Mexican Ghost Tales of the Southwest (11 page)

It was a wide river, and it felt good as the water cooled his tired legs. Suddenly, a long mournful crying sound came drifting across the waters. He stopped to listen for the direction of the sound, but he could only hear the soft swirling of the river past his legs. He stood quietly looking at the silhouette of the tall trees in the forest, but no sound came from there.

An instinct born of centuries of Indian survival told his brain, “Awaken! Something is wrong.” But his simple mind only dulled his instinct. He was weary of his heavy load, wishing only to get back to his peaceful home and rest.

Out of the distant darkness came another mournful cry and a long howling scream. He lifted his head quickly and listened. He thought to himself, “It's probably a puma hunting for its evening meal.”

He was only halfway across the river when he saw the phantom coming over the water in his direction. It was a huge woman. He marveled at the ghost, this huge apparition moved, floating above the river waters. Her loud mournful screams made the Indian feel sorry for the woman. She looked so lonely and sad. He stood there staring and staring at her approaching form.

He felt no fear of the ghost. His simple mind could not comprehend that he was in mortal danger. He looked at her as if she were an angel from beyond. His dulled senses had not warned him that this ghost was the infamous La Llorona, the crying woman, who roams the rivers at night looking for her children, the little ones she killed by throwing them into a river and drowning them. She was cursed by the gods to find no peace until the end of the world. Whatever foolish mortal met her near the river ran the risk of dying gruesomely.

Here in the middle of the river she found a simple Indian, too humble to comprehend his foolish fate. The woodcutter looked up at the huge ghost. She was towering high above his head like a monster ready to devour its prey. But what fascinated the Indian was the beauty of her face.

“Perhaps she is an ancient Indian princess looking for the portal to the next world. That's why she cries so mournfully.”

He stared at the woman towering way above him. She was no longer crying or screaming. Instead, she reached down and grabbed him violently. He felt the pain of her talons sinking deep into his flesh. She lifted him high with a powerful jerk, making his bundle of wood scatter all over the river to be swept away by the current.

The Indian screamed in pain, feeling La Llorona's sharp talons bite into his flesh as she lifted him into the air. He could feel the wetness of his blood oozing from his wounds. Her staring eyes were malevolent. A slight tremble shook his body, and he asked her fearfully in a slow drawl, “Why are you so cruel to me? Why are you hurting me? I have done nothing to you.”

His words had barely cleared his throat when suddenly she plunged his body into the swirling waters. He struggled to free himself and to break loose from her hold, but her grip was too tight and her talons only sank deeper into his flesh. She lifted him up again. She was like a hungry cat toying with a mouse, making its victim suffer and cry before killing it.

Poor dumb woodcutter! He looked again at the ghostly woman's face. An evil smile was on her lips. His innermost brain screamed at him that his life was at stake. Yet the simple woodcutter could only look into the phantom's eyes deeper and deeper, trying to understand the brutal treatment he was enduring. All this time blood and water dripped from him down into the river, and he was beginning to feel weak.

The Indian screamed out at the ghost, “Why? Why?” as he stared into the dark, dark pupils of his tormentor. “Why? Why? Who are you? Where are you from?” his mind echoed. He could not look away. Some unknown force kept him staring into her eyes.

La Llorona felt a piercing sympathy for this simple Indian. Was he not one of her own kind? An Indian suffering from centuries of abuse first by the hated Spaniards and then at the hands of the
mestizos? A primordial feeling stirred in her breast, a bond with this Indian she was tormenting. His cries of pain and his anguished moans washed through her soul.

She had killed many of her own kind before, but this time she knew that she could not do it. She shuddered violently as if something inside was ripping her apart. She dropped the woodcutter into the water as her hands rose and gestured toward the heavens. A long painful and mournful scream came out of her twisted lips. In horrible agony, she lunged upward into the air and swiftly disappeared down the river, still screaming miserable screams mixed with hatred and sorrow.

The Indian fell all the way to the bottom of the river. He quickly fought the current and managed to get on his feet and breathe. He stood there for awhile dripping wet, gasping for air, trying to make sense of what had occurred. As he slowly moved in the direction of the riverbank, he could feel the pain from his wounds.

He would never understand what had happened. He would only remember a moment of terror now etched in his simple mind. He had escaped with his life, the only person who had ever escaped from the death grip of La Llorona. She had taken pity on this poor creature.

The woodcutter still chops his firewood in the forest. He burns copal—an incense—to the ancient Indian gods of his fathers and prays that he never meets the goddess of the rivers again.

If nightfall finds him on the other side of the river, he sleeps in the forest, waiting until daybreak to cross it. When he tells people to stay away from the river after dark, they only laugh at him
and say, “Poor dumb woodcutter. He's crazy.” Still at night you can hear the cries and screams of La Llorona along the river. Stay away, for you will not escape as the Indian did.

THE WHIRLWIND

THE WHIRLWIND

T
he boy sat with his dog Mangas outside the small adobe structure that they called home. They sat there in the shade; the boy scratching the dog's head. Mangas had received this name because he was black with white front legs and black paws; it looked like the dog was wearing white sleeves or
mangas.

The morning was hot and dry, and the boy, whose name was Chicho, didn't want to move around in the heat. He just sat there staring at the distant mountains beyond the fields of corn and past the sandy landscape with its cacti and desert bushes.

