by Castro, V.
“Hey. I was thinking about you. You will never guess . . . ”
“Lourdes! I think I have an idea.”
“Tell me!” First Mrs. Garcia apologizing and now an idea from Ana. Either hell was freezing over or our luck was changing.
“I don’t know why we didn’t do it before, but we need to find someone who speaks Nahuatl. Take them to see Fernanda. I was thinking about that dream of yours. I couldn’t stop obsessing over it. It felt real.”
It was what I had been trying to do on my own, but I was so out of my depth. There had to be someone. This was Texas. “I’m on it.”
“Wait. What were you going to tell me?”
I wasn’t sure if I should tell Ana Mrs. Garcia’s secret before I knew more about Fernanda’s condition, plus finding a solution was more important. I wanted to get home and start searching.
“Mrs. Garcia apologized. Look, I am going home now. Let’s both look and see where we get.”
I sped home, my adrenaline surging. I rushed past my mother and stepfather watching TV and into the room where we had the one computer. I spent the rest of the night trying to find someone local who spoke Nahuatl. UTSA is one of the universities in San Antonio. The answer could be a scholar. Who else would know, besides someone in Mexico?
I hadn’t given my dream a second thought; only part of me wanted to believe in the power of dreams and visions. I’m Mexican—how could I not remember the stories of the campesino, Juan Diego and his vision of La Virgen appearing to him, calling to him to build a shrine and gifting him with her image on his cloak? I’ve been to the church in Mexico where it is said this happened.
A vision is only as powerful as the will behind it. All else had failed to this point, why not believe a dream? Juan Diego held fast to that dream that became a place of purpose and faith.
I looked up the faculty at UTSA. A professor of Mexican and pre-Columbian history caught my attention, Dr. Camacho. Her office hours were listed as 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. That I had relied on the internet instead of going straight to a real source of information made me feel idiotic and inadequate, not that I needed help in that department. My brain was always tuned to doing things alone, taking charge without help. To ask for help I’d have to brave potential rejection and ridicule.
I would go to her office first thing in the morning. She would be my priest and curandera.
I walked down the mostly empty hall of history department offices. A woman not much older than myself mopped the floor at the very end and looked up at the sound of my footsteps. She had the same look as I did behind the till at Sonic. The smell of Pine-Sol burned strong. Something inside of me ached. I wondered what it would be like in a crowd of students, going from class to class. Every room a doorway to an entire universe of knowledge, different subjects with millions of pages written about each one. A hope beyond hope to one day be counted as part of this community.
Footfalls disturbed my thoughts. A woman in her sixties walked down the hall with a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, her hair a mixture of jet black and white in a single braid down her back. She wore an Emiliano Zapata T-shirt with Mi Tierra printed on the top, jeans, and worn cowboy boots that made a sharp sound that echoed in the hallway. Upon seeing me, she gave me a warm smile, like I was one of her students that she couldn’t quite place.
“Hi there. Are you waiting for me?”
“Hello, my name is Lourdes. I’m not a student, but my friend is experiencing something that I don’t completely understand. I thought you might since your bio says you speak multiple indigenous languages. I know she wants to communicate with me, however, I just don’t have the knowledge. Would you be willing to come see her?”
Her face loosened at this vague request dropped at her feet.
“What do you mean by experiencing if it is a language issue?”
I opened my mouth to speak and then closed it again. How could I adequately explain the story without sounding batshit crazy? How would she react to me saying my friend is possessed?
“I’m not trying to sound fresh, but I think it is better if you see for yourself. Please . . . you’re our Obi-Wan Kenobi . . . our only hope.” My muscles ached with the tension and fear. I hoped she could see the desperation in my eyes. I was not one for begging, but I was not above begging now if I had to.
She now looked at me with concern. “I suppose I could stop by later.”
I almost jumped out of my shoes. “Thank you so very much.”
