The House of the Scorpion

by Nancy Farmer

  “Because mi abuelita says people have to be tended like gardens,” Fidelito chirped. “They need sunlight and water, and their souls need to—need to—”

  “Be weeded,” finished Chacho.

  Ton-Ton’s eyes rounded as he processed this curious statement.

  “We just want to make friends, okay?” Matt said.

  Ton-Ton took another minute to consider that, and then he stepped off the harvester.

  “When was the last time you went to San Luis?” asked Matt.

  If Ton-Ton was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “About, uh, about a year ago. I went with Jorge.”

  “Do you have family there?”

  “My m-mother went across the, uh, border years ago. My f-father tried, uh, tried, uh, to find her. He didn’t come back.”

  Matt noticed that Ton-Ton’s speech problem got worse when he talked about his parents.

  “No abuelita?” Fidelito asked.

  “I, uh, I did. M-Maybe she’s still there.” Ton-Ton’s mouth turned down at the sides.

  “Well, why don’t you go look for her!” said Chacho. “¡Hombre! If I had a grandma only twenty miles to the north, I’d rip up this fence to find her! What’s wrong with you, man?”

  “Chacho, no,” said Matt, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “You, uh, don’t understand,” Ton-Ton said. “Jorge saw me on the wrong side of the border. There were Farm Patrols and, uh, dogs, big mud-colored dogs with big teeth. They did everything the Farm Patrol said, and, uh, the Farm Patrol told them to eat me.” Ton-Ton shuddered at the memory. “Jorge came over the border and shot them. He got into a lot of trouble for it, too. He, uh, he saved my life, and I owe him everything.”

  “Did Jorge tell you not to look for your grandmother?” Matt said.

  “He said I was born to be a Keeper. He said that Keepers don’t have families, only one another, but that it’s, uh, better because families only run off and abandon you.”

  “But your abuelita must have cried when you didn’t come home,” Fidelito said.

  “I wouldn’t have come home, you dork!” shouted Ton-Ton. “I would’ve been inside a dog’s belly!”

  “It’s okay, Fidelito,” Matt told the little boy. “That’s enough weed pulling for one day.” He asked Ton-Ton about San Luis, and Ton-Ton was eager to talk about that. The longer he spoke, the less he stumbled over his words. The scowl on his face smoothed out. He looked a lot younger and happier.

  Ton-Ton described the city so thoroughly, he seemed to have a map spread out in his mind. He recalled every detail—an oleander bush with peach-colored flowers, an adobe wall with paloverde trees draped over it, a fountain tinkling into a copper basin. It was like following a camera down a street. And gradually, he lowered his guard enough to talk about his mamá and papá. He had lived in a crowded house with aunts and uncles and brothers and cousins and a tiny abuelita who ruled the whole establishment. But it hadn’t been an unhappy place, even though they’d been poor.

  At last Ton-Ton stretched and smiled as though he’d had a fine meal. “I, uh, I won’t tell anyone why we’re late,” he said. “I’ll say the harvester broke down.” He let Fidelito ride most of the way back with him, putting the little boy down only when they came within sight of the Keepers’ compound.

  “I don’t get it,” whispered Chacho as the harvester shuddered its way back. He and Matt walked to one side, away from the plume of dust. “It’s like you turned a light on inside his head. I didn’t know Ton-Ton was that bright.”

  Matt smiled, pleased to be proven right about the big boy. “Celia used to say slow people are just paying close attention.”

  “Who’s Celia?”

  Matt almost dropped in his tracks. He’d carefully hidden any reference to his life before he’d arrived in Aztlán. Listening to Ton-Ton’s memories had made him careless. “Why, Celia . . . she’s my . . . my m-mother.” And he knew that it was true. All those years she’d told him not to think of her as his mother fell away. No one else cared for him the way she did. No one protected him or loved him so much, except, perhaps, Tam Lin. And Tam Lin was like his father.

  Suddenly all the memories, so carefully suppressed in his new life, came flooding back. Matt had trained himself to stop thinking about Celia and Tam Lin. It was too painful. Now he found himself helpless. He crouched on the ground, tears pouring down his face. He held himself tight to keep from crying out loud and totally ruining his image in front of Chacho.

