Grady had to smile. She let Elena lead her down to the oak table, enjoying her warmth against her side. “I’ll pass on the heroin. Just sitting for a bit will be nice, though.”
They settled at the table, and it was nice, though neither of them spoke. Their silence was easy, in the ticking shadows of Elena’s store. A streetlight glowed through a side window, but otherwise the large room was peaceful and dark.
Upstairs, a flare of mariachi music bled through the floor, then faded.
“Just in case there’s any doubt we woke my mother?” Elena looked up. “That’s her, saying yes, we did.”
“I’ll apologize, if she’ll let me.” Grady hesitated. “Can I ask why your mother stays upstairs, Elena?”
“Well. That’s a little complicated.” Elena pulled a small candleholder nearer, then struck a match to the wick.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”
“You’re not prying. It’s just if we’re going to talk about such things, I need to see your eyes.” Elena slid the lit candle so it sat evenly between them, then sat back. “Mamá stopped coming downstairs about five years ago. It was around then that the people of Mesilla started to fear the return of La Llorona. As I told you, Maria returns to her home valley every hundred years or so. And everyone in Mesilla can count very well, from generation to generation.”
“Wait. Why every hundred years?”
Elena shrugged. “We’ll have to ask Maria. None of my—no one seems to understand her timing, but it’s consistent.” Her face looked sad in the flickering light of the candle. “I suppose Maria haunts the rivers of the rest of the world when she is not in Mesilla. She never rests.”
“I hadn’t heard about any of this.” Grady rested her chin in her hand. “I’ve lived here for six months, and until my students spoke up in class, I never even knew Llorona was sighted here. And even Sylvia and Cesar, who grew up in this town, only know about half of this legend.”
“You might be seeing the faint dividing line that separates Mesilla from Las Cruces, Grady. Sylvia and Cesar might know of Maria, but they didn’t grow up with the same stories I did. Our village has a very different history than Cruces, and our memory is long indeed.”
“So everyone here knew the time for the River Walker’s return was coming around again.” Grady didn’t want to pull Elena too far off track. “Did something happen five years ago, when your mother went to ground?”
“Went to ground is a good way of putting it. But nothing had to happen to Inez Montalvo to drive her into hiding. My mother’s paranoia did most of the work. It did have help, however.” Elena drifted her fingers through the waves of her hair. “About five years ago, some people stopped talking to Mamá and me on the street. Not many people, but a few. Then we found whenever we went to Mass, our usual seats were taken. Just small things like that, at first. Then one day, Mamá found a dead rattlesnake in our mailbox. A big one.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. That was all it took. She’s been house-bound ever since.” Elena pushed back her chair. “Would you like some tea?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Grady flexed her shoulders, trying to loosen her neck. She watched Elena cross the dark room to the small kitchenette against the far wall and fill two cups with water. “What’s it been like for you, Elena, these last few years? Looking after your mother.”
Elena didn’t answer at once. She set the cups in a microwave, then went to a collection of delicate ivory figurines on a side table. She lifted one, an image of the draped Madonna, and turned it in her fingers. “It’s hard, at times,” she said at last. “Mamá can be impossible. Demanding. I can’t travel, I can’t be away from her for long. I can only pray this will not last forever, for either of us. Perhaps our lives will be easier after Maria moves on again.”
“I’m still not clear on why the people of Mesilla connect you and your mother to Llorona.” Grady spoke gently, aware she was still treading private waters. “You said the other day that all witches are believed to be in league with her, but you’re not a witch.”
“No, but I am a curandera, a calling too close to witchcraft for ignorant minds.” Elena took the steaming cups from the microwave and brought them to the table. “And remember, Mamá and I are the descendants of a witch. These men believe we sit in here, weaving spells that lead them to the river and Llorona. Just as Juana Hidalgo was blamed for Maria’s rampage a hundred years ago, my mother and I are blamed for these suicides today.”
