Part 4: Distant Quakes

Editor Hunting: Single malt whisky, no ice, and a splash of water—the perfect spring companion. This is the life, my friend.
Recoleta: I'll stick to my usual—mate tea with mint and two sugars, please.
Hunting sets two glasses down on the table.
Editor Hunting: Hold on, are you old enough to drink? Want to try mine? It's a 15-year-old Scotch.
Recoleta: Ahem, you know what I just realized? There's no need to try everything in life.
Recoleta: Yes, I should write that into the story.
Editor Hunting: Ha. Too bitter for you, eh? Guess you're still a kid at heart.
Recoleta's faux-philosophical statement has earned her a teasing remark.
Editor Hunting: I'm joking. Even if you wanted some, I wouldn't let you have it.
Editor Hunting: You know, I don't believe any writer needs nicotine or alcohol to fuel their creativity. They're just vices they become reliant on to get through the day.
Recoleta: Oh? So you're saying you're not like them?
Editor Hunting: Of course not. Haven't you figured me out by now?
Recoleta: If I remember correctly, when we first met, you lit a cigarette.
Editor Hunting: That was an exception.
Editor Hunting: Honestly, you caught me off guard that day, little genius.
Recoleta: Why's that?
Editor Hunting: Because that era you're always talking about is already long gone.
Editor Hunting: Around the time that I was born, Latin American literature was at its peak. Every writer passionate about words could feel that strong and long-lasting earthquake.
Editor Hunting: It wasn't just the rise of a single author, either. It was a collective awakening.
Editor Hunting: Everything was urgent, irreversible, as if the soul of an entire continent had suddenly become self-aware and started speaking through literature.
Recoleta: Increíble, Ms. Hunting! What a masterful way to put it!
Editor Hunting: Just a few workplace topics. That's all.
Recoleta: But you captured exactly the way I feel about it! When I look back at the writing of that generation, it's like magma rising from the Earth's core.
Recoleta: It pushes through layers of history, violence, and memory, finally breaking the surface, carrying with it ancient silt and blood.
Recoleta: Can you imagine how breathtaking, how overwhelming, how intoxicating that is for me?
Recoleta: I missed that great earthquake, but I can still feel its distant tremors. When I first put pen to paper, the tremors aligned with my very heartbeat.
Recoleta: Surely you understand what I'm saying, right?
Editor Hunting: Of course I do, Recoleta. That's exactly why I'm pushing you so hard to write something great, why I refuse to go easy on you.
Only a strict coachman can rein in a wild horse. Hunting has come to understand this deeply.
She closes her eyes and questions herself in the dark.
Editor Hunting: Forget all the damn professional theories and publishing experience. Hunting, do you think this novel is good enough?
Editor Hunting: It's good, very good. There's a lot to like about it. But ...
As summer fades into autumn, the air turns crisp and dry. Hunting strikes a flint, effortlessly lighting a fire. The iron pot above it bubbles and steams.
The scent of simmering broth makes Recoleta's stomach grumble.
Editor Hunting: That bubbling's a little noisy. Try not to scare off my prey.
Recoleta: Wha—hey, that's not my fault.
Recoleta: When you said "camping," I thought you meant a family trip or a picnic in the park, not hauling a dozen kilos of gear over two mountains to sit in the middle of nowhere!
Recoleta: And now we even have to hunt for food?
Recoleta rubs her sore shoulders as she looks on at Hunting in the distance, stalking her target.
The hunter's gaze is sharp as a hawk's, her movements precise. She crouches low, slipping into the shadows. A single rustling leaf. A flick of an ear. The prey notices too late.
The blade strikes—clean, swift, painless.
Editor Hunting: Phew. Alright. Just needs a little prep before it goes in the pot.
Editor Hunting: Don't just stand there. Give me a hand.
Under Hunting's guidance, Recoleta handles the basic tasks—cleaning, butchering, and blanching. Finally, the meat is added to the pot.
Recoleta chews on a leaf, staring at the chunks of meat bobbing in the broth.
Recoleta: So THIS is our dinner? I thought the carrots, beetroot, and celery were supposed to be the whole meal.
Editor Hunting: What kind of life have you been living?
By the time she tastes the broth, the sun has set, and the light has faded from between the trees.
Recoleta: S-Sorry, little rabbit. I'll eat you with gratitude.
Editor Hunting: Ha! That line belongs in a dark fairy tale.
Editor Hunting: Oh, and here's another fun fact for your background notes. This little guy may be called a "Patagonian hare," but it's actually a rodent, a close cousin to sewer rats.
Recoleta: So I'm actually eating ... eating ...
Recoleta: Huh? But, actually, it's surprisingly good.
Her brain and taste buds reach a swift truce.
Editor Hunting: Relax, it's wild game from the forest. It doesn't get any cleaner than this.
