The House of the Scorpion

by Nancy Farmer

  In the fields of half-grown opium Matt saw lines of children removing weeds and bugs. Their small hands were much better at tending the delicate plants than adult hands were. These workers ranged in age from six to about ten, although some were so malnourished they might have been older.

  Matt was horrified. Before he had seen anything of the outside world, child eejits raised no more pity in him than adults. But now that he’d met normal youngsters, it was unendurable to see them so brutalized. He pictured Fidelito—bright, cheerful, mischievous Fidelito—in a tan uniform with a little floppy hat on his head.

  “Stop,” Matt told the Safe Horse. He watched the small workers, trying to figure out how to help them. He could take them to the hacienda, feed them well, and give them proper beds. But what then? Could you say “play” and expect them to obey? Could you order them to laugh? The problem was in their brains, and Matt had no idea how to fix that.

  He told the Safe Horse to go on. When they arrived at the stables, a young man came out to take the reins. He had dark brown eyes and black hair like most of the Illegals the Farm Patrol caught. Matt had never seen him before. “Where’s Rosa?” he asked.

  Rosa had been Matt’s keeper when he was small. She had been bitter and cruel, tormenting the boy because he was a clone. When El Patrón discovered what she was doing, he turned her into an eejit and made her work in the stables. Dull-eyed and slow-moving, she brought out Safe Horses whenever Matt asked for them.

  At first he was pleased with the punishment, but gradually he became uncomfortable. She had been terrible, but it was far worse to see her reduced to a soulless shadow. He spoke to her often, hoping to awaken something buried inside, but she never answered. “Where’s Rosa?” he repeated.

  “Do you wish another horse, Master?” the new stable keeper said.

  “No. Where is the woman who used to be here?”

  “Do you wish another horse, Master?” the man replied. He was only an eejit and unable to say anything else. Matt turned away and headed for the hacienda.

  • • •

  El Patrón’s hacienda spread out like a green jewel in the desert. It was surrounded by vast gardens and fountains that sparkled in the sun. Peacocks strayed across its walkways, and wide marble steps led up to a veranda framed by orange trees. A few of the gardeners were Real People, and they bowed respectfully to Matt. Under their supervision a line of silent eejits clipped the lawns with scissors.

  Matt was startled. Never before had the gardeners bowed to him. They obeyed him, of course, out of fear of El Patrón, but he knew they secretly despised him. What had changed? He hadn’t told anyone about his new status, not even Celia, who loved him and didn’t care a bent centavo whether he was human or not.

  He walked along echoing halls on floors polished so brilliantly it was like walking on water. But he didn’t go to the magnificent apartments reserved for the Alacrán family. He had never belonged there and had only bitter memories of the people. Instead he turned toward the servants’ quarters and the huge kitchen where Celia ruled.

  She was sitting at a scuffed wooden table along with Mr. Ortega, the music teacher; Daft Donald, the only surviving bodyguard; and the pilot who had flown Matt back to Opium. What was his name? Major Beltrán. They were drinking coffee, and Celia had put out a platter of corn chips and guacamole dip. When she saw Matt, she stood up so abruptly her cup tipped over.

  “Oh, my. Oh, my,” she said, automatically wiping up the spill with her apron. “Just look at you, mi vida. Only I can’t call you that anymore. Oh, my.” The others had stood up as well.

  “You can call me anything you like,” said Matt.

  “No, I can’t. You’re too important. But I can’t bring myself to call you El Patrón.”

  “Of course not! What a crazy idea! What’s wrong with all of you?” Matt, more than anything, wanted to hug her, but she seemed afraid of him. Daft Donald and Mr. Ortega were standing at attention. Only Major Beltrán looked comfortable.

  “You told them, didn’t you?” Matt accused the pilot.

  “It was not a secret.” Major Beltrán seemed amused. “Doña Esperanza said I was to find the highest-ranking Alacrán and make a deal with him. Only, there is no such person. They’re all dead.”

  “What do you mean, deal?” said Matt.

