by Ryan Calejo
The calaca laughed. A sound like bones rattling. “You humans are so silly. . . . You stand in judgment of ancient beings that have existed long before any of you were even born and will be around long, long after you and everyone you know is dead and gone.” He pointed behind us. “You see those mukis working down there? Most are over three hundred years old. And me? Well, let’s just say I once played ulama with an Aztec chieftain. Don’t believe me? Ask him yourself. Oh, wait—you can’t. Because he’s dead!”
His voice echoed loudly through the cave. Loose dirt and pebbles rained down. Beside me, Violet made a face that said: Please don’t antagonize the psychopathic skeleton with the giant shovel in his hand.
Still, I couldn’t let this go.
“Hold up,” I said, shaking my head. “So you’re saying that all Central American myths are real . . . ?”
“Not just Central American myths, tonto—all Hispanic myths!”
Yep, I’d just been called a dummy by a mythological sack of bones. Guess there really was a first time for everything.
“But what you’re saying can’t be true!” I shot back. “There’s no way all those myths can be real!”
“No way? Really? Then how do you explain how quickly those stories made it around the globe? How do you explain them finding their way into more than twenty-two different countries or the fact that they have, over the course of thousands of years, influenced every aspect of Hispanic culture, from the way people dress, to traditional dances, to what they name their favorite foods—even to the holidays they celebrate?! Do you honestly believe some make-believe stories could’ve accomplished all that? Face it, if people didn’t keep encountering things like me generation after generation, the tales would’ve died off centuries ago. And trust me, you humans might be a lot of things, but not one of you, dead or alive, is creative enough to come up with stories like those all on your own.”
The calaca was making some strong points. Really strong ones. Plus, I was finding it sort of difficult to argue with a talking skeleton about what was real and what wasn’t.
There was a moment of silence as the calaca composed himself. Then he leaned lightly on his shovel and sucked in a wheezy breath (which, by the way, was pretty freaky considering the dude clearly didn’t have any lungs).
“Discúlpame,” he said in a sort of embarrassed voice. He looked away, staring down at his bony toes as he wiggled them like worms on a hook. “My tirade was uncalled for. I just get a little irritado when humans try to deny my very existence—and the existence of beings like me—to my face. That, and I am going through a bit of a difficult breakup.”
“Like with your backbone or something?” I guessed.
The dark sockets of the calaca’s eyes bored into me. “No, not with my backbone, tonto . . . with a lover. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Definitely not my business, I thought. And definitely not something I wanted to picture. I mean, could you imagine going in for a smooch with that bony face? Yikes!
“Uh, excuse me, Mr. Calaca,” Violet said, raising a hand like she was back in school, “if it’s okay to call you that . . . But I was wondering why you specifically singled out Hispanic myths? As I’m sure you are aware, plenty of other cultures have myths too.”
“I am aware, señorita,” the calaca replied. “But Hispanic myths are the only ones that are consistently true.”
Violet was shaking her head. “Why? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Simple. Because the landmasses currently known as Central America, South America, and the Iberian Peninsula are closer in metaphysical proximity to the spirit realm than anywhere else on the planet. Hence the land, the animals, and yes, even the humans living in those areas are liable to give birth to all sorts of strange and fantastical beings. Not to mention the fact that there are more pasillos across those very same lands than the rest of the world combined; and because the spirits and creatures that cross back over tend to become viciously territorial, they usually choose to stay close to the area of their crossing.”
“What are pasillos?” Violet asked.
The calaca crossed his arms over his chest. “Things niños like you two shouldn’t concern yourselves with, señorita . . .”
“Hey, we made a deal,” she reminded him firmly.
The skeleton sighed. “They are passageways between the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead. Links, you could say.” His joints creaked and popped as he gestured around the cave. “Like this place . . . okay?”
One of my abuela’s old sayings came back to me—a phrase frequently used in Mexico when someone dies: Se lo llevó la calaca. Or, in English, “The calaca took him.” “You’re a grim reaper, aren’t you?” I said, feeling a cold chill run down my spine.
The calaca gave me a wicked grin. “Think of me more as un guardiá . . . a station guard. I make sure none of you skin-people wander over to the other side without good reason. For example, your deaths . . .”
I felt my eyebrows press together. “That happens a lot? The people-wandering-over thing?”
“It does.” He tapped his breast pocket. “Thanks to maps like these.”
“But why would someone who’s alive want to go to the Land of the Dead?” Violet asked.
“To hide from living authorities. To visit long-lost relatives.” The calaca shrugged. “The list is long, believe me.”
Suddenly, a crazy thought hit me, and I looked at Violet. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Think so,” she said.
I turned back to the skeleton. “My parents went missing two months ago. Do you think they might’ve come down here? Maybe to hide from someone?”
The calaca shook his head, and I instantly felt my heart sink. “I’ve been guarding this particular pasillo for more than nine hundred years, and you two are the only humans to ever get this far.”
“But the map I traded you was in my mother’s locket. That means she probably knew about this place.”
“Your mother might not have even been the one who put it in there. Did you consider that?”
“Well, did you consider that his parents might’ve snuck past you?” Violet said.
