The Eclipse
What native Bostonian Rowen Orwell liked most about being an author, besides the royalties she earned from her bestselling children's books, was the ability to travel with her archeologist husband to far-flung areas of the world and still be able to have a successful career of her own. "Have computer–will travel," a play on the title of the old TV western Have Gun–Will Travel, became her motto. As long as she had a source of electricity with which to charge her laptop, she was able to write.
"Once the baby is born, things might change," Boyd, her husband, warned her. "It won't be quite as easy to travel with a child."
"Why not? As long as we inoculate him against the usual childhood diseases, there should be no danger. It's not as though we stay in areas where there are no hospitals or doctors."
Although the prospective parents chose not to know the sex of their unborn child until the delivery, they always referred to the baby as "he" rather than "it."
"I suppose that means no more sleeping in tents at the excavation sites," Boyd laughed.
"Not while our child is still an infant, anyway. But once he's older, it might be fun."
"What about school?"
"You have a PhD, and I have a master's degree. We're more than qualified to homeschool our child."
Since Rowen was only five months pregnant, there was plenty of time to decide on their offspring's education.
Meanwhile, the Orwells were to travel to Mexico where Boyd would assist with the excavation of the ruins of Tenochtitlan. During the past five years, while working at Petra, Machu Picchu and Angkor Wat, he studied the Aztec Empire. As he and his wife were on the plane headed to Mexico City, he had his nose in a book on the pantheon of Aztec gods.
During the seven-hour flight from Boston to Mexico (with a stopover in Houston), Rowen occupied her time by watching the inflight movies. Unlike her husband, she found it difficult to work while traveling on an airplane. There were too many distractions for her to concentrate on her writing. Even though her reading audience was statistically between the ages of five and ten, it still required skill to compose what was basically a twenty-four page rhyme with a plot.
"It's a lot like rapping," she once jokingly described her career. "Only I don't put it to music, and I use only G-rated language."
As the plane prepared to land at the George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, Rowen felt the fetus move for the first time. A smile lit up her face.
"The baby kicked!" she told her husband.
Boyd put down his book and took her hand.
"Do you realize that by the time we return to Boston, there'll be three of us?"
"Yes," she laughed. "Why do you think I insisted on furnishing the nursery before we left?"
"Sometime this week we'll need to contact an obstetrician. Prenatal care is important."
"I've already got an appointment for Wednesday."
"How did you manage that?"
"I asked my gynecologist for a referral. He assured me that Dr. Ramos is one of the best obstetricians in Mexico."
"And what about a pediatrician?"
"I imagine Dr. Ramos will know a good one."
"I hope so."
"Relax, Daddy! Everything will be fine. You hear stories all the time about taxi drivers, firemen and police officers delivering babies. I'm sure this Dr. Ramos won't have any trouble."
Since the couple would be living in Mexico for at least eighteen months and most likely longer, they chose to lease a furnished hacienda instead of staying in a hotel. It was nowhere near as large or as modern as their Boston townhouse, but it was clean and situated in a quiet neighborhood. Once they unpacked their bags—the couple had become experts at traveling light—Rowen went shopping for food staples, toiletries and cleaning products. Upon her return, she found a note from her husband on the kitchen table telling her that he had gone to the dig site to meet his new colleagues.
Isn't that just like Boyd! she thought with amusement. He always hits the ground running.
Left to her own devices, the pregnant writer put away the groceries, made herself a cup of coffee and then sat at her desk with her laptop. She had submitted her most recent work to her publisher a month earlier and was eager to begin a new book. Originally, she had planned to write a story about one of her favorite characters, a golden retriever named Maxwell, but decided instead to take inspiration from her surroundings and come up with a new character: a chihuahua named Diego.
And what are you going to be up to in your debut, Diego?
One thing came to mind whenever Rowen thought about Mexico: Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. She decided to have Diego get separated from his owner during the annual celebration. Since he is only a puppy, he becomes frightened by the painted faces he sees in the crowd. She planned to have La Calavera Catrina, the traditional tall female skeleton with the elaborate feathered hat, find the chihuahua and return him to his owner at the end of the story.
I'll need to give Diego some sort of adventure. I can't just have him eat sugar skull cookies until he's rescued.
