Secrets of Tamarind

by Nadia Aguiar

  “And what does Helix have to do with any of it?” asked Maya.

  Penny tugged on Simon’s elbow. “Why were they fighting?” she whispered.

  “Shhh,” said Simon. “They’re Helix’s aunts. We’ll tell you more later.”

  “All right,” said Señora Rojo, sniffling as she collected herself. “Please, sit down. Let’s start with what we have in front of us. This,” she said, regarding the children with a smile that was both proud and scornful, “is the Gazette Extraordinario.” She opened the newspaper to the illuminated image once again, and in its glow for a brief moment she seemed youthful. The children, Dr. Bellagio, and Señora Medrano all gathered around. “It used to be the most important newspaper in Greater Tamarind in the Extraordinary Days.”

  “The Extraordinary Days?” asked Simon.

  “It’s the name people gave to a time in Tamarind when we were young,” said Señora Medrano. “More ophalla was being mined than ever before. The island was prosperous and there were miraculous plants and animals everywhere you looked. The war over ophalla was still only a minor skirmish in the hills and crazy things that had started to happen in nature were still isolated incidents, little more than side stories in the Gazette Extraordinario. The paper was owned by our family and came out three times a week and it reached every corner of Western Tamarind, from Maracairol to the north shore.”

  “The photograph looks alive!” said Maya.

  “It’s like you could walk right into it,” said Penny, who had climbed onto Maya’s lap to see.

  “It’s not really a photograph—it’s an ophallagraph,” said Señora Rojo.

  “An ophallagraph,” said Simon, looking curiously at the image. “What is it? How does it work?” He reached out to touch its edge—it was cool and dry.

  “Oh, some trick with ophalla,” said Señora Rojo dismissively. “One of Davies Maroner’s inventions.”

  “Why is the Pamela Jane in it?” Maya asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Señora Rojo. Señora Medrano and Dr. Bellagio shook their heads, too. “But ophallagraphs contain clues, and I suspect that your boat is a clue somehow. Though what it means, I can’t tell you.”

  “There’s more than one ophallagraph?” asked Simon.

  “Yes,” said Señora Medrano. “I don’t know how many, but there are others like it, and together they reveal a secret that was hidden long ago—a secret that might save Tamarind now.”

  A shiver passed through Simon. Penny stopped fidgeting and they all listened carefully.

  “You see,” said Señora Rojo, “sixty years ago the skirmish in the hills escalated into a terrible war—the same war that only truly ended with the Peace March four years ago. The North and South began fighting each other over ophalla. Soon after that, something very strange began to change in Tamarind. First of all, people started to see fish dying. Once a thousand octopuses were stranded on a single beach in the Southwest overnight. Then the weather started to change. There were floods in provinces that had never before seen rain, drought in lands that had been lush jungle; if it was sunny and hot at breakfast, by lunch a frost could have withered the fruit off the trees. Everyone had a story to tell about some strange phenomena they’d seen.

  “The Dark Woman Milagros had been a friend to our family for generations,” Señora Rojo continued. “When she started to notice the first perturbations in the natural world, she came to our father. She claimed that we were in danger of a catastrophe greater even than the war itself, greater than any we could imagine. She said that the natural disasters were being caused by the mining, and would only get worse if something wasn’t done. The natural balance was being disrupted too quickly, and she predicted that if ophalla continued to be taken from the earth, Tamarind itself would not survive.”

  “But our father didn’t believe her,” said Señora Medrano. “He was a businessman and had little patience with what he saw as witch doctoring from an older age.”

  “But after he was killed, there was no end to the war and the mining for ophalla, and the chaos in the environment just grew worse,” said Señora Rojo. “Storms ripped across the island from north to south and east to west. Coastal towns were swallowed up by huge waves, the people who lived there never seen again. No one knew what was happening.

  “At that time, we—Señora Medrano and I, and Dr. Bellagio and General Alvaro, and a handful of others—went to Milagros to ask for her help. By then people believed that the Dark Women were to blame for all the natural disasters happening across Tamarind, and the Dark Women were being hunted and slaughtered.”

