Treasure of the World

Description

A young girl must find a way to help her family survive in a desolate and impoverished Bolivian silver mining community in this eye-opening tale of resilience.

Twelve-year-old Ana wants nothing more than to escape the future set for her and her classmates in her small mining village. Boys her age are beginning to leave school to become silver miners and girls her age are destined to one day be the wives of miners. But when her often ill eleven-year-old brother is forced by their demanding father to start work in the mines, Ana gives up her dreams of school to volunteer in his place. The world of silver mining though is dark and dangerous and the men who work there don’t want a girl in their way. Ana must find the courage to not only survive but save her family after the worst happens and a mining accident kills her father and leaves her brother missing.Praise for Treasure of the World:
A 2022 Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year
A 2022 Jane Addams Children’s Book Award Finalist
A 2021 Kirkus Best Book

★ “Rich with memorable characters and streaks of brilliant writing, as in the author’s previous works, Ana’s story takes readers on an arduous and ultimately rewarding journey that illuminates a fraction of the human toll behind the profit-driven pursuits of a materialistic world. Heartbreakingly splendid.” —Kirkus, starred review

★  “Utterly riveting. . . [O]ffers a view of complex family dynamics and child labor that is shocking and powerful.” —School Library Journal, starred review

“Gripping . . Sullivan effectively portrays 12-year-old narrator Ana and the oppressive demands she faces…skillfully crafting memorable characters and close relationships. . . Sullivan approaches tough topics, including child labor, economic pressure, and repressive gender roles, from a resonant, believably young perspective, balancing Ana’s precarious struggle to survive with hope.” —Publishers Weekly

“Show[s] the kindness of others and the importance of family strength and resilience. . . [and] just how important learning is in bettering your lot in life.” —School Library Connection

“Sullivan, who addressed child labor in the cocoa industry in The Bitter Side of Sweet, here exposes the tragedy of child miners forced to leave school to help support their families by working in the “mountain that eats men.”…Readers are left with…hope…but the dire plight of all these families is abundantly clear.” —Booklist

Praise for The Bitter Side of Sweet:
A California Young Reader Medal Nominee – 2020-2021
An ALA Notable Children’s Book – 2017

★ “A tender, harrowing story of family, friendship, and the pursuit of freedom.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

★ “In crisp, accessible prose, Sullivan draws readers into a most compelling story of survival under unspeakable hardship, bravery, and teamwork… Absorbing and important.”—Booklist, starred review

★ “[A] heart-wrenching survival tale.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review

★ “An engaging story that will engender empathy in readers.”—School Library Journal, starred review

★ “Curriculum connections abound and even reluctant readers will be drawn to the suspenseful plot and distinctive characters.”—SLC, starred review

Praise for Golden Boy:

★  “A riveting snapshot of one Tanzanian boy who makes himself matter.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review

★ “Readers will be haunted by Habo’s voice as he seeks a place of dignity and respect in society. An important and affecting story.”—School Library Journal, starred reviewTara Sullivan is the author of the award-winning and critically acclaimed Golden Boy and The Bitter Side of Sweet. She was born in India and spent her childhood living in Bangladesh, Ecuador, Bolivia, and the Dominican Republic with her parents, who were international aid workers. She received a BA in Spanish literature and cognitive science from the University of Virginia and an MA in Latin American studies and an MPA in nonprofit management from Indiana University. Her first novel, Golden Boy, won the 2014 Notable Social Studies Trade Books for Young People Award and was selected as a top-ten book of 2013 by YALSA and as a best book of the year by Kirkus Reviews and The Wall Street Journal. Her second novel, The Bitter Side of Sweet, won the 2017 Children’s Africana Book Award Honor and was an ALSC Notable Children’s Book. She currently lives with her family in Massachusetts.

1

Even though I hate getting up before dawn to make coca tea for my family, I have to admit that there is nothing so stunning as watching the sun rise at the top of the world.

Holding a match to the pile of dried dung, I blow on it softly until the flame catches. Once it’s going strong, I put the beaten tin pot on top of it and breathe on my chilled fingers, looking forward to the tea. It will be warm and filling, and because it’s only water, I’ll be allowed to have as much of it as I want. I toss a handful of coca leaves into the pot and stand, hugging my arms around myself as the orange sun shoulders its way out from behind the rough red slope of the Cerro Rico.

Behind me, I hear the soft shuffle of feet as Abuelita joins me from the house.

“Look at that, Ana,” she says, tipping her wrinkled face to the sunlight. “Only God has a better view.”

I smile. “I bet God is warmer.”

“Probably.” She laughs. “How’s the tea coming?”

“Almost ready.”

“Good. Your brother woke up with that cough again. A cup of coca tea would do him good.”
I frown, worried. It seems like Daniel is always fighting off one chill or another. Although we’re not even a full year apart, it usually feels like I’m much older because I’m always taking care of him. He just gets sick so easily. If the rest of us get a sniffle, his turns into bronchitis; if we get a fever, his turns into pneumonia and he’ll still be fighting to breathe weeks after the rest of us are better. This high in the Andes, there are only two choices for temperature—cold, and colder. Today is the first day of February, right at the end of summer. I chew on my bottom lip. If Daniel is struggling this much now, I hate to think how sick he could get when we get to June and July, the depths of winter.