Although she had yet to come up with all the details of the plot, she knew enough about the intended story to begin writing. There would be plenty of time to "beef it up" before the baby came.
* * *
As her due date approached, Rowen found it hard to concentrate on her writing.
"How's the book coming?" Boyd asked one morning at breakfast.
"I'm afraid Diego is still lost. It seems all I can think about is the baby."
"Speaking of which, Yolanda Garza, one of the local volunteers at the site, asked me if you were planning on watching the solar eclipse next week."
"That's an odd question."
"I thought so, too, so I asked her why she wanted to know. Apparently, the Aztecs believed eclipses threatened pregnancies. According to ancient writings, benign astral deities become demonic monsters when the sun is covered. Expectant mothers are encouraged to remain indoors during eclipses to prevent these monsters from harming their unborn fetuses.
"That's ridiculous!"
"Does that mean you are going to watch to eclipse?"
"Of course, I am. I've seen a lunar eclipse before, but never a solar one. And before you ask, yes, I have protective glasses."
Once Boyd finished his slice of buttered toast and cup of coffee, he kissed his wife goodbye and headed to the excavation site. Rowen washed the breakfast dishes and returned to her laptop. Rather than struggle with her creative muses, she decided to do a little online research into the Aztec superstitions regarding pregnancy and childbirth. Several of the articles she read concerned stillborn children and those who died during the birthing process.
Why am I reading this? she wondered and closed the lid on her computer.
Despite her best attempts to put the troubling images out of her mind, she could not quell the fear that something might go wrong during her delivery. She knew she was being foolish and that her hormones were probably toying with her emotions, but she could not shake the sense of dread that clung to her like a pair of spandex leggings.
Boyd immediately sensed something was wrong when he walked through the door that evening.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked with concern.
"Physically? Yes."
"Why are you upset?"
"It's silly."
"I don't care. Tell me."
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"Yes."
"Remember our discussion this morning about solar eclipses and pregnancy? Well, after you left, I wanted to learn more about Aztec beliefs regarding childbirth. Some of what I read was pretty disturbing."
"Like what?" Boyd asked as his wife put two bowls of pasta on the table for dinner.
"Aztec midwives used knives to cut stillborn fetuses into pieces to remove them from the mothers' bodies."
"Why would you read such a thing?"
"Wait, there's more," Rowen quickly added. "Babies who died during childbirth or before their naming ceremony went to an afterlife in which they were fed milk from the chichiualcuauhco or 'wet nurse tree'—a variation of the term 'tree of life.' They would remain there until such time as they were sent back to our world to be born to a different mother."
"That sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel."
"I know. Quite frankly, it gives me the creeps."
"Honey, the Aztec Empire fell five hundred years ago. A lot has changed since then."
"I'm well aware of that. Still, it made me realize that we can't be absolutely certain nothing will go wrong when I go into labor."
"Stop worrying," he said soothingly in an attempt to comfort her. "Both you and the baby are going to be fine."
* * *
Three days passed, and although Rowen was still unable to make progress with her tale of Diego's Mexican adventure, she did manage to regain her positive outlook on her upcoming delivery.
"Today's the big day," Boyd announced when he emerged from the shower. "Are you still planning on watching the eclipse?"
"Yes," she replied, with forced good humor. "I'm not going to let some silly old superstition stop me."
"Then why don't you come with me to the site today? We can watch it together."
"That sounds like fun. Why don't I make us some sandwiches, and we can make a picnic out of it?"
"I'll get a bottle of wine. Sorry, I forgot. No alcohol for you."
While she awaited the eclipse, Rowen walked around what had once been the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan, and watched the archeologists and volunteers at work. She spoke to several of Boyd's colleagues, who took the time to describe some of the artifacts they had uncovered.
"You ought to write a story about an archeologist," the senior-most member of the team suggested.
"I've been toying with that idea for more than a year," the children's author admitted. "I wanted to have Patches—that's the cat who's appeared in several of my books—travel to Egypt and find a mummy in the Valley of the Kings. Maybe after I finish the story I'm currently working on, I'll finally write it."
