I started to run as she threw herself into the river, shedding my long coat like a second skin as I dove after her. The chilly waters made me gasp, shocking me like an unexpected slap to the face, but I doubled my efforts as I saw her head disappear beneath the surface. It was instinct, pure and simple. I had no time to think, only moments to act. The undercurrent was surprisingly strong considering the seemingly slow momentum of the surface, and at the bend I saw sudden turbulence as the now speeding water rushed over jagged rocks. If I couldn't reach her in time, she'd surely be smashed to a pulp against their sharp peaks.
An Air Force sergeant at Roswell had taught me how to swim, and I put every ounce of strength into a fast crawl which would have made him proud. And not a moment too soon: I grabbed her hand as she went under a third time, trying to halt my forward momentum in the midst of frothy whitecaps a dozen feet or so from the bend. Somehow I managed to pull her now-limp body towards mine, but I couldn't fight the flow. Turning, cradling her against my chest, I managed to spin around so my broad back hit the first partially submerged boulder. The impact felt like a mule kick. And then we were moving again, leaves in a hurricane, tossed from one boulder to the next.
I don't remember seeing the low-lying branch or grabbing it. Suddenly we were in stasis, surrounded, pummelled by the river's wild waters, but not moving, not at its mercy. Not completely, at least. The fact the branch didn't break, and, amazingly, that I was able to pull us out and up the bank one-handed well, I
guess those Charles Atlas exercises Trevor encouraged me to do on a daily basis paid off. I saved us through dynamic tension.
Chest heaving, lungs aching, I lay on my back on the muddy bank beneath our benefactor, the tree. She lay beside me, conscious now, sobbing softly. In English this time.
"My children. My children ... "
Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, I stood, swaying slightly with adrenaline-driven vertigo, my equilibrium still spinning like a gyroscope after the dervish dance of the rushing waters.
"It's okay," I mumbled. "It's going to be all right.
"I'll get my coat. Need to keep you warm."
Stumbling through the scrub, my mind still a tilt-a-whirl, I don't remember hearing the sudden silence as her sobbing stopped. Scooping up my full-length tan duster, I turned towards her and She was gone.
Vanished.
Into thin air.
Later, seated around a roaring open fire in the rectory of Loretto Chapel, Fray Angelico explained I had been blessed by encountering La Llorona, and that my selfless act would bring good fortune.
"La Llorona is ancient; her true origins go back, way back before the time we have recorded. She was a part of this landscape long before the Spanish came. She even predates the indigenous Anasazi peoples."
"I've heard tell
"
Fray Angelico waved a hand to silence Trevor. "Listen. And learn. If not for your own sake, then for Hellboy's
for this special child has been blessed.
"She is not always so forgiving. Nor is she so vulnerable to the eyes of others. One might hear her sorrow.
One might see her struggle with her pain. But to see her in such naked despair ... That is highly unusual."
Felicia, Fray Angelico's housekeeper, brought me a mug of steaming hot chocolate. Its warmth revived my shivering senses, and I listened intently to the legend of La Llorona.
"There once was a girl," the priest began, "who was said to be very beautiful. Because of her looks, people didn't treat her like others. And the more beautiful she became as she blossomed into womanhood, the more people shunned her. Even her own family felt ashamed for not being able to provide for such a beauty.
"One day a stranger came to the pueblo. He was well dressed, obviously a man of wealth. Generous, too. And his largess made him very popular with the locals.
"The stranger soon grew tired of the pueblo and was preparing to move on when he laid eyes on the beautiful woman, and he was entranced. How did such a woman come to be here in a poor pueblo surrounded by nothing more than cacti and dust? He had never seen such fine elegance and decided to stay, to court this ravishing woman. When he proposed marriage, her family encouraged her to say yes, for this fine man could provide for her, give her the future they believed their beautiful daughter deserved.
