Treasure of the World

by Tara Sullivan

  I clench my teeth to prevent myself from shouting at the little girl. She’s right: if I drag her home, all those bad things are guaranteed. If Mami were home, we could find a way to make her stay, but Mami might be out all night at the birth. There’s no point keeping an old woman and a sick man awake and worried all night, and I do have a job to do. Last night was quiet when Abuelita was here. If Belén stays here, at least I can keep an eye on her until morning, and she won’t crawl all over the mountain in the dark with no thought to her own safety.

  I chew my lip and consider the fierce little girl, crooked braids and all, standing her ground in front of me. She wants to help her papi. I know how awful it feels to not be able to do anything to change the bad things around you. Given the options we have, this might be the best. Besides, after one night out here with me in the cold, I bet she doesn’t try this stunt again.

  I reach out and give her crooked braid a tug. “Fine. You win.”

  Belén grins and throws her skinny arms around my waist.

  “Thank you, Ana!” she squeals.

  “Mmm-hmmm.” I quirk an eyebrow at her. “But when we go home in the morning, you’re going to be in soooooo much trouble. Don’t expect me to bail you out.”

  “You bet!” she chirps, all smiles now that she’s gotten her way.

  I roll my eyes and point her to where I set up my stuff. Belén pulls her schoolbag off her back. In it, she’s packed extra blankets and her own bottle of water. I spread all the blankets in one thick layer. Her body is small and will lose heat quickly; we’ll need to huddle.

  When I glance up, I see that my new sister is examining the little sticks of dynamite that I made with Mami, rolling them around in her hands. There’s enough explosive there to kill her if something goes wrong.

  “Careful!” I say, and she puts them down gently where I had them before.

  “Will we really use those if someone comes?” she asks.

  The pile is tiny: the ten mini-sticks of dynamite are grungy and no thicker than my two thumbs together, wrapped in peeling paper. They look like a bunch of nothing, and yet they have the power to move mountains. The power to kill.

  “Only if we absolutely have to,” I say, and get back to setting up our nest for the night.

  * * *

  For the first half of the night, Belén and I chew coca and talk and weave pretty pictures of a fairy-tale life down in the city, but as the dark hours creep by, exhaustion and the cold slowly silence us.

  We’ve been sitting quietly, Belén dozing off and on, when a noise makes me tense. In an instant, Belén is alert beside me.

  “Did you hear that?” she whispers, a note of panic in her voice.

  I hold up a hand for her to be quiet and listen.

  She chews her lip while she waits for my answer, and I briefly wonder whether it’s something she’s always done, or whether it’s something she copied from me.

  There’s no masking it: those are footsteps. The mountain and the mine echo the sound oddly, but I’m pretty sure they’re coming from over the hill, not along the road leading up to the entrance.

  There is no good reason for anyone to avoid the road. I make a snap decision.

  “You stay here,” I whisper, handing her a mini-stick of dynamite and taking three for myself. I light the helmet and leave it with Belén and take the lighter in my other hand. I leave the other six sticks with the rest of our stuff.

  “What are you going to do?” Belén is shaking.

  “I’m going to climb over the hill and surprise them,” I say. “They may not know this mine is guarded again. If I can make some noise, I bet I can scare them off.” I point at the dynamite in her hand and the helmet. “Stay near this so they know you can light those in a hurry if you need to, but don’t actually. Run away if you have to, but don’t use those. Dynamite can kill you as easily as it can kill anyone else.”

  “Okay,” she says, and even though she absolutely should not be here facing any of this, I feel a deep pride welling up in my chest for this brave little sister of mine.

  I give her arm a quick squeeze and then climb the incline to the right of the mine entrance, keeping my body low to the ground. I crest the ridge and keep going. I want to be above them when I attack, not below. Gravity will always pull dynamite downhill, and I won’t have the luxury of fussing over the timing of my fuses.

