Treasure of the World Tara Sullivan (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

where the acid condensation on the ceiling is so strong it stings if it drips on your skin. Plus, if you do look up, you can see how bowed and rotten the support beams are.

We’ve descended steadily for almost forty-five minutes and the idea of hundreds of thousands of pounds of rock over my head, just waiting to collapse and crush me, is making me twitchy. I’m starting to long for daylight and the wide-open spaces of the Cerro Rico like I never have before. The air gets hotter and hotter the deeper we clamber into the guts of the mountain, and as I scramble to keep up with César, I’m sweating freely.

Finally, we arrive at an open chamber César introduces as “zone eight.” The zones are named in the order they were discovered, not in any meaningful, organized way. I wish I had a map since the numbering doesn’t do much to help. I feel completely lost in here. There are three miners chiseling against the far wall of zone eight. César leads me to the end of the line and takes out his spike. I copy him. He shows me how to hold the spike against the wall and pound it with a rock. My split palm screams at me when I do this, but I don’t complain. Instead, I try to match my pace to that of the row of miners. The miner closest to me is a boy about my age, but he’s working with the same deadened determination as the others. It’s only when he turns to glare at me when I can’t match his rhythm that I see who it is.

“Victor!”

His jaw drops in astonishment. “Ana?”

I can’t help my grin. In the middle of the darkness of this terrible place, in the middle of this terrible day, seeing my best friend’s face is as welcome as sunlight.

“Victor, it’s so good to see you!”

“What are you doing down here?” he asks, stunned.

The man beside Victor barks at us to get to work and stop yapping, so we set our spikes and beat them with the rocks in time with the rest of the miners. It takes me a few minutes to learn the weight of the spike and the impact on the rock, but soon I’ve figured out the pattern of the movement and I know what to expect. Once I catch the rhythm, even though my muscles are aching from the repeated motion, I can use my brain for other things. Like answering Victor’s question.

“Daniel got sick. Papi and César are letting me work in his place until he gets better.” At Victor’s horrified face I add, “It’s only temporary.”

“There’s no way they should have let you down here. It’s too dangerous!”

That stings.

“Too dangerous for me but not for you? A falling rock will smush you as easily as it would smush me. We’re basically the same age, Victor! The same size. And Daniel is sick. If it’s too dangerous for me, then he definitely shouldn’t be here.”

“None of us should be here,” mutters Victor. “Kids aren’t even supposed to work in the mines. But it is more dangerous for you. You’re a girl.”

“So?”

“There are no girls . . . I mean, the men down here . . . they won’t like that you’re here, and some of them . . .” Victor trails off, uncomfortable. “Just promise me you’ll never go anywhere without César or someone he has specifically assigned you to.”

I hear the truth behind Victor’s words. I update my worry list to include not just the rock, the air, the toxins, the devil, and the Pachamama, but also the non-mystical inhabitants of the mountain.

I glance nervously at the man working beside Victor and, with a start, realize that he’s Victor’s papi and that César sent the last man in the spike-driving line away. Victor and his papi are the only ones on my left. César is working to my right. None of these men are a danger to me. César has sandwiched me in safety. I feel a warming in my heart for the quiet supervisor.

“I’ll be careful,” I promise Victor.

We work, repetitively chiseling holes in the rock, long beyond when my arms and shoulders are burning and my eyes are blurry from fatigue and rock dust. Finally, César checks the line and says the holes are deep enough. Deep enough for what? I wonder, but I’m too tired to say anything out loud. I slouch against the far wall, sweat rubbing the suit against me uncomfortably. Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes, whether from the bad light or from working for hours with nothing to eat or drink, I’m not sure. Then César opens a bag at his feet and I’m suddenly at attention again.

“Is that . . . dynamite?” I gasp.

“How did you think we make the tunnels?” Victor laughs. “Or get the rock rubble to sort for ore?”

I swallow and shrug, not sure what to say. I mean, of course I knew that miners used dynamite. How many times have I seen my father walk out the door with sticks strapped to his belt? Too many to count. But standing inside the mine, surrounded on all sides by the rough, dark rock, the idea of blasting away at it is beyond terrifying. How careful is César when he sets the charges? How is he sure he won’t blast a hole that brings the whole mountain down on us? I dig my fingers into the palms of my throbbing hands. The pain takes my mind off the dynamite.

Sort of.

When the last charge is placed, César lights the long fuse and says, “Let’s go!” and we hustle in a dusty line, uphill through the tunnels toward the entrance. I always wondered why ants moved so quickly; now I feel like one, scuttling through the earth, no thought in my mind beyond survival.

César yells, “¡Dinamita!” as we climb back to the surface. Out of crevices and chimneys, other miners appear and join us. What about those who traveled deeper than