  But Chacho understood. “I should’ve kept my fat mouth closed,” he said, kneeling in the dust next to Matt. “It’s the one thing none of us are supposed to bring up until someone’s ready. Heck, I bawled my eyes out the first few weeks.”

  “Are you sick?” called Fidelito’s voice from a distance as he rode on the harvester.

  “He sure is,” said Chacho. “You would be too if you ate a handful of raw shrimp.” And he shielded Matt from view until he was able to gain control of himself and go on.

  32

  FOUND OUT

  That night Jorge, with his instinct for weakness, pounced on Matt again. He insisted that more and more crimes be confessed, and Matt soon found himself repeating the same sins. He hardly cared what he said.

  Matt felt bruised inside. In a strange way he wasn’t even in the same room with Jorge, because his mind was back in El Patrón’s mansion. He was in Celia’s apartment. At any moment she’d call him to dinner and they’d sit down with Tam Lin. The illusion was painful, but it was so much better than anything in Matt’s current life.

  “If the aristocrat won’t listen,” came Jorge’s smooth voice, “I’ll have to talk to his lackey.”

  Matt woke from his reverie to see Fidelito being pulled to the center of the room. The little boy’s face was pale with fear.

  “You’ve been bad, haven’t you?” purred Jorge.

  “Not very bad,” said Fidelito, glancing at the cane closet.

  “That’s for me to say, isn’t it?” the Keeper said.

  “Okay,” said Fidelito.

  Matt knew the scene before him was important. He tried to keep his mind on it, but he kept slipping back to Celia’s apartment.

  “I think the aristocrat needs to understand why his behavior must be controlled,” Jorge said. “Worker bees know that everything they do affects the whole hive. If a lazy worker sleeps all day and isn’t punished, he teaches others to follow his example. If enough workers follow his example, the hive will die.”

  Fidelito’s face showed the argument had gone over his head.

  “So we have to correct the weak little lackeys who think it’s fun to follow a bad example. Isn’t that so?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Matt forced himself to concentrate on the present. “If you want to punish me, why don’t you just do it?” he said.

  “Because that doesn’t work,” Jorge replied. His face glowed with joy, as though he’d discovered a wonderful truth he couldn’t wait to share with everyone. Once more Matt was reminded of Tom.

  “I confess. I obey. I take my punishment,” Matt said.

  “Yes, but you don’t mean it,” said the Keeper. “You go through the motions, but in your heart you’re still an aristocrat. I puzzled over it a long time. Then I realized the thing that makes an aristocrat is the presence of a lackey. If I remove the lackey, poof!” He snapped his fingers. “No more aristocrat. Assume the position, Fidelito.”

  Matt was frozen with shock. This time it was clear his confessions weren’t going to save the little boy. He glanced at the others. They looked stunned. The last time Jorge had threatened Fidelito, Matt had come to his rescue. But this time was different. It seemed the Keeper had crossed an invisible line and the boys were appalled by what they were about to witness. It had been okay to beat Ton-Ton for no reason. He was big and able to take it. Fidelito was skinny and frail in spite of his tough spirit. And he was only eight years old.

  Fidelito did what he’d seen the
others do: Lean his hands against the wall and spread his legs. The other boys murmured. Matt couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  Jorge went to the closet. Matt felt as though he were floating over the scene. Like other times in his life when things had gone wrong, he wanted to retreat into his own private kingdom. If he imagined being in Celia’s apartment hard enough, it might actually happen.

  Jorge paced back and forth, whisking the cane. Any second now he’d break into a run. He stopped. He gathered his strength for the initial blow. He lunged forward—

  Matt hurled himself at the Keeper. He drove his head into Jorge’s stomach and tore the cane from the man’s hands. Jorge reeled back, gasping for breath. Matt brought the cane down hard on his shoulder and then used it to force the Keeper to the floor. Chacho came out of nowhere and threw himself into the battle, pummeling Jorge with his fists.

  “You—hit—little—kids!” Chacho shouted between blows. “You—deserve—to—be—hit—back!” The other boys were shouting and cheering. They surged forward, forming a ring around the Keeper and his two attackers. Flaco dragged Fidelito away from the fight.

