Lotería

by Karla Arenas Valenti

  Contracting her body as much as possible, Clara pressed herself against the wall. That had worked temporarily in the spider’s dark cave. But there was enough dim light in the enormous cavern to illuminate Clara’s bone-white hair.

  “There!” one of the soldiers called, pointing directly at her. The dragon flitted upward and out of sight. Within seconds, Clara was surrounded.

  “How did you get here?” the guard demanded. He pressed the tip of his bayonet to her neck, and she felt a pinprick of pain.

  Her mind was blank.

  “Feed her to the beasts!” one of the soldiers barked.

  Before she could utter a word of protest, a soldier grabbed Clara and began dragging her back to the cell block.

  “No! Stop!” she cried, but her voice was drowned out by the scuffling of heavy feet. She recognized it instantly. A moment later, the guards realized what it was, and the blood quickly drained from their faces.

  The enormous spider and its battalion of babies surged across the floor and walls like an advancing flood, hungrily crawling toward Clara and her captors.

  “Is that—” one of the guards gasped.

  The creatures grew frantic in their prisons, eager to partake in the feast. Their hunger made a terrifying ruckus.

  One of the guards holding Clara turned and fled. A column of baby spiders raced after him. Before the remaining guards could respond, hundreds of legs and little jaws had fallen upon them. The guards screamed and tried to escape. Clara had no time to do anything but drop to the ground and cover her head.

  The spiders crawled over and around her, clicking frenetically as they moved onward. But they left her untouched.

  When the wave of arachnids had passed her by, there was nothing left of the soldiers but a pile of limp uniforms and empty helmets, one still spinning in place. The cave echoed with the sound of the spiders’ continued onslaught as they encountered more guards and soldiers along the way.

  Clara rose and was greeted by the small dragon anxiously flitting around her.

  “I’m okay.” She took a deep breath and added, “But I’m sure more soldiers will be here any minute.” She grabbed one of the uniforms off the floor.

  The sleeves were too long, and she had to roll them up; the pants were too big, but she used one of the red armbands as a makeshift belt. She stepped into a pair of boots and placed a helmet on her head, tucking her hair out of sight.

  Clara followed the spiders’ path of destruction. By the time she and the dragon arrived at the main entrance, she had passed dozens of uniforms and helmets strewn around the cavern floor. The sentry who had been standing guard at the entrance was gone, either consumed by the spiders or having fled the scene. Clara stepped over the threshold and back out into the jungle, where the air was crisp and the sun shone brightly.

  She lingered for a moment, basking in the golden light. The lush greenery brought to mind her family’s picnic, sitting with Esteban on the warm stone outside la Gruta de Oro, counting butterflies. She could hear the distant echoes of her cousins’ voices. She could almost taste the hot chocolate. It seemed an eternity had passed since then.

  The rustling of leaves nearby yanked her out of her reverie.

  “We need to hurry!” she told the fluttering dragon.

  Clara ran down the steps leading into the garden. Keeping well clear of the rose that had betrayed her, she followed the vine-covered walls to the gate at the far end.

  From there the jungle fanned into a wild and unruly display of life. Leafy plants vied for space with trees draped in heavy vines. Huge orchids clinging to the trees competed in colorful displays with the many birds perched on the branches. And somewhere in all the greenery, there was a song.

  No me olvides, amor.

  Nunca estoy lejos de ti.

  Tu vida ha sido un dulzor,

  Un regalo para mi.

  Clara’s heart stilled.

  “Chita?” she called out.

  “Chita?” a voice echoed back.

  Clara frowned and searched the trees.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Who’s there?” the voice repeated.

  “Don’t do that!” Clara said.

  “Don’t do that!” a bright green parrot squawked from its perch high on a branch.

  The startled dragon coughed and sent a flurry of snow onto Clara’s shoulder.

  “No me olvides, amor,” the parrot crooned.

  Clara gasped as her aunt’s song echoed beneath the canopy.

  Nunca estoy lejos de ti.

  “Where did you hear that?” Clara asked.

  Tu vida ha sido—

  “Who taught you that?” Clara called up to the bird. “Answer me!”

  The bird jumped to another branch. “Answer me!” it replied.

  “That song doesn’t belong to you!” Clara yelled.

  The parrot disagreed and was of the mind that songs belong to anyone who hears them. It had heard this song coming from a cave one sunny Sunday afternoon many moons ago. The cave, nestled between two worlds, had delivered Chita’s words directly to the parrot’s ears, almost as if the cave itself were serenading the little bird. The parrot quite liked the song and sang it often. Indeed, it was the parrot’s voice that Esteban had heard when he followed the man in red into Asrean.

  No me olvides, amor.

  “Stop it!” The memory of Chita came upon her with great force, pulling with it a wave of profound sadness. The little dragon hurled a spit of fire at the parrot.

  “Stop it!” the parrot yelled back.

  “Ugh!” Clara cried. “Stupid bird.”

  The dragon echoed the sentiment, releasing a cloud of smoke that enveloped the parrot.

  The parrot turned its back on Clara, wiggling its body and ruffling its feathers in a show of indignation.

