House Of The Scorpion
Nancy Farmer
ATHENEUM HC (2002)
the house of the
scorpion
ALSO BY THE
AUTHOR
A Girl Named Disaster
The Warm Place
The Ear, the Eye and the Arm
Do You Know Me
Atheneum Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
Copyright © 2002 by Nancy Farmer
All rights reserved, including the right
of reproduction in whole or in part in
any form.
Book design by O’Lanso Gabbidon
The text for this book is set in Bembo.
Printed in the United States of
America
10 9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-
Publication Data
Farmer, Nancy.
The house of the scorpion / Nancy
Farmer.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In a future where humans
despise clones, Matt enjoys special
status as the young clone of El Patrón,
the 140-year-old leader of a corrupt
drug empire nestled between Mexico
and the United States.
ISBN 0-689-85222-3
eISBN 978-1-439-10655-6
ISBN 978-0-689-85222-0
[1. Cloning—Fiction. 2. Science
fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F23814 Mat 2002
[Fic]—dc21 2001056594
To Harold for his unfailing love and
support, and to Daniel, our son. To my
brother, Dr. Elmon Lee Coe, and my
sister, Mary Marimon Stout. Lastly, and
no less importantly, to Richard Jackson,
il capo di tutti capi of children’s book
editors.
CAST OF
CHARACTERS
THE ALACRÁN FAMILY
Matt: Matteo Alacrán, the clone
El Patron: The original
Matteo Alacrán; a powerful drug lord
Felipe: El Patrón’s son; died
long ago
El Viejo: El Patrón’s grandson
and Mr. Alacrán’s father; a very old man
Mr. Alacrán: El Patrón’s
great-grandson; husband of Felicia,
father of Benito and Steven
Felicia: Mr. Alacrán’s wife;
mother of Benito, Steven, and Tom
Benito: Oldest son of Mr.
Alacrán and Felicia
Steven: Second son of Mr.
Alacrán and Felicia
Tom: Son of Felicia and Mr.
MacGregor
Fani: Benito’s wife
VISITORS AND ASSOCIATES OF
THE ALACRÁNS
Senator Mendoza: A
powerful politician in the United States;
father of Emilia and María; also called
Dada
Emilia: Oldest daughter of
Senator Mendoza
María: Younger daughter of
Senator Mendoza
Esperanza: Emilia’s and
María’s mother; disappeared when
María was five
Mr. MacGregor: A drug
lord
SLAVES AND SERVANTS
Celia: Chief cook and Matts
caregiver
Tam Lin: Bodyguard for both
El Patron and Matt
Daft Donald: Bodyguard for
El Patron
Rosa: Housekeeper; Matt’s jailer
Willum: Chief doctor for the
Alacrán household; Rosa’s lover
Mr. Ortega: Matt’s music
teacher
Teacher: An eejit
Hugh, Ralf, and Wee
Wullie: Members of the Farm
Patrol
PEOPLE IN AZTLÁN
Raúl: A Keeper
Carlos: A Keeper
Jorge: A Keeper
Chacho: A Lost Boy
Fidelito: A Lost Boy; eight
years old
Ton-Ton: A Lost Boy; driver
of the shrimp harvester
Flaco: Oldest of the Lost Boys
Luna: Lost Boy in charge of the
infirmary
Guapo: Old man celebrating El
Día de los Muertos
Consuela: Old woman
celebrating El Día de los Muertos
Sister Inéz: A nurse at the
Convent of Santa Clara
MISCELLANEOUS CHARACTERS
Furball: María’s dog
El Látigo Negro: The
Black Whip, an old TV character
Don Segundo
Sombra: Sir Second Shadow, an
old TV character
El Sacerdote Volante:
The Flying Priest, an old TV character
Eejits: People with computer
chips in their brains; also known as
zombies
La Llorona: The Weeping
Woman; mythical woman who searches
in the night for her lost children
Chupacabras: The goat
sucker; mythical creature that sucks the
blood out of goats, chickens, and,
occasionally, people
ALACRÁN FAMILY
HISTORY
the house of the
scorpion
1
IN THE BEGINNING
In the beginning there were thirty-six of
them, thirty-six droplets of life so tiny
that Eduardo could see them only under
a microscope. He studied them anxiously
in the darkened room.
Water bubbled through tubes that
snaked around the warm, humid walls.
Air was sucked into growth chambers. A
dull, red light shone on the faces of the
workers as they watched their own
arrays of little glass dishes. Each one
contained a drop of life.
Eduardo moved his dishes, one after
the other, under the lens of the
microscope. The cells were perfect—or
so it seemed. Each was furnished with
all it needed to grow. So much
knowledge was hidden in that tiny
world! Even Eduardo, who understood
the process very well, was awed. The
cell already understood what color hair
it was to have, how tall it would
become, and even whether it preferred
spinach to broccoli. It might even have a
hazy desire for music or crossword
puzzles. All that was hidden in the
droplet.
Finally the round outlines quivered
and lines appeared, dividing the cells in
two. Eduardo sighed. It was going to be
all right. He watched the samples grow,
and then he carefully moved them to the
incubator.
But it wasn’t all right. Something
about the food, the heat, the light was
wrong, and the man didn’t know what it
was. Very quickly over half of them
died. There were only fifteen now, and
Eduardo felt a cold lump in his stomach.
If he failed, he would be sent to the
Farms, and then what would become of
Anna and the children, and his father,
who was so old?
“It’s okay,” said Lisa, so close by that
Eduardo jumped. She was one of the
senior technicians. She had worked for
so many years in the dark, her face was
chalk white and her blue veins were
visible through her skin.
“How can it be okay?” Eduardo said.
“The cells were frozen over a
hundred years ago. They can’t be as
healthy as samples taken yesterday.”
“That long,” the man marveled.
“But some of them should grow,” Lisa
said sternly.
So Eduardo began to worry again.
And for a month everything went well.
The day came when he implanted the
tiny embryos in the brood cows. The
cows were lined up, patiently waiting.
They were fed by tubes, and their bodies
were exercised by giant metal arms that
grasped their legs and flexed them as
though the cows were walking through
an endless field. Now and then an
animal moved its jaws in an attempt to
chew cud.
Did they dream of dandelions?
Eduardo wondered. Did they feel a
phantom wind blowing tall grass against
their legs? Their brains were filled with
quiet joy from implants in their skulls.
Were they aware of the children growing
in their wombs?
Perhaps the cows hated what had been
done to them, because they certainly
rejected the embryos. One after another
the infants, at this point no larger than
minnows, died.
Until there was only one.
Eduardo slept badly at night. He cried
out in his sleep, and Anna asked what
was the matter. He couldn’t tell her. He
couldn’t say that if this last embryo died,
he would be stripped of his job. He
would be sent to the Farms. And she,
Anna, and their children and his father
would be cast out to walk the hot, dusty
roads.
But that one embryo grew until it was
clearly a being with arms and legs and a
sweet, dreaming face. Eduardo watched
it through scanners. “You hold my life in
your hands,” he told the infant. As though
it could hear, the infant flexed its tiny
body in the womb until it was turned
toward the man. And Eduardo felt an
unreasoning stir of affection.
When the day came, Eduardo received
the newborn into his hands as though it
were his own child. His eyes blurred as
he laid it in a crib and reached for the
needle that would blunt its intelligence.
“Don’t fix that one,” said Lisa, hastily
catching his arm. “It’s a Matteo Alacrán.
They’re always left intact.”
Have I done you a favor? thought
Eduardo as he watched the baby turn its
head toward the bustling nurses in their
starched, white uniforms. Will you thank
me for it later?
2
THE LITTLE HOUSE
IN THE POPPY FIELDS
Matt stood in front of the door and
spread his arms to keep Celia from
leaving. The small, crowded living room
was still blue with early morning light.
The sun had not yet lifted above the hills
marking the distant horizon.
“What’s this?” the woman said.
“You’re a big boy now, almost six. You
know I have to work.” She picked him
up to move him out of the way.
“Take me with you,” begged Matt,
grabbing her shirt and wadding it up in
his hands.
“Stop that.” Celia gently pried his
fingers from the cloth. “You can’t come,
mi vida. You must stay hidden in the nest
like a good little mouse. There’re hawks
out there that eat little mice.”
“I’m not a mouse!” Matt yelled. He
shrieked at the top of his voice in a way
he knew was irritating. Even keeping
Celia home long enough to deliver a
tongue-lashing was worth it. He couldn’t
bear being left alone for another day.
Celia thrust him away. “¡Callate!
Shut up! Do you want to make me deaf?
You’re just a little kid with cornmeal for
brains!” Matt flopped sullenly into the
big easy chair.
Celia immediately knelt down and put
her arms around him. “Don’t cry, mi
vida. I love you more than anything in
the world. I’ll explain things to you
when you’re older.” But she wouldn’t.
She had made the same promise before.
Suddenly the fight went out of Matt. He
was too small and weak to fight
whatever drove Celia to abandon him
each day.
“Will you bring me a present?” he
said, wriggling away from her kiss.
“Of course! Always!” the woman
cried.
So Matt allowed her to go, but he was
angry at the same time. It was a funny
kind of anger, for he felt like crying, too.
The house was so lonely without Celia
singing, banging pots, or talking about
people he had never seen and never
would see. Even when Celia was asleep
—and she fell asleep easily after long
hours cooking at the Big House—the
rooms felt full of her warm presence.
When Matt was younger, it hadn’t
seemed to matter. He’d played with his
toys and watched the television. He’d
looked out the window where fields of
white poppies stretched all the way to
the shadowy hills. The whiteness hurt
his eyes, and so he turned from them
with relief to the cool darkness inside.
But lately Matt had begun to look at
things more carefully. The poppy fields
weren’t completely deserted. Now and
then he saw horses—he knew them from
picture books—walking between the
rows of white flowers. It was hard to
tell who rode them in all that brightness,
but it seemed the riders weren’t adults,
but children like him.
And with that discovery grew a desire
to see them more closely.
Matt had watched children on
television. He saw that they were
seldom alone. They did things together,
like building forts or kicking balls or
fighting. Even fighting was interesting
when it meant you had other people
around. Matt never saw anyone except
Celia and, once a month, the doctor. The
doctor was a sour man and didn’t like
Matt at all.
Matt sighed. To do anything, he
would have to go outdoors, which Celia
said again and again was very
dangerous. Besides, the doors and
windows were locked.
Matt settled himself at a small
wooden table to look at one of his
books. Pedro el Conejo, said the cover.
Matt could read—slightly—both English
and Spanish. In fact, he and Celia mixed
the two languages together, but it didn’t
matter. They understood each other.
Pedro el Conejo was a bad little
rabbit who crawled into Señor
MacGregor’s garden to eat up his
lettuces. Señor MacGregor wanted to
put Pedro into a pie, but Pedro, after
many adventures, got away. It was a
satisfying story.
Matt got up and wandered into the
kitchen. It contained a small refrigerator
and a microwave. The microwave had a
sign reading PELIGRO!!! DANGER!!!
and squares of yellow notepaper saying
NO! NO! NO! NO! To be extra sure,
Celia had wrapped a belt around the
microwave door and secured it with a
padlock. She lived in terror that Matt
would find a way to open it while she
was at work and “cook his little
gizzards,” as she put it.
Matt didn’t know what gizzards were
and he didn’t want to find out. He edged
around the dangerous machine to get to
the fridge. That was definitely his
territory. Celia filled it with treats every
night. She cooked for the Big House, so
there was always plenty of food. Matt
helped himself to sushi, tamales,
pakoras, blintzes—whatever the people
in the Big House were eating. And there
was always a large carton of milk and
bottles of fruit juice.
He filled a bowl with food and went
to Celia’s room.
On one side was her large, saggy bed
covered with crocheted pillows and
stuffed animals. At the head was a huge
crucifix and a picture of Our Lord Jesus
with His heart pierced by five swords.
Matt found the picture frightening. The
crucifix was even worse, because it
glowed in the dark. Matt kept his back to
it, but he still liked Celia’s room.
He sprawled over the pillows and
pretended to feed the stuffed dog, the
teddy bear, the rabbit (conejo, Matt
corrected). For a while this was fun, but
then a hollow feeling began to grow
inside Matt. These weren’t real animals.
He could talk to them all he liked. They
couldn’t understand. In some way he
couldn’t put into words, they weren’t
even there.
Matt turned them all to the wall, to
punish them for not being real, and went
to his own room. It was much smaller,
being half filled by his bed. The walls
were covered with pictures Celia had
torn out of magazines: movie stars,
animals, babies—Matt wasn’t thrilled
by the babies, but Celia found them
irresistible—flowers, news stories.
There was one of acrobats standing on
one another in a huge pyramid. SIXTY-
FOUR! the caption said. A NEW RECORD AT
THE LUNAR COLONY.
Matt had seen these particular words
so often, he knew them by heart. Another
picture showed a man holding a bullfrog
between two slices of bread. RIBBIT ON
RYE! the caption said. Matt didn’t know
what a ribbit was, but Celia laughed
every time she looked at it.
He turned on the television and
watched soap operas. People were
always yelling at one another on soap
operas. It didn’t make much sense, and
when it did, it wasn’t interesting. It’s
not real, Matt thought with sudden
terror. It’s like the animals . He could
talk and talk and talk, but the people
couldn’t hear him.
Matt was swept with such an intense
feeling of desolation, he thought he
would die. He hugged himself to keep
from screaming. He gasped with sobs.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
And then—and then—beyond the
noise of the soap opera and his own
sobs, Matt heard a voice calling. It was
clear and strong—a child’s voice. And it
was real.
Matt ran to the window. Celia always
warned him to be careful when he
looked out, but he was so excited that he
didn’t care. At first he only saw the
same, bleached blindness of the poppies.
Then a shadow crossed the opening.
Matt recoiled so quickly, he fell over
and landed on the floor.
“What’s this dump?” someone said
from outside.
“One of the worker’s shacks,” said
another, higher voice.
“I didn’t think anyone was allowed to
live in the opium fields.”
“Maybe it’s a storeroom. Let’s try the
door.”
The door handle rattled. Matt squatted
on the floor, his heart pounding.
Someone put his face against the
window, cupping his hands to see
through the gloom. Matt froze. He had
wanted company, but this was happening
too quickly. He felt like Pedro el Conejo
in Señor MacGregor’s garden.
“Hey, there’s a kid in here!”
“What? Let me see.” A second face
pressed against the window. She had
black hair and olive skin like Celia.
“Open the window, kid. What’s your
name?”
But Matt was so terrified, he couldn’t
squeeze out a single word.
“Maybe he’s an idiot,” the girl said
matter-of-factly. “Hey, are you an
idiot?”
Matt shook his head. The girl laughed.
“I know who lives here,” the boy said
suddenly. “I recognize that picture on the
table.”
Matt remembered the portrait Celia
had given him on his last birthday.
“It’s the fat old cook—what’s her
name?” the boy said. “Anyhow, she
doesn’t stay with the rest of the servants.
This must be her hangout. I didn’t know
she had a kid.”
“Or a husband,” the girl remarked.
“Oh, yeah. That explains a lot. I
wonder if Father knows. I’ll have to ask
him.”
“You will not!” the girl cried. “You’ll
get her into trouble.”
“Hey, this is my family’s ranch, and
my father told me to keep an eye on
things. You’re only visiting.”
“It doesn’t matter. My dada says
servants have a right to privacy, and he’s
a United States senator, so his opinion is
worth more.”
“Your dada changes his opinions
more often than his socks,” the boy said.
What the girl replied to this, Matt
couldn’t hear. The children were moving
away from the house, and he could make
out only the indignant tone of her voice.
He was shivering all over, as though
he’d just met one of the monsters Celia
told him haunted the world outside, the
chupacabras maybe. The chupacabras
sucked your blood and left you to dry
like an old cantaloupe skin. Things were
happening too fast.
But he had liked the girl.
The rest of that day Matt was swept by
both fear and joy. He had been warned
by Celia never, never to show himself at
the window. If someone came, he was to
hide himself. But the children had been
such a wonderful surprise, he couldn’t
help running to see them. They were
older than he. How much older Matt
couldn’t tell. They were definitely not
adults, though, and they didn’t seem
dangerous. Still, Celia would be furious
if she found out. Matt decided not to tell
her.
That night she brought him a coloring
book the children had thrown away in
the Big House. Only half of it had been
used, so Matt spent a pleasant half hour
before dinner using the stubby crayons
Celia had brought on other occasions.
The smell of fried cheese and onions
drifted out of the kitchen, and Matt knew
she was cooking Aztláno food. This was
a special treat. Celia was usually so
tired when she returned home, she only
heated up leftovers.
He colored in an entire meadow with
green. His crayon was almost gone, and
he had to hold it carefully to use it at all.
The green made him feel happy. If only
he could look out on such a meadow
instead of the blinding white poppies.
He was certain grass would be as soft as
a bed and smell like rain.
“Very nice, chico,” said Celia,
looking over his shoulder.
The last fragment of crayon fell apart
in Matt’s fingers.
“¡Qué lástima! I’ll see if I can find
more in the Big House. Those kids’re so
rich, they wouldn’t notice if I took the
whole darn box.” Celia sighed. “I’ll
only take a few, though. The mouse is
safest when she doesn’t leave footprints
on the butter.”
They had quesadillas and enchiladas
for dinner. The food sat heavily in
Matt’s stomach.
“Mamá,” he said without thinking,
“tell me again about the kids in the Big
House.”
“Don’t call me ‘Mamÿ,’” snapped
Celia.
“Sorry,” said Matt. The word had
slipped out. Celia had told him long ago
that she wasn’t his real mother. The
children on TV had mamÿs, though, and
Matt had fallen into the habit of thinking
of Celia that way.
“I love you more than anything in the
world,” the woman said quickly. “Never
forget that. But you were only loaned to
me, mi vida.”
Matt had trouble understanding the
w o r d loaned. It seemed to mean
something you gave away for a little
while—which meant that whoever
loaned him would want him back.
“Anyhow, the kids in the Big House
are brats, you better believe it,” Celia
went on. “They’re lazy as cats and just
as ungrateful. They make big messes and
order the maids to clean them up. And
they never say thank you. Even if you
work for hours making special cakes
with sugar roses and violets and green
leaves, they can’t say thank you to save
their miserable little souls. They stuff
their selfish mouths and tell you it tastes
like mud!”
Celia looked angry, as though the
incident had happened recently.
“There’s Steven and Benito,” Matt
reminded her.
“Benito’s the oldest. He’s a real
devil! He’s seventeen, and there isn’t a
girl in the Farms who’s safe from him.
But never mind that. It’s adult stuff and
very boring. Anyhow, Benito is like his
father, which means he’s a dog in human
clothing. He’s going to college this year,
and we’ll all be glad to see the last of
him.”
“And Steven?” Matt said patiently.
“He’s not so bad. I sometimes think he
might have a soul. He spends time with
the Mendoza girls. They’re okay,
although what they’re doing with our
crowd would puzzle God Himself.”
“What does Steven look like?” It
sometimes took a long time to steer
Celia to the things Matt wanted to know
—in this case, the names of the children
who’d appeared outside the window.
“He’s thirteen. Big for his age. Sandy
hair. Blue eyes.”
That must have been the boy, thought
Matt.
“Right now the Mendozas are visiting.
Emilia’s thirteen too, very pretty with
black hair and brown eyes.”
That must be the girl, Matt decided.
“She at least has good manners. Her
sister, María, is about your age and
plays with Tom. Well, some might call it
play. Most of the time she winds up
crying her eyes out.”
“Why?” said Matt, who enjoyed
hearing about Tom’s misdeeds.
“Tom is Benito times ten! He can melt
anyone’s heart with those wide, innocent
eyes. Everyone falls for it, but not me.
He gave María a bottle of lemon soda
today. ‘It’s the last one,’ he said. ‘It’s
really cold and I saved it especially for
you,’ he said. Do you know what was in
it?”
“No,” said Matt, wriggling with
anticipation.
“Pee! Can you believe it? He even put
the cap back on. Oh, she was crying,
poor little thing. She never learns.”
Celia suddenly ran out of steam. She
yawned broadly and fatigue settled over
her right before Matt’s eyes. She had
been working from dawn to well after
dark, and she had cooked a fresh meal at
home as well. “I’m sorry, chico. When
the well’s empty, it’s empty.”
Matt rinsed the plates and stacked the
dishwasher while Celia took a shower.
She came out in her voluminous pink
bathrobe and nodded sleepily at the
tidied table. “You’re a good kid,” she
said.
She picked him up and hugged him all
the way to his bed. No matter how tired
Celia was—and sometimes she almost
fell over with exhaustion—she never
neglected this ritual. She tucked Matt in
and lit the holy candle in front of the
statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She
had brought it with her all the way from
her village in Aztlán. The Virgin’s robe
was slightly chipped, which Celia
disguised with a spray of artificial
flowers. The Virgin’s feet rested on
dusty plaster roses and Her starspangled
robe was stained with wax, but Her face
gazed out over the candle with the same
gentleness it had in Celia’s bedroom
long ago.
“I’m in the next room, mi vida,”
whispered the woman, kissing the top of
Matts head. “You get scared, you call
me.”
Soon the house shook with Celias
snores. To Matt, the sound was as
normal as the thunder that sometimes
echoed over the hills. It in no way kept
him from sleep. “Steven and Emilia,” he
whispered, testing the words in his
mouth. He didn’t know what he would
say to the strange children if they
appeared again, but he was determined
to try to talk to them. He practiced
several sentences: “My name is Matt. I
live here. Do you want to color
pictures?”
No, he couldn’t mention the coloring
book or the crayons. They were stolen.
“Would you like some food?” But the
food might be stolen too. “Do you want
to play?” Good. Steven and Emilia
could suggest something, and Matt
would be off the hook.
“Do you want to play? Do you want to
play?” he murmured as his eyes closed
and the gentle face of the Virgin of
Guadalupe floated in the candlelight.
3
PROPERTY OF THE ALACRÁN
ESTATE
Celia left in the morning, and Matt
spent the entire day waiting for the
children. He had given up hope when,
just before sunset, he heard voices
approaching through the poppy fields.
He planted himself in front of the
window and waited.
“There he is! See, María, I told you I
wasn’t lying,” cried Emilia. Her hand
rested on the shoulder of a much smaller
girl. “He won’t talk to us, but you’re
about his age. Maybe he won’t be afraid
of you.” Emilia pushed the girl ahead of
her and fell back to wait with Steven.
María wasn’t at all shy about coming
up to the window. “Hey, boy!” she
yelled, rapping the glass with her fist.
“What’s your name? Do you want to
play?”
With one blow, she stole Matt’s
carefully prepared speech. He stared at
her, unable to think of another opening.
“Well, is it yes or no?” María turned
toward the others. “Make him unlock the
door.”
“That’s up to him,” said Steven.
Matt wanted to say he didn’t have the
key, but he was unable to get the words
out.
“At least he isn’t hiding today,”
remarked Emilia.
“If you can’t unlock the door, open the
window,” María said.
Matt tried, knowing it wouldn’t work.
Celia had nailed the window shut. He
threw up his hands.
“He understands what we say,” said
Steven.
“Hey, boy! If you don’t do something
quick, we’re going away,” María
shouted.
Matt thought desperately He needed
something to interest them. He held up
his finger, as Celia did when she wanted
him to wait. He nodded his head to show
that he agreed with María’s demand and
was about to do something.
“What does that mean?” said Emilia.
“Beats me. Maybe he’s a mute and
can’t talk,” Steven guessed.
Matt raced to his bedroom. He ripped
the picture of the man with the bullfrog
sandwich from the wall. It made Celia
laugh. Maybe it would make these
children laugh. He ran back and pressed
the newspaper against the window. The
three children came close to study it.
“What’s it say?” asked María.
“‘Ribbit on Rye,’” read Steven. “Do
you get it? It’s a bullfrog going ribbit,
ribbit, ribbit, and it’s between two
slices of rye bread. That’s pretty funny.”
Emilia giggled, but María looked
uncertain. “People don’t eat bullfrogs,”
she said. “I mean, not when they’re
alive.”
“It’s a joke, dum-dum.”
“I’m not a dum-dum! It’s mean and
nasty to eat bullfrogs! I don’t think it’s
funny at all.”
“Save me from eejits,” said Steven,
rolling his eyes.
“I’m not an eejit, either!”
“Oh, lighten up, María,” Emilia said.
“You brought me out here to see a
boy, and it was miles and miles across
the fields, and I’m tired and the boy
won’t talk. I hate you!”
Matt stared at the scene with
consternation. That wasn’t the result he
wanted at all. María was crying, Emilia
looked angry, and Steven had turned his
back on both of them. Matt rapped on the
window. When María looked up, he
waved the picture and then wadded it
into a ball. He threw it with all his force
across the room.
“See, he agrees with me,” cried María
through her tears.
“This is getting weirder by the
minute,” said Steven. “I knew we
shouldn’t have brought the eejit.”
“I thought the boy would talk to a kid
his own size,” Emilia said. “Come on,
María. We have to get back before
dark.”
“I’m not walking anywhere!” The
little girl flopped down on the ground.
“Well, I won’t carry you, fatso.”
“Just leave her,” said Steven. He
started walking off, and after a moment
Emilia followed him.
Matt was appalled. If the big kids
went away, María would be all alone. It
was going to be dark soon, and Celia
wouldn’t return for hours. María would
be alone with nothing but the empty
poppy fields and the …
The chupacabras, who came out after
dark and sucked your juices and left you
to dry like an old cantaloupe skin!
Suddenly Matt knew what he had to
do. María had walked a few steps away
from the window before sitting down
again. She was shouting insults at the
vanished Steven and Emilia. Matt
grabbed the big iron cooking pot Celia
used to make menudo and swung it
before he could worry much about her
reaction. She would be furious! But he
was saving María’s life. He smashed out
the glass in the window. It fell in a
tinkling, jangling mass to the ground.
María jumped to her feet. Steven and
Emilia rose up instantly from the poppy
field, where they’d been hiding.
“Holy frijoles!” said Steven. All three
stood openmouthed, staring at the empty
hole where the window had been.
“My name is Matt. I live here. Do you
want to play?” said Matt because he
couldn’t think of another thing to say.
“He can talk,” said Emilia after the
first shock had died away.
“Is that how you usually open a
window, kid?” Steven said. “Stay back,
María. There’s glass all over.” He
stepped carefully to the opening and
knocked out the remaining shards with a
stick. Then he leaned inside to look
around. Matt had to hold on to himself to
keep from bolting to the other room.
“This is creepy! The window’s nailed
shut. What are you, some kind of
prisoner?”
“I live here,” Matt said.
“You told us that already.”
“Do you want to play?”
“Maybe he’s like a parrot and only
knows a few words,” suggested Emilia.
“I want to play,” said María. Matt
looked at her with approval. The girl
was struggling in Emilia’s arms,
obviously trying to get to him. Steven
shook his head and moved away. He
looked like he was really going to leave
this time.
Matt came to a decision. It was
frightening, but he’d never had an
opportunity like this before and he might
never have it again. He shoved a chair to
the opening, scrambled up, and jumped.
“No!” shouted Steven, running
forward to catch him. He was too late.
A terrible pain lanced through Matt’s
feet. He fell forward, and his hands and
knees landed on the shards of glass.
“He wasn’t wearing shoes! Oh, man!
Oh, man! What’re we going to do!”
Steven pulled Matt up and swung him
onto a clear patch of ground.
Matt stared with amazement at the
blood dripping from his feet and hands.
His knees sprouted rivulets of red.
“Pull out the glass!” cried Emilia in a
high, scared voice. “María, stay away!”
“I want to see!” yelled the little girl.
Matt heard a slap and María’s shriek of
outrage. His head was swimming. He
wanted to throw up, but before he could,
everything went black.
He woke to the sensation of being
carried. He was sick to his stomach, but
worse than that his body was trembling
in a frightening way. He screamed as
loud as he could.
“Great!” panted Steven, who
supported Matt’s shoulders. Emilia had
his legs. Her shirt and pants were
soaked with blood, his blood. Matt
screamed again.
“Be quiet!” Steven shouted. “We’re
running as fast as we can!”
The poppies, now blue in the long
shadows of the hills, stretched away in
all directions. Steven and Emilia were
jogging along a dirt path. Matt’s breath
caught with sobs. He could hardly get
air.
“Stop!” cried Emilia. “We have to let
María catch up.” The two children
squatted down and let Matt’s weight rest
on the ground. Presently, Matt heard the
patter of smaller feet.
“I want to rest too,” demanded María.
“It’s miles and miles. I’m going to tell
Dada you slapped me.”
“Be my guest,” said Emilia.
“Everyone be quiet,” Steven ordered.
“You’ve stopped bleeding, kid, so I
guess you’re not in too much danger.
What’s your name again?”
“Matt,” María answered for him.
“We aren’t far from the house, Matt,
and you’re in luck. The doctor’s
spending the night. Do you hurt a lot?”
“I don’t know,” said Matt.
“Yes, you do. You screamed,” María
said.
“I don’t know what a lot is,” Matt
explained. “I haven’t hurt like this
before.”
“Well, you’ve lost blood—but not too
much,” Steven added as Matt began to
tremble again.
“It sure looks like a lot,” said María.
“Shut up, eejit.”
The older children rose, carrying Matt
between them. María followed,
complaining loudly about the distance
and at being called an eejit.
A kind of heavy sleepiness fell over
Matt as he was swayed along. The pain
had died down, and Steven said he
hadn’t lost too much blood. He was too
dazed to worry about what Celia would
say when she saw the broken window.
They reached the edge of the poppy
fields as the last streaks of sunlight slid
behind the hills. The dirt path gave way
to a wide lawn. It was a shimmering
green, growing deeper with the blue
light of evening. Matt had never seen so
much green in his life.
It’s a meadow , he thought, drowsily.
And it smells like rain.
They started up a flight of wide,
marble steps that shone softly in the
darkening air. On either side were
orange trees, and all at once lamps went
on among the leaves. Lights outlined the
white walls of a vast house above, with
pillars and statues and doorways going
who knew where. In the center of an
arch was the carved outline of a
scorpion.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” came a flurry of
women’s voices as they swept down the
stairs to lift Matt from Steven’s and
Emilia’s arms.
“Who is he?” asked the maids. They
were wearing black dresses with white
aprons and starched, white caps. One of
them, a severe-looking female with deep
creases down either side of her mouth,
carried Matt as the others went ahead to
open doors.
“I found him in a house in the poppy
fields,” replied Steven.
“That’s Celia’s place,” a maid said.
“She’s too stuck-up to live with the rest
of us.”
“If she’s hiding a child, I’m not
surprised. Who’s your father, kid?” said
the woman who was carrying Matt. Her
apron smelled like sunlight, the way
Celia’s did when it came straight from
the clothesline. Matt stared at a pin
fastened to the woman’s collar, a silver
scorpion with its tail curved up. Beneath
the scorpion was a name tag that said
ROSA. Matt didn’t feel well enough to
talk, and what did it matter who his
father was, anyhow? He didn’t know the
answer, either.
“He doesn’t talk much,” said Emilia.
“Where’s the doctor?” Steven said.
“We’ll have to wait. He’s treating
your grandfather. At least we can clean
the kid up,” said Rosa.
The maids opened a door to reveal the
most beautiful room Matt had ever seen.
It had carved wooden beams on the
ceiling and wallpaper decorated with
hundreds of birds. To Matt’s reeling
eyes, they seemed to be moving. He saw
a couch upholstered with flowers that
shaded from lavender to rose like the
feathers on a dove’s wings. It was to this
couch that Rosa was carrying him.
“I’m too dirty,” Matt murmured. He
had been yelled at before for climbing
on Celia’s bed with muddy feet.
“You can say that again,” snapped
Rosa. The other women opened a crisp,
white sheet and laid it over the
wonderful couch before Matt was laid
down. He thought he could get into just
as much trouble for getting blood on that
sheet.
Rosa fetched a pair of tweezers and
began pulling out fragments of glass
from his hands and feet. “Ay!” she
murmured as she dropped the bits into a
cup. “You’re brave not to cry.”
But Matt didn’t feel brave at all. He
didn’t feel anything. His body seemed
far away, and he watched Rosa as
though she were an image on a TV
screen.
“He sure screamed earlier,” observed
María. She was dancing around, trying
to see everything that happened.
“Don’t act so superior. You yell your
head off if you get an itty-bitty splinter in
your finger,” Emilia said.
“Do not!”
“Do so!”
“I hate you!”
“Ask me if I care,” said Emilia. Both
she and Steven watched in fascination as
blood began to well out of Matt’s cuts
again. “I’m going to be a doctor when I
grow up,” announced Emilia. “This is
very good experience for me.”
The other maids had brought a bucket
of water and towels, but they didn’t
attempt to clean Matt up until Rosa gave
them permission.
“Be careful. The right foot is badly
cut,” said Rosa.
The air hummed in Matt’s ears. He
felt the warm water and suddenly the
pain returned. It stabbed from his foot all
the way to the top of his head. He
opened his mouth to scream, but nothing
came out. His throat had closed with
shock.
“Oh, God! There must be glass left
inside,” cried Rosa. She grabbed Matt’s
shoulders and ordered him not to be
afraid. She seemed almost angry.
The fogginess that had surrounded
Matt had vanished. His feet, his hands,
his knees throbbed with more pain than
he had known existed.
“I told you he was crying earlier,”
said María.
“Be quiet!” said Emilia.
“Look! There’s writing on his foot,”
the little girl cried. She tried to get
close, but Emilia thrust her back.
“I’m the one who’s going to be a
doctor. Rats! I can’t read it. There’s too
much blood.” She snatched a washcloth
and wiped Matt’s foot.
The pain wasn’t as bad this time, but
he couldn’t help moaning.
“You’re hurting him, you bully!”
shrieked María.
“Wait! I can just make it out ….
‘Property of’—the writing is so tiny!
—‘Property of the Alacrán Estate.’”
“‘Property of the Alacrán Estate’?
That’s us. It doesn’t make any sense,”
said Steven.
“What’s going on?” came a voice
Matt hadn’t heard before. A large,
fierce-looking man burst into the room.
Steven immediately straightened up.
Emilia and even María looked alarmed.
“We found a kid in the poppy fields,
Father,” said Steven. “He hurt himself,
and I thought the doctor … the doctor—”
“You idiot! You need a vet for this
little beast!” the man roared. “How dare
you defile this house?”
“He was bleeding—” began Steven.
“Yes! All over the sheet! We’ll have
to burn it. Take the creature outside
now.”
Rosa hesitated, obviously
bewildered.
The man leaned forward and
whispered into her ear.
A look of horror crossed Rosa’s face.
She instantly scooped up Matt and ran.
Steven dashed ahead to open the doors.
His face had turned white. “How dare
he talk to me like that,” he hissed.
“He didn’t mean it,” said Emilia, who
was dragging María along behind.
“Oh, yes he did. He hates me,” Steven
said.
Rosa hurried down the steps and
dumped Matt roughly onto the lawn.
Without a word, she turned and fled
back to the house.
4
MARÍA
Matt gazed up. Hundreds of stars lay in
a bright smear across a velvety, black
sky. It was the Milky Way, which Celia
said had spurted from the Virgins breast
when She first fed Baby Jesus. The grass
pressed against Matt’s back. It wasn’t as
soft as he’d imagined, but it smelled
fresh, and the coolness of the air was
good, too. He felt hot and feverish.
The terrifying pain had subsided to a
dull ache. Matt was glad to be outside
again. The sky felt familiar and safe. The
same stars hung over the little house in
the poppy fields. Celia never took him
outside by day, but sometimes at night
she and he would sit in the doorway of
the little house. She would tell him
stories and point out a falling star.
“That’s a prayer being answered by
God,” she explained. “One of the angels
is flying down to carry out God’s
orders.”
Matt prayed now for Celia to come
and rescue him. She’d be upset about the
window, but he could live with that. No
matter how loud she yelled, he knew that
underneath she still loved him. He
watched the sky, but no star fell.
“Look at him. He’s just lying there
like an animal,” said Emilia from not far
away. Matt jumped. He’d forgotten
about the children.
“He is an animal,” Steven said after a
pause. They were sitting on the first step
leading to the house. María was busy
picking oranges from the trees and
rolling them down the stairs.
“I don’t understand,” said Emilia.
“I’ve been stupid. I should have
known what he—it— was the minute I
saw it. No servant would be allowed to
keep a child or live away from the
others. Benito told me about the
situation, only I thought it was living
somewhere else. In a zoo, maybe.
Wherever those things are kept.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Matt’s a clone,” said Steven.
Emilia gasped. “He can’t be! He
doesn’t—I’ve seen clones. They’re
horrible! They drool and mess their
pants. They make animal noises.”
“This one’s different. Benito told me.
Technicians are supposed to destroy the
minds at birth—it’s the law. But El
Patrón wanted his to grow up like a real
boy. He’s so rich, he can break any law
he wants.”
“That’s disgusting. Clones aren’t
people,” cried Emilia.
“Of course they aren’t.”
Emilia hugged her knees. “It makes
me feel goose bumpy. I actually touched
it. I got its blood on me—María, stop
rolling oranges at us!”
“Make me,” jeered María.
“In about one second I’m going to roll
you down the stairs.”
The little girl stuck out her tongue.
She threw a fruit so hard, it shot off the
bottom step and landed with a soft plop
on the grass. “Want me to peel you one,
Matt?” she called.
“Don’t,” said Emilia. The seriousness
in her voice made the little girl pause.
“Matt’s a clone. You mustn’t go near it.”
“What’s a clone?”
“A bad animal.”
“How bad?” María said with interest.
Before Emilia could answer, the
fierce man and the doctor appeared at
the top of the stairs.
“You should have called me at once,”
the doctor said. “It’s my job to make
sure it stays healthy.”
“I didn’t find out until I walked past
the living room. There was blood all
over the place. I’m afraid I lost my head
and ordered Rosa to throw it outside.”
The fierce man seemed less dangerous
now, but Matt still tried to wriggle
away. The movement sent a wave of
agony through his foot.
“We’ll have to take it somewhere
else. I can’t operate on the lawn.”
“There’s an empty room in the
servants’ quarters,” said the fierce man.
He shouted for Rosa, who pattered down
the steps with a furious look on her face.
She carted Matt to a different part of the
house, a warren of dim hallways that
smelled of mold. Steven, Emilia, and
María were ordered away, to take
showers and change their clothes.
Matt was deposited onto a hard, bare
mattress. The room was long and
narrow. At one end was the door and at
the other a window covered with iron
grillwork.
“I need more light,” the doctor said,
tersely. The fierce man brought a lamp.
“Hold it down,” the doctor ordered
Rosa.
“Please, Master. It’s a filthy clone,”
the woman objected.
“Get moving if you know what’s good
for you,” the fierce man growled. Rosa
threw herself across Matt’s body and
grasped his ankles. Her weight made it
almost impossible to breathe.
“Stop … stop …,” the boy wailed.
The doctor probed in the deepest cut
with a pair of tweezers as Matt struggled
and begged and finally broke down
entirely when the sliver of glass was
extracted. Rosa held on to his ankles so
tightly, her fingers burned like fire.
When at last the wound was cleaned and
stitched, Matt was set free. He rolled
himself into a ball and looked fearfully
at his tormentors to see if they planned
anything else.
“I’ve given it a tetanus shot,” said the
doctor, putting away his instruments.
“There may be permanent damage to the
right foot.”
“Can I send it back to the poppy
fields?” inquired the fierce man.
“Too late. The children have seen it.”
The men and Rosa went out. Matt
wondered what would happen next. If he
prayed very hard, Celia would surely
come for him now. She would hug him
and carry him off to bed. Then she
would light the holy candle in front of
the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Except that the Virgin was far away in
the little house, and Celia might not even
know where he was.
Rosa slammed open the door and laid
newspapers all over the floor. “The
doctor says you’re housebroken, but I’m
not taking chances,” she said. “Do it in
the bucket if you’ve got the brains.” She
placed a bucket next to the bed and
picked up the lamp.
“Wait,” Matt said.
Rosa paused. She looked distinctly
unfriendly.
“Can you tell Celia where I am?”
The maid smiled maliciously. “Celia
isn’t allowed to see you. Doctor’s
orders.” She went out and closed the
door.
The room was dark except for a faint,
yellow light filtering through the bars of
the window. Matt craned his head up to
see where it was coming from. He saw a
bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling.
It was as small as the lights Celia used
to decorate the Christmas tree, but it
shone valiantly and softened what would
otherwise have been complete darkness.
He could see nothing else except the
bed and the bucket. The waUs were
bare, the ceiling high and shadowy. The
narrowness of the room made Matt feel
as though he were locked in a box.
He had never, never gone to bed
alone. Always, even though it might be
very late, he could count on Celia’s
return. When he woke in the night, her
snores in the next room made him feel
safe. Here there was nothing, not even
the wind over the poppy fields or the
murmur of doves in their nests on the
roof.
The silence was terrifying.
Matt cried steadily. His grief went on
and on. When it lessened, he
remembered Celia and started crying
again. He looked up with tear-blurred
eyes at the little yellow light, and it
seemed to waver like a flame. It came to
him that it was like the holy candle in
front of the Virgin. After all, the Virgin
could go wherever She liked. She
couldn’t be locked up like a person. She
could fly through the air or even knock
down walls, like the superheroes Matt
saw on TV—only She wouldn’t do that,
of course, because She was Jesus’
mother. She could be standing outside
right now, watching his window.
Something let go inside of Matt. He
sighed deeply and soon he was fast
asleep.
He woke to the sound of someone
opening the door. Matt tried to sit up, but
the pain made him lie down again. A
flashlight shone in his eyes.
“Good. I was afraid this was the
wrong room.” A small shape ran over to
the bed, unslung a backpack, and began
taking out food.
“María?” said Matt.
“Rosa said they didn’t give you
dinner. She’s so mean! I have a dog at
home, and if he doesn’t get fed, he
howls. Do you like mango juice? It’s my
favorite.”
Matt suddenly realized he was very
thirsty. He drank the whole bottle
without stopping. María had brought
hunks of cheese and pepperoni. “I’m
going to put them into your mouth one at
a time—but you have to promise not to
bite me.”
Matt indignantly said he never bit
people.
“Well, you never know. Emilia says
clones are as vicious as werewolves.
Did you see that story on TV about the
boy who got hair all over him when the
moon was full?”
“Yes!” Matt was delighted he and
María had something in common. He had
locked himself in the bathroom after that
movie until Celia came home.
“You don’t grow hair or anything, do
you?” asked María.
“Never,” Matt swore.
“Good,” María said. She popped bits
of food into Matt’s mouth until he
couldn’t eat any more.
They talked about movies and then
about stories Celia had told Matt of the
dangers that lurked after dark. Matt
found that if he lay perfectly still, his
wounds didn’t hurt too much. María
bounced around and occasionally hurt
him, but he was afraid to scold her. She
might get angry and leave.
“Celia hangs charms over the doors to
keep out monsters,” Matt told María.
“Does that work?”
“Of course. They also keep out dead
people who aren’t ready to stay in their
graves.”
“There aren’t any charms here,”
María said nervously.
That thought had occurred to Matt too,
but he didn’t want her to go away. “We
don’t need charms in the Big House,” he
explained. “There are too many people,
and monsters hate crowds.”
María’s interest drove Matt to greater
and greater heights. He talked feverishly,
unable to stop, and he ground his teeth
from sheer nervousness. He’d never had
so much attention in his life. Celia tried
to listen to him, but she was usually too
tired. María hung on his words as though
her life depended on them.
“Do you know about the
chupacabras?” Matt said.
“What’s … a chupacabras?” asked
María. Her voice sounded a little high
and breathless.
“You know. The goat sucker.”
“It sounds nasty.” María moved closer
to him.
“It is! It’s got spikes down its back
and claws and orange teeth, and it sucks
blood.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Celia says it has a face of a man,
only the eyes are black inside. Like
empty holes,” said Matt.
“Ugh!”
“It likes goats best, but it’ll eat horses
or cows—or a child if it’s really
hungry.”
María was pressed right up against
him now. She put her arms around him
and he gritted his teeth to keep from
wincing with pain. He noticed that her
hands were icy.
“Last month Celia said it got a whole
pen of chickens,” Matt said.
“I heard about that. Steven said
Illegals stole them.”
“That’s what they told everyone to
keep them from running away out of
sheer terror,” said Matt, echoing the
words Celia had used. “But they really
found the chickens in the desert without
a drop of blood inside. They were
blowing around like dry cantaloupe
skins.”
Matt was afraid of Steven and Emilia,
but María was different. She was his
size and she didn’t make him feel bad.
What was it Rosa had called him? A
“filthy clone.” Matt had no idea what
that was, but he recognized an insult
when he heard it. Rosa hated him, and so
did the fierce man and the doctor. Even
the two older children had changed once
they knew what he was. Matt wanted to
ask María about clones, but he was
afraid she might hate him too if he
reminded her.
Meanwhile, he had discovered a
wonderful power in repeating the stories
Celia had told him. They had held him
spellbound, and now they were
impressing María so much that she was
practically glued to him.
“The chupacabras isn’t the only thing
out there,” Matt said grandly. “La
Llorona walks in the night too.”
María murmured something. Her face
was pressed against his shirt, so it was
hard to tell what she was saying.
“La Llorona drowned her children
because she was angry at her boyfriend.
And then she was sorry and drowned
herself,” Matt said. “She went to heaven,
and Saint Peter shouted, ‘You bad
woman! You can’t come in here without
your kids.’ She ran down to hell, but the
Devil slammed the door in her face.
Now she has to walk around all night,
never sitting down, never sleeping. She
cries, ‘Ooooo … Ooooo. Where are my
babies?’ You can hear her when the
wind blows. She comes to the window.
‘Ooooo … Ooooo. Where are my
babies?’ She scratches the glass with her
long fingernails—”
“Stop it!” shrieked María. “I told you
to stop it! Don’t you ever listen?”
Matt halted. What could possibly be
wrong with this story? He was telling it
exactly the way Celia had.
“There’s no such thing as La Llorona!
You made her up!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, if she’s real, I don’t want to
know!”
Matt reached out and touched María’s
face. “You’re crying!”
“I am not, you eejit! I just hate nasty
stories!”
Matt was horrified. He’d never meant
to scare María that much. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” María muttered,
sniffling.
“Nothing can get through the window
bars,” Matt said. “And there’s tons of
people in the house.”
“There’s nobody in the halls,” María
said. “If I go outside, the monsters’ll get
me.”
“Maybe not.”
“Oh, great! Maybe not! When Emilia
finds out I’m not in bed, I’ll be in really
big trouble. She’ll tell Dada, and he’ll
make me do the times tables for hours,
and it’s all your fault!”
Matt didn’t know what to say.
“I’ll have to stay here till morning,”
María concluded. “But I’ll still get into
really big trouble. At least the
chupacabras won’t eat me. Move over.”
Matt tried to make room. The bed was
very narrow, and it hurt to move even a
few inches. His hands and feet throbbed
as he clung to the far edge.
“You really are a hog,” complained
María. “Got any covers?”
“No,” said Matt.
“Wait a minute.” María jumped off the
bed and gathered up the newspapers
Rosa had spread out on the floor.
“We don’t need covers,” Matt
objected as she began arranging them on
the bed.
“They make me feel safer.” María
crawled under the papers. “This isn’t
too bad. I sleep with my dog all the time
—are you sure you don’t bite?”
“Of course not,” said Matt.
“Well, that’s all right,” she said,
snuggling closer to him. Matt’s mind
churned over the punishment María
would endure because she had brought
him food. He didn’t know what the times
tables were, but they were probably
something awful.
So much had happened in such a short
time, and Matt couldn’t understand half
of it. Why had he been thrown out on the
lawn when everyone had been so eager
to help him at first? Why had the fierce
man called him a “little beast”? And
why had Emilia told María he was a
“bad animal”?
It had something to do with being a
clone and also, perhaps, with the writing
on his foot. Matt had once asked Celia
about the words on his foot, and she said
it was something they put on babies to
keep them from getting lost. He’d
assumed everyone was tattooed. From
Steven’s reaction, it seemed everyone
wasn’t.
María wriggled and sighed and flung
her arms out in her sleep. The
newspapers quickly fell to the floor.
Matt had to scoot to the extreme edge of
the bed to keep from being kicked. At
one point she seemed to have a
nightmare. She called, “Mama … Mama
…” Matt tried to wake her, but she
punched him.
In the first blue light of dawn Matt
forced himself to get up. He gasped at
the pain in his feet. It was worse than
last night.
He dropped to his hands and knees
and moved as noiselessly as possible,
pulling the bucket along with him. When
he got to the end of the bed where he
thought María couldn’t see him, he tried
to pee silently. María turned over. The
noise made Matt jump. The bucket
tipped over. He had to fetch newspapers
to sop up the mess, and then he had to
rest with his back against the wall
because his hands and feet hurt so much.
“Bad girl!” shouted Rosa, flinging
open the door. Behind her was a covey
of maids, all craning their necks to see
what was inside. “We turned the house
upside down looking for you,” Rosa
yelled. “All the time you were hiding out
with this filthy clone. Boy, are you in
trouble! You’re going to be sent home at
once.”
María sat up, blinking at the sudden
light from the doorway. Rosa whisked
her off the bed and wrinkled her nose at
Matt cowering against the wall. “So you
aren’t housebroken, you little brute,” she
snarled, kicking aside the sodden
newspapers. “I honestly don’t know how
Celia stood it all those years.”
5
PRISON
That night, when Rosa brought him
dinner, Matt asked her when María was
coming back.
“Never!” snarled the maid. “She and
her sister have been sent home, and I say
good riddance! Just because their
father’s a senator, the Mendoza girls
think they can turn their noses up at us.
Pah! Senator Mendoza isn’t too proud to
have his paw out when El Patrón hands
around money.”
Every day the doctor visited. Matt
shrank from him, but the man didn’t seem
to notice. He grasped Matt’s foot in a
businesslike way, doused it with
disinfectant, and checked the stitches.
Once he gave Matt a shot of antibiotics
because the wound looked puffy and the
boy was running a fever. The doctor
made no effort to start a conversation,
and Matt was happy to leave things that
way.
The man talked to Rosa, however.
They seemed to enjoy each other’s
company. The doctor was tall and bony.
His head was fringed with hair like the
fluff on a duck’s bottom, and he sprayed
saliva when he talked. Rosa was also
tall and very strong, as Matt had found
out when he tried to get around her. Her
face was set in a permanent scowl,
although she occasionally smiled when
the doctor told one of his bad jokes.
Matt found Rosa’s smile even more
horrid than her scowl.
“El Patrón hasn’t asked about the
beast in years,” remarked the doctor.
Matt understood that the beast was
himself.
“Probably forgotten it exists,”
muttered Rosa. She was busy scrubbing
out the corners of the room. She was on
her hands and knees with a bucket of
soapy water by her side.
“I wish I could count on it,” the doctor
said. “Sometimes El Patrón seems
definitely senile. He won’t talk for days
and stares out the window. Other times
he’s as sharp as the old bandido he once
was.”
“He’s still a bandit,” said Rosa.
“Don’t say that, not even to me. El
Patrón’s rage is something you don’t
want to see.”
It seemed to Matt that both the maid
and the doctor shivered slightly He
wondered why El Patrón was so
frightening, since the man was said to be
old and weak. Matt knew he was El
Patrón’s clone, but he was unclear about
the meaning of the word. Perhaps El
Patrón had loaned him to Celia and
would someday want him back.
At the thought of Celia, Matt’s eyes
filled with tears. He swallowed them
back. He would not show weakness in
front of his tormentors. He knew
instinctively they would seize on it to
hurt him even more.
“You’re wearing perfume, Rosa,” the
doctor said slyly.
“Ha! You think I’d put on anything to
please you, Willum?” The maid stood up
and wiped her soapy hands on her apron.
“I think you’re wearing it behind your
ears.”
“It’s the disinfectant I used to clean
out the bath,” said Rosa. “To a doctor, it
probably smells good.”
“So it does, my thorny little Rosa.”
Willum tried to grab her, but she
wriggled out of his arms.
“Stop it!” she cried, pushing him
away roughly. In spite of her
unfriendliness, the doctor seemed to like
her. It made Matt uncomfortable. He felt
the two were united against him.
When they left the room, Rosa always
locked the door. Matt tried the knob each
time to see whether she had forgotten,
but she never did. He pulled on the
window bars. They were as firmly
attached as ever. He sat disconsolately
on the floor.
If only he could see something
interesting outside the window. A
section of wall blocked off most of what
lay beyond. Through a narrow gap he
could see a green lawn and bright pink
flowers, but only enough to make him
want more. A thin ribbon of sky let in
daylight and at night showed a few stars.
Matt listened in vain for voices.
Scar tissue had formed a knot on the
bottom of his foot. He inspected the
writing frequently—PROPERTY OF THE
ALACRÁN ESTATE— but the scar had sliced
through the tiny lettering. It was more
difficult to make out the words.
One day a frightening argument
erupted between Rosa and the doctor.
“El Patrón wants me by his side. I’ll
come back once a month,” the man said.
“It’s just an excuse to get away from
me,” said Rosa.
“I have to work, you stupid woman.”
“Don’t you call me stupid!” the
woman snarled. “I know a lying coyote
when I see one.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Willum said
stiffly.
“Then why not take me with you? I
could be a housekeeper.”
“El Patrón doesn’t need one.”
“Oh, sure! How convenient! Let me
tell you, it’s horrible working here,” she
stormed. “The other servants laugh at
me. ‘She takes care of the beast,’ they
say. ‘She’s no better than a beast
herself.’ They treat me like scum.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not!” she cried. “Please take
me with you, Willum. Please! I love you.
I’ll do anything for you!”
The doctor pried her arms away.
“You’re hysterical. I’ll leave you some
pills and see you in a month.”
As soon as the door closed, Rosa
hurled the bucket against the wall and
cursed the doctor by all his ancestors.
Her face turned chalky with rage, except
for two splotches of red on her cheeks.
Matt had never seen anyone so furious,
and he found it terrifying.
“You’re responsible for this!” Rosa
shrieked. She pulled Matt up by his hair.
“Ow! Ow!” yelled Matt.
“Bleating won’t save you, you good-
for-nothing animal. No one can hear you.
This whole wing of the house is empty
because you are in it! They don’t even
put pigs down here!” Rosa thrust her
face close to his. Her cheekbones stood
out beneath her taut skin. Her eyes were
wide, and Matt could see white all
around the edges. She looked like a
demon in one of the comic books Celia
got from church.
“I could kill you,” Rosa said quietly.
“I could bury your body under the floor
—and I might do it.” She let him slump
to the floor again. He rubbed his head
where she had pulled the hair. “Or I
might not. You’ll never know until it’s
too late. But one thing you’d better
understand: I’m your master now, and if
you make me angry—watch out!”
She slammed the door as she left.
Matt sat paralyzed for a few minutes.
His heart pounded and his body was
slimy with sweat. What did she mean?
What else could she possibly do? After
a while he stopped trembling and his
breathing returned to normal. He tried
the door, but not even rage had kept
Rosa from locking it. He limped to the
window and watched the bright strip of
grass and flowers beyond the wall.
That night two gardeners, who refused
to look at Matt, removed his bed. Rosa
watched with a look of bitter
satisfaction. She took away the waste
bucket Matt had been forced to use since
he arrived.
“You can go in the corner on the
newspapers,” said Rosa. “That’s what
dogs do.”
Matt had to lie on the cement floor
without any covers and, of course,
without a pillow. He slept badly and his
body ached like a tooth in the morning.
When he had to use the newspapers in
the corner, he felt dirty and ashamed.
How long could this go on?
Rosa merely plunked down the
breakfast tray and left. She didn’t scold
him. At first Matt was relieved, but after
a while he began to feel bad. Even angry
words were better than silence. At home
he would have had the stuffed bear and
dog and Pedro el Conejo for company.
They didn’t talk, but he could hug them.
Where were they now? Had Celia
thrown them out because she knew he
wasn’t coming back?
Matt ate and cried at the same time.
The tears ran down into his mouth and
onto the dry toast Rosa had brought. He
had toast and oatmeal, scrambled eggs
with chorizo sausage, a plastic mug of
orange juice, a strip of cold bacon. At
least she wasn’t going to starve him.
In the evening Rosa brought him a
flavorless stew with cement-colored
gravy. Matt was given no utensils and
had to put his face in the bowl like a
dog. With the stew came boiled squash,
an apple, and a bottle of water. He ate
because he was hungry. He hated the
food because it reminded him of how
wonderful Celia’s cooking had been.
Days passed. Rosa never spoke to
him. A shutter seemed to have come
down over her face. She neither met
Matt’s eyes nor responded when he
asked her questions. Her silence made
him frantic. He talked feverishly when
she arrived, but he might have been a
stuffed bear for all the notice she took of
him.
Meanwhile the smell in the room
became appalling. Rosa cleaned the
corner every day, but the stench clung to
the cement. Matt got used to it. Rosa
didn’t, and one day she exploded in
another fit of rage.
“Isn’t it enough that I have to wait on
you?” she cried as he cowered next to
the window. “I’d rather clean out a
henhouse! At least they’re useful! What
good are you?”
Then an idea seemed to occur to her.
She halted in midrant and looked at Matt
in such a calculating way, he felt cold
right down to his toes. What was she
planning now?
Back came the sullen gardeners. They
built a low barrier across the door. Matt
watched with interest. The barrier was
as high as his waist—not tall enough to
keep him in, but high enough to slow him
down if he tried to escape. Rosa stood in
the hallway, watching and criticizing.
The gardeners said a few words Matt
had never heard before, and Rosa turned
dark with rage. But she didn’t reply.
After the barrier was finished, Rosa
lifted Matt outside and held him tightly.
He looked around eagerly. The hallway
was gray and empty, hardly more
interesting than the room, but at least it
was different.
Then something happened that made
Matt’s mouth fall open with surprise.
The gardeners trundled down the hall
with wheelbarrows piled high with
sawdust. They dumped them, one after
the other, into his room. Back and forth
they went until the floor was full of
sawdust heaped as high as the barrier in
the doorway.
Rosa suddenly swung him up by his
arms and tossed him inside. He landed
with a whump and sat up coughing.
“That’s what dirty beasts get to live
in,” she said, and slammed the door.
Matt was so startled that he didn’t
know what to think. The whole room
was full of the gray-brown powder. It
was soft. He could sleep on it like a bed.
He waded through the sawdust trying to
figure out why it had suddenly appeared
in his world. At least it was something
different.
Matt tunneled. He heaped the shavings
into hills. He threw it into the air to
watch it patter down in a plume of dust.
He amused himself this way for a long
time, but gradually Matt ran out of things
to do with sawdust.
Rosa brought him food at sundown.
She spoke not a single word. He ate
slowly, watching the tiny yellow light
that belonged to the Virgin and listening
for far-off noises from the rest of the
house.
“What in God’s green earth have you
done?” cried the doctor when he saw
Matt’s new environment.
“It’s deep litter,” said Rosa.
“Are you crazy?”
“What do you care?”
“Of course I care, Rosa,” the doctor
said, trying to take her hand. She threw
him off. “And I have to care about the
health of this clone. Good God, do you
know what would happen if he died?”
“You’re only worried about what
would happen to you. But don’t lose
sleep over it, Willum. I grew up on a
poultry farm, and deep litter is by far the
best way to keep chickens healthy. You
let the hens run around in it, and their
filth settles to the bottom. It saves their
feet from getting infected.”
Willum laughed out loud. “You’re a
very strange woman, Rosa, but I have to
admit the beast’s in good condition. You
know, I remember it talking when it
lived in Celia’s house. Now it doesn’t
say a thing.”
“It’s a sullen, evil-tempered animal,”
she said.
The doctor sighed. “Clones go that
way in the end. I did think this one was
brighter than most.”
Matt said nothing, hunched as he was
in a corner as far from the pair as he
could get. Long days of solitude in
Celia’s house had taught him how to be
quiet, and any attention from Willum or
Rosa could result in pain.
The days passed with agonizing
slowness, followed by nights of misery.
Matt could see little from the barred
window. The pink flowers withered.
The strip of sky was blue by day and
black at night. He dreamed of the little
house, of Celia, of a meadow so
intensely green, it made him cry when he
woke up.
And gradually it came to him that
Celia had forgotten him, that she was
never going to rescue him from this
prison. The idea was so painful, Matt
thrust it from his mind. He refused to
think about her, or when he did, he
quickly thought of something else to
drive her image from his mind. After a
while he forgot what she looked like,
except in dreams.
But Matt still fought against the
dullness that threatened to overwhelm
him. He hid caches of food under the
sawdust, not to eat later, but to attract
bugs. The window wasn’t glassed, and
so all sorts of small creatures could
come in through the bars.
First he attracted wasps to a chunk of
apple. Then he lured a glorious, buzzing
fly to a piece of spoiled meat. It sat on
the meat, just as though it had been
invited to dinner, and rubbed its hairy
paws as it gloated over the meal.
Afterward Matt discovered a writhing
mass of worms living in the meat, and he
watched them grow and eventually turn
into buzzing flies themselves. He found
this extremely interesting.
Then, of course, there were the
cockroaches. Small, brown ones
struggled through the sawdust; and big,
leathery bombers zoomed through the air
and made Rosa scream.
“You’re a monster!” she cried. “It
wouldn’t surprise me if you ate them!”
Oh, yes, there were all kinds of
entertainment in bugs.
One magical day a dove pushed its
way through the bars and rummaged
through the sawdust. Matt sat perfectly
still, entranced by the bird’s beauty.
When it flew away, it left a single pearl
gray feather behind, which Matt hid from
Rosa. He assumed that anything beautiful
would be destroyed by her.
He sang to himself—inside where
Rosa couldn’t hear—one of Celia’s
l ul l a b i e s : Buenos días paloma
blanca.Hoy te vengo a saludar. Good
morning white dove. Today I come to
greet thee. Celia said it was a song to
the Virgin. It occurred to Matt that this
dove had come from the Virgin and that
the feather meant She would watch over
him here as She had done in the little
house.
One day he heard footsteps outside.
He looked up to see a strange, new face
on the other side of the bars. It was a
boy somewhat older than himself, with
bristly red hair and freckles.
“You’re ugly,” said the boy. “You
look like a pig in a sty.”
Matt wanted to reply, but the habit of
silence had grown too strong. He could
only glare at the intruder. In the hazy
background of his mind, he recalled a
boy named Tom, who was bad.
“Do something,” said Tom. “Root
around. Scratch your piggy behind on the
wall. I have to have something to tell
María.”
Matt flinched. He remembered a
cheerful little girl with black hair, who
worried about him and was punished for
bringing him food. So she had returned.
And she hadn’t come to see him.
“That got you, didn’t it? Wait’ll I tell
your girlfriend how cute you are now.
You smell like a pile of dung.”
Matt felt idly beneath the sawdust for
something he’d been feeding to bugs. It
was an entire orange. At first it had been
green, but time had turned it blue and
very soft. Worms filled the inside,
diverting Matt with their wiggly bodies.
He curled his fingers around the orange.
It held its shape—barely.
“I forgot. You’re too dumb to talk.
You’re a stupid clone who wets his
pants and barfs all over his feet. Maybe
if I spoke your language, you’d
understand.” Tom put his face against the
bars and grunted. At the same instant
Matt flung the orange. His accuracy was
excellent because he had spent days
aiming fruit at targets.
The rotten orange burst apart all over
Tom’s face. He jumped back, screaming,
“It’s moving, it’s moving!” Pulp dripped
off his chin. Wiggly worms dropped into
his collar. “I’ll get you for this!” he
shrieked as he ran away.
Matt felt deeply peaceful. The room
might look like a featureless desert to
Rosa, but to him, it was a kingdom of
hidden delights. Underneath the sawdust
—and he knew exactly where—were
caches of nutshells, seeds, bones, fruit,
and gristle. The gristle was particularly
valuable. You could stretch it, bend it,
hold it up to the light, and even suck on it
if it wasn’t too old. The bones were his
dolls. He could make them have
adventures and talk to them.
Matt closed his eyes. He would like
to lock up Rosa and the doctor. He
would feed them wormy oranges and
sour milk. They would beg him to let
them go, but he wouldn’t, not ever.
He fished up the dove feather and
contemplated its silky colors. The
feather usually made him feel safe, but
now it made him uneasy. Celia said the
Virgin loved all kind and gentle things.
She wouldn’t approve of throwing a
rotten orange in Tom’s face, even if he
deserved it. If She looked inside Matt,
She would see the bad thoughts about
Rosa and the doctor and be sad.
Matt found he was sad too. I wouldn’t
really hurt them, he thought so the
Virgin could see that and smile. Still, he
couldn’t help feeling the warm sensation
of pleasure at having zinged Tom.