  Matt’s head spun. Jorge was curled into a ball. Maybe he was seriously hurt. The boys were dancing around excitedly, and Matt guessed they were about to join in. “Stop!” Matt cried, dropping the cane. He grabbed Chacho and pulled him back. “We mustn’t kill him!”

  “Why not?” demanded the boy. But the interruption was enough to bring him to his senses. He sat down hard on the floor and clenched his fists. The other boys groaned with disappointment, but they moved aside when Jorge rolled onto his hands and knees and scuttled to the door.

  No one said a word. Chacho sat on the floor, breathing heavily. Fidelito whimpered in a corner, where he was being held firmly in place by Flaco. Matt shivered as though he had a high fever. He couldn’t imagine what was going to happen next.

  But he didn’t have long to wait. Footsteps thundered down the hall, and the door was slammed open by an army of Keepers. All twenty of them stormed into the room. They were armed with stun guns, and the boys retreated against the walls. First Matt, then Chacho was seized. Their hands were bound behind their backs and their mouths were sealed with tape.

  “You’re going to be locked down,” Carlos roared at the remaining boys. “We’ll decide what to do with you tomorrow. But understand we won’t—repeat, won’t—tolerate this kind of mob behavior.”

  “Don’t you want to know what Jorge did?” said Flaco.

  “What you did was far worse!” shouted Carlos.

  “He was going to kill Fidelito.”

  That did seem to startle Carlos. He stopped and looked at the little boy hiding behind Flaco.

  “He’s lying,” said Jorge, who was holding his injured shoulder with one hand.

  “There are two hundred of us,” said Flaco. “We all witnessed it.”

  And in that statement, Matt realized, was an implied threat. There were two hundred boys in the dormitory. No matter how well armed the Keepers were, they couldn’t hope to control a crowd that size.

  The thought seemed to have occurred to Carlos as well. He backed toward the door and signaled the other men to follow. But like a swirl of dust on the dry salt flats outside, a stream of boys moved to cut off the exit. Now the Keepers were surrounded on all sides.

  “I think you should listen to us,” said Flaco.

  “We can talk about it tomorrow,” Carlos said.

  No, thought Matt. Don’t let them put it off. The minute the men are outside the room, they’ll bolt the door. They’ll never listen to the facts. He could say nothing because his mouth was covered with tape.

  “I think now is better,” said Flaco.

  Carlos swallowed. He fingered the stun gun.

  “They’ve been corrupted by the aristocrat,” said Jorge. “Things have gone wrong ever since that arrogant swine arrived. He’s the one who led the attack, and the rest followed. He’s the leader. The rest are his filth-eating lackeys.”

  “Don’t make things worse,” Carlos said.

  “Luna in the infirmary has an interesting tale,” Jorge went on. “When the aristocrat was brought in, Luna helped load him into bed. He saw writing on the boy’s right foot.”

  Oh no, oh no, thought Matt.

  “There was an old scar across it, but he managed to make out the writing: ‘Property of the Alacrán Estate.’ ”

  “Alacrán?” said Carlos. “That’s the name of the old vampire who runs Dreamland.”

  “I know,” Jorge said pleasantly. “I wondered how a person could belong to an estate, unless he worked there. Or unless he was an escaped crot!”

  A gasp ran through the room.

  “Don’t use that filthy word,” Carlos said.

  “I’m sorry.” Jorge smiled. “I was only using language I thought the boys would understand. I was still thinking about what to do with the information when tonight’s problem cropped up. It is funny, you have to admit, that all these lackeys have sworn their loyalty to a stinking crot—excuse me, zombie—instead of a real aristocrat.”

  No, no, no, thought Matt. His weakness had been found out. Even though the Keeper had drawn the wrong conclusion about the tattoo, it was just as devastating.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Flaco.

  “Why don’t we look?” invited Jorge. Flaco came forward and knelt on the floor next to where Matt was standing. He looked up, apologizing with his eyes. Matt didn’t resist. It wouldn’t have done any good. He allowed the boy to turn his foot toward the light and waited for the inevitable reaction.

  “Jorge is right. It does say ‘Property of the Alacrán Estate,’ ” said Flaco.

  The rebellion went out of the boys then. They were so used to obeying, Matt realized, that very little was needed to make them surrender. They moved away from the door and slowly drifted toward the bunks.