“It must be cool on those mountains,” he mumbled. He was awakened from his daydreaming by his mother who called to him to come into the house and eat his
pozole,
a soup that deliciously blends hominy and pork.

He yelled back to his mother, “I'm not hungry!”

The heat was very uncomfortable. Chicho didn't feel like moving, but Mangas stood up hungrily wanting to go inside and not miss out on a meal. As the dog started to walk to the house, Chicho grabbed him and pushed him down in the dust. Mangas growled in disappointment and lay there
in a bad mood.

Chicho continued his daydreaming. “I wonder what it would be like to fly? To fly like a bird and be free and never have to worry about the heat, just fly to the nearest river and be cool!”

He was surprised when a breeze started blowing, kicking up dust as it drifted by. The cool air hit him ever so lightly in the face, enough to make him feel good. His thoughts were interrupted again by his mother's voice calling out to him.

“Chicho! Go out to the cornfields. Pick some corn for the evening meal. And pick some jalapeño peppers for your father's chili!”

He hated to hear his mother's voice, always wanting something. He did not like to work or to do his chores around the house. He would mutter and walk away angry at having to do what he was told. His muttering on some occasions got him a twisting pinch on the arm or a quick swat on his behind.

His mother would scold him, “Naughty boy, someday you are going to cry for me. I will not be with you all your life!” She would then start to weep and sob, covering her face with her apron.

He would feel ashamed of himself, but his attitude didn't change. At other times he was told, “Don't complain or the demons of the desert will carry you away! Bad boys who don't behave know this!”

Chicho never did anything voluntarily. He always had to be told and reminded to do his chores. He was truly a bad and disobedient boy. He didn't like chopping wood or pumping water for cooking the meals. He really detested any kind of work.

This hot sunny day, while sitting in the shade of
his house, he spotted a whirlwind in the distance. It picked up dust and swirled around and around way up into the sky. It fascinated him. He watched it kick up loose dirt and dry plants, flinging them high into the air.

His mother had warned him not to go near those whirlwinds. They were the handiwork of the demons and devils in the desert. This was their evil dance. Swirling and spinning, they would work themselves up into a sinful passion. Then the whirlwind would dissipate, and the goblins it held would leave to go do their evil deeds in the world.

But knowing Chicho, he would never listen to his elders, much less to his mother. Woe to you young ones who heed not the wisdom of your elders! Woe to you who have no respect for your parents, for they have acquired their wisdom in the pain and suffering of their long years.

Chicho didn't care. He was a young lazy rascal, very unhappy with his life. He wanted to play, eat, sleep, and not worry about the responsibilities of his never-ending chores. He wanted to be like a raven and fly in the sky all day long with no worries in his daily life.

The whirlwind moved in closer and closer, making a soft whistling sound. “What if? …” Chicho thought to himself as he got up and started out in the direction of the whirlwind. Mangas bit the boy's trousers and attempted to hold him back, but Chicho was determined to go. He hit Mangas on the jaw, and Mangas let go. Chicho ran toward the whirlwind.

Mangas sensed that his young master was in the process of committing a very foolish act. The dog leaped forward and ran fiercely toward Chicho
and the whirlwind. Chicho was by then almost upon the whirlwind.

Suddenly, the wind grabbed Chicho into its swirling mass, while Mangas hearing the boy's screams, jumped in after him, barking and growling, trying to free both himself and Chicho free by biting and scratching at the arms of the demons who were holding them. Boy and dog were fighting for their lives, knowing that unless they got away they would probably end up in some horrible place, probably Hell itself.

The terror that Chicho and Mangas felt made their strength surge so that they fought harder to escape. Soon howls of pain and frustration came from the spinning wind, from the demons who were struggling to keep the two of them. The evil spirits were losing their battle. They were hurting from Mangas' vicious bites.

Finally and unexpectedly, Chicho and Mangas were sent swirling out of the whirlwind. As they skidded to a tumbling stop in the sand, the whirlwind continued speeding onward into the distance, the moans, groans, and screams of the demons who had lost their prey still could be heard.

Chicho patted his dog's head and said, “We're lucky to get away. Who knows what evil was in store for us if the demons had kept us in the whirlwind?”

As he shook the dust from his clothes and began to catch his breath, he suddenly noticed that his hands were dry and crinkled like an old man's. Veins protruded visibly on his hands and his nails were dull. His body was longer and thinner. He was surprised as he looked at himself and saw the body of an old man.

Chicho looked over at Mangas. He was horrified.
Beneath the dust, his dog's hair had turned gray and his whiskers white. As Chicho watched his old dog hobble over to him, tears welled in his eyes and ran down his dusty face.

“What happened?” he asked Mangas. But Mangas only looked at him with the eyes of an older dog who couldn't understand itself what had taken place. His master looked so old!

Chicho sat there crying and sobbing. “The whirlwind! The whirlwind! It stole our youth!”

He sat on the ground. Mangas hobbled over and licked his face. Chicho covered his face with his hands and cried in sorrow. The demons of the whirlwind had stolen their youth, Chicho realized. He sobbed and sobbed, and the dog let out a long mournful howl. It was a sad day for both of them.