I gave her the address and made my way straight to Fernanda’s house to inform Mrs. Garcia of my plan. I was nervous to see Fernanda after Mrs. Garcia’s confession. I never thought I’d see the day when Mrs. Garcia had no fight inside of her.
When the professor arrived, Fernanda was sitting in the backyard just as she had done every day before. Lately, she’d been lying in her mother’s flower beds to masturbate and then fall asleep. If this happened when I was present, I would cover her with a sheet so she might release whatever was inside of her. As her mother and father retreated to the house and turned the TV on loud, I would walk away happy that she was getting some pleasure because it was usually after orgasming and sleep that she was closest to being Fernanda again. Hell, I always felt I could tolerate the world a little more after loving myself.
Earth clung to her hair and between her toes, the dirt between her legs blood-soaked. Her mother hadn’t managed to get her to wear a pad that day. The professor sat next to Fernanda, studied her in silence, and then began to speak in Nahuatl. Fernanda’s head slowly rolled to the side—part of me almost feared it would turn 360 degrees by the tightening of her mouth into a wide grin. A glimmer of hope and a smile crossed her face, the first in ten days. She opened her mouth and spoke, clear as she would in English or Spanish. The language rolled off her tongue in such a natural way. Every glottal stop, long vowel, and inflection was perfect, as I now know.
Professor Camacho’s eyes widened. She looked at me as she pulled out her phone to record the conversation. Relief at last. But what did any of it mean?
After an hour, Fernanda curled up into a ball and fell asleep in the dirt. Mrs. Garcia gave Dr. Camacho a quick hello and returned inside after seeing nothing had changed. We walked to the professor’s car in silence. When she knew no one from the house was in earshot, she spoke.
“Your friend is inhabited. I don’t want to use the word possessed. Tell me the beginning of all of this?”
I recounted our séance, telling her that I had called for an old spirit.
“Based on what she has said and what I have seen, I think she is inhabited by Tlazoltéotl. She is a fierce goddess; one I believe to be misunderstood but important. She is known as the goddess of filth. She is the eater of sin and the unclean. However, she also represents fertility after death.”
“Why the black lipstick? Is this goddess a Goth?”
She shook her head and allowed herself a light chuckle. “As the eater of filth her mouth is surrounded by black. Young women would sometimes smear bitumen around their mouths as they approached womanhood. I believe this is why she is wearing the black makeup. She is expressing all the attributes of this goddess. Blood for her fertility, the black is the sin she consumes, the masturbation because she represents female sexuality, and because the earth is where we come from and where we return in a never-ending cycle.”
“Will she be like this forever?”
“The gods of our ancestors were deemed savage and wiped out, much like the people themselves. We know some about them, but much of our knowledge of our ancestors is from the invaders. Their own words are subject to interpretation based upon the remains of their civilization. This goddess must have heard your call and answered. I don’t know for sure, but I’m willing to find out. This is a miracle, to hear of the world from one of our own.”
“But why us? People call on spirits all over the world. We are just young women.”
“Why is anyone called to anything? Maybe Fernanda was just more accessible to the
goddess. Something symbiotic between the two. Symbiosis is important in nature; nature has thrived on the concept. I would like to see her again, and I’d like you to come along. I’ve got some books you might like on ancient ritual and beliefs. Meet me here tomorrow so I can present a plan to her and her mother.”
We would meet after work the following day. I needed to tell the others about this breakthrough and I wanted them all there. Together, we would show up at Fernanda’s door with the professor.
Thanks to Ana we might be closer to a solution. Fernanda’s house tomorrow at 3.
Dr. Camacho picked me up so we could drive to Fernanda’s together. She wanted to help me save money on gas. I figured it was as good a time as any to tell her about my dreams.
“Do you think the goddess will move to another person after Fernanda?”
She seemed caught off guard by this question.
“I won’t know until we get the full story. Why do you ask?”
