My mother patted my father’s hand and said, ‘Oh, Calvin, it’s just a story.’ And snuggling her head closer against his unyielding shoulder, she said, ‘I think it’s romantic.’
‘Oh, you would,’ my father scoffed. ‘You’re easily impressed. But I, for one, am tired of these stories. They’re the product of the Indians’ drunken, libidinous imaginations. They have no basis in fact.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Señor Pastor,’ Carlos said carefully. ‘I seen things at night I can’t explain. For example, I seen la luz mala once. It appears in the woods out near el cementerio, a plume of bluish-grey light that beckons unwary travellers to follow it to their . . .’
‘Blasphemy!’ my father said. ‘These old wives’ tales do nothing but make the faithful go astray. You’d have thought that with all the work my father had done we’d be rid of them by now.’ Then, turning to a guest seated near him by the fire, my father said, ‘You, Pastor Olafssen, as a fellow man of God, must surely share my misgivings.’
I looked over to Pastor Jakob Olafssen, a tall, handsome man, younger than my father by at least a decade. He had a deeply-tanned face, black hair and penetrating blue eyes. Pastor Olafssen was the son of my father’s mentor back at the Seminary. When the young man graduated, my father was asked to take him under his wing and teach him the ministry. That must have been around 1903, a year or so before I was born.
Pastor Olafssen served my father well. He never balked at his orders. He never bent in his faith. When he wasn’t working at our church, Pastor Olafssen worked with the Indians on the outskirts of Incarnation. He helped them plant crops and tended the sick. I don’t think he made—or ever tried to make—a single conversion.
This aroused my father’s suspicions that Olafssen was something of a Bolshevik. But my mother spoke highly of the young pastor. When the Indian women were having difficult childbirths, they asked my mother to tend to them, and she witnessed the good he was doing. But I think it was the austerity with which the young pastor lived that helped win Father over. His only possessions were a Bible, two shirts and a woollen jacket.
After two years working with my father, Pastor Olafssen set off, like John the Baptist, to preach in the wilderness alone. He travelled from town to town, all across Texas and even into Old Mexico. He performed baptisms or weddings wherever he was needed.
Pastor Olafssen would disappear on his ministering for months at a time, but he’d always come back to Incarnation to visit us. And he’d always smuggle me a packet of adventure books that he’d picked up on his travels: Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Treasure Island, King Solomon’s Mines, and Moonfleet. I say ‘smuggle’, because those books were contraband in my house. Father considered anything written after Dante’s Inferno to be pure debauchery.
Thinking back to that dog-eared collection, tattered and stained with mud and rain, my heart beats faster. Those books were the voice of adventure calling for me in the jungle, the tundra and the desert. They were my hope for a life far away from Incarnation.
Sebas and I thrilled to Pastor Olafssen’s stories of travelling to churches off the beaten path. He’d scale mountains, inch across ledges half-a-shoulder wide. He’d swim raging rivers and jump gaping chasms. . . .
That night around the campfire, Pastor Olafssen cleared his throat and looked from Carlos to Mother and then back to Father. Then he said, ‘Pastor Strömberg, I wouldn’t worry too much about these local stories. After all, the Church is infused with references to Greek and Roman legends. That’s only made our tradition richer. These stories could build a stronger church.’
‘Oh, you’re far too indulgent,’ my father spat out, nudging my mother into a sitting position. ‘The modern Church has gone soft. There’s less talk about good and evil than there is of “ecumenism”, “interfaith”, and all that other nonsense. It’s the Christian Scientists and the Jews who are behind it, I’m sure. The Church is so worried about offending anyone that we’ve lost our way.’
Pastor Olafssen replied, ‘But what sort of threat could the Indians’ legends pose?’
My father boiled over, ‘They leave us weak and limp, unable to defend ourselves against the forces of the Devil. Remember . . .’ his blue eyes seemed to darken, ‘. . . it’s a narrow gate, and only a few can enter. Am I right, or am I right, Pastor Olafssen?’