The calaca’s expression darkened. “No one sneaks past me, comprende? And they’d need my help to reach the other side, anyway, so you can toss that little theory out the window. Olvídalo.” He popped up on his tippies, cracking the knuckles of his toes one by one. The whole thing was pretty gross—and freakishly loud, the sound bouncing off the walls like party poppers.
“Just one more thing,” Violet said. She yanked back the sleeve of my jacket, revealing my feather-covered arms. “Explain this.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If the groundskeeper had eyes, they would’ve shot right out of his skull. “¡¿QUÉ ES LO QUE ESTÁ PASANDO AQUÍ?!” he burst out. “EXPLAIN YOURSELVES!”
“They’re just feathers,” I said. “Take a chill pill.”
“WHAT KIND OF ABOMINATION ARE YOU?”
“Abomination? Hey, at least I have skin and blood, hermano. Which is a heck of a lot more than I can say for you!”
“WHAT ARE YOU? ¡CONTÉSTAME!”
“He’s just a normal guy!” Violet shouted.
The groundskeeper snatched my arm and raised it—rather rudely, I might add—over my head. “Does this look NORMAL to you?” he roared at her.
I yanked my arm away. My cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. As if I didn’t feel enough like a freak already, some bareheaded skeleton had to rub it in my face. “Hey, I’ve been normal all my life, all right? Stuff like this only started happening to me a couple months back.”
“Get out!” The bones in his knobby knees made an odd grinding sound as he whirled to point up the tunnel. “¡Váyanse! Follow this tunnel the rest of the way, and the torches will lead you back to the surface!”
“First tell us what you know,” Violet demanded.
“No! I won’t speak a word about any of this! ¡Ni una palabra!�
�
“Why not?”
“Because I will not defy La Mano Peluda!”
I shook my head, confused. “The Hairy Hand?”
“Yes, the Hairy Hand. I will not allow you to bring their wrath down upon our heads! We are simple stewards, ferrying spirits from one place to another. You’ll condemn us to an eternity of nothingness!” His voice once again echoed through the corridor, causing more dirt and bits of stuff to rain down on us.
“Just tell us what you know,” I said. “Or at least tell us what the symbol on the back of the map means—the horns and the feathers. I’ve had both of those manifestations. ¡Los dos!” At Violet’s shocked look, I shrugged. Then, to the calaca: “What’s happening to me . . . ?”
“Read my jawbones,” he said. “I. Don’t. Deal. In. The. Dark. Arts. And even if I were still on friendly terms with the only lady I know who does—which, by the way, I am not—I still wouldn’t even give you the fifty-two dollars and twenty-five cents that it would cost you to get to her! And would you like to know why? BECAUSE I WILL NOT DEFY LA MANO PELUDA!” He paused, as if trying to catch his breath. “They have spies everywhere. I will say no more. Now get out!”
• • •
When we made it back topside a few minutes later, Violet said, “Did all that really just happen?”
I shrugged, feeling dazed. “I think so. That, or one of us is about to wake up from a seriously freaky dream.”
Violet rubbed her dirt-streaked temples. “Honestly, I’m kinda hoping for number two,” she said.
Suddenly, the ground began to shake under our feet, and I peered over my shoulder at the statue of the angel, which was now sliding noiselessly back into place. The thing must’ve weighed close to two thousand pounds, but it moved as easily as some hollow stage prop set on invisible tracks, hardly disturbing the ground around it at all. It was actually pretty amazing.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” I said. “You know, before the earth decides to swallow us or something.” Hey, it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing to have happened to us tonight. Maybe not even top three.
A few minutes later, we reached the rusty iron gate of the cemetery. Beside it, lying next to my bike, was a top-of-the-line Mongoose racing bike. “Is that your ride?” I asked Violet.
“Yeah, it’s my work bike.”
I helped her pick it up.
“Thanks,” she said, dusting off the seat. Her eyes, sparkling in the moonlight, stared deeply into mine. “So, crazy night, huh?”
“More like, psycho . . . And the cherry on top is that that stupid skeleton didn’t give us a freakin’ thing.”
“No one ever gives nothing, Charlie. He said a lot more than he realized. Trust me.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. But now I have a few more puzzle pieces to push around in my head.”
I had no clue what she was talking about. “Okay . . .”
“By the way, you said the mukis and Skeletor back there are Spanish myths, right?”
“Yeah. Hispanic and Latino myths.”
“ ’Kay, then I better get up to speed on those. Always good to have at least some working knowledge of all things related to your investigation.”
I was about to say, We’re not on an investigation. But the truth was—we were. And she was a pretty darn good detective.
Violet stared at me for a long second, the hint of a smile on her face. “We should probably get home,” she said finally. “Before people start to worry.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You’ll get home faster if you go down Hibiscus. I should probably take Calle Ocho.”
“Sure you don’t want me to ride home with you?” I asked. “You know, so you’re not alone?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think much is gonna scare me after what we just went through.” She hopped on her bike and started pedaling. “Meet me in the library tomorrow after lunch. Oh, and try to get some sleep. . . . Something tells me you’re going to need it.”