"They wed, and the match seemed Heaven-made. The stranger was given the respect of a mayor, and the beauty found happiness beyond her imagining. Soon they had a child. The beauty's joy was such she could barely believe it. But as time passed the stranger grew tired of the sleepy village. Even his devoted wife bored him, and the child had eyes only for its mother. It was not what he had expected. His money was running low and he thirsted for adventure, for the temptations of the big city. And so one day he left without saying a word.
"His beautiful wife waited. Each night, after she had put the child to bed, she would light a candle by the door. Each morning she would awaken the child with a kiss then blow out the candle. Days turned into weeks. Even though her husband's disappearance worried her, she never gave up hope. Weeks became months. No one came to visit. Not even her family. They were sure she had somehow chased the stranger away with her formidable beauty. She started to go crazy not knowing what she had done to turn everyone against her."
Fray Angelico paused, as much to savor his snifter of Benedictine brandy as for effect.
"The weather changed with the seasons, and the monsoons began building. The heavy air exacerbated her already fevered imagination. At night, the winds picked up and mesquite thorns rubbed against the windows.
The heavens opened up. It was as if the sky was crying a torrent of tears, soaking their adobe home. Mud seeped into the house, bringing with it the smell of the grave. The beauty could stand it no longer. She grabbed her sleeping baby and raced out the door into the storm.
"Driven mad by the desertion of her husband, her family, she raced to the river. She had lost all reason. And there, standing beside the overflowing river bank, she threw her child into the raging waters. And in that terrible instant, she regained clarity of mind
albeit for a painful second
and let out the most agonizing
cry. Unable to accept the horror of her obscene sin, she threw herself into the storm-swollen waters.
"It was the worst deluge anyone in the village could remember. Few people could sleep that night, for cries too terrifying to describe were heard all over the valley.
"To this day, when rivers fill and flow fast, some say they see a beautiful woman walking the banks. Should you get too close you may hear an eerie cry, and some say an elegant hand may even touch your shoulder."
Fray Angelico set down his glass. He looked me deep in the eye. "You, dear boy, did a very noble act. You touched her. I am certain the beauty will not forget."
"But there are other variations of the legend, aren't there?" Bruttenholm interjected.
"Yes," Fray Angelico nodded.
"Often times she is seen by the side of a road. Those who stop to offer her a ride either find she disappears as they approach, or she scares them away."
"How?" I asked.
"Instead of being a beauty she is either a hideous hag or has the face of a skull." He chuckled a dry laugh.
"Those who see her this way are often adulterous lovers returning from or going to an illicit rendezvous. It seems she does not appreciate unfaithfulness."
"But I've also heard she protects children," Bruttenholm added.
"Indeed. Those foolish enough to play by rivers after dark are known to encounter her."
This, apparently was what had happened to Malcolm MacDougal, I learned from Dona. But instead of scaring the boy, La Llorona had entranced him.
Dona was working in the kitchen, preparing a late dinner for Jamie. She was so absorbed by her task she lost track of time. Then, when she realized it was past nine and the boy hadn't returned home, she started to panic. She had gone but a few yards from the house when s
he found him wandering, dreamy and distracted.
He told her he had been to the river, and there he had met a beautiful woman who told him his mother loved him and that she was well, waiting for the day they would be reunited. At this, Dona scolded Malcolm and told him to never, ever go to the river at night. Sometimes, of course, forbidding a child from doing something was the worst advice an adult can give, as the young are naturally curious about things they should not do.
The next night, Dona insisted Malcolm stay home. Surprisingly, the boy agreed and read in his room.
Relieved that he calmly accepted her request, she went about her household chores not thinking anything was amiss. But when she went to call Malcolm for his supper, she discovered the bedroom empty, the window wide open.
Jamie was beside himself when he heard the news, so distraught the base commander refused to allow him to join the search party. Besides, it seemed straightforward. A technician driving in from Jemez Springs reported seeing what he thought was a young boy by the side of the main road. He had stopped to investigate, but the figure disappeared into the woods a mile from the river. However, a night-long search proved a failure.