As noon approached, the sky began to darken. All workers at the site stopped what they were doing and put on their special glasses. Rowen removed sandwiches from a paper bag, and she and her husband found a spot in the shade to sit down and eat them.
Yolanda Garza, the local volunteer who had first told Boyd about the Aztec superstition regarding eclipses and pregnancy, approached them.
"You shouldn't be out in the open like this," she warned. "It would be better if you took shelter in the tent."
"I'll be fine. Really."
Yolanda wanted to say more to convince the mother-to-be of the seriousness of the threat, but the future father had a stern look on his face. It was clear he did not want the Mexican to upset his wife.
"God bless you and keep you safe, Señora Orwell."
"Thank you."
During the false night of the eclipse, the fear for her baby returned. Her hand instinctively went to her abdomen as though protecting the unborn child from harm. Although the temperature was in the nineties, Rowen felt a chill as the sun seemed to disappear from the sky.
"How beautiful!" her husband exclaimed. "With the sun blocked out, all you can see is the corona."
Normally, she would have enjoyed the spectacle as much as he did; however, during the five minutes of totality, when the moon completely eclipsed the sun, her thoughts were on the baby that was kicking up a storm in her womb.
"Aren't you watching this?" Boyd asked when he noticed her head was pointing down at her abdomen rather than up at the sky.
"It's the baby. It feels like he's breakdancing inside me. I've never known him to be so active."
"It's been nine months. He's getting impatient; he wants to be born."
When the sun finally peeked out from behind the moon's shadow and the eerie darkness began to dissipate, the workers at the excavation site returned to their assigned duties. The remainder of the eclipse was anticlimactic.
For Rowen, however, it was anything but. When she tried to stand up, the baby kicked with such force that she doubled over. Within moments, her water broke.
"This is it!" Boyd cried. "Let's get you to the hospital."
As she made her way to her husband's car, she saw the look on Yolanda Garza's face. She could not tell if it expressed pity, sadness or fear.
* * *
After only three hours of labor—a short time for a first child—Rowen gave birth to a six-pound, four-ounce baby girl. When the child was placed in her arms, the new mother felt none of the maternal feelings she had expected to experience. On the contrary, she felt decidedly uncomfortable.
"She's got dark hair," she said with surprise. "How is that possible? Everyone in your family is blond; and my parents, my brother and I all have red hair."
"You told me your grandfather was Italian. She must get her coloring from him."
"I suppose so."
When the nurse took the baby away, Rowen felt a sense of relief, followed quickly by one of guilt.
What's wrong with me? she wondered.
"You look tired," Boyd said as though he had read her mind. "Why don't you get some rest?"
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"To make a few phone calls. I'm sure our families will want to hear the good news. I wouldn't be surprised if both sets of grandparents are on the next flight to Mexico."
At least he's happy, she thought, envying her husband's cheerfulness.
Rowen closed her eyes but was unable to sleep. Throughout her life, she had always been healthy. Except for the occasional cold, she was never sick. No measles, mumps, chicken pox or even the flu. Could it be possible that something was wrong with her now, specifically PPD, postpartum depression? What other reason could there be for her to feel an aversion to her own child?
She shared her concerns with Dr. Ramos when he checked on her later in the day.
"It's fairly common for women to be overwhelmed after giving birth. We mustn't jump to the conclusion that you need medication. Let's wait a while and see if you begin to feel better."
Two weeks later, Rowen showed no sign of improvement. In fact, her condition was considerably worse. Dr. Ramos prescribed an antidepressant, but it did not work. When she told Boyd that she believed the baby was not their own, he insisted on accompanying her to her next doctor's appointment.
"We could be dealing with something more than postpartum depression," the doctor privately confided to the worried husband. "If your wife is suffering from delusions, she might have puerperal psychosis. It's rare, found in only a tenth of a percent of new mothers, but it is serious. I'd like to avoid hospitalizing her. I think, for now, I'll just increase the dosage on her medication and have her begin outpatient therapy. But ...."
There was an uncomfortable pause that worried Boyd.
"But what?"
"Is there someone who can stay with your wife during the day while you're working?"
"I can't think of anyone offhand. Our families and friends are all in the New England. Why? Do you think she might try to hurt herself?"
