The Taíno Moon Child

A Child of the Moon

The night Maróa was born, the full moon blazed so brightly that it turned the sky silver, washing the land in an otherworldly glow. Even the *behique*, the village shaman, had never seen a moon so strong.

Inside a small *bohío*, her mother, Yara, clutched the newborn to her chest, her heartbeat steadying as the pain of birth subsided. Beside her, Bimaru, a skilled hunter and warrior, whispered a quiet prayer of thanks. But the moment the *behique* laid eyes upon the infant, a hush fell over the room.

"Look at her eyes," he murmured.

The baby peered up at them, her gaze like liquid silver. She did not cry, did not fuss—only watched with an eerie stillness, as though she already understood something the rest of them did not.

The *behique* traced a trembling finger over the child's forehead. "She is not ordinary," he said. "The moon has marked her. She will walk between this world and the next."

His words sent a chill through Yara, but Bimaru smiled and pressed a kiss to his daughter's tiny hand. "Then she will be strong," he said. "She will be a light for our people."

And so, they named her Maróa, after the moon's glow upon the river.

Growing Up Different

Maróa's childhood was filled with both wonder and unease. The other children played in the river, laughed as they climbed trees, but Maróa often wandered off alone. She would sit in the tall grass, whispering to creatures unseen, tracing patterns in the soil with delicate fingers.

At night, while the village slept, she would rise and walk to the cliffs, staring out at the ocean as though waiting for something—or someone—to speak to her.

Her father adored her, calling her his *luna pequeña*, his little moon, but her mother worried. "The spirits have taken too great an interest in her," Yara would say. "No child should walk between worlds."

The *behique*, who had watched her closely for years, only nodded. "She has a destiny," he said simply.

The Warning in the Mist

On the evening of her sixteenth year, Maróa stood by the great *ceiba* tree, its roots sprawling like the veins of the earth itself. The jungle was alive with sound—the chittering of insects, the distant hoots of night birds. Yet, all at once, the world went silent.

The air thickened, turning cool despite the humid night. From the mist, a figure emerged, its form shifting like moonlight upon water.

"Moon Child," the spirit spoke, its voice a whisper carried on the wind.

Maróa’s heart pounded. "Who are you?"

The spirit’s face was beautiful yet strange, as though made of the stars themselves. "A darkness comes," it said. "Men from across the great water. They do not seek harmony. They seek to take."

Maróa swallowed hard. "Take what?"

"Everything."

The spirit’s form flickered, and with it came a vision—flames consuming *bohíos*, rivers stained red, the faces of her people twisted in pain.

Maróa gasped. "How do I stop it?"

The spirit’s luminous eyes met hers. "You are the key. You must remember who you are, for only you can protect what must not be lost."

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the spirit faded into the night, leaving Maróa standing in the silent jungle, the weight of the warning pressing against her chest.

She did not sleep that night.

The Strangers Arrive

Days turned to weeks, and the vision haunted Maróa. She told the *behique* of the warning, but he only nodded solemnly. "Then it is true," he murmured. "The spirits rarely speak without reason."

Then, one day, from the cliffs above the shore, Maróa saw them.

Strange wooden canoes with billowing white sails, unlike anything she had ever seen, cut through the waves. The ocean seemed uneasy beneath them, waves rising high as if trying to push the vessels away.

The men who stepped onto the sand were pale, their faces shadowed beneath metal helmets, their eyes filled with hunger—for land, for power, for something deeper and more dangerous.

Her father, Bimaru, stood at the front of the village warriors as they approached, his face unreadable. The *cacique*, their chief, greeted the men with open hands, offering food, water, peace.

But Maróa could not shake the cold feeling that settled in her bones.

She met the *behique*’s gaze. "They bring death," she whispered.

"Yes," he said. "But not yet."

The Night of Fire

For a time, the *Españoles* were guests. They spoke of trade, of friendship. They accepted gifts with smiles, but their eyes betrayed them.

And then, the peace shattered.

Under the cover of darkness, the *Españoles* struck. They wanted gold, believing Borikén to be rich with it. They stormed the village with weapons of metal, cutting down those who resisted, binding those who did not.

Maróa ran through the chaos, her heart pounding. She saw her father, sword in hand, cut down before he could reach her. She saw her mother dragged into the night.

Tears burned her eyes, but she did not stop.

She fled into the jungle, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She did not know where she was going—only that she had to reach the river, the place where the spirits had spoken to her before.

When she arrived, she collapsed by the water's edge, sobs wracking her body.

"Help me," she whispered. "Please."

The river shimmered. The mist returned.

And the spirit woman stepped forward once more.

Becoming the Moon

"The choice is yours, Moon Child," the spirit said. "Remain in this world and suffer, or embrace your true form and protect your people from beyond."

Maróa trembled. "I don’t understand."

The spirit knelt beside her. "Your soul is bound to the moon, to the river, to the land itself. If you step into the water, you will not return—but you will never be lost."

Maróa looked back at the jungle, at the smoke rising over her village. She had no family left. No home.

She took a breath. Then, without fear, she stepped forward.

The river embraced her like a mother’s arms, pulling her under. A light burst around her, and in that moment, she knew—she had become something more.

She was not gone. She was everywhere.

And she would never stop watching.

Epilogue: The Legend Lives On

The Taíno suffered. The Spaniards took their land, their freedom, their lives. But Maróa’s spirit did not allow them to be erased.

She whispered through the wind. She lived in the waves. And in the glow of the full moon, her people remembered.

Even now, when the night is still and the moon is full, those who walk the shores of Puerto Rico say they hear her voice—soft as the tide, strong as the stars.

She is the Moon Child.

And she will never be forgotten.

The End.