Ballad & Dagger, page 22
“I guess.” I hate this. I hate all of it. The air in the room seems to thin with every word she speaks; I take it in little gasps—soon, I will suffocate.
“And anyway, you don’t really ask that kind of question—is a person going to die? It’s just weird.”
“But?”
She takes a drag of her cigar, rolls her eyes. “I did.”
“What?”
I don’t have to ask what her reading said. Already Aunt Miriam has swept over and wrapped her eerie phosphorescence around Tía Lucia, who has put her head in her hands and let out the longest, saddest sigh of all time.
“I…” Whatever words were gonna come out, they just fade. What do you even say? “But…” I try again. “Can’t we…? Stop!” Suddenly, I’m standing, pulse racing. Tía Lucia looks up, confused. “Stop! Stop smoking! Just…We can…”
Her wide-open face squints into a creased smile, then she breaks out laughing. “Ay, m’ijo…”
“Why are you laughing?” I demand, reaching for her cigar.
She swats me away. “¡Cálmate! It’s not that simple, coño. Let me live what’s left of my life with what pleasures I can get!”
“I…No,” I say, shaking my head, slumping back into the chair. “When did you find out?”
“The night of the—”
“Grande Fete,” I finish for her. “That’s what it said in the reading. That’s why you didn’t come. And why you’ve been staying up all hours baking.”
“Mmm.” She nods. “It’s not easy to look death in the face, Mateo. But—and I mean this—I have made peace with it. I accept it. The bembé helped. I can’t explain why; it’s just true. Everything felt different after that night. Pero, Mateo”—she fixes me with a sharp look—“what Baba Johnny said holds.”
I had almost forgotten. And now I wish I could.
“When it happens, you won’t be able to stop it. I know you can heal. Pero esto…” Her voice trails off, gaze distant. “This won’t be something you can heal. You must stay focused.”
“What am I…?” I’m crying, dammit. The sobs come out in hiccups as I try to talk around them, and tears trickle down my face. “What am I supposed to do, just watch?”
“You’re supposed to live your life. The best life you can live. And if my death is the fault of anyone in particular…” Her eyes narrow to slits, and she’s actually smiling. “Destroy them and everything they love.”
“I…I…” Nothing makes sense.
“Escucha. I know it’s not easy to take in, believe me. So do what you have to do to deal with it, pero don’t hover, por favor. I have enough of that with this one.” She nods toward the bedroom, where the quiet, urgent burble of Aunt Miriam’s old radio has been going nonstop all week. “No pun intended, pero it can be a lot with her. And I get it, I do. I just don’t want to spend whatever time I have left in mourning for myself.”
Mateo, Lucia, Aunt Miriam calls nervously. Something’s going on.
Tía Lucia rolls her eyes. “Ay, Miriam, something is always going on! If you keep listening to that broadcast, they will keep finding things to get you riled up about, hmm!”
That broadcast is the Pirate Radio Hour, a show they livestream from Tolo’s club. It used to be an actual illegal airwave they broadcasted over. (Get it? Pirate radio? Har-har.) But, you know, times change. Ever since the disaster on vote night, it has turned into the Pirate Radio Damn Near Twenty-Four Hours, and I have to admit, it’s kind of comforting. They must’ve snuck equipment into different houses around the neighborhood, because just about any time, day or night, someone is on there, chatting about recipes, or historical tidbits, or streaming music. It does wonders for keeping us feeling like a community in the absence of big gatherings and concerts.
But now it’s Safiya the Butcher’s voice coming out of the tinny speakers on Tía Lucia’s laptop, and she sounds tense. “…revealing Tolo’s exact condition at this time, but please, if anyone knows a doctor or someone with medical knowledge, we need your help.”