The adults fidgeted with their hats. My stomach twisted into a knot. All eyes fell on Pastor Olafssen as he lowered his gaze to the dying embers of the fire. After a moment he said, ‘Pastor Strömberg, I agree that the Devil is all about us . . . of that I’m sure. And we must be wary of his tricks and snares. For all the modernism you accuse me of, we’re of one mind on this.’
‘Good! Then you agree that . . .’
But before my father could finish, Pastor Olafssen said, ‘There’s also so much love in this world, and that’s a gift from God.’ I thought there was a flicker of a glance between him and my mother, although it could have been just a trick of the light.
The young pastor continued, ‘Surely, don’t you think His Everlasting Mercy will see us through . . . all of us, regardless of the minor differences in our creeds?’
Father’s teeth gleamed in the light of the dying fire. He grunted. ‘I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s obvious that I’m the only one who can see what’s really going on. It’s getting late. I’m going to bed.’ He got up abruptly and left the circle of guests without another word.
That night, as I drifted off to sleep, my dreams were filled with the nahual and its piercing yellow eyes, the Muladona with its burning horseshoes, and the screams of unbaptised children burning in the fiery pits of hell.
CHAPTER FOUR
One summer day, Sebas, Carolina and I were perched high in the branches of a peach tree. The heat reflected up from the stone border of the pool. It must have been 110 degrees in the shade.
We were jungle cats in a wide, scorched savannah. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. The summer day was a year. It was forever.
We were dizzy from the heat but had flatly refused to come inside and cool off. My mother had sent Lupita to bring us in. She reprimanded us. She sobbed at the sight of our sweaty pink faces. She wrung her hands, but she couldn’t budge us from the trees.
Shortly after, Carlos came out to the pool with a long-handled net. He set about skimming out the leaves and water bugs. He moved the handle back and forth serenely, as if he were fly-fishing. To no one in particular, he said, ‘You should obey your mamá and come inside. Obeyin’ your parents is a mandamiento de Jesús, that is. Or you’ll wake up the Muladona. Won’t do no good for nadie.’
‘Ah, Carlito,’ my brother drawled, a long piece of grass sticking from his teeth, ‘don’t try to scare us. We’re too old to believe in the bogeyman.’
‘Well,’ Carlos continued, ‘I tells you a story of two people who broke the rules once in Encarnación. And you sees if you like what happened to ’em.’
The heat was almost suffocating now. Carlos’ words came like a lullaby, far away and sweet above the buzzing of the grasshoppers. He began, ‘You call us all “Mexican” ’round here. Mexican this. Mexican that. And, yeah, I got la sangre mexicana in my veins. But that ain’t my choice. I come from the Apache people. We were free men and warriors when the patrón brought us here to work. And over the years, we became his peones. We were tied to him, body and soul.
‘These things happened a long time ago. But I know they’re true, ’cause my father’s father tole me, and his father’s father tole him.
‘We’ll never know how many men were swallowed up by the mine. Dirty, filthy holes, always cavin’ in. Stale air. Bitter cold mixed with hellish heat.’ He spat on the ground, as if he still had the taste of the mine in his mouth.
‘But as bad as it were, the patrón would go down in the hole with my people. Stripped to the waist, shovel in hand, he shared the risks.
‘When the patrón died, his son took over. We called him the patroncito. He was a bad man, a drunkard. In
stead of paying us in knives or blankets, he’d trade ore for food. We’d lost the old hunting ways, so if we didn’t bring up enough ore, we didn’t eat. And he drove us hard, with the whip. One night, this new patrón killed one of our men when he crawled up out of the pit. He just wanted a sip of water after spending all night underground.
‘Our men rebelled. They killed many white men and closed down the pit. In revenge, the new patrón burned our tents, slaughtered our animals. Then we had absolutamente nada, just like when we’d come down from the hills.
‘But the patroncito needed us, so he began to trade with us again. He added whisky. That was a trick, to keep us from complainin’. But things still were bad. There was another uprisin’ after that, and they killed more of us en represalia.