Malcolm MacDougal had vanished into thin air. There was no stopping Jamie the next morning.
Every stream and tributary was searched, and the section of river where Malcolm had told Dona he had seen La Llorona was dredged. A week later, with the hunt for the boy dissolved, I was Jamie's last hope.
Coming out of the arroyo, I headed in the direction of a lush sloping pasture and the forest beyond. Half an hour later, I located a stream and sat down to wait, hoping my instincts were right.
At midnight, my suspicions were confirmed, my patience rewarded. The sound started low, mournful at first, then rose steadily in pitch. To the unsuspecting, it could have been a coyote call, but I had heard that soul-wrenching cry before. It was impossible to forget. For a moment, the years slipped away, pulling me back to the banks of the Santa Fe river. Then, suddenly, it stopped. The silence following felt eerie, almost suffocating in its intensity.
I waited, my eyes trying to penetrate the jet-black shadows cast by the trees. Nothing moved.
When the hand touched my shoulder, I nearly leapt out of my red skin.
I turned. There, beside me, stood the Weeping Woman. My first encounter had been hectic, fraught with frantic actions; I had never got a clear look at her. Now, I saw her beauty was remarkable, almost too painful to gaze upon. To try to describe this ethereal creature would be foolish. Besides, the deep, dark olive of her haunted eyes drew me in, made me a fellow prisoner of her sorrow.
"The boy," I said softly, barely a whisper. "Please, take me to the child."
La Llorona took me by the hand, leading me away from the stream and into the stygian secrets of the forest.
She remained silent. I didn't know what to say. What could I say to this spirit?
We reached a clearing. Although Old Man Moon's light was largely obscured by the towering oaks, spruce, and Douglas firs, I could make out a rocky hill ahead. She led me around it and, on the opposite side, stopped before a thick tangle of bushes. Those sad eyes stared at me a moment before she stepped forward. Since she touched me she had appeared solid. Now, she dissolved through the bushes, letting go of my hand, freeing my arms to fight through the undergrowth. Behind them was a small cave mouth, and I stooped to enter.
Instead of pitch blackness, the cave was softly illuminated, and it took me a moment to realize she was the light source. La Llorona glowed from within. The cave floor sloped down, and she took my hand to steady me as we descended. The natural rock walls narrowed, the ceiling lowering, forcing me to bend. The tunnel curved before opening into a subterranean chamber.
Malcolm MacDougal lay on a bed of leaves beside an underground pool the size of a goldfish pond. His eyes were glazed, feverishly delirious. His left leg was broken and lay at a painful angle. How had he come to be here? Had she carried him?
"Mother," he said. "Don't leave me. Stay with me. I don't feel well."
She said nothing, but a strange smile crept across his dirt-smeared features. He had his father's mouth, his mother's eyes. I sensed something pass between them.
"I'm here to take you home," I said.
The smile faded.
"Yes, Mother said it's time to go now," he mumbled.
I scooped him up as carefully as possible, and, as La Llorona led, we made our way back.
His head felt hot, his body thin and fragile. The water had kept him alive, but the boy was famished and the fever had drained him. As I navigated my way through the trees, I sensed she was no longer with us. Turning, I saw she had faded into the night like breath on a cold day. She had done her part, and now I had to finish mine. I hoped my luck would continue; perhaps we'd run across a passing motorist who wouldn't crash at the sight of a large red creature carrying the body of a small boy.
Malcolm murmured in his delirium.
"Mother ... don't leave ... me ... "
His condition was worse than I first thought.
I wanted to run. I needed to get him to the Los Alamos hospital. Every step seemed to rattle his bones.
Sudden movement was out of the question. I hoped for a car or truck. Otherwise, all I could do was take it one step at a time. His breath came in a short dry wheeze.
One step became another. Keeping my eyes on the ground, my mind wandered. Halfway across the meadow, I realized I had left the forest behind.
And realized Malcolm was dead.
