La Llorona
Judy Sutcliffe
OLD TOMASITO HAD SPENT most of his life as a weaver of shawls. Now he lived alone in what was called the Casa Blanca, a Mexican section of Riverside. Everyone knew him and spoke cheerfully to him whenever they saw his frail stooped figure trudging slowly down the street on three legs, for the walking stick which he had made himself was almost as big as his own thin limbs. On this night in February he was making his way to the home of an old friend, Lupe Flores, where he knew he would enjoy warm food, a good drink, and the pleasant conversation of friends. Every Sunday night in winter, guests of all ages would drop in and partake of the hospitality of Mrs. Flores and perhaps sing a little and talk about Mexico, or repeat the latest jokes of Father Rios, or speculate on the reckless escapades of the younger generation.
As usual he found several people there. He knew most of them, but some he did not recognise. It was getting that way now. He didn't know as many people as he used to, and the talk was not always to his liking. That's how it seemed this night; the refreshments were good and the house was warm, but the talk was cold and dark.
The words were about death. The newspaper that day had carried the story of a terrible automobile accident, perhaps the worst in the history of Riverside. Five young men, all known to the guests assembled, had been killed on Victoria Avenue. Their car, going seventy-five miles an hour, had struck a palm tree and the wreck was total. The tragedy had spread a cloud of sadness over the entire Mexican section. Grief and shock, but not surprise.
"I knew it was sure to happen," Mrs. Flores was saying. "It had to happen, if not today then tomorrow. There was no way to make the curse go away." Everyone agreed, and a cold chill tightened the back of Tomasito's neck. He, too, knew that the fate of the boys had been inevitable, for they had looked upon the face and seen the baleful eyes of the dreaded Llorona. Something evil had to follow.
"It was only night before last that two of them saw her," someone in the group was saying. The boys had reported that at about midnight on Victoria south of Maude Street they had seen a lone woman walking on the dark sidewalk wearing a long white dress that shimmered in the shadows. They had hurried toward her, thinking to tease her a little, but when she turned to face them she was crying. She stared at them like one with mal ojo, the evil eye, and then she vanished. They knew they had seen La Llorona, the weeping woman.
"It's hard to believe in anything like La Llorona these days," someone said. "Did anybody here ever see her?" Old Tomasito squirmed a little and pushed back further into his corner. He had never seen her himself, but all his life he had heard about her. She was like the bogey man that parents used to frighten children. "If you don't behave, La Llorona will come and get you," they would say. And he knew that in every place where she was seen, something terrible would happen. His memory raced from one story to another, old in the telling, and now if she was here in this neighborhood—well, he would rather not hear about it on a night like this when he had to walk home alone.
"I never saw her myself," Mrs. Flores was saying, "but I know people who have. She comes from way back in history, many years ago, when the Spaniards were in Mexico, in the days of cape and sword. As the story goes, there was a beautiful young girl but she was very poor, and her house was where only the peons lived. She fell in love with a rich and powerful Spanish don, and she had three children that were his. She wanted him to marry her, but he wouldn't because she was beneath him. He married someone else. But he wanted to string her along, and he said that if she didn't have the children to disgrace him, well, maybe." Mrs. Flores held her audience with the old story.
"So she killed the three little ones to prove her love for him. One by one she drowned them in the river. When he married another, she went mad with grief. She would wander the streets alone at night, looking for her children and wailing over their death. People were afraid to see her coming. And the man then decided that he loved her and was sorry, but it was too late. She had put a curse on him, and in a duel his sword failed him and he died. But she could not die. Or maybe she did die, but her ghost would not find rest. She went on through the years, weeping and wailing, and looking for her dead children, and she goes on to this day. They say that when she appears, someone will die."
Old Tomasito felt a chill and pulled his coat tightly around him. He knew this sad story well, and he had heard the song that people often sang to express the feelings of a distraught lover who had seen her. It was a beautiful song, but mournful. The thought of it made him uncomfortable, for in his youth he had learned it himself, and as if the devil had put the thought there he had even, at times, secretly wished that he might see and perhaps comfort this beautiful, tortured, unearthly creature.
The group must have caught his secret thought, for someone picked up a guitar and began to sing the haunting old ballad. He listened, but his mind could not hold parts of the song and the words slipped through and were lost, but a few verses and the refrain echoed in his mind.
-
You were leaving the church one day, Llorona,
- when I passed and saw you.
You were wearing a beautiful huipil,
- and I believed that you were the Virgin.
Alas for me, Llorona, Llorona, Llorona of a white lily,
Those who don't know about love, Llorona
- don't know what martyrdom is.
They say I have no grief, Llorona, because
- they don't see me weeping.
The dead make no noise at all, Llorona,
- and they have a greater pain.
Alas for me, Llorona, Llorona of long ago and today.
Long ago I was something marvelous to see;
- today I am not even a shadow.
- Pain and what is not pain, alas, Llorona,
All is pain for me.
Yesterday I wept to see you, alas Llorona,
And today I weep because I saw you.
The refrain ended and the people sat for a moment in silence. Then the party broke up, and the guests gradually departed to find their way home, taking their heavy thoughts with them. As the last guest was leaving he noticed that the old man still sat half hidden in the shadows. "You should go home now, viejo," he said softly. "Don't be afraid. La Llorona will not be looking for you tonight— unless you have done something that would remind her of her false lover."
The old man's mind flashed back to his days of strength and pride, and he trembled a little. Without a word he rose, made a slight bow of thanks to his friend Mrs. Flores, and tapped his heavy cane out into the darkness. What his thoughts were as he slowly made his wav down the deserted street, no one would know.
It was near midnight when he reached Grace Street. The moon was rising, and the cold clear winter night seemed to come alive with moving shadows. He was near the place where fire had destroyed a home, and he could see the dead, sightless windows and the skeleton chimney of the ruined house that stood like a ghostly remnant from centuries ago rising out of its own grave. He tried to walk a little faster, but the stick grew heavy in his hands.
In the misty yard something was moving. It glided out of the shadows and was coming toward him. In the faint moonlight he could see that it was the figure of a woman. He wanted to run, but his legs would not move. Like a small animal held in the spell of a snake's glittering eye, he stopped still and tried to listen. The moving figure stopped with him, and a faint sound seemed to come from it. When he found the strength again he started to walk as fast as his thin legs and cane could carry him. The specter also began to move again, not as if to overtake him but to keep the same distance between them. It was a woman with a tall, graceful figure. Her long dress was a shining white, faintly glistening in the silver moonlight. He could see her long black hair hanging halfway down her back, and when she moved it was with the graceful gliding step of a dancer. In an earlier time he would have thought, "What a beautiful woman she is," but tonight was different. Her head was bowed as if she was looking always at the ground, but he knew she had seen him. He could hear the heavy beating of his own heart. Then again came that other sound from somewhere outside himself. It was a long low moan of agony.
The old man was cold and trembling, but he couldn't run. Again he stopped, as if pulled back by a relentless unseen force. He lifted his heavy stick and raised his other hand, palm outward, as if to ward off an attack. The ghostry figure stopped and raised its toward him. The face was wrenched with pain, and the eyes glowed red like coals of fire. Suddenly the wailing stopped, and with a piercing shriek the woman moved toward him. A sharp pain tore through his chest. He felt dizzy. The cane slipped from his hand, and he crumbled to the ground.
No one knows how long he lay there, but when he was found he was rushed to the hospital. "They took him to the emergency," Mrs. Flores reported later. "He was conscious, and he told them what had happened. And then he died. They said it was his bad heart. Maybe it was.... Maybe."
