The Chupacabra

by Jean Flitcroft

  The telephone rang in the hall, and Izel disappeared to answer it. Vanessa continued to slice mangos and eyed the result with pleasure. She was getting good at this—not the mess of pulp she ended up with the first time she tried.

  Izel was still on the phone, and through the open door Vanessa could hear her voice rising and falling but she couldn’t understand the words. Occasionally she shouted something like “galote,” and Vanessa wondered if that was the person’s name. She finished slicing the mangos and went to the sink to wash the knife and plate she had been using.

  Vanessa stared out the kitchen window at the fields, which stretched out for miles. Tomorrow evening they would be going on their first horse-riding lesson with Armado. Frida had finally given in.

  Suddenly a face appeared at the window and gave her the fright of her life. It was a man’s face, his nose pressed against the glass. His eyes locked onto hers, dull and impassive, and the vacant look in them scared Vanessa. He had long, greasy hair and baggy, lined skin under his eyes. Slowly his cruel, thin lips parted in a sneer, revealing large gaps and uneven teeth in decaying gums. Vanessa gave a small scream and grabbed the knife from the sink.

  She turned quickly when she heard Izel’s loud shout behind her. Izel must have seen the face as well, because she was rabbiting on in some unintelligible language and throwing her hands up. The only word Vanessa could make out seemed to be “sholo,” whatever that meant.

  Bewildered, Vanessa accidentally knocked a plate off the drainer, and it smashed into a thousand pieces on the tile floor. Now the hairless dog she had seen when she first arrived at the ranch had appeared out of nowhere and was barking at Vanessa’s feet.

  It was all too much for her. Her heart racing, she hopped up onto the kitchen counter, still clutching the knife in her hands and staring down at the dog.

  When their eyes met, the dog stopped barking as suddenly as he had started. His bat-like ears stood upright on his strange, torpedo-shaped head. What on earth had gotten into the dog? Had she stood on his paw?

  Next thing, she saw Izel moving quickly across the kitchen as if powered by the stream of her words, with her arms flapping wildly. Finally Vanessa caught some Spanish words that she understood.

  “Perro malo, perro malo!” Bad dog. Phew, it was only the dog Izel was shouting at and not her. Suddenly remembering the man at the window, Vanessa glanced behind her again, but the face had gone. Maybe Izel hadn’t seen the man after all, and it was the dog she was upset about.

  She certainly looked cross. She stood with her hands on her hips talking down to the animal, stopping occasionally as if she expected him to answer back. Instead, the dog turned and walked out the kitchen door and past Izel without a second glance.

  “That dog knows he is not allowed in my kitchen,” Izel said indignantly. Vanessa, still clueless as to what exactly was going on, smiled despite herself.

  “He has never come into my kitchen before. I do not know what has got into him. It is you he came to see, I think.” She looked at Vanessa, who was still up on the counter with the knife in her hand.

  Tilting her head slightly to one side Izel added more calmly, “But you do not need to protect yourself from Sholo.”

  “Sholo?” asked Vanessa, climbing down off the counter. “Is that the dog?”

  “Yes. It’s the make of dog he is.”

  “Oh, the breed, you mean? How do you spell it?”

  “X-o-l-o. It is said as Sholo. It is the sacred dog of the Aztecs but Xolo is also this one’s name.”

  Vanessa’s mind reeled as she tried to take in the words.

  Izel took Vanessa’s hand and eased the knife out of it gently.

  “Xolo would never hurt you—not you. No, he will protect you.”

  Vanessa didn’t know what to say to that, so she started to pick up the pieces of the broken plate.

  “Sorry, Izel, about the plate. I got a fright when the dog barked. I didn’t see him come in.”

  She didn’t want to mention the face at the window. Nikki might say it was another of her notions, and maybe Izel wouldn’t believe her either. But she wondered if the dog had seen the face at the window too. Maybe that was why he had barked. Was he really trying to protect her? And from whom?

  Izel took a few avocados from the pile in front of her and handed Vanessa another knife.

