The Lord of Opium

“El Patrón didn’t care about age,” Matt said. “There are eejits who are no older than six. He liked them because of their high voices or, if they had no talent for music, their little hands. Child eejits are very good for weeding young opium plants.”

“She’s a zombie!” shrilled Fidelito. He leapt from his chair and made for the hallway. At the last minute he came to a halt. “There’s more of them out there,” he whimpered. “All those people sweeping and dusting. They’re all zombies. They’ll eat my brain.” A child of the plankton factory, he grabbed a table knife to defend himself.

“There are no such things as zombies,” Matt said wearily. “Eejits are only sad people who’ve lost control over themselves. They’re slaves. If you tell Mirasol to drink water and don’t tell her when to stop, she’ll drink until her stomach explodes.”

The brutal description got to Fidelito faster than any other explanation. “Truly?” he asked. “Her stomach will explode?”

“Probably. I don’t plan to find out.” In a way Matt was glad he’d waited until now to reveal the existence of eejits. It was harder to evoke sympathy for the mindless robots who toiled in the fields. Mirasol was a beautiful girl who could have been a friend or a neighbor. “Sit down, Fidelito. She hasn’t served dessert yet, and I have a lot to tell you.”

Warily, the little boy went back to his chair, hitching it closer to the large, protective presence of Ton-Ton. Matt sent Mirasol to get crème caramel custards. Then he told them of all he had learned about the microchips, how some servants were devastated by the operation and others were almost normal. He told them of the dead man he’d seen in the fields long ago, of the eejit pens, the bad air, and the pellets that gave the slaves the bare minimum food for survival. He told them how people like Cienfuegos were controlled—and that they should never mention it in the jefe’s presence. He told them of how he’d tried to change Mirasol’s name and of the terrible torture she had endured.

Night fell. Neither Cienfuegos nor Sor Artemesia returned. In spite of the chandeliers, the banquet hall filled up with shadows, making the gloomy paintings even gloomier. A cool wind rose out of the desert, bringing the mineral smell of dust and bitter, dry vegetation.

“Now I want to show you something,” Matt said. He told Mirasol to sit and placed a crème caramel custard in front of her. “Eat, Waitress.” As always, she began ravenously, but when the flavor hit her tongue, she paused. She held the spoon in her mouth. Her eyes almost registered intelligence. “This has been the only way I’ve been able to reach her,” said Matt. “It’s connected to some memory so powerful that even the microchips can’t erase it. I’ve dedicated my life to freeing her. And the other eejits too.”

The solemnity of that statement impressed the boys. They looked at Matt as though he had suddenly grown taller and nobler than the ordinary run of humanity. “Y-you’re the only one who can do it,” Ton-Ton said at last.

“I’m afraid so,” said Matt. “I was given the power. I wish I knew what to do with it.”

*  *  *

That night Listen had one of her nightmares. Her screams penetrated Matt’s sleep, and he fell out of bed. He fumbled for his flashlight and switched it on. “I’m coming!” he shouted, although Listen probably couldn’t hear him.

The boys had tumbled out of their own beds and were standing in the hallway. “¡Por Dios! What’s happened to her?” cried Ton-Ton. He and the others followed Matt, but Sor Artemesia had gotten there before them.

“You! Take your hands off her!” shouted the nun. The light was on, and Matt saw Fiona shaking the little girl violently.

“She’s possessed by the devil,” gasped Fiona. “Nasty, spiteful little beast!”

Sor Artemesia sprinted over and slapped Fiona. She pulled Listen away and held her in her arms. The little girl was a terrifying sight, even worse than the times Matt had found her. Her eyes were open and staring in utter panic. Her arms flailed, and she screamed without ceasing, as though what she saw was too dreadful to bear. “It’s all right. It’s all right,” said Matt, kneeling beside her. He stroked her arm, and Sor Artemesia held her firmly so she wouldn’t harm herself.

“Please wake up,” said Fidelito, crying himself. “We’re here. We’ll protect you.”

“She can’t wake up,” said the nun, rocking the little girl. “This is no ordinary nightmare.”

“She’s possessed,” snarled Fiona.