accent with old forms of words that sounded like echoes from a forgotten time - a language that held the weight of mountains and memory. His words were few. He gave very limited permission to observe, nothing more.
Slowly, carefully, Aisha tried to deal with their deep caution. She didn’t push. She didn’t ask rude questions. She didn’t even look at her camera bag. She admired a nearby llama. Its wool was thick and tangled against the coming cold. She quietly asked about its family history. Her special ability allowed her to quickly learn their specific K’anchay words for different family lines and for the patterns of its coat.
She noticed a woman tending a small, almost hidden garden of medicinal plants. She softly asked about a particular plant. She hoped her real interest in what it was used for would show respect, not nosiness. She offered the loaf of mountain bread she had brought, not as a gift that needed something in return, but as a simple sharing. It was accepted with a nod so short it was almost a rejection.
Every interaction was like a delicate dance on thin ice. Every word she chose, every move she made, was careful. She wanted to show she was harmless, to slowly break down the wall of their deep suspicion. The K’anchay spoke little. When they did, their words were often indirect, full of comparisons to the harsh beauty of their land - the strength of the mountain, the cleverness of the condor, the bitterness of a winter frost.
Then, a younger woman, Sofia, stepped forward from the edge of the group. Her face was familiar in this group of cautious strangers. The recognition in her eyes was a small, almost desperate light. “Señorita Khan?” she asked. Her voice was a hesitant link between two worlds. “I am Sofia. I… I work at the guesthouse sometimes. I have seen your… your moving pictures.”
Aisha felt huge relief, though she carefully hid it. “Sofia! Kusaykuni riqsiykuspayki kaypi! It is wonderful to meet you properly here, in your home.”
Sofia’s presence helped, but it didn’t completely change things. She spoke quickly and quietly with Tayta Apaza and some of the other elders in K’anchay. It was like a language within a language, even harder for Aisha to understand with her growing knowledge. The elders spoke in sharp, questioning tones. Sofia’s replies were softer, perhaps pleading.
The air remained tense, like before a mountain storm. Finally, Tayta Apaza gave another short nod. Sofia turned to Aisha, her face still looking worried. “My grandmother, Mama Nati. She is… she is the keeper of the old looms. She will… see you. For a moment.”
The house they were led to was small and dark. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, wool grease, and something else - an earthy, almost metallic smell. It reminded Aisha of the faint scent she’d noticed on the wind when she first arrived in the Highlands. Mama Nati was very old. Her face was a map of wrinkles. Her eyes were cloudy with age but still held a spark of sharp intelligence.
She sat before a huge, old-looking backstrap loom. Her gnarled fingers moved with a slow, steady rhythm, creating a stunningly complex pattern from threads of deep blue and that disturbingly bright amber.
Silence stretched, heavy and deep. Aisha simply sat on the offered sheepskin, watching, breathing in the feeling of generations. Eventually, as if sensing a stillness in Aisha that wasn't entirely unfamiliar, Mama Nati began to speak. Her voice was a dry rustle, like wind through winter grass.
She didn't speak to Aisha directly, but as if telling a story to the threads themselves. She spoke of patterns that were prayers, of colors taken from the very blood of the earth, of looms that had sung the songs of her ancestors.
Later, huddled around a small fire, sharing a thin stew of potatoes and wild herbs, the true heaviness of the K’anchay’s life began to sink in. The men spoke less than the women. Their silence was a heavy blanket. But the women, perhaps feeling braver because Sofia was there and Aisha was quietly respectful, began to share bits of their fear. Their words were like stones dropped into a deep well.
Tayta Quispe, another elder, his face thin, his eyes burning with a quiet fire, finally said what seemed to be the unspoken terror. “The Governor… he speaks with the tongue of the amaru, the great serpent,” he rasped. His eyes were fixed on the flickering flames. “Smooth and shining on the outside, but with poison in its heart. Nin kumusqa ‘uchuyachisqayku pampakunata llimphuchay,’ chayqa nin ñuqanchikta qarquwasqayku, imaynan yuraq wayq’umanpas hikutanku hina.” (When he says ‘cleanse the sacred springs,’ he means to drive us out, just as they scrape the lichen from the sacred stones.) The comparison was brutal, hitting hard.