But as Celia had once told him, a smart
person doesn’t spit into the wind. If you
throw a rotten orange into someone’s
face, you can bet the orange will sooner
or later come flying back. In less than an
hour Tom returned with a peashooter.
Matt was clad only in a pair of shorts, so
the peas landed on his bare skin. At first
he tried to dodge them, but there was
nowhere to run in the narrow little room.
Matt settled in a corner with his head
cradled in his arms to protect his face.
He instinctively understood that if he
refused to react, Tom would lose
interest. It still took a long time. The boy
outside seemed to have an endless
supply of peas, but eventually he called
Matt a few bad names and went away.
Matt waited a long time to be sure. He
could be very patient. He thought of
Pedro el Conejo, who explored Señor
MacGregor’s garden and lost all his
clothes. Matt too had lost all his clothes,
except for the shorts. Rosa said he
would only ruin them.
Finally he looked up and saw his
kingdom was in disarray. Running
around had destroyed the marks that told
Matt what lay below. Sighing, he
worked his way through the sawdust. He
felt underneath to find his treasures. He
combed the surface smooth with his
fingers and renewed the lines and
hollows that told him where everything
was. It was very much like Celia moving
the furniture out to vacuum the rugs and
then moving it back again.
When he was finished, Matt sat in his
corner and waited for Rosa to bring his
dinner. But something shocking and
unbelievable happened first.
“¡Mijo! ¡Mi hijo!” cried Celia from
the window. “My child! My child! I
didn’t know you were here. Oh, God!
They told me you were with El Patrón. I
didn’t know.” She was holding María up
to the window in the crook of her arm.
“He looks different,” observed María.
“They starved him, the animals! And
took his clothes! Come here, darling. I
want to touch you.” Celia jammed her
big hand through the bars. “Let me see
you, mi vida. I can’t believe what’s
happened.”
But Matt could only stare. He wanted
to go. He had dreamed of nothing else,
but now that the moment had actually
come, he couldn’t move. It was too good
to be true. If he gave in and ran to Celia,
something bad would happen. Celia
would turn into Rosa, and María would
turn into Tom. The disappointment
would break him into pieces.
“Hey, eejit, I went to a lot of trouble
to come here,” María said.
“Are you too weak to stand?” Celia
cried suddenly. “Oh, my God! Have they
broken your legs? At least say
something. They haven’t torn out your
tongue?” She began to wail like La
Llorona. She stretched her hand through
the bars. Her misery tore at Matt, and
still he couldn’t move or speak.
“You’re squeezing me,” complained
María, so Celia put her down. The little
girl managed to stand tall enough to peer
through the window. “My dog, Furball,
was like that when the dogcatcher got
him. I cried and cried until Dada brought
him back. Furball wouldn’t eat or look
at me for a whole day, but he got over it.
I’m sure Matt will too.”
“Out of the mouths of babies comes
wisdom,” said Celia.
“I’m not a baby!”
“Of course not, darling. You only
reminded me that the most important
thing is to get Matt free,” Celia said,
smoothing María’s hair. “We can worry
about the other stuff later. If I give you a
letter, can you keep it a secret from
everyone? Especially Tom?”
“Sure,” said María.
“I hate to do it,” Celia said, half to
herself, “I hate like crazy to do it, but
there’s only one person who can save
Matt. María, you must take the letter to
your dada. He’ll know where to send it.”
“Okay,” said María cheerfully. “Hey,
Matt. Celia’s going to put chiles in
Tom’s hot chocolate tonight, only you
mustn’t tell anyone.”
“And you mustn’t either,” said Celia.
“Okay.”
“Don’t you worry,” the woman called
to Matt. “I’ve got more tricks up my
sleeve than old man coyote has fleas. I’ll
get you out of there, my love!”
Matt was frankly relieved to see them
go. They were an unwelcome intrusion
in the orderly world he had created. He
could forget them now and get back to
the contemplation of his kingdom. The
surface of the sawdust was combed
smooth, the treasures hidden beneath
marks that only he, the king, understood.
A bee wandered in, found nothing, and
left. A spider mended its web high up
near the ceiling. Matt took out the dove
feather and lost himself in its silky
perfection.
6
EL PATRÓN
Get up! Get up!” shouted Rosa. Matt
had been sleeping in a hollow formed by
his body. As he slept, he sank down until
the sawdust almost covered him. The
sudden awakening made him gasp. The
sawdust went up his nose, and he
doubled over, coughing and retching.
“Get up! Oh, you’re impossible! I’ve
got to wash you, dress you, and who
knows what else. You’re nothing but
trouble!” Rosa yanked him up by the hair
and dragged him out of the room.
Matt was hurried down dingy
hallways and past doorways that opened
into rooms both cramped and gloomy. A
maid scrubbed the floor with a big
brush. She looked up with hopeless eyes
as Rosa rushed him past.
Rosa pushed him into a steamy
bathroom. A tub stained with rust was
already full of water. The woman
shucked Matt out of his shorts before he
knew what was happening and dumped
him inside.
It was the first bath he’d had since
being locked up. Matt felt like a thirsty
sponge soaking up water until he was so
full that he could hardly move. The
warmth soothed his skin, which had
become itchy and sore. “Sit up! I haven’t
got all day,” growled Rosa, setting to
work with a brush almost as big as the
one in the hallway.
She scoured him until he was pink,
dried him with a big, fluffy towel, and
tried to get a comb through his tangled
hair. In a fury because it wouldn’t come
right, she grabbed a pair of scissors and
cut it all off. “They want tidy, they’ll get
tidy,” she muttered. She stuffed Matt into
a long-sleeved shirt and trousers and
gave him a pair of rubber sandals to
wear.
Very soon he was being hurried
across a courtyard to another part of the
house. His legs ached with the effort of
walking. Halfway across the courtyard
his feet tangled in the unfamiliar sandals
and he stumbled against Rosa.
She took the opportunity to lecture
him. “The doctor will be there,” she
said. “And so will important members of
the family. They’ll want to make sure
you’re healthy. If they ask questions,
don’t answer. Above all, don’t say
anything about me.” She brought her face
down close to his. “You’ll be all alone
with me in that little room,” she
whispered. “I swear I’ll kill you and
bury you under the floor if you make
trouble.”
Matt had no trouble believing her. He
forced his trembling legs to follow her
to a part of the house as different from
his old prison as the sun was from a
candle. The walls were painted cream
and rose and pale green. It was so bright
and cheerful, it raised his spirits in spite
of Rosa’s dire threats. The floor
gleamed with polish that made Matt feel
like he was walking on water.
Windows looked out on gardens with
fountains. They splashed and glittered in
the sun. A magnificent bird with a long
green tail stepped delicately across a
walk. Matt wanted to stop, but Rosa
shoved him on, all the while cursing
beneath her breath.
Finally they came to a large room
with a marvelous carpet woven with
birds and vines. Matt wanted to kneel
down and touch them. “Stand up,” hissed
Rosa. He saw windows framed by blue
curtains that went from floor to ceiling.
A small table set with a teapot, cups,
and a silver plate of cookies sat next to a
flowered armchair. Matt’s mouth
watered at the memory of cookies.
“Come closer, boy,” said an old, old
voice.
Rosa gasped. Her hand dropped from
Matt’s shoulder. “El Patrón,” she
whispered.
Matt saw that what he’d taken for an
empty armchair actually contained a
man. He was extremely thin, with
shoulder-length white hair neatly
combed beside a face so seamed and
wrinkled, it hardly seemed real. He was
wearing a dressing gown, and his knees
were covered by a blanket. It was the
blanket that had fooled Matt into thinking
the old man was part of the chair.
“It’s all right,” said Celia from behind
him. Matt whirled to see her in the
doorway. His heart lurched with relief.
Celia brushed past Rosa and took his
hand. “He’s had a bad time, mi patrón.
For six months they’ve kept him like a
wild animal.”
“You lie!” snarled Rosa.
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes. María
Mendoza told me.”
“She’s a baby! Who can believe a
baby?”
“I can,” said Celia quietly. “She
hadn’t been to the house for six months.
When she arrived, she asked to see Matt,
and Tom boasted that he’d shot him
dead. She flew straight to me.”
“Shot him? Is he hurt?” said the old
man.
“He was already hurt.” Celia
described the injuries caused by the
broken glass.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
demanded El Patrón. His voice wasn’t
loud, but there was a quality to it that
made Matt shiver even though he—for
once—wasn’t the one in trouble.
“It was the doctor’s place to do it,”
Rosa cried.
“It was everyone’s place to do it,”
said the old man in the same cold way.
“Take off your shirt, boy.”
Matt didn’t dream of disobeying. He
unbuttoned the shirt rapidly and dropped
it to the floor.
“¡Diós mio! My God!”
“Those bruises must be from Tom’s
peashooter,” said Celia, sounding ready
to cry. “See how thin he is, mi patrón?
And he’s got some kind of rash. He
wasn’t like that in my house, sir.”
“Call the doctor!”
Instantly—he must have been waiting
outside the door—Willum entered and
began examining Matt. He shook his
head as though he were genuinely
surprised by the boy’s condition. “He’s
suffering from mild malnutrition,” the
doctor said. “He has sores in his mouth.
His skin condition, I would say, comes
from a combination of dirt and an
allergic reaction to chicken litter.”
“Chicken litter?” said the old man.
“I understand he was kept in a room
full of sawdust to cut down on
housekeeping.”
“You knew about it, Willum,” cried
Rosa. “You didn’t tell me it was
wrong.”
“I knew nothing about it until today,”
said the doctor.
“You’re lying! Tell them, Willum!
You thought it was funny. You said the
beast—the boy—was in good
condition!”
“She’s suffering from delusions,” the
doctor told El Patrón. “It’s a shame such
an unstable individual was allowed to
have a position of responsibility.”
Rosa flew at the doctor and raked his
face with her nails before he was able to
grasp her wrists. She kicked and
screamed, driving Willum back with the
force of her rage. She actually bared her
teeth like a wild animal, and Matt
watched with interest to see whether she
would manage to sink them into the
man’s neck. Everything seemed unreal to
him—the sudden appearance of Celia,
the old man, the furious battle between
his two enemies. It was like watching
TV.
But before Rosa could do any serious
harm, a pair of burly men rushed through
the door and dragged her away.
“Willum! Willum!” she wailed. Her
voice grew fainter as she was carried
off. Matt heard a door slam and then he
heard nothing.
He became aware that Celia was
hugging him. He felt her body tremble as
she held him close. The doctor mopped
his face with a handkerchief. He was
bleeding from a dozen scratches. Only
El Patrón appeared tranquil. He had
settled back in the armchair, and his pale
lips were drawn up in a smile. “Well.
That’s the most excitement I’ve had in
months,” he said.
“I apologize, mi patrón,” said
Willum shakily. “This must have been a
terrible shock to you. I’ll check your
blood pressure at once.”
“Oh, stop fussing,” El Patrón said,
waving him off. “My life is far too quiet
these days. This … was most
entertaining.” He turned his attention to
Matt. “So they kept you on litter like a
barnyard fowl. Tell me, boy, did you
learn to cackle?”
Matt smiled. He liked El Patrón
instinctively. There was something so
right about the way the old man looked.
His eyes were a good color. Matt didn’t
know why it was good, only that it was.
El Patrón’s face seemed oddly familiar,
and his hands—thin and blue-veined—
had a shape that appealed to Matt in
some deep way.
“Come here, boy.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Matt
walked up to the chair and let the old
man stroke his face with a paper-dry
hand. “So young …,” El Patrón
murmured.
“You can speak now, mi vida ,” said
Celia, but Matt wasn’t ready to go that
far.
“Mi vida. I like that,” the old man
said with a chuckle. “I like it so much, in
fact, it’s what I’ll call him. Can he talk?”
“I think he’s in shock. In my house he
chattered away like a tree full of birds.
And he can read both English and
Spanish. He’s very intelligent, mi patrón
.”
“Of course. He’s my clone. Tell me,
Mi Vida, do you like cookies?”
Matt nodded.
“Then you shall have them. Celia, put
his shirt back on and find him a chair.
We have much to talk about.”
The next hour passed like a dream.
Both the doctor and Celia were sent
away. The old man and the boy sat
across from each other and dined not
only on cookies, but on creamed
chicken, mashed potatoes, and
applesauce as well. A maid brought
them from the kitchen. El Patrón said
these foods were his favorites, and Matt
decided they were his favorites too.
El Patrón had said they had much to
talk about, but in fact, only he did any
talking. He rambled on about his youth in
Aztlán. It was called Mexico when he
was a boy, he said. He came from a
place called Durango. “People from
Durango are called alacránes —
scorpions—because there are so many
of them scurrying around. When I made
my first million, I took that as my name:
Matteo Alacrán. It’s your name too.”
Matt smiled, well pleased that he
shared something with El Patrón.
As the old man talked, Matt pictured
in his mind the dusty cornfields and
purple mountains of Durango. He saw
the stream that roared with water two
months of the year and was dry as a bone
the rest of the time. El Patrón swam with
his brothers, but, alas, they died of
various things before they had a chance
to grow up. El Patrón’s sisters were
carried off by typhoid when they were
so small, they couldn’t look over the
windowsill—no, not even if they stood
on tiptoe.
Matt thought of María and worried.
Those little girls weren’t as old as she
when they were carried off by the
typhoid. He wondered if that monster
resembled the chupacabras. Of all those
children, only one lived: Matteo
Alacrán. He was skinny as a coyote,
with not even two pesos to rub together,
but he was filled with a burning desire
to survive.
At last the voice fell silent. Matt
looked up to see that El Patrón had
fallen asleep in his chair. Matt was
exhausted too. He was so full of food, he
had been half asleep for some time. The
same men who had taken Rosa now
entered, gently lifted El Patrón into a
wheelchair, and rolled him away.
Matt worried about what would
happen to him now. Would Rosa come
back and throw him into the sawdust?
Would she make good on her promise to
bury him alive?
But it was Celia who triumphantly
bore him away. She took him to her new
apartment in the Big House. Her
possessions had been moved from the
old place, so Matt wasn’t too
disappointed about not returning home.
The Virgin sat, as She always had, on a
table by his bed. She had gained a new
wreath of plastic roses about her robe
and a white lace tablecloth beneath her
from Celia, in gratitude for restoring
Matt to safety.
All in all, he was pleased with the
change, although he missed the doves
cooing on the roof and the wind blowing
through the poppies.
“Listen up, eejit,” commanded María.
“I’m supposed to make you talk.” Matt
shrugged. He had no interest in talking,
and besides, María did enough for both
of them. “I know you can do it. Celia
says you’re in shock, but I think you’re
just lazy.”
Matt yawned and scratched his
armpit.
“El Patrón is going away today.”
Now María had Matt’s interest. He
was dismayed that the old man was
leaving. He hadn’t seen him since the
day he was rescued. Celia said the
excitement had been too much for
someone who was 140 years old. El
Patrón had to stay in bed until he felt
well enough to travel to his other house
in the Chiricahua Mountains.
“We have to say good-bye to him.
Everyone’s coming, and you’d better
talk or you’ll be in big trouble.” María
squeezed Matt’s mouth as though she
could force the words out. He snapped
at her. The little girl scrambled away.
“You said you didn’t bite!” she
screamed. She grabbed a pillow and hit
him several times before collapsing on
the bed.
“Bad clone!” said María, hugging the
pillow to her chest.
Matt considered the idea. Being a
clone was bad no matter what you did,
so why bother being good at all? He
reached over and patted her hand.
“Oh, why won’t you talk?” stormed
María. “It’s been over a week. It took
Furball only one day to forgive me after
the dogcatcher got him.”
Matt wasn’t trying to upset her. He
couldn’t talk. When he tried to make the
words, he was overcome with terror. To
speak was to open a door into his
carefully built fortress, and anything
might rush inside.
“Matt was locked up a lot longer than
your dog,” said Celia as she entered the
room. She knelt down and stroked
Matt’s face. “Furball was gone only two
days. Matt was trapped for six months. It
takes time to recover.”
“Is that how it works?” the little girl
asked. “The longer you’re sick, the
longer it takes to get better?”
Celia nodded. She kept stroking
Matt’s face, his hair, his arms. It was as
though she were trying to bring feeling
back into his body.
“Then I guess,” María said, slowly,
“it’s going to take years for El Patrón to
get well.”
“Don’t talk about that!” cried Celia so
sharply that María hugged the pillow and
stared goggle-eyed at the woman. “Don’t
say anything about El Patrón! Shoo! I
don’t have time to entertain you.” Celia
flapped her apron at the girl, who fled
without another word.
Matt felt sorry for María. He
purposely made his body go stiff to make
it hard for Celia to dress him, but Celia
didn’t get angry. She hugged him and
sang him her favorite lullaby: “Buenos
días paloma blanca. Hoy te vengo a
saludar.” Matt shivered. It was the song
to the Virgin, who loved all gentle things
and who had watched over him in
prison. Then he knew it was wrong to be
mean to Celia and let himself go limp
again.
“That’s my good boy,” murmured the
woman. “You’re a good boy and I love
you.”
Matt suffered a moment of panic when
she tried to lead him outside. He felt
safe in his old bed, with the stuffed
animals and the tattered copy of Pedro
el Conejo. He kept the blinds closed,
even though the windows looked out
onto a beautiful walled garden. He
didn’t want anything new in his life, no
matter how beautiful.
“It’s all right. I won’t let anyone hurt
you,” said Celia, lifting him in her arms.
Matt had not seen the front of the Big
House yet. He was enchanted by the
marble-walled entranceway and statues
of fat babies with stubby wings. In the
center was a dark pond covered with
water lilies. Matt clutched Celia when
he saw a large fish rise casually from the
depths to look at him with a round,
yellow eye.
They passed between fluted, white
pillars to a porch with wide stairs
leading down to a driveway. Everyone
was lined up on the porch, servants to
one side and family on the other. He saw
Steven, Emilia, and María standing at
attention. When María tried to sit down,
Emilia yanked her up again. Matt saw
Tom holding María’s hand and felt an
almost uncontrollable surge of anger.
How dare he be friends with her! How
dare she be friends with him. If Matt had
another wormy orange, he’d hurl it
again, no matter what.
El Patrón sat in a wheelchair with a
blanket over his legs. The burly men
Matt had seen before guarded him.
Willum stood nearby, dressed in a gray
suit too warm for the day. His face was
shiny with sweat. Of Rosa, there was no
sign.
“Come here, Mi Vida,” said El
Patrón. The old man’s voice was clearly
audible over the sounds of birds and
fountains. It had a quality that
commanded attention in spite of its
weakness. Celia put Matt down.
Matt walked to the wheelchair
eagerly. He liked everything about El
Patrón—his voice, the shape of his face,
and his eyes, which were the color of the
dark pond with the fish lurking in its
depths.
“Show him to the family, Willum,” the
old man said.
The doctor’s hand was damp. Matt
felt a revulsion to him, but he allowed
himself to be led around the porch. He
was introduced to Mr. Alacrán, the
fierce man who had thrown Matt out that
first night and who was Benito’s,
Stevens, and Tom’s father. Benito, it
was explained, was away at college and
Matt would meet him another day. Mr.
Alacrán looked at Matt with undisguised
loathing.
Felicia, Mr. Alacrán’s wife, was a
frail woman with long, nervous fingers.
She had been a great concert pianist, the
doctor said, until illness forced her to
retire. Felicia flashed Willum a quick
smile that disappeared when she looked
at Matt. With her was Mr. Alacrán
father, an old man with white hair who
seemed unsure of why he was on the
porch.
Then Matt met—again—Steven,
Emilia, María, and Tom. Tom gave Matt
a scowl, which Matt returned. No one,
except María, seemed pleased to meet
him, but they all pretended to be
friendly.
It’s because they’re afraid of El
Patrón, Matt realized. He didn’t know
why, but it was very good that they
were.
“Has el gato — the cat—still got your
tongue?” inquired the old man when
Matt was at last brought back to the
wheelchair. Matt nodded. “Celia will
have to work on that. Listen, all of you,”
El Patrón said in a slightly louder voice.
“This is my clone. He’s the most
important person in my life. If you
thought it was any of you sorry,
misbegotten swine, think again.” The old
man chuckled softly.
“Matt is to be treated with respect,
just as though I were here in his place.
He is to be educated, well fed, and
entertained. He is not to be mistreated.”
El Patrón looked directly at Tom, who
flushed red. “Anyone—anyone— who
harms Matt will be dealt with severely.
Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, mi patrón ,” murmured several
voices.
“And to be absolutely sure, I’m
leaving one of my bodyguards behind.
Which of you louts volunteers for the
duty?”
The bodyguards shuffled their feet and
looked down.
“Overcome with shyness, I see,” El
Patrón said. “I picked up this lot in
Scotland, breaking heads outside a
soccer field. Always choose your
bodyguards from another country, Matt.
They find it harder to make alliances and
betray you. Well, Matt, you make the
choice. Which of these shrinking violets
do you want for a playmate?”
Appalled, Matt looked at the men.
Anyone less playful could hardly be
imagined. They were thick-necked and
brutal, with flattened noses and scars
wandering across their arms and faces.
They both had curling, brown hair that
grew low upon their foreheads, ruddy
faces, and bright blue eyes.
“That one’s Daft Donald—he likes to
juggle bowling balls. Tam Lin is the one
with the interesting ears.”
Matt shifted his gaze from one to the
other. Daft Donald was younger and less
battered. He seemed a safer person to
have around. Tarn Lin’s ears appeared
chewed, they were so misshapen. But
when Matt looked into Tarn Lin’s eyes,
he was surprised to see a glint of
friendliness.
Friendliness was so rare in Matt’s
life, he instantly pointed to the man.
“Good decision,” whispered El
Patrón. With the introductions disposed
of, energy seemed to desert him. He sank
back in the wheelchair and closed his
eyes. “Good-bye, MiVida … until next
time,” he murmured.
The Alacráns crowded around and
assured El Patrón of their fond regards.
He ignored them. Then Daft Donald
lifted him, chair and all, and carried him
down the stairs to a waiting limousine.
Everyone followed, calling out their
good wishes. When the car drove off, the
family members hurried away. The
servants parted around Matt as though he
were a rock in a stream and vanished
into the house.
He was ignored. Not mistreated, just
ignored. Only María had to be dragged
off, complaining loudly.
Celia waited patiently for the crowd
to clear. And Tarn Lin.
“Well, laddie, let’s see what you’re
made of,” said Tam Lin, scooping up
Matt in one beefy arm and slinging him
over his shoulder.
7
TEACHER
Matt avoided leaving the safe haven of
Celia’s apartment for as long as
possible. But gradually, Celia and María
lured him into the walled garden and,
from there, to other parts of the Big
House.
Matt didn’t like these excursions. The
servants drew away from him as though
he were something unclean, and Steven
and Emilia turned the other way if they
saw him coming. And there was always
the danger of running into Tom.
Tom insisted on playing with María.
He made her cry, but she always forgave
him. He followed her to Celia’s
apartment in spite of—or perhaps
because of—Matt’s hostility. He seemed
to like being where he wasn’t wanted.
“It’s nice here,” Tom said, picking up
Matt’s treasured teddy bear. “Catch,
María.” He swung the bear viciously by
one of its ragged ears and smacked her
in the face. The ear tore off. He tossed it
to the floor.
“Ow!” she squealed. Matt scrambled
for the ear, but Tom put his foot on it.
Matt flew at him, and soon they were
both down on the floor, kicking and
punching. María ran to get Tam Lin.
The bodyguard watched impassively
for a moment, then reached down and
pulled the boys apart. “You were told to
leave Matt alone, Master Tom,” he said.
“He hit me first!” shouted Tom.
“He did,” María said, “but Tom
teased him.”
“You’re a liar!” yelled Tom.
“I am not!”
Matt said nothing. He wanted to throw
Tom to the ground. He even wanted to
kick Tam Lin. He tried to shout insults,
but the words wouldn’t come out. They
stayed inside, getting bigger and bigger
until he was sick to his stomach.
“You’re right,” Tom said suddenly. “I
did tease Matt. I’m really sorry about
it.” Matt was amazed. Tom seemed to
change right before his eyes. The angry
red faded from Tom’s cheeks. His eyes
became clear and guileless. It was hard
to believe it was the same boy who had
been kicking and screaming only a
minute ago.
Matt wished desperately that he could
get over things that fast. Whenever he
was hurt or angry or sad, the feelings
stuck their claws into him until they
were ready to let go. Sometimes it took
hours.
Tam Lin studied Tom’s earnest face
for a moment and then loosened his grip
on the boy’s shirt. “Fair enough,” he
said. He turned Matt free, too. Matt
immediately took both Tom’s and
Marías hands and dragged them to the
door. He felt swollen with all the words
he wanted to shout at them.
“You want us to go?” cried María.
“After we made up and all?”
Matt nodded.
“Well, I think you’re a pig! And I’m
not going to be mean to Tom just
because you don’t like him. Besides,
everyone thinks you’re awful.” María
slammed the door behind her.
Matt sat on the floor with tears
pouring down his face. He made
snuffling noises like a pig and hated
himself for doing it, but he couldn’t stop.
Celia would have comforted him if
she’d been there. Tam Lin only shrugged
and went back to his sports newspaper.
Later, when Matt had recovered, he
searched for the bear’s ear, but it was
gone.
Tom was a master of the near miss.
He punched the air near Matt’s head,
practicing—he said—karate exercises.
He whispered insults too low for anyone
else to hear. “You’re a clone,” he
murmured. “Know what that is? A kind
of puke. You were puked up by a cow.”
Around important people, Tom was
courteous. He asked how they were and
listened politely to the answers. He
brought drinks to his mother and opened
doors for his grandfather. He was
thoughtful and yet—
There was something a little off about
everything Tom did. He brought his
mother drinks, but the glass didn’t
always seem clean. He opened the door
for his grandfather, but he let it swing
shut on the old man’s heel. It wasn’t
quite enough to make him fall and it
could have been an accident. Everyone
trusted Tom because he had such an
open, innocent face, and yet—“He’s an
unnatural little weevil,” growled Tam
Lin. Matt was relieved to find that the
bodyguard didn’t like Tom either.
Tam Lin.
Matt spent the first weeks tiptoeing
around him. The man was so large and
dangerous looking. It was like having a
tame grizzly bear in your house. Tam Lin
planted himself in Celia’s easy chair and
watched silently as María and Celia
tried to tempt Matt to read or do a puzzle
or eat. Matt enjoyed these activities, but
it pleased him to be coaxed. He could
make María almost scream with
frustration. Celia would only stroke his
hair and sigh. The bodyguard seemed to
be reading, but his eyes flicked up and
back again as he took in the scene before
him.
Matt thought he looked irritated,
although it was hard to tell. Tam Lin’s
normal expression wasn’t very pleasant.
The doctor visited often because of a
cough Matt had developed. At first it
didn’t seem important, but one night he
woke with his throat full of liquid. He
couldn’t get any air. He stumbled to
Celia’s room and doubled up on the
floor. Celia screamed for Tam Lin.
Bursting through the door, the
bodyguard upended Matt and gave him a
whack on the back. Matt spat out a mass
of thick slime. Tam Lin matter-of-factly
ran his finger around the inside of Matt’s
mouth to clear it out. “Done that with
lambs on me da’s farm,” he said,
handing the boy back to Celia.
When Willum came later, Tam Lin
watched everything the doctor did. The
bodyguard said nothing, but his presence
made Willum’s hands slick with sweat.
Matt didn’t know why the doctor was so
afraid of Tam Lin, but it pleased him
deeply that it was so.
After that, all Matt had to do was
cough and Celia or María would fall
into a satisfying panic. Sometimes Matt
really did have trouble breathing, but
sometimes he only wanted to reassure
himself that someone cared for him.
“I have to go to school, you eejit,” said
María. “The holidays are over.” Matt
stared out the window, punishing her for
abandoning him. “I don’t live here, you
know. Sometime, maybe, they’ll let you
visit my house—you’d love it. I have a
dog and a tortoise and a parakeet. The
parakeet talks, but it doesn’t mean
anything.”
Matt shifted his position to make his
rejection more obvious. If María didn’t
notice she was being snubbed, the whole
thing was pointless.
“I think you can talk if you want to,”
she went on. “Everyone says you’re too
stupid, but I don’t believe it. Please,
Matt,” she wheedled. “Say you’ll miss
me. Or hug me. I’ll understand that.
Furball howls when I leave home.”
Matt turned his back on her.
“You’re so mean! I’d take you to
school, but they don’t allow clones.
Anyhow, the other kids …” María’s
voice trailed off. Matt could guess. The
other kids would run away like Steven
and Emilia. “I’ll be back on weekends.
And you’ll have a teacher here.” She put
out her hand tentatively. Matt shoved her
away. “Oh, dear,” she said with a catch
in her voice. She cried too easily, Matt
thought.
He felt a breeze as the door opened.
How could she betray him by going
away? She was probably visiting Tom
now, asking him to go to school with her
because she liked him better, the
unnatural little weevil.
“You could’ve been nicer,” remarked
Tam Lin. Matt continued staring out the
window. What business was it of Tam
Lin to worry about María? He was
Matt’s bodyguard, not hers.
“Oh, you can understand me,” the man
said. “I’ve been watching you, with your
sharp little eyes. You take in everything
everyone says. You’re like the old man.
I don’t know much about this clone
business—I was twelve the last time I
darkened a schoolroom door—but I
know you’re a copy of him. It’s like the
old vulture was being given a second
chance.”
Matt’s eyes opened wide at Tam Lin’s
choice of words. No one ever criticized
El Patrón.
“I’ll tell you this: El Patrón has his
good side and his bad side. Very dark
indeed is his majesty when he wants to
be. When he was young, he made a
choice, like a tree does when it decides
to grow one way or the other. He grew
large and green until he shadowed over
the whole forest, but most of his
branches are twisted.”
Tam Lin settled into Celia’s chair;
Matt could hear the springs groan with
his weight.
“I’m probably talking over your head,
laddie. What I mean to say is this: When
you’re small, you can choose which way
to grow. If you’re kind and decent, you
grow into a kind and decent man. If
you’re like El Patrón … Just think about
it.” The bodyguard left the room. Matt
heard him outside in the walled garden.
Tam Lin had energy to spare, and he
didn’t nearly use it up guarding Celia’s
apartment. He kept a rack of weights by
the wall. Matt heard him grunt as he
lifted them.
Matt didn’t understand much of what
Tam Lin had said. He’d never thought
about growing up. Matt knew—
theoretically—it was going to happen,
but he couldn’t imagine being bigger
than he was now. The idea that if you
were mean, you might stay mean forever
had never occurred to him.
Celia said if you scowled all the time,
your face would freeze that way. You’d
never be able to smile, and if you looked
into a mirror, it would fly into a
thousand pieces. She also said if you
swallowed watermelon seeds, they’d
grow out your ears.
María was gone, along with Emilia.
Soon Steven and Tom left for boarding
school, and Matt found himself the only
child in the Big House. If he was a child,
that is. Tom said clones weren’t the
same as children. They weren’t even
close.
Matt looked at the mirror in Celia’s
bathroom. He couldn’t see much
difference between himself and Tom, but
perhaps he was different inside. The
doctor once told Rosa that clones went
to pieces when they got older. What did
that mean? Did they actually fall apart?
Matt hugged himself. His arms and
legs might drop off his body. His head
would roll around by itself, like in that
monster movie he’d been watching
before Celia ran in and turned off the
TV. The idea filled him with terror.
“Time for school, laddie,” called Tam
Lin.
Still hugging himself, Matt emerged
from the bathroom. A strange woman
stood in the living room. She was
smiling at him, but the smile didn’t look
right to Matt. It stopped at the edge of
her mouth, as though there were a wall
keeping it from getting any farther. “Hi!
I’m your new teacher,” said the woman.
“You can call me Teacher, ha-ha. That
makes it easy to remember.” The laugh
was weird too.
Matt edged into the room. Tam Lin
blocked the door leading to the rest of
the house.
“Learning is fun!” said Teacher. “I’ll
bet you’re a smart boy. I’ll bet you learn
all your lessons fast and make your
mommy proud of you.”
Matt exchanged a startled look with
Tam Lin.
“The lad’s an orphan,” Tam Lin said.
Teacher paused as though she didn’t
quite understand.
“He doesn’t talk,” the bodyguard
explained. “That’s why I have to answer
for him. He can read a bit, though.”
“Reading is fun!” Teacher said in a
hearty voice.
She took out paper, pencils, crayons,
and a coloring book from a canvas bag.
Matt spent the morning copying letters
and coloring in pictures. Every time he
finished a lesson, Teacher cried, “Very
good!” and printed a smiley face on his
paper. After a while Matt wanted to
leave the table, and Teacher firmly sat
him back down again.
“No, no, no,” she cooed. “You won’t
get a gold star if you do that.”
“He needs a break,” growled Tam
Lin. “So do I,” he said under his breath
as he ferried Matt to the kitchen for a
glass of milk and cookies. He brought
Teacher coffee and watched intently
while she drank it. He seemed as
puzzled by the woman as Matt was.
The rest of the day was spent counting
things—beads, apples, and flowers.
Matt was bored because he seemed to be
doing the same thing over and over. He
already knew how to count, even though
he had to do it silently and write down
the correct number instead of saying it.
Finally, in the late afternoon, Teacher
said that Matt had been very good and he
was going to make his mommy very
proud.
Tam Lin presented a report of Matt’s
studies over dinner, when Celia
returned. “You’re my clever boy,” she
said fondly, giving Matt an extra slice of
apple pie. She gave Tam Lin an entire
pie for himself.
“Aye, the lad’s that,” the bodyguard
agreed, his jaws full of food. “But
there’s something uncommonly strange
about the teacher. She says the same
thing over and over.”
“That’s how you teach little kids,”
said Celia.
“Perhaps,” said Tam Lin. “I’m not
what you’d call an expert on education.”
The next day went exactly like the
first. If Matt thought he’d been bored
before, it was nothing compared to
writing the same letters, coloring the
same pictures, and counting the same
wretched beads and flowers all over
again. But he worked hard to make Celia
proud of him. Days three, four, and five
passed in exactly the same way.
Tam Lin went outside and juggled
weights. He dug a vegetable bed for
Celia in the walled garden. Matt wished
he could escape that easily.
“Who can tell me how many apples I
have here?” warbled Teacher on day
six. “I’ll bet it’s my good boy!”
Matt suddenly snapped. “I’m not a
good boy!” he screamed. “I’m a bad
clone! And I hate counting and I hate
you!” He grabbed Teacher’s carefully
arranged apples and hurled them every
which way. He threw the crayons on the
floor, and when she tried to pick them
up, he shoved her as hard as he could.
Then he sat on the floor and burst into
tears.
“Someone isn’t going to get a smiley
face on his paper,” Teacher said with a
gasp, leaning against a wall. She started
to whimper like a frightened animal.
Tam Lin thundered through the door
and gathered Teacher up in a bear hug.
“Don’t cry,” he said into her hair.
“You’ve done very well. You’ve fixed
something the rest of us hadn’t a clue
how to mend.” Gradually, Teacher’s
breathing slowed and the whimpering
stopped.
Matt was so startled, he stopped
crying. He realized something
momentous had just happened.
“I can talk,” he murmured.
“You get two gold stars by your name
today, lassie,” Tam Lin said into
Teacher’s hair. “You poor, sad creature.
I didn’t know what I was looking at until
now.” He gently urged the woman out of
the apartment, and Matt heard him
talking to her all the way down the hall.
“My name is Matteo Alacrán,” Matt
said, testing his newly regained voice.
“I’m a good boy.” He felt dizzy with
happiness. Celia was going to be so
proud of him now! He would read and
color and count until he became the best
student in the whole world, and then the
children would like him and they
wouldn’t run away.
Tam Lin interrupted Matt’s ecstatic
thoughts. “I hope that wasn’t a one-shot
deal,” he said. “I mean, you really can
talk?”
“I can, I can, I can!” Matt sang.
“Wonderful. I was going bonkers with
counting beads. The poor thing—it was
all she knew how to do.”
“She was an eejit,” announced Matt,
using María’s worst insult.
“You don’t even know what the word
means,” Tam Lin said. “Tell you what,
laddie. We’ve got something to
celebrate. Let’s go on a picnic.”
“A picnic?” echoed Matt, trying to
remember the meaning of the word.
“I’ll explain it to you on the way,”
said Tam Lin.
8
THE EEJIT IN THE DRY
FIELD
Matt was wildly excited. Not only
were they going on a picnic, but they
would travel by horseback. Matt had
seen horses from the windows of the
little house. And of course he’d seen
them on TV. Cowboys and big, tough
bandidos rode them. His favorite hero
was El Látigo Negro, the Black Whip.
El Látigo Negro was on TV every
Saturday. He wore a black mask and
rescued poor people from evil
capitalists. His favorite weapon was a
long whip with which he could peel an
apple while it was still on the tree.
Matt was more than a little
disappointed when Tam Lin brought out
a sleepy gray horse instead of the
spirited steed El Látigo Negro rode. “Be
reasonable, lad,” said the bodyguard,
tightening the girths on the saddle.
“We’re after reliability, not speed. El
Patrón wouldn’t take it at all well if you
were dumped on your head.”
Once Matt was perched on the saddle
in front of Tam Lin, he forgot all about
his disappointment. He was riding! He
was high in the air, swaying along with
the smell of horse all around him. He felt
the coarse hair of the mane and pressed
his ankles against the warm coat of the
animal.
After all those months without talking,
Matt couldn’t wait to catch up. He
chattered about everything he saw—the
blue sky, the birds, the flies buzzing
around the horse’s ears.
Tam Lin didn’t stop him. He grunted
occasionally to show he was listening
and directed the horse along a dirt path.
They plodded through the poppy fields
and gradually moved away from the Big
House toward the gray-brown hills that
lay on the horizon.
The first fields they encountered were
covered with a mist of new leaves.
These were the seedlings. Matt had
watched the growing cycle from the
window of the little house, and he knew
what to expect. The older plants were
larger and rounder—like small cabbages
—and the leaves were tinged with blue.
As they rode, the plants became larger
until they were as high as the belly of the
horse. Buds opened into crinkled petals
in a glory of white under the hot sun. A
faint perfume hung in the air.
They came to fields where the petals
had fallen. These lay in drifts all over
the ground while the seedpods they left
behind stuck up like green thumbs. The
pods had swelled until they were the
size of hen’s eggs and ready for harvest.
Matt saw the first Farm laborers.
He’d observed them before, but Celia
had warned him to hide from strangers,
so he hadn’t watched them closely. Now
he saw that both men and women wore
tan uniforms and wide, straw hats. They
walked slowly, bending down with tiny
knives to slash the pods. “Why are they
doing that?” Matt asked.
“To release the opium,” replied Tam
Lin. “The sap oozes out and hardens
overnight. In the morning the workers
scrape it off. They can collect from the
same plant four or five times.”
On and on the horse plodded. The
fields shimmered with heat, and a sweet
odor with something rotten at its core
filled the air. The workers bent and
slashed, bent and slashed in a hypnotic
rhythm. They didn’t speak. They didn’t
even wipe the sweat off their faces.
“Don’t they get tired?” Matt asked.
“Oh, aye. They do,” said Tam Lin.
At last the horse came to a deserted
field. The plants were beginning to dry.
A hot breeze rattled the leaves. “Look!
There’s a man lying on the ground,”
cried Matt.
Tam Lin halted the horse and got
down. “Stay,” he ordered the animal.
Matt clung tightly to the mane. He didn’t
feel at all safe so far off the ground. Tam
Lin strode over to the man, bent down,
and felt his neck. He shook his head and
returned.
“Can’t we—can’t we help him?”
faltered Matt.
“It’s too late for that poor soul,”
grunted the bodyguard.
“What about the doctor?”
“I told you it’s too late! You want to
get your ears cleaned!” Tam Lin hoisted
himself back into the saddle and ordered
the horse to go on. Matt looked back,
tears stinging his eyes. The man was
quickly hidden by the poppy plants.
Why was it too late? Matt wondered.
The man must be terribly hot, lying as he
was in the full sun. Why couldn’t they
stop and give him water? Matt knew they
had water. He could hear it sloshing in
Tam Lin’s backpack.
“We could go back—” Matt began
again.
“Damn it!” roared the bodyguard. He
halted the horse and sat for a moment,
breathing hard. Matt looked at the
ground and wondered whether he had the
nerve to jump off if Tam Lin really lost
his temper.
“I forget. Kids your age don’t know
anything,” said Tam Lin at last. “The
man is dead. Heat or lack of water killed
him. The cleanup crews at the end of the
day will find him.”
The horse moved on. Matt had even
more questions now, but he was too
unsure of Tam Lin’s temper to ask them.
Why hadn’t the man gone home when he
got sick? Why hadn’t the other workers
helped him? Why was he being left out
there like apiece of trash?
All the while, they were riding along
a range of hills that bordered the fields.
Now they turned off into a dry streambed
that led into the hills. Tam Lin got down
and led the horse under a cliff, where it
would have shade. Nearby was a trough
and a pump, which he worked
vigorously to bring up the water. The
horse was sweating. Its eyes watched the
trough, but it didn’t move.
“Drink,” said Tam Lin. The horse
trotted forward and dipped its muzzle. It
blew noisy bubbles as it drank
ravenously. “We’ll walk the rest of the
way.”
“Can’t we take the horse?” said Matt,
looking doubtfully at the streambed
snaking into the hills.
“It wouldn’t obey. It’s programmed to
stay on the Farm.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a Safe Horse, which means it has
an implant in its head. It won’t bolt or
jump. It won’t even drink unless you tell
it to.”
Matt digested that idea for a moment.
“Not even if it’s very thirsty?” he said at
last.
“It was thirsty just now,” said Tam
Lin. “If I hadn’t told it to drink, it would
have stood in front of the trough until it
died. Stay,” he told the horse.
Shouldering a backpack, he started up
the dry stream. Matt scrambled after
him. At first the way wasn’t difficult, but
soon it was blocked by boulders they
had to climb. Matt wasn’t used to
exercise, and he quickly found himself
out of breath. He didn’t stop, though,
because he was afraid Tam Lin would
leave him behind. Finally the bodyguard
heard him gasping and turned back. He
hunted through the backpack. “Here.
Drink some water. Have a bite of beef
jerky too. The salt’ll do you good.”
Matt devoured the beef jerky. It tasted
wonderful.
“Not much farther, laddie. You’re
doing very well for a hothouse plant.”
They came to a giant boulder that
seemed to block the trail until Matt saw
a round hole in the middle. It was worn
smooth like the hole in a donut. Tam Lin
climbed through and reached back to
help Matt.
The scene on the other side was
completely unexpected. Creosote bushes
and paloverde trees framed a small,
narrow valley, and in the center of this
was a pool of water. At the far end Matt
saw an enormous grapevine sprawled
over a manmade trellis. In the water
itself, Matt saw shoals of little brown
fish that darted away from his shadow.
“This is what you call an oasis,” said
Tam Lin, throwing down his pack and
taking out food for the picnic. “Not bad,
eh?”
“Not bad!” agreed Matt, accepting a
sandwich.
“I found this place years ago when I
first started working for El Patrón. The
Alacráns don’t know about it. If they
did, they’d run a pipe in here and take
out all the water. I hope I can count on
you to keep the secret.”
Matt nodded, his mouth full of
sandwich.
“Don’t tell María either. She can’t
help blabbing.”
“Okay,” said Matt, proud that Tam Lin
considered him responsible enough to
keep a secret.
“I brought you here for two reasons,”
said the bodyguard. “One, because it’s
nice. And two, because I want to tell you
a few things without being spied on.”
Matt looked up, surprised.
“You never know who’s listening to
you in that house. You’re too young to
understand much, and I wouldn’t say
anything if you were a real boy.” Tam
Lin tossed bread crumbs into the pool.
The little fish rose to the surface to feed.
“But you’re a clone,” he went on. “You
haven’t got anyone to explain things to
you. You’re alone in a way real humans
can’t understand. Even orphans can look
at pictures and say, ‘That’s me ma and
that’s me da.’”
“Am I a machine?” Matt blurted out.
“Machine? Oh, no.”
“Then how was I made?”
Tam Lin laughed. “If you were a real
boy, I’d tell you to ask your big brother
that tricky little question. Well, lad, the
best way to describe it is this: A long,
long time ago some doctors took a piece
of skin from El Patrón. They froze it so it
would keep. Then, about eight years ago,
they took a bit of that skin and grew it
into a whole new El Patrón. Only they
had to start at the beginning with a baby.
That was you.”
“That was me?” asked Matt.
“It was.”
“So I’m just a piece of skin?”
“Now I’ve gone and upset you,” said
Tam Lin. “The skin was what you might
call a photograph. All the information
was there to grow a real copy—skin,
hair, bones, and brain—of a real man.
You’re exactly like El Patrón when he
was seven years old.”
Matt looked down at his toes. That’s
all he was: a photograph.
“They put that piece of skin into a
special kind of cow. You grew inside,
and when the time came, you were born.
Only, of course, you didn’t have a father
or a mother.”
“Tom said I was puked up by a cow,”
said Matt.
“Tom is a filthy little pustule,” said
Tarn Lin. “And so is the rest ofthat
family. If you quote me, I’ll deny it.” He
brought out a bag of trail mix and passed
it to Matt. “To continue: Being a clone,
you’re different and a lot of people are
afraid of you.”
“They hate me,” Matt said simply.
“Aye. Some do.” Tam Lin stood up
and stretched his big muscles. He paced
back and forth on the sand where they
were having their picnic. He hated to sit
still for long. “But some love you. I’m
speaking of María and, of course,
Celia.”
“And El Patrón.”
“Ah, well. El Patrón’s a special case.
To be honest, the number of people who
love you is small and the number who
hate you is large. They can’t get around
the fact that you’re a clone. It makes it
hard to send you to school.”
“I know.” Matt thought bitterly of
María. If she really loved him, she’d
take him with her and not care about
how the other kids felt.
“El Patrón insists that you be educated
and live, as nearly as possible, a normal
life. The problem is, no private teacher
wants to teach a clone. And so the
Alacráns got an eejit.”
Matt was startled. He’d heard the
word so often—mostly from María—
he’d thought it was only a swear word,
like dum-dum or cootie face.
“An eejit is a person or animal with
an implant in its head,” said Tam Lin.
“Like the horse?” said Matt as a
terrible thought occurred to him.
“Correct. Eejits can do only simple
things. They pick fruit or sweep floors
or, as you’ve seen, harvest opium.”
“The Farm workers are eejits!” cried
Matt.
“That’s why they work without resting
until the foreman orders them to stop and
why they don’t drink water unless
someone tells them to.”
Matt’s thoughts were whirling. If the
horse could stand there and die in front
of a trough of water, then the man—
“The man,” he said aloud.
“You’re bright as a button, lad,” said
Tam Lin. “The man we saw on the
ground probably lagged behind the other
workers and didn’t hear the foreman tell
them to stop. He might have worked all
night, getting thirstier and thirstier—”
“Stop!” shrilled Matt. He covered his
ears. This was horrible! He didn’t want
to know any more.
Tam Lin was at his side at once.
“That’s enough lessons for one day.
We’re on a picnic and we haven’t had
any fun yet. Come on. I’ll show you a
beehive and a coyote den. Everything
lives around water in the desert.”
They spent the rest of the day
exploring the burrows, the crevices, the
hidden lairs of the secret valley. Tam
Lin might not have gone to school for too
long, but he knew a great deal about
nature. He taught Matt to sit still and
wait for things to come to him. He told
him how to tell the mood of a beehive by
its hum. He pointed out droppings and
tracks and bone fragments.
Finally, as shadows began to fill up
the oasis, Tam Lin helped Matt climb
through the hole in the rock and return to
the horse. It was waiting exactly where
they’d left it. Tam Lin ordered it to take
another drink before they set off.
The fields were empty, and the long
shadows of hills flowed across the land.
Where they ended, the late-afternoon sun
made the poppies glow with a golden
light. They passed the dry field where
the man’s body had lain, but it was gone.
“Teacher was an eejit,” said Matt,
breaking the silence.
“She was one of the brighter ones,”
said Tam Lin. “Even so, she could do
only one lesson over and over.”
“Will she come back?”
“No.” The bodyguard sighed. “They’ll
put her to work mending curtains or
peeling potatoes. Let’s talk about
something more cheerful.”
“Could you teach me?” asked Matt.
Tam Lin let out a bellow of genuine
laughter. “I could if you wanted to learn
how to break desks with karate chops. I
reckon you’ll do your schooling off the
TV. I’ll be around to hang you out the
window by your ankles if you don’t
study.”
9
THE SECRET PASSAGE
On the surface Matt’s life settled into a
pleasant rhythm. He studied via distance
learning over the TV, Tam Lin sent off
the homework, it came back with
excellent grades, and Celia praised Matt
lavishly. María praised him too when
she visited. It didn’t hurt either that Tom
had lousy grades and managed to stay in
boarding school only because Mr.
Alacrán sent the headmaster a large
donation.
But underneath Matt felt a hollowness.
He understood he was only a photograph
of a human, and that meant he wasn’t
really important. Photographs could lie
forgotten in drawers for years. They
could be thrown away.
At least once a week Matt dreamed of
the dead man in the field. The man’s
eyes were open and staring up at the sun.
He was terribly, horribly thirsty. Matt
could see how dusty his mouth was, but
there was no water anywhere, only the
dry, rattling poppies. It got so bad that
Matt demanded a pitcher of water by his
bed. If only he could take that pitcher
into his dreams. If only he could dream
it there and pour water into the man’s
dusty lips, but he couldn’t. And when he
woke up, he drank glass after glass to get
rid of the dry, dead feel of the poppy
fields. Then, of course, he had to go to
the bathroom.
On such occasions Matt would tiptoe
past Celia’s bedroom. He could hear her
snores and, across the hall, Tam Lin’s
thunderous reply. This should have made
him feel safe. But Matt never knew, just
before he opened the bathroom door,
whether the dead man might be lying on
the other side, staring up at the big light
in the middle of the ceiling.
María started bringing Furball on her
visits. He was a shrill, rat-sized dog that
forgot his house training when he got
excited. Tarn Lin often threatened to
suck him—and the mess he deposited—
up the vacuum cleaner. “He’d fit,” he
growled over María’s horrified protests.
“Trust me, he’d fit.”
What Matt hated about the creature
was everyone’s assumption that he and
Furball were the same. It didn’t matter
that Matt had excellent grades and good
manners. They were both animals and
thus unimportant.
During Easter vacation Tom said
good manners were no harder to learn
than rolling over or playing dead. Matt
threw himself at him, and María ran
shrieking for Tam Lin. Tom was sent to
his room without dinner. Matt wasn’t
punished at all.
Which was okay with Matt, except
that Furball wasn’t punished for his
crimes either. He couldn’t understand
the difference between right and wrong.
He was a dumb beast and so, apparently,
was Matt.
When María wasn’t visiting, Matt
amused himself by exploring the house.
He pretended he was El Látigo Negro
scouting out an enemy fortress. He had a
black cape and a long, thin leather belt
for a whip. He skulked behind curtains
and furniture, and he hid if he saw one of
the Alacráns in the distance.
Felicia—Benito’s, Stevens, and
Tom’s mother—played the piano in the
afternoons. Her crashing chords echoed
from the music room. She attacked the
piano with a fervor completely different
from her usual, sluggish self, and Matt
liked to hide behind the potted plants to
listen.
Her fingers flew from one end of the
keyboard to the other. Her eyes were
closed and her mouth was pulled back in
a grimace that wasn’t pain, but
something close to it. The music was
wonderful, though.
After a while Felicia would run out of
energy. Trembling and pale, she would
hunch over the keys, and this was the
signal for a servant to bring her a brown
liquid in a beautiful, cut-glass bottle.
The servant would mix a drink—Matt
loved the clink of ice—and place it in
Felicia’s hand.
She would drink until the trembling
stopped. Then she would wilt over the
piano like one of Celia’s spinaches
when Tam Lin forgot to water the
garden. Maids had to carry her away to
her apartment.
One day Felicia didn’t come at her
usual time, and Matt hovered behind the
potted plants as he worked up his
courage to approach the piano. If she
caught him, he knew he’d be banished
from the room forever. His fingers
tingled with the desire to play. It looked
so easy. He could even hear the music in
his head.
Matt crept out of his hiding place. He
reached out to touch the keys—and heard
Felicia’s listless voice in the hallway.
She was telling a servant to bring her a
drink. Matt panicked. He darted into a
closet behind the piano and shut the door
an instant before Felicia came into the
room. She immediately started playing.
Matt sneezed from all the dust in the
closet, but Felicia was making too much
noise to hear him. Matt felt around until
he found a light switch.
It was a disappointing place. Sheet
music was stacked against the walls. A
heap of folding chairs filled up one
corner. And it was so covered with dust
and spiderwebs that Matt sneezed again.
He rolled up a sheet of music and began
sweeping off the inner wall, more for
something to do than from any real
curiosity.
On the inner wall, under a knot of
webs that would have made Dracula
happy, Matt found another light switch.
He flipped it on.
He recoiled against a heap of music
when part of the wall slid open and
threw up a cloud of dust that made him
choke. He reached for the asthma inhaler
Celia insisted he carry at all times.
When the dust had settled, Matt saw a
narrow, dark hallway.
He peered around the corner. An
empty passage stretched both to the left
and to the right. By now Felicia had
stopped playing the piano. Matt held
very still, listening for the clink of ice in
glass. After a while he heard the maids
carry Felicia away.
Matt flipped the switch once more and
saw, to his great relief, that the wall
closed up again. He slipped out of the
closet, leaving dusty footprints across
the carpet, and was scolded by Celia
when she saw the state of his clothes and
hair.
This was even better than an episode
of El Látigo Negro, Matt thought,
hugging the secret to himself. This was a
place that belonged to him alone. Not
even Tam Lin could find him if he
wanted to hide.
Slowly and carefully over the next
few weeks, Matt explored his new
domain. It seemed to snake between the
inner and outer walls of the house. He
found peepholes in the wall but saw only
empty rooms with chairs and tables
beyond. Once he saw a servant dusting
furniture.
A few of the peepholes looked into
dark closets like the one in the music
room. Matt didn’t understand until one
day, while feeling his way along the
passage, his hand struck against another
switch.
He flicked it on.
A panel slid open just like the one in
the music room. Matt’s heart beat
wildly. He could walk right into the
closet! It was full of musty clothes and
old shoes, but if he pushed them aside,
he could get to the door on the other
side. He heard voices. The doctor and
Mr. Alacrán were pleading with a third
person whose replies were muffled. The
doctor spoke harshly, bringing bad
memories back to Matt. “Do it!” Willum
snarled. “You know you have to do it!”
“Please, Father,” said Mr. Alacrán,
gentler than Matt had ever heard him be.
“No, no, no,” moaned Mr. Alacrán’s
father.
“You’ll die without chemotherapy,”
his son begged.
“God wants me to come.”
“But I want you here,” Mr. Alacrán
pleaded.
“This is a place of shadows and
evil!” The old man was clearly
becoming irrational.
“At least get a new liver,” Willum
said in his harsh voice.
“Leave me alone,” wailed the old
man.
Matt retreated to the passageway and
closed the opening. He didn’t understand
what the men were arguing about, but he
knew what would happen if someone
caught him listening. He’d be locked up.
He might even be given back to Rosa.
Matt made his way to the music room,
and for a long time he didn’t venture into
the secret passage. He did, however,
keep listening to Felicia’s music. It was
something that had gotten inside him, and
no matter how dangerous it was, he
couldn’t go long without hearing it.
One afternoon Matt was alarmed to
see the doctor arrive with Felicias drink
instead of a servant. “Oh, Willum,” she
moaned as he mixed in the ice. “He
doesn’t talk to me anymore. He looks
right through me as though I weren’t
there.”
“It’s all right,” soothed the doctor.
“I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” He
opened his black bag and took out a
syringe. Matt held his breath. The doctor
had given him a shot when he was sick
and he’d hated it! Matt watched,
fascinated, as Felicia’s arm was
swabbed and the needle jammed in. Why
didn’t she cry out? Couldn’t she feel it?
Willum sat next to her and draped his
arm around her shoulders. He murmured
things Matt couldn’t hear. It must have
pleased Felicia, because she smiled and
rested her head against the doctor’s
chest. After a while he guided her from
the music room.
At once Matt was out of his hiding
place. He sniffed the glass and sampled
the contents. Ugh! It tasted like rotten
fruit. He spat it out at once. He listened
carefully for footsteps outside in the hall
and sat down at the piano. He carefully
pressed a key.
The note rang softly in the music
room. Matt was entranced. He tried
other keys. They were all beautiful. He
was so enchanted, he almost didn’t hear
the servant coming down the hall, but
fortunately, he woke up soon enough to
scuttle behind the potted plants.
After that day Matt studied the
comings and goings of the servants, to
work out when it was safe to visit the
music room. Felicia never used it in the
morning. In fact, she didn’t get up until
the afternoon and was active for only an
hour or so then.
Matt discovered he could re-create
the songs Celia sang to him, using one
finger. Felicia used all ten, but he hadn’t
figured out how to do that yet. Even so,
the ability to create music filled him
with a joy too large to contain. He forgot
where he was. He forgot he was a clone.
The music made up for everything—the
silent contempt of the servants, Steven’s
and Emilia’s snubs, Tom’s hatred.
“So this is where you get to,” said
Tam Lin. Matt swung around, almost
tumbling off the bench. “Don’t stop.
You’ve got a real talent there. Funny, I
never thought of El Patrón as being
musical.”
Matt’s heart was beating wildly. Was
he going to be barred from the room?
“If you’re musical, he must be,” said
the bodyguard. “But I guess he never had
time to study. Where he lived, they
chopped up pianos for firewood.”
“Can you play?” asked Matt.
“You must be joking. Look at these.”
Matt saw stubby fingers sprouting
from large, awkward hands. Some of the
fingers were crooked, as though they’d
been broken and healed again. “You
could use one finger,” he suggested.
Tam Lin laughed. “Music has to be in
the head first, laddie. The good Lord
passed me by when He was handing out
talent. You’ve got it, though, and it’d be
a shame not to use it. I’ll talk to El
Patrón about finding you a teacher.”
This proved difficult. No human
wanted to teach a clone and no eejit was
smart enough. Finally Tam Lin found a
man who had gone deaf and was
desperate for work. It seemed odd to
Matt that someone who couldn’t hear
could teach music, but so it was. Mr.
Ortega felt it through his hands. He
placed them on the piano as Matt
practiced and caught every mistake.
It wasn’t long before Matt added
musical ability to his growing list of
accomplishments. He could read ten
years beyond his level, do math that left
Tam Lin bewildered—and irritated—
and speak both English and Spanish
fluently. In addition, his art grew better
by the day. He threw himself into
studying everything that came before
him. Matt could name the planets, the
brightest stars, and all the constellations.
He memorized the names of countries,
their capitals and chief exports.
He was in a rage to learn. He would
excel, and then everyone would love him
and forget he was a clone.
10
A CAT WITH NINE
LIVES
You’re like a wild animal,”
complained María as she stood in the
doorway of Matt’s room. “You hide in
here like a bear in a cave.”
Matt looked indifferently at the
curtained windows. He liked the safe,
comfortable darkness. “I am an animal,”
he replied. Once those words would
have pained him, but he accepted his
status now.
“I think you just like to wallow,” said
María, striding in to open the curtains
and windows. Outside lay Celia’s
garden filled with stands of corn,
tomatoes, beans, peas. “Anyhow, it’s El
Patrón’s birthday, and that means you’d
better take that snarl off your face.”
Matt sighed. He could unnerve almost
everyone by growling at them, but not
María. She only laughed. Of course, he
never dreamed of growling at El Patron
on those rare occasions when the old
man visited. To do so would have been
unthinkable. Each time, El Patrón looked
more frail and his mind seemed less in
order.
It broke Matt’s heart to look at him.
He loved El Patrón. He owed everything
to him.
Matt could hardly remember those
terrible days three years before, when he
was kept in a pen with roaches for
friends and old chicken bones for toys.
But he knew he’d still be there—or
buried under the floor by Rosa—if the
old man hadn’t rescued him.
“El Patrón’s one hundred and forty-
three today,” said Matt.
María shivered. “I can’t imagine
being that old!”
“Celia said if they put that many
candles on the cake, it would melt the
paint off the walls.”
“He was kind of strange last time he
was here,” said María.
That’s one way to put it , thought
Matt. El Patrón had become so forgetful,
he repeated the same sentence over and
over again. “Am I dead yet?” he asked.
“Am I dead yet?” And he held his hand
before his face, studying each finger as
though to reassure himself that he was
still there.
“Are you ready?” cried Celia, rushing
into the room. She made Matt turn and
adjusted the collar of his shirt.
“Remember, you’re sitting next to El
Patrón tonight. Pay attention and answer
all his questions.”
“What if he’s … weird?” said Matt.
He remembered answering the question
“Am I dead yet?” over and over the last
time the old man visited.
Celia stopped fussing with the shirt
and knelt before him. “Listen to me,
darling. If anything bad happens tonight,
I want you to come straight to me. Come
to the pantry behind the kitchen.”
“What do you mean, bad?”
“I can’t say.” Celia looked furtively
around the room. “Just promise me
you’ll remember.”
Matt thought it was hard to promise
something like that—nobody planned to
forget—but he nodded.
“Oh, mi hijo, I do love you!” Celia
flung her arms around him and burst into
tears. Matt was both startled and
dismayed. What could have upset her so
much? He saw María out of the corner of
his eye. She was making a face that
indicated how totally soppy she found
this display. That was María’s favorite
word recently: soppy. She’d picked it up
from Tam Lin.
“I promise,” Matt said.
Celia sat back abruptly and wiped her
eyes with her apron. “I’m a fool. What
good would it do if you understood? It
would only make things worse.” She
seemed to be talking to herself, and Matt
watched her anxiously. Then she stood
up and smoothed the wrinkles in her
apron. “Run along, chicos, and have fun
at the party. I’ll be in the kitchen serving
up the best dinner you ever saw. You
look wonderful, both of you, like you
stepped out of a movie.” The old,
confident Celia was back, and Matt was
relieved.
“I have to get Furball from my room,”
said María after they left.
“Oh, no! You can’t take him to
dinner.”
“I can if I want. I’ll hide him on my
lap.”
Matt sighed. There was no point
arguing with her. María took Furball
everywhere. Tam Lin complained that it
wasn’t a dog, but a hairy tumor growing
out of her arm. He offered to take her to
a doctor and have it removed.
Tom was in María’s room, and
Furball was nowhere to be seen.
“You didn’t let him out?” cried María
as she looked under the bed.
“I never even saw him,” said Tom,
glaring at Matt. Matt glared back. Tom’s
bristly red hair was slicked down, and
his fingernails were neat, white
crescents. Tom was always perfectly
groomed for these occasions, and it
earned him many admiring comments
from the women who came to El
Patrón’s birthday parties.
“He’s lost!” wailed María. “He gets
so scared when he’s lost. Oh, please
help me find him!”
Reluctantly, Tom and Matt left off
their glaring contest and began looking
under pillows, behind curtains, in
dresser drawers. María whimpered
softly as the hunt dragged on without any
results.
“He’s probably running around the
house having a great time,” said Matt.
“He hates being outside,” said María,
weeping. Matt could believe that. The
dog was such a loser that he ran from
sparrows, but he probably was outside
hiding in any of a thousand places.
They’d never find him before dinner.
Then something odd struck him.
Tom.
Tom was searching, but he didn’t
seem to be really looking. It was hard to
describe. Tom was going through the
motions, but all the while his eyes were
watching María. Matt stopped what he
was doing and listened.
“I hear something!” he cried. He
dashed into the bathroom, lifted the toilet
lid, and there was Furball, so
waterlogged and exhausted, he’d been
able to utter only the faintest whine. Matt
pulled the dog out and dropped him
hastily on the floor. He grabbed a towel
and wrapped up Furball. The dog was
so tired, he didn’t even try to bite. He
lay perfectly limp as María snatched him
up.
“How did he get in there? Who put the
top down? Oh, darling, sweet, sweet
Furball”—she cuddled the revolting
creature next to her face—“you’re okay
now. You’re my good dog. You’re my
honeybunch.”
“He’s always drinking out of the
toilet,” Tom said. “He must have fallen
in and pulled the lid down on top of him.
I’ll call a maid to give him a bath.”
He went out but not before Matt saw a
flash of real anger on his face. Tom had
wanted something and hadn’t got it. Matt
was sure Tom had dumped Furball in the
toilet, although he’d never shown dislike
for the dog before. That was like Tom,
though. He could be courteous and
helpful on the surface, but you never
knew what was going on underneath.
Matt felt cold. Furball would have
drowned if he hadn’t found him. How
could anybody be that cruel? And why
would anyone want to hurt María, who
was so tenderhearted, she rescued black
widow spiders? Matt knew no one
would believe him if he accused Tom.
