Solimar, p.1
Solimar, page 1
Copyright © 2022 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.
First Edition, February 2022
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FAC-020093-21351
Jacket art by Jacqueline Alcántara
Copyright © 2022 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Jacket design by Joann Hill
Designed by Shelby Kahr
Illustrations by Jacqueline Alcántara
Names: Ryan, Pam Muñoz, author.
Title: Solimar : the sword of the Monarchs / by Pam Muñoz Ryan.
Description: First edition. • Los Angeles : Disney-Hyperion, 2022. • Audience: Ages 8–12 • Audience: Grades 3–7 • Summary: On the eve of her Quinceañera, Princess Solimar discovers that it will take more than magic to save her kingdom and prevent the destruction of the Monarch butterfly.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021007545 • ISBN 9781484728352 (hardcover) •
ISBN 9781368009966 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Princesses—Fiction. • Sex role—Fiction. • Magic—Fiction.
• Monarch butterfly—Migration—Fiction. • Butterflies—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.R9553 So 2022 • DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021007545
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
~ To princesses and kings ~
Julia Ryan, Lila Abel, Benjamin Ryan, William Abel,
June Ryan-Retzlaff, and Hope Ryan-Retzlaff
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
One: The Arrival
Two: The Almost Princess
Three: Too Many Coincidences
Four: Revelations
Five: Alliances
Six: Secrets
Seven: Taking Leave
Eight: Doña Flor Espinoza
Nine: Magic
Ten: Fittings and Alterations
Eleven: Hostages and Spies
Twelve: Escape
Thirteen: Caught
Fourteen: Houseboat in the Canopy
Fifteen: The Appeal
Sixteen: River Craft
Seventeen: Rapids
Eighteen: Devil’s Teeth
Nineteen: The Labyrinth of Caves
Twenty: Light of Day
Twenty-One: El Gran Mercado
Twenty-Two: Diversions and Deceptions
Twenty-Three: The Near Future
Twenty-Four: Princess of the World
Long Live the Butterfly
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Once, a rich and glorious Mexico stretched from the isthmus of the middle Americas to the northern redwood forests and as far east as the bayous. Within this vast land, one of twelve provincial kingdoms—San Gregorio—lay nestled in a highland valley bordered by thousands of oyamel fir trees.
Solimar, almost out of breath, ran toward the forest, hoping she wasn’t too late. In one hand, she clutched a red silk rebozo, the tails of the finely woven shawl trailing behind her. In the other, she held a crown of flowers that she’d just finished weaving from pink dahlias, a swag of ivy, and ribbons. When she’d heard the news that the arrival was imminent, she dashed from the garden, calling to her grandmother, “Abuela, they’re coming! I will meet you at the creek!”
Lázaro, a resplendent quetzal, flew alongside her, whistling and cooing.
“Yes, Lázaro,” she told the bird. “I’m sure. A spotter in the tower saw the first wave headed this way and sent me a message.”
Lázaro darted back in the direction from which they’d come, chittering loudly, his long tail feathers in a wild flutter.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t scold me. I’m not completely without a chaperone. Abuela will be along soon. Besides, you know how she dawdles. And I don’t want to miss the spectacle!” Solimar shaded her eyes and looked up.
In the distance, a dark veil surged and rippled.
She hurried along a footpath leading to a wide creek and stopped at the water’s edge. On the far bank, the oyamel firs towered. “There—the sacred place!”
Like everyone in the kingdom, Solimar believed that the ancestors of the monarch butterflies inhabited the oyamel forest, and that year after year, their spirits lured a new generation of butterflies to this spot to rest during their migrations. In San Gregorio, the forest and the monarchs were revered and protected.
For as long as Solimar could remember, she had come to the woods to greet the first wave of butterflies on their journey. She was forbidden to come alone or to cross the creek, which was riddled with rocky outcroppings and notorious currents. Everyone in the kingdom feared the rushing water that often dragged wayfarers downstream.
Even so, she’d always wanted to sit in the midst of the butterflies as they arrived. She couldn’t do that on this side of the water. Solimar paced. “You know, Lázaro, I’m not a little girl anymore. I shouldn’t have to wait for a chaperone. Besides…” She placed the crown of dahlias on her head and straightened her shoulders. “I’ll need to be courageous someday. Why not start today? I give myself permission.”
Lázaro shook his head.
Solimar tied the rebozo around her waist and leaped. She landed on a rock surrounded by swirling water and wobbled back and forth. “Whoa…” With both arms outstretched, she found her balance.
Frantic, Lázaro flapped his wings in warning and chirruped.
“You don’t have to be such a mother hen!” she said, jumping from stone to stone, each one larger than the last. “Just a few more…” She hopped to a cluster of boulders midstream. On the tallest, decades of gushing water had created a tapered crevice through the rock.
“Look, Lázaro. The gap is an image of a sword! And the pommel at the top of the hilt is a porthole.” She peered into the oval opening and saw a cameo of the forest on the other side. “I can fit my hand through to steady myself. It’s the perfect holding-on place.” She swung to the other side of the boulder, lowering herself onto a rock submerged in the water.