Tears of frustration spilled from my eyes. I lowered myself to the grass, cradling the small corpse. Too late. I had failed.
"We're cursed," Oppenheimer had said as we drove to Los Alamos. "I believe those of us who made the bomb, or continue to work on the program, will never be forgiven for what we've done. Whatever your faith, whichever God you believe in ... it doesn't matter. We're cursed. We committed the greatest sin against life.
Men create to destroy. Women create. They create life. We only destroy it."
Those words echoing in my mind, I looked down on Malcolm's urchin-like face. In death, his features more resembled those of his father. Poor Jamie. What could I say to him? In helping to father weapons of destruction he had lost sight of the life he had helped create, unintentionally pushing the boy towards the arms of a delusion.
A tear fell from my face and ran across Malcolm's cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt. It looked like he, too, was crying. A tear of joy, for I hoped he was with his mother now.
And I wondered, in that unguarded moment, who would mourn for me?
From deep in the woods, I heard La Llorona let loose her painful lament.
Delivered
Greg Rucka
Way I figure it, I'm kinda a citizen of the world, you know? Which I suppose is a healthy attitude for an individual who was summoned more than born. I've got allegiances, of course, and as far as I'm concerned I'm absolutely Red, White, and Blue, an American through and through, but if citizenship is birth, well, I'm most likely British. And let's not even talk about my mother.
Speaking as an American, I've got a fondness for New York City, for its vitality and roaring energy, for the way that it just never can slow down, even for a second, even if it's heading for a cliff which, more often
than not, it is. Liz puts it best: she says, "New York City, the place where you can get anything you want, any time, day or night. And you can get it delivered."
Says it all, really. I know the city pretty well, having hoofed it through town on more than one occasion.
That's another reason I like NYC
I get marginally fewer stares wandering through the Village than elsewhere. Not like red with a tail and lumpy doesn't raise eyebrows, but down on Christopher Street, hell, it's the Halloween Parade every day.
Where I'm heading this time, though, I don't know the neighborhood all that well. Alphabet City, which from what the papers and politicos say is going through urban renewal, and to me
looks maybe like Alphabet City itself never got the notice. The buildings are in sad shape, just inside of code, and it's nowhere I'd want to live.
It is, however, not unlike a lot of the places where I end up doing my work.
This isn't work, though. This is personal.
I'm a clothes-on-my-back sort of guy, don't have much that I really call my own. My friends, they're my most precious possessions
and I don't really like calling them that, but you get what I'm saying. When it comes to gifts from friends, I take those to heart. Like my pistol, the one Commander Freedom gave me.
I'm not a gun guy, but in my line of work, it's a necessary tool. And the pistol, it's as fine a piece of work as you're likely to ever come across. Wood inlaid handle, custom machined cylinder, tailored trigger tension, a custom job all the way. Freedom himself taught me how to cast the bullets for the thing, seeing as how the caliber is unique and you can't just walk into your local ammo shop and pick up a hundred rounds.
Back at the Bureau, I've got a space set up just for casting the bullets. There are plenty of folks there who'd do it for me, of course, and sometimes Dr. Manning or someone will even say that I should leave it to the support-services people.
"You've got more important things to do, Hellboy," they tell me.
Yeah, and maybe it's true. But I like taking care of the pistol, I like settling down and melting the lead and mixing the powder and filling the casings. It's a Zen thing in a way, and it's how I honor Commander Freedom.
So when I lost the gun, I was pretty damn pissed off.
What happened was this.
A week ago, Saturday, I'm in the City, going to hit Pegasus Books up on the high West Side. Just shopping, looking for collectibles and rare firsts, like that. Gorgeous day, one of those New York City days where the air is clean and clear, and the sun is just warm enough you don't even hesitate about not bringing your jacket.
Course, I'm wearing my jacket, because I use it to cover the pistol.
Cutting through Central Park, and I get a little hungry, so I grab myself a vendor's hot dog and a bottle of Dr.
Hellboy: Odd Jobs Page 8