  Clara sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t very nice.”

  “It wasn’t very nice,” the parrot agreed.

  Clara bit her tongue and began walking away, trailing the dragon behind her. But the going was rough, with lush vegetation all around tangling up her legs and making the way impassable.

  She turned back and walked in the opposite direction, passing the parrot in its tree once more. That path was equally pointless and impassable. She soon found herself in front of the parrot yet again. Everywhere she looked there was jungle and no clear sign of the Mercado Rojo.

  She closed her eyes and balled her hands into fists, squeezing as tight as she could. Then she released her frustration and took a deep breath.

  “I can do this,” she whispered. “I will do this!”

  “Do this!” the parrot echoed back.

  Ignoring him, Clara looked around. “It has to be here somewhere,” she muttered.

  “It’s here somewhere,” the parrot said, and Clara looked up at the bird.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s here somewhere,” the parrot repeated.

  “Do you—” Clara studied the bird more closely. “Do you know where it is? The Mercado Rojo?”

  “I know where it is,” the parrot confirmed.

  “You do? That’s wonderful!” Clara said. “Look, I’ll draw something for you in exchange for you telling me the way.”

  The parrot waddled on its perch. “Why would I want a drawing? Are you a famous artist?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a good artist?”

  Clara sighed. “I’m…not the best. But the point is that the drawings become real.”

  The parrot puffed its feathers and uttered a few stunted warbles.

  “What would I do with a real drawing by a not-so-good artist?” The parrot laughed.

  Clara bristled at the mockery, but she refused to let it dist
ract her. “Listen, if you don’t want a drawing, that’s fine. What do you want?”

  “A trabalenguas,” the parrot said.

  “A tongue twister?”

  The parrot let out a rapid-fire cackle, and the little dragon let out another flurry of snowflakes.

  “Yes!” the parrot cried. “That’s better than a bad drawing.”

  “I never said it would be a bad drawing. But fine.” Clara added, “I’ll give you a trabalenguas.”

  She thought back to that last meal in Chita’s sunny garden, when Esteban taught her his new tongue twister.

  “Here you go,” Clara said. “Tres tristes tigres, tragaban trigo en un trigal.”

  The parrot shook its feathers and jumped from side to side on its branch. “Oooh! Teach it to me.”

  She repeated the tongue twister and waited for the bird to recite the words: “Three sad tigers gobbled up wheat in a wheat field.”

  “Tres tistres triges,” the parrot began.

  Clara shook her head. “No. Tres…”

  “Tres.”

  “Tres tristes.”

  “Tres tristes.”

  “Tigres.”

  “Tigres.”

  “Tres tristes tigres…”

  “Tres tristes tigres!”

  “Yes, you’ve got it! Now: Tres tristes tigres, tragaban trigo en un trigal.”

  “Tres tistres triges…”

  With each passing moment Clara’s anxiety grew. But finally the parrot echoed the tongue twister back to her without mistakes. “Tres tristes tigres, tragaban trigo en un trigal!”

  “Good!” Clara said. “Now it’s my turn. Hurry! How do I get to the Mercado Rojo?”

  “There,” the parrot said.

  “Where?” Clara asked.

  “There!” The parrot lifted one of its wings and pointed to the right.

  Clara paused. “You have to keep your end of the bargain. You can’t lie to me,” she said. “I already went that way, and it leads to a giant waterfall.”

  “Waterfall!” the parrot chirped and jumped off its branch, catching a gust of wind.

  Riding the breeze, the parrot flew toward the waterfall, with Clara and the dragon racing behind.

  Esteban’s stomach was a tight knot. He moaned and clutched his belly, trying hard to keep the contents of his last meal from spilling out onto the floor.

  “You’re nervous,” the man in red told him. “It’s normal. Meeting a king is a big event.”

  Esteban nodded, although he didn’t think his nausea had anything to do with meeting the king.

  “Is my mom in there?” He groaned. “Maybe you can ask her to come out for a moment.”

  “She’s busy right now,” the man replied. “Just take deep breaths and try to calm your nerves. Here, have another cookie.”

  A polvorón materialized in his hand.

  “I don’t think I—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, the man popped the cookie into Esteban’s mouth. The sweetness dissolved on his tongue. As it did, the knot in his stomach also dissolved, and he was flooded with a sense of welcome ease and calm.

  Esteban took a few deep breaths.

  “Better?” the man asked.

  Esteban nodded. However, even though the feeling of anguish had vanished, the idea of it remained, and he wondered why he was so worried.

  Esteban believed what the man in red told him, that his mother was waiting for him. He’d heard his mother’s song in the jungle. She was here, somewhere. Still, it was odd that she hadn’t come to find him or even sent a message.

  A thought took shape in his mind. Perhaps she didn’t know he was here. Maybe she was too busy helping the king, and this would be a surprise for her. Esteban liked that idea, and he held on to it tightly.

  But how, he wondered, had the king found out about her? And why had she left without telling anyone, especially since they all thought she had died?

  These were problematic questions for which he didn’t really want answers, so Esteban turned his attention to the line of people queuing up behind them.