  The pilot shrugged. He was a handsome man with glossy black hair and a film star’s face. His spotless appearance made Matt aware that his own clothes smelled of horse and that his face was covered with acne. “We have to open the border,” Major Beltrán said. “This place is in lockdown, as you saw when we flew in. Only El Patrón’s successor has the power to cancel it, and until I got here, I didn’t know who that person was.”

  “That person is me. Esperanza said that I was his successor.”

  The pilot shrugged again. “You’re a child, and your claim is open to question. El Patrón’s great-grandson should have taken over. Or one of his great-great-grandsons. Now, of course, you’re all we have left.”

  Matt realized—how had he missed it before?—that Major Beltrán didn’t like him. The ingratiating smile meant nothing. The mocking eyes said, Three months ago you were a filthy clone, and in my opinion you still are. Never mind. I’ll make do until I can find something better.

  That alone made Matt determined not to cooperate. “I am the Lord of Opium,” he said quietly. He heard Celia gasp behind him. “I will deal directly with Esperanza. The servants can find you an apartment, Major Beltrán, if they have not done so already, and when I open the border, you can fly home.” Matt was trembling and desperately trying not to show it. He wasn’t used to giving orders to adults.

  Major Beltrán swallowed, and his eyes became cold and distant. “We’ll see,” he said, and left the room.

  Matt collapsed into a chair. He was afraid to speak in case his voice betrayed how nervous he was, but there was only admiration in the eyes of Celia, Mr. Ortega, and Daft Donald.

  “¡Caramba! ¡Le bajó su copete! You sure put him in his place,” exclaimed Mr. Ortega with the slightly flat tone of the deaf. Daft Donald clasped his hands over his head in victory.

  “He’s been swanking around ever since he got here,” Celia said, “giving us orders like he owns the place. He said that international law made you a human the minute El Patrón died—not that I ever doubted it. He said that in the eyes of the law you were El Patrón, but you were too stupid to know what to do. ¡Chale! I don’t think so!” She enveloped Matt in a bear hug, but very quickly let him go. “I can’t do that anymore.”

  “Yes, you can,” said Matt, hugging her back.

  She solemnly unwrapped his arms and put them down at his sides. “No, mi vida. Whatever you may wish, you’re a drug lord now and must learn to behave like one.” She called a servant to take him to El Patrón’s private wing. “You look exhausted, mijo. Take a bath and a nap. I’ll send you clean clothes.”

  EL PATRÓN’S PRIVATE WING

  A servant girl took Matt along various passages and unlocked the heavy wooden door that led to the private wing. It was an area only the most trusted allies of El Patrón had been allowed to visit. A haze of dust hung in the air, as though the windows had been closed for a long time.

  As a child El Patrón had been so skinny that chili beans had to wait in line to get inside his stomach. The wealthy ranchero who owned his village had amused himself by casting centavos to the boy. El Patrón had to grovel in the dirt to collect them. He had never recovered from this humiliation. He wanted to become so rich and powerful that he could grind the ranchero under his heel. Unfortunately, the man died long before El Patrón could carry out his plan.

  The insult was forever green in the old man’s mind. He built a magnificent hacienda copying the ranchero’s estate. That was why most things in Opium were a hundred years in the past, but El Patrón’s private wing was even older. He had brought back entire sections of Iberian castles. He had plundered El Prado, the finest art museum in Spain, for paintings and tapes
tries. These he studied carefully, for his goal was to become nothing less than a king.

  The rooms of his private wing were as dark and cheerless as the old paintings. Tam Lin had once pointed out that the reason the pictures were so gloomy was because they were dirty. El Patrón had been furious. He exiled the bodyguard to eejit duty for an entire month.

  The colors in this part of the hacienda were various shades of brown and black. Even the walls were a milky color that Tam Lin called “baby-poo.” The furniture was made of heavy mahogany and cast iron and took at least three eejits to move. Yet here and there were pockets of beauty—a golden deer with delicate antlers, a statue of the Madonna, a painting of a woman in a white dress lying on a couch. Unlike the other portraits, whose subjects looked miserable, this woman had a mischievous smile. She reminded Matt of María.

