by Nancy Farmer
“Is the outside world that frightening?” Matt followed the man through the growing chambers to a small office in the middle of the building. Here the air was pleasantly cool and fresh. A small teapot simmered on a hot plate.
“It’s the sky.” The Mushroom Master leaned forward as though imparting a secret. “You have no idea how terrifying it is to someone who’s always had a roof over his head. It’s so big! It goes up and up forever. I feel like I could be sucked into it.”
Matt was surprised to find that he understood this feeling. “Once, long ago, I camped out under the open sky at night. I, too, was afraid of falling upward into the stars.”
“Stars! I haven’t dared to look at them yet.” The teapot began to rattle, and the Mushroom Master sprinkled the water with dried leaves. After a few minutes he poured out two cups of fragrant liquid. “This is tea. Have you ever had it, Don Sombra?”
Matt said he had and didn’t think much of it. It was brown like old dishwater and tasted much the same.
“Ah! But this is different,” said the man. “Tea isn’t a plant you can boil like spinach. It must be ripened like a fine cheese. Here. Enjoy the aroma first and then sip carefully.”
The boy took the cup with some amusement. The people in the biosphere were peculiar, from the frogherd with his skinny white legs to the people slurping grasshopper stew. But the aroma was pleasant. It wasn’t like flowers exactly. It reminded him of cedar or sandalwood, of something old but not decayed.
He sipped it. “This really is good.”
“You see!” crowed the Mushroom Master. “Even people who have never ventured outside a building can surprise you. Pu-erh is fermented by yeast. Do you know what a yeast is? A fungus! Is there nothing fungi can’t do?” The old man warbled on about spores and mycelia, lost in the wonder of Gaia’s creations.
Matt liked him and on an impulse said, “Why don’t you come to dinner at the hacienda? We can sit outside and stargaze.” The Mushroom Master tensed up. “We’ll stay close to the door so you can escape if it gets too frightening.”
The Mushroom Master considered. “Cienfuegos is always telling me about how beautiful the outside world is, but I’m afraid the farthest he’s got me is one trip to the pollution pits. Can I bring my umbrella?”
“Of course,” Matt said. “You can sit under it the whole time if it makes you comfortable.”
A weight seemed to have lifted from Matt as he made his way back to the hacienda. For weeks he had lived under a cloud, and none of his friends could help him. Everything and everyone reminded him of Mirasol. More than anything, he felt devastated that he hadn’t saved her. He should have found other doctors. He should have stopped trying to wake her up.
The Mushroom Master was different, because nothing about him raised unhappy memories. Being with him was like closing a door and looking ahead.
Matt went by the mausoleum, which wasn’t far from the hospital. He did this often, though both Celia and Sor Artemesia told him it was a bad idea. I don’t even have a picture of Mirasol, he thought, gazing at the dusty glass doors. How could he have been so careless? He remembered her now, but what about later?
Long ago he’d had a teacher, a woman who was one of the higher-grade eejits. He remembered her as very tall, but then he’d been a little kid. Everyone looked tall. She had brown hair and wore a green dress, and her face . . . was missing. It had vanished from his mind as the woman herself had vanished into the opium fields.
I’ll ask Chacho to draw a picture, Matt thought. He went by the guitar factory and invited his friend to dinner.
* * *
Eejits moved a picnic table near the veranda and placed lamps at either end. They were powered by solar cells that gathered energy during the day and refunded it as a pearly glow after dark. Matt thought it would appeal to the Mushroom Master. The table was close to a door where the man could dive for shelter.
Servants brought out bowls of salad, salsa, and tortilla chips. A platter of fried chicken sat in the middle of the table. Ton-Ton, Chacho, and Fidelito arrived, followed by Listen and Sor Artemesia. Listen went to the end of the table, as far as she could get from Matt.
The Mushroom Master, looking very odd under his domelike umbrella, was escorted by Cienfuegos. Fidelito hooted with laughter and was threatened by Ton-Ton. “If h-he wants to bring an umbrella, that’s his business,” said the older boy.
