Chuy looked as if someone had slapped him. “I am.”
Max shook his head in disbelief. “No. You’re like a little stray dog following at Ortiz’s heels because he invited you to the fútbol clinic, and you got new shoes, and he buys you leche quemada, and brings you to dinner at the big house.”
Chuy’s face fell.
Max turned back to the wagon and started unloading the wood. As he grabbed the last plank, he paused, feeling unsteady. Could Papá or Buelo go to jail for being guardians so many years ago?
A dark qualm slithered from a hole in his mind. It leered and taunted him. Then the ugly doubt slipped back into its hiding place. Max’s hands trembled. The wood slid and thudded to the ground, leaving a long, thick splinter in the pad of his thumb. He gasped at the sharp pain.
Chuy rushed to his side.
“Leave me alone!”
After Chuy walked away, Max gritted his teeth and pulled out the long sliver of wood. Blood puddled in his palm.
He wrapped his hand in a rag and tugged Dulce to the cottage as fast as she could go with the wagon. Words can never hurt you. That’s what everyone always said. Sticks and stones, yes. But not words.
They were wrong.
Max poured rubbing alcohol on the wound, cringing from the sting. Anger and determination stifled the hurt.
Papá kept anything of importance in a large metal box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. His baptism record had to be there. He knew he shouldn’t be rummaging, but he needed to settle this once and for all. Max stood on a chair, lifted down the box, and set it on the bed.
On top was an oilskin pouch. Papá’s work map of the Santa Maria area was the only thing inside. When Papá and Buelo were given a commission for a new span, they spread it out on the kitchen table and pored over it to consider the best spot to build. Small numbered circles on the map indicated the existing Córdoba bridges with a corresponding numbered key in the margins. Max quickly glanced at the first few names and notes Papá had meticulously written.
He noticed little black stars had been inked on the map in various places along the river. Probably Buelo’s favorite fishing spots. Max put the map back in the pouch and tossed it on the bed.
One by one, he sorted through his school report cards, invoices for bridge supplies, and receipts for tools. He found registrations for school events and sports teams.
Finally, he found the photo of Papá holding him on the steps of the church. It was hard to tell how old he was because of the long white christening gown he wore, but he wasn’t an infant like most babies when they were baptized. Underneath the photo was a gold-trimmed certificate. At the top was the church’s name, Our Lady of Sorrows. It certified that Maximiliano Feliciano Esteban Córdoba had been baptized by Father Marco Jiménez, and that his godparents were Amelia and Rodrigo Soto. But it was dated almost three years after Max was born. After his mother had left. The certificate didn’t list Max’s birth date or his parents’ names. It recorded only the date of the baptism. Buelo had known it wouldn’t help. If the league used this date as a birth record, he wouldn’t even be old enough to try out.
Max dug deeper. Halfway through the box, he found a large unlabeled envelope. He pulled out a piece of brown paper. On it was a stone rubbing. It reminded him of the ones people made after a burial, when family members laid a piece of paper over the gravestone and rubbed with a thick-leaded pencil to copy the impression as a keepsake. But this was too small and mostly smudged and unreadable. Sometimes children carved their names in cobblestones on the street, but the outline of the rubbing was too large for that.
Max took the paper to the window and held it up to the light. His eyes widened as he was able to spell out a full word:
MAÑANALAND
He pressed the paper against the window pane. With effort, he deciphered a few more letters, but he could not string together another meaningful word. Carefully, he touched the marks. What was Mañanaland?
He backed away from the window and sat on the bed. Could the rubbing be from a bridge? Had Papá or Buelo named a bridge after someplace called Mañanaland?
He studied the paper. The etching was too close to the surface and not carefully wrought with a chisel, which a stonemason would have used on a spandrel or wing wall. And the shape of the stone wasn’t typical of bridgework; it was oblong with a beveled edge. Where had he seen that?