  Finally, I find a small crevice that is perfect for what I want. It’s higher than the hint of a trail that leads over the hill, and it’s tucked out of sight. The only thing I don’t like about it is that, having turned the corner, I can no longer see Belén or the area in front of the mine. I perch on the rock like a predator and wait for my unsuspecting prey.

  After an excruciating few minutes, a shadowy form passes below me.

  The tiny wheel of the lighter makes the faintest of rasping sounds as I drag on it with my thumb and light one of my three sticks of dynamite.

  I say loudly, “This mine is guarded. Now get out of here.” As the man spins on his heel in surprise, I hurl the dynamite at his feet.

  And then from around the corner I hear Belén scream.

  In an instant I’m scrambling over the mountain. I can’t go the quickest route because I just threw dynamite there. If the robber has any sense of what’s good for him, he’s running too.

  “Help!” I hear Belén’s voice below me.

  I’m almost there.

  My dynamite goes off behind me. The sound echoes around the small space and the ground shivers under my feet. I hear rocks dislodging and sliding, but I can’t check the damage I’ve caused. I’ve got to get to Belén.

  I imagine a dozen terrible things that could have happened.

  I hear the sound of more dynamite exploding. Belén has used her little stick too, even though I told her to run.

  I burst around the corner. Belén’s dynamite must not have worked well enough because, even in the low light of the stars, I can see her grappling with someone. Belén is kicking and fighting.

  It makes me pause. Though I have no problem at all hurling dynamite at would-be robbers, I don’t want to hurt Belén. But just then the man I surprised over the hill catches up to them and, using his larger body, shoves Belén against the rock. I hear a sickening crack as her head hits the stone and she crumples at his feet.

  Bellowing in fury, I light my last two sticks of dynamite and race toward them.

  “Let go of her, you beasts!” I yell.

  I’m close enough that the sparkling light from my fuses plays across their shoulders and catches on their faces as the man and the boy turn toward me.

  I recognize them.

  The man, the one I surprised on the path, is Francisco, who said all those horrible things to me about Daniel being worthless and girls being a curse. The boy is his son, Guillermo.

  For a stunned moment I freeze where I am, staring at them. Part of me is hoping against hope that I’ve seen wrong, that somehow this will turn out to be a misunderstanding. How could they rob their own cooperative?

  “Go away!” shouts Guillermo in a rough, ugly voice. “Leave us alone. This isn’t your business.”

  I realize two things.

  First, I realize that neither of them has recognized me.

  Then, somewhere deep in my brain, I hear the devil laughing. It reminds me of the dream where I challenged him for my life and Daniel’s. It makes me glance at my hand and realize the second thing: that I’m still holding two lit sticks of explosives and the fuses are gone.

  The dynamite is about to blow up.

  Francisco’s and Guillermo’s eyes shift with mine, and everything happens at once. The two of them dart in opposite directions. I hurl the dynamite high into the air, hoping it will detonate where it can’t hurt anyone, and leap toward Belén. I hit the ground hard and curl around her slumped form, shielding her with my b
ody.

  I look up just in time to see that, while Francisco sprinted to hide behind the toolshed, Guillermo ran for cover in the mine. The two sticks of dynamite curve in almost graceful arcs through the air and land with a gentle thud on my lookout ledge, where I’d left the other six sticks.

  And then, like in my worst dreams, all the dynamite explodes, shearing off the ledge and part of the cliff face, trapping Guillermo inside.

  My heart stops.

  I can’t breathe, can’t think.

  Francisco crosses the distance between us and grabs me by the arm, dragging me onto my feet. “Idiot!” He shakes me. “What have you done?”

  “Let me go!” I shriek, pulling away from him. Then I change my mind. “No. Actually, come with me.” I twist in his arms and lurch toward the collapsed mine entrance. “You have to help me! We have to get him out!”

  Francisco lets go of me, his glare icy.

