Summer of the Mariposas

by Guadalupe Garcia McCall

  Juanita pushed her fists into the empty backpack on her lap, which deflated as she leaned over like she was going to be sick. “It’s no use. They’re not here.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I opened the door to step out of the truck, looking up at the building we’d parked beside. “I can’t believe it! The answer has been sitting right here all along.”

  “What are you talking about?” Abuelita asked, joining me on the sidewalk.

  The rest of the girls left the truck to cluster around us. Juanita followed my gaze and stared up at the santuario. “What’s going on?”

  “This is it. The Virgin’s sanctuary, her home,” I said, taking in the beauty of the ancient cement building with its stained-glass windows and tall central tower.

  “So what are you saying?” Velia asked. “You think we should pray?”

  I turned to Abuelita Remedios, put my arms around her, and squeezed her with all my might. “Thank you!” I said. “You couldn’t have brought us to a more ideal place. Ladies, we’re going to do more than pray. We’re going to go in there and ask for a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” Pita straightened her clothes as she stared at the church.

  “Yes.” I let go of Abuelita and started off for the wooden doors of the santuario. “Come on. I have one more spin left.”

  Inside the dark, empty church, I walked to the nearest pew, held onto the edge of the seat, dropped to one knee, and crossed myself. Then I turned left, intentionally passing the replica of the body of Christ. I touched the glass of the ancient display case and said a brief silent prayer as I continued to make my way to the altar of the Virgen de Guadalupe at the front of the church.

  Like little ducks, the girls mimicked my every move until we were all standing in front of the virgin’s altar, crossing ourselves, one right after the other. Abuelita reached into her pocket, pulled out a worn leather coin purse and deposited six coins into the slot of the metal box in front of the iron candleholder. Then she took a long wooden stick, borrowed flame from a burning wick, and lit a new candle. She passed the stick around and we all took turns lighting our own candles.

  “Ready?” I whispered as I took Juanita’s hand on one side and Abuelita’s hand on the other. “Get in close.”

  I watched the rest of the girls take each other’s hands until we were all standing in a semicircle, joined in prayer before the Virgen de Guadalupe, la Madre de México, our Holy Mother standing on a bed of roses.

  “Here we go,” I whispered. “Bow your heads and close your eyes.”

  Everyone did as they were told. I let go of Abuelita’s hand long enough to give the ear pendant a spirited flick. It spun to life, humming a joyous tune as I took Abuelita’s hand back in mine and started to pray out loud. “Virgencita Santa, Holy Mother, we have done as you asked. We delivered a man to his wife and children and tried our best to stay humble and kind and gave mercy when it was asked of us. Aztec queen, Tonantzin, Holy Mother of all mankind, lend us your magical assistance one last time. Please help us cross the Rio Grande, deliver us home to our Mamá.”

  At my words, the ear pendant whizzed and whirled like a top, sending thousands of tiny, exquisite vibrations to every nerve in my body. Then my body jolted and my eyes flew open, as if I’d been suddenly awakened from a nightmare.

  Even as I blinked to focus in disbelief, I knew the vision before my eyes could not have been anything else but a dream. For we were all standing huddled together before a serene sky. A foggy mist swirled around us and before us lay a moonlit path that led straight up to the stars.

  Pita opened her eyes and her mouth dropped. “Whoa!”

  “What is in the — ” Velia began to say something, but she was so shocked by her surroundings, she couldn’t finish her thought.

  “What is this?” Delia asked. “Some kind of hallucination?”

  I put my foot in front of me and took a tentative step forward. My sisters moved around, prodding and testing the moonlit path with each footstep as they milled around. “No. It’s real,” I said. “Come on. This is going to make your sopapillas curl up.”

  As if mesmerized by the sound of some celestial being softly beckoning to us, we followed the moonlit path to the heavens, silently walking on stardust and moonbeams until we reached the summit of a hill and stopped. A brilliant dawn broke through the morning dew, caressed every shadow, and lifted the fog to reveal a floor of white clouds dotting an azure sky. Before us stood a giant cactus patch, each pad covered with budding prickly fruit that sparkled in the light, like tanzanites.