Matt introduced the old man. “He isn’t used to the sky and feels safer when he can’t see it,” the boy explained. He described the work the man and Cienfuegos had been doing.
“So the cat’s out of the bag,” said the jefe. “I’m warning you prehumans”—he shook his finger at Fidelito and Listen—“if you set foot in the mushroom house, I’m going to feed you to the Giant Gomphidius.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Listen.
Cienfuegos smiled wolfishly. “Come and find out.”
A servant filled everyone’s glass with fruit juice except, as usual, the jefe’s. “What’s that? It smells delightfully moldy,” said the Mushroom Master, sniffing from beneath the umbrella. Cienfuegos signaled for another glass of pulque.
The sun was setting. One tree was full of redwing blackbirds, singing so loudly it drowned out all the other birds. A peacock settled for the night on a plaster cherub holding a wreath of plaster roses. A line of quails hurried from one bush to another.
“We should eat outdoors more often,” Matt said.
“We, uh, did it all the time at the plankton factory,” said Ton-Ton. “We didn’t have birds, though. The Keepers ate them all.”
“Soon the stars will come out,” Matt said, steering the conversation away from that unpleasant memory. “You’ll be able to see them,” he told the Mushroom Master.
“I’ve seen pictures. I don’t need the real thing,” the old man said, grasping the umbrella more tightly.
“One of the brightest is the Scorpion Star. You must be interested in that.”
“Never heard of it,” said the Mushroom Master.
“It’s the space station patterned after your biosphere. A place for people to live off the Earth.” Matt was amazed that the man had never heard of it.
“Why would anyone want to live away from Gaia?” The Mushroom Master reached for a piece of chicken.
Matt exchanged looks with Cienfuegos. “You know, that’s a good question. El Patrón went to huge expense to create the space station, but we don’t know what it’s for.”
“I know he never went there,” said the jefe. “Dr. Rivas and his daughter tried to visit once. El Patrón had them arrested in Aztlán and brought back.”
“How do people get there?” said Chacho. “On TV they show rocket ships flying to other planets.”
“Pfft! The other planets are lifeless balls of rock,” scoffed the Mushroom Master.
Matt turned to him, or at least to the umbrella. “How do you know?”
“I read books. We have a perfectly good library in the biosphere,” said the old man. “It’s a hundred years out of date, but that doesn’t matter. The planets were dead then and still are. Only Gaia is alive.” Salsa and chips were rapidly disappearing under his umbrella.
“People use the Sky Hook to reach the Scorpion Star,” said Cienfuegos. “It’s a long tether attached at one end to a mountain in Ecuador and at the other to the space station. An elevator goes up and down, carrying people and supplies.”
“May I have another piece of chicken?” the Mushroom Master asked.
“You can have as much as you like,” said Matt.
The old man sighed with pleasure. He tipped the umbrella slightly to reach the food and quickly righted it again. Matt heard chewing noises from inside.
“You know, it isn’t going to rain,” said Listen from the far end of the table.
The umbrella tipped up again. “I remember you. I wondered at the time why you weren’t in the Brat Enclosure. You’d like it there. Lots of games and playmates.”
“I would not
like it,” Listen said. “Why don’t you put that thing away? Nothing’s going to fall on your head.”
“Are you sure? A star might come loose,” the old man said.
“You’re making fun of me ’cause I’m a little kid, but I’m smart. A star is a ball of fire millions of miles away. It isn’t going to fall on anybody.”
“Don’t talk back to adults, Listen,” said Sor Artemesia.
“Listen. What an interesting name,” the Mushroom Master said. “You must hear all kinds of things.”
“I got ears like a bat,” the little girl said.
“It’s true that I don’t need an umbrella,” conceded the old man. “I’ve lived all my life under a roof, and the sky scares the dickens out of me. But I’m going to put the umbrella away just for you, child.” He furled it and placed it on the ground by his feet. Matt noticed that his eyes were closed. “I can do this,” he murmured. He opened his eyes and gasped.
