Daft Donald smiled.
Matt stared at them. He’d never thought of the two men outside their duties as music teacher and bodyguard. He’d never tried to communicate with them, and besides, he’d always assumed Daft Donald wasn’t bright.
“I’d better begin,” sighed Celia. She settled Matt between the two men and fetched him a mug of hot cocoa. The odor brought back memories so profound, the room wavered before his eyes. For an instant Matt was in the little house in the poppy fields. A storm raged outside, but in the house it was warm and safe. Then the scene faded, and he was back in the kitchen.
“You remember what I said about El Patrón never letting anything go?” Celia began. Matt nodded. “Tam Lin used to say that things—and people—became part of El Patrón’s dragon hoard.”
Used to say, Matt thought with a chill. What did that mean?
“That’s why he wouldn’t let Felicia run away and why he kept Tom close to him, although he hated the boy. We all belonged to him—the Alacráns, the bodyguards, the doctors, me, Tam Lin, and you. Most of all, you.”
38
THE HOUSE OF ETERNITY
Matt saw that last evening in his mind’s eye as Celia and the others told the story. When she faltered, Daft Donald would take up the narrative on his computer. Sometimes Mr. Ortega would burst in with an opinion.
While he, Matt, was lying under the stars at the oasis, Tam Lin and everyone else had been called to the wake. Celia was missing because she was supposed to be an eejit. Mr. Ortega was missing because he hadn’t heard about it. Besides, he’d lived such a quiet existence for so many years that everyone had forgotten about him.
The Farm Patrol stood at attention in the gathering dusk. Six bodyguards, including Tam Lin and Daft Donald, carried the coffin from the hospital to the desert beyond the mausoleum. One man alone could have carried El Patrón, but the coffin was so encrusted with gold that six could barely lift it.
They walked slowly as a choir of eejit children sang the “Humming Chorus” from the opera Madama Butterfly. It was one of El Patrón’s favorite pieces, and the eejits’ voices were high and sweet.
“I heard it from the stables,” said Celia, wiping her eyes. “He was an evil man, but the music would have broken your heart.”
A door had been opened in the ground. A ramp led deep down into a vast underground chamber lit by candles. It was only the first of many chambers leading off under the earth. Daft Donald said he didn’t know how many there were.
The coffin was a wonder, Daft Donald wrote on his computer. It had an image of El Patrón on the lid, like the portrait of an Egyptian pharaoh. El Patrón looked about twenty-five. You couldn’t recognize him, except—and here Daft Donald glanced up—that he looked a great deal like Matt.
Matt felt cold.
Everyone went down into the chamber, the bodyguard continued typing, which was filled with drifts of gold coins. You had to wade through them like sand on a beach. Daft Donald saw some of the bodyguards scoop some up and hide them in their pockets. The priest performed the funeral rites. Then the eejits and Farm Patrol were sent away. It was time for the wake.
“Which is just another name for a party,” interrupted Mr. Ortega. “You celebrate the dead man’s life—or in this case, his eight lives. You were supposed to be the ninth, Matt.”
Matt felt even colder.
Everyone was in a fine mood, what with the food and wine, wrote Daft Donald. Everyone talked about what an old beast El Patrón was and how they were glad he was dead.
It had gone on for hours when Tam Lin brought out a special wine that had been bottled the year El Patrón was born. It was in a musty crate covered with cobwebs and sealed with the Alacrán scorpion mark. “This is what El Patrón was saving for his one-hundred-fiftieth birthday,” announced Mr. Alacrán. “If he didn’t make it, it was supposed to be served at his funeral. I propose we drink it to celebrate the old buzzard’s death!”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone cried.
Steven opened the first bottle and sniffed it. “It smells like someone opened a window in heaven,” he said.
“Then it doesn’t belong with this crowd!” Tom yelled. Everyone roared with laughter. They passed around fine crystal glasses. Mr. Alacrán said they were all supposed to toast El Patrón at the same time and then smash their glasses on his coffin.
I had a glass, wrote Daft Donald, but Tam Lin came up to me and said, “Don’t drink it, laddie. I’ve got a strange feeling about this wine.” And so I didn’t.
