The Queen of the Cicadas

by V. Castro

  Chapter Ten

  Tanya’s body aged slower than she ever imagined was humanly possible. She lived her entire life in a bed, alert and aware of everything so acutely she wondered if her body possessed superhuman senses. During her twenties she saw a few visitors, mostly family. She hated every visit. They would plant themselves at her bedside, telling her how everyone was doing, dish all the local gossip – there was always ample gossip – inform her of what they were up to. No one seemed to get the sense that maybe she didn’t want any more reminders that she couldn’t do anything but listen and watch. There was also the way they looked at her, the pity in their eyes that made her want to poke them out with her thumbs.

  Her thirties were left mostly alone, with her only company being the staff. They were nice enough, she supposed, but they gossiped to each other in front of her as if she was deaf, too. More stories of people living their lives in a world that continued to turn just fine without her in it. Her mother looked more bent over and wrinkled at every visit. Her breath and clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. Yellowed fingernails held Tanya’s hand, but Tanya couldn’t snatch it away or feel it. With nicotine- and coffee-stained teeth, her mother’s smile was more of a sneer. She visited as much as possible, but the frequency was less and less. This absence wasn’t that bad considering she loathed her mother by this time. There were always small digs about money being tight, and if only her daddy were here, and how terrible it was to drive over an hour to and from this care home. There was no money or desire to relocate. Tanya felt like a breathing bag of flesh that was a burden to her family. The worst part was she couldn’t kill herself.

  In her forties, someone came to inform her Momma was dead. A stroke as she stood in line for a bottle of vodka. No parents, no siblings and cousins had stopped coming around in her twenties. There was no one. The money left to her only lasted until her forty-eighth birthday. She had to move from private care to one paid for by the government. It smelled of urine, Pine-Sol and death. The only form of entertainment was watching a water stain in the ceiling grow larger, or guessing where the next chip of paint would peel away. There were more bed sores here because they would sometimes forget to wash her regularly. She could smell the rot and shit that excreted from her body as flesh and linen stitched together. Perhaps she would die soon.

  Luck was not on her side, because, now in her eighties, she was still there. Shit, sores, rot, peeling paint. The only one who was on her side and never spoke a single word to annoy her was the preacher. He came once a month and just sat there, reading out loud from his Bible. Before leaving, he would say a short prayer. That was it. His presence was the only calming force in her life. She wondered what she ever did to deserve that, because no matter how hard she tried, the hate that bred inside never managed to subside. The stories and passages of the word of God touched no part of her. He never said it, but she could see in his eyes he was waiting for her to relent, to repent and soften. Never.

  In all this time she never saw Milagros again. There were times the idea that this was all in her imagination played like fantasy, until one night she heard a click from the door. She couldn’t move her head sideways to see what or who was creating the squelch of wet footsteps or the rhythmic thump that could only be a heartbeat. The steady dull boom reminded her of when she would lie on Billy’s chest after sex. But this presence did not feel human. Tanya said a prayer in her mind until a bloody, skinless face appeared overhead. The thing’s black eyes had the sheen of wet asphalt that only reflected Tanya’s white hair and wrinkled face, which had the appearance of a finger left in water too long. After all those years of nothing but time to think, she didn’t regret a moment of what she did.

  “I have come for you. Milagros will now feed on your soul. I know you have wished for this for a very long time. If she didn’t need your energy, you would be here until the sun devours your planet. You don’t deserve anything less.”

  The Queen pulled the breathing tube out of Tanya’s mouth with one fist and smashed the machine with the other before it could alert the staff to an emergency. Sparks flew into the air, sizzling as they landed on Tanya’s face. Tanya gasped for air; her body seized. The Queen placed her lips over Tanya’s, sucking out every molecule of oxygen in her lungs. Tanya’s eyes bulged out of sockets that were turning black while the rest of her face went blue. Blood vessels popped in her eyes and leaked into the whites. She was helpless. The pain was unbearable, yet she was conscious for every second. Her very soul was being ripped apart into little pieces until it didn’t exist. Her vision went black and then there was nothing. Death. The Queen looked upon the corpse in disgust.

