by Khurt Khave
“My apologies, Padre, you just startled me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Rafael Gutierez, I’m a professor of theology. My specialization is representations of La Virgen de Guadalupe, and I was just admiring yours, here. It is so unique; I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
The priest took his hand and shook it warmly, although Rafael felt he still maintained a distance between them. “Welcome, Professor Gutierez, I am Father Sebastian Muñoz, pastor here at Nuestra Gran Madre.”
“‘Our Great Mother?’ Hmm. I’ve driven through this neighborhood my whole life and I don’t think I ever noticed your church or the mural before.”
The priest smiled almost shyly. “We are a small shrine and convent, just for this neighborhood. For the past decade or so, fewer and fewer have been coming to services. Just los viejos, the elderly who remember the old ways.”
“Before Vatican II,” Rafael responded knowingly. Father Muñoz simply smiled.
Rafael gestured at the mural. “I’ve never seen La Virgen like this
before.” He stared in silence for a few moments and then whispered, “Nimonan. Annopihuan.”
Next to him, Father started and then said in admiration and surprise, “You speak Nahuatl? ‘I am your mother. You are my children.’”
“Not fluently,” Rafael flushed with pride, “but when you study La Virgen, you must know everything about her, and the things she said to Juan Diego are of great importance.”
“Yes. Yes!” enthused Father Muñoz. “Too often she is misunderstood, even by the Católicos.”
“True, true,” responded Rafael. “Is this an older representation of her, or does it represent a local variation?” He pointed to the mural. “I have never seen her represented this way.”
The Padre stared at the image intently and took a deep breath and slowly said, “This image is based on the Nican Mopohua and the visions of the nun who founded this convent. She was of Aztec descent and it was thought she might be a descendant of the Aztec peasant we call Juan Diego. She saw La Virgen without the veneer that the past centuries have put on her.”
Rafael chose to remain silent, knowing that doing so often encouraged those he was interviewing to keep talking, while surreptitiously hitting the record button on the digital recorder he used for interviews that he kept in his jacket pocket.
“She told the Aztec peasant that she was ‘Coatlaxopeuh’ meaning ‘the one who crushes the serpent.’ She is the divine mother of the Americas. Our founder, born in Mexico City, but brought to Los Angeles as a child, she wanted to capture that aspect in this painting.”
“That makes sense,” encouraged Rafael. “After all, the real name of the city is El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles, City of our Lady, Queen of the Angels. Both Los Angeles and Tepeyac are dedicated to the Holy Mother.”
“Yes. Yes!” the priest’s eyes and smile grew wider, encouraging Rafael, who began to think he may have found his research project.
“Now that I’m really looking at this mural, I am seeing Aztec influences. I wonder if there is not an Aztec religious influence on this image. I mean Tepeyac is believed to have been a Pre-Columbian worship site for the indigenous mother goddess Tonantzin, whose name means ‘Our Great Mother.’ Yes, am I right that this image of La Virgen encompasses some elements of Tonantzin?”
“Yes!” whispered the priest, almost joyfully. “Now that you have said this, I can tell you our founder, the first mother superior of this order, painted the mural so that those who know the truth and share our understanding of the Great Mother would be welcome here.”
Father Muñoz grasped Rafael’s arm, taking it in his and turning towards the door. “Please, won’t you come in? It is almost time for Terce. The sisters pray and I shall read from Psalms and Nican Mopohua. It is a most serene occasion.”
“Your services are in Latin and Nahuatl? How remarkable!” Rafael had never heard of such a thing. He was delighted the recorder was going and that he seemed to have found the very thing he needed to publish a book. “Thank you, La Virgen,” he thought, smiling, “I think you have just guaranteed my tenure.”
“I would be honored to join your services,” he told the priest, and allowed himself to be escorted through the door into the chapel.
Inside, Father Muñoz closed and locked the door with a deadbolt. They were in a courtyard. The style was late nineteenth century. The ground was covered in tile, forming patterns, the walls were painted adobe. Benches lined the walls on either side of the courtyard, empty now, but Rafael could imagine the nuns sitting here in contemplation.