Another woman, her hands permanently stained a deep blue, her voice tight with a grief that felt centuries old, added, “Our children… they come back from the town schools with shame in their eyes. They are told their K’anchay words are ‘the grunts of animals,’ that their old clothes are ‘the rags of beggars.’ They are told they are ‘tangled knots in the new Cristobali tapestry,’ knots that must be cut out so the pretty picture can be smooth.” Her voice broke on the last words.
They spoke of the sacred places. Their voices dropped to respectful whispers. Not just springs, but certain peaks that touched the sky father, deep valleys where Pachamama q’aparin (Mother Earth breathes with power), caves where their ancestors talked with the spirits of the mountain. These were not just places; they were the heart of who they were, the source of their spiritual strength. And now, these places were being surrounded. The Governor’s police patrolled more and more often. Their faces were hard, their questions sharp. Surveyors, strangers with cold eyes and measuring tools, appeared without warning. They drove stakes into their ancestral lands, talking about "regional development," "progress," "environmental protection zones" - words that, in the Governor's "fancy language," meant being forced out, erased.
Aisha listened. A cold dread filled her. The hidden language she had started to suspect was not just political talk; it was a weapon, sharpened and used with chilling skill. It was meant to make people seem less than human, to push them aside, and finally, to get rid of them. The pretty tapestry of San Cristobal was being woven with threads of fear. And the "old threads" of the K’anchay were being systematically, relentlessly, prepared to be cut away. The metallic smell in the air, she suddenly, without knowing why, felt, was the scent of something precious being drained from the land itself.
The thin mountain air got colder as evening started to come to the Pukarumi valley. Ricardo, keeping his word, was starting to get ready for them to leave. His quiet presence reminded them that their time with the K’anchay was short. Aisha was giving her sincere, but quiet, thanks to Tayta Apaza and Mama Nati. Her mind was still trying to process the raw, painful truths she had learned.
As she turned to follow Ricardo to the jeep, a light touch on her arm made her stop. It was Sofia. Her usually bright, expressive face looked worn. Her eyes were shadowed with mixed feelings that fought for control: fear, a quiet anger, and a small bit of desperate, almost reckless hope.
“Señorita Khan… Aisha,” Sofia began. Her voice was a low, urgent whisper. She pulled Aisha slightly away from the others, towards the deeper shadows of an old, twisted q’olle tree at the edge of the village. “Can we… can we speak for a moment? Alone?”
Aisha nodded. Her heart beat a little faster. The strong feeling in Sofia’s eyes made her want to listen.
Once they were too far for the elders and Ricardo to hear, Sofia seemed to lose her composure. “You… you understand, don’t you?” she asked. Her Cristobali came out in a rush now. The careful K’anchay way of speaking from the village mixed with the more common dialect of Villa Esmeralda. “This ‘La Lengua Fina’… the Governor’s ‘beautiful words’… they are not beautiful to us. They are chains.”
Aisha looked directly into her eyes. “I am beginning to understand, Sofia. The ‘old threads,’ the ‘tangled knots’… he is speaking of your people, isn’t he?”
Sofia nodded. A tear ran down her cheek. “My mother… she is K’anchay, from this very village. My father, he was Cristobali, from the town. I have always lived between two worlds, seen both sides. But now… now only one side is being allowed to speak, to exist.”
She poured out her story. The words rushed out as she spoke urgently. She talked about K’anchay farmers who had worked their ancestral lands for many years. They were suddenly given official-looking papers they couldn’t fully understand. Their fields were changed to be used for "regional development projects" that always helped Governor Rojas’s friends. She described how craftspeople like her grandmother were being slowly pushed out. Their detailed, traditional weavings were called “rustic” or “too dark” by shop owners like Señor Valdivia. He then filled the market with brighter, simpler, mass-made “Cristobali-style” fabrics - a cheap copy that stole their way of life and their culture.
“Valdivia… he tells them their work, the work of Mama Nati, is made of ‘old threads’ that will ‘snag the new loom’ of San Cristobal’s progress,” Sofia said. Her voice was bitter. “He means our patterns, our stories, our very memory is a problem. He wants to erase it, replace it with something… shiny and empty.”