We raised our glasses for the toast. Mr. Alacrán said, “Tomorrow we’ll send a truck down here and haul this stuff away! Here’s to greed!” Everyone cheered and then they drank—except for me. Before the next minute had passed, they had all fallen to the ground. Just like that. As though someone had reached inside and turned off a switch.
“What happened?” Matt asked, gasping.
I went from one person to the next, trying to wake them up, but they were all dead, wrote Daft Donald.
“Dead?” cried Matt.
“I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” said Celia.
“Not Tam Lin!”
“The poison was very quick. I don’t think he felt it.”
“But he knew something was wrong with the wine,” shouted Matt. “Why did he drink it?”
“Listen to me,” said Celia. “El Patrón had ruled his empire for one hundred years. All that time he was adding to his dragon hoard, and he wanted to be buried with it. Unfortunately”—Celia stopped and wiped her eyes—“Unfortunately, the dragon hoard included people.”
Matt remembered with a chill how often the old man had spoken of the Chaldean kings. Not only were they buried with clothes and food, but their horses were slaughtered to provide transport in the shadowy world of the dead. In one tomb archaeologists had discovered soldiers, servants, and even dancing girls laid out as though they were sleeping. One girl had been in such a hurry, the blue ribbon she was meant to wear in her hair was still rolled up in her pocket.
The plan must have been in El Patrón’s mind all along. He’d never intended to let Mr. Alacrán or Steven inherit his kingdom. Their education was as hollow as Matt’s. None of them was meant to survive.
“Tam Lin knew what was going to happen,” said Celia. “El Patrón told him everything. He was closer to the old man than anyone, except, perhaps, you.”
I laid out the bodies, wrote Daft Donald, as many as I could manage. I was crying. I don’t mind admitting it. It happened so fast. It was so awful. I went outside and got dynamite from a storage shed. I wired it to the entrance passage and set it off.
“I didn’t hear the explosion, but I felt it,” said Mr. Ortega.
“Everyone ran out to see what had happened,” said Celia. “We found the passageway buried and Donald lying stunned on the ground.”
“I felt the explosion too,” Matt murmured. “Just before dawn the ground trembled, and it woke me up.”
“Tam Lin saw it as his chance to free the eejits,” said Celia. “That’s why he didn’t warn anyone except Donald about the wine. I know it sounds terrible, but how else was he to break the power of the Alacráns? El Patrón had ruled this country for one hundred years. His children might rule for another hundred.”
Matt could see the buried tomb in his mind’s eye—the broken wineglasses, El Patrón’s portrait staring up from the coffin, the bodyguards laid out in their dark suits. Only instead of ribbons, they had gold coins in their pockets.
Tom was there too, his lying, oh-so-believable voice stilled forever. How many times had Matt entertained himself with thoughts of Tom’s downfall? Now that it had happened, Matt felt numb. Tom had been no more in charge of his fate than the dullest eejit.
“Tam Lin did what he wanted to do,” Celia said. “He was guilty of a terrible crime when he was young, and he could never forgive himself for it. He believed this last act would make up for everything.”
“Well, it didn’t!” shouted Matt. “He was an idiot! A
stupid, crotting idiot!” He jumped up. Mr. Ortega tried to stop him, but Celia shook her head.
Matt ran through the gardens until he came to the stables. “Get me a horse!” he yelled.
After a moment Rosa shuffled out. “A Safe Horse, Master?” she said. For a moment Matt was tempted to ask for Tam Lin’s steed, but he wasn’t skilled enough to ride it.
“A Safe Horse,” he said.
Soon he was moving through the fields as he had done so many times before. Some were misted with the bitter green of opium seedlings. Some dazzled his eyes with the glory of full-grown poppies. A faint, corrupt perfume hung in the air.
Matt saw the first laborers. They walked slowly, bending down with tiny knives to slash the seedpods. What was he going to do about them? He was their lord now. He was the master of this vast army.
Matt felt utterly drained. Somehow, he’d expected everything to work out. He’d expected himself, María, Tam Lin, and Celia to someday be happy together. Now it was all ruined.
