The Legend of La Llorona




On chilly nights in Mexico City, when the wind wails on the street corners or whispers at the rejas of your window, the old crones tell you this story...

It was long ago, they say, before the Spanish conquerors arrived. The city -Tenochtitlán, they called it in those days-still floated on chinampas in the centre of the valley. It was a merry city, bright with flowers and alive with the cries of water birds and the melodies of clay flutes. The warriors were brave, the maidens beautiful. And the most beautiful of them all was Cihuacoatl; some call her a goddess. Always dressed in white, her glossy black hair done in two long braids tipped with brilliant feathers, she made the sun rise just by stepping out of her father's house in the morning.

She was fifteen when she met the most handsome of all the Aztec princes; it was love at first sight for both of them, and soon she presented him with two beautiful baby boys, twins as strong and healthy and smart as any man could desire. Twins that were his pride and delight, even though he no longer loved Cihuacoatl.

Why her prince left her, no-one knows. Some say he had a wife in another city. Some say he was an adventurer, always looking for a new challenge across the next hill. Perhaps he had been lured away by a younger, fresher goddess, or a captured maiden from a competing tribe. Or perchance there was some flaw in Cihua's character, something not evident to ordinary onlookers, dazzled by her beauty as they were.

Be that as it may, Cihua mourned his faithlessness. The laughter died; she no longer sang as she dressed and bathed her babies; she forgot to put the feathers in her hair. The days were a burden and an ache. She spent long hours at the edge of the canal, watching the dark water swirling sluggishly around the roots of the chinampa.

One evening, after the boys were asleep, she looked across the water and saw her prince. He was as handsome as the day she had first known him; bronzed and sleek, wearing golden armbands and a loincloth of ocelot skins; her heart turned over in her breast. For beside him, laughing, was a woman in some strange foreign garb, embroidered all over with flowers. Laughing, and holding his arm!

A hopeless fury engulfed Cihuacoatl. She called out his name and he looked in her direction. Just a glance, indifferent, as if she were some chance acquaintance. Then he turned his back to her and steered his new woman around a corner.

"Come back! Come back!" Cihua cried, but only the wind answered. She rushed into her hut and carried out her sleeping boys, one in each arm. On the bank of the canal, she called to him again; "Don't you even want to see your babies?" But her prince was far away now; she couldn't even hear the woman's laugh. Tears blinded her.

"Then take your babies!" she shouted. She tossed the right hand one into the canal; he made a small splash, almost a plop. She threw the left hand twin after him. There was a sharp wail, cut off in a moment by a gurgle. Then silence.

Cihau's eyes cleared; the light came back. Her babies were floating down the stream, face down, too far away now for her to reach. The pole from the boat would help, she thought; she ran to get it, but when she got back, the twins were gone.

All that night Cihua searched, running along the banks, crouching to peer among the dark roots, straining in the moonlight to decipher every glimmer, every ripple. She wailed, but no-one heard her, no-one came to help her. They found her in the morning, bedraggled and dripping, whether dead from grief or from drowning the old ones aren't sure.

And so they tell you, the old folks, never to go out alone into the night and especially to stay well away from the canals. Cihuacoatl wanders there, wailing and sobbing; you can hear her from far away, crying into the wind. Legend has it that when she arrived at the gate of paradise, the guardian asked her for the souls of her twin boys. He won't let her enter until she returns with them, and so she searches, mourning, always near the water. On rainy nights she is deceived by the drenched pavement and roams the city streets; they have seen her, they say, a white figure in the mist, with uncombed hair and muddy skirts.

"La llorona", they call her now, the weeping woman. "Ay, mis hijos, my babies," she cries, "Ayyy! Where can I find you?"

So don't, don't go out alone at night. Who knows; you may encounter la llorona. And who knows; in her despair, she may mistake you for her faithless prince or for his newest love, and her anguish may turn to rage. Then the last thing you will ever feel is the clutch of her cold, wet fingers at your throat.