They sat together in the silence of the dark shop. Grady sipped her tea, a mild floral blend that soothed her throat, and watched the candlelight play across Elena’s features. She heard a muted, low whickering, and she looked at Elena, puzzled.
“That’s not my stomach.” Elena smiled. “That’s our pack horse. He’s fenced out back, a nice little stall.”
“Ah, your horse.” Grady remembered Elena riding that horse by moonlight, her dark hair lifting and falling on her shoulders. “Can you handle another personal question?”
“Of course.” Elena snapped her fingers. “I am on a roll. Go ahead.”
“Tell me why you like sitting in the rivers in the middle of the night.”
“Well, part of it is just the river.” Elena’s eyes sparkled. “It’s amazing, Grady. This time of year, when the Grande is this deep and warm, the current flows just below your eyes. You feel its gentle pull against your body. It’s all you see, the centuries of water passing all around you, and you’re part of it.” The pleasure faded from her face. “But yes, I know what you’re asking. I wait for Maria at the river, too. I want so badly to see her. I’ve never seen her. I don’t understand why she won’t come to me.”
“But why would you want her to? Believe me, it’s not a relaxing experience.” Grady wanted to understand. “Why is it so important for you to see Maria?”
“So I can tell her she doesn’t have to keep doing this. She doesn’t have to kill.” Elena looked at Grady pensively. “What does the legend say, the version you heard, about why Llorona drowned her sons?”
“She wanted revenge on her husband. He was unfaithful to her, and she went insane and killed her children to spite him.”
“Right. That’s the story that’s been passed down for hundreds of years. The witch was jealous, and she went mad when her husband took another woman. She drowned his babies in the river, and then herself.” Elena shook her head. “Grady, do you believe what I’ve told you about my ancestor, Juana Hidalgo? That she wasn’t evil, she harmed no one in her lifetime? She was falsely accused?”
“Yes, I believe that.”
“Then believe me when I tell you that Mesilla is wrong about Maria, too.” Elena covered Grady’s hand with her own. “I don’t mean she’s innocent, like Juana. Maria has drawn a hundred men to their deaths, and the sorrow she’s caused might always keep her from the light, unless she atones. Maria is insane now, and deadly. But she wasn’t an evil woman while she lived. She didn’t drown her children, or herself, as Mesilla believes. Her husband did. He killed all three of them.”
“Elena.” Grady closed her eyes, willing herself to focus through the throbbing of her head. “How could you possibly know this?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to trust that I’m in a position to know.” Elena got up and went behind Grady’s chair. She rested her hands on her shoulders and began a careful massage. “If you won’t accept my heroin, at least let me try another remedy for this headache. It hurts me just looking at you.”
At first Grady couldn’t relax beneath Elena’s touch. Her physical closeness was too unexpected—too welcome—to invite easy surrender. But she couldn’t deny how good her hands felt, kneading the tension out of her neck. “Okay. Tell me more.”
“Maria’s husband drank. He beat his wife and children without mercy.” Elena’s voice was a low murmur against Grady’s back. “One night, in a drunken rage, he drowned both of his infant sons in the river. Maria tried to stop him, and he drowned her, too.”
Gra
dy shivered, and Elena’s palms warmed the tops of her shoulders for a moment.
“The next morning, he started the rumors that grew into the lie most of Mesilla believes to this day.” Elena’s strong fingers resumed probing Grady’s neck. “This man was a murderer, and he was never punished. He took Maria’s children, her life, her reputation. Her hatred for him is powerful and deep.”
“Powerful enough to kill a hundred innocent men.”
“Maria drew all those men to their deaths, yes. But they weren’t innocent, Grady. Not the men who died over the centuries, and not those who are dying now. The four men from Mesilla who killed themselves were all known for brutalizing their families.”
Grady turned her head. “What?”
“They beat their wives. Their kids.”
“Elena.” Grady didn’t want to believe it, so she had to ask. “Are you saying Maria is only righting old wrongs? You believe she’s a victim, seeking some long overdue justice?”