He was only a clone and his opinion
didn’t matter.
Or it didn’t matter most of the time,
Matt thought as a delightful plan
occurred to him.
Most of the time the servants ignored
Matt and the Alacráns looked past him
as though he were a bug on a window.
Mr. Ortega, the music teacher, rarely
said anything to him except, “No! No!
No!” when Matt struck a wrong note.
Mr. Ortega didn’t say “No! No! No!”
very often now. Matt was an excellent
piano player and thought it wouldn’t
have hurt the man to say “Good!” now
and then. But he never did. When Matt
played well, an expression of joy
crossed Mr. Ortega’s face that was as
good as a compliment, though. And when
Matt played really, really well, he was
too enraptured to care what the music
teacher thought.
Everything changed during the annual
birthday party. It was really El Patron’s
party, but it had developed into a
celebration for Matt as well. At least
Celia, Tam Lin, María, and El Patrón
celebrated for him. Everyone else just
gritted their teeth and got through the
day.
It was the one time when Matt could
ask for anything he wanted. He could
force the Alacráns to pay attention to
him. He could make Steven and Tom—
yes, Tom!—be polite to him in front of
their friends. No one dared to make El
Patrón angry, and therefore no one dared
to ignore Matt.
Tables were set for the party in one of
the vast gardens surrounding the Big
House. The lawn was flawlessly
smooth, with the grass all of the same
height. It was cared for by eejits who
trimmed the ground with scissors just
before the event. It would be trampled
into oblivion by tomorrow, but now it
glowed like a green jewel in the soft
afternoon light.
The tables were covered with
spotless, white cloths. The dishes were
trimmed with gold, the silver cutlery
was freshly polished, and a crystal
goblet sat by each plate.
In a corner, under a bougainvillea
arbor, sat an enormous stack of presents.
Everyone brought gifts to El Patrón,
although there was nothing he didn’t
already own and not much he could
enjoy at the age of 143. There were even
a few presents for Matt—small, loving
tributes from Celia and María,
something useful from Tarn Lin, and a
large, expensive gift from El Patrón.
The guests wandered around,
choosing delicacies brought to them on
trays by the maids. Waiters offered
drinks of every description and brought
water pipes for those who wished to
smoke. There were senators and famous
actors, generals and world-renowned
doctors, a few ex-presidents, and half a
dozen dictators from places Matt had
heard about on TV. There was even a
faded-looking princess. And of course
there were the other Farmers. The
Farmers were the real aristocrats here.
They ruled the drug empire that formed
the border between the United States and
Aztlán.
The Farmers stood in a knot around a
man Matt hadn’t seen before. He had
bristly red hair, a soft, doughy face, and
deep circles under his eyes. He looked
unwell, but in spite of that, he was in a
good mood. He harangued the others in a
braying voice and punctuated his
statements by poking them in the chest
with a finger. By that alone Matt knew
he must be a Farmer. No one else would
dare to be so rude.
“That’s Mr. MacGregor,” said María.
She had come up behind Matt with a
fluff-dried Furball draped over her arm.
“Who?” For an instant Matt was back
in the little house in the poppy fields. He
was six years old, and he, was reading a
tattered book about Pedro el Conejo,
who got trapped in Señor MacGregor’s
garden. Señor MacGregor had wanted to
put Pedro into a pie.
“He has a Farm near San Diego,” said
María. “Personally, I think he’s creepy.”
Matt studied the man more closely. He
didn’t look like Señor MacGregor in the
book, but there was definitely something
unpleasant about him.
“They’re signaling everyone to go into
the salon,” said María. She hitched
Furball into a more comfortable
position. “You better not howl,” she told
the dog, “no matter how awful the
company is.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Matt.
The salon stood at the top of marble
steps leading up from the garden. The
party guests drifted toward it, dutifully
obeying the summons to greet El Patrón.
Matt braced himself for a shock. Each
time he saw El Patrón, the old man had
deteriorated more.
The guests arranged themselves in a
semicircle. All around the edge of the
salon were giant vases of flowers and
the marble statues so dear to El Patrón’s
heart. The conversation died down. The
sounds of birds and fountains became
clearer. A peacock shrieked from a
nearby garden. Matt waited tensely for
the hum of El Patrón’s motorized
wheelchair.
Then, amazingly, the curtains at the far
end of the salon parted and El Patrón
walked in. He moved slowly, to be sure,
but he was actually walking. Matt was
delighted. Behind the old man came Daft
Donald and Tam Lin, both pushing
wheelchairs.
A gasp echoed around the salon.
Someone—the princess, Matt thought—
cried, “Hip hip hooray!” Then everyone
cheered and Matt cheered too, filled
with relief and joy.
Someone behind Matt muttered, “The
old vampire. So he managed to crawl
out of the coffin again.” Matt turned
quickly to see who it was, but he
couldn’t tell which of the party-goers
was guilty.
When El Patrón reached the middle of
the salon, he signaled for Tam Lin to
bring up his wheelchair. He sank down,
and Tam Lin stuffed pillows around him.
Much to Matt’s surprise, Mr.
MacGregor came forward and sat in the
other wheelchair.
So they are friends, Matt thought.
Why hadn’t he seen Mr. MacGregor
before?
“Welcome,” said El Patrón. His voice
wasn’t loud, but it commanded instant
attention. “Welcome to my one-hundred-
and-forty-third birthday party. All of you
are my friends and allies—or family
members.” The old man laughed softly.
“I imagine they hoped to see me in my
grave by now, but no such luck. I’ve had
the benefit of a marvelous new treatment
from the finest doctors in the world, and
now my good friend MacGregor is going
to be treated by these same people.”
Mr. MacGregor grinned and held up
El Patrón’s arm as a referee would hold
up a victorious boxer’s arm. What was
there about the man that was so
repulsive? Matt felt his stomach knot,
and yet he had no reason to dislike him.
“Come forth, you miracle workers,”
said El Patrón. Two men and two
women separated themselves from the
crowd. They approached the
wheelchairs and bowed. “I’m sure you’d
be satisfied with only my heartfelt
thanks”—El Patrón chuckled as the
doctors tried to hide their
disappointment—“but you’ll be even
more satisfied with these one-million-
dollar checks.” The doctors immediately
cheered up, although one of the women
had the grace to blush. Everyone
applauded, and the doctors thanked El
Patrón.
Tam Lin caught Matt’s eye and
nodded to him. Matt stepped forward.
“Mi Vida,” said El Patrón with real
warmth. He beckoned with his gnarled
hand. “Come closer and let me look at
you. Was I ever that handsome? I must
have been.” The old man sighed and fell
silent. Tam Lin indicated that Matt was
to stand next to the wheelchairs.
“I was a poor boy from a poor
village,” El Patrón began, addressing the
assembled presidents, dictators,
generals, and other famous people. “One
year during Cinco de Mayo, the ranchero
who owned our land had a parade. I and
my five brothers went to watch. Mamá
brought my little sisters. She carried
one, and the other held on to her skirt
and followed behind.”
Matt saw the dusty cornfields and
purple mountains of Durango. He saw
the streams that roared with water two
months of the year and were dry as a
bone the rest of the time. He had heard
the story from El Patrón so often, he
knew it by heart.
“During the parade the mayor rode on
a fine white horse and threw money into
the crowd. How we scrambled for the
coins! How we rolled in the dirt like
pigs! But we needed the money. We
were so poor, we didn’t have two pesos
to rub together. Afterward the ranchero
gave a great feast. We could eat all we
wanted, and it was a wonderful
opportunity for people who had
stomachs so shrunken that chili beans
had to wait in line to get inside.
“My little sisters caught typhoid at
that feast. They died in the same hour.
They were so small, they couldn’t look
over the windowsill—no, not even if
they stood on tiptoe.”
The salon was deathly still. In the
distance Matt heard a dove calling from
the garden. No hope, it said. No hope.
No hope.
“During the following years each of
my five brothers died; two drowned, one
had a burst appendix, and we had no
money for the doctor. The last two
brothers were beaten to death by the
police. There were eight of us,” said El
Patrón, “and only I lived to grow up.”
Matt thought the audience looked
bored, although they tried to conceal it.
They had heard the same speech for
years.
“I outlived them all as I outlived all
my enemies. Of course, I can always
make more enemies.” El Patrón looked
around the audience, and several people
tried to smile. They met El Patrón’s
steely eyes and immediately sobered up.
“You could say I’m a cat with nine lives.
As long as there’s mice to catch, I intend
to keep hunting. And thanks to the
doctors, I can still enjoy it. You can start
clapping now.” He glared at the
audience, and they began—first
hesitantly and then loudly—to applaud.
“They’re just like robots,” El Patrón
muttered under his breath. More loudly
he said, “I’m going to take a brief rest,
and then we shall all have dinner.”
11
THE GIVING AND
TAKING OF GIFTS
Matt wandered around the garden,
admiring the ice sculptures and a
fountain of wine with orange slices
bobbing in a red pool. He dipped his
finger in to taste. It wasn’t as good as it
looked.
He checked the place cards on the
tables and saw that he was, as usual,
seated next to El Patrón. Mr. MacGregor
was on El Patrón’s other side. The other
favored guests were Mr. Alacrán and
Felicia, Benito, back from college—or
r a the r, expelled from college—and
Steven and Tom. Mr. Alacrán’s father
rounded out the guests at the head table.
Everyone called him El Viejo these days
because he seemed even older than El
Patrón.
Humming to himself, Matt removed
Tom’s card and put it at the baby table.
A nanny sat at each end to keep order,
and high chairs were lined up on either
side. Matt located María’s card and
placed it next to his.
Next Matt explored the edge of the
garden, where the bodyguards formed a
sullen, dark perimeter. Each of the
presidents, dictators, and generals had
brought his own protectors, and of
course the Alacráns had hired a small
army for the party. Matt counted more
than two hundred men.
Who were they guarding against? he
wondered. Who was likely to come
charging across the poppy fields? But
Matt was used to bodyguards at all
family affairs, and it seemed natural for
them to be there.
The sun was setting, and the garden
was full of a cool, green light. The Ajo
Mountains still glowed purple-brown in
the distance, and the poppy fields were
tipped with a gold that faded even as
Matt watched. Lamps went on in the
trees.
“You pig!” cried María, who had
Furball ensconced in a bag slung over
her shoulder. “Just once you could be
nice to Tom. I’ve moved his card right
back.”
“I’m punishing him for trying to
drown Furball,” said Matt.
“What on earth are you talking
about?”
“Furball couldn’t have fallen into the
toilet and pulled the top down. It isn’t
possible. Tom did it.”
“He couldn’t be that evil,” said
María.
“Since when? Anyhow, it’s my party,
and I get to say who sits where.” Matt
was beginning to lose patience with
María. He was trying to be nice to her,
and she was taking it all wrong.
“They eat mush at the baby table.”
“Good,” Matt said. He fetched Tom’s
card and replaced it. María reached for
it again, and he grabbed her wrist quite
hard.
“Ow! That hurts! I’m going to stay
here.”
“No, you aren’t,” said Matt.
“I’ll do whatever I like!”
Matt ran back to his table with María
trying to push past him and grab her
place card. El Patrón had arrived, along
with MacGregor and the others.
“What’s this? What’s this?” said El
Patrón. Matt and María skidded to a halt.
“I want her to sit next to me,” said
Matt.
The old man laughed: a dry, dusty
sound. “Is she your little girlfriend, your
novia ?”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mr. Alacrán.
“Is it?” El Patrón chuckled. “Matt’s
no different than I was at that age.”
“Matt’s a clone!”
“He’s my clone. Sit here, girl. Make
room for her, Tam Lin.” Tam Lin found a
place setting for María. He frowned at
Matt.
“Where’s Tom?” Felicia said.
Everyone turned to look at her. Felicia
was so quiet and so seldom seen, most
people seemed to forget she existed.
“Where is Tom?” El Patrón turned to
Matt.
“I put him at the baby table,” said
Matt.
“You pig!” shouted María.
El Patrón laughed. “That’s the stuff,
Mi Vida. Get rid of your enemies when
you can. I don’t like Tom either, and
dinner will be better without him.”
Felicia balled up her napkin in her
fist, but she didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to stay here! I want to be
with Tom!” cried María.
“Well, you can’t,” Matt said flatly.
Why did she always have to stick up for
him? She didn’t even stop to think. There
was no way Furball could have pulled
the lid down on top of himself. But she
didn’t believe Matt because he was only
a “disgusting clone.” A dull rage at the
unfairness of it swept over him.
“Do as you’re told, girl.” El Patrón
suddenly lost interest in the drama and
turned to Mr. MacGregor on his other
side.
María, choking back tears, was
pushed up to the table by Tam Lin. “I’ll
see he gets the same food as the rest of
us,” he whispered.
“No, you won’t,” said Matt.
Tam Lin raised his eyebrows. “Is that
a direct order, Master Matt?”
“Yes.” Matt tried to ignore María’s
soft whimpers as she strove not to draw
attention to herself. If she couldn’t bring
herself to punish Tom, he would do it for
her. Food was brought and served.
María selected bits to feed Furball and
continued to stare down at her lap.
“Fetal brain implants—I must try that
sometime,” said MacGregor. “It’s done
wonders for you.”
“Don’t put it off too long,” El Patrón
advised. “You have to give the doctors
at least five months’ lead time. Eight is
better.”
“I won’t be able to use—?”
“Oh, no. He’s much too old.”
Felicia was staring down at her plate
with almost as much dejection as María.
She wasn’t even pretending to eat. She
drank from a tall glass that was regularly
filled by a servant. She looked
pleadingly at MacGregor, although Matt
couldn’t guess what she could want from
him. In any case, he ignored her—and so
did her husband and everyone else for
that matter.
El Viejo, Mr. Alacrán’s father,
spilled his food and made a mess on the
tablecloth. No one paid attention to him,
either.
“See, there’s an example of someone
who didn’t get his implants when he
should have,” said El Patrón, pointing at
El Viejo.
“Father decided against it,” said Mr.
Alacrán.
“He’s a fool, then. Look at him, Matt.
Would you believe that’s my grandson?”
Matt hadn’t worked out the exact
relationship between El Viejo and El
Patrón before. It hadn’t seemed
important. El Patrón looked ancient, no
doubt about it, but his mind was sharp.
At least now it was. After those
whatever-they-were implants. El Viejo
could hardly string a sentence together,
and some of the time he sat in his room
and screamed. Celia said that happened
to some old people and that Matt mustn’t
worry about it.
“I could believe he’s your
grandfather,” said Matt.
El Patrón laughed, spraying food
particles over his plate. “That’s what
comes of not taking care of yourself.”
“Father decided implants were
immoral,” said Mr. Alacrán, “and I
honored his decision.” A sudden intake
of breath around the table told Matt that
Mr. Alacrán had said something
dangerous. “He’s deeply religious. He
thinks God put him on earth for a certain
number of years and that he mustn’t ask
for more.”
El Patrón stared at Mr. Alacrán for a
long moment. “I’ll overlook your
rudeness,” he said at last. “It’s my
birthday and I’m in a good mood. But
someday you’ll be old too. Your body
will start to fall apart and your brain
will deteriorate. See if you’re so high-
minded then.” He went back to eating,
and everyone relaxed.
“May I check up on Tom?” Felicia
said in her uncertain way.
“Stay out of this,” growled Mr.
Alacrán.
“I—I only wanted to see if he had
food.”
“For God’s sake! He’s capable of
standing on his own hind legs and
finding something to eat!”
Those were Matt’s sentiments too, but
he was surprised at the anger Mr.
Alacrán showed toward Felicia. How
could anyone get mad at her? She was so
helpless. Felicia hung her head and
withdrew into silence.
After dinner Tam Lin rolled El Patrón
to the bougainvillea arbor for the gift
giving. Mr. MacGregor excused himself
because he had to rest up for an
operation. Matt was glad to see him go.
El Patrón set great importance on
gifts. “You can tell how much someone
loves you by the size of the present,” he
often told Matt. He preferred to receive
gifts, rather than give them. “The flow of
wealth should be from outside”—El
Patrón opened his arms wide, as though
he were about to hug someone—“in.” El
Patrón gave himself a big bear hug
instead. Matt thought this was very
funny.
Daft Donald and Tam Lin brought the
boxes to El Patrón. Matt read the cards
and tore off the wrappers. A secretary
recorded who had given what and the
value of the gift. Watches, jewelry,
paintings, statues, and moon rocks piled
up on the lawn. Matt thought the moon
rocks looked like something you could
find anywhere in the Ajo Mountains, but
they came with a certificate and were
very expensive.
The faded princess gave El Patrón a
statue of a naked baby with wings—one
of the few gifts he seemed to like. Matt
gave him a wallet that had looked good
in the catalog and now seemed shabby
next to the other presents. “You’d need a
wallet as big as the Grand Canyon to
hold El Patrón’s paper money,” Celia
had said, “and you’d have to drain the
Gulf of California for the small change.”
The Farmers, one and all, gave
weapons: guns that responded to one’s
voice, lasers that could burn an intruder
to a crisp from the other side of a wall,
flying minibombs that clamped
themselves on to an enemy’s skin. The
latter were programmed to recognize
specific people. Tam Lin took the
weapons away the minute Matt
unwrapped them.
“Open your presents, Mi Vida,” El
Patrón said after a long while. His eyes
were half closed, and he looked almost
bloated with all the gifts he’d received.
A mountain of new possessions
surrounded his wheelchair.
Matt eagerly tore open a small box
from Celia. It was a hand-knitted
sweater. Where she’d found the time to
knit, Matt didn’t know. Tam Lin gave
him a book identifying edible plants in
the desert. El Patrón gave him a battery-
driven car big enough to sit in. It had
flashing lights and a siren. Matt was too
old for such things, but he knew the car
had been very expensive and therefore
that El Patrón loved him very much.
María snatched away the present
she’d brought him. “I don’t want to give
you anything!” she cried.
“Give that back,” Matt said, angry that
she’d made a scene in front of everyone.
“You don’t deserve it!” María started
to run away, but she was halted by her
father, Senator Mendoza.
“Hand him the box,” said Senator
Mendoza.
“He was mean to Tom!”
“Do it.”
María wavered for a moment and then
flung the box as far away as she could.
“Pick it up and bring it to me,” Matt
said. He was in a cold rage.
“Let her go,” said Tam Lin in a low
voice, but Matt wasn’t in any mood to
listen. María had insulted him in front of
everyone, and he intended to make her
pay.
“That’s the stuff,” El Patrón said
gleefully. “Make your women toe the
line.”
“Get it now,” said Matt in the same
cold, deadly voice he’d heard El Patrón
use on terrified servants.
“Please, María,” Senator Mendoza
coaxed gently.
Sobbing, she retrieved the present and
thrust it at Matt. “I hope you choke on
it!”
Matt was trembling and afraid he’d
lose control and start crying too.
Suddenly he remembered what El Patrón
had said earlier: Is she your little
girlfriend? Why shouldn’t María be his
girlfriend? Why should he be different
from everyone because he was a clone?
When he looked into the mirror, he saw
no difference between himself and the
others. It was unfair that he was treated
like Furball when he had good grades
and could name the planets, the brightest
stars, and all the constellations. “One
more thing,” Matt said. “I demand a
birthday kiss.”
Gasps ricocheted around the crowd.
Senator Mendoza turned ashen, and he
put his hands protectively on María’s
shoulders. “Don’t do this,” murmured
Tam Lin. El Patrón beamed with delight.
“It’s my party too,” said Matt, “and I
can have anything I want. Isn’t that so,
mi patrón?”
“It’s so, my little fighting cock. Give
him the kiss, girl.”
“He’s a clone!” Senator Mendoza
cried.
“He’s my clone.” Suddenly El Patrón
wasn’t the jovial birthday host anymore.
He seemed dark and dangerous, like a
creature you might stumble on in the
middle of the night. Matt remembered
Tam Lin’s words about his master: He
grew large and green until he
shadowed over the whole forest, but
most of his branches are twisted. Matt
was sorry he’d started this whole affair,
but it was too late now.
“Do it, María,” said Senator
Mendoza. “I won’t let it happen again. I
promise.”
The senator didn’t know that Maráa
had kissed Matt on several occasions,
just as she kissed Furball and anything
else that pleased her. Matt knew this
was different, though. He was
humiliating her. If it had been Tom
asking for the kiss, no one would have
cared. People would have thought it cute
for a boy to flirt with his novia .
Matt wasn’t a boy. He was a beast.
María came up to him, no longer
angry or rebellious. She reminded him of
Felicia bent sadly over her plate. For an
instant he wanted to say, Stop. It was a
joke. I didn’t mean it. But it was too
late. El Patrón was watching them with
obvious glee, and Matt realized it might
be dangerous to draw back now. Who
knew how the old man might punish
María if he had his fun spoiled now?
María leaned forward, and Matt felt
the cold brush of her lips on his skin.
Then she ran to her father and collapsed
in tears. He gathered her up and
shouldered his way through the crowd.
The paralysis that had seized everyone
broke. Everyone started talking at once
—not about what had just happened, but
about anything else. But Matt felt their
eyes on him—accusing, disgusted,
repelled.
El Patrón had wearied of the
excitement. He signaled Tam Lin and
Daft Donald to take him away and was
already being carried up the steps before
Matt noticed.
The party went on with renewed spirit
now that El Patrón was gone, but no one
talked to Matt. No one seemed to notice
he was even there. After a while he
gathered up his smaller presents, leaving
the battery-driven car for the servants to
attend to.
Matt made his way to Celia’s
apartment and laid out Celia’s sweater
and Tam Lin’s book. Then he opened
Marías gift. It was a box of taffy she’d
made with her own hands. He knew
because she’d told him about it ahead of
time. She was no good at keeping
secrets.
Matt knew María hoarded things—
worn-out shirts, broken toys, and gift-
wrapping paper—and she got hysterical
if anything went missing. Celia said it
was because she’d lost her mother when
she was only five.
One day María’s mother had walked
out of the house and never returned. No
one knew where she’d gone, or if they
did, they weren’t talking about it. When
María was small, she imagined her
mother had gotten lost in the desert. She
woke up at night crying that she could
hear her mother’s voice, but of course
she couldn’t. Ever since then, Celia said,
María had hung on to things. It was why
she rarely let Furball out of her sight and
why the dog was such a wimp.
María had cut squares from her
treasured gift-wrapping paper and used
them to wrap Matt’s taffy. He felt
terrible looking at them. Why hadn’t he
listened when Tam Lin told him to let
her go? He closed the box and put it
away.
Celia had drawn the curtains in his
room. As always, she had lit the candle
in front of the Virgin. The Virgin looked
shabby with Her chipped robe and cheap
plastic flowers, but Matt wouldn’t have
wanted Her to look any other way. He
crawled under the covers. Feeling
around, he found the lump that was his
stuffed bear. He would have died rather
than admit to María that he still slept
with it.
12
THE THING ON THE
BED
Matt woke up feeling gritty and hot.
The candle in front of the Virgin had
burned out, leaving a waxy smell that the
curtains held in. He opened the window,
wincing at the sudden invasion of
sunlight. It was late morning. Celia had
already gone to work.
Rubbing his eyes, Matt saw María’s
present on a shelf, and the birthday party
came back with hideous clearness. He
knew he had to make things up to her, but
he also knew she needed time to cool
down. If he approached her now, she’d
only slam the door in his face.
Matt dressed in cool clothes and
found leftover pizza for breakfast. The
apartment was empty, the walled garden
deserted except for birds. He went out
and watered the vegetables.
The day after a birthday party was
always a letdown. The power Matt
enjoyed as El Patrón’s clone vanished.
The servants went back to ignoring him.
The Alacráns treated him like something
Furball had coughed up on the carpet.
The hours dragged on. Matt practiced
on his guitar, a skill he was developing
without Mr. Ortega’s help. The music
master was unable to keep his hands on
the instrument and thus was unable to
detect mistakes. After a while Matt
switched to reading Tam Lin’s present.
The bodyguard was fond of nature
books, although he read them at a
painfully slow rate. Matt already had
books on wildlife, camping, map
reading, and survival that Tam Lin fully
expected him to study. Tam Lin drilled
him when they went on expeditions in
the Ajo Mountains.
All Matt’s activities were supposed
to be risk free. Thus, he was allowed to
ride only Safe Horses, and he could
swim only if two lifeguards were
present. He could climb ropes only if
there was a mountain of mattresses
underneath. Any bruise or cut was
treated with extreme alarm.
But once a week Tam Lin took Matt
on educational field trips. The trips
were disguised as visits to the Alacráns’
nuclear power plant or the opium
processing plant—a stinking, clanking
horror even an eejit would find
unbearable. Halfway there Tam Lin
would turn the horses toward the hills.
Matt lived for these expeditions. El
Patrón would have had a heart attack if
he’d known how many cliffs Matt
climbed and how many rattlesnakes he
teased out of the rocks. But they made
Matt feel strong and free.
“May I come in?” said a faint,
uncertain voice. Matt jumped. He’d been
daydreaming. He heard the person enter
the living room. “It’s … Felicia,” said
Felicia hesitantly, as though she weren’t
quite sure of her identity.
This is completely weird, Matt
thought. Felicia had never shown the
slightest interest in him. “What do you
want?” he asked.
“I … thought I might … visit.”
Felicia’s eyes looked heavy, like she
might fall asleep at any moment. A vague
odor of cinnamon hung around her.
“Why?” Matt knew he was being
rude, but when had the Alacráns been
anything else to him? Besides, there was
something creepy about the way Felicia
swayed back and forth.
“May I … sit?”
Matt pulled a chair over to her, since
it didn’t look like she’d make it by
herself. He tried to help her, but she
pushed him away.
Of course. He was a clone. He wasn’t
supposed to touch humans. Felicia half
fell into the chair, and they stared at each
other for a moment. “You’re a guh-guh-
good musician,” Felicia stammered, as
though it hurt her to admit it.
“How do you know?” Matt couldn’t
remember ever playing when she was
around.
“Everyone … says so. It’s such a
surprise. El Patrón doesn’t have a—
have a … musical bone in his body.”
“He enjoys listening,” Matt said. He
didn’t like to hear El Patrón criticized.
“I know. He used to listen to me.”
Matt felt uneasy. He’d probably taken
away what little attention Felicia got
from other people.
“I was a great concert pianist once,”
she said.
“I’ve heard you play.”
“You have?” Felicia’s eyes widened.
“Oh. The music room. I was much better
… before I had my—my …”
“Nervous breakdown,” said Matt. Her
hesitant speech was getting on his
nerves.
“But that isn’t why … I came. I want
to—to …”
Matt waited impatiently.
“Help you,” finished Felicia. There
was another long pause as Matt
wondered what kind of help she thought
he needed. “You upset María. She cried
all night.”
Matt felt uncomfortable. What did
Felicia have to do with this?
“She wants to … see you.”
“Okay,” said Matt.
“But she … Don’t you see? Her father
won’t let her come here. It’s up to you.”
“What should I do?”
“Go to her,” cried Felicia with more
energy than Matt had expected. “Go
now.” The outburst seemed to exhaust
her. Her head drooped and she closed
her eyes. “You wouldn’t have something
… to drink?” she whispered.
“Celia doesn’t keep alcohol,” said
Matt. “Should I call one of the maids?”
he said.
“Never mind.” Felicia sighed, rousing
herself enough to stand. “María’s
waiting at the hospital. It’s …
important.” With that, Felicia made her
way to the door and drifted into the
hallway like a cinnamon-scented ghost.
The hospital wasn’t a place Matt went
willingly. Set apart from the rest of the
buildings, it was surrounded by a
wasteland of sand and low, flat bullhead
vines. The vines protected their turf with
the meanest, nastiest thorns ever and
could even stab through shoes.
Matt picked his way carefully through
the wasteland. Heat radiated off the
ground, making the gray, windowless
building shimmer. The hospital was like
a prison with a strange, alarming smell
inside that permeated everything. Matt
was dragged there twice a year to
undergo painful and humiliating tests.
He sat on the front steps and inspected
his sandals for bullheads. María was
probably in the waiting room. It wasn’t
too bad there, with chairs and magazines
and a cold-drink machine. Sweat ran
down Matt’s face and stuck his shirt to
his chest. He opened the door.
“I don’t see why I should talk to you
at all,” said María. She was sitting in
one of the chairs with a magazine open
on her lap. Her eyes looked puffy.
“It was your idea.” Matt bit his
tongue. He wanted to make up with her,
not pick a fight. “I mean, it was a good
idea.”
“You’re the one who invited me,”
said María. “Why couldn’t you find
somewhere nice? This place is creepy.”
Matt’s alarm system went on at once.
“I didn’t invite you. Wait!” he cried as
María started to get up. “I do want to see
you. I guess—I guess—I was a pig at the
birthday party.”
“You guess?” María said scornfully.
“Okay, I was. But you didn’t have to
take back the present.”
“Of course I did. A present’s no good
if it’s given in anger.”
Matt stopped his first reply before it
could get out. “It’s the nicest gift I ever
got.”
“Oh, sure! Nicer than that weenie
sports car El Patrón gave you!”
Matt sat down next to her. She moved
away as far as she could. “I really like
how you wrapped the candy.”
“It took me a long time to decide
which papers to use.” María’s voice
trembled. “You’ll only wad them up and
throw them away.”
“No, I won’t,” promised Matt. “I’ll
spread them out carefully and keep them
for always.”
María said nothing. She stared down
at her hands. Matt edged closer. The
truth was, he liked it when she kissed
him, even if she kissed Furball sixty
times as often. He’d never kissed her
back, but he might try it now, to make up.
“Good. You’re both here.”
Matt recoiled. Tom stood in the
doorway. “How did you find us?” Matt
snarled.
“Of course he knew where we were.
You told him to bring me here,” María
said.
“No kidding,” said Matt. The pieces
were falling into place now. Tom had
pretended to carry a message to María,
and Felicia had done the same with
Matt. They had to be working together.
Matt had never thought of Felicia as
dangerous, but he didn’t really know her.
“I thought you might like to see
something,” Tom said. His face was
open and friendly, and his blue eyes
shone with innocence. Matt wanted to
roll him in the bullheads.
“Here?” said María doubtfully.
“It’s like Halloween, only better. It’s
the ugliest, gooshiest thing you ever saw,
and I bet both of you wet your pants,”
Tom said.
“I’ve done things that would make
your eyes drop out,” María sneered.
“Tam Lin showed me how to pick up
scorpions, and he let a tarantula walk up
my arm.”
Matt was surprised at María’s daring.
Tam Lin had shown him the same things,
and Matt had almost done what Tom
described.
“This is worse,” Tom said.
“Remember that Halloween when you
thought the chupacabras was outside
and Matt put chicken guts in your bed?”
“I did not! It was you!” cried Matt.
“You put your hand right in it,” said
Tom, ignoring Matt, “and screamed your
head off.”
“That was so evil,” María said.
“I didn’t do it!” protested Matt.
“Well, this is worse,” gloated Tom. “I
don’t know if you have the—pardon the
expression—guts for it.”
“She doesn’t,” said Matt.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” María got
a mulish look in her eyes and Matt’s
heart sank. He knew Tom was up to
something foul, but he hadn’t figured out
what it was yet.
“Come on. He’s only trying to start
trouble.” Matt tried to grab Maíia’s
hand, but she yanked her arm away.
“Listen.” Tom opened the door
leading from the waiting room to the rest
of the hospital. Matt’s stomach hit rock
bottom. He had bad memories of some
of those rooms.
Tom’s face glowed with joy. It was
then, Matt had discovered, he was most
dangerous. As Tam Lin said, if you
didn’t know Tom well, you’d think he
was an angel bringing you the keys to the
pearly gates.
In the distance they heard a mewling
sound. It went on for a moment, stopped,
and began again.
“Is that a cat?” said María.
If it is, it isn’t yowling for milk, Matt
thought. There was a level of terror and
despair in that sound that made the hair
stand up on his neck. This time he did
grab Marías hand.
“They’re doing experiments on cats!”
María cried suddenly. “Oh, please!
You’ve got to help me rescue them!”
“We’d better ask permission first,”
said Matt. He was deeply unwilling to
go beyond that door.
“No one’s going to give us
permission,” María stormed. “Don’t you
see? Adults don’t see anything wrong
with those experiments. We have to take
the cats away—Dada will help me—and
the doctors won’t even know where
they’ve gone.”
“They’ll only get more.” Matt felt
cold as he listened to the sound going on
and on.
“That’s the dodge people always use!
Don’t help anyone. They’ll only find
more illegals to enslave or poor people
to starve or—or cats to torture.” María
was working herself into a state. Matt
despaired of getting her to listen to
reason.
“Look, we should ask your dada first
—” he began.
“I won’t listen to that cat suffer one
more instant! Are you with me or not? If
not, I’m going by myself!”
“I’ll go with you,” said Tom.
That decided Matt. There was no way
he was letting Tom take María by herself
to see whatever horror he had stashed
away.
María strode down the hall, but she
slowed the closer they got to the cries.
Matt still held her hand. It was cold and
sweaty, or maybe his hand was. The
sound wasn’t exactly like a cat. It wasn’t
like anything Matt had heard before, but
there was no mistaking the anguish in it.
Sometimes it rose almost to a shriek and
then faded, as though whatever was
making the noise was exhausted.
They arrived at the door. It was
closed, and cravenly, Matt hoped it was
locked.
It wasn’t.
Tom threw it open. Matt could hardly
register what lay on the bed before them.
It rolled its eyes and thrashed helplessly
in the straps that restrained it. Its mouth
opened in a horrible O when it saw the
children, and it screamed louder than
Matt thought possible. It screamed until
it ran out of air, then it wheezed until it
didn’t have the strength to do that
anymore, and then it lay there panting
and gasping.
“It’s a boy,” whispered María.
It was. Only at first Matt thought it
was some kind of beast, so alien and
terrible was its face. It had doughy,
unhealthy skin and red hair that stuck up
in bristles. It seemed never to have been
in the sun, and its hands were twisted
like claws above the straps that held it
down. It was dressed in green hospital
pajamas, but these had been befouled by
its terror. Worst of all was the terrible
energy that rolled through the trapped
body. The creature never stopped
moving. It was as though invisible
snakes were rippling beneath the skin
and forcing its arms and legs to move in
a ceaseless bid for freedom.
“It’s not a boy,” Tom said scornfully.
“Its a clone.”
Matt felt as though he’d been punched
in the stomach. He’d never seen another
clone. He’d only felt the weight of
hatred humans had for such things. He
hadn’t understood it because, after all,
clones were like dogs and cats, and
humans loved them. If he’d thought about
it at all, he had assumed he was a pet,
only a very intelligent one.
Matt became aware that María no
longer held his hand. She’d shrunk
against Tom, and he had his arm around
her. The creature—clone—had regained
its energy and was screaming again.
Something about the children terrified it,
or perhaps it was terrified all the time.
Its tongue protruded from its mouth and
drooled saliva down its chin.
“Whose—?” whispered María.
“MacGregor’s. He’s a real wreck—
his liver’s all eaten up with alcohol,”
said Tom in a casual, chatty way. “Mom
says he looks like something the Grim
Reaper forgot to pick up.”
Mom, thought Matt. Felicia.
“Are they going to—?” said María.
“Tonight,” Tom said.
“I can’t bear to look at him!” wailed
María. “I don’t want to think about it!”
Tom pulled her away, and Matt knew he
was enjoying every minute of this.
“Shall I leave you two alone
together?” Tom inquired from the
doorway.
Matt had trouble tearing his eyes
away from the thing on the bed. There
was no way he could be the same sort of
being as that creature. It wasn’t
possible! The creature opened its mouth
to make another horrible scream, and
Matt suddenly knew who it looked like.
It resembled MacGregor, of course,
because it was his clone, but MacGregor
was an adult with differences that made
it hard to see the connection. It was a lot
closer to—close enough to show a
kinship with—“It looks like you,” Matt
said to Tom.
“You wish! You wish!” yelled Tom,
dropping his cheerful grin.
“Look, María. It has the same red hair
and ears.”
But she refused to look up. “Take me
out of here,” she moaned with her face
buried in Tom’s shirt.
“I’m not like that thing!” shouted Matt.
“Use your eyes!”
He tried to pull her from Tom, and she
shrieked, “Don’t touch me! I don’t want
to think about it!”
Matt was beside himself with
frustration. “You wanted to come down
here to rescue a cat. Well, look at this! It
needs rescuing!”
“No, no, no,” whimpered María. She
was in a state of utter panic. “Take me
away!” she wailed.
Tom hurried her down the hall. He
glanced back with a look of savage
triumph, and Matt had to clench his teeth
very hard to keep from running after
them and pounding Tom to within an
inch of his life. It wouldn’t do María any
good. It wouldn’t do Matt any good
either, except to convince her he really
was a beast.
Their footsteps died away. Matt stood
for a moment in the hallway, listening to
the mewling of the thing on the bed. Then
he closed the door and followed them.
13
THE LOTUS POND
Matt had to talk to someone. He had to
do something to keep from howling like
a dog at the horror of it all. He wasn’t a
clone! He couldn’t be! Somehow,
somewhere a mistake had been made.
Words he’d overheard from the doctor
came back to him: Clones go to pieces
when they get older. Was that going to
happen to him? Was he going to end up
strapped to a bed, screaming until he ran
out of air?
Tam Lin was with El Patrón, and not
even Matt was allowed into that heavily
guarded part of the house without
permission. He ran to the kitchen
instead. Celia took one look at his face
and hung up her apron. “Finish the soup
for me, would you?” she told a junior
cook. She took Matt’s hand and said,
“Let’s take the afternoon off, chico. The
Alacráns can eat their shoes for dinner
for all I care.”
Alone of all the servants, Celia could
and did insult the Alacráns whenever
she felt like it. Not to their faces, of
course, but she was less servile in their
presence than the others. She, like Matt,
was protected by El Patrón.
Celia said nothing more until they
were inside her apartment with the door
closed. “Okay. Something bad
happened,” she said. “Is María still
mad?”
Matt didn’t know where to begin.
“If you say you’re sorry, she’ll
forgive you,” Celia said. “She’s a good
kid.”
“I did apologize,” Matt managed to
say.
“And she wouldn’t accept it. Well,
that happens sometimes. Sometimes we
have to grovel to show we really mean
it.”
“That isn’t it.”
Celia pulled him onto her lap,
something she rarely did now that he
was older, and held him tightly. Matt’s
reserve snapped. He sobbed
uncontrollably, clinging to her, terrified
she would push him away.
“Hey, María won’t hold a grudge.
You have to make her a list of who she’s
mad at, ’cause she doesn’t remember
more than half an hour.” Celia rocked
Matt back and forth, all the while
murmuring comforting words he could
hardly take in. All he sensed was the
music of her voice, the warmth of her
arms, the fact that she was there.
Finally, he calmed enough to tell her
everything that had happened in the
hospital.
For a moment Celia sat perfectly still.
She didn’t even breathe. “That…little
…creep” she said at last.
Matt looked up anxiously. Her face
had turned pale and her eyes stared into
the far distance. “Tom is MacGregor’s
son, you know,” said Celia. “I shouldn’t
tell you these things at your age, but
nobody gets a decent childhood in the
Alacrán household. They’re all
scorpions. Boy, did El Patrón have it
right when he picked the name.”
“How can Tom be MacGregor’s son?
Felicia’s married to Mr. Alacrán.”
Celia laughed bitterly. “Marriage
doesn’t mean much to this crowd.
Felicia ran off with MacGregor, oh,
years ago. I guess she got bored hanging
around here. Only it didn’t work out. El
Patrón had her brought back—he doesn’t
like people taking his possessions—and
MacGregor let him do it. Felicia was
beginning to bore him.
“Mr. Alacrán was very, very angry
because he didn’t want her back, but El
Patrón didn’t care. Mr. Alacrán doesn’t
talk to her anymore. He won’t even look
at her. She’s a prisoner in this house,
and the servants supply her with all the
booze she can handle. Which is a lot, let
me tell you.”
“What about Tom?” Matt urged.
“Tom showed up about six months
after she returned.”
Matt felt slightly better after learning
this information. It pleased him that
Felicia was in disgrace, but he still had
questions. He steeled himself to ask the
most important one. “What’s wrong with
MacGregor’s clone?”
Celia looked around nervously. “I’m
not supposed to talk to you about this.
You weren’t supposed to know about
him.”
“But I do know,” Matt said.
“Yes. Yes. That’s Tom’s doing. You
don’t understand, mi vida . All of us
have been warned not to talk about
clones. We don’t always know who
might be listening.” Again Celia looked
around, and Matt remembered what Tam
Lin had told him about hidden cameras
in the house.
“If you tell me, it’ll be Tom’s fault,”
Matt said.
“That’s true. I really don’t see how I
can avoid explaining after what you’ve
seen.”
“So what’s wrong with MacGregor’s
clone?”
“His … brain has been destroyed.”
Matt sat up straight when he heard
that.
“When clones are born, they’re
injected with a kind of drug. It turns them
into idiots,” said Celia. She wiped her
eyes with her apron.
“Why?”
“It’s the law. Don’t ask me why. I
can’t tell you.”
“But I wasn’t injected,” Matt said.
“El Patrón didn’t want it to happen to
you. He’s powerful enough to break the
law.”
Matt was filed with gratitude for the
old man who had spared him such a
terrible fate. Matt could read and write,
climb hills, play music, and do anything
a real human might do—all because El
Patrón loved him. “Are there any others
like me?” he asked.
“No. You’re the only one,” Celia
said.
The only one! He was unique. He was
special. Matt’s heart swelled with pride.
If he wasn’t human, he might become
something even better. Better than Tom,
who was an embarrassment to the
family. Then a horrible thought occurred
to him. “They won’t—the doctors won’t
—inject me later?”
Celia hugged him again. “No, darling.
You’re safe from that. You’re safe for as
long as you live.” She was crying,
although Matt couldn’t understand why.
Perhaps she was afraid because she had
said something in front of the hidden
cameras.
Matt felt limp with relief. He was
exhausted by all that had happened and
he yawned broadly.
“Take a nap, mi vida ,” said Celia.
“I’ll bring you something nice from the
kitchen later.” She led him to his
bedroom, turned on the air conditioner,
and closed the curtains.
Matt stretched out under the sheet and
let a delicious sense of ease sweep over
him. So much had happened: the
disastrous party, the sinister hospital,
MacGregor’s clone. Matt felt hurt that
María had run from him after seeing the
thing on the bed. He would seek her out
later and show her that he was
completely different.
As Matt drifted to sleep, he pondered
why MacGregor would want a clone
when he had a son. It was probably
because Tom had been taken away from
him by El Patrón. And because Tom was
an unnatural Httle weevil no father
would like to have around.
But then, Matt thought hazily, why
replace him with a horribly damaged
clone?
María refused to talk to Matt. She hid in
her father’s apartment or managed to be
with a group of people every time he
saw her. But Matt had faith in María’s
intelligence. If he could get her alone
and explain how he was different from
all other clones, she would understand.
MacGregor was back from his
operation. He still looked—as Felicia
put it—like something the Grim Reaper
forgot to coUect, but he was getting
better all the time. He and El Patrón sat
in adjoining wheelchairs and cackled
over old memories—rivals they had
destroyed and governments they had
overthrown.
“Got me a new liver,” MacGregor
said, patting his stomach, “and went in
for a set of kidneys while I was at it.”
He gazed at Matt with those bright blue
eyes that were so much like Tom’s. Matt
thought he was disgusting. He couldn’t
wait for the man to go home.
María would be leaving for
boardingschool soon. Matt realized he
had to act now. As he watched her
across the garden, playing tag at a slow
pace because she had Furball in her side
bag, the solution came to him. María
didn’t have the dog with her all the time.
Now and then Senator Mendoza
banished him to the bathroom in their
apartment. What if Matt stole the animal
and sent her a ransom note?
There was a pump house by the lotus
pond. It was concealed by a giant
wisteria vine and reasonably cool
inside. Matt could hide Furball there.
But how could he keep the dog from
yapping? Even a spider swinging down
on its web sent the animal into hysterics.
He won’t bark if he’s asleep , Matt
thought.
Matt had spent a lot of time in the secret
passage behind the music room. He liked
to pretend he was a superhero creeping
up on his enemies. He’d replaced El
Látigo Negro as his hero with Don
Segundo Sombra—Sir Second Shadow
—an international spy. The Black Whip
was for kids, but the Don did adult
things like drive race cars and parachute
out of jet planes. An even better hero
was El Sacerdote Volante, the Flying
Priest. The Flying Priest bombarded
demons with holy water that ate holes in
their scaly hides.
One of the closets reachable from the
secret passage belonged to Felicia. It
was full, top to bottom, with liquor.
More interesting—and useful now—was
a shelf of small bottles with
eyedroppers. They contained laudanum.
Matt knew all about laudanum, having
studied the opium business as part of his
regular homework. Laudanum was
opium dissolved in alcohol, and it was
very strong. Three drops in a glass of
fruit juice would knock you out for eight
hours. Felicia had enough stored in her
closet to knock out an entire city. It
explained why she was so dopey all the
time.
Matt waited until he saw her dozing
on a lawn chair, and then he hurried
through the secret passage and stole one
of the small bottles.
• • •
The lotus pond was one of a dozen pools
of water in the vast gardens of the house.
It was deserted in summer because it had
little shade. Ibises, with wings clipped
to keep them from flying away, stalked
through papyrus grass and hunted frogs
under the lily pads. It was El Patrón’s
idea of an ancient Egyptian garden. The
walls enclosing the place were painted
with stiff figures of ancient gods.
Matt pushed aside the wisteria and
went into the pump house. It was dark
and damp. He made a bed for Furball
out of empty sacks and filled a bowl
with water.
He stepped outside and froze. Tom
was on his hands and knees at the other
end of the garden. His back was turned,
and he was absorbed in watching
something on the lawn. Matt eased
carefully out of the wisteria. He moved
quietly through the papyrus to sneak back
into the house.
An ibis rose from the grass. It flapped
its mutilated wings and blundered across
the pond.
Tom jumped up. “You! What are you
doing here?”
“Watching you,” Matt said coolly.
“Well, it’s none of your business! Get
back to your part of the house!”
“All parts of the house are mine,” said
Matt. He looked past Tom and saw a
frog on the lawn. Its hind legs had been
nailed to the ground, and it flopped
frantically, trying to escape. “You’re
disgusting!” Matt said. He went over and
freed the frog’s feet. The creature threw
itself into the water.
“I was only doing a science project,”
said Tom.
“Oh, sure. Even María wouldn’t
believe that.”
Tom’s face flushed with rage, and
Matt braced himself for a fight; but just
as suddenly the anger drained away, as
though it had never been there. Matt
shivered. It bothered him when Tom
made a lightning shift like that. It was
like watching a crocodile submerge in a
nature movie. You knew the crocodile
was planning an attack, but you didn’t
know when.
“You can learn a lot from studying a
place like this,” Tom said in a casual
voice. “The ibises live on frogs, the
frogs eat bugs, and the bugs eat one
another. It teaches you about the meaning
of life.” Tom had on his professional
Cute Kid smile. It didn’t fool Matt for
one second.
“Let me guess. You’re on the side of
the ibises,” Matt said.
“Of course. Who wants to be at the
bottom of the food chain?” Tom said.
“That’s the difference between humans
and animals, see. The humans are at the
top, and the animals—well, they’re just
walking T-bone steaks and drumsticks.”
He strolled off—an easy, good-natured
stroll to show he wasn’t concerned that
Matt had disturbed his evil game. Matt
watched him disappear into the house.
What rotten luck, Matt thought. He
didn’t want Tom poking around while he
was talking to María. If only he could
slip Tom the laudanum. For a moment
Matt savored the idea, but he knew that
would be going too far.
María had the dog glued to her all
morning and all through lunch the next
day. Finally, Senator Mendoza said,
“For God’s sake, María. It stinks.”
“Did you roll in something icky,” she
said fondly, holding the creature up to
her nose. “Did you, sweet-ums?”
“Get it out of here,” her father
snapped.
Matt was observing this from behind a
wall hanging. He slithered along the
curtains and followed María. If he could
talk to her now, he wouldn’t have to
kidnap the stupid dog. She thrust Furball
into her apartment and closed the door.
Agonized yips broke out from the other
side.
“María—” began Matt.
“Oh, hi. Listen, I’ve got to run. Dada
will get mad if I don’t come back right
away.”
“I just want to talk.”
“Not now!” cried María, dodging past
him. She ran down the hall, her sandals
slapping against the floor.
Matt felt like crying. Why was she
making things so difficult? Would it kill
her to listen?
He hurried to Celia’s apartment to get
a bowl of raw hamburger he’d noticed in
the refrigerator. When he returned, he
looked around carefully for servants
coming down the hall. The minute he
opened María’s door, Furball yelped
and scurried under a sofa. Great.
Matt picked up the side bag María
used to cart the animal around. He
opened it temptingly and placed a chunk
of hamburger inside. The dog whined
and drooled as he watched. María fed
him a special diet recommended by a
vet, but it didn’t include raw meat. She
didn’t like the idea of raw meat.
“You want that. You know you do,”
said Matt.
Furball licked his chops.
Matt held up a glob of the stuff and
blew the smell toward the animal.
Furball trembled all over and
swallowed several times. Finally, he
couldn’t stand it anymore and darted out.
In an instant Matt had him trapped inside
the bag. Furball snarled and tried to
claw his way out. Matt poked a crumb of
hamburger into the bag and got a bite that
drew blood. Furball howled piteously.
“Here! Eat yourself silly,” Matt cried,
shoving fistfuls of meat inside. Matt
heard slurping, gulping, and frantic
licking. Then—miraculously—the
animal stretched out in the bag and fell
asleep. Matt peeked inside to be sure.
This was even better than he’d hoped.
He slung the bag over his shoulder,
expecting outraged yips when the dog
felt himself being moved. There was
nothing. Furball was used to being
hauled around. He slept in the bag all the
time and probably felt safe wrapped up
in his dark little cave. Matt could
understand that. He was fond of dark
hide-aways himself.
He left a note under María’s pillow:
Meet me by the lotus pond at midnight
and I’ll tell you where your dog is. He
signed it Matt. Then, P.S. Don’t tell
anyone or you’ll never see him again!!!
Matt supposed the last line was mean,
but he was fighting against impossible
odds.
He slipped out of the apartment,
leaving the door ajar so it would seem
the dog had worked it open. The halls
were empty and the lotus garden
deserted, except for ibises meditating on
the existence of frogs. Everything was
working out perfectly. Furball stirred
slightly when Matt laid the bag down in
the pump house, but he didn’t bark.
Matt decided to leave him in the bag.
He could come out when he felt like it
and find water and the rest of the
hamburger. Matt put the laudanum on a
shelf. He was frankly relieved he didn’t
have to use it. As much as he disliked
Furball, it seemed wrong to feed him the
same stuff that turned Felicia into a
zombie.
María discovered Furball missing
right after lunch. She enlisted everyone
—except Matt—to hunt for him. Matt
could hear voices calling, but anyone
familiar with the beast knew he wouldn’t
answer. He would cower in whatever
hiding place he’d found until dragged
out, snapping and snarling.
Celia was asleep when Matt left. Most
of the hall lights had been turned off, and
black areas yawned between them. Not
long ago Matt would have been afraid to
go out so late. He no longer believed in
the chupacabras or vampires, but the
dark, dead stillness of night brought them
back. What if María was too frightened
to leave her apartment? Matt hadn’t
thought of that. If she didn’t come, the
whole plan would be ruined.
His footsteps echoed on the floor. He
stopped many times to be sure no one
was following him. He checked his
watch. It was fifteen minutes to midnight,
when the dead—according to Celia—
threw off their coffin lids like so many
blankets. Stop that, Matt told himself.
The lotus garden was lit only by
starlight, and the air was warm and
smelled of stagnant water. Not a frond of
the palm trees stirred. Not a mosquito
whined. Somewhere in the papyrus the
ibises were sleeping, or perhaps they
were awake and listening to him. What
would they do when they realized he
was there?
Don’t be a wuss, Matt told himself.
They’re only birds. They’re long-
legged chickens.
A frog grunted, making Matt almost
drop the flashlight he carried. He shone
it on the pond. He heard a splash and a
rustle of feathers.
Matt walked as silently as he could
toward the pump house. It would be truly
awful to hear Furball whine right now.
Maybe María wouldn’t come. After all,
if he was this jumpy, she must be
terrified. But she’d come for her dog.
Matt didn’t underestimate her courage
when she thought something was
important.
He reached the wisteria. Would it be
better to wait here or to check on
Furball? He didn’t much like going into
the dark little house. Anyhow, if he went
inside, María wouldn’t know where to
find him. He heard a noise—floodlights
lit up every corner of the garden. It was
El Patrón’s security system! Matt was
blinded. He backed into the wisteria and
was grabbed by powerful hands. “Let
me go!” Matt shouted.’“I’m not an
enemy! I’m El Patrón’s clone!”
Daft Donald and Tam Lin frog-
marched him to the middle of the lawn.
“It’s me! Its me!” Matt cried. But Tam
Lin remained silent and grim.
Senator Mendoza came out of the Big
House. He stood in front of Matt, flexing
his hands as though he had to keep them
under control. For a long, long moment
he said nothing. Then: “You are worse
than an animal.” He spoke with such
concentrated venom that Matt flinched
back against the hands restraining him.
“Oh, I won’t hurt you. I’m not that
kind of man. Besides, your fate lies with
El Patrón.” Another long pause. Just
when Matt began to think the man wasn’t
going to say anything else, Senator
Mendoza hissed, “You can count on one
thing: You will never … ever … see my
daughter again.”
“But—why?” said Matt, startled out
of his fear.
“You know why.”
Matt didn’t. This was all a horrible
nightmare, and he couldn’t wake up. “I
only wanted to talk to her. I meant to
give Furball back. I didn’t mean to upset
her and I’m sorry now. Please let me see
her. To say I’m sorry.”
“How can you possibly apologize for
killing her dog?”
For an instant Matt wasn’t sure he’d
heard right. Then the full enormity of the
situation sank in on him. “But I didn’t! I
wouldn’t! I couldn’t do such a thing to
María! I love her!” The minute Matt said
it, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.
Senator Mendoza looked as though he
wanted to strangle Matt right there and
throw his body into the lotus pond.
Nothing could have been more
infuriating than a reminder of how close
Matt and María had become—so close
that Matt had demanded a kiss from her
in front of everyone at El Patrón’s
birthday party.
It was unthinkable. It was as though a
chimpanzee had demanded to wear
human clothes and to eat at the same
table as people. Worse. Because Matt
wasn’t even a normal, forest-living
beast. He was the thing on the bed.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Matt’s mind
had frozen. All he could think of was to
keep apologizing until Senator Mendoza
heard him and forgave him.
“You’re lucky you’re under El
Patrón’s protection.” Senator Mendoza
turned and strode into the house.
“Move along,” said Tam Lin as he
and Daft Donald propelled Matt from the
garden.
“I didn’t do it!” cried Matt.
“They found your fingerprints on the
laudanum bottle,” said Tam Lin. Matt
had never heard him like this before—so
cold, so bitter, and so disgusted.
“I did take the laudanum, but I didn’t
use it.” They were moving rapidly
through the halls with Matt’s feet only
brushing the floor. They arrived at
Celia’s apartment. Tam Lin paused
before opening the door.
“I always say,” Tam Lin said,
breathing as hard as if he’d run a long
way, “I always say the truth is best even
when we find it unpleasant. Any rat in a
sewer can lie. It’s how rats are. It’s
what makes them rats. But a human
doesn’t run and hide in dark places,
because he’s something more. Lying is
the most personal act of cowardice there
is.”
“I’m not lying.” Matt couldn’t help
crying, even though he knew it was a
babyish thing to do.
“I can believe you made a mistake,”
Tam Lin went on. “The bottle said three
drops—that’s the dose for a full-grown
man. But Furball was a dog. A dose like
that would kill him. Did kill him.”
“Someone else gave it to him!” Matt
cried.
“I’d feel sorry for you if I hadn’t seen
María first. And I’d feel more kindly if
you stepped up and took the blame you
deserve.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Ah, well. Perhaps I’m expecting too
much of you. You’re confined to quarters
until María leaves. And now is as good
a time as any to tell you El Patrón is
leaving at the same time. And taking me
with him.”
Matt was so stupefied, he couldn’t
speak. He stared at Tam Lin.
“It had to happen sometime, lad,” Tam
Lin said more kindly. “You’re able to
look after yourself now. If anything goes
wrong, Celia can send a message.” He
opened the door, and Matt was swept up
by Celia, who obviously had been
waiting on the other side.
He couldn’t talk to her. As had
happened when he was deeply upset
before, the power of speech left him. He
was six years old again, master of a
kingdom of gristle and bone and rotting
fruit hidden beneath the sawdust in a
little room.
14
CELIA’S STORY
Matt was inside his room when María
left. He heard the hovercraft whine as it
prepared to lift off. He heard the whoosh
of air and felt an eerie stir on his skin as
the antigravity vessel passed overhead.
He had never traveled in one. El Patrón
discouraged such things, preferring to
keep his Farm close to the memory of his
youth.
As a boy, El Patrón had observed the
grand estate of the wealthy rancher who
owned his village. He remembered a
statue of a winged baby and a fountain
tiled in blue and green. He remembered
the peacocks that haunted the garden. In
every respect—he told Matt—he tried to
duplicate that memory, only of course
being vastly more wealthy, he could
have dozens of statues, fountains, and
gardens.
The Alacrán estancia was laid out
over a large area. No part of the house
was taller than one story. The walls
were a brilliant white, the roofs of fine
red tile. Modern conveniences were kept
to a minimum, except in special areas
like the hospital. Thus, Celia cooked
over a wood-burning stove when El
Patrón was visiting because he liked the
smell of burning mesquite. At other
times she was allowed to use
microwaves.
The gardens were cooled with fine
sprays of water, and the rooms, for the
most part, depended on shaded verandas
to tame the hot desert air. But during the
annual birthday party modern
conveniences came out. The famous
celebrities would have been miserable
without their air-conditioning and
entertainment centers.
Not that El Patrón cared whether they
were miserable. He merely wanted to
impress people.
Matt listened for the purr of El
Patrón’s limousine. The old man
preferred to travel by road. If it had been
possible, he would have gone by horse,
but his bones were far too brittle to
attempt such a thing. He would sit in the
back with Tam Lin for company. Daft
Donald would drive. They would whisk
along the long, shimmering highway to
El Patrón’s other house in the Chiricahua
Mountains.
Matt stared up at the ceiling. He was
too depressed to eat or watch TV. All he
could do was play out the events of the
past few days in his mind. He went over
them again and again. If only he hadn’t
put Tom at the baby table. If only he
hadn’t made María kiss him in front of
the others. If only he hadn’t gone to the
hospital.
The regrets piled thickly on one
another until Matt’s thoughts were
running around in his head like a hamster
on a wheel.
Everyone thought he’d poisoned
Furball. His fingerprints were on the
bottle, and he’d left a note, a signed
note!—how dumb can you get?—in
María’s room. Matt had to admit the
evidence against him was pretty good.
Tom must have seen him come out of
the pump house and decided to finish the
job he’d started when he dumped
Furball into the toilet. But how did Tom
use the laudanum without leaving his
fingerprints on the bottle?
Round and round went Matt’s
thoughts. Squeak went the wheel in his
mind. He heard the limousine start up,
the distant slam of a door, the fading
roar of the engine.
So El Patrón was gone now. And Tam
Lin. Matt grieved for him. Any rat in a
sewer can lie, Tam Lin had said. It’s
how rats are…. But a human doesn’t
run and hide in dark places, because
he’s something more . Matt thought he
could make María understand if he ever
got to see her. She’d forgive him
because he was a dumb animal and
didn’t know any better. But Tam Lin had
called Matt a human and expected much
more from him. Humans, Matt realized,
were a lot harder to forgive.
For the first time he saw a huge
difference between the way the
bodyguard treated him and how
everyone else did. Tam Lin talked about
courage and loyalty. He let Matt do
dangerous things on their expeditions
and go off by himself to explore. He
treated Matt as an equal.
Tam Lin often talked to him about his
childhood in Scotland as though Matt
were another adult. It wasn’t like El
Patrón’s memories, which tended to fall
into a rut. Matt had those stories
memorized right down to the last word.
Tam Lin’s stories were about the
difficult decisions you made to become a
man. I was a proper fool, the bodyguard
had said. Turned my back on my family,
ran with a rough crowd, and did the
thing that brought me here. What that
thing was Tam Lin never revealed.
At the memory of those picnics, tears
came to Matt’s eyes and rolled down his
cheeks. He made no sound. He had
learned that safety lay in silence. But he
couldn’t stop the tears.
Yet in the midst of his sorrow, Matt
found a glimmer of hope. Someone, out
of all the people who thought he was no
better than a dog, believed he could be
something more.
And I will be, Matt promised as he
stared up at the blurry ceiling.
Not everything was depressing. Tom
was banished from the house. María,
when she was hunting for her dog, had
innocently asked her father to look in the
hospital. Senator Mendoza wanted to
know how she knew about the place.
The whole story came out about
MacGregor’s clone and Tom’s part in
luring María to see it. El Patrón
banished Tom to a year-round
boardingschool with no holidays.
“Why doesn’t Mr. MacGregor take
him, if Tom’s his son?” Matt asked.
“You don’t understand,” Celia said as
she cut cheesecake with fresh
raspberries for dessert. Ordinarily, Matt
would have demanded two slices. Now
he didn’t think he could choke down one.
“Once El Patrón decides something
belongs to him, he never lets it go.”
“Never?” said Matt.
“Never.”
“What about the presents he gets for
his birthday?” Matt thought of all the
gold watches, jewels, statues, and moon
rocks people had given El Patrón for
over one hundred years.
“He keeps it all.”
“Where?”
Celia dished up the cheesecake and
licked her fingers. “There’s a secret
storeroom under the ground. El Patrón
wants to be buried in it—may the Virgin
keep that day away forever.” Celia
crossed herself.
“Like”—Matt had to think—“Like an
Egyptian pharaoh.”
“Exactly. Eat your cheesecake, mi
vida . You need to keep your strength
up.”
Matt ate mechanically as he imagined
the storeroom. He’d seen pictures of
King Tutankhamun’s tomb. El Patrón
would lie in a golden box with all the
watches, jewels, statues, and moon
rocks around him. Then, because Matt
didn’t want to think of El Patrón dying,
he said, “What does that have to do with
Tom?”
Celia settled back in her easy chair.
She was much more relaxed now that
everyone had left. “El Patrón thinks a
person belongs to him the same way a
house or car or statue does,” she said.
“He wouldn’t let that person go any
more than he’d throw away money. It’s
why he wouldn’t allow Felicia to
escape. It’s why he keeps everyone
under his control so he can call them
back in an instant. He’ll never let
MacGregor have Tom, even though he
can’t stand the boy.”
“Do you and Tam Lin belong to El
Patrón?” Matt asked.
Celia flinched. “¡Caramba! The
questions you ask!”
Matt waited.
“Maybe you wouldn’t get into so
much trouble if people explained things
to you,” she said with a sigh.
“I didn’t poison Furball.”
“You didn’t mean to, darling. I know
your heart is good.”
Matt badly wanted to argue his case,
but he knew Celia wouldn’t believe him.
His fingerprints were on the laudanum
bottle.
“I grew up in Aztlán,” she began, “in
the same village where El Patrón was
born. It was poor then and it’s worse
now. Nothing grew there except weeds,
and they were so bitter that they made
the donkeys throw up. Even roaches
hitchhiked to the next town. That’s how
bad it was.
“As a girl, I went to work in a
maquiladora — a factory—on the
border. All day I sat on an assembly line
and put tiny squares into tiny holes with
a pair of tweezers. I thought I’d go blind!
We lived in a big gray building with
windows so small, you couldn’t put your
head outside. That was to keep the girls
from running away. At night we climbed
to the roof and looked north across the
border.”
“Our border?” asked Matt.
“Yes. The Farms lie between Aztlán
and the United States. You couldn’t see
much because the Farms are dark at
night. But beyond, where the United
States lay, was a great glow in the sky.
We knew that under that glow was the
most wonderful place. Everyone had his
own house and garden. Everyone wore
beautiful clothes and ate only the best
food. And no one worked more than four
hours a day. The rest of the time people
flew around in hovercrafts and went to
parties.”
“Is that true?” asked Matt, who knew
almost nothing about the countries
bordering the Farms.
“I don’t know.” Celia sighed. “I guess
it’s too good to be true.”
Matt helped Celia clear the dishes,
and together they washed and dried. It
reminded him of those days, long ago,
when they lived in the little house in the
poppy fields.
Matt waited patiently for Celia to pick
up the story again. He knew if he pushed
her too hard, she’d stop talking about her
past.