A crescent moon hung not far above the horizon. Rose and saffron hues glowed above the western hills, while the sky overhead was deep blue as though saturated with light. The Mushroom Master’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve seen pictures, but none of them were as glorious as this. Oh, thank you, thank you, Listen, for pulling me out of my shell.” The old man gazed, spellbound. Above the moon, gradually becoming clearer, was a brilliant point of light.
“That’s the evening star,” said Chacho. He, too, was spellbound by the colors.
“That’s not a star. It’s the planet Venus,” said Listen. “You can tell ’cause it doesn’t twinkle.”
“Sometimes I don’t want too much information,” Chacho said.
39
MARÍA LEARNS THE TRUTH
Matt hung Chacho’s drawing next to the lady in the white dress. It was surprisingly good, considering that his friend had little art training. Chacho said he’d been sketching things for as long as he could remember. His grandfather had encouraged him, buying paper and paints, but when the old man died, all that had ended. Chacho was packed up with dozens of other unwanted children and shipped to the orphanage where Matt had first met him.
“Drawing wasn’t allowed there,” said the boy. “We worked all day and at night recited the crotting Five Principles of Good Citizenship and the Four Attitudes Leading to Right Mindedness.” Matt remembered noticing how clumsy Chacho’s hands had seemed, but Eusebio had the same hands. It showed that you couldn’t judge people by their outward appearance.
“The picture is really good,” Matt said. “Would you mind doing a painting of Mirasol? I’ll get you whatever you need.”
Chacho looked up and, for the first time in many days, smiled. “I could work at the guitar factory. It would give me something to do.”
After he left, Matt continued looking at the drawing of Mirasol and the painting (as he imagined) of María. Mirasol’s wasn’t as skillfully done, but it showed her bright beauty and her eyes gazing at something in the far distance. They weren’t dead as they’d been in life, but still remote. María was altogether more interesting. She smiled as though she had some prank in mind that could get you into trouble, but would be fun anyway. Matt was suddenly overcome by a desire to see her.
He hurried to the holoport room, chose the icon, and activated the screen. The sickness that had come over him when he first used it had gone away. The scanner had evidently adjusted itself to recognize his slightly different handprint, and Matt could now open parts of the border or communicate with people as often as he pleased.
“At last,” said a voice behind him. Matt turned to see Sor Artemesia standing in the doorway. “Please let me stay, Don Sombra. I’ve been so worried about María. She must be lonely with me gone and with you . . . neglecting her.”
“I haven’t been neglecting her,” said Matt, stung.
“María doesn’t know that. She thinks you’ve forgotten her.”
Matt was annoyed to have company, but he could hardly send Sor Artemesia away. She was the closest thing María had to a real mother. By now the portal had cleared, and they saw the peaceful convent room. A small woman in a nun’s habit was dozing in a chair.
“Sor Inez!” called Sor Artemesia. The woman jerked to attention.
“¡ Jesús y María! Please wait and I’ll get Esperanza,” she cried.
“Stop!” ordered Sor Artemesia. “You are to fetch María alone. Don’t bring her mother. Do you understand? Alone.”
“Esperanza will skin me alive,” said Sor Inez.
“She won’t if she doesn’t know. I have the Lord of Opium here, and you can’t imagine the pain he’ll cause if you don’t obey.” The little woman scurried off.
“I couldn’t possibly hurt anybody from here,” said Matt.
“I have found,” said Sor Artemesia, “that if you give an order forcefully enough, people will obey it without thinking too much.” María appeared almost immediately, so she must have been waiting nearby. Matt wondered for how long.
“Sor Artemesia!” she cried. “Please come back, or make Mother send me to you. I’m so lonely”—and then she noticed Matt. “Mi vida, why didn’t you answer my calls? It’s been weeks. Have you left me for Mirasol?” Tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Matt felt terrible. He’d been so wrapped up in grief that he hadn’t considered the effect of his silence on María. “Mirasol is dead,” he said. His throat closed up, and he couldn’t speak for a moment.
“How—” began María.
“She was an eejit. They don’t live long,” said Sor Artemesia.
And then María drew the kind of conclusion that was so typical of her and that made Matt love her. “You were trying to save her,” she said. “I understand now. You were trying to save her, and she died anyway. How awful it must have been for you!”