Jesus Malverde




Jesus Malverde is worshiped as a saint, although the Church doesn’t recognize him as such, this cult began in Sinaloa. According to legend, Malverde used to steal from the wealthy at Culiacan Heights and gave the money to the poor. It is said he died in 1909, from a gun shot wound. Malverde, knowing he wouldn’t survive after a confrontation, asked a friend to hand him over to the police in order to cash the ransom and give it to the poor. After his death, the government prohibited his burial and exhibited his body in order to teach his followers a lesson. The residents of Culiacan started throwing stones at his body to cover it; a proper burial was forbidden, but nothing had been said about “stoning”. People still take stones to the chapel where his bones are preserved, to request and show gratitude for his miracles. He is famous for protecting the faithful dedicated to drug production and trafficking, as well as illegal immigrants in the United States. Famous drug dealers worship him and 56 “narco-corridos” have been composed in his honor.




Don Juan Manuel




THIS Don Juan Manuel, Senor, was a rich and worthy gentleman who had the bad vice of killing people. Every night at eleven o'clock, when the Palace clock was striking, he went out from his magnificent house as you know, Sefior, it still is standing in the street that has been named after him all muffled in his cloak, and under it his dagger in his hand.

Then he would meet one, in the dark street, and would ask him politely: "What is the hour of the night?" And that person, having heard the striking of the clock, would answer: "It is eleven hours of the night." And Don Juan Manuel would say to him: "Senor, you are fortunate above all men, because you know precisely the hour at which you die!" Then he would thrust with his dagger and then, leaving the dead gentleman lying in the street, he would come back again into his own home. And this bad vice of Don Juan Manuel's of killing people went on, Senor, for a great many years.

Living with Don Juan Manuel was a nephew whom he dearly loved. Every night they supped together. Later, the nephew would go forth to see one or another of his friends; and, still later, Don Juan Manuel would go forth to kill some man. One night the nephew did not come home. Don Juan Manuel was uneasy because of his not coming, fearing for him. In the early morning the city watch knocked at Don Juan Manuel's door, bringing there the dead body of the nephew with a wound in the heart of him that had killed him. And when they told where his body had been found, Don Juan Manuel knew that he himself not knowing him in the darkness had killed his own nephew whom he so loved.

Then Don Juan Manuel saw that he had been leading a bad life: and he went to the Father to whom he confessed and confessed all the killings that he had done. Then the Father put a penance upon him: That at mid- night he should go alone through the streets un- til he was come to the chapel of the Espiracidn (it faces upon the Plazuela de Santo Domingo, Senor; and, in those days, before it was a gallows) ; and that he should kneel in front of that chapel, beneath the gallows; and that, so kneeling, he should tell his rosary through. And Don Juan Manuel was pleased because so light a penance had been put upon him, and thought soon to have peace again in his soul.

But that night, at midnight, when he set forth to do his penance, no sooner was he come out from his own door than voices sounded in his ears, and near him was the terrible ringing of a little bell. And he knew that the voices which troubled him were those of the ones whom he had killed. And the voices sounded in his ears so wofully, and the ringing of the little bell was so terrible, that he could not keep onward. Having gone a little way, his stomach was tormented by the fear that was upon him and he came back again to his own home.

Then, the next day, he told the Father what had happened, and that he could not do that penance, and asked that another be put upon him. But the Father denied him any other penance; and bade him do that which was set for him or die in his sin and go forever to hell ! Then Don Juan Manuel again tried to do his penance, and that time got a half of the way to the chapel of the Espiracidn ; and then again turned backward to his home, because of those
woful voices and the terrible ringing of that little bell. And so again he asked that he be given another penance; and again it was denied to him; and again getting that night three- quarters of the way to the chapel he tried to
do what he was bidden to do. But he could not do it, because of the woful voices and the terrible ringing of the little bell.