“I lived in that gray building forever,
getting older and older. No parties, no
boyfriends, no nothing,” she said at last
after the dishes were put away. “I hadn’t
heard from my family in years. Maybe
they were all dead. I didn’t know. The
only change in my life happened after I
learned to cook. I was taught by an old
curandera , a healing woman who took
care of the girls. She taught me all kinds
of things.
“I was the best student she ever had,
and soon I got off the assembly line and
started cooking for the whole building. I
had more freedom; I went to the markets
to buy herbs and food. And one day I met
a coyote.”
“An animal?” Matt was confused.
“No, darling. A man who takes people
over the border. You pay him and he
helps you go to the United States. Only
first you have to cross the Farms.” Celia
shivered. “What an idiot I was! Those
people don’t help you go anywhere.
They lead you straight to the Farm
Patrol.
“I packed everything I owned,
including the Virgin I had brought from
my village. About twenty of us crossed
into the Ajo Mountains, and that’s where
the coyote abandoned us. We panicked
like a bunch of scared rabbits. We tried
to climb down a cliff, and a woman fell
into a gorge and died. We abandoned
most of our belongings so we could
move faster, but it didn’t do us any good.
The Farm Patrol was waiting at the foot
of the mountains.
“I was taken to a room, and my
backpack was dumped out. ’Be careful!’
I cried.’Don’t hurt the Virgin!’That’s
how She got the chip on Her robe—
when the Patrol dumped Her on the
floor.
“They laughed, and one of them was
going to crush Her with his foot when
someone shouted ‘Stop!’ from the
doorway. Everyone snapped to attention
then, you better believe it. It was El
PatrÓn in his wheelchair. He was
stronger in those days, and he liked to
check up on things personally.
“’Your accent is familiar. Where are
you from?’ he asked. I told him the name
of my village, and he was very
surprised. ‘That’s my hometown,’ he
said.’Don’t tell me the old rat’s nest is
still there.’
“‘It is,’ I said, ‘Only the rats have
moved on to a better slum.’
“He laughed and asked if I had any
skills. From that moment on, I belonged
to El PatrÓn. I’ll always belong to him.
He’ll never let me go.”
Matt felt cold. It was good that Celia
had crossed over the border. Otherwise,
she wouldn’t have been around to care
for him. But there was something so
bleak about her last words: He’ll never
let me go. “I love you, Celia,” Matt said
impulsively, putting his arms around her.
“And I love you,” she said softly,
hugging him back.
It felt so safe then. Matt wished he
could hide in her apartment forever and
forget about the Alacrÿns, the scornful
servants, and MacGregor’s clone.
“What happened to the other people
who crossed the border?” he asked.
“Them?” Celia’s voice was flat and
expressionless. “They were all turned
into eejits.” And she refused to say any
more about it.
15
A STARVED BIRD
The days passed with unvarying
sameness. Now Matt could no longer
look forward to María’s visits. Both she
and Emilia had been sent to a convent to
turn them into proper young ladies.
“María’s the one they’re trying to tame,”
Celia said. “Emilia’s about as wild as a
bowl of oatmeal.” Matt asked Celia to
send María a letter, but she refused.
“The nuns would only hand it over to
Senator Mendoza,” she said.
Matt tried to imagine what she was
doing, but he knew nothing about
convents. Did she miss him? Had she
forgiven him? Was she visiting Tom
instead?
With María and Emilia gone, Benito
and Steven went elsewhere for their
vacations. Mr. Alacrán was away on
frequent business trips, and Felicia and
El Viejo stayed in their rooms. The halls
and gardens were deserted. The servants
still went about their duties, but their
voices were muted. The house was like
a stage with all the actors missing.
One day Matt ordered a Safe Horse
from the stables and waited tensely to
see whether the request would be
denied. It wasn’t. An eejit brought out
the animal. Matt, uncomfortable, cast his
eyes down. Few eejits worked in the
house, and he preferred not to think
about them. He reached for the reins and
glanced up.
It was Rosa.
Matt felt that old thrill of terror, as
though he were still a small boy and she
his jailer, but this woman posed no
threat at all. The hard, bitter lines of her
face seemed unconnected with anything
going on inside. Rosa gazed straight
ahead with her hand outstretched. It was
unclear whether she even saw him.
“Rosa?” Matt said.
She looked at him. “Do you wish
another horse, Master?” The voice was
the same, but the old anger was gone.
“No. This one is fine,” Matt said.
Rosa turned and shuffled back into the
stables. Her movements were jerky
compared to what he remembered.
Matt rode away from the house. The
horse walked steadily. It would move in
a straight line until Matt told it to go
right or left, and it wouldn’t pass the
boundary implanted in its brain. Like
Rosa, Matt thought. For the first time he
realized what a terrible thing it was to
be an eejit. He hadn’t known any of the
others before their operation. They were
simply there to do boring jobs. But Rosa
had been a real, though cruel and
violent, person. Now she was merely a
shadow with the life sucked out of her.
On an impulse he turned the animal
west rather than east and skirted the
poppy fields to where he thought Celia’s
little house lay. He shaded his eyes to
make out its shape. This part of the Farm
was at an early stage in the growing
cycle. The plants were hardly more than
a gray-green shadow, and a gentle mist
wafted up from sprinklers in the ground.
The air was sharp with the smell of wet
dust.
A few eejits bent over the earth,
tweezing up weeds and squashing bugs.
This was their country, the country of the
eejits. Matt wondered what would
happen if they suddenly woke up. Would
they turn on him like the villagers in that
movie about Frankenstein? But they
wouldn’t wake up. They couldn’t.
They’d go on weeding until the foreman
told them to stop.
Matt couldn’t find the little house. It
must have been torn down when he and
Celia moved. Sighing, he turned east
toward the oasis in the mountains.
When he got to the water trough, Matt
alit and filled it from the pump as Tam
Lin had always done. “Drink,” he told
the horse. Obediently, it slurped until
Matt decided it had had enough. “Stop,”
he said. He led it into the shade and told
it to wait.
He felt a whisper of fear as he walked
into the mountains. This time he was
alone. This time no one would come to
his aid if he fell off a rock or was bitten
by a rattlesnake. He got to the hole in the
rock and climbed through. The pool was
low since it was the end of the dry
season and the thunderstorms of August
and September were yet to come. The
branches of a creosote bush trembled on
the other side as some animal slunk into
hiding. Wind whistled through the bare
rocks with a lonely, keening sound.
Matt sat down and took out a
sandwich. He didn’t know what he was
doing here.
At the upper end of the little valley
was the grapevine sprawled over its
man-made arbor. Someone had lived
here long ago, and the vine had grown so
heavy, part of the arbor had collapsed.
Matt walked carefully into its shade,
keeping his eyes peeled for snakes that
also liked the cool dark.
He saw a large metal chest on the
ground. On one side was a roll of
blankets and a cache of water bottles.
Matt halted. His heart started to gallop.
He glanced around to see where the
intruder was hiding.
There was nothing except the keening
wind and the rasping call of a cactus
wren somewhere in the rocks.
Matt retreated into the cover of a
creosote bush. The oily leaves broke
against his skin and released a pungent
smell. Who had dared to invade his
special place? Was it an Illegal trying to
the reach the United States? Or had one
of the eejits woken up?
As Matt considered the possibilities,
he realized that no Illegal could have
hauled a metal chest through the dry hills
and canyons Celia had described. And
no eejit ever woke up.
Heart thumping, Matt ventured from
his hiding place and examined the chest.
It was secured by two metal clasps.
Carefully, he undid the clasps and lifted
the lid.
On top of neatly packed parcels was a
note. Deer Matt, it began. Matt sat back
in the dirt and breathed deeply to contain
his shock. This stuff was for him. When
he’d calmed down, he took up the note
again.
Deer Matt, it said. Im a lousy writer so
this wont be long. El Patron says I have
to go with him. I cant do anything
about it. I put supplise in this chest
plus books. Yu never know when yu
mite need things. Yor frend Tam Lin.
It was written in a large, childish
scrawl. It surprised Matt to see how
poor the man’s writing was, when his
speech was so intelligent. Tam Lin had
said he’d never been educated, and here
was the proof of it.
Matt eagerly unpacked the chest. He
found beef jerky, rice, beans, dried
onions, coffee, and candy. He found a
bottle of water purification pills, a first-
aid kit, a pocketknife, matches, and
lighter fluid. Pots in blanckets said
another note halfway down. Matt
immediately unwrapped the blankets and
found a nest of cooking utensils and a
metal mug.
At the bottom of the chest were books.
One had foldout maps and another was
titled A History of Opium. Two more
were manuals on camping and survival.
A note at the very bottom read, Keep
chest clossed. Koyotes eat food. Books
tu.
Matt sat back and admired the
treasures. Tam Lin hadn’t deserted him
after all. He read and reread the last
words of the note and it was like
drinking many cups of fresh, cool water:
Yor frend Tam Lin. Then Matt packed
everything up, stowed the chest in the
shadows, and made his way back home.
The house was in turmoil when he got
there. Hovercrafts landed, servants ran
to and fro. Matt found Celia waiting
anxiously inside the apartment. “Where
have you been, mi vida?” she cried. “I
was about to send out a search party.
I’ve laid your suit on the bed.”
“What happened? Why is everyone
running around?” he asked.
“No one told you?” She distractedly
pulled off his shirt and thrust a towel at
him. “Take a quick shower before you
get dressed. El Viejo is dead.” Celia
hastily crossed herself and left.
Matt stared at the towel as he
collected his thoughts. The old man’s
death wasn’t a surprise—he hadn’t
emerged from his room in months, and
he’d clearly been very sick. Matt tried to
feel sorry, but he hardly knew the man.
Matt showered and dressed as rapidly
as possible. “I didn’t tell you to wash
your hair,” wailed Celia when she saw
him. She combed it down frantically.
She was wearing a fine black dress with
jetbeads sewn on the front, and Matt
thought she looked strange without her
apron.
“El PatrÓn insisted on us being
present,” Celia said as they hurried
through the halls.
They came out to the salon. The
statues had been replaced by pots of
flowers. Black crepe hung in swags
around the walls, and hundreds of holy
candles glittered in a rack at one end of
the room. The smoke and pall of incense
made Matt break into a coughing fit.
Everyone—and there were at least fifty
people in the salon—turned to frown at
him. Celia handed him the inhaler she
always carried.
Presently Matt’s wheezing subsided
and he was able to look around the
room. In the center was an elegantly
carved coffin with brass handles. Inside,
looking more like a starved bird than
anything else, was El Viejo. He was
dressed in a black suit, and his sharp
nose stuck up like a beak against the
ivory silk lining.
Celia wept softly, dabbing her eyes
with a handkerchief, and Matt felt bad
about that. He hated to see her cry. The
mourners kept their distance from the
coffin. They clustered against the walls
and made low conversation. Matt saw
Benito, Steven, and Emilia. Steven and
Emilia were holding hands.
The crowd thickened. MacGregor
entered, looking thirty years younger
than the last time Matt had seen him.
Now he really did look like Tom, and
Matt felt an unreasoning surge of dislike.
The hot, close smell of burning candles
made his head swim. He wished he
could go outside. On the far side of the
house was a huge swimming pool that
was hardly used by anyone except
Felicia, when she was sober. Matt
thought about the swimming pool now,
with its cool blue depths. He imagined
himself skimming along the bottom.
“Don’t say anything,” whispered
Celia in his ear. If she hadn’t waked
him, he would have missed María’s
entrance on the far side of the salon. She
was taller and thinner, and she looked
very adult in her slim, black dress. Her
hair fell in a shiny veil over her
shoulders. She wore diamond earrings
and a small, black hat trimmed with
more diamonds. Matt thought she was
the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
She was holding hands with Tom.
Matt felt Celia grip his arm. He stared
at María, willing her to look at him,
willing her to drop Tom’s hand or (even
better) push Tom away. María melted
into the crowd without once glancing
Matt’s way.
El PatrÓn was rolled into the salon by
Tam Lin. Mr. Alacrán was with them,
and for the first time Matt saw signs of
real grief on someone’s face. Mr.
Alacrán went up to El Viejo’s casket
and kissed the old man on the forehead.
El Patrón looked annoyed and signaled
Tam Lin to wheel him along the crowd
so he could be greeted by people.
Matt waited tensely. He wanted
desperately to thank Tam Lin, but now
was obviously a bad time. Somehow
Matt knew the contents of the metal chest
were forbidden. He didn’t want to get
Tam Lin into trouble. But everything
stopped when a door opened and the
officiating priest entered. He was
followed by boys swinging balls of
fuming incense and a children’s choir.
Their sweet voices stilled the
conversation in the salon. They were
dressed in white robes like a troop of
angels. Their hair was neatly combed
and their faces scrubbed and shining.
They were all about seven years old and
they were all eejits.
Matt could tell by the empty look in
their eyes. They sang beautifully—no
one was more able to appreciate good
mu s i c than Matt—but they didn’t
understand what they were singing.
The children took up their station at
the head of the casket. “Stay,” said the
priest in a low voice. Matt had never
seen a priest except on TV. Celia went
to a small church a mile away through
the poppy fields. She walked there early
on Sunday mornings, along with a few
other servants. She wasn’t allowed to
eat or even drink coffee before setting
out, which was a great hardship for her.
But she never missed a service. She
never took Matt along, either.
“Be still,” said the priest to the
children’s choir. They fell silent at once.
He intoned a prayer and ended by
sprinkling holy water over El Viejo. It
didn’t eat holes in El Viejo’s suit, the
way the Flying Priest’s holy water ate
through demons on TV. Matt had the
vague idea it was something like acid.
“Let us remember the life of our
companion,” the priest said in a deep,
impressive voice. He beckoned to the
audience, but no one responded. Finally,
Mr. Alacrán said a few words, and then
the priest told everyone to file past to
say their final goodbyes. Matt looked up
at Celia, hoping they could go now. She
seemed grimly determined. She pushed
him ahead as they joined the long line of
mourners shuffling past the casket.
What am I supposed to do now? Matt
thought. He tried to see what other
people were doing when they reached
the casket. Most merely nodded and
hurried out of the salon. When Matt and
Celia arrived, Celia crossed herself and
murmured, “May God be merciful to
you.” Matt felt a hand clamp down on
his shoulder and pull him out of the line.
“What … is this?” growled the
priest. He was a lot bigger close up than
he was at a distance.
“El Patrón wanted him to come,”
Celia said.
“This does not belong here!” the
priest thundered. “This unbaptized limb
of Satan has no right to make a mockery
of this rite! Would you bring a dog to
church?” The people in line had halted.
Their eyes glittered with malice.
“Please. Ask El Patrón,” begged
Celia. Matt couldn’t see why she wanted
to argue. They weren’t going to win, and
he couldn’t bear all those eyes watching
him be humiliated. He looked around
desperately, but El Patrón had already
gone.
“Saint Francis would take a dog to
church,” María said in a clear, high
voice. Where had she come from? Matt
turned to find her right behind him. She
was even more beautiful close up.
“Saint Francis took a wolf to church,”
she said. “He loved all animals.”
“María,” groaned Emilia, who wasn’t
far behind. “Dada will have a fit when
he finds out what you’re doing.”
“Saint Francis preached to a wolf and
told him not to eat lambs,” María went
on, ignoring Emilia.
“Miss Mendoza,” said the priest,
speaking much more respectfully than he
had to Celia, “I’m sure your father likes
you to express your opinions, but
believe me, I’m an expert in these
matters. Saint Francis spoke to the wolf
outside the church.”
“Then I shall too,” María said
haughtily. She took Matt’s hand and led
him back along the line of mourners.
“You’re going to be in big trouble
when Dada finds out,” called Emilia.
“Be sure and tell him!” retorted
María.
Matt was in a kind of daze. Celia
hadn’t come with them. He was all alone
with María, being pulled through the
halls to some place she’d decided was
safe. He was aware only of the soft
warmth of her hand and the spicy
perfume she was wearing. It wasn’t until
they were inside with the door closed
that Matt realized they were in the music
room.
María pulled off her hat and ran her
fingers through her hair, and suddenly
she looked like a little girl again. “It’s
so hot!” she complained. “I don’t know
why El Patrón doesn’t allow
airconditioning.”
“He wants everything to be like his
old village,” Matt said. He could hardly
believe his good luck. María was here!
And with him!
“Then why doesn’t he import rats and
cockroaches too? From what I hear, his
village was covered with them.”
“He only wanted the good things from
it,” said Matt, trying to pull himself out
of his daze.
“Oh, let’s not waste our time with
that!” cried María, throwing her arms
around him and giving him a big kiss.
“There! That shows I’ve forgiven you.
Gosh, I’ve missed you!”
“You have?” Matt tried to kiss her
back, but she slid out of his arms. “Then
why did you avoid me after—after …
the hospital?” Now he’d done it. He’d
reminded her of MacGregor’s clone.
“It was a shock,” María said, growing
solemn. “I knew—I didn’t want to tell
you—”
“Knew what?”
“Hey, is that people in the hall?”
Matt heard the noise outside as well.
He pulled María to the closet, pressed
the hidden switch and heard her gasp as
the secret passageway opened.
“It’s like a spy novel,” she whispered
as he drew her inside. Matt closed the
door and found the flashlight he kept by
the entrance. They tiptoed along the
passage with Matt in the lead. Finally,
he allowed her to stop and catch her
breath.
16
BROTHER WOLF
It’s even hotter in here than outside,”
María said, wiping her face.
“I’ll find an empty room we can hide
in,” said Matt. He showed her the hidden
peepholes, and María was both repelled
and fascinated.
“Don’t tell me you sit in here and
watch people,” she said.
“No!” Matt was offended. He wasn’t
above eavesdropping at a dinner where
he wasn’t invited. That was simply
getting back at people who’d snubbed
him. But what she’d suggested was
nasty, like peeking through a keyhole.
“You must think I’m a creep!”
“Hey, I’m not the one with the secret
passage. Who do you think made it?”
María’s whisper sounded explosive next
to Matt's ear. It tickled and sent shivers
down his neck.
“El Patrón, I guess,” said Matt.
“That figures. He’s so paranoid, he’s
always spying on people.”
“Maybe he needs to.”
“He can’t be using the peepholes
anymore,” said María. “Can you imagine
trying to squeeze a wheelchair in here?”
“Don’t make fun of him.”
“I’m not. Really. Listen, can we find a
room before I melt into a puddle?”
Matt rejected several rooms because
he’d seen people in them, but at a bend
in the passage he remembered a
warehouse with computers and other
equipment. Everything had been covered
with plastic sheets. It seemed to be a
place for things El Patron needed but
didn’t want in full view to spoil the
effect of his old-fashioned house.
Matt helped María over a tangle of
wires into the darkened room. “Wow!
It’s cool in here,” she said.
It was more than cool, Matt realized.
It was icy. It smelled faintly of
chemicals. A slight breeze stirred the
hair on his arms, and a hum vibrated
almost out of the range of his hearing. “I
guess computers need air-conditioning,”
he said.
“Isn’t that just typical,” María said.
“We can shrivel up in the heat, but the
machines get a first-class hotel room.”
They tiptoed around the equipment
and spoke in whispers. Matt saw things
glowing under the plastic covers, so the
machines were on. What were they
doing and what were they for?
“Let’s sit somewhere and talk,”
whispered María. Matt found a nook
between two shrouded hulks where he
thought they might be warmer. The
coolness, at first so welcome, was
beginning to get uncomfortable.
They sat close together, as they had
often done before María was sent away.
“I decided to forgive you after reading
The Little Flowers of Saint Francis,”
María began. “You remember the wolf I
talked about? Well, he was a monster
who terrorized everybody until Saint
Francis gave him a talking-to. He was
sweet as a lamb and never ate anything
but vegetables after that.”
“I didn’t know wolves could digest
vegetables,” said Matt, who had studied
biology.
“That’s not the point. Saint Francis
didn’t say, I’m going to punish you for
all the wickedness you’ve done.’ He
said, ‘Brother Wolf, today is a new day
and you’re going to turn over a new
leaf.’”
Matt held his tongue. He wanted to
say that he hadn’t poisoned Furball and
didn’t need forgiveness, but he didn’t
want to spoil María’s mood.
“So I realized I was being unfair and
should forgive you. After all, wolves
don’t know they aren’t supposed to eat
peasants.” María leaned against him in
the blue shadows of the equipment room.
Matt’s heart turned over. She was so
beautiful, and he had missed her so
much.
“Thank you,” he said.
“So you have to promise to be good.”
“Okay,” said Matt, who would have
promised her anything at that point.
“You have to mean it, Brother Wolf.
No running off to the henhouse for
snacks.”
“I promise. What do I call you? Saint
María?”
“Oh, no!” María said. “I’m not a saint.
I have all kinds of faults.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Matt.
María told him about how she
struggled not to lose her temper at
Emilia, how she copied someone’s
paper when she forgot to do her
homework, and how she ate ice cream
when she was supposed to be fasting.
Matt, who didn’t bother about being
good, thought it a waste of time to worry
about faults. “Have you been baptized?”
he asked.
“Yes. They did it when I was a baby.”
“Is it a good thing?”
“Well, of course. Without it, you can’t
go to heaven.”
Matt didn’t know much about heaven.
Hell was mentioned a lot more often in
the shows he watched on TV. “What did
the priest mean—that I’m an unbaptized
limb of Satan?”
María leaned against him and sighed.
“Oh, Matt. I’m sure Saint Francis
wouldn’t have agreed with him. You
aren’t evil, only …”
“Only what?”
“You don’t have a soul, so you can’t
be baptized. All animals are like that. I
think it’s unfair and sometimes I don’t
believe it. After all, what would heaven
be without birds or dogs or horses? And
what about trees and flowers? They
don’t have souls either. Does that mean
heaven looks like a cement parking lot? I
suppose this is what the nuns call a
theological problem.”
“Do animals go to hell when they
die?” said Matt.
“No! Of course not! You can’t get
there without a soul either. I guess—I
thought about it a lot when Furball died
—you simply go out. Like a candle. I’m
sure it doesn’t hurt. You’re there one
minute and then you’re not. Oh, let’s not
talk about this!”
Matt was astonished to find her
crying. She did cry a lot, he
remembered. He hugged her and kissed
her tear-streaked face. “I don’t mind,” he
whispered. “If I had a soul, I’d probably
wind up in hell anyway.”
They sat together for a long time
saying nothing. The room was so cold,
they both were shivering. “I do like
being with you,” María said at last.
“There’s nobody at my school so easy to
talk to.”
“Can’t you visit me again?” said Matt.
“Dada says I have to stay away. He
thinks—Oh no! I hear voices again.”
Matt and María jumped up and ran for
the door at the same time. She tripped on
the wires, and he caught her and boosted
her into the passageway. He slid the
door shut just as a door on the opposite
side of the room opened. They stood for
a moment to catch their breaths.
“Warm at last.” María contentedly
sighed, rubbing her arms. Matt listened
attentively to the voices outside.
“That’s Tom,” he said quietly.
“Really? Where’s the peephole? Let
me see.”
“I thought you didn’t like spying on
people.”
“I only want a peek.” María put her
eye to the hole. “It is Tom. And Felicia.”
Matt put his ear to the wall so he could
hear better.
“… find them here … if they’re
anywhere in the … house,” said
Felicia’s slow, hesitant voice. For an
instant Matt thought she meant the
passage, but then he heard the sound of
chairs being moved and the whir of a
machine.
“Hey, that’s the salon,” said Tom.
“It’s completely empty. El Viejo is all
alone.”
“No one cares,” Felicia murmured.
“He was … unusable.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom.
Felicia laughed, a shrill, alarming
sound. “His liver was … gone. His heart
… dried up. You can’t get transplants
from a cancer patient.”
“I guess he’s just compost now.” Tom
laughed. Felicia laughed too.
Matt was deeply shocked. He couldn’t
produce tears for El Viejo, but he did
feel sorry for him, lying there like a
starved bird in his silk-lined coffin. Matt
gently moved María aside. She didn’t
protest as he’d expected. She seemed as
stunned by what she’d just heard as he
was.
Matt saw that one of the large
computer screens was brilliantly lit.
Then he realized it wasn’t a computer at
all, but some kind of camera. He saw an
image of El Viejo with his beaklike nose
poking out of the casket. The picture
blurred and shifted. Tom was working
the controls.
“That’s the music room,” said Felicia.
Matt saw the grand piano, stacks of
music, and María’s black hat sitting on a
table.
“They were there!” cried Tom. He
moved the camera lens to show all
angles of the room.
Felicia took over now, and she
seemed to have a lot of experience using
the viewing screen. She moved rapidly
through the house, even showing the
servants’ quarters and storage closets.
She paused over Celia’s apartment.
Celia had collapsed in a big easy chair
with Tam Lin not far away.
“Where could they have gone?” said
Tam Lin, pacing up and down with the
restless energy Matt remembered so
well. The bodyguard’s voice was tinny
and faint until Felicia increased the
volume.
“Maybe they aren’t even in the
house,” said Celia.
“He wouldn’t take her there,” Tam
Lin said.
“How do you know? If he was
desperate enough—”
“Careful,” said Tam Lin, looking
straight into the view screen. Celia
changed the subject and began
discussing the funeral.
“Blast! They know about the
cameras,” said Tom.
“Tam Lin knows … everything,” said
Felicia. “El Patrón dotes on him.”
“Take her where?” shouted Tom,
smashing his fist onto a table covered
with shrouded machines. Something fell
over and broke. Felicia grabbed his
hand.
Matt knew what Celia was talking
about. Tam Lin must have told her about
the hidden oasis. Matt hadn’t considered
taking María there, and he certainly
couldn’t do it now with everyone hunting
for him.
“They could be … outside,”
murmured Felicia. She manipulated the
image to show the stables, the swimming
pool, the gardens. Matt was startled to
see the lotus pond and a pair of ibises
lazily stretching their wings.
“Let me see,” whispered María. Matt
moved to one side and pressed his ear to
the wall again so he wouldn’t miss
anything.
“Remember this?” said Felicia’s
slow, insinuating voice.
“That’s where Furball got snuffed,
isn’t it?” said Tom.
María gasped. Matt realized they must
be looking at the pump house.
“You know, I saw … the little beast
that day,” said Felicia.
“Furball?” Tom said.
Felicia giggled. “I meant the clone. I
saw … wonderful, talented Matt …
sneaking out of the Mendoza apartment
… with a dog in a bag. What’s going
on? I thought, so I followed him.”
There was a pause. Then Tom said,
“Amazing! You can see inside!”
“The cameras are everywhere. El
Patrón used to watch … everything. But
now he’s too old. He turned the job over
to his security team. They don’t bother
… unless there’s visitors. I spend a lot
of time here.”
“It’s so cold!”
“The machines are more … efficient
near freezing. I wear a coat and hardly
notice,” said Felicia. Matt could believe
that. She was so drugged, she probably
wasn’t much warmer than poor El Viejo
in his casket.
“Did you see Matt kill the dog?” Tom
asked eagerly. Matt was startled. Why
was Tom asking that question when he
himself had done the crime? María’s
body wriggled with indignation. Matt
hoped she wouldn’t forget herself and
yell at them.
“Matt didn’t … do it.”
María flinched as though she’d been
stung.
“Oh, he had the laudanum,” Felicia
went on, “but he … didn’t use it.”
“Don’t tell me the dog found the bottle
and offed himself!”
“Oh … no …” Felicia fell silent.
Sometimes it took her several minutes to
marshal her thoughts and continue a
conversation. Matt wished he could see
what was happening, but he had no
chance of prying María away from the
peephole now. “I went to the lotus
pond,” Felicia said finally. “I was … so
angry … at how they treated you at the
birthday party. I wanted to kill that
abomination El Patron keeps at his
heels.”
Matt felt cold. He’d had no idea how
much Felicia hated him.
“But I had to be satisfied with … that
filthy, slavering rat María called a dog. I
keep a small amount of laudanum for my
nerves.”
She keeps about enough to wipe out
a city, Matt thought.
“So I poured one of … my bottles on
the hamburger that idiot clone left
behind. ‘Come here, Furball,’ I called.
He didn’t want to leave his bag, but I …
dumped him out … on the meat. He ate
the whole thing.”
“How long did it take him to die?”
Tom asked, but Matt didn’t hear the
answer. María slid to the floor, and he
immediately went to her side. She didn’t
make a sound, but her body trembled and
she turned her head from side to side in
an agony of grief.
“He didn’t suffer,” Matt whispered as
he held her. “He didn’t even know what
was happening.” María clung to him, her
face streaked by a bar of light from the
flashlight Matt had propped against the
wall. Finally, she calmed down enough
for Matt to check up on what Tom and
Felicia were doing. But they had gone,
and the viewing screen was shrouded in
plastic.
He led her back along the passage.
María said nothing, and Matt didn’t
know what to do. They hadn’t gone far
before he saw a large shape holding a
flashlight coming toward them. There
was hardly room for the shape to fit
between the walls.
“You utter fools,” said Tam Lin in a
low voice. “The whole house is buzzing
like a ruddy beehive.”
“How did you find us?” asked Matt.
“El Patron told me about this passage.
He guessed you’d somehow found it.
Damn it, Matt, María’s had enough grief
out of you.”
“Felicia poisoned Furball,” María
said.
“What are you talking about?” Tam
Lin was clearly startled.
“I heard her talking to Tom. She was
so—so happy about it. I didn’t know
people could be that evil.” María looked
like a wraith in her black dress. Her face
was ashen.
“You need to lie down,” said Tam
Lin. “I’ll take you out through El
Patron’s study. He’ll say you were there
all the time. He thinks this is pretty
amusing, but Senator Mendoza doesn’t
think it’s funny at all.”
“Oh. Dada,” María said, as though
she’d just remembered she had a father.
“Matt, you wait here a few minutes.
When the coast is clear, come out
wherever you went in,” said the
bodyguard.
“The music room,” said Matt.
“I should have guessed it. María’s hat
was there.”
“Matt,” said María, pulling away
from Tam Lin for a moment, “you let me
forgive you for something you hadn’t
done.”
“A little extra forgiveness never
hurts,” said Matt, quoting one of Celia’s
favorite sayings.
“You probably liked letting me make
a perfect idiot of myself,” she said with
a flash of her old spirit.
“I’d never think you were an idiot,”
said Matt.
“Anyhow, I’m sorry I was unfair to
you.”
“We can’t stay here,” said Tam Lin.
“I expect you to keep your promise to
be good,” she went on, looking at Matt.
“Okay,” he replied.
“And, Brother Wolf, I’ll miss you.”
This time María let Tam Lin hurry her
down the passage. Matt listened to her
footsteps die away in the distance.
17
THE EEJIT PENS
The Mendozas left immediately after
María, pale and miserable, emerged
from El Patron’s apartment. El Patron
decamped not long afterward with his
bodyguards.
Matt was alone again. He couldn’t
talk to María or Tam Lin, but knowing
they still liked him made all the
difference. He studied things he thought
they would approve of. He read survival
manuals for Tam Lin and a long,
confusing book about Saint Francis to
please María.
Saint Francis loved everyone from
murderous bandits to beggars covered
with running sores (there was a picture
of one of these in the book). He called a
cicada to his finger and said, “Welcome,
Sister Cicada. Praise God with your
joyful music.” Saint Francis spoke to
everything—Brother Sun and Sister
Moon, Brother Falcon and Sister Lark. It
gave Matt the warm feeling that the
world was one loving family—very
unlike the Alacráns.
But would Saint Francis have said,
Brother Clone?
Matt’s warm feelings evaporated. He
wasn’t part of the natural order. He was
an abomination.
No matter where he was, Matt
couldn’t rid himself of the sensation he
was being watched. It was bad enough to
know the security guards spied on him,
but far worse to think of Felicia. She
was as awful as Tom, only no one
suspected it because she seemed so
meek. She reminded Matt of one of those
jellyfish he’d seen on TV. They floated
around the ocean like fluffy pillows,
trailing enough venom to paralyze a
swimmer. Why hadn’t he realized
Felicia hated him?
Well, to be honest, because most
people hated him. It was no big thing.
But her malevolence was in a class by
itself.
Once a week Matt went to the stables
and asked for a Safe Horse. Before
going out, though, he tried to have a
conversation with Rosa. He didn’t like
her. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to
wake her up, only that it seemed horrible
to see her so changed. If there was
anything left of Rosa, it was locked in an
iron box. He imagined her banging on
the walls with her fists, but no one came
to open the door. He’d read that coma
victims hear everything people say and
need voices to keep their brains alive.
And so Matt talked to her about
everything he’d seen and done that week.
But all Rosa ever replied was, “Do you
wish another horse, Master?”
After an hour or so of this, Matt rode
off to the oasis. “Hello, Brother Sun,” he
called. “Would you mind cooling down
a bit?” Brother Sun ignored him. “Good
morning, Sister Poppies,” Matt called to
the sea of blinding white flowers.
“Hello, Brother and Sister Eejits,” he
greeted a row of brown-clad workers
bending over the fields.
One of the most amazing things about
Saint Francis and his followers was how
they gave away their possessions. Saint
Francis couldn’t wait to strip off his
shirt and sandals whenever he saw a
poor person without them. Brother
Juniper, one of Saint Francis’s friends,
even went home naked a lot of the time.
Matt thought El Patrón would have a
heart attack if anyone told him to give
away his belongings.
Once Matt passed through the hole in
the rock, it was as though he’d arrived in
another world. The hawks circled lazily
in a bright, blue sky, the jackrabbits
crouched in the shade of the creosotes.
Fish nibbled bread from Matt’s fingers,
and coyotes darted forward to gobble
down chunks of his sandwiches. None of
them cared whether he was a human or a
clone.
Matt laid out a sleeping bag under the
grape arbor and used a rolled-up blanket
for a pillow. He placed a thermos of
orange juice within reach and selected a
book. This was living! The air smelled
faintly of creosote and the yellow
sweetness of locust flowers. A large
black wasp with scarlet wings ran over
the sand, searching for the spiders that
were its prey.
“Hello, Brother Wasp,” Matt said
lazily. The insect dug furiously in the
sand, found nothing, and scurried on.
Matt opened A History of Opium, one
of the books Tam Lin had left him in the
chest. He expected it to be a manual
about farming, but it was something quite
different and exciting. Opium, Matt read,
was a whole country. It was a long, thin
strip of land lying between the United
States and Aztlán.
One hundred years ago there had been
trouble between the United States and
Aztlán, which was called Mexico in
those days. Matt vaguely remembered
Celia saying something about it. Many
thousands of Mexicans had flooded
across the border in search of work. A
drug dealer named Matteo Alacrán—
Matt sat up straight. That was El
Patrón’s name! One hundred years ago
he would have been a strong and active
man.
This person, the book went on to say,
was one of the richest and most
powerful men in the world, even though
his business was illegal.
Drugs illegal? thought Matt. What a
strange idea.
Matteo Alacrán formed an alliance
with the other dealers and approached
the leaders of the United States and
Mexico. “You have two problems” he
said. “First, you cannot control your
borders, and second, you cannot
control us.”
He advised them to combine the
problems. If both countries set aside
land along their common border, the
dealers would establish Farms and stop
the flow of Illegals. In return, the dealers
would promise not to sell drugs to the
citizens of the United States and Mexico.
They would peddle their wares in
Europe, Asia, and Africa instead.
It was a pact made in hell, said the
book.
Matt put it down. He couldn’t see
anything wrong with the plan. It seemed
to have done everything it promised. He
looked at the title page. The author was
Esperanza Mendoza, and the Anti-
Slavery Society of California was the
publisher. Now that he looked more
closely, he saw the book was printed on
cheap, yellow paper. It didn’t look like
something you could take seriously. Matt
read on.
At first, the book explained, Opium
was simply a no-man’s-land, but through
the years it had prospered. Different
areas were ruled by different families,
much like the kingdoms of medieval
Europe. A council of Farmers was
established, which dealt with
international problems and kept peace
between the various Farms. Most
families controlled small areas, but two
were large enough to dictate policy. The
MacGregors ruled the land near San
Diego, and the Alacráns had a vast
empire stretching from central California
all across Arizona and into New
Mexico.
Gradually, Opium changed from a no-
man’s-land to a real country. And its
supreme leader, dictator, and führer was
Matteo Alacrán.
Matt stopped reading so he could
savor the words. His heart swelled with
pride. He didn’t know what a führer
was, but it was obviously something
very good.
A more evil, vicious, and self-serving
man could hardly be imagined, wrote
Esperanza on the next line.
Matt threw the book away as hard as
he could. It landed in the water with its
pages open. How dare she insult El
Patrón! He was a genius. How many
people could build a country out of
nothing, especially someone as poor as
El Patrón had been? Esperanza was
simply jealous.
But Matt sprang up to rescue the book
before it was entirely ruined. Tam Lin
had given it to him, and that made it
valuable. He dried it out carefully and
packed it away in the metal chest.
On the way back Matt stopped at the
water purification plant and talked to the
foreman. Since Tam Lin’s departure,
Matt had thought long and hard about the
excellent education he’d been given. It
didn’t make sense for him to spend the
rest of his life as an exotic pet. El Patrón
didn’t waste money like that.
No, Matt realized, the old man meant
him to have a higher destiny. He could
never reach the status of Benito or
Steven, not being human, but he could
help them. And so Matt had begun to
study how the enterprise of running an
opium empire worked. He saw how
opium was planted, processed, and
marketed. He watched how the eejits
were moved from field to field, how
often they were watered, and how many
food pellets they were allowed.
When I’m in charge— Matt quickly
adjusted his thought: When I’m helping
the person in charge, I’ll free the
eejits. Surely opium could be grown by
normal people. They might not be as
efficient, but anything was better than a
mindless army of slaves. Now that Matt
had observed Rosa, he understood that.
He asked the plant foreman about the
underground river that flowed from the
Gulf of California hundreds of miles
away. It was used to supply water to the
Alacrán estate, but it smelled—before it
was purified—terrifyingly bad.
The plant foreman refused to meet
Matts eyes. Like most humans, he didn’t
like talking to clones, but he also didn’t
want to anger El Patrón. “Why does the
water smell like that?” Matt asked.
“Dead fish. Chemicals,” the foreman
replied, not looking up.
“But you take those out.”
“Yes.”
“Where do you put them?”
“Wastelands,” the man said, pointing
north. He kept his answers as brief as
possible.
Matt shaded his eyes as he looked to
the north. A heat haze shimmered over
the desert, and he saw a series of ridges
that might be buildings. “There?” he
asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” the foreman replied.
Matt turned the horse and started
heading northward to get a clearer view.
The smell was so vile, he feared he
might have an asthma attack. He felt for
his inhaler.
They were buildings. They stretched
in long rows with doors and dark little
windows every so often. The roofs were
so low, Matt wondered whether a
person could stand up inside. The
windows were covered with iron bars.
Could this be where the eejits lived?
The idea was appalling.
The closer Matt got, the stronger the
stench became. It was a compound of
rotten fish, excrement, and vomit, with a
sweet chemical odor that was worse
than the other smells put together.
Matt grasped the inhaler. He knew he
should leave at once, but the buildings
were too intriguing. He could see
skeletons of fish and seashells
embedded in the dirt around them. It
seemed the whole place was built on
waste from the Gulf of California.
Matt circled around the end of one of
the buildings and rode down into a
depression that must have been used for
waste. The evil smell made Matt’s eyes
water, and he could barely focus on the
dense yellow sludge on the bottom. The
horse stumbled. Its legs collapsed
beneath it, and Matt had to throw his
arms around its neck to keep from being
catapulted into the sludge.
“Get up! Get up!” he ordered, but the
horse was incapable of obeying. It sat on
the ground with its legs folded up under
it. Then Matt felt himself getting dizzy.
He threw himself off the horse and
sucked desperately at the inhaler. His
lungs filled with liquid. A terror of
drowning swept over him, and he tried
to crawl away from the trough. His
fingers dug into the rotting, fish-slimed
soil.
A pair of hands yanked him up. He
was dragged a short way and thrown
into the back of a vehicle. Matt felt the
motor start. The vehicle moved away in
a plume of dust that made him cough. He
tried to get up and was instantly
slammed down by a boot on his chest.
Shocked, Matt stared up at the coldest
pair of eyes he’d ever seen. At first he
thought he was looking at Tam Lin, but
this person was younger and leaner. He
had the same wavy, brown hair and blue
eyes, the same physical alertness, but
none of the good humor Matt was used to
seeing in the bodyguard’s face.
“Where’d you get a horse?” the man
demanded. “Where’d you get the brains
to make a run for it?”
“He’s not an eejit, Hugh,” said
another voice. Matt looked up to see
another man, similar to the first one.
“Then you’re an Illegal,” snarled
Hugh. “I reckon we’ll run you to the
hospital and let ‘em put a clamp in your
brain.”
“You do that,” Matt said with his
heart beating very fast. He was afraid,
but Tam Lin had taught him it was
foolhardy to show weakness. Act like
you’re in control, the bodyguard had
said, and nine times out of ten, you’ll
get away with it. Most people are
cowards underneath. Matt realized
these men belonged to the Farm Patrol
and thus, judging by Celia’s stories,
were very dangerous.
“You do that,” Matt repeated, “and
I’ll tell the doctor how you treated El
Patrón’s clone.”
“Say what?” said Hugh, lifting his
boot from Matt’s chest.
“I’m El Patrón’s clone. I was visiting
the water purification plant and got lost.
Better yet, you can take me to the Big
House and I’ll send a message to him.”
Matt was very far from feeling
confident, but he’d observed El Patrón
give orders many times. He knew
exactly how to reproduce the cold,
deadly voice that got results.
“Crikey! He even sounds like the old
vampire,” said the second man.
“Shut your cake hole!” snarled Hugh.
“Look, we weren’t expecting you out
there, Master, uh, Master—what do we
call you?”
“Matteo Alacrán,” Matt said, and was
gratified to see the men flinch.
“Well, Master Alacrán, we weren’t
expecting you, and you were by the eejit
pens, so it was a natural mistake—”
“Did it occur to you to ask what I was
doing out there?” Matt said, narrowing
his eyes as El Patrón did when he
wanted to be particularly menacing.
“I know we should’ve, sir. We’re
really very, very sorry. We’re taking you
straight to the Big House, and we’re
most humbly begging your pardon, aren’t
we, Ralf?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said the second
man.
“What about my horse?”
“We’ll fix that up.” Ralf banged on
the cab of the truck. A window opened,
and he shouted instructions inside.
“We’ll radio for a Patrol to collect the
nag. It was in a bad way from the dead
air, sir. It might not survive.”
“Dead air?” said Matt, startled
enough to drop out of his El Patrón act.
“It sometimes happens around that
trough,” said Ralf. “The air doesn’t
move, and the carbon dioxide builds up.
It’s like being in a mine.”
“I lost a brother like that,” remarked
Hugh.
“You can’t tell until it’s too late,”
said Ralf. “The nearby pens are usually
okay, but on still nights we make the
eejits sleep in the fields.”
Matt was amazed. “Why don’t you
clean up the trough?”
Ralf seemed honestly puzzled by the
idea. “It’s how we’ve always done
things, Master Alacrán. The eejits don’t
care.”
Well, that’s true , thought Matt. Even
if the eejits knew about the danger, they
couldn’t flee unless they were ordered to
do so.
Now that Matt appeared to accept the
men’s apology, they became almost
friendly. They didn’t act like most
people did when told Matt was a clone.
They were wary but not hostile. In fact,
they behaved a lot like Tam Lin.
“Are you Scottish?” Matt asked.
“Oh, no,” said Hugh. “Ralf here is
from England, and I’m from Wales. Wee
Wullie in the cab is Scottish, though. But
we all like to play soccer and thump
heads.”
Matt remembered something El Patrón
had said long ago about Tam Lin and
Daft Donald: I picked up this lot in
Scotland, breaking heads outside a
soccer field. Always choose your
bodyguards from another country. They
find it harder to make alliances and
betray you.
“Soccer sounds a lot like war,” Matt
said.
Both Ralf and Hugh laughed. “It is,
lad. It is,” said Hugh.
“The fine thing about soccer,” said
Ralf, with a distant look in his eyes, “is
that you enjoy both the game and the
trimmings.”
“Trimmings?” Matt said.
“Ah, yes. That which surrounds the
game—the buildup, the crush of fans in
the trains …”
“The parties,” said Hugh, with a
dreamy look on his face.
“The parties,” agreed Ralf. “You
crowd into a pub with your mates and
drink until the owner throws you out.”
“If he can throw you out,” Hugh
amended.
“And then, either before or after, you
run into the fans on the other side. So of
course you have to set them straight.”
“That’s when the head thumping
occurs,” Matt guessed.
“Yes. Nothing finer, especially if you
win,” said Ralf.
The truck followed a zigzag course
through the poppy fields. Matt saw the
same eejits he’d observed that morning.
They were still bending over the ripe
seedpods, but he felt no impulse to call
them brothers. They weren’t brothers
and never would be until they lost the
clamps in their brains.
“If you liked it so much, why did you
come here?” Matt asked Hugh and Ralf.
The men lost their dreamy
expressions. Their eyes became cold
and distant. “Sometimes …,” Hugh
began, and then fell silent.
“Sometimes the head thumping goes
too far,” Ralf finished for him. “It’s okay
to kill people in a war; then you’re a
hero. But in soccer—which is every bit
as glorious—you’re supposed to shake
hands with the enemy afterward.”
“Kiss his ruddy backside, more like,”
said Hugh in disgust.
“And we didn’t like that, see.”
Matt thought he understood. Hugh,
Ralf, and Wee Wullie in the cab were
murderers. They were the ideal
candidates for the Farm Patrol. They
would have to be loyal to El Patrón, or
he would dump them into the arms of
whatever police were looking for them.
The lush gardens and red tile roofs of
the Big House were visible now.
Nothing could have been further from the
long, low dwellings where the eejits
lived—that is, when they weren’t
sleeping in the fields to keep from being
gassed.
“Did Tam Lin kill anyone?” Matt
said. He didn’t much want to ask, but
this might be his only opportunity to find
out.
Hugh and Ralf exchanged looks.
“He’s in a class by himself,” said Ralf.
“He’s a bloody terrorist.”
“Can’t think why El Patrón trusts him
so much,” said Hugh.
“They’re like father and son—”
“Put a cork in it! Can’t you see who
we’re talking to?” Hugh said.
The house was near, and Matt was
afraid they’d let him out before he
learned what he wanted to know. “What
did Tam Lin do?” he urged.
“Only set a bomb outside the prime
minister’s house in London,” replied
Hugh. “He was a Scottish nationalist,
see. Wanted to bring back Bonnie Prince
Charlie or some other fat slug. He
wasn’t motivated by beer like the rest of
us.”
“No, he’s a cut above,” Ralf said,
“with his fancy ethics and social
conscience.”
“It’s a shame a school bus pulled up
at the wrong moment,” said Hugh. “The
blast killed twenty kiddies.”
“That’s what social conscience gets
you,” Ralf said as he helped Matt climb
down. The truck drove off at once—the
men seemed eager to get away, or
perhaps they were forbidden to show
themselves around the civilized halls of
El Patrón’s mansion.
18
THE DRAGON HOARD
Wake up!” said Celia, so close to his
ear that Matt fell out of bed with his
arms flailing.
“What’s wrong?” he cried, trying to
untangle himself from the sheets.
She yanked the sheets away and
pulled him to his feet. Even though Matt
was as tall as Celia now, she was
stronger. It must have been all those
years of lugging pots of stew around the
kitchen. She pushed him into the
bathroom.
“Should I get dressed?” Matt asked.
“There’s no time. Just wash your
face.”
Matt splashed water on his face in an
effort to wake up. He’d gone straight to
bed after the Farm Patrol had brought
him home. He’d felt sick from the bad
air at the eejit pens.
He was disturbed by the conflicting
images he had of the Farm Patrol. Before
he had met them, Celia had filled Matt’s
head with enough stories to make his
blood run cold. They were creatures of
the night, she said, like the chupacabras.
They infested the trails that wound out of
the Ajo Mountains, and they hunted their
prey with heat-sensitive goggles.
Matt remembered Hugh’s cold eyes as
the man slammed him onto the bed of the
truck. To Hugh—at that point, at least—
Matt was only a rat to be crushed
underfoot.
But once he’d revealed himself as
Matteo Alacrán, the Farm Patrol had
transformed themselves into good-
natured boys, out for a drink at the pub
with a little head thumping for dessert.
Yeah, right, Matt reminded himself.
And Tom’s the angel Gabriel.
“Hurry up! It’s important!” shouted
Celia from the other side of the
bathroom door.
Matt dried his hands and emerged.
“Have a quesadilla before you go.”
Was it Matt’s imagination, or was
Celia’s hand shaking as she handed him
the plate.
“I’m not hungry,” he protested.
“Eat! It’s going to be a long night.”
Celia planted herself at the table and
watched as he mechanically chewed.
She made him finish every bit of it. The
salsa tasted funny, or perhaps it was the
aftereffects of the bad air. Matt still felt
sick. He’d gone to bed with a metallic
taste in his mouth.
The minute Celia and Matt emerged
from the apartment, they were met by a
pair of bodyguards and hustled through
the halls. It must have been very late,
because all the corridors were deserted.
They rushed down the front steps and
along a winding path, going through
darkened gardens until they reached the
edge of the desert. Behind them Matt
saw the great mansion with its white
pillars and orange trees decorated with
lights. His bare foot crunched down on a
bullhead thorn.
“Ow!” Matt crouched down to
remove the thorn.
The bodyguards whisked him off the
ground before he could reach his foot.
Then Matt realized where they were
heading.
“The hospital!” he gasped.
“It’s all right, mi vida,” said Celia,
but it didn’t sound all right. Her voice
was choked.
“I’m not sick!” Matt cried. He hadn’t
been to the hospital since he’d seen the
thing on the bed.
“You’re not sick. El Patrón is,” said
one of the guards.
Matt stopped struggling then. It was
perfectly natural for them to bring him to
El Patrón. He loved El Patrón, and the
old man would want to see him if he was
very sick.
“What happened?” Matt said.
“Heart attack,” grunted the guard.
“He’s not … dead?”
“Not yet.”
Matt suddenly felt faint with shock.
His vision blurred and his heart
pounded. He twisted his head away from
the bodyguard’s arm and vomited.
“What the—?” The man gave a
startled shout followed by a string of
curses. “Crikey! Look at what he did to
my suit!”
Matt no longer bothered about the
thorn in his foot. Far worse problems
overwhelmed him. His stomach felt like
he’d swallowed a barrel cactus.
Something was wrong with his eyes, too.
The hospital walls swarmed with weird
colors.
Orderlies lifted him onto a stretcher,
quickly wheeled him down a hall, and
transferred him to a bed. Someone
shouted, “His heartbeat’s all over the
place!” and someone else ran a needle
into his arm. Matt was no longer sure of
what was real and what was a
nightmare. He seemed to be in the trough
at the eejit pens, floating in yellow
sludge. He vomited again and again until
only a thin, bile-flavored liquid dribbled
out. He saw Furball sitting at the foot of
his bed, looking reproachful. Was this
how Furball suffered after he’d ingested
the laudanum?
Then it was Saint Francis who sat at
the foot of the bed. Brother Wolf you
have done much evil so that all folk are
your enemy. Yet I would be your friend,
he said.
Sure. Okay, thought Matt.
The figure of Saint Francis shifted to
that of Tarn Lin. The bodyguard looked
gray and haggard. He bowed his head as
though in prayer, although praying was
very far from the activities Matt
associated with the man.
A faint, blue light illuminated the
window. Dawn was approaching, and
the horrors of the night were ebbing
away. Matt swallowed. His throat was
so raw, he wasn’t sure he could speak.
“Tam Lin,” he croaked. The
bodyguard’s head snapped up. He
looked—Matt couldn’t quite put a name
to it—both relieved and miserable.
“Don’t talk unless you have to,
laddie.”
“El Patrón,” whispered Matt.
“He’s stable,” said Tam Lin. “They
had to do a piggyback transplant on
him.” Matt raised his eyebrows. “That’s
where they put a donor heart next to his,
to regulate the beat. The donor was—the
heart was—too small to do the job by
itself.”
Matt understood something of the
process from his science classes. When
someone died in an accident, his organs
were used to save the lives of sick
people. If the heart El Patrón got was
small, it must have come from a child.
Maybe that was what had depressed
Tam Lin.
“I was at… eejit pens,” Matt said, and
paused to let the pain in his throat
subside. “Got sick. Farm Patrol … found
me.”
“You were in the wastelands?” Tam
Lin exploded. “Good God! No wonder
your heart went wonky! There’s a
witch’s brew of chemicals in that soil. I
want you to promise me never, never to
go there again.”
Matt was overwhelmed by the
bodyguard’s anger. How was he to know
where the dangers were when no one
told him? His eyes began to leak tears in
spite of his efforts not to appear
cowardly.
“Heck, I’m sorry,” said Tam Lin. “I
shouldn’t yell at you when you’re down.
Look, you did a daft thing, nosing around
the eejit pens, but maybe it wasn’t such a
bad mistake. They do say guardian
angels guide the steps of idiots.” The
man looked speculatively at Matt, as
though he wanted to say more.
“Sorry,” whispered Matt.
“And so you should be. Celia’s been
wearing a groove in the floor outside for
hours. Do you feel up to a little weeping
and wailing?”
“If you take … thorn out of foot,”
croaked Matt.
The bodyguard yanked back the
covers and found the problem at once.
“Bloody idiots,” he growled under his
breath. “Can’t find anything unless it has
a bull’s-eye painted around it.” He
pulled out the thorn and swabbed Matt’s
foot with rubbing alcohol.
Matt wanted badly to ask him
questions. Do you feel sorry about
killing twenty children? for instance,
and Why were you angry about Furball
when you did something far worse? But
it took more confidence than Matt had to
confront Tam Lin.
Weeping and wailing was exactly
what Celia had in mind. She lamented
over Matt until he felt hysterical. Still, it
was nice to be loved. Even better, she
stood up to the hospital orderlies like a
tigress. “He’s not needed here
anymore!” she cried in both English
and Spanish.
Matt was loaded onto a stretcher and
carried back through the fresh, cool
dawn air to Celia’s apartment. She
tucked him into bed and stood guard
over him for the rest of the day.
El Patrón’s piggyback heart performed
valiantly, but it was clear the old man
had passed a kind of milestone. He no
longer purred around restlessly in his
motor-driven wheelchair. Physical
therapists worked his arms and legs to
keep the muscles from wasting away, but
something vital had gone.
Once El Patrón would have roared
with laughter when Tam Lin described
how his enemies in the U.S. and Aztlán
governments had been disgraced or met
with strange accidents. Now he merely
nodded. Such pleasures were beyond El
Patrón now, and he had few enough left
at the age of 148.
Tam Lin had treasures brought from
the vast hoard of gifts the old man had
amassed. El Patron ran his gnarled
fingers through a box of diamonds and
sighed. “In the end they’re only rocks.”
Matt, who spent much time by El
Patrón’s bed these days, said, “They’re
very beautiful.”
“I no longer see the life in them. The
fire that made men go to war for them is
gone.”
And Matt understood that what El
Patrón missed was not the beauty of the
stones, but the joy he once took in
owning fine things. He felt very sorry for
the old man and didn’t know how to
comfort him.
“Saint Francis says it’s good to give
stuff away to the poor,” Matt suggested.
The change that came over El Patron
then was extraordinary. He drew himself
up in the bed. His eyes flashed, and
energy bubbled up from some unknown
reservoir. “Give … things … away?”
he cried in the voice of a man one
hundred years younger. “Give things
away? I can’t believe I heard that! What
have they been teaching you!”
“It was only a suggestion,” Matt said,
aghast at the reaction he’d provoked.
“Saint Francis lived a long time ago.”
“Give things away?” mused the old
man. “Was that why I fought my way out
of Durango? Was that why I built an
empire greater than El Dorado’s? El
Dorado bathed in gold dust every day.
Did you know that?”
Matt did. El Patrón had told him at
least a dozen times.
“He stood on the porch of his golden
house,” said El Patrón, his black eyes
shining, “and his servants dusted him
with metal until he shone like the sun.
His people worshipped him like a god.”
The old man was lost in the fantasy
now, and his eyes looked far away to the
jungles where the fabled king had lived.
Later Tam Lin complimented Matt on
his cleverness. “Brought the roses back
to his cheeks, suggesting he give away
his dragon hoard. I’ve been too soft on
him. What he really needed was a boot
up the rear end.”
“What’s a dragon hoard?” asked Matt.
He and Tam Lin were sitting in Celia’s
garden sharing a pitcher of lemonade.
The bodyguard rarely had time to visit
since El Patron’s heart operation. Now,
though, because of Matt’s incautious
remark, the old man was roaming around
the house by himself. Tam Lin said he
was counting the spoons.
“Ah, now,” said Tam Lin. “That’s
what a dragon amasses from pillaging
castles. He keeps his wealth in a deep,
dark cave in the mountains, and at night
he sleeps on it. It’s probably
uncomfortable with all those jewel-
encrusted daggers and so forth. But the
dragon is so covered with scales, he
can’t feel it.”
Matt loved it when Tam Lin spoke of
things he must have heard as a child. A
soft, musical lilt came into his voice.
Matt could imagine him as a boy, long
before the events that had blunted his
nose and reamed him with scars from
head to toe.
“Does it make the dragon happy?”
Matt asked.
“Does it make the dragon happy?”
echoed Tam Lin. “Why, I never thought
of that. I suppose it does. What other
pleasure can a creature have whose life
consists of making everyone else
miserable? To go on, though: The most
amazing thing about dragons is that they
know when anything, no matter how
small, has been taken from their hoard.
They can be in a deep slumber. But if
some foolish lad creeps up in the middle
of the night and takes only one coin, the
dragon wakes up. You wouldn’t want to
be that lad then. The dragon burns him
right down to a lump of coal. And tosses
him onto a heap with the other lumps of
coal who made the mistake of trying to
steal from a dragon hoard.”
Bees hovered over banks of flowers
in the warm afternoon sun. Normally,
Celia preferred growing vegetables, but
she’d recently taken an interest in
flowers. Black-eyed Susans climbed one
of the walls, and a passionflower vine
decorated another. Foxgloves and
larkspurs formed a tidy bed framed by
other plants Matt didn’t recognize. Some
were sensitive to sunlight, so Tam Lin
had constructed a latticework arbor.
Matt thought it made the garden much
nicer.
“Does El Patron know how much stuff
he has in his storeroom?” Matt knew, of
course, who was being referred to with
the dragon story.
“Probably not. But you don’t want to
take a chance on it,” said Tam Lin.
19
COMING-OF-AGE
El Patrón’s burst of energy didn’t last
long. Soon he was as pale and weak as
ever. He rambled on about his childhood
and his seven brothers and sisters who
had all died young. He listened to Matt
play the guitar, although the boy’s
fingers weren’t long enough yet to play
really complicated pieces.
Matt’s voice was high and sweet—an
angel’s voice, Celia said. El Patrón
went into a quiet daze when he listened
to it. Matt loved to see the old man then,
with his eyes half closed and his mouth
curved up in a gentle smile. It was better
than any compliment.
One day, as Matt was singing a
Spanish ballad, his voice cracked. It
dropped more than an octave to produce
a sound more like a braying donkey than
a boy. Embarrassed, he cleared his
throat and tried again. At first the song
went smoothly, but after a few moments
the same thing happened again. Matt
stood up in confusion.
“So it has happened,” murmured El
Patórn from his bed.
“I’m sorry. I’ll ask Celia for cough
drops,” said Matt.
“You don’t know what’s wrong, do
you? You’re so cut off from the rest of
the world, you don’t know.”
“I’ll be okay tomorrow.”
The old man laughed: a dry, dusty
sound. “Ask Celia or Tam Lin to
explain. Just play for me without singing.
That’s good enough.”
But when Matt asked Celia later, she
threw her apron over her face and burst
into tears. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
cried Matt, thoroughly alarmed.
“You’ve grown up!” wailed Celia
from behind the apron.
“Isn’t that okay?” Matt’s voice, to his
horror, boomed out like a bass drum.
“Of course it is, mi vida,” said Celia,
wiping her eyes with the cloth and
putting on an unconvincing smile. “It’s
always a shock when a little lamb
sprouts horns and turns into a big,
handsome ram. But it’s a good thing,
darling, really it is. We must have a
party to celebrate.”
Matt sat in his room with the guitar as
he listened to Celia bang pots in the
kitchen. He didn’t believe it was a good
thing to grow up. He could read Celia’s
moods no matter how many smiles she
produced. He knew that underneath she
was upset, and he wanted to know why.
He’d become a man. No, that was
wrong. Since he wasn’t a boy to begin
with, he couldn’t turn into a man. He
was an adult clone. An old memory
surfaced of the doctor telling Rosa that
clones went to pieces when they got
older. Matt no longer feared he would
actually fall apart. But what did happen?
Matt felt his face for the first hint of
whiskers. There was nothing except a
couple of bumps left over from his last
bout of acne. Maybe it’s a mistake , he
thought. He attempted the ballad again
and made it through only the first line
before his throat betrayed him. It was
extremely disappointing. His new voice
wasn’t nearly as good as the old one.
I wonder if María’s voice will
change too, he thought.
The party that night was subdued.
Celia and Tam Lin sat in the courtyard
with glasses of champagne to celebrate
Matt’s new status. As a special treat
Matt was allowed one too, although
Celia insisted on watering it down with
lemonade. Fireflies Matt had ordered
from a catalog pulsed across the warm,
humid garden. A heavy odor filled the
walled-in space from Celia’s new and
somewhat creepy plants. She said she
had ordered them from a curandera in
Aztlán.
A sudden thought struck Matt. “How
old am I?” he asked, holding out his
glass for a refill. Celia, ignoring a frown
from Tam Lin, poured him lemonade
instead of champagne. “I know I don’t
have a birthday like humans,” Matt said,
“but I was born. Or something like it.”
“You were harvested,” said Tam Lin.
His speech was slurred. He had
polished off a bottle by himself, and
Matt realized he’d never seen the
bodyguard drink alcohol before.
“I grew inside a cow. Did she give
birth to me like a calf?” Matt saw
nothing wrong with being born in a
stable. Jesus had found it perfectly
acceptable.
“You were harvested,” repeated Tam
Lin.
“He doesn’t need the details,” Celia
said.
“And I say he does!” roared the man,
slamming his fist on the picnic table.
Both Celia and Matt flinched. “There’s
been enough damn secrecy around this
place! There’s been enough damn lies!”
“Please,” Celia said urgently, placing
her hand on Tam Lin’s arm. “The
cameras—”
“The cameras can go to blazes for all
I care! Take a look, you lying, spying
wretches! Here’s what I think of you!”
The man made an extremely rude hand
gesture at the black-eyed Susan vines
covering one wall. Matt had copied that
gesture once and had been yelled at by
Celia.
“Please. If you won’t think of
yourself, think of us.” Celia had gone on
her knees by the bodyguard’s bench. She
clasped her hands the way she did in
prayer.
Tam Lin shook himself like a dog.
“Ach! It’s the drink talking!” He grabbed
the remaining champagne bottle and
hurled it against the wall. Matt heard the
fragments shower over the black-eyed
Susans. “I’ll tell you this much, lad.” He
hauled Matt up by the front of his shirt.
Celia watched with a pale, frightened
face. “You were grown in that poor cow
for nine months, and then you were cut
out of her. You were harvested. She was
sacrificed. That’s the term they use
when they kill a poor lab animal. Your
stepmother was turned into ruddy T-
bone steaks.”
He dropped Matt, and Matt backed
away out of reach.
“It’s all right, Tam Lin,” Celia said
gently. She eased onto the seat beside
him.
“It’s not all right.” The man buried his
head in his arms on the table. “We’re
bloody lab animals to this lot. We’re
only well treated until we outlive our
usefulness.”
“They won’t get their way forever,”
Celia whispered, putting her arms
around him.
Tam Lin twisted his head until he
could peer at her from the shelter of his
arms. “I know what you’ve got in mind,
and it’s too dangerous,” he said.
Celia leaned against him and rubbed
his back with her large, gentle hands.
“This Farm has been here for a hundred
years. How many eejits do you think are
buried under the poppies?”
“Thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”
Tam Lin’s voice was almost a groan.
“Don’t you think that’s enough?”
Celia smiled at Matt as she rubbed the
bodyguard’s back. It was a real smile
this time, and it made her beautiful in the
shadowy garden light. “Go to bed, mi
vida.” she said. “I’ll look in on you
later.”
Matt was annoyed that the two seemed
to have forgotten it was his party, his
coming-of-age. He sulked in his
bedroom. He twanged the guitar, hoping
the noise would disturb the pair huddled
in the garden. But after a while his anger
faded away.
It was replaced by a feeling that he
had overlooked something important.
