The Lord of Opium

Matt scrolled through the icons in the holoport room and highlighted the Convent of Santa Clara. The familiar room appeared. Sor Artemesia’s altar cloth was pinned on a back wall with a vase of red roses placed in front of it, and next to the roses was María.

He thrust his hand against the screen before she could leave the room. As always, he felt sick and his heart pounded, but he knew the sensation would pass. For a moment the wormhole swirled with mist and he lost sight of María. Don’t go. Don’t go, he implored, and sure enough, when the image resolved she was standing directly in front of the portal.

“Don’t touch the screen,” he gasped, trying to recover from the scanner.

She held her hands clasped over her heart and they gazed at each other, too overcome to speak. They were alone. There was no Esperanza to interfere and no Cienfuegos to make jokes. Finally, she said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” said Matt. How could he have thought her angry and unforgiving? María was made for forgiveness. She was the one still point in a world full of lies and shifting loyalties. “I’m sorry I was cruel to you. I didn’t mean it. I would never mean it.”

“I know,” she said simply. “I lost my temper too. I know you wouldn’t betray me.”

“Never,” he swore. “Mirasol . . .,” he began, not knowing how to explain.

“Mirasol doesn’t exist,” said María firmly.

“She doesn’t exist,” he repeated. He didn’t believe this. Somewhere Mirasol did exist where he couldn’t find her, but he wasn’t going to risk an argument. “I wish we were together.”

“Mother won’t let me come,” said María, “but I will. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”

“I could come there,” Matt said.

“It’s too dangerous. I hate to say this—I know it’s wicked and God tells us to honor our parents—but I don’t trust Mother. She’s become so powerful. Presidents and generals listen to what she says, and she’s so single-minded. I don’t think you’d be safe here.” María unpinned the altar cloth from the wall. She put it into one of the cylinders Esperanza used to send messages through the holoport. “Remember me,” she said, and tossed the cylinder into the portal.

Mist billowed around the missile as it made its slow journey through the wormhole and fell to the floor with a metallic chime. The image of the Convent of Santa Clara filled with snowflakes, and a finger of icy air touched Matt’s face. After a moment the image resolved, but by that time María was gone.

*  *  *

Matt wandered through the gardens in a dream. At last he’d seen María, and although they couldn’t touch each other, they were as close as if they were in the same room. Esperanza hadn’t been able to change her. Matt smiled. María’s mother might have the power to order generals and presidents around, but she couldn’t control her daughter.

Matt had the altar cloth folded inside his shirt next to his skin. When he drew the fine silk from the cylinder, it was as though María had reached through the portal and touched his hand. He was transfixed, unable to move for several minutes. He would keep the cloth always. He would never be without it.

Birds crowded the garden, feasting at various feeders that were refilled each morning. Goldfinches clung to bags of thistle, jays squabbled over sunflower seeds, woodpeckers complained loudly when he walked by. Hummingbirds hovered in front of his face, daring him to steal their sugar water. The air was full of their colors—yellow, blue, iridescent ruby, and green—and of the whirring of their wings.

María said that when Saint Francis went into the fields, throngs of birds filled the trees. “My little sisters,” the saint told them, “God has granted you the freedom to fly anywhere. He has given you pretty clothing and taught you beautiful songs. He has created the rivers and springs to drink from, the rocks and crags for refuge, and the trees for your nests. The Creator loves you very much. Therefore, my little sister birds, you must praise Him.” And the birds rose into the air, singing marvelously and circling ever higher.

I shouldn’t have made fun of Saint Francis, Matt thought. Even if he didn’t quite believe the stories, she did. He would try to be respectful.

He had no idea how much time had passed. The sun had moved toward the mountains, and the shadows had lengthened. He arrived at last at the playroom, vaguely aware that he had to fetch Listen and Mirasol and enter the real world again.