In the center of the courtyard was a dead tree surrounded by a pool of water. The tree was a sickly thing. It had been a coral tree, perhaps twelve feet tall when it was alive, but the branches were withered. They hung down over the water, leafless, blighted. The bark had turned a yellowish grey and had crumbled from parts of the trunk, which appeared to ooze an amber sap. A single, dry, red flower sat on a branch about halfway up. It looked malignant and the whole thing struck Rafael as wrong. The tree was obviously dead and rotting and he wondered why the convent would not simply remove it and plant a new one. He figured that the poverty of the order probably prohibited that, donations not being what they used to for the Church after the past few decades. Still, they could at least remove the sick tree. It was odd.
Father Muñoz did not mention the tree as he guided Rafael past it through the courtyard to a door on the wall opposite the one they had entered. Instead he indicated doors on the walls next to the benches. “That door leads to the convent, where the sisters sleep and take their meals.” Pointing to the door opposite he continued, “And that leads to my own humble quarters. I am pastor here, but the only man. This is the home of the Hermanitas de la Madre Hungry.”
“Little Sisters of the Hungry Mother?” Never heard of that order, thought Rafael. Must be a small, local one.
“They are a small congregation, with only this group here and one in Mexico,” responded the priest, as if answering his thoughts. “But they are dedicated to the Great Mother. We wish to keep Her happy and avoid the chalice of Her wrath.”
Rafael noted this last statement, one he had heard before from more conservative devotees of Mary. As Divine Mother, her role was to mitigate the anger of God the Father and intercede on poor humankind’s behalf, but sometimes she, too, grew angry, although rarely was it ever brought up.
“And this is the workhouse and the chapel.”
The Padre opened the door with an ornate key and held it open for Rafael to enter. The lighting immediately changed as they moved from the hazy morning light of Los Angeles to the glare of many, many candles, muted by the warm wood paneling of the entryway, which led into a large room with a low ceiling. In the center of the chamber was a huge wooden frame with many threads and wires connecting it. He realized it was a loom.
Sitting in two rows on either side of the device, heads bowed, focused on the work in front of them, were approximately two dozen women, one dozen on each side. He could hear the working of many hands, many shuttles, quickly and quietly clicking and humming as threads were plucked and moved into place.
Father Muñoz appeared at his elbow, whispering in his ear, “The sisters make tapestries of the Great Mother, as well as of other religious scenes, which we sell. It is how we fund the order.”
The two rows of women all looked up and turned their faces towards him simultaneously. He realized as he saw their pupils that they were all blind. Upon closer inspection, some were even missing their eyes. Not a word was spoken. No one opened her mouth. They seemingly stared at him, his logical mind telling him they were blind and therefore could not be staring, but some primal part of him knowing they were seeing him and seeing right through him. Then, as one, they turned back to the loom and the work began again.
Not knowing what or how to ask, Rafael turned to the priest and began, “Are they all. . .”
“Blind? Yes. Many women join our order after an accident
or an injury. They have often lost eyes, or at least their sight. Others allow themselves to lose their sight so they may focus on what is important. They offer their suffering up to the Great Mother so that She will accept their sacrifice and be propitiated.”
Rafael started and then slowly asked, “Are you telling me some of them intentionally blind themselves?”
The priest responded with equal deliberateness. “I would not say they do, but I cannot say they do not. My role is to tend to their souls, not their bodies. The Mother Superior ensures that they are taken care of for the rest of their lives.”
Rafael did not know how to respond to this.
“Let us to the chapel, so we might prepare for the arrival of the sisters and for Terce.” He began to move past the nuns as they worked without waiting for Rafael.
As he moved past the loom, Rafael realized the nuns were simply ignoring him and turned his focus to the tapestry they were weaving. They were working from the bottom up, although the image was upside down. He could see the rolling hills as the sky, and the roses that were in the cloak that Juan Diego held up.