Then went he for the last time to the Father to beg for another penance; and for the last time it was denied to him; and for the last time he set forth from his house at midnight to go to the chapel of the Espiracidn, and in front of it, kneeling beneath the gallows, to tell his rosary through. And that night, Senor, was the very worst night of all! The voices were so loud and so very woful that he was in weak dread of them, and he shook with fear, and his stomach was tormented because of the terrible ringing of the little bell. But he pressed on you see, Senor, it was the only way to save his soul from blistering in hell through all eternity until he was come to the Plazuela de Santo Domingo; and there, in front of the chapel of the Espiracidn, beneath the gallows, he knelt down upon his knees and told his rosary through.

And in the morning, Senor, all the city was astonished, and everybody from the Viceroy down to the cargadores came running to the Plazuela de Santo Domingo, where was a sight to see! And the sight was Don Juan Manuel
hanging dead on the gallows where the angels themselves had hung him, Senor, because of his sins!




La Calle de la Quemada (Burned Woman Street)




Doña Beatriz was so beautiful that she easily charmed all men. Of all her admirers, she only fell in love when the young Italian Martin Scipoli, but he was extremely jealous and constantly fought against all those who he thought wanted to take his woman. Doña Beatriz deeply feared that he only loved her beauty, so she decided to test his love. She covered her eyes with a wet handkerchief and buried her face into red hot coals until her beautiful face was burned. Don Martin instead of expressing disgust over her disfigured face, asked her to marry him. Martin continued loving her and neither one of them ever feared again. Since then, the street where they lived is called “La Calle de la Quemada” (Burned Woman Street).

Not Helen of Troy
Not Emma, not Juliet, not Shakespeare’s Beatrice,
but Beatriz Espinosa de Guevara
Beautiful, noble, gentle, rich, coverted Beatrice.

Skin as white as barium lilies,
taupe hair
breasts as supple as raw calf meat.
Silky hair waterfalls from her shoulders.

A thousand smiling suits,
a thousand mansions,
but Beatrice would not accept
any.

Suddenly- like the rain-
Don Martin de Scopoli-
cue- enter from the right
to go to stage centre.

Love and passion for Beatrice
grows as quickly and thickly as weeds aflame,
but suitors barricaded the entrance
to his love.

Bodies sowed along the streets like corn-
(not Penelope- but Beatrice)-
tombs sprung up like weeds
chasing Don Martin’s shadow.

Beatrice falls–fast, and furiously
as though she had jumped
from Sleeping Beauty’s tower,
for his wit, beauty, words.

In this once upon a time however
she was sad and couldn’t find
her happily ever after
while ghosts filled the streets like Autumn leaves.

A prayer to Santa Luca-
a brazier, charcoal and a flame.
A wish, a desire, a threat.
She puts flame to face.
Veils her face with the brazier,
corroding, melting, disfiguring her skin
that bleeds,
and bleeds.

The smell of burning flesh- a scream-
sound of feet on steps-
herbs and vinegar lathered onto flaying skin.
WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO HER SUITOR?

Eyes now pot holes under burnt eyebrows,
now no longer brows but bloodied scars,
skin now melted like plastic
covered by a black veil,

I did it so that he stops lloving me-
stops killing-
to save lives-
so that he no longer loves me.

Ah Beatriz, I love you.
Not for your beauty, just for your moral behaviours.
You are a good and generous lady.
Your noble and your soul is pure.

A lifting of a black and red spotted veil-
a kiss-
blood and burnt flesh on lips-
a ring and a happily ever after.





The Basilica de Guadalupe ghost




Legend says that some people who have visited the Basilica of Guadalupe at night, or the homeless who sleep in its entry, say a woman walks out from the old Basilica holding a candle that doesn’t blow out in the wind or rain. She walks through the walls of the new Basilica and leave the candle as an offering, prays and then disappears. People say is a lost soul obeying a commitment she hasn’t fulfilled.