by Laura Resau
I stand up and stretch, looking around. The couples have left. Even El Loco is gone. Quickly, wrapping my shawl around my shoulders, I head toward the jungle, scrambling up the steep part in the half-light, loosening pebbles and dirt. Walking past the Forbidden Territory in the dark seems highly unappealing.
But inside the tree shadows, dusk has already fallen, an indigo blanket.
There’s a rustling in the forest ahead of me. I freeze. I haven’t reached the Forbidden Territory yet. It must be something harmless—a raccoon or rabbit. Or maybe Wendell. I take a tentative step forward, squinting into the dark shapes of leaves and branches.
I see the eyes first—small yellow globes staring me down. And then I make out the form of the head, the strong jaw, the sleek silhouette of its body. Light reflects off its thin whiskers, silvery in the faint glow of twilight.
The creature is just a few meters away, easily within pouncing distance. In one tiny moment, I take in every last detail—the enormous paws, the tufts of hair in its ears, the flat, feline nose, the angled ovals of its eyes boring into me. For a flicker of a moment, I’m mesmerized by its stealthy beauty, its force. It exudes mystery, embodies the night.
Then its lip curls up ever so slightly. A low growl creeps out, like the putter of an engine revving up.
The noise makes me realize the most essential fact: the jaguar is not behind the fence.
The jaguar is not behind the fence.
I hold completely still, my gaze fixed to this creature’s. My heart is thrumming wildly, my mind racing. What to do, what to do. Don’t panic, Z. Wendell’s words come to me. Make yourself appear bigger. Back up slowly. Don’t make eye contact. If attacked, fight back. I quickly avert my eyes, raise my scarf in the air, stretching my arms up and out. I brace myself for its attack, for the force of its body to slam into me. I tense my muscles, prepare my feet and hands to kick, punch its nose, poke its eyes, whatever it takes. I risk another peek at the creature’s eyes. It’s still staring at me. Forcing my gaze downward, I wave the scarf above my head and tiptoe backward. Another step and another.
And then, in my peripheral vision, I sense another pair of eyes. And another shape emerging from the shadows, almost imperceptibly.
My eyes flick toward the movement and rest on the slim silhouette of a woman that melts into the night. Her black dress ends above her knees; her legs are long, and she’s barefoot. Her feet look oddly delicate beside the jaguar’s thick paws. Her hair is as shiny black as the jaguar’s spots, her eyes catlike, the whites glowing around a circle of brown with a hint of fiery gold. Her cheekbones are strong, her face wide. She’s suddenly still as a statue, staring, her body lithe and taut. Wary.
The jaguar lady. La bruja. Even though her face was hidden by the shadow of her hat brim and sunglasses that day at the butcher’s, I recognize her easily now. It’s the way she holds herself with such astonishing grace.
She stops beside the creature, puts her hand on its haunches. He sits obediently. She takes another step forward and rests her hand on its sleek head. Its ears go back, and the growl turns into a purr that fades into silence.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly. We both stand perfectly still, staring at each other. In the fading twilight she seems like an apparition, a ghost, something conjured up by the jungle. The dream of a tree.
I notice her face glistening. Tears? Is she crying? She moves slightly and lets out a soft sob. Her hands reach toward me. I realize my arms are still high, the scarf stretched above, as though it’s a parachute and I’ve just descended here. Slowly, I lower my arms, keeping my eyes locked on hers, aware of the jaguar seated beside her. I swallow hard, searching for words. What is she? She doesn’t quite seem a person of this world. More like something my mind has created. A jaguar in the form of a woman.
I’m afraid if I say something, the moment will shatter, devolve into chaos. The jaguar will pounce. Or she will.
She takes a step toward me. Another. Another. Her voice is a husky purr, but I think I hear the word mija. My daughter. She’s right in front of me now. It’s hypnotizing, the silvery tears flowing down her cheeks, her whispered laments. “Mijaaaa …” Over and over. She’s so close now, I’m breathing in her scent—pine, honey, roasted corn. Searching my eyes, her hand moves toward my face, cups my chin. The cool touch of her hand breaks the spell. I take a step backward, extricating myself, one eye on the jaguar at her side.
