19 Chispa

Ten Years Earlier

A small, dirty boy the street people called Chispa limped quietly along the noisy, cobbled roads leading into the Plaza de Armas in Cuzco, Peru. He was used to moving through the crowd unseen as he pressed against the stucco side of the cathedral, almost invisible to the harsh world around him.

He was only eleven years old, but he looked older. He felt much older. Life on the street had aged him. He’d never had the luxury of being a child. Children don’t survive long on the street.

Chispa was as good a name as any. It was better than what he’d been called in the mountains—el diablo, the devil.

The plaza was as crowded as it usually was during the summer, filled with foreign tourists and those who profited from them. Cuzco was a popular tourist destination. It was the birthplace and center of the great Incan Empire until 1533, when the Spanish conquistadors, under the command of Pizarro, defeated the Incan warriors, executed the last Incan emperor, and built their own civilization on top of the Incans’. Today the city was conquered by retailers and bankers.

Chispa didn’t care about the square’s historic past. What had happened hundreds of years ago was irrelevant. He cared little about the antiquity around him. All he cared about was the emptiness of his stomach and the danger of his world.

In the square there were other invisible human monsters, hunting like caimans in muddy water holes, preying on the weak—the human traffickers and the drug dealers who were always trying to take him.

There was no protection. The local police were just as cruel to his kind as the monsters were. He was unwanted by everyone and everything, a parasite on the hind leg of society. It was rumored that in some parts of South America the police would gather street children at night into trucks, and the children would never be seen again.

As usual, the square pulsed with the sound of the crowd, horns honking, the chattering of street merchants, and the songs of the local musicians. The flutes and lyres of Peruvian folk music lent a dramatic soundtrack to his mission. Chispa was headed to the farma to steal medicine.

It was nearly dusk, and the temperature had fallen with the sun, but he had learned to ignore the cold. He had no coat, just the dirty, tattered T-shirt he always wore. He didn’t remember where it had come from. He’d just always had it, as familiar to him as his own skin. He had no socks, never had. His sandals had been cut from the car tread of an old tire he’d found in a bush on the side of the road, with leather straps he had taken from the curtidor who made coats from the hides of the butchered cattle from the slaughterhouse.

Chispa carried his most recent business venture in a woven hemp knapsack over his right shoulder. He was selling sweets: caramels or Chiclets, small packages of candy and gum that he sold for ten centimos to locals—a full sol to tourists. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day, and his candy sales were low. The problem was competition. It was the high tourist season, so a flood of poor children had come in from the country to make money for their families. With so many children selling, it was tough to earn enough to eat.

He was constantly tempted to eat the candy in his bag, but then he would have nothing to sell, resulting in even less to eat. Instead he chewed on coca leaves, which dulled his pain and his hunger.

Sometimes when the pain was too much, he sniffed glue from a bag. An older child had told him that it would eventually ruin his brain, but at those times, the pain of the moment gave little reason to worry about the future. His life was an ongoing battle of survival from one moment to the next. Survival and pain. Pain of hunger. Pain of loneliness. Pain of fear. And there was the constant searing pain in his leg.

There were hundreds of street children in Cuzco that day. They weren’t all homeless like him. Some even went to school. Chispa had never been to a school—at least not a formal one with desks and chairs. The street was its own kind of school. The problem with learning on the street was that the test came first, then the lessons.

He couldn’t read, though he knew which signs were warnings against him and his kind. He wasn’t educated, but he was a survivor and that revealed a different kind of smart. He was different in other ways.

For reasons he didn’t know, his skin glowed a pale, translucent red in the dark. More frighteningly, when he was angry, his eyes glowed red, like embers. He could do things that the other children couldn’t do. Things that scared the other children and earned him names like el diablo and el demonio. He didn’t care what they called him, as long as they left him alone, though he sometimes wondered if maybe they were right.

What few memories he had of his childhood came like flashes of lightning. He wasn’t from the city; he remembered that. He came from a mountain valley. He had a fleeting memory, not more than a mental blur, of a woman who’d cared for him. She wasn’t his mother. She had white hair and dark sunburned features. She’d left him like all the others, but somehow he knew that it hadn’t been her choice. He knew this because she’d cried when they’d taken him from her.

For a while he’d lived in an orphanage, but just two months later the orphanage had been shut down and the children had just been let out, like baby birds released from a cage to find their own way. Many of them had been taken by traffickers. Some had just disappeared.

Chispa limped because three years earlier he’d been hit by a car while crossing the street. The driver hadn’t even stopped, paying no more attention to him than if he had hit a dog, leaving Chispa howling and rolling with pain on the side of the road.

