Part 1 - Andreas

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Part 1- Andreas: The Turkey | The Lamb | The Bees | The Rooster

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The Turkey

This story was selected as the First Prize winner of the First Edition of the Substack Writer’s Contest (Spanish edition).

It smells like wet earth. Maybe my oldest memory. After the rain, the ground still feels firm beneath my feet. But there’s something in my gaze, or in the way the world breathes, that makes everything feel far away. Blurred.

Fresh air folds into the smell of farm, mud, and newly picked mangoes. For a moment, time seems to stop. A soft voice, almost a whisper, names each hen, turkey, and duck in the coop. It’s Andreas’s voice, but I’m not sure whether I’m hearing it or imagining it, whether it’s real or just my memory playing tricks on me.

“Gael, come closer. Trust me.”

I wanted to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. I stepped forward without thinking.

Andreas wanted me to know the land by heart. He pointed at the animals and the tools with contained devotion, showing them as if to make sure I would remember, too.

I was just a child, maybe four. He was seven and wide awake, the place’s memory in his body. The birds followed him, scratching in the mud without hurry. He only had to open his arms for them to stop. He didn’t teach. He shared: steps, seeds, time.

I stayed close, trying to copy his gestures, repeating his pauses. Dust barely rose under the animals’ feet. The sun didn’t weigh on us yet. Nothing was in a hurry.

All at once, the ducks beat their wings like a warning. Then the radio came on. In the kitchen, Lisa, Andreas’s older sister, had turned on the old set. A soft melody filled the coop, weaving through the birds’ chirps.

“No puedo pensar, tendría que cuidarme más,” the voice carried from far away. The notes floated in the warm air and, when they touched me, a clear shiver climbed up my neck.

I tried to follow Andreas’s instructions and pointed at the turkeys with a trembling finger. One sharp beak cut my skin. Blood welled up at once. Pain and music fused into a strange rhythm.

“No!” Andreas shouted, lunging at the turkey, squaring up to it. “Your finger!”

The music didn’t stop. It was louder now. It slipped between the animals, oblivious to what had just happened. I froze, watching the wound bleed onto the ground.

“Como poco pierdo la vida, y luego me la das…,” the radio sang. I started crying like a newborn. Andreas bent over me.

“Gael, don’t cry. You’re going to be fine. It’s just a peck.”

The tears wouldn’t stop. My white shirt was already stained red. The cut had soaked through the fabric. He took my hand in both of his and put my finger in his mouth. He cleaned it gently, pressing just enough to stop the blood.

Suddenly my grandfather burst into the coop, his voice ringing out. The door slammed against the wall.

“What happened?” he shouted. “Damn it!”

His eyes locked on Andreas, already knowing. Before he could say anything, my grandfather slapped him. The sound cracked in the air. Dry. Brutal. The echo of hand on skin made me look away.

“I told you to watch him,” my grandfather said, quieter now. “Go with Juano. He’s cleaning the lamb.”

Andreas lowered his head and stepped back. He didn’t cry. He didn’t answer. Pain seemed routine to him, as if, no matter what he did, he carried that weight. Without a word, he left with Juano while I kept crying.

My grandfather came closer. He studied me, eyes tense, jaw set.

“Did he hit you?” he asked, not moving a muscle. “Because if he did, I’ll throw him out. I don’t know if he should stay here…”

I didn’t answer. The seriousness of his face pressed on my chest.

He took a small green stone from the drawer. He placed it gently on my forehead, then on my chest, then on the cut. When the stone touched my skin, I felt something… different. It wasn’t just the pain easing. It was like sinking into a brief sleep, losing weight, forgetting who I was.

He murmured under his breath. Words and breath were indistinguishable, yet that old murmur filled the air with a strange calm. The stone, cold and slightly rough, breathed against my skin.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He no longer seemed angry—just distant, lost somewhere inside himself. He didn’t look tired. He looked… released. He lowered his hand slowly. His eyes, calmer now, settled on the ground. They were searching.

From the back came thuds and shouts. The song kept going: “…te acerca a Dios.” Juano was hitting Andreas, convinced he had hurt me. I wanted to speak. I wanted to yell. But my voice stayed trapped in my throat. Andreas didn’t defend himself. He only covered his head with his arms. He knew there was no point in explaining.

Then my grandfather stood. He walked with a firm step to where they were. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but not soft.