The fear Sofia described was real and strong, like a heavy blanket over Pukarumi and other K’anchay villages. “People are terrified, Aisha,” she whispered. She glanced nervously over her shoulder even though they were alone. “To speak out is to ask for trouble. The Guardia Civil… they are no longer just keeping peace. They watch. They report. Small ‘problems’ - a K’anchay speaking their language too loudly in town, a traditional ceremony held without ‘proper permits’ - lead to fines, to being bothered, sometimes to… disappearances, for a few days. Just enough to break their spirit.”
She spoke of Rojas’s new “Youth Vanguard.” These were groups of young Cristobali men, full of patriotic feeling and the Governor’s ideas. They had decided to “encourage” people in the outer villages to conform. Sometimes they did this by scaring people, sometimes by damaging K’anchay property or sacred markers. “They say they are ‘weeding the garden of San Cristobal’,” Sofia said, her voice trembling, “so only the ‘pure flowers’ can bloom.”
Sofia wasn’t asking Aisha to start a revolution or be their savior. Her request was simpler, more desperate. It was a plea to be seen, to be heard. She wanted the truth of their lives, their slow disappearance, to be known outside their isolated valleys. Her words, her raw emotion, her very presence, appealed to Aisha’s conscience, to who she was as a communicator, someone who connected worlds.
She was a traveler, a storyteller. She had found her own way of weaving stories, through language, through live videos, through a shared sense of the beauty of the world. Sofia, her face wet with tears, was asking her to use that power, to use the tools she had, in a way that would matter. She wanted Aisha to tell the real story, the hidden story, and spread it far beyond the K'anchay valleys.
Aisha's heart felt torn. She didn't want to put anyone in danger. She was still an outsider, and an influencer whose words could be taken the wrong way, twisted, misrepresented. She could even bring problems on herself if she didn’t choose her words carefully. The Governor and the police wouldn't just ignore a public challenge, even a gentle one.
"Sofia, I'm not sure how to do this," Aisha said, her voice low, full of the tension that was starting to grow in her chest. "My work... I'm not used to being an activist. My videos, they are meant to make people feel the beauty of the world. They show me connecting to people and places. To change that... it would be a huge change."
Sofia's eyes held her gaze. They were a little pleading, a little afraid, but mostly full of determination. "But the power is there, Aisha. You've shown it. And now... maybe, here, we have a chance. A small chance. You could help us be seen. Help us not be erased. Not all at once, perhaps. But the K'anchay people, we are being lost. We are... disappearing."
She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a small, detailed woven strip of cloth, no bigger than a bookmark. The pattern was old and complex, woven in threads of deep blue and that bright, unsettling amber. “My grandmother… Mama Nati… she asked me to give this to you,” Sofia said, pressing it into Aisha’s hand. “It is a q’aytu - a storytelling thread. It holds a K’anchay proverb: ‘Sipas ñawpaq q’aytuqa kallpawan k’ancharin, aswan llantu ukhupi kawsaspa.’ (The oldest thread gleams with power, especially when it lives in the deepest shadow.)”
Aisha closed her fingers around the small weaving. The threads felt surprisingly strong, almost alive, under her touch. Sofia’s meaning was clear: their culture, their identity, though pushed into the shadows, still had a deep power, a light that refused to go out.
Looking at Sofia’s pained, hopeful face, Aisha felt something change inside her. The distant academic interest that had first driven her to study languages, the thrill of figuring out a new dialect, felt small now. It seemed almost shamefully shallow compared to such deep injustice. The abstract puzzle of "La Lengua Fina" had become a real human crisis. The weight of it settled heavily on her shoulders. Her desire to simply "understand" San Cristobal was no longer enough. A new, stronger feeling was growing: the need to be a witness, to give a voice to these silenced shadows.
“Sofia,” Aisha said. Her own voice was low but filled with a new, strong resolve. “Thank you. Thank your grandmother. I… I will not forget Pukarumi. I will not forget the K’anchay. Or this q’aytu.” She met Sofia’s gaze. For the first time, Sofia saw not just a curious visitor, but someone who might help, however unsure the path ahead might be. The "old threads" had found a new hand to hold them, if only for a moment.
The trip back from Pukarumi was sad and bumpy. It felt like the confusion in Aisha’s own mind. The bright green mountains of the Cordillera Esmeralda, which had seemed so hopeful just a day ago, now felt like a beautiful, false mask hiding something rotten inside. Every pretty view was spoiled by knowing about the K’anchay’s quiet suffering. Every charming old building in Villa Esmeralda seemed to whisper that it was part of the problem. The "paradise" Ricardo had unwillingly shown her was, she now understood, a carefully made illusion. It was for those who chose not to see, or were not allowed to see, the "old threads" being slowly pulled apart.
