by Nancy Farmer
“You’re a monster!” she cried. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you ate them!”
Oh, yes, there were all kinds of entertainment in bugs.
One magical day a dove pushed its way through the bars and rummaged through the sawdust. Matt sat perfectly still, entranced by the bird’s beauty. When it flew away, it left a single pearl gray feather behind, which Matt hid from Rosa. He assumed that anything beautiful would be destroyed by her.
He sang to himself—inside where Rosa couldn’t hear—one of Celia’s lullabies: Buenos días paloma blanca. Hoy te vengo a saludar. Good morning white dove. Today I come to greet thee. Celia said it was a song to the Virgin. It occurred to Matt that this dove had come from the Virgin and that the feather meant She would watch over him here as She had done in the little house.
One day he heard footsteps outside. He looked up to see a strange, new face on the other side of the bars. It was a boy somewhat older than himself, with bristly red hair and freckles.
“You’re ugly,” said the boy. “You look like a pig in a sty.”
Matt wanted to reply, but the habit of silence had grown too strong. He could only glare at the intruder. In the hazy background of his mind, he recalled a boy named Tom, who was bad.
“Do something,” said Tom. “Root around. Scratch your piggy behind on the wall. I have to have something to tell María.”
Matt flinched. He remembered a cheerful little girl with black hair, who worried about him and was punished for bringing him food. So she had returned. And she hadn’t come to see him.
“That got you, didn’t it? Wait’ll I tell your girlfriend how cute you are now. You smell like a pile of dung.”
Matt felt idly beneath the sawdust for something he’d been feeding to bugs. It was an entire orange. At first it had been green, but time had turned it blue and very soft. Worms filled the inside, diverting Matt with their wiggly bodies. He curled his fingers around the orange. It held its shape—barely.
“I forgot. You’re too dumb to talk. You’re a stupid clone who wets his pants and barfs all over his feet. Maybe if I spoke your language, you’d understand.” Tom put his face against the bars and grunted. At the same instant Matt flung the orange. His accuracy was excellent because he had spent days aiming fruit at targets.
The rotten orange burst apart all over Tom’s face. He jumped back, screaming, “It’s moving, it’s moving!” Pulp dripped off his chin. Wiggly worms dropped into his collar. “I’ll get you for this!” he shrieked as he ran away.
Matt felt deeply peaceful. The room might look like a featureless desert to Rosa, but to him, it was a kingdom of hidden delights. Underneath the sawdust—and he knew exactly where—were caches of nutshells, seeds, bones, fruit, and gristle. The gristle was particularly valuable. You could stretch it, bend it, hold it up to the light, and even suck on it if it wasn’t too old. The bones were his dolls. He could make them have adventures and talk to them.
Matt closed his eyes. He would like to lock up Rosa and the doctor. He would feed them wormy oranges and sour milk. They would beg him to let them go, but he wouldn’t, not ever.
He fished up the dove feather and contemplated its silky colors. The feather usually made him feel safe, but now it made him uneasy. Celia said the Virgin loved all kind and gentle things. She wouldn’t approve of throwing a rotten orange in Tom’s face, even if he deserved it. If She looked inside Matt, She would see the bad thoughts about Rosa and the doctor and be sad.
Matt found he was sad too. I wouldn’t really hurt them, he thought so the Virgin could see that and smile. Still, he couldn’t help feeling the warm sensation of pleasure at having zinged Tom.
• • •
But as Celia had once told him, a smart person doesn’t spit into the wind. If you throw a rotten orange into someone’s face, you can bet the orange will sooner or later come flying back. In less than an hour Tom returned with a peashooter. Matt was clad only in a pair of shorts, so the peas landed on his bare skin. At first he tried to dodge them, but there was nowhere to run in the narrow little room. Matt settled in a corner with his head cradled in his arms to protect his face.
He instinctively understood that if he refused to react, Tom would lose interest. It still took a long time. The boy outside seemed to have an endless supply of peas, but eventually he called Matt a few bad names and went away.