A kind nun had picked him up and taken him back to the convent to care for him. But when the nuns had seen his skin and eyes glow, he’d been pronounced a demon and sent away.

Before his accident he’d been working in an illicit gold mine. The work had been grueling and the overseer had often beat him, but he’d also been fed twice a day and had had a place to sleep out of the rain. But that was before he’d been injured. After the accident even the overseers had turned him away. There were plenty of hungry street children to choose from with healthy legs and backs.

But right now Chispa wasn’t thinking about his own pain or hunger. He was thinking about his friend who was sleeping back at the hovel. Her name was Mia and she was sick. What little food they had she couldn’t keep down, and her forehead burned with fever. She needed medicine. Antibiótico. He didn’t let himself think about what would happen if she didn’t get the medicine. He didn’t fear much, but this he did. He feared losing his only friend.

There were no doctors for his kind. Medicine could only be had from a pharmacy, and stealing from one wouldn’t be easy. Chispa was used to stealing from the street vendors. They always stood between him and their carts, but in the distraction of a crowd, he could easily make off with a beef heart or a bunch of bananas. But stealing from stores was an entirely different thing.

Street children like Chispa—pirañas, the merchants called them—were never allowed inside stores. During the busy tourist season there were police everywhere looking for pickpockets, so the police stayed especially close to the businesses. The Polícia Nacional had no patience with the street children and often beat them with their wooden batons.

As Chispa walked to the door of the pharmacy, a police officer stepped in front of him.

“Where do you think you’re going, piraña?”

Chispa didn’t look up. “I need to buy some medicine.”

“With what?” The officer pushed him with his baton. “Where is your money?”

Chispa looked into his face. “Can you help me, please? My friend is sick.”

“What do I look like?” the man said. “A fool?”

“I thought you looked like a good man who would help a sick child.”

The officer was vexed by Chispa’s answer. “Shut your mouth and go, you street dog.”

Chispa didn’t move. From near the center of the square, two policemen walked toward them. Chispa noticed other people looking at him. A few tourists, maybe Japanese or Chinese, he didn’t know the difference. Just six meters from him was a street vendor with his cart of fruits—cherimoyas, granadillas, and tree tomatoes—all of which made Chispa’s mouth water.

There was also a small pickup truck parked near the curb with a white man sitting in the front. He had long graying hair that fell past his shoulders, and there were two Peruvian boys, Chispa’s age, in the bed of the truck. All of them seemed to be looking at Chispa.

The policeman realized he was being watched as well and suddenly felt self-conscious. “Vamos,” the policeman said, prodding the boy with his stick.

“I need the medicine,” Chispa said.

The officer pushed him again with the end of the baton. “I said get out of here!”

“Don’t touch me with that. I’m warning you.”

The officer laughed cynically. “You, little dog, are warning me? You are a comic!”

“I need the—”

Before he could finish speaking, the policeman brought the baton down onto Chispa’s crippled leg. Pain shot through him like lightning, and he howled out.

“There’s more where that came from, street dog. Now get out of here!”

Despite the pain, Chispa still didn’t move. “My friend needs medicine.”

“You’ll need medicine when I am done with you. Now go, or I’ll strike you again.”

“I’m going inside the pharmacy. You can’t stop me.”

“I can’t stop you?” The police officer turned to the other two police officers, who were now just ten meters from him. “This dog is a funny one with a big mouth!” He turned back and swung his baton. Chispa raised his hand to block the blow, and the stick broke two of his fingers.

“Idiot. Even a street dog knows when to run.”

Chispa grimaced in pain as he struggled to his feet. His eyes narrowed as he looked into the policeman’s eyes. Then he put out his throbbing hand, his palm extended. The policeman didn’t notice at first that the boy’s eyes were glowing red.

“I will break your…”

Electricity began arcing between Chispa’s fingers.

“Qué haces?” the officer said.

Then Chispa closed his hand into a fist. The officer dropped his baton and grabbed his head, then, looking at the boy, dropped to his knees, then his side. Blood began to run from the officer’s nose, mouth, and ears. The two other officers ran to him. One of them shouted, “Gonzales…”

The boy looked at them, then reached out his hand toward them.

The man in the truck shouted, “No! Stop!”

Chispa and the police officers turned to look at the long-haired man.

“Is this your boy?” one of the policemen asked.

“Señor, I don’t know him. I only know that your man is in trouble. You need to see to your comrade.”

