by Nancy Farmer
The eejits, of course, were buried in mass graves out in the desert. Tam Lin said their resting places were impossible to distinguish from landfill.
“This looks like a—a party,” Matt faltered.
“It 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 Thanksgiving and heart-shaped cakes on Saint Valentine’s Day. She 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 Matt’s 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 party-goers 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 Guapo’s 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 arch-way 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 salt-works.”
“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 Tam 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 Ton-Ton 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.