‘But then, as the elders tell us, a young priest came to town. He was a good man. He wanted to lift us up from sufferin’. He visited us down in the pit. He tended to the sick. He didn’t throw down the old gods. One night, this priest goes visitin’ my people. Clouds of dirt and ore-dust hangs heavy in the air. The rhythm of singin’ comes up from the earth. Out of the darkness steps una muchacha encantadora. She got raven black hair and shinin’ eyes.
‘They say she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. She had the old magic. And though they taught us the Devil has horns and a pointy fork, it was this girl of the beautiful eyes who was the Devil, indeed.
‘As soon as the priest sees her, all goodness runs from his heart. He forgets his mission to lift us up from misery, and thinks only of her. He follows her to an old, worn-out passageway of the mine. She offers no resistance, and they do things God despises.
‘It was that night the first killings begin. Pues, killings were a normal thing, with the patroncito and his men. But this is somethin’ else. Some animal, some thing is huntin’ our people on their way back home at night. At first they think it’s a mountain cat. But this thing doesn’t eat what it kills. And the people it kills, they’re all the same sort. . . .’ and here Carlos’ voice trailed off. He began whistling to himself, as if he’d forgotten he was telling us a story.
‘What sort?’ my brother asked, although he tried to say it in a voice devoid of any interest.
Carlos coughed and then he replied, ‘Ah, the worst sort. The perezosos y vagabundos. The gossipers. The patroncito’s informants. Their throats are torn out, their limbs chomped off. And the white men’s children, too,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Little girls who play with dolls during la siesta,’ he said, pointing a wizened, old finger at Carolina, ‘even though their mamás tole ’em not to. That’s ’cause the soul’s at its weakest then, and brujas have the power to possess li’l kids through their dolls.’
Without moving, I looked about me through the gaps in my straw hat.
‘What happened?’ Carolina asked breathlessly. ‘Did the killings stop?’
‘No,’ Carlos replied. ‘Fact is, they happen more often. They fill this town with fear. And this fear is stronger than my people’s hate. They go out with the white men to hunt for the beast. But when they’re on its track, high in the hills, a killin’ happens far back in town. Like the thing can fly.
‘Then my people turn on each other. They accuse each other’s wives of witchcraft. They seek revenge. Gougin’ out eyes. Pullin’ out tongues. They forget their love for li’l baby Cristo.
‘The priest has turned so far from the light he can’t guide my people no more. He only wants to take away his lover, before any harm can befall her. So one night, while the men are out huntin’ for the beast, he empties the collection plates. He steals as much gold dust as he can carry, and he heads to the old mine shaft.
‘He calls out to his lover in the darkness of the mine. He hears her laughter echo throughout its many chambers. It’s an enchantin’ laugh, but made different by the echoes of the mine: it ends with somethin’ like a whinny or a bray.
‘He runs, desperate, from place to place. He thinks he can hear her laughter close by, but he can’t find her nowhere. Feelin’ no shame, he cries out, “Enough tricks. I renounce the Church. Run away with me, before the creature takes you.”
‘Then he hears her acomin’ up the long, windin’ passageway. He hears a scrapin’ noise against the rock, as if a great weight is bein’ dragged. Un peso tremendo,’ Carlos emphasised, holding up his hands with a grimace. ‘Strainin’ his eyes in the darkness, the priest sees a figure appear. He rushes towards her, arms outstretched. But he stops himself. Instead of his beloved, he sees the Devil’s mule, the Muladona. Its thick black coat is like midnight. The steam of hell is blowin’ out its nose. Its shiny, penetratin’ eyes like the flames of hell. And in these eyes he recognises the eyes of his beloved.
‘Her hair is combed and braided by imps’ hands. Clamped between her crooked teeth is a beautiful golden bit, a weddin’ gift from el diablo himself. Trailin’ behind her are red-hot chains. Scrapin’, sizzlin’ the very rock. A link for every sin she’s committed. A length for every night she spent with the priest.
‘ “Yee-sss, mi amor,” the unholy things brays. Its hot breath smells of sulphur. “Yee-sss, let’s run away. I know a plaa-cce we can be together, always-sss and forever. . . .” ’
At this point Carlos stopped the tale. He took out the net from the pool and dumped its contents of beetles behind the bushes.