  “That was my son on the phone,” she said after a moment.

  “Is his name Galote or Gwaylotay or something like that?” asked Vanessa, remembering the word she’d overheard.

  Izel threw back her head on her thick neck and roared with laughter.

  “No, no, chica, it’s Miguel,” she said, her voice warm with affection. “Guajolote means turkey in my language.” She began to chuckle again. “I call him that when he is being a silly boy.”

  “In Spanish, you mean?”

  “No, in Nahuatl. That is my language. We are the Nahua people.”

  Izel lifted her many chins, her voice filled with pride.

  “Does he work on the ranch?” Vanessa asked. “Your son, I mean.”

  “No, he is in the United States. He is studying there. What about you? What kind of work you like to do when you are older?”

  “I want to be a cryptozoologist,” Vanessa said. This might be a bit difficult to explain, she thought. “It’s a sort of scientist, really. Like my mum was.”

  “Science is good. You must be a clever girl. I think you are very good at exams the way Frida was at school.”

  No sooner had she said the words than the door to the kitchen swung open, and Frida stood taking in the scene. She seemed to have a remarkable sense of timing; it was really quite freaky.

  “How are you getting along, Vanessa?” Frida said coolly. “Do you still prefer cooking to embroidery?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Belief in magic and sorcery is still strong in rural Mexico, particularly among the Nahua people. “Airs” are associated with the dead—they hang around where someone has died. Airs have been described as being like the biting wind that sweeps across the land just before a thunderstorm. Some airs can be evil and dangerous.

  Vanessa had been worried about embarrassing herself at her first riding lesson. But from the moment she sat across Amigo’s solid back with her feet in the stirrups, she felt comfortable. More than comfortable—it felt natural.

  Before long she was trotting and then cantering. But when she started to gallop, Armado shouted at her to slow down.

  “It’s your first lesson!” he called, riding up beside her. “You have to slow down.”

  “But it’s wonderful!” she cried and galloped away from him again.

  She couldn’t resist shouting out with delight, her long hair streaming behind her and her cheeks flushed with excitement.

  There was a fallen tree ahead. She’d love to try jumping over that, but Armado would be furious with her. Maybe next time.

  “Are you sure you have never ridden before, Vanessa?” Armado had come alongside her again. “You are amazing!”

  Vanessa smiled at him and mentally hugged that little snippet of praise to herself.

  It was a pity that Nikki had backed out of the lesson at the last minute. When she saw the size of her horse and the way he had stamped and snorted while he was being saddled up, Nikki had finally admitted to being very nervous and not at all eager to learn to ride.

  “I’ll take one of the bikes out when we go exploring,” Nikki had insisted. “That will suit me just fine.”

  Both Armado and Vanessa had done their best to persuade her; she stood sweet but firm.

  About an hour after they had set out Vanessa felt a cold wind pick up, and within minutes it had grown darker. She looked up and saw thick gray clouds massing overhead. She shivered, chilled suddenly. How could the weather change so quickly? And then the heavens opened, and it started to rain. It came down in huge, fat drops like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Her vision became blurred as the rainwater streamed down her face. It felt e
xactly like her morning shower, especially as the rain was lukewarm, not cold as in Ireland.

  Vanessa looked around for Armado as cracks of thunder loud enough to shake the ground sounded overhead. Not so pleasant anymore.

  But Armado had his head back, his face tilted skyward. He shouted something which at first Vanessa couldn’t hear over the noise of the rain and thunder. He was clearly enjoying it.

  “It’s wonderful to feel the rain at last,” he yelled louder this time. “But we need to get the horses out of the storm. I know a place. Follow me.”

  Armado’s horse, Zoro, reared and snorted and was distressed by the thunder, but Vanessa’s horse, Amigo, remained surprisingly calm.

  Armado led Vanessa to a derelict stone house. Its corrugated iron roof had grass growing on it and tree branches sticking out through it. It didn’t look up to much, but Vanessa could see that there was a sheltered space at the front for the horses.