“Stop, Juano. It’s fine. They were just playing.”

“Yes, Don Alejandro,” Juano said, without looking up.

The song ended, and no one else spoke.

*

Andreas was a strange name for someone living on a parcel of land in Peru. My grandfather called him “el serrano,” sometimes as praise and other times as a mere fact, a mix of scorn, affection, and resignation, as if he didn’t belong there, and yet there was no way to send him away. He said Andreas and his sister had come in from the countryside because no one wanted them, and they had no way to get by. They were the children of a German landowner and a housecleaner. No one said it openly, but in my family we assumed the two of them were the result of an affair.

His skin was fair and his hair so blond that, in the sun, it seemed to blend with the freshly harvested rice fields. The freckles on his face gave him a distracted, almost childlike look, which didn’t match the force of his gaze, especially when he thought no one was watching. Sometimes he got lost in his thoughts, withdrawn, as if he were listening to something coming from far away. But when he returned, he came back completely: quick, alert, present.

There was more than respect in the way he looked at my grandfather. He looked at him like a father. Deep down, he seemed to be waiting to be looked at with the same force. And even when my grandfather scolded him harshly, Andreas never pulled away. He nodded in silence and stayed by his side. It was the same with Rosario, my grandfather’s wife; with Juano, the foreman; and with Sori, his wife. Andreas did what needed to be done before anyone asked. I never saw him ask for anything for himself.

My grandfather also said he’d brought Andreas and his sister in to keep Juano and Sori company because Sori couldn’t have children. But in the end, my grandfather and Rosario raised them as their own. And underneath it all, that’s what they were.

I had always admired Andreas with a devotion I couldn’t explain. He was like a brother, and also something more. There was something in the way he looked, and in the way he met the work, a way of being I wanted to understand. I followed him everywhere, eager to learn from the way he lived and to mirror a little of his essence.

*

After my grandfather finished tending my wound, I went after Andreas to the granary. I couldn’t look him in the eye. Still, I watched him.

He was hopping on the rice sacks until he turned and flashed me a crooked smile that tightened one cheek. Maybe he already knew I was looking for him.

“Are we going to keep going or what?”

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The Lamb

I was ten, and my body still didn’t know how to handle the late-morning heat out on the land.

First, they tied its legs. The scrape of the rope on its skin was rough, like raw flesh rubbing against dry wood. The lamb panted, not from fear, but from the dry air trapped in its body, tightening its chest.

“You’ll help Juano,” my grandfather said, leaving no room to refuse him.

I knew what was coming, but I wasn’t ready. My stomach lurched. I wanted to throw up. I looked at Andreas. His eyes, usually steady, now had a strange glint, the same uncertainty I felt.

“What if I don’t want to?” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone.

My grandfather clicked his tongue, tugged the rope, and tightened the knot with a single pull around the animal’s legs. He looked straight at me—not harshly, but with a seriousness that left no room to run. “You’ll help Juano,” he repeated, as if saying it again sealed the order.

Juano readied the knife. Sweat ran down his forehead as he approached. The lamb stayed still, breathing more slowly, unaware of what was about to happen. He brought the blade close to its neck, drew it once, then again, and then, without a word, cut its throat.

“Gael, hold the bucket. Don’t let the blood go to waste!” my grandfather ordered, low and grave.

I gripped it with both sweaty hands. The sound of thick liquid on metal made my throat close. Some of the blood splashed into the bucket; the rest, warm, spattered the dry ground. The lamb let out a short moan. The cut was clean, yet its body still arched. But it didn’t die.

It didn’t stop shaking. Its legs scraped against the ground; its chest rose and fell with pain. My breathing ran wild. I tried to steady myself, but my legs wouldn’t answer.

“Your pain will only make it suffer more. Stay calm, Gael,” my grandfather said, eyes fixed on the lamb.

Not an order. A plea.

My fingers were wet and slippery on the bucket. I tried to look away from the cut. I wanted to run. Before I could move, Andreas stepped forward and took the bucket from my hands.

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

Juano looked up, surprised, but said nothing. My grandfather frowned but didn’t intervene. Andreas glanced at me, careful not to shame me, then fixed his eyes on the bucket.

The lamb stopped moving. My heartbeat slowed. I let out my breath. My body knew before I did. I couldn’t keep it.