‘But what happened then?’ Carolina asked, her voice no longer drowsy under the bleaching sun.
‘Well,’ Carlos said slowly, ‘los ancianos don’t say for sure. Some say the priest, hypnotised by his devil-bride, jumps on her back. The thing takes off with him and tramples down the mineshaft that opens straight into hell, and he reigns like a demon for a thousand years until the Devil takes his soul. Others say he realises the error of his ways. He runs at the beast, and rips out the golden bit, and that kills it on the spot.’
Carlos’ wrinkled face was impassive and severe as he said, ‘Yet others say the priest refuses to join his beloved. It devours him then and there, bones, hair, clothes and all. But . . .’
‘Yes, yes?’ I asked, my heart beating fiercely.
‘One thing’s for sure, that was the first Muladona ’round these parts. Ever since then, when a woman commits an impure act, she becomes the devil-mule at night. She chooses her victims just like the first one . . . the liars, the gossipers, the bad, li’l kids. And you’ll hear her comin’ for ya at night, by the way she clanks the chains of hell.’
Without another word Carlos coiled up the hose. He slung it over his shoulder and went back along the garden path towards the house.
I lay on my branch, stunned. Carolina said nothing. Not even my brother, who was always quick with a withering comment, said a word. We all feigned sleep, baking under the hot sun. Our mouths were dry, our hearts troubled, as we wondered if what Carlos had said was true.
Because of the heat, we fell asleep. I awoke much later, my back sore, with the bumpy pattern of the tree bark stamped upon my skin. The sun was going down, but the air was still charged with heat and a sense of uncertainty. That’s when I heard the first scratching, the first, slow dragging of a chain against the stones of the garden path. Then a clip-clop of hooves, growing louder and louder.
I screamed out ‘Muladona!’
In a mad rush, we all leapt from the tree. We fell onto the hard ground and ran screaming down the garden path. In an instant we were all holed up in my room, huddling under the covers. . . .
For a long time the only sound was my heart beating in my ears. Then I heard my father’s shouting from outside. I raised my head and looked through the window, afraid I’d see him being mauled by the Muladona. He wasn’t being attacked. He was just reprimanding Carlos.
The old man was holding up some rusty chains and a horseshoe. He said, ‘But, señor pastor, it’s just a little joke, you see? To make them take la siesta. The Muladona. . . . ’
My father slapped him hard across the face and bellowed, ‘Don’t you ever pronounce that demonic name in my ho
use ever again! Do you hear me?’
The kind old gardener lowered his head, whispering ‘Yes, patrón. Yes, yes. I understand. It won’t happen again.’
I was unable to look Carolina in the face for a long time after that.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was about seven years old when my health began to fail.
Doc Evans said it might have been complications from scarlet fever. I had all sorts of procedures, prodding and drawing blood, but no one could tell for sure. Some days I’d feel better, and I’d ask Father if I could play outside. I’d take my medicine, expectant of an adventure in the outside world. But sometime after lunch I’d usually feel ill again. I’d have to go to my room and take a nap. The bed would spin, and I’d vomit. And that was the end of my adventure.
My illness remained a mystery, just like my mother’s disappearance. She went the same year I started getting sick. Sometimes I think I can remember the day she went missing. She hugs me, surrounding me with her flower-pattern dress, an entire garden embracing me. Her hair smells like jasmine. I try to remember more details, but the more I try, the farther away the memory gets, and I’m left with memories of memories.
In the sad months after Mother left, I often felt as if I was on the verge of remembering some important fact about her disappearance. I would begin to form her name on my lips, but one penetrating look from my father and the memory disappeared.
He never forbade me to talk of Mother, but I understood it implicitly. He blamed her for leaving us, and he did not want to be reminded of her.
After Mother disappeared, the townsfolk kept visiting us for a while. They’d drink coffee and chat with Father about church affairs. But there was no joy in it.
It was a strange time. Friends wanted to give us their condolences, but could not. No one knew for sure whether she’d fallen into the river and drowned or had just run away. A rumour started that she’d been kidnapped by Indians, but I never put any stock in that.
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