The Price

 

 

      Chito couldn’t remember the last time the sky sang like this. Thunderous roars rang out across the

heavens. Clouds parted as the children watched the sunset. A tiny boy splashed in the puddles of rain.

His face was reflected in the surface of the water; it bore fat, rosy cheeks and a pointed adult-like nose.

He stretched a finger to the ripples and touched a shining, glassy shard that lay underneath. The rain

pitter-pattered lightly on the ground. Chito examined the earth as it soaked up the water; he felt the

mud squish between his toes. Brazil was definitely not a barren country in the summertime. There was

always a reminder of life, and it was one of the most colorful places in which one could ever be. It was

often scorching hot—perhaps too much for the average person to bear, but Chito liked the climate. He

liked the taste of the air and the smell of the trees and plants growing in harmony. When it rained, he

was most happy. The sun beamed down upon him now, and the heat intensified. Sweat beaded like

dew on his thick brows. The rain halted, as he knew it would.

 

            “Ow!” the little boy shrieked in surprise and pain. Chito sniffed at the dense, heavy air and walked over to the boy. The child was panting with worry, but Chito knelt by him, sucked the blood gently from his cut finger, and set the boy’s hand back to his side. He instructed the boy in a soft but firm voice that he should not play with anything sharp in the water, or anywhere for that matter. Chito patted the boy’s head and ruffled his hair.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Paco,” the boy mumbled, shyly.

             His playmates shuffled about nervously behind him, their eyes wide with distress.

            “Go home now, and have your mama wrap that finger up for you,” Chito ordered while wagging his own finger in mock sternness.

            “Okay.”

            “A mother’s love makes lots of things better,” Chito said, staring off into the setting sun which was red with warmth and tenderness.

            “Lots of things?” the boy queried, “Everything?”

            “Lots of things,” Chito answered, “but not everything.”

            The children ran towards home, hand in hand. Before they vanished out of sight, Paco turned to glance back one last time at Chito; the man smiled, but the boy only furrowed his eyebrows and continued on his way. Sighing, Chito hoisted up the basket that he’d been carrying on his back. He was bent over like a crippled old man. The pathway seemed slick now, after the rain. Chito made his way alongside the Paraibuna. Water lashed at the stones, violently. With his bare feet balancing on each cold, smooth stone, Chito played leapfrog with an invisible friend. It made the work lighter and easier and took most of the pain in his back away. He stood up straight for a moment, supporting the basket with his hands at its rim. His spine was so curved and hunched that he naturally leaned towards the right. Ahead, the light was dimming. The sky was fading into a majestic purple, and the sun dropped its head into the shadows beyond. Everything was still and quiet.

 

            Chito’s palms were clammy. He felt as if the world were spinning too fast. In the distance, he glimpsed Paco’s rundown house. Everything looked blurry as he set down his basket underneath a window and entered through the front door.

            “Can I see him—please?” Chito felt his skin crawling and his eyes bulging, but he still wanted to see the boy—poor, poor Paco. He inspected the bed before him. Its single blanket was threadbare, and tucked underneath was laid a figure whose form seemed to be etched into the sheetless white mattress. Chito gasped and covered his mouth, letting out a sob. Then, he was quiet.

            “He’s, he’s—a corpse!” he stammered after the silence had passed.

            The boy’s hands were fragile and whiter than anything Chito had ever seen. His face should have been tan, but it was paler and greyer than death itself. The flesh seemed to have been eaten right off his bones.

            “Almost,” his mother whispered.

            “It was…in the water?” Chito asked; his eyes were full of tears, and his voice was croaky from repeatedly crying and clearing his sore throat.

            “The virus…just floats in there—invisible—without anyone’s noticing, and it took my Paco—and it will take us all. Death will take us by eating all our life away,” Paco’s mother said; her face was drained of color.

            Chito bowed and prayed at Paco’s bedside. After a few moments, he kissed Paco’s cold hands and hurried outside the house. He lifted his basket and slid it up his back until it rested at the nape of his neck. Then he walked on towards the river just moments away.

            Paraibuna was a beautiful, winding river. Chito balanced his feet on the cold, smooth stones and played leapfrog with himself. It took some of the pain away. The sky was a majestic purple as the sun let out one last radiant wave of light. He stared deep into the shimmering waters—and they were glorious, and they were alive. He stared into the darkness and saw the little, glassy shards—and death’s invisible hand swept up and licked his face hard.