She set out toward the back of the burial ground, lifting her skirt as she stepped around a brick-lined plot.
“Are we going for a walk?” Grady called.
Elena turned back to her. “I thought you wanted to see the grave of a witch.”
That intrigued flicker skated up and down Grady’s spine again. She followed Elena through the loose rows of graves, which only grew shabbier as they reached the northern border of the cemetery. It was fenced by a sagging, waist-high wall of rusted chain link. Elena opened a screeching gate and waited for Grady to pass through.
Elena closed it behind them. “My turn for a question. How many lashes did Christ suffer before he was crucified?”
“Oh, no. A Bible quiz.” Grady smiled, but Elena merely waited. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Then you don’t know how many paces you must walk from consecrated ground before you can bury a witch.”
Elena started walking, and Grady started counting paces.
The deserted area north of the churchyard was no one’s idea of pastoral. The ground was featureless, the earth dry and cracked underfoot. Trash was snarled among the weeds. They walked past the corrugated tin cylinder of a drainage ditch and a sparse stand of mesquite brush as the sun pounded on the back of Grady’s neck. She had counted about forty steps when Elena stopped, and they both stared down at the flat rock embedded in the parched earth. The writing on it—a single name, no dates—was even fainter than the epitaphs of the oldest graves in the cemetery.
HIDALGO
Grady tried for some levity. She would probably regret it, but Elena’s still presence beside her made her oddly nervous. “Please tell me this isn’t your grandmother’s grave.”
“No.” Elena lowered the bucket to the ground and knelt before the stone. “The woman who rests here is my grandmother’s grandmother’s mother.”
Grady regretted her levity. She lifted her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes hard. She watched Elena brush dirt and small pebbles off the flat stone with her hand. She took the wooden brush out of the bucket and began scrubbing a white splash of bird droppings off the craggy surface. Grady crouched beside her and began plucking snarls of dead weeds away from the marker.
“Juana Hidalgo was a witch, and everyone in the village knew it.” Elena’s tone held the same soft sadness as when she’d spoken of her great-grandmother. “Mesilla was just a small village a hundred years ago. Men suddenly started to kill themselves back then, too. And Juana was blamed—they thought she was in league with Llorona, that she drove those men to their deaths. But it wasn’t true. Juana was good to her neighbors. She always tried to help them.”
Grady hesitated. “A witch who helped her neighbors?”
“There are many kinds of witches, Grady.”
Grady leaned back on her hands and looked at the lonely grave. “What happened to her? Do you know?”
“The people’s hatred finally broke Juana’s heart, and her mind. She went to the river one night and opened her wrists with a knife.”
Grady watched Elena’s profile, the coffee smoothness of her skin. The sun coaxed red highlights from her dark curls. “Juana Hidalgo killed herself, then? Was that another reason she was buried outside the churchyard?”
Elena made a contemptuous sound. “Do you think the men who took their own lives were forbidden burial in holy ground? You’ll find them all back there.” She jerked her chin toward the cemetery.
“I’m sorry, Elena.” Grady wasn’t sure exactly what she was sorry for, but Elena’s expression compelled some offer of comfort.
Elena’s long fingers brushed the little stone. “I’m sorry, too.” She looked up at Grady, and a smile passed over her lips. “Don’t look so sad, Grady Wrenn. I know you didn’t set church doctrine way back then. You can’t even pass a simple Bible quiz.”
Grady smiled back.
Elena sighed and returned the wooden brush to its bucket. “Have you seen enough here?”
“Yeah. Thank you for showing me this.”
Elena nodded and got gracefully to her feet. She lifted the shawl from her shoulders and covered her head. Grady waited until she finished her prayer and crossed herself, and then she rose, too, and brushed the dust from her hands.
“Do you have to go now?” Grady heard the plaintive note in her own voice, and Elena looked up at her questioningly. “I mean…I’ve enjoyed our talk.”
Elena seemed to think about this. “I’ve enjoyed it, too.”
“May I walk you home?”
