Tres Noches

©2001 Karl Eschenbach
All rights reserved.

The screen door slammed shut behind him as he left. He could still hear the cries of his infant child and the yelling of his young wife behind him. He had to get away, and the sounds grew dimmer as he walked. Finally he couldn't hear them anymore.

He found himself on the ditch bank peering intently into the darkness of the early autumn night. Clouds covered the nearly full moon, obscuring everything from view. The irrigation water murmured softly as it flowed swiftly through the ditch, but he couldn't see anything. In the distance he could hear the call of a mother in Spanish, a call for her children to come home. He caught the faint aroma of roasting green chili. Reflexively, his mouth began to water. He thought of a bowl of green chili stew steaming on the table with a fresh tortilla next to it, waiting for him to scoop up a savory mouthful. He shivered in the cool night air.

A flash of distant lightning briefly and dimly illuminated the scene. He saw her then, standing next to the old cottonwood. She was slender and dressed in an odd, long dark dress that straightened out any curves that may be underneath. She was looking at him. The thunder sounded, muffled by distance.

"Guero," he heard her say. He could not see her in the darkness, though he seemed to see her afterimage.

In surprise he called back, "Who are you, and why don't you call me by my name?"

"But Guero is your name, ¿no?"

"Only to some, and only to those who know me. Who are you?" His hand brushed his sandy hair back from his forehead.

The face of the moon peered from behind the clouds, giving the scene a cool brightness unlike daylight. She moved toward him. He could see the shifting of shadows under the dark dress giving her slight form a shape, a slender waist with breasts above and hips below. The dress was sleeveless, exposing dark-skinned arms that possessed a slender strength. Her face was dark, also, with large eyes as black as the waters flowing in the ditch and framed by wavy hair as dark as a raven's plumage.

"Who are you?" he asked again, more quietly this time.

She stopped a few feet from him. She shrugged her shoulders, her breasts rising and falling some as well. She raised her arms then, beckoning.

He took a half step forward, but hesitated, rear foot poised with toes to the ground but heel elevated. He rocked back on that heel to withdraw, but the dark woman moved forward, her lithe arms snaking around his neck, her body pressing against his, her lips open against his mouth, sucking at his tongue and capturing his breath.

His arms encircled her waist, crushing her body tightly against his so he could feel her heat. The sound of blood rushing through his veins drowned out the sound of water flowing in the ditch. He burned with longing, losing his sense of surroundings, time, being. He felt her blood pulsing through her body—and even his, it seemed. He could smell and taste her passion. Through closed eyes he could see the blinding flares of lust, silhouetting a step pyramid rising above a dangerous jungle.

He separated his lips from hers, moving them down past her chin to the front of her neck. Her arms released their hold on his neck and pushed up against his shoulders—pushed with a strength he could not overcome. He stood for seconds on the ditch bank, head tilted back, shoulders slumped, staring with closed eyes into the overcast night sky.

"Enough for now," she breathed.

He heard her take a step back.

"But...." he begged, with eyes still closed. His chest heaved as he inhaled.

"Mañana en la noche," he heard whispered in the breeze.

He opened his eyes to the dark. Then the clouds left the face of the moon lighting the landscape. He gasped, because she was gone. He peered into the water swiftly flowing through the ditch, but could see only the rippled imperfection of the moon shining back up.

Though deep and wide, the ditch hadn't taken her. He had heard no splash, no cry for help. He turned to the fields, with their contrasting shadows cast by the lunar glow, but saw nothing of the woman.

An owl sounded overhead in the branches of the cottonwood. As he looked up, a blanket of clouds again obscured the face of the moon. He couldn't see it, but the owl plaintively, softly called out again.

"Mi hito..." It was the voice of his neighbor, calling from across the field, calling for her young son.

He thought of Maria and his own infant son. Dejected and empty, he turned to the sound of the voice as if it called to him.

He strode down the ditch bank alert and watching. There were no clouds to obscure the full moon, so the scene was lit by a cold, stark brightness that belied the night. As he approached the old cottonwood, he saw her step forward, as if emerging from the tree itself. At first he could not make out any of her features even with the light of the moon. It was as if she were covered by a shadow, yet no shade lay upon the ground she walked.

"Guero," she called to him again, as the night before.

He stopped and watched her approach. Slowly he was able to discern the features of her face though the rest of her remained in shadow. Her hair and eyes, black as the night, nose and cheekbones that looked like Aztec stone carvings.

"Who are you?" he asked. "La Llarona? Is that why you haunt the ditch at night?"

