The Lord of Opium(60)

Rain pocked the surface of the pond, and a frog suddenly bellowed, Kre-ek! Kre-ek! Another frog answered, and soon a whole chorus was calling.

Listen ran over to the pond and thrust her hands into the water. A loud splash followed. “Crap! I almost had him!”

“No, no, no, no, no,” came a voice from behind the reeds. A second later a man emerged and shook his finger in front of the little girl’s face. “Please do not tease the amphibians,” he said. “They must sing if they are to mate.”

Listen goggled at the strange man. His tunic and hair were streaming with water. “Are you a scientist?”

“The scientists have been gone for years. I am a frogherd,” the man said.

Listen burst into laughter. “A frogherd? What do you do? Chase ’em up and down the pool?”

“Frogherd is an honorable profession,” the man said stiffly. “You are obviously a brat and should be penned up with the other immatures.”

Cienfuegos laughed. “You’re right about that, señor. But we are visitors and can only stay a few hours.”

“Visitors?” The man frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“People from outside.”

“I have heard of such beings but thought it was a legend.” A frog croaked, and the man’s head jerked toward the sound. He seemed to have forgotten the existence of anything else.

“What happened to the scientists?” asked Matt.

The frogherd turned back with a look of impatience. “They have gone to Gaia, but there is no need for them anymore. We know everything about our world and merely care for our companion animals and plants.”

“You don’t say! Where’s Gaia?” Cienfuegos asked.

“Surely you are joking. Gaia is not a place. She is the Mother of All, the Earth Herself. Now I must return to my frogs.”

“Wait! I’ve brought the new patrón to see you,” said the jefe.

“Patrón? I seem to have heard that word before,” mused the man. “Is it a kind of animal?”

“He’s your boss,” said Cienfuegos.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” the man fussed. “No one owns nature. We are all Earth’s creatures.” He walked off without saying good-bye.

“What a strange person,” said Matt.

“The original inhabitants were top-grade scientists, but at least four generations have passed,” Cienfuegos said. “Perhaps their children have gone back to the wild.”

They walked on, admiring the birds and trees. “I think this is the ecosystem of northern Europe,” the jefe said. He pulled out a map and peered at it closely. “Yes. This is northern Europe, or at least the way it was.” They sat down on a small hill. In the distance the frogherd swam around the pool, flexing his long, white legs.

“I can see why you wanted to come here,” said Matt. “It’s the most magical place I’ve seen.”

“I had another reason.” Cienfuegos fell silent for a moment, perhaps considering how much to reveal. “Before I came here, I studied agriculture in college.”

“I know. Chapultepec University. Celia told me,” Matt said.

“If you ever want a story to get all over the place, tell it to Celia,” said the jefe with some annoyance. “She probably told you that the farmland in Aztlán was poisoned with chemicals.” Matt nodded. “It would break your heart to see it. What were once beautiful fields of corn and wheat have turned into desert. The plants grow twisted. Men and women who tend them fall ill with strange diseases. It’s like what happened to the Maya in Yucatán long ago. They ruined their environment, and their civilization collapsed. You’d think their descendants would have learned not to kill the earth that feeds them, but humans are endlessly stupid and greedy.”

A line of men and women in white tunics walked from the distant grain fields. Each carried a basket of wheat on his or her head, and they walked with such grace that Matt caught his breath. They were like a line of music.

“Originally, I planned to go to the United States,” said Cienfuegos. “There’s a place in the north where they study how to repair soil, but as you know, I ended up here. Then I heard about the biosphere.” A rain cloud passed briefly and pattered rain on their heads. Listen turned up her face and tried to catch the drops in her mouth. Mirasol didn’t appear to notice, but somehow in this cool, clean atmosphere, she looked more alive. More beautiful.

“The first biosphere, the one in the United States, had a problem,” the jefe continued. “No matter how careful the scientists were, they couldn’t keep the soil productive. Toxic waste built up.”