The bird tugged on her skirt.
“So what if my boots get a little wet? There’s no going back now.” She gingerly took a few more steps until she reached the far bank.
Scrambling to a shady spot between two trees, Solimar considered the tall firs and muttered, “I’d climb them if I could reach the lowest branches and if I was wearing trousers.” Instead, she sat cross-legged on the forest floor. She untied the rebozo, flipped it over her shoulders, and straightened her crown.
Above, a kaleidoscope of butterflies quivered.
Lázaro flew to her side and burrowed beneath the drape of the rebozo.
Her dark brown eyes were wide with awe; she grinned, and her cheeks dimpled. “It’s happening.…”
As the monarchs descended, the flutter of thousands of wings pitter-pattered like gentle rain. They landed on branches, swarmed around the oyamel firs, or drifted to the creek to drink, the water trembling from the beating of wings.
She sat as still as she could. As one after another perched upon her, Solimar’s heart raced. She lifted a finger and several monarchs rested on it. This close, she could see the shimmering scales on their wings. “Buenas tardes. Welcome to San Gregorio. I want to reassure you that my family and I will do everything in our power to protect the forest so you’ll always have a home. It’s a solemn promise.”
Lázaro peeked from beneath the folds of the rebozo.
“Come out and greet them,” encouraged Solimar.
A butterfly landed on Lázaro’s head.
Dozens covered Solimar. One landed on her face. The light touch felt like the tickling of feathers. When she giggled, the monarch burst upward, then slowly settled upon her again.
Lázaro inched forward and perched on her knee. He lifted one wing, then the other, and held still until the butterflies fluttered down to roost on him, too.
“Isn’t it amazing that the butterflies, who have never been here before, arrive season after season at the same spot as their ancestors? Is it the magnetic pull of the earth or the position of the sun, as the scientists suggest? Or do the spirits of their fathers and mothers whisper directions to them in a dream? Is it some magical intuition that allows them to know what lies ahead? Any way you think about it, Lázaro, it’s a miracle!”
Lázaro, now completely covered in butterflies, made a high-pitched warble, and his new friends took flight.
“You’re right. It’s also a mystery. Still, I wish I knew what came next. Imagine always knowing in your heart which way to turn and what life has in store for you around the next corner.” As Solimar carefully stood, Lázaro flew to a nearby branch.
She held the ends of the rebozo outstretched so that the fabric hung beneath her arms. The butterflies remained attached, even as a final trail of stragglers slowly drifted down and landed on the rebozo, too.
“I have giant wings made of butterflies!”
As Solimar slowly turned in a circle, a sunbeam pierced through the swordlike crevice in the boulder from the creek, spotlighting her. She tilted her face toward the warmth and, for a moment, closed her eyes.
A rhythmic humming surrounded her. Her eyes flew open, looking for who might be nearby. Yet there was no one. Where was the sound coming from? Was it the wind? Was it the monarchs? Or just her imagination? She laughed. “Lázaro, is it just me? Or did you hear ancient chanting?”
Lázaro shrugged and preened.
She closed her eyes again, and the chorus continued. For some reason, though, she wasn’t afraid. Instead, she was mesmerized and swayed to the pulsing beat.
A swarm of monarchs descended and swirled around her—a blur of black, orange, and coral—creating an iridescent mist as if she was swaddled in the softest and lightest blanket. For a moment, resounding peace enveloped her, and she smiled. The song persisted, though, and grew louder and louder until it reached a crescendo of haunting voices. Her heart pounded. Startled, she dropped the rebozo.
The sound ceased. The mist unfurled and cleared. Glittery specks lingered in the air like suspended jewels.
“What just happened?” asked Solimar.
Lázaro twittered.
“Yes…peculiar.” Solimar picked up the rebozo and frowned. “One side looks as if the butterfly wings are embedded in the fabric…and they’re shimmering.”
Lázaro flew closer to examine it. He grabbed a corner with his beak and shook. Nothing happened.
Solimar hurried to the water and rinsed one end of the rebozo. “It won’t come off.”
She glanced across the creek. “Abuela mustn’t find me over here.” Solimar squeezed the water from the rebozo, folded the fabric in half with the iridescence on the inside, and tied it around her waist. Carefully, she made her way back across the creek.
When she reached the opposite bank, bushes rustled nearby.
She quickly sat on a boulder as if she’d been patiently waiting there all along.
Lázaro perched on her shoulder.
She whispered, “I don’t need to mention this to anyone. With any luck, the shimmering will fade quickly and no one will be the wiser.”
A familiar singsong voice rang out in the forest, “Soliiimar…Where are you?”
“Over here, Abuela!”
Her silver-haired grandmother, Doña Ana Socorro, emerged from behind a thicket, the fringe from a purple rebozo falling to the middle of her long dress. She carried a basket already filled with slips of greenery. Although she was royalty—the mother of Queen Rosalinda, Solimar’s mother—Abuela remained a dedicated herbolaria and had never given up making medicines and potions from plants and herbs.
“Abuela. Look!” Solimar pointed to the oyamel firs on the other bank.