  At the top of the hill, a youthful Tonantzin, the Goddess of Sustenance, the girl who had saved us from the nagual, lifted her arms to welcome us, her beloved daughters. And when I looked around, I saw that a flurry of magnificent mariposas swarmed around us as we stood waiting on the summit of the hill, awed by the surreal beauty that surrounded us.

  “Are we dreaming?” Juanita asked.

  “Dreams are revelations,” Tonantzin said, smiling down at us from her altar of cacti. “You have come far, my children. And I am proud of you.”

  “We shouldn’t have come,” I said, hanging my head. “My sister got hurt and we’ve put our mother in a bad position. She might never trust us again.”

  “The mother is the earth, the creator. Every part of her is alive,” Tonantzin said. “She is the river, the flower, the bud. She is the regenerator. Her faith in her offspring is always alive.”

  “What did she say?” Pita asked, her face screwed up in confusion.

  Abuelita put a finger up to her closed lips to show Pita she should be quiet and pay attention to what the virgen had to say.

  “Hijita mía, youngest of my daughters, la más pequeña de mis Mariposas,” the goddess said, turning her attention to Pita. “Do you have a question?”

  “We all do,” Velia interrupted.

  Abuelita Remedios reached up and wrapped her arms around Velia and Pita’s shoulders protectively. “Forgive them, Great Mother. They do not mean to disrespect you or question your judgment. They are good girls, but they are also curious — inquisitive to a fault. It’s what makes them brave. But you knew that already, I’m sure.”

  The Virgen smiled at Abuelita, and her radiance shone brightly upon us as she said, “Yes. That is why I chose them.”

  “You said Mamá is a flower, so she is basically good to us,” Velia said. “But what about Papá? Why did he leave us?”

  Delia, upon hearing her twin sister’s question, pushed her way to the forefront to stand between me and Abuelita. “Forget that. When’s he coming back?”

  “Your father is like the sun, splendid to behold, but he must descend and let darkness rule for a time.”

  “I don’t get it,” Pita said.

  The virgen stepped down from her throne and touched Pita’s face. “Without night there would be no rest, no room for growth. It is just the way things are,” Tonantzin explained in a serene voice.

  “You speak in riddles, like Llorona,” I accused her. “I don’t get it. If dreams are supposed to reveal things to us does that mean we’re dreaming now? And if we are, then how come I’m more confused than I ever was?”

  “I know you don’t understand what is happening with your family,” Tonantzin said gently. “But you will, when the time comes. A new dawn is approaching, but you are very clever, very brave. You will not be blinded by his light.”

  “So why did you set us on this path?” I asked. “What were we supposed to accomplish? Can you at least tell us that much?”

  “Odilia, you are here because I needed your assistance,” Tonantzin said, fixing me with her gentle gaze. “And you’ve been very helpful. You might not realize it yet, but you’ve learned many lessons along the way, about your Mamá and about life. However, there is one more thing you must do to complete your task. I need you to remind th
e mother that she is the flower, the bud, the giver of life. She needs to be honored with love and redemption.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Honored with love and redemption? How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even understand what you are saying?” I didn’t want to disrespect the virgen, but this explanation just left me more confused.

  Tonantzin placed her hands on my shoulder and suddenly I wasn’t so overwhelmed. Her gentle smile, her luminous eyes, her rose scented perfume filled me with an inner calm, and I felt blessed. “Soon, you will understand everything.”

  Mesmerized by her glory, I reached out and touched the sleeve of her emerald gown. “Go on,” the goddess said, extending her arm out to my sisters, who all touched the sleeve of her garment and oohed and aahed when it came to life, glittering at their touch, infusing us with sunlight and warmth. “When your journey is over everything will make sense and you will live joyful, productive lives. But first, you must pick the rosas de castilla,” Tonantzin said, pointing behind me.