Again, Elena didn’t answer at once. Her gaze drifted east, toward the purple crests of the Organ Mountains that girdled that side of the desert valley. “Yes, you may. I’d like that.”
Grady picked up the bucket and emptied the water in a patch of weeds, then followed Elena back toward the cemetery. She looked over her shoulder once at the small gray stone receding behind them, alone again under the cloudless blue sky.
*
Grady’s somber mood improved as they strolled together toward the plaza. Perhaps because she sensed a similar lightness in Elena, a new ease in her step as they left a witch’s sad history behind.
“You’re a teacher?” Elena asked. “You mentioned you have students.”
“I’m an anthropologist. I do teach, yes, at NMSU.”
“I don’t know very much about what anthropologists do.”
“Well, my kind studies the ways different cultures work. How people try to make sense of the world, through their customs and traditions.”
“That must be a wonderful job.” Elena’s nose crinkled with her warm smile. “Do you study the religions of these cultures?”
“Sure, spiritual systems are always a big piece of the puzzle.”
“But you have no faith yourself?”
It was a question, not a statement, and respectfully phrased, but it took Grady aback nonetheless. “What makes you ask that?”
“Ah. I’m sorry.” Elena clasped her hands behind her as they walked around a curve in the narrow road. “Faith is a very personal matter.”
“I don’t believe in God,” Grady found herself saying. “I never have. But I do respect the beliefs of others, Elena. Your own Catholic faith seems to mean a lot to you.”
“Catholic?” Elena actually giggled. “I’m not Catholic, Grady. Oh, my. How much more not-Catholic can I possibly be?”
“You’re not?” Grady frowned. “Then what’s with the…” She mimed pulling a shawl over her head. “And the…” She crossed herself clumsily.
Elena laughed outright, an alluring sound. “I just pray the way my mother taught me to pray, the same way her mother taught her.” She nudged Grady playfully. “I’d think an anthropologist wouldn’t jump to such quick conclusions, Professor Gringa.”
Grady wanted to know more. She wanted to sit down with Elena over a plate of green chile enchiladas and listen to her talk about her faith, and her mother, and why she sat in rivers, and anything else under the fierce desert sun. Mostly, she wanted to soak up the friendly interest in Elena’s eyes all day long. But she needed answers to other questions.
“You said it surprised you that I could hear her,” Grady said.
Elena looked puzzled for a moment, then she glanced back toward the cemetery and nodded. “Yes, that’s what I said. I was surprised you could hear Maria’s cry, that night at the river.”
“Why were you surprised? Didn’t you hear her? She was hard to miss.”
“No, I didn’t hear Maria. Very few women can. Only particular women.”
“What kind of women?” Grady tried to sound casual, but her throat felt dry.
Elena didn’t answer. She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders in spite of the growing heat of the day. They were nearing the plaza now, and Elena nodded down a pleasant shaded street dotted with small adobe buildings. “I live down this way.”
“This Maria.” Grady cradled the bucket in her arms as she walked, half glad she hadn’t received a reply. “Was she a
witch?”
“Yes, she was a witch.”
“And Maria is the one they call Llorona?”
“That’s right. They’re one and the same.”
“Elena. Please help me understand this.” Grady kicked a pebble out of their path and sorted her thoughts. “I’ve looked into this legend. La Llorona, The Woman Who Weeps, is featured in the folklore of three different continents, over the past five hundred years. The same story, about a woman who drowned her children and now haunts a river, is known in Mexico, El Salvador, Venezuela…this folktale isn’t specific to this area, or to New Mexico. Or even North America.”
“That’s true.” Elena seemed unperturbed by Grady’s revelation. A dreamy cast had come over her features. “Maria is the River Walker. She searches for her lost sons in many rivers. She’s been seen and heard in many Spanish-speaking countries. But her life began here, in the Mesilla Valley, and it ended here, when she drowned in the Rio Grande.”
“You’re saying Mesilla is the seat of this legend? Maria lived in this valley, five hundred years ago?”
