few others, generous people who brought him things and let him do menial jobs. He had no money for supplies. His chalk had been gathered, donated, found in strange places. He had charcoal that had been drawn from the remnants of fires in old oil barrels. He had pencils, but they were very short — discarded and found on the streets.
'I know where you can paint it,' Jake said. He rose from the sidewalk, where he'd been staring at the drawing.
Martinez turned to him, and Salvatore stood, finally, though he kept his eyes downcast. He was confused, and excited, and absolutely uncertain what to say.
Jake faced them, tears streaming openly down his cheeks.
'This vest,' he said, 'has the colors of The Dragons on it. I would give it to you, but I can't. It's…I just can't. But I have a jacket. It's leather. I wear it to protect me. I wear it like armor. I'll bring that jacket to you, if you'll paint my dragon on it. If you have seen…'
Jake waved at the dragon on the sidewalk. He didn't look, because he was beginning to regain control of his emotions, and he didn't want to break down. They all knew it, but no one said anything. They let him talk.
'We're in the middle of something big,' Jake said. 'I don't know how it will end. We know how it ended for Vasquez. I may have to go into the next battle and find that same ending; I would be honored,' his voice broke, but he pressed on, 'if I could wear my dragon. I want to see it before I die.'
Salvatore's vision blurred. He felt his knees grow weak. He started to speak, but the words swam in his mind, and he couldn't reach them. Then everything was dark.
Chapter Ten
The world whirled slowly back into focus. Salvatore stared at the ceiling over his head. It was not his own, but at first he couldn't place it. There were sounds, too, but he couldn't separate them from the rushing sound in his ears. Finally, after closing his eyes and lying very still, he was able to think. It was Martinez' home. He was lying on the floor on a thin pad. His head rested on some sort of pillow and he was covered in an old blanket.
He heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. Martinez was walking slowly about the room. Salvatore glanced up and saw that there were a number of items arranged on the table. Martinez steadily added to the pile, first going to one shelf, and then to another. Salvatore sat up slowly. He must have groaned, or made some sound, because Martinez turned and smiled.
'Back in the world of the living, I see,' the old man said.
Salvatore opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry. His lips were gummy and stuck together. Martinez saw and was at his side in a moment with a small cup of water.
'Drink this,' he said. 'You've been sleeping for several hours.'
'I am sorry,' Salvatore managed after a second sip of the cool water.
'No reason to apologize. You've not been sleeping well lately, and what you are doing — the dragons you are drawing — that effort is draining your energy as well. We are going to have to find you some food before you start your painting. Jake will be dropping by your home this evening with his jacket. I told him I'd get you back on your feet and ready to work. He's very excited.'
'Will it be okay?' Salvatore asked. 'The painting — the dragon. I see them, but I don't understand. I have never drawn one until…'
'Until after the man was dead.' Martinez finished. 'I know. This will be different. This jacket will be very special to Jake, and it will help to protect him. It is a good thing you are doing, and soon I will complete the paints that you need for the job.'
There was a soft knock on the door, and Martinez opened the door. On the step a young girl curtsied shyly. She held a covered bowl in her hand.
'Evangeline,' Martinez said. He leaned and took the bowl from her hand. 'Where is your mother?'
'She could not come, sir,' the girl said. 'She is serving at the church tonight. They are making soup.'
Martinez slid a hand into one pocket and pulled out a folded bill. He handed it to the girl.
'You make sure to give her my thanks. Tell her she has been a help to me, and that I will not forget. Can you remember that?'
The girl nodded. Salvatore knew her — he'd seen her playing in the park on sunny days and running errands for her mother in the streets. They seldom spoke. Most inhabitants of the Barrio ignored Salvatore. They though he was odd, and they knew of his connection to Martinez. Salvatore watched her, and when she caught him gazing, he blushed and smiled. He wished at times that he had more friends near his own age — those he could share his dreams with and not worry that he sounded foolish.
The girl, returned his smile, tilted her head prettily to one side, and then turned. With a quick flash of white cotton and tan legs she was off down the steps and into the street. Martinez turned back to Salvatore.
'Her mother, Maria Santiago, is a very fine cook. I have helped her when her children were sick, and I looked after her husband when he was injured in an accident several years ago. She sometimes sends me food. I asked her to send me something for you. I believe it is bean soup. I have some bread, and a bit of cheese. I want you to eat all of it, and have some milk. Then you must rest. When I am done here, we will carry the paints to your home, and wait for Jake.'
Salvatore sat very still. He was unused to anyone looking after him. He was also, he realized, starving. He couldn't say when the last time he'd had anything that resembled a real meal, or anything to drink other than tepid water. His eyes pooled with tears, but he blinked them back. He did not want to humiliate himself in front of Martinez.
'What you are doing will help us all,' Martinez said. The man's voice had softened slightly. 'Eat. I have much to do before we will be ready.'
Salvatore rose and took a seat at the table. Martinez placed the soup before him with a large spoon, a chunk of bread, and a moment later followed it all up with some cheese and a cup of milk. Salvatore didn't know where to start. It smelled delicious.
Martinez went back to his preparations. As he ate, Salvatore tried to pay attention. There were three simple earthenware bowls on the far side of the table. Between each and the window there were metal stands from which colored crystals dangled on chains. Martinez worked slowly and carefully. He mixed ingredients first in one bowl, and then the next. The first two were flanked by blue and yellow crystals. The last had a red crystal, and it was on this bowl that most of Martinez's attention was spent. The old man consulted often with a printed sheet of paper.
Salvatore was fascinated. He'd seen paints before. He'd even used them once or twice when the church gathered young people in the summer. They allowed him to attend, even though he had no parents to vouch or sign for him. Salvatore enjoyed those times very much, interacting with other young people, working on the crafts and hearing the stories of the priests. He listened carefully and never forgot a tale. The others, the children from better homes, and those who attended school regularly, seemed to take the words for granted, but for Salvatore stories were magic — almost as appealing as the images he created, day in and day out, to fill his ours and free his mind.
Martinez worked at the three bowls with a pestle, grinding the ingredients into a paste. He added oils and some water, and worked at each again. The old man was patient, and though he could not hear the words, Salvatore saw Martinez was speaking constantly as he worked. The mumble that was discernable was rhythmic, like a chant, or some sort of incantation. Salvatore very much wished he could hear, it but there was the cheese, and the cup of milk to consider, and he was afraid that if he spoke, or moved closer, he would interrupt the old man's concentration.
Finally the mixtures met Martinez' approval. He checked the sheet of paper a final time, then folded it and slipped it between the pages of one of his books. Next he walked to the window and opened the shade. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in at an angle. The old man returned to the table and examined the small stands. The crystals were just out of the sunbeam's reach. He adjusted them so that the light shimmered through, bent, and sent colored shimmers over the table. Martinez moved the bowls next, so that the line of light breaking through each crystal found the far rim of each bowl. Salvatore saw that as the sun continued to set, the light would slice