Aisha barely spoke. Her thoughts were full of Sofia’s tearful request and the weight of Mama Nati’s storytelling q’aytu, which was tucked safely in her pocket. Ricardo sensed her worry and stayed quiet. His own face showed a familiar mountain sadness.
When they finally drove back onto the cobblestone streets of Villa Esmeralda, the late afternoon sun made long, twisted shadows. The town felt different. The cheerful noise of tourists and locals seemed fake, almost ugly. The posters of Governor Rojas, seen everywhere, with his confident smile and hopeful slogans, now felt like a deliberate, cruel insult.
Her guesthouse host, a kind woman named Señora Elena, met her at the door. Her usually calm face was lit up with unusual excitement. “Señorita Khan! You have returned! Such news, such important news for you!”
Aisha, tired from the journey and the heavy emotions of the day, managed a tired smile. “Good news, Señora Elena? I could certainly use some.”
“The best news, Señorita!” Señora Elena smiled brightly, clasping her hands together. “A message has arrived for you - an official invitation, brought by one of the Governor’s own helpers! Governor Mateo Rojas himself! He has heard of your wonderful videos, your love for our San Cristobal. He is so impressed that the famous @PolyglotPassport is visiting our area!”
Aisha felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. An official invitation?
Señora Elena continued, not noticing Aisha’s sudden paleness. “He has ‘graciously invited’ you - those were the helper’s exact words! - for an exclusive, live-streamed interview tomorrow morning! At the Palacio Regional! He wants you to share the ‘true spirit and bright future of San Cristobal’ with all your followers around the world!” She was almost shaking with pride, as if Aisha’s invitation was a personal win for the guesthouse.
Aisha stood stunned. Her tiredness was forgotten for a moment. A rush of adrenaline, mixed with excitement and pure terror, surged through her. An exclusive interview with Governor Rojas. Live-streamed. To her millions of followers. It was the kind of huge career chance that influencers dreamed of - direct access to a charming, rising political star, a chance to show her skills to the world. The possibility for more fame, for making her show even bigger, was huge.
But the timing… it was almost evil. Just as she was starting to understand the dark truth of his "La Lengua Fina," just as the faces of the K’anchay were so clear in her mind, Rojas was inviting her into his trap. He planned to use her, her show, and her image of being neutral, as a tool for his own lies. He wanted her to broadcast his cleaned-up vision of San Cristobal, his "single, strong tapestry," to the world. He thought she didn't know she was now carrying the weight of its "tangled knots" and "old threads" in her heart.
He didn't know she was starting to see the truth. He didn't know about Pukarumi. He didn't know about Sofia, or Mama Nati, or the bitter reality behind his poetic, hidden meanings.
Or did he? A flicker of fear, cold and sharp, cut through her thoughts. Was this an innocent invitation, a real attempt at good PR by a smart politician? Or was it something more planned? A test? A trap? Had her questions, her visit to Pukarumi, no matter how quiet, already reached him?
The choice was terrible. To refuse would be seen as an insult. It could bring unwanted attention, maybe even danger to Ricardo or Sofia. To accept, and play along, to ask easy questions and broadcast Rojas’s lies, would be to betray everything she had just seen. It would be a betrayal of the K’anchay, a betrayal of her own conscience. But to accept, and to somehow, some way, challenge him… that was a path full of unimaginable danger, for herself and for those she now felt a desperate need to protect.
Señora Elena was still smiling brightly, waiting for Aisha’s happy reaction. Aisha forced a smile, her mind racing. “That is… quite an honor, Señora Elena. Truly. I… I will need to prepare.”
She went back to her room. The official-looking envelope with the Governor’s seal felt like a heavy weight in her hand. The "paradise" of San Cristobal had just shown its golden bars.
Chloe’s careful voice echoed in her mind: “Try not to start an international incident before lunch, okay?” Aisha looked at the Governor's seal on the envelope. The invitation wasn't just an interview; it was a tightrope, stretched high above a deep, unknown canyon. And Mateo Rojas was inviting her to walk it, live, in front of the entire world.
***