by V. Castro
Instead of falling face first into the dirt, she floated with Mictecacíhuatl.
“See, you can do it when you do not hide from who you really are. Follow me.”
Milagros felt no pain despite knowing part of her skull was exposed. Then again, she was still dead. She followed the red woman, all muscle, organs, nails and teeth. Throbbing blue and red veins like writhing inchworms intertwined with muscle and bone, giving the illusion of living tattoos. Her eyes could suck you in with their depth. Once, Milagros’s father took her to a cenote that was used for sacrifices and worship during the old times, before the land was seized by force. Portals to the divine are everywhere. It made her afraid because it wouldn’t take much for her to dive in to see what waited below. The Queen’s eyes were like that water. Necklaces of polished jade and turquoise hung around her neck, covering the fat of her breast. The fat deposits on her buttocks and thighs shook with every confident step. Flowing behind her was a cloak painted with scenes of their people like Milagros had seen carved at the temples of their ancestors. This woman was the most beautiful creature Milagros could imagine.
They entered the shell of a house sprayed with graffiti and littered with garbage. The floor was caked with a layer of animal droppings. Paint peeled off the walls, which were blackening from mold. The once immaculate home had become a ruin overtaken with rot, weeds and dust. Their destination was the bathroom where Betty died.
The small window was cracked and clouded over with a brown and green grime that matched the limescale-covered tub. A chipped white sink stood beneath a mirror that remained intact, without any blemish. It looked brand new, untouched by time or the elements.
Mictecacíhuatl positioned Milagros in front of the mirror and took her place behind. “I want you to see your heart’s desire and source of sadness. Break your heart if you must, for it will be the only way through the realms of two worlds.”
Milagros didn’t want to break her heart, as she feared it would permanently remain shattered, but she wanted to see Concepcion, and maybe someone else.
The Queen lifted Milagros’s arm towards the mirror so she could lay her palm against her reflection. She then exhaled hot breath over the surface of the mirror, fogging it.
“Milagros.”
Milagros’s eyes opened wildly. She knew that voice.
“Concepcion! Is it really you? Please? Let me see you!”
When the fog cleared, Concepcion’s palms touched on the other side of the mirror. Both women laughed, with tears spilling from matching eyes. Two faces, one bloodline. Concepcion and Milagros appeared as they were on the day of Milagros’s departure.
“I miss you, Concepcion. I’m sorry I never saw you again.”
“Sorry! Why are you sorry? You have done nothing. But listen to me. There is a way, a way I have sacrificed my life for. You must feed. You must be reborn. It is the only way to save us all in the end.”
“I’m nobody. I’m a girl from a village.”
“Every single life has a purpose. You need to take your place. For me. For Mariposa.”
Milagros’s smile fled like the fog.
“I don’t want to hear her name. It hurts too much.”
The Queen nodded to Concepcion.
“Milagros, I have to go now, but please, take your place in this world. Goodbye and I love you. We will see each other again. I promise.”
Milagros’s hand slipped from the mirror once the image of her sister was gone.
The Queen placed both hands on Milagros’s shoulders to comfort her as she sobbed.
“A breaking heart isn’t just in the mind. It is also manifested physically, I know. You can’t even begin to understand the pain I have endured each time my sternum has been cracked in two while the blood of our people coated the thirsty earth, sucked down so deep it trickled and spilled down my walls. The bones of my home are stained red and forever it will remain that way.”
Milagros looked into the mirror again. “Mariposa. Can I see her?”
Mictecacíhuatl wrapped one arm around Milagros’s waist.
“I know you have only experienced love, physical love, with one person: Mariposa. She is gone, as all humans die in old age. Her spirit is in the underworld, so you may not see her, but she looked for you upon her arrival. She was pleased to know there are big plans for you. What if I told you you could have another chance? At the time your love was forbidden, but it will not always be so. What if I told you Mariposa can also be a monarch by your side? Feed. Be reborn with me in flesh. This civilization will decay in time, and not by the will of the gods. By human will. Together we will begin again.”
“I don’t understand.” Milagros searched her memory of old stories, both indigenous and those of the Bible.
“Tell me, my daughter Milagros, of your dearest memory of Mariposa.”
Milagros shook her head. “No! It hurts too bad!”
“Touch the mirror and show me.”
Milagros lifted a finger and placed it on the mirror.
“We knew we wanted each other when we first kneeled side by side while lighting candles for La Virgen. By chance our fingers touched. Our shoulders pressed together as we prayed, the sound of the choir practicing a cappella in the distance filled the vestibule. We met three times a week at the feet of La Virgen, just to be close to each other. I remember praying so hard to La Virgen to make it right so we could be together, to bless us and accept us. Just being by her side made me happy. In the dark no one could see our legs touching, just two pious girls at prayer, not in love, passing notes to each other.”
The thought of Mariposa made Milagros want to turn and run as she too could feel her sternum cracking with a searing pain throbbing from the wound. That was her love.
It was the memory of their last encounter on Dia de Los Muertos that hurt most of all.
