Lotería

by Karla Arenas Valenti

  Eight feet shuffled around her, scraping against the stone. Heat scorched Clara’s back.

  “Eedom, eedom!” the spider said. It clicked frenetically.

  “Okay, okay,” Clara replied. “Calm down. Just…give me a moment.”

  She gathered her thoughts. With her head still tucked between her knees and covered by her arms, her ears were blocked. She was unable to hear clearly.

  “P-p-please.” Her voice trembled, but she slowly lifted her head. Clara forced herself to open her eyes and said, “Please say it one more time.”

  “My freedom!” the spider screeched.

  Relief gave way to a deep breath filling Clara’s lungs, and she eagerly accepted it.

  “Your freedom,” Clara repeated. “I get it.”

  With every inhale, her heart became less erratic, and the tension gripping her muscles relented.

  “Okay. I need to think,” Clara said. “Can you please back away? Just a bit…”

  She waited until the shuffling feet moved away and a cool breeze swept over her. Then she slowly untangled her body and took a good look at the creature.

  The spider was even bigger than she had imagined. Its head nearly touched the cavern’s ceiling; its fangs were gnarly and curved inward. In the dim light, Clara could make out most of the spider’s body, as big as a small bus, jet-black and streaked with red.

  “Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper.

  The spider responded with a rapid succession of clicks that did not seem entirely friendly.

  “First, I need to look around,” she said. “So I can figure out what to do.”

  “There’s nothing here,” the spider replied. “This is just a giant hole carved into a stone mountain.”

  Clara eased herself up. “Well, how did you get in here?” she asked.

  “I was taken prisoner, like you.”

  “You are a prisoner?”

  The spider clicked. “All the creatures here are prisoners.” A hairy leg pointed at the catacombs beyond the metal bars. “Slaves, actually.”

  “Why slaves?”

  “El Diablo forces us to work for him.” The spider clicked angrily. “He’s building an army.”

  Clara looked back at the rows upon rows of metal bars lining the catacomb walls.

  “An army for what?” she asked.

  “Enough questions,” the spider growled. “I spared your life. I want my freedom.”

  Clara nodded and took a steadying breath. “I’m not from here,” she said. “This information might help me figure out how to escape.”

  The spider was quiet then, and Clara didn’t dare move an inch. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts as she tried to envision a way out.

  “What do you want to know?” the spider finally said.

  “Why is El Diablo building an army?”

  “Las Pozas belongs to a king,” the spider explained. “He is said to be a cruel and wicked man. El Diablo is forced to work for him.”

  Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Doing what?”

  “Collecting children.”

  Esteban!

  “He delivers them to the king every month at the Mercado Rojo,” the spider went on.

  “But why? What does the king do with the children?”

  The spider clicked angrily. “I have heard he traps them in an underground cavern. That way he can steal their youth—take years of their life for himself.”

  “What?” Clara’s yelp rang heavily in the dark space.

  Questions swirled in her mind, tumbling one after the other.

  “But where does El Diablo find the children?” Clara asked. “How?”

  “El Diablo has a key that opens a passageway into the world beyond Asrean. He enters and always returns with a child.” The spider shuffled in the darkness. “Sometimes he also brings back creatures for his army: spiders like me, flying scorpions, two-headed dragons.”

  “Two-headed dragons!” Dread spread through Clara’s veins, chilling her to the bone.

  “This one had feathers and scales. It blew fire and ice,” the spider replied. “And with it came a child.”

  “What child?” Clara asked.

  “A young boy looking for his mother.”

  “Esteban!” A sob tore through Clara. “El Diablo kidnapped him!”

  “No, the children follow him. They go willingly,” the spider replied. “It is not hard to trick the brokenhearted.”

  Clara struggled to breathe.

  “Is that all?” The spider clicked impatiently.

  “You said there was an army?” Clara replied.

  “Yes. El Diablo would like to stop working for the king. He wants to be free.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “It is not,” the spider growled. “He’s been collecting us for years, constraining us to these catacombs with little food or water. Some of us are forced to dig tunnels; others are used for our venom. All are trained to kill upon command. None of us were killers when we came here.”

  “Oh,” Clara whispered. “That sounds awful.”

  “He’s also assembled a troop of human soldiers, mercenaries hired to help lead the attack.”

  “When?” Clara asked. “Is the attack going to happen soon?”

  A surge of hope shot through her veins. But the spider had reached the end of its patience. “I am done answering questions. This is all you need to know. Now you must deliver on your end of the bargain.”

  “I will,” Clara said. “Just tell me, please—is the attack going to happen today?”

  “It is not,” the spider replied. Then it moved closer to Clara. “It will take place during the king’s jubilee.”

  “And when is th—”

  “Enough! My freedom for your life,” it growled.

  “Right,” Clara said. “But…I don’t know how to get out of here.”

  The spider growled once more. “Well, then, it seems we don’t have a deal.”

  A bloodthirsty chorus arose throughout the catacombs, as if the other creatures sensed an impending attack.

  “Stop!” Clara yelled over the din of hungry beasts.