The generosity of this conclusion made tears come to Matt’s eyes too. He blinked, remembering Mirasol dancing and then falling limp into his arms. It hadn’t been as high-minded as María thought. “I want you to come here,” he said.
“I’m trying. I keep arguing with Mother, but she’s like a brick wall. She’s—oh, this is terrible—she’s trying to arrange a marriage for me.”
“You’re too young,” said Sor Artemesia.
“I know. It won’t be an actual marriage, more like a betrothal. Honestly!” María stamped her foot and looked, for an instant, like Esperanza in a snit. “You’d think it was the fifteenth century, with girls being given away like favors to slimy old men. It’s one of Mother’s friends on a human rights board. He’s not really old. Thirty-five or so, but he’s hopeless. He wants me to help him do good works, distribute pamphlets on dental hygiene or getting immunized against AIDS.”
Sor Artemesia stifled a snort of laughter. “Mija, isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To emulate Saint Francis?”
María looked daggers at the nun. “Of course, but not with him. I haven’t got anybody on my side here. Please call Emilia or Dada. Maybe they can back me up.”
Both Matt and Sor Artemesia flinched. They knew the story of El Patrón’s funeral had been kept secret to protect Matt’s fragile hold on the Alacrán empire. “What should I do?” the nun mouthed silently.
Matt thought rapidly. Sooner or later the news had to come out. He was a lot more confident of his power than he had been months ago. “I’m going to tell you something that you absolutely have to keep secret,” he said, without much hope that María would.
“Aren’t Emilia and Dada there?” she said uncertainly.
“Listen to me. It’s extremely important. This involves my safety and Sor Artemesia’s, too. You must promise to say nothing to anyone, including your mother.”
“She should have told you long ago,” put in Sor Artemesia.
“Of course I’ll promise. Is Dada in prison?” said María, with a keener sense of her father’s activities than Matt thought she possessed.
“He’s—he passed away,” said Matt. “So did Emilia.” How was he going to tell her the circumstances
of how it happened?
Sor Artemesia came to his rescue. In a careful, restrained tone she described El Patrón’s funeral and the old man’s final revenge on anyone who dared to outlive him. “It was quick. They didn’t suffer,” the nun said.
María looked stunned. “How long has Mother known?”
“Since the first time I saw you through the holoport,” Matt said.
“She lied to me. She let me write letters to them for months. She gave me their answers. She wrote them herself.” María was crying now, but she was also angry. “She wanted to betroth me to that mealy-mouthed creep. She said Dada was in favor of it. She lied!”
“We’re on your side,” said Matt. “I’ll tell Esperanza that I won’t cooperate with her unless she sends you here.”
“She’ll find a way around it. She always does.” María paced around the room, smacking a fist into her palm. Sor Inez came in and signaled wildly. Esperanza was on her way. “Mother’s going on a fact-finding mission to Russia next week,” María said quickly. “Contact me at the other holoport in Paradise on Tuesday afternoon. I’ll have a plan then.” She snapped off the connection before Esperanza could come in and discover what she was doing.
Sor Artemesia sat down as mist filled the screen and the Convent of Santa Clara disappeared. She was trembling. “I hate dealing with people like Esperanza,” she admitted. “What I wouldn’t give for a cottage in a quiet valley where all I had to do was garden.”
“Me too,” said Matt. “I wouldn’t grow opium there either.”
Sor Artemesia smiled weakly. “I noticed that the altar cloth I embroidered wasn’t fastened to the wall at the convent. I wonder what happened to it.”
“María sent it to me.” Matt didn’t say that it was under his pillow or that he felt for it in the middle of the night when he had trouble sleeping.
* * *
The following Monday Matt went to the guitar factory to see how Chacho was getting along with the supplies he’d sent him. Boxes of watercolors, oil paints, and pastel crayons had arrived, along with brushes and various kinds of paper. To his surprise he saw Chacho working on an entire outside wall. It was a mural of people dancing, to go by the sketch done in charcoal on the whitewashed surface. Fidelito, Listen, and Ton-Ton were watching, while Mr. Ortega strummed a guitar.