Hints had been as thick as fireflies in the
courtyard garden. They brightened with
promise. They stayed alight almost long
enough to show Matt what they were.
But then, like the fireflies, they vanished.
Tam Lin and Celia were far too careful.
It had been like that for years. Matt
knew there was vital information he was
missing. It had to do with clones. He
wasn’t supposed to know how they were
made. He wasn’t supposed to know that
all of them—except for him—were brain
dead.
Now, for the hundredth time, Matt
thought about why anyone would create
a monster. It couldn’t be to replace a
beloved child. Children were loved and
clones were hated. It couldn’t be to have
a pet. No pet resembled the horrible,
terrified thing Matt had seen in the
hospital.
Matt remembered Mr. MacGregor and
El Patrón sitting in adjoining
wheelchairs after their operations. Got
me a new liver, MacGregor had said,
patting his stomach, and went in for a
set of kidneys while I was at it. He’d
looked at Matt with those bright blue
eyes that were so much like Tom’s, and
Matt had been revolted.
No! It couldn’t be!
Matt remembered the birthday party
where El Patrón had so suddenly
recovered his mental abilities. Fetal
brain implants—I must try that
sometime, MacGregor had said. It’s
done wonders for you.
Don’t put it off too long, El Patrón
had replied. You have to give the
doctors at least five months’ lead time.
Eight is better.
It couldn’t be! Matt pressed his hands
against his temples to keep the idea
inside. If he didn’t think it, it wouldn’t
be real.
But it slipped through his fingers
anyway. MacGregor had created a clone
so he could have transplants when he
needed them. The thing in the hospital
had every reason to howl! And what was
the source of El Patrón’s fetal implants?
Or the piggyback heart that kept his old,
leaky one going?
The evidence was all there. Only
Matt’s blindness had kept him from
seeing the truth—and his unwillingness
to think about it. He wasn’t stupid. The
clues had been there all along. The truth
had been too overwhelming to bear.
El Patrón, too, had created clones to
provide himself with transplants. He
was exactly the same as MacGregor.
No, not the same. Because I’m
different, Matt thought desperately,
staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom.
Celia had pasted glow-in-the-dark stars
all over the surface. From the time Matt
had moved into her apartment, he’d gone
to sleep under a faintly shining canopy of
stars. Their presence soothed and
comforted him now.
I’m different. I wasn’t created to
provide spare parts.
El Patrón had refused to let the
doctors destroy Matt’s brain. He’d
protected him and given him Celia and
Tam Lin for company. He’d hired Mr.
Ortega to teach Matt music. The old man
took great pride in the boy’s
accomplishments. That was not the
behavior of someone who planned to
murder you later.
Matt consciously slowed his
breathing. He’d been panting like a bird
trapped inside a room. Matt had seen
birds die of panic when they couldn’t
beat their way through a closed window.
He had to think the situation through,
reason it out. It was clear, whatever had
happened to the other poor clones, that
Matt wasn’t meant to be one of them.
El Patrón was moved by a motive
very different from MacGregor’s. It was,
the boy realized, simple vanity. When
the old man looked at Matt, he saw
himself: young, strong, and sound of
mind. It was like looking into a mirror.
The effect wouldn’t be the same if Matt
were a drooling, blubbering thing on a
hospital bed.
Matt clutched the pillow the way he’d
hugged stuffed animals before he was
too old for such things. He felt like he’d
been yanked back from a high cliff.
There was still the terrible fate of the
other clones to consider.
My brothers, thought Matt.
He trembled as he tried to recall his
devotion to the man who had created
him. El Patron loved him, but he was
evil. A more evil, vicious, and self-
serving man could hardly be imagined,
Esperanza had written in her book on the
land of Opium. Matt had hurled the book
away violently when he read that. But
Matt had been a boy then. He was a man
now—or something like it. Men, Tam
Lin often told him, had the courage to
look things in the eye.
“You have a fever!” cried Celia when
she and Tam Lin came to say good night.
She hurried off to make herbal tea. Tam
Lin stood and watched from the
doorway. The silhouette of the
bodyguard looked menacing, and Matt
remembered he’d killed twenty children
with a bomb intended for the English
prime minister. The man seemed to soak
up the faint starlight from the ceiling.
When Celia returned with the tea,
Tam Lin shrugged and said, “In answer
to your question, lad, you’re fourteen
years old.” Then he was off to his room
in El Patrón’s heavily guarded wing of
the house.
20
ESPERANZA
Matt woke up sick and feverish. He
felt as if a boulder was resting on his
chest. The only way he could roll it off
would be to learn that his fears were
unfounded. He could ask Celia, but
she’d be afraid to answer.
Matt felt the pressure of unseen eyes
on him. Someone could be watching
through the cameras, or the spy room
might be empty. He had no way of
knowing. Felicia could be in there,
wrapped in a fur coat, eagerly searching
for a way to destroy him.
As for asking Tam Lin, Matt didn’t
know how to bring up the subject. By the
way, is anyone planning to cut me up
into T-bone steaks? Even more
terrifying was the bodyguards possible
answer: You hit the nail on the head
there, laddie. I always said you were
bright as a button.
How much truth could he endure?
Matt’s mood lightened, though, after
getting up. A hot shower and a breakfast
of French toast helped drive away the
fear. It made no sense for El Patrón to
lavish education on someone who was
valued only for his spare parts.
Transplants didn’t need straight A’s.
Matt went to the stables and ordered a
Safe Horse.
A ground fog hung over the poppy
fields as he rode through. It was common
in the early morning, when the water
sprinklers misted the cool air next to the
soil. The sun would burn it off later, but
now it formed a milky sea that reached
halfway up Matt’s legs as he sat astride
the horse. It was a wonderful feeling to
move through this fog with only the
horse’s back and head showing. It was
like swimming through an enchanted
lake.
I’m fourteen years old, Matt thought.
I’m an adult.
It made him feel strong and
adventurous. Medieval princes went to
war when they were fourteen or even
younger.
The oasis was shadowy and cool.
Recent rains had filled the pool until it
lapped at the edge of the grape arbor.
Matt dragged the metal chest to higher
ground. He took off his clothes and
stepped into the water. Tam Lin, who let
Matt do quite a few dangerous things,
had discouraged swimming here because
the bottom was murky with unexpected
depths. To Matt, the danger was part of
the attraction.
He dog-paddled across the pool.
Shoals of tiny fish darted away from his
hands. He reached the shore and pulled
himself onto a rock by a creosote bush.
He shivered slightly. The day would
soon heat up, but for now the desert air
was chill with night.
Matt looked up at the sky. It was such
an intense blue, it almost hurt his eyes.
The rain had washed out the dust,
leaving the air so clean and pure that it
was like breathing in light. The sense of
enchantment grew stronger.
What was to keep him from climbing
these mountains and going south to
Aztlán? It was a poor country, according
to Celia, and yet her face lit up when she
spoke of it. It was full of people and life,
too. It was a new world where he might
escape the cameras and the malice of
Felicia. He wouldn’t have to meet
MacGregor with his patchwork of body
parts.
But would he want to live without
Celia and Tam Lin? Or María?
Matt’s spirits rose still higher as he
thought about traveling through those
gray-brown mountains. He didn’t have to
make the decision yet. El Patrón could
live for years—would live for years, the
boy assured himself. After all, the old
man had the finest doctors in the world.
Matt could plan his move carefully,
perhaps even take María with him. The
sick fears of the previous night had
vanished, and he felt like a king: Matt
the Conqueror.
He swam back across the water. The
sun was beginning to flood the little
valley as he unpacked Tam Lin’s books
and maps. Now he saw the use of them,
and he intended to study them carefully
for his future escape.
The history of Opium, he read in
Esperanza’s book, is soaked in terror
and blood. Matt settled against a roll of
blankets with a slice of cold French
toast. He still found the author’s preachy
manner annoying, but he couldn’t argue
with her facts.
Matteo Alacrán, or El Patrón as he
soon came to be known, planted opium
from the Pecos River to the Salton Sea,
Matt read. He needed a vast workforce
to tend it. This was no problem, as
thousands of Mexicans flooded across
the border every day. All he needed was
to trap them.
To this end, he established the first
Farm Patrol. He recruited his army
from the foulest criminals ever vomited
up by corrupt prison systems anywhere
in the world.
Matt slammed the book shut. There
she went again with a tirade against El
Patrón. Esperanza had to be a complete
witch. He drank a bottle of juice he’d
brought from the house and tried again.
Even so, El Patrón found it hard to
control the Illegals. They slipped
through his fingers. They helped one
another escape. They flooded across
Opium to the border of the United
States until that government threatened
to put El Patrón out of business.
It was then the Despot of Dope ,
fearful of losing his slave empire, came
up with eejits.
On the surface, Matt read, nothing
could have seemed more humane. After
all, what is suffering but an awareness
of suffering? The eejits felt neither cold
nor heat nor thirst nor loneliness. A
computer chip in their brains removed
those sensations. They toiled with the
steady devotion of worker bees. As far
as anyone could tell, they were not
unhappy. So could anyone say they
were being mistreated?
I could! thundered Esperanza. El
Patrón sold those people’s souls to the
Devil! When they died, he plowed their
bodies into the dirt for fertilizer. The
roots of Opium are watered with blood,
and anyone who buys its foul weed is
no better than a flesh-eating cannibal.
That was definitely enough reading
for one day. Matt rested the book on his
chest and tried to picture Esperanza’s
face. She was probably covered with
warts like an old witch. She’d have
yellow fangs and cheeks that collapsed
in like a rotten pumpkin. He flipped
through the book, looking for her photo.
On page 247 he found it. She was
dressed in a black suit with a pearl
necklace. Her black hair hung in a shiny
veil on either side of her pale and
beautiful face.
She looked a lot like María.
Matt read the blurb under the picture:
Esperanza Mendoza, the ex-wife of
Senator Mendoza, is a charter member
of the Anti-Slavery Society of
California. She has written numerous,
bestselling books. She was a recipient
of the Nobel Peace Prize in—
Matt dropped the book. María
couldn’t possibly know about this. She
thought her mother was dead. Esperanza
had walked out of the house when María
was five years old and never returned.
The little girl imagined her mother had
gotten lost in the desert, and she woke up
night after night, crying that she could
hear her mother’s voice. That was why
María clung so desperately to
keepsakes. She was terrified of losing
the things she loved.
And all this time her mother had been
living it up in California. Matt felt a
deep, burning rage against the woman
and against Senator Mendoza too. He
certainly knew what had happened, but
he’d preferred to let María suffer. Well,
Matt wasn’t going to let the situation go
on any longer. The next time María
visited—and she’d have to come to
Steven and Emilia’s wedding in two
months—Matt would hit her between the
eyes with this evidence.
Matt discovered the reason Tam Lin had
forbidden him to swim at the oasis. That
night he came down with the worst
stomach flu he could ever remember. He
spent hours retching into a bucket until
his throat burned like fire. Celia insisted
on treating him herself. She forced glass
after glass of milk down him, and she
didn’t leave him alone for a second. In
the periods between attacks, he noticed
that her hands were as cold and clammy
as his own.
Finally, he recovered enough to lie
down. Celia pulled a chair up by his bed
and sat there all night while Matt drifted
in and out of sleep. At one point he woke
to find Tam Lin’s face only an inch from
his own. The bodyguard straightened up
and said, “His breath smells of garlic.”
Why wouldn’t it smell of garlic? Matt
thought drowsily. Practically everything
Celia cooked was loaded with it.
“I warned you not to try this. We have
to talk,” said Tam Lin to Celia.
“I’ll get the dosage right next time,”
she said.
“Do you want to ruin everything?”
“Maybe your plan won’t work out.
We need a backup,” Celia said.
“You’ll kill him.”
She looked up at the secret camera.
“I’d die rather than let that happen.”
The voices stopped. Matt tried to stay
awake, to see whether they would reveal
more, but he was too weak.
The illness left Matt nervous and
headachy for days. Just when he thought
he was getting better, another bout of
nausea occurred. The second attack
wasn’t as bad as the first, so it seemed
he was fighting off the disease. He did
wonder why Celia didn’t call for the
doctor, but he was grateful at the same
time. It would have meant a trip to the
hospital, and Matt wanted to avoid that
at all costs.
When he had recovered sufficiently,
he resumed spending his days at El
Patrón’s side, listening to the old man
ramble. It seemed that a fog was
gradually enveloping El Patrón’s
memories. He sometimes called Matt by
another name, and he was confused
about other things, too. “I built this shack
with my own hands,” he told Matt. Matt
looked around. The last thing you’d call
the mansion with its gardens and
fountains was a shack.
“I put in the grapevine, too,” El Patrón
said. “It’s doing very well. It covered
the arbor in only two years. I think it’s
the water. There’s nothing finer than one
of these desert pools.”
He’s talking about the oasis , Matt
thought with a chill. El Patrón must have
been the person who had lived there
long ago. The shack had fallen down, but
the grapevine was still doing very well.
“Is that the place behind the hole in the
rock?” Matt asked, to be sure he was
correct.
“Of course, Felipe!” El Patrón
snapped. “You climb through that hole
every single day.” He fell into another
reverie, his eyes seeing things no one
else could. “This is the most beautiful
place in the world,” he said with a sigh.
“If there’s a heaven and I’m allowed
inside, I’m sure this pool and grapevine
will be there.”
Then he wandered off into an even
older memory. El Patrón’s voice filled
with wonder as he described the
hacienda where he had attended fiestas
so long ago. “They had a fountain,” El
Patrón marveled. “The water sounded
like music, and there was a statue of a
little angel in the middle. He looked so
cool and clean. And you can’t imagine
the food, Felipe. Tamales—as many as
you wanted—and barbecued ribs! There
were chiles rellenos and moro crabs
flown in from Yucatán and a whole table
of caramel puddings, each with its own
little dish.”
Matt felt sure that if there was a
heaven, it contained moro crabs flown in
from Yucatán and a table covered with
caramel puddings. But then El Patrón’s
voice became sad. “Mamá brought my
little sisters to the fiesta. She carried
one, and the other held on to her skirt
and followed behind. My little sisters
caught typhoid and died in the same
hour. They were so small, they couldn’t
look over the windowsill—no, not even
if they stood on tiptoe.”
It struck Matt that El Patrón was a lot
nicer when he remembered the past. He
seemed kinder and more vulnerable.
Matt still loved the old man, but there
was no question he was evil.
“Who’s Felipe?” Matt asked Celia in
the large, wood-burning kitchen of the
mansion.
“You mean the sauce cook or
gardener?” she said.
“It must be someone else. El Patrón’s
always calling me that.”
“Oh, no,” murmured Celia, pausing
from the pie dough she was rolling out.
“Felipe was his son. He died almost
eighty years ago.”
“Then why? …”
“Some people are like that, mi vida.
First they get older and older, and then
they stop and get younger and younger.
El Patrón believes he’s about thirty-five
years old now, so he thinks you’re his
son, Felipe. He can’t possibly know
who you really are.”
“Because I won’t exist for another
hundred years.”
“That’s right,” replied Celia.
“So what should I do?”
“Be Felipe for him,” Celia said
simply.
Matt went to the music room and
played the piano to calm his nerves. If El
Patrón’s mind was slipping, it meant he
was ready for another dose of fetal brain
implants. That meant an embryo
—Matt’s brother— was growing inside
a cow. Could embryos understand
death? Could they be afraid? Matt
crashed into a rendition of the “Turkish
March” by Mozart, playing loud enough
to make a servant drop a tray in the
hallway outside. When Matt finished, he
played it again. And again. The
orderliness of Mozart made him feel as
though he had control of his own life. It
transported him beyond the stifling
world of the mansion.
More and more he wanted to escape.
Once the possibility had occurred to him
at the oasis, the longing returned until it
became a constant ache. He felt trapped
like a worm in a nut. Esperanza’s book
had opened his eyes to the horrors of the
empire El Patrón had built, and he had
seen for himself the low, dark dwellings
of the eejits that were no better than
coffins.
He could run away through the gray-
tinged mountains that ringed the oasis.
He could go to Aztlán. Tam Lin had
given him a chest full of maps and food
for that very reason. Matt was sure of it.
But he couldn’t leave before Steven
and Emilia’s wedding. María would be
there, and he couldn’t go without seeing
her.
21
BLOOD WEDDING
The mansion seethed with activity.
Potted orange trees were dragged in and
placed around the perimeter of the salon.
The scent of their flowers filled the
house. The gardens were planted with
jasmine, honeysuckle, and baby’s breath.
So many powerful perfumes made Matt
queasy. His stomach hadn’t felt right
since his swim at the oasis.
The freezers adjoining the kitchen
filled up with ice sculptures. Mermaids,
lions, castles, and palm trees swirled
with mist when Matt looked inside. They
would be placed in bowls of punch for
the wedding reception.
The old curtains and rugs were
packed away, and new ones in white,
pink, and gold took their place. The
walls were repainted, the red tile roofs
cleaned and polished. The house began
to look like a giant birthday cake
covered with frosting.
Matt skirted around the edge of these
festivities. He knew he’d be confined to
Celia’s apartment during the party. Big
deal, thought Matt, scuffing his shoes
along a newly laid stretch of white
carpet. He didn’t want to go to the stupid
wedding anyway. Everyone had known
for years that Steven and Emilia were
going to get married. El Patrón had
decreed it. He wanted to bind the
Alacráns to the powerful political
machine Senator Mendoza ruled in the
United States. It was simply good luck
that Steven and Emilia liked each other.
If they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered.
Benito, Steven’s older brother, had
married the daughter of the Nigerian
president because Nigeria was one of
the richest countries in the world. Benito
and Fani, his bride, had loathed each
other on sight; but El Patrón liked
Nigerian money, so their opinions didn’t
count.
As the day drew near, Matt felt more
and more isolated. Celia was too
distracted to talk. Tam Lin was shut
away with El Patrón, whose health was
too poor to allow visits. Matt could have
gone to the oasis, but a strange tiredness
had come over him. He fell asleep early,
only to find his nights disturbed by evil
dreams. By day his mouth tasted of metal
and his head ached. He made only one
brief trip to fetch Esperanza’s book on
Opium.
The house filled up with guests.
MacGregor arrived with a new wife—
number seven, Matt thought; this one was
as young as Emilia. And Felicia
consumed so much alcohol that a cloud
of whiskey followed her wherever she
went. She drifted from one garden party
to another, staring at people with bright,
feverish eyes until they became
uncomfortable and moved away.
As for MacGregor, he was in fine
spirits. He’d had hair transplants. His
scalp was a riot of springy red hair just
like Tom’s, and he kept patting it as
though it might fall out if he didn’t push
the roots back in.
Matt observed everything from behind
pillars or wall hangings. He didn’t want
anyone to point at him and say, What’s
this? Who brought this creature into a
place for people?
On the day of the wedding, a Nigerian
hovercraft landed, carrying Benito, Fani,
and Steven. Mr. Alacrán greeted them
and kissed Fani, who grimaced as though
she’d touched something nasty. She had
a hard, bitter face, and Benito was
beginning to get a potbelly. Steven, on
the other hand, was as handsome as a
storybook prince.
Matt disliked him less than the other
Alacráns. It was Steven who had carried
him away from the little house in the
poppies. And if he and Emilia had
ignored Matt since, neither had they been
cruel.
Matt watched the milling crowd of
guests and recalled their names, business
connections, and scandals. He thought he
understood the Alacrán empire every bit
as well as Steven. For the hundredth
time Matt felt the gulf that separated him
from humanity. All these people were
here to honor Steven. No one would
ever honor Matt, nor would he ever
marry.
A familiar hovercraft landed, and
Matt’s heart leapt to his throat. The
guests turned toward the landing pad and
craned their necks to see the bride.
Emilia didn’t disappoint them. She was
dressed in a shimmering blue gown,
surrounded by a cluster of little girls as
attendants. Each carried a basket of rose
petals, which she tossed in handfuls at
the crowd. Matt thought they made a
pretty picture until he realized the little
girls were eejits.
Everyone applauded as the bride was
led up the stairs to the salon by Senator
Mendoza. But Matt had no eyes for them.
The only person he cared about stepped
out of the hovercraft without any fanfare
at all. No one noticed María slip through
the crowd, or that she wasn’t going in
the same direction as her sister. Matt
understood, though, and he worked his
stealthy way around the edge of the
crowd to the music room.
Most people shunned the music room.
The servants entered only when they
cleaned, and Felicia had stopped playing
altogether. The room was Matt’s
territory and thus tainted.
He closed the door behind him and
went straight to the closet. María was
waiting in the secret passage. “At last!”
she cried, flinging her arms around him.
“Have you missed me?”
“All the time,” he said, hugging her
back. “I thought about you every day. I
wanted to write, but I didn’t know how.”
“I’m in an awful convent,” she said,
disengaging herself and flopping down
on the floor. “Oh, it’s not too bad. I just
don’t fit in. I wanted to do charity work
in the town, but the Sisters wouldn’t let
me. Imagine! They think they follow the
teachings of Saint Francis, but they’d
curl up and die rather than wash a
beggar’s sores.”
“I wouldn’t like to wash a beggar’s
sores either,” said Matt.
“That’s because you’re a wolf. You’d
gobble him up instead.”
“I’d find a healthy beggar first,” Matt
said.
“You’re not supposed to eat any of
them. Tell me what you’ve been up to.
Gosh, the other girls are boring! They
don’t do anything but read love comics
and eat chocolates.” María snuggled
against Matt, and he felt amazingly good.
He realized he was happy and that he
hadn’t been for a long time.
“Love comics?” he inquired.
“Wolves wouldn’t find them
interesting. Tell me what you’ve been
watching on TV. We aren’t allowed TV
unless a show improves our souls.”
“I don’t have a soul,” Matt said.
“I think you do,” said María. “I’ve
been reading modern church doctrine
about ecology. According to recent
studies, people think Saint Francis was
the first ecologist. They say he preached
to animals because they had little souls
that could grow into big ones. With
work, even a sparrow or cicada could
make it into heaven.”
“Or hell,” said Matt.
“Don’t be negative.” And then María
was off with her new ideas and the
arguments she’d had with the morals
instructor at the convent. She moved on
to how she liked gardening, but hated
harvesting the poor little plants, and how
she was top in math, but had her grades
lowered when she sunbathed naked on
the roof.
She seemed to have stored up months
of conversation and couldn’t wait to let
it all out. Matt didn’t care. He was
content to sit there in the dark with her
head leaning against his chest.
“Oh! But I’ve done all the talking and
haven’t let you say a word!” María cried
at last. “That’s one of the things I do
penance for all the time. Except that no
one at the convent listens to me like you
do.”
“I like listening to you,” Matt said.
“I’m going to shut up now, and you’re
going to tell me what you’ve been
doing.” She put her arms around him,
and he smelled her perfume, a warm and
somehow exciting scent of carnations.
Matt never wanted to move again.
He told her about the eejit pens and
meeting the Farm Patrol and how he had
to go to the hospital. María trembled
when he told her about El Patrón’s heart
attack. “He’s so old,” she murmured.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with
that, but he’s too old.”
“I don’t think his piggyback heart is
going to last,” Matt said.
“He shouldn’t have one at all,” María
said.
“Do you know where he got it?”
“I—I—” María seemed confused.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it, but
yes, I do know where he got it! And it’s
evil!” She hugged Matt more tightly. He
didn’t know what to say The fears he’d
thrust away came back. He wanted to
ask María what she meant, but he was
afraid of the answer.
“I’m not like the other clones,” he
said, more to reassure himself than
anything. “El Patrón gave me the best
education anyone can have. He bought
me musical instruments, computers,
anything I wanted. And he’s really
pleased when I get an A or play a new
piano piece. He says I have genius.”
María said nothing. She snuggled her
face into his chest, and from the
dampness, Matt guessed she was crying.
Great. What is she crying about? “He
wouldn’t bother”—Matt stepped very
carefully over this point—“if I wasn’t
going to live very long.”
“That’s true,” she said in a watery
voice.
“ O f course it’s true,” said Matt
firmly. “I’ve had better schooling than
Steven. Someday I can help him run the
estate—from behind the scenes, of
course. Opium is a big country, and it
takes a lot of work to control it. Benito’s
too dumb, and Tom is—well, a lot of
things. For starters, El Patrón can’t stand
the sight of him.”
María stiffened. “He likes him better
than you think.”
“Tom doesn’t even belong in the
family. He’s here only because El Patrón
refuses to give things up once he’s laid
claim to them.”
“That’s a lie!” María said hotly.
“Tom’s one of the heirs, and he’s not
stupid!”
“I never said he was stupid. Only
corrupt.”
“He’s considered good enough to
marry me!” María said.
“What?” Matt couldn’t believe what
he was hearing. María was only a kid.
She wouldn’t get married for years and
years.
“Oh, let’s not fight,” María said
miserably. “None of us has a choice in
the matter. I mean, look at Benito and
Fani. Fani said she’d rather drink
cyanide than marry Benito, and see how
much good it did her. El Patrón gave the
order, and her father drugged her until
she didn’t know what was happening.”
Matt was incapable of speech. How
could anyone want María to marry Tom?
He was such a—such a rotten little
pustule! It was unthinkable! He turned
on the flashlight he always left in the
passage and leaned it against the wall.
He could see her pale face in the
shadows.
“Steven and Emilia like each other,
and I don’t mind Tom—much. He’s
getting more like MacGregor, but I can
change him.”
“You can’t change Tom,” Matt said.
“Patience and love can do anything,”
María said. “Anyhow, the wedding
won’t take place for years. Maybe El
Patrón will change his mind.” She didn’t
sound hopeful.
Matt’s mind was almost numb with
despair. He’d refused to think about the
future. He knew on some level that
María would have to marry someday.
Then he’d never see her again. But it had
never in his darkest moments occurred to
him that she’d be handed over to that
monster.
“Wait,” he said as an idea came to
him. “I have something for you.”
“A present?” María looked surprised.
Matt fished A History of Opium from
its hiding place. He turned to page 247
and shone the flashlight directly on
Esperanza Mendoza’s portrait.
María gasped. “M-Mother?”
“You remember what she looked
like?”
“Dada has pictures.” She took the
book and stared at the portrait and its
accompanying biography as though she’d
been turned to stone. “Mother got the
Nobel Peace Prize,” she whispered at
last.
“And a lot more,” said Matt.
“But she n-never came back.” María’s
face looked so forlorn, Matt’s heart
turned over.
“She couldn’t, dearest,” said Matt,
unconsciously using one of Celia’s
words. “She’s utterly and completely
opposed to Opium and everything your
father stands for. Do you think he’d let
her come home? Or that El Patrón
would?” In fact, Matt silently realized,
El Patrón was capable of ordering her
death. It wouldn’t have been the first
time he’d gotten rid of an enemy.
“She never even wrote me a letter,”
murmured María.
“Don’t you see? Your father would
have destroyed any message she sent.
But you can contact her now. Your
convent—where is it?”
“In Aztlán, at the mouth of the
Colorado River. It’s in a town called
San Luis.”
“I’ve read your mother’s book,” said
Matt, taking A History of Opium from
María’s cold hands and laying it on the
floor. He held her hands to warm them
up. “She says the Aztlános don’t like
Opium and would do anything to destroy
it. Someone at the convent could send a
message to your mother. I’m sure she
wants to find you. I’m sure she’ll keep
you from marrying Tom.”
And take you where I’ll never see
you again, thought Matt with a lump in
his throat. But it didn’t matter. He was
going to lose her in any case. The
important thing now was to save her.
“I have to go,” María said suddenly.
“Emilia will be asking for me.”
“When will I see you again?”
“The wedding’s tomorrow and I
won’t have a second to myself. I’m maid
of honor. Will you be able to come?”
Matt laughed bitterly. “Maybe if I
disguised myself as an eejit flower girl.”
“I know. It’s horrible. I asked Emilia
why she couldn’t have real children, and
she said they couldn’t be depended on to
do the job right.”
“You know I won’t be invited,” said
Matt.
“Everything’s so unfair.” María
sighed. “If I could, I’d skip the wedding
and stay with you.”
Matt was touched by her offer,
although he knew there wasn’t a chance
of it happening. “I’ll wait for you here,”
he said. “Do you want to take the book?”
“No. I can’t guess what Dada would
do if he found it.” She gently kissed him
on the cheek, and Matt kissed her back.
The feel of her skin stayed on his lips for
a long time after she was gone.
It wasn’t a front-row seat, but it was the
best he could do. Matt was positioned
behind the peephole with a pocket
telescope.
He had hoped to find the machine
room deserted, but the place was
packed. Every view screen had at least
two gorillalike bodyguards watching it.
They flicked restlessly from scene to
scene and spent a lot of time studying
boring places, like the spaces behind
pillars or curtains. Matt wondered
whether they’d seen him hiding there on
other occasions.
But as the wedding ceremony drew
closer, the men’s attention was
concentrated on the salon. An altar had
been erected, and the priest was
prowling back and forth to one side. The
eejit choir was lined up like mechanical
toys, and someone was sitting at Matt’s
piano. Matt adjusted the eyepiece of the
telescope. It was awkward to use at a
peephole, and his neck was beginning to
ache.
He saw Mr. Ortega. He felt sorry for
the dusty little man. He’d gone beyond
Mr. Ortega’s skill level long ago, but
Matt had covered for him. He feared the
music teacher would suffer the same fate
as Rosa if El Patrón found out.
On another screen Matt saw El Patrón
sitting in the front row, attended by Tam
Lin and Daft Donald looking bunchy in
suits.
Emilia waited in a dressing room. She
wore a white gown with a long train
embroidered with pearls and carried by
the girl eejits. Celia had said the gown
had been owned by a Spanish queen
three hundred years before. The eejits’
faces reminded Matt of the winged
babies perched on pillars throughout the
house. Their eyes were as lifeless as
marbles.
María bounced around the room,
talking animatedly. Matt couldn’t hear
what she said, but there was no question
she was giddy with excitement. That was
the difference between her and everyone
else, he thought. She was overflowing
with life. Everything delighted or
devastated or fascinated her. There was
no middle ground. Next to her Emilia
looked faded, and Fani, who was
drinking out of a brandy bottle in the
corner, was positively drab.
The bodyguards turned up the sound.
Matt heard the wedding march, and
Senator Mendoza took Emilia by the
arm. The eejits lifted the train, and
María and Fani took their places behind
the bride. They left the room with a
stately, impressive walk. A whisper
passed over the crowd, and the priest
signaled everyone to stand.
Steven waited at the altar with Benito
and Tom.
Tom. For a moment all Matt could see
was his lying face. What you saw was
not what you got with him. Underneath
that angelic exterior was the boy who’d
shot a helpless child with a peashooter,
who had pulled chairs out from under El
Viejo, who’d nailed frogs to the lawn so
they could be devoured by herons. You
didn’t want to leave anything vulnerable
around Tom.
A bodyguard blocked Matt’s view for
a moment. He cursed under his breath.
The next thing he saw was Emilia
approaching the altar on her father’s
arm. María had a tight grip on Fani to
keep her from swaying. Benito’s wife
was almost as loaded as Felicia, who
was being held upright by Mr. Alacrán.
What a family, thought Matt. The women
were alcoholics, Benito was as dumb as
a guppy, and Tom was a moral black
hole. Steven was okay, though. Even the
Alacráns couldn’t strike out 100 percent
of the time.
Now Emilia was given away by her
father. Steven placed a ring on her finger
and lifted her veil for a kiss. They were
married for better or for worse, in
sickness and in health, till death should
them part.
But maybe they wouldn’t have to part,
Matt thought. Maybe they’d all waft up
to heaven together, to a special wing
reserved for the Alacráns. They’d have
moro crabs and caramel pudding and a
vat full of whiskey for Felicia.
“Bloody hell! It’s the old vampire!”
swore one of the bodyguards.
Matt pressed his eye to the peephole.
He was so startled, he dropped the
telescope.
He saw, far away but hideously clear,
El Patrón jerk upward in his wheelchair.
The old man clutched his heart and
tipped forward. Tam Lin scrambled to
catch him. Mr. Alacrán yelled for help.
Willum and several other doctors who
had recently taken up residence in the
house shoved their way through the
crowd. They knelt around El Patrón,
completely hiding the old man. They
reminded Matt of vultures huddling over
an antelope.
Bodyguards streamed out of the
machine room, and a moment later Matt
saw them on the screens. They rushed
into the salon and herded the wedding
guests out.
Tam Lin suddenly rose from the
huddle with El Patrón in his arms. Matt
saw with horror how small and withered
the old man was. He looked like a dry
leaf clutched to the bodyguard’s chest as
Tam Lin hurried out with the doctors in
his wake.
The salon was deserted, except for
Steven and Emilia, who were standing
alone and forgotten at the altar.
22
BETRAYAL
What should I do? What should I do?”
whispered Matt, hugging himself and
rocking back and forth in the dark
passageway. He loved El Patrón. He
wanted to be with him at the hospital, to
watch over him and urge him back to
health. But at the same time Matt
remembered María saying that she did
know the source of El Patrón’s
transplants: And it’s evil!
Celia would be looking for him.
Unbidden, another memory surfaced.
Celia was fussing with the suit Matt had
worn to the birthday party long ago. If
anything bad happens, she had said, I
want you to come straight to me. Come
to the pantry behind the kitchen.
What do you mean, bad? Matt had
asked.
I can’t say. Just promise me you’ll
remember.
And even longer ago Matt
remembered Tam Lin speaking to him
soon after his rescue from Rosa: I’ll tell
you this: El Patrón has his good side
and his bad side. Very dark indeed is
his majesty when he wants to be. When
he was young, he made a choice, like a
tree does when it decides to grow one
way or the other. He grew large and
green until he shadowed over the whole
forest, but most of his branches are
twisted.
So many hints! So many clues! Like a
pebble that starts an avalanche, Matt’s
fear shook loose more and more
memories. Why had Tam Lin given him a
chest full of supplies and maps? Why
had María run from him when they found
MacGregor’s clone in the hospital?
Because she knew! They all knew!
Matt’s education and accomplishments
were a sham. It didn’t matter how
intelligent he was. In the end the only
thing that mattered was how strong his
heart was.
And yet Matt wasn’t—quite—sure.
What if he was wrong? What if El
Patrón really loved him? Matt thought
about the old man lying on a hospital
bed, waiting for the one person who
could bring him a glimpse of his youth. It
was too cruel! Matt curled up on the
floor of the passage. He lay in a welter
of fine dust that had drifted into this
dark, secret space over the years. He felt
like the inhabitant of an ancient tomb, an
Egyptian pharaoh or Chaldean king. El
Patrón loved to talk about such things.
The old man enthusiastically
described the wealth that filled the
pyramids, for the use of the old kings in
their afterlife. He liked the tombs of the
ancient Chaldeans even more. Not only
did they have clothes and food, but their
horses were slaughtered to provide
transport in the shadowy world of the
dead. In one tomb archaeologists had
discovered soldiers, servants, and even
dancing girls laid out as though they
were sleeping. One girl had been in such
a hurry, the blue ribbon she was meant to
wear in her hair was still rolled up in
her pocket.
What a fine thing that was, El Patrón
had told Matt: that a king got to rule in
this life but also had his entire court to
serve him in the next. That was even
better than El Dorado powdered with
gold on the balcony of his great house.
Matt choked on the dust and sat up to
clear his throat. He didn’t want to make
any noise. He didn’t want anyone to find
him until he’d decided what to do. He
leaned against the wall, and the darkness
outside was equaled by the darkness
inside his mind. What was he to do?
What could he do?
Footsteps running up the passage
made him jump to his feet. He saw a
flashlight bobbing in front of a slight
figure. “María,” he whispered.
“Oh, thank heavens! I was afraid
you’d gone somewhere else to hide,” she
whispered back.
“Hide?” he said.
“They’re looking for you everywhere.
They tore up Celia’s apartment, and
they’ve been through every room in the
house. They’ve sent bodyguards to comb
the stables and fields.”
Matt held her by the shoulders and
looked closely at her face. In the dim
light he saw her face was wet. “Why are
they looking for me?”
“You have to know. Tam Lin said you
were too clever not to figure it out.”
Matt felt turned to stone. The
bodyguard evidently gave him more
credit than he deserved. Matt hadn’t
figured it out—not really—until a few
minutes ago.
“I’m supposed to be throwing a
hysterical fit in my room. Emilia says
I’m always getting hysterical. She says
you’re only the latest edition of Furball;
but she’s wrong! You’re not a dog.
You’re so much, much more.”
Ordinarily, Matt would have been
thrilled by María’s words, but the
situation was too dire for happiness.
“Tam Lin says you’re to stay put for
now. He’s going to spread a rumor that
you’ve taken a Safe Horse north to the
United States. He says that should keep
the Farm Patrol busy.”
Matt felt dazed by all that was
happening. He couldn’t seem to get his
mind working. “How’s El Patrón?” he
asked.
“Why do you care?” María said
passionately. “You should pray that he
dies.”
“I can’t,” murmured Matt. And it was
true. No matter how treacherous El
Patrón had been, Matt loved the old man.
No one was closer to him in the whole
world. No one understood him better.
“You’re exactly like Tam Lin,” said
María. “He says El Patrón is like a force
of nature—a tornado or volcano or
something. He says you can’t help being
awestruck even when you might get
killed. I think it’s all rubbish!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Matt
said. He felt drained of willpower.
“Stay here. I’ll go throw the hysterical
fit everyone’s expecting. When it gets
dark, I’ll come back for you.”
“Where can we go?” said Matt. He
could think of only the oasis, but it was a
long way without a Safe Horse to carry
them.
“To Dada’s hovercraft,” said María.
Matt’s eyes widened. “You know how
to fly?”
“No, but the pilot was going to take
me back to the convent after the
wedding. I told him to expect us.”
“How will you explain me?”
“You’re my new pet eejit! Emilia has
a dozen, and I told the pilot I was
jealous and demanded one of my own.”
María had to cover her mouth to keep the
giggles from spilling out into the dark
passage. “Nobody ever asks questions
about eejits. They’re just part of the
furniture.”
• • •
Matt slept most of the time he was
waiting. He was tired from the illness
that had come over him recently and
exhausted by all that had happened. He
woke, parched and thirsty, and realized
he had no water.
The passageway was dry and dusty.
Matt swallowed, trying to soothe his
burning throat. His throat hurt all the
time these days, with or without water.
He found the machine room stuffed
with bodyguards. Every view screen
was being watched, and Matt realized
there wasn’t a single safe place in the
house. He couldn’t go out for water. He
began to worry about María. How had
she gotten past them before, and how
would she get back in? He leaned
against the wall, sunk in the deepest
despair.
Time passed slowly. Matt thought
about the lemonade Celia always left in
the fridge. He imagined the juice sliding
down his throat. Then, because the air
had grown cooler, he thought about hot
chocolate instead. Celia made it with
cinnamon. One of his earliest memories
was of her hands holding a cup to his
lips and of a wonderful, spicy aroma
swirling around his head.
Matt swallowed painfully. It didn’t
help to think about drinking when you
couldn’t do it. Long ago he’d seen a
dead eejit in the poppy fields. Tam Lin
said the man had died of thirst. Matt
wondered how long it had taken.
He heard footsteps. He sprang up and
was immediately swept with dizziness.
He must be more dehydrated than he
thought.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about water.”
María thrust a bottle at him, and Matt
snatched it and drank ravenously.
“How’s El Patrón?” he asked after he
drained the bottle.
“Better, unfortunately.”
“You sound like you don’t want him
to get well.”
“Of course I don’t!”
“Keep your voice down,” said Matt.
“If he lives, I can come out.”
“No, you can’t. He needs a new heart
if he’s going to survive, and there’s only
one place to get it.”
Matt put his hand out, to keep from
swaying. It was one thing to understand
his fate and very different to hear María
say it out loud. “El Patrón loves me,” he
said.
María made a small, impatient noise.
“He loves what you can do for him. We
don’t have time to waste. Here’s an eejit
uniform to wear—Tam Lin got it for me.
Remember, you can’t say a word if we
meet anyone.”
Matt quickly changed clothes. The
uniform reeked of sweat and a chemical
odor that awoke evil memories in Matt.
The wastelands, he thought. The person
who wore this had lain in the fields on
still nights, when the air near the eejit
pens had gone bad.
“Here’s your hat,” said María.
She led him through the passage. They
were moving away from the music room
and past El Viejo’s old apartment. Matt
wondered who was living there now or
if perhaps it had been sealed up. A lot of
the mansion was, but you couldn’t count
on a place being empty.
They came to a stretch where Matt
had been unable to find a peephole.
María shone the flashlight along the
wall.
“There’s nothing here,” Matt said.
“Wait.” She slid a piece of red plastic
over the flashlight. The walls turned the
color of dried blood. It made the place
look darker and more sinister. The air
suddenly seemed stale, like a tomb that
hadn’t been opened for a very long time.
“There!” cried María.
In the middle of the wall, where Matt
could have sworn nothing had been a
minute ago, was a red, glowing patch.
He bent close. The patch disappeared.
“You’re in the beam,” said María.
Matt stepped back and the patch
appeared again.
It reminded him a little of the stars
Celia had pasted on his bedroom ceiling.
It was a different color, though, and it
wasn’t a star. “It’s a scorpion!” he
cried.
“The mark of the Alacráns,” said
María. “Tam Lin told me about it. It
shows up only in red light.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think—I hope— it’s a way out.”
Matt put out his hand to touch the
scorpion, and María grabbed his arm.
“Wait! I have to explain something. I’ve
been going in and out of this passage
from El Patrón’s bedroom. The view
screens can’t see in there, according to
Tam Lin, but they can watch everything
around it. You couldn’t escape from
there.”
Matt was hypnotized by the red
scorpion. It seemed to shimmer with a
life all its own.
“This is another way out,” said María.
“I thought this passage was built so El
Patrón could spy on people. Of course,
he did spy on people—Tam Lin said he
called it his private soap opera—but El
Patrón really made the tunnel to escape
from his enemies. He has a lot of
enemies.”
“I know,” said Matt.
“The problem is, I don’t know
whether you want to take the chance—”
“What?” Matt said impatiently.
“It works only for El Patrón. That’s to
keep enemies from sneaking in. When he
presses his hand against the red
scorpion, the wall opens, and he can get
in and out of the house without being
seen. The escape route goes to the
hovercraft landing field. But, if the
wrong person touches the scorpion, it
sends a lethal jolt of electricity through
his arm and the whole passage fills with
a poisonous gas. At least that’s what
Tam Lin says. He hasn’t tried it.”
Matt stared at María. “This is your
plan to rescue me?”
“Well, it might work,” she said. “Tam
Lin says the scorpion recognizes the
fingerprints and DNA of El Patrón. And
you’re his clone.”
Matt suddenly felt light-headed. She
was right. He was El Patrón’s clone. His
fingerprints would be the same, his DNA
identical. “If you’re wrong,” he told
María, “we’ll die.”
“We’ll die together, dearest.”
Matt’s heart jolted when he heard
dearest. “I can’t let you do it. I’ll go
alone. I have a secret hiding place.”
“The oasis?” said María. “You’ll
never make it there ahead of the Farm
Patrol.”
So she even knows about that, Matt
thought. Tam Lin must have told her
everything. “I can try.”
“And so can I,” she said, getting that
mulish look in her eyes Matt knew so
well. “Either you press that scorpion and
we escape together, or we stay here and
starve together. I’m not leaving you! Not
now or ever!”
“I love you,” Matt said.
“I love you, too,” said María. “I know
that’s a sin, and I’ll probably go to hell
for it.”
“If I have a soul, I’ll go with you,”
promised Matt. He thrust his hand
against the glowing scorpion before he
could change his mind. He felt a strange
sensation, like hundreds of tiny ants
crawling up his arm. The hairs on the
back of his hand stirred. “Run! It’s not
working!” he yelled. Instead, María
grabbed him.
A door slid back before them, and a
long, dark tunnel was revealed.
“If we had time to waste, I’d faint,”
María sighed, shining the flashlight into
the new opening.
The tunnel smelled even older than the
passageway, and it was clear it hadn’t
been used for a very long time. The floor
was packed dirt with a forlorn little
heap of soil here and there where some
burrowing animal had got in. But there
was nothing alive in the tunnel now, not
a mouse or a spider or even a toadstool.
It gave Matt the creeps.
Their footsteps were muffled. The
sound of their breathing seemed to die in
the cold, lifeless air. It struck Matt that
there might not be much oxygen in the
tunnel, and he hurried María along.
After a while they came to another
wall blocking the way. María put the red
plastic over the flashlight again and
revealed another shimmering scorpion.
This time Matt didn’t hesitate. He
pressed his hand against the wall and
felt the same sensation of crawling ants.
A second door slid open.
This entrance was concealed by thick
bushes. Matt carefully pushed them aside
for María, and they found themselves on
the edge of the hovercraft landing field.
“That’s our ship,” whispered María,
pointing out a small craft with its landing
lights on. She walked ahead and Matt
followed, pulling the broad-brimmed
sombrero down to hide his face. They
didn’t hurry. They looked, Matt hoped,
like they had all the time in the world. If
bodyguards were watching this part of
the house, all they’d see was an honored
guest attended by an eejit. Eejits didn’t
rate any more attention than dogs.
Matt was sweating with nerves. It was
harder acting brainless than he’d
imagined. He wanted to look around, but
eejits didn’t do such things. He tripped
on a rock and caught himself before he
actually fell. Mistake, he thought. A real
eejit would land flat on his face. Would
he yell if he got hurt? Matt didn’t know.
“Stay,” said María. Matt halted. She
climbed into the hover-craft and then
ordered him to come inside. He heard
her talking to the pilot.
“Sit,” said María, pointing at a chair.
She buckled him in and continued
chatting to the pilot, telling him about the
convent and how glad she’d be to get
back.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss
Mendoza,” the pilot said with great
respect, “but do you have a permit for
this eejit? They’re not exactly welcome
in Aztlán.”
“The mother superior will have one,”
María said airily.
“I hope so,” said the man.
“Otherwise, he’ll have to be put to
sleep. I know a sensitive girl like you
wouldn’t like that.”
María turned pale, and Matt realized
she hadn’t known about this law.
“We’ll take off as soon as your sister
leaves.”
“My sister?” María almost shrieked.
Stay calm, stay calm, Matt thought
desperately.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go
without saying good-bye,” said Emilia,
coming out of the cockpit. Steven was
with her and so were a pair of
bodyguards. Matt sat perfectly still, his
head bowed, as the bodyguards took up
positions in front of the door. He
couldn’t think of another thing to do.
“Emilia. How nice,” said María
without any enthusiasm.
“I really don’t think the mother
superior wants an eejit at the convent,”
Emilia said.
“Stay out of this.”
“Why should I help you indulge in
another do-good project? Honestly,
you’re the laughingstock of the convent
—like when you wanted to care for
lepers. The nuns laughed themselves
silly over that. There aren’t any lepers
in Aztlán. They’d have to import them.
And now you want to rescue a clone—”
“Eejit,” María said quickly.
“Clone,” said Steven, coming forward
and pulling off Matt’s hat. He dropped it
as though he’d touched something foul.
Matt looked up. There was no point
pretending now. “I forced María to do
it,” he said.
“You’ve gotten her into trouble for
years,” said Emilia. “From that first day
she brought you food, you’ve exploited
her.”
“He has not!” cried María.
“You’re too soft,” Emilia said.
“You’re always getting gooey about sick
animals or homeless people. If you’re
not careful, you’ll turn out like Mother.”
“Mother,” gasped María. “I haven’t
told you—I didn’t have time—she’s
alive!”
“So?” Emilia said. “I’ve known that
for years.”
María stared at her sister as though
she’d just seen a tarantula. “You …
knew?”
“Of course. I’m older than you,
remember? I saw her go, and Dada
shouted that she was dead to us now. It
seemed the easiest way to explain things
to you.”
“You let me think she was lost in the
desert.”
Emilia shrugged. “What difference
does it make? She didn’t care about us.
She thought taking care of losers was
more important.”
“The important thing is to get this
clone to the hospital, where it can do
some good,” said Steven.
“Steven,” whispered Matt. In all this
time he’d thought Steven and Emilia
were—if not his friends—not his
enemies, either. He admired Steven. In
many ways they were alike.
“Take him.” Steven signaled the
bodyguards.
“Wait!” shrieked María. “You can’t
do this! Matt’s not an animal!”
“He’s livestock,” Steven said with a
cold smile. “The law is very clear. All
clones are classified as livestock
because they’re grown inside cows.
Cows can’t give birth to humans.”
“I won’t let you do this! I won’t let
you!” María threw herself at the guards,
and they rather sheepishly ducked their
heads to avoid her blows. The pilot
grabbed her from behind and pulled her
away.
“I’ll call Willum,” Steven said,
heading for the cockpit. “I can see we’ll
need sedatives before we can send her
back to the convent.”
“Emilia! Help me! Help him!”
screamed María, but no one paid her the
slightest attention.
Matt walked between the bodyguards.
He hadn’t a hope of fighting them off,
and he didn’t want María’s last image of
him to be of a terrified farm animal
being dragged off to slaughter. He turned
to look at her, but she was too busy
struggling with the pilot to notice.
The bodyguards held Matt’s arms, but
they didn’t insist on carrying him. He
smelled the night air, the scent of
jasmine and gardenias that had been
planted everywhere for the wedding. He
smelled the distant odor of the desert,
perhaps even of the mesquite
surrounding the oasis. Things traveled so
much farther at night.
He saw the fantastic gardens of the
Big House, the statues of babies with
wings, the orange trees festooned with
lights. This was his last night on earth,
and he wanted to remember everything.
Most of all, he wanted to remember
Celia and Tam Lin. And María. Would
he ever see them again? Or, if he was
denied heaven, would he wander through
the night like La Llorona, searching for
something that was forever lost?
23
DEATH
Matt was strapped to a bed in a room
full of alarming machinery. Two guards
sat outside the door, and another two
waited by the window, which was
covered by iron bars.
He was utterly terrified. This was
where they had kept MacGregor’s clone.
This was where the bad things
happened.
If only I’d escaped when I had the
chance, he thought. Everything was
ready for me. Tam Lin gave me maps
and food and showed me how to climb
mountains. I didn’t understand. I didn’t
want to understand.
He was sick with dread. Every noise
in the hall made him try to free himself.
At one point Willum and two strange
doctors appeared and proceeded to poke
Matt’s stomach and take his blood. They
untied him so he could pee into a bottle,
and Matt took the opportunity to run. He
got only about six feet before being
tackled by one of the guards.
Fool, fool, fool, Matt told himself.
Why didn’t I escape when I had the
chance?
After a while Willum and the other
doctors returned to discuss Matt’s
health. “It has mild anemia,” said one of
the doctors. “Its liver functions are a
little off.”
“Is it cleared for transplant?” inquired
Willum.
“I see nothing against it,” said the
strange doctor, peering at a chart.
They left Matt alone with his fear and
his imagination.
What was María doing now? They
would have drugged her, as Fani had
been drugged before she was forced to
marry Benito. Perhaps Felicia had been
given laudanum in the beginning, to keep
her obedient. One day there would be
another grand wedding for María and
Tom. María would have to be propped
up as she walked toward the altar.
I can’t save her, thought Matt. But
perhaps he’d done the one thing that
could rescue her. María knew about her
mother now. She could call for help.
And Esperanza, if Matt knew anything
about the woman who wrote A History
of Opium, would descend on the convent
like a fire-breathing dragon.
The door opened, and a pair of
bodyguards entered and proceeded to
untie Matt. Now what? he thought. It
couldn’t be a good sign. Nothing was
good anymore, not for him.
The bodyguards, keeping a tight hold
on Matt’s arms, led him down the hall to
a room unlike any he’d seen in the
hospital. It was decorated with fine
paintings, elegant furniture, and carpets.
At the far end, next to a tall window,
was a small table with a teapot, cups,
and a silver plate of cookies.
And next to it lay El Patrón in a
hospital bed. He looked extremely frail,
but life still sparkled in his jet-black
eyes. In spite of himself, Matt felt a
wave of affection.
“Come closer, Mi Vida,” said the
whispery old voice.
Matt approached. He saw more
guards standing in the shadows and
Celia in a beam of light from a gap in the
curtains. Matt braced himself for a
stormy scene, but she was dry-eyed and
grim.
“Sit down, Mi Vida,” said El Patrón,
indicating a chair by the table. “As I
remember, you like cookies.”
I did when I was six years old,
thought Matt. What was going on here?
“Cat got your tongue?” the old man
said. “It’s like the first time we met,
when Celia rescued you from the
chicken litter.” He smiled. Matt didn’t.
He had nothing to be happy about. “Ah,
well,” sighed El Patrón. “It always
comes to this in the end. My clones
forget about the wonderful years I give
them, the presents, the entertainment, the
good food. I don’t have to do it, you
know.”
Matt stared ahead. He wanted to
speak, but his throat had closed up.
“If I were like MacGregor—a good
Farmer, but a foul human being—I
would have had your brain destroyed at
birth. Instead, it pleased me to give you
the childhood I never had. I had to
grovel at the feet of the ranchero who
owned my parents’ land for every damn
sack of cornmeal.”
Celia said nothing. She might have
been carved out of stone.
“But once a year that changed,” said
El Patrón. “During Cinco de Mayo the
ranchero had a celebration. I and my five
brothers went to watch. Mamá brought
my little sisters. She carried one, and the
other held on to her skirt and followed
behind.”
Matt knew this story so well, he
wanted to scream. El Patrón slipped into
it effortlessly, like a donkey walking
along a well-worn trail. Once he got
going, nothing could stop him until he
reached the end.
The old man spoke of the dusty
cornfields and purple mountains of
Durango. His bright black eyes saw
beyond the hospital room to the streams
that roared with water two months of the
year and were dry as a bone the rest of
the time.
“The mayor of our village—dressed
in a fine black-and-silver suit—rode on
a white horse and threw money to the
crowd. How we scrambled for the
coins! How we rolled in the dirt like
pigs! But we needed the money. We
were so poor, we didn’t have two pesos
to rub together. On this day the ranchero
gave a great feast. We could eat all we
wanted, and it was a wonderful
opportunity for people who had
stomachs so shrunken that chili beans
had to wait in line to get inside.
“One year, during that feast, my little
sisters caught typhoid. They died in the
same hour. They were so small, they
couldn’t look over the windowsill—no,
not even if they stood on tiptoe.”
The room was deathly still. Matt
heard a dove calling from the roof of the
hospital. No hope, it said. No hope. No
hope.
“During the following years each of
my five brothers died; two drowned, one
had a burst appendix, and we had no
money for the doctor. The last two
brothers were beaten to death by the
police. There were eight of us,” said El
Patrón, “and only I lived to grow up.
Don’t you think I’m owed those lives?”
El Patrón spoke so sharply, Matt jolted
up in his chair. The story wasn’t ending
the way he’d expected.
“There were eight of us,” the old man
cried. “We should all have grown up,
but I was the only survivor. I am meant
to have those lives! I am meant to have
justice!”
Matt tried to stand. He was shoved
back down by the body-guards.
“Justice?” said Celia. It was the first
word she had spoken.
“You know what it was like,” El
Patrón whispered, his strength deserting
him now after his outburst. “You came
from the same village.”
“You’ve had many lives,” Celia said.
“Thousands of them are buried under the
poppy fields.”
“Oh, them!” El Patrón was
dismissive. “They’re like cattle running
after greener grass. They scuttle north
and south across my fields. Oh, yes,” he
said when Matt raised his eyebrows. “In
the beginning the tide was all one way.
The Aztlános ran north to find the big
Hollywood lifestyle. But the United
States isn’t the rich paradise it once
was. Now the Americanos look at
movies about Aztlán and think life is
pretty sweet down there. I catch about as
many going one way as the other.”
“El Viejo was the only good man in
this family,” said Celia. “He accepted
what God gave him, and when God told
him it was time to go, he did it.” Matt
was amazed by her courage. People
didn’t argue with El Patrón if they
wanted to stay healthy.
“El Viejo was a fool,” whispered El
Patrón. For a few moments he stopped
speaking. A doctor came in and listened
to his heart. He gave him an injection.
“The operating room is ready,” the
doctor said in a low voice. Matt was
swept by an icy wave of terror.
“Not yet,” murmured the old man.
“Ten more minutes,” said the doctor.
El Patrón seemed to gather his
strength for a last effort. “I created you,
Mi Vida, as God created Adam.”
Celia sniffed indignantly.
“Without me, you would never have
seen a beautiful sunset or smelled the
rain approaching on the wind. You
would never have tasted cool water on a
hot summer day. Or heard music or
known the wonderful pleasure of
creating it. I gave you these things, Mi
Vida. You … owe … me.”
“He owes you nothing,” Celia said.
Matt was afraid for her. El Patrón
was capable of destroying a person who
angered him. But the old man merely
smiled. “We make a fine pair of
scorpions, don’t we?”
“Speak for yourself,” said Celia.
“Matt owes you nothing, and he’s going
to pay you nothing. You can’t use him for
transplants.”
The guards stirred when they heard
this. The doctor looked up from the
monitor he was watching.
“When you had your first heart attack,
I poisoned Matt with foxglove from my
garden,” said Celia. “I’m a curandera,
you know, as well as a cook. I made
Matt’s heart too unstable to transplant.”
El Patron’s eyes bulged. He opened
his mouth, but nothing came out. The
doctor rushed to his side.
“I couldn’t keep on giving Matt
foxglove, though. It’s much too
dangerous. I needed something that
would make him sick, but not too sick.
Then someone told me about monarch
butterflies.”
Matt sat up, only to have a
bodyguard’s hands tighten on his
shoulders. He knew about the monarchs.
Tam Lin had talked about them in the
garden, the night of Matt’s coming-of-
age celebration. The air had been heavy
with perfumes, some pleasant, some not,
from the flowers Celia had become
interested in. She’d pointed out the
black-eyed Susans, larkspur, foxgloves,
and milkweed, and Tam Lin was stirred
when she’d mentioned milk-weed. It’s
fed upon by monarch butterflies, he’d
said. They’re clever little buggers. Fill
themselves up with poison so nothing
will eat them.
Matt had paid no attention to this
remark at the time. Tam Lin was always
coming up with facts he got out of the
nature books he read so slowly and
carefully.
“I needed something like the poison in
monarch butterflies,” said Celia,
breaking into Matt’s thoughts. “So I
began feeding him arsenic.”
“Arsenic!” the doctor cried.
“Arsenic creeps into the whole body,”
Celia went on, her eyes as cold as the
eyes of a snake. “It grows into the hair, it
makes little white lines on the
fingernails, it settles into the heart. I
didn’t give Matt enough to kill him—I
wouldn’t do that!—but enough to kill
anyone already weak who tried to steal
his heart. You’ve had your eight lives,
El Patrón. It’s time to make your peace
with God.”
“¡Bruja! Witch!” shrieked El Patrón.
His eyes flamed with murderous rage.
His skin flushed an angry red. He
struggled to claw his way up from the
bed.
“Emergency!” yelled the doctor.
“Take him to the operating room! Move!
Move! Move!”
The guards rolled the bed away. The
doctor ran beside it, pushing on El
Patrón’s chest. Suddenly the whole
building seethed like a wasp nest. More
guards appeared—an army of them. Two
of them hurried Celia off in spite of
Matt’s attempts to stop them. A
technician snipped off a strand of Matt’s
hair and retreated.
He was alone. Alone, that is, except
for four burly men who sat outside the
window and an unknown number lurking
outside the door. It was a beautiful
room, with a carpet patterned in the
colors of the oasis. Matt saw the red of
canyon walls, the heavy green of
creosote, and a blue that was the color
of the sky trapped between high cliffs. If
he half closed his eyes, he could almost
imagine himself there, in the quiet
shadows of the Ajo Mountains.
He waited. It had been morning when El
Patrón was wheeled out. Now it was
afternoon. The panic had died down
outside, and the halls were nearly silent.
The hospital went about its business
without involving the prisoner in the
elegant drawing room.
Matt finished the tea and ate all the
cookies. He felt utterly exhausted.
Everything had been turned upside
down, and he didn’t know whether El
Patrón’s death would mean safety or
exactly the opposite.
Matt studied his arm and wondered at
the arsenic that lurked inside. Would
mosquitoes die if they bit him? Could he
kill things by spitting on them? It was an
interesting thought. Matt discovered that
no matter how terrified he’d been at
first, it wasn’t possible to stay terrified.
It was as though his brain said, Okay.
That’s enough. Let’s find something
else to do.
Matt thought about María instead. She
was probably back at the convent. He
didn’t know what she did there, aside
from eating chocolates and sunbathing
naked on the roof. What a crazy thing to
do. What an interesting thing to do.
Matt’s face turned warm as he thought
about it. He’d seen paintings of fat,
naked goddesses from Rome in his art
classes. He thought they were nice, but
no one ran around like that in real life.
Or did they? He didn’t know how
people behaved in the outside world.
Anyhow, María had gotten into
trouble for it. Matt felt feverish, but it
wasn’t surprising, being full of arsenic
as he was. He wondered what other stuff
Celia had tried on him from her garden.
The door swung open. Mr. Alacrán
strode in with Tam Lin.
For an instant time froze. Matt was six
years old again, lying in a pool of blood
with Rosa plucking fragments of glass
from his foot. A fierce man had burst
into the room and shouted, How dare
you defile this house? Take the
creature outside now!
It was the first time Matt had realized
he wasn’t human. The fierce man had
been Mr. Alacrán, and he had the same
expression of loathing on his face now
as he looked at Matt.
“I’m here to inform you we no longer
need your services,” Mr. Alacrán said.
Matt gasped. That meant El Patrón
was dead. No matter how often he’d
thought about it, the reality came as a
blow.
“I—I’m sorry.” Silent tears began to
roll down Matt’s face. He could keep
himself from blubbering, but there was
nothing he could do about the grief that
welled up inside.
“I imagine you are,” said Mr.
Alacrán. “It means we no longer have a
use for you.”
Of course you have a use for me,
Matt thought. He knew as much about
running Opium as Steven. He’d studied
the farming techniques, the day-to-day
problems of water purification and food
distribution. He probably knew more
than anyone about the network of spies
and corrupt officials in other countries.
Years of listening to El Patrón had given
Matt a feel for the Alacrán empire no
one else could possibly have.
“Have it put to sleep,” Mr. Alacrán
said to Tam Lin.
“Yes, sir,” said Tam Lin.
“What do you mean?” cried Matt. “El
Patrón wouldn’t want that! He had me
educated. He wanted me to help run the
country.”
Tam Lin looked at him in pity. “You
poor fool. El Patrón had seven other
clones exactly like you, each one
educated and believing he was going to
run the country.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“I have to admit, you were the first
one with musical genius. But we can
always turn on the radio if we want
that.”
“You can’t do this! We’re friends!
You said so! You left me a note—” Matt
was knocked down by a blow that made
him see stars. No one had ever struck
him. No one was allowed to. He
crawled to his knees, holding his jaw.
He was even more shocked by the
person who’d done it.
Tam Lin.
Tam Lin was an ex-terrorist. He’d
been responsible for the deaths of twenty
children, and maybe it didn’t even
bother him. Matt had never considered
that possibility.
“You see, lad, I’m what you call a
mercenary,” said Tam Lin in the lilting
voice Matt had come to love. “I worked
for El Patrón for donkey’s years—
thought he’d go on forever. But now I’m
out of a job, and Mr. Alacrán has been
kind enough to offer me another.”
“What about Celia?” whispered Matt.
“You don’t think she’d get away with
the game she played? By now she’ll
have been turned into an eejit.”
But you told her about the monarch
butterflies, thought Matt. You let her
walk into the trap.
“Can you finish up here? I’ve got
work to do,” said Mr. Alacrán.
“I’ll dispose of the clone, sir,” said
Tam Lin. “I might need Daft Donald to
help me tie it up.”
He called me a clone, Matt thought.
He called me an “it.”
“Remember, I want you back for the
wake tonight,” said Mr. Alacrán.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said
Tam Lin with a twinkle in his lying,
treacherous eyes.
24
A FINAL GOOD-BYE
Daft Donald held Matt firmly, and Tam
Lin wrapped him in duct tape. The
bodyguard slung him over a horse as he
exchanged greetings with other members
of El Patrón’s private army, lounging by
the stables. “Where are you taking it?” a
man called.
“Thought I’d dump it next to the eejit
pens,” Tam Lin replied. The man’s
laughter was lost in the drum of horse’s
hooves striking the earth.
This animal was different from the
Safe Horses. It was faster and less
predictable. It even smelled different.
Matt, with his nose pressed into its hide,
was in a good position to know. Safe
Horses had a faint chemical odor, but
this one reeked of sun and sweat.