She laughed, softly, as she slowly moved toward him. "¿Que es esto? ¡Un hombre! ¿Le tiene miedo a las historias que es usan para asustrar a los ninos?" Her accent was unfamiliar to him.

"En Ingles por favor," was his automatic response to the Spanish.

"¿En Ingles? ¿Por que? Don't you know your own language? The language of your people?"

"My people? I have no people," he said.

"No people? No, that's not possible." She was near enough now to reach out her hand, her left, to touch his sandy colored hair that hung over his forehead.

"Oh. ¿Coyote, no?"

He jerked his head back away from her hand. Some used the slang term for a half-breed as an insult.

"Who was the gringo? Your mother or father?"

"My father," he said. He could see her plainly now. She seemed to have stepped out from under the shadow that had blanketed her earlier, though he hadn't noticed when it had happened. She wore what appeared to be the same dress as the night before, but tonight it was ripped down the front from her neck to her waist. The curves of her breasts showed through the tear in the garment.

In response to his gaze she looked down to her breasts, then looked back up into his face.

He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders under the dress and pushed the material back so that the dress slid down, momentarily pausing, first at her breasts, then her hips, before falling to the ground.

She stood before him naked down to her bare feet, his hands on her shoulders. Without any effort on his part, his hands moved down to her small breasts. They covered them completely as he squeezed.

"You are a strong man," she said, her eyes closed now. "Your hands are hard and callused."

She reached up and grasped his arms at his biceps, feeling them through the flannel sleeves. "You are a very strong man."

"I frame houses," he said, between breaths.

Her hands moved from his arms down to his waist, then to his hips. "You build people's homes?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

He bent forward and kissed her neck, then bent his knees and kissed between her breasts. His face slid down past her breastbone to her stomach as his knees went to the ground. His hands now grasped her buttocks and pulled her to him as he buried his face in her tangled mystery. He could smell her, taste her saltiness.

Abruptly the wind blew from his right, raising the dust of the ditch bank. A tumbleweed, already dried and harsh, hit him in the face, and she was gone.

He opened his eyes to see the weed roll into the ditch, where it was pulled along swiftly with the current. He looked for her, but all he saw was her dress lying in the dust. His head swiveled on his neck, but still she was nowhere to be seen.

An owl hooted overhead. He looked into the gnarled branches of the cottonwood, with its leaves turning a golden hue, but could see nothing. Then another call from the owl, and he could see its eyes brightly reflecting the light from the full moon.

He raised his hands to his face, and he began to cry.

He turned to go back home for the third time, but for the third time he hesitated, his hands in the pockets of his faded blue jeans, his shoulders slumped. He looked up at the bright moon, which had barely begun to wane. A cloud quickly obscured her face. Again he turned his back on his home and moved slowly toward the ditch bank. He heard the call of the owl and her soft laughter, but could see nothing from this distance except the silhouette of the old cottonwood. He stopped and gazed at the tree, wondering how its branches could reach to the heavens while it remained rooted in the underworld.

Then he saw her naked silhouette effortlessly rise up next to the tree. She must have been in the ditch, for it appeared that its water streamed from her, streamed from her hips and down her legs, streamed from her arms, which she lifted up toward the ancient tree. He thought that he heard the owl call, but it was hard to tell because the wind gusted, jostling loose a shower of leaves that fell from the tree. She reached toward him and he could hear her call "Guero."

His legs moved him forward of their own volition.

As he neared her, the clouds left the face of the moon, and he could see her hair, straight and wet, plastered against her forehead, hanging over her brow, obscuring her eyes. Her breasts moved as she breathed, water beaded on her flesh. Her skin was covered with goosebumps, and her nipples were erect in the cool evening.

He climbed the slope of the ditch bank and approached, but he stopped a few feet away from her. His chest expanded in a sudden breathlessness. His arms hung weakly by his sides.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My lineage is an ancient one, reaching back to the sacred jaguars of the Olmecs." She paused, maintaining her gaze into his eyes, holding him without grasping.

"The Mayas called me Ix Chel, the inconstant moon, incapable of fidelity or loyalty, but able to turn the darkness to light, and return the night back to darkness again." Once again she paused, watching, gauging his response, but he stood silent, not moving.

"But the Aztecs had many names for me," she said, still watching. "Teteo Innan, Toci, Xochiquetzel and Coatlicue were all images of the great mother. Mayahuel, brewer of the intoxicating pulque. Cihuacoatl, seducer, expectant mother, taker of life, giver of life. But most men remember me forever as Itzpaolotl, Obsidian Butterfly ... the sacrificial knife."