  The servant led Matt to a bedroom even darker and stuffier than the hall. She bowed politely and left.

  Matt stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes, but for some reason he couldn’t relax. For a few minutes he puzzled about what was wrong. He got up, pulled back the covers, and there, in the middle of the mattress, was the distinct impression of a man. Matt caught his breath. Of course! El Patrón had lain here for a hundred years. The hollow in the mattress was shaped like the old man, and the horrible thing was that Matt had fit into it exactly.

  He tore the covers off, driven by a panic he didn’t understand, and heaped them up in a corner to make a new bed. He fell into a troubled sleep, opening his eyes briefly to see the girl enter with an armful of fresh clothes.

  Matt awoke hours later wedged under a chair. Above him were strips of ancient leather stained by years of use. A shred of dirty webbing dangled a dead fly next to his nose. He scooted out, vowing to have everything cleaned and to have the windows unsealed. He would send the tapestries back to El Prado and burn the dreadful mattress. Matt yanked at the heavy curtains hanging over the bed. The rotten fabric tore, revealing a bell cord El Patrón used to call servants.

  A man appeared in the doorway, answering Matt’s call.

  “Help me get rid of this stuff,” Matt ordered, gathering up the curtains in his arms.

  The man didn’t move.

  Matt took a closer look at his eyes and realized that he was only an eejit. For months the boy had lived with normal people and had forgotten how creepy such beings were. The servant would understand only a few commands. “Get me lunch,” Matt said hopefully. Nothing happened. “Call Celia. Make the bed. Oh, forget it. I’m going to take a shower.” At the word shower the eejit woke up and went into the next room. Matt heard water being turned on and the man reappeared, pushing a wheelchair. He reached for the boy and started to undo his shirt.

  “Whoa! Stop! Go away!” cried Matt. The eejit’s hands fell, and he left the room as silently as he had come.

  Matt heard water thundering in the shower and sprinted to turn it off. It was criminal to waste such a precious resource. At the plankton factory, where he’d been enslaved, clean water was unknown. Everything they used smelled of brine shrimp and strange chemicals. Even the water they drank was polluted and made the boys’ faces break out with terrible acne. Including mine, Matt thought unhappily, feeling the bumps on his skin.

  He saw that the bathroom had been set up for an old man. Handholds were everywhere. The floor was padded against falls. The shower stall was large enough to contain the wheelchair, and there were no mirrors. El Patrón hadn’t wanted to be reminded of his age.

  Matt took a quick shower and emerged feeling much happier. He discovered his old clothes in a closet and set out to find Celia. The bath eejit stood in the hallway. Only his blinking eyes indicated that he was something other than a waxwork.

  • • •

  On the way to the kitchen, the servant girl who had taken him to El Patrón’s bedroom stepped out of an alcove. “Please follow me to the dining room, mi patrón,” she said, bowing.

  “I don’t want to eat in the dining room,” Matt said crossly. “I want to have lunch in the kitchen with Celia. And don’t call me patrón.”

  He tried to go on, but the girl hurried past him and bowed again. “Please follow me to the dining room, mi patrón.”

  “I told you—” He halted, realizing that she was another eejit. He hadn’t noticed earlier, because she’d seemed so much more alert. If he tried to go on, she would only try to stop him again and again. Matt didn’t have the energy to argue. Shrugging, he allowed her to lead him to a room large enough to entertain a hundred people.

  A long table was covered with a white damask tablecloth. At intervals were vases of fresh flowers, and overhead, chandeliers glittered. Only one place had been set, which made Matt wonder. Did the servants decorate this room with flowers every day? They had certainly polished the chandeliers, because dust settled on everything in only a few hours. It was how things were in the desert. El Patrón hadn’t minded, though he insisted on cleanliness when there were important visitors. He said that the dust reminded him of his childhood in the dry, dusty state of Durango.

  From there, more times than not, the old man had gone on with the story of his childhood, following the well-worn tracks of his youth. Matt knew it by heart. It was like a real place hanging somewhere in space, just waiting to be visited again. Matt shivered. Sometimes it almost felt like one of his own memories.

