From
Chapter 1
“Did you
know almost every part of the country has a story about a ghostly woman and
drowned children?” In the Southwest the
tale is called La Llorona. Are you
familiar with that legend?” For a long
while Professor Dawson had rambled on, but this time he waited for McQuede’s
response.
“Can’t say
I’ve heard much about it,” McQuede replied.
Dawson
slowed the Cadillac and chose the shortcut to Black Mountain Pass where he was
to address the historical society.
Seated beside him, Sheriff McQuede felt underdressed and
undereducated—underdressed, because Barry Dawson looked every inch the
professor in fancy western jacket that matched his carefully-styled iron-gray
hair. In contrast, McQuede looked rough
and rugged in a rumpled suit jacket discovered in the back of his closet that
certainly did nothing to enhance his broad shoulders, unruly black hair, and
silvery eyes. Undereducated, because all
he had to balance the professor’s expertise on the subject of legends was the
knowledge of a few local tales.
“Many
versions of the La Llorona story exist.”
Dawson, whose lectures seldom waited until he reached the podium,
continued enthusiastically. “But
basically it goes like this: a poor but beautiful village woman attracts a
wealthy lover who doesn’t know she has children. She drowns her children to be with her lover,
who then rejects her. Realizing her
mistake and feeling the anguish of her grief, her spirit cannot rest. It is said that if you listen closely, you
can hear her voice on the winds, calling for her lost children.”
“There’s a
similar story about the bridge up ahead,” McQuede remarked.
“Yes, it is
often referred to as Crying Woman Bridge,” Dawson said. “In fact, I’ve included the legend behind it
in tonight’s talk.”
Wooden
planks rattled beneath them as they started across the rickety structure. The old bridge’s original girders had been
supported by steel sometime in the 1930s.
Since the bridge didn’t get much traffic beyond a few locals using the
back road to Black Mountain Pass, no improvements had been made since.
McQuede
gazed through the girders to the thick underbrush and deep water below. At this point the Trapper River started its
downward course, cutting through the high mountains on either side. As a boy, McQuede had loved this spot, the
rushing water, the obstructing rocks that caused rapids and whirlpools. But with the sinking sun, it lost its allure
and seemed cold and treacherous.
“When I was
in high school, the kids always gathered here to party. But they were spooked by the place,
too.” McQuede leaned back in the car
seat, recalling, “In the old days, it was called Mirabella’s bridge.”
“That’s
because,” Dawson explained, “according to local legend, a young pioneer woman
named Mirabella got jilted by her lover and threw her baby over the bridge.”
“All I know
is that at night it is rumored you can still hear her wails.”
“Foolish superstition,” Dawson said.
McQuede
attempted to suppress amusement over his friend’s sudden seriousness. “It’s a fact, for sure,” McQuede persisted,
trying to keep the teasing out of his voice, “if you say her name three times,
she will appear and bad things will follow.”
“Yes,”
Dawson echoed, “Three calls and woe to you.”
“Did you
ever try it?”
“Not brave
enough.” Midway across the bridge,
Dawson stopped the car. “But you
are. I dare you, McQuede. Call her name three times, and let’s see what
happens.”
Dawson
pressed the buttons that controlled the front side windows, and they slid open
with an eerie, mechanical sound that mingled with the noise of rushing
water. A gust of wind from the canyon
stirred their clothing and hair. Instead
of waiting for McQuede, Dawson called out in a voice loud and clear, “Mirabella! Mirabella!
Mira—we’re going to be late,” he broke off suddenly, without
finishing. He promptly checked his
watch. “Too late for this nonsense.”
Dawson, for
the first time silent, stepped harder on the gas as they followed the twisting
road. McQuede’s friend always became too
involved in these legends, so much so, that they often became fixed in his mind
as solid fact instead of mostly fiction.
McQuede, noting the anxiety that had crept into the professor’s manner,
couldn’t help smiling.
(from Chapter 2)
“What’s
wrong?”
“Didn’t you
hear that noise?”
McQuede
listened intently, catching what sounded like a distant voice drifting toward
them from the center of the bridge. As
they drew closer, the cries became loud and terrible.
McQuede’s
blood froze. A woman, shrouded by fog,
stood squarely in the center—pacing, wringing her hands, shrieking. Her long, dark hair swept in the wind as did
her flowing skirt. The darkness and wind
made her look like the ghost of a pioneer woman.
McQuede
stared toward her, half-expecting the waif-like apparition to float away, but she
remained, a solid substance, swaying and wailing. Her words were now distinct. “What
will I do? Help me! Help me!
I don’t know what to do!”
Dawson
braked the car, and McQuede leaped out.
He rushed toward her, gripping both of her arms and holding her
fast. “What’s wrong?”
She seemed not even
to hear his question. He followed her
terrified gaze to the deep drop-off below them.
His voice rose above the gurgling of rapids. “Talk to me!
What’s happened?”
“Someone
took him! She took him!”
McQuede
shook her gently, hoping to restore her to her senses. “Who took what? What are you talking about?”
Tears
streamed down her cheeks. “My baby! My baby’s gone! She kidnapped him.”
“What did
she look like?”
“I don’t
know. I don’t know. She looked like a ghost.”
The more
she spoke. the more unbelievable her story seemed. “Where did she take him?”
“She drove
away.”
Her words
jolted him. Could there be some truth to
her rambling? “Can you describe the
vehicle?”
She shook
her head helplessly. “She took him away
in her dark, ghostly car.”
McQuede’s
attention turned again to the rapidly moving river. His heart plummeted as he caught sight of a
little blue blanket swirling around in the dark water.