I hand a cup to Abuelita and follow her inside, carrying the pot. Papi doesn’t like weak tea, but I don’t want Daniel to have to wait longer than he has to. I put the pot on a folded manta that Mami has placed in the center of the room. We all dip our cups in, sipping until our bellies slosh. The tea will take the chill off the morning and trick us into thinking we’re full for about an hour. Then we’ll start chewing coca leaves to dull the real hunger that comes from working on an empty stomach. Mami helps Papi buckle an acetylene tank to the belt on his miner’s coveralls and hands him his lunch sack as he walks out the door. Abuelita sits off to the side with Daniel, rubbing his back as he coughs between sips of tea. I get dressed for school, sure I’ll be going by myself again, but Daniel surprises me.

“Mami, can I go to school today?” he asks. “Please?”

She walks over and smooths his thick black hair away from his forehead. She hides it in a caress, but I notice she lets her hand rest there an extra moment, checking for fever. This time, bronchitis has kept him home from school for over a week.

“I don’t know, mi hijo,” she says, concern lining her round face, “your cough is still pretty bad.”

“I feel fine, really,” he protests. “Ana will make sure I’m okay, won’t you, Ana?”

I shoot him a glare for making me a part of this.

“If we left now, we could walk slowly,” I say, leaving the decision up to Mami.

For a moment I’m not sure what it’s going to be, but then Abuelita chimes in and settles the matter.

“Let the boy go. He’ll never learn anything sitting around the house.”

And so I find myself starting the long, slow walk to school with Daniel beside me, his thin frame bundled in two sweaters to combat the early-morning cold.

The Cerro Rico, the mountain we live on, is huge. If you crane your neck upward, you can see past the brick-colored summit to the dry, pale sky beyond. Sometimes the road runs right along a cliff face and you can see down to the city of Potosí at the base of the mountain. If, instead of looking up or down, you stare at your feet, it feels like the red road stretches on forever. What you don’t see, no matter how you tip your head, is any green at all. This region of Bolivia is so high up there’s not a tree or a bush or a blade of grass anywhere. Just red and yellow and gray stripes of rock and the never-ending dust that slowly sifts into your clothes and cakes the inside of your mouth, claiming you, camouflaging you so that, if you stay here long enough, even you can’t tell where the mountain ends and you begin.

We go slowly, like I promised Mami, and we stop to rest a bunch of times, sitting on boulders along the side of the path whenever a coughing fit takes Daniel, until he catches his breath and can walk again. The way to school is mostly downhill. Even so, on a normal day, with Daniel walking full speed, it takes more than an hour to get there over the rough, rocky paths scraped across the mountain’s face and chipped out of its sides. Today, it takes longer.

Turning the last corner, I see our school below us, a tiny dust-colored building surrounded by a cinder-block wall, wedged into a crack between a cliff face and an ever-growing pile of slag from a nearby mine entrance. It crouches there, between the cliff and the cliff’s guts, looking like it might be crushed at any moment.

I hear the static hiss and scratch of Don Marcelino’s ancient speakers echo off the cliff. We’re going to be late! I dart a glance at Daniel. I know I promised Mami we’d go slowly, but we might make it in time if we run. We’re practically the same age. It’s not like he needs to be babied all the time.

“Think you can run?” I ask.

He nods.

When we get to the front, Daniel bends double trying to catch his breath. I feel a little bad for pushing him. Grabbing a rock from the ground, I tap it against the peeling blue paint of the tall metal gates.

Doña Inés, one of the helpers, opens the gate. It creaks and groans on its dust-caked hinges. She smiles when she sees Daniel.

“Welcome back,” she whispers, one hand on her huge belly. Soon it will be another helper who opens the door because Doña Inés will be having her baby. We duck around the door and scamper into the courtyard. Doña Inés shuts the door softly behind us.

The rest of the school is already lined up by age in the tiny packed-earth courtyard. Don Marcelino stoops at the base of the flagpole, twisting the wires at the back of his battered stereo and muttering. For once, I’m glad the technology is misbehaving. It gives us the chance to sneak in late without anyone noticing.

Daniel and I both hurry to join the end of the line for twelve-year-olds. Even though I’m older by almost eleven months, they put us in the same class. I try not to let it bother me too much. Daniel steps into place behind me, and I shoot him a grin over my shoulder that we made it. Daniel smiles back, his teeth a flash of white in his skinny face.

Just then, Don Marcelino wins his battle with the ancient speaker and the opening strains of the national anthem blare at us.

As we all straighten to attention and sing along, saluting the flag, my eyes wander to the rows on my left. The messy gaggle of four-, five-, and six-year-olds is a huge, unmanageable pack. There are at least thirty or forty of them, still not all facing forward even now that the music is playing. But then, year by year, the rows get shorter. By the row of twelve-year-olds, where we’re standing, there are only six of us. Victor, Juanillo, Emily, Wilma, and Álvaro are standing to my right: they’re the only five students in the whole school who are older than me.

The music cuts off and Don Marcelino addresses us, like he does every morning, standing tall in his dark slacks and patterned wool sweater. His voice booms and his square-framed glasses make his face look very impressive, but still I ignore him. I don’t need to listen to Don Marcelino because all he ever does is talk about big things: pride, patriotism, work ethic. I don’t come to school to learn about the big things. I know those from home.

Pride is what makes you not tell people when your papi hits your mami.

Patriotism is what makes you not curse Bolivia when you get so tired of living on this one mountain that you could scream.

And work ethic is something a child of six from the Cerro Rico knows more about than Don Marcelino ever will. He comes up here every day in a pickup from the city of Potosí. He’s not a miner.

I tune him out, letting my eyes lift over the solid walls of the school to the high cliffs stretching beyond them, wondering whether today will be the day when I finally learn something that will lead me off this mountain and toward a future I actually want.

US