"It's possible," the doctor admitted. "But, quite frankly, she's more likely to harm the baby. About twenty years ago, there was a case in Texas where a woman suffering from postpartum psychosis drowned all five of her children in the bathtub."
Once her mother, Kaye McSweeney, arrived from Boston, Rowen's mood seemed to improve.
"How's she doing?" Boyd asked his mother-in-law in confidence every evening when he returned home from work.
Normally, Kaye replied with one of several positive, hopeful answers: "Good." "She's improving." "She seems like her old self." Eventually, however, not even her mother could deny there was something wrong with Rowen.
"She won't go near the baby," Mrs. McSweeney confessed to her son-in-law. "She leaves it to me to bathe her, dress her, change her and feed her—not that I mind; I love taking care of Amber—but my daughter doesn't want to have anything to do with her own child."
"That's because she thinks the baby isn't ours."
"Because of the dark hair? My father had dark hair. That's where Amber gets it."
"You and I know that, but Rowen is suffering from some postpartum delusion."
"My daughter is an intelligent woman. Surely, there must be some way we can prove to her that the baby is hers."
"There is!" Boyd optimistically declared. "Why didn't I think of it before? We can run DNA tests on all three of us."
* * *
"What have we all been telling you?" Boyd asked as Rowen read the lab report. "There's the proof right there in black and white. Amber is our child."
"You were right; I was wrong," she said in a voice that betrayed no emotion.
"I certainly needed no proof to know this is my little grandbaby," Kaye laughed as she cuddled the five-month-old. "She's the spitting image of my father."
Rowen could not deny the scientific proof that was placed before her, but it did not lessen the discomfort she felt whenever she looked at the child.
I don't want to feel like this, but I can't help it!
"She does have Grandpa's coloring," she said, forcing herself to put on a show in front of her husband and mother.
"I think her diaper needs to be changed," Kaye announced as she rose to her feet.
"Why don't you let Rowen do it?" Boyd suggested.
"Good idea. You go to Mommy now. She'll take care of you."
Despite revulsion she felt when the child was placed in her arms, the young mother maintained a calm expression on her face. When she was alone in the nursery with Amber, she dropped the act.
"I don't care what the DNA test revealed," she whispered to the child on the changing table. "You're not mine. For Boyd's sake, and my mother's, I'll pretend that you are. But just because I agree to take care of you doesn't mean that I'll ever love you—whoever or whatever you are."
Three days later Kaye McSweeney returned to Boston, and as far as Boyd was aware, life returned to normal.
* * *
As Amber's first birthday drew near, Boyd took two weeks off from work, during which time the young family flew to Boston to celebrate the day with their families. While they were back in Massachusetts, the toddler took her first steps. It was clear to everyone that the father was immensely proud of his daughter. The same could not be said of the mother. Rowen was not a neglectful parent. On the contrary; she was a dutiful one who seemed devoted to her daughter. Yet, she never expressed any affection toward her child.
At least she's no longer delusional, Boyd thought, hoping her mental state would continue to improve.
Once the mother conceded the fact that Amber was her child, Dr. Ramos took her off the antidepressants, and she stopped going to therapy. Her husband saw this progress as a step in the right direction. Given time, he was sure, she would come to love the child as he did. He was too blinded by love for his wife to see that her dedication to good parenting was nothing more than fallacious roleplaying.
Life in the Orwell home remained on an even keel for the next twelve months. Then Rowen witnessed something that shattered her carefully maintained façade. One afternoon, while the two-year-old was in her crib napping, her mother was at her computer working on the second of Diego's Mexican adventures. As she was describing the chihuahua's visit to Chichén Itzá, she heard voices coming from the nursery.
Fearing that someone had broken into their home and might harm the child, she picked up one of the heavy candlesticks off the dining room table and headed toward her daughter's room. She stopped in the hall and peered in through the partially open door. Amber was standing up in her crib, speaking to her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. They were not the simple, one- and two-syllable words spoken by a toddler. They were not even said in English. The little girl was having a one-sided conversation in fluent Spanish!
I was right! she thought as she stumbled back to the living room, numb with shock over what she had seen. She's not my child.
