The Lord of Opium

Sor Artemesia looked from Mirasol to Matt and back again. “I’m so confused. Perhaps eejits do die in a different way. Perhaps life fades slowly and it would be all right. . . . ”

Matt knew she was trying to convince herself. “Saint Francis would forgive you,” he said. “He forgave Brother Wolf, after all.”

Sor Artemesia left and returned with water, olive oil, and flowers. She poured water over the girl’s forehead and made the sign of the cross over her. “I’m doing a conditional baptism,” she explained. “If Mirasol has already been taken into the church, this one won’t count.”

When the nun was finished, she anointed the girl’s forehead with oil and spoke in a language Matt had never heard before. He didn’t interrupt her, for the ceremony had a quality that moved him deeply. At last she said, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” She placed the flowers in Mirasol’s hands.

“What language is that?” Matt asked.

“Latin. It was used by priests for many hundreds of years. The church prefers modern languages now, but I’ve always thought that God pays more attention to Latin.”

They stood silently for a few moments, and then Cienfuegos came to the door. “Dr. Rivas said you needed me to dispose of Mirasol.”

“Dr. Rivas can go to hell,” said Matt. “We’re taking her back to Ajo. She will be buried in the Alacrán mausoleum.”

A flicker in the jefe’s eyes showed how startled he was, but he didn’t argue. “Very well, mi patrón. I’ll get the hovercraft.”

*  *  *

Matt found Listen curled up in Mbongeni’s crib. “Come on. We’re leaving,” he said.

“I won’t,” she cried, clinging to the little boy. “Mbongeni needs me.”

“He’ll forget you the minute you’re out of the room.” Matt roughly pulled her arms away from the boy and dragged her out of the crib. She scratched and kicked him. “Stop that! Mirasol is dead, and we’re taking her body to Ajo.”

Listen stopped struggling. “Did I kill her?” she wailed. “I didn’t mean to.”

Mbongeni began wailing too. “Lissen . . . Lissen . . . muh muh muh muh muh.”

“He’s learned to say my name! He won’t forget me! Please, please, please let me stay!”

Matt didn’t bother to argue. He dragged Listen after him, and the cries of “Lissen . . . Lissen . . . muh muh muh muh muh” died away in the distance. Cienfuegos had the hovercraft at the hospital door. Mirasol’s body, wrapped in a white sheet, lay on the floor. Sor Artemesia had put more flowers on the shroud, and she sat by a window saying her beads.

Listen shrank away from the body. “She’s not dead. I don’t believe it. She’s not a rabbit.”

“Don’t be afraid of death, child,” Sor Artemesia said, beckoning to her. “It is when the soul is released to find its true home. Mirasol is not here. She is in heaven and far happier than she ever was on earth. She’s with her father now.” The nun put aside her rosary and took the child into her arms. “Here. We’ll look at trees as we fly.”

The hovercraft took off. Cienfuegos went around the Chiricahua Mountains by a southerly route, passing the ruins of a town called Douglas. A great battle must have been fought there, because the ground was scorched black and hardly a trace of buildings was left. Matt saw an ancient road going west, with the remains of cars scattered at the side.

They passed over the ruins of Nogales and crossed a valley filled with deserted farms. “This would be a good place to plant new crops,” said Cienfuegos. “The water table has risen and the soil is good.”

Matt listened without interest.

“That’s Kitt Peak,” the jefe said, skirting the highest mountain. At the top were two observatories, smaller versions of the ones in the Sky Village. “This is one of the first places El Patrón captured, and it gave him the idea for the Scorpion Star.” But nothing could rouse Matt. He was numb. Colors, sounds, and voices withdrew to a gray background in his mind. He couldn’t even think of Mirasol.

They landed at Ajo, and eejits carried Mirasol’s body, completely shrouded, to the large veranda in front of the hacienda. They laid her on a couch. Matt sat down next to her. A peacock wandered onto the veranda and gave a harsh cry.

Celia, Daft Donald, Mr. Ortega, and the boys came out, and Sor Artemesia cautioned them to keep their distance. She herself went up to Matt and said, “Mi patrón, please let me help. I think you have never arranged a funeral before.”