Matt waited a long time to be sure. He could be very patient. He thought of Pedro el Conejo, who explored Señor MacGregor’s garden and lost all his clothes. Matt too had lost all his clothes, except for the shorts. Rosa said he would only ruin them.
Finally he looked up and saw his kingdom was in disarray. Running around had destroyed the marks that told Matt what lay below. Sighing, he worked his way through the sawdust. He felt underneath to find his treasures. He combed the surface smooth with his fingers and renewed the lines and hollows that told him where everything was. It was very much like Celia moving the furniture out to vacuum the rugs and then moving it back again.
When he was finished, Matt sat in his corner and waited for Rosa to bring his dinner. But something shocking and unbelievable happened first.
“¡Mijo! ¡Mi hijo!” cried Celia from the window. “My child! My child! I didn’t know you were here. Oh, God! They told me you were with El Patrón. I didn’t know.” She was holding María up to the window in the crook of her arm.
“He looks different,” observed María.
“They starved him, the animals! And took his clothes! Come here, darling. I want to touch you.” Celia jammed her big hand through the bars. “Let me see you, mi vida. I can’t believe what’s happened.”
But Matt could only stare. He wanted to go. He had dreamed of nothing else, but now that the moment had actually come, he couldn’t move. It was too good to be true. If he gave in and ran to Celia, something bad would happen. Celia would turn into Rosa, and María would turn into Tom. The disappointment would break him into pieces.
“Hey, eejit, I went to a lot of trouble to come here,” María said.
“Are you too weak to stand?” Celia cried suddenly. “Oh, my God! Have they broken your legs? At least say something. They haven’t torn out your tongue?” She began to wail like La Llorona. She stretched her hand through the bars. Her misery tore at Matt, and still he couldn’t move or speak.
“You’re squeezing me,” complained María, so Celia put her down. The little girl managed to stand tall enough to peer through the window. “My dog, Furball, was like that when the dogcatcher got him. I cried and cried until Dada brought him back. Furball wouldn’t eat or look at me for a whole day, but he got over it. I’m sure Matt will too.”
“Out of the mouths of babies comes wisdom,” said Celia.
“I’m not a baby!”
“Of course not, darling. You only reminded me that the most important thing is to get Matt free,” Celia said, smoothing María’s hair. “We can worry about the other stuff later. If I give you a letter, can you keep it a secret from everyone? Especially Tom?”
“Sure,” said María.
“I hate to do it,” Celia said, half to herself, “I hate like crazy to do it, but there’s only one person who can save Matt. María, you must take the letter to your dada. He’ll know where to send it.”
“Okay,” said María cheerfully. “Hey, Matt. Celia’s going to put chiles in Tom’s hot chocolate tonight, only you mustn’t tell anyone.”
“And you mustn’t either,” said Celia.
“Okay.”
“Don’t you worry,” the woman called to Matt. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve than old man coyote has fleas. I’ll get you out of there, my love!”
Matt was frankly relieved to see them go. They were an unwelcome intrusion in the orderly world he had created. He could forget them now and get back to the contemplation of his kingdom. The surface of the sawdust was combed smooth, the treasures hidden beneath marks that only he, the king, understood. A bee wandered in, found nothing, and left. A spider m
ended its web high up near the ceiling. Matt took out the dove feather and lost himself in its silky perfection.
MIDDLE AGE:
7 TO 11
6
EL PATRÓN
Get up! Get up!” shouted Rosa. Matt had been sleeping in a hollow formed by his body. As he slept, he sank down until the sawdust almost covered him. The sudden awakening made him gasp. The sawdust went up his nose, and he doubled over, coughing and retching.
“Get up! Oh, you’re impossible! I’ve got to wash you, dress you, and who knows what else. You’re nothing but trouble!” Rosa yanked him up by the hair and dragged him out of the room.
Matt was hurried down dingy hallways and past doorways that opened into rooms both cramped and gloomy. A maid scrubbed the floor with a big brush. She looked up with hopeless eyes as Rosa rushed him past.