The village buzzed and everyone was busy with the festivities that gave them the opportunity to remain in Mariposa’s room to consummate their desire. Mariposa claimed to have cramps to excuse her from traveling with her family to pay homage to their ancestors. Concepcion made an excuse for Milagros.
“She has a fever that will only get worse if we do not pray hard tonight.” Their parents always listened to the wise-beyond-her-years Concepcion.
Milagros walked quickly through the streets with her shawl over her head and eyes down. She and Mariposa would have a mere three hours alone. Mariposa pulled her to her room, closed the shutters and locked the bedroom door. She lit candles with trembling hands and with that same uncertain touch she reached for Milagros’s waist then brushed her fingertips along the side of her thighs as they crept above her knee-length dress. Their mouths met; their bodies a perfect fit. The tender flesh between Mariposa’s legs in the candlelight was as beautiful as the black lace mantilla she wore on her head during mass. It bent to the will of her tongue and mouth. The softness of her body was a delight that only the gods could have created as it shivered with every nibble and lick.
The night was beautiful but fleeting, just like the shockwaves of her orgasm as she looked into Mariposa’s perfect brown eyes. Her slick fingertips gently rocked back and forth as she cried out in pleasure. Sweat the size of rosary beads rolled down her neck and between her breasts. It lasted beyond human understanding of time, yet not long enough. When the sensation of love wore off, she knew there was no way they could get away with being together. That was her first taste of the cruelty of the world. The last was her death without seeing Mariposa, or her family, again.
Sadness stirred, it thickened and boiled and hardened until it was fury. Milagros slowly lifted her eyes to the mirror, looking directly at the Queen.
“Tell me. Show me how to have another chance with Mariposa and my sister at my side.”
Mictecacíhuatl’s lips curled to a wicked smile. She narrowed her eyes. She lifted both hands above Milagros’s head and c
lacked her nails together. Cicadas fluttered through the crack in the window. Their song took on a high-pitched tone like they were speaking to each other. They flew in a circular tornado until they created a ring around Milagros’s head, laying their bodies down, connecting their legs to one another, their wings stitching into her hair. Soon they stopped their hymn and movement as their bodies transformed to gold.
“Every queen deserves a crown. Take your place, La Reina de Las Chicharras.”
Milagros lifted her chin with the same defiance she felt before the incident that made her leave her town. “I am ready.”
The women left the dilapidated house with the intention of claiming this world for their own. La Reina de Las Chicharras was born, and she was hungry. But only those in south Texas knew the stories. For now.
* * *
The lights flickered on and Hector burst through the door, crashing into me. “Are you okay? What the hell happened? The police are here.” I knew this encounter was real because Hector was looking at me with bewilderment. “There’s blood all over you! What the fuck?”
“She won’t hurt us. I think we’re in her plans,” I said excitedly, forgetting another death had occurred at the farm. But we weren’t alone. I wasn’t alone. Milagros was not alone in her death. I said a prayer of thanks in my mind.
* * *
The suspicious police questioned me until the video showed there was no way I could have killed the SyFy guy. I told them I didn’t know what happened or why there was blood on me. The two officers looked on edge when it was time to investigate the bathroom.
I could hear them whispering, “It’s like that damn urban legend, La Reina. Fuck. I thought that was just sleepover or messing-around-after-school shit.”
“Yeah, I know! I wrote a damn paper in college about unsolved true crime. This is some freaky bullshit I do not get paid enough for.”
Their conversation shifted to me.
“This chick looks possessed or like she just danced with the Devil. Blood all over. Fucking hell.”
It was three in the morning when the police left, calling the incident a stunt gone wrong. Maxine and Bo insisted Josh never mentioned a prank, but it wasn’t the first time they bent the rules for ratings. Perhaps he didn’t say anything so it would appear authentic.
Hector didn’t want to stay in the house; he was frantic. He was ready to abandon it, another dream, another baby that was not meant to be. I didn’t tell him I didn’t want to leave if the Queen was here, so I offered to stay and keep an eye on the place if he wanted to move into a motel in town or go visit friends in New York. His anger at the disappointments in his life changed his mind. And it seemed death was following him. He decided to dig his heels into this poisoned ground and stay. We both showered off our sweat, and I the blood, after closing off the living room where Josh died. Neither of us wanted to be alone, so we camped out on his bedroom floor. Most people would have gone to bed, but Hector pulled out the whiskey, knowing I wasn’t going to let him drink alone, preach or tell him it would all be okay. I’m a woman of a certain age. I know that shit isn’t always right.
“Shall we toast to death?” He looked as old as the preacher in his weary sorrow as he raised his glass.
“Let’s toast to life because we’re still here. Death needs us for some reason,” I countered.
We tossed back our whiskeys then he poured us another. It burned good.
“You want to hear a scary story?”
I stopped with the shot glass at my lips, remembering the other slumber party, the very beginning of the story we were living. “You know it was in a very similar situation I first heard about Milagros.”
Another shot at the same time. “I’m gonna tell you why all this is scaring the shit out of me.”