The stones in La Reina Gigante had beveled edges. And the ones in the stairwell had markings that Papá had said were names and messages. If Max could get in there, he could compare this with those. Buelo said the key was hidden behind some thorny vines. He tried to picture the clearing, which was mostly rubble and weeds. He didn’t remember many vines.
Max stood and paced. Papá had said there was nothing beyond the gate that concerned him. Yet this was important enough for Papá to keep it hidden away. So it must have something to do with his family. He folded the rubbing and slipped it into his pocket.
It was still early in the afternoon. He had time to get up the mountain and back before Buelo returned. Max knew he shouldn’t go alone … but that was just Papá being overprotective.
He’d be careful.
Outside, Max whistled. “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk!”
Lola sprang from her spot in the shade and ran to him, yelping with excitement.
She pranced along the path, stopping to relish the smells, and pouncing on every twig in her path. At the fork, they turned uphill toward the ruins, covering ground in half the time without Dulce and the wagon. Halfway up the switchbacks, Lola’s head jerked toward the cliff. She planted her feet and barked.
Max moved closer to her, looping a finger through her collar. A cloud drifted overhead, shading them, then just as quickly moved aside for the sun. Max blew out a long breath. “Calm down, girl. It’s just the shadows making you jumpy.” But when they reached the property gates, Lola whined and refused to budge.
“I know, Lola. Papá wouldn’t approve,” said Max, unwrapping the chain. “But you’re with me so I’m not alone. Besides, I’ve been here before.”
He opened the gate just enough for the two of them to sidle through. “Come!” Max insisted.
When they reached the ruins, Max stood in the clearing with his hands on his hips, looking for thorny vines.
Bougainvillea climbed up the stones of the tower. When Max had helped Buelo trim the one at the cottage, he’d been snagged by its barbs many times. The base of the main stalk where the plant rooted seemed like a good hiding place. Max searched but found nothing. He poked around the wall to see if a key was hidden behind the sparse branches. Again nothing.
He hunted around the perimeter of the clearing. None of the trees or bushes had thorns. In the rubble, only grassy weeds poked through the stones. A bramble of blackberry vines crept along the well. Berries had prickly stems as sharp as thorns.
Max grabbed a stick and slowly walked around the well, lifting the branches until he spotted a brick not flush with the others. He carefully wriggled it from its space. There, nestled in the hollow, was the key!
He grabbed it and raced inside the tower to the gate in the stairwell. He slipped the key into the lock and turned. It clicked!
His heart pounded as he pushed open the gate and slowly climbed the stone steps, running his fingers along the etchings.
On the second story, hundreds of names crawled up the wall like regiments of ants. So many soldiers. So many families. They must have been from the war. Some stones held just one name, large and bold—DANTE—as if screaming I was here. Others held a message. It would take hours to read them all. How many people had hidden here? Who were they and what were their stories? Had they ever reunited with their families?
A breeze whistled as it threaded through the loopholes. Then, just as on his first visit, the shushing sound pulsed like a heartbeat.
Arrorró. Arrorró. Arrorró.
The muffled rhythm surrounded him. “It’s just the wind working its way through
the chinks,” he reassured Lola. “Makes La Reina moan and sing.”
Lola whined. Max patted her head. “It’s okay, girl. It’s a lullaby.” More of the words flooded back to him. “Arrorró, mi niño. Arrorró, mi sol. Hush, my child. Hush, my sunshine …” He shivered as a high-pitched whistling began. Was a ghost singing to him again?
Lola began to bay, her long, sad howl echoing in the tower.
“Shhh.” Max pulled her close and rubbed her neck even as his own heart raced.
Finally, the sounds grew softer.
“See, everything’s fine.” Max scanned the room. It was clear the stones had been carved years before because some were now so weathered that Max strained to figure out what they said.
