Mañanaland

by Pam Muñoz Ryan

  Max raised his hands, palms up, as if to ask why, then dropped them. He knew it was useless to argue. Reluctantly, he whistled for Lola and headed toward the shed next to Dulce’s corral.

  As soon as Lola saw him dragging out the big metal tub, she pranced and ran in circles. After he filled it with the hose, Max gave the command and she jumped in.

  Max could see Papá, Tío, Buelo, and his aunties huddled together at the table, talking. The veil of secrecy again. What did they know? And what had Mariana meant when she said he needed to be prepared?

  Prepared for what?

  Overnight, fog wrapped Santa Maria in a soft blanket.

  The trees were murky shadows, the world—silent. Not even the birds chirped. Were the rumors true? Had the ghosts of the hidden ones arrived on the wings of the peregrine? Within the mist, would Max hear their prayers and feel their presence?

  He found Papá and Buelo hitching Dulce to the wagon.

  “Good morning, my son.” Papá’s eyes were dark and weary-looking beneath his straw hat. He put a water jug and brown bag through the slats of the wagon into the flat bed and led Dulce toward the path.

  Buelo plopped a hat like Papá’s on Max’s head, pointing to the eastern sky where a bright smear promised the sun would eventually burn through. “You need to get going before the day warms.” Buelo hugged him goodbye.

  At the fork, they started up the mountain on the dirt path that weaved through agave crowns and firethorn bushes. “When we get there, stay in the clearing and watch your step. I don’t want to pull you from a crumbling pile of rocks like I once did for Buelo.”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  Papá lectured about precarious ledges and the importance of wearing work gloves to protect from spiders, rusty nails, and cracked stones. “I want to make something clear, Max. You are never, ever to come to the ruins alone. Do you understand?”

  Before he could stop himself, Max blurted, “Because of the ghosts of the hidden ones.”

  “Because it’s dangerous. If there are ghosts, they are the ones we bring with us.”

  “How can we bring a ghost with us?”

  “If a spirit lives on, Max, it is in someone’s mind, not in a place.”

  There was something comforting about Papá’s confidence. But how could he be so sure about the ghosts when everyone else in the village was convinced otherwise?

  It was slow going with Dulce and the wagon. After almost an hour of climbing the switchbacks, they came upon a wrought-iron gate with spear-shaped finials and fencing that stretched in either direction like a parade of stalwart soldiers. Papá pushed open the gate and brought the wagon through. The road widened, separating two groves of coral trees, their intricate branches dotted with flaming blooms. Parrots swooped and squawked. At the edge of the trees, Papá stopped and pointed to a vast clearing. “There it is, Max. The ruins and La Reina Gigante.”

  The sun had overcome the fog, and the cliff top was bright and dewy. At the far edge of the rubble, on the cliff overlooking the village, La Reina Gigante stood majestic. Her height was staggering, every stone intact, the masonry interrupted only by a large wooden door and the loopholes where guards once stood watch, or shot at attackers. Red bougainvillea crawled up her face.

  A gentle breeze sent a few red petals sailing above him, just like in his dream. He gazed up. The tower was even more imposing up close, yet at the same time familiar and welcoming.

  “How is she still standing when everything else has crumbled?”

  “It is amazing that all five stories are intact, isn’t it? Engineers think the tower was built by different artisans than the ones who built the palace. The construction is far superior. It’s been checked and the foundation is sound.”

  Max pointed to the very top, where sticks, dried grass, and feathers spilled through the crenels.

  “Peregrine’s scrape. It looks like our friend is nesting,” Papá said, then handed Max a pair of work gloves. “Let’s get busy.”

  Max followed Papá through the clearing. Weeds and thistle grew through yesterday’s cobblestones. Pyramids of rock rose up where walls had collapsed. Blackberry vines choked the side of a well. Yet a whisper of the palace’s beauty was still there in the magnificent shell and the remaining walls that once surrounded grand rooms. Even the cobwebs looked like veiled curtains.