  Their calls only grew louder.

  “I’m getting hungry,” the spider added, and advanced on Clara. “And I don’t think you’re going to be much use to me alive.”

  Clara pushed up against the metal bars, with nowhere to go. The darkness of the cave almost seemed to glow behind the massive body moving toward her.

  And then she remembered: spiders can’t see in the dark.

  The conversation with Esteban seemed a lifetime ago, but it gave her an idea.

  In one swift motion, Clara pushed herself away from the bars and raced beneath the spider. She zigzagged from one side of the cave to the other, hoping to confuse it. Unfortunately, her white hair was a beacon, reflecting whatever dim light managed to fall through the hole in the cavern ceiling. The spider crawled behind her.

  Clara plunged deeper into the cold darkness, diving from shadow to shadow until there wasn’t a shred of light to give her away. Her foot hit a soft bulge along one wall, and she quickly moved away from it.

  The spider’s legs scraped the floor directly behind her.

  They can sense vibrations.

  Her fingers found a ridge along the wall that opened into a small nook at knee level. It was not large enough to hide her entirely, but it would have to do. She tucked herself into a ball, pressing every inch of skin into the small pocket carved into the stone. She forced her heart to slow down, her breath to quiet, her body to be…

  Still.

  The spider’s clicks bounced off the walls as its legs explored the cavern. Clara held her breath as the spider passed by her. A second later, it halted.

  “I will find you,” the spider sa
id. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

  Clara tightened every muscle in her body, making herself as compact as possible; she sucked her breath in. But as she pressed herself against the wall, the gravel shifted. A small chunk of stone crumbled and rolled to the ground. Clara squeezed her eyes shut.

  A long, hairy leg pinned her against the stone.

  “There you are,” the spider said. “I told you you wouldn’t get far.”

  At three o’clock the door to Esteban’s room opened and a man entered, bearing a tray laden with food. His expression was serious, his manner severe. Silently he placed the tray onto the desk and left.

  A deepening sense of worry was building within Esteban. He eyed the food suspiciously, but almost as if on cue, his hunger, long dormant, awakened with a roar. The swirls of scents overshadowed any pangs of foreboding. Pan amarillo and requesón; a plate of pineapple, papaya, and melon; chicken in a creamy mole sauce, with rice, black beans, and tortillas on the side; a tall glass of fresh lemonade. A cluster of polvorones sat on a yellow napkin. Esteban eagerly dug in and devoured everything on the tray, down to the last cookie crumb.

  Ease washed over him. Thus satiated and comforted, Esteban curled up on the plush bed and took a nap. He slept deeply until he was awakened by the sound of someone moving around in his room.

  This time a woman had entered. She, too, wore a serious expression as she tidied up the food and toys. She picked up the remote-controlled car and placed it in the toy box.

  “That one is mine,” Esteban said. “The man in red gave it to me.”

  The woman looked up, her eyes gray and heavy. She plucked the toy out of the box and set it back on the desk.

  “It’s time for your bath,” she told him. Her voice was soft and musical, a sharp contrast to her demeanor.

  Esteban climbed out of the bed and followed her to the bathroom. Steam had fogged up the mirrors; curls of it danced in beams of golden light. In one corner of the room, steps led up to a large bath piled high with bubbles. Plush white towels lay heaped on the ledge, crowned by a creamy bar of soap.

  “In you go.” The woman turned around so Esteban could change out of his clothes. He carefully stepped into the bath, sinking low into bubbles that smelled like vanilla.

  “Please wash thoroughly,” she said.

  Esteban nodded.

  “I’ll be in the next room setting out your clothes.” She scooped up the clothes he had left on the floor and flung them into the garbage. Before Esteban could say a word in protest, she had already left the bathroom.

  “My mom made that shirt,” he whispered. New clothes were a luxury his family could seldom afford. Fortunately, his mother was an excellent seamstress and able to make gowns out of scraps, suits out of rags, and a new shirt for Esteban out of one of his father’s old ones.

  Perhaps now that his mother was helping the king, they could have new clothes whenever they needed them.

  “Are you soaping up?” the woman called from the next room. “We don’t have much time.”

  Esteban reached for the bar of soap on the towels.

  He wanted to give in to the warm water, let its silky smoothness envelop him. But a sliver of doubt gnawed at the back of his mind. He pushed it away.

  His mother was probably helping the king with an important task, which explained why she hadn’t yet come to him. The polvorones must have been a gift from her to make him feel better. And she would be so excited to see him, so grateful to the man in red for bringing him to her.

  The thought filled Esteban with joy and anticipation. He was eager to see his mother. He was also curious, and more than a little bit excited, to meet the king. He’d never met a king before. He wondered what it would be like to live in a giant palace with everything he could ever want.

  With that happy notion, Esteban scrubbed thoroughly, making sure to wash behind his ears and even between his toes. He definitely wanted the king to like him.

  Wrapped in one of the plush towels, Esteban walked into the bedroom.