Lola kept climbing, so Max followed all the way to the third level where a recessed alcove greeted him. Above its arched stone mantle were the words:
BORN BENEATH THE WINGS OF THE PEREGRINE
“Look, Lola. These must be babies who were born in the tower, or would be born during the long journey. Poor little things. Their mothers didn’t even have a cradle or a home for them. Did their fathers abandon them? Or die? Or were they the ones the mothers were running from?”
On the opposite wall, there was another alcove. Its mantle read:
THE BRIGADE OF WOMEN
Max tried to remember what Buelo had said. Banished … mistreated … considered less than human. We hid them …
He spotted the word MAÑANALAND on one of the stones. He pulled the rubbing from his pocket and held it out. The letters lined up.
But the rest of the stone was faint and hard to read, especially the last line, which looked as though it had been etched by a different tool, and in haste. He stepped to the side so the stone wasn’t in his shadow. He could just make out the words.
Renata Esteban. His mother’s name … before she married Papá. But that didn’t make sense. His mother was a guardian. And guardians were supposed to keep their identities secret. So why would she have carved her name here?
Max ran his fingers over the letters.
Maybe there was another Renata Esteban. But even as he clung to that idea, doubt clawed its way up the walls of his mind. It had to be his mother. Otherwise, why would Papá have saved the rubbing?
Was this what Papá and Buelo had been hiding? He shook his head, struggling to put the pieces together. He looked at all the names in the alcove. And the truth settled: His mother was once a hidden one.
She’d been part of the Brigade of Women … from Abismo. No wonder she’d been allowed to break the code and travel beyond the next guardian. The code didn’t apply to hidden ones.
Murderers and thieves … cast out of their own country … shunned … spit upon … unwanted … the worst of the worst.
Is that what people would think about his mother if they found out she was a hidden one? Then the rumors about his family being guardians would come to light, too. If that happened, would some of the boys throw rocks and spit at Max and hate him? Would he and his family be driven out of their own village? Where would they go?
A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. Was he even breathing? He squeezed his eyes shut, swiping the tears as they spilled.
Lola whined and nudged him. How long had he been standing there?
He held on to her collar and let her lead him back down the stairs. In a daze, he locked the gate to the stairwell and replaced the key in its hiding spot.
The afternoon was fading. As he walked through the clearing, it started to drizzle. The wind gusted and wet bougainvillea blossoms flew from the vine, splattering the ground with red blemishes.
Max’s limbs felt heavy. By the time he and Lola reached the fork, his clothes were drenched, and Lola’s hair hung limp and dripping.
They were a pitiful parade, trudging along the path to the cottage with the sky weeping upon them.
When Max arrived at the cottage, he changed his clothes, replaced the rubbing, and stowed the box back in the closet.
By the time Buelo came through the door, whistling and carrying two market bags, Max was sitting at the kitchen table, studying ads for Volantes in a fútbol magazine. Lola slept in front of the cold hearth.
Buelo set the bags on the counter. “What is this? Lola did not greet me at the door. Is she okay?”
“I took her for a long walk,” said Max. It wasn’t a lie.
“After bringing her with you to unload the wood? No wonder she is tired. I am sorry I am so late. I stayed at Mariana’s until the rain let up. She sent you fig jam. On the way home I ran into Miss Domínguez. She is so attentive and kind and always asks about your father. If only he would notice her. Rodrigo stopped me, too.” He shook his head, frowning. “Your father called him and said there is a complication and things might take longer than he anticipated. But he has another meeting next week so that is promising.”
Max went through the motions of listening while Buelo continued reporting on his day. He wanted to tell Buelo what he’d discovered, but the consequences of disobeying him and Papá—and being restricted to the cottage until Papá came home—held him back.
“Can you clean out Dulce’s stall and feed her?”
When Max didn’t answer, Buelo put a hand on his shoulder. “Maximiliano?”
Max looked up, his mind buzzing, his body numb. “Sorry … yes.”