“Who are you?” I whisper in Spanish. “What do you want from me?”
At my words, her eyes grow wide. She blinks, confused, as though she’s waking up. Silently, she backs up a few steps, touches the jaguar’s head. The cat rises. Together, they turn and walk into the night shadows. The jaguar gives me one last look before disappearing between the trees.
I stare after them, my heart racing. “Wait!” I call out weakly.
But she’s gone.
Stunned, I put my hand to my face, which she cupped so gently, so lovingly, as though I were indeed her daughter.
“The thing is,” I tell Wendell later, staring at pinpoints of stars, “it wasn’t exactly scary. Not scary like the jaguar pouncing at us.” I give the ground a push with my toe. We’re lying in the hammock outside my cabana, the length of our torsos touching, our feet tangled together.
“So what was it like, then?” he asks, his face close to mine.
I search for the right words. “It was more—spooky. Like in a supernatural, ghost-story way. I mean, I’m not entirely sure this lady was real. Part of me feels like I imagined the whole thing. You know, after all those rumors. If she hadn’t touched me, I would’ve believed she was a ghost.”
Wendell cups my cheek with his hand, the precise place the woman touched my face. “You know what we have to do, right?”
Our gazes lock for a long moment. It’s time. “Okay,” I say, breathing out. “Let’s do it. Find out what’s inside the Forbidden Territory.”
“When?” he whispers.
“Tomorrow.” I shut my eyes. “We should bring Layla along. The more of us, the better.”
And then I feel his lips on mine and his warm, solid arms pulling me closer. I press myself into him, grasping the realness of his flesh.
“La Llorona,” Joe announces the next morning at breakfast. An expert eavesdropper, he’s just overheard me telling Layla about the crying jaguar lady. He’s like a piece of gum stuck to your shoe, impossible to peel off.
I ignore him, but Layla asks, “What’s that, Joe?”
“The Weeping Woman. From a famous Mexican folktale.”
“Why’s she weeping?”
“For her drowned children. The children she drowned herself.”
On instinct, I recoil. “Sounds messed up.” But I remember what Xochitl and Mayra said—that this lady killed her own daughter and husband.
“Terribly sad,” Layla sighs.
Sad isn’t the word that comes to my mind. More like creepy. Extremely creepy.
“All over Mexico,” Joe continues, authoritatively hooking his thumbs on his rainbow suspenders, “there are stories of La Llorona. She lives near rivers, bodies of water. Parents warn their children to stay away. When people hear the wind howl at night, they say it’s La Llorona, calling ‘Mis hijooooos.…’ My children …”
I catch my breath. The echo of the jaguar lady’s words comes back to me. Mijaaaa … My daughter …
I shake off the shivery feeling, and say matter-of-factly, “I’m finding this woman. Today. With Wendell.”
Joe stares at me as though I’m crazy.
“Of course, we’ll all go together!” Layla cries. “We’ll bring charms and amulets for protection.” For Layla, magical tokens are cure-alls.
Joe looks unsure until Layla rests her hand on his arm. “You should come too, Joe.”
“Me?” he asks doubtfully.
She beams at him. “Clowns exude positive energy.”
At her words, he lights up. “Of course I’ll go.” Softly, he adds
, “For you, Layla.”
I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “I’ll get Wendell,” I say, starting for his cabana.
I have to wait a few minutes while he gets out of bed, groggy, and throws on some clothes. Ten minutes later, when we get back to the kitchen, Layla is cheerily whipping egg whites while Joe is stirring something on the stove and doing clownish impressions.
Frustrated, I peer into the pot. Red chunks bob in deep-pink bubbling liquid. “Beets?” I give Layla a puzzled look. “You’re cooking? I thought you were coming with us.”
Layla beams. “Oh, we thought it would be good to bring a cake!”
“A cake?” I sputter, eyeing the bobbing beets.
“A pink one, for good heart energy. Angel food cake, pure and light. Topped with fresh whipped cream. And all dyed with beet juice.”
Wendell raises an eyebrow.
Joe elaborates. “See, our plan is to gush a tidal wave of love at her.” He spreads his arm wide, grinning at Layla. “The best strategy against brujas.”