Her fears being proved correct was a pyrrhic victory that brought her no pleasure or satisfaction. Instead, the knowledge terrified her. If Amber was not her own, whose child was she? The answer was obvious. Someone or something at some point took possession of the unborn fetus in her womb.
"The eclipse!"
Memories surfaced of the chill she had felt the moment the moon blocked the sun.
I should have listened to Yolanda Garza and remained indoors.
At the time, she had believed the volunteer's warning was nothing more than a silly superstition. But was it? More importantly, could the entity that possessed her daughter be driven out?
Rowen ran to her husband's desk and looked through his paperwork. Halfway through a pile of field notes she found what she was looking for: a list of the volunteers who assisted at the dig site, specifically Yolanda Garza's address and phone number.
* * *
"I bet you were surprised when I phoned you," Rowen said when she opened the door and invited the young Mexican woman inside.
"Honestly? I believed you would have contacted me much sooner."
Yolanda entered the hacienda and looked around cautiously.
"Is she here?" she asked in a whisper.
"No. I arranged for her to play with one of the neighborhood children for a while."
"Good."
"You still believe the eclipse caused harm to my baby?"
"Not the eclipse itself, but the demons that were able to wander free during the darkness it brought."
"I believe my daughter is possessed. She can barely speak English, and yet I saw her speaking fluent Spanish when she was unaware of my presence."
"And what is it she said?"
"I have no idea. I studied French in school."
"To learn the truth about the child, we must consult an expert."
"We've already tried that. My husband and I had DNA tests done."
"You are talking about scientific tests; I am speaking of more esoteric matters," Yolanda explained.
"I don't follow you."
"My abuela, my grandmother, is a bruja, what Americans would call a witch or a sorceress. She is highly skilled in Brujería."
"You mean like voodoo in the New Orleans area or Santería in Cuba?"
"There are some similarities in that they are all occult religious practices, but they are not the same."
"Can your grandmother help my child?"
"I don't know, but at least she will be able to tell us what is wrong with the girl."
Two days later, Yolanda returned to the Orwells' hacienda and brought Carmela Molina, her abuela, with her. No sooner did the old woman cross the threshold than she felt the presence of an evil being. When she entered the nursery and saw the little girl napping in her crib, she immediately made the sign of the cross to ward off evil. Since she knew little English, she spoke in her native tongue and let her granddaughter translate.
"She says there is much evil here," Yolanda explained after Señora briefly examined the sleeping child. "The little one is possessed."
"Can she perform an exorcism or do something else to help her?" Rowen asked.
As the young Mexican woman listened to her grandmother's reply, the color drained from her face.
"There is no power on earth that can rid the girl of what is inside her. It is too strong. You must ...."
Yolanda turned her head away so that the worried mother would not see the fear on her face.
"What must I do?" Rowen prompted.
"My abuela says you must kill her."
"No! I couldn't do such a thing! She's just a child."
"The thing inside her is not human. It's a monster, condemned to an endless cycle of birth and death. You have heard of the legend of La Llorona?"
"The Weeping Woman? She supposedly drowned her children and now her soul weeps over their deaths."
"The demon that has taken possession of your daughter's body is the one who inspired that legend. Upon giving birth to it, La Llorona, a deeply religious woman, knew what evil she had brought into the world. She took the infant to the river and drowned her. Then, because she felt so much remorse, she threw herself into the water as well. Many times, this demon has entered our world, but it never reached adulthood. There was always another La Llorona to send it back to the limbo from which it came."
"And your grandmother expects me to do the same to Amber?"
"The evil must be destroyed before it becomes too powerful."
"But I'd be destroying my daughter's body along with it."
"You can never get your child back. She will remain with chichiualcuauhco until another mother gives birth to her."
"No!" Rowen wailed. "I can't do it."
Carmela did not argue. She believed that once the mother fully realized the extent of the evil the demon was capable of, she would take action.
"Dios te bendiga," she said and pressed a small statue of the Virgin Mary into the palm of Rowen's hand.
"What did she say?" the American asked Yolanda.
"God bless you."
When the two women left, Rowen sat at the dining room table and poured herself a glass of wine. Her publisher was eager for her to finish the next Diego book, but she was in no state of mind to write a children's story.
