“Meli! Come! Hurry!”

Juliana scanned the overgrown coffee trees for her 11 year old son, Meliton.

“Hay, Dios mío,” she mumbled. “That boy will be my death.”

The wind blew harder, and the rain began to gently fall. The sky grew darker.

Pat-a-tat. Pat-a-tat

Heavy drops slapped the leaves and wood roof of their humble shelter.

Juliana inhaled deeply and called again, “Meliiiii!”

At that moment, she spotted her son sitting atop his father’s shoulders, bouncing towards her.

“Dios mío, where were you? I’ve been worried sick,” she scolded.

“Don’t worry so much, wife. The boy wants to be a man, so I let him help me secure the pigpen,” her husband replied. “Besides, he was with me, so there was nothing to worry about.”

Not feeling reassured, Juliana gave a loud “humph” before shooing Meliton to look after his two younger siblings.

Thunder cracked loudly and shook the earthen floor of the home. Five year old Antonia ran across the room and grasped her father’s legs, crying.

“What’s wrong, niña?” he asked.

“It’s the storm. It scares me,” she whispered.

He picked up his little girl and sat on the hammock. The only furniture they owned, it was supported by two of the poles that supported the wood roof. He called the other children to gather around him.

“Do not be afraid,” he began. “What you hear are the protectors of Borinquen. Listen...”

He proceeded to tell his children about the ancient gods of their people. The supreme Atabey. The mighty Guabancex. The awesome Juracán. The children listened intently, oohing and ahing with every thunder clap.

Juliana smiled to herself as she carefully tended the cooking coals, so the rice would not burn.

Of all the children, Meliton listened the hardest. He loved the tales his father told: far off lands called España, slaves in San Juan, ships crossing the vast ocean.

Meliton was deep within his daydream when he felt a slap on the back of his head.

“Now you’re deaf?” His mother chided. “I said get your plate and eat.”

Meliton complied and sat in the doorway looking out into the trees. Slowly, his surroundings began to change. Rain became sea spray. Thunder became the cannons of the conquistadors. The wind became the voice of his Zemi saying, “remember.”