An hour and a half later, we’re in the woods, on the path toward the Forbidden Territory, taking turns carrying the unwieldy pink angel food cake. Layla chatters nonstop, while Wendell and I stay quiet, on alert for the slightest sound or movement in the foliage. When we reach the fence with the first sign, TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED, Layla begins waving the incense around while Joe rings the bells. Layla hands Wendell a sack of herbs and instructs him to scatter them here and there. He complies, looking a little embarrassed.
I shift the cake in my hands. It seems to have grown heavier and bigger. Annoyed, I blink at the thick cloud of incense smoke, walking right into the trajectory of a bundle of ruda. I frown at Layla. “A can of pepper spray might be more effective.”
“Z,” Layla murmurs between chanting, “try to give good energy to this space. Open your heart and let the love pour out.” She barrels off the path, into the thick of the jungle, following the perimeter of the chain-link fence and sprinkling murky green water from a jar.
Joe tosses rose petals through the fence and rambles on about jaguars, how sacred they were to the ancient Maya. Somehow he connects this fact with the jaguar lady and the impending end of the world.
Rolling my eyes, I lean against Wendell and keep scanning the fence.
Wendell squints into the mass of leaves. “There must be a gate,” he says in a low voice. “The lady has to get in and out somehow, right?”
“Unless she flies over on a broomstick,” I say with a wry smile.
On the other side of the fence, the leaves and trees are so dense, I can’t see far. The jaguar could be crouching in there, just meters from us, waiting to pounce. I take a breath and focus on the insect songs, the birds flitting and calling, the comforting sounds of the jungle. Of course, it’s not easy to block out Joe’s bell-ringing and Layla’s chants.
“Let’s follow the fence,” I suggest.
Wendell and I walk briskly and quietly, while Layla and Joe straggle behind, making a racket.
Until a noise cuts through their voices. A squawk. Shrill and loud. Then another and another. A cacophony of what sound like disturbed chickens, dozens of them. Following the commotion, we spot a henhouse. It’s tucked inside its own protective wire cage within this fence. A few chickens are visible through the leaves, their white feathers bright against layers of thick foliage. Wendell and I look at each other.
“The dead chickens in the curse,” I murmur. “You think this is evidence?”
“Maybe,” he says slowly. “But lots of people keep chickens.”
And then there’s a deep purr like a roll of thunder, or a saw slicing through wood, tooth by tooth. My head snaps in the direction of the noise.
Joe stops ringing his bell.
Layla’s stick of incense freezes in the air.
Another purr sounds, almost a groan, or maybe even a yawn—an animal rumble that could only come from the jaguar.
We stand motionless, waiting, listening. The only movement comes from the spiral of fragrant smoke twisting through the air. After a stretch of quiet, just insects and bird sounds, we resume our path around the fence perimeter, now with tentative steps.
Through the leaves, a tin roof glints in sunlight. “Look,” I whisper, pointing with my chin.
The house is small and wooden. There’s a garden in the back, with blossoming herbs and shiny red chiles and huge tomatoes. Sprawled beside a tomato plant, licking its fur casually, is the jaguar. Again, it yawns, revealing its teeth, yellowed points. I pray that the fence is strong enough to hold the creature in.
“Wow,” Joe breathes.
“Wow,” Layla echoes. “Qué chido.”
This is the first time I’ve seen the creature relaxed and unaware of my presence. It’s beautiful, like a polished gem or wood sculpture. Its fur has the smoothness of glass. For a moment, we all stand still, transfixed. Thankfully, Joe has enough sense not to ring the gong.
Meanwhile, Wendell walks farther along the fence, treading carefully. After just a few meters, he glances back, motions for us to come. “A gate,” he mouths, pointing.
The gate is held shut with a tangle of thick chains fastened by a heavy padlock. A path runs up to it through the jungle from the direction of the dirt road. And inside the gate, the trail continues to the house. With its potted flowers and blooming bushes, it looks surprisingly cheerful for the home of an alleged bruja.
Wendell glances around. “No buzzer or bell.”