Elena nodded. “She still wanders far and wide, searching streams and rivers, but she and her babies were born here, and they died here. And every hundred years or so, Maria comes home. And men begin to die.”
Two cracking pops sounded farther down the street, and Elena gasped.
Grady stopped abruptly. “Was that a gun?”
Elena snatched the hem of her skirt and took off, her sturdy legs taking her from zero to full speed in a heartbeat, so what could Grady do? She ran after her.
“Mamá!” Elena streaked straight toward a two-story adobe shop and the group of people milling around it. She cut through the gawkers like a linebacker and threw open the door.
Grady was right behind her, and she was stunned by the hostility she saw in more than one sullen watcher’s face. She jumped onto the wooden walkway that fronted the shop and saw that the large, arched window by the door was half shattered. Her boots grated on chunks of stained glass as she entered the store, and she heard feet pounding up a staircase. “Elena?”
After a moment, Elena’s voice sounded above her. “It’s all right, Grady.”
“Should I call the cops?”
“No! Just stay down there.”
Grady put a hand to her heart, panting. At least she wasn’t sleepy anymore.
She peered out the broken window. The people outside were clumping into small groups, murmuring quietly. They weren’t turning into an angry mob; that was some comfort. Grady slid off her sunglasses and took in the shadowy interior of the shop.
There was a light, pleasant scent in the air, not of incense but of recently kindled sage. The interior adobe walls were lined with antique wooden shelves bearing labeled packets of herbs, small jars of oil, and bundles of dried leaves and grasses. Artwork proliferated. There were representations of a dozen different religions on the adobe walls, from traditional crucifixes to candles associated with the practice of Santería, as well as small statues of various pagan gods.
“I’m in a spiritual Wal-Mart,” Grady murmured.
She heard drumming footsteps again, then Elena shot past her and out the front door, the small bell over it clanging wildly. Grady followed quickly.
“What do you want here?” A high flush on her cheeks, Elena set her hands on her hips and barked at the stragglers still hovering in front of the shop. “Why do you stay? You’re not going to tell me which of your brave sons shot out my window and terrified my mother. Go on, you righteous citizens. Go to your afternoon Mass!”
Grady stood near Elena and studied the crowd uneasily. There were still some angry glares, watching Elena in what seemed like defiance. But several people simply dropped their eyes and turned away.
Grady noticed an older couple whispering heatedly near the wooden walk. Finally, the woman pinched the bearded man’s vest in her bony fingers and forced him to walk with her. They approached Elena, and the man crossed himself surreptitiously.
The old woman regarded Grady narrowly for a moment, then spoke to Elena in English. “We’re sorry this happened, Elena. Your mother, is she all right?”
“Yes. She’s fine, Mrs. Valdez.” Elena’s fierce stance softened a little. “I don’t suppose you saw what happened?”
“We only heard the shots.” The woman glanced up at her husband, who nodded, his eyes on the ground. “We have been afraid for your safety, hija. Ever since the first man was taken from the river in April, we have been worried that the town would take its fear out on you. You heard that a fourth man was drowned a week ago, sí?”
Elena glanced at Grady. “Yes, ma’am. Enrique Acuña. I was sorry to hear of his family’s loss.”
“And he died in the same way she always kills men, with that terrible look in his eyes. Madre mía, I have heard his poor wife fainted when she saw his face.” Mrs. Valdez’s husband cleared his throat, and she sighed and laid a wrinkled hand on Elena’s arm. “Shooting out windows. This isn’t Mesilla’s way, Elenita, all this vile meanness. We want you to know we’re praying for you.”
Elena covered her hand with her own. “Thank you, abuela, for your prayers.” As the couple shuffled away, Grady heard Elena add under her breath, “If nothing else.”
They went back into the store, and Grady blinked in relief to be out of the sun’s glare. Elena clicked a switch on the wall, and the lamps suspended over the center of the room shed a pleasant gold glow.
“I don’t see much damage, except for this window,” Grady said.