That’s me. Well, I am neither, but I’m the Healer. That’s what I do. The urge to run out the door and straight to the club is almost overwhelming—it’s like a physical presence in my body. I can do something, and after all this time doing nothing, after the devastating truth that Tía Lucia just revealed…all I want is to do something. Even if it’s not for the person I’m most worried about. As far as I know, neither the Baracasas nor Hidalgos want anything to do with me. Chela didn’t return any of my texts, and eventually I just gave up. I didn’t even try reaching out to Tolo or his crew, because what would be the point? They saw what they saw, and it looked how it looked. I still cringe in the depths of my soul when I think about it. Whether or not they heard about what happened after is anyone’s guess. All I know is, nobody has said word one to me, and maybe that’s for the best.
I’m heartbroken in more ways than I can count—too many to bother sorting out which is for what.
But.
Tolo is in some kind of trouble.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s something I can actually help with.
“Did she say what ha—”
“Chh!” Miriam shushes me. “She’s explaining.”
“…divulging the exact location, or, more specifically, how to get there, for obvious reasons,” Safiya explains sharply. “Suffice to say, if you know, you know. The club itself is on lockdown, and no one will be coming to open the door. We assume these broadcasts are being monitored by empire pirates, so do what you have to do to stay alive, and send help. Siempre pa’lante.”
A reggaeton beat drops, and this kid from school, Ems, starts spitting verses over it. My mind spins and spins as the lyrics flow past….
I can’t go by myself. It’s clear I’ll never get inside, and the streets are too dangerous for me to be standing around outside like a fool.
And I’m not bothering Chela anymore. Her silence has made it clear we’re not talking right now. I just hope she’s okay.
But…I do know someone who might know how to get in. It’s a long shot, but so is everything these days.
“Tía,” I call, walking back into the kitchen. “Do you have Rabbi Hidalgo’s number?”
“Claro que sí, mi amor. ¿Por qué?”
It takes some wrangling and convincing, mostly of Aunt Miriam—I think Tía Lucia’s glad I’m actually doing something after moping around for so many days, just going to school and coming home. Of course she’s worried, too, but that’s a constant state these days.
I glance around the street—it’s clear—and then for a few moments, I just stand there, shivering, even though I’m wearing, like, five layers and it’s not that cold. Shivering because Tía Lucia told me she’s going to die.
Tía Lucia is going to die.
She’s never missed the mark with her readings, that’s one thing. People call at all hours for consults and then later sing her praises at community meetings and bembés—Iya Lucia helped me get over my heartbreak! Iya Lucia cured my insomnia! She helped me dump my cheating, good-for-nothing husband! She sent me to get checked and it turned out I had cancer, but they caught it—all thanks to Iya Lucia!
But who heals the healer? Who will be there now that Death has come knocking at our door?
My parents are unreachable. We didn’t even have our weekly Skype chat Monday, because they’re in some no–Wi-Fi zone. And even if I could talk to them—what would I say?
I shake my head, try to feel my feet on the ground, the light flurry of snow spinning around me from the cloudy sky.
I don’t know what to do.
About her, or this broken neighborhood, this broken world, or Chela. I have no moves to make, no idea in what direction to even point myself.
Move, Mateo. Standing here gaping won’t save Tía Lucia. Apparently, nothing will. I turn toward the end of the street, where Rabbi Hidalgo texted that he’d meet me. Take a step.
Maybe he handed the phone to his daughter, and it’s Chela who will walk around that corner.
She’s definitely someone you could talk about loss with. Someone who can sit in silence and then speak when she has the words, not just fill the air with meaningless jibber-jabber to ward off the emptiness.
And she lost her aunt when San Madrigal went down, which I guess she may or may not be responsible for…who knows? Either way, she probably feels terrible about everything going on, and needs someone to talk to about it all.
Take another step, Mateo.
I do, I do, even though my head is spinning and nothing makes sense, nothing is okay. Sometimes the only move you can make is to take the next step forward, and then the next one.
I know it’s ridiculous to think, in this moment, of a girl—especially one who’s sure I betrayed her and may very well want me dead. Then again, if she wanted me dead, I would be.
Point is, it’s just her ghost, not really her, I know, but the thought of her brings me peace. And it seemed like, before everything went bonkers, she really did care about me. Like I brought her some peace, too, somehow.