“You fool!” he shouted at the vanished Tam Lin.
Could the eejit operation be reversed? Even with a restaffed hospital, it might take years—that is, if Matt could lure doctors to Opium after they found out what had happened to the last batch. He’d have to get rid of the Farm Patrol. They were felons wanted in countries all over the world. He could tell their police forces to come and get them. He would have to hire other, less violent men to replace them because the eejits couldn’t exist without orders.
It was an overwhelming problem. He’d need to hire another army of bodyguards. Wealth such as Opium possessed lured criminals. Always choose your bodyguards from another country, whispered El Patrón. They find it harder to make alliances and betray you.
Okay, thought Matt. He would ask Daft Donald about it tomorrow. A pack of Scottish soccer louts sounded about right.
He gave the horse a drink and made his way into the mountains. A clear blue sky cast its light over the oasis. The sand next to the water was marked with animal prints, and the metal chest was still hidden under the grape arbor. Matt rummaged through it until he found Tam Lin’s old note.
Deer Matt, he read. Im a lousy writer so this wont be long. El Patron says I have to go with him. I cant do anything about it. I put supplise in this chest plus books. Yu never know when yu mite need things. Yor frend Tam Lin.
Matt folded it and put it into his pocket, along with a flashlight for when it got dark. He made a fire and warmed his hands as he listened to the sounds of the oasis. It was too cold to swim.
He would dig up the poppy fields and put in normal crops. Once the eejits were cured, Matt would give them the choice of returning home or of working for him. He would help them find their children.
Matt sat up straight. Of course! Chacho, Fidelito, and Ton-Ton! He could invite them to live with him. He could imagine Fidelito’s wide-eyed astonishment. This is really yours? the little boy would cry. You’re not making it up?
It’s all right, Chacho would say, refusing to be impressed. Matt could give him his old guitar. Mr. Ortega could teach him music. Ton-Ton could have his own machine shop. He could maintain the equipment Matt needed to create his new farms.
He could invite María to stay—and hope that Esperanza was busy somewhere else. María would love reuniting the eejits with their children. And they could have picnics and ride horses, and she could keep as many three-legged cats as she liked.
Matt looked up at the sky. Sunset wasn’t far off. The light was turning gold, and sunlight shone through a gap in the mountains and made a bar of radiance on a wall of rock just beyond the oasis. Matt saw something dazzle.
He jumped up and ran to the spot before the radiance slipped behind the mountains. When he arrived, shadow had almost hidden the mark, but he saw, in the red light of the setting sun, a shining scorpion. He pressed his hand against it.
Slowly, silently, a door opened in the cliff. Matt felt the rock. It wasn’t stone after all, but a clever imitation. The door revealed a dark passage going down into the earth. Matt shone the flashlight inside.
The floor glittered with gold coins. Farther on were weird statues that might have been Egyptian gods. Matt lay back against the cliff, breathing hard. It was part of El Patrón’s dragon hoard. It was the first of the underground chambers that stretched all the way to El Patrón’s coffin and his attendants.
Around the old man were bodyguards to protect him in the shadowy world of the dead. There were doctors to attend to his health. Mr. Alacrán could entertain him with matters of business, and Steven could offer opinions about the farming of poppies. There would certainly be an opium farm in El Patrón’s version of heaven. Felicia, Fani, and Emilia could admire him from tables covered with moro crabs and caramel puddings.
And Tam Lin? Matt took out the note again: El Patron says I have to go with him. I cant do anything about it.
“You could have done something about it,” Matt whispered. “You could have said no.” He stepped away, and the door slid shut again. He ran his fingers over the surface. He couldn’t tell where the opening had been, but he could find it again with red light.
Late that night Matt sat by the fire and smelled the good mesquite smoke as it spiraled up into the starry sky. Tomorrow he would begin the task of breaking down the empire of Opium. It was a huge and terrifying job, but he wasn’t alone. He had Chacho, Fidelito, and Ton-Ton to cheer him on. He had Celia and Daft Donald to advise him and María to be every-one’s conscience. He also had Esperanza, but he couldn’t see a way out of that.