  “W-Wait,” said a voice Matt never expected to hear. “Any, uh, anyone can get trapped in Dreamland. It, uh, doesn’t make him a bad person.”

  “Be quiet, Ton-Ton,” said Jorge. “Thinking isn’t your strong point.”

  “I have, uh, I have been thinking,” said the big boy. “Our parents ran away to, uh, Dreamland, and they w-were turned into z-zombies.” It was clearly difficult for him to say this.

  “My father wasn’t,” protested Flaco. “He’s living it up in the United States. He’s running a movie studio, and when he gets enough money, he’ll send for me.”

  “We, uh, tell ourselves stuff like th-that,” stammered Ton-Ton, “but it isn’t t-true. All our parents are crots.” A flurry of voices rose telling Ton-Ton to shut up. “Our mamás and papás aren’t b-bad, just unlucky,” the boy went on in his relentless way, “and M-Matt isn’t bad either!”

  “Oh, go to bed,” said Jorge. “Do you think anyone wants to listen to your ravings? You’ve always been stupid and you’ll always be stupid. You’re lucky I pulled you out of Dreamland before I found out what an idiot you are.”

  “I’m n-not stupid!” cried Ton-Ton, but no one listened to him. The boys drew away from Matt as though he were something unclean. The Keepers hurried him and Chacho out, and Carlos bolted the door behind them.

  They were taken to a small closet without enough space to lie down. It was dark and airless. The floor was cold. All night the boys huddled against the wall, and Matt was glad it was dark and that they had their mouths covered with tape. He couldn’t have borne hearing Chacho call him a crot or seeing him shrink away from the presence of such a monster.

  33

  THE BONEYARD

  A faint light shone under the door when two of the younger Keepers arrived to fetch Matt and Chacho. Matt was so stiff, he fell over when they pulled him to his feet. “Mph!” came from behind the tape covering Chacho’s mouth.

  They were urged outside to one of the carts the Keepers used to move equipment around the factory. Jorge was in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette. More tape was wound around the boys’ ankles
.

  The cart rolled slowly at first because it was solar powered, but as the sun rose higher and flooded the salt flats, it picked up speed. Matt saw the shrimp tanks move past. He realized they were heading toward the western fence. The cart’s wheels crunched along the gritty path, and sand hissed across the ground in an early-morning breeze.

  Matt was thirsty. He was hungry too. He saw, with a kind of bitter pleasure, that Jorge’s shoulder was encased in a plaster cast. Matt hoped he was in a lot of pain.

  After a while the cart turned and bumped along rougher ground. Matt saw they were driving parallel to the fence. He saw a white swirl of seagulls as they rose and sank along the Gulf of California. Their cries floated to him on the dusty wind.

  On and on the cart struggled. When it floundered in sand, the men had to jump out and put creosote branches under the wheels to urge it on. At last it jerked to a stop, and Matt was carried off by the two young Keepers.

  They came over a rise. Before them stretched the wide basin that had once been full of living water and was now filled with dead whales. The bones stuck up like a gigantic bowl of thorns.

  “This is what we call the boneyard,” Jorge said pleasantly.

  Matt remembered someone saying, when he first arrived, You won’t get away with your swanky ways here. We’ve got something called the boneyard, and any troublemaker who goes through it comes out as harmless as a little lamb.

  “Shall I take the tape off now?” one of the Keepers inquired.

  “Only from his mouth,” said Jorge.

  “But that means he won’t be able to climb out.”

  “He tried to kill me!” Jorge shouted. “Do you want a murderer crawling back to stir up revolution?”

  “Carlos won’t like it.”

  “You leave Carlos to me,” said Jorge. Matt felt the tape rip off. He flexed his mouth, ran his tongue over his bruised lips. “You think you’re thirsty now,” Jorge said, smiling. “Wait till tomorrow.”

  “He’s the murderer,” cried Matt, but he had no time to say anything else. The men swung him up and out. He came down with a crash, and the bones shifted and let him fall through. Down he tumbled, rolling this way and that until he arrived at a plateau of skulls. He hung in the midst of a sea of bones, with the blue sky visible through a fretwork of ribs and vertebrae. He turned his head cautiously. Below was a pit whose dark depths he could only guess at.