  The woman pointed at a crisp white shirt and dark blue trousers. Socks and underwear were set out as well, and on the floor was a shiny pair of black shoes.

  “Those are for you,” she said.

  A jolt of excitement coursed through Esteban. He’d only ever seen clothes as fancy as these on the mayor, when Esteban and his family went to the Zócalo to see the Independence Day celebration. And actually, it was quite possible these clothes were even fancier than those.

  “I will return for you in ten minutes,” the woman said. “And then we’ll go meet your fate.”

  It was an odd choice of words, and if Esteban had been paying attention, he might have been alarmed. As it was, he was too busy envisioning his mother’s embrace to notice anything amiss.

  Pinned beneath the spider, with panic quickly closing in, all of Clara’s mistakes bubbled to the surface of her mind.

  I should have stayed away from that rose.

  I should have controlled my fears in the tunnel.

  I should have begged the hunters for a knife.

  I should have drawn a horn for the bird.

  She stopped.

  The horn!

  The bird had asked her to draw a horn, and it had said the horn would become real if it liked the drawing. Maybe—

  The spider’s jaws moved toward Clara.

  “Wait!” she gasped, holding up her hands. “I have an idea!”

  “I’m afraid the time for ideas is past.” The spider clicked. “Now I’m just hungry.”

  At the mention of hunger, the creatures in the other caves became more frenzied.

  “Hold on!” Clara cried. “This might work. And it might be your only chance of getting out of here.”

  The spider halted. “Is this a trick?”

  “No,” Clara said. “Please let me explain.”

  “Okay—talk,” the spider said, but it did not retreat.

  “Can you at least move your leg?” Clara asked.

  “No,” the spider replied, and the pressure on Clara’s chest increased.

  “Fine,” Clara gasped. “But don’t crush me, or you’ll never hear what I have to say.”

  “Explain!” the spider hissed. “I’m growing weary of you.”

  Clara explained about the bird and the horn. “Maybe I can draw a key to get us out of here!”

  The spider was quiet for a long time, and just as Clara was about to ask if it had heard her, it lifted its foot off her chest.

  A rush of cold air flooded her lungs.

  “You can try this,” the spider said. “But if you attempt to escape again, I will not give you a chance to utter a single word or even take another breath.”

  “I understand.” Clara sat up and leaned her back against the wall. She took a few deep breaths. Her chest ached where the spider had pinned her down, but otherwise she was fine.

  “So,” the spider urged, “how does this work?”

  “I—I’m not entirely sure.” Clara quickly added, “But I’m going to figure it out!” She slowly rose to her feet. “First, I need to move closer to the light.”

  “Remember my warning,” the spider said.

  Clara rubbed at the sore spot on her chest as she walked toward the front of the cave. Her eyes ran over the ground, scanning it for something she could use as a drawing utensil. But it was all stone, rough and uneven. Even if she did find a stick or a rock, it would be impossible to leave a mark on the floor.

  “So?” the spider asked when Clara reached the metal bars.

  “I need something I can use as ink,” Clara said.

  “What about water?” the spider asked. There were plenty of dips and grooves in the stone where water had gathered into pools.

  Clara placed her finger into one of the pools. A layer of slime clung
to her skin when she pulled her finger back out. She resisted the urge to wipe it away and instead attempted to draw a slimy key on the stone, like the one she’d seen the guard use.

  The slime left no mark.

  “It’s not working,” Clara said. “We need something else.”

  “What about blood?” the spider asked, hovering over Clara.

  A chill ran down her spine. “Um…maybe.”

  A sharp pain shot through Clara’s arm, and she turned to find an open wound on her skin. “What did you—” She felt dizzy, and the ground seemed to be swaying.

  “You’ll be fine. I didn’t inject any venom,” the spider said, then added, “This time.”

  Clara took a shaky breath and ventured another look at the wound. It was a clean and perfectly round perforation. Inky red blood bubbled to the surface and then began its slow descent down her arm.

  “Go on,” the spider said. “You’re wasting time.”

  Clara dipped her fingertip into the line of blood.

  As she drew the key, the blood, sticky and viscous, stuck to the rock, creating a clearly visible outline.

  “Now what?” The spider clicked.

  “I don’t know,” Clara said. “I didn’t get this far with the bird.”

  The spider hissed, and the air around Clara shifted. She turned to see the spider’s leg in the air, poised above her head. She twisted her body away just as the spider’s leg came crashing down inches from where she stood.

  Clink.

  Something metallic landed at her feet.

  “What was that?” Clara’s eyes flew to the spot where she’d drawn the key, the spot where the spider’s leg had landed.

  “Look!”

  Her drawing had materialized in the form of a metal key—a red cylinder with a triangle at one end.

  “It must have become real when you touched it,” she cried.

  The spider clicked furiously but made no move to attack her again.

  “Get on with it!” it howled.

  Clara grabbed the key and raced to the door. She tried inserting it into the keyhole, but the cylinder was too wide.

  “It’s too big!” She tossed the key behind the spider into the cave, where it landed with a series of clinks, followed by an agitated rustling.