  I get to the buried entrance and scrabble at the highest chunks of rock I can reach. I pull them off the pile, causing tiny rubble avalanches. Francisco and I have to dance backward out of the way so that our feet don’t get buried. The angle of the heap shifts slightly, but I’m no closer to the tunnel behind it.

  “You,” Francisco says, finally recognizing my face in the moonlight now that he’s had a good chance to look at me. “You witch! Causing one disaster wasn’t enough? Now you’ve caused two!”

  “There’s no time for that now! Didn’t you see? Your son is trapped in there! We have to dig him out.”

  Francisco spits at me and makes a gesture to ward against the evil eye. Then, to my complete astonishment, he starts to jog away.

  “Where are you going?” I shriek after him. “He’s your son. You can’t just leave him here!”

  Francisco’s glance flicks to the pile beside me, and for a moment I think maybe he has a shred of human decency in him, but his eyes are emptier than the mountain.

  “He was far back in the tunnel. And that noise is going to bring people—they can help you.”

  And with no more than that, he turns away and, grabbing a bulky sack off the ground that I hadn’t noticed until just now, vanishes into the night.

  * * *

  I know I need to push my bleeding fingers into the jagged gaps between the rocks blocking the mine shaft and dig. I know I need to go over to Belén and make sure she’s breathing.

  I know these things, but my hands are shaking and a terrible pressure is welling up inside me. Without ever having given myself permission to begin crying, I sink down and bury my face in my hands. The rock fragments on my palms feel like sandpaper against my cheeks. The wetness of my tears leaks through the cracks between my fingers.

  “Hey,” says a soft voice. A hand on my shoulder shakes me gently.

  I jerk away, startled. My hands splay on the rocks behind me and I blink back the tears, trying to see clearly who has found me. Is it another thief, or some drunken miner come to make my troubles even greater? I scrub a hand across my face, blinking furiously against the grit scratching them, and take in the person standing in front of me.

  “V-Victor?”

  I must sound as confused as I feel, because Victor gives an embarrassed shrug.

  “Sorry it took me a minute to come over,” he says. “I went to check on the little girl first.”

  Sniffling, I glance over to the rock face where Francisco slammed Belén. Sure enough, I see that she’s been moved and has been propped up slightly, so that her head is higher than her heart.

  Victor starts pulling chunks of rock off the pile, two hands at a time, and my hands begin moving automatically, matching his. I feel like maybe it’s me who’s been hit on the head. Why can’t I think?

  I turn back to Victor.

  “Wait . . . how . . . ?” I swallow and make myself start over. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, um, I came back up to get something I’d forgotten at home.”

  I flick a glance up to the ridge, where I can see the dark outline of Victor’s old house. “In the middle of the night?”

  Victor ducks his head. “Yeah, well, I’m not really supposed be back here. Papi never paid the last month’s rent before he died. The landlord padlocked all our things inside.” His voice is so low it’s almost a whisper. “I was just leaving when I heard shouting . . . and then blasting. I came over to see if anyone needed help.” He takes in my tearstained face. “I guess you do?”

  The rock Victor pulls out dislodges a pile of rubble and the two of us have to move away, coughing, until the dust settles again. I know Francisco thinks Guillermo was well clear of the landslide. But what if he wasn’t? If Guillermo is trapped underneath this rubble, he could be running out of air . . . or slowly bleeding his life away. I couldn’t spare Daniel from being crushed alone, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else.

  I climb over the growing skirt of the pile before the dust is completely cleared and keep pulling at the rocks. After a moment, Victor joins me. The work is intense. I don’t ask any more questions, and Victor doesn’t volunteer anything else.

  I know that Francisco is right and that help is no doubt on the way, but no one is here yet. We could wait, but a few minutes might be the difference between life and death. I can’t take that chance. My back aches and my hands are in pain. But finally, I pull out a rock and the rubble dislodges in two directions—out and in, creating a narrow entrance shaft.