While the officers were deciding what to do, Chispa turned and ran. Even with his twisted leg, he could move quickly when he had to. The officers seemed unsure whether they should pursue the boy or help their fallen officer.

“Your comrade, he needs help,” the white man said. “We’ll go after the boy.”

The officers walked to Gonzales, but it was too late. The policeman on the ground was unresponsive as one of the officers knelt next to him.

“Franklin!” the man in the truck shouted out the window to one of the two Peruvian boys.

“Sí, Doctor.”

“Is there anything I can do to help the officer?” the white man asked the boy.

“No. He is dead,” the boy replied.

“Then let’s go find the boy. Both of you, up front.”

The two boys climbed in on the passenger side. The man started up the old truck, which coughed out a cloud of exhaust. “We will find the boy,” he shouted to the police.

“You find him, you bring him to us.”

“Franklin, where is he?” the man asked.

The boy Franklin pointed down the road. “He’s that way.”

As they pulled away from the curb, Franklin put his face out the window. A block away he said, “He’s stopped running.”

“You’re better than a bloodhound,” the man said.

“He’s close. We should stop here.”

The man stopped the truck next to the curb. “Where is he?”

Franklin cocked his head to one side, then said, “He’s down that alley behind that dumpster.”

“All right,” the man said. “Let’s go get him.” He turned to the other boy, Aristotle. “Be careful. He’s dangerous.”

“Not with me around,” Aristotle said.

“No,” the man said. “Not with you around.”

They climbed out of the truck and, following Franklin, walked through the crowd into the shadow of an alleyway. The ground was littered with trash, and rats scurried around them and disappeared into the sewage grates at their approach.

Chispa silently peered out from behind the dumpster as the three of them neared. When his pursuers were ten meters from the dumpster, Franklin turned to the man and said, “He’s there.” He pointed. “Behind the dumpster.”

“Wait here.” The man took a few steps forward. “Chico, come out. Let’s talk.”

Chispa didn’t move. He wondered how they had found him.

“Please, it’s late. We are here to help. I’m sure you are hungry. We have bread and fruit and milk in the truck. This is not a trick.”

Still nothing. Chispa was breathing heavily from running, and his leg and back stung with the pain of fire ant bites. He didn’t know if he could outrun the boys. They looked strong. He didn’t want to hurt them.

“Chico, please. We know you’re there.”

“I know you’re there. I can smell you,” Franklin shouted, then added, “Like the garbage.”

The man looked over at Franklin and shook his head. “None of that.”

The insult sparked Chispa’s rage, and he clenched his fists. He would hurt them if he had to.

The man’s voice came again, softer. “Please, chico. Don’t make us come after you.”

Chispa shouted out, “I will hurt you like the policeman.”

“You can’t hurt us,” Franklin said.

“What did you do to the policeman?” the man asked.

Chispa didn’t say anything.

“I’m guessing you caused a cerebral hemorrhage. You shocked his brain, didn’t you?”

“He’s not coming,” Franklin said.

“Just leave him in the garbage, if he likes it so much,” Aristotle said. “He looks like garbage.”

“Aristotle,” the man said sternly. “Apologize to our friend.”

Aristotle frowned.

“Now.”

Aristotle sighed. “All right. I’m sorry.”

Chispa stepped from behind the dumpster. “Are you calling me garbage?” He raised his hand out in front of him as he had done in the square. “Do you want to see what this garbage can do?” After what he’d done to the policeman, he expected them to be afraid, but none of them were.

Instead the man walked closer. “No, muchacho. You are not garbage. You are a very special boy. We know you are.”

Chispa gritted his teeth. “You don’t know me.” He spat on the ground for emphasis. “Don’t come any closer. I can kill all of you.”

“We know more about you than you think,” the man said. He looked at the two other boys. “We know you’re electric.”

“What do you want from me?” Chispa asked.

“We’ve come to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I know you can take care of yourself. But it’s not easy, is it? Living out on the street. We have food and a warm home.”

“Do you have medicine?”

“Yes, I am a doctor. Are you sick?”

“My friend is sick. That is why I was at the pharmacy.”

“We can help him.”

“My friend is a girl.”

“We’ll do what we can to help her. I promise.” He stepped closer. “My name is Dr. Sam. I want nothing from you. I want to help.”

Chispa just looked at him. “Why?”

“It’s true,” Franklin said. “He helps because he is a good man.”

“There are no good people,” Chispa said.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, there are. Like you trying to find medicine for a friend. That is good. You are good.”

No one had ever called him good before.

“There are still some in the world who try to treat others the way they would like to be treated.”

“How do I know you will help me?”

