#7- The Queen of the Seven Seeds: A Parable of Fulfilled Promises, The Weight of Success, and The Observant Girl.
Parable Seven
Long ago, before the world had towns or temples, before smoke rose daily from fixed hearths and people came home to walls instead of stars—when families still roamed the earth foraging for survival—there lived a girl named Mexalí.
She was born in a wide valley encircled by green mountains that seemed to watch over the land like silent guardians. A great river ran through the heart of that valley, broad and shimmering, its waters slow and deliberate, mirroring the sky like a twin from far away. The river flowed from west to east, born in distant volcanic ridges veined with black basalt and green obsidian, it drifted toward an infinite ocean.
Mexalí was small and quick, with black eyes full of questions. She liked to sit at the riverbank and watch—just watch. She watched the birds, the river, the trees, the other children, and the hunt. Her mother called her “the opposite of wind-blown,” her father “the opposite of trouble.” But the old women said, “Let her be and watch, for by watching, she will one day do what none of us have thought to do.”
Her father, tall and sinewed like the ceiba tree, could name each animal’s track and scent. Her mother, careful and strong, could coax fire from wet wood and find tubers where the forest seemed bare. Together with her two older brothers and grandmother, they formed a family living cell within the watchful eye of the tribe.
In the dry months, when the air hung hot and still, the tribe stayed near the coast, close to a brackish lagoon whose waters withdrew just enough to leave behind stranded fish and oysters clinging to cracked mud. The family smoked catfish and tilapia, roasted land crabs, and turtle eggs buried in sun-warmed sand. From the mangrove’s edge, they gathered blackberries, nance fruits, and the tart red hearts of wild passionflowers.
Inland, near a shallow cave, the women dug for wild yam roots, scraping the dirt with deer-bone tools. The men set traps for rodents and threw atlatls at slower prey—coatimundi, iguanas, and the rare white-tailed deer. In higher ground, capulin trees bear small red cherries. Mexalí’s mother mashed the fruit into pulp and strained it through woven mats to make sweet drinks.
The family picked fresh mushrooms from the base of trees and wild greens from the moist forest floor. They stirred these with chili and crushed seeds into warming stews.
One late afternoon, after her brothers mocked her again for being slow to find fruit, Mexalí wandered away from the berry grove. She had plucked a handful of sweet red berries and wanted to save the last one for later. Fearing her brothers would steal it, she dug a shallow hole near a tree, placed the berry gently inside, and covered it with soil. Then, distracted by her daily chores and the life of the tribe, she forgot about it.
Three weeks passed. One morning, as she returned from the stream, she noticed a tender green shoot where she had buried the berry. It stood alone, bright with promise. Her jaw dropped. Her breath caught. It was not magic—it was something else. A secret. An unknown power. She stared, heart thudding like a deer in flight.
From that moment on, she returned daily to the spot, tending to the plant. She watered it and shielded it from the sun. She collected other fruits and seeds, placing each in the earth close by and watching them carefully. Some withered, but others took root. She began to learn.
She replanted to give space to the fast growers, cleared debris, and noticed how much water or shade each needed. After a few weeks, she had arranged her plants in seven rows—one for each seed that had grown well: amaranth, teosinte, beans, squash, chili, sunflower, and goosefoot. She had created a garden.
One dawn, thunder rolled across the valley. Her grandmother whispered, “The river is waking.”
“The wet season is here,” her mother said. “Soon, there will be floods. We must leave.”
The sun had barely risen when the elders gathered at the edge of camp. The old mesquite pods had long fallen and turned brittle on the ground. The amaranth patches had thinned, their seeds already scattered or gathered. The deer and pronghorn herds had begun their migration to the highlands. The people had to follow.
But Mexalí stayed kneeling in the soil, her palms wet, her fingers curled around a young stalk of amaranth.
"We cannot stay," her mother said, with a voice as firm as sunbaked clay. “The rains are coming. The deer will not wait.”
“My plants are not ready,” Mexalí replied. “They are still growing. I made them a promise.”
The baskets were packed: palm frond weavings, dried fish in bark, obsidian blades, turtle-shell bowls. Her father ordered her to come. Her mother warned of cold, hunger, and jaguars. But Mexalí refused.