Hector told me he never liked the family business or their reputation as powerful brujos. It was his sister, Marie, who held a deep interest. Hector liked books, math, things he could see and touch in the real world. Every change in season his family would gather at Lake Catemaco to pray, give offerings to the spirits and remember family members who had passed. His uncle tried to teach him how to swim in that lake, but something felt so wild, out of control, in that deep water. Hector did not like things to be out of control or displaced. He preferred order, and there’s no order when it comes to the spirits or water so deep you can’t touch the bottom.
The spirits almost claimed his father when Hector was ten years old. A woman from the neighborhood showed up at the house. She wore chunky gold earrings that dangled heavily, a matching thick gold necklace and rings on both hands. Her nails were long and red, squared at the tips. She chewed her red lips and wiped her eyes when Hector answered the door. This visitor was expected, so Hector let her in. Her husband died suddenly, but she knew he left money for the family. He always said if he were to die without cause, they would be taken care of. Unfortunately, he failed to disclose the details. Without knowing where their cash and valuables were hidden, the family would starve, she pleaded.
Hector’s father, Hidalgo, sister, grandmother and uncle were all present at the ceremony, seated in one of the bedrooms converted to his father’s study. Of course, Hector had to be there. Marie had her arms folded and glared at him.
Earlier that day she whined, “But I want to learn, Papa! Hector doesn’t know anything about our family. He just likes school.” Hidalgo continued to prepare the candles and sweep the floor before the ceremony.
“Marie, you will have your day,” their father replied. “But this is for us, the heirs of magic. It is how it has always been done in the family.”
The only illumination in the room came from white and red candles, with all the windows covered. Freshly dusted statues of various saints in different sizes stood behind them, keeping watch with their hands together in pious prayer. Hidalgo wore a white guayabera with a black rosary around his neck. He closed his eyes and parted his lips while holding a watch owned by the dead man. Hidalgo swayed as he tried to conjure the spirit, his lips moving without sound. Suddenly he grimaced in an unnatural way, with his eyes protruding and mouth widening so tight around his teeth it appeared it might split at the corners. He clutched his chest and fell backwards. Ramon caught his brother mid-air then laid him down flat on the floor. A voice not belonging to Hidalgo spoke. It was like an echo in a canyon, if that sound could be at the level of a whisper.
“Blood money is not meant to be found. Blood money should be forever lost. You can have the gold but at a cost. Death.”
The woman screamed. “Tell me! Tell me where it is! I don’t care what my husband did. I had no part in it.”
Hector’s father’s mouth turned into a wide grin. The flickering light made his teeth appear like sharpened spears and his eyes nothing but black shadow.
“Very well. It is underneath Pancho’s house. I warned you. Your husband was a thief and worse. Many suffered from that money. Flesh money.”
Hidalgo took a gasp of air and wrapped his fingers around his neck. His face was turning dark blue. Ramon shoved Hector to the side to give his brother mouth to mouth. Hector couldn’t understand how Ramon and Marie could remain calm. Hidalgo sputtered before taking another breath and opening his eyes. He turned to Hector, who was in tears in the corner of the room.
“Don’t be scared, mijo. Our power comes at a cost, but it is our birthright.”
The woman who came for help had already left.
Marie got up from her seat and stood over her brother, then looked at her uncle and father. “See, he doesn’t deserve or want to be by your side.”
A week later, Hector heard the entire family of that woman and the deceased man was slaughtered by gangsters. Pancho was their family dog. He was the only one that survived and was adopted by the neighbors. It turned out the father was a hitman. The incident only made Marie more intrigued, while it served to push Hector even further from their gif
ts. He told himself it wasn’t real, just theatrics and coincidences. He would rather think his father was a con man than a conduit for the spirits, something uncontrollable and in the realm of the unseen.
When Hector was fifteen, it was his grandmother who gave him the courage to tell his father not only did he not want to be a curandero, but that he was gay. His father didn’t speak to him for a week but came around after praying. He had a dream that his son was a source of light. Just like people don’t understand their ways, he might not understand his son’s sexuality, but he wouldn’t judge him. Hector would always be his son, his blood. Ramon was a harder sell. It wasn’t until Ramon met his wife that he gave his nephew a hug for the first time in years.
Hector felt free to pursue his degree in math and business studies now that he had been honest with his family. Although he didn’t take an interest in the magic side, he relished helping with the business of magic. Magic was lucrative. He kept detailed books about what was selling and what was not, inventory, best clients, peak sales times. Hector left nothing to chance or prayer. He showed his mother everything he did because he knew he wouldn’t be there forever. New York City and tailored suits were his dreams. It was only a matter of time before he attained his dream, and he was willing to do anything to get there. Hector began running things, and soon the little business became big enough to pay for his education. After graduating from National Autonomous University of Mexico, he was accepted to Harvard Business School. New York City was next.
Hector was tipsy and feeling nice when he finished his story. His eyes looked heavy from exhaustion and booze. We blacked out next to each other in front of that Ouija board that didn’t move once despite our trying it for half an hour. Piece of shit.