  “And now something for me.” She extended her claw-like hand tipped with almond-shaped nails the color of iridescent pearls and the sharpness of a jaguar’s tooth, then thrust it through the sternum of the dead body. Tanya’s heart was in her grasp. The Queen raised it towards the ceiling, squeezing it like a saturated sponge. As the blood ran down her arm, the heart shrank and hardened until it was a lump of turquoise. She inspected the stone before using her index fingernail to create a hole through the center, then removed her necklace of jade. The heart would be placed around her neck for safe keeping until it would be bequeathed to her daughter. One soul extinguished from this world before another was reborn.

  * * *

  We awoke to a knock on the front door. Hector squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, turning over on his blanket and food wrappers. When did we even bring down the comforter from the bed? I felt dehydrated and needed to pee, so I forced myself off the floor. The knocking persisted the entire walk to the entryway. Through the stained-glass window in the center of the door, I could see it was the preacher. I felt sorry that he had to see my face or smell my breath after the night we had of booze and what looked like all the bags of chips in the kitchen.

  He looked older than before. The bottom half of his face was covered in white, patchy stubble. His blue eyes were bloodshot with puffy eyelids hanging low, yet he took the time to comb down the remaining strands of silver hair and plaster it with something that shined.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you would want to know that Tanya died last night.”

  This wasn’t the news I’d been expecting. To be honest, I didn’t care. “Okay. Thanks for the information. I’m not sorry to hear that. Why tell us?”

  He shrugged, and didn’t look me in the eye. “I don’t know. You’re still involved with this. They told me her tube was removed from her mouth and her heart torn from her body. Authorities think it might be someone trading in organs and others say it’s witchcraft. Thought you should know.”

  “Thank you. And it was very kind of you for being there all these years. Do you want to come in for coffee?” I assumed that was the kind of thing to say to a man of God, far from what my heathen ass was thinking. Good fucking riddance to her. Unlike the dinosaurs that did nothing malicious, sometimes our capacity for cruelty made me think humans deserved the biggest asteroid in space to come crashing down on our no-good existence.

  Pastor Rich waved me off. “No, no. There are people at the church wanting to talk to me. I have no idea about what. I’ll see you all later.” He shuffled off to his blue Toyota truck.

  I heard a flush, then Hector walked down the stairs. “Who was that?”

  “The preacher. He said Tanya is dead. Shall we celebrate with coffee?” Coffee from his fancy machine was all I could think about.

  He rolled his eyes and grabbed a bag of beans for grinding. “I wish I had something nice to say, but I don’t. Justice has been served.”

  Phones clogged with missed calls and messages alerted us that everything had changed. Even Veronica pulled herself away from the lobster beach barbecues to see if I was all right. The demise of the SyFy guy went viral. Maxine and the cameraman live-tweeted and IG videoed everything. Fucking kids. As Hector and I ate and drank on the floor, forgetting cell pho
nes or the internet existed because we had lived during a time when they didn’t, we were trending. By noon, media trucks were pulling up to the property. My son called with more questions than he had asked in months; all his friends were following the story. Poor preacher was getting accosted because someone let it be known that an old woman tied to the murder in 1952 died the same night in a most gruesome way. But the old man did the respectable thing and directed them to the tree. “Her name was Milagros Santos. That’s all I will say.”

  Speculation surrounding the events kept popping up. Everyone had their own version of what caused Josh’s death. By nightfall, ‘the La Reina Challenge’ was set up. People filmed themselves in front of all kinds of mirrors, Ouija boards, or pentagrams with candles, and called out her name. It didn’t matter that nothing bad happened to anyone, with the exception of a few people who were claiming to have seen their deaths, swearing the experience was too real to be a dream or nightmare. Those unfortunate souls were dog-piled with all kinds of ridicule and vitriol. Anyone in the public eye who recounted their death experiences were accused of attention-seeking. Religious folks said it was the beginning of a new cult that was led by the Devil and just another sign of the end of days. I believed it because I knew she was real, but I didn’t know the extent of her power or where she came from.