I ought to tell Boyd about Señora Molina's visit. He has to know what's going on.
Yet she could not tell him. He would never believe her. He might even insist she get psychiatric help.
What good will antidepressants and psychotherapy do in this instance? What if I forget about Brujería and consult a Catholic priest?
Again, what good would it do? This was Mexico, not Hollywood. There was no Father Merrin to conduct an exorcism, no Father Karras to sacrifice himself to save her child.
After finishing a third glass of wine, she got up from the table and headed toward her home office. She made it as far as the threshold and stopped. Every book in the room had been taken down from the shelves and torn to pieces. Thousands of loose pages covered the floor, completely obscuring the carpet. Her laptop fared even worse. Its screen had been ripped from its hinges and broken into several pieces. Someone had also pried each key from the keyboard, leaving a pile of small plastic squares and rectangles in the middle of the desk.
"But I was in the next room. Who could do this without my seeing or hearing anything?"
As she stared in horror, several of the keys separated from the pile and spelled out the answer to her question: A DEMON.
The perpetrator of this maleficia became apparent when Rowen walked into the nursery and saw the malevolent smile on Amber's face. The frightened mother did not need to know Spanish to understand that the words the child spoke next were meant as a warning. She was fully aware of the fact that the innocent-looking little girl could kill her or Boyd as easily as she had destroyed the books and the laptop.
* * *
Over the next several days, Rowen tried to devise a foolproof plan to rid the world of the demon. The problem with each scenario was that she would be held accountable for the little girl's death. She had no desire to go to jail or to a psychiatric hospital. And then there was Boyd. Should he learn of her involvement in Amber's death, he would never forgive her.
It has to look like an accident.
Stabbing, shooting and strangling were obviously out. Drowning? Smothering? A fire? A fatal fall? Even if the girl's mother was not suspected of murder, she would be considered negligent.
What if Amber simply disappeared? I could kill her, bury the body and then go to the mall and claim she was missing, obviously abducted by a stranger.
However, there were too many what if's associated with such a plan. What if there are security cameras at the mall? What if someone sees her arrive at the mall with no child? What if police insist on a polygraph test?
I'd never get away with it, she realized with despair.
Rowen was still contemplating the perfect murder when the UPS delivery truck stopped in front of the hacienda. The Dell logo on the box with its distinctive slanted "E" confirmed that her new laptop had arrived. She put aside all thoughts of homicide as she unpacked her new laptop, plugged its cord into the wall outlet and went through the procedures of setting it up.
Once Windows was up and running, she logged on to her cloud account to download her documents, music files and photos onto the new hard drive. It was when she saw an image of the cover of her first Diego book, showing the lost chihuahua in the midst of a group of costumed people celebrating Día de los Muertos, that the idea came to her.
In two weeks, it would be November 1. Not only is that date the second of the three-day Day of the Dead celebration, but it was also Día de los Inocentes (Day of the Innocents) or Día de los Angelitos (Day of the Little Angels), a day to honor children and infants who died.
What better way to honor my little angel than to kill the demon that stole her body?
But the question still remained: how?
Maybe Yolanda Garza's grandmother will know of a way.
Her hand trembled as she dialed the young woman's phone number and waited for her to answer.
"Hello? This is Rowen Orwell," she said when Yolanda answered. "I'm calling about the matter we discussed during your visit. I changed my mind. I decided to follow your abuela's advice. But I'm going to need some help."
After making arrangements for a second meeting with Carmela Molina, Rowen ended the call. Moments later, her iPhone flew off her desk as though unseen hands had hurled it to the floor. The demon's temper tantrums were not going to deter her from her course of action. Quite the opposite! They only strengthened her resolve.
However, in a match of wills between mortals and evil spirits, she was at a disadvantage. Despite what she had learned in Sunday school as a child, good did not always vanquish evil. When sinners and saints battled, sinners usually won. While the demon's first shots were fired at Rowen's books and laptop, the second attack was more devastating. The Garza home was burned to the ground, killing both the young woman and her grandmother. When Rowen learned of their deaths, she blamed herself. If she had not tried to enlist the old woman's help in destroying the demon, they might both still be alive.