  I turned to follow her hand and saw the clouds lifting and the earth rising up to meet us. Up and up it came, until we were standing in our path in the woods by the Rio Grande. There, at the bottom of a hill, off the beaten path, amidst a cloud of glorious mariposas, a patch of rosebushes began to break through the ground, bursting to life one right after another, until the hill was covered in white rosebuds that bloomed in the morning light.

  Tonantzin began to walk toward the rosebushes. We followed her down the path, and as we did, I noticed her feet were bare. But she walked without regard to burrs or thorns, for as she stepped forth the ground beneath her became carpeted with fluorescent rose petals.

  “They’re beautiful,” Juanita whispered as we came upon the cluster of blooming rosebushes.

  The Virgen reached over, plucked a perfect blossom from the bush and handed it to me. I took it and instinctively brought it up to my nose. Its heady perfume overwhelmed my senses and I felt dizzy for a moment. “Give the roses to the mother,” Tonantzin said. “They will remind her of who she is, who we are, and what we are all meant to become.”

  “Roses,” I said, trying to imprint her instructions into my mind. “On the hill. When we wake up. Okay. I can do that.”

  “They will bring light into her eyes,” Tonantzin continued. “They will transform her.”

  “The mother?” Velia asked. “Is she talking about Mamá?”

  “I think so,” I said as Tonantzin turned away from us. We followed Tonantzin as she walked back up to her altar. She stood on the cacti, her feet unharmed by the prickly pears and thorns.

  “So this is what it’s all about?” I asked, as we stood before her again. “Giving her flowers?”

  “She has earned them,” Tonantzin said. “Paid for them with tears of gold. Give her the roses and you will bring her back to life. If you do this, you and your sisters will be blessed forever. You will look up at the sky and know that you played your part in creating new life in our universe. But to end, you must begin. It is time for you to go.”

  “Pick the flowers. Give them to the mother,” I whispered to myself. And even as I said it over and over again, reminding myself of what had to be done, I wondered why Tonantzin kept referring to our mother as “the” mother. Her word choice seemed odd and old-fashioned, almost regal in a way. Ancient kings used to refer to themselves as “we” and “us,” so it was probably common for the ancient goddess Tonantzin, the Holy Mother of all mankind, to use the word “the” to refer to other mothers in her care.

  As I pondered this, the silhouette of the goddess began to change. The light that had surrounded us faded into darkness and Tonantzin slowly disappeared into the night. The stars began to shine all around us, and the path of stardust and moonbeams reappeared beneath our feet. We walked down the moonlit trail toward a dark and misty shore, a surreal place, a place somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

  LA CHALUPA: “Lupe, Lupita, pasea a mi

  Pita chiquita en tu chalupita.”

  THE CANOE: “Lupe, Lupita, give my little

  Pita a ride in your little boat.”

  The marshy lake stretched far and wide before us was covered in a misty haze. The sky above me was a deep purple-gray, and on the horizon I could see the first rays of light pushing through, announcing a new day.

  “Where are we?” Velia and Delia asked in unison.

  “Not where, but when,” Juanita said.

  As we wandered along the shallow shore, the mist dissipated, exposing an entire community of canoes being steered by both men and women on the surface of the lake. Fishermen stood on their bobbing vessels, throwing nets across the dark, still waters. Native Mexican women dressed in pale tunics slid their paddles into the lake and rowed slowly, serenely across the water toward what could only be described as densely vegetated islands floating on the water. And as the sun’s rays peeked out of the horizon, turning the sky into an amethyst haze, the canoe people sang in a language I’d never heard before. Their songs were filled with pleasure and warmth and life.

  “What time is it?” Juanita asked. “It looks like the sun wants to come out but it can’t.”

  Abuelita looked at the watch on her wrist, tapped it, put it up to her ear and shook her head. “I can’t tell. This old thing’s stopped ticking.”