  I returned my son’s call, begging him not to do the challenge. He must have heard the fear in my voice, because he promised. Not that a teenager’s promises often meant anything. Mine didn’t. All I knew is that I didn’t want him to see his death. What kind of choices would he make if he did? When I thought of my own death, it made me re-examine the capacity of cruelty I had for myself. I needed to fill that space with love. Let it spill over even when it hurt.

  The Queen was out there, but not yet known. There was a legend that could be true, La Reina de Las Chicharras, Milagros, the woman of the field reaping souls. The story was taking on a life all its own, globally, hour by hour. She was collecting followers, and isn’t that what matters? Hector’s family from Mexico called, giving him different prayers for protection. He should pray to Mictecacíhuatl and La Virgen. I could hear the impatience in his voice growing with every phone call from Mexico. Who was I to tell them the Queen and Milagros were one? In that dark bathroom without light, we were a trinity in a tiny confessional. I kept that blasphemous thought to myself.

  Then Hector received a call I imagined might come at some point. He stared at the number for a few rings, then answered it while looking at me. I wanted to shake my head to give him the courage to hang up, but this was something he had to do. His face changed the longer he listened, like a secret revealed to him.

  “You are so full of shit. Excuse me, full of yourself,” Hector said. “I can’t believe I thought you should be the father of my child. Fuck off.”

  He hung up. His entire demeanor transformed in an instant. Whatever stagnant plume of toxic ectoplasm had been lingering from his past relationship vanished. He was communicating with Benny, but kept him at a distance. I wondered if that might change now.

  “That bastard wanted to make money off me. Can you believe it? He was trying to pitch me an idea to use our past. After all those hurtful things he said, the cheating, the lies. Why did I not see him for what he really was? A fuck boy.”

  I did the only thing I could. I took him into my arms and told him I loved him. There was a real love for him that wasn’t anything beyond care for another human who was trying to figure it all out like me. We weren’t alone in this world. None of us was, just like no one was safe.

  * * *

  Hector finally agreed to give one informal tour and interview to a local station from San Antonio with the promise it wouldn’t be made into a big production. He knew he couldn’t hide forever and needed the money because the B&B would be closed indefinitely. All the deposits for upcoming events had to be returned. They wanted to interview me as well, but I refused. I was there to support my friend, plus I didn’t want to speak of my experience with the woman in the dark room. We invited Pastor Rich over because Hector thought it might help ward off evil. Pastor Rich eagerly accepted the invitation. He had been there from the beginning and I suspected this talk of the supernatural had captured his curiosity. After all, he had dedicated his life to something that is not seen and not always felt, either.

  The crew followed Hector and Monica Cortez, a journalist from KSAT14, up the stairs.

  “And you said this is the bathroom where the original owner died?”

  Hector nodded, then proceeded to open the unlocked door. It refused to budge. With a tight grip and a nervous smile, he twisted the doorknob back and forth, used the keys, but the door would not open. He pressed against it with his body, which was substantial in muscle and height. His eyes yelled for help when he looked at me as if he could sense something was about to happen, something that might change the world if that door opened.

  Then I heard her. It was a sound as deep and hypnotic as the incantations of Buddhist monks in Nepal seeking enlightenment through sound. I remembered her touch and how good it felt, the warmth and wetness of her body next to mine. I approached the door, forgetting the cameras. The door banged open, hitting the wall. A black mass of chicharras, moths, flies and other types of insects with wings flew out of the bathroom. Everyone ducked and screamed except me. The insects tangled in my hair and whipped against my face as they struggled to free themselves. The cameraman continued to point the lens at the open door as the swarm flew around the house in a chaotic dance they made their own music to. The buzz of their different sounds was a choir not of this earth. She did not show her face, but the camera caught those shiny, black obsidian eyes that could be moonlight on a body of water at midnight. It also captured her voice. That voice was inviting, yet powerful. Stockings and garters with a stiletto heel and pointed tip. You wanted to know more, see whatever was there.