Rosa pushed him into a steamy bathroom. A tub stained with rust was already full of water. The woman shucked Matt out of his shorts before he knew what was happening and dumped him inside.
It was the first bath he’d had since being locked up. Matt felt like a thirsty sponge soaking up water until he was so full that he could hardly move. The warmth soothed his skin, which had become itchy and sore. “Sit up! I haven’t got all day,” growled Rosa, setting to work with a brush almost as big as the one in the hallway.
She scoured him until he was pink, dried him with a big, fluffy towel, and tried to get a comb through his tangled hair. In a fury because it wouldn’t come right, she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut it all off. “They want tidy, they’ll get tidy,” she muttered. She stuffed Matt into a long-sleeved shirt and trousers and gave him a pair of rubber sandals to wear.
Very soon he was being hurried across a courtyard to another part of the house. His legs ached with the effort of walking. Halfway across the courtyard his feet tangled in the unfamiliar sandals and he stumbled against Rosa.
She took the opportunity to lecture him. “The doctor will be there,” she said. “And so will important members of the family. They’ll want to make sure you’re healthy. If they ask questions, don’t answer. Above all, don’t say anything about me.” She brought her face down close to his. “You’ll be all alone with me in that little room,” she whispered. “I swear I’ll kill you and bury you under the floor if you make trouble.”
Matt had no trouble believing her. He forced his trembling legs to follow her to a part of the house as different from his old prison as the sun was from a candle. The walls were painted cream and rose and pale green. It was so bright and cheerful, it raised his spirits in spite of Rosa’s dire threats. The floor gleamed with polish that made Matt feel like he was walking on water.
Windows looked out on gardens with fountains. They splashed and glittered in the sun. A magnificent bird with a long green tail stepped delicately across a walk. Matt wanted to stop, but Rosa shoved him on, all the while cursing beneath her breath.
Finally they came to a large room with a marvelous carpet woven with birds and vines. Matt wanted to kneel down and touch them. “Stand up,” hissed Rosa. He saw windows framed by blue curtains that went from floor to ceiling. A small table set with a teapot, cups, and a silver plate of cookies sat next to a flowered armchair. Matt’s mouth watered at the memory of cookies.
“Come closer, boy,” said an old, old voice.
Rosa gasped. Her hand dropped from Matt’s shoulder. “El Patrón,” she whispered.
Matt saw that what he’d taken for an empty armchair actually contained a man. He was extremely thin, with shoulder-length white hair neatly combed beside a face so seamed and wrinkled, it hardly seemed real. He was wearing a dressing gown, and his knees were covered by a blanket. It was the blanket that had fooled Matt into thinking the old man was part of the chair.
“It’s all right,” said Celia from behind him. Matt whirled to see her in the doorway. His heart lurched with relief. Celia brushed past Rosa and took his hand. “He’s had a bad time, mi patrón. For six months they’ve kept him like a wild animal.”
“You lie!” snarled Rosa.
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes. María Mendoza told me.”
“She’s a baby! Who can believe a baby?”
“I can,” said Celia quietly. “She hadn’t been to the house for six months. When she arrived, she asked to see Matt, and Tom boasted that he’d shot him dead. She flew straight to me.”
“Shot him? Is he hurt?” said the old man.
“He was already hurt.” Celia described the injuries caused by the broken glass.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” demanded El Patrón. His voice wasn’t loud, but there was a quality to it that made Matt shiver even though he—for once—wasn’t the one in trouble.
“It was the doctor’s place to do it,” Rosa cried.
“It was everyone’s place to do it,” said the old man in the same cold way. “Take off your shirt, boy.”
Matt didn’t dream of disobeying. He unbuttoned the shirt rapidly and dropped it to the floor.
“¡Diós mio! My God!”
“Those bruises must be from Tom’s peashooter,” said Celia, sounding ready to cry. “See how thin he is, mi patrón? And he’s got some kind of rash. He wasn’t like that in my house, sir.”
“Call the doctor!”