I take another step and then another, and soon I’m striding toward the corner.
Things are still terrible, but at least I can move.
Someone comes around the corner at a run.
It’s not Chela, but it is her dad.
Rabbi Hidalgo sprints toward me faster than I would’ve thought he could move.
Behind him are three bambarúto in body armor barreling through the snow.
I’VE GOT TWO BARBELLS UNDER my bed; I even use them sometimes. I’m long and lanky, so muscles pop up any-ol’-where on me without much effort. Point is, for a music dweeb who hates gym class and often trips over himself, I can actually move pretty fast when my life’s on the line.
Rabbi Hidalgo? Not so much. As he passes me, I hear him gasping for air.
The guy is as huge as his nephew, but while Tolo throws all his weight around like he’s made of water, a fluid geyser of flesh and muscle all within his total control, the rabbi’s stiff lumber carries him in a rocking, uneven dash that seems to threaten total collapse at any moment. Plus, he’s, like, fifty or something, with gray streaks in his red beard.
After a moment of shock, I turn and take off, too, and soon I’ve outpaced him. But I stick close to make sure he’s okay.
The bambarúto chase us down one side street after another, and we keep turning corners until they seem a safe distance away. They move awkwardly, a terrifying kind of shamble, but they don’t seem to tire and I’m sure they’ll catch up soon; I can already hear their stomps and the rattle of trash cans as they approach.
“Come on,” I say, helping Rabbi Hidalgo back into a jog even though he’s still catching his breath. “We gotta keep moving.”
“Where do we even…?” He shakes his head as he resumes jogging, and coughs. “There’s nowhere to go.”
If Little Madrigal were what it’s supposed to be on any given day—teeming with life, commerce, gossip—then we could just duck into a shop or bar and either gather reinforcements or dip out the back and be on our way.
But these winter streets have been empty for a week, and almost all the stores are shuttered, the houses dark. It’s not even noon yet, but with that snowy gray sky and these desolate stretches, it might as well be midnight.
Behind us, the bambarúto stride out from an alley. There’s three of them, and their bodies are still in heavy armor, but now those monstrous labyrinthine heads are exposed—all horrible, gnashing teeth stretching back toward the ill-shaped masses that glisten with some kind of foul ichor.
Ugh.
Then I hear a familiar rumble from up ahead.
The train!
“To Fulton!” I yell, pulling Rabbi Hidalgo back into a run. “It’s the only way!”
The station is a block and a half up. I can just make out the big green tracks that stretch like a rusty snake over our main throughway. I’ve made it before, sprinting at full speed as soon as I hear the growl of an approaching train. But that was on my own.
Rabbi Hidalgo is already clutching his chest and wheezing.
Behind us, the bambarúto break into a run.
I don’t know if they’ll follow us onto the train or not, but my gut says they’re trying to keep a low profile.
Anyway, we don’t have any other options.
The high whine of the brakes squeals out as we reach Fulton and hustle up the stairs to the station.
We might make it!
“I haven’t been on the train in…a long time,” Rabbi Hidalgo huffs at the first landing. “In fact, the last time was when I was here visiting family, long before the island sank. How many tokens is it?”
Then again, we might not. Tokens were phased out, like, twenty years ago.
Down below, the bambarúto have reached the stairs and are glancing around, trying to game out their next move. One shakes its head and launches toward us, retractable baton clanging against the railing as it comes.
No time.
We dash up the second flight in time to see the train grind to a halt beyond the entry turnstiles. Fortunately, Councilwoman Bisconte’s biggest claim to fame—keeping cops out of Little Madrigal—has carried over into her coup and apparently includes mass transit. There’s no one working in the booth.
“Wait here.” I hop the turnstile, then kick open the emergency gate as the train doors slide open behind me.
An off-key beep sounds, which means the train’s about to leave. I dash ahead of Rabbi Hidalgo, out onto the platform, and throw myself in between the doors just before they slide closed.
