Even as the woman looked nervously around, she thought she heard thin, piping laughter on the icy breeze. And the sound of that merriment came from no one of flesh and bone and blood.
But her worries were quickly forgotten. The next day the Green Mist rose, like an ocean the color of grass in the summer sunshine and as sweet-smelling as the flowers in spring. It covered the countryside, and roused the earth from its winter sleep.
The girl, watching from the doorway, said, “Now, I’ll live.” She sat in the sun, and laughed with joy, and waved to her father and brothers as they worked in the nearby fields.
She grew stronger and fairer every day that the sun shone; sometimes she would stretch her arms up to it as if she lived by its warmth alone. But when a cloud hid the sun, she suddenly became as pale and wispy as she had been during the long dark winter days and nights.
But there were more sunny days than not, and the cowslips bloomed by the kitchen door. Soon she was running about and laughing like her old self. Every morning she would kneel by the cowslips and water and tend them. Sometimes she would dance for them in the sunshine; sometimes her mother would catch her just staring and staring at the fragant yellow blossoms.
Once, when the old woman leaned down to gather a bouquet of the flowers, the girl cried out, “Oh, mother, don’t pick a single one!”
“Why not?” her mother wondered.
“They’re pretty enough growing where they are. And I feel that if you plucked a single one, you’d pluck out a bit of my soul with each blossom.”
The woman was deeply troubled by these words and the fear she heard in her daughter’s voice. She remembered the girl’s rash promise that she would be happy living just as long as the cowslips. And she recalled the thin, piping laughter that had followed the girl’s words.
Indeed, her child seemed to grow stranger as the cowslips flowered. Yet she also grew more beautiful—and strong enough to do chores around the house or run errands into the village.
One day, in town, she met a handsome young man, who thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. They talked a bit, and he asked if he could come and visit her. She smiled and nodded and told him where she lived.
He came the next day, and they walked together for a long time, hand in hand. In the afternoon, they sat under a tree near the kitchen door; because the day was sunny and warm, the girl fell asleep. While she dreamed, the young man gathered up the cowslips from beside the kitchen door, and wove these into a wreath. Gently he set it on her head, waking her up.
At first she laughed; but when she pulled the wreath off her head to look at his handiwork, she was horrified to see what he had done.
“You picked the cowslips to make this!” she cried.
“Aye,” he said, “a crown of flowers for the prettiest lass in the neighborhood.”
But with a moan, she snatched up the wreath and clutched it to her breast. Then she stood staring wildly around at the green trees and sprouting grass and the golden sun and the yellow cowslips most of all. Puzzled, the young man reached for her, but she gave an awful cry, like an animal in pain, and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind her. Nor would she open it when the young man knocked and pleaded with her to tell him what was wrong with his love wreath.
After a time, he gave up calling to her and went sorrowfully back to town.
In the late afternoon, the girl’s mother, who had been visiting a neighbor, found her lying on her bed, with the wreath of cowslips in her hand. The old woman put her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Then she sat by her child and tried to make her comfortable. But all the day long the girl seemed to fade; nor could her mother coax a single word out of her.
The following morning her family found her lying dead and white and withered, like the shrunken yellow flowers in the wreath still clutched in her hand.
While the old woman clung to her husband and wept, she heard thin, piping laughter through the open window. Then she knew for a fact that the bogies had heard her daughter’s wish. They had let her live as long as the cowslips, but had caused her to fade when the cowslips themselves had died.
The Cegua
(a folktale from Costa Rica)
One evening, a young man from San José, the capital of Costa Rica, rode into a small town north of the city. He was on his way to visit the ranch of a friend situated in a lonely area, but he wasn’t sure which road to take out of the town.
He decided to stop in the local cantina to quench his thirst and ask directions.
When the proprietor brought him a mug of beer, he told the traveler he still had a fair distance to cover. “But,” the proprietor warned, “no one travels these roads after dark. Stay here: I have a room I will let for a few pesos—then you can finish your journey in the morning.”
The young man shook his head. “I have to reach my friend’s ranch tonight.”
The older man shook his head. “Only a fool would risk meeting the Cegua.”
“The Cegua!” the traveler exclaimed. “What kind of creature is that?”
The cantina owner smiled, as if he was unable to believe such ignorance existed. “Señor,” he said, “don’t folks in San José know what the Cegua is? She is a demon—and heaven keep you from meeting her on the road!”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” said the young man. “Bring me another mug of beer, and please explain what you know about this Cegua.”
When the older man returned with the beer the traveler had ordered, he brought a second mug for himself. He sat down across the rude wooden table and said, “No one who sees the Cegua is left with a sound mind. Strong men, in the peak of health, have gone mad from the sight. Some have even died of fright.” He began to rattle off the names of locals who had lost their minds or lives because of this monster.
But the younger man interrupted him, saying, “If she is such a terrible devil, why haven’t I heard of her before?”
“She prefers certain parts of our country; we have the misfortune to be one such place,” explained the proprietor patiently. “For that reason, no one here rides alone after dark. If someone must travel after nightfall, he always goes with a companion.”