Instantly—he must have been waiting outside the door—Willum entered and began examining Matt. He shook his head as though he were genuinely surprised by the boy’s condition. “He’s suffering from mild malnutrition,” the doctor said. “He has sores in his mouth. His skin condition, I would say, comes from a combination of dirt and an allergic reaction to chicken litter.”
“Chicken litter?” said the old man.
“I understand he was kept in a room full of sawdust to cut down on housekeeping.”
“You knew about it, Willum,” cried Rosa. “You didn’t tell me it was wrong.”
“I knew nothing about it until today,” said the doctor.
“You’re lying! Tell them, Willum! You thought it was funny. You said the beast—the boy—was in good condition!”
“She’s suffering from delusions,” the doctor told El Patrón. “It’s a shame such an unstable individual was allowed to have a position of responsibility.”
Rosa flew at the doctor and raked his face with her nails before he was able to grasp her wrists. She kicked and screamed, driving Willum back with the force of her rage. She actually bared her teeth like a wild animal, and Matt watched with interest to see whether she would manage to sink them into the man’s neck. Everything seemed unreal to him—the sudden appearance of Celia, the old man, the furious battle between his two enemies. It was like watching TV.
But before Rosa could do any serious harm, a pair of burly men rushed through the door and dragged her away.
“Willum! Willum!” she wailed. Her voice grew fainter as she was carried off. Matt heard a door slam and then he heard nothing.
He became aware that Celia was hugging him. He felt her body tremble as she held him close. The doctor mopped his face with a handkerchief. He was bleeding from a dozen scratches. Only El Patrón appeared tranquil. He had settled back in the armchair, and his pale lips were drawn up in a smile. “Well. That’s the most excitement I’ve had in months,” he said.
“I apologize, mi patrón,” said Willum shakily. “This must have been a terrible shock to you. I’ll check your blood pressure at once.”
“Oh, stop fussing,” El Patrón said, waving him off. “My life is far too quiet these days. This . . . was most entertaining.” He turned his attention to Matt. “So they kept you on litter like a barnyard fowl. Tell me, boy, did you learn to cackle?”
Matt smiled. He liked El Patrón instinctively. There was something so right about the way the old man looked. His eyes were a good color. Matt didn’t know why it was good, only that it was. El Patrón’s face seemed oddly familiar, and his hands—thin and blue-veined—had a shape that appealed to Matt in some deep way.
“Come here, b
oy.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Matt walked up to the chair and let the old man stroke his face with a paper-dry hand. “So young . . . ,” El Patrón murmured.
“You can speak now, mi vida,” said Celia, but Matt wasn’t ready to go that far.
“Mi vida. I like that,” the old man said with a chuckle. “I like it so much, in fact, it’s what I’ll call him. Can he talk?”
“I think he’s in shock. In my house he chattered away like a tree full of birds. And he can read both English and Spanish. He’s very intelligent, mi patrón.”
“Of course. He’s my clone. Tell me, Mi Vida, do you like cookies?”
Matt nodded.
“Then you shall have them. Celia, put his shirt back on and find him a chair. We have much to talk about.”
The next hour passed like a dream. Both the doctor and Celia were sent away. The old man and the boy sat across from each other and dined not only on cookies, but on creamed chicken, mashed potatoes, and applesauce as well. A maid brought them from the kitchen. El Patrón said these foods were his favorites, and Matt decided they were his favorites too.
El Patrón had said they had much to talk about, but in fact, only he did any talking. He rambled on about his youth in Aztlán. It was called Mexico when he was a boy, he said. He came from a place called Durango. “People from Durango are called alacránes—scorpions—because there are so many of them scurrying around. When I made my first million, I took that as my name: Matteo Alacrán. It’s your name too.”
Matt smiled, well pleased that he shared something with El Patrón.
As the old man talked, Matt pictured in his mind the dusty cornfields and purple mountains of Durango. He saw the stream that roared with water two months of the year and was dry as a bone the rest of the time. El Patrón swam with his brothers, but, alas, they died of various things before they had a chance to grow up. El Patrón’s sisters were carried off by typhoid when they were so small, they couldn’t look over the windowsill—no, not even if they stood on tiptoe.