  Armado tied the reins of both horses to a hook on the wall. Although they were under cover now, Zoro was getting more nervous with each thunder-crack. Vanessa hated to see his distress and stood beside him, stroking his neck and making low guttural sounds in her throat that seemed to calm him.

  Armado stared at her in open admiration.

  “You’re just like Cesar,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “He’s one of the ranch hands. All he has to do is whisper something and the horses understand him. I’ve tried to copy the sounds, but it doesn’t work for me. How did you learn to do that?”

  “I didn’t. I just made what I thought were soothing noises. It’s not like I can talk to the animals.”

  “Well, Xolo definitely understands you. He’s like a guard dog around you now.” Armado said it lightly, but Vanessa was struck by his words. Should she tell him about Xolo barking in the kitchen yesterday? Or that this morning she had found the dog outside her bedroom on the terrace? He had been sitting like a statue looking out across the fields, his muscular haunches much more visible than a normal dog’s because he was hairless. He certainly didn’t behave like a typical pet, but she did not find him threatening either.

  Then another thought struck her, and she tried to sneak a look at Armado’s face to see his expression. Maybe Izel had told Armado how Vanessa had grabbed the knife and jumped up on the counter yesterday. Maybe he was teasing her.

  She ran her hand along the length of Amigo’s neck, feeling the smooth hair and his soft warm mouth against her arm as he nuzzled her. Animals were so much easier to understand.

  “The storm doesn’t seem to bother Amigo,” she said.

  “Yes, he is steady.”

  “Good boy. I suppose you are used to this weather, aren’t you?” Vanessa said, stroking the horse’s neck.

  “No, that’s not the reason. He is actually deaf,” Armado said with a huge grin. “Thunder doesn’t bother him.”

  Vanessa stared at him, unsure for a moment whether he was joking or not.

  “It is true. But stand in front of him and he can lip-read very well.”

  Now he was joking. Vanessa laughed and punched him on the shoulder, with her middle knuckle slightly raised for extra effect the way she did to Luke and Ronan.

  Armado gave a mock yelp and turned away. Vanessa suddenly felt a bit foolish. She sensed that Carmen would never have punched her beloved brother like that. And a guest certainly shouldn’t. Oh dear.

  CHAPTER 8

  A shaman is an individual who has the power to heal and protect people in his or her community. The ability comes directly from supernatural beings through dreams, visions, or spirit possession, all of which happen during shamanistic ceremonies. Stones that have a hole through the middle of them are used in these ceremonies and are called sacred stones; the hole is the doorway to the spirit world. The use of feathers is particularly important, as birds are seen as the messengers of the spirits.

  Vanessa twisted her hair between her fingers and squeezed the water out of it.

  “No need to have showered today,” she said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Armado hesitated for a moment.

  “OK,” he said. “I would quite like to show you something anyway.”

  There was a narrow hallway in the house, which was damp and depressing. Four small, grim rooms led off it. The rain hammered relentlessly on the metal roof, and the drumming sound reminded Vanessa of the caravan holidays they used to have in Wexford when she was young. But there was a difference here: the rain was coming through the roof and was trickling down the inside walls.

  “It rains inside this house,” Armado said, “but the odd thing is, there is one room that is always dry. I don’t know how.”

  “Well,” said Vanessa, “maybe it’s got a good bit of roof over it.”

  “No, from the outside it looks just as bad as the rest. It’s strange.”

  Vanessa stepped into the dry room and looked around. There were stones and feathers scattered around as if a chicken had been plucked recently.

  At first all she felt was the extreme cold, and then came the nasty smell. She glanced sideways at Armado, but he showed no reaction. He picked up two chairs that were lying on their sides beside a battered little table that had also been turned over and lay stranded like a cockroach on its back. Armado made a motion for her to sit.

