The sergeant means to intimidate me by singling me out. Instead, he has filled me with breath and hope. They haven’t yet decided who to cut. I still have a small chance.
“We’ll be evaluating you based on several factors,” the sergeant continues. “Speed, naturally. But also technique and effort. Strength and strategy. And of course teamwork, since you’ll be traversing the course in pairs, working together.”
I glance down the line, evaluating my fellow recruits. I need to pair up with someone tall, if I’m to have any chance of making it over that barrier. Maybe Valentino. No, he appears even more tired than I feel, with blanched skin and hollow eyes—like he’s a ghost of himself. His ducklings mill around him. One pats his shoulder; another says something that makes him laugh. Valentino leans against one of them in a show of weakness that fills me with misgiving. He’s smiling, sure, and even chatting with his friends, but he’s barely on his feet.
Iván or Pedrón, then. I ready myself to dart over and claim one of them as soon as I’m given leave.
“In order to complete the course,” the sergeant says, “both you and your assigned partner must complete it. This is the Royal Guard, and we leave no man behind.”
“Or woman,” Aldo whispers under his breath, but I don’t have space in my head to be bothered by that, because the sergeant just said we’d have assigned partners, and there’s no way he’ll pair me with someone who might allow me a chance of success.
“Recruit Red,” the sergeant says, as though reading my thoughts. “You will partner with . . . what’s that black stuff on your hands?”
“Ink, sir.”
“Royal Guard recruits are to be well groomed at all times. Why did you enter the training arena with ink on your hands?”
“Because it wouldn’t come off on my pants, sir.”
He blinks. “How did this happen?”
“A harmless prank, sir. I’m sure the ink will fade in a few days.” Everyone is staring at my stained hands now, and I fight the urge to hide them behind my back.
“Be sure that it does.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I was saying, you will partner with Recruit Aldo.”
I try to keep my face blank, even though it feels as though my heart is sinking into my toes. A glance toward Aldo confirms that he is unsuccessful at hiding his own despair. We are the smallest of all the recruits. There’s no way we can finish the course together.
Sergeant DeLuca goes down the line, pairing recruits, and there can be no mistake that he’s matching strong with strong, weak with weak, tall with tall. We have an uneven number of recruits, so he pairs Pedrón with Guardsman Bruno. At least we know his favorite.
“He’s sabotaging us,” Aldo whispers.
“For some reason, they need to get rid of some recruits.”
“Too many mouths to feed? I heard they’re going to assign uniforms today, which is great because I stink. Maybe they’re short on uniforms?”
“Maybe.” Or maybe Sergeant DeLuca is the assassin, and he wants as few prying eyes as possible while he . . . does whatever it is he’s doing.
Two of Valentino’s ducklings are up first. They’re both tall, broad shouldered, and fit. I anticipate they’ll have no trouble at all.
“Watch carefully,” I say to Aldo. “We might get an idea how to run the course ourselves.”
“My current idea is to pray and hope for a miracle,” Aldo says.
“That’s never worked for me,” I tell him.
DeLuca raises his hand to the sky. The boys stand before him, weight shifted to the balls of their feet, ready to take off.
“Oléeee, Ciénega del Sur!” someone yells from the audience, and the two boys wave merrily in response.
“You can do it, Beto and Juan!” calls Valentino to his friends.
DeLuca’s hand sweeps down, and the boys shoot forward, sprinting for the sway beam. They arrive at the same time, and for a split second they knock shoulders trying to climb on. Common sense prevails. One steps back, allowing the other a way forward.
He climbs on; the beam sways wildly. He crouches for a moment, adjusting his balance. Gradually he stands, arms out, and begins to creep forward.
“That’s it, Beto! You’ve got it!” Valentino yells.
When he’s halfway across, Juan loses patience and tries to mount the beam himself. It jerks sideways. Beto flails, tumbles to the ground.
A smattering of laughter hits us from the audience.
Beto climbs back on. Juan wisely chooses to wait this time. Slowly—too slowly—Beto makes his way down the beam. When he leaps off, the beam ricochets backward, bumping Juan in the chest hard enough that he plops in the sand.
More laughter does not prevent Juan from leaping to his feet and attacking the beam. He’s a little faster than Beto, a little lighter on his feet, and he makes it across in mere seconds while Beto urges his partner onward.
Juan hops off into the sand, and together he and Beto run for the giant cedar log.
Aldo whispers, “We’ll do fine on the beam. Better than Beto and Juan.”
I think he’s right. The next obstacle, though, will be another matter.
Juan and Beto crouch before the log, one at each end, and try to push it over. The log tips forward a tiny bit before rolling right back into place.
“If they’re struggling, there’s no way we’re going to budge it,” Aldo whispers.
Beto’s voice carries over to us: “We have to do this at exactly the same time. On three. Ready? One, two, three.”
This time, they coordinate their effort, and the log rolls over once and thumps into the sand.
“Again!” yells Beto. “One, two, three.”
Another roll, another thump. They repeat this process seven times, until the log reaches the flag marker. “Well done!” Valentino yells as the boys dash for the hurdles.
The boys’ long legs serve them well, and they clear all the hurdles easily, except for the tallest, which they mount using their hands, and then swing their legs over.
“We’ll be slower at that one, but we can do it,” I tell Aldo.
Beto and Juan reach the net climb. They treat it like it’s a ladder, climbing hand over foot, but the net is not entirely taut, and they swing wildly, holding tight to keep from falling. Beto’s foot shoots through and he spends a precious moment untangling himself before continuing. Still, the boys reach the high platform without too much trouble, and leap off into the pile of straw.
Juan is slow to get up, and he limps slightly as they head toward the water basins.
“High knees!” Valentino yells. “Oléeee, Ciénega del Sur!”
I spare a glance toward Sergeant DeLuca. Surely all these displays of countship pride rankle; we’re supposed to leave our previous loyalties behind to join the Guard. But I guess being the son of the richest conde in the kingdom still holds sway, because DeLuca does not react in the slightest.
Beto and Juan start to run through the water basins. Each basin is perfectly round, with a diameter the width of a mead barrel. They’re lined up four across, which allows both recruits to go at the same time. The edges of the basins reach higher than their knees, and I realize they’re deeper than they look because they’re partially buried in the sand to hold them in place. The boys are forced to slow down and place each leg carefully in each basin. Water sloshes everywhere, pushing them against the sides, soaking their clothes and even their hair.