Don Archibaldo and the Secret World
Short Story
By GavarreBenjamin
Chapter 1: Sun Drops
In Don Archibaldo de la Luz’s house, life had its own rules. It was a
peculiar place where spiders, black butterflies, moths, crickets, and
bumblebees were so welcome as Tobi, the loyal dog. Somehow, word had
spread: the "old man," as they called him, didn't bother with
insects.
It was a house of open windows and balconies, where an occasional
hummingbird would mistakenly fly in and out without panic.
One sweltering afternoon, when the air was so still that Carlita the
spider felt her web in the corner wasn't vibrating, the familiar click of the
hose was heard. Don Archibaldo smiled, aimed the stream of water not at the
plants, but straight up at the blue sky, and then the magic happened. The water
rose and broke into a million fine droplets, creating a personal shower that
refreshed the patio.
And with the rain, as if by spontaneous generation, they arrived: a
cloud of yellow butterflies.
—How wonderful! —sighed a black butterfly from a dry spot.
But not everyone was admiring.
—Too yellow, if you ask me —buzzed a fly, who always considered herself
an expert on everything—. It's a... garish color. Dulls the eyes. Iridescent
black, like mine, is much more elegant and discreet.
—They're so vain! —added a moth, feeling overshadowed.
—It's obvious where they came from —declared the fly to a bewildered
beetle—. They were born from the water! The old man creates them. He shoots the
water into the sky, the sun passes through it, and poof! Sun drops with
wings.
The yellow butterflies, oblivious to the admiration, envy, and wild
theories they provoked, happily drank from the wet leaves. And when the old man
turned off the tap, they rose like a single golden cloud and disappeared above
the trees, as mysteriously as they had arrived.
Chapter 2: The Scorpion's Concert
One night, that peace was broken. A new, dry, rhythmic sound filled the
house.
Cran... cran!
—That’s not a cricket! —shrieked a real cricket, hiding.
Cran... cran!
—It’s the scorpion! —cried a moth—. I saw it! It has a scary tail!
"Cran cran" means "I'm going to sting"!
Panic was total.
—Make it leave! —demanded the black butterfly—. We have to send it to
the backyard!
—Yes! —supported the cricket, peeking out its antennae—. Where the evil
cat lives! He’ll put it in its place!
While they debated how to move it without getting stung, the
"expert" fly landed a safe distance away.
—Hey, you, the "cran cran" guy. What are you up to?
The scorpion stopped making its noise. It looked at the fly with its
tiny multiple eyes.
—Up to? I was testing the acoustics. They’re excellent —it said in a
raspy, surprisingly calm voice—. My name is Antonio. I’m a musician. Don't you
recognize a 6/8 beat?
Everyone was stunned. Antonio the scorpion explained that the old man
had seen him enter and had only said, "Watch your step, friend." That
night, the house had an unforgettable concert: the cricket played its
high-pitched melody, and Antonio accompanied it with his rhythmic percussion.
Chapter 3: Fly Days and Parrot Nights
Life returned to its usual discussions. The fly, feeling secure in her
chat with Carlita the spider (who listened patiently, though for other
reasons), boasted about her travels.
—This reminds me of the countryside —buzzed the fly, referring to a
draft—. The fresh air... I'm an expert in the countryside!
—Oh, really? —asked Carlita, weaving.
—Of course! I've been there! It's a huge, green place full of shouting
people! That's the countryside!
A little bird, who often flew in and out of the house, let out a chirp
that sounded like laughter.
—A stadium? With all due respect, my friend, but the real countryside is
very far from here. Flying, it would take me three or four days to get there!
The insects gasped.
—Three or four bird days? —asked Carlita—. How many "fly days"
would that be?
No one knew what a "fly day" was or how long a fly lived.
—Someone once told me about a parrot! —said the black butterfly,
changing the subject—. They say it talks and lives a hundred years.
—A parrot? —asked the cricket. No one in the room knew what that was.
Chapter 4: The Scent of Danger (The Evil Cat)
It was a lazy afternoon. Don Archibaldo dozed in his armchair, an open
book on his chest, and a soft snore joined the house's symphony. Carlita was
mending a thread of her web. All was calm.
And then, the air changed.
It wasn't a sound. It was a smell. A dense, musky scent, a smell of hunt
and danger.
Tobi, who was sleeping at the foot of the armchair, snapped his head up,
a low growl rising from deep within his chest.