“Why? Doesn’t she like crowds?” laughed the young man, who was beginning to feel the effects of his long ride and the beer.
“The Cegua only appears to someone who travels alone,” said the older man gravely, finishing his own beer and starting to rise. “She appears as a beautiful señorita, smiling sadly and fluttering her eyes, pleading for a ride—but woe to the traveler who stops to help her! If the unsuspecting rider sits her in front, she turns her head. If he has placed her behind him, she will make him turn to look at her. In either case, his doom is sealed.”
“How so?” the traveler asked.
“When he looks, the beautiful señorita is gone. The creature riding with him has a huge horse’s head, with monstrous fangs. Her eyes burn fiery red, like hot coals, and her breath stinks like sulfur. With a hiss, she will bury her claws in the shoulders of the rider and hang on like a wild animal. A horse, sensing that he is being ridden by a demon, will bolt in such a frenzy that no one can stop him.”
“What then?” asked the younger man, no longer smiling quite so broadly.
“Those who are found the next day, if they are still alive, will have gone mad from the sight of her.”
“Nonsense,” said the traveler, suddenly standing up and tossing down a few pesos to pay for the beer. “I must be on my way, if I’m to reach my friend’s ranch tonight.”
The older man shrugged, gathered up the coins, and turned away. Clearly, he thought to himself, there is no arguing with a fool.
The little town square was deserted. The traveler untied his horse from the hitching post and set out along the road the cantina’s proprietor had pointed out to him earlier.
It was a warm night. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves in the trees on either side’of the road. Nothing disturbed the silence, except the c
lop-clop of his horse’s hoofs on stones in the roadway.
Suddenly, around a bend, when the town was out of sight behind him and no other building was visible, he saw a slender figure standing in the thick shadows where the trees overhung the road.
Slowing his horse, the young man discovered a beautiful girl, with a pale face framed by the black-lace mantilla that covered her head, and which she held under her chin with her left hand. In the moonlight he could see she had curly black hair, huge dark eyes, and deep red lips.
“Señor,” she began. Her voice was sweet, but so weak and weary that he feared she must be near fainting. “I am so tired, but I must go to see my mother, who is ill. Would you take me to Bagaces?”
“Of course,” he said, bringing his horse to a stop and climbing down. Bowing slightly and removing his hat, he said, “My friend’s ranch is just south of that town. You can spend the night there. In the morning I will escort you the rest of the way.”
“You are very kind, señor,” she said, in such a faint whisper that he had to lean close to make out her words. Then he helped her onto the horse—which had grown restive during their halt—behind his saddle. He mounted himself, and they took off at a good trot.
A breeze had arisen to freshen the still air and flutter the leaves on the nearby trees. The moon and stars tinted the landscape pale silver. Several times the traveler tried to make conversation with the woman, but she didn’t answer. She only leaned her head against his back and clung to his shoulders with her hands, as if she were afraid of fainting and tumbling from the horse.
Abruptly his horse, without any prodding, broke into a gallop. The woman dug her fingers into his shoulder, clearly afraid of falling. The young man was too polite to tell her that her nails were digging into his skin.
The horse gave a cry and charged down the dark road as though something terrible were pursuing them. The traveler pulled back on the reins and shouted, but it did no good. His horse only galloped faster.
Suddenly he felt razor-sharp teeth lock onto his neck so that only the collar of his coat saved his skin. An instant later, he heard a cry that came from no human throat as the awful teeth suddenly pulled away a mouthful of his coat collar.
He wrapped the ends of the reins around the fingers of one hand, and with his free hand he struggled to pry loose the fingers that were clamped on his shoulder. As shadow, then moonlight, then shadow again, washed over the horse and its two riders, the young man saw that the fingers clutching him were too pale—they were the white of bone, rather than fair skin.
He heard another screech and smelled the creature’s foul breath. He felt his strength giving out, while the bony fingers pulling at him seemed to grow stronger. The jaws snapped at the back of his neck, this time drawing blood.
Then, ahead, he could see his friend’s ranch. He thought he could hear dogs barking, to signal his arrival. Lights were burning in the hacienda. There were figures running up the road toward him, carrying torches.
There was a final, ear-splitting scream from the demon behind him. He felt his whole body jerked backward. The hand that was tangled in the reins pulled backward suddenly, causing his horse to rear up, then fall sideways. Both riders fell with the animal.
The traveler was knocked senseless for a moment. When he came to, his friend, holding a torch, was staring at him, asking if he was all right. He nodded, still shaking from his near-brush with death. When he touched his hand to the stinging at the back of his neck, his fingers came away bloody. He looked around hastily, but all he saw was a crowd of friendly-looking campesinos, countrymen, watching him. One was calming his horse, which was on its feet again.
“Where is it—the creature?” he asked his friend.
“What creature?”
“The Cegua.”
“My friend,” laughed the other man, “you stayed too long at some cantina, I think. The Cegua is a story to frighten children, nothing more. Still, next time you ride at night, be sure you travel with a companion. These lonely roads can be dangerous in the dark.”