  “We asked Milagros for help, but as it turned out, chance alone saved Tamarind that time,” said Señora Medrano. “The mining stopped abruptly, you see. Most of the ophalla deposits that people could reach had already been mined. Most of these had been in the Neglected Provinces, where the ophalla deposits were very shallow. There seemed to be nothing left to take. It was too late to save the Neglected Provinces, but the damage stopped just in time to spare the rest of Tamarind.

  “Milagros told us that if people ever started mining too much ophalla again, there was something that must be done to restore the balance in nature,” said Señora Rojo. “She told us there was a place deep in Tamarind that could save it. A sacred place that ancient people in Tamarind had known about.”

  “What place?” asked Simon, almost in a whisper.

  “She was forbidden by the Dark Women’s code to come right out and tell us,” Señora Medrano answered. “The secret was too dangerous and too important for any one person to know. In the wrong hands, you see, misusing the secret could lead to Tamarind’s destruction as surely as not using it at all.

  “Milagros came up with a way to hide the secret. She decided to share it between many individuals, most of whom were unknown to one another. Each of these individuals then took their part of the secret to one man—the scientist-inventor Davies Maroner. Davies had invented a new process using ophalla in pictures—ophallagraphs, he called them—and he concealed the parts of the secret in these images.”

  “The trick,” interrupted Señora Rojo, growing excited, “is that the ophallagraphs would just look like ordinary photos unless ophalla in Tamarind once again became out of balance. The ophallagraphs were sensitive to changes in ophalla in the earth. If it were disrupted, the ophallagraphs would begin to glow.

  “The ophallagraphs were published in the Gazette Extraordinario—only Davies Maroner knew who received the special copies for safekeeping. Sometimes the people they were given to had no idea what they were for; they only knew that they were important and must be kept safe.”

  Simon frowned. “What marked the papers as special back when they were printed?” he asked. “How could you tell?”

  “You couldn’t,” said Señora Rojo, smiling. “That was the point. The clues in the ophallagraphs would only be revealed in time, when they were needed again. That way no one would ever know the Dark Women’s secret unless it became absolutely necessary for Tamarind. The papers were entrusted secretly to members of the Extraordinary Generation. One of the colonels gave me this one before he died.”

  “The guy who made the ophallagraphs, Davies Maroner, maybe he can help!” said Simon. Simon put a lot of faith in scientists—good ones, like his parents.

  “Rest his soul,” said Señora Rojo. “He was mixing chemicals in his laboratory—working on some new invention, when the whole thing went up in flames. He didn’t have a chance…” she trailed off.

  “Oh,” said Simon. There went that idea. “But Milagros might be able to help.”

  “Where is Milagros?” asked Maya.

  “In a place north of here,” said Señora Rojo. “In a village on a lake.” She turned to General Alvaro’s map and waved her finger vaguely over a barren stretch of it, where a tangle of blue rivers and soupy green lakes and estuaries met and diverged and met again.

  “There isn’t a village marked there,” said Simon.

  “There wouldn’t be,
” said Señora Rojo. “It’s a hidden village.”

  “How do we get there?” asked Maya.

  “I’ll take you as far as I can,” said Dr. Bellagio.

  “Of course,” said Señora Rojo excitedly. “Dr. Bellagio has a car—the only one in Floriano. You can take it as far as one of the last towns, before the road runs out. You’ll have to get a boat from there, and travel upriver, through the wetlands to the Reappearing Village.” She looked at Penny and frowned. “Can the littlest one keep up?” she asked doubtfully. “Maybe she should stay here?”

  Penny looked at her siblings in alarm, but Simon quickly put his arm around her. “We all stay together,” he said firmly.

  “Well,” said Señora Rojo reluctantly, “I suppose there’s no time to waste.”

  Maya looked troubled. “But what about Helix?” she asked. “I don’t understand how this will help us find him.”

  The señoras were quiet for a moment. Dust drifted in a slow dance in the afternoon light.

  “Tamarind is on the verge of great trouble,” said Señora Medrano finally. “It needs your help. And so does our nephew. All of you came here together to help Tamarind—your path will surely cross with his. But even if it doesn’t, Tamarind must still be saved, and there may not be much time left.”

  Dr. Bellagio left to get his car, and Señora Rojo went to the kitchen to pack food for them—leather canteens of water, rice wrapped in banana leaves, white sapotes, guanabanas, and raw sugarcane for Penny. Señora Medrano gently tore the newspaper away until only the stiff square of the ophallagraph was left. Looking at the curiously luminous image one last time, she handed it reverently to Simon. When they heard Dr. Bellagio return, his car popping and jangling down the street and then his brisk knock on the door, the señoras walked the children out.

