sacrifice and would not wait any longer. They would now return and start the sacrificial rituals again. Their victims chosen would be born with the water curse on their souls. The witch knew what had happened, but she would not tell the people.
Now, in the summer when the watercress is in bloom, the people from the barrio, seeing the white gleaming mantle of flowers that covers what is left of the pond, call it Chinoâs Shroud.
THE BAT
THE BAT
I t was a ghostly vaporous image floating in the night air. Suddenly, it transformed itself into a bat and flew through the window of the adobe house. It circled the room, then landed on a small altar hanging on the wall. From the family altar, wisps of smoke rose from candles that burned slowly for foreign saints and the long-remembered ancestors of the living.
The bat looked down at a sleeping young boy, who was awakened by the high-pitched screeching of the bat. The boy sat up upon his mat and stared at the bat. He was frightened and was still trying to wake up completely. The bat cast a huge shadow over him.
The bat slowly began to speak. âI was once a great Aztec warrior who was killed in the midst of a great battle against the despised Spaniards. Many of us perished in skirmishes against that hated, greedy foe. They only sought gold and the enslavement of our people. Even some of our Indian enemies joined them. They killed our beloved priests, burned our sacred codices, and destroyed our sacred temples. Nothing was spared by this evil, degenerate foe.â
âWe the warriors who perished in battle are now forced to wander aimlessly in the darkness of the night. Our spirits can find no peace or rest, for there are neither temples to offer us sacrifices nor priests to ask our gods for favors. Only the sacrifice of a Spaniard or a mestizo with that cursed Spanish blood can help us. By wishing him sick until he dies, he then becomes our slave guide that will lead us to the other world.
âI have come and chosen you for my slave guide. I will come every night and watch your sickness grow until you perish. You will become my slave guide, and my spirit will finally rest with the gods for eternity.â
The bat quit speaking and stood there on the shelf looking down at the boy. The child was tired and lay back on his mat, falling into a deep sleep. With twilight approaching, the bat flew out the window and disappeared.
The next day, the mother sat down by her son and found him perspiring heavily and comatose. He had a terrible fever. She wet a rag with cold water from the well and wiped his face and upper body. She was fearful and prayed to her foreign Spanish saints and gods for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Her prayers went unanswered. The boy grew sicker and weaker despite her attempts to cure him.
Finally, she decided to call MarÃa Luisa, the townâs healer, or
curandera
. MarÃa Luisa would know what to do. The child was very sick and lay dying, growing weaker and weaker by the day. The
curandera
told the mother that something evil had put a curse on her son. She placed ancient Indian charms beside the boy and lit an oil lamp to keep the unknown demon from taking the childâs life. A battle was beginning between light and darkness, good and evil. The healer was not aware that she was pitted against a great force, and that force was Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of death, and his cohort the bat who sought release from its sufferings.
Night was arriving. The light of the burning candles sent flickering shadows against the walls of the adobe room. The young boy was lying on the mat, and the healer sat on the floor beside him. In an instant of a flickering shadow, a bat flew into the room with a high piercing shriek, landing on the small altar. It stared at the boy with black, shiny eyes, finally settling its gaze on the woman who sat quietly staring at the beast. Her Indian eyes flashed in the candlelight.
âWHO ⦠ARE â¦
Now, in the summer when the watercress is in bloom, the people from the barrio, seeing the white gleaming mantle of flowers that covers what is left of the pond, call it Chinoâs Shroud.
THE BAT
THE BAT
I t was a ghostly vaporous image floating in the night air. Suddenly, it transformed itself into a bat and flew through the window of the adobe house. It circled the room, then landed on a small altar hanging on the wall. From the family altar, wisps of smoke rose from candles that burned slowly for foreign saints and the long-remembered ancestors of the living.
The bat looked down at a sleeping young boy, who was awakened by the high-pitched screeching of the bat. The boy sat up upon his mat and stared at the bat. He was frightened and was still trying to wake up completely. The bat cast a huge shadow over him.
The bat slowly began to speak. âI was once a great Aztec warrior who was killed in the midst of a great battle against the despised Spaniards. Many of us perished in skirmishes against that hated, greedy foe. They only sought gold and the enslavement of our people. Even some of our Indian enemies joined them. They killed our beloved priests, burned our sacred codices, and destroyed our sacred temples. Nothing was spared by this evil, degenerate foe.â
âWe the warriors who perished in battle are now forced to wander aimlessly in the darkness of the night. Our spirits can find no peace or rest, for there are neither temples to offer us sacrifices nor priests to ask our gods for favors. Only the sacrifice of a Spaniard or a mestizo with that cursed Spanish blood can help us. By wishing him sick until he dies, he then becomes our slave guide that will lead us to the other world.
âI have come and chosen you for my slave guide. I will come every night and watch your sickness grow until you perish. You will become my slave guide, and my spirit will finally rest with the gods for eternity.â
The bat quit speaking and stood there on the shelf looking down at the boy. The child was tired and lay back on his mat, falling into a deep sleep. With twilight approaching, the bat flew out the window and disappeared.
The next day, the mother sat down by her son and found him perspiring heavily and comatose. He had a terrible fever. She wet a rag with cold water from the well and wiped his face and upper body. She was fearful and prayed to her foreign Spanish saints and gods for assistance, but none was forthcoming. Her prayers went unanswered. The boy grew sicker and weaker despite her attempts to cure him.
Finally, she decided to call MarÃa Luisa, the townâs healer, or
curandera
. MarÃa Luisa would know what to do. The child was very sick and lay dying, growing weaker and weaker by the day. The
curandera
told the mother that something evil had put a curse on her son. She placed ancient Indian charms beside the boy and lit an oil lamp to keep the unknown demon from taking the childâs life. A battle was beginning between light and darkness, good and evil. The healer was not aware that she was pitted against a great force, and that force was Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of death, and his cohort the bat who sought release from its sufferings.
Night was arriving. The light of the burning candles sent flickering shadows against the walls of the adobe room. The young boy was lying on the mat, and the healer sat on the floor beside him. In an instant of a flickering shadow, a bat flew into the room with a high piercing shriek, landing on the small altar. It stared at the boy with black, shiny eyes, finally settling its gaze on the woman who sat quietly staring at the beast. Her Indian eyes flashed in the candlelight.
âWHO ⦠ARE â¦
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