  Leaving Victor to widen the hole, I race across to where Belén is and grab the helmet. It’s gone out. I strap the acetylene tank to my hip and fiddle with the dial and the lighter. The flame doesn’t catch, and I blow on the spigot, hoping to dislodge whatever dust might have clogged the mechanism. If the metal is bent so that no gas can get through, I’ll never be able to fix it here.

  I try again and whisper a prayer of thanks when it lights. I carefully put the helmet on my head and climb up the rubble heap to where Victor has opened an entrance about the size of a pothole. I shine the light down it and call for Guillermo.

  “I don’t hear anything,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  We’re both breathing hard from the effort we put in, and neither of us wants to say what needs to be said next. After a moment, taking in how tall Victor is and the width of his shoulders, I take a breath and say it.

  “One of us has to go in.”

  Victor’s gaze drifts down to the small, ragged hole in front of us. “I don’t think I’ll fit,” he says. His voice is very soft.

  “Victor . . .” My voice quavers. I can’t finish. I know it has to be me: we don’t have time to widen the tunnel. But the terror of the days I spent lost in the mines is crushing me.

  “I won’t leave,” Victor says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re my best friend, remember? If it caves in again, I’ll stay here and dig you out. I promise.”

  I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just nod, biting my lower lip. Then I lie down on my belly and squirm into the hole.

  22

  The tunnels of the main mine had been chiseled smooth, worn by centuries of use. Even the exit vent I crawled out of the last time had been widened by hundreds of years of wind and rain. But these rocks were ripped from their moorings only minutes ago, and their edges are sharp. I feel them press into my body, hard and ice cold, as I push myself, face-first, into the rough tunnel.

  The hole is barely wider than my shoulders, and the air inside is so thick with dust, the beam of my light reflects back at me. I can’t see through it and my lungs spasm as I try to breathe. When I cough, the edges of my ribs hit the sides of the tunnel. Debris sifts around me. Terror wraps tight like a blanket of needles, digging through my skin.

  I pull myself another arm’s length in. Then another.

  Centimeter by centimeter, I claw my way into the womb of the Pachamama, away from fresh air and freedom. My whol
e body is encased in rock now—a single false move and I’ll be buried.

  Victor said he wouldn’t leave, I tell myself again and again, but the thought does little to slow my rapid breathing. I know that if the tunnel were to collapse on me, I could easily suffocate before Victor could dig me out. Or, flame-first, I might hit a pocket of gas and the explosion could rip my face off before he has the chance to pull me away. Or . . .

  I force myself to stop thinking about these things and pull myself in another arm’s length. I feel the scrape of the tunnel ceiling on my heels when I kick to propel myself forward. Directly ahead of me a large boulder blocks part of the space, and I have to flatten myself and tip my head sideways between my outstretched arms to wriggle past it. The rough edge of the ceiling digs into my spine as I push myself over. My acetylene tank catches.

  I’m stuck.

  With my head tipped to the side, I can’t raise my face to see where I’m going. My arms spasm to try to reach around and free my tank, but my elbows bark painfully against the sides of the narrow crawlway.

  I can’t move forward. I can’t see where I am. My face is pinned against my arms, and I can’t move them. Rock is digging into the small of my back.

  Black dots start to dance in my vision.

  I feel like I can’t spread my ribs enough to pull in air.

  Unable to look around, unable to move, I lose myself to panic.

  I don’t even know if I’m trying to move forward or backward anymore, I just need to get out. A scream tears itself from my throat. I kick my feet against the tunnel walls and scrabble with my hands. There’s a ripping sound and I feel the rock slice my hips. I don’t even know whether the space in front of me is big enough for my body, but terrified and twisted, I shove myself forward.

  The first sense I have that I’m coming out of the crawl space is when I can bend my elbows. Pushing against the rock slide, I haul myself forward until I’m half out and can lift my head again in open space.