  Penny jumped, startled to see the giant purple bird tied to a post outside the house.

  “It’s an ostrillo,” Dr Bellagio whispered to the children. “Preposterous looking, but harmless, and very handy most of the time.”

  The creature looked up from nibbling moss and made a squeaking noise. Señora Rojo gave Simon General Alvaro’s map, and the señoras hugged each of the children tightly in turn. Before she let them go, Señora Medrano squeezed Simon’s and Maya’s hands, tears welling in her eyes.

  “Find our boy,” she said.

  “Bring him home to us,” said Señora Rojo.

  Simon noticed a funny look cross Maya’s face but she said nothing.

  * * *

  Dr. Bellagio’s car—an open-top, beat-up old jalopy that, like most things in Tamarind, ran on some kind of homemade fuel—rattled along down the streets and out of Floriano. A sickly yellow haze filled the sky and the air was muggy.

  “Why do the señoras hate each other?” Maya asked. “What happened?”

  “Old feud,” said Dr. Bellagio. “They were both in love with General Alvaro—the man whose map Señora Rojo gave you.”

  Maya gasped and leaned forward, intrigued.

  “Oh, brother,” muttered Simon.

  “The señoras haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years,” Dr. Bellagio went on. “Their old family house is at the top of the hill here. After their falling out, Señora Rojo moved out and Señora Medrano has become a recluse—today was the first day she’s left her hillside in years. They’re the last two, really, as the rest of the family has died out. Your friend is the last of the line.”

  “What happened to the general?” Simon asked. The general at least was someone he could be curious about.

  Dr. Bellagio hesitated. “He, well, he’s not with us anymore.”

  “Oh,” said Simon.

  “But when he was, he was something!” said Dr. Bellagio. “He routed the Northerners at Hetty’s Pass and then his men escaped into the nearby tunnels they had mapped and overtook the northern towns—it was the most heroic campaign of the war. The general was daring—sometimes too daring. That’s what got him into trouble with the señoras.”

  The car rattled on and through the window they saw people carrying baskets of produce on their heads, walking toward Floriano. Black clouds mounted in the sky and the day was darkening. Simon could smell rain coming. He noticed stray flying fish that lay rotting on the roadside, and observed that every so often a tree had shed its leaves and stood dead and ghostly.

  “Did you know Helix’s mother?” Maya asked.

  “I did,” said Dr. Bellagio, veering to avoid a pothole. “She was a great beauty in her day—all those Valdez sisters were admirable-looking women, but neither of the older sisters could hold a candle to the youngest one. She was a remarkable creature. And a gentle soul.

  “Anyway,” Dr. Bellagio continued, sighing, “she was lost in the war, like so many others. Now all of us who are left are just relics from another time. From the Extraordinary Days. The men you saw at Señora Rojo’s today—the card players. They were all army men—Colonel Francisco led the Tambenno Assault, Colonel Luisio was in command of the forces at Gallolo. Yes—it’s all the greats who come to Señora’s salon. They were the greats, anyway. Now they’re made of wood and sand and glass! I stitched them all together myself at one time or another. I cut off Colonel Luisio’s leg and sewed his arm back on. Yes, those days were something. And now … now I sense that another Great Time is upon us. Yes, it’s happening, and you children and the señoras’ nephew are part of it.”

  They were passing through a tiny village when they noticed that people were coming out and clustering in the streets and whispering to one another, their eyes wide and fearful.

  “What’s going on here?” murmured Dr. Bellagio.

  He slowed down, the engine sputtering noisily, and waved down a woman walking quickly down the road, carrying a small child on her hip.

  “Isabella Obrado’s been kidnapped!” the woman said. “It happened yesterday but word just reached us. She was heading to the City of Children when the Red Coral captured her! There’s no government anymore—the Red Coral have taken over!”

  “Oh dear,” said Dr. Bellagio and drove quickly on. “This is terrible,” he muttered. “Terrible. That brave young lady was a beacon of hope to many people.”

  Simon felt sick at the news but he said nothing. They drove on in silence. Finally Dr. Bellagio eased on the brakes. Up ahead the road was impassable. An ancient tree lay felled across the road.