“No.” Elena’s voice turned fierce, and she knelt at Grady’s feet and looked up into her face. “Maria is a monster now, I know that. Grady, I swear to you, if it would save one human life, I would pull Maria’s heart out of her chest myself, if I could. But if you want to help me stop these killings forever, you must know what Maria suffered before she died, before she became La Llorona.”
“I’m listening.” Grady wanted to fall into Elena’s dark eyes.
“Maria doesn’t kill to seek justice, or for vengeance. Maria believes she is still protecting her children from violent men.” Elena let Grady sit with that for a moment. Then she got to her feet, and began rubbing her shoulders again.
“Wait.” Grady rubbed her burning eyes. “Violent men. What about Cesar? He’s never abused anyone, but Maria’s scream sent him toppling into a fire tonight.”
“Yes, her screams are said to be fearsome.” Elena kept up the massage, her touch as gentle as Maria’s cry was frightening. “Llorona screams only when she is hunting prey. Any man can hear her, as Cesar did, and they are often badly shaken. But only a man who has battered his wife, his children, responds to these screams by ending his own life.”
Grady lowered her head, trying to muddle through this information. Elena’s hands drew rivulets of warmth through her sore muscles, coaxing them soft. All that remained of her headache was a faint twinge behind her left ear, a discordant high note on a violin that just wouldn’t fade. “I never should have let those kids go to the river tonight.”
“Ay. Is that what this headache is about?”
Grady hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. “It was a stupid thing to do. Cesar half believes this legend. I should have realized he was susceptible. I should have talked them out of it.”
“I see.” Elena’s fingers spiraled down Grady’s upper back. “Are you that powerful, really? Can you stop Cesar from walking his own path? He isn’t a child. You can’t protect someone from their destiny, Grady.”
“I’m not sure I can see it that way.” Grady heard Elena whispering above her, and she frowned. “Elena. You know I don’t believe—”
“Hush.” Elena tapped her shoulder. “Just because you haven’t found any gods to your liking doesn’t mean She doesn’t like you.”
The whispering continued, and then stopped. With Elena’s last word, the final lingering spark of Grady’s headache winked out, and her body was suffused with peace.
“Huh,” Grady murmured. “How about that.”
She heard Elena chuckle, and her hands slid from Grady’s shoulders. A moment later, she helped Grady out of her chair.
“Come on. I’ve laid out the blankets. You lie down for a moment. Has your sleep been no better?”
“Actually, that tea you gave me helped a lot, the last few nights.” Grady could have asked for a dose now, but maybe she wouldn’t need it. The two folded blankets on the hardwood floor could have been a plush queen-size in a five-star hotel.
Grady curled onto her side, tired unto death but her mind still reeling with questions. She waited for the inevitable frustration—her comfort would slowly fade, her body would tense, her mind would continue to churn. What seemed a certain, deep sleep would elude her.
“You rest, Grady. I’m going to check on Cesar.”
Grady watched Elena’s bare feet pad toward the back of her shop.
Then she awoke to the streaming light and birdsong of midmorning.
Chapter Seven
She sleeps like a child, mi Diosa, nestled on her side with her hands cupped beneath her chin. Here, beneath my roof, Grady feels Your benevolence, whether she recognizes it or not, and it brings her peace.
All my thanks to You, my Goddess, for helping me wake Cesar from the terrible dream that gripped him tonight by the river. What defense can such an honorable young man have against the immortal hatred of La Llorona? The only way he could escape the bloody fury of her cry was to flee into the dark recesses of his own mind.
Does Maria possess even a drop of human mercy, Diosa? When her cold, dead eyes alight on a man like Cesar, and she finds no cruelty in him, does Maria’s grim heart soften for just an instant as she whispers, “Not you,” and moves on? I pray that this most errant, most lost of Your daughters experiences such brief moments of grace. I pray that a spark of Maria’s humanity remains, that her tormented spirit is not entirely chained in the prison forged by her murderer.
Grady stirs and calls out a name, twice. Now she lies still again.