My eyes scan the gate. Nothing. Nothing but a sign that reads TRESPASSERS WILL BE ELIMINATED. Suddenly, I have the nearly irresistible urge to go back. No, run back. Even thinking about another jaguar encounter makes my legs weak, my hands so sweaty I nearly lose my grip on the cake platter.
“What next?” Wendell whispers.
I glance over at the big cat lolling in the sunshine. The last thing I want to do is wake it up by calling out hello.
Which is exactly what Layla does. “¡Buenos días!”
The jaguar leaps to its feet in one swift motion. It takes three giant bounds to the gate and hurls its body against it. The chains and locks and metal rattle. And the creature roars.
I nearly drop the cake. We all stagger backward.
“Well,” Joe says shakily, wiping sweat from his face, “that’s one alternative to a doorbell.”
Wendell squeezes my shoulder. “You okay, Z?”
I nod, even though every instinct in my body tells me to toss the cake and run. Far away. But curiosity wins out. I force my legs to stay steady.
“Hello!” Layla calls out, unruffled by the growls from the enormous predator just meters away. “We’re your neighbors!”
A movement is visible through a crack in the curtain. Then, slowly, the door creaks open.
And here she is, the jaguar woman—the murderous bruja—in full daylight. For the first time I have a clear view of her. Smooth, brown legs extend from beneath a short black sundress. Her arched feet are strangely elegant in red flip-flops and silver anklets. A river of satiny black hair spills over her shoulders, the stuff of shampoo commercials. Her full lips are closed, her hands graceful on the door’s edge, her feline eyes boring into us.
“¡Hola!” Layla calls out, followed by quick introductions in Spanish. “We’re your new neighbors! We’re managing Cabañas Magia del Mar!”
The woman saunters toward the gate. “Meche,” she says through the gate in a low voice, eyeing our bags of spiritual paraphernalia. She hugs the jaguar’s neck, whispers something in his ear, and presses his haunches down beside her.
Layla sparkles. “¡Mucho gusto, Meche!” Good to meet you!
When Meche doesn’t answer, Layla goes on. “We brought you a cake, pink angel food! Made with all-natural beet dye!”
Meche looks at the cake in my hands but makes no move to open the gate. Gratefully, I set down the platter and back away, as if she herself is a wild animal.
Although Meche hasn’t asked, Layla says, “Oh, thi
ngs are going wonderfully for us. It’s such a magical place, isn’t it? I lead yoga every morning at sunrise on the beach. You should join us sometime!” Layla rambles on as Meche stands there, impassive.
Even in her own home, this woman maintains a distinct aloofness. The only cracks in her façade are the glances she sneaks at me. I try not to meet her eyes, looking down at the soil, then over her head at the sky, then at the lonely pink cake with its droopy whipped-cream topping, then at the jaguar. Anywhere but at her beautiful, disturbing eyes. They remind me too much of our encounter last night.
She asks no questions; no Why are you toting bells and incense? or Why is that man wearing a blue wig? After waiting a polite moment for Meche to volunteer information about herself, Layla gets even more direct. “So you live here?”
Meche gives a slight nod.
“Just you?” Layla pushes.
Another nod.
Joe takes a stab at casual conversation, explaining his wig, his calling to travel the world spreading joy as a clown before the end of the world. He’s obviously nervous, but I have to give him credit for trying. And at least he hasn’t tried doing a juggling routine to break the ice.
Meche gives another nearly imperceptible nod. Every few seconds, she glances in my direction.
“So tell us,” says Layla, “how did you end up living with a jaguar?” She’s never had qualms mentioning the elephant in the room.
Meche kisses its head, smoothes its fur. “He’s Gatito.”
Wendell shoots me a confused look. “Kitty?” he whispers in English.
I nod, just as bewildered. Kitty is the last name I would’ve guessed.
“It’s a baby?” Joe asks, unconvinced.
“Oh, no. It’s just that—I’ve had Gatito since he was a kitten.”
“So jaguar pets are legal here?” Layla asks.
I suck in my breath, hoping Meche won’t take this as a confrontation. The last thing I want to do is provoke an alleged bruja with a pet jaguar.
She shakes her head. “Gatito had been poached. He was being sold on the black market.” Her voice is so low, I have to strain to hear.
