Chapter Twenty-one
Tears
After.
It was strange to be looking at the stars from below.
Their light fell softly into the room where Up sat,
perched on the edge of his bed, unmoving. A book lay
beside him, a small book with a tattered cover, a book he’d
first found in the rubble of a broken schoolhouse. After a
while, he picked it up.
“Historias y leyendas de México,” he read, slowly, his
accent laughable, each syllable a struggle to pronounce.
Well, the title wasn’t so hard to understand.
He reached over to tap the computer screen next to his
bed. “Translator, please. Spanish to English.”
It was a beautiful old book, though the pages were torn.
Faded illustrations showed images of ghostly figures,
talking animals, twisted old witches. Up stopped at one, a
once-richly coloured drawing of a couple, a man with a
sword, a veiled woman, their faces turned toward each
other, their eyes full of love. Drops of browned blood
discoloured the page, disguising some of the words. Was it
hers?
“La Calle de la Quemada,” he read aloud. Taz had read
this one to him before. With the help of the translator, he
began to read it for himself.
In childhood, we dream, dreams of fame and fortune, of
great adventure, of fantastical creatures and magical