Grady could not see what I saw tonight, the nimbus of beautiful light that surrounded both Cesar and his lady, Sylvia. That light sent out tendrils of luminous color, connecting the man and the woman, nourishing them both, the warmth of Sylvia’s love coaxing Cesar awake again.
I saw just the smallest flash of that same light rise from Grady just now, when she spoke that name. A wisp of light left her chest and reached out, searching, and finding no answering radiance, it faded away into darkness. She is so alone, sweet Mother. Grady is another River Walker, as imprisoned in some ways as surely as Maria herself, and my heart aches for them both.
I will smudge my chamber with white sage in the morning, to cleanse the last traces of Cesar’s misery from my walls. I wish I had thought to send some sage with the other girl who came with Grady tonight, the blond one. Janice? She had the look of one almost as lost and alone as Grady. I pray for her, too, tonight.
Thank You for allowing me to watch over Grady’s sleep. And thank You for giving Mamá that little cold in her head, so she took some NyQuil and finally went back to bed. And while I am thanking You, mi Diosa, would it be all right if I reminded you how very old our little Ford car is? I hate to bring it up again. I keep wearing out the clutch because I can’t stop riding it, and a new clutch costs about $400, even at Pepe’s Auto, where I’ll get a discount because I healed Pepe’s little daughter. That’s still a lot of money. I’m just pointing out.
Good night, my Goddess. Lead me home by Your path.
As always, with love from Your Elena.
Chapter Eight
Dr. Phyllis Lassiter, Dean of NMSU’s School of Anthropology, stood barely five feet in the high heels she wore daily. Her pinched face held a perpetually stern frown. She was notorious for her mastery of delicate sarcasm and her ability to puncture an inflated ego with surgically precise disdain. Most of the faculty avoided her.
Grady adored her.
“I take it that it is now your mission in life to drag this department into one juicy lawsuit after another.” Dr. Lassiter peered at Grady through her rimless glasses.
“No, ma’am.”
“Is this my punishment, then, for inspiring you out here to the desert boondocks in the first place?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no. Not really.” Grady smiled. “Yes, you did inspire me out here. But no, I don’t mean to make problems for you.”
Dr. Lassiter—Grady figured her mother must have called her thus in the womb. She could not conceive of her as “Phyllis”—had taught Grady’s first
undergrad course in anthropology fifteen years earlier, at Evergreen State College in Washington. An opening on NMSU’s faculty, in her mentor’s department, had coincided with Grady’s fervent need to leave the Pacific Northwest.
“So, Cesar Padilla, our sophomore.” Dr. Lassiter swiveled in her chair and typed neatly at her keyboard. “Age twenty, a graduate of Las Cruces High. Mediocre grades—except in history, interesting. Father employed at White Sands Missile Range. I remember the boy, vaguely. Large, glasses, often with an anxious expression?”
Grady nodded, but she doubted her confirmation was needed. The dean remembered every student who had ever majored in her college.
“And is Mr. Padilla recovering well from his unpleasant night at the river?”
“He says he is. I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times over the weekend, and I’ve been in touch with his fiancée, Sylvia Lucero. I’ll know more later this morning. My seminar meets at nine.”
“Ms. Lucero is taking your seminar, too.” Dr. Lassiter tapped more keys. “And the new junior, Janice Hamilton? I hope to see her in some of our advanced courses next fall.”
“Janice might have a good knack for this field.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Her parents, in Albuquerque, are my old friends. I think they’ve sent Ms. Hamilton down to us for safekeeping.”
“Uh-oh. She needs safekeeping?”
“Perhaps she just needs a good teacher.” Dr. Lassiter glanced at Grady over her bifocals. “Her parents tell me the girl has been a loner much of her life. She’s always had excellent grades, however. Consider taking her under your wing.”
Grady sat back in her chair, unwilling to commit to be-winging anyone at this point. “Anyway, I doubt there’s going to be much fallout from the other night. Unless we should worry about my not getting Cesar to a hospital?”
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