  As Vanessa lowered herself onto a chair, a strange fluttering sensation began in her stomach. She put her hands on the table to steady herself. The fluttering became a constriction in her gut, which crept up to her heart and throat, paralyzing her. Then came a violent assault: a rush of emotions twisting inside her like a tornado that was impossible to describe. She clutched the edges of the table in terror, her knuckles white, her arms shaking.

  “Vanessa, Vanessa, what is the matter?”

  Armado’s face was suddenly close to hers, but she turned away and found herself looking into another face—thin, dark, with hawk-like eyes. The image broke up like a glass puzzle shattering in the air, the pieces slipping in and out as if from another time and place—red glowing eyes, a gaping mouth, bloody fangs, a bird’s beak, a string of feathers around a neck.

  All her senses felt exposed—the light too bright, the roaring noise too loud, the stench too foul.

  Vanessa pushed violently back with her feet and the chair screeched loudly on the tiled floor. She felt a hand grab her upper arm, and she fought it off desperately. Her tongue was thick and dry as it moved along the back of her teeth, but she couldn’t speak. Her eyes grew so hot that they burned in their sockets. Then she passed out.

  When Vanessa opened her eyes, Armado was leaning over her, his face so close that she could feel his breath. He looked anxious. Even in her confusion she noticed how dark his eyes were, how long his eyelashes.

  It took her a few moments to realize that she was lying on the floor. Armado pulled back as she made an effort to get up.

  Gingerly she sat upright and gazed around the room. With some effort her eyes focused on the chair where she had been sitting. It was on its side again. The table, too, was upturned.

  There was little else in the room—a rusting rake against a wall and a wooden barrel with broken eggshells and a smooth, round pebble with a hole in the top of it. Nothing to explain the awful smell or the sensations.

  What on earth had brought all that on?

  Armado was sitting cross-legged and silent in front of her but at a slight distance now. He looked shocked and puzzled. Or was it more like suspicious?

  “Lightheaded. Not enough lunch perhaps?” Vanessa offered up weakly.

  Armado didn’t even bother to reply. She knew he was waiting for a real explanation. Should she make up some story about having epilepsy or something? But if she did that, Frida would be onto her father like a shot, and she would be sent home before she could work out what was going on.

  “Sorry. I’m really not sure what happened there.” Better to be honest—well, honest-ish—Vanessa decided. “I just felt sort of funny, and then I think
I passed out. Probably scary for you, though.”

  Armado didn’t reply to that, but he offered his hand to help her to her feet.

  “Do you feel well enough to go?” he asked. “The rain is less now. We must not be late for dinner,” he added, almost to himself.

  “But we just got here. It can’t be anywhere near dinner time yet.”

  “Vanessa, it’s eight o’clock already, and we still have a long ride back.”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “Well, I have been here about forty minutes, Vanessa, but I am not sure about you.”

  Vanessa opened her mouth to try and protest but suddenly found it difficult to speak. How was she going to manage the ride home?

  “I think we should tell Mama about this. You probably should see a doctor.”

  “No!” Vanessa gasped. “Please, no, Armado. You know they will all worry and fuss, and I may even get sent home if they think I’m sick. Please?” she pleaded.

  She smiled the best smile she could as proof of her health and sanity while not at all sure of it herself. She could see the uncertainty in his face.

  “Sometimes I just get these visions, it’s to do with the place rather than me.”

  Vanessa was certain she had made it worse, been too honest. They would be calling in a doctor all right—a shrink! But to her surprise it had the opposite effect on Armado, and he nodded his head slowly as if it made everything clearer.

  “Si, alucinación. I know some people get them, especially shamans.” He stopped and pressed his lips together.

  “Shamans?”

  “Holy men, like priests,” Armado said shortly.

  “Oh, yes,” said Vanessa. “They do magic, don’t they?”

  “OK, Vanessa, I will say nothing. Mama and Papa are worried enough at the moment. About the ranch, I mean. This rain is good, but we do not know if it will continue.”

  Vanessa didn’t reply. She was too busy enjoying the remarkable feeling of Armado’s hand wrapped firmly around her own as he led her out of the house.