Recoleta: When hunger strikes, people always find a way to dress it up in poetic language to justify accepting nature's gifts.
Editor Hunting: You're getting sharper, little genius.
Two months pass ... By now, Hunting has taught Recoleta to appreciate the beauty of camping.
As the night deepens, Recoleta deftly sets up a few tripwire traps around the tent, working alongside Hunting with practiced ease.
She has picked up quite a few advanced survival skills.
Editor Hunting: It's late autumn now. Tonight will be the coldest one yet.
Recoleta: Oh, I'm fine. I've dealt with much colder nights than this.
She thinks back to the endless nights in Ushuaia—the kind of cold that never quite left her memory.
Editor Hunting: It's a little early to sleep. Want to talk about something?
Recoleta: There's plenty we could talk about besides my novel. But I know we'll end up back there anyway. It's like a maze we'll forever be circling around and around in.
Hunting raises an eyebrow. There's no arguing with that.
Editor Hunting: Alright. Actually, I have thought up a new idea for how to publish your book.
Recoleta: Oh, let's hear it.
Editor Hunting: I've been turning it over in my head for weeks. Alright, brace yourself.
Editor Hunting: What if I told you your novel would work better as a trilogy, with Templo de la Metáfora as the first volume?
Editor Hunting: It doesn't necessarily mean you have to change the ending, but it certainly makes a strong case for it.
Recoleta: A trilogy? A new ending?
Recoleta: Dios mío! I'd never considered that! My protagonists have never even taken a step outside their own story, let alone leapt headfirst into a new one.
Editor Hunting: Then give it a try. Your characters already exist vividly in their world; all they need is a way to cross the barrier into a new one. A motorcycle, a carriage, even a limping old mule would do, don't you think?
Editor Hunting: We need to think bigger, beyond the bestseller list. This is about shaking the entire literary world!
Editor Hunting: Let them embark on a new adventure, Recoleta, just like the one you told me about—your journey to the end of the world.
Editor Hunting: All you need to do is throw in a murder case, give the cowboy a reason to stumble into a mystery, and before you know it, he's a private detective.
Recoleta's breath quickens at Hunting's rapid-fire pitch.
Recoleta: Wait, Hunting, slow down. I ... I don't even have the first novel's ending figured out yet.
Editor Hunting: Oh, of course. I'm getting overexcited. Take your time, Recoleta. All great writers need time to think—to struggle through their own doubts.
Recoleta: I think I should at least finish the first novel's ending before I start worrying about the next.
Editor Hunting: That's fair. But it is the harder route.
Editor Hunting: You have to be careful. Your ending needs to be deliberate, precise. Because once it's published, there's no going back.
Editor Hunting: And I don't want you to write like you're dancing with shackles on.
Recoleta: Hmm ...
Recoleta: sigh
Hunting oils her knife to keep it from rusting. She goes to say something, but under the dim glow of the camping lantern, she turns to see Recoleta already fast asleep in her sleeping bag.
Editor Hunting: Hm, never mind. You young people sleep like armadillos in winter—makes me jealous.
Editor Hunting: Goodnight, little genius.
Recoleta: Hmm. It really all comes back to the trilogy.
Recoleta: If a trilogy is in fact necessary, of course I'm willing to write two more novels. But when I actually try to structure them, I realize it's incredibly difficult.
Editor Hunting: Maybe try structuring it like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, with a clear climax to the action?
Recoleta: I get what you mean, but last month you told me, "The story shouldn't end after the old man and the cowhand leave." What did you mean by that?
Editor Hunting: Exactly what I said. Your protagonists need to actively bring the story to an end, but not entirely.
Recoleta: But they already took the temple's core, didn't they?
Editor Hunting: Of course, but you need a hook after that—a reason for them to choose to continue.
Editor Hunting: Picture this: they took that beautiful little artifact and started heading back. Then, one of them felt an inexplicable urge—"Hey, why don't we see what's behind there?"
Editor Hunting: "The other felt uneasy. 'I'm telling you, we should just leave!'"
Editor Hunting: "'No, we have to go see what's back there!' The cowboy shrugged off the coachman's grip and bolted forward."
Editor Hunting: "Then, a few moments later, the cowboy turned back, his eyes filled with despair."
Editor Hunting: "'What did you see?' The cowboy said nothing. So, the coachman followed him to the back of the stone platform."
Editor Hunting: —"And found a sea of skeletons."
Recoleta: Where did all these skeletons come from? I don't want to write a massacre into the story.
Editor Hunting: Hear me out. What if they realize that among all these skeletons, there are only two distinct builds? That of two adult males?
Recoleta: Wait, hold on a second.
Recoleta: I'm not sure I follow.
Their thoughts are like two frayed wires, unable to connect.
For the first time, Recoleta finds herself struggling to follow Hunting's reasoning.