A shadow glided in through the open balcony. It was too large to be a
bird and moved with a grace no human possessed.
It was him. The Evil Cat. It had yellow, lantern-like eyes and dark fur
that seemed to absorb light. It crouched, its eyes fixed on Carlita.
—Grrrrrrrrr....
Tobi’s growl intensified. The cat turned its head, annoyed, hissed.
—Well, well. Look who we have here —said Don Archibaldo, who had woken
up.
The cat looked at him, calculating.
—Mr. Cat —Archibaldo said calmly—. I believe this isn't your house. And
those —he pointed at Carlita— are certainly not your appetizers. Shoo. To your
yard.
The cat, unnerved by the human's lack of fear, turned around and, with a
resentful leap, disappeared through the balcony.
—Did you see that? —whispered the fly—. The old man is a beast tamer!
Chapter 5: The Mystery of the Oil-Breathing Seal
Not all visitors were welcome. One Tuesday, instead of Don Archibaldo,
the "Angry Lady" arrived. She came in sighing, making loud noises
with buckets and rags, and bringing smells that stung the antennae.
—Hide! —Carlita shrieked.
From their hiding spots, the community watched the new creature.
—What... what kind of animal is that? —whispered a moth.
—Could it be a parrot? —ventured the beetle.
—No! It has no feathers —said the fly—. I know! It's a seal!
The theory was bold.
—A seal? Here? —doubted the cricket.
—Of course! —insisted the beetle—. It needs to be wet! And it smells
weird because seals breathe oil!
—Absurd! —interjected the cricket—. My cousin lives near the aquarium.
Seals eat fish! Do you see this one eating fish? No! It's attacking the
furniture with a rag!
The lady finished, let out a long, sad sigh looking out the window, and
left.
—I know what it is —said the fly softly—. It's a human. Like the old
man. But it's one who has a terrible life. I bet it doesn't even have a single
dog. Not even an evil cat to keep it company.
Chapter 6: The Old-Man-Puppy
But there was another visitor, the most terrifying and confusing of all.
First, a RUUUUM-BAP-BAP! that vibrated the windows. Then, footsteps: Step...
drag. Step... drag.
It was Heraclio de la Luz, the son. He was 37, but to the insects, he was the "Old-Man-Puppy": the
young, fast, and angry version of Don Archibaldo.
—Hide! It's him! —shrieked the cricket—. The one who walks crooked!
—He's a hunter! —declared the fly—. That RUUUUM! is his speed
machine. And he walks crooked because a rhinoceros charged him! That's why he's
so angry today!
Heraclio burst in, slamming the door.
—Archibaldo. Here's your groceries.
Don Archibaldo de la Luz lowered his book.
—Ah, Heraclito, son. Good you're here.
Heraclio grumbled as he put away the items with violent efficiency.
—I've told you, don't call me Heraclito. And stop reading. Have you
eaten yet?
—Not yet.
Heraclio's angry face softened for an instant. He warmed a container
he'd brought and placed it before his father.
—Eat.
From the shadows, the insects understood nothing. He gave orders to the
old man, but he also fed him.
—It's because he was born without a mother —whispered Tobi, who
understood such things—. He's lonely. And his den... is that noisy machine.
Chapter 7: The "Bug" and the Philosophy of the River
Another day, Heraclio arrived more frustrated than usual.
—Archibaldo! People in the street are crazy today! Crazy!
—Hello, Heraclito —greeted the old man, looking up from his crossword
puzzle—. "Crazy" in what philosophical sense? By the way, I've always
liked our surname. At least you're "of the Light" and not "of
the River," like your namesake Heraclitus of Ephesus, who said everything
flows...
—You're going to start with the river again! —Heraclio cut in, rubbing
his face—. My patience doesn't flow! I have a giant "bug" in the new
client's system and I don't know where to start! I hate "bugs"!
A chilling terror ran through the insects.
—A "BUG"! —cried the moth—. In the system!
—"Bug" means insect! —shrieked the cricket—. He hates us! He
wants to wipe us out!
—He's going to fumigate! —whimpered the fly.
They were about to cause a stampede when a high-pitched voice came from
the balcony. It was Ardi, a squirrel who sometimes stole nuts from the kitchen.
—Shhh! Ignoramuses! —chattered—. Calm down! "Bug" is a human
word. When their light boxes don't work, they say they have a "bug."
It means "error." An "insect" in their machine. It doesn't
refer to you. It refers to a problem they have.
