Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

“Yes,” Fray Angelico nodded.

“Often times she is seen by the side of a road. Those who stop to offer her a ride either find she disappears as they approach, or she scares them away.”

“How?” I asked.

“Instead of being a beauty, she is either a hideous hag or has the face of a skull.” He chuckled a dry laugh. “Those who see her this way are often adulterous lovers returning from or going to an illicit rendezvous. It seems she does not appreciate unfaithfulness.”

“But I’ve also heard she protects children,” Bruttenholm added.

“Indeed. Those foolish enough to play by rivers after dark are known to encounter her.”

This apparently was what had happened to Malcolm MacDougal, I learned from Dona. But instead of scaring the boy, La Llorona had entranced him.

Dona was working in the kitchen, preparing a late dinner for Jamie. She was so absorbed by her task she lost track of time. Then, when she realized it was past nine and the boy hadn’t returned home, she started to panic. She had gone but a few yards from the house when she found him wandering, dreamy and distracted. He told her he had been to the river, and there he had seen a beautiful woman who told him his mother loved him and that she was well, waiting for the day they would be reunited. At this, Dona scolded Malcolm and told him to never, ever go to the river at night. Sometimes, of course, forbidding a child from doing something was the worst advice an adult can give, as the young are naturally curious about things they should not do.

The next night, Dona insisted Malcolm stay home. Surprisingly, the boy agreed and read in his room. Relieved that he calmly accepted her request, she went about her household chores not thinking anything was amiss. But when she went to call Malcolm for his supper, she discovered the bedroom empty, the window wide open.

Jamie was beside himself when he heard the news, so distraught the base commander refused to allow him to join the search party. Besides, it seemed straightforward. A technician driving in from Jemez Springs reported seeing what he thought was a young boy by the side of the main road. He had stopped to investigate, but the figure disappeared into the woods a mile from the river. However, a night-long search proved a failure. Malcolm MacDougal had vanished into thin air. There was no stopping Jamie the next morning.

Every stream and tributary was searched, and the section of river where Malcolm had told Dona he had seen La Llorona was dredged. A week later with the hunt for the boy dissolved, I was Jamie’s last hope.

Coming out of the arroyo, I headed in the direction of a lush sloping pasture and the forest beyond. Half an hour later, I located a stream and sat down to wait, hoping my instincts were right.

At midnight, my suspicions were confirmed, my patience rewarded. The sound started low, mournful at first, then rose steadily in pitch. To the unsuspecting, it could have been a coyote call, but I had heard that soul-wrenching cry before. It was impossible to forget. For a moment, the years slipped away, pulling me back to the banks of the Santa Fe River. Then, suddenly, it stopped. The silence following felt eerie, almost suffocating in its intensity.

I waited, my eyes trying to penetrate the jet-black shadows cast by the trees. Nothing moved.

When the hand touched my shoulder, I nearly leapt out of my red skin.

I turned. There, beside me, stood the Weeping Woman. My first encounter had been hectic, fraught with frantic actions; I had never gotten a clear look at her. Now, I saw her beauty was remarkable, almost too painful to gaze upon. To try to describe this ethereal creature would be foolish. Besides, the deep, dark olive of her haunted eyes drew me in, made me a fellow prisoner of her sorrow.

“The boy,” I said softly, barely a whisper. “Please, take me to the child.”

La Llorona took me by the hand, leading me away from the stream and into the stygian secrets of the forest. She remained silent. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say to this spirit?

We reached a clearing. Although Old Man Moon’s light was largely obscured by the towering oaks, spruce, and Douglas firs, I could make out a stocky hill ahead. She led me around it and, on the opposite side, stopped before a thick tangle of bushes. Those sad eyes stared at me a moment before she stepped forward. Since she touched me she had appeared solid. Now she dissolved through the bushes, letting go of my hand, freeing my arms to fight through the undergrowth. Behind them was a small cave mouth, and I stopped to enter.

Instead of pitch blackness, the cave was softly illuminated, and it took me a moment to realize she was the light source. La Llorona glowed from within. The cave floor sloped down, and she took my hand to steady me as we descended. The natural rock walls narrowed, the ceiling lowering, forcing me to bend. The tunnel curved before opening into a subterranean chamber.

Malcolm MacDougal lay on a bed of leaves beside an underground pool the size of a goldfish pond. His eyes were glazed, feverishly delirious. His left leg was broken and lay at a painful angle. How had he come to be here? Had she carried him?

“Mother,” he said. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me. I don’t feel well.” She said nothing, but a strange smile crept across his dirt-smeared features. He had his father’s mouth, his mother’s eyes. I sensed something pass between them.

“I’m here to take you home,” I said.

The smile faded.

“Yes, Mother said it’s time to go now,” he mumbled.

I scooped him up as carefully as possible, and as La Llorona led, we made our way back.

His head felt hot, his body thin and fragile. The water had kept him alive, but the boy was famished and the fever had drained him. As I navigated my way through the trees, I sensed she was no longer with us. Turning, I saw she had faded in the night like breath on a cold day. She had done her part, and now I had to finish mine. I hoped my luck would continue; perhaps we’d run across a passing motorist who wouldn’t crash at the sight of a large red creature carrying the body of a small boy.

Malcolm murmured in his delirium.

“Mother… don’t leave… me….”

His condition was worse than I first thought.

I wanted to run. I needed to get him to the hospital in Los Alamos. Every step seemed to rattle his bones. Sudden movement was out of the question. I hoped for a car or truck. Otherwise, all I could do was take it one step at a time. His breath came in short dry wheezes.

One step became another. Keeping my eyes on the ground, my mind wandered. Halfway across the meadow, I realized I had left the forest behind.

And realized Malcolm was dead.

Tears of frustration spilled from my eyes. I lowered myself to the ground cradling the small corpse. Too late. I had failed.

“We’re cursed,” Oppenheimer had said as we drove to Los Alamos. “I believe those of us who made the bomb, or continue to work on the program, will never be forgiven for what we’ve done. Whatever your faith, whichever God you believe in… it doesn’t matter. We’re cursed. We committed the greatest sin against life. We create to destroy. Women create. They create life. We only destroy it.”

Those words echoing in my mind, I looked down on Malcolm’s urchin-like face. In death, his features more resembled those of his father. Poor Jamie. What could I say to him? In helping to father weapons of destruction, he had lost sight of the life he had helped create, unintentionally pushing the boy towards the arms of a delusion.

A tear fell from my face and ran across Malcolm’s cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt. It looked like he, too, was crying. A tear of joy, for I hoped he was with his mother now.