Matt suddenly realized what Tam Lin
meant by dumping him next to the eejit
pens. He was going to be thrown into the
yellow ooze at the bottom of a pit. The
horror of it, the unfairness and treachery
of almost everyone he’d ever known,
made Matts blood pound in his ears. But
this time, instead of fear, he felt a surge
of pure animal rage. He deserved to
live! He was owed this life that had so
casually been given him, and if he had to
die, he would struggle until the very last
minute.
Matt tested the tape holding his arms
and legs. He couldn’t move an inch.
Well then, Matt thought, I’ll have to
wriggle and squirm my way out of the
sludge pit. He saw the earth fly under
the horse’s hooves. His stomach
bounced painfully against its body. This
creature didn’t run as smoothly as a Safe
Horse.
Finally, it slowed and Tam Lin lifted
Matt down. The boy managed to
jackknife his body and drive his head
into the man’s stomach. “Ach! Ye pee-
brained ninny!” swore Tam Lin. “Look
about you before you do a stupid trick
like that!”
Matt rolled onto his back, his feet up
to deliver a kick. He saw blue sky and a
shoulder of rock. He smelled not slime
and corruption, but good, clean air
scented by creosote. They weren’t by the
eejit pens. They were on the path to the
Ajo Mountains.
“There! I hope to have a lavish
apology,” grunted Tam Lin, peeling the
tape, none too gently, off Matt’s skin.
“Are you going to drown me in the
oasis instead?” Matt snarled.
“Get a grip on yourself, lad. All right,
I can see you’ve got grounds for
suspicion, but credit me with a little
decency.”
“How can I trust someone who killed
twenty children?” Matt said.
“So they told you that.” Tam Lin
looked so sad, Matt felt slightly—but
only slightly—sorry for him.
“Is it true?” he demanded.
“Oh, aye. It’s true.” Tam Lin wadded
the tape into a ball and stuffed it into one
of the horse’s saddlebags. He took out a
backpack and heaved it over his
shoulder. “Come on. I don’t have much
time.”
He started up the trail, not looking
back. Matt paused. He could steal the
horse and ride north. The Farm Patrol
might not know yet that he was marked
for disposal. Disposal, Matt thought
with a glow of anger. But the animal
didn’t look easy to ride. Unlike a Safe
Horse, it had to be tied to a tree. It
rolled its eyes and flared its nostrils
when Matt tried to get near it.
On the other hand, he could follow
Tam Lin into the mountains and hope the
man’s friendship held. Tam Lin had
disappeared among the rocks. He wasn’t
even bothering to see whether Matt
followed.
I’m probably the world’s biggest
idiot, thought Matt as he trudged along
the trail.
The oasis was brimming. Fall rains
had brought life to the paloverde trees,
making them bright with delicate yellow
and orange flowers. The grape arbor
was leafier than Matt ever remembered,
and a small duck paddled away across
the water as he approached.
Tam Lin was perched on a rock.
“That’s a cinnamon teal,” he said. “They
migrate from the United States to Aztlán
this time of year. You wonder how they
find a speck of water like this in all the
dry desert.”
Matt settled on another rock, not too
near. The sun was sliding behind the
hills and shadows crept into the little
valley.
“If it hadn’t been for this place, I’d
have run barking mad years ago,” the
bodyguard said. Matt watched the little
duck work its way along the far shore. “I
was half mad when I went to work for El
Patrón. It’s a place to hide , I thought
then. I’ll leave when the police get tired
of hunting for me. But of course things
didn’t work out that way. Once
something belongs to El Patrón, it’s his
forever.”
“So you did kill the children,” Matt
said.
“I could say it was an accident—and
it was—but that doesn’t take away the
horror. I was intending to blow up the
prime minister, a fat toad who deserved
it. I simply never considered the other
people who might get in the way.
Frankly, I was such a self-important ass,
I didn’t care. I got most of these scars
from that explosion, and Daft Donald
had his throat cut. That’s why he can’t
talk.”
In all these years Matt hadn’t thought
about why Daft Donald never spoke.
He’d assumed the large, silent man was
antisocial.
“El Patrón had an instinct for people
he could enslave,” said Tam Lin. “He
was such a powerful presence. Power’s
a strange thing, lad. It’s a drug and
people like me crave it. It wasn’t till I
met Celia that I saw what a monster I’d
become. I was too happy swaggering
around in El Patrón’s shadow.”
“But you let the doctors turn Celia
into an eejit,” said Matt.
“I did not! I marked her forehead so it
appeared like she was operated on. I put
her in the stables with Rosa.”
Matt looked at Tam Lin directly for
the first time since they arrived at the
oasis. A great weight shifted off his
chest.
“She’ll be safe as long as she
remembers to act like a zombie. So now
I think I’ve earned that lavish apology,”
the bodyguard said.
And Matt gave it at great length and
wholeheartedly.
“I would’ve brought her here, but
Celia isn’t much for climbing rocks.”
Tam Lin sighed.
They looked out over the pool with
the afternoon sky silvering its surface.
The cinnamon teal waddled onto the
b a n k and preened its feathers. A
swallow scooped up a dragonfly
hovering over the water.
“Am I supposed to live here?” Matt
asked.
Tam Lin started. “Ah! My mind was
wandering. I love the way swallows turn
just before they’re about to crash into the
ground. No, lad. You wouldn’t be able
to survive. It’s better if you go to
Aztlán.”
Aztlán! Matt’s heart gave a bound.
“Are you coming with me?”
“I can’t.” Tam Lin’s voice was sad.
“You see, I’ve done terrible things in my
life, and I can’t escape the
consequences.”
“That’s not true,” Matt said. “The
police probably stopped looking for you
long ago. You could give people a false
name. You could grow a beard and
shave your head.”
“Of course I could—and may I say,
you’re showing quite a lawless streak.
Quite a chip off the old block you are.
No, I’m talking about moral
consequences. I’ve spent years
benefiting from the horrors of Opium,
and now I have the chance to put things
right. I mustn’t pass it up. Celia has
made me see that. She’s a very strict
woman, you know. Won’t put up with
evil.”
“I know,” said Matt, thinking of how
Celia had stood up to El Patrón.
“I’ve already packed your bag,” Tam
Lin said, unslinging the backpack.
“There’s maps in the chest. Take as
many water bottles as you can manage,
and when you reach the Aztlán border,
say you’re a refugee. Your parents have
been taken by the Farm Patrol. Act
stupid—that shouldn’t be a problem—
and don’t tell anyone you’re a clone.”
“Won’t they be able to tell?” Matt
imagined the Aztlános’ rage when they
realized they’d been duped.
“Here’s the dirty little secret.” Tam
Lin bent down and whispered, as though
he had to hide the information from the
swallows, the duck, and the dragonflies.
“No one can tell the difference between
a clone and a human. That’s because
there isn’t any difference. The idea of
clones being inferior is a filthy lie.”
Tam Lin strode off to the metal chest,
leaving Matt openmouthed. He watched
the man remove water bottles and maps.
How could a clone be the same as a
human? Everything in Matt’s experience
argued against it.
Tam Lin unzipped a pocket in the
backpack and took out a clump of paper.
“This is money, see. I should have taught
you about it before. Here’s a hundred-
peso note and here’s a fifty. Always ask
the price of something first and offer
half. Oh, crikey! You’re not going to
learn it now. Just remember to take out
one piece of paper at a time and don’t let
anyone see how many pieces of paper
you have.”
The sun had set and dusk was falling
rapidly. Tam Lin built a fire and stacked
dry wood nearby. “You should go first
thing in the morning. That gives you
twelve hours to reach the border. It’s the
ideal time because the Farm Patrol is at
the house for the wake. Another thing: El
Patrón has kept Opium frozen one
hundred years in the past.”
“I don’t understand,” said Matt.
“Opium, as much as possible, is the
way things were in El Patrón’s youth.
Celia cooks on a wood fire, the rooms
aren’t airconditioned, the fields are
harvested by people, not machines. Even
rockets aren’t allowed to fly over. The
only places where the rules are relaxed
are the hospital and the security system.
It was El Patróns way of outwitting
Death. One of his ways.”
“But everything’s the same on TV,”
Matt protested.
Tam Lin laughed. “El Patron
controlled that, too. El Látigo Negro
snapped his last whip a century ago.
Talk about reruns. In many ways you’ll
find Aztlán confusing, but they’ve had a
movement back to simpler times
recently. They’re trying to turn away
from a machine-based economy to the
old Mexican culture. You’ll find some
things familiar.”
“Wait!” cried Matt as the bodyguard
made ready to leave. “Can’t you stay?”
The thought of losing his friend and
perhaps never seeing him again was
devastating.
“I’ve got to attend the wake,” said
Tam Lin.
“Then bring Celia here. I could help
her climb the rocks.”
“Wait’11 you see the rocks. No, lad.
Celia’s too old to make the trip. I’ll keep
her as safe as I can. You have my word
on it.”
“What should I do in Aztlán? Where
can I stay?” Matt was beginning to feel
panicky.
“Where’s my head?” Tam Lin said,
stopping at the edge of the firelight. “I
left the most important thing out. The
first thing you do in Aztlán is catch a
hovercraft to San Luis and ask directions
to the Convent of Santa Clara. Unless
I’m very much mistaken, María will
dance rings around you when you walk
in the front door.”
There was no stopping him this time.
Tam Lin strode ahead with Matt trotting
behind. When they reached the hole in
the rock, the bodyguard turned and put
his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I don’t
believe in long good-byes,” he said.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Tam Lin waited a moment before
saying, “No.” Matt drew in his breath
sharply. “I’ve never lied to you, and I
don’t intend to start now. The important
thing is, you’ve escaped. You’re the one
possession El Patrón let slip through his
fingers.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” Matt
said.
“You’re going to find María and, if
things work out, her mother.”
“You know Esperanza?”
‘Oh, aye. She used to come to the
house. Did you ever see that movie
about dinosaurs? The one with the
velociraptor?”
Matt remembered a particularly nasty
dinosaur with long claws and teeth and a
willingness to burrow through rock to
get at its prey.
“Well, that’s Esperanza when she’s
got a cause. She’s a good person to have
on your side.” Tam Lin climbed through
the rock and went off into the gathering
dark. He didn’t look back. Matt kept
himself from shining the flashlight on
him.
25
THE FARM PATROL
Matt felt almost light-headed as he
walked back to the oasis. So much had
happened so quickly. So much had
changed. The little campfire seemed
unbearably lonely. He built up the fire
and then worried about whether the
Farm Patrol could see it. He kicked
some of the branches away. Then Matt
thought about the animals that might
come to the water at night. Coyotes for
sure, a bobcat maybe. A jaguar was a
long shot, but Tam Lin had seen them.
Matt built up the fire again.
He found beef jerky and dried apples
in the metal chest. He was ravenous,
having eaten nothing but cookies since
the morning of the wedding. The food
lifted his spirits, and soon he was poring
over the map in the flickering light. It
was like an exciting novel full of
possible adventures. Tam Lin had
marked the route with a red pen and
added comments using his own creative
spelling, such as Ratlesnakes heer and
Saw bare under tree. Matt finished
dinner with a handful of peanuts and a
chocolate bar.
He shut the backpack into the metal
chest and unrolled the sleeping bag on an
exposed slab of rock. He felt safer away
from places where he might meet bare
under tree. Then he lay down and
looked at the stars.
It was oddly frightening to lie on the
ground without a shelter. The sky was so
black and the stars so many and brilliant.
He might lose his hold on the earth. He’d
float away, and if he didn’t grab a tree
branch, he’d go on forever into those
bright, inhuman lights.
Matt ran a rope from the sleeping bag
to a tree. Okay, it was a dumb thing to
worry about, but it didn’t hurt to be
careful. Celia once told him the Indians
in her village carried charms to keep
from being carried off by the sky. They
might know something people with
houses didn’t understand.
Exhausted by all that had happened,
Matt fell into a deep and dreamless
sleep. Just before dawn the air vibrated
with something that was almost—but not
quite—a sound. Matt sat up and grabbed
the rope. The ground shivered briefly
and was still. A pair of ravens exploded
off a tree branch and flew around the
oasis cawing wildly. A coyote froze
with its muzzle dripping from the pool
where it had been drinking.
Matt listened. The sound—if it was a
sound—had come from all around. It
wasn’t like anything he’d experienced.
The ravens settled, grumbling between
themselves, and the coyote bolted into
the rocks.
Matt started a fire with a lighter he
found in the backpack. He saw that the
metal chest was ringed with coyote
prints and something had tried to gnaw
the latch.
After a quick breakfast he filled as
many water bottles as he could carry,
placing an iodine tablet in each one. The
last time he drank oasis water, he’d been
deathly sick. But that was the arsenic, he
realized. How was Celia? he wondered.
Would she get enough to eat in the
stables? And wasn’t acting like a zombie
as bad as being one if you had to do it
for years?
I’ll ask Esperanza to help her
escape, he thought.
Now that the moment for departure
had come, Matt found himself dawdling.
He double-checked the supplies. He
added a book, tested the weight of his
pack, and took it out again. The sun was
already high, although the valley was
still in shadow. I could spend another
night here, he thought. But the oasis
might not be safe now that El Patrón was
gone.
Matt shouldered the backpack, tied
extra water bottles to his belt, and set off
through the grape arbor. He would go
on, as Tam Lin had, without looking
back.
The first part of the trail was easy.
Matt had been over it many times. Soon,
however, he came to a canyon choked
with bushes. He had to break his way
through. The dust of the leaves covered
him from head to toe and found its way
into his lungs. He had to rest in a dry
gully to regain his breath. Only an hour
had passed. If the rest of the journey
went like this, he wouldn’t reach Aztlán
for a month.
Matt went through the backpack. In an
inside pocket he found an inhaler. The
relief it brought his tortured lungs was
pure heaven. He also found a wicked-
looking machete in a leather sheath. I
could have saved myself a lot of trouble
if I’d looked earlier, he thought.
After a rest Matt hacked his way
through the bushes. It gave him a savage
pleasure to get even with the plants that
had scratched his arms and face all
morning.
When he reached the end of the
valley, he was confronted by a high
granite cliff. Matt checked the map.
There it was, with a red line going
straight to the top. It was higher than
anything he’d ever attempted to climb.
Matt looked for another way to proceed,
but the map was firm on this point:
Onlee way out. Yu can do it, said Tam
Lin’s note. Matt stared up at the
impossibly distant bushes peeking over
the top of the cliff until he was dizzy.
The only good thing was that he didn’t
have to boost Celia ahead of him.
Matt inched from crevice to crevice
until his legs began to tremble with
fatigue. Halfway up he thought he
couldn’t move another inch. He hugged
the granite face and wondered how long
he could stay there before exhaustion
forced him to let go. He’d fall onto
jagged rocks. He’d die there. He might
as well have let his heart be harvested
by doctors. A shadow passed briefly
over him, and after a moment it came
back.
Only one thing cast a shadow on a
cliff in such a deserted place. Matt was
suddenly filled with rage. It was as
though it came from some deep place,
like lava in a volcano. He no longer felt
exhausted or discouraged or anything
else except a towering fury to survive.
He pulled himself up, foothold by
foothold, crag by crag, until he wriggled
over the top and lay panting and
surprised by his feat.
Matt looked up into the blinding, blue
sky and heard the leathery flap of wings
as the bird turned in the air. I win, you
ugly, good-for-nothing buzzard, thought
Matt. He smiled. He sounded just like El
Patrón.
Matt celebrated with a bottle of water
and a package of cookies. He threw a
rock at the turkey buzzard. The map
showed he’d come about five miles and
there were five more to go. The sun was
bending to the west, so he might not
make it to the border before dark. Matt
wasn’t particularly worried. He had
plenty of food, and he felt enormously
good after his battle with the cliff.
He traveled on to the top of a ridge.
The going was much easier and the view
was spectacular. Tam Lin had included
small binoculars among the supplies, so
Matt stopped frequently to look back at
Opium. The land toward Aztlán was still
blocked by the mountains.
He could see the long, flat poppy
fields and even a brown smudge that
might have been a group of eejits. He
saw the water purification plant and
storehouses for food and fertilizer. The
red tile roofs of the mansion spread out
in a patch of intense green. Matt felt a
strange sensation in the pit of his
stomach. It was, he realized, sorrow.
There, on the high ridge of the Ajo
Mountains, Matt gave himself over to
grief. He wept for Celia trapped in the
stables and for Tam Lin, who was
trapped in a different way. He wasted no
tears on the Alacráns or their slaves
Felicia, Fani, and Emilia. But he wept
for El Patrón, who deserved pity less
than anyone but who was closer to Matt
than anyone in the world.
In an odd way it felt as though El
Patrón were still alive, and in one sense
he was. For Matt still existed. As long
as he survived, El Patrón had not
vanished from the world.
Matt camped at the top of the ridge. The
recent rains had filled hollows in the
rocks, and the little folds of the mountain
were green with bear grass. Desert
mallow spread out peach-colored
blooms in pockets of soil, and
everywhere lateblooming cliff roses
swarmed with bees. Matt wasn’t afraid,
although he saw more animals than he
had ever observed on his travels with
Tam Lin.
White-tailed deer fed on bushes in the
late-afternoon sun. He saw a buck rub
his antlers on a tree, perhaps to sharpen
them or perhaps simply because they
itched. Matt didn’t know. He saw a
group of coatis running with their tails in
the air and their long noses pointed
along the ground.
Everything seemed alive. Everything
scurried, flew, dug, nibbled, or
chattered. Frogs cheeped from an unseen
water hole, a rock squirrel whistled
when a red-tailed hawk drifted by, a
mockingbird sat on the topmost branch
of a mesquite and performed every song
Matt had ever heard, plus a few extra the
bird must have composed himself.
Most of all, it was the wild music that
impressed Matt. It did the same thing that
playing the piano had done when he was
frightened and lonely. It took him into
another world where only beauty existed
and where he was safe from hatred and
disappointment and death.
He stayed up a long time, watching the
distant lights of Opium. There weren’t
many. The mansion sat by itself in a sea
of dark. The factories, storehouses, and
eejit pens were all hidden. The air was
so still, the eejits had probably been
driven into the fields to sleep. Matt
heard no sound from the far plain. It
might have been a painting instead of a
real place. Nearby he heard the hoot of a
great horned owl and the incessant chirp
of crickets. The mountain was darker
than the plain, but it was alive and it was
real.
Matt slept well, and he felt strong and
confident in the morning. Opium was
covered by a ground fog, as it often was
in the fall. He couldn’t see anything but a
white haze stretching from horizon to
horizon.
With a last look at the map, Matt
started along the trail. It dipped up and
down, gradually leading up to a pass
between two hills. He heard a noise
from one of the high meadows, like
someone hitting a baseball. It happened
again and again. It couldn’t really be
people playing baseball up there, he
knew, with only the hawks and turkey
buzzards to watch.
As he got closer, the sound became
more like someone smacking a pair of
ripe watermelons together. Matt
cautiously peered around a bush and saw
two bighorn sheep thunder at each other
like a pair of farm trucks. They crashed
head-on, reeled away, and trotted off.
After a few moments they repeated the
performance. A group of ewes grazed
among the rocks as though they couldn’t
be bothered to watch. Matt was so
delighted, he laughed out loud. Then, of
course, the sheep skittered to safety,
making huge leaps as they bounded from
rock to rock.
As Matt approached the cleft at the
top of the mountains, he began to hear
another puzzling noise. It was like the
roar of fire in Celia’s stove. It got louder
and louder, and now Matt could pick out
individual sounds: the grinding of
machinery, the blast of horns, even—
incredibly—music.
He stepped through the pass into
another world. The same quiet hills lay
below him, with hawks patrolling
wooded valleys between shoulders of
rock. But beyond them lay a seething
mass of factories and skyscrapers. He
saw roadways not only on the ground,
but also going up in wide spirals among
the buildings. A sea of hovercrafts
restlessly prowled the air. The buildings
stretched on as far as Matt could see,
which wasn’t far because a smudgy
brown haze covered everything. It was
from here that the booming, clanking,
thundering noises came, and it surprised
Matt so much, he sat down on the trail to
think.
The sun was directly overhead. Matt
fished out the hat Tam Lin had provided.
So this was Aztlán. In all Matt’s
imaginings it had been nothing like this.
He had taken Celia’s tales about the
maquiladoras and El Patrón’s stories
about Durango and mixed them with
episodes of El Látigo Negro. What came
out was a hodgepodge of factories,
primitive huts, and fabulous ranches
owned by evil tycoons who had pretty
daughters.
How could people live in all that
noise? he thought. How could they
breathe the air? There wasn’t a fence
for as far as he could see, but there was
a line of poles that could have supported
a fence. The land on the Opium side of
the border was deserted. It was as
though someone had put up a big sign
saying DANGER! RADIOACTIVE!
Matt went back over the mountain
pass to the meadow where the bighorn
sheep had tried to brain each other. He
ate a small lunch of beef jerky and dry
cheese. He couldn’t stay here. The rainy
season in the Ajo Mountains was brief,
and Matt had a very clear idea of how
soon the little frog ponds and hidden
grottoes would dry out.
Equally, he couldn’t return to the
mansion. The only way out was the
border of Aztlán. You can do it, he
imagined Tam Lin saying. I guess I have
to, thought Matt, turning to look one last
time at the quiet meadow, the white
plumes of bear grass, and the black-
throated sparrows flitting through the
trees.
He slid down parts of the hill where the
ground was steep and sandy. He arrived
at the bottom, hot and dusty and itching
from dozens of spines he had collected
from a cholla cactus on the way down.
He crouched in the shade of a rock to
drink the last of his water.
Matt found the spines impossible to
remove. They seemed to burrow deeper
into his skin when he tried to pinch them
out. And somewhere along the way he’d
torn his pants and one of the straps on
the backpack.
Matt observed the border through
binoculars. What he saw was every bit
as ugly as it sounded. A row of factories
chugged smoke into the air. Behind them,
on the border itself, was a tangle of cast-
off machinery and tanks that seeped a
black liquid onto the ground. Pools of
the stuff dotted the narrow space
between the buildings and the line of
poles. Then something much closer
moved across Matt’s field of view.
He adjusted the lenses. It was a man
on a horse. It was a member of the
Farm Patrol! Moving the glasses
around, he saw more of them.
Matt shrank back into the rocks. The
Farm Patrol must have gone back to
work after the wake. Had they seen him
come slipping and sliding down the
mountain? He was afraid to move. He
was afraid not to. Fortunately, the
hollow where Matt was hiding was
deep. After a tense half hour or so he
guessed the Farm Patrol had seen
nothing. Or perhaps they were merely
waiting for him to get thirsty and come
out. Matt did get thirsty, horribly so, as
the hours went by.
He counted six men. They rode slowly
back and forth. At no time was the
border deserted, and at no time was it
possible for Matt to run the remaining
few hundred yards to freedom. The sun
dipped to the west. Shadows lengthened.
Matt sucked on a stone to keep from
feeling thirsty.
The sun set. The shadow of night rose,
dividing the eastern sky into pale blue
above and gray below, with a rosy
border where the sunlight still shone on
a haze of dust in the air. Suddenly a
commotion broke out. A group of men
burst from one of the junkyards and ran
across the border. The instant they
passed the line of poles, sirens went off.
The Farm Patrol galloped to intercept
them.
At once Matt was off in the other
direction. It hadn’t taken him a second to
react. This was his chance. He raced
across the ground. To his left he heard
shouts and a loud crack accompanied by
a flash of light. Matt had seen this
weapon at El Patrón’s birthday party. It
was a super stun gun that fried the hair
on an Illegal’s head and stopped his
heart cold. Most of the time the Illegal’s
heart started again, so he could be turned
into an eejit.
Matt heard horse’s hooves pounding.
He didn’t try to see how many men had
turned to follow him. His only chance
was to reach the border, and he bounded
with an agility that would have
impressed a bighorn sheep. He saw the
body of a horse approaching. Matt
swung the binoculars at the animal’s
head and sent it veering to one side. The
rider pulled it up and forced it to turn.
The poles were close. Matt saw the
ground ahead change from dirt to
cement. He put on an extra burst of
speed, but the Farm Patroller grabbed
Matt’s backpack and reined in his horse.
Matt undid the snap holding the
waistband and slid out of the straps. The
change in speed sent him stumbling
across the border into one of the oily
black pools, where he fell on his
stomach and skidded out the other side
in a plume of goo.
Matt sat up, frantically wiping his
eyes. He saw the Farm Patroller ride
away and looked down to see he would
have no trouble convincing the Aztlános
he was a refugee. He had no backpack,
no money, and he was covered from
head to toe in black slime.
26
THE LOST BOYS
¡Qué coraje! What spirit that kid has!”
a man said. Matt wiped away the goo
dripping off his hair. He saw a pair of
uniformed men approaching from amid
ruined machinery and tanks.
“Hey, kid! ¿Como te llamas? What’s
your name?” asked one of them.
Matt was stumped for a moment. He
certainly couldn’t tell the truth. “M-Matt
Ortega,” he said, swiping the music
teacher’s name.
“You’re a real fighter!” said the
border guard. “I thought he had you
when he grabbed the backpack. Did your
family go over tonight?”
“N-No. My f-family—” Now that the
excitement was over, Matt felt the
reaction set in. He hugged himself and
his teeth chattered.
“Hey,” the guard said kindly. “You
don’t need to explain now. You just had
the beans scared out of you. ¡Caray! I
got scared watching you. Come inside
where you can have a bath and
something to eat.”
Matt followed carefully so he
wouldn’t slip on the cement. His body
was covered in sludge, and his stomach
was in knots over the narrow escape.
The guards led him to a large cement
bathroom with showers along the walls.
They gave him a brush and a chunk of
green soap. “Take one of the clean
bodysuits from the bin,” one of them
instructed him.
This is like a dream, Matt thought as
he scrubbed and rescrubbed himself in
the steamy shower. He’d been afraid of
his welcome in Aztlán, but these men
treated him like a guest. They didn’t
seem a bit surprised to see him.
Matt found an olive drab jumpsuit that
didn’t look too bad. The cloth was as
rough as a floor brush, but it would help
him fit in with the others. He could pass
as human.
When he emerged, he was seated at a
table and given a plate of tortillas and
beans by a man in a black uniform with
the emblem of a beehive on one sleeve.
“Thank you. This is very nice,” Matt
said.
“Oho! We have an aristocrat here,”
said one of the border guards. “When
was the last time someone said thank you
to a Keeper, Raúl?”
“About the time America discovered
Columbus,” said Raúl. He pulled up a
chair. “Okay, kid. What were you doing
on the frontera?”
Matt, between mouthfuls of beans,
gave him the story Tam Lin had
prepared. His parents had been taken by
the Farm Patrol. He got scared and ran
back across the border. He wanted to go
to San Luis.
“That’s really tough, losing your
parents like that. Do you come from San
Luis?” said Raúl.
“I have—a friend there,” said Matt,
stumbling over how exactly to describe
María.
The man shrugged. “What kind of
work can you do?”
Work? Matt was confused. He knew
how to run an opium empire, but he
didn’t think that was what the man
wanted to hear. “I can play the piano,”
he said at last. Raúl laughed out loud.
“Now I know he’s an aristocrat,” said
the other border guard.
“Don’t get us wrong,” said Raúl,
noticing Matt’s unhappy expression.
“We like art and music, but in the new
Aztlán we don’t have time for hobbies.
We have to contribute to the general
good of the people.”
“It’s hard but it’s fair,” the other man
said.
“So if you have a special skill, like
balancing magnetic coils or running a
positronic purifier, please tell us.”
Positronic purifier, thought Matt. I
don’t even know what it is. He racked
his brain. “I studied water purification,”
he said at last. It wasn’t quite true. Matt
had toured the water purification plant,
but he thought he remembered enough to
be useful.
“Those plants are automated,” said
the border guard.
“Wait. I’m getting an idea,” said Raúl.
“Stomp on it before it gets away,” the
guard said.
“No, really. The plankton factory in
San Luis can always use new workers.
That’s something like water purification.
And it’s where the kid wants to go.”
The men seemed to think this was a
brilliant plan, and Matt, who had no idea
what they were talking about, said the
plankton factory sounded fine. It was in
San Luis, after all. He could leave right
away and find his way to the Convent of
Santa Clara.
Matt spent the night in the guardhouse,
and in the morning Raúl took him to a
large, gray building with high windows
covered with iron bars. “You’re in luck,
chico,” he said. “We’ve got a hovercraft
going to San Luis tomorrow.” He
unlocked a metal door that led into a
dimly lit hallway. A pair of border
guards lounged at a table in front of
another door made of reinforced glass.
They were playing a game Matt had
never seen.
Tiny men seemed to hang in midair
over the table, along with trees,
buildings, and a pot bubbling on a fire. It
was the pot and fire that enchanted Matt.
They were so realistic, he could even
hear water splattering onto the flames.
About half of the tiny men were dressed
in animal skins and carried spears. The
other half were clad in monk’s robes.
The border guards wore silver gloves
and moved the game pieces by waving
their fingers.
“Another one for San Luis,” said
Raúl. The men grudgingly turned off the
game.
“Where did the picture go?” said
Matt.
“Haven’t you ever seen a holo-game,
kid?”
“Of course I have,” Matt lied. He
didn’t want to arouse suspicion.
“Oh, I get it,” a border guard said.
“You haven’t seen this game before.
That’s because it’s so old. It’s all the
crotting government sends us.”
“Don’t use language like that in front
of a kid,” said Raúl.
“Sorry,” said the guard. He turned on
the game, and the tiny men appeared
again. “See, those are the cannibals and
these are the missionaries. The aim is
for the cannibals to push the
missionaries into the cooking pot.”
“And the missionaries?” Matt asked.
“They have to push the cannibals into
the church, but first they have to baptize
them.”
Matt watched, fascinated, as a tiny
missionary held down a yelling cannibal
and sprinkled water on his head. So
that’s what baptism was. “It looks like
fun,” he said.
“Sure, if you haven’t played it a
couple thousand times.” The man turned
the game off and unlocked the glass door
for Raúl and Matt to pass through.
“Why are all the doors locked?” Matt
asked.
“The orderly production of resources
is vital to the general good of the
people,” said Raúl.
That’s a very weird thing to say ,
Matt thought. However, his attention was
riveted on a room full of boys working
at tables. They all stopped what they
were doing and turned to look at Matt.
He had never played with children.
He’d never been to school or played
sports, and he’d never had a friend his
own age, except María. The reaction of
most people to him had been hatred.
Thus, the experience of suddenly being
thrust into a crowd of boys was like
being dumped into a pool of piranhas.
Matt assumed they were going to hurt
him. He froze into a karate stance Tam
Lin had shown him.
The boys surged forward, all talking
at once. “What’s your name? Where are
they sending you? Got any money?”
Raúl, perhaps noticing Matt’s odd
position, crowded them back.
“Orale, morros. Okay, kids. His
name’s Matt, and he needs to be left
alone for a while. He just lost his
parents in Dreamland.” The boys went
back to the tables, but they eyed Matt
curiously, and one or two of them smiled
and tried to entice him over.
Matt stood next to the door while
Raúl walked around the room,
commenting on the boys’ work. Some
were fitting small bits of machinery
together, others wove strips of plastic
into sandals. Still others measured
powder into capsules and counted the
finished pills into bottles.
Raúl stopped by a large boy who was
sanding a curved piece of wood. “We
don’t have time for hobbies, Chacho.
The orderly production of resources is
vital to the general good of the people.”
“Crot the good of the people,”
muttered Chacho, still sanding the wood.
If Raúl was angered by this curse—
and Matt had no doubt it was a curse,
although he didn’t know what it meant—
the man didn’t show it. He took the
wood from Chacho’s hands. “Attention
to the welfare of the nation is the highest
virtue to which a citizen can aspire.”
“Yeah, right,” said Chacho.
“Work is freedom. Freedom is work.
It’s hard but it’s fair.”
“It’s hard but it’s fair,” chanted the
rest of the boys. “It’s hard but it’s fair.”
They banged out the rhythm on the
tables, getting louder and rowdier until
Raúl stilled them by raising his hands.
“I’m glad to see you in high spirits,”
he said, smiling. “You may think I’m a
boring old Keeper, but someday you’ll
understand the importance of these
lessons.” He led Matt to the middle of
the room. “This boy is going to San Luis.
I want you to make him welcome, but
don’t push him if he wants to be alone.
He’s just been through a terrible loss.”
Rauúl’s exit was done smoothly, with
the door closed and locked almost
before Matt was aware of it. Why did
they have to be locked in? And what was
a Keeper? It was the second time Matt
had heard the word.
He glared at the boys, whose work
slowed now that they weren’t being
watched. El Patrón always said it was
important to establish your authority
before anyone had a chance to question
it. Matt walked toward the tables as
though he owned the place.
“Want to join us?” said a skinny little
kid who was making up pills. Matt
looked grandly around the room. He
nodded curtly. “You can help if you
want,” the kid offered.
“My advice is to sit on your butt
while you have the chance,” said Chacho
from across the room. The big boy was
twisting plastic strips into sandals. Matt
walked slowly to the sandal-making
table. El Patrón said you should never
look anxious or needy. People always
took advantage of those who were
anxious or needy.
“Why is that?” inquired Matt, looking
down at the tangle of plastic strips.
“ ’Cause the Keepers are gonna work
your butt off tomorrow,” said Chacho.
He was a large, rough-looking boy with
big hands and black hair slicked back
like the feathers on a duck.
“I thought I was going to San Luis.”
“Oh, you are. So am I and Fidelito.”
Chacho pointed at the skinny kid, who
looked only about eight years old. “But
you can bet we’re going to work before
we get on the hovercraft, while we’re on
the hovercraft, and after we get off the
crotting hovercraft. You’ll see.”
So Matt wandered around and
watched the various chores the boys
were doing. He settled by Fidelito, who
was ecstatic to gain the approval of the
newcomer. After a while Matt could see
why. Fidelito was the neediest kid in the
room, and so of course everyone pushed
him around.
“What kind of pills are those?” Matt
asked.
“Vitamin B,” said Fidelito. “They’re
supposed to be good for you, but if you
eat ten or twelve of them, you get sick.”
“What a dope!” Chacho said. “Why
would anybody eat a dozen vitamin
pills?”
“I was hungry,” Fidelito said.
Matt was startled. “You mean, they
don’t feed you here?”
“Sure they do, if you produce enough
work. I’m just not very fast.”
“You’re not very big,” Matt said,
feeling sorry for the earnest little boy.
“That doesn’t matter,” Fidelito
explained. “Everyone’s supposed to
have the same output. As long as we’re
here, we’re equal.”
“It’s hard but it’s fair,” intoned
Chacho from across the room.
The other boys picked up the chant,
banging the tables until the whole room
rocked. One of the border guards told
them to shut up through a loudspeaker.
“Did you see your parents taken?”
asked Fidelito when the hubbub died
down.
“¡Callate! Shut up! Let him get used
to it,” several voices cried, but Matt
raised his hand for silence, as he’d seen
Raúl do. To his great pleasure, the boys
obeyed. There really was something to
El Patronós methods of gaining power.
“It happened yesterday morning,” he
said, improvising. Matt remembered the
crowd of Illegals who had distracted the
Farm Patrol. “I saw a flash of light. Papá
shouted for me to go back to the border.
I saw Mamá fall down, and then a man
grabbed my backpack. I slipped out of
the straps and ran.”
“I know what that flash of light was,”
said a sad-faced boy. “It’s a kind of gun,
and it kills you dead. Mi mamá—” His
voice choked and he didn’t say any
more. Fidelito put his head down on the
table.
“Have—have other people lost their
parents?” stammered Matt. He’d been
about to create a dramatic story about
his escape. Now it seemed a heartless
thing to do.
“We all have,” said Chacho. “I guess
you haven’t figured it out. This is an
orfanatorio, an orphanage. The state is
our family now. That’s why the border
guards wait along the frontera. They
catch the kids of rockheads who make a
run for it and turn them over to the
Keepers.”
“Mi abuelita wasn’t a rockhead,”
said Fidelito from the cradle of his arms.
“Your grandma—Oh, heck, Fidelito,”
said Chacho. “She was too old to run to
the United States. You know that. But
I’m sure she loved you,” he added as the
little boy sniffled. “So you see how it
is,” Chacho told Matt. “We’re all part of
the crotting production of resources for
the crotting good of the people.”
“Don’t let Raúl hear you,” someone
said.
“I’d like to tattoo it on my butt for him
to read,” said Chacho, going back to the
tangle of plastic strips on his table.
27
A FIVE-LEGGED HORSE
The rest of the day, from Matt’s point
of view, went very well. He drifted from
group to group, listening to
conversations and storing up
information. In case someone were to
wonder why he was so ignorant, he
didn’t ask many questions. He learned
that the Keepers were in charge of
people who couldn’t take care of
themselves. They took in the orphans, the
homeless, the insane and molded them
into good citizens. The orphans were
known as Lost Boys and Lost Girls, and
they lived in different buildings. Matt
couldn’t figure out why everyone
seemed to hate the Keepers, although no
one, except Chacho, said so directly.
Raúl seemed nice enough.
Matt also learned that the country of
Opium was called Dreamland here. No
one really knew what lay beyond its
borders. There were many stories of
zombie slaves and a vampire king who
lived in a castle. The chupacabras
haunted its mountains and occasionally
crossed over into Aztlán to drink the
blood of goats.
Boys who had not seen their parents
taken believed they had made it to the
United States. Several boys assured Matt
they were only waiting for their parents
to send for them. Then they would all be
rich and happy in the golden paradise
that lay beyond Dreamland.
Matt doubted it. The Farm Patrol was
very efficient, and besides, El Patrón
had told him just as many people ran
away from the United States as toward
it. If a golden paradise had ever lain to
the north, it wasn’t there anymore.
Matt helped Fidelito make pills. It
seemed monstrously unfair that the little
boy was deprived of food simply
because he was slower than the larger
boys. Fidelito responded with such
adoration that Matt began to regret his
good deed. The kid reminded him a little
of Furball.
They had a half-hour break for lunch.
First the guards checked everyone’s
work output for the morning. Then they
brought in a steaming cauldron of beans
and handed out tortillas. Before anyone
was allowed to eat, the boys had to
recite the Five Principles of Good
Citizenship and the Four Attitudes
Leading to Right-Mindfulness. The food
was doled out according to whether a
boy had reached his quota or not.
Fidelito looked at Matt with shining eyes
as his bowl was filled to the brim.
After lunch the work started again.
Matt helped Fidelito for a while then
switched to Chacho’s table for variety.
He very quickly figured out the pattern
he was supposed to weave. “Enjoy it
while you can,” grunted Chacho.
“Enjoy what?” said Matt, holding up a
finished sandal.
“The thrill of moving from one job to
another. Once you settle in, the Keepers
will let you do only one thing. It’s
supposed to be efficient.”
Matt considered this information as he
continued to weave plastic. “Can’t you
ask for something else?”
Chacho laughed. “Sure, you can ask.
You won’t get it, though. Raúl says
worker bees do the best they can with
whatever job they’re given. That’s his
way of saying,’Tough toenails, sucker.’”
Matt thought a while longer. “What
was that piece of wood you were
working on when I arrived?”
For a moment Matt thought the boy
wasn’t going to answer. Chacho twisted
his strip of plastic so viciously it broke.
He had to start over with a new one. “It
took me weeks to find that wood,” he
said at last. “I think it was from an old
packing crate. I polished it and sanded
it. I was going to find more pieces and
glue them together.” Chacho fell silent
again.
“And make what?” Matt urged.
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“Of course.”
“A guitar.”
That was the last answer Matt
expected. Chacho had such clumsy-
looking hands, he didn’t seem capable of
playing a musical instrument. “Do you
know how to play?”
“Not as well as my father. He taught
me to make guitars, though, and I’m
pretty good at that.”
“Was he—was he taken in
Dreamland?” said Matt.
“¡Caramba! Do you think I belong
with the rest of these losers? Me
encarcelaron por feo. I was locked up
for being ugly. I’m no orphan! My dad’s
living in the United States. He’s got so
much money, he can’t even fit it into his
pockets; and he’s going to send for me as
soon as he buys a house.” Chacho
l ooked absolutely furious, but Matt
could tell from his voice that tears
weren’t far below the surface.
Matt worked on his sandal, not
looking at Chacho. He noticed the other
boys were absorbed in their work too.
They knew—they had to know—that
Chacho’s father wasn’t going to send for
anyone anytime soon. But only Matt
understood what had really happened to
him. Chacho’s father was bending and
cutting, bending and cutting poppies all
day in the hot sun. And on still,
breathless nights he was sleeping in the
fields to keep from being suffocated by
the bad air from the pits.
In the evening the lunchtime ritual was
repeated. The food was exactly the
same. Afterward the boys washed
dishes, tidied up the workroom, and
moved the tables to one side. From a
storage room they dragged out beds and
fitted them on top of one another to form
bunks three levels high. “Put Fidelito’s
bed on the bottom,” someone told Matt.
“Which one is it?” asked Matt.
“Smell the mattress,” said Chacho.
“I can’t help it,” the little boy
protested.
They were marched into a communal
shower by the border guards. Matt had
never seen anyone naked outside the art
classes on TV. He found it
embarrassing. He kept his right foot
planted on the floor so no one could see
the writing that proclaimed him a clone.
He was very glad to shrug on a coarse
nightshirt and retreat to the workroom,
now bedroom.
“Do we go to sleep now?” he asked.
“Now we get the bedtime story,” said
Chacho. The boys seemed energized by
something. They clustered around a bunk
bed under a window, and Chacho put his
ear to the wall. After a moment he
pointed at the window and nodded.
Fidelito climbed the bunk bed like a
little monkey and lifted his nightshirt.
This was his moment of glory. “Voy a
enseñarle la mapa mundi,” he
announced.
I’m going to show him the map of the
world? thought Matt. Show who? And
what did he mean by the map of the
world? Fidelito stuck his skinny
backside between the bars of the high
window and waggled it. A minute later
Matt heard Raúl’s voice say, “One of
these days I’m going to bring a
slingshot.”
Fidelito scrambled off the bed to the
cheers of the rest of the boys. “I’m the
only one small enough to fit,” he said,
swaggering around like a bantam
rooster.
When Raúl entered, he said nothing at
all about being mooned. He pulled up a
chair, and the boys settled on the bunk
beds to listen. The title of his talk was
“Why Individualism Is Like a Five-
Legged Horse.” Raúl explained that
things went smoothly only when people
worked together. They decided on a goal
and then helped one another achieve it.
“What would happen,” the Keeper asked
all the boys, “if you were rowing a boat
and half of you wanted to go one way
and the other half another?”
He waited expectantly, and after a
while someone put up his hand and said,
“We’d go in circles.”
“Very good!” said Raúl, beaming at
his audience. “We all have to paddle
together to reach the shore.”
“What if we don’t want to reach the
shore?” Chacho said.
“A very good question,” said the
Keeper. “Can anyone tell us what would
happen if we stayed out in the boat for
days and days?” He waited.
“We’d starve to death,” a boy said.
“There’s your answer, Chacho,” said
Raúl. “We’d all starve to death. That
brings me to the problem of the five-
legged horse. A horse runs very well on
four legs. It’s what he’s made for. But
suppose he grew a fifth leg that only
wanted to please itself. The other four
legs would be running and running, but
the fifth leg—which we’ll call
individualism—would want to walk
slowly to enjoy a beautiful meadow, or
it might want to take a nap. Then the
poor animal would fall over! That’s why
we take that unhappy horse to a vet and
have the fifth leg cut off. It may seem
harsh, but we’ve all got to pull together
in the new Aztlán, or we’ll all wind up
lying in the dirt. Does anyone have a
question?”
Raúl waited a long time. Finally, Matt
put up his hand and said, “Why don’t you
put a computer chip in the horse’s brain?
Then it wouldn’t matter how many legs it
had.” A gasp went around the room.
“Are you saying—?” the Keeper
stopped, as though he couldn’t believe
what he was hearing. “Are you
suggesting we turn the horse into a
zombie?”
“I don’t see much difference between
that and sawing off the extra leg,” said
Matt. “What you’re after is a horse that
works hard and doesn’t waste time
looking at flowers.”
“This is great!” Chacho said.
“But you—don’t you see the
difference?” Raúl was so outraged, he
could hardly speak.
“We recite the Five Principles of
Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes
Leading to Right-Mindfulness every time
we want to eat,” explained Matt. “You
keep telling us the orderly production of
resources is vital to the general good of
the people. It’s obvious we’re supposed
to follow the rules and not walk slowly
through meadows. But horses aren’t as
smart as people. It makes sense to
program them with computer chips.”
Matt thought this was a brilliant
argument, and he couldn’t see why the
Keeper was so upset. El Patrón would
have seen the logic of it in an instant.
“I can see we have our work cut out
with you,” Raúl said in a tight voice. “I
can see we have a nasty little aristocrat
who needs to be educated about the will
of the people!” Matt was amazed at the
man’s reaction. The Keeper had asked
for questions. In fact, he’d almost
demanded them.
“Well!” said Raúl, brushing off his
uniform as though he’d touched
something dirty. “The sooner this nasty
little aristocrat goes to the plankton
factory the better. That’s all I can say.”
And he flounced out of the room.
Instantly, all the boys crowded around
Matt. “Wow! You showed him!” they
cried.
“You mooned him even better than I
did,” said Fidelito, bouncing up and
down on a bed.
“He didn’t even make us recite the
Five Principles of Good Citizenship and
the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness,” exulted a boy.
“Heck, I had you down as a wuss,”
said Chacho “You’ve got more nerve
than a herd of bulls.”
“What? What did I do?” said Matt,
completely bewildered.
“You only told him the Keepers were
trying to turn us into a bunch of crots!”
Late that night Matt lay on a top bunk
and went over the events of the day. He
didn’t know how much trouble he was in
or what kind of revenge to expect. He
didn’t dislike Raúl. He only thought the
man was an idiot. Matt realized he’d
better walk carefully around people who
took offense at mere words. What harm
could words do? Tam Lin loved a good
argument, the more spirited the better.
He said it was like doing push-ups in
your brain.
Matt felt his right foot under the
scratchy wool blanket. This was his one
weakness, and he despaired of keeping it
hidden. Tam Lin might have said there
was no difference between humans and
clones, but everything in Matt’s
experience argued against it. Humans
hated clones. It was the natural order of
things, and Raúl could use it to destroy
him. No one must ever see the tattoo that
tied Matt to Dreamland and to the
vampire who lived in its castle.
Vampire! thought Matt. El Patrón would
have enjoyed that description. He loved
to inspire fear.
Matt had added a few more crumbs to
the stash of information he was
accumulating about this new world in
which he found himself. An aristocrat
was the lowest form of life, a parasite
who expected honest peasants to be his
slaves. A crot—the deadliest insult
anyone could utter—was a simple,
harmless eejit, like the thousands who
had cut grass, washed floors, and tended
poppies as far back as Matt could
remember. The clean word for them was
zombies. Whatever they were called,
Matt thought they deserved pity, not
hatred.
He couldn’t bring himself to think
about Celia and Tam Lin. Sorrow
threatened to overwhelm him, and he
didn’t want to be caught sobbing like a
baby. Instead, he thought about going to
San Luis. He’d look for the Convent of
Santa Clara right away and find María.
The thought of María cheered him up
immensely.
Matt basked in the approval of his
newfound friends. It was the most
wonderful thing that had ever happened
to him. The boys accepted him as though
he were a real human. He felt like he’d
been walking across a desert all his life
and now he’d arrived at the biggest and
best oasis in the world.
28
THE PLANKTON
FACTORY
Raúl gave the boys an inspirational talk
in the morning. It was all about
aristocrats and how attractive they might
seem on the surface but how vile they
really were inside. No mention was
made of Matt. A few of the younger boys
seemed uneasy, but Chacho and Fidelito
proclaimed Matt a national hero after the
Keeper left.
Matt was put to work the instant the
talk was over. He was told to measure
pills with the younger children, and his
quota was twice theirs, “to teach him the
value of labor.” Matt wasn’t worried.
When they reached San Luis, he’d be off
to the convent faster than Fidelito could
say, It’s hard but it’s fair.
For breakfast he was given only half a
bowl of beans and three tortillas instead
of six. Chacho told each of the bigger
boys to give him a spoonful of theirs, so
he wound up with a full bowl anyway.
At mid-morning Raúl called out the
names of the three who were to go to
San Luis and marched them to the
hovercraft. “You’ve had it easy here,”
he told them. “This is a holiday camp
compared to where you’re going; but if
you work hard and keep your record
clean, you can move up to full
citizenship when you reach eighteen.”
“Crot that,” muttered Chacho.
“That’s not a good beginning. That’s
not a good beginning at all,” said Raúl.
Matt had been inside a hovercraft only
once—the disastrous night when he’d
been betrayed by Steven and Emilia.
This ship wasn’t nearly as nice. It was
full of hard plastic seats, and it smelled
of sweat and mold. Raúl sat them in the
middle, as far from the windows as
possible. He gave them a bag of plastic
strips to weave into sandals.
“Told you we’d have to work,” said
Chacho under his breath.
The Keeper strapped them in and left
without a word. The rest of the
hovercraft was filled with bales of
plastic sandals piled so high, the boys
couldn’t see out the windows. They
couldn’t move around, either, because
the straps were locked into place. What
i s it with these people? thought Matt.
They couldn’t seem to relax unless they
had total control.
The hovercraft lifted, and Fidelito
announced that he always got sick on
airships. “You barf on me, you’ve had
it,” snarled Chacho.
Matt solved the problem by
transferring the bag of plastic strips to
the little boy’s lap.
“You’re a genius,” said Chacho. “Go
ahead, Fidelito. Knock yourself out.”
What were Steven and Emilia doing
now? Matt wondered as they flew on.
Steven was the crown prince of Opium
now. He’d be celebrating. His friends
from school would come over, and
tables would be set in the garden where
El Patrón used to have his birthday
parties. Emilia would have her eejit
flower girls to wait on her, or perhaps
she’d sent them away to the fields. They
weren’t capable of much else.
Those girls must have tried to run
with their parents, Matt thought with a
thrill of horror. They weren’t any older
than Fidelito, who had lost his battle
with airsickness and was coating the
plastic strips in secondhand beans and
tortillas.
“They should have starved you at
breakfast time,” said Chacho.
“I can’t help it,” said Fidelito in a
muffled voice.
The rest of the trip—mercifully short
—was spent in a cloud of sour vomit.
Matt leaned one way and Chacho leaned
the other in a vain attempt to escape the
smell. Fortunately, the hovercraft landed
soon. When the pilot saw what had
happened, he unlocked the seat belts and
shoved the boys out the door.
Matt tumbled to his knees on hot sand.
He sucked in air and immediately
regretted it. The smell outside was even
worse. It was like thousands of fish
rotting and oozing in the hot sun. Matt
gave in to the inevitable and emptied his
stomach. Not far away Chacho was
doing the same. “I was in purgatory.
Now I’m in hell,” he groaned.
“Make it stop,” sobbed Fidelito.
Matt pulled himself to his feet and
dragged the little boy toward a building
shimmering in the heat. All around, Matt
saw blinding white hills and crusted
pools stained with crimson. Chacho
stumbled after them.
Matt pulled Fidelito through a
doorway and slumped against a wall to
recover. The air inside was cooler and
slightly fresher. The room was full of
bubbling tanks tended by boys who
morosely fished the water with nets and
who paid no attention to the newcomers.
After a few moments Matt felt strong
enough to get up. His legs were rubbery
and his stomach was in knots. “Who’s in
charge?” he asked. A boy pointed at a
door.
Matt knocked and went in. He saw a
group of men dressed in the same black
uniform as Raúl, with the emblem of a
bee-hive on their sleeves. “There’s one
o f los bichos— the vermin—who stank
up my hovercraft,” said the pilot.
“What’s your name?” said a Keeper.
“Matt Ortega,” Matt replied.
“Ah. The aristocrat.”
Uh oh, thought Matt. Raúl must have
spread the word.
“Well, you won’t get away with your
swanky ways here,” the man said.
“We’ve got something called the
boneyard, and any troublemaker who
goes through it comes out as harmless as
a little lamb.”
“The first thing he’s going to do is
clean my ship,” said the pilot. And so
Matt, along with Chacho, soon found
himself scrubbing the floors and walls of
the aircraft. Lastly—and most horribly—
they had to wash each slimy strip of
plastic in a bucket of hot, soapy water.
The air didn’t smell as evil as before.
“It’s just as bad,” the pilot assured them
from his seat under a plastic shade. “The
longer you’re here, the less you notice it.
There’s something in it that paralyzes
your sense of smell.”
“We should make Fidelito drink this,”
said Chacho, idly sloshing the contents
of the bucket.
“He can’t help it,” Matt said. Poor
Fidelito had curled up on the ground in a
fit of misery. Neither boy had the heart
to make him work.
After they finished, the head Keeper,
who was called Carlos, gave them a tour
of the factory. “These are the brine
tanks,” he said. “You take the stink bugs
out of the tanks with this”—he held up a
net—“and when the plankton’s ripe, you
harvest it.”
“What’s plankton?” Matt ventured to
ask.
“Plankton!” exclaimed Carlos, as
though he’d been waiting eagerly for that
question. “It’s what a whale filters out of
the sea to make a meal. It’s the
microscopic plants and animals that drift
in the top layer of the water. You
wouldn’t think an enormous creature
could live on something so tiny, but
that’s the astonishing truth. Plankton is
the eighth wonder of the world. It’s full
of protein, vitamins, and roughage. It’s
got everything a whale needs to be
happy and everything people need too.
The plankton we manufacture here is
made into hamburgers, hotdogs, and
burritos. Ground up fine, it takes the
place of mother’s milk.”
Carlos went on and on. It appeared
his life’s work was to make people love
and appreciate plankton. He seemed
blind to the bleak desert that surrounded
them, now that they had gone outside.
Matt saw high security fences in the
distance, and his heart sank. The air was
foul, the temperature broiling, and the
humidity so high that his jumpsuit clung
to his body like a second skin. This was
the place he was supposed to inhabit
until he turned eighteen.
“Where’s San Luis?” he asked.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,”
said Carlos. “When we feel you need the
information, that’s when you get to know
it. Don’t get any ideas about going over
the fence, either. The top wire has
enough power to spit you back like a
melon seed. Here are the salt
mountains.” He indicated the white
dunes Matt had noticed before. “After
we harvest the plankton, the brine is
evaporated and the salt is processed for
sale. These are the highest salt
mountains in the world. People come
from all over to admire them.”
What people? thought Matt, looking at
the depressing landscape.
A siren wailed. “Time for the first
lunch setting!” Carlos said. He led them
up a dune. It was more solid than it
looked. At the top was a picnic area
with tables. Plastic flowers were
planted around the edge, and a weather
vane topped by a spouting whale stood
in the center. A slight breeze blew a fine
dusting of salt over Matt’s skin. “The
lunch area was my idea,” Carlos said,
plopping himself onto a bench. “I think
it’s raised everyone’s morale.”
The boys, trudging up the slope with
pots and dishes, didn’t look especially
happy. They set down their burdens and
lined up between the tables like rows of
soldiers. Carlos told Matt, Chacho, and
Fidelito to stand at the end of a line.
Everyone recited the Five Principles of
Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes
Leading to Right-Mindfulness, and then a
sullen, acne-scarred boy began dishing
up.
“What is this stuff?” said Chacho,
sniffing his bowl.
“Delicious, nutritious plankton,” the
boy growled.
“Everything a whale needs to be
happy,” said another, pretending to gag.
They straightened up when Carlos gave
them a sour look.
“I will not have you insulting food,”
the Keeper said. “Food is a wonderful
thing. Millions of people have died
because they didn’t have enough, and
you lucky boys get to eat your fill three
times a day. In the old days aristocrats
feasted on roast pheasant and suckling
pig, while the peasants had to eat grass
and tree bark. In the new Aztlán
everything is shared equally. If only one
person is deprived of roast pheasant and
suckling pig, the rest of us should refuse
to eat them. Plankton is the most
delicious dish in the world when it is
shared by all.”
No one said anything after that. Matt
guessed he was the only one there who’d
actually feasted on roast pheasant and
suckling pig. For the life of him, he
couldn’t see why plankton was supposed
to taste better if everyone was stuck with
it. It was sticky and crunchy at the same
time, and it coated his mouth like rancid
glue.
From the high plateau the guard fence
was visible. Matt squinted his eyes into
the blinding light, but he couldn’t see
much beyond it. He thought he saw a
glint of water far to the west.
“That’s the Gulf of California,” said
Carlos, shading his eyes as he followed
Matt’s gaze.
“Are there whales in it?” Matt asked.
“They’d have to bring their own
bathtubs,” a boy said.
Carlos looked sorrowful. “There used
to be whales. Once this whole area was
covered by water.” He pointed at a ridge
of hills to the east. “That was the
coastline. Through the years the water
flowing from the Colorado River got so
polluted, the whales died.”
“What happened to the gulf?” asked
Chacho.
“That’s one of the great engineering
triumphs of Aztlán,” Carlos said
proudly. “We diverted the Colorado
River to an underground canal that runs
into Dreamland. Once the pollutants
were removed, we started harvesting the
gulf for plankton. Fresh seawater comes
in from the south, but what with
harvesting and the loss of river water,
the gulf has shrunk to a narrow channel.”
So that was where Opium’s water
came from, Matt realized—a river so
polluted that it could kill a whale. He
wondered whether El Patrón had known
about it. Yes, probably, Matt decided.
The water was free, and El Patrón loved
a bargain.
After lunch Matt, Chacho, and
Fidelito were put to work tending the
brine shrimp tanks. These stretched in a
long line to the west of the central
factory, with a pipeline for water
running to one side. The shrimp filled up
the tanks in a pulsing, squirming mass.
They gobbled red algae until their
bodies turned the color of blood. It was
this that had stained the pools Matt had
noticed when he first arrived.
He found the job interesting. He liked
the busy little creatures and thought their
tiny bodies, rippling with feathery gills,
were every bit as nice as flowers. He
and the others sieved out insects and
added water as needed. There were,
unfortunately, miles of tanks and
thousands of suicidal bugs. After a few
hours Matt’s arms ached, his back was
stiff, and his eyes burned from salt.
Fidelito whimpered to himself as they
trudged along.
The desert stretched ahead of them
without so much as a dead tree for
shade. The tanks seemed to be heading
for the distant channel Matt had seen
during lunch. It was definitely blue now,
not merely a flash of light on the horizon.
The water looked cool and deep.
“Can you swim?” he asked Chacho.
“Where would I learn a swanky thing
like that?” Chacho got mean when he
was tired. Matt knew that swanky meant
something only an evil, rotten, spoiled
aristocrat would do.
“I know how to swim,” announced
Fidelito.
“Where’d a puny loser like you pick it
up? In a shrimp tank?” snarled Chacho.
Instead of getting angry, Fidelito
treated the suggestion seriously. Matt
had noticed that the little boy was
amazingly good-natured. He might wet
the bed and barf at the drop of a hat, but
his goodwill more than made up for it. “I
am puny, aren’t I? I could probably
swim in these tanks.”
“Yeah, and the shrimp’d eat your
weenie off.”
Fidelito cast a startled look at
Chacho. “Ooh,” he said. “I didn’t think
of that.”
“Where did you learn to swim?” Matt
asked, to change the subject.
“Mi abuelita taught me in Yucatán.
We lived on the seashore.”
“Was it nice?”
“ Was it?” cried Fidelito. “It was
heaven! We had a little white house with
a grass roof. My grandma sold fish at the
market, and she took me out in a canoe
on holidays. That’s why she taught me to
swim, so I wouldn’t drown if I fell
overboard.”
“If it was so great, why did she run
for the border?” Chacho said.
“There was a storm,” the little boy
said. “It was a hurry—a hurry—”
“A hurricane?” Matt guessed.
“Yes! And the sea came in and took
everything away. We had to live in a
refugee camp.”
“Oh,” said Chacho as though he
instantly understood.
“We had to live in a big room with a
lot of other people, and we had to do
everything at the same time in the same
way. There weren’t any trees, and it was
so ugly that mi abuelita got sick. She
wouldn’t eat, so they force-fed her.”
“It is the duty of every citizen to
survive and contribute to the general
good,” said Chacho. “I’ve had that
yelled at me a couple million times.”
“Why wouldn’t they let your grandma
go back to the seashore?” asked Matt.
“You don’t understand,” Chacho said.
“They kept her locked up so they could
help her. If they turned all the poor
suckers loose, there’d be no one left to
help, and then there wouldn’t be any
point to a crotting Keeper’s life.”
Matt was astounded. It was the
craziest thing he’d ever heard, and yet it
made sense. Why else were the boys
locked up? They’d run away if someone
left the door open. “Is all of Aztlán like
this?”
“Of course not,” said Chacho. “Most
of it’s fine; but once you fall into the
hands of the Keepers, you’re lost. See,
we’re certified losers. We don’t have
houses or jobs or money, so we have to
be taken care of.”
“Did you grow up in a camp?”
Fidelito asked Matt. It was an innocent
question, but it opened the door to things
Matt didn’t want to talk about.
Fortunately, he was saved by the arrival
of Carlos in a little electric cart. It
purred up so silently, the boys didn’t
notice it until it was almost upon them.
“I’ve been watching you for fifteen
minutes,” said Carlos. “You’ve been
loafing.”
“The heat was getting to Fidelito,”
Chacho said quickly. “We thought he
was going to faint.”
“Eat salt,” Carlos told the little boy.
“Salt is good for everything. You should
turn back now, or you won’t make it
home before dark.” He started to go off.
“Wait! Can you take Fidelito?”
Chacho said. “He’s really tired.”
Carlos stopped and backed up. “Boys,
boys, boys! Hasn’t anyone told you labor
is shared equally among equals? If one
person has to walk, everyone has to.”
“You’re not walking,” Matt pointed
out.
Carlos’s grin vanished instantly. “So
the aristocrat presumes to lecture us
about equality,” he said. “The aristocrat
is only a snot-faced boy who thinks he’s
too good for the rest of us. I am a true
citizen. I’ve earned my privileges
through hard work and obedience. No
food for you tonight.”
“Crot that” said Chacho.
“No food for any of you! You’ll learn
to obey the will of the people if it takes
the next fifty years.” Carlos rode off in a
plume of dust and salt.
“I’m sorry, Fidelito,” said Chacho.
“You didn’t deserve to be lumped in
with the two of us.”
“I’m proud to be with you,” the little
boy cried. “You’re my compadres! Crot
Carlos! Crot the Keepers!” Fidelito
looked so fierce with his scrawny chest
thrust out and revolution blazing from
every pore that both Matt and Chacho
broke down with hysterical laughter.
29
WASHING A DUSTY
MIND
Why does everyone keep calling me
‘the aristocrat’?” asked Matt as they
trudged back along the line of shrimp
tanks.
Chacho wiped the sweat from his face
with the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “I don’t
know. It’s how you talk, partly. And
you’re always thinking.”
Matt thought about the education he’d
received. He’d read a mountain of
books. He’d listened to conversations
between El Patrón and the most
powerful people in the world.
“You’re like—I don’t know how to
put it … my grandfather. Your manners, I
mean. You don’t gobble your food or
spit on the floor. I’ve never heard you
swear. It’s okay, but it’s different.”
Matt felt cold. He’d always copied El
Patrón, who was, of course, one hundred
years behind the times.
“Él me cae bien. I think he’s cool,”
said Fidelito.
“Of course he’s cool. It’s only …”
Chacho turned to Matt. “Well, you seem
used to better things. The rest of us were
born in the dirt, and we know we’ll
never get out of it.”
“We’re in this place together.” Matt
pointed at the hot desert.
“Yeah. Welcome to hell’s baby
brother,” Chacho said, scuffing puffs of
salt with his feet.
Dinner that night was plankton patties
and boiled seaweed. Matt didn’t mind
fasting, but he felt sorry for Fidelito. The
little boy was so skinny, it didn’t seem
like he could survive a missed meal.
Chacho solved the problem by staring at
a nervous-looking kid until he managed
to get half his food. Chacho could come
on like a werewolf when he wanted to.
“Eat,” he told Fidelito.
“I don’t want food if you can’t have
any,” the little boy protested.
“Test it for me. I want to know if it’s
poison.”
So Fidelito choked the patty down.
As in the first camp, a Keeper arrived
to give them an inspirational bedtime
story. This one’s name was Jorge. They
all melted together in Matt’s mind: Raúl,
Carlos, and Jorge. They all wore black
uniforms with beehives on the sleeves,
and they were all idiots.
Jorge’s story was called “Why Minds
Gather Dust Like Old Rooms.” “If we
work all day in the hot sun,” said Jorge,
“what happens to our bodies?” He
waited expectantly, just like Raúl had.
“We get dirty,” a boy said.
“That’s right!” the Keeper said,
beaming. “Our faces get dirty, our hands
get dirty, our whole bodies get dirty.
Then what do we do?”
“Take a bath,” the boy said. He
seemed used to the drill.