  “Storms!” said Dr Bellagio. “They’ve stalked us these last months—the weather’s changing all over again. This is as far as I can take you. You have to be very careful from here on.” He hesitated. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the señoras and alarm them more, but if the Red Man doesn’t know you’re here already, it’s only a matter of time before he does. He wanted your parents—he’ll be after you, too. Don’t for a moment think you’re not in danger. Keep your wits about you. That goes for the Reappearing Village, too. For centuries it’s where convicts, thieves, and hunted men have fled to hide—the place is a snakepit of them.”

  Dr. Bellagio did not leave them empty-handed. Bowing gallantly, he gave Maya a first-aid kit that he assembled quickly from his doctor’s bag. “And,” he said, handing a furled umbrella to Simon, “since we never know what the weather will do next anymore—a gift for a rainy day.”

  “Thank you,” said Simon. The umbrella was made of sturdy, chocolate brown fabric and had an ornamental handle made of ophalla that looked very old.

  “It was given to me by Colonel Arturo Silva on his deathbed,” said Dr. Bellagio. “Doctors receive all sorts of gifts from dying patients. But I’ll tell you this, I knew the colonel for years and he kept nothing ordinary. Everything had a secret purpose. I kept it all this time, as I promised him I would, but I’ve decided that it may be more valuable to you now than it ever will to me.”

  Simon wasn’t exactly sure how helpful an umbrella was going to be, but studied the exquisitely carved handle with interest. Its surface shone ice white, but when the light caught it just so, deep inside he thought he cou
ld glimpse a faint blue-green hue. A natural swirling pattern in the stone looked like a twist of candle smoke.

  “I hope you’ll find it useful,” said the doctor, looking at Simon with his clear blue eyes.

  * * *

  The children had not been walking for long when the rain—with a sudden rush of ozone and a shiver of leaves—began. Simon snapped the umbrella open above them. It was surprisingly capacious, and once up, not a drop of water touched them. The drumming rain created a din, but beneath it was cozy and dry. Only their feet, slopping through puddles up to their ankles, got wet as they walked. Each step took them farther from the señoras and Dr. Bellagio, and closer to Milagros and the elusive Reappearing Village.

  Dr. Bellagio’s words had alarmed Simon. The doctor was right. Look how the Red Coral had tormented Mami and Papi—surely once Dr. Fitzsimmons discovered that the children were in Tamarind he would want to find them. Simon, Maya, and Penny would be valuable pawns to use against their parents. The Red Coral would hunt them down. Simon began to wonder what they had gotten themselves into. Or what he had gotten his sisters into. Maya would never have agreed to go if he hadn’t encouraged her, and if he hadn’t been so impatient to leave right away, Penny would be safely at home where she belonged.

  “Isabella might have told the Red Coral that we’re here,” said Maya quietly.

  “I know,” said Simon. “We’re going to have to be really careful and keep our eyes open.”

  In an hour the rain tapered off and the sun emerged on the dirt road the señoras had described, flanked by trees and farm fields. It was muddy from the rain but it was there, where it was supposed to be, and they knew they were going the right way. Occasionally a cart with a farmer taking his produce to market in Floriano passed them, but after a while they saw no one else and the road was empty. Simon shook out the umbrella, closed it, and strapped it to his backpack.

  They heard the busy blue river before they saw it. The river had more traffic than usual, Simon realized, because of the dozens of boatloads of displaced villagers on the move. The Maroong had invaded villages overnight and driven everyone out. Everything people had taken with them was bundled in pale silkworm cloth and tied with fishing line onto their rafts, which floated like dirty white cumulous clouds down the river. Villagers sat perched on top, huddled with their knees under their chins and the same blank expressions on their faces. The children easily caught a ride on a produce skiff on its route between towns. For the next few hours they listened as their fellow passengers told wild tales—herds that showed up in a town one day, so thin their bones almost pierced their hides; another village that had been buried in mud from freak rainstorms. On the shores the children saw birds that had fallen dead out of the trees and fish that had washed up lifeless. Sometimes they had to cover their noses against the reek of death. Once they had to crouch, hiding behind wooden boxes, as they passed a handful of Maroong on the riverbank, loading giant, shining blocks of ophalla onto a boat to carry upriver.