Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

At first I thought the sound was that of an animal. But as I listened more carefully I realized it was a human sound, a sorrow-filled lament. Then, maybe two hundred yards ahead, I saw a figure standing on the bank where the river curved. It was a woman clad in a long gray dress, her head and shoulders cocooned in a black woollen shawl.

The wail ripped from her lips with a terrible strength, a power born of great emotional pain, and I realized she was about to fling herself into the water.

Again she cried out: “Ayyyy, mis hijoooosss!”

I didn’t understand what she was screaming, but her intentions were clear.

I started to run as she threw herself into the river, shedding my long coat like a second skin as I dove after her. The chilly waters made me gasp, shocking me like an unexpected slap to the face, but I doubled my efforts as her head disappeared beneath the surface. It was instinct, pure and simple. I had no time to think, only moments to act. The undercurrent was surprisingly strong considering the seemingly slow momentum of the surface, and at the bend I saw sudden turbulence as the now speeding water rushed over jagged rocks. If I couldn’t reach her in time, she’d surely be smashed to a pulp against their sharp peaks.

An Air Force sergeant at Roswell had taught me how to swim, and I put every ounce of strength into a fast crawl which would have made him proud. And not a moment too soon; I grabbed her hand as she went under a third time, trying to halt my forward momentum in the midst of frothy whitecaps a dozen feet or so from the bend. Somehow I managed to pull her now-limp body towards mine, but I couldn’t fight the flow. Turning, cradling her against my chest, I managed to spin around so my broad back hit the first partially submerged boulder. The impact felt like a mule kick. And then we were moving again, leaves in a hurricane, tossed from one boulder to the next.

I don’t remember seeing the low-lying branch or grabbing it. Suddenly we were in stasis, surrounded, pummelled by the river’s wild waters, but not moving, not at its mercy. Not completely at least. The fact the branch didn’t break, and amazingly, that I was able to pull us up and out of the bank one-handed — well, I guess those Charles Atlas exercises Trevor encouraged me to do on a daily basis paid off. I saved us through dynamic tension.

Chest heaving, lungs aching, I lay on my back on the muddy bank beneath our benefactor, the tree. She lay beside me, conscious now, sobbing softly. In English this time.

“My children. My children…”

Placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, I stood, swaying slightly with adrenalin-driven vertigo, my equilibrium still spinning like gyroscope after the dervish dance of the rushing waters.

“It’s okay,” I mumbled. “It’s going to be all right.

“I’ll get my coat. Need to keep you warm.”

Stumbling through the scrub, my mind still a tilt-a-whirl, I don’t remember hearing the sudden silence as her sobbing stopped. Scooping up my full-length duster, I turned towards her and—

—she was gone.

Vanished.

Into thin air.

Later, seated around a roaring open fire in the rectory of Loretto Chapel, Fray Angelico explained I had been blessed by encountering La Llorona, and that my selfless act would bring good fortune.

“La Llorona is ancient; her true origins go back, way back before the time we have recorded. She was a part of this landscape long before the Spanish came. She even predates the indigenous Anasazi people.”

“I’ve heard tell—”

Fray Angelico waved a hand to silence Trevor. “Listen. And learn. If not for your own sake, then for Hellboy’s — for this special child has been blessed.

“She is not always so forgiving. Nor is she so vulnerable to the eyes of others. One might hear her sorrow. One might see her struggle with her pain. But to see her in such naked despair… That is highly unusual.”

Felicia, Fray Angelico’s housekeeper, brought me a mug of steaming hot chocolate. Its warmth revived my shivering senses, and I listened intently to the legend of La Llorona.

“There once was a girl,” the priest began, “who was said to be very beautiful. Because of her looks, people didn’t treat her like others. And the more beautiful she became as she blossomed into womanhood, the more people shunned her. Even her own family felt ashamed for not being able to provide for such a beauty.

“One day a stranger came to the pueblo. He was well-dressed, obviously a man of wealth. Generous, too. And his largess made him very popular with the locals.

“The stranger soon grew tired of the pueblo and was preparing to move out when he laid eyes on the beautiful woman, and he was entranced. How did such a woman come to be here in a poor pueblo surrounded by nothing more than cacti and dust? He had never seen such fine elegance and decided to stay to court this ravishing woman. When he proposed marriage, her family encouraged her to say yes, for this fine man could provide for her, give her the future they believed their beautiful daughter deserved.

“They wed, and the match seemed Heaven-made. The stranger was given the respect of a mayor, and the beauty found happiness beyond her imagining. Soon they had a child. The beauty’s joy was such she could barely believe it. But as time passed, the stranger grew tired of the sleepy village. Even his devoted wife bored him, and the child had eyes only for its mother. It was not what he had expected. His money was running low, and he thirsted for adventure, for the temptations of the big city. And so one day he left without saying a word.

“His beautiful wife waited. Each night, after she had put the child to bed, she would light a candle by the door. Each morning she would awaken the child with a kiss, then blow out the candle. Days turned into weeks. Even though her husband’s disappearance worried her, she never gave up hope. Weeks became months. No one came to visit. Not even her family. They were sure she had somehow chased the stranger away with her formidable beauty. She started to go crazy not knowing what she had done to turn everyone against her.”

Fray Angelico paused, as much to savour his snifter of Benedictine brandy as for effect.

“The weather changed with the seasons, and the monsoons began building. The heavy air exacerbated her already fevered imagination. At night, the winds picked up, and mesquite thorns rubbed against the windows. The heavens opened up. It was as if the sky was crying a torrent of tears, soaking their adobe home. Mud seeped into the house, bringing with it the smell of the grave. The beauty could stand it no longer. She grabbed her sleeping baby and raced out the door into the storm.

“Driven mad by the desertion of her husband, her family, she raced to the river. She had lost all reason. And there, standing beside the overflowing river bank, she threw her child into the raging waters. And in that terrible instant, she regained clarity of mind — albeit for a painful second — and let out the most agonizing cry. Unable to accept the horror of her obscene sin, she threw herself into the storm-swollen waters.

“It was the worst deluge anyone in the village could remember. Few people could sleep that night, for cries too terrifying to describe were heard all over the valley.

“To this day, when rivers fill and flow fast, some say they see a beautiful woman walking the banks. Should you get too close you may hear an eerie cry, and some say an elegant hand may even touch your shoulder.”

Fray Angelica set down his glass. He looked me deep in the eye. “You, dear boy, did a very noble act. You touched her. I am certain the beauty will not forget.”

“But there are other variations of the legend, aren’t there?” Bruttenhom interjected.