He stopped and looked closer, not sure of what he was seeing. As he moved slightly nearer, the details came into focus. The roses were actually trees, with tentacles, screaming mouths at their top. He swore the tentacle face of Juan Diego from the mural in the street was just beginning to take shape in the thread when he realized the nun closest to him had turned to face him. She opened her mouth and hissed at him.
“Professor?” The Father’s voice called from the chapel.
As Rafael hurried ahead he realized the woman had no tongue. She wasn’t hissing, she had been speaking to him without a tongue. He was shocked, but that shock turned to pity and embarrassment as he had allowed himself to be frightened by a poor old woman who was probably the victim of domestic violence.
Rafael paused as he entered the chapel. On each side of the room were a half dozen black wooden pews. A lectern and podium sat at the front of the room. Behind them sat a huge tapestry of La Virgen, two dozen feet tall and half again as wide. No, not La Virgen. This had to be Tonantzin as La Virgen.
It was then he realized there was not a single crucifix in the entire place. Not even here in the chapel. There was, however, another dead tree in a pool in the corner. This one looked like a weeping willow without leaves. He was determined to ask Father Muñoz about it in order to better write about the iconography of this order and opened his mouth to do so when he realized the nuns were coming in from the workroom for Terce. No bell had rung, no one had spoken, the women had simply stood up, formed a line in which each had placed her hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of her and the two rows moved forward into the chapel.
He moved out of their way and the priest gestured to a chair on the side of the chapel next to the lectern. Rafael sat and watched the women enter, fill the front pews and then knelt down.
Ten minutes of seemingly silent prayer followed. Rafael took out his pad and began scribbling notes furiously. He saw Father Muñoz glance at him and he held up the pen with an expression on his face that he hoped the priest understood as asking permission. After a moment, the priest nodded and closed his eyes, returning to his own prayer. Again, with no indication, the women all rose and stood at once as if on cue.
A few of them began to sing. He realized that many did not, and saw the woman with no tongue who had “spoken” to him earlier was not singing and wondered if the majority were missing tongues as well. Those who were singing, sang an archaic hymn in an older form of Spanish. The priest joined them. Rafael only recognized certain words and phrases. He realized it was a hymn to The Mother. He could not join in, but he was secretly delighted that he was recording it, so he could translate it later.
The song ended and the women sat. The priest then read a brief section from the book of Psalms. He followed it with a short reading in Nahuatl. Rafael recognized it from the fourth apparition as narrated in Antonio Valeriano’s account. He recognized, “Cut them, gather them, assemble them, then come and bring them before my presence,” but some of the text sounded different than he remembered.
Finally, the priest turned to Rafael and beamed, “My sisters, we have a most welcome guest here. El Profesor is an expert on the Great Mother and Mother Coatlaxopeuh’s mural called him to us. I have asked him to offer a prayer with us today. Professor?”
Rafael stood, bowed to the tapestry and stepped to the lectern. He surveyed the women, and bowed his head while raising his arms.
“Holy Mother. As with your many miracles for Juan Diego and for all who call upon you, asking you for your blessings and favors, we, your poor children, implore you to protect us and bless us and give your blessings to the Sisters of the Hungry Mother. May you watch over them and bless their work. We ask this in your son’s name, as we wait in joyful hope for his coming. Amen.”
The priest stared at him in shock, “What did you just say?”
“It’s a standard prayer, I thought. . .” he began.
“We do not pray for their coming. We pray and sacrifice so that she and they will slumber and not come. Never come!”
Rafael could not process this conversation, the nuns sat silent, their blind eyes focused on him.
“I thought you understood. In our conversations, I thought you knew. She has a thousand sons. The Católicos have hidden the truth! Her son was not hung on the tree. Her son was the tree. Tonantzin is the virgin mother with a thousand young who crushes the serpent beneath her feet.”
Rafael realized this was a very different sect than he thought it was. “I did not mean to give offense. As I told you I have spent my life studying La Virgen. I have always been told the serpent was Quetzalcoatl and that the Great Mother. . .”