  “We are here. And I am real. Mictecacíhuatl is my name. I am here for you all. Milagros will save you all.”

  Hector reached for the voice as he ducked from the insect horde.

  Monica ran down the stairs, almost tripping over her heels, and out the front door, releasing the insects into the atmosphere. I rushed into the bathroom to catch a glimpse of her, Mictecacíhuatl, but she was gone. I fell to my knees next to Hector, who stared into the dark room with an open mouth, eyes no longer yelling. He crossed himself and prayed. I asked Hector what he thought. With tears streaming down his face, he took me into a tight embrace.

  “She said, ‘You will have your child. I accept you, my son.’” Hector pulled himself from the floor, helping me up in the process. “I never thought I would be a believer, but I am now. All those years I doubted, cursed the family’s so-called gift.”

  This new entity was offering the one thing people crave beyond riches – acceptance. This new entity made herself known. The video had gone viral by the evening. How could it not? Imagine if the lives of Jesus, Mohammed, Santa Claus, Confucius and Buddha all had the benefit of technology. Faith would have taken on a whole new meaning.

  * * *

  The crickets and chicharras around the house were loud, louder than I ever remember insects capable of sounding. Then again, I had lived in Philadelphia for years. You don’t hear much except sirens, buses and cars. The city sounds are mechanical, jarring, unnatural.

  The tree where Milagros died became an experience. It grew, extending the shade it offered, with the leaves taking on a vibrant green. The scarred base smoothed out the lashings over time. Humans, animals and insects found themselves drawn to its roots and branches. People brought benches to the tree where they could sit and talk to others, complete strangers. Or just listen to the chicharras’ song and chirping of life. The busiest times were sunrise and sunset. No matter the advances in science or technology, the sun remains a powerful sight, like the ocean.

  Five feet deep surrounding the tree was a quilt o
f candles and flowers in all states of freshness and decay. Some people left photos of young women who were taken too soon from this world. Their own Milagroses. The crowd was eclectic; however, if pushed for a description, I would say they were the ones on the fringes. The ones who didn’t fit into an exact box. They wanted to believe in something different because the world was in a state of stage four cancer and no one could see a way back. There was no chemo for what we had, and it was cutting it close to the point of no return. The marginalized sought out their Queen with the privilege of having no skin to hold her back. Her power was raw. From the stars.

  Two camps developed online: one tried to explain why the insects might be so loud this time of year and why the farm’s soil had been rendered useless since the murder of Milagros. The increasing amount of people claiming to have seen their deaths was discounted as mass hysteria, a fad. Even when a portion of them changed different aspects of their lives based on their death experiences, including spreading the good word of this new queen, they were not believed.

  There was also the political relevance of this place. It should be revered for its symbolism even if it didn’t hold anything supernatural. Hate is not an idea or a thing in the sky. Hate is spilled blood with the stench of putrefying flesh that should never leave our memory. It should be burned and laid to rest. But for some, hate is the only way they can feel comfortable with what they don’t understand or can’t control.

  Then there were the believers: the people who prayed and lit candles at the ceiba tree. They called on Milagros, La Virgen and Mictecacíhuatl. Poems were written. The stories of the Aztecs were revived, as were all the stories of those civilizations plundered and left to die. Mexico struggled to cope with the surge in global tourism that gave the country a boost for its citizens. Old superstitions die hard, and people were really worried the voice would come for them if pilgrims wanting to learn more about Mictecacíhuatl were harmed. The tree was a place of worship, a place of past scars that had not healed yet hope that they would. This was a place between the light and the dark. There were no other deaths, just viral worship. The Queen of the Dead was making a comeback.