“It’s true,” Aristotle said. “He has taken good care of us. Do we wear tattered clothes? Do we look dirty and skinny like you?”

Chispa took a small step forward. “You have medicine?”

“Yes. What is wrong with her?”

“She has a fever. She keeps vomiting and her stomach hurts.”

“It sounds like dysentery. I will examine her. We have medicine and a nice soft bed back at our farm. We will care for her.”

Chispa still looked at them warily.

“You can call me Dr. Sam. I don’t expect you to trust us. Why would you? Trust comes through time and experience, and we have had neither. But perhaps you have the courage to take a small chance. For your friend. I know you can do that.”

Chispa looked at him for a moment, then said, “I have courage.”

“Yes, you do. You can take us to your friend. We’ll go to her.”

Chispa took another step forward. “She is several kilometers from here.”

“We’ll drive to her. If you don’t trust us, you can sit in the back of the truck. We have blankets. We know you are powerful. So are we. You have nothing to fear.”

“C’mon,” Franklin said. “Vamos.” He turned his back.

Chispa started to follow, then suddenly stopped. “I forgot my sack.”

“What’s in your sack?” Franklin asked.

“My candy to sell.”

“You won’t need it,” Aristotle said. “You don’t have to sell anymore.”

“If you don’t sell, how do you live?”

“We live on a farm. We drink milk from the cows, and we grow our own fruits and vegetables. We even keep bees for honey.”

“And we have a mango orchard,” Franklin said proudly. “We grow the most delicious mangoes.”

When they got into the truck’s cab, the doctor said, “Your hand. Your fingers look broken. Are you in pain?”

Chispa glanced down at his bent leg. “I am always in pain.”

Dr. Sam looked down at the boy’s leg. “I’m sorry. But we don’t need to add to it. Let me look at your fingers.”

Chispa drew back his hand. He wasn’t used to having people touch him.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Is that where that policeman hit you?”

He nodded.

“I can help.”

Chispa slowly offered his hand.

Dr. Sam looked it over. “Your fingers look broken. We should splint and bandage them. Franklin, grab my medicine bag.”

“Sí, Doctor.”

Franklin brought a black vinyl bag with a zipper on top out from the truck’s back seat. Dr. Sam looked through the bag, then brought out a roll of tape, gauze, scissors, and two thin pieces of wood.

He examined the fingers again, then said, “Only one is broken. I’m going to straighten it. It might hurt a bit. Are you okay with that?”

Chispa nodded.

“Can you control your power? I don’t want you to accidentally do to me what you did to the policeman.”

“I can.”

“All right. Hold on. I will pull on tres.” He took ahold of the finger, then counted, “Uno. Dos. Tres.” He yanked the finger out, making a sharp cracking sound.

“Ay!”

“Sorry. But I had to get it. You are brave.” He held up a stick. “This is a tongue depressor, but it will do as a splint.” He put it on Chispa’s finger, wrapped it in the soft gauze, then rolled the tape around it until it was solid.

“That will help it heal right. Do not take that off or try to move it until I tell you to.”

He nodded. “Can we go to my friend now?”

“Yes. But first, I think you are hungry.”

“I am always hungry.”

The doctor said, “Aristotle, give him a loaf of that bread.”

“The whole loaf?”

“Every crumb.”

Aristotle brought it out of a box and handed it to Chispa. For a moment, Chispa just looked at it.

“Go ahead,” Dr. Sam said. “It’s yours.” He started up the truck. “This way?”

“Yes. Drive until the big statue, then turn right.”

As they drove, Chispa tore into the loaf, shoved large chunks of bread into his mouth, and swallowed them before they were completely chewed.

Dr. Sam grinned. “Slow down, chico. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Chispa continued eating like he was starving, which he was. Then he stopped, setting the rest of the loaf on his lap.

“Had enough?”

“The rest is for my friend.”

Dr. Sam smiled. “You may keep eating. We have more for your friend.”

A little after the statue, Chispa pointed out the direction. As they drove beneath the shadow of a building, Chispa noticed something for the first time. The other two boys’ eyes glowed red like his. In all his life he’d never seen anyone else like him. Chispa said to Franklin, “Your eyes.”

“They’re like yours,” Franklin said. “I’m an electric too. So is he.”

“What is an electric?”

“It’s what you are. We are all electric.”

“You can do what I can do?”

“I’m not sure what you can do. But I can do special things.”

“What are your names?”

“I’m Franklin,” the first said.

“I’m Aristotle,” Aristotle said. “Who are you?”

Chispa looked back and forth between the two boys, then said, “I am the devil.”