Destroying books and a computer is one thing; killing two innocent people is quite another. That monster must be stopped before it hurts someone else.
As this thought crossed Rowen's mind, Amber, who was curled up on Boyd's lap, opened her brown eyes and glared at the woman she called Mommy. It was as though she were warning her that the gloves were off and the battle would only escalate into outright war.
Bring it on! I'm not about to back down now.
* * *
November 1 was a mild, sunny autumn day with temperatures in the mid-seventies. As Rowen donned a La Calavera Catrina costume to attend the Day of the Day festival, she tried to keep her mind on inconsequential subjects and not dwell on the heinous deed she planned to do that day. Once she was dressed, she applied white makeup to her skin and then colorful paints to create an elaborate skeleton face.
It was surreal that she was going to such extremes to commit murder. And the murder of a child, at that!
No! she told herself. It's not a child. It's a monster and a very dangerous one.
Amber suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway. In her hand was a photograph of her father.
"Look, Mommy," the child said and then tore the picture in two. "See what I can do?"
The two halves then burst into flames. It was not a warning; it was a promise. Unless Rowen behaved, Boyd would be the next innocent person to die.
"It's time to get you ready for the festival."
The streets were alive with the music of mariachi bands as vendors hawked their wares to caricatures of the dead who walked past. While tourists shopped, snapped photos and enjoyed the Halloween-like aspects of the fiesta, Mexicans carted candles, flowers and food to the local cemeteries to pay homage to their deceased loved ones. Rowen did neither.
Holding on to her daughter's hand, she headed for the Canales de Xochimilco. As they approached the water's edge, Amber sensed danger. She tried to pull away, but Rowen held on tightly. The mariachi band on the dock, its musicians decked out in sombreros, played "La Calaca" (in English, "The Skeleton") as the woman whose red hair was concealed with a black wig boarded one of the colorful trajineras with her daughter in tow.
Despite there being a long table and chairs at the center of the flat-bottomed vessel, the young mother headed for the rear of the boat. She waited patiently, biding her time, as the boat navigated the canals. When she thought the water was deep enough—and no one was looking in her direction—she pushed Amber overboard.
"Oh, my daughter!" she cried, pretending to fear for the child's safety. "She fell. I've got to save her."
In an instant, she jumped overboard and into the water. Although it may have seemed like she was valiantly trying to save the little girl, she was actually doing her best to drown her.
* * *
Rowen Orwell walked through the streets of Mexico City, her sodden wig dripping even more water onto her wet costume. People turned to stare as she went by. The tourists did not quite know what to make of her, but the locals knew her for what she was.
"La Llorona," they uttered in hushed whispers and made the sign of the cross.
It was always the same; their reactions never varied. Just as Nathaniel Hawthorne's Hester Prynne was condemned to wear the scarlet letter "A" as punishment for her adultery, Rowen was doomed to pay for her sins as well. She would forevermore be a pariah in the eyes of man.
Meanwhile, in Boston's Logan Airport, Boyd looked for his parents in the crowd. It was several minutes before he saw his mother's tear-stained face.
"Boyd!" she cried as she threw her arms around him. "My deepest sympathies."
"Thanks, Mom."
"I assume you're going to have some kind of memorial service," his father said.
"Yes. I brought the body back with me. The funeral home will send someone over to pick it up."
Although the senior Orwells were glad to have their son back home, they were saddened that it took such tragic circumstances to get him to leave Mexico.
"And you, poor little dear!" Mrs. Orwell exclaimed, bursting out into a fresh torrent of tears. "Thank God you didn't drown, too."
"Abuela," Amber said in Spanish as the unsuspecting grandmother took the demon child into her arms.
Boyd looked at his daughter's smiling face and was thankful that the toddler seemed to be adjusting well to her mother's death. Fortunately for him, he was blissfully ignorant of the evil that innocent-looking child would one day unleash upon the world.
This story was inspired by an article I read in National Geographic History magazine on the Aztecs. They did fear eclipses would harm unborn children. I also incorporatd the legend of La Llorona (the Weeping Woman) into the story.
Do you know what Salem likes most about Mexico? The chocolatey flavor of Mexican coffee.