“Yes! We clean off that old muck, and
then we feel good again. It’s good to be
clean.”
“It’s good to be clean,” said all the
boys except for Matt, Chacho, and
Fidelito. They’d been taken by surprise.
“Let’s back up so our new brothers
can learn with the rest of us,” said Jorge.
“It’s good to be clean.”
“ I t ’ s good to be clean,” said
everyone, including Matt, Chacho, and
Fidelito.
“Our minds and our work may also
collect dust and need washing,” the
Keeper went on. “For example, a door
that’s always being opened and closed
doesn’t stick because the hinges never
get rusty. Work is the same way. If you
don’t loaf”—and Jorge looked straight at
Matt, Chacho, and Fidelito—“you form
good habits. Your work never gets
rusty.”
Wait a minute, thought Matt. Celia’s
kitchen door was in constant use, but it
swelled up on damp days and then you
had to force it open with your shoulder.
Tam Lin got so irritated by it, he put his
fist right through the wood. Then it had
to be replaced, and the door worked a
lot better afterward. Matt thought these
things, but he didn’t say them. He didn’t
want to miss another meal.
“So if we work steadily and don’t
loaf,” said Jorge, “our work doesn’t
have time to get dirty. But our minds can
fill up with dust and germs too. Can
anyone tell me how to keep our minds
clean?”
Chacho snickered, and Matt poked
him with his elbow. The last thing they
needed now was a wisecrack.
Several boys raised their hands, but
the Keeper ignored them. “I think one of
our new brothers can answer that
question. What about you, Matt?”
Instantly, everyone’s eyes turned to
Matt. He felt like he’d been caught in the
cross beams of El Patrón’s security
lights. “M-Me?” he stammered. “I just
got here.”
“But you have so many ideas,” Jorge
purred. “Surely you wouldn’t mind
sharing them with us.”
Matts thoughts raced through the
arguments the Keeper had already
presented. “Isn’t keeping your mind …
clean … like keeping the rust off door
hinges? If you use your brain all the
time, it won’t have time to collect
germs.” Matt thought it was a brilliant
answer, considering the question had
been thrown at him out of the blue.
But it was the wrong answer. He saw
the other boys tense and Jorge’s mouth
quiver on the edge of a smile. He’d been
set up.
“Diseased opinions not suited to the
good of the people have to be cleaned
out with self-criticism,” Jorge said
triumphantly. “Would anyone like to
show Matt how this is done?”
“Me! Me!” shouted several boys,
waving their arms in the air. The Keeper
picked one with really spectacular acne
covering his neck and ears. All of the
boys had bad skin, but this one took the
prize. He even had zits nestling in his
hair.
“Okay, Ton-Ton. You go first,” said
Jorge.
Ton-Ton had a face that looked like it
had been slammed into a wall. You
could see right up his nostrils and
maybe, Matt thought, get a peek at his
brain.
“I, uh, I thought about stealing food
this morning,” said Ton-Ton eagerly.
“The cook left it unguarded for a minute,
and I—I, uh, wanted to take a pancake,
but I, uh, didn’t.”
“So you harbored thoughts
contradictory to the general good of the
people?” said Jorge.
“I, uh, yes.”
“What punishment should a person
have who harbors contradictory
thoughts?”
What language were they talking?
wondered Matt. Each word seemed
clear enough, but the meaning of the
whole slipped away.
“I—I ought to, uh, have to recite the
Five Principles of Good Citizenship and
the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness twice before, uh, getting
food next time,” said Ton-Ton.
“Very good!” cried Jorge. The Keeper
selected several more hands after that,
and each boy confessed to weird things,
like not folding his blanket correctly or
using too much soap. The punishments
all had to do with chanting the Five
Principles of Good Citizenship and the
Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness, except for the case of one
boy who admitted to taking a three-hour
siesta.
Jorge frowned. “That’s serious. No
breakfast for you,” he said. The boy
looked crestfallen.
No more hands shot up. The Keeper
turned to Matt. “Now that our new
brother has been educated as to the
meaning of self-criticism, perhaps he’d
like to share his personal shortcomings.”
He waited. Ton-Ton and the other boys
leaned forward. “Well?” said Jorge
after a moment.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” said
Matt. A gasp of horror went around the
room.
“Nothing wrong?” said the Keeper,
his voice rising. “Nothing wrong? What
about wanting to put computer chips into
the heads of innocent horses? What
about fouling the bag of plastic strips
used for making sandals? What about
inciting your brothers to loaf when you
were supposed to be cleaning the shrimp
tanks?”
“I fouled the plastic strips,” squeaked
Fidelito.
He looked scared out of his wits, and
Matt quickly said, “It’s not his fault. I
gave him the bag.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,”
Jorge said.
“But I puked!” insisted the little boy.
“It’s not your fault, brother,” the
Keeper said. “You were led astray by
this aristocrat. Be quiet!” he said with a
hint of anger when Fidelito looked ready
to take the blame again. “The rest of you
must help this aristocrat see the error of
his ways. We do this because we love
him and want to welcome him into the
hive.”
Then they all attacked him. Every
single boy in the room—except Chacho
and Fidelito—hurled an accusation at
Matt. He talked like an aristocrat. He
folded his blanket in a swanky way. He
cleaned under his fingernails. He used
words people couldn’t understand.
Everything Chacho had mentioned—and
more—was thrown at Matt like balls of
sticky mud. It wasn’t the unfairness of
the accusations that so hurt him as much
as the venom that lay behind them. Matt
thought he’d been accepted. He thought
he’d at last come to an oasis—ugly and
uncomfortable, but still an oasis—where
he could feel welcome.
But it was all a sham. They knew
what he was. They might not understand
how appallingly different he was, but
they knew he didn’t belong. They would
keep hurling mud at him until he
suffocated under its weight.
He heard the boys go away. He heard
Chacho swear as he was forced to climb
into a bunk bed. Matt was left alone,
curled up in the middle of the floor, like
the unnatural creature he was. And yet—
Inside, from a place Matt didn’t know
existed, a host of voices rose:
Here’s the dirty little secret, Tam Lin
whispered in his ear. No one can tell
the difference between a clone and a
human. That’s because there isn’t any
difference. The idea of clones being
inferior is a filthy lie.
Then Celia’s arms were around him,
and Matt could smell the cilantro leaves
she chopped up when she was cooking. I
love you, mi hijo, she said, hugging him.
Never forget that.
Next El Patrón put his gnarled old
hand on Matt’s head and said, How I
scrambled for the coins the mayor
threw me! How I rolled in the dirt like
a pig! But I needed the money. I was so
poor, I didn’t have two pesos to rub
together. You’re just like I was at that
age.
Matt shivered. El Patrón hadn’t loved
him, but the emotion the old man had
given him was just as strong: the will to
live, to put out branches until he
overshadowed the whole forest. Matt
turned away from El Patrón and saw—in
his mind—María.
Gosh, I’ve missed you! said María,
giving him a kiss.
I love you, Matt said.
I love you, too, María replied. I know
that’s a sin, and I’ll probably go to hell
for it.
If I have a soul, I’ll go with you,
promised Matt.
Matt rose from the floor and saw that
the room had been darkened. Chacho and
Fidelito were watching him from the top
bunks near the ceiling. Someone was
going to be sincerely sorry he put
Fidelito on a top bunk. Chacho pointed
at the door and made an extremely rude
hand gesture. Fidelito lifted his
nightshirt and mooned the missing Jorge.
Matt had to swallow hard to keep the
tears from rolling down his face. He
wasn’t alone after all. With friends like
these, he would triumph, as El Patrón
had triumphed over poverty and death so
long ago.
30
WHEN THE WHALES
LOST THEIR LEGS
One thing was certainly true:
Something did paralyze your sense of
smell in this place, because Matt no
longer noticed the foul air. The food
tasted better, too. Not good, but not
totally disgusting, either. Day after day
he, Chacho, and Fidelito walked the long
row of shrimp tanks and cleaned out
bugs. Every evening they trudged back to
a meal of plankton burgers or plankton
pasta or plankton burritos. Carlos never
seemed to run out of ideas for things to
do with plankton.
When the growing cycle was over,
Ton-Ton came out with a huge, slow-
moving harvester. It groaned along like
an arthritic dinosaur and dumped the
contents of the tanks into its cavernous
belly. Matt filled them again from a pipe
running out of the Gulf of California.
At the far western end of the shrimp
farm, the boys could look through the
fence at the channel that had once been
as wide as the sea. It was a deep blue,
with hordes of seagulls. Chacho
balanced on the rim of a tank to get a
better view.
The lower part of the fence was safe
to touch, although the top wire buzzed
and popped with electricity. Fidelito
stretched his arms through the mesh, as
though he could touch the enticing blue if
only he tried a little harder. Matt
searched for weak places in the mesh.
Escape was never far from his mind.
“What’s that?” asked Chacho,
pointing north.
Matt shaded his eyes. He saw
something white peeping over a fold in
the ground.
“Doesn’t look like trees,” said
Chacho. “Want to take a look?” The sun
was beginning to lower in the west, but
the lure of something new was too great
to resist.
“This is going to take a while. You
wait here,” Matt told Fidelito. He knew
the little boy didn’t have the strength for
an extra walk.
“You can’t leave me. We’re
compadres,” said Fidelito.
“We need you to guard our stuff,” said
Chacho. “If anyone tries to steal it, kick
them where I showed you.”
Fidelito grinned and saluted like a
midget commando.
Matt and Chacho walked over a
landscape even more desolate than the
area near the saltworks. There, if it
rained, a few stunted weeds struggled to
the surface. Here there was nothing
except white patches of salt. Seashells
dotted the surface, evidence of the living
sea that had once stretched from horizon
to horizon.
“Maybe it’s only a salt bed,” said
Chacho.
As they got closer, Matt saw odd
shapes thrusting up. Some were
paddlelike, others were thin and curved.
It was the strangest thing he’d ever seen.
They came up a slight rise and looked
out over a deep chasm. It was filled
from side to side with bones.
For a few moments Chacho and Matt
stood on the edge of the chasm and said
nothing. Finally, Chacho murmured,
“Somebody lost a heck of a lot of cattle
down there.”
“Those aren’t cattle,” Matt said. The
skulls were huge, the jaws shaped like
monster bird beaks. One rib alone was
longer than a cow. Mixed in with them
were the paddlelike bones, massive
enough to make tables or even beds. So
many skeletons were jumbled together,
Matt couldn’t begin to count them. He
guessed there were hundreds.
Thousands.
“Isn’t that a human skull?” said
Chacho.
Matt squinted at the shadows partway
down and saw what Chacho was
pointing at.
“Think about it,” the big boy said. “If
someone fell in there, he’d never get
out.”
Matt thought about it. He’d been about
to explore the pit, stepping from bone to
bone like climbing down a large tree.
Now he saw that the whole pit was
delicately balanced. Put one foot in the
wrong place, and the whole structure
would collapse. He clenched his teeth,
sickened by what he’d almost done.
“We’d better go back,” said Chacho.
“We don’t want Fidelito poking around
here.”
Fidelito had been entertaining himself
by splashing his feet in a shrimp tank.
He’d draped a net over his head for a
sun-shade. “What was it?” he called to
Matt and Chacho.
Matt described the bones, and to his
surprise, the little boy recognized them.
“They’re whales,” said Fidelito. “Eight
of them beached themselves where I
lived in Yucatán. They swam right up on
shore and then couldn’t get back. Mi
abuelita said that was because they used
to walk on land and had forgotten they
didn’t have legs anymore. ¡Fuchi! Yuck!
They smelled like Jorge’s sneakers! The
villagers had to bury them in sand.”
Fidelito chirped and warbled about
rotting whales all the way back to the
factory. Anything to do with his
grandmother got him going.
What could have lured all those
whales to their death? thought Matt as
they trudged along the line of shrimp
tanks. Maybe the chasm was still full of
water when the Gulf of California dried
up. Maybe the whales decided to wait
there until the rains came and the gulf
filled up again. Only it didn’t fill up and
the whales had lost their legs, so they
couldn’t walk home anymore.
Every night Jorge told a bedtime story
and afterward invited the boys to
confess sins. And every night the boys,
led by Ton-Ton, hurled accusations at
Matt. It was meant to humiliate him, but
the odd thing was that the attacks hurt
less the longer they went on. Matt
thought it was like listening to a
barnyard full of turkeys. El Patrón
sometimes ordered dozens of the
ridiculous birds when he was planning a
party, and Matt liked to lean over the
fence to watch them. Tam Lin said
turkeys were the stupidest birds in the
world. If they were looking up when it
was raining, they’d drown.
At any rate, turkeys went into a wild-
eyed, head-banging panic when a red-
tailed hawk went over. Gobble-obble-
obble-obble, they shrieked, even though
they weighed five times as much as a
hawk and could have stomped it into the
ground. That was what Matt heard when
the boys trotted out his crimes: Gobble-
obble-obble-obble.
Jorge’s eyes narrowed and his mouth
tightened into a thin line when Matt
refused to confess, but he said nothing.
Chacho and Fidelito quickly learned that
the easiest way to avoid trouble was to
give the Keeper what he wanted. They
confessed to all sorts of creative sins,
and Jorge was so pleased that he hardly
ever punished them.
Matt was especially tired this night
after the walk to the whale pit. He
mumbled his way through the Five
Principles of Good Citizenship and the
Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness. He barely heard Jorge’s
story. It was something about how you
needed all ten fingers to play a piano.
The fingers had to support one another
and not try to show off by being
individualists.
Fidelito admitted to gagging over
plankton milk shakes, and Chacho said
he used bad words when the wake-up
bell went off. The Keeper smiled and
turned to Matt. But Matt remained silent.
He knew he was being stupid. All he had
to do was confess to something small,
but he couldn’t force himself to grovel in
front of Jorge.
“I see our aristocrat needs further
education,” said the Keeper. His gaze
passed over the assembled boys, and all
at once the atmosphere changed in the
room. Everyone stared down at the
floor, and no one put up his hand. Matt
roused himself out of his stupor long
enough to notice. “You!” barked Jorge
so suddenly that several boys flinched.
He pointed at Ton-Ton.
“M-Me?” squeaked Ton-Ton as
though he couldn’t believe it.
“You stole a holo-game from the
Keepers’ rooms! We found it under a
pile of rags in the kitchen.”
“I, uh, I, uh—”
“Cleaning the Keepers’ rooms is a
privilege!” yelled Jorge. “It is earned
through obedience and good behavior,
but you’ve failed in your duties. What
should be done with a boy who sneaks
around and takes things the others don’t
have?”
The Keepers have things the others
don’t have, thought Matt. He didn’t say
it aloud.
“He should work extra hard,” a boy
guessed.
“No!” shouted Jorge.
“Maybe he can—he can apologize,”
someone else faltered.
“Haven’t you learned anything?” the
Keeper bellowed. “Worker bees must
think of the whole hive. If they gather
nectar for themselves and don’t bring
anything home, the hive will starve when
the cold weather comes. That’s not what
workers do. It’s how drones behave.
They steal from others. But when winter
comes, what happens to the drones?”
“The good bees kill them,” said a boy
almost as small as Fidelito.
Wait a minute, thought Matt.
“That’s right! The good bees sting the
evil drones to death. But we don’t want
to go quite that far,” said Jorge.
Matt let out the breath he’d been
holding. In Opium murder was a casual
thing. He didn’t know what the rules
were here.
By now Ton-Ton was reduced to
absolute terror. Tears and snot ran down
the boy’s unlovely face. Matt was
surprised to feel sorry for him. Ton-Ton
was a slimy suck-up who deserved
whatever was coming.
“Assume the position,” said Jorge.
Ton-Ton stumbled to a wall. He
leaned against it with his arms stretched
out before him and his hands flat against
the wall. He spread his legs.
“Remember, if you move it will be
worse for you.”
Ton-Ton nodded.
The Keeper unlocked a small storage
closet and selected a cane. Matt could
see they were of all sizes. Jorge took his
time making the decision. Ton-Ton
whimpered softly.
Finally, the Keeper brought out a cane
about the thickness of his thumb. He
thwacked it against a bed to test its
strength. Otherwise, the room was
perfectly silent, except for Ton-Ton’s
snuffles.
Jorge paced back and forth. He
seemed to be deciding what part of Ton-
Ton to hit. The boy’s arms and legs were
trembling so hard, it seemed likely he’d
fall over before Jorge laid a hand on
him. Matt could hardly believe what was
happening. It was so cruel, so pointless.
Ton-Ton had shown himself eager to
obey. He humbled himself whenever the
Keepers asked. But maybe that was the
point. El Patrón said easy targets were
opportunities to frighten enemies you
weren’t ready to tackle just yet.
That’s me , thought Matt. I’m the
enemy forge wants to frighten.
The Keeper suddenly broke off his
pacing and hurled himself across the
room. At the very last instant Ton-Ton
panicked and ran. Jorge was on him at
once, flailing away, hitting anything he
could reach. He struck again and again
until blood flew off the cane. Fidelito
scrambled over to bury his face in
Matt’s chest.
Finally, the Keeper stepped back,
panting, and pointed at the boys
cowering near the door. “Take him to the
infirmary,” he ordered. The boys
scurried to obey. They dragged Ton-
Ton, limp as a rag, from the room.
Jorge propped the cane against a bed
and wiped his face with a towel. No one
moved or spoke. Everyone looked too
terrified to even breathe. After a moment
Jorge looked up with the kindly
expression of a beloved teacher. The
fury had drained from his face as
completely as it had once drained from
Tom’s face, and the change was even
more frightening than rage. “I think our
young aristocrat has understood the
lesson,” he said gently. “Well, Matt. Do
you have any personal shortcomings
you’d like to share?”
“No,” said Matt, pushing Fidelito out
of harm’s way. Everyone gasped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.” Matt
understood the lesson all right. It was
this: Even slavish obedience didn’t
protect you from punishment.
“I see,” sighed the Keeper. “Then
there’s no help for it. Assume the
position.”
“I don’t see how it makes any
difference,” Matt said. “You beat up
Ton-Ton when he was lying on the
floor.”
“Do it. It makes things easier,”
someone dared to whisper. Jorge
whirled around but didn’t catch who
spoke.
Matt stood with his arms crossed.
Inside he was quaking with fear, but
outside he gave the Keeper as cold and
imperious a look as El Patrón had ever
mustered to terrify an underling.
“Some boys,” Jorge said in a thin,
almost wheedling voice that sent chills
down Matt’s back, “some boys have to
learn the hard way. They have to be
broken and mended and broken again
until they learn to do what they’re told. It
may be simple, like sweeping a floor,
but they do it eagerly to keep from being
broken again. And they do it forever, for
as long as they live.”
“In other words, you want to turn me
into a zombie,” said Matt.
“No!” several voices cried out.
“How dare you accuse me of that!”
Jorge reached for the cane.
“I’ll confess for him! I’ll do it!”
shrieked Fidelito, running to the center
of the room. “He dropped the soap in the
shower and didn’t pick it up again. He
threw away porridge ‘cause there was a
stinkbug in it.”
“Fidelito, you idiot!” groaned
Chacho.
“He did those things. Honest!” cried
the little boy.
Jorge looked from Fidelito to Matt
with an interested look in his eyes.
“Go sit down,” Matt said in a low
voice.
“Stop!” shouted the Keeper. “I see we
have social contamination of the worst
order here. The aristocrat has turned this
boy into his lackey. And thus, it is the
lackey who should be punished.”
“A beating would kill him,” said
Matt.
“No one is too little to learn the value
of education,” Jorge said. “Why, even
child kings used to be thrashed until they
learned not to cry at public meetings—as
young as six months of age.”
He’s got me , thought Matt. No matter
how much he wanted to resist Jorge’s
authority, he couldn’t do it at the little
boy’s expense. “Very well, I confess,”
said Matt. “I dropped the soap in the
shower and didn’t pick it up again. I
threw away the porridge because there
was a stinkbug in it.”
“And?” the Keeper said pleasantly.
“I peed in a shrimp tank—don’t ask
me which one. I don’t remember. And I
left water running in the kitchen sink.”
“Assume the position.”
Matt did so, hating himself, but hating
the Keeper even more. He kept a stony
silence as Jorge pranced around, trying
to work on Matt’s nerves. And he didn’t
scream, although he wanted to very much
when the man hurled himself across the
room and struck him with a force that
made him almost pass out with pain.
He straightened up and endured
another blow, and another. After six
blows Jorge decided he’d done enough.
Or—more likely—the Keeper had
exhausted his strength beating up Ton-
Ton. Matt figured he’d been lucky, but
he didn’t doubt that more agony was
down the road. Jorge wasn’t going to
give up that easily.
Matt staggered to a bunk and
collapsed. He was barely aware of
Jorge’s departure, but the instant the
door closed the boys scrambled off their
beds and clustered around Matt. “You
were great!” they cried.
“Jorge’s such a loser,” said a tall,
skinny boy named Flaco.
“Loser?” said Matt weakly. “I’m the
one who gave up.”
“¡Chale! No way!” said Flaco. “Jorge
crossed the line tonight. If news of this
gets back to the Keepers’ Headquarters,
he’s history.”
“No one’s going to tell them,” Chacho
said scornfully. “This place might as
well be on the moon.”
“Soon I’ll be old enough to leave,”
said Flaco. “I’ll go to Headquarters then
and tell them.”
“I’m not holding my breath waiting,”
Chacho said.
“Anyhow, you were muy bravo to
take the beating for Fidelito,” Flaco told
Matt. “We thought you were a wussy
aristocrat, but you’re really one of us.”
“I kept telling you that,” Fidelito
piped up.
Then everyone started arguing about
when they discovered Matt wasn’t a
wussy aristocrat and when they knew he
was muy gente, a great guy. Matt let the
warm tide of their approval flow around
him. He was dizzy with pain, but it was
worth it if the others liked him.
“Hey, we’ve got to get him fixed up,”
Flaco said. The boys checked the
hallway to be sure it was clear. Then
they carried Matt to the infirmary, where
Ton-Ton was already sound asleep. A
pockmarked boy in a green uniform
dressed Matt’s wounds and measured
three drops of liquid into a spoon.
That’s laudanum, Matt realized as his
eyes caught the label on the bottle. He
fought against taking the medicine. He
didn’t want to turn into a zombie like
Felicia or die like poor Furball, but he
was too exhausted to resist for long. If
he died, Matt wondered as he drifted off
into a drug-induced haze, would he meet
Furball in whatever afterlife nonhumans
inhabited? And would the dog sink his
teeth into Matt’s ankle, for taking him
away from María?
31
TON-TON
I feel awful,” groaned Ton-Ton,
reaching blindly for the glass of water
by his bed.
“You look awful,” observed the
pockmarked boy.
“You, uh, you take that back, Luna. I
can still beat the stuffing out of you.”
“Not now that I’m a Keeper,” Luna
said, smugly.
“You’re only a trainee.” Ton-Ton
managed to reach the water, but he
spilled half of it on his chest when he
tried to drink.
“Wait a minute,” Matt said. He was
unwilling to reach for his own glass,
even though he was extremely thirsty. He
suspected that serious pain was waiting
for him if he moved. “You’re training to
be a Keeper?”
“Well, duh,” said Luna. “Everyone
does, eventually.”
Matt watched the light dancing on the
glass of water just out of his reach. “But
there’s only twenty Keepers here and—
how many boys?”
“Two hundred and ten at the moment,”
said Luna.
“They can’t all become Keepers.
There aren’t enough places,” Matt said.
Ton-Ton and Luna looked at each
other. “Carlos says every boy who keeps
the Five Principles of Good Citizenship
and, uh, the Four Attitudes Leading to
Right-Mindfulness until he reaches
eighteen becomes a Keeper,” said Ton-
Ton.
No matter how carefully Matt
explained to them the difference between
two hundred ten job seekers and only
twenty jobs, it didn’t penetrate.
“You’re, uh, you’re just jealous,”
Ton-Ton said.
But in one area Ton-Ton was
knowledgeable. He knew what went on
inside the Keepers’ compound, which
was surrounded by a high wall. The
Keepers had holo-games and a
television and a swimming pool. They
had all-night parties with delicious food.
And Ton-Ton knew all this, Matt now
discovered, because he cleaned the
Keepers’ rooms and washed their
dishes. Matt figured they allowed Ton-
Ton inside because they thought he was
too slow-witted to understand what he
saw.
But as Celia often said, some people
may think slowly, but they’re very
thorough about it. As Matt listened to
Ton-Ton, he realized the boy wasn’t
stupid. His observations of the Keepers’
activities and his understanding of the
factory’s machinery showed an
intelligent mind. Ton-Ton was simply
careful about his opinions.
Matt could see the boy was deeply
disturbed about the punishment he’d
received the night before. He kept going
back to it, picking at it like a scab.
“I don’t get it,” Ton-Ton said, shaking
his head. “I, uh, didn’t do anything
wrong.”
“You must’ve done something. He
sure whacked the heck out of you,” said
Luna.
“No, uh, I didn’t.”
Matt could see the gears churning
slowly in the boy’s brain: Whatever
Jorge said was good. Ton-Ton did what
Jorge said. Therefore, Ton-Ton was
good. So why did Ton-Ton get the heck
whacked out of him?
“Jorge is un loco de remate, a
complete weirdo,” said Luna.
“No,” Ton-Ton insisted. “He’s
something else.”
Matt couldn’t guess what conclusion
the boy was working toward. “What’s it
like inside the compound?”
Ton-Ton’s eyes lit up. “You, uh, you
can’t believe it! They’ve got roast beef
and pork chops and pie à la mode.”
“What’s pie à la mode?” Luna asked.
“It’s got ice cream on it! Not melted
or anything.”
“I had ice cream once,” Luna said in a
dreamy voice. “My mother gave it to
me.”
“The Keepers drink real milk, too, not
ground-up plankton, and they eat
chocolates wrapped in gold paper.”
Ton-Ton had stolen a chocolate once.
The memory hovered in his mind the
way the Virgin of Guadalupe had
hovered over Matt’s bed when he was
little.
“Doesn’t it bother you that the
Keepers have these things and we
don’t?” said Matt.
Both Ton-Ton and Luna drew
themselves up like offended rattlesnakes.
“They earned it!” Luna said. “They put
in their time; and when we put in our
time, we’ll have those things too!”
“Yeah,” said Ton-Ton, but something
seemed to be working at the back of his
mind.
“Okay, okay. I was just curious,” Matt
said. He braced himself and reached for
the glass of water. The pain was worse
than he expected. He gasped and fell
back.
“Pretty bad, huh?” Luna folded Matt’s
fingers around the glass. “Want some
laudanum?”
“No!” Matt had spent years watching
Felicia turn into a zombie. He didn’t
want to follow her example.
“Your choice. Personally, I love the
stuff.”
“Why do you need it? Are you in
pain?” asked Matt.
Luna sniggered as though Matt had
said something completely stupid. “It’s a
trip, see. It’s a ticket out of this place.”
“You’re only a trainee,” Ton-Ton said
scornfully. “You’re not supposed to, uh,
trip out until you move into the
compound.”
“Says who?” Luna picked up the
laudanum bottle and sloshed it around.
“How’re they going to count all the
drops in here? It’s my reward for
running the infirmary.”
“Wait a minute,” said Matt. “You
mean the Keepers take this stuff?”
“Sure,” Ton-Ton said. “They earned
it.”
Matt’s mind was working very fast.
“How many of them? How often?”
“All of them and, uh, every night.”
Matt felt light-headed. This meant that
every single night the Keepers turned
into zombies. This meant the factory was
left unguarded. The power plant that
electrified the fence was left unguarded.
A big sign flashing FREEDOM lit up in
Matt’s mind. “Do either of you know
where San Luis is?” he asked.
It turned out both boys did. Ton-Ton
had grown up there. He described, in his
halting way, a city of whitewashed
houses and tile roofs, of vines spilling
over walls, of busy marketplaces and
beautiful gardens. It sounded so
pleasant, Matt wondered why Ton-Ton
didn’t want to return. Why was he
l ooki ng forward to life inside a
compound with a bottle of laudanum for
company? It was totally insane.
“San Luis sure sounds great,” Matt
said.
“Uh, yes,” said Ton-Ton as though the
thought had just occurred to him.
Matt was bursting to tell him to dump
the Five Principles of Good Citizenship
and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness and head over the fence to
San Luis. But that would have been
foolish. Ton-Ton worked toward a
conclusion with the same, slow
deliberation as the shrimp harvester he
drove along the tanks. Nothing could
hurry him. And nothing, Matt hoped,
would turn him aside, either.
When Matt hobbled to the bathroom
and looked into the mirror, he got a
shock. All the boys had zits. Matt knew
he had them too, but this was the first
time he’d had a good look at the damage.
There was no mirror in the dormitory.
He looked like a loaded pizza! He
scrubbed and scrubbed with the gray,
seaweed soap, but it only made his skin
turn a violent red.
Ton-Ton and Luna guffawed when
Matt returned. “They don’t wash off, you
know,” said Luna.
“I look like a planktonburger,”
mourned Matt.
“Hunh! You, uh, look like a
planktonburger that’s been, uh, barfed up
by a seagull and, uh, left out in the sun,”
said Ton-Ton in an unusual flight of
poetry.
“I get the picture!” Matt painfully
crawled into bed. He lay on his side to
spare the welts on his back.
“We all have zits,” said Luna. “It’s
the mark of people who work with
plankton.”
Great, thought Matt. Now that he
thought about it, he realized the Keepers
were only mildly scarred but not
covered in the same active little pus
volcanoes that dotted the boys’ faces.
Maybe it had something to do with their
food. A diet of pork chops, pie à la
mode, and chocolate was obviously
better for your skin than healthy,
nutritious plankton.
Jorge forced Matt and Ton-Ton back to
work the next day. Ton-Ton really
needed another day in the infirmary, but
he obeyed without a murmur. Matt was
eager to get back. He couldn’t wait to
get going on an escape plan. Before, it
had seemed pointless. Now he knew San
Luis lay a few miles to the north, beyond
a low range of hills.
As Tam Lin once said, a jailer has a
hundred things on his mind, but a
prisoner has only one: escape. All that
concentrated attention was like a laser
cannon melting through a steel wall.
Given his background, Matt figured Tam
Lin knew a lot about escaping from jails.
All Matt had to do was shut down the
electricity to the fence and climb over. It
sounded simple, but it wasn’t. The
powerhouse was locked after dark. The
Keepers counted the boys every night at
ten o’clock and every morning at five.
That left seven hours in which to walk
the five miles to the fence (while hoping
the power hadn’t been turned on again)
and then twenty more miles to San Luis
in the dark. If the ground was covered
with cacti, the trip might take a lot
longer.
What would the Keepers do when
they discovered three boys missing,
because Matt intended to take Chacho
and Fideito with him? Could Jorge use a
hovercraft to hunt them down? Fidelito
should probably be left behind. He
couldn’t walk twenty-five miles. And yet
how could Matt abandon him?
Friendship was a pain, Matt thought.
All these years he’d wanted friends, and
now he discovered they came with
strings attached. Very well, he’d take
Fidelito, but he’d need more time. If he
overloaded the boiler next to the
Keepers’ compound, it would explode
and—
Was it wrong to blow twenty men to
smithereens? El Patrón wouldn’t have
worried one second over it. Tam Lin had
tried to blow up the English prime
minister, but he’d killed twenty children
instead.
Murder is wrong, Brother Wolf , said
a voice in Matt’s mind. He sighed. This
was probably what María called having
a conscience. It was even more of a pain
than friendship.
“Why do we have to wait for him?”
asked Chacho as they watched the
shrimp harvester chug and wheeze its
slow way toward their tank.
“Because he knows things we need to
find out,” Matt explained patiently. They
were sitting by the farthest tank. The
fence loomed up behind them, its top
wire humming and crackling in the dry
air.
“He’s a suck-up. He dumps on us
every night.”
“Not since the beating,” Matt pointed
out.
“Well, that’s because he’s taking a
vacation.” Chacho was unwilling to
believe Ton-Ton had any good qualities.
“Be nice to him, okay?”
“Mi abuelita says people’s souls are
like gardens,” Fidelito said brightly.
“She says you can’t turn your back on
someone because his garden’s full of
weeds. You have to give him water and
lots of sunlight.”
“Oh brother,” said Chacho, but he
didn’t argue with the little boy.
A plume of dust rose from the back of
Ton-Ton’s harvester. It settled slowly
across the barren ground. The air was so
still, the plume barely drifted away from
the road. “You, uh, you should be
working,” Ton-Ton called as his
machine jerked to a halt.
“And you should be head down in a
shrimp tank,” muttered Chacho. Matt
kicked him.
“If you’re, uh, waiting to beat me up,
don’t bother,” said Ton-Ton. “I can, uh,
beat the stuffing out of you.”
“Why would you assume that three
people innocently sitting by the road are
planning to attack you?” said Chacho.
“Although it could be true.”
“We only want to be friendly,” Matt
said, frowning at Chacho.
“Why?” Ton-Ton’s eyes narrowed
with suspicion.
“Because mi abuelita says people
have to be tended like gardens,” Fidelito
chirped. “They need sunlight and water,
and their souls need to—need to—”
“Be weeded,” finished Chacho.
Ton-Ton’s eyes rounded as he
processed this curious statement.
“We just want to make friends, okay?”
Matt said.
Ton-Ton took another minute to
consider that, and then he stepped off the
harvester.
“When was the last time you went to
San Luis?” asked Matt.
If Ton-Ton was surprised by the
question, he didn’t show it. “About, uh,
about a year ago. I went with Jorge.”
“Do you have family there?”
“My m-mother went across the, uh,
border years ago. My f-father tried, uh,
tried, uh, to find her. He didn’t come
back.”
Matt noticed that Ton-Ton’s speech
problem got worse when he talked about
his parents.
“No abuelita?” Fidelito asked.
“I, uh, I did. M-Maybe she’s still
there.” Ton-Ton’s mouth turned down at
the sides.
“Well, why don’t you go look for
her!” said Chacho. “¡Hombre! If I had a
grandma only twenty miles to the north,
I’d rip up this fence to find her! What’s
wrong with you, man?”
“Chacho, no,” said Matt, putting his
hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“You, uh, don’t understand,” Ton-Ton
said. “Jorge saw me on the wrong side
of the border. There were Farm Patrols
and, uh, dogs, big mud-colored dogs
with big teeth. They did everything the
Farm Patrol said, and, uh, the Farm
Patrol told them to eat me.” Ton-Ton
shuddered at the memory. “Jorge came
over the border and shot them. He got
into a lot of trouble for it, too. He, uh, he
saved my life, and I owe him
everything.”
“Did Jorge tell you not to look for
your grandmother?” Matt said.
“He said I was born to be a Keeper.
He said that Keepers don’t have
families, only one another, but that it’s,
uh, better because families only run off
and abandon you.”
“But your abuelita must have cried
when you didn’t come home,” Fidelito
said.
“I wouldn’t have come home, you
dork!” shouted Ton-Ton. “I would’ve
been inside a dog’s belly!”
“It’s okay, Fidelito,” Matt told the
little boy. “That’s enough weed pulling
for one day.” He asked Ton-Ton about
San Luis, and Ton-Ton was eager to talk
about that. The longer he spoke, the less
he stumbled over his words. The scowl
on his face smoothed out. He looked a
lot younger and happier.
Ton-Ton described the city so
thoroughly, he seemed to have a map
spread out in his mind. He recalled
every detail—an oleander bush with
peach-colored flowers, an adobe wall
with paloverde trees draped over it, a
fountain tinkling into a copper basin. It
was like following a camera down a
street. And gradually, he lowered his
guard enough to talk about his mamá and
papá. He had lived in a crowded house
with aunts and uncles and brothers and
cousins and a tiny abuelita who ruled
the whole establishment. But it hadn’t
been an unhappy place, even though
they’d been poor.
At last Ton-Ton stretched and smiled
as though he’d had a fine meal. “I, uh, I
won’t tell anyone why we’re late,” he
said. “I’ll say the harvester broke
down.” He let Fidelito ride most of the
way back with him, putting the little boy
down only when they came within sight
of the Keepers’ compound.
“I don’t get it,” whispered Chacho as
the harvester shuddered its way back.
He and Matt walked to one side, away
from the plume of dust. “It’s like you
turned a light on inside his head. I didn’t
know Ton-Ton was that bright.”
Matt smiled, pleased to be proven
right about the big boy “Celia used to
say slow people are just paying close
attention.”
“Who’s Celia?”
Matt almost dropped in his tracks.
He’d carefully hidden any reference to
his life before he’d arrived in Aztlán.
Listening to Ton-Ton’s memories had
made him careless. “Why, Celia …
she’s my … my m-mother.” And he
knew that it was true. All those years
she’d told him not to think of her as his
mother fell away. No one else cared for
him the way she did. No one protected
him or loved him so much, except,
perhaps, Tam Lin. And Tam Lin was
like his father.
Suddenly all the memories, so
carefully suppressed in his new life,
came flooding back. Matt had trained
himself to stop thinking about Celia and
Tam Lin. It was too painful. Now he
found himself helpless. He crouched on
the ground, tears pouring down his face.
He held himself tight to keep from crying
out loud and totally ruining his image in
front of Chacho.
But Chacho understood. “I should’ve
kept my fat mouth closed,” he said,
kneeling in the dust next to Matt. “It’s the
one thing none of us are supposed to
bring up until someone’s ready. Heck, I
bawled my eyes out the first few
weeks.”
“Are you sick?” called Fidelito’s
voice from a distance as he rode on the
harvester.
“He sure is,” said Chacho. “You
would be too if you ate a handful of raw
shrimp.” And he shielded Matt from
view until he was able to gain control of
himself and go on.
32
FOUND OUT
That night Jorge, with his instinct for
weakness, pounced on Matt again. He
insisted that more and more crimes be
confessed, and Matt soon found himself
repeating the same sins. He hardly cared
what he said.
Matt felt bruised inside. In a strange
way he wasn’t even in the same room
with Jorge, because his mind was back
in El Patrón’s mansion. He was in
Celia’s apartment. At any moment she’d
call him to dinner and they’d sit down
with Tam Lin. The illusion was painful,
but it was so much better than anything in
Matt’s current life.
“If the aristocrat won’t listen,” came
Jorge’s smooth voice, “I’ll have to talk
to his lackey.”
Matt woke from his reverie to see
Fidelito being pulled to the center of the
room. The little boy’s face was pale
with fear.
“You’ve been bad, haven’t you?”
purred Jorge.
“ N o t very bad,” said Fidelito,
glancing at the cane closet.
“That’s for me to say, isn’t it?” the
Keeper said.
“Okay,” said Fidelito.
Matt knew the scene before him was
important. He tried to keep his mind on
it, but he kept slipping back to Celia’s
apartment.
“I think the aristocrat needs to
understand why his behavior must be
controlled,” Jorge said. “Worker bees
know that everything they do affects the
whole hive. If a lazy worker sleeps all
day and isn’t punished, he teaches others
to follow his example. If enough
workers follow his example, the hive
will die.”
Fidelito’s face showed the argument
had gone over his head.
“So we have to correct the weak little
lackeys who think it’s fun to follow a
bad example. Isn’t that so?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Matt forced himself to concentrate on
the present. “If you want to punish me,
why don’t you just do it?” he said.
“Because that doesn’t work,” Jorge
replied. His face glowed with joy, as
though he’d discovered a wonderful
truth he couldn’t wait to share with
everyone. Once more Matt was
reminded of Tom.
“I confess. I obey. I take my
punishment,” Matt said.
“Yes, but you don’t mean it,” said the
Keeper. “You go through the motions,
but in your heart you’re still an
aristocrat. I puzzled over it a long time.
Then I realized the thing that makes an
aristocrat is the presence of a lackey. If I
remove the lackey, poof!” He snapped
his fingers. “No more aristocrat. Assume
the position, Fidelito.”
Matt was frozen with shock. This time
it was clear his confessions weren’t
going to save the little boy. He glanced
at the others. They looked stunned. The
last time Jorge had threatened Fidelito,
Matt had come to his rescue. But this
time was different. It seemed the Keeper
had crossed an invisible line and the
boys were appalled by what they were
about to witness. It had been okay to
beat Ton-Ton for no reason. He was big
and able to take it. Fidelito was skinny
and frail in spite of his tough spirit. And
he was only eight years old.
Fidelito did what he’d seen the others
do: Lean his hands against the wall and
spread his legs. The other boys
murmured. Matt couldn’t hear what they
were saying.
Jorge went to the closet. Matt felt as
though he were floating over the scene.
Like other times in his life when things
had gone wrong, he wanted to retreat
into his own private kingdom. If he
imagined being in Celia’s apartment
hard enough, it might actually happen.
Jorge paced back and forth, whisking
the cane. Any second now he’d break
into a run. He stopped. He gathered his
strength for the initial blow. He lunged
forward—
Matt hurled himself at the Keeper. He
drove his head into Jorge’s stomach and
tore the cane from the man’s hands.
Jorge reeled back, gasping for breath.
Matt brought the cane down hard on his
shoulder and then used it to force the
Keeper to the floor. Chacho came out of
nowhere and threw himself into the
battle, pummeling Jorge with his fists.
“You—hit—little—kids!” Chacho
shouted between blows. “You—deserve
—to—be—hit—back!” The other boys
were shouting and cheering. They surged
forward, forming a ring around the
Keeper and his two attackers. Flaco
dragged Fidelito away from the fight.
Matt’s head spun. Jorge was curled
into a ball. Maybe he was seriously hurt.
The boys were dancing around
excitedly, and Matt guessed they were
about to join in. “Stop!” Matt cried,
dropping the cane. He grabbed Chacho
and pulled him back. “We mustn’t kill
him!”
“Why not?” demanded the boy. But
the interruption was enough to bring him
to his senses. He sat down hard on the
floor and clenched his fists. The other
boys groaned with disappointment, but
they moved aside when Jorge rolled
onto his hands and knees and scuttled to
the door.
No one said a word. Chacho sat on
the floor, breathing heavily. Fidelito
whimpered in a corner, where he was
being held firmly in place by Flaco. Matt
shivered as though he had a high fever.
He couldn’t imagine what was going to
happen next.
But he didn’t have long to wait.
Footsteps thundered down the hall, and
the door was slammed open by an army
of Keepers. All twenty of them stormed
into the room. They were armed with
stun guns, and the boys retreated against
the walls. First Matt, then Chacho was
seized. Their hands were bound behind
their backs and their mouths were sealed
with tape.
“You’re going to be locked down,”
Carlos roared at the remaining boys.
“We’ll decide what to do with you
tomorrow. But understand we won’t—
repeat, won’t— tolerate this kind of mob
behavior.”
“Don’t you want to know what Jorge
did?” said Flaco.
“What you did was far worse!”
shouted Carlos.
“He was going to kill Fidelito.”
That did seem to startle Carlos. He
stopped and looked at the little boy
hiding behind Flaco.
“He’s lying,” said Jorge, who was
holding his injured shoulder with one
hand.
“There are two hundred of us,” said
Flaco. “We all witnessed it.”
And in that statement, Matt realized,
was an implied threat. There were two
hundred boys in the dormitory No matter
how well armed the Keepers were, they
couldn’t hope to control a crowd that
size.
The thought seemed to have occurred
to Carlos as well. He backed toward the
door and signaled the other men to
follow. But like a swirl of dust on the
dry salt flats outside, a stream of boys
moved to cut off the exit. Now the
Keepers were surrounded on all sides.
“I think you should listen to us,” said
Flaco.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,”
Carlos said.
No, thought Matt. Don’t let them put
it off. The minute the men are outside
the room, they’ll bolt the door. They’ll
never listen to the facts. He could say
nothing because his mouth was covered
with tape.
“I think now is better,” said Flaco.
Carlos swallowed. He fingered the
stun gun.
“They’ve been corrupted by the
aristocrat,” said Jorge. “Things have
gone wrong ever since that arrogant
swine arrived. He’s the one who led the
attack, and the rest followed. He’s the
leader. The rest are his filth-eating
lackeys.”
“Don’t make things worse,” Carlos
said.
“Luna in the infirmary has an
interesting tale,” Jorge went on. “When
the aristocrat was brought in, Luna
helped load him into bed. He saw
writing on the boy’s right foot.”
Oh no, oh no, thought Matt.
“There was an old scar across it, but
he managed to make out the writing:
‘Property of the Alacrán Estate.’”
“Alacrán?” said Carlos. “That’s the
name of the old vampire who runs
Dreamland.”
“I know,” Jorge said pleasantly. “I
wondered how a person could belong to
an estate, unless he worked there. Or
unless he was an escaped crot!”
A gasp ran through the room.
“Don’t use that filthy word,” Carlos
said.
“I’m sorry.” Jorge smiled. “I was only
using language I thought the boys would
understand. I was still thinking about
what to do with the information when
tonight’s problem cropped up. It is
funny, you have to admit, that all these
lackeys have sworn their loyalty to a
stinking crot— excuse me, zombie—
instead of a real aristocrat.”
No, no, no, thought Matt. His
weakness had been found out. Even
though the Keeper had drawn the wrong
conclusion about the tattoo, it was just as
devastating.
“I don’t believe it,” said Flaco.
“Why don’t we look?” invited Jorge.
Flaco came forward and knelt on the
floor next to where Matt was standing.
He looked up, apologizing with his eyes.
Matt didn’t resist. It wouldn’t have done
any good. He allowed the boy to turn his
foot toward the light and waited for the
inevitable reaction.
“Jorge is right. It does say ‘Property
of the Alacrán Estate,’” said Flaco.
The rebellion went out of the boys
then. They were so used to obeying, Matt
realized, that very little was needed to
make them surrender. They moved away
from the door and slowly drifted toward
the bunks.
“W-Wait,” said a voice Matt never
expected to hear. “Any, uh, anyone can
get trapped in Dreamland. It, uh, doesn’t
make him a bad person.”
“Be quiet, Ton-Ton,” said Jorge.
“Thinking isn’t your strong point.”
“I have, uh, I have been thinking,”
said the big boy. “Our parents ran away
to, uh, Dreamland, and they w-were
turned into z-zombies.” It was clearly
difficult for him to say this.
“My father wasn’t,” protested Flaco.
“He’s living it up in the United States.
He’s running a movie studio, and when
he gets enough money, he’ll send for
me.”
“We, uh, tell ourselves stuff like th-
that,” stammered Ton-Ton, “but it isn’t t-
true. All our parents are crots.” A flurry
of voices rose telling Ton-Ton to shut
up. “Our mamás and papás aren’t b-bad,
just unlucky,” the boy went on in his
relentless way, “and M-Matt isn’t bad
either!”
“Oh, go to bed,” said Jorge. “Do you
think anyone wants to listen to your
ravings? You’ve always been stupid and
you’ll always be stupid. You’re lucky I
pulled you out of Dreamland before I
found out what an idiot you are.”
“I’m n-not stupid!” cried Ton-Ton, but
no one listened to him. The boys drew
away from Matt as though he were
something unclean. The Keepers hurried
him and Chacho out, and Carlos bolted
the door behind them.
They were taken to a small closet
without enough space to lie down. It was
dark and airless. The floor was cold. All
night the boys huddled against the wall,
and Matt was glad it was dark and that
they had their mouths covered with tape.
He couldn’t have borne hearing Chacho
call him a crot or seeing him shrink
away from the presence of such a
monster.
33
THE BONEYARD
A faint light shone under the door when
two of the younger Keepers arrived to
fetch Matt and Chacho. Matt was so stiff,
he fell over when they pulled him to his
feet. “Mph!” came from behind the tape
covering Chacho’s mouth.
They were urged outside to one of the
carts the Keepers used to move
equipment around the factory. Jorge was
in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette.
More tape was wound around the boys’
ankles.
The cart rolled slowly at first because
it was solar powered, but as the sun rose
higher and flooded the salt flats, it
picked up speed. Matt saw the shrimp
tanks move past. He realized they were
heading toward the western fence. The
cart’s wheels crunched along the gritty
path, and sand hissed across the ground
in an early-morning breeze.
Matt was thirsty. He was hungry too.
He saw, with a kind of bitter pleasure,
that Jorge’s shoulder was encased in a
plaster cast. Matt hoped he was in a lot
of pain.
After a while the cart turned and
bumped along rougher ground. Matt saw
they were driving parallel to the fence.
He saw a white swirl of seagulls as they
rose and sank along the Gulf of
California. Their cries floated to him on
the dusty wind.
On and on the cart struggled. When it
floundered in sand, the men had to jump
out and put creosote branches under the
wheels to urge it on. At last it jerked to a
stop, and Matt was carried off by the
two young Keepers.
They came over a rise. Before them
stretched the wide basin that had once
been full of living water and was now
filled with dead whales. The bones stuck
up like a gigantic bowl of thorns.
“This is what we call the boneyard,”
Jorge said pleasantly.
Matt remembered someone saying,
when he first arrived, You won’t get
away with your swanky ways here.
We’ve got something called the
boneyard, and any troublemaker who
goes through it comes out as harmless
as a little lamb.
“Shall I take the tape off now?” one of
the Keepers inquired.
“Only from his mouth,” said Jorge.
“But that means he won’t be able to
climb out.”
“He tried to kill me!” Jorge shouted.
“Do you want a murderer crawling back
to stir up revolution?”
“Carlos won’t like it.”
“You leave Carlos to me,” said Jorge.
Matt felt the tape rip off. He flexed his
mouth, ran his tongue over his bruised
lips. “You think you’re thirsty now,”
Jorge said, smiling. “Wait till
tomorrow.”
“He’s the murderer,” cried Matt, but
he had no time to say anything else. The
men swung him up and out. He came
down with a crash, and the bones shifted
and let him fall through. Down he
tumbled, rolling this way and that until
he arrived at a plateau of skulls. He hung
in the midst of a sea of bones, with the
blue sky visible through a fretwork of
ribs and vertebrae. He turned his head
cautiously. Below was a pit whose dark
depths he could only guess at.
A few minutes later he heard Chacho
land not far away. The mass shifted
again, and Matt slipped down a few
more feet. He felt a rib poke into his
back. A fine dust of salt and sand
pattered over his face. He heard Chacho
cough. He heard the men’s feet crunch
away and then the purr of the cart
growing fainter and fainter until it was
gone.
“Are you okay?” called Chacho.
“Depends on what you mean by
okay.” Matt was amazed he could still
laugh, although he did it weakly. “Are
you hurt?”
“Not much. Got any good escape
plans?”
“I’m working on it,” said Matt. The
salt powdered his face and got into his
mouth. “I wouldn’t mind a drink.”
“Don’t talk about it!” said Chacho. “I
think I could cut this tape if I could find
a sharp bone.”
“There’s one sticking into my back,”
said Matt. He spoke cheerfully, as
though they were working on a way to
snatch an extra ten minutes of sleep, not
trying to escape a long, painful death.
“Some people have all the luck.”
Chacho spoke lightly too, but Matt
suspected he was just as frightened.
Matt wriggled until his wrists touched
the jagged bone. He sawed back and
forth, but before he could make any
progress, the bones shifted and he slid
down into deeper darkness.
“Matt!” cried Chacho with an edge of
panic.
“I’m here. Well, that didn’t work.
Why don’t you give it a try?” In fact,
Matt’s heart was pounding and he was
afraid to move. The whole basin
quivered, and he didn’t know what
would happen if he fell all the way to the
bottom.
“Heck! Oh, heck!” shouted Chacho.
Matt heard him slither through the
fretwork of bones.
“We’ve got all day. You don’t have to
hurry,” said Matt.
“Shut up! I think there’s something
else in this pit.”
Matt thought he heard a high-pitched
noise. Was it possible something lived
in the darkness below? And what kind of
creature would choose such a home?
“They’re bats! Horrible, slimy bats!”
yelled Chacho.
“Bats aren’t slimy,” Matt said,
relieved. A real creature was much
better than the monsters he’d imagined.
“Stop making jokes! They’ll suck our
blood!”
“No, they won’t,” said Matt. “Tam
Lin and I watched them dozens of
times.”
“They’ll wait for dark. I saw it in a
movie. They’ll wait for dark and then
they’ll come up and suck our blood.”
Chacho’s panic was shrill and
infectious. Matt began to get scared too.
“Tam Lin says they’re just mice with
wings. They’re as afraid of us as we are
of—”
“One’s coming at me!” screamed
Chacho.
“Keep still! Don’t move!” yelled
Matt. A horrible idea had just occurred
to him, and he had to warn Chacho
before anything else happened.
Chacho kept screaming, but he must
have heard Matt’s advice because he
didn’t struggle. After a moment his cries
stopped and were replaced by sobbing.
“Chacho!” called Matt. The boy
didn’t answer. He wept on and on,
hiccuping to catch his breath. Matt
turned carefully, searching for another
sharp bone. Below, in the ghostly near
blackness, tiny bats fluttered and
squeaked. They must have found the pit
almost as comfortable as a cave. They
flitted here and there, navigating
between the bones like fish in a sea. A
sour smell, disturbed by their wings,
filtered up.
“Chacho?” Matt called. “I’m here.
The bats are settling down. I’m going to
try to cut the tape again.”
“We’ll never get out,” groaned
Chacho.
“Sure we will,” Matt said. “But we
have to be very, very careful. We
mustn’t fall down any farther.”
“We’re going to die,” said Chacho.
“If we try to climb out, the bones will
shift. There’s tons of them here. We’ll
fall to the bottom, and they’ll come
down on top of us.”
Matt said nothing. That was exactly
the thought he’d had. For a few moments
he was swept with despair, unable to
think clearly. Was this the end to the
chance at life he’d been given by Tam
Lin and Celia? They’d never know what
had happened to him. They’d think he
had deserted them.
“Tam Lin says rabbits give up when
they’re caught by coyotes,” Matt said
after he’d calmed enough to trust his
voice. “He says they consent to die
because they’re animals and can’t
understand hope. But humans are
different. They fight against death no
matter how bad things seem, and
sometimes, even when everything’s
against them, they win.”
“Yeah. About once in a million
years,” said Chacho.
“Twice in a million,” said Matt.
“There’s two of us.”
“You are one dumb bunny,” said
Chacho, but he stopped crying.
As the sun slowly worked its way across
the sky, Matt became more and more
thirsty He tried not to think about it, but
he couldn’t help it. His tongue was glued
to his mouth. His throat was gritty with
sand.
“I’ve found a sharp bone,” said
Chacho. “I think it’s a tooth.”
“Great,” said Matt, who was working
his bonds against a rib. The tape had an
amazing ability to stretch. He sawed and
sawed, and the tape merely lengthened
and didn’t break. But after a while it
became loose enough for Matt to slip his
hands free. “I did it!” he called.
“Me too,” said Chacho. “I’m working
on my feet.”
For the first time Matt felt real hope.
He drew his legs up carefully and
picked at the bonds with a fragment of
bone. It was horribly exhausting. He had
to move extremely slowly to keep from
sliding deeper, and he had to stop and
rest every other minute. He realized he
was growing weak.
Chacho seemed to rest for longer
periods too. “Who’s Tam Lin?” he asked
during one of these breaks.
“My father,” said Matt. This time he
didn’t stumble over the words.
“That’s funny, calling your parents by
name.”
“It’s what they wanted.”
There was a long pause. Chacho said,
“Are you really a zombie?”
“No!” said Matt. “Do you think I
could talk like this if I were?”
“But you’ve seen them.”
“Yes,” said Matt.
The wind had died down, and the air
felt heavy and still. The silence was
eerie, because it felt like the desert was
waiting for something to happen. Even
the bats had stopped chittering.
“Tell me about zombies,” said
Chacho.
So Matt described the brown-clad
men and women who toiled endlessly
over the fields and the gardeners who
clipped the vast lawns of El Patrón’s
estate with scissors. “We called them
eejits,” he said.
“It sounds like you were there a long
time,” said Chacho.
“All my life,” said Matt, deciding, for
once, to be honest.
“Were your parents … eejits?”
“I guess you could call them slaves. A
lot of work has to be done by people
with normal intelligence.”
Chacho sighed. “So my father could
be okay. He was a musician. Did you
have musicians there?”
“Yes,” said Matt, thinking of Mr.
Ortega. But Mr. Ortega couldn’t have
been Chacho’s father. He’d been around
too long.
The sun was low in the west now. It
was darker than Matt expected for this
time of day, even with the light cut down
by the pit. The breeze picked up again. It
moaned like a lost spirit in the bones and
turned surprisingly cold.
“It sounds like La Llorona,” said
Chacho.
“That’s just a story,” said Matt.
“My mother used to tell me about her,
and my mother didn’t lie.” Chacho
reacted instantly to any real or imagined
insult to his mother. Matt knew she’d
died when Chacho was six.
“Okay. I’ll believe in La Llorona if
you’ll believe the bats aren’t
dangerous.”
“I wish you hadn’t brought them up,”
said Chacho. The wind blew even
harder, sending a swirl of dust over the
basin. The topmost bones rattled, and all
at once Matt saw a blinding flash of light
followed by a crack of thunder.
“It’s a storm,” he said in wonder. The
chill wind pushed the smell of rain at
him, making his thirst even more
unbearable. Desert storms were rare,
except in August and September, but they
weren’t unheard of. They blew up
suddenly, wreaked havoc, and vanished
almost as quickly as they’d come. This
one promised to be spectacular. The sky
turned white and then peach-colored in
the sunset light as a giant cloud loomed
overhead. Lightning forked. Matt
counted from flash to thunder, to gauge
how far away it was: a mile, a half mile,
a quarter, and then right on top of them.
The bottom of the cloud opened, pouring
out hailstones as big as cherries.
“Catch them!” shouted Matt, but the
roar of the storm was so loud, Chacho
probably couldn’t hear. Matt caught them
as they skittered down through the bones
and crammed them into his mouth. They
were followed by rain, buckets and
buckets of rain. Matt opened his mouth
and let it pour in. In the flashes of light
he saw bats clinging to the bones. He
heard water rushing over the side of the
basin.
And then it was gone. The thunder
retreated across the desert. The lightning
grew fainter, but water still poured into
the pit. Matt bunched up his shirt and
sucked out as much moisture as he could.
The rain had revived him, but he hadn’t
gotten nearly as much water as he
wanted.
The sky was almost dark now. “Aim
yourself at the nearest edge while you
can still see,” Matt called to Chacho.
“My legs are free. Are yours?”
The boy didn’t answer.
“Are you okay?” Matt had the awful
thought that Chacho had slipped to the
bottom during the violent storm.
“Chacho! Answer me!”
“The bats,” said the boy in a hollow
voice. He was still nearby. Matt felt a
rush of relief.
“They won’t hurt you,” he said.
“They’re all over me,” said Chacho in
that odd voice.
“Me too.” Matt suddenly became
aware of the little creatures creeping
onto his body. “They—they’re trying to
get away from the water,” he stammered,
hoping it was true. “Their nesting place
is flooded. And I guess they want to get
warm.”
“They’re waiting for it to be dark,”
Chacho said, “and then they’ll drink our
blood.”
“Don’t be a complete idiot!” shouted
Matt. “They’re frightened and they’re
cold!” All the same, he felt an instinctive
horror at their stealthy movements. A
distant flash of lightning showed him a
tiny creature huddled against his chest. It
had a flat nose and leaflike ears, and its
mouth disclosed delicate, needle-sharp
teeth. But it also had a baby tucked under
one leathery wing. It was a mother trying
to rescue her young from the flood.
“You wouldn’t bite me, would you?”
he whispered to the mother bat. He
turned slowly, freezing in place when
the bones threatened to shift, then
moving again, aiming toward where he
thought the nearest edge lay. The bat
clung briefly to his shirt before sliding
off into the darkness.
It was like being a swimmer in a
strange and terrible sea. Every time Matt
moved forward, he sank down a little.
At one point the bones weighed upon his
back and he feared they had trapped him.
But they shifted slightly and allowed him
to move on. Yet every stroke toward
shore increased their weight. Soon he
would be unable to move, and then he
would have to wait, like a bug
imprisoned in amber, for death to find
him.
The pit was completely black when
his hands struck against rock instead of
bone. Matt grasped the wall and inched
himself upward until he was able to
plant his feet against the stone. Now the
bones seemed even heavier, but that was
because he was trying to force his way
up through them. He leaned against the
rock, panting with exhaustion. He found
a trickle of storm water still flowing and
lapped it like a dog. It was cold and
mineral. It tasted wonderful.
“Chacho?” he called. “If you come
toward my voice, you’ll reach the edge.
There’s water.” But the boy didn’t
answer. “I’ll keep talking, so you’ll
know where to go,” said Matt. He talked
about his childhood, leaving out things
that would be hard to explain. He
described Celia’s apartment and his
trips into the mountains with Tam Lin.
He described the eejit pens and the
opium fields that surrounded them. Matt
didn’t know whether Chacho could hear
him. The boy might have fainted. Or the
bats really might have drunk his blood.
It was the middle of the night when
Matt pulled himself over the edge and
collapsed onto wet earth. He was unable
to move. All the willpower he’d used to
work his way free deserted him. He lay
on his side with his face half in mud. He
couldn’t have moved if Jorge had shown
up with an army of Keepers.
As he drifted in and out of
consciousness, he heard a strange sound
coming from the pit. Matt listened, trying
to decide what animal made such a
noise, and then it came to him: Chacho
was snoring. The boy had fallen asleep
from sheer exhaustion. He might still be
trapped in the pit, but he was alive. And
the bats hadn’t drunk his blood after all.
34
THE SHRIMP
HARVESTER
The sky was dark blue and the mud
bore a powdering of frost when Matt
pulled himself from the ground. He
crouched to protect what little warmth
his body produced. A wind ruffled the
little pools of water that dotted the
desert. The east was a blaze of pink and
yellow.
Matt had never been so cold in his
life. His teeth chattered; his body felt
like one giant goose bump. In the
growing light he saw that his clothes had
been torn in a dozen places during his
journey through the pit. His arms and
legs were covered with scratches. He
hadn’t noticed the injuries during the
desperate fight to survive, but now he
hurt all over.
“Chacho?” he called to the sea of
bones turning gray in the predawn light.
“Chacho!” Matts voice was carried off
by the breeze. “I’m outside.I’m safe.
You can be too. Just come toward my
voice.”
No answer.
“You’ll go down a little, but after a
while you’ll come to the edge of the pit.
I can help you then,” called Matt.
No answer.
Matt paced back and forth along the
edge of the basin. He had a fair idea
where Chacho was, but he couldn’t see
him. “There’s water out here from the
storm. I can’t get it to you, but you can
come to it. It’ll make you feel a lot
better. Please, Chacho! Don’t give up!”
But the boy made no reply. Matt found
a rain-filled hollow in a rock and drank
until his head stabbed with pain. The
water was freezingly cold. He went back
to the edge of the basin, calling, begging,
and even insulting Chacho to get a
response. There was nothing.
As the sun came over the rim of the
desert and light flooded the little
hillocks and bushes all around, Matt
curled up in the shelter of a rock and
cried. He couldn’t think of a thing to do.
Chacho was out there, but he couldn’t
find him. Even if he did find him, Matt
couldn’t go to him. And there weren’t
any plants in the desert that would make
a decent rope.
Matt wept until he was exhausted,
which didn’t take long because he was
tired already. The sunlight brought a
slight warmth to the air, although the
wind whipped it away the minute Matt
stood up.
What could he do? Where could he
go? He couldn’t stay here until Jorge
came back to check up on things. But he
couldn’t leave Chacho behind, either. He
limped back to the basin and sat on the
edge. He talked and talked, sometimes
exhorting Chacho to come toward his
voice, sometimes only rambling on about
his childhood.
He talked about El Patrón and the
fantastic birthday parties. He talked
about María and Furball. He talked until
his throat was raw, but he didn’t stop
because he felt this was the only rope he
could throw Chacho. If Chacho could
hear him, he wouldn’t feel completely
alone and he might try to stay alive.
The sun rose high enough to shine into
the pit. Matt saw, not far down, a patch
of brown. It was the uniform all the boys
wore in the factory. “I can see you,
Chacho,” said Matt. “You aren’t far
from the edge. You can make it if you
try.”
In the distance he heard a clanking,
mechanical noise. It wasn’t Jorge’s cart,
but perhaps the Keeper had borrowed
something sturdier. Matt shaded his
eyes. He wanted to hide, but he saw with
dismay that he’d left muddy footprints
all over the ground. He couldn’t
possibly wipe them out before someone
arrived.
He waited hopelessly for the Keeper
to find him, but instead, to his
amazement, he saw Ton-Ton’s shrimp
harvester shuddering and groaning over
the desert. Fidelito sat on the hood. As
soon as he saw Matt, he jumped off and
started running.
“Matt! Matt!” shrieked the little boy.
“You got out! Where’s Chacho?” He
flung himself at Matt and almost knocked
him over. “I’m so happy! You’re alive! I
was so worried!” Matt held on to him, to
keep him from dancing over the edge of
the basin. The shrimp harvester jerked to
a stop. “I, uh, I thought you might need
help,” said Ton-Ton.