  Some carried baskets or bundles laden with goods. Others were hauling things in carts or in sacks draped on the backs of animals. One old man wore a white tunic and held an ornately decorated ceramic urn from which a long swirl of smoke arose. The smoke changed colors, from shimmering white to blue to pink and back to white. Sparks of glitter crackled within it. A chain of gold tethered the swirl to the old man’s hand.

  “What is that?” Esteban asked the man in red.

  “It’s the tail of a Soul Devourer. You pour it into your enemy’s mouth, and it will consume their soul. It’s quite valuable. People kill, literally, for a gift like that.”

  “Why are they giving the king gifts?”

  A frown flitted across the face of the man in red but was quickly replaced. “Perhaps gift is not the right word,” he said. “Let’s call them payments.”

  The tent flap opened, and a woman stepped out. One half of her face was young, with soft skin and a bright blue eye. The other half was ancient, wrinkled and spotted with age, with sagging skin around a dull, cloudy eye. She pulled a hood over her head and covered the old half of her face so that only her youthful side could be seen. She nodded at the man in red as she passed.

  “You may enter,” the guard said. The man in red took hold of Esteban’s right arm. At the same moment a soldier grabbed Esteban’s left arm.

  “Run!” The soldier yanked Esteban hard and pulled him out of the grasp of the man in red.

  “Let go!” Esteban cried, trying to wrench the soldier’s hand off his arm.

  But the soldier gripped him hard and pulled, dragging Esteban away.

  “Stop them!” the man in red shouted from behind.

  People reached for Esteban, but the soldier quickly evaded them: turning tight corners, ducking behind carts or barrels, knocking people over in their path.

  A long wooden pole suddenly jutted out from one of the stalls, hitting the soldier in the stomach. The soldier yelped and doubled over, bringing Esteban to a quick halt and momentarily releasing him.

  Esteban began to run away.

  “Wait,” the soldier gasped. “Esteban!”

  At the sound of his name, he stopped. The soldier’s helmet had fallen off, and a curtain of white hair covered the person’s face. The soldier looked up.

  “Clara?” Esteban gasped.

  Before he had a chance to say anything else, his arm was firmly in the grasp of the man in red.

  “Thank you, sir,” the man in red spoke to the owner of the wooden pole, who now had Clara in his custody. “For your troubles.” He handed over a gold coin in exchange for Clara.

  “I recognize you,” he said, through gritted teeth. His free hand closed around her arm, and his nails dug into her skin.

  Clara recalled the piercing stare of his eyes through the wall of vines. She shivered as their eyes locked once more.

  “Esteban!” Clara cried. “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  “Is that so?” said the man in red. And he laughed and laughed, dragging the two children back to the blue tent, where the king awaited.

  Unseen by the man in red, the two-headed dragon also waited, nestled deep in Clara’s pocket.

  “Oh, dear,” Catrina sighed. “Things do not seem to be progressing well for the children.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Life agreed.

  “And we are down to just a few cards.” Catrina indicated the now-diminished pile in the center of the table.

  Life pointed at the top card. “Perhaps the next card will determine the child’s fate.”

  “Correction.” Catrina held up a bony finger. “Her fate was determined long ago. It will simply be revealed.”

  Life chuckled, but he di
d not flip over the card just yet.

  The two friends were relishing the perfect summer evening unfolding in the Zócalo. Children raced among the trees and bushes playing hide-and-seek, their laughter giving them away as clearly as an X on a map. Lanterns suspended from heavy branches all around the plaza bloomed into life as a man lit them each with a long match. A lone guitarist sat on the lip of a bubbling fountain, offering his love ballad to all who were within hearing range.

  “Are you ready?” Life asked.

  “Not really.” Catrina turned back to her companion. “But I suppose we have no choice.”

  Life chuckled. “I daresay, my dear, you may have found your winning argument.” He shook his head and flipped over the next card. “EL SOMBRERO DE LOS REYES.”

  “THE HAT OF KINGS,” Catrina said.

  “The crown.” Life placed his bean on his board, completing a row of four and bringing the game to an end.

  “The crown, indeed,” Catrina said. She set down the black bean beside her tabla. “And so it seems we have a winner.” She nodded at Life. “Congratulations, my friend.”

  “Let me go!” Clara strained against the tight grip of El Diablo.

  “Don’t worry, Clara,” Esteban said. “He’s going to take us to see my mom.”

  “No, Esteban, you can’t trust him! It’s a trick!” she cried. “He’s taking you to the king.”

  “I know,” Esteban said. “That’s where my mom is.”

  El Diablo moved through the crowd with ease, one hand holding Esteban’s and the other dragging Clara by the arm.

  “Esteban, you don’t understand!” Clara cried. “The king collects children!”

  “Yes,” Esteban replied. “He takes them to his castle, where there are toys and books and lots of good things to eat. He takes care of the children.”

  “No!” Clara groaned. “That’s not it at all.”

  But Esteban wasn’t listening. “And he invites the children’s mothers to go with them. That’s where my mom is, you see? She didn’t die, like everyone said. She went to the king’s castle to get everything ready for me.”