The bambarúto, now helmeted again, appear at the top of the stairs.
The conductor’s voice comes out scratchy over the loudspeaker. “Stand clear of the closing doors!”
Rabbi Hidalgo bursts across the platform and hurtles past me onto the train, the bambarúto right on his heels. I step all the way in after him.
The doors slam shut.
The tall monsters watch from behind their face shields as the train whisks us away with a rumble and clack.
All around us, the regular world goes about its business, that forever churn of flesh and machine that is New York City beyond our small, strange community. An old guy reads the paper. Two nurses chatter about their shift. Some tween has her headphones turned up loud enough for the whole train car to hear.
It’s strange how people commute through our weird, entrenched little universe every day and have no idea of all the myths and messes it holds. Then again, I guess that’s true of everywhere, huh.
I think the me from one week ago would’ve put his head down in his hands and sobbed, I really do. And that probably would be the right thing to do after being chased and almost killed by huge demons, only saved by the grace and timing of the MTA, which, lord knows, is not something ever to place your hopes for survival on. Seems like a good cry is in order.
But as I’ve watched the streets ice over and empty out, as I’ve seen Little Madrigal retreat inside, part of me has retreated, too. It’s gone quiet, grown cold, crystallized.
I don’t know what the word for it is, but it feels like a kind of death. Like an essential piece froze within me somehow, and I don’t know how to thaw it out.
Then the memory of Tía Lucia’s words rises in me—or her silence, really, and what it meant.
Soon, she’ll be gone. Dead. She knows this. I’m not supposed to stop it, theoretically, but I’ll be damned if I just stand by and watch while someone I love is killed. Not me, being who I am, with the power I have.
No.
I will find a way, somehow. I’m a healer, after all. The only one left.
The last shivering fragment inside of me—the part that would’ve splash-collapsed into a deluge of tears—hardens with resolve, and I turn to Rabbi Hidalgo, ready to tell him what happened, what I have to do.
Instead, I find him hunched over, face in his hands, shoulders heaving up and down in silent sobs.
“Rabbi, I…”
Rabbi Hidalgo has always been a pillar. I know this actually has nothing to do with it, but he’s so tall and wide it just seemed like he’d never break—a walking definition of solid. Yet here he is, sobbing.
What happens when our elders, our spiritual leaders, are the ones who need our help?
I put my hand on his back, pat once or twice. Feel ridiculous. It’s like trying to play a song I’ve never heard, never seen the sheet music for, just going off someone else’s description of it.
“Is it…Chela?” I ask, then scrunch up my face at myself. That probably sounded like I’m only worried about her, my crush, my strange, impossible partner in crime, the girl/goddess who thinks I betrayed her. What a time.
To my surprise, though, Rabbi Hidalgo lifts his head and wipes a few tears away. He sniffles and says, “Ah, you really do care for her, huh, Mateo?”
My shoulders pop up to my ears, maybe defensively. “I mean, of course!”
Why is my voice suddenly high-pitched? I want to be mad that he’d even question my feelings, but Rabbi Hidalgo was there the night of the vote, too. Everyone was. He watched me walk into the room with Gerval, heard the man’s lies. And then the rabbi was gone, chasing his daughter out into the streets. I never had a chance to explain.
“I didn’t…I went to tell Gerval that I wouldn’t side with him against Chela. He—”
The rabbi shakes his head, erasing my explanations with a swipe of his hand. “Tranquilo, manseviko. I know. He tried the same thing on me.”
“He did?”
That’s right—on the day before the vote, Chela overheard him planning to meet with Gerval.
“He wanted to meet,” says the rabbi, “to convince me he was doing what was best for Chela. Thought he could play my enmity with Tolo against my own daughter somehow.” He rolls his eyes, looks away. “I was going to go just to tell him off, but what good would it have done? Things were already getting explosive in the streets, and I realized there was some kind of scheme in the works.” He chuckles icily. “These young pirates forget that my sister was their queen once.”