I recounted my dreams as vividly as I could, trying to remember each detail. Every time I re-read what I wrote about the dream, a new idea would emerge. I hoped Dr. Camacho could enlighten me.
“Let me ask you this, Lourdes. Would you want her to? Maybe this is a way for her to touch you without reaching all the way inside. Continue to write them down. Perhaps she can be a muse for you.”
A muse. I had become so discouraged I’d stopped writing, but it is true the goddess had reignited something inside of me that lived beyond the work rota at Sonic and helping out with the family. I’d created my own version of the dreams in the context of a bigger world beyond the city limits. With my notebook and pen, I fought not only for Fernanda, but also myself.
“Thank you. For everything.”
Dr. Camacho reached over and patted my hand. “Once I was as young as you and didn’t know how I would find a place in the world. I was the first to graduate in my family. It took some time. A lot of hard work and tears. Being a woman, a Mexican woman, was not easy. My biggest hope is that it has made the way for young women like you to achieve what you want.”
Dr. Camacho parked the car. Her presence and words made me even more determined.
Mrs. Garcia opened the door. Her first reaction was to give us a look of disapproval, until she met my eyes.
“I guess you want to see Fernanda?”
“We are here to help. I brought help.”
“Come in, then. It might do her good to see all of you.” With a tired sigh she moved away from the threshold.
We gathered in the living room. “Mrs. Garcia, I’m Dr. Camacho and I believe Fernanda is trying to communicate something to us, not just to her family and friends, but to the world. I’d like to bring her to my home to do a translation.”
Dr. Camacho turned to Fernanda to speak in Nahuatl. Fernanda’s eyes lit up, then she nodded. Mrs. Garcia looked at the professor like she, too, was possessed.
“So you are saying my daughter is not possessed? What then? Something is talking to her. Like a spirit?”
Before the professor could make this sound scary, I jumped in.
“Yes, that is exactly right. Once we get the message from the spirit, it will leave. Maybe there is some ability in the family you didn’t know about.”
Mrs. Garcia’s eyes widened. “Not that I know of, but maybe on her father’s side. I will call the family. I knew Fernanda was special but . . . ” She trailed off. I could see her brain turning over what she would say and do.
I nodded. Part of me felt bad for lying and preying upon Mrs. Garcia’s faith, but at least it would keep her busy and out of our new mission. I wanted space to try this without interruption.
“We will take good care of her. No witchcraft, just listening. I promise we will have Fernanda back.” I regretted making that promise as soon as it escaped my mouth. What if I couldn’t make good on it?
Fernanda was already up and walking towards the front door. Mrs. Garcia followed her with the look of a woman willing to travel to the end of the universe to end her torment. “Anything to get my daughter back.”
We spent hours at Dr. Camacho’s home in the following days, a welcome change from sitting outside. The two-bedroom home was decorated with Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo prints alongside framed album covers from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Papier-mâché Catrinas, masks from different parts of the world, and bookcases covered an entire wall. I could see books with her name on the front. My cheeks went hot as I felt myself becoming emotional.
Dr. Camacho sat Fernanda in a leather armchair that matched a two-seater sofa where we made ourselves comfortable.
“Lourdes, for now I will address the goddess and record everything. There isn’t much for you to do now but support me and your friend. After, you will help me with the translation. I hope you like to read, because that stack of books by the door is for you to take home.”
I knew this was a kind way of saying I would be the third wheel for now. If someone was thirsty, get water. This was fine by me. We were getting somewhere.
“Tlazoltéotl. Tell me what you want to say. Why are you here?”
Fernanda’s chin hung towards her chest, her hair covering her face. Upon the name of the goddess being spoken, she raised her head. Caiman eyes rolled in their sockets as they inspected our surroundings, and then fixed themselves upon us. A tear fell from the corner of one of her eyes, followed by another before she opened her mouth to speak. Dr. Camacho pressed record on her phone. Whatever sat before me was Fernanda and the woman in my dreams. Both on the verge of becoming. As Fernanda spoke in Nahuatl, Dr. Camacho translated in English.