  He sat down, and the girl served him watery scrambled eggs, mushy polenta, and applesauce. It was an old man’s lunch.

  “Would you like me to feed you?” she said.

  “Leave me alone,” said Matt. He ate morosely, noting the lack of flavor. El Patrón’s blood pressure hadn’t allowed him to eat salt, chili peppers, or spices.

  Heavy curtains had been pulled back from the room’s tall windows to let in fresh air, and someone was using a lawn mower not far away. It was a manual lawn mower, because El Patrón hadn’t liked modern machinery.

  The girl stood silently next to Matt’s chair. “For heaven’s sake, sit down!” he cried. To his surprise she did, and he studied her more carefully. She was young, possibly his own age. She had silky blond hair and a pale, sweet face that would have been beautiful if her eyes hadn’t been so empty. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “I am called Waitress.”

  Matt laughed. “That’s a job, not a name. What were you called before?” He regretted saying this, because he didn’t want to think about what she’d been before, when she was a normal girl with a home and family.

  “I am called Waitress.” She stared at him blankly.

  “From now on you’re Mirasol,” Matt decided. It was a name he’d always liked, and for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of emotion. She paused before answering.

  “I am called Waitress,” she repeated.

  “We’ll work on it later.” Matt turned to the watery eggs. They had cooled off and were even less appetizing than before. “Can’t you get me quesadillas or something that doesn’t look like it was barfed up by a coyote?”

  Waitress sprang to attention and hurried from the room. Matt was startled. Waitress—Mirasol—was showing surprising individuality. Apparently not all eejits were alike. He remembered there had been a huge difference between Teacher, who had long ago tried to teach him numbers, and the mindless zombies who tended the fields.

  I’ve got to find a way to free them, he thought. He’d only returned to Opium yesterday and was still stunned by the change in his fortunes. It was very well to say he was going to end the drug empire, but where was he to begin? The whole thing rested on a vast distribution network that involved thousands of people. They wouldn’t like to see their livelihood taken away.

  He wished Tam Lin were there to advise him. Tears formed in Matt’s eyes at the memory of the man who’d been as close as a father to him, and he hovered between grief and anger. How stupid of Tam Lin to kill himself. How selfish.

  Mirasol returned with a tray heaped with steaming quesadillas, and Matt fell upon them ravenously. He had
n’t had such food for months. All they ate at the plankton factory was plankton burgers, and in the hospital in San Luis, he’d been given dry toast and Jell-O.

  He looked up to see Mirasol watching him and realized that she, too, might be hungry. “I forgot about you,” he said. “Please sit down and eat.” She obeyed, stuffing quesadillas into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten for a month. He remembered that eejits didn’t know when to stop and took the tray away from her.

  “The doctors who did this to you are dead,” he told her, although he knew she couldn’t really understand. “They drank poisoned wine at El Patrón’s funeral. Does that make you feel better? No, of course it doesn’t, but there must be other doctors around who can cure you.”

  Talking to an eejit was almost like talking to himself, Matt thought. He wiped her mouth with a napkin, and she patiently endured it. “I wish I’d known you before,” he said. “I wonder what forced you to cross the border and what kind of family you left behind.” He brushed back the silky hair that had fallen across her face. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he took his hand away. “Thank you for the breakfast, Mirasol. I’m going to find Celia now.”

  “I am called Waitress,” she replied.

  He left her to do whatever she was programmed to do.

  CIENFUEGOS

  Celia was sitting at the kitchen table with a man Matt had never seen before. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his skin was the same color as a coyote. His eyes were pale brown and watchful. He was cleaning a stun gun of the kind used to subdue Illegals, or sometimes to kill them.

  “Matt!” cried Celia, springing up, but she stopped herself before she hugged him. “Oh, dear, I can’t call you Matt anymore. It isn’t dignified.”

  “You need a title,” said the strange man, sighting along the stun gun. “This place is like a time bomb. The sooner we establish you as the master, the better.”