As Abuela came closer, she admired the butterfly-covered trees and murmured, “Las mariposas. Beautiful. They are fitting ornaments for the sacred firs. And I see you have decorated yourself as well.” She pointed to the elaborate crown of dahlias, then reached out and gently untangled a ribbon caught on one of the small gold hoop earrings Solimar had worn since she was a baby.
“Just call me King Solimar!”
Abuela clicked her tongue and shook her head. “A childhood fancy. Although, your hair is as short as most kings, to be sure. Solimar, please consider growing it. You’re a young woman now. Do it for me? For your frail and old-fashioned grandmother.”
“Abuela! You may be a little old-fashioned, but you are not frail.” Solimar patted the black curls cropped close to her head. “Besides, I like it this way. If it’s any longer, it becomes a tangle and makes me bad-tempered. And you know I can’t endure braids or buns.”
Abuela sighed. “It just doesn’t look very…royal. You look more like a rough-and-tumble forest elf than a princess.” She bent over to clip dandelion leaves.
“Where does it say what a princess must look like?” asked Solimar. “Besides, I’m not one yet. It’s not official.”
“I stand corrected,” said Abuela. “Almost a princess. And it is understood what royalty should look like. Your birthday is only a month away, when you will become—”
“I know. I know. A princess of the world.” She rolled her eyes.
“Solimar, why do you make light of it? Most girls have a quinceañera to celebrate their fifteenth.”
“Not like mine!”
Abuela nodded. “True. Yours will be a little different.”
“A little? The court of attendants, a party for the entire kingdom, ceremonial dances and shoes…”
“Solimar, this means so much to your parents, especially your mother. She has been planning this for a very long time. Be excited, if only for her.”
Solimar sighed. “I will. It just seems so…extravagant and frivolous. I would be happy with a courtyard barbecue with an obstacle course and a climbing wall and archery games…instead of all the fussiness.”
Abuela laughed. “Considering your courtyard is the castle grounds and your quinceañera is also your official coronation, I think the festivity warrants some pomp and pageantry. And not an athletic competition.”
Lázaro chittered on a nearby branch, bobbing his head.
“After all, you will be crowned Princess Solimar Socorro Reyes Guadalupe, a descendant of Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of Spain, who—”
Solimar repeated the litany she’d heard hundreds of times. “—who sent my father’s ancestors to rule New Spain, which became the Mexican Empire, and eventually became the country of Mexico, where my father, Sebastián Reyes Joaquín met my distinguished mestiza mother, Rosalinda Socorro Guadalupe Cruz, whose great European and Indigenous family owned San Gregorio and all the land surrounding it as far as the eye could see!”
“And you, Solimar—”
Lázaro twittered as if heralding the news.
“I know! I will be crowned a princess, never in line to the throne and in the shadow of my brother, Prince Campeón—”
“Constantino,” insisted Abuela. “It’s time we start using his more dignified name, Prince Constantino Reyes Guadalupe.”
“Abuela, it might not catch on. Everyone has called him Prince Campeón since he was a toddler. And, either way, he will be king. Which will make me…not king.” She frowned.
“Why is that a problem? It is simply the way of the land.”
“Isn’t it clear? The king chooses, decides, announces, and resides above all. He anoints and dispenses and changes and commands. The king is the undisputed proclaimer and the last bastion of yes and no. And everyone obeys. But I don’t want to just follow the leader. I want to have a say!”
“You will find a way,” said Abuela. “Look at your mother. Your father listens to her and respects her advice, especially on matters for which she feels strongly.”
“Because she happens to be married to the king! And when Campeón is ruler, it will be his spouse, not his little sister, who will have his ear.”
Abuela rested on a fallen tree trunk, patting the spot next to her.
Solimar sat and sighed.
“And if you were king?” asked Abuela.
“Oh, I have so many ideas. I’ve been reading about a country with a round table of advisors to the king. We could do the same and it should be composed of men and women. I’d allow everyone in the kingdom to vote for those who sat around it. And one of the first things I’d propose is that I, and other women, could go on the expedition each year. If that was the case, I’d be packing right now.”
Tomorrow morning, her father, King Sebastián, and her brother would have the enviable task of leading a caravan of men down the mountain to Puerto Rivera. There, on the outskirts of the great port town, sellers and buyers converged in an outdoor fair called El Gran Mercado. In the grandest marketplace in the twelve kingdoms, the much-coveted handiwork of the artists of San Gregorio would be displayed, peddled, and bartered.
“It isn’t fair that Campeón is allowed to go and I am not.”
Abuela waved a finger to dispel Solimar’s notion. “It’s a treacherous journey. You should be thankful you’re not going. It’s five days of riding a horse or leading a packed burro down steep mountain trails and across the flatlands to the port. When it’s his turn to rule, your brother will need to know how to supervise this trip every year, successfully.”
There was no worry that Campeón would fail. He always lived up to his pet name: a champion in every way—of his father’s pride, his mother’s attention, the villagers’ respect, and of every young woman’s heart in the kingdom. Like everyone else, Solimar loved him, but she also wanted to go with him to El Gran Mercado.