“As I told Fernanda in her mind, my nature by birth is sin-eating for others to feel free. My mission is storytelling. I want to say that I no longer want to be seen as crazy or a thing to be forgotten. My existence is more than a bloody dirty rag you cast away every month. I am here because would you not answer a cry for help? I look different, my language is something not everyone understands, but the stories from the past are important. Human history has been one of chaos and in chaos many things become lost. People are subjugated and integrated whether they like it or not. I am here to revive those stories from the source. I have traveled a long way through light and volatile stardust. The stars in the night sky are moth holes in space-time and the bodies of the larvae between each hole are the means of travel. But here I am. In this place I feel like an indecipherable message in a bottle, but the messages could fill volumes. So many voices, so much blood.
“There are others like me, brothers and sisters of the old world. But the fire within needs fuel and oxygen to thrive and spread. Cataclysmic energy is needed to create change. You are a product of such a thing. I needed to find a way to get out. Her flesh was welcoming and her soul kind, but I cannot leave until my mission is complete.
“I have allowed the girl to taste sin only once, but I have to be careful with how much I show her. Humans are fragile things in mind and ego. In time she will know more. She will grow into a woman as the human life cycle demands.
“What drew me to these females was their love for each other. The strength within each of them to withstand the fires they live with and the fires to come. So many fires you will have to endure if your generation survives. I still do not know if I should show Fernanda the spectrum of time I hold in my hands. I see some of the future shared by others like me, and I hold all of the past memories of their ancestors.”
The inhabitant came alive through Fernanda’s voice and body. Her story began with cosmic wonders far beyond our reach of this universe. The goddess is from such a place. Before Christ or La Virgen, others existed. A cosmic crash gave birth to this world and soon they all made their way here to see the new creation. It had been an arduous journey because the universes do not reveal their secrets easily; neither do the gods.
She moved on to the tales from our ancestors before colonization. The Olmec, Maya, and Aztec stories in their purest form: tiny embers of inspiration from the original authors that the
gods preserved. I sat in a dream-like state, feeling as I did whenever I saw an airplane leave a white streak across the blue Texas sky. Where in all the millions of places was it going, and how I ached to be up there instead of down here. Fernanda’s face turned downcast when history changed, and the colonizers arrived. My face, all our faces, wet from the tears of heartache and tragedy.
The stories that intrigued the professor the most were the ones about prophecy, the end. The cycle the earth was experiencing was like the cycle we went through every month, except this was accelerated, unnatural. Humans seemed to be on the brink of self-annihilation.
After a week of nonstop translation, there was a shift. The more stories Fernanda told, the fewer spells she had as the goddess. Fernanda told me she had no memory of the stories, only the conversations she had with the voice in her head.
It was getting closer to when Fernanda was due to start school. Her mother made excuses for her missing orientation.
It was at this time that Perla began her translations into Spanish. New books, our books. The four of us women sat in a circle: Fernanda reciting to Dr. Camacho while I made sense of the stories in English, which I then passed to Perla to translate to Spanish. When Fernanda was not the goddess, she did what she needed to do to prepare for school. We were doing all we could to help her make that deadline. It was good to laugh with our friend again, see her talk about nonsense. Her confidence seemed to soar.
One day, Dr. Camacho surprised me with a question.
“Lourdes. What do you want to do? What are your plans?”
I couldn’t remember the last time an adult had asked me that.
“I don’t know. I can’t do much.”
“Mentirosa,” Perla casually shot out.
“I’m not a liar. I don’t have enough money to do anything.”
“Mira, what are you doing now? Remember freshman year when you had to read out that poem in English?”
I remembered. That was why I kept my words away from people I knew. The room went silent, and I felt like an utter fool for thinking the oil and water inside of me made any sense.