  “Now what?” Velia asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Since we met La Llorona, I never know what to expect.”

  I was wondering what we were supposed to do when a young woman paddled her canoe to shore and docked it right in front of us. “You wish to go across?” she asked.

  “Across?” I asked, looking at her canoe closely. It was not large, but it was big enough to carry us all together if we chose to go aboard.

  “To the other side, to your worlds,” she said, smiling. “The Great Mother has ordered it so. She has sent me here to help you. I am to take you back to your mother and your abuelita to Hacienda Dorada.”

  “Yes,” Juanita said. “Yes. We all have to get home.”

  The beautiful woman moved a bouquet of calla lilies out of the way and placed it over a basket full of fresh tomatoes, squash, and chiles to make room for us. We all scrambled onto the small vessel. Then we watched as she anchored her paddle against the murky lake’s floor and pushed the little boat away from the shore.

  “My name is Ixtali,” the beautiful young woman said as she rowed us out toward the middle of the quiet lake. The sky above us was blushing with the promise of sunrise. My eyes had adjusted to the meager light and I could see details now. The men wore white tunics and pants that stopped at their ankles, with no shoes. The women wore tunics too, the length of dresses, but their hair was braided intricately and adorned with flowers and little stones I did not recognize.

  “We are the Garza girls, and this is our Abuelita Remedios,” Juanita said, pointing to the rest of us. “Ixtali, can you tell us where we are? Why are we traveling back in time?”

  “You are not traveling back in time,” Ixtali said. “You are moving forward, gliding across Texcoco Lake, where your mother’s people made their home.”

  I looked at the islands of vegetation fenced in within the clusters of willow trees creating the illusion of a heavily forested swampland. “I’ve never seen so many little islands in a lake,” I said.

  “They are chinampas, the floating gardens that feed us. They provide us with everything we need to sustain our families. They are our livelihood. We are tenders, cultivators, nurturers. But this is more than a way to survive for us. It is our way of life.”

  I reached out and touched the end of a muddy wooden stick, a digging tool of some kind, sitting next to a small wooden hoe beside me on the boat. “So you’re a farmer?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ixtali said, rowing slowly, carefully, as she watched the other boats around us, makin
g sure we were not in their way. “But I also harvest flowers, fragrant blooms to decorate the palaces, the houses of the nobles on the mainland.” She lifted her paddle and used it to point to the left of us.

  I followed the gesture and gasped at the sight of a beautiful city that seemed to be floating in the middle of the lake, encircled by a magical mist, bedazzling us with its towering splendor. Complex clusters of stone buildings, so tall and imposing they looked like gods rising out of the water, reached for the sky.

  “Tenochtitlan,” Abuelita said, looking in wonder at the great city looming over the swampy lake. “The Aztecs decided to build it here, on the lake, when they saw the sign — an eagle sitting on a cactus, eating a snake. It was the center of a great empire, the home of our ancestors.”

  I watched Ixtali row and row, taking us away from the city. “Why are we so far away from home?” I asked.

  “This is the goddess’s gift to you,” she said. “A vision, to always remember who you are, where you came from, as you develop a better future.”

  As Ixtali rowed on, we passed a fisherman pulling up a turtle in his net and two women picking fresh vegetables from a floating garden. “It’s beautiful, your way of life. Thank you for showing it to us.”

  “And for giving us a ride,” Pita said, inching closer to me. I put my arm around her and pulled her in beside me.

  “You are welcome,” Ixtali said, as she rowed away from the city and toward shore. It didn’t even occur to me to wonder what language we were speaking. We just understood each other.

  We spent the next few minutes watching the fishermen pull up their nets in the subtle darkness before dawn. As I sat holding Pita close to me, listening to the soft songs of our ancestors working in the waters of Texcoco Lake, I wondered what time of day it would be when we woke up from this wondrous dream. A chilly breeze picked up around us, and I saw the rest of the mist lift off the water, exposing a familiar shoreline.