Halfway to the corner, she turned and shouted, “¡Buenas noches, Charlie Hernández!”
Her voice echoed through the night like a sweetly sung lullaby. I could’ve happily closed my eyes and sailed off to Neverland right then and there. But I didn’t want her thinking I was any weirder than she probably already thought I was, so instead I just gave a little wave and watched her until she was nothing more than a tiny brown dot in the night.
“Buenas noches, Violet Rey.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I went through the next day in a total haze. My brain felt mushy, like undercooked flan, and I literally couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than five seconds at a time—if that. Thoughts buzzed in and out of my head randomly. Nothing seemed to stick. Nada. Which, I guess, was really no surprise considering that just fourteen hours ago my entire concept of reality had been obliterated in a short two-minute conversation with the local cemetery’s groundskeeper. And the worst part? I couldn’t get the freak’s bony, fleshless face out of my head. Or his laugh—that haunting rattle that sounded like someone rocking out on a bass drum with a couple of dusty old shinbones.
I was so out of it, in fact, that in second period when Mrs. James, my science teacher, asked me what was the first step of the water cycle, I answered, “Pi equals three point one four.” Which technically wasn’t wrong, but also had nothing to do with the water cycle.
Naturally, the entire class erupted into laughter, and pretty much everyone made fun of me for the rest of the period. Even Mrs. James got in a jab, calling me William Jones (after the guy who came up with pi) when she handed back some old homework. Then, a couple of periods later, it was apparently Alvin’s turn.
“Earth to Mr. Three Point One Four. Hellooooo, Mr. Three Point One Four. Are you still with us?” He snapped his fingers between my eyes, making me flinch. “Anyone home?”
The two of us were making our way upstairs after lunch, Alvin on his way to fourth period, me to my previously scheduled meeting with Violet. All around us, kids were laughing and shouting and just generally goofing around, and it wasn’t doing my poor fried brain any favors. “Dude, you gonna answer me or what?” Alvin asked, sounding annoyed.
“Answer what?”
“I asked if you were amped.”
I shrugged. “Amped about what?”
“What do you mean, about what?” he practically shouted in my face. “Auditions are, like, literally less than seventy-two hours away!” He dodged a couple of huge eighth graders fighting over a pack of gum, then smacked me on the side of my arm. “Oh, I was going to ask—do you think Mrs. Wilson would mind driving us? I don’t trust Sam’s mom to be on time, and there’s not going to be any space in my mom’s van once we load up all our instruments.”
“Uh, yeah . . . I think she’ll do it.” Mrs. Wilson was cool like that. If it was something where she could keep an eye on me, she’d pretty much agree to anything. In fact, she’d been nice enough to rent me a brand-new Gibson from the local music shop so I could keep playing with my friends as long as we held practices at her house. She also thought it was pretty rad that the three of us wanted to try out for Así Que Piensas Que Puedes Cantar (or APPC, for short), which is a very popular Spanish television version of So You Think You Can Dance, except it was for bands rather than dancers.
“Tight.” Alvin held out his fist, and I bumped it. “Hey, that reminds me. I’ve been working on my vocals—gimme a sound check.” Then he sucked in a big breath and belted out the opening line from the Carlos Santana song we’d chosen for the audition: “¡Oye cómo va, mi ritmo bueno pa’ gozar!”
A few people turned to stare. Someone booed and shot a spitball at us. One of the hall monitors told Alvin to shut up.
Alvin gave him a little bow as we walked past. “He definitely dug it. . . . So what do you think, bro? How’s my accent?”
“Está bien,” I said. “It’s fine.”
“Just fine . . . ? I’ve been working on it for,
like, two whole weeks!”
“Alvin, it takes more than fourteen days to master a foreign accent.”
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing. You did great. It was awesome. You’re the next Vicentico.”
“Nah, see, now you’re just saying that,” he grumbled. “And not for nothing, Charlie, but I’d like to see you looking a little more excited about all this. I mean, you still care about the band, don’t you?”
“Of course I still care about the band,” I said, and it was true. I did care about the band. Making music with my two best friends was probably the one thing that had kept me sane over these last few months; I loved it. But with everything else going on in my life right now, an audition for a talent show—even one as big as APPC—was the least of my worries.
“Just wanted to hear you say it.” Alvin gave me a toothy, sideways grin. “Anyway, where were you last night? You didn’t answer any of my texts.”
“I was with Violet,” I confessed, and he snorted out a laugh.
“Yeah, and I was with Selena Gomez. We should’ve made it a double date.”
“I didn’t say I was on a date with her,” I corrected. “We just ran into each other, that’s all.”
“Wow, what a coincidence. Same thing with Selena and me!”
“Laugh it up, Al.”
When we reached the second floor, I spotted Violet standing by the double doors of the library. She was leaning back against the wall, head down, earbuds in, shoulders rolling to One Direction or whatever pretty-boy boy band was hot these days. But she surprised me by looking up and waving to me.
Giving Alvin a little shove, I waved back. “Now, why don’t you go tell Selena about that, hermano?”
Alvin’s face had gone full-blown Casper. “Dude, I think Violet Rey is waving at me. . . . How’s my hair?”