He said nothing for a second. She lowered her arms and took a step toward him.

"Where did you go last night?" he asked suddenly.

She paused in her approach, then asked, "What does it matter, for this is tonight?" She took another step toward him.

Exasperated, he turned from her, put his hands to his temples and cried out incongruously, "But what about tomorrow night, will you be here again if ... when I return?"

Again she paused.

"What does it matter, for this is tonight?" She took another step and closed the gap between them.

He turned back to her and asked, "But what do you want?"

She looked into his eyes, hers dark, his green, and tilted her head to her right.

"During the time of the Conquistadores, a new breed of people were conceived—the Mestizos. They were stronger than both Spaniard and Indian. Just as you, Guero ... Coyote ... are stronger than both Chicano and Gringo. And it is time to mix bloods once again."

She stepped forward, embracing him, pressing her wet body against him, kissing him. He felt her pulse, which merged with his own to become the beating of drums. In the flickering red of flames he saw, once again, a pyramid with the moon behind it, waxing and waning in its place, going through its phases without moving. He saw an altar atop the pyramid, a block of stone, at first rust red, and then standing with crimson flowing over it.

Suddenly the wind roared loudly, and a drop of rain, pure and cold, hit his face. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked down at her. She looked back up at him through the eyes of a jaguar, with vertical pupils. Her lips pulled back away from her fangs as she let out a feline cry. He struggled to back away as she snapped at him.

Lightening flashed blindingly, simultaneous with the explosive roar of thunder, and he fell to the ground and rolled away from her. He looked up at the cottonwood to see it split down the middle, half lying smoldering in the field next to the ditch bank, half still standing, but leaning precariously over the ditch. As he watched, the wind gusted, slamming against the tree. He saw it lean further, slowly at first, but picking up speed in its descent until its branches splashed into the swiftly flowing water.

She screamed then. At first it was the inarticulate howl of an animal, but it transformed itself into the human cry of "¡No!"

Still on the ground, he turned to see her leap up from a crouch and sprint away from him, along the ditch bank. He jumped up and chased after her. He seemed to be just closing the distance between them when she suddenly stopped and spun around in a crouch. Before he could react, she sprang on him, crashing against his chest, stopping him and knocking him backward to the ground. She was on top of him, not in fury, but in passion, kissing his face and neck. Her legs straddled his body, pulsing against him. Her hands, with nails long and sharp, ripped at his shirt, but when he looked into her face he still saw the eyes and fangs of a jaguar.

He pushed up against her shoulders and rolled onto his left hip, forcing her quickly over so that he straddled her and grabbed her by the wrists, subduing her.

She quieted and looked up at him with her human face. She was breathing hard, crushing her breasts against his torn shirt with every inhalation.

"Kiss me," she sighed breathlessly. "Love me, so that you may live."

But when he didn't react, she hissed "Kiss me," sibilantly. Then she screamed "But if you are to live you must first die!" and pushed up against him with unexpected strength, rolling him over onto his back.

She sprang at him as he tried to scramble backward. Then he felt himself sliding down, and he splashed into the ditch headfirst.

With irresistible arms the current took hold of him and pulled him away. His head broke the surface and he gasped for air, his arms flailing up, blindly hoping to catch hold of something but finding nothing. His legs kicked, pushing him up further out of the water, but he could not feel the bottom. He hit the side of the ditch and tried to dig his hands into the soil of the bank. It gave way and he twisted in the current.

Then branches hanging in the water scratched his face. He grasped for them, but they broke off in his hands as he was pulled further by the current. Suddenly his chest slammed against a more substantial branch. He wrapped his arms around it and held his face above water to pull another panicked breath into his lungs. The water pulled at him harder, but he reached out his right hand and, grasping further up the branch, pulled himself toward the bank. He did the same with his left, then his right again, before he could pull himself out of the water and fall to his knees in the dust of the bank. He toppled onto his back and breathed hard.

He heard her scream again, and he rolled to a crouch, but he could not see her. He looked all around, quickly, alert to any movement, but still there was nothing.

After a couple of minutes he relaxed his stance, then finally sat, resting his arms on his knees. He looked around once more, then lowered his head onto his arms.

He stayed in that position until his breathing slowed. Then he got up slowly and looked around him once more. Still he could see nothing of the woman or the cat. He leaned against the fallen trunk of the cottonwood, noticing for the first time that it had been wider than he was tall. He heard a voice calling out across the field. It was the voice of his Maria. He pushed away from the cottonwood and walked toward the human voice that called to him.

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