  Papá carefully considered different mounds of stone. “These,” he said of the round gray ones. “And those.” He pointed to the white rocks that might have once been chiseled for a fireplace. Papá picked up a few of each, starting piles. “I’ll drag them from the debris. You cart them.”

  For over an hour, as Papá sorted, Max carried the heavy stones to the bed of the wagon. With each trip, he gazed at the tower, which stood defiant in the midst of all that had fallen around it. Was it protected by spirits?

  He was grateful when Papá called for a break. His arms already ached. They sat in the shade of the tower on a low wall, where Papá had left the jug of water and the bag. They took off their hats and work gloves and ate the burritos Buelo had packed.

  When they were almost done, Papa said, “Max, have you heard that people hid here during the war?”

  Max nodded and looked out over the ruins. He tried to imagine being stranded in a place like this. “How did they survive?”

  “The tower was a safe apartment. And the well worked. On the other side of the ruins, there are remains from an old chicken coop and a small goat pen, so there were eggs and milk. And as you can see, berries. But there were people … helpers who brought them provisions, too.”

  Max finished chewing his last bite, then stood on the stone wall and walked back and forth, balancing with his arms out. “You mean the Guardians of the Hidden Ones?”

  Papá nodded and cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  Max jumped off the wall and stood in front of Papá. “The guardians were fearless. They were secret warriors for justice. They were brave and determined and—”

  “Slow down, Max. The guardians aren’t … weren’t warriors for justice so much as an underground network who helped the hidden ones cross safely through Santa Maria, mainly during the war in Abismo. Back then, there was a dictator who punished anyone who opposed him. Many people fled and crossed into Santa Maria. But our government didn’t like all the people coming through, so they passed the Harboring Law, making it illegal for them to stay, and for anyone to help or hide them.”

  “Were any guardians or hidden ones ever caught?”

  “Not in Santa Maria, but elsewhere, yes. The guardians were sent to jail and the hidden ones were sent back to Abismo, to whatever terrible fate awaited them.”

  “That’s awful,” said Max. “Ortiz said the hidden ones were murderers and thieves, and the guardians were criminals, too, because they broke the law by protecting them. Is that true?”

  Papá bristled. “The guardians helped for compassionate reasons. And the hidden ones were not murderers or thieves. They were soldiers who fought on the wrong side of a dictator, and innocent women and children.”

  “How do you know?”

  Papá searched his eyes. “Because Buelo, Tío, Amelia, and Mariana … were the original Guardians of the Hidden Ones.”

  Max’s mouth dropped open. Buelo walked with a cane. His aunties often needed help opening a jar. And Tío huffed when he walked uphill. How could they be guardians?

  “I know it’s hard to imagine, but they were much younger then. Don’t be deceived by how time has changed them. They are still strong and capable.”

  Max grinned, feeling a surge of pride. “Papá, they’re heroes! I can’t wait to tell Chuy! Everyone should know what they—”

  “Max! No one must ever find out. You may talk only to Buelo about this, and in private. Do you understand?” The look on Papá’s face was sobering.

  “So, no one ever knew?” asked Max.

  “Over the years, there have been people in the village who’ve made pointed comments to Buelo, Tío
, and your aunties. I think there were those who suspected them, but nothing has ever come of the gossip. That’s why you mustn’t ever say anything. Even now, it would be dangerous to expose us.”

  “Us? Were you?”

  “On occasion, yes. And your mother—”

  “My mother was a guardian?” Max’s mind leaped. She was a hero, too! He imagined a valiant caped protector helping those in need.

  “She escorted two young women to the next safe place. And never came home.”

  Max’s stomach turned. “Was she caught? Is she in jail … or dead?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. When I searched for her, I was told she had continued on with them.”

  Papá looked distraught. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

  Max sank to the wall next to him. “Papá, what is it?”

  Papá’s eyes begged forgiveness. He took a deep breath. “Before your mother and I moved back to Santa Maria, we lived in San Clemente. That’s where you were born. A doctor came to the house to deliver you. Afterward, he signed a notice of live birth, which we were supposed to take to the municipal offices to file for a birth certificate. But when your mother left, she took everything.”

  The truth slowly wormed its way into Max’s mind.

  “I … I don’t have a birth certificate?”

  Papá shook his head.

  “But how can I play fútbol? Tío said everyone must prove their age. No exceptions.”

  Papá winced. “I know.”

  The repercussions mushroomed. “How could I ever move up to a club team? Or any team ever again? I will need a birth certificate for other things, too, won’t I? To work or drive or—”

  “Max, stop. Please. Tomorrow I’m going to San Clemente to take care of the matter once and for all. I should have resolved this long ago.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Things move slowly in the municipal offices. I’ll have to fill out forms, make appointments, and meet with the authorities. Hopefully no more than two weeks.”

  Max jumped up and stood in front of Papá. “Hopefully? The tryouts are in four weeks and four days! How could you let this happen?”

  Papá ran his hands through his hair. His face paled. What was he not saying?

  “Tell me.” Max pressed. “I’m old enough to know!”

  Papá closed his eyes and gathered himself. “First things first …”

  “Then stone by stone. I know, Papá!”

  “I’ll explain everything when I return. And don’t worry, Max. It will be fine. It will.” Papá sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. He reached out and grabbed Max’s hand and held it tight. “You have every right to be angry. But now we need to focus on the task at hand. We have a bridge to build. And we need the job. I’m counting on you to work for me. And to stay under Buelo’s watch, and not go anywhere without telling him. Otherwise I cannot go to San Clemente with peace of mind and take care of this. I’ve already talked to Buelo. You two will have to accomplish a lot while I’m gone. And you’ll have to be patient. Can you do that?”

  Max yanked his hand from Papá’s.

  “Max, answer me. Can you do what I ask?”

  What choice did he have?

  Max turned away from Papá and faced the tower. “I want to go inside. Am I old enough to do that?”

  Papá hesitated, then walked to the wooden door and heaved it open. “For just a few minutes.”

  Max stepped across the tower’s threshold.

  The air was cool and the light dim, except for slits of sunlight from the loopholes. Dirt, dried leaves, and chicken feathers littered the cobbled floor. Max understood why someone would hide here. The tower was a fortress, safe and impenetrable. “Hello!” he called, his voice sounding hollow in the cavernous womb.

  He walked around the room, running his fingers over the mortared walls, tracing one of the stones. They were larger than the ones used on bridges. These were oblong with a beveled edge. The construction was superior. At the arched stairwell opening, a padlocked iron gate blocked the way. Max peered through the rails at the narrow corridor spiraling upward. There were markings on some of the stones, but they were too far away to read.

  He leaned against the gate and closed his eyes, his thoughts twisting like the staircase. He pulled the compass from beneath his shirt and held it tight. What if Papá couldn’t take care of the matter in San Clemente? What if it wasn’t fine?

  A wind threaded through the loopholes, and a shushing noise began to pulse through the tower. It reminded Max of the time Tío had taken him to the ocean and held a conch shell to his ear. The sound grew louder and more insistent.

  Arrorró. Arrorró. Arrorró.

  Hush. Hush. Hush. There was a lullaby that began that way. He tried to remember the words.

  Arrorró, mi niño. “Hush, my son,” he whispered. That’s how the song began. Was La Reina singing? Or a ghost? A wail, like a baby’s cry, sent a cold shiver down his back. Heart pounding, Max fled the room and ran into the clearing, the compass thumping against his chest.

  Papá stopped sorting stones. “You okay?”

  “I heard strange noises …”

  “It’s just the wind working its way through the chinks. Makes La Reina Gigante moan and sing. Up here, even an animal’s cry can carry. And every time a cloud shifts, it looks as though someone is standing in the shadows.” Papá shook his head. “It’s no wonder all the rumors of ghosts.”

  Max nodded. It had felt like more than that. He took a deep breath. “Why is the gate inside locked?”

  “Tío wants to preserve the tower. Someday make it a monument. A lot of history happened here.”

  “What are the markings on the wall?”

  “People scratched their names and messages on the stones so loved ones who followed would know they had made it this far. Or just to show they were once here.”

  “Can you take me up there?”

  “No.” Papá rubbed his forehead. “We’re never to disturb anything in the tower. Besides, it’s not safe.” He closed the wooden door and walked to the wagon, where he flung a tarp over the bed of stones and tied it down.

  “But you said the tower was sound.”

  “There’s really nothing up there that concerns you. Come. Dulce can’t pull more. Let’s head out. I have a lot to do before I leave in the morning, and I need to talk to Buelo about the bridge work.” Papá led Dulce from the clearing.

  Frustration squeezed Max as he followed Papá and the wagon. A twig snapped behind him and the bushes rustled. When he turned, he thought he saw a shadowy figure dart to the outskirts of the ruins.

  The falcon swooped overhead, its wide wings shadowing the vision. When the bird veered, whatever Max thought he saw had disappeared. Was it only a cloud shadow as Papá had said? Or something else?

  The heat of the day and everything Papá had shared pressed in on him. His mind was a bulging suitcase overstuffed with questions and secrets.

  As soon as Papá left on the Tuesday morning bus for San Clemente, Amelia and Mariana arrived with purpose, armed with baskets stuffed with vegetables, recipes, and crossword puzzle books.

  Miss Domínguez came and went, too, with homemade bread, and as always, a book to read out loud at the table. After lunch, Mariana and Amelia headed home and Tío arrived, staying past bedtime. All week, it was the same. There was always someone sharing a meal, riding along in the wagon while they hauled stones to the new site, or watching from the sidelines as Max completed the fútbol drills that Buelo dictated from his chair in the shade.

  By Saturday, the heat wallowed and fell upon them in waves—the sun’s breath was hot and thick. The water hole beckoned, and Chuy was waiting at the fork at three o’clock as planned. When he saw Max, he grinned and took off running down the road.

  Setting aside his burdens, Max chased after him. “Wait for me!”

  They picked up speed, then at a bend, stopped and looked
into a ravine below. Last summer, Chuy’s mom had sent them to pick wild raspberries. Down the steep embankment, they’d discovered a hidden pond in a shady grotto with a natural mud slide cascading into it.

  “There!” said Chuy. Halfway down the bank, the wild berry bushes sprawled along the hillside.

  They found the top of the gully and stripped down to their shorts.

  Max let out a whoop and pushed off. The cold mud slid him forward, faster and faster. He leaned into the last turn and waved his arms. With a huge splash, he landed in the water. He swam to the side and Chuy followed.

  They ran up and slid down the hill a dozen times, shoving and splashing each other before finally climbing onto a large flat rock. They stretched out on their stomachs, like basking lizards.

  Chuy dragged his fingers in the pool. “The water feels great after practicing all week in the heat.” He caught himself. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to mention the clinic. I wish you were there, too.”

  “It’s okay,” said Max. “How is it anyway?”

  Chuy turned on his side and propped up on one elbow. “The days are long. We catch the bus early in the morning and we don’t get home until almost dinner. And you should see Ortiz, strutting around the field and reminding everyone that he’s the manager’s cousin.”

  Max flipped on his back and smiled. “I can just see the fanfarrón.”

  “I’ve been practicing to play center back. That way if you get goalie, I can play right in front of you and clean up balls the other defenders let through. Make you look good.”

  “And I’ll save all the balls you let through and make the entire team look good!”

  Water trickled. Dragonflies fluttered. Birds whistled. For a moment, Max could almost imagine it was last summer and he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “I got a pair of Volantes,” said Chuy. “The coach had some from players who only wore them in tournaments. They’re like new.”

  Max buried his envy. “That’s great. Hopefully I’ll have a pair soon, too.”

  “Every afternoon at the clinic there’s a scrimmage. The coaches divided us into two teams. Gui and Ortiz and I are together.”