The young man said nothing, but he shivered just a little when the night breeze brought the lingering odor of sulfur to his nostrils.
The Ghostly Little Girl
(United States—California)
Near the turn of the century, in the seacoast town of Monterey, California, lived a widowed fisherman, Richard Colter, and his young daughter, Maria. Their home was a weather-beaten shack of boards with a tin roof, on the shore some distance from town.
Maria Colter was a pretty, but strong-willed little girl. Her father worked hard, fishing for sardines, salmon, cod, tuna, and yellowtail in Monterey Bay and the Pacific Ocean, just beyond, so that Maria could go to the Catholic school in town. She was very popular with the other girls who were pupils there, though a few parents did not approve of someone whose father was so poor.
Maria’s closest friends were Annie Kelly, Susan Cooke, and Catherine Hopper.
In the early spring, Maria was absent from school for several days. Her three friends asked their teachers about it, but were told only that Maria and her father had sailed out of Monterey Bay three days before. Their boat had last been seen by another fisherman, around noon, beyond Point Lobos.
“But I saw her this morning, on my way to school,” Annie Kelly told Susan Cooke and Catherine Hopper. “She was standing across the street, watching me. I waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. I don’t think she saw me, because she ran away right after that. I didn’t see her again.”
But once again Maria’s desk at school was empty. As her three friends walked home, they talked about her absence.
“Maybe her father is sick, and she has to take care of him,” Annie suggested.
“Maybe she got sick herself,” Susan said. “Maybe she was starting to come to school today, and had to go home.”
“I think we should go and see what’s happened to her,” said Catherine decisively.
The girls knew their friend lived with her father in a shanty outside of Monterey. They decided to pay a visit as soon as school was over. But it was a long walk, and they took their time, poking along the beach.
It was very late in the day, when, far down along the shore, they could see a single cabin, the back of which was built on stilts that extended down into the water.
“I’ll bet that’s Maria’s house,” said Annie.
“I hope so,” said Susan, “because it’s getting pretty late. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get home by supper.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” said Annie. “I don’t see any lights.”
“Don’t be silly!” said Catherine impatiently. “We’ve come this far.”
“But it is getting awfully late,” added Susan.
“I just want to see how Maria is. Then we can go right home.”
But by the time they reached the run-down shack, a thick, wet evening fog had crept in, heavy with the tang of salt. Walking softly and whispering to each other, the three friends climbed the stairs to the rickety front porch. It was piled high with rotting fishing nets, rusted crabbing cages, buckets, and odd bits of rope and canvas. Around the corner of the house they could see a little pier, but no boat was tied to it. Everything was quiet except for the roar of waves hitting the shore.
“I don’t think there’s anyone home—let’s go!” urged Annie, as the haunting call of a seagull cut through the foggy air. The mist was swirling so thickly around them that they could no longer see the distant roofs of Monterey. Tentacles of fog were tangling in the live oaks and pines far up the hillside.
“Don’t be a ninny!” hissed Catherine. Boldly she knocked one-two-three times on the door. When there was no response, she pounded on the door even louder.
“Let’s look through a window,” suggested Susan.
This seemed a good idea, since clearly no one was coming to answer the door. Tiptoeing to the nearest window, the girls peeked in past ragged curtains.
At first all they saw was an empty room, w
ith a few sad pieces of furniture scattered around. An unlit kerosene lantern stood in the middle of a wooden table. Opposite the window was a single closed door.
Suddenly a strange glow began to seep under the closed door. Then the door opened slowly, and they could see Maria Colter framed in the glow of the unearthly light. She was standing upright, but her eyes were closed, as if she were in a deep sleep.
Without a sound, the girl, like a sleepwalker, crossed the room. A moment later the three friends on the porch heard the cabin’s front door unlocked with a loud click, then pulled open with a squeal, because the damp had swollen the wood.
Annie, Susan, and Catherine looked at one another for a moment. Then they went to the open door and peered through. The room inside was empty again, with only a faint silver-gray light coming through the streaked windows. The door in the far wall was closed, though they could still see the line of curious light underneath it.
Their friend had vanished.
“She must have gone back into that other room,” said Susan.
“Why is she playing tricks on us?” asked Annie, “I don’t think we should stay here anymore.”
But Catherine walked bravely into the room and yelled, “Maria! We just want to say hello! You can come out.” She was reaching for the knob of the closed door when something stopped her. There was a smell of saltwater so strong that they could almost taste the salt. The odor of fish was strong enough to make Susan hold her nose. The roar of the ocean filled the room as though it was circling the house outside.
“Catherine,” Annie said, her voice little more than a squeak, “Look! The door!”
Water was beginning to seep under the door, soaking the worn carpet. The three girls stepped back, afraid to let it touch their shoes.
Abruptly they were startled by a crash like a huge wave hitting the other side of the door. It amazed them that the door didn’t splinter from the impact. A moment later a second blow shuddered the door.
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