Elena walked to a far wall, searching. Finally, she reached up and lifted down a crucifix the size of her hand—or half a crucifix. The wall behind it bore a neat round hole. “It must have taken a lot of courage, to attack such a dangerous window.”
“Do you know who did this, Elena?”
“I know a half dozen men who might have.” Elena kissed the broken cross, then opened a small drawer and laid the pieces inside. She slid the drawer shut, then lifted a broom from behind a counter. “Careful, Grady, there’s glass everywhere. Don’t cut yourself.”
Grady realized she was still carrying the bucket. She went back to Elena and knelt in front of her, tipping the pail on its side so she could sweep the glass into it. “Why would anyone want to scare you and your mother?”
“They don’t care about my mother. They haven’t seen her for years.”
Grady glanced toward the shadowed stairway that led to the second floor, which must serve as the family’s home. “Is she ill?”
“She just never comes downstairs.”
Grady pondered that while Elena finished sweeping up, and then set the full pail of shattered glass by the wastebasket.
“Sit down, Grady.” Elena disappeared through an arched doorway curtained by strings of beads. Grady settled at the oak table in one corner of the store, a comfortable nook apparently set aside for conversation. Elena returned, carrying tall glasses of iced tea, and joined her at the table. Grady sipped the sweet tea tentatively, and then pulled hard at it, relishing its cold splash down her parched throat.
Elena emptied half her glass too, at first swig. Then she sighed and slipped off her shawl. She wore a white cotton peasant blouse beneath it that left her shoulders bare. Grady’s gaze lingered on the small wine-colored birthmark that graced the swell of her left shoulder. Elena sat back and swept her fingers through her dark curls, her eyes sad and distant.
Grady waited patiently, finding the silence comfortable. Finally, Elena looked at her and they both smiled, acknowledging explanations were in order.
“All right.” Elena flattened her hands on the table, the silver rings on her fingers clicking softly against the wood. “Remember your history lesson, Grady. A hundred years ago, men began killing themselves in Old Mesilla. They blamed Juana Hidalgo, the village witch. Today, men have started dying again. And Mesilla is still blaming the village witch.”
“Really?” Grady blinked. “You?” She infused as much friendliness and acceptance in
to her voice as possible. She had met witches before, or men and women who claimed to be, in her field work. “Are you a witch, Elena?”
“No.” Elena smiled faintly. “I’m a curandera. Does the gringa professor know the difference?”
“Sure.” Grady rested her elbows on the table, intrigued. “A curandera is a folk healer. A spiritual healer, right?”
“That’s right.” Elena nodded at the surrounding shelves. “Mostly I’m an herbalist, and I have a nursing degree from our community college. But I try to help people through prayer and trances, too. I deal with the spirit world. So the more ignorant and superstitious bullies around here insist I’m a witch.”
“And they’re blaming you for these recent suicides? I thought they held La Llorona responsible. Maria. She’s supposed to be able to force men to take their lives.”
“Yes, but Maria was a witch, and all witches are believed to be her spiritual sisters.” Elena blew a lock of hair off her forehead in disgust. “All witches are supposedly in league with her, they help Maria do her killing. But that’s absurd, Grady.”
Grady had been trying to redefine what she considered absurd for most of the past week. She kept her eyes on Elena’s face and listened carefully.
“Juana Hidalgo was a witch, but she cherished human life, she would never have aligned with Maria. Juana was another innocent woman, wrongly accused. Just like my great-grandmother—she was a devout Catholic! But once you’re labeled a witch in this town—” Elena broke off, and looked at Grady unhappily. “I’m sorry. I get real emotional about this, sometimes.”
“No need to apologize.” Grady studied the palms of her hands. “Let me try to sum up. La Llorona was once a real woman named Maria, and now she’s a vengeful spirit. She haunts rivers and drives men to suicide. The people of Mesilla think you’re a witch and you’re helping Maria kill these men, so they’re out to get you.”
“No, that’s not fair.” Elena sipped from her glass. “Most of the people of Mesilla are good-hearted and sensible. There’s only a very small faction of religious fanatics that cause me any trouble.”
River Walker Page 3