*

After the sacrifice, the heat eased a little. Grandfather finished giving Juano his final instructions. Juano kept working, focused on skinning the lamb. A dark bloodstain had spread on the dry earth. I stared at it. Something in its shape, in the way it kept widening, unsettled me.

“Let’s go,” Grandfather said, dusting off his hands. “Come on. We’ll take a walk.”

We walked in silence along a path between the mango trees. Andreas was a few steps ahead, kicking pebbles. I followed with my head down, the smell of the dead animal still stuck in my nose.

Grandfather had his small radio slung over his shoulder. As always, its black strap was frayed.

“Do you listen to music, Gael?” Grandfather asked without stopping.

“Yes,” I said. “My parents love it, and my brother is teaching me guitar.”

“Your grandfather’s taught me a lot about music, but I still don’t have a guitar,” Andreas said, a little ashamed.

“But we have lots of guitars that nobody uses,” I said, genuinely confused.

My grandfather didn’t answer. He kept walking, as if he hadn’t heard. When we reached the big rock we’d known since we were kids, he stopped.

“Here,” he said.

He turned on the radio. Static mixed with the sounds of the fields. A light breeze carried the smell of fresh earth. A song began: “Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più…”

Seated with his hands on the rock, Grandfather looked straight at me.

“What do you feel when you hear this song?”

I paused. I didn’t understand the words, but the melody wrapped around me.

“I’m not sure… it sounds like it’s about someone who flies. Someone free.”

A small smile crossed his face. He didn’t say a word, but took three slow breaths.

Andreas began to sway side to side—small twirls, short steps—playing with the rhythm. The sun fell on him and, for a moment, it looked like the light came from him.

Grandfather watched from the rock, his expression lively but quiet. In that instant everything seemed to float: the music, the wind, the calm. Nothing needed to be said. But he was already elsewhere.

*

When we decided to head back, Grandfather laid a steady hand on my shoulder and walked beside me.

“Sometimes you can’t protect everyone, Gael,” he said, looking at me. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying.”

I didn’t know what to say. I knew what he meant.

“You see differently, Gael. That isn’t taught.”

The trees cast long shadows over the path. Andreas was a few steps ahead, cutting branches from the orange trees. He stopped, lifted his head, and blew up toward the sky, shooing away something invisible.

“There are things you don’t forget,” Grandfather added.

I didn’t ask anything. I kept walking. Each word stayed with me, waiting for the day I would come back to find its meaning.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I went out to the patio barefoot, following the soft hum of crickets. Andreas was there, sitting in the moonlight with his back hunched and his hands together in prayer. I came close in silence and sat beside him.

The bloodstain was still there, next to us.

“I don’t think I should have let it die,” I said.

Andreas didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

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The Bees

A year had passed since the lamb was sacrificed. This time we’d already been settled on Grandfather’s land for a couple of days. Some called it the ranch. For us it was always the land.

Every summer, my mother left my brother and me there as soon as vacation began. She said it mattered that we knew where we came from: family, fields, the beach, the people there. She was right.

Sometimes we spent the whole summer on the land; other years, only half of it, and the rest on the beaches south of Lima. A strange balance, but familiar. We stayed at Grandfather’s house, far up near the equator, where city rules didn’t exist. Time was set by roosters, harvests, and the noon telenovelas.

The land was a refuge, yes, but also a living, unruly current where everything felt more honest. The beach was close, but Grandfather’s house had something more urgent: uncles, cousins, people from town. There was always someone.

The heat had begun to ease and the room floated in warm quiet. I lay back, laughter still in my body after joking, running, and climbing with my cousins—Gaby, Maricruz, Lisa. And with Andreas. The voices were still vibrating in my ears when I saw him come in without knocking. Dusty feet. A mango twig between his lips.

“Come,” he said. “You have to see this.”

He grabbed a blanket and a long sheet of rubber, and we ran. He went ahead without looking back, sometimes turning to flash me a quick smile, as if to say, don’t fall behind. We cut through trees and brush, tracing the edges of the fields my grandfather loved. I just ran after him, not knowing where we were going, only wanting to get there.

“We have to cross the irrigation canal,” he said, stopping short. “Take off your clothes, Gael.”

Before I could answer he was already undressing. No rush, the way you shake off heat. He held my gaze, then reached out his hand.

I took longer. Not from shame, but because his gesture felt more serious than usual.