With everyone’s help, it would get done.
You can do it, said Tam Lin from the darkness on the other side of the fire.
“I know I can,” said Matt, smiling back.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book drew more on my childhood than any of the other books I have written, and therefore was more difficult to write. When I was finished, I couldn’t face a sequel. I wrote the Trolls trilogy as a kind of vacation. Since then, I have been collecting ideas and exploring places for the sequel’s setting. I can’t discuss a book before I write it, not even with the editor, but I can tell you that the working title is God’s Ashtray.
The House of the Scorpion takes place on the Mexican border. The exact location lies between Yuma and Ajo. The Devil’s Highway runs along the southern border of it. The oasis was originally meant to be the Quitobaquito oasis south of Ajo, but the description is actually of another small lake in the Chiricahua Mountains. This is because the following adventure happened.
It was Christmas Day. Harold and I had been given permission to cross the Barry M. Goldwater bombing range. I wanted to look at the Quitobaquito because I hadn’t seen it since I was a child. I needed to see whether my memories were correct.
To cross the Barry M. Goldwater bombing range, you have to watch a half-hour video and promise not to pick up any grenades you find lying around. You promise not to sue the U.S. government if a pilot bombs you by mistake.
It was a cold, clear morning. We saw the border patrol, also known as La Migra, hiding in various places in the hills. Christmas is showtime for La Migra with all the illegal aliens going back and forth to visit family. Jet planes occasionally streaked overhead. It wasn’t long after 9/11 and we were gearing up to invade Iraq.
The road deteriorated as we drove toward the oasis. Suddenly, as we struggled through deep sand, we saw a man lying in the road. Harold is from Africa and always assumes the worst. He thought it was an ambush. He thought the man had been left out as bait, and that if we stopped we would be attacked by people who wanted our car.
I looked through the binoculars. The man was shaking as though he had a high fever. I asked Harold to stop some distance away. My plan was this: I would walk ahead and if bandits appeared Harold was to drive over them. He’s much better at these things, and besides, my eyesight is terrible.
The man kept saying, “Agua . . . agua . . . ” He wore very light clothing, and the temperature had been below free
zing the night before. I gave him a bottle of water. He kept raving and shaking, but eventually he recovered enough to make sense. He’d been part of a group of eight men being led by a coyote, or illegal guide. The coyote had abandoned them when the border patrol attacked in the middle of the night. The men had run in all directions and were probably all lost. José, our new acquisition, was trying to walk to Phoenix. He thought it was twenty miles away, but it was really more than two hundred miles. José had a poor sense of geography as well as direction.
Now came the problem of what to do with him. I wish people could be given time to make ethical decisions, but that almost never happens. There we were and there was José. We couldn’t leave him behind to die. We couldn’t take him back to Mexico because the road beyond disappeared completely under sand dunes. I made a quick decision. I loaded him into the back seat and Harold drove back to Ajo, swearing at me most of the way for getting him into this mess.
We left José at the edge of town with a bottle of water, a chocolate bar, and twenty dollars. I’m sure the border patrol found him quickly, because he didn’t look remotely like a U.S. citizen.
The next day I asked a park ranger what we should have done. He said we should have left José with water and phoned the border patrol. We didn’t have a cell phone, however, so that advice wouldn’t have done us any good. I still don’t know whether I did the right thing. In the old days, when I was a girl, you could overlook a few people sneaking across the border. Now there are thousands of Josés, and since 9/11, the rules have all changed. Harold, by the way, refused to take me back out into the desert in case we met the seven other men. I never did get to Quitobaquito Oasis and had to use the description of one in the Chiricahua Mountains for the book.
Why did Tam Lin have to die?
Tam Lin’s death upset a lot of readers. I don’t like killing a character, but sometimes the story requires it. First of all, Tam Lin had served El Patrón for too many years. He had been involved in many of the old man’s crimes and couldn’t escape paying for this. Tam Lin himself knew that he was guilty and that was why he chose to stay with his master at the end. He also admired El Patrón the way you might admire a volcano. Sure, it’s destructive, but it’s also magnificent.