The girl who never created trouble was firm in her resolve. “They need me,” she said. “I made them a promise.”
“You cannot eat a promise, child,” her mother whispered.
“But I can grow one,” Mexalí answered.
And so, she stayed behind.
Her brothers, fearing for her life, gave her tools—a fishing spear, a deadfall trap, a flint scraper. Her mother gave her mesquite pods and cactus flowers for food and bait. Her father gave her advice: “Soon the rain may flood the marshes and your garden, but do not give up. The river is rich with fish, and the hills hold rabbits. After the wet season, we will be back.”
But Mexalí had learned a lot by watching. She had watched the heron. She had learned its stillness. It stood still as a stone. Hours passed before it moved, and when it did, the strike was swift and final. On the fourth day, she caught her first fish.
She tracked rabbit prints into the hills, where the first green shoots of the rain had coaxed weeds from the earth. She remembered how the boys laughed while setting deadfall traps—stones balanced on sticks that fell when the bait was touched. She built her trap repeatedly, until one day, the stone fell, the rabbit screamed, and Mexalí wept as she ended its fear.
The river and the rabbits became her teachers.
When her family returned, they found her strong and radiant. Her garden had grown, and with it, her prestige.
By the next season, she had more rows. When her plants grew tall and bore their fruit, Mexalí split the seeds again and placed each one in the soil. To help, one of her brothers no longer followed the animals. After a few years, the whole family settled with her by the river bend, where the soil was dark and generous. They planted gardens that later became fields.
And so, by Mexalí’s vision, the valley became a cradle, not just of food, but of the form of dwellings raised on platforms, of temples drawn from stone, of people who no longer passed through but belonged.
This valley, both wild and shaped, was the first to call her queen.
Years passed. Where once there had been laughter around campfires under stars, now there were roofs, walls, houses, and rules. And because the rains came when they pleased, and the sun scorched or hid, they began to pray to new gods. Not the old spirits of wind and beast, but gods of soil and sky, seed and flood.
They prospered. The tribe called her Queen. In years of plenty, they had so much grain that they needed to build granaries to store it and save it for the lean months.
But granaries needed hands. And the hands were few. So Mexalí sent men to raid other bands, and they returned with people bound in ropes. These became the laborers—digging, hauling, storing—while her own family counted, measured, and ruled.
Under her guidance, the people built stone markers and carved the moons into bone. They mapped the growing seasons, planted in rows, and learned which seeds to bury deep and which shallow. Her name, Mexalí, murmured by children chasing birds, became sacred. The eldest among the tribe spoke her name with bowed heads and folded hands. Prosperity bloomed.
Years went by, and Mexalí, now old, had a dream.
In the dream, she stood again beneath the tree where she had first buried the berry. She saw what was to come: striped forests, diverted rivers, fading birdsongs, thinning herds, enslaved people, wars fought not for need but for control. Her people forgetting how to listen to the wind.
In the dream, she wept.
When she awoke, the sun had not yet risen. She walked through the dew to the field. Mexalí saw one small plant breaking the surface in a place she had not sown. It was wild, uninvited. She stood over it, her shadow long in the morning light.
Like in her dream, she paused. She felt she had a choice. To repeat her story or to crush it. Bury the memory, letting the world remain wild and free. But the feeling of the crown was still heavy on her head, though no metal had ever touched her brow. She saw again her people praising her, the music of her coronation, her power, the feast they would hold to honor her name.
So, she turned away, smiling, and sent word for the harvest festival to begin.
Epilogue: Lessons Learned
They say the valley still bears her name. And the Seven Seeds still grow, though no one remembers which hand first sowed them. Mexalí's dream lives on in every garden and every city, in every gift turned burden, in every feast that once began with a promise to a single, trembling sprout.
Some say she was a goddess. Others, a thief of the wild. She was both.
Or she was only a girl who watched the world long enough to shape it.
Questions for Reflection
What does Mexalí’s choice to stay with her plants reveal about the power of commitment—and the dangers of it?
How do inventions, even those meant to nurture life, carry within them the seeds of domination?
What lessons can we learn from Mexalí’s final dream?
Thanks for listening! Feel free to reply in the comments or send a message. Until next time - stay thoughtful.
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Iris Stammberger 2025 from "Grandma Loves AI", A Short Story Collection