“Yig!” cried the priest. “Yig and Tsathoggua! The serpents that the Hungry Mother crushes! Ia! May her slumber last forever now that she has crushed the serpents!”
“I have been mistaken and I fear I have offended you. Thank you for your time and for allowing me to join your service. I apologize for my offense.” Rafael began to move towards the door. The nuns all stood and he turned and ran.
He fled through the workshop with its incomplete tapestry and ran past the sinister tree in the courtyard, now seeing it in a new and dangerous light. He unlocked the deadbolt and threw the door to the outside open, slamming it behind him, not even daring to look back at the mural that had enticed him in the first place.
Rafael fled down the sidewalk, shoving his notebook in his valise, running all the way back to the alley where he had left his car. He stumbled as he tried to pull the keys out of his pocket while he ran and began hitting the button to unlock the car. His hand slapped the handle. The door opened, thank God. He threw his valise onto the passenger seat, jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door and hit the locks. He put the key in the ignition and finally allowed himself the opportunity to take a deep breath.
Then he looked in the rear view mirror.
Two nuns sat silently in the back seat, clad in purple and black habits, eyes missing. Still, until this moment.
Before he could say or do anything, the one directly behind him leaned forward quicker than he could perceive. He saw a flash of sunlight off something in her hand. He felt a burning at his throat, and his chest grew warm and wet. The non sequitur ran through his head, “Hey, it’s sunny out now.” He tried to breathe, but only made wet slopping sounds.
He heard the car door open and as his vision began to fade Father Muñoz’s face swam into view above him. Father closed his eyes, held up his hands and solemnly intoned, “Pray, my sisters, that our sacrifice may be acceptable to the almighty mother, Virgin Goat with a Thousand Young. May She accept the sacrifice at your hands for the praise and glory of Her name, for our good and the good of all the earth, that She may continue to slumber and keep us from Her dark wrath.” He then opened his eyes and exhaled. Gazing with pity at Rafael, he said, “Mijo, I am truly sorry it had to be like this, but
the world is not ready to know the truth of the Dark Mother.”
Rafael at first thought the priest was trying to pull him out of the car, as he felt hands grabbing him, but he realized the priest was going through his pockets. Father Muñoz held up the digital recorder and hit the button that erased the contents. He held up the digital camera and erased all the photos from that day. Rafael weakly reached for the camera, but his strength had fled and the priest batted his hand away effortlessly. He then placed the recorder and camera on top of Rafael’s valise on the passenger seat.
“Please enter into sleep knowing your death will propitiate Her and keep your loved ones safe for another day.” He made the sign of the cross over Rafael as the sunlight grew brighter.
And then he was gone, and so was Rafael.
“One squat, black temple of Tsathoggua was encountered, but it had been turned into a shrine of Shub-Niggurath, the All-Mother and wife of the Not-to-Be-Named-One. This deity was a kind of sophisticated Astarte, and her worship struck the pious Catholic as supremely obnoxious.”
H.P. Lovecraft and Zealia Bishop, “The Mound”
Kevin Wetmore is the author of over a dozen and a half short stories, appearing in such anthologies as Midian Unmade, Enter at Your Own Risk: The End is the Beginning, Whispers from the Abyss 2, A Lonely and Curious Country, Dark Tales from Elder Regions, and Fall of Cthulhu 2, as well as magazines like Devolution Z and Mothership Zeta, the last of which published his H. P. Lovecraft/Judy Blume mashup “Tales of a fourth Grade Shoggoth.” He is also the author of Post-9/11 Horror in American Cinema and Back from the Dead: Reading Remakes of Romero's Zombie Films as Markers of Their Times.
Visit his website: www.SomethingWetmoreThisWayComes.com
Warm Red Sea Jaap Boekestein
Transformation is the key. Transformation of the body and the mind.
The red hot branding iron pushed against Nathalie's back. Hissing.
Stench.