The insects let out a collective sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, Don Archibaldo gestured with his chin towards his son's
shoulder. A yellow butterfly had landed on Heraclio's black leather jacket.
—Still! —Archibaldo said—. Look at it. It's perfect. What computer
"bug" can compete with that design?
Heraclio, the noisy man on the motorcycle, stood motionless. He watched
the yellow wings. And then, Carlita, who had the best angle, saw it: a small,
almost invisible, but genuine smile formed on Heraclio's face as he mumbled:
"You're a case, Archibaldo."
Chapter 8: The Turtle Who Remembered Everything
The house felt strange. Don Archibaldo hadn't come out for two days.
Tobi lay by his bedroom door and didn't move. Heraclio had come, made strange,
weeping sounds, and then left.
—Where did the old man go? —asked the black butterfly.
—He took a plane! —insisted the fly.
—I don't think so... —Tobi said softly—. This time is different.
—They were all fools —said a new voice, slow and deep like old stones.
From the deep shadows beneath the bookshelf, Casiopea the turtle
emerged. No one had seen her move in years.
—I've been in this house longer than the dust —she said—. Do you want to
know who Archibaldo was? He wasn't a king. He was a teacher. He was always so
kind. And he had a wife... as bright as a yellow butterfly. But she left too
soon, right after Heraclito arrived.
»And Archibaldo stayed with the boy. He taught him everything: books,
history, his music records. And Heraclito taught him. He taught him about the
internet. Archibaldo had friends online, but he would come and tell me:
"Casiopea, such strange people. We were talking, and suddenly they ghosted
me." Or: "I think they banned me from the crossword
group." He didn't understand those things.
»In the end, he always came back to the same things —the turtle
continued—. To his plants. To us. But he didn't take care of himself. Heraclio
begged him to go to the doctor. But he just smiled. And the day before
yesterday... he left. Like a little bird. He fell asleep listening to his music
and never woke up.
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Chapter 9: The New House (Epilogue)
The door opened. It was Heraclio. He wasn't the angry
"Old-Man-Puppy," but a man with a practical sadness. He carried
boxes.
Heraclio walked through the house, packing his father's books, his
records. He saw Tobi and scratched his ears.
—You're coming with me, old friend.
Then he saw Casiopea.
—And you too, old one. Dad wouldn't want you to be alone.
Finally, his eyes rested on the corner of the window. On Carlita,
paralyzed with fear in her web.
Heraclio looked at her. He went to the kitchen, took a glass jar and a
piece of cardboard. With a delicacy no one had ever seen in him, he brought the
jar closer.
—Come on, friend —he whispered—. You have to move.
Carefully, he guided Carlita into the jar and poked holes in the lid.
He stood looking at the empty house. Tobi by his leg, the jar in one
hand and the box with Casiopea in the other.
—I'll sell the house —he said aloud, to himself—. I can't... I can't be
here without him.
He left for the last time, with his step... drag. And even if he
sold the walls, Heraclio carried the heart of the house with him. He knew that
wherever he placed that jar, in his new, solitary apartment, it wouldn't be
long before a cricket found its way, or a moth was drawn to the light.
The new apartment was silent. Heraclio sat on the modern sofa. The
silence of the empty house was enormous.
Bzzzz...
A fly. Common. Buzzing.
Heraclio raised his hand, the old instinct to swat it. But he stopped.
He slowly lowered his hand. He let out a long, tired sigh, exactly like his
father's.
—It's okay... —he mumbled, waving his hand lazily to shoo it away—. You
can stay. But don't bring your noisy friends. Understood?
The fly landed on the ceiling lamp.
Heraclio smiled. A tiny, almost invisible, sad and real smile. The
spirit of Archibaldo de la Luz had not entirely left.
Image Description
Description for Image Generation:
A medium shot of Heraclio, a man in his late 30s with a worn leather
jacket and a slight, almost imperceptible limp, standing in a brightly lit
room. He holds a clear glass jar gently in one hand, inside which Carlita, a
small spider, is visible. Heraclio's face, though usually gruff, shows a rare,
tender, and melancholic expression. In the background, out of focus but
visible, Don Archibaldo, an older man with kind eyes, is sitting in an
armchair, smiling warmly at his son. A loyal dog (Tobi) is resting near
Archibaldo's feet. The room is filled with soft natural light, highlighting
dust motes in the air, a subtle nod to the insect life around them. The overall
mood is poignant and hopeful, focusing on the subtle passing of traditions and
care.