Matt began to laugh. Only it wasn’t a
laugh, more like hysteria. “Need help?”
he wheezed out. “I guess you could say
that.”
“I did say it,” said Ton-Ton, looking
puzzled.
Matt began to shiver. His laughter
turned into stormy weeping. “Don’t do
that!” wailed Fidelito.
“It’s Chacho,” sobbed Matt. “He’s in
the bones. He won’t talk. I think he’s
dead.”
“Where?” said Ton-Ton. Matt pointed
out the brown uniform, all the while
clutching Fidelito’s arm. He was
terrified the little boy would fall into the
pit.
Ton-Ton positioned the harvester at
the edge. He reached into the bones with
the mechanical arm he used to tip shrimp
tanks into his collecting bin. At the end
was a large claw. Slowly, methodically,
Ton-Ton cleared away the top layer until
they could see Chacho’s face. The boy’s
eyes were closed. Ton-Ton moved away
more bones until Chacho’s chest
appeared. The cloth was torn and his
uniform was streaked with blood, but he
was breathing.
“It’d work better if he could, uh,
help,” said Ton-Ton. He maneuvered the
machine as delicately as a surgeon
performing an operation.
“Could I climb out on the arm and tie
a rope around him?” Matt had stopped
crying, but he couldn’t seem to stop
shivering.
“Humph,” grunted Ton-Ton. “You’d
be, uh, as much help as a drunk buzzard
trying to, uh, carry off a dead cow.” He
continued working so slowly and
carefully that Matt wanted to scream.
Yet it made sense. Any wrong move
could send the bones slithering back
down to cover Chacho.
Finally, Ton-Ton closed the jaws of
the shrimp harvester around Chacho’s
body. The jaws were strong enough to
crush rock, but Ton-Ton lifted the boy as
gently as if he were an egg. He backed
up the machine. The arm swung around
until it cleared the basin and deposited
Chacho on the ground. TonTon pulled
the arm up and over the top of the shrimp
harvester, folding it into the storage
position. Careful in everything, he
wasn’t about to leave this job half done.
Matt knelt by Chacho and felt his
pulse. It was slow but strong. Fidelito
patted his face. “Why won’t he wake
up?”
“He’s, uh, in shock,” said Ton-Ton,
alighting from the machine. “I’ve seen it
before. People can take only so much
fear, and then they go into a kind of, uh,
sleep. Hold him up. I’ve got to get fluids
into him.”
Matt propped Chacho up while Ton-
Ton dribbled red liquid from a plastic
bottle into the boy’s mouth. “It’s
strawberry soda,” explained Ton-Ton.
“The Keepers drink it all the time. It’s
got electrolytes in it. Good for
dehydration.”
Matt was surprised by Ton-Ton’s
medical knowledge. But of course he
stored away everything he heard. Luna at
the infirmary must have talked about
dehydration.
Chacho coughed, licked his lips, and
swallowed. His eyes flew open. He
grabbed the bottle and began gulping for
all he was worth. “Slow down!” said
Ton-Ton, wrenching the bottle away. “If
you drink too fast, you’ll, uh, puke.”
“More! More!” croaked Chacho, but
Ton-Ton forced him to take sips. Chacho
said some bad words, but the older boy
shrugged them off. He continued to dole
out the strawberry soda until he was
satisfied Chacho had had enough.
He unpacked another bottle and gave
it to Matt. Heaven can’t possibly be
better than this, thought Matt, swirling
the sweet, cool liquid around his mouth.
The taste of strawberry soda had to be
right up there with El Patrón’s moro
crabs flown in fromYucatán.
“We’d better get going,” said Ton-
Ton, firing up the shrimp harvester.
Matt’s euphoria came down with a
thump. “Go back? Jorge wants to kill us.
I heard him say so.”
“Keep your hair on,” said Ton-Ton.
“We’re going to San Luis to find my
abuelita.”
“It was my idea,” said Fidelito.
“It was my idea,” Ton-Ton said
firmly. Matt held his hand over
Fidelito’s mouth to shush him. It didn’t
matter who thought of it as long as Ton-
Ton didn’t get sidetracked.
“I don’t know how far I can walk,”
murmured Chacho. He looked dazed.
“That’s why I brought the, uh, shrimp
harvester,” said Ton-Ton. “You and
Matt can ride in the tank. Fidelito can,
uh, sit up front with me.”
That, as far as Ton-Ton was
concerned, was the end of the
discussion. Matt didn’t argue. By some
slow, careful process Ton-Ton had
decided to make a break for it. And if he
wanted to make a break at five miles an
hour, nothing Matt said was going to talk
him out of it. Matt wondered how he
hoped to evade the Keepers.
Matt helped Chacho climb down a
metal ladder into the tank. Even with the
old water flushed out, it reeked of rotten
shrimp. Matt thought he’d throw up,
except he didn’t have anything to throw
up. At least he wouldn’t get hungry on
the way.
Chacho fell asleep on the damp floor,
but Matt climbed up the ladder and faced
into the breeze.
Five miles an hour! Matt saw he’d
been wildly optimistic. Fidelito could
have skipped faster than the shrimp
harvester moved. Ton-Ton had to
maneuver around rocks and away from
holes. Several times the machine
threatened to tip over, but it ground on
relentlessly and righted itself.
They went north around the vast basin
of bones, and then west. The soil was
littered with boulders, the spaces
between with deep sand, where the
harvester wallowed and complained
before struggling on. Finally, they
arrived at the fence and TonTon halted.
“Everyone out,” he announced.
He had to help Matt pull Chacho from
the tank. Chacho was too weak to stand.
With Fidelito dancing attendance, they
carried him to a soft patch of sand. “Stay
here,” Ton-Ton told Fidelito. “I mean it.
If I, uh, catch you near the harvester, I’ll,
uh, beat the stuffing out of you.”
“He wouldn’t really,” whispered
Fidelito as the older boy strode away.
“What about the Keepers?” Matt said.
“Isn’t he afraid they’U catch us?”
“Not a chance!” Fidelito wriggled
with excitement. “They’re locked up in
their compound. The doors and windows
are covered with bags of salt—
mountains and mountains of salt! All the
boys helped.”
“Didn’t the Keepers try to stop them?”
“They were asleep,” Fidelito said.
“Ton-Ton said they wouldn’t wake up
no matter how much noise we made.”
Matt had a bad feeling about this, but
he was too startled by what Ton-Ton
was doing now to ask more questions.
The boy had clamped the jaws of the
shrimp harvester on to a single wire in
the fence. He backed up slowly, pulling
the wire with a horrible, grinding,
screeching noise until snap! The wire
parted. Ton-Ton attacked another wire,
and another. The more he broke, the
easier it was to unthread the fence, and
soon he’d created a hole big enough to
drive through.
Matt watched the top of the fence
anxiously. The one wire they had to
worry about was still up there, snapping
and humming in the breeze. As long as
Ton-Ton didn’t disturb its insulation,
they would be safe.
“How do you feel?” Matt asked
Chacho.
“I don’t know,” said the boy in a faint
voice. “I’m not sure what’s wrong. I
tried to reach you last night, but the
bones came down so hard, I could
hardly breathe. It was like being
squeezed under a rock.” He paused,
seeming too weak to go on.
“Does your chest hurt?” said Matt.
Now he understood why Chacho had
never answered him.
“A bit. But I don’t think I broke
anything. Its just… I can’t seem to get
enough air.”
“Don’t talk,” Matt said. “We’ll take
you to a doctor as soon as we get to San
Luis.” He was deeply worried, but he
didn’t understand what was wrong
either.
Ton-Ton drove through the opening
he’d created and helped Matt carry
Chacho to the tank. The next part of the
trip was much better. A road paralleled
the fence, and the shrimp harvester was
able to move much faster. Now and then
Ton-Ton stopped to stretch his legs and
to let Fidelito run off some of his energy.
“If you, uh, jump up and down on my
seat one more time, I’m going to, uh,
beat the stuffing out of you,” he growled.
The little boy quieted down for a minute
or two.
All of them drank strawberry sodas.
Ton-Ton had a crate of them in the cab.
He took a break for lunch, producing
wonderful food the likes of which
Chacho and Fidelito had never seen.
They ate pepperoni sausages and cheese,
bottled olives, and cream crackers. And
if the food made them thirsty, it didn’t
matter because they had more strawberry
soda than they could drink. They finished
with chocolates wrapped in gold paper.
“I’m so happy, I could fly,” Fidelito
said with a contented sigh.
Matt worried about the slow,
leisurely trip they were taking. “Aren’t
you afraid the Keepers will dig their
way out?” he asked Ton-Ton.
“I told him about the salt bags,” said
Fidelito.
“They, uh, they’re asleep,” said the
older boy.
“Not after all this time,” Matt said.
“Unless—Oh, Ton-Ton! You didn’t give
them laudanum?”
“They earned it,” he said, in the same
dogged way he’d defended them in the
infirmary.
“How much?”
“Enough,” said Ton-Ton. Matt could
see he wasn’t going to supply any more
information.
“It was wonderful!” Fidelito piped
up. “Ton-Ton told us we were going to
rescue you, only we had to wait for
sunrise.”
“The harvester works on, uh, solar
energy,” said Ton-Ton.
“So Flaco checked to be sure the
Keepers were really asleep. He and the
others carried off their food, and then
they piled as many bags of salt around
the building as they could find. Flaco
said he’d wait for the supply hovercraft
to fly him to the Keepers’ Head—Head
—”
“Headquarters,” said Ton-Ton.
“Yes! And tell them what Jorge did.”
“Flaco trusts Headquarters. I don’t,”
said Ton-Ton.
“Me neither,” murmured Chacho. He
was propped against the side of the
harvester with a bottle of soda. He
seemed barely awake.
“Maybe we should hurry,” Matt said,
looking at Chacho.
“Yes,” Ton-Ton agreed.
And so the shrimp harvester ground
on until it reached the corner where the
fence turned right. The road continued
north toward a low range of hills. To the
left lay the remnants of the Gulf of
California, but presently it vanished and
was replaced with drifting sand. Whiffs
of foul-smelling air drifted over the
harvester. It was the same smell Matt
had met in the wastelands near the eejit
pens, only here it was sharper and more
alarming.
The sun was low in the west.
Shadows began to lengthen across the
desert. The shrimp harvester slowly
climbed the road through the hills, but
when it came to a pass, where the road
was entirely in shadow, it stopped.
“That’s it,” said Ton-Ton, jumping from
the cab. “That’s as far as it will go until
dawn.”
Matt helped him lift Chacho from the
tank. They laid him next to the road,
wrapped in blankets Ton-Ton had
brought. He and Matt walked to the end
of the pass and hunkered down, watching
the sun slide into a violet haze. “How
much farther is San Luis?” asked Matt.
“Three miles. Maybe four,” said Ton-
Ton. “We have to cross the Colorado
River.”
“I don’t think Chacho can wait until
morning.”
Ton-Ton continued to gaze at the
disappearing sun. It was hard to tell
what was going through his mind. “I, uh,
I followed my parents into Dreamland
over there.” He pointed at the haze.
“Jorge saved me from the dogs. I thought
he was—he was … wonderful. But he
only thought I was stupid.” Ton-Ton put
his head down.
Matt guessed he was crying, and he
didn’t want to embarrass him by
noticing. “Something like that happened
to me,” Matt said at last.
“It did?” said Ton-Ton.
“Someone I cared about more than
anyone in the world tried to kill me.”
“Wow!” said Ton-Ton. “That’s really
bad.”
They said nothing for a while. Matt
could hear Fidelito telling Chacho how
much fun it was to camp out under the
stars and how he used to do it with his
abuelita after the hurricane blew away
their house.
“I guess you and, uh, Fidelito had
better walk to San Luis,” said Ton-Ton.
“If you can find a doctor, bring him here.
If you haven’t, uh, returned by dawn, I’ll
go on.”
Ton-Ton gave Matt and Fidelito
flashlights. He supplied them with
blankets to ward off the cold and lemons
to survive the smell. “The Colorado
River’s b-bad,” he said. “It goes into,
uh, a pipe before it gets to the road, but
it’s still dangerous. Stay away from it,
Fidelito,” he warned. “Pay attention, or
I’ll, uh—”
“Beat the stuffing out of me,” the little
boy said cheerfully.
“I mean it this time,” said Ton-Ton.
35
EL DÍA DE LOS
MUERTOS
The walk downhill was easy, but Matt
found he had to stop and rest frequently.
He ached all over from his ordeal the
night before, and some of his scratches
were infected. He looked back to see
Ton-Ton watching gravely from
shadows at the top of the pass. The snout
of the shrimp harvester was just visible.
Fidelito bounced up and down,
waving the flashlight. “Do you think he
can see me?”
“I’m sure he can,” said Matt.
Sometimes Fidelito’s energy made him
feel tired.
They went on, with Fidelito asking
questions about who they were going to
see. Matt told him about María and the
Convent of Santa Clara. He didn’t know
what the convent looked like, but he
made up a description to entertain the
little boy. “It’s a castle on a hill,” he
said. “It has a tower with a red roof on
each corner. Every morning the girls
raise a flag in the garden.”
“Like the Keepers,” said Fidelito.
“Yes,” said Matt. Every morning the
Keepers lined up the boys and raised a
flag with the emblem of a beehive over
the factory. The boys recited the Five
Principles of Good Citizenship and the
Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness before trooping into the
cafeteria for plankton gruel. “This flag
has a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
The girls sing‘Buenos Días, Paloma
Blanca,’ her favorite song, and then they
have toast and honey for breakfast.”
Fidelito sighed.
Matt wondered whether the Keepers
had managed to wake up from their
drugged sleep. Were they all lying dead
like poor Furball? And would Ton-Ton
be arrested for murder? “Can the
Keepers get water in their compound?”
he asked.
“Flaco said they could drink out of the
toilet,” said Fidelito.
It’s hard but it’s fair , Matt thought
with a grim smile.
“That smell is making me sick,” said
Fidelito.
Matt lifted his head. The stench had
been growing so gradually, he hadn’t
registered it. “We must be close to the
river,” he said. He scratched the skin of
a lemon and held it to Fidelito’s nose.
“This won’t kill the smell, but it should
keep you from throwing up.”
Matt heard a gurgling, thrashing noise
somewhere to the left and shone the
flashlight at it. A wide, black ribbon of
water disappeared into a giant drain. It
glistened with oil, and here and there
shapes struggled to the surface and were
pulled down again.
“Is that a fish?” whispered Fidelito.
“I don’t think so,” Matt said, shining
the light on a long, greasy-looking
tentacle that whipped out of the flood
and struggled wildly to hang on to the
shore. “I think that’s the reason Ton-Ton
told you to stay away from the river.”
The tentacle lost the battle and
disappeared down the drain with a
horrible sucking sound.
“Let’s run,” begged the little boy.
The ground trembled as the vast river
plunged underneath the road. The smell
almost made Matt faint. Bad air. Bad
air, he thought wildly. If they passed out
here, no one would rescue them.
“Faster!” Matt gasped, but in fact it was
he who was slow. Fidelito bounded
ahead like a monkey.
They went up a rise. A slight breeze
blew the nauseous stench of the river
away, and Matt collapsed with his chest
heaving. He began to cough. He felt like
he was being strangled. Oh, no, he
thought. I can’t have an asthma attack
now. He’d been free of the illness since
he’d left Opium, but the smell of the
river had brought it back. He bent over,
trying to fill his lungs.
Fidelito frantically scratched his
lemon and held it to Mattson’s nose.
“Smell! Smell!” he cried. But it didn’t
help. Matt was drenched in sweat from
his efforts to get air. “I’ll go for help,”
shouted Fidelito into his ear, as though
Matt were deaf as well. Stop, it’s
dangerous, Matt wanted to say. But
maybe it was just as well the little boy
went on. There was nothing Matt could
do to protect him.
How much time passed, Matt couldn’t
say. The world had shrunk to a tiny patch
of road, where he struggled to stay alive.
But all at once he felt hands lift him and
an inhaler—an inhaler!— held to his
face. Matt grabbed it and breathed for
all he was worth. The attack faded. The
world began to expand again.
He saw a brown, weathered face
etched by deep wrinkles. “Look what the
river coughed up, Guapo,” said the
woman.
Guapo—a name meaning
“handsome”—hunkered by the side of
the road and gave Matt a big, almost
toothless grin. He was at least eighty
years old. “The kid picked a lousy place
to swim,” he said.
“I was joking,” said the woman.
“Nobody swims in that river and
survives. Can you walk?” she asked
Matt.
Matt got to his feet. He took a few
unsteady steps and nodded.
“Stay with us,” the woman said. “I
don’t suppose your mother’s expecting
you home tonight.”
“He’s a runaway orphan. Look at his
uniform,” said Guapo.
“You call those rags a uniform?” The
woman laughed. “Don’t worry, niño. We
won’t tell anyone. We hate the Keepers
as much as you do.”
“Chacho,” Matt gasped out.
“The little one told us about him,”
said Guapo. “Look. The ambulance is
already on its way.” He pointed up, and
Matt saw a hovercraft pass overhead.
The antigravity stirred the hair on his
arms.
With Guapo on one side and the
woman, who identified herself as his
sister Consuela, on the other, Matt made
his way along the road. He felt light-
headed. Everything seemed unreal: the
dark road, the starry sky, and the old
man and woman who guided his steps.
Presently they came to a high wall.
Consuela pressed a button, and a door
slid open to show a scene so
unexpected, Matt wondered whether he
was dreaming after all.
Inside, flanked by graceful paloverde
trees, were graves as far as Matt could
see. Each one was decorated with palm
fronds, flowers, photographs, statues,
and hundreds of glittering candles. The
candles sat in red, blue, green, yellow,
and purple glasses and looked like
fragments of rainbow dancing over the
ground.
Some of the graves had offerings of
food as well: tortillas, bowls of chili,
bottles of soda, fruit, and whole herds of
tiny donkeys, horses, and pigs made out
of pastry or sugar. On one grave was a
beautiful little cat with a pink sugar nose
and a tail curled around its feet.
Matt saw people sitting in the
shadows and speaking to one another in
quiet voices. “Where are we?” he
murmured.
“A cemetery, chico” said Consuela.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one?”
Not like this, Matt thought. The
Alacráns were buried in a marble
mausoleum not far from the hospital. It
was the size of a house and decorated
with so many angels, it looked like a
convention of them. You could see
through the front door to what appeared
to be chests of drawers on either side.
The name of a departed Alacrán was
inscribed on each long drawer. Matt
guessed you could slide them out like the
ones in his room, where Celia packed
his shirts and socks.
The eejits, of course, were buried in
mass graves out in the desert. Tarn Lin
said their resting places were
impossible to distinguish from landfill.
“This looks like a—a party,” Matt
faltered.
“ I t is” cried Fidelito, suddenly
appearing from amid a group of women
who were unpacking picnic baskets.
“We’re so lucky! Of all the days we
could’ve come, we picked El Día de los
Muertos, the Day of the Dead. It’s my
favorite holiday in the whole year!” He
munched on a sandwich.
Matt couldn’t understand it. Celia had
celebrated every holiday on the
calendar, but never had she mentioned
this one. She put out shoes for the Wise
Men to leave gifts at Christmas. She
colored eggs for Easter. She served
roast turkey on Thanksgiv-ing and heart-
shaped cakes on Saint Valentine’s Day.
S h e had special ceremonies for San
Mateo, Matt’s patron saint, and for her
own Santa Cecilia. And of course there
was El Patrón’s birthday party. But
never, never, never had anyone dreamed
of throwing a party for Death!
Yet here Matt saw, on grave after
grave, statues of skeletons playing
guitars or dancing or driving around in
little plastic hovercars. Skeleton mothers
took skeleton children for walks.
Skeleton brides married skeleton
grooms. Skeletons dogs sniffed
lampposts, and skeleton horses galloped
with Death riding on their backs.
And now Matt became aware of an
odor. The foul stench of the river was
kept away by the wall, but the air was
full of another scent that made every
nerve in Matts body tighten with alarm.
It smelled like Felicia! It was as though
her ghost hovered before him, breathing
the heavy fumes of whiskey into his face.
He sat down, suddenly dizzy.
“Are you sick?” asked Fidelito.
“Guapo, find another inhaler in my
bag,” said Consuela.
“No … no … I’m all right,” said
Matt. “The smell here reminded me of
something.”
“It’s only the copal incense we burn
for the dead,” Consuela said. “Maybe it
reminds you of your mamá or papá, but
you mustn’t be unhappy. Tonight is when
we welcome them back, to let them see
how we’re doing and to offer them their
favorite foods.”
“They … eat?” Matt looked at the
tamales, bowls of chili, and loaves of
bread decorated with pink sugar.
“Not as we do, darling. They like to
smell things,” said Consuela. “That’s
why we serve so many foods with a
good odor.”
“Mi abuelita said they come back as
doves or mice. She said I mustn’t chase
anything away if it wants to eat,” said
Fidelito.
“That’s also true,” said Consuela,
putting her arm around the little boy.
Matt thought about the Alacráns in
their marble mausoleum. Perhaps El
Patrón was there—in the top drawer, of
course. Then Matt remembered Celia
saying El Patrón wanted to be buried in
an underground storeroom with all his
birthday presents. Was anyone putting
out food for him tonight? Had Celia
prepared tamales and bowls of menudo?
But Celia was hiding in the stables. And
Mr. Alacrán wouldn’t put out so much as
a single chili bean because he hated El
Patrón.
Matt blinked away tears. “How can
anyone celebrate death?”
“Because it’s part of us,” Consuela
said softly.
“Mi abuelita said I mustn’t be afraid
of skeletons because I carry my own
around inside,” said Fidelito. “She told
me to feel my ribs and make friends with
them.”
“Your grandmother was very wise,”
said Consuela.
“I’m off to town now for the fiesta,”
said Guapo, who had put on a handsome
black sombrero and slung a guitar over
his shoulder. “Do you kids want me to
drop you off anywhere?”
Consuela laughed. “You old rogue!
You only want to chase women.”
“I don’t have to chase anyone,” the
old man replied haughtily.
“Come home in one piece, Guapito. I
worry about you.” She kissed him and
straightened the sombrero on his head.
“What about it, kids? Shall I take you
to see Chacho? He’s in the hospital at
the Convent of Santa Clara.”
“That’s where we were going!”
Fidelito cried.
“What about the Keepers?” Matt said.
“They stay off the streets when there’s
a party. Too much fun,” said Consuela.
“But just in case …” She fished around
in her large bag and brought out a pair of
masks. “I was saving these for my
grandchildren, but I’ll get them
something else.” She fitted a mask over
Fidelito’s face.
Matt felt a strange tightening in his
chest when he saw the skull staring back
at him from Fidelito’s skinny body. “Put
yours on too,” urged the little boy. Matt
couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes
off Fidelito’s face.
“I’ve got one of my own,” said
Guapo, slipping on his mask.
“That’s an improvement, believe me,”
said Consuela. Guapo capered around,
his black sombrero bobbing over his
skullface. Matt knew they were trying to
cheer him up, but he felt only horror.
“Listen, mi vida,” said Consuela.
Matt flinched at the sound of his old
name. “I don’t know what bad things
happened to you, but it’s a matter of
safety to wear the mask now. The
Keepers won’t bother you if you’re
wearing a costume.”
Matt saw the wisdom of her
suggestion. Very reluctantly, he pulled
the mask over his head. It fitted him like
a second skin, with holes for his eyes,
nose, and mouth. It felt like being buried
alive, and he had to struggle against
panic. He took a deep breath and willed
the horror away.
“Muchas gracias” he said.
“De nada” Consuela replied.
36
THE CASTLE ON THE
HILL
As he followed Guapo, Matt noticed
that all the graves were dotted with
golden flowers. When they reached the
road, he saw a trail of their bright petals
leading from the cemetery.
“What’s that?” he whispered to
Fidelito. “Cempasúchil flowers. For the
dead to find their way back home.”
Matt couldn’t help feeling a chill as
they trod the delicate petals into the dust.
The old man had a small, personal
hovercar, and it took a while for him to
coax it into the air. Even then, it hovered
only a few feet off the ground. “Cheap
antigrav,” muttered Guapo, fussing with
dials and buttons. “I got it at a discount.
I’m sure it’s mixed with electrons.”
The car left the graveyard behind and
came to the first houses. All had paths of
flowers to their doors. What struck Matt
was how beautiful the houses were.
They didn’t look at all like the hovels
he’d seen on TV. They were made of a
shining material molded into fantastic
shapes. Some were like small castles,
while others looked like ships or space
stations, and still others grew like trees,
with fanciful balconies and rooftop
gardens.
As Guapo’s hovercar went by,
holographic displays were triggered in
the yards. Skeletons zoomed around on
rockets. A skeleton wedding, complete
with priest and flower girls, marched
across a lawn. Fidelito leaned out the
window and tried to touch them.
In the distance Matt heard music and
the sputter of fireworks. Fidelito pointed
at a shower of red and green sparks in
the sky. Soon the road became crowded
with bands of partygoers until Guapo
could hardly move at all. In a good
hovercar he could have soared over
people’s heads. The best he could
manage was to blare his horn and push
his way through the mob. There was so
much music and shouting, no one paid
attention to the horn.
Matt watched the stream of people in
wonder. In all his life he’d never seen so
many. They sang and danced. They
hoisted children onto their shoulders to
see the fireworks painting the skies.
They playfully rocked the hovercar until
Guapo yelled at them. And the costumes!
Gorillas, cowboys, and astronauts
mobbed the food stalls. Zorro cracked
his whip at a trio of space aliens ahead
of him in line. La Llorona and the
chupacabras waltzed by with bottles of
beer. But most of the people were
dressed like skeletons.
Matt grabbed Guapos shoulder and
cried, “Who’s that?”
The old man glanced at the figure in a
black-and-silver suit. “Him? That’s only
the Vampire of Dreamland.” And Matt
saw a line of brown-clad, skull-faced
eejits shuffling after a terrifyingly real El
Patrón. Matt shrank into his seat. He had
to breathe deeply to overcome his shock.
He felt a wrenching sense of loss, which
didn’t make any sense at all. If El Patrón
had lived, he—Matt—would be dead.
“Keepers,” whispered Fidelito. Matt
saw the group of men standing by the
side of the road. They scowled at the
revelers as if to say, All of you are
drones, and when winter comes, the
worker bees will throw you into the
snow to die. “I’m going to show them the
map of the world,” announced Fidelito,
but Matt grabbed him and held him
down.
“You kids stop wrestling back there,”
said Guapo. “You’re making the
magnetic coils overheat.”
At last they passed through the
seething fiesta. The carnival booths fell
behind, the smell of fried meat and beer
died away, and they came to the base of
a hill. Above them wound a lovely and
peaceful lane lined with pomegranate
trees. At intervals globes of burning gas
cast a white-hot light over the ground.
“The hovercar can’t make it up there,”
said Guapo, “but it isn’t far to the top.
Give my best to the Sisters at the
hospital. They stitched me up after the
last fiesta and threw in a free lecture to
boot.” The old man gave Matt a wolfish
grin.
Matt was sorry to see him go. He
hadn’t known Guapo and Consuela long,
but he liked them very much. He
removed his mask and helped Fidelito
do the same.
“Is that where María lives?” asked the
little boy, craning his neck to see the top
of the hill.
Matt’s heart sank. He desperately
wanted to find María. He’d been
thinking of little else for weeks. But
would she want to see him? Hadn’t she
merely befriended him out of pity? Matt
knew he’d been, quite literally, an
underdog, and María couldn’t resist a
crusade.
At least he’d been an appealing
underdog then. Now his face was
covered with acne. His body was
scarred with welts from Jorge’s cane, as
well as sores from the scratches he’d got
in the boneyard. His clothes were filthy.
He reeked of rotten shrimp. Would
María be so embarrassed by his
appearance that she’d slam the door in
his face?
“That’s where she lives,” he told
Fidelito.
“I wonder if they’re having a party,”
said Fidelito.
Me too, thought Matt as they started
up the steep hill. He imagined the
convent girls dressed in fine clothes,
like the bridesmaids at Emilia’s
wedding. He combed his hair with his
fingers and felt the heavy coating of sand
and salt. If Fidelito was anything to go
by—and the little boy was at least cute
in a basic sort of way—the two of them
were as attractive as a pair of mangy
coyotes.
“It is a castle,” said Fidelito in awe.
The white walls and towers of the
Convent of Santa Clara rose out of
bougainvillea hedges dense with violet
and crimson flowers. The same bright
lights that bordered the winding path
hung in the air over the walls. The
building was made of the same shining
substance as the houses in San Luis. Matt
didn’t know what it was, but it
shimmered like silk.
“They have toast and honey for
breakfast,” murmured Fidelito. “I
wonder if they’ll give us some.”
“First we have to find the door,” said
Matt. They followed a flagstone path
around the building. It showed them
windows high in the walls, but no doors.
“This has to go somewhere,” Matt said.
At that instant lights came on and the
wall opened, as though someone had
drawn aside a curtain. They saw an
archway leading to a lighted courtyard.
Matt took a deep breath and put his hand
on Fidelito’s shoulder.
The little boy was trembling. “Is it
magic?” he whispered.
“A hologram,” said Matt. “It’s part of
the security system. It makes the wall
look solid from a distance, but once you
get beyond the projectors”—he pointed
at the cameras in the trees—“the
hologram goes away.”
“Is it okay? I mean, if it turns on
again, will we be trapped inside?”
Matt smiled. “It’s perfectly safe. I’ve
seen this before where I—where I used
to live.”
Fidelito looked up at him. “Was that
when you were a zombie?”
“Oh brother!” Matt said. “Don’t tell
me you believed Jorge’s lies?”
“Of course not,” said the little boy,
but Matt noticed he seemed relieved.
Matt led Fidelito through the archway
and past a white marble statue of Saint
Francis feeding the doves. On the far
side they came to a hallway. Nurses and
orderlies ran here and there with
bandages and medicines. The beds lining
the hallway were full of injured people,
and because most of the people were in
costume, it looked like the beds were
occupied by skeletons.
“What are you doing here?” cried a
flustered nurse, bumping into the two
boys.
“Please. We came to see Chacho,”
said Matt.
“And María,” added Fidelito.
“There’s a hundred Marías in here
tonight,” said the nurse. “It happens
every year with that cursed fiesta. All
those people drinking and picking fights.
They should outlaw it … But Chacho—”
He stopped and looked at the boys
closely. “I know of only one Chacho,
and he’s in intensive care. You wouldn’t
be boys from the same orphanage?”
“We might be,” Matt said cautiously.
The nurse lowered his voice. “You’d
better be careful. Keepers are nosing
around. It seems there was a mutiny at
the saltworks.”
“How’s Chacho?” asked Fidelito.
“Not so good. Listen, I’ll take you
there a private way.” The nurse opened
a door to a dimly lit passage that seemed
to be used for storage. Matt saw piles of
bedding and boxes of equipment as they
made their way through. “I used to be an
orphan myself,” the nurse said. “Even
now, I wake up in a cold sweat reciting
the Five Principles of Good Citizenship
and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right-
Mindfulness.”
They came out to another, deserted
hallway. “This is the recovery wing,”
explained the nurse. “Here’s where the
Sisters watch over the long-term
patients. Chacho is in the last room on
the right. If he’s sleeping, don’t wake
him.” The nurse left them and went back
to his duties.
Matt heard voices coming from the
end of the hall. Fidelito ran ahead.
“Chacho!” he yelled.
“Don’t wake him!” said Matt. But it
hardly mattered how much noise the
little boy made because the people in the
room were shouting even louder. Matt
saw a pair of Sisters guarding a bed.
Facing them were two Keepers, and next
to them, trussed up like a lumpy package
on the floor, was Ton-Ton. Ton-Ton
mouthed the word run.
“If you move him, he’ll die,” cried
one of the Sisters.
“We’ll do what we like, Sister Inéz,”
a Keeper snarled. Matt instantly
recognized the voice. It was Carlos, and
the other man, to go by the cast on his
arm, was Jorge. “These boys have tried
to commit murder—do you understand?”
said Carlos.
“I understand that some of your men
suffered an injury to their pride,” Sister
Inéz said. “Last I heard, no one ever
died of humiliation. But if Chacho’s
moved, it will be murder. I can’t allow
it.”
“Then we’ll take him without your
permission,” said Carlos. Matt saw
Sister Inéz go pale, but she didn’t back
down.
“You’ll have to go through us,” she
said.
“And us,” said Matt. The Keepers
whirled around.
“It’s that damned aristocrat!” shouted
Jorge. He made a grab for Matt, but
having only one good arm, he stumbled
and fell on top of Ton-Ton. Ton-Ton
immediately butted his head into Jorge’s
side.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Sister Inéz. “This
is a convent. You aren’t allowed to use
violence.”
“Tell them that!” shouted Matt, who
was trying to kick Carlos’s feet out from
under him. The Keeper had hurled
himself into the fight when Jorge went
down. Matt hadn’t a hope of winning. He
was badly weakened by his ordeal, and
besides, the man outweighed him by fifty
pounds. But Matt had had enough of
running and hiding. He wasn’t going to
let the Keepers win easily. They were
fat toads that Tarm Lin wouldn’t have
thought twice about blowing up. The
blood sang in Matt’s ears.
“Stop this at once!” came a sharp
voice that cut through the red fog that had
enveloped Matt’s mind. He felt Carlos’s
hands let go. He felt himself falling to
his knees. He heard Fidelito sobbing.
“This is a disgrace!” said the sharp
voice.
Matt looked up. It would have been
funny if the situation hadn’t been so dire.
Sister Inéz was frozen with her hands
grasping Carlos’s hair. The other Sister
had the neck of Jorge’s shirt bunched up
in her fists, and Jorge was in mid-kick
toward Ton-Ton’s stomach. Fidelito had
thrown himself across Chacho, as though
his skinny body could provide
protection. And poor Chacho merely
stared, as though he’d seen a dragon
appear in the doorway.
Matt saw a small, but extremely
fierce-looking woman with her hands on
her hips. She wore a black dress, and
her black hair was braided and pinned
on top of her head in a kind of crown.
She was little, but everything about her
proclaimed that she was used to being
obeyed and anyone who didn’t was
going to regret it.
“D-Doña Esperanza,” stammered
Sister Inéz. Matt’s mouth dropped open.
It was María’s mother! He recognized
her from the portrait, although she was
older than he’d expected.
“Stand up, all of you,” ordered Doña
Esperanza. Carlos, Jorge, the two
Sisters, Fidelito, and Matt all struggled
to their feet. Even Ton-Ton tried to sit
up straight. “I want an explanation for
this,” said Esperanza.
Then everyone tried to talk at once,
and she crisply told them to shut up until
she called on them. She looked at each
person in the room, her eyes softening
only when she saw Chacho. “You!” she
said, pointing at Ton-Ton. “You tell me
the reason for this disgusting,
unbelievable display of brutishness.”
And Ton-Ton, without a single
misspoken word, told the whole story—
from the time Fidelito was condemned to
caning, to when Matt and Chacho were
thrown into the boneyard, to when the
orphans rose as an avenging army, to
when TonTon drove the shrimp
harvester, to when he and Chacho were
finally airlifted to the hospital.
Esperanza had scared the stuttering right
out of him.
When Ton-Ton was finished, no one
said a word. The silence stretched on
and on. Matt wanted to back up Ton-
Ton’s story, but one look at those fierce
black eyes told him it was better to stay
quiet.
“Please forgive me for putting forth
my opinion, Doña Esperanza,” Jorge
said at last. “I must explain that this boy
is mentally retarded. I rescued him from
the Farm Patrol years ago, but he’s never
shown any intelligence.”
“He sounds intelligent to me,” said
Esperanza.
“He parrots anything anyone tells him.
Most of the time he can hardly string a
sentence together.”
“I c-can s-so,” muttered Ton-Ton.
Esperanza silenced him with a frown.
She turned again to Jorge. “Are you
saying the canings never happened?”
“Of course they didn’t,” said the
Keeper. “We may keep a boy on short
rations for a day if he misbehaves, but
we never use physical punishment. It’s
against everything the Keepers believe
in.”
“I see,” said Esperanza. “And the
boneyard is a myth, too.”
“You know how it is,” Jorge said
smoothly. “Boys like to scare one
another with stories after dark. They talk
about vampires and the chupacabras.
It’s natural, but sometimes it gets out of
hand.”
Matt’s heart sank. Esperanza nodded
her head as if she agreed with Jorge:
Boys did tell one another scary stories.
They did make things up. But then she
said, “The warehouse full of laudanum
is also a myth, I suppose?”
Jorge flinched. “Laudanum?”
“The Aztlán police have wondered
for a long time how drugs were being
distributed in this country. They were
extremely interested in what they found
at the saltworks.”
“That’s a vicious lie! Someone’s
trying to undermine the reputation of the
Keepers!” cried Carlos. “Rumors like
that are spread by idiots who want
orphans to lie around like pampered
house cats. We know they’re squalid
little parasites until they’re reeducated
into good citizens. If any laudanum was
found, it was planted there by the
police!”
“Fine. Then you won’t mind taking a
drug test,” said Esperanza. She stepped
aside, and suddenly the doorway
swarmed with men in blue uniforms.
They must have been waiting just out of
sight. Jorge and Carlos looked stunned
as they were led away.
“I’ve been waiting for this a long
time,” said Esperanza, dusting off her
hands as though she’d just finished a
chore. “We knew the Keepers were
trafficking drugs, but we had no legal
way to get a search warrant until Ton-
Ton told us what he saw at the Keepers’
compound.” She borrowed scissors from
Sister Inéz and began snipping off the
duct tape binding the boy.
“Nobody, uh, ever listened to me
before,” said Ton-Ton.
“You had no one you could tell about
the dreadful way you were treated,” said
Sister Inéz. “Imagine living on plankton
all those years! We use it only for
animal feed.”
Matt was dazed by the rapid change in
his fortunes. Things had been going
wrong for so long, it was hard to believe
they might go right at last.
“Can we stay with Chacho?” Fidelito
asked shyly.
“We’ll work something out,” said
Sister Inéz. “To begin with, I’m sure
you’d like a bath.” The women laughed,
and Esperanza looked almost friendly.
They were interrupted by a shriek. A
girl in a white party dress streaked
through the door and threw herself into
Matt’s arms. “Oh, Mother! Oh, Mother!
It’s Matt! He’s alive! He’s here!”
“Good heavens, María,” said
Esperanza. “We’ll never get the smell of
shrimp out of that dress if you don’t
show a little restraint.”
37
HOMECOMING
Matt reveled in the clean white sheets,
the soft pillows, the flower-scented air
drifting in from the garden. Sister Inéz
had ordered him to bed after looking at
the sores on his body. Fidelito and Ton-
Ton were housed at a boarding school
run by the convent, but they visited Matt
and Chacho every day.
Poor Chacho, thought Matt. He barely
noticed when anyone visited him. He
drifted in and out of dreams, sometimes
calling for his father and sometimes
raving about bats. Sister Inéz said his
mind needed time to recover from his
terrible ordeal. He had breathed far less
than was good for him under the heavy
whale bones. His body had been starved
of oxygen, and the pressure had cracked
several of his ribs.
The best part of the day for Matt was
when María visited. He was content to
listen, while she never ran out of things
to say. She talked about stray cats she
had rescued or how she had made a
mistake and put salt into a cake batter
instead of sugar. María’s life was full of
drama. A flower opening in the garden
and a butterfly lighting on a window
were causes for excitement. Through her
eyes, Matt saw the world as an infinitely
hopeful place.
Now Matt watched the door eagerly
because he heard María’s voice in the
hall, but he was disappointed to see both
her and her mother. Esperanza was
dressed in steel gray. She reminded Matt
of one of the guided missiles El Patrón
used to get for his birthday.
“I brought you some guavas,” said
María, placing a basket on the bedside
table. “Sister Inéz says they’re full of
vitamin C. She says you need them to
clear up your skin condition.”
Matt winced. He knew his acne was
horrible. Sister Inéz said it was caused
by pollution in the water the Keepers
used to grow plankton.
“You look healthy,” said Esperanza.
“Thank you,” Matt said. He didn’t
trust her.
“Healthy enough to get up.”
“Oh, Mother! He needs at least
another week in bed,” said María.
“You will not turn this young man into
one of your invalids,” Esperanza told
her daughter. “I’ve had quite enough of
three-legged cats and fish that float
upside down. Matt is young and
resilient. And he has a very important
job to do.”
Uh oh, Matt thought. What was
Esperanza up to now?
“ We are terribly worried,” María
admitted.
“We’re more than worried,”
Esperanza said in her relentless way.
“Something has gone wrong in Opium—
not that anything was ever right in that
godforsaken wasteland. But El Patrón at
least had ties with the outside world. No
one has heard a word from there since
the day he died.”
“Emilia is still in Opium,” María
explained, “and so is Dada. I’m still
angry at them for how they treated you,
but I don’t want anything—anything bad
to happen to them.” Her eyes filled with
tears.
Esperanza made an exasperated
sound. “It wouldn’t bother me a bit if
something happened to your dada. Oh,
do stop brimming over like a fountain,
María. It’s a silly habit and it clouds
your wits. Your father is an evil man.”
“I can’t help it.” María sniffled. Matt
handed her one of his tissues. He
privately agreed with Esperanza, but his
heart was on María’s side.
“Opium is in a state of lockdown,”
said Esperanza. “I can think of only three
times that’s happened in the past one
hundred years. It means that nothing is
allowed to enter or leave the country.”
“Can’t we just wait until they decide
to contact us?” said Matt.
“The other lockdowns lasted a few
hours. This one’s gone on for three
months.”
Matt realized what this meant.
Shipments of opium had to go out every
day to keep money moving around the
empire. Dealers in Africa, Asia, and
Europe must be clamoring for their
supplies. MacGregor and the other
Farmers couldn’t cover the shortfall.
They had put most of their land to crops
that produced cocaine and hashish.
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
Matt said. Esperanza smiled and he
knew he’d walked into a trap.
“All incoming hovercrafts have to be
cleared by the security system,” she
said. “The pilot places his hand on an
identity plate in the cockpit. His
fingerprints and DNA signature are
beamed to the ground. If these are
cleared, the ship is allowed to land. If
not—”
“It’s blown out of the sky,” said
María. “Mother, this plan is awful.”
“During a lockdown,” Esperanza went
on, ignoring her daughter, “no ships are
cleared—with one exception: El
Patrón’s signature overrides
everything.”
Matt understood at once: His
fingerprints and DNA were the same as
El Patrón’s. “How do you know the
system hasn’t been changed?”
“I don’t,” said Esperanza. “I’m
counting on the Alacráns to have
forgotten about the override. They must
be in some kind of trouble, or they
wouldn’t have sealed themselves off.”
What kind of trouble? Matt thought.
Could the eejits have revolted, or could
the Farm Patrol have taken over?
Perhaps Mr. Alacrán was locked in a
power struggle with Steven and Benito.
“The way I see it,” he said, “I’ll get
blown out of the sky. If I do manage to
survive, the Alacráns will have me put
to sleep like an old dog. I’m a clone, in
case you’ve forgotten. I’m livestock.”
María flinched. Matt didn’t care. Let
her understand what they were asking of
him. He didn’t care whether Emilia and
her dada were safe. But then he heard
María choke back a sob.
“Oh, very well!” he said angrily. “I’m
no good for spare parts anymore. You
might as well throw me away on this.”
“I don’t want to throw you away,”
María said, weeping.
“Let’s all take a deep breath and start
over,” said Esperanza. “First of all,
Matt, you aren’t a clone.”
Matt was so startled, he sat straight up
in bed.
“Oh, you were a clone. There’s no
mistake about that. But we’re talking
about international law now.” Esperanza
started pacing around the room as though
she were lecturing a class. “International
law is my specialty. In the first place,
clones shouldn’t exist.”
“Fat lot of good that does me,” said
Matt.
“But if they do exist, they’re
livestock, as you say. That makes it
possible for them to be slaughtered like
chickens or cattle.”
María moaned and put her head down
on the bed.
“You can’t have two versions of the
same person at the same time,”
Esperanza went on. “One of them—the
copy—has to be declared an unperson.
But when the original dies, the copy
takes his place.”
“What … does that mean?” Matt said.
“It means you really are El Patrón.
You have his body and his identity. You
own everything he owned and rule
everything he ruled. It means you’re the
new Master of Opium.”
María raised her head. “Matt’s
human?”
“He always was,” her mother replied.
“The law is a wicked fiction to make it
possible to use clones for transplants.
But bad law or not, we’re going to use it
now. If you survive the landing, Matt,
I’ll do everything in my power to make
you the new reigning drug lord. I have
the backing of the Aztlán and U.S.
governments on this. Only you must
promise me that once you’re in control,
you’ll destroy the opium empire and tear
down the barrier that has kept Aztlán and
the United States apart for so long.”
Matt stared at the small, fierce woman
as he tried to understand the sudden shift
in his fortunes. He guessed that
Esperanza cared less about her
daughters than her desire to destroy
Opium. She’d gone off without a
backward glance when María was only
five. In all the years since, she’d never
contacted her. It was only when María
made the first move that Esperanza
returned and proceeded to order
everyone around.
Matt thought she would easily
sacrifice him to realize her goal. But
how could he refuse after the terrible
suffering El Patrón had caused? He
understood the full extent of it now. It
wasn’t only the drug addicts throughout
the world or the Illegals doomed to
slavery. It was their orphaned children
as well. You could even say the old man
was responsible for the Keepers. If Matt
had become El Patrón, then he’d gotten
the whole package: wealth, power …
and the evil that created it.
“I promise,” he said.
The hovercraft trembled as it was
scanned by beacons from the ground.
Matt glanced at the pilot. The man’s face
was grim. “When the red light goes on,
press your right hand on the identity
plate,” he said. WARNING! GROUND ARTILLERY
DEPLOYED, flashed a panel over the
controls.
They’ll shoot first and ask questions
later, thought Matt. He carried messages
from the Aztlán and U.S. presidents, but
they wouldn’t do much good if he got
blown out of the sky.
“There’s the signal!” cried the pilot.
The identity plate lit up. Matt
slammed his hand down. He felt the
tingling he’d noticed when he’d pressed
the glowing scorpion outside the secret
passage in the mansion. The red light
faded, and the panel turned a welcoming
green.
“You did it, sir! Well done!” The
pilot began to bleed off antigravity in
preparation for landing. Matt felt a glow
of happiness. The man had called him
“sir”!
Matt watched anxiously through the
window. He saw the estancia as he’d
never seen it before. The water
purification plant lay far to the east, and
the little church Celia visited—could
she still visit as an eejit?—was to the
west. In between were storehouses, drug
purification labs, and a factory where
food pellets for the eejits were made.
Slightly to the north was the gray,
featureless hospital. Even from here, it
looked sinister. Next to it was the
mausoleum where the Alacráns slept in
their marble drawers.
The swimming pool flashed with
sunlight as they passed over. Matt
searched the grounds for people. He saw
eejits crouching by a lawn. He saw
maids hanging out wash, and someone
seemed to be repairing a roof. No one
looked up. No one showed the slightest
interest in the hovercraft that was now
descending to the ground.
“Where’s the welcoming committee?”
he murmured. A platoon of bodyguards
always ran out to greet visitors.
The ship bumped gently to a landing.
“Do you need a weapon, sir?” asked the
pilot, handing him a gun. Matt looked at
it with dismay. Such guns had been used
by the Farm Patrol to stun—and kill—
the parents of Chacho, Flaco, Ton-Ton,
and the other orphans.
“It’s probably better to appear
friendly,” he said, handing the weapon
back.
“I’ll remain here in liftoff mode, in
case you want to leave quickly,” the
pilot said.
Matt opened the door and climbed
down. The landing field was empty. The
only sounds were of birds, fountains,
and—briefly—the hammer of the man
fixing the roof.
Matt followed a winding path through
the gardens. His job was to confront the
Alacráns and end the lockdown. He
could disable the lockdown system
himself—when he found it. Tam Lin or
Daft Donald would know its location.
Then Esperanza and top officials from
both countries on the border would
descend on Opium and try to install Matt
as leader.
I had better odds for survival in the
boneyard, he thought. He saw a peacock
strut across a lawn. A mob of red-
winged blackbirds shrieked at one
another from a crowded tree. A winged
baby watched him from atop a fountain.
Matt’s nerves were raw. Any minute
now Mr. Alacrán would stride out of the
house and shout, Take this creature
away! Dispose of it at once! Memories
threatened to overwhelm him. He didn’t
know what he’d do if he saw Celia.
Matt went up the broad steps leading
to the salon. It was there that El Patrón
had introduced him to the family so long
ago. It was there that El Viejo had lain
like a starved bird in his coffin and
Emilia, surrounded by eejit flower girls,
had married Steven. It was as though the
great hall thronged with ghosts. They
hovered behind the white, marble
pillars. They breathed over the dark
pond covered with water lilies. Matt
saw an ancient fish rise from the depths
to look at him with a round, yellow eye.
Matt froze. Someone was playing a
piano. The person was certainly skilled,
but he—or she—was attacking the music
with such ferocity that it bordered on
madness. Matt raced toward the sound.
The noise rolled like a tidal wave out of
the music room, and he had to cover his
ears.
“Stop!” he yelled. But the person
didn’t react. Matt crossed the room and
grabbed the man’s arm.
Mr. Ortega spun around. He took one
look and fled. Matt heard his footsteps
disappear down the hall. “I wasn’t that
bad a student,” Matt murmured. But of
course Mr. Ortega had thought he was
dead. He was probably crying alarm
from one end of the house to the other.
Now it was only a matter of time before
someone showed up.
Matt sat down. His hands were
callused from the work he’d done at the
salt factory, and he was afraid the hard
labor had made his fingers clumsy. But
as he began the Adagio from
Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5, the
awkwardness fell away. The music
swelled through his body, transporting
him from the horrors of the past few
months. He felt as light as a hawk
coasting the upper air over the oasis. He
played until he felt a hand on his
shoulder.
Matt turned, still in a daze of music,
and saw Celia dressed in the flowered
dress he remembered so well. “Mi
hijo!” she cried, gathering him into a
ferocious bear hug. “Oh, my darling,
you’re so thin! What happened to you in
all this time? How did you get back?
What’s wrong with your face? It’s so
thin and—and—”
“Covered with zits,” said Matt,
struggling to catch his breath.
“Ah, well, it’s part of growing up,”
declared Celia. “They’ll go away with
the right food.” She held him at arm’s
length to look at him. “I’m sure you’re
taller.”
“Are you okay?” said Matt. Her
sudden appearance shocked him. He was
afraid of bursting into tears.
“Of course. But you took about five
years off Mr. Ortega’s life.”
“How did you—I mean, Tam Lin said
you had to hide …”
Matt couldn’t trust his voice enough to
say any more.
“Tam Lin. Oh, my.” Celia suddenly
looked very tired. “We’ve been in
lockdown for months and couldn’t send
out a message.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Alacrán or Steven
do something?” said Matt.
“You’d better come with me.” Celia
led Matt through the halls, and once
again he was struck by how silent
everything was.
They came to the kitchen, and at last
Matt saw something reassuringly normal.
Two undercooks were kneading bread,
and a maid was slicing vegetables.
Strings of garlic and chiles hung from the
ceiling. The odor of roast chicken
wafted over him from the big, wood-
fired oven.
Mr. Ortega and Daft Donald were
sitting at a table with cups of coffee and
two laptop computers. “See? I wasn’t
making it up,” said Mr. Ortega. Daft
Donald typed something onto his
computer. “I was not running around like
Chicken Little,” said Mr. Ortega,
reading his screen. “You’d be upset too
if a ghost grabbed your shoulder.”
Daft Donald smiled.
Matt stared at them. He’d never
thought of the two men outside their
duties as music teacher and bodyguard.
He’d never tried to communicate with
them, and besides, he’d always assumed
Daft Donald wasn’t bright.
“I’d better begin,” sighed Celia. She
settled Matt between the two men and
fetched him a mug of hot cocoa. The
odor brought back memories so
profound, the room wavered before his
eyes. For an instant Matt was in the little
house in the poppy fields. A storm raged
outside, but in the house it was warm
and safe. Then the scene faded, and he
was back in the kitchen.
“You remember what I said about El
Patrón never letting anything go?” Celia
began. Matt nodded. “Tam Lin used to
say that things—and people—became
part of El Patrón’s dragon hoard.”
Used to say, Matt thought with a chill.
What did that mean?
“That’s why he wouldn’t let Felicia
run away and why he kept Tom close to
him, although he hated the boy. We all
belonged to him—the Alacràns, the
bodyguards, the doctors, me, Tam Lin,
and you. Most of all, you.”
38
THE HOUSE OF
ETERNITY
Matt saw that last evening in his
mind’s eye as Celia and the others told
the story. When she faltered, Daft
Donald would take up the narrative on
his computer. Sometimes Mr. Ortega
would burst in with an opinion.
While he, Matt, was lying under the
stars at the oasis, Tam Lin and everyone
else had been called to the wake. Celia
was missing because she was supposed
to be an eejit. Mr. Ortega was missing
because he hadn’t heard about it.
Besides, he’d lived such a quiet
existence for so many years that
everyone had forgotten about him.
The Farm Patrol stood at attention in
the gathering dusk. Six bodyguards,
including Tam Lin and Daft Donald,
carried the coffin from the hospital to the
desert beyond the mausoleum. One man
alone could have carried El Patrón, but
the coffin was so encrusted with gold
that six could barely lift it.
They walked slowly as a choir of
eejit children sang the “Humming
Chorus” from the opera Madama
Butterfly. It was one of El Patrón’s
favorite pieces, and the eejits’ voices
were high and sweet.
“I heard it from the stables,” said
Celia, wiping her eyes. “He was an evil
man, but the music would have broken
your heart.”
A door had been opened in the
ground. A ramp led deep down into a
vast underground chamber lit by candles.
It was only the first of many chambers
leading off under the earth. Daft Donald
said he didn’t know how many there
were.
The coffin was a wonder, Daft
Donald wrote on his computer. It had an
image of El Patrón on the lid, like the
portrait of an Egyptian pharaoh. El
Patrón looked about twenty-five. You
couldn’t recognize him, except—and
here Daft Donald glanced up—that he
looked a great deal like Matt.
Matt felt cold.
Everyone went down into the
chamber, the bodyguard continued
typing, which was filled with drifts of
gold coins. You had to wade through
them like sand on a beach. Daft Donald
saw some of the bodyguards scoop some
up and hide them in their pockets. The
priest performed the funeral rites. Then
the eejits and Farm Patrol were sent
away. It was time for the wake.
“Which is just another name for a
party,” interrupted Mr. Ortega. “You
celebrate the dead man’s life—or in this
case, his eight lives. You were supposed
to be the ninth, Matt.”
Matt felt even colder.
Everyone was in a fine mood, what
with the food and wine, wrote Daft
Donald. Everyone talked about what an
old beast El Patrón was and how they
were glad he was dead.
It had gone on for hours when Tam
Lin brought out a special wine that had
been bottled the year El Patrón was
born. It was in a musty crate covered
with cobwebs and sealed with the
Alacrán scorpion mark. “This is what El
Patrón was saving for his one-hundred-
fiftieth birthday,” announced Mr.
Alacrán. “If he didn’t make it, it was
supposed to be served at his funeral. I
propose we drink it to celebrate the old
buzzard’s death!”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone cried.
Steven opened the first bottle and
sniffed it. “It smells like someone
opened a window in heaven,” he said.
“Then it doesn’t belong with this
crowd!” Tom yelled. Everyone roared
with laughter. They passed around fine
crystal glasses. Mr. Alacrán said they
were all supposed to toast El Patrón at
the same time and then smash their
glasses on his coffin.
I had a glass, wrote Daft Donald, but
Tam Lin came up to me and said,
“Don’t drink it, laddie. I’ve got a
strange feeling about this wine.” And
so I didn’t.
We raised our glasses for the toast.
Mr. Alacrán said, “Tomorrow we’ll
send a truck down here and haul this
stuff away! Here’s to greed!” Everyone
cheered and then they drank—except
for me. Before the next minute had
passed, they had all fallen to the
ground. Just like that. As though
someone had reached inside and turned
off a switch.
“What happened?” Matt asked,
gasping.
I went from one person to the next,
trying to wake them up, but they were
all dead, wrote Daft Donald.
“Dead?” cried Matt.
“I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” said
Celia.
“Not Tam Lin!”
“The poison was very quick. I don’t
think he felt it.”
“But he knew something was wrong
with the wine,” shouted Matt. “Why did
he drink it?”
“Listen to me,” said Celia. “El Patrón
had ruled his empire for one hundred
years. All that time he was adding to his
dragon hoard, and he wanted to be
buried with it. Unfortunately”—Celia
stopped and wiped her eyes
—“Unfortunately, the dragon hoard
included people.”
Matt remembered with a chill how
often the old man had spoken of the
Chaldean kings. Not only were they
buried with clothes and food, but their
horses were slaughtered to provide
transport in the shadowy world of the
dead. In one tomb archaeologists had
discovered soldiers, servants, and even
dancing girls laid out as though they
were sleeping. One girl had been in such
a hurry, the blue ribbon she was meant to
wear in her hair was still rolled up in
her pocket.
The plan must have been in El
Patrón’s mind all along. He’d never
intended to let Mr. Alacrán or Steven
inherit his kingdom. Their education was
as hollow as Matt’s. None of them was
meant to survive.
“Tam Lin knew what was going to
happen,” said Celia. “El Patrón told him
everything. He was closer to the old man
than anyone, except, perhaps, you.”
I laid out the bodies, wrote Daft
Donald, as many as I could manage. I
was crying. I don’t mind admitting it. It
happened so fast. It was so awful. I
went outside and got dynamite from a
storage shed. I wired it to the entrance
passage and set it off.
“I didn’t hear the explosion, but I felt
it,” said Mr. Ortega.
“Everyone ran out to see what had
happened,” said Celia. “We found the
passageway buried and Donald lying
stunned on the ground.”
“I felt the explosion too,” Matt
murmured. “Just before dawn the ground
trembled, and it woke me up.”
“Tam Lin saw it as his chance to free
the eejits,” said Celia. “That’s why he
didn’t warn anyone except Donald about
the wine. I know it sounds terrible, but
how else was he to break the power of
the Alacráns? El Patron had ruled this
country for one hundred years. His
children might rule for another hundred.”
Matt could see the buried tomb in his
mind’s eye—the broken wineglasses, El
Patron’s portrait staring up from the
coffin, the bodyguards laid out in their
dark suits. Only instead of ribbons, they
had gold coins in their pockets.
Tom was there too, his lying, oh-so-
believable voice stilled forever. How
many times had Matt entertained himself
with thoughts of Tom’s downfall? Now
that it had happened, Matt felt numb.
Tom had been no more in charge of his
fate than the dullest eejit.
“Tam Lin did what he wanted to do,”
Celia said. “He was guilty of a terrible
crime when he was young, and he could
never forgive himself for it. He believed
this last act would make up for
everything.”
“Well, it didn’t!” shouted Matt. “He
was an idiot! A stupid, crotting idiot!”
He jumped up. Mr. Ortega tried to stop
him, but Celia shook her head.
Matt ran through the gardens until he
came to the stables. “Get me a horse!”
he yelled.
After a moment Rosa shuffled out. “A
Safe Horse, Master?” she said. For a
moment Matt was tempted to ask for
Tam Lin’s steed, but he wasn’t skilled
enough to ride it.
“A Safe Horse,” he said.
Soon he was moving through the
fields as he had done so many times
before. Some were misted with the bitter
green of opium seedlings. Some dazzled
his eyes with the glory of full-grown
poppies. A faint, corrupt perfume hung
in the air.
Matt saw the first laborers. They
walked slowly, bending down with tiny
knives to slash the seedpods. What was
he going to do about them? He was their
lord now. He was the master of this vast
army.
Matt felt utterly drained. Somehow,
he’d expected everything to work out.
He’d expected himself, María, Tam Lin,
and Celia to someday be happy together.
Now it was all ruined.
“You fool!” he shouted at the
vanished Tam Lin.
Could the eejit operation be reversed?
Even with a restaffed hospital, it might
take years—that is, if Matt could lure
doctors to Opium after they found out
what had happened to the last batch.
He’d have to get rid of the Farm Patrol.
They were felons wanted in countries all
over the world. He could tell their
police forces to come and get them. He
would have to hire other, less violent
men to replace them because the eejits
couldn’t exist without orders.
It was an overwhelming problem.
He’d need to hire another army of
bodyguards. Wealth such as Opium
possessed lured criminals. Always
choose your bodyguards from another
country, whispered El Patrón. They find
it harder to make alliances and betray
you.
Okay, thought Matt. He would ask
Daft Donald about it tomorrow. A pack
of Scottish soccer louts sounded about
right.
He gave the horse a drink and made
his way into the mountains. A clear blue
sky cast its light over the oasis. The sand
next to the water was marked with
animal prints, and the metal chest was
still hidden under the grape arbor. Matt
rummaged through it until he found Tam
Lin’s old note.
Deer Matt, he read. I’m a lousy
writer so this wont be long. El Patron
says I have to go with him. I can’t do
anything about it. I put supplise in this
chest plus books. Yu never know when
yu mite need things. Yor frend Tam Lin.
Matt folded it and put it into his
pocket, along with a flashlight for when
it got dark. He made a fire and warmed
his hands as he listened to the sounds of
the oasis. It was too cold to swim.
He would dig up the poppy fields and
put in normal crops. Once the eejits
were cured, Matt would give them the
choice of returning home or of working
for him. He would help them find their
children.
Matt sat up straight. Of course!
Chacho, Fidelito, and Ton-Ton! He
could invite them to live with him. He
could imagine Fidelito’s wide-eyed
astonishment. This is really yours? the
little boy would cry. You’re not making
it up?
It’s all right , Chacho would say,
refusing to be impressed. Matt could
give him his old guitar. Mr. Ortega could
teach him music. Ton-Ton could have
his own machine shop. He could
maintain the equipment Matt needed to
create his new farms.
He could invite María to stay—and
hope that Esperanza was busy
somewhere else. María would love
reuniting the eejits with their children.
And they could have picnics and ride
horses, and she could keep as many
three-legged cats as she liked.
Matt looked up at the sky. Sunset
wasn’t far off. The light was turning
gold, and sunlight shone through a gap in
the mountains and made a bar of
radiance on a wall of rock just beyond
the oasis. Matt saw something dazzle.
He jumped up and ran to the spot
before the radiance slipped behind the
mountains. When he arrived, shadow
had almost hidden the mark, but he saw,
in the red light of the setting sun, a
shining scorpion. He pressed his hand
against it.
Slowly, silently, a door opened in the
cliff. Matt felt the rock. It wasn’t stone
after all, but a clever imitation. The door
revealed a dark passage going down into
the earth. Matt shone the flashlight
inside.
The floor glittered with gold coins.
Farther on were weird statues that might
have been Egyptian gods. Matt lay back
against the cliff, breathing hard. It was
part of El Patróns dragon hoard. It was
the first of the underground chambers
that stretched all the way to El Patrón’s
coffin and his attendants.
Around the old man were bodyguards
to protect him in the shadowy world of
the dead. There were doctors to attend to
his health. Mr. Alacrán could entertain
him with matters of business, and Steven
could offer opinions about the farming of
poppies. There would certainly be an
opium farm in El Patrón’s version of
heaven. Felicia, Fani, and Emilia could
admire him from tables covered with
moro crabs and caramel puddings.
And Tam Lin? Matt took out the note
again: El Patrón says I have to go with
him. I can’t do anything about it.
“You could have done something
about it,” Matt whispered. “You could
have said no.” He stepped away, and the
door slid shut again. He ran his fingers
over the surface. He couldn’t tell where
the opening had been, but he could find it
again with red light.
Late that night Matt sat by the fire and
smelled the good mesquite smoke as it
spiraled up into the starry sky.
Tomorrow he would begin the task of
breaking down the empire of Opium. It
was a huge and terrifying job, but he
wasn’t alone. He had Chacho, Fidelito,
and Ton-Ton to cheer him on. He had
Celia and Daft Donald to advise him and
María to be everyone’s conscience. He
also had Esperanza, but he couldn’t see
a way out of that.
With everyone’s help, it would get
done.
You can do it, said Tam Lin from the
darkness on the other side of the fire.
“I know I can,” said Matt, smiling
back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nancy Farmer has written two Newbery
Honor Books, The Ear, the Eye and the
Arm and A Girl Named Disaster. Other
books include Do You Know Me, The
Warm Place, and three young picture
books for young children.
She grew up on the Arizona-Mexico
border in the landscape she evokes so
strongly in this novel. She lives with her
family in Menlo Park, California.
