More fun with the precious cinnamon rolls that are Manolo and Ofelia.
DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
"Where aaaaare yoooou?" Manolo suppressed a laugh as he walked around the dining room with exaggerated steps, pretending not to notice the five-year-old hiding under the table. "Dónde estás, Ofelia? It's getting very late."
He heard her giggle from her hiding place and stopped for a moment. "Well," he said as he turned on his heel and began to walk the other way. "I suppose she's just too clever for me." He pulled out a chair and sank into it. "Perhaps I will never see her again. How sad that will be!"
In the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny pair of hands lift up the edge of the the tablecloth and a curious, concerned face begin to peer out. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the cloth up the rest of the way. "Ha! Found you!"
Ofelia gasped before laughing and darting out of his reach. Crawling out the other side of the table, she ran from the room. Her father chased her through the kitchen and into the parlor, laughing as well. He was faster even when out of breath, and when she ducked behind the sofa, he was waiting for her.
"Epa!" he said, scooping Ofelia up in his arms. "You don't want to be too sleepy to visit your grandparents tomorrow, do you?"
"I'm not sleepy!" she answered, even as she suppressed a yawn.
"Are you sure?"
Ofelia scowled. "I don't want to go to bed, Papa!"
Manolo smirked. "Not even if I tell you a story?"
The girl paused, as though thinking it over. "Can I pick the story?"
"Por supuesto. Do we have a deal?"
She snuggled against him. "Yes, Papa."
"Then vamos, princesa!" He kissed her nose, then hoisted her onto his shoulders and marched up the stairs while whistling a jaunty tune. "Now which way is it again?"
"Papa, you always forget!"
By the time they reached Ofelia's bedroom, her reluctance had gone. She let her father brush her hair and tuck her in, then sat up and watched as he went to the bookshelf.
"Alright, which one do you want to hear tonight?" he asked her.
"I don't want a book story."
Manolo turned around. "Oh? What sort of story would you like, then?"
"A story from you, Papa. Mama says you know lots."
He sat on the side of the bed, tapping his chin as he thought. "A story from me…" He looked at his daughter and then out the window, where the silhouette of the church glowed against the moon. "I know the perfect one. Wait here a moment." He left the room, then came back with his guitar. "You're old enough to hear this story now, I think. You'll like it.
"She looked at the guitar with curiosity. "Is it a special story?"
"It's the most special story I know." He sat beside her again. "Do you know what tomorrow is called?"
Ofelia nodded. "The Day of the Dead."
"And do you know what the Day of the Dead is for?"
She thought about it, then shook her head.
"It's the day when we can visit with our loved ones who came before us. They can come up from the Land of the Remembered and be with us again for one night."
"What's the Land of the Remembered?"
He grinned. "Only the most wonderful place you can imagine! It's where the dead go when they have people in the Land of the Living to remember them. They have fiestas every day, and there is always music and colors and happiness."
"It sounds great!"
"It does. But it's not great for everyone." His expression turned grave. "You see, the land of the dead is divided into two kingdoms. One is the Land of the Remembered, and the other is called the Land of the Forgotten. That's where the dead go when there is no one to remember them. It's dark and gray, and those who go there have hardly any hope of getting out again. All they can do is think about how unhappy they are, until they become so sad that they turn to dust. Then they are truly gone."
Ofelia's eyes grew wide, and she hid under her covers. "I don't want to go there, Papa."
"And you shall never have to, mija." He took her hand and gently squeezed it. "Now, these two lands each had a god to rule over them. The Land of the Remembered was ruled by a beautiful lady called La Muerte. She was made of sugar and candy, and she believed that humans were pure and good."
"What about the Land of the Forgotten?"
"That place was ruled by a god called Xibalba. He was made of tar and all the other nasty things in the world, and he believed that humans were just as nasty as him."
They both seemed very familiar, Ofelia thought, as though she had seen them in a dream once.
"The story begins a long time ago…"
"How long?"
"Before you were born, and before your mama and I were married."
She gasped. "That is a long time."
"La Muerte and Xibalba loved to make wagers, especially on mortals. It happened that on one Day of the Dead, they decided to make another. They found two boys who were the best of friends, a soldier and a guitarrista."
"Like you and Uncle Joaquin!"
"Exactly like me and Uncle Joaquin. They were both friends with a girl, the loveliest you could think of. And even before they were old enough to know what love was, they had both been in love with her. The gods could tell, and so they bet on which boy would marry her. La Muerte bet on the guitarrista, while Xibalba bet on the soldier. If Xibalba won, he would get to rule the Land of the Remembered, so he was determined to win no matter what it took."
"Did the girl know?"
"No, she didn't. None of the mortals knew. Everyone in town wanted the girl to marry the soldier, but she wasn't in love with him. She loved the guitarrista. So one morning, on another Day of the Dead, he went to her and asked her to marry him. She almost said yes, too. But Xibalba was watching, and he was crafty…"
Ofelia listened in wonder as he spun the tale: how Xibalba sent a snake whose bite put the girl in a trance, and how her true love gave up his own life because he thought her dead. He found himself in the Land of the Remembered, where he discovered the god's treachery and embarked on a journey to find La Muerte and make things right again. With the help of his family and of new friends, he began writing his own story and overcame his fear of being himself. He even used his music to make amends with the thousands of toros that his bullfighting family had killed. Her father played her the song - he seemed to know all of the songs which the man in the story knew. In the end, he won back his life from Xibalba and returned to the Land of the Living just in time to help his friends fight a fearsome bandit king and save their town. The girl's joy at seeing him again was so boundless that they were wed the same day.
"And from that day on," Manolo finished, "they were all very happy."
Ofelia leaned back on her pillows and smiled. "That was the best story ever, Papa."
"I think so, too."
"But how did you know about it?"
He smirked. "That's a secret. Besides, you might not believe me if I told you."
"I would! I promise!"
Manolo leaned close to her and whispered in her ear. "Even if I told you that I was the guitarrista?"
He watched her jaw drop, and her eyes bug out with amazement. "If you want, you can ask Mama if it's true. But in the morning." He kissed her forehead. "Buenas noches."
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Te amo, Papa."
"Te amo también." He stood, put out the light and left the door ajar as he went away.
Sleep took the girl not long after, in spite of her racing mind. When she drifted off, she dreamt of faraway realms and adventures, and of a brave father who seemed mightier than any god.