“What is it?” he asked, making no move to cover himself. “You’ve never seen a naked body before?”

I smiled and breathed out through my nose. Handed him my things. He tossed them to the far bank, and we went under.

“The water’s perfect for this heat,” Andreas said, splashing hard.

I dove after him. The water closed over me, then released me, carrying the heat away. At last I could breathe.

“Yeah… it feels good,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

On the other side, drops shone on his skin like small mirrors. I didn’t look straight at him. I didn’t need to. Following was enough. A dull pressure gathered low in my body, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.

“Dry off,” he said, noticing, and tossed me his T-shirt.

I nodded, silent. The tension didn’t break; it thickened. Without turning, he tipped his head for me to follow.

“Come on, we’re close,” he added, low, almost conspiratorial.

We walked barefoot, skin still wet. After a few minutes, the silence snapped. A fierce hum filled the air, so strong I could feel it in my chest.

Andreas stopped. A tremble touched his smile. His eyes lit.

“Hear that?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky.

I focused. At first, I thought of the tools in Grandfather’s workshop.

“Bees?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “Your grandfather brings them in for the crops, but some swarms get loose. And at this hour… they put on a show up there.”

He lay back on the blanket and pointed.

“Come. Look. It’s incredible.”

I froze, panicked.

“What if… they sting us?”

“Could be. I don’t know. They’ve never stung me. But relax. If it happens, we run,” he said, voice dropping, not entirely sure himself.

I dropped down beside him, fingers gripping the fabric. I tried to look calm, but every buzz made me hold my breath. Then his hand found mine. Warm. Steady.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, not letting go. “Just watch.”

Thousands, millions of bees. The hum throbbed in my chest. They spiraled, sketching invisible shapes in the orange sky. It felt sacred, and I knew it could hurt.

The field seemed to beat to the rhythm of their wings. I was scared, and still couldn’t look away. One bee landed on my finger for a second, then lifted off without stinging.

“Nothing’s going to happen, Gael. If they come for us, we cover ourselves with the rubber and the blanket.”

To show me, he pulled the rubber over us. In the dark, I felt his arm around my shoulder, his warm torso, the weight of the earth beneath us.

“I missed you, Gael,” he whispered in my ear.

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The Rooster

That night I dreamed of something I couldn’t tell if I had already lived or was about to live. I don’t remember how old I was. I only remember my naked body: small, skin stuck to the heat.

Grandfather handed me a small cup filled with black liquid. Bitter. The taste hit my tongue like chewing old roots. I felt the earth itself in my mouth. I didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t explain. He poured water over me. It was warm, almost sweet, and in the hard light it looked tinged with pink. I don’t know if it was real or if memory gave it that color later.

He swept a sword over me. It flashed in the sun, sharp as a warning. It looked heavy, but it was the edge, not the weight, that demanded respect. When it cut the air close to my skin, my body bristled. My feet trembled. I did not slip.

Then a dry rod. Smooth. Light. He seemed to be saying many things, and I understood none. Then the stones. So many. Some shone, with fire sealed inside them. In my ignorance, I imagined gold. Or something older. Something only we knew how to name.

Others shifted under my feet. Cold. Smooth. Treacherous. I don’t know how I kept standing. The ground rejected me, and still I did not fall. My grandfather watched me. Not with pride. Not with tenderness. With his face carved in stone, an old, relentless patience.

“The rooster will crow three times,” he said. “That’s when you’ll be free.”

I stayed there. Waiting. The cup empty in one hand. The other keeping my balance. The stones trembling under my feet.

The first crow came. Harsh. Far. Something cracked in the air.

The second crow. Closer. The wind moved again. It carried something I had already forgotten.

Before the third, I heard a voice. Not my grandfather’s. Younger. Softer. It went through me, as if arriving from a place without time. Not a command. Not even a voice. Only the sense that someone, somewhere, was waiting for me.

The third crow. I don’t know if I heard it outside or inside. I only knew that something in me loosened, a rope letting go of its pull. Then he came close. He took my hand and pried it open. He put something inside. The green stone. Cold. Alive.

“It is yours now,” he said. His voice was not a promise. It was a verdict.

The stone weighed little, yet I felt it sink me into the earth. I stood still. Naked. Pressed to the wind, the heat, the tremor of stones that no longer slipped.

They were mine. Like the wound. Like this story.

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Index | Next → Part 2 - Andreas II

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