As he raked the stall, he stopped every few minutes to rub his chest, trying to erase the sense of doom that gripped him. He pitched the hay into Dulce’s feed trough, and with each forkful, his resentment grew—for his mother leaving him, for Papá not taking care of the birth certificate sooner, if it could be taken care of at all. He even begrudged Buelo for his cheerfulness and pretending that everything was promising when it was clearly not. If Papá couldn’t resolve his birth certificate, did Max even exist?
What was to become of him?
Max slammed the gate to Dulce’s corral, and angry tears welled up. How could he carry something so enormous and troubling in his heart, yet behave as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened?
He swiped his damp cheeks. Maybe it would be easier than he thought. After all, he came from a long line of impostors, secret-keepers, and liars.
Max couldn’t fool Buelo.
A few nights later at dinner, he put a hand on Max’s forehead. “Are you feeling well? You are so quiet and brooding, and you have not touched your food. What is bothering you?”
“Just tired from work and practicing in the heat,” he lied.
Buelo shook his head. “It seems like more than that. I think I will stay home from my card game tonight and keep an eye on you.”
“No! You only play one Wednesday a month. Your friends are counting on you. I’m fine. I’ll finish my dinner and clean up, then go to bed early. I promise.” Max didn’t want Buelo hovering. He wanted to look through Papá’s box of papers one more time.
Buelo looked skeptical. “All right, then. If you are sure …” He put on his hat and grabbed his cane.
Max followed him outside.
It was almost sunset. The sky had an eerie yellow tinge, and a bleak blanket of clouds hovered in the east. A breeze brought a sweet grassy dampness to the air. Buelo pointed at the threatening sky. “If it storms, I will stay with Amelia and Rodrigo.” Buelo patted Lola’s head. “Take care of my boy, Lola.” At the gate, he raised his cane to say goodbye.
Back inside, Max peered out the window and watched Buelo disappear down the path. Then he hurried to Papá’s bedroom and took the box from the closet.
This time, Max carefully read each paper and laid it on the bed. He found the contract for a bridge Papá had worked on in San Clemente and rent receipts for an apartment, all around the time Max was born. At least Papá hadn’t lied about living there.
There was nothing more with his mother’s name on it. At the very bottom of the box, though, he found a handwritten note in a delicate, rounded script.
R for Renata? This must be from his mother. How could leaving
be the best they could hope for? Loved? Did she stop loving them?
Slowly and one by one, Max stacked the papers back in the box to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He put the box away and shut the bedroom door behind him.
He had no appetite and gave the remainder of his supper to Lola. Raindrops began to splatter the tile roof. The sky grew dark and the wind picked up. Tree branches slapped the windows and it rained with purpose.
Max lay on the sofa.
When lightning flashed and angry thunder roared, Lola jumped up next to him. Max made space and put an arm over her. He closed his eyes and fell into a leaden sleep.
The storm lifted the roof from the cottage and the wind tore through the rooms. Max sat up, wide-eyed. Kitchen chairs and pots and pans floated above him. A great rumbling shook the walls.
On the cliff top, La Reina Gigante had uprooted and slowly traipsed toward him. The tower was a giant queen—the merlons and crenels became her crown; the loopholes, her eyes; the curved rock wall, her elegant skirt; and the coral tree blossoms, a fiery ruffle at her hem.
She waltzed forward through the raging weather. Hovering over Max, she plucked him from the room and held him in her arms, rocking him back and forth and singing.
Arrorró, mi niño. Arrorró, mi sol.
Arrorró, pedazo de mi corazón.
Este niño lindo ya quiere dormir;
háganle la cuna de rosa y jazmín.
Arrorró, mi niño. Arrorró, mi sol.
Duérmase, pedazo de mi corazón.
Hush, my child. Hush, my sunshine.
Hush, piece of my heart.
This beautiful child already wants to sleep;
make him a cradle of rose and jasmine.
Hush, my child. Hush, my sunshine.
Fall asleep, piece of my